The Fallen

by Tarn Richardson

  “What we always do. We fight. We try and stop them, whoever is trying to complete the rituals. Isabella, you asked me where we’re going? We’re going north, to the Karst Plateau in the Carso. We stop the third ritual from happening and whatever they are trying to summon from coming through.”

  The final ritual. Pride of life. Tacit knew it came down to this. The thought of it, of what it represented and what it might achieve if it was allowed to happen, was as terrifying as it was tantalising. He did not know exactly how the ritual would manifest itself, how it would be realised, but he had begun to have an inkling – and with it a sickening lingering fear of just what it would mean for him, and for the person he loved.

  “We take a train,” he revealed, cracking his knuckles. “Time is of the essence and therefore the train is the only way. Termini Station.” He waved roughly in the station’s direction. “It’s not far from here. We’ll take the first train for the northern border. Do you have any money?” he asked, looking at each of them.

  “A little,” Isabella replied. “Enough.”

  “I have some,” nodded Henry.

  Sandrine dug deep in the pockets of her coat, finding them empty. “The Inquisitor to whom this belonged, he obviously was not one to pay his bills.”

  Tacit smiled grimly. “Looks like the Inquisitor settled up,” he said, looking at the dried blood on her face. “We’ll need to try to get on board as inconspicuously as possible. The Inquisition will be watching for us. I suggest you find some clothes and get washed,” he said to Sandrine, dark humour gracing his features. “I suspect no eye will look the other way with you walking around like that.”

  EIGHTY FOUR

  THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.

  The Holy See had been called to session, just three hours since the last. The atmosphere was more charged than ever.

  “Grand Inquisitor Düül,” said Casado, clutching his skullcap tight to his head. “He is dead.” He exhaled loudly, defeated by this latest news.

  “Where?” asked a Cardinal opposite, horrified. “How?”

  “In the Church of Santa Maria della Concezione. His body was found in the Crypt of the Resurrection by the resident Father, Father Fesetti, when he came to open up the church for morning Mass.”

  “The wolves?” someone asked. But Casado shook his head.

  “We believe him to be the second victim of these rituals.”

  “The lust of flesh,” muttered Korek, and many in the congregation who heard him nodded in feared agreement.

  “But how did this happen?” asked Bishop Basquez. “The head of the Inquisition? Slain?”

  “There are grave adversaries in the world, Bishop Basquez,” replied Casado.

  “But to have killed Düül? What exactly did they do to him?”

  “I don’t think we need to go into details,” said Korek, raising a hand of restraint.

  “Indeed,” agreed Casado. “Needless to say, how he was discovered aroused our suspicions immediately. The second of the three rituals has been performed. He is a step closer to achieving his plans.”

  “And so Tacit has killed another,” said Basquez.

  Cardinal Bishop Adansoni played with the loose threads on the sleeve of his gown. It seemed to him that his entire life was now spent in meetings, either private closed affairs, shared between just a few in claustrophobic chambers, or within the main inquisitional chamber, as the Cardinals currently found themselves, deep within the bowels of the Vatican. An exhausting treadmill of discussions and lamentations, an attempt for the assembled great minds to find wisdom and a way forward.

  “We don’t know that,” he said, but Basquez rounded on him, laughing.

  “Your attempts to protect that murderer grow more pathetic with every passing crime. If not Tacit, then who? It stands to reason it was him. If he killed Sister Malpighi, he killed Düül. The man’s crazed, possessed. He knows no boundaries.”

  “I agree,” nodded Korek, before catching Casado’s eye.

  “With Düül gone,” muttered a hirsute Cardinal, long greying hair like a mane, “what hope is there? Who can protect us?”

  “With Düül dead, we can take back control and responsibility for the Holy See. Let us be strong. Dawn is almost upon us,” Adansoni said, iron in his voice. “And with it, the Hombre Lobo will retreat back to their lairs.”

  “Those who are left,” added Korek. “The Inquisition, they have killed a great many. The bodies of dead wolves are being burned as we speak.”

