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279 pages

English

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1917. The Apocalypse is imminent. It is three years since our first introduction to the brilliant but flawed Catholic church Inquisitor Poldek Tacit, and the world has never needed him more. War, revolution and a relentless tide of inhuman terror is consuming the earth but where is Tacit? As old allies unite in a frantic race to unmask the Antichrist and thwart his plan to bring everything into his power, the Darkest Hand continues to terrorise the innocent – while in the Vatican's vaults, long-buried secrets are about to be unveiled, and humanity's chance of escape from the forces of evil hangs by a single thread.

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Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)

Fantasy

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Publié par	RedDoor Publishing
Date de parution	09 février 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781913062385
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0180€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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PRAISE FOR THE FALLEN
“Dan Brown fans will clearly love this, and it’s rather more sophisticated, too”
Daily Mail
“An action-packed supernatural thriller that will nourish your blood lust… perfect for a plane ride or lounging on the beach”
Matthew Cavanagh, Geek Planet Online
“The plotting is sharp, the characterisation and the historical attention to detail are superb”
Simon Gosden, Fantastic Literature
“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 heartpumping action, The Fallen is a twisted, thrilling nightmare”
ForeWord Reviews
“Fast, frenetic and bloody, The Fallen is an imaginative and deftly told tale that’ll chill you to the core”
Tim Lebbon, author of The Hunt and The Family Man
“Readers who enjoy extra-broody antiheroes who are good with fists and firearms will find much to love in this unusual mashup”
Publishers Weekly
“In Poldek Tacit we have a wonderfully snarling, brutish, wounded bear of a man, his humanity still alive within him, despite all he has done, and seen”
Russell Mardell, author of Bleeker Hill
“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”
Kingdom Books
PRAISE FOR THE DAMNED
“A kind of three-way mash-up of horror fiction, war novel and ecclesiastical thriller… works surprisingly well”
Daily Mail
“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
“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
“Fantastic… the best evocation of the First World War I have yet read. You really can smell the cordite. Better than Bird Song . 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
“The Darkest Hand has a remarkably original premise and the individual books are driven by some damn fine characters… Poldek Tacit is an excellent creation. So much back-story and presence… a truly hard-assed priest. The series is an addictive read, with enough blood, battles and violence to satisfy even the most ardent horror fan. Frenetic, gore-soaked, and hugely enjoyable”
David Moody, author of Autumn and Hater
TARN RICHARDSON
THE RISEN

THE DARKEST HAND TRILOGY BOOK 3
First published in the UK and the US in 2015 by Duckworth Overlook This edition published by RedDoor www.reddoorpress.co.uk
© 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: www.patrickknowlesdesign.co.uk
Typesetting: Tutis Innovative E-Solutions Pte. Ltd
For my parents, who helped make me a writer
The beast that you saw is about to rise from the bottomless pit and go to destruction.
R EVELATION 17:8
PROLOGUE
S EPTEMBER, 1915. T HE A DRIATIC S EA.
A sheet of skin came away in the sailor’s hand from the rotting corpse they had pulled out of the sea. Almost immediately, bluebottles settled and began to search the spoiled bleeding husk. A crew member of the small coastal battleship, gunmetal grey and shrouded in smoke between the glistening languid waves, tried to chase the fat greedy things away, but in the heat and stink on the ship’s deck, he quickly realised the futility of the exercise. Someone suggested they throw the stinking body back, the smell alone enough to turn their sea-hardened stomachs.
But then the corpse shuddered and a groan rattled out of him.
Against the heat of the deck, his exposed flesh had begun to sear and cook, the smell coming off him like salted pork. Someone cursed, that anything could look like the charred and sodden lump of meat and still live was a miracle.
“Get him inside,” the ship’s Captain called, a haggard-looking man with too many years at sea behind him. Four sailors took the end of each pole and carried the body into the squalid heat of the interior, coal fumes and oil caught up with the incessant grind of the engines. “Get that off my boat,” said the Captain, pointing at the stinking raft of wood upon which the wretched man had been found. Two of the crew took hold of it and flung it overboard, wiping their hands surreptitiously on their greasy uniforms before following the Captain inside.
The crew had set the pallet, and the victim it held, down on a table in the first available cabin they could find, each of the bearers pleased no longer to be carrying such a heavy burden. Ravaged by time and tides, the man plucked from the Adriatic was huge, broad and heavy-set.
Faint amber light lit the worn face of the Captain as he pulled on his cigarette again and squinted at the figure through the scribble of smoke. About him, sweaty and dirty sailors jostled and pushed for a better view of the body lying still on the table.
“Are you sure he’s not dead, Captain?” someone asked.
“He’s not dead,” the Captain replied, the top button of his jacket open to give a little relief from the heat inside the ship. The bristle on his top lip glistened in the closeness of the chamber. “But how he’s not dead, I don’t know.” He swallowed, and realised then how dry his throat had become, wiping at the salty trails of sweat on his cheeks and neck with the back of a hand. And then something caught his eye and he leaned forward, teasing the man’s ravaged clothing aside to reveal a mottled coat of chain mail beneath, its scales like those of a fish, caught in the dull light of the room.
“Who the hell is he?” someone asked. “Who wears stuff like this?”
“An Italian sniper?” another suggested, and the seamen’s hands curled into tight fists. They all knew of snipers, the most despised of the enemy they faced, sharpshooters who wore plate mail to protect themselves from enemy fire when entrenched at their posts. But such armour was always crudely forged and constructed from heavy plates of iron. This chain mail had been delicately pieced together and hammered impenetrable ring by ring. No sniper was ever worth such effort in the factories of either the Italian or the Austro-Hungarian war machine.
The Captain searched him further, his interest piqued. Moments later he found a crucifix hooked into the tattered remains of a pocket.
“A crucifix?” the ship’s bosun asked, amazed at the find. “Armour? A crucifix? What is he then? A knight?”
“A man of God, eh?” a crewman replied, and he rested his chin in his grimy fingers.
“Maybe that was what saved him? His faith?” said another sailor, through a mouth missing most of its teeth.
The Captain’s hand worked deeper into the open folds of his own jacket, coming to rest against his heart. He could feel its slow reassuring beat pulse through his fingers. “Whoever he is, days at sea, weeks maybe, couldn’t kill him. Perhaps God was looking down on him kindly? He’s one tough bastard, that’s for sure. He’s seen action, and plenty of it. Look at the scars on him.” He waved a hand absently over the bruised and bloodshot skin. The assembly of people in the room nodded in agreement, as if they too had noticed the bullet wounds which riddled his ravaged flesh, some ancient, others inflicted more recently.
“No stranger to trouble,” someone said.
“He’s seen action, but for which side?” asked the bosun.
“If he’s Italian, we should put a bullet in his head and throw him back into the sea,” said the ship’s chief steward. He signed with his thumb across his throat.
“We’ll know when he speaks,” replied the Captain, in a more measured tone.
“ If he ever speaks,” someone muttered. “He doesn’t look like he is long for this world.”
“He must have been in the sea for weeks.”
“Ten krone he won’t make it till morning,” one of the sailors said.
“One tough bastard,” another replied, “to have lasted so long, drifting in the Adriatic, clutching hold of nothing but that piece of wood.”
“He won’t make it,” the sailor answered knowing