The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign (11 page)

‘Can you see me bein’ welcome at temple even for my own marriage?’ the witch asked levelly.

‘Perhaps not,’ he conceded, ‘but when it looks like a dog and barks like a dog . . .’

‘It’s a bloody dog,’ the witch finished, ‘and oddity that you are, call me bitch and see how welcome you feel then.’

Morghien grinned. Getting under the skin of others was something of a speciality of his. Often it still resulted in adding to his collection of scars, but folk became sloppy when they were
annoyed and sometimes they let slip things they shouldn’t. In his line of business that was usually worth a little trouble.

Without warning, the witch reached out and touched two fingers to the back of Morghien’s hand. He snatched it away, but was too late to stop her sensing something and the witch’s
annoyance was replaced with curiosity.

‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you that was rude?’

‘Sometimes rude isn’t the worst outcome.’ She leaned forward and peered into his eyes. ‘There’s a whole mess of somethin’ inside you and that tells me I
should know your business here before you get a friendly welcome.’

Morghien hesitated. Having expected a threatening tone of voice, it wasn’t what he’d got at all.

Hah, I’ve spent too much time with soldiers, always trying to piss the highest. Witches don’t need to bother there.

‘Ghost hour’s coming,’ he commented, sipping his beer.

The witch’s eyes narrowed, then he saw a small spark in those grey eyes. ‘The watcher in the willows? Oh wonderful, some idiot with a handful of power thinks he can come and save
us.’

He didn’t rise to the bait. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t tried yourself.’

‘Some of us have more sense than power; you don’t know what you’re playin’ with here.’

‘Trust me; I’m not looking for a fight with anything or anyone.’

‘Then leave it be,’ the witch hissed, ‘no one round here walks the river-path ’cept when the sun’s out – I made sure of that and I don’t intend to let
you stir up any more trouble than we already have.’

‘Then tell me more than I’ve already heard,’ Morghien insisted, ‘because I intend to head that way as soon as I’m finished.’

The witch watched him like a cat for a long while, trying to read his whiskery face. He understood her concerns and gave her time to think. If what he’d heard was true, a careless hand
could bring horror down upon the village, but Morghien knew she’d not have seen anyone like him in these parts.

My own particular sort of fool, I am, but I know my limits.

‘I’m not here to play the hero,’ he said after a while, ‘I know when a risk isn’t worth taking.’

She glanced outside. The sky was starting to darken to a deep, cloudless blue. A pair of pigeons hopped from branch to branch in a large oak just outside the tavern, from which was hung half a
hundred long strips of colourful material. A week past, at the midsummer festival, the villagers would have hung offerings to the spirits of the forest from those dyed lengths. Morghien had
inspected them before coming in; only the birds had touched the offerings, the local spirits had kept well clear.

‘Drink up,’ she said in a resigned voice. ‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

‘You see the line of willows?’ the witch said, pointing ahead. ‘Walk that way and it’ll speak to you.’

Morghien nodded. There were half-a-dozen or more ancient hanging willows a hundred paces down-river; silent but for the sound of their tendrils dipping into the water under the urging of a
gentle breeze. Anyone walking along this side of the river would have to pass underneath them and walk within the enclosed space below. He could barely see through the thick green fronds; the sun
had only recently sunk below the horizon but the river bank was uncommonly gloomy.

‘You’ll not leave without giving somethin’ up,’ she warned.

Morghien held up a silver coin that, despite the grime on it, glittered bright in the gloaming. ‘Not what it wants, but it’ll do.’

‘Don’t you anger it now.’

‘Oh I intend to do more than that,’ he said softly, still staring into the darkness under the willows but seeing nothing. ‘Something of a speciality o’ mine, that
is.’

‘Then do it right,’ the witch said with finality. ‘I’ll be watchin’ too.’

She plonked herself down on the riverbank with the ceremony of a little girl, arranging her skirts around her while gently slapping the bare soles of her feet on the water’s surface. Once
comfortable she pulled out a tobacco pouch and stuffed a pipe with a dark brown wad. She pressed it down hard before leaving her thumb in the bowl for a while, then withdrew it hurriedly as the
tobacco began to smoulder. She sucked hard on the pipe, waiting for it to be fully lit before washing her thumb in the river.