  “And tomorrow night?” the hairy Cardinal continued. “What then?” He cleared his throat. “To think of it. A clan of wolves? Within the city? When has such a thing ever happened before?”

  “But what of Tacit?” asked Basquez, leaning forward serpent-like, his arms wrapped about his body. “It is clear he is more dangerous than a clan of Hombre Lobo. The order was also to stop Tacit. Where is he now? And the others who travel with him. “Sister Isabella? The soldier? The woman they are suggesting is a wolf herself?”

  “We have neither the manpower nor the time to look for Tacit now, I suspect,” growled Casado.

  “Check the railway stations,” announced Korek, and all heads turned in the old Cardinal’s direction.

  “You expect them to leave by train?” replied Adansoni doubtfully.

  Korek nodded. “After all this mayhem, I am sure Tacit will look to get out of the city. He may have brought murder and the wolves with him, but I doubt he finds their company to his liking. Not yet.”

  “So you think him guilty of bringing the wolves as well, do you?” asked Adansoni, feigning incredulity.

  The old Cardinal smiled, the grey of his eyes catching the pale light hanging from the orbs above. “I suspect him of many things. From what I have learnt, there is little which is beneath the man.”

  Casado nodded. “Double the inquisitional guard on all stations,” he said, looking at the Inquisitor posted on the door. “Check all trains heading out of the city.”

  But at that moment the door was pushed open and Cardinal Berberino rushed into the chamber. “Tacit is gone!” he called. “Left Rome!”

  “How do you know?” someone asked.

  Berberino held up the letter he had taken from the messenger. “Someone is trailing him,” he replied. “Someone has been watching him, watching him from the very beginning, from the moment he escaped from Toulouse Prison, to when he first boarded a train to come here, throughout all his bloody deeds he committed since he arrived within the city. Even from when he was first imprisoned! They are watching him now, on his journey north from here.”

  “Cardinal Berberino, what exactly are you saying?” asked Adansoni, standing himself.

  “I mean,” said the heavy-set Cardinal, lowering his eyes on his counterpart opposite, “that while we were trying to discover where Tacit was and what his plans were, all the time someone knew exactly what he was doing. Someone within the Holy See for whom this letter was bound. The messenger would not give me a name but revealed enough to confirm its recipient was someone among us.”

  He waved the letter above his head. “This letter explains everything of Tacit’s movements, where he has been and where he is going now. In other words, all the time we were searching for answers, there is someone in here who has known Tacit’s intentions from the start. In answer to your question, Cardinal Bishop Adansoni,” said Berberino addressing him directly, “I am saying that we have a traitor within the Holy See!”

  EIGHTY FIVE

  ROME. ITALY.

  The noise of crowds and steam and the smell of coal smoke rising from the platform of Termini Station whirled about them as Tacit, Isabella, Sandrine and Henry ran along the boulevard, just down from the platform approach. They’d found clothes and a solid pair of boots for Sandrine from a shop near the station, stolen when the shopkeeper’s attention had been drawn elsewhere. Tacit’s pocket clinked with other items to sustain him for the journey ahead.

  Countless units of soldiers stood in long lines, sh
uffling their way step by step slowly onto the platform and the train beyond, the open black iron gates of the station like the entrance to a conveyor belt processing each soldier as they were drawn inside.

  Everything appeared monochrome, as if a vast grey-black sea had flooded the station, punctuated by the occasional ruffle of a black feathered hat among the crowds, sported by one of the Bersaglieri, the elite sharpshooters of the Italian army, weaving their bicycles between the thick crowds of infantry soldiers.

  “No way through,” muttered Tacit, sinking behind a wall to watch the progression of soldiers inside. Officers studied the rank and file of the men going in from various vantage points around the approach. There would be no chance of following the soldiers in and boarding the hissing and groaning troop train at the platform. Among the officers Tacit could spot Inquisitors watching all thoroughfares.

