The Hunted: Darkest Hand Trilogy Prequel

By Tarn Richardson

In the bustling streets of Sarajevo in June 1914, the dead body of a priest lies, head shattered by the impact of a fall from a building high above. As the city prepares for the arrival of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, grim-faced inquisitor Tacit Poldek is faced not only with the challenge of discovering why the priest has been killed but also confronting other menaces: the demon rumoured to be at large in the city and the conspirators of the Black Hand organisation who plan to assassinate the Archduke.

With terrible danger only ever one step away and his private demons silenced only by strong drink, THE HUNTED introduces us to the brilliant but flawed soul that is the unorthodox Catholic inquisitor Tacit Poldek. It is a world both like and unlike our own but in which the Inquisition, is alive and well yet existing in the shadows; in which history is poised to take dangerous and unpredictable paths; where evil assumes many horrific forms, from werewolves to the institutional slaughter of the trenches; and the threat to humanity (in all senses of the word) - and to love - is ever constant.

THE HUNTED is the free prequel to The Darkest Hand trilogy, Tarn Richardson's gritty and compelling series, of which the Daily Mail said, 'Dan Brown fans will clearly love this, and it’s rather more sophisticated, too.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tarn Richardson
• Release date: Apr 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781913062088

Tarn Richardson

Tarn Richardson is the author of The Darkest Hand trilogy, published by Duckworth Overlook in Europe and Australia, and Overlook Press in the US and Canada. Consisting of THE HUNTED (free prequel novella), THE DAMNED (2015), THE FALLEN (2016) and THE RISEN (2017), The Darkest Hand trilogy unleashes the flawed but brilliant Inquisitor Poldek Tacit upon a Europe engulfed by the First World War. The Damned was one of the book depository's 'Books of 2015'. Having grown up in Somerset, he now lives in Salisbury with his wife, the portraiture artist Caroline Richardson.

Book preview

ONE

The pavement around the Priest was slick with blood, thick rivulets of darkening crimson snaking from the body drying fast beneath the hot Sarajevo sun. The side of his face had hit the ground with such force that it appeared to be submerged in rock. The spray of blood formed a halo, the Priest’s final panicked thought realised in savage patterns across the paving stones. Crows had settled nearby almost immediately, their greedy black eyes on the warm corpse. But there was to be no feast for them here. A large crowd had quickly formed, the first to arrive running to see what the strange noise had been, those who came after drawn by the shrieks of horror and alarm on this much-heralded day of celebration at the Archduke’s arrival.

The swelling crowd drew back, no one daring to approach the body, as if they too might be cursed and suffer a similar fate should they touch it, faces turned away, hands clasped to mouths. From out of the crush police officers appeared, pushing and yammering angrily at the gathered throng, ordering people to let them through, all three of the officers harassed and sweating beneath their thick formal uniforms. Bright silver buttons gleamed and crushed velvet shimmered under the summer sun ahead of the Archduke Ferdinand’s arrival in the city. On seeing the body, the officers also drew back, not touching it incase their snow white gloves became stained with the dead Priest’s blood. Paralysed by indecision, they opted to form a cordon about the body, their arms splayed wide in a vain attempt to obscure it from the increasingly inquisitive crowd and give the Priest a little dignity.

With the passing minutes the mood in the street changed. Once the initial shock of seeing the shattered body was over, it no longer seemed a thing of revulsion. Lying lifeless and still on the pavement stones, it had turned into an object of fascination and intrigue. People jostled to see, to glance at the crushed Priest whose blood now stained the bleached stones of the Turkish Quarter of Sarajevo. The police fought to keep the crowd back, their hands threatening on the hilts of their sabres, whilst someone ran off to find a catholic Father who would know what to do.

Two were found, pale faced and perspiring. Bound in black cassocks, their shoulder length pellegrina capes rippling as they scuttled through the Sarajevo streets, they had wasted little time on being told the news. Their only delay had been to clasp bibles and set birettas on their heads before they hurried from their church. The crowd parted like a sea and, on seeing the body, the Priests grasped at their starched white collars and drew handkerchiefs to their noses – prayers muttered by stuttering tongues.

I recognise him, hissed the taller of the pair, the rim of his hat slipping down over his glistening narrow forehead, slick with sweat. My God, I think I saw him only this morning!

Who was he?

I don’t know. He’d only been in the city a few days. He came to Mass last Friday. He seemed grave. Kept his own counsel. I wished him good morning when I saw him out walking, a few hours ago.

Well, it didn’t turn out to be good for him. Who could have done such a thing? the other Father asked, swallowing hard, his eyes wide in his skull. There was timidity about him, as if every