“I … I thought you were dead?”
“I was dead, yes,” said Georgi. “Dead to that way of life, that faith. Let’s just say I found myself reborn, with a new Lord. One who appreciated my talents.” He launched himself at the shocked Inquisitor, battering him left and right with his fists. “I understand if you’re surprised. It’s been a while, Poldek. Many years. A lot of water under many bridges.” He brought up a boot, bringing Tacit down onto it, and then clattered him onto his back with a right hook.
Georgi shook the pain of the blow from his knuckles and circled the winded Inquisitor. “Take your time,” he offered cynically. “I know it’s a lot to take in. Your old friend returned. The one who murdered your first love.”
At once something flared within Tacit and he scrambled to his feet.
“She died badly,” Georgi growled, fending off a following blow and returning Tacit’s feint with interest in the form of a shattering undercut that rocked the big man on his heels.
“I don’t know who you mean!” Tacit cursed, lunging for Georgi and getting hold of his neck. He pulled hard and twisted, feeling something give in his lower back, but a blow to his old friend’s midriff caused him to loosen his grip and draw back, his hand to his bruised ribs.
“Yes you do!” smiled Georgi through bloodied teeth. “The only person who ever meant anything to you. The only person you’ve ever cared for. Other than her,” he added, looking at Isabella unconscious in the corner.
Tacit paused, enough for Georgi to catch him off guard with a glancing blow, which shuddered Tacit’s vision to a blur.
“Mila.” Georgi spoke the word like a triumph.
Tacit hesitated, his eyes wide.
“They told you it was Orthodox, didn’t they?” Georgi laughed, and struck Tacit without any resistance twice in the face. Tacit’s nose exploded and blood flooded his mouth. “That was the official line you were told. The one to get you back on side. To get you back doing what you do best.” He worked his way through Tacit’s fumbling defences, battering his right eye so hard that it instantly it closed with blood and he thought Tacit might be close to breaking. “You’re too valuable to lose, you see, Tacit, especially to some Italian farm whore.” Georgi caught him in the ribs, following with a blow to the chin. Tacit rocked over onto his backside, instantly trying to find his feet. “It was a test for me. My first real test for my new master. To see if I had what it took to follow their every order, their every command.” Tacit came at him, but he was too blinded by pain and the words he was hearing to attack with any purpose or focus. Georgi stepped aside and slammed his boot into Tacit’s knee, causing it to crumple and sending Tacit down. As he was scraping blindly in the straw of the carriage to collect his bearings, Georgi took Tacit’s hair and pulled so he was looking down into his face. “Seems I keep coming between you and the women you love?”
Tacit roared and lashed out, but his anger had blinded any hope of striking his foe. Georgi caught him and threw him against the right-hand side of the open door. Tacit’s wild clumsy hand reached out to grasp it, locking firm to the lintel, stopping him from falling out into the rolling blackness of the mountain plains. He looked with bloody tear-drenched eyes across the carriage to Isabella. Georgi followed Tacit’s gaze to her and smiled.
“Oh, don’t worry, Poldek,” he said, searching in a holster for his revolver. “I’ll take good care of her. She has important work to do. But I suspect you knew that all along. That it’s always been you and her. Ever since the start. Since Arras.”
There was a flash of metal and Tacit knew instantly what he was about to do. He powered desperately towards Georgi, but too slow to stop the gun from going off like a cannon. Tacit crunched down, holding his shoulder, his hand over the wound dashed with vivid crimson.
“Georgi!” cried Tacit, his wide eyes pleading.
“Pathetic!” replied Georgi, any smile now polluted by the sheer venom staining his face. He raised the pistol again at Tacit.
“No!” was all Tacit could say before he was hit for a second time in the shoulder, sending him backwards out of the open door and somersaulting out into the blackness.
PART SIX
“No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other.”
Matthew 6:24
NINETY
THE ITALIAN FRONT. THE SOČA RIVER. NORTHWEST SLOVENIA.
