The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign (15 page)

Alscap’s servant laid a hand on the door, thumb hovering over the crude latch while he steeled himself. Calath could only wonder what sort of horror lay within that men were afraid to even
look at it. With a deep breath the servant pushed on and in. The scrape of a chair greeted him, but no words as Derran and Calath watched the gloomy space before them. The pair exchanged a glance,
Calath noting the terror on the face of the young stablehand while Derran merely shrugged and marched on in. With a last glance up to the sun struggling vainly through the clouds, Calath followed
suit.

The room was unremarkable, clearly used for storing harnesses, saddles and feed. The entire building was of young wood and Calath immediately noticed the pungent odour of unfinished ash mingling
with leather polish, but it was the poise of every man there that really struck him. They had joined five men. Count Alscap was the only one seated, feigning a relaxed pose though his hand was kept
on his sword hilt, three grooms stood with pitchforks tightly gripped, all of which were levelled toward the fifth man who sat curled in a ball in the far corner. The three grooms and their
employer looked as ready to kill as to flee for their lives. For what reason Calath could not say, but clearly there was more to the dirty bundle of a man he could see.

As he inspected the room more closely Calath realised there were traces of blood on the floor and, as the prisoner raised his head to see the arrivals, the marshal could see his nose and lip
were badly swollen and cut.

‘Marshal Calath, I’m sorry but you cannot remain. This is a matter of the utmost secrecy, by order of the king,’ protested Alscap as soon as he saw Calath, his voice wavering
uncertainly.

‘In that case,’ replied Derran before his friend could speak, ‘Calath is better suited to this gathering than I. The king has no need of a magistrate.’

This is a matter of the law, but I cannot have all and sundry knowing what has come to pass here. The king would be furious.’

‘Then again I say this is Calath’s affair also,’ continued Derran. ‘He is known to the king and his word trusted by him.’

Calath almost corrected his friend, who was not fully aware of his relationship to the king, before realising that Derran had, in his exaggeration, hit upon the truth. Whatever was going on here
it reeked of the sort of dangerous mystery that King Emin so delighted in. When four armed men showed such fear of another, Calath felt sure the king would want to hear events from a known
perspective.

While Calath was ignorant of the king’s motives, he knew the man encouraged a variety of clandestine activities and pursuits within his private gentleman’s club in Narkang. There he
brought together a variety of men and women of disparate and rare skills. Mages, artificers and artisans rubbed shoulders with the men of trade who could fund and utilise their work, while others
were pure academics as Calath was, but his explorations of theology and daemonology were not unusual in the debates they sparked there.

‘Trusted by the king?’ Alscap looked doubtful, being a man whose associations with King Emin were long and well-known. He studied the academic through narrowed eyes, but then
suddenly his face brightened as an idea came to him.

‘Then perhaps sir, if I’d taken Emin up on his offer of a gentleman’s club membership, we would have met.’

The count’s face was sharp with suspicion as he studied Calath’s reaction to his words. Derran looked on, bemused but ignored.

‘I fear not. The king is not a member of my club, nor any that I’m aware, and I’m sure that a man of your wealth and standing would suit grander surroundings than the Di Senego
Club.’

Calath’s voice was soft and assured as he presented what he knew would be the correct answer. Derran’s confusion was increased when Alscap nodded in response.

‘Well, that’s unfortunate, but if you’re a personal friend of the king you may of course remain. Kote, bring up those chairs for my guests.’

The servant glanced nervously at the ignored man in the corner, creeping around the table to retrieve the chairs, but never letting his gaze leave the curled-up figure.

Once the pair had eased themselves into a seat, carefully facing the prisoner as the mood in the room affected both, Alscap pinched the bridge of his large nose and began.

‘The reason I brought you here, Magistrate, was to make this official and legal. The secrecy I think is justified. Certainly we don’t want this man brought before your court, but he
admits his guilt so I do not believe that will prove necessary.’

‘But what crime is he charged with?’ demanded Derran, his legal persona taking charge.

‘Well, in short; he comes from Thistledell.’