‘Go on then,’ the witch said, waving Morghien forward. ‘Don’t let me hold you up.’

He stared a moment longer, realising the pipe had been a small demonstration for him –
I have some power myself; make sure you can top that before going any further.

‘You’re a nag, woman,’ he replied with a smile and walked away, heading for the willows.

Despite the summer evening, he couldn’t hear any birds or animals in the area. Only the river’s quiet burble broke the silence; no swallows came to drink during their evening hunt
and he saw no nesting ducks in the rushes. There was only the heavy blue-grey of dusk settled over the surrounding trees and an uneasy silence.

Before he reached the willows, Morghien stopped and looked into the water. He could see the bottom clear enough, it was not deep.

‘Come closer, stranger,’ came a voice as elusive and whispery as the wind, ‘come close so I may see the gentle lines of your face.’

Morghien suppressed a smile. If the watcher in the willows thought him just some village simpleton, so much the better.

He took a tentative step closer. The curtain of hanging willow branches was thick enough for him to be unable to make out much, all he could see was a dark, hunched shape wrapped in a long piece
of cloth like a blanket.

‘Take pity on me, good traveller,’ the figure softly pleaded, ‘for I am blind and helpless.’

Morghien edged to a few paces short of the willow branches. The other figure was just within, close enough to part what divided them.

‘Are you hurt, friend?’ he asked in a halting voice.
It appears that sounding nervous comes more easily than I’d realised.

‘Blind I am, lost I am,’ the other moaned. ‘Waylaid by thugs, taunted and beaten. They took my belongings and tossed them in the river, laughing like jackals. I am so cold, so
hungry. I have been alone here for days – will you help me, good sir?’

‘What help do you need?’ Morghian asked, knowing the answer already.

The one behind the curtain reached out an imploring hand. It was pale and withered, age-spotted and filthy. Morghien got a better look at the watcher in the willows now; a frail old man with a
ragged dark blanket wrapped around his body and over his head, one hand holding it in place at his sagging throat. His eyes were screwed up tight, his mouth hanging slightly open to reveal a
blackened tongue and the broken stubs of teeth.

‘My possessions they threw away, my purse they took and emptied into the river. For cruelty’s sake, not theft. A dozen silver coins I had in that purse, earnings to last my family
through the winter.’ The old man was pleading now, his voice hoarse and rasping.

‘In the river here?’

‘Not far from here,’ the old man insisted, ‘I did not dare stray far from the spot in case I could not find it again. I have been here for three days, praying the blessed Gods
would send someone to my aid.’

Praying? That’s a nice touch
, said the part of Morghien that was a much practised liar. ‘Certainly I’ll help you!’ he said with zeal.

‘Do we have a bargain?’

‘We do! The chains I will drag up Ghain’s slope will be plentiful enough, I’m sure. Let’s hope the Mercies are watching this evening.’

The old man bowed his head as though giving thanks for Morghien’s words. The wanderer saw his cracked lips twitch at the mention of Ghain, the mountainside of purgatory that led to
Ghenna.

‘The Mercies see all,’ he intoned, ‘they will reward you, as will I when my silver coins are in my hand.’

Morghien slipped his pack from his back and set it at the river’s edge, within easy reach. The water was chilly after the day’s warmth when he stepped down into the river. Glancing
upstream he saw the witch still sitting where he’d left her, puffing on her pipe and watching everything that went on.

He waded out into the centre of the river, the water reaching only up to his groin but flowing at a brisk pace. As he looked around at the water he could feel the old man watching with hungry
intent. When Morghien turned back he saw the man kneeling on the bank, carefully within the trailing curtain of willow.

‘Somewhere about here?’ he called brightly. ‘Shall I start looking here?’

‘Yes, yes,’ the old man called urgently, ‘they must be near there!’

Morghien noisily splashed around him for a while, turning in a circle while a tiny trail of white mist bled into the water below him.

Dear me, like a toddler in the bath
, he thought, careful to keep the smile that provoked out of the blind old man’s view.

‘I can’t see anything,’ he called helpfully and watched the old man wring his hands anxiously.

‘They are there,’ the old man croaked, ‘they must be there. Please look harder before the ghost hour is over!’