The barrage started, as it always started, with the dull clunk of shells, sounding so far away that Pablo thought they couldn’t be firing at him or the crowd of broken Italian soldiers of his unit. But the whine in the sky above grew louder and the grey dawn became too bright to see anything. The air was sucked out of the lungs of the Italian soldiers, their ears ruined by the torment of the falling shells, their eyes blinded. Pablo sank down in the trench on the very edge of the Karst Plateau, opposite the Corporal.
“I’m going to die here,” he shouted through the noise. In all that death and terror, he knew the end had almost certainly come. He supposed that perhaps it would be the last thing he would ever acknowledge, before a shell landed and tore him to pieces. And his memories and spirit would be blasted and caked about the rocks along with his flesh and blood.
But the Corporal shook his head. “Not you. Not here. Not yet.”
And for the first time since they had climbed the mountain together, the Corporal’s eyes grew severe and his lips puckered in defiance. “The Devil, he has told me. He told me everything. And the Devil told me where to come, and what I was to do. It is why I joined the Italian army, knowing it would bring me to this place, at this moment in time to protect you. And I will reach the top of this mountain, the top of the Karst Plateau, and there I will do my duty to him and them.”
“What do you mean?” cried Pablo, over the whine of more shells and the pleading cries of those caught in their blast.
The Corporal smiled. “The Devil, he is a powerful ally! He told me! He spoke to me! He said that it would be here that he would return and that our enemy, he would come here too!”
“They are coming!” a voice shouted in alarm, and Pablo became aware that the shells had stopped falling. “The enemy, they are coming!” the voice called again, and thousands of Italian soldiers set themselves at the front lip of the trench and counted out their last remaining rounds.
“Here, in the Carso, you will offer yourself to him,” chuckled Corporal Abelli, falling in alongside Pablo, his rifle clenched in blackened, scarred hands.
But Pablo hadn’t heard him. He peered over the trench, knowing that something strange was happening. For now just occasional firing could be heard and beyond there was nothing but an ocean of grey growing closer and closer.
“It’s a sea!” cried Pablo, his rifle trembling in his hands. “It’s a giant wave of grey water, flooding towards us! A great flood!”
But Abelli laughed and shook his head.
“No, Pablo,” he said. “It is a wave of grey, but no flood ever carried so many men with rifles and bayonets. Now we will find out who are the real men, the ones who deserve to stand on the Karst Plateau as victors, and who shall be trodden into the rock. Now we baptise the lands in blood, a sacrifice to him and his returning lieutenants.”
“Get up off your arses!” bawled the Staff Sergeant from behind the front line. “Get up and get going!” and he struck out with his boot and caught Pablo in the thigh, turning him over.
Pablo sprang back to his feet and spun to face the Sergeant. The dull flash of gunmetal was in the Sergeant’s hand and the barrel of his service revolver pointed at Pablo’s head.
“Don’t be having thoughts above your station, young man!” he warned, a glimmer of pleasure lifting the corner of his lip. “The enemy is that way,” he said, gesticulating with the gun.
But Pablo shook his head. “From where I am standing, it seems the enemy is all around.”
The Sergeant suddenly straightened up and his eyes widened, full o
f surprise and pain. He slumped with a groan to the ground and didn’t move anymore.
“I told you,” said Abelli, his eyes on the grey wave of the enemy coming towards them across the plateau. He pulled his knife out of the Sergeant and put it back into his sheath. “I told you I would protect you. All the way, up until the end.”
NINETY ONE
THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.
Cardinal Korek was not at all happy to be leaving his quarters at such an hour of the evening, especially after the events earlier in the day. It had not been possible to save Cardinal Bishop Berberino. He had died on the chamber floor within minutes of his first convulsion.
“A heart attack,” the doctor concluded, who had been called and had arrived minutes after the Cardinal had stopped breathing.