  “Let’s go on around the station,” suggested Henry, craning his neck to follow the curve of the road. “There’s a bridge over the railway tracks, under which the train will pass. Perhaps we can jump?”

  Tacit nodded and the four of them scuttled away, running up the incline of the road towards the iron bridge, its painted girders like blackened bones spanning the width of the four-lane track. There were women on the bridge, dressed in pretty dresses and coats, umbrellas shadowing them from the dawn sun, handkerchiefs clutched to noses. They were staring down at the procession of soldiers, weeping and cheering, every now and then raising a hand and waving towards a loved one on the platform before the son or husband vanished inside the train.

  “Now what?” called Isabella, as they slowed to a walk to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

  “First we need to get rid of those women,” whispered Sandrine before stepping forward to address them. “I wouldn’t stand there if I were you,” she called, indicating a circle around where the women were stood.

  “But why ever not?” replied one of the assembled ladies tearfully.

  “You wouldn’t want your beautiful dresses to be ruined by the soot from the train, would you?” Sandrine asked, indicating the smoking chimney of the train’s engine, already billowing blackened plumes from its funnel. “When it comes through here, the smoke will be terrible. Go down to the front. The guards will let you onto the platform to say your goodbyes.”

  Without hesitation the women clicked away, back down the bridge towards the platform entrance.

  “I never knew lies came so easily to you,” said Henry to Sandrine, a half-smile on his face.

  “They do, when needs must.”

  From up here they could see that the train consisted of wooden pens and carriages, stretched to the end of the platform and beyond. The platform was a bustling chaotic scrum of soldiers, porters, horses, crates of munitions and covered carts, all wedged in between the train and the wall of the platform. Sergeants, elevated on boxes above the writhing masses, barked incoherent commands and orders as the war effort surged and churned slowly towards the open doors of the train.

  “Madness,” they heard Tacit say, and Henry nodded.

  “That is this war, yes.”

  “Sandrine’s bought us a little time,” said Tacit, “but the women will be back, once they’re turned away from the front gates.”

  “And bring with them soldiers maybe,” added Isabella.

  “It’s not the soldiers I’m worried about,” replied Tacit. “It’s the Inquisitors I spotted among the crowds. They’re watching the routes into the station. They suspect we’ll be heading out of the city by train.”

  With that, a shrill whistle blew and the straining of the crowd of soldiers intensified as they battled to board the train before it departed. Slowly the platform cleared, the last door slamming with the finality of a gunshot, and the stationmaster’s whistle blew again. Groaning and toiling against its burden, the steam train slowly drew itself forward towards the bridge where the four of them stood, clouds of choking grey smoke filling the skies above the station. With every chug of its pistons, the train gathered speed, reaching them more swiftly than any of them had expected. Tacit climbed the handrail and balanced himself precariously on the thin edge of the bridge, looking down onto the carriage roofs flying past fifteen feet below. The others followed his lead, balancing next to him, arms held wide.

  “When I say jump,” he called, his hair full of smoke and ashes from the locomotive’s chimney, “jump.”

  They didn’t wait for Tacit’s call. The moment the train drew beneath them Henry and Sandrine jumped, followed by Isabella, aware that the women were coming back up the path towards them, and with them soldiers. Tacit cursed and leapt after his friends. He struck the wooden roof of the carriage and it shattered under him, the Inquisitor vanishing through the broken buckled hole like a skater through ice.

  Immediately Henry, Sandrine and Isabella were at its edge, peering down into the darkness below, Tacit lying on his back on the floor of the carriage, staring up at them.

  “You weakened it,” he muttered, seeing their laughter.

  The train jolted and buckled as it powered north through the Italian landscape. The carriage near the front of the train, onto which they had dropped, had been set aside for livestock. There was hay on the floor of the wooden pen, deep in places. Only one sliding door granted entrance to the carriage.

  “Couldn’t you have chosen a different wagon?” asked Henry, looking about himself disdainfully.

