The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign (5 page)

‘Sun’s on the way down,’ Daken commented from up ahead. ‘We better start lookin’ for somewhere to sleep.’

‘Aye,’ Yanal said miserably, trying not to stare enviously at the white-eye’s thick sheepskin coat. His own was nothing like as warm. ‘Last of our food then.’

‘Should’ve learned to use that bloody sling better then,’ Daken replied sourly. He looked back. ‘And don’t you start looking at my horse that way.’

‘I weren’t,’ Yanal said sulkily, ‘you made it clear enough last night.’

‘Good . . .’ Daken took a breath as though to continue but stopped dead, jerking on his horse’s reins to bring it up. ‘Well, looks like it’s your lucky night, I
won’t have to eat you either.’

Yanal flinched at the thought as Daken pointed ahead, down the road. He was as savage a fighter as any man Yanal had ever met and it was hard to put much beyond the axe-wielding madman.

‘What is it?’ he asked hoarsely.

‘Someone up ahead.’

Daken was perfectly still now, weight on the balls of his feet like a hound poised to spring. Yanal moved up beside him and looked to where the white-eye pointed. He couldn’t make out
much, just a dark shape that had to be another traveller two hundred yards down the road.

‘They seen us?’

Daken shook his head. ‘Don’t look like it.’

Without taking his eyes off the other traveller he reached for the axe he’d stowed on the saddle. Plundered from a recently deceased cavalryman who’d been cheating at cards, it was a
long-handled affair with a crescent blade on one side and a small clenched-fist hammer on the reverse. Daken tossed Yanal the reins and slipped off the road.

‘Ride up and keep ’im talking – I’ll circle around and catch up when he’s not looking.’

Yanal nodded, eyes flitting to his spear and short sword, also bound to the saddle. ‘Bastard better have some food.’

‘Won’t help him either way,’ Daken said softly, the dangerous edge restored to his voice. He slipped off into the undergrowth and quickly the sound of his footsteps faded to
nothing.

‘Aye, true enough,’ Yanal said and hauled himself awkwardly into the saddle.

A lone traveller was just asking for trouble and they could meet a lot worse than Daken. A white-eye only enjoyed killing in battle when he was worked into a frenzy; out here it’d be clean
and swift. He nudged the horse into a brisk walk and started to catch the figure ahead.

Daken heard hooves on the dirt road and cursed mentally, there were no voices accompanying them despite the order he’d given Yanal. He’d wanted their victim to be
chatting away, not listening for danger. Now that wasn’t happening Daken couldn’t tell what was going on. This would be a short-lived robbery if their victim was walking with a cocked
crossbow, but he was fast running out of options.

He glanced behind him. The ground was pretty open, a few bushes to hide behind but none as thick as the ancient hawthorn he was presently behind. Once they passed that he’d have precious
little cover if he was going to hide.

Fuck it,
he thought and tightened his grip on his axe.

The hooves came closer, so close they had to be just a yard or two behind the hedge. With a snarl he pushed himself up off the ground and sprinted around the hedge towards the two figures on the
road. Their horses shied and turned, forcing both travellers to grab their reigns and lose a precious second as Daken closed. Yanal was on the near side but dropped a pace back as Daken came. His
companion was a tall man in a long patchwork cloak, each coloured patch edged in metal and set with what looked like glinting glass charms.

Suddenly the image changed and Yanal became the further man, then the air seemed to waver before Daken’s eyes and the two figures winked out of existence, swapping places once, then twice.
Daken staggered, confused by the strange happenings, and looked from one figure to the next. Just as he focused on one they swapped again and he saw it was an illusion, each one backed by a black
silhouette in the instant the images swapped. He kept going for the right-hand figure, now the man in the cloak, and the man reached an open hand towards him.

Daken charged.

A searing flash of light whipped across his eyes and the charms of protection glowed warm on his skin – then he reached the man and punched the top edge of his axe into his ribs. The man
folded inwards under the blow, legs collapsing as one final burst of magic sparkled the air and dissipated. The air went still again, the gloom of evening returning as Daken blinked down at the
figure doubled-over at his feet. He scowled; it was Yanal.

Bugger.

