He was aware of his hands moving before he had time to even consider where they should go, as if guided by another greater power. Wherever they went there followed a weeping and a pleading from voices quite unlike his, the splintering of limbs, the falling of bodies, then a tight intake of breath and then a slow release as death came.
And lights. Everywhere about him were lights, hanging in the air around him, embracing him, nourishing him with their rays.
And then, as quickly as the brawl had begun, it was over. Tacit picked the Father up off the floor and ushered him away from the lifeless bodies strewn about the courtyard.
Adansoni threw his eyes onto the boy and stared, a look speared somewhere between fear, disbelief and wonder at what his young pupil had done. “You are, Poldek,” Adansoni muttered, his eyes wide on the young man. “You are,” he repeated.
“I am what, Father?”
But Adansoni could, or would, say no more.
1915 : Première Guerre mondiale. Dans les montagnes qui séparent leurs deux pays, les combats sont intenses entre les troupes italiennes et austro-hongroises. Sur le front un jeune soldat italien reçoit une étrange lettre de son frère, un prêtre récemment assassiné dans de mystérieuses circonstances. Celle-ci renferme des secrets explosifs concernant l’Église.
Au même moment, au Vatican, une autre bataille fait rage. Celle du Bien contre le Mal. La rumeur prétend en effet que certains hauts dignitaires sont passés du côté obscur. On évoque des rituels sataniques, des possessions, des exorcismes, de la magie noire. La paranoïa augmente de jour en jour.
Un seul homme semble en mesure de régler la situation : l’Inquisiteur Poldek Tacit. Mais celui-ci est incarcéré à Toulouse. Et il n’a que peu de temps pour agir. Déjà, des créatures que l’on dit revenues d’entre les morts rôdent la nuit autour du Vatican. .
He’d visited Sarajevo many times before. That entire region, stretching like a twisted spine from Montenegro to Romania and to the shores of the Black Sea, seemed to be clutched by a persistent wickedness, rumours of unspeakable horrors howling in the dark of the wilds. Someone once said that, generations ago, a terrible evil had taken root in the Carpathian mountains and its malevolence had spread far and deep, infecting the lands, places, and people. The Priest ignored such chatter. He knew that devil’s work was found in all places of the world, not just here.
He was aware of his hands moving before he had time to even consider where they should go, as if guided by another greater power. Wherever they went there followed a weeping and a pleading from voices quite unlike his, the splintering of limbs, the falling of bodies, then a tight intake of breath and then a slow release as death came.
And lights. Everywhere about him were lights, hanging in the air around him, embracing him, nourishing him with their rays.
And then, as quickly as the brawl had begun, it was over. Tacit picked the Father up off the floor and ushered him away from the lifeless bodies strewn about the courtyard.
Adansoni threw his eyes onto the boy and stared, a look speared somewhere between fear, disbelief and wonder at what his young pupil had done. “You are, Poldek,” Adansoni muttered, his eyes wide on the young man. “You are,” he repeated.
“I am what, Father?”
But Adansoni could, or would, say no more.
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There was dust and smoke and wrestling bodies in the trench ahead of him. It appeared it was a tunnel to hell. He dropped into it and turned in time to see a Hungarian charge towards him. Instinct kicked in and he thrust out with his rifle, his eyes tightly shut. The rifle went heavy and the figure hung limp on the end of it. Pablo lowered it and the man slid off, dead, pierced clean through the heart. Pablo looked down into the dead man’s wide staring eyes.
There were tears in his own eyes, and tears in the eyes of the man he had just killed.
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Darkness seemed to boil in the hollows of the graveyard. From the east, a cool meandering pall of sea stink and rot rolled breathlessly onto the land, drawing from the earth a lingering mist, as if a spell had been spoken to raise spirits from the ground.
A bright moon caught in the branches of the great trees around the graveyard, glittering the ground and the men creeping beneath them with soft circles of silver light. None of them had spoken since their boat had drawn alongside the narrow stone quay of the small deserted island hospital harbour an hour before.
Beyond the boughs of the trees and stunted slabs of gravestones, roughly hewn for purpose rather than out of love or respect for the dead buried beneath them, distant lights from surrounding islands and the Italian mainland could be seen to twinkle white and amber. In the silence of this abandoned lazaretto, long rumoured to be haunted, spirits could still be felt to reach out and grapple the Inquisitors as they passed, the occasional muffled bark of laughter from Venice across the water sounding foreign and mistaken in the hateful dark. In the depths of the graveyard, unseen unblinking eyes watched each of the men with rankling spite.
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He was aware of his hands moving before he had time to even consider where they should go, as if guided by another greater power. Wherever they went there followed a weeping and a pleading from voices quite unlike his, the splintering of limbs, the falling of bodies, then a tight intake of breath and then a slow release as death came.
And lights. Everywhere about him were lights, hanging in the air around him, embracing him, nourishing him with their rays.
And then, as quickly as the brawl had begun, it was over. Tacit picked the Father up off the floor and ushered him away from the lifeless bodies strewn about the courtyard.
Adansoni threw his eyes onto the boy and stared, a look speared somewhere between fear, disbelief and wonder at what his young pupil had done. “You are, Poldek,” Adansoni muttered, his eyes wide on the young man. “You are,” he repeated.