Getting worried now, aren’t you? The witch has kept folk away from here, but you can’t leave so easily.
Morghien thought.

‘Aha!’ he shouted and bent down to grab something from the river bed. He held it high, fist closed tight around it, and gave a triumphant cheer.

‘And there’s another!’ he said and bending to retrieve the second. In his enthusiasm Morghien stood up and flung an arm out towards the old man, throwing a spray of water from
his sleeve across the curtain of night-shrouded willow. The old man cringed back, almost falling.

‘Sorry!’ Morghien called with excessive cheerfulness as he waded back towards the bank. When he was a few paces away he tossed the fruits of his labours onto the grassy bank behind
his pack.

The old man reached a hand up to the willow fronds, his fingers hovering in the act of pushing through the curtain. He went very still and then withdrew his hand back to the folds of his
blanket.

‘These are not coins,’ the old man hissed.

‘Really? You sure?’

‘Of course. They are nothing more than stones,’ the old man snapped.

Morghien made a show of peering forward. ‘Oh, so it is.’ He gave a disappointed sigh. ‘It is a white stone,’ he said in mitigation, ‘it looked silver in the
river.’

‘It has a hole in!’

‘So it does. Ah well, better try again I suppose.’

Morghien waded back to the middle of the river and started to walk in slow circles, staring intently down through the water. Three more times he gave a small cheer and reached down to grab
something, frowning at the contents of his hand each time when he straightened up.

‘They’re just stones,’ he called out for the old man’s benefit, holding one up. ‘Look this one’s got a hole in too!’

‘I do not care for stones,’ came the old man’s susurrus voice from the gloom of the willows. ‘Fetch me my coins!’

‘Temper, temper,’ Morghien replied, ignoring the angry sound that provoked. He resumed his search and three more times went to grab at something in the water. After the third he
waded part of the way back to the bank and tossed up six more stones onto the bank.

‘More stones, I’m afraid.’

The old man screeched in fury. ‘The coins are there, I can sense them. You are a fool if you cannot find them – my patience for stones is at an end!’

‘Well, there’s no need to be rude,’ Morghien said in a hurt voice. ‘I’m working on a song; do you want to hear it while I search?’ he asked suddenly.
‘It’s very good.’

‘Enough of your stupidity!’ the old man howled. ‘Find me the coins or I swear by the gates of Jaishen I shall tear the flesh from your bones and suck the marrow from your
bones.’

Morghien took a step back. ‘Fair enough, point taken – more looking, less talking,’ he said, looking back down at the water. ‘Found one!’

He threw forward something that glittered in the dying light, a silver coin. Morghien watched the old man’s head rise and fall, following the arc as it fell with the stones he’d
previously thrown. At last the old man hopped out from within the willow’s boundary and reached out to grab the coin. His bent back gave the blanket a lumpy, broken look and the effort seemed
to make him snuffle and gasp.

‘I once knew a man who lived under a willow,’ Morghien sang out without warning, causing the old man to jerk his head up. ‘That’s how the song starts.’

‘This is not one of the coins I seek,’ the old man snarled.

He opened his eyes and they shone yellow in the fading light. The blanket covering him fell away and revealed wide scales that tapered to a point covering his head. When he opened his mouth
again it revealed rows of sharp pointed teeth and a long bifurcated tongue.

Morghien made a dismissive gesture with his hand and continued. ‘I once knew a man who lived under a willow, his eyes were empty and his teeth broke low.’

The old man gave a feral bark and his jaw distended, jerking forward once, then twice, until it resembled the muzzle of a dog. Pale, lifeless hands became even more clawed and turned in, but now
looked stubby and reptilian.

‘You could have saved yourself, but you bargained and then played the fool,’ the daemon declared in a low snarl. ‘For that I will eat your soul!’

‘Coins he wanted, help he prayed for,’ Morghien continued with a theatrical flourish, oblivious to what was happening on the river bank. ‘I took his coins and him a fool for. A
circle of stones I made, the trap sprung was not one he laid.’

The daemon hissed in fury and flexed his talons.

‘Oh quiet, you scaly old wretch!’ Morghien said irritably, ‘you can’t cross water so you can stay there hissing all damn night for all I care.’