He turned, bringing the axe up and around as he moved. The tall man stepped back with unnatural speed and the weapon caught nothing, but before Daken could close the gap an explosion of white
light burst before his eyes. Desperately shielding his face, Daken fell back and ended up crouched on the road; axe abandoned and hands over his eyes as knives of pain scraped his skull.

‘Are you quite finished?’

Daken cursed and growled with fury, but even as he fought back the pain he knew he could see little beyond the stars bursting darkly before his eyes.

‘I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you,’ the white-eye gasped, reaching blindly for his axe.

‘Like you have your friend?’ the mage said, amused, as a moan of pain came from behind Daken.

‘Yanal?’

‘Ah Gods!’ the man gasped weakly, ‘you . . .’

Wincing, Daken shook the daze from his head and looked at his companion as best he could. Yanal was sprawled on his side, curled around his chest where Daken had struck him and whimpering. The
blow had been a heavy one; even without a sharp peak on the axe-blade he would have snapped a few of the man’s ribs on impact.

‘Your friend will die,’ the mage declared, taking a step closer to Daken, ‘unless you do exactly as I say.’

Dakan finally found his axe and used it to push himself to his feet, but as he wobbled on treacherous legs something struck him on the chest and knocked him back.

‘Are you listening?’ the mage said. He stood over Daken with a strange greenish light playing around his head. When he pushed back the hood of his cloak, Daken blearily made out the
thin, imperious face of a middle-aged man staring down at him like he was a beetle flipped on its back.

‘Never liked ’im anyway,’ Daken said drunkenly. ‘Still gonna fuckin’ kill you.’

The mage sighed. Through the haze Daken saw he had strange yellow eyes that made him look something other than human.

‘Very well, if you’re too stupid to play to the niceties, what’s the betting something in the packs on that horse is yours?’

Daken rolled onto his front and managed to manoeuvre himself until he was up on one knee, trying to make sense of what was going on.

‘What’s it to you?’ he said eventually.

The mage crouched down to his eye level, close enough for Daken to reach out and grab his throat, but the sight of yellow lightning crackling over the man’s skin overrode thirst of
retribution. ‘Fancy having the hounds of Jaishen catch your scent?’

‘You gonna to set some dogs on me?’

The mage smiled like a snake, his teeth unnaturally neat and white in the last light of evening. ‘Jaishen is the lowest depths of Ghenna. You will need more than a juicy steak to distract
them once they have your trail.’

Daken thought about it a moment. He was a savage man, but the look in the mage’s eyes chilled even him. ‘You mentioned niceties?’ he croaked.

‘So I did. I can save your friend’s life and not damn you to an eternity in the Dark Place – so long as you do me a little favour.’

He grunted and heaved himself up. He moved reluctantly, feeling suddenly like an old man with the weight of the Land on his back. ‘Okay, who do you want me to kill?’

‘Quite the opposite,’ the mage said with cold delight, ‘I want you to be a knight in shining armour, to save a lady in distress. Who knows? Perhaps it will suit you better than
highway robbery – mark a new chapter in your life.’

‘Oh sure,’ Daken said, ‘White-eye merc turns hero; they sing that one all the time.’

He slung his axe through a loop behind his shoulders and tried to dust himself down, still a little unsteady. With an effort he matched the stranger’s unblinking gaze, noticing only then
how the mage was significantly taller than he, a rarity in these parts.

‘So where’s the silly bitch who got herself kidnapped then?’

Daken moved silently through the neat lines of trees, a dagger ready in his hands. At the end of the row he paused and crouched, keeping to the shadows as he surveyed his next
move. The estate seemed quiet for the moment, but there was no easy path in as far as he could see. Like most white-eyes Daken wasn’t a man who played well with others, but right now he
wanted some backup. His kind could usually count on attracting mercenaries who knew their business, men who could take orders and didn’t panic in a fight. Ex-soldiers tended to know the value
of a leader as strong and fast as only white-eyes were, just as they knew what happened when you argued with one.

Fucking damsel in distress eh?
he thought, as a sense of unease grew in his belly.
Still, everything he told me so far has been true. Let’s hope that continues.