“Rubbish,” Korek had muttered under his breath, while the doctor gathered his belongings together. He had long recognised the signs of poisoning, the discolouration around his lips, the pallid drawn skin. But he said nothing openly, knowing it prudent not to advertise his knowledge to those gathered around the prostrate body. For if Berberino had been murdered, he surmised that the murderer would still be at large and alert to any who might doubt the doctor’s diagnosis.
So when the request was made to meet in the Sala Del Cartone chamber, he went to it with reluctance. He wished for nothing more than a quiet night to mourn his friend and ponder just who might have been responsible for his murder. Recent events within the Vatican, the recent signs of the Antichrist’s returning, the ritual killings, the wolves, now joined with the murder of one of the Holy See, had done little to daunt the shrewd Cardinal Bishop’s mind. Wickedness it seemed now stalked the Vatican’s corridors, as well as the streets of Rome. He assured himself he would seek the Devil out, one way or other.
The door to the chamber was just ahead and he pulled his sleeves up to his elbows as if about to do battle, reaching forward to open it. Before he could grasp the handle, the door flew open and a figure beyond stared out at him from the darkness inside.
“Goodness!” Korek cried, in shock and surprise. “I didn’t think there was anyone here yet?”
“Only me,” the figure beyond replied, dark eyes watching behind hooded eyelids, his skin sallow and sweating.
“What are you trying to do?” Korek asked, his hand clutched to his chest. “Are you not satisfied that there has already been one death within the Holy See? And why have you called me here? Do you have news about Berberino’s death?” Korek said the word, ‘death’ with delicacy. “I’ll be honest, I had wished for nothing more than to sit and ponder and remember our fallen friend this evening. Not be dragged out into the depths of the Vatican to converse. May I come in?” he asked, pushing his way inside before he received an answer and wandering towards the middle of the chamber, his thin hands knotted at his middle.
“Why should Cardinal Berberino be remembered?” the figure asked, watching the Cardinal stop and turn to look back in surprise. “I mean, what did he ever do to make his memory worthy of recall?”
“Are you quite well?” asked Korek.
“Quite,” the figure replied from the shadows, stepping past the old Cardinal to stand at the window, peering out into the dark over Vatican City. The sky was full of crows. “What a sight!” he muttered, and Korek tutted and joined him at the window.
“Indeed! All these blasted crows. The doves, their numbers will be decimated. They might never recover. I assure you!”
“Yes, you assure me,” the figure next to him said, still rapt, but his voice seeming to grow in authority and corruption. “But can you also assure me that what you have done in your service to the faith will be remembered for all time as well?”
“What is the matter with you?” asked Korek, wrinkling his long nose and looking down it. “Don’t tell me you have taken ill from the wine too?”
“Not in the slightest,” the hunched man replied, a smile coming to his face. “In fact I’ve never been better. Everything is progressing exactly as planned. Perhaps I should have taken the path upon which I am now walking years ago.”
“And what do you mean by that?” asked Korek, turning on the man as he stepped from the window to the table to fill a single goblet from a decanter of crystal. “How can things never have been better? We have lost a dear colleague of the Holy See. War has come to the borders of Italy. A world war has developed across all of the Europe, Asia, and much of Africa. Crows have made the Vatican their home!”
“I know, things are progressing just as planned.”
“You are clearly unwell!” Korek called, marching from the window, but he found his path blocked by the man. A blast of cold evening air flowed into the room, gripping the back of his neck. “Out of the way!” he roared. “I demand to leave right now!”
“Of course, Cardinal Bishop Korek. I can think of nothing better.”
Korek felt heavy hands on his throat and he was half lifted, half thrust towards the window, as if he were no more than an ungainly weight. “Stop!” he cried, “what are you doing, you fool?” But then he felt his thigh strike the base of the window and he went over it, teetering one moment on the ledge, and then falling. He grasped out with his hands, but they clawed only the cool night air as the ground of Vatican City rushed up to meet him.
The hunched figure peered briefly over the edge of the window to the bloodied husk of flesh and bone below, before slipping back into the shadows like a reptile before the chill of autumn’s bite. Something ancient and terrible snaked its way from the crushed remains, like a wraith lifting from a deceased body.