Calath sat and stared; numb with shock as that simple, innocent word echoed around the room. The grooms flinched and stared fixedly at the ground, knuckles white around the
pitchforks. Derran half rose from his seat, mouth flopped open as the thick wattle of flesh beneath his chin shook. Of all the crimes Calath had imagined, this was furthest from his mind. His eyes
darted to the motionless figure on the floor as he fought the urge to jump to his feet and flee.

Thistledell
.

The name wasn’t spoken these days. The ideas it conjured were too horrific and most tried to forget about it. The fear was propagated by the fact that no one knew what had happened there.
The few former inhabitants Calath had heard of had been totally insane when they had been caught, but their rantings had confirmed that something terrible had taken place.

All the rest of the Land knew was that the tax collector for the local suzerain had travelled there as part of his annual rounds – to find the village gone. Signs pointing the way there
had been destroyed; the buildings torn down and burned, the crops left in fields returning to the wild. Every remaining vestige of life had been erased; even the charred timbers had been
buried.

There had been simply nothing left, barely a trace that a village ever stood in that place and it had been clear it was a deliberate effort. The tax collector had sent a messenger back to the
nearest town after ordering his guards to investigate the freshly turned earth. It was then they had found the blackened bones.

‘W . . . who is he?’ stammered Derran, rapidly collecting his thoughts while Calath still floundered.

‘His name, well the name he gave us, is Fynn. He’s been working here as a groom for almost six months now.’

‘You’ve been employing him?’ asked the magistrate in horror.

‘I know, but he kept himself to himself and worked hard. The head groom had no reason to complain.’

Alscap said the words through a daze, as if repeating by rote something he could hardly believe. The tales had painted those who left Thistledell alive as monsters; capable only of violence and
profane destruction. To have one in your employ, no doubt sometimes under the same roof as your children . . . Alscap looked nauseous, small beads of sweat appearing on his ashen brow.

‘Why the secrecy?’ asked Calath, at last finding his voice though it trembled through every word. ‘Why not bring him before the court?’

Alscap gaped at the marshal, a flush of red returning to his cheeks. ‘And have to tell my daughter that this man has been allowed into the same house as her newborn? That aside, I breed
some of the finest stallion hunters in the country? Who would buy them now? Who would want their horses to be stud from one tended by a man of Thistledell? Half my staff would leave my service
overnight! How many of my guests would return after today?’

Derran raised a hand to calm the count whose face had flushed red with rage. ‘I understand. You’re right, of course. This can be a very simple matter if he admits his
guilt.’

Calath made a puzzled sound at that so Derran leaned towards him to explain, his eyes never leaving Fynn.

‘No one knows what actually happened there, other than it was of the basest level. The king decided it was best to simply issue a private decree to all magistrates that coming from
Thistledell was a capital offence. Technically he should be brought before me in the morning, but if he admits his guilt we can hang him and dispose of the body without allowing this to taint
Alscap’s household.’

‘Hang him? Now? Here? Do you plan to just bury the body in the woods like a murderer? This cannot be the king’s intention!’ protested Calath.

Derran turned to face his friend, his expression sober and deadly serious. ‘It is mere expediency, and as for the legality or intention, you yourself know the king. The law is his will,
nothing more for all that he has codified it. You can’t tell me he would deal with this openly?’

Calath stared in fearful wonder at his friend’s tone, before realising he was right. The king would have no qualms about a swift and silent death; no doubt the Brotherhood had done exactly
that many times, in the public interest of course.

It was the way of the world – a world Calath was part of for all his remote life, and a world he owed his privileged position to. The order brought to their nation was due to the careful,
and at time merciless, hand of their king. Without that deft touch they would still be living in feuding principalities and his peaceful academic life would be nothing more than a dream.

‘I . . . you’re right, I apologise.’

Derran kept his gaze for another moment, but then lowered his eyes, slightly embarrassed at his own actions.

‘As do I, but I hope you will forgive my tone under these circumstances. Now Count Alscap, for this to be as it should I must hear the man’s own admission.’

