The Fallen

by Tarn Richardson

  More laughter and shrieking filled the cavern, the wolves slapping and beating themselves in torment and confusion.

  “And, again,” spoke the lead wolf, “I ask you, why should we care? Our lair is already corrupted. Our lives condemned. If by something ‘terrible’ you mean the Devil, perhaps he will prove himself to be a more sympathetic Lord to us? Heavens knows the one who sent us down here was not.”

  “Blame not the Lord on high for what you became!” spat Poré in sudden anger.

  “And so you show your true colours, follower of God!” And the Hombre Lobo prepared to leap at the intruder.

  But Poré threw a hand across him in defiance.

  “No!” he called. “It was not the Lord’s doing which cast you down here.

  It was those who constructed and performed the rituals of excommunication, those well versed in the corrupted arts of life and death.”

  “And one day we will take our revenge,” growled the man.

  And Poré nodded. “Yes, you will, if you follow me.”

  “How so?”

  “Because the architect of the summoning within the Carso, he was the one who performed the very final excommunication upon your kind.”

  NINETY FOUR

  APPROACHING THE ITALIAN FRONT. THE ITALIAN-SLOVENIAN BORDER.

  It was dawn.

  At least Tacit supposed the dirty grey light which rose from the crest of the mountain edge ahead was the dawn. The air was full of dust and smoke from the munitions, forming a creeping mass that slunk down the mountainside, searching out new places to pollute and choke.

  Tacit’s right eye was still closed from where Georgi had struck him, his left full of dirt from where he’d fallen from the train among the stones and the earth beside the track. Every step was slow and tortured and required him to summon every ounce of resolve. But he was no longer alone as he half walked, half stumbled towards the Carso and where he knew Georgi had taken Isabella. Because the voice accompanied him, shrieking within him, urging him ever onwards, imploring him to make haste, for the time of their coming was nigh.

  He stopped and felt in a pocket, his heart lifting a little when he found an emergency flask of spirit buried deep, enough perhaps to silence the demons and dull his pain for a little time. He took it out and spun off the cap, lifting the bottle to his lips, surveying the long winding path up the Carso ahead of him.

  Georgi? Alive?

  He could barely believe it. But he knew it was true. Though aged and corrupted by whatever dark power now possessed him, there was no doubt the man Tacit had fought on the train was him.

  Tacit took another drink, a longer one this time, and ruminated on Georgi’s words, his admission of Mila’s death. Hate and wrath congealed within him like a poison. He felt ready to erupt with an outburst of fury as strong as any he could remember his entire life.

  Georgi.

  His oldest friend. His only friend. The murderer of Mila.

  The crunch of stones behind him immediately drew his attention and he snapped his hand to his revolver, spinning in a flash, the weapon trained on whoever it was coming up behind him.

  “Thank God you’re alive!” croaked Henry, reaching forward to grasp at the Inquisitor. “We thought you and Isabella were dead.” Tacit allowed his torn clothes to be touched briefly by the Englishman before pushing him away. “What did they do to you?” Henry asked, aghast.

  Tacit scowled and unlocked the hammer of the gun, setting the firearm back in its holster.

  “Much the same as you,” he growled, lifting the flask back to his mouth and guzzling the whiskey inside. “Just gave me a hiding before they threw me off the train.”

  “Where’s Isabella?” asked Sandrine. Her right arm was in a makeshift sling, the right side of her clothing torn from where she’d landed among the stones and rolled. Tacit said nothing, instead turning back to the Carso where he knew Isabella had been taken. “You’re joking?” said Sandrine, reading Tacit’s silence and the direction of his eyes.

  Henry traced the railway track along which they were walking up the mountainside to the smudge of buildings in the distance, which he supposed was the end of the line. “Why’ve they taken her up there?”

  “You know why,” replied Tacit, looking around at them briefly before turning back. “The third ritual. Pride of life. I’m going on,” he said over his shoulder, stowing the partially empty flask and walking on. There was a fire now in his belly. “Come if you want. Or go back. It’s up to you. My advice? Go back. Don’t follow. There’s only death and darkness where this path leads.” He heard both Henry and Sandrine follow and felt something warm shift inside him, a vague sense of appreciation stirring. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Tacit was glad not to be alone.

  “Where are we going, then?” asked Sandrine.

  “All the way,” replied Tacit, setting one large boot slowly in front of the other. “All the way to the top.”

  NINETY FIVE

  THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.

  The hunched figure at the table was slicing through the cuts of raw beef on his plate, his eyes fiercely intent on the dish in front of him. He fed the bloody chunks into his mouth with the speed and repetition of a machine. In the half-light of the room, the Priest approaching him could see the man’s cutlery had been turned crimson by the dripping flesh, his jaws chewing briefly at each meaty morsel before swallowing it and forcing another into his slavering mouth. He didn’t pause from eating when the Priest stepped up, instead turning briefly to acknowledge him before setting his attention back to the meal and last few strips of beef.

  “We have received word,” said the Priest.

  “And?” replied the man flatly.

  “The woman, Sister Isabella, she has been taken.”

  “And Tacit?”

  “He lives. He follows.”

  “Of course he follows!” exclaimed the figure at the table, his face flashing with sudden rage. “It was prophesied that he would. He cannot help himself. He is drawn to her, as he is drawn by the prophecy. A moth to a flame.” The figure forced the last of the meat into his mouth before pushing the plate away. Standing with some effort, he made his way to the window and peered down onto St Peter’s Square. “Make sure all is made easy for him. I know Tacit and his impatient ways. He’ll not want to be idle. He’ll be keen to pursue so make sure he can. Make sure nothing stops him.”

  “Of course,” replied the Priest, bowing.