NINETY TWO
APPROACHING THE ITALIAN FRONT. THE ITALIAN-SLOVENIAN BORDER.
Tacit had fallen for what seemed like an age, spinning over and around, jarring into rocks and tree roots.
He came to a stop with a grunt, slamming hard into the dirt by the side of the railway track, feeling the cold of the rain on his back, his clothes, his hair. His shoulder moaned with furious pain from his wounds, his head felt light and broken. He tasted nothing but earth and blood. He lay there supposing he was dying, but then he still felt the air come in and out of him in short pained breaths and he moved, just a little, a momentary shudder, enough to prove to himself that he was still alive.
Something spun and twisted in front of his eyes, bright lights too intense for Tacit to see. He groaned and dragged his hand to his face, chasing the burning pinpricks of colour away. Voices screamed and compelled. Energy surged within him. And then slowly, oh so slowly, he moved his giant frame, closing his arms on the gravel of the trackside, using it to give him the traction and support he needed to push himself up. He staggered blindly to his feet and looked up at the smudge of disappearing lights that was the rear of the train cranking away into the darkness, climbing ever higher into the mountains, towards the Carso and the Karst Plateau with Isabella inside.
Something within beseeched him to rise, to gather the last of his strength and go after her.
He grunted and closed his eyes, fighting back any pain he felt, burying it, as he buried everything. And then he thrust one foot in front of the other and slowly plodded after the vanishing lights in the distance, led like the dog on a lead that he knew he had become. That he had always been.
NINETY THREE
SLOVENIA. NEARING THE ITALIAN BORDER.
The abject pallid figures crept towards Poré on their hands and knees, their heads low to the ground like pale fleshy insects, through the dark of the cavern. They seethed and hissed both their interest and displeasure.
But Poré stood firm, unmoving, his back to the cavern exit, and the clan gathered in a half-circle in front of him, confused as to his bold manner, the fact he did not find them dreadful to look upon. And they watched and waited for him to make the next move.
“I am not here as your enemy,” Poré announced. At once the clan cackled in unison with mischievous cruel laughter, and took a step closer towards him. “I am not here to bring trial or retribution to you.”
“Then what are you here for, earth-walker?” snarled one of the clan, whom Poré supposed was their self-appointed leader. “Have you come here to mock us, to view us for entertainment? You have made a terrible mistake, even if you bear the pelt of one of our kind. For you are not welcome within our domain, and now you have entered it we will never allow you to leave.”
The sound of scurrying feet came from behind Poré and he turned to see that the passageway down which he had entered was blocked by more of the clan, hunkered low, rocking on their gnarled joints.
Poré looked back at the loathsome man who had addressed him. He was aged and bowed by time, broken by a terrible weight no one but the wolves could understand.
“I am not here to mock or shame. Nor am I here to die among you.” His voice rang like a hammer on an anvil and all the wolves save the one who had addressed to him drew back. “I am here to offer you an opportunity to rise and fight back. To fight back against those who have too long left you within these ungodly caves.”
“So that is it!” spat the man. “You have come for our pelts to add to your own?”
But Poré shook his head. “No! I have come to give you hope and a chance to strike back. For too long you have stayed entrapped within your lairs. For too long you have been commanded only by the moon. The Catholic faith, its power and reach is waning. Its Inquisitors are overwhelmed, the Holy See bowed.”
Barbed laughter followed this announcement.
“Why should we care?” asked the man. “Yes, we delight in their downfall. May it be as long and protracted as is our torment. But what other reason should there be for us to believe this changes anything for us or our predicament? What is it you are proposing?” He took another step forward. “That you take the moon from the sky? That you lift our curse?”
“Eventually, yes,” replied Poré, and there was uproar and cursing at his perceived lie. “But first, that you come with me. That you fight with me, because of what is coming.” He set his hand flat to the limestone rock of the cavern. “At the very end of these seams of rock, in the mountain they call the Carso, something terrible is about to be summoned.”
The Fallen Page 29