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Tithemarked – Extract

A Black Library Publication Imprint

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Tithemarked

By Steven Sheil

Petras tugged at the sleeves of his tunic, pulling them down to cover his hands so they wouldn’t show, at the same time using his feet against the stone floor to push his body tight into the corner where the wheat sacks were piled. He was shivering with the cold of the night, and with fear, and had to clamp his jaw shut tight to stop his teeth from rattling. His heart jumped as he heard the sounds of his brothers entering the grain store – the loud thwack of the door as it was slammed back against the wall.

‘You see him?’ That was Grandon, the eldest, their father’s favourite.

‘No. But he could be hiding, the little wretch.’ Bron, the second son, the strongest, the one Petras was most scared of. He still carried the bruises of when Bron had held him over the old trough, dipping him head first into the foetid water, only letting him go when they had heard the calls from the gates of the village, the urgent, terrified announcements that They had arrived.

Had that been only yesterday? It seemed longer ago, another lifetime almost. Everything had changed in the moment that his father had come to him and told him of the sacrifice he must make for the tithe. Since then there had just been running and hiding and the petrified fluttering of his heart.

His tunic matched the colour and texture of the grain sacks, giving him some camouflage against discovery, but he was finding it hard to hold his breath for so long in amongst the dust and draught of the store. He could hear Bron’s heavy footsteps on the stone floor, could sense that he was circling the piles of grain sacks, could almost feel his gaze upon him. Petras closed his eyes, held his breath, tried to shrink himself even smaller than his already tiny body. He was the youngest, the runt of the family, not blessed with the sturdiness of his brothers, or the age-wrought hardiness of his father. To Bron and Grandon he was little more than a dog to be kicked around for fun. But perhaps now, his smallness would be his saving, would protect him from the hands and from the knife.

It was not to be.

‘Ah!’ shouted Bron, as he pulled away the sack closest to Petras and reached in a thick hand to grasp the boy’s bony shoulder. ‘Thought you could hide from us, did you?’

Bron dragged Petras out of the corner and threw him down on the stone floor. Petras looked up, searching for an escape route, but Grandon barred the way to the door.

‘Please,’ said Petras, his eyes darting from one boy to the other, ‘please don’t make me.’

Grandon stepped forward and grabbed Petras’ wrist, yanked him to his feet. With his other hand, he bunched Petras’ tunic and pulled him close.

‘It’s for the good of us all,’ he said.

The mud path from the grain store was frosted into hard peaks which scraped against Petras’ legs as his brothers dragged him away. One of Bron’s thick hands covered his mouth to stop him from yelling, and over the top of his callused thumb Petras could see the torches that marked the entrance to the village and the dark shadow that stood waiting between them, the curve of its bare skull backlit by the torchlight, the long sword in its fleshless hand. In front of that dark shadow sat another – a heavy oaken chest filled near to the brim with fresh white bones. At the sight, Petras struggled even more, but his brothers’ grip was firm. There was to be no escaping what was coming.

Their father was waiting for them as they entered the house. The table had been cleared and the heavy cleaver which his father used for meat was lying next to the stone he used to sharpen it. When he saw his father, Petras shook his head wildly, pleaded with his eyes. His father shook his head.

‘Nothing else for it,’ he said. ‘The tithe must be completed, to the very last bone. What else would you have me do? The graveyard has been emptied, the dying have been sacrificed and still we are short. Should the master of the village not be prepared to do what he must for the sake of his people?’

Grandon and Bron dragged Petras forward and threw him down face first across the table. Bron grabbed his left arm and pulled back the tunic sleeve almost to the shoulder. Grandon pulled his hand to lay flat, resting his weight against the wrist. Petras’ father picked up the cleaver. Petras twisted his neck to look up at him. Tears were in his eyes.

‘Please, father, please!’

A curl of contempt came to his father’s lips. ‘Have some strength, like your brothers. We each must play our part. You want the whole village to be slaughtered for the want of a handful of bones?’

He put his hand against Petras’ forearm, then lowered the blade of the cleaver to the point just above Petras’ elbow, marking the spot. Petras felt the sharpness of the metal against his skin and a panic went through him. He tried to move, but the weight of his brothers held him tight to the table. His father lifted up the cleaver, raised it high…

And brought it down to sever his son’s flesh with all the force he could muster.

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Warhammer horror

A Black Library Publication Imprint

First published in Great Britain in 2020.
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ISBN: 978-1-78999-919-8

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