The estate was a remote one, grand but belonging to another age. The perimeter wall surrounding the main grounds was newer than the house within and more appropriate to the border wars of the
last few decades, but still it was old with long stretches of brambles growing up it and the nearest part fallen in. They were further north than Canar Thrit and the recent fighting had never
reached these parts. No doubt the occupants hadn’t bothered with anything so costly as repairs, knowing it would be over one way or the other before any soldiers reached here.

The orchard ran almost up to the fallen stretch of wall, stopping no more than twenty yards short. It was open ground, but they didn’t seem to have anyone there guarding the way, to
Daken’s amazement. It seemed to bear out what the mage had told him; that they were guarding against a magical incursion, but still he was suspicious.

He settled down to watch and listen for patrols, content enough in his sheepskin coat that a half-hour passed easily. Twice he saw faces on the walls, with a main lookout on the topmost part of
the house watching the road and open ground to the west. The house itself was split into two parts, a grand three-storey block set imposingly on an outcrop and a smaller L-shaped north wing
beyond.

Most of the windows were dark, just a single pair of shutters in the north wing that were edged with light and two more in the main building. Around the wall however were torches set into
brackets or driven into the earth itself, burning brightly below painted symbols on the stone. He didn’t recognise the symbols, but guessed they were wards of some sort – how they would
stop a mage from walking through Daken didn’t know, but he just had to hope they wouldn’t prove a barrier to him.

Time to move.

He crept forward to the very edge of the orchard’s cover. The greater moon, Alterr, wasn’t particularly bright tonight, but he didn’t want to linger in the open in case the
guards were a decent shot. He took a deep breath and ran for the broken line of wall between the two furthest-apart torches. No warning voices cried out and soon he was at the foot of a pile of
rubble that someone had clearly made a half-arsed attempt at piling back up again.

Clearly it would fall with a gentle push, but Daken didn’t want to risk the noise. He found a stable part to hold onto and vaulted the pile, trotting forward until he was again in shadow
– this time in the lee of a rose bush that hadn’t been pruned for a few seasons. Before he could move again he heard the creak of a door open on his right. He turned to see a man in a
studded jerkin at the open doorway of a stone outbuilding set against the inside of the wall. Not waiting to be discovered, Daken charged.

He covered the ground in a few swift steps, lunging forward with his dagger before the guard had properly seen the danger. It pierced the man’s jerkin with barely a scrape of metal, the
force of the blow enough to throw him back through the open doorway.

‘What—?’

From nowhere a second face appeared on his left, a soldier reaching for his sword even as he stared down at his fallen comrade. In one movement Daken slammed an elbow into the man’s arm to
stop him drawing and grabbed him by the neck. He jerked the man forward and smashed his forehead into his nose, feeling the bone crunch under the impact. The blow drove the man backwards, sword
forgotten and lungs still filling to cry out as Daken stabbed him in the armpit. A second blow finished him off but then the first guard began to huff and wheeze in panic. Dakan stamped behind him
and felt his boot come down on the man’s chest – not enough to kill him but it winded him and bought the white-eye enough time to open his throat.

He stopped, forcing himself to be still as he listened over the hammer of his heart for sounds of alarm. There was nothing, no shouts or clatter of feet.

‘Good start,’ he muttered, dragging the first man’s legs inside the doorway and closing it a moment while he thought. Both were a lot smaller than he and dark-haired –
there was no point in attempting subterfuge when he was a broad, shaven-headed white-eye.

‘How about a bit of distraction instead?’

He looked around the outbuilding. It was pretty much empty, just a table and chairs with the light of a small fire to illuminate it – clearly they were using it as a guardroom, which meant
more would likely be here soon. With his dagger he levered a log from the fire and rolled it out of the grate. He looked around and spotted some sacks in the corner so he kicked it over to them
and, once they were alight, took one and hung it over a rafter for good measure. The thatch would catch happily enough, even on a cold night, and in a few minutes he’d have enough of a
distraction to follow the mage’s instructions.

Daken reached for the door latch and stopped, suddenly noticing something odd about the two dead soldiers in the burgeoning light. Each one had strange flowing tattoos on his face, running from
his cheeks and down his neck to disappear underneath his jerkin. The lines didn’t seem to be writing of any kind, nor any sort of God’s device. When he went to the other body he saw
they weren’t an exact match but the style was the same for certain.