“I am what, Father?”
But Adansoni could, or would, say no more.
There was dust and smoke and wrestling bodies in the trench ahead of him. It appeared it was a tunnel to hell. He dropped into it and turned in time to see a Hungarian charge towards him. Instinct kicked in and he thrust out with his rifle, his eyes tightly shut. The rifle went heavy and the figure hung limp on the end of it. Pablo lowered it and the man slid off, dead, pierced clean through the heart. Pablo looked down into the dead man’s wide staring eyes.
There were tears in his own eyes, and tears in the eyes of the man he had just killed.
“Dan Brown fans will clearly love this, and it’s rather more sophisticated, too.”
“An action-packed supernatural thriller that will nourish your blood lust... perfect for a plane ride or lounging on the beach”
“The plotting is sharp, the characterisation and the historical attention to detail is superb."
“Keeps the pages turning... not for the faint of heart, The Fallen continually ups the ante... Richardson is a disciplined, focused writer who balances quick pacing with ghoulish descriptions... packed with vivid descriptions and heart-pumping action, The Fallen is a twisted, thrilling nightmare.”
“Readers who enjoy extra-broody antiheroes who are good with fists and firearms will find much to love in this unusual mashup.”
“Richardson’s use of his alternate history makes more sense out of the insistent killings than any dry narrative could... I’m looking forward to next year’s finale."
“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.”
“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.”
“Morally complex and fast paced, this is a gripping work of dark fiction.”
“A fascinating combination of alternate history, church murder mystery, and horror thriller all wrapped up in a nice dark fiction package.”
“A robust conspiracy of ritual and magic... has a cinematic quality to it [and the] action comes at a frenetic pace.”
“Truly riveting... a really engaging alternative history with hints of magical realism.”
“The Darkest Hand Trilogy is clearly one of the best achievements in modern speculative fiction."
“Dark, emotive, thrilling and engaging! I was completely blown away by this book. Likely, due to the strong presence of the Catholic Church and the Vatican, thoughts of Dan Brown came to mind while I was reading, but this is firmly Richardson’s novel, the writing and the plot his own, holding my full attention throughout, emotionally involving me in the plot and leaving me sad when I finished the book.”
“Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever read a book that has taken me on such a roller coaster of emotions so quickly, so smoothly and so seamlessly. This is a wonderful series, I’ve only just finished the first book, but I’m already dreading saying goodbye to this one.”
“If you enjoy dark novels with strong characterisation and thrilling plots then The Damned is perfect reading.”
“I have loved these books immensely. I have been amazed and blown away by this incredible trilogy, is a huge story, well researched and executed. For me these books are second only to The Lord of The Rings books.”
“The Damned really is its own thing and unlike any other books I’ve read.”
“The author’s description of the hell in the trenches was excellent and a stellar example of good research. Invokes an unmistakable sense of time and place thanks to the author’s impeccable attention to detail, enhancing the enthralling atmosphere. “The Damned” is one of the most compelling horror/fantasy novels I’ve ever read.”
“Richardson's descriptive prose paints equally vivid images of mud-clogged trenches as sun-drenched Italian fields glimpsed during flashbacks into Tacit's troubled past. THE DAMNED is a truly genre-busting novel, with characters to root for and villains to despise. Highly recommended.”
“This is a fabulous read made all the easier by some superb writing from Tarn Richardson. Dark, mysterious and altogether cinematic.”
“A thrilling, chilling, compulsive read combining the brutality of WWI with the shadowy fantasy world of the Inquisitors and their outcasts. Refreshingly different from anything else I've read. An incredible feat of imagination but the historical details are clearly also very well researched.”
Richardson's debut has mash-up leanings. It works surprisingly well. Dan Brown brown fans will love this and it's more sophisticated, too.
“Are you Tacit?” the woman asked him.
“Who wants to know?” he growled, his eyes fixed on the half full bottle of spirit and glass alongside. He reached his greasy fingers forward and gathered up the tumbler, necking the amber liquid in a single quick gulp.
Thee woman paused and looked at the Inquisitor hard. She’d met a few of them in her time, Inquisitors. The experienced ones; they all looked haggard, spoiled, bruised, a symptom of their line of work. But Tacit, he looked more ruined than any she had seen before. He looked old as an oak tree and as rough as its bark.
THE DAMNED, Book 1 of THE DARKEST HAND trilogy
Born in Bristol in 1972, Tarn grew up a fan of J.R.R.Tolkien near Taunton, Somerset, in a remote house rumoured to be haunted. He has been a copywriter, written murder mystery dinner party games and worked in digital media for over twenty years.
He is the author of the The Darkest Hand trilogy, comprising of The Damned, The Fallen, The Risen and the eBook prequel The Hunted, all published by Red Door Books.
He lives near Salisbury.
He was aware of his hands moving before he had time to even consider where they should go, as if guided by another greater power. Wherever they went there followed a weeping and a pleading from voices quite unlike his, the splintering of limbs, the falling of bodies, then a tight intake of breath and then a slow release as death came.
And lights. Everywhere about him were lights, hanging in the air around him, embracing him, nourishing him with their rays.