  “If you felt so strongly, you should have found us a carriage yourself,” replied Tacit. “We’re on board. That’s all that matters. And no one saw us enter.”

  “What do we do now?” asked Sandrine, her eyes passing from Henry to Tacit.

  The train rolled on a broken part of the track and they rocked together as if caught in a swirl.

  “We stay in here, and we wait,” said Tacit. He effortlessly threw open the vast heavy door, running on rusted uneven runners, revealing the Italian countryside cantering past. Tacit rested against its frame and searched for a bottle buried in a pocket of his coat. He uncorked it and set it to his lips, gulping down the amber liquid, scowling and shutting his eyes, allowing the movement of the train to rock him like a boat on a gentle eddy.

  “So next stop the border?” asked Isabella, stepping over to the open door to join him and snatching the bottle from his grip. He nodded. “That’s good,” she said and she toasted him, setting the lip of the bottle to her lips, watching the sun-seared fields roll by. “Rome was getting claustrophobic. It felt like we were always being chased. It’s good to feel safe, at least for a little while.”

  In a corner of the carriage opposite, Henry set himself down gingerly on the straw, his hand nursing the sprains and pulled muscles in his neck from their recent exploits, Sandrine next to him. She stared at Tacit.

  “Some comfort!” she said, pushing the straw around distastefully.

  “It’s an animal cart,” spat Tacit, taking back the bottle from Isabella. “You should be right at home.” He took another swig.

  “The Karst Plateau,” said Isabella, crossing her arms and peering out over the slowly undulating terrain. “Have you ever been there? To the Carso?”

  Tacit nodded. “The Devil’s land.”

  “How so?” asked Isabella, her hand creeping unconsciously to her neck.

  “It’s a place forfeited by God. Nothing dwells there save evil rumour and malice. There is a legend that an angel of God was sent to the lands of the Carso to take away all the stones in order for the people living there to grow their crops, farm their animals and raise their families. The Devil came there shortly afterwards and saw this beautiful land, with its fertile meadows and fast-flowing clear rivers and the angel flying away with a huge sack thrown over its shoulder. And the Devil thought at once that there were riches and sweet produce within it. So he slit the bag open from behind, but instead of treasure, stones and debris poured out of the sack and covered the beautiful lands below. And so it became a kingdom of stone, and a domain of the Devil.”


  “What do you think we’ll find there, Poldek?” asked Isabella.

  “I don’t know,” replied the Inquisitor, hanging his head, exhaustion finally appearing to win over him. “I just hope we get there in time. And that between us, we can handle it.”

  He turned back to the carriage door and slammed it firmly shut.

  EIGHTY SIX

  PRAGUE. AUSTRO-HUNGARY.

  The bell tower of the Church of Mother of God before Týn signalled six o’clock, chiming across the Old Town. An angry crowd, gathered in the square before the church’s twin towers, moved away into the city, their flaming torches and cudgels held aloft, curses and recriminations on their tongues.

  “It’s another child,” said the young aide standing next to Father Mészáros on the steps of his church, watching the mob leave. “Gone. For two days now. The ninth child in Prague this summer. They say there is a wickedness come to the city, an evil spirit who steals away children in the middle of the night. What has become of the world, Father?” he asked, bowing his head. “As if this war was not bad enough, now we must contend with phantoms in our beds!”

  “Suffer little children,” muttered Father Mészáros, and the young man thought he heard the Priest chuckle to himself before turning his back on the now empty square.

  “Let us hope not, Father!” he called after his master, shutting the great black door with a bang and following him. They padded up the slate-grey aisle towards the ornate altar at the far end in silence, the arched cream ceiling soaring a hundred feet above them.

  “There is no need for you to stay late tonight, Kristián,” said Father Mészáros. “There will be nothing this evening for which I need your help.”

  “But what of this evening’s mass?” asked Kristián. “The people …”

  “The people will come,” nodded the grey-haired Priest, “when they have searched in vain for their missing children, returning here to look for answers from their God which will never be given.”