  “Things have proceeded just as intended. Berberino and Korek’s intrusions were dealt with, just like Monsignor Benigni.” The man turned his back to the window and raised his hands. “Was this moment not prophesied by Pope Leo XIII? Did he not then receive a vision from the Devil himself telling him that he would return and that his return would be heralded by terrible war, covering much of the lands? And that from the Devil’s flesh would crawl his seven lieutenants?” He looked up into the heavens, wonderment in his face. “Already the first two rituals have been completed, lust of the eyes, lust of the flesh,” he spoke as if a prayer, and lowered his eyes onto his acolyte. “Pride of life. The one destined to complete the final ritual comes. Everything converges. Everything reaches its climax, and on the pinnacle of the Carso, the act shall be done.”

  He paused, and glanced absently out of the window, following the path of a large black crow as it circled around the square, cawing fiercely.

  “Tacit,” he continued, weighing the name in his mind. “For years too many to count I have watched him, contrived to bring him and Sister Isabella together, ensured that their union was secured. They now are all that matters. Make sure Georgi is ready. Make sure nothing affects the plan.”

  The crow flew across the window before coming to land close to where the hunched figure stood. It croaked, as if forming words in its beak. The figure smiled and nodded his head. Nothing could stop them now.

  NINETY SIX

  THE ITALIAN FRONT. THE SOČA RIVER. NORTHWEST SLOVENIA.

  The men s
tank, of shit and piss and sweat and dirt, as they waited for the vast wave of grey Austro-Hungarian soldiers to rush onto them for a second time. Their uniforms, so pristine when they first boarded the trains in the foothills of Italy, where flags were unfurled and their loved ones bore brave faces and waved lace gloves of farewell, not goodbye, at them from the platforms and bridges, were now torn and bloodied. Their boots had broken open through the heat and the exertion. Caps and hats, once firmly and precisely drawn across heads, were now shoved to the backs of skulls to cover burnt necks. There was no more pride in how one appeared. There was only survival.

  Pablo stood cowed beside Abelli on the crest of the Karst Plateau, resting on his rife, using it as a staff with which to hold himself up. He looked down the mountain up which he had walked and crawled and fought, every yard of which had cost a hundred lives. It felt to him that he was standing on top of the world, elevated to the mightiest of positions. Though corrupted by coal smoke and the pungent stink of cordite, the air seemed somehow thinner and fresher, above only blue skies across the entire horizon. Below them, clouds huddled against the sides of the mountain and Pablo felt that despite being on top of the world near the heavens, he was perhaps nearer to the lowest, darkest voids of hell.

  “Does anyone care about us?” he asked, looking down through the clouds to the valleys far below. “Does anyone even know we’re here? We have no ammo. We have no shells. We have little food. It seems as if everything we have done and achieved to reach here has been for nothing. It seems as if our sacrifice has been in vain. Why have we taken this place? For what purpose? Does anyone care?”

  Corporal Abelli chuckled and took his pipe from the side of his mouth, knocking it empty against his thigh.

  “No,” he said, setting the bowl of the pipe in the heart of his palm and filling it with the last of his tobacco from the pouch at his belt. His face was blackened with dirt and dried blood, the filth of four days’ battle. “No one cares about us. No one save the Devil. For no one else resides here but him. No God will listen to you here. Only the Devil can come to your aid, can hear your pleas.”

  He was aware that Pablo had begun to weep, his whole body shaking with grief, the young man’s face racked with sorrow, tears pouring down his face and falling onto the parched rock beneath him. He was bent double, his hand clutched to his mouth, a voiceless cry from his lungs.

  “I don’t want to call for the Devil,” he wept, pleading like a child. “I don’t want to ask him for help.”

  But the Corporal laughed. “Neither did I,” he said, lighting his pipe and sending clouds of cherry-scented smoke into the air about him. “But sometimes he is the only one who listens and hears. Look about you, boy. Listen out for him.” The Corporal’s eyes grew wide and serious. “Watch for him. He is coming. He is coming here soon.” He tapped the side of his nose and lifted Pablo’s rifle so that the young soldier held it firmly into his chest. “His time is nigh. Stay close so that I may keep you safe and lead you to him.”

  “Who?” cried Pablo. “Who do you mean to lead me to?”

  But Corporal Abelli turned away and joined the other Italian soldiers at the front face of the shallow trench they had built across the long width of one side of the Karst Plateau. On this plateau, a flat circle of rock a mile wide, ringed by jutting conical peaks of green and grey, Pablo knew everything would end. He breathed deep, chasing his tears away. A chill wind picked up and tugged at his hair and his uniform, as if some invisible force was trying to wrench him away.

  A shrill whistle cut through the monotonous rumble of troops preparing their defences.

  “They are coming!” came the cry. “The enemy! They are coming again! Get to your defences! Prepare your arms! They are coming! They are coming again for another assault!”

  Without thinking, Pablo padded to the trench and threw himself down into it. He watched the horizon fill and grow with the gathering of Austro-Hungarian soldiers charging towards them and he knew now the end truly was nigh. For there was nowhere else to go, neither forward nor back. They had gone as far as they were able and he had no more bullets left. And what was more, he knew that most of the men either side of him didn’t have any either.

  NINETY SEVEN

  SLOVENIA. NEARING THE ITALIAN BORDER.

  Poré was aware of a shadow falling across him and roused himself from sleep to face whoever it was who had sought him out.

  “What is it?” he asked, sitting up on the spot.

  The clan leader dropped to his haunches, so that he was level with Poré, and stared hard into the gaunt Cardinal’s eyes. The stench of the wolf surrounded him like a mantle, catching Poré hard in the back