The count nodded and gestured to one of his grooms. The man, keeping a safe distance, reached out with the blunt handle of his pitchfork and carefully nudged the prone figure. The man calling
himself Fynn jerked at the unexpected touch, but when ordered to rise, didn’t move. A second prod encouraged the man, groaning and wheezing softly, to push himself up and sit up against the
wall.

He was younger than Calath had expected. The marshal guessed at no more than twenty-five winters, but it was hard to estimate after such a battering. He’d have hardly been a man when
whatever madness it was fell upon Thistledell. Calath felt a stab of pity for the boy, until he remembered the tax collector’s report he’d read back at his club in Narkang. Limbs had
been sawn off, bones gnawed. They had reason to fear him.

‘When was he beaten?’ asked Derran suddenly.

‘When they realised who he was, he tried to escape. He’d been sleeping in the dormitory and apparently had some sort of nightmare. Vorte there can tell you more
specifically.’

Alscap pointed to a hard-faced man with a bulbous nose and a thick beard that half-obscured a permanent scowl. He was older than the others, nearing fifty winters, but as nervous as the boys as
he began to speak in a deep gravely drawl.

‘He woke us up early, shoutin’ all sorts in his dream. Started screamin’ on about blood and buryin’ the village. We thought it was just a bad dream; he’s always
been a quiet one, moody like. But then he started on about Thistledell and we realised what he was on about.

‘Then he woke and saw us, but I don’t think he was all the way awake. When Mijok here asked why he’d said “Thistledell”, he said it was his home. He realised what
he’d said pretty quick and made a jump for the window, but I caught hold of him. Bastard put up one hell of a fight, but there was three of us. Mijok slammed his head against the wall and he
went down. We dragged him here to lock him in and fetched Master Kote.’

The man stopped, looking nervous under Derran’s unblinking gaze and Calath couldn’t help but wonder whether they had met in a professional capacity before.

‘Thank you,’ said the magistrate after a time. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and attended his nose before continuing. Calath knew it to be a nervous habit, but the other men
there marvelled at his cool demeanour, that Derran could be calmly taking his time before returning his attention to the monster. Eventually he did look back to Fynn.

‘So, you’ve heard the charge and had time to gather your thoughts. What say you?’

The man looked up, his face a battleground of fear and shame. Looking from one face to another he found disgust in that of the count, the grooms could not bear the sight of their former friend
and Derran’s was the stony mask of a man passing sentence. His eyes lingered on Calath, who could not drive all sympathy from his heart at that plaintive face. Fynn said nothing to him, he
made no appeal but betrayed a flicker of wonder before returning to the magistrate.

‘It’s true,’ he said at last.

The words were no more than a whisper, but only Derran did not start at the sound.

‘You understand what your admission entails? The law demands that you be taken and hung by the neck until you are dead, without delay.’

‘I understand. It’s time to stop running.’

With that the wretched figure buried his head in his arms. Derran looked from the count to Calath, a strain of relief at last visible.

‘Well then, we should not delay if we are to keep this between us. I hope your grooms understand that this matter is not to be discussed ever again?’

Alscap nodded. ‘They worked together for six months, they were his friends. To protect my stock I’ll keep them on, to protect themselves they’ll stay and be silent.’

Fervent nods greeted those words and so Derran eased himself up with the help of his walking stick.

‘Then we will need a noose.’ It sounded as if he hardly believed the words himself but had to press on before his nerve failed him.

‘Wait,’ said Calath suddenly. ‘I should take his account.’

‘What?’ cried Alscap in horror. ‘What possible reason could you have for that?’

‘Several, in fact.’ Calath could hardly believe his own words, but the look in Fynn’s eyes had stirred something within him and he knew the king would also want to know
more.

‘First of all, we don’t know what happened in Thistledell. There are very few things the king detests, but a lack of knowledge is chief among those. We may never have another chance
to understand what happened there, what evil walked our lands and perhaps might again. Secondly, for my research, be this madness or the work of daemons.’