The Darkest Hand Trilogy Box Set

by Tarn Richardson

  PRAISE FOR THE DAMNED

  “A kind of three-way mash-up of horror fiction, war novel and ecclesiastical thriller… works surprisingly well”

  Daily Mail

  “Gripping …. sets Richardson up as an author to look out for”

  The British Fantasy Society

  “They don’t make them like this anymore. But they really should”

  Lee Markham, author of The Truants

  “The historical elements are fascinating, as is the author’s twist on the werewolf mythos… the brooding, conflicted Tacit is the most compelling element… will leave readers looking forward to the next installment”

  Publishers Weekly

  “Allegorical and erudite, this imaginative first volume establishes a world, a monolithic villain, and a catapult for Tacit and Isabella, Sandrine and Frost to confront the evil lurking in the volumes to come”

  Kirkus

  “Richardson can definitely write a rattling good tale, with page-turning suspense that never slows down… Poldek Tacit, a violent but oddly honorable version of Graham Greene’s ‘whisky priest’, is a perfect fit in this world gone mad”

  Kingdom Books

  “The atmosphere drips with dark fear of the unknown and, eventually, the unknown’s bloody leavings. This is definitely not one for the squeamish”

  Bookbag

  “Fantastic… the best evocation of the First World War I have yet read. You really can smell the cordite. Better than Birdsong. The author’s prose is elegant and visceral”

  Ed Davey, author of Foretold by Thunder and The Napoleon Complex

  “Werewolves meet WWI history horror mash-up. Great brooding protagonist and razor-sharp historical detail’

  Tom Bromley, author of Dead on Arrival

  “Engaging, intense and full of visceral descriptions… a sublime work of dark fiction meets mystery, meets horror that recalls the likes of Anno Dracula, Hellsing and Constantine, with a hint of Fight Club”

  Intravenous

  “Morally complex and fast paced, this is a gripping work of dark fiction”

  Ginger Nuts of Horror

  “A fascinating combination of alternate history, church murder mystery, and horror thriller all wrapped up in a nice dark fiction package”

  Jim Riordan, Read This, Peabody Institute Library

  ALSO BY TARN RICHARDSON

  The Hunted (prequel)

  The Fallen

  The Risen

  TARN RICHARDSON

  THE

  DAMNED

  THE DARKEST HAND TRILOGY BOOK 1

  First published in the UK and the US in 2015 by Duckworth Overlook

  This edition published by RedDoor

  © 2019 Tarn Richardson

  The right of Tarn Richardson to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Cover design:

  Map design: Joey Everett

  Typesetting: Tutis Innovative E-Solutions Pte. Ltd

  For Linnie,

  my beginning, middle and end

  and Sam and Will,

  everything in-between

  In memory of Harry Garbutt

  1889–1915

  PART ONE

  “I know that after I leave, savage wolves will come in among you and will not spare the flock.”

  Acts 20:29

  ONE

  23:32. MONDAY, 12 OCTOBER 1914.

  THE FRONT LINE. ARRAS. FRANCE.

  As the first mortar hit the British trench, Lieutenant Henry Frost drew a line through the unit’s diary entry predicting a quiet night. He’d written the forecast more in hope than expectation, as if writing the words within the journal would somehow sway the actions of the Germans and ensure a quiet night. A private prayer for peace for just one night, for some rest from the infernal shrieks of falling shells, the bursts of distant gunfire, the intolerable cries of the wounded and the dying.

  Already it felt as if the war had stalled, trapped under its own ferocity of hate. After the Germans rolled, seemingly unstoppable, through France, they had eventually found themselves snagged by the most fragile of lines east of Arras, checked by the British and French armies and stymied by their own over-stretched supply lines. Now the Germans had taken to unleashing an almost relentless nightly barrage of artillery upon the front and support lines. ‘The Evening Hate’ the Tommies called it. You could almost always set your watch by it. Eleven twenty-eight. Every night. On the dot.

  In expectation, when the minutes ticked over the half-hour mark, Henry had checked his wrist watch and updated the diary entry. So when the first shell burst, he cursed himself for his impetuousness, his reckless optimism for ever now recorded in the diary under the firm black line through his naive prediction. Whilst only weeks old, this was a dreadful war. Already there was no time for optimism in this conflict.

  Above his corrugated iron bunker, a rancid welt of grey-black earth burst amongst his soldiers, spraying metal, mud and blood into the night.

  Someone yelled to take cover as a second shell screamed overhead. Moments before it fell, mortars hissed and clunked from emplacements along the German front line two hundred yards away, fierce red tongues licking the night sky.

  The thunderous clap snatched the breath from all within its blast, as the second shell exploded in a ball of fire and gristle. Within the officers’ bunker below, lanterns swung and dirt fell from the ceiling onto Henry’s paperwork. He tilted his eyes upwards towards the incessant screams of the injured in the trench above, the hopeless cries for a doctor, the splattering patter of debris blasted high from the last shell.

  Seconds later, three more shells fell on the trenches, all in quick succession, blasting bodies from their holes, obliterating corpses away from where they’d laid just moments before. Killing soldiers twice.

  A fourth mortar landed, battering the entrance to the dugout and sending a pall of smoke and dust down into the yawning mouth of the front-line bunker. Henry crouched over the unit’s diary, as if the hard-backed tome was the most precious thing in the world.

  “A doctor!” a voice wept through the barrage above, choking on soot and dust. “A doctor! For God’s sake, get me a doctor!” came the desperate plea, before a fifth mortar landed.

  The Germans had found their range.

  “Get your bloody heads down!” Henry cried down the front line, appearing from the bunker and leaping through the clods of showering earth to reach his men. He stuck his head between his legs and prayed like the rest of them.

  Another shell landed ten feet away, depositing scrambling soldiers into no man’s land, leaving behind a sodden bloodied clump of mincemeat, splintered bone and boots where they had once stood.

  And then, as quickly as it came, the barrage stopped.

  Silence flooded into the trench, like the creeping cordite clouds blown on the midnight breeze. As the roar of the shells fell away, once more the screams of the injured, the moans of the bewildered, the pleading for mother, from those moments from death, renewed their dreadful chorus.

  Cautiously, Henry looked up out of the
hole he had found to shelter in, and peered both ways down the trench. He suspected a trick. In his memory, no onslaught had ever been so short. Out of the smoke and dust, figures stumbled over bodies and blasted earth. He was aware of weeping, the whinnying of horses, a vague ringing in his ears. Everything sounded very far away. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking, trembling like a newborn infant’s. He drew them into balls and crushed the shuddering out of them. After a month on the front line, nothing made Henry shake like artillery barrages. He’d amputated a man’s leg, half hanging by its sinews of flesh, with his knife, shot a German through the eye and stuck a bayonet into the ribs of a young German soldier no older than the boys who used to play football in the green opposite his house back home, watching him writhe and whimper for twenty minutes before dying, gagging on his tears and blood. He’d even ordered the shooting of a sentry for deserting his post without a second thought for the soldier or his family’s honour. But artillery barrages? They tore through every fibre of his body. It was the uncertainty of where the next shell would land, the indiscriminate roaming of their destruction which so terrified him.

  When no further shells fell, he coughed the dust out of his lungs and found his feet uneasily, levering himself up and into the pitch of the trench. Without question the barrage had ended. Strange for it to have stopped quite so suddenly – for it to have been so short. A creeping cold fear drew over him.

  “Get to the bloody walls!” he roared, trundling into a run. “Check your sentries!”

  The enemy! They would be coming, storming across no man’s land, the thump of their boots, the glint of their bayonets in the moonlight.

  “Check your posts! Check for approaching enemy!” Henry cried again, charging to an observation point and knocking the quivering sentry aside. He heard someone call, “There’s nothing there, sir!” as he peered wildly across no man’s land, wishing for a periscope to aid him. Smoke drifted across his view, smoke and moon-cast shadows. He stared wildly across the scarred ground between them and the German front line.

  Nothing.

  Nothing was coming.

  But there was something. The noise from the German trench, gunfire, savage shrieks of alarm.

  Henry strained to look closer at the enemy line. He could see its front parapet in the moonlight, recognise the tangle of barbed wire and the sacking of sandbags in front of it.

  He narrowed his eyes and stared.

  After the initial barrage the air was thick with smoke and sulphur. Battered and bloodied soldiers sat puffing on cigarettes in silent rows or moaned beneath crimson stained bandages. Dropping from his post, Henry patted shoulders and shook hands with his men as he trudged past, planting his boots into the prints made by the Sergeant he was following.

  “Barrage a bit bloody short tonight?” suggested Henry, peering down the length of the trench and regretting his words immediately upon seeing the butchered lying still within it or the injured struggling their way out of it, leaning heavy on the shoulders of mates.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Sergeant Holmes, peering into his periscope, “and that’s the very thing, sir.”

  “How’d you mean?”

  The barrel-chested Sergeant stared down the lens, reacquainting himself with the scene captured within it, before standing to one side and offering the chance for the young Lieutenant to look.

  “I mean, sir, have a gander down that.”

  “What the devil …?” Henry exclaimed in the instant his eyes fixed to the horizon. “Is that us … attacking?” he asked. If it was, it was no form of trench raid the Lieutenant was familiar with. “Do we have any activity targeting the enemy’s forward trench this evening, Sergeant?” Henry asked intently, his eyes still locked to the periscope’s sights.

  “No, not to my knowledge, sir. This whole line is on a defensive footing.”

  “Not according to that,” Henry retorted, turning to Holmes and raising an eyebrow. He looked back into the lens and allowed his eyes to focus once again. At the very range of the periscope’s view, frantic figures were leaping and charging along the enemy trench line, fearsome silhouettes against the silvery light, sporadic gunfire lighting the darkness.

  “We’ve got units in Fritz’s trench,” Henry mumbled with dumbfounded amazement. “No wonder the barrage came to an abrupt halt!” Henry blinked the dust out of his eyes and peered hard. “What on earth’s going on?” he muttered. “Who the hell is that?”

  “Whoever they are, they’re winning!” cheered Holmes, allowing himself the beginning of a fiendish grin. “Shall I … rally the men, sir?” he asked expectantly.

  “Over the top, Bill?” Henry stuttered. “But the men … aren’t they … are they up for a fight?”

  “Oh yes, Lieutenant!” roared Holmes, his face now beaming. “My boys are always up for a fight, sir! Just need the order and we’ll go over the top in a flash.”

  Henry hesitated and cursed himself for his indecision, a trait for which his schoolmasters had long admonished him. Exhaustion, from days without sleep, tugged at every facet of his body, weariness almost overwhelming him. But there was a fire now beginning to catch within him, ignited by the scenes revealed through the periscope and fanned by the enthusiasm of his Sergeant.

  “Too good an opportunity to turn down, sir!” Holmes suggested urgently. “And a near full moon to light our way!” he added, indicating the night sky. “Whoever’s doing our job has put Jerry on the ropes. I don’t mean to put words into your mouth, sir, but it would be my view that we get over to their trench and give Fritz the knockout blow!”

  “Very good then,” cheered Henry, casting any more doubt aside. He allowed himself a nervous smile. “Well done, Sergeant. Let’s get ourselves organised and head on over!”

  Holmes saluted the officer and turned on his heel. Storming back up the trench, he called for the men to fix bayonets. “We’re going over the top, lads!”

  Exhausted and bruised groans returned the order.

  “Come on! Step to it!” the Sergeant cried, marching past the slowly assembling pockets of soldiers. “Let’s go and teach Jerry a lesson about throwing shells at us, shall we?!” he cried, accompanying the command with repeated peeps on his whistle. “Come on, you bastards! Over the top then! Over the top!”

  TWO

  1889. KRAKÓW. POLAND.

  “The boy is broken.”

  Sister Angelina of the Catholic hillside monastery almost seemed to spit the words at the Father, as if the child were a rancid piece of meat. She stared at the hunched shape on the bed and wrinkled her nose. “Broken,” she repeated, remarking on how the child’s lifeless eyes peered vacantly at the rain-splashed window of the room.

  But Father Adansoni refused to accept her assessment. He shook his head and drew the folds in his face taut with the palm of his hand. Adansoni had nourished the boy back to a semblance of physical health with all the guile and skill he possessed. And whilst he accepted that the wounds within would take longer to heal, for everything that he was worth, the Father was determined to draw the child out of the living corpse which sat before him.

  Since their arrival a few days ago at the small monastery south of Kraków, the young boy called Poldek Tacit had done nothing but sit on the edge of the bed, staring to the rolling fields and mountains beyond, partaking in a little soup silently, wordlessly, whenever it was brought to his side, standing and walking lifelessly around the grounds without murmur or resistance whenever it was commanded that he do so for some restorative air.

  On a night, he could be heard to whimper and cry, both as he dreamed and when his nightmares threw him awake, drenched and panting, knotted tight within his sheets.

  “Send him to the sanatorium in the city, Javier,” the Sister pressed. “They will make his life more comfortable.”

  “No, Angelina!” the Father replied sternly, his fists clenching into balls against his cassock, his eyes on the boy, desperately trying to fathom the thoughts in the child’s inaccessible mind. “I
’m taking him back with me to the Vatican.”

  “You cannot mean that, Father! You don’t drink from the cup which is cracked!”

  “As long as it holds water, then why throw it away?” Adansoni countered, drawing his arms about his chest. He didn’t look at her. Instead he continued to study the boy, looking for anything which proved his hope was not in vain. There was something that captivated him about the child. He felt an ownership over him, a responsibility, a belonging, the likes of which he’d never known before, with either object or person.

  After a long while he said, “Sister Angelina, you have always offered wise council. May I ask you something?”

  “Of course, Javier.”

  “Do you believe in prophecies?”

  “Depends of which prophecies you speak? There are plenty which are given voice but few that deserve any credence. Why do you ask?”

  “When I found him …” and then Father Adansoni’s voice trailed off, as if the memory of that scene in the mountains was still raw, too grievous for even the man to recollect. “When I found him, he was the only one alive. His mother and father, both slain, the murderous Slavs who had attacked their home, dead too.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  He turned his eyes slowly onto her. “I think some divine power saved him,” he said, before looking back at Tacit. “Either that or this child killed those men himself, trying to save his family.”

  The Sister could barely contain her snort. “A twelve-year-old child? Kill … how many did you say you found?”

  “Four of them.”

  “Kill four grown men?” She scoffed and flapped a hand in mockery. “A passing soldier maybe? A mercenary, perhaps, came to their assistance? But the boy?!” She forced a cold, short laugh.

  “Surely had it been a soldier or a mercenary, they would have aided the child further? They would have stayed with the boy, or would have taken him away to safety?” He looked back at the lifeless shape sitting on the bed. “But there was no one, no one but this child amongst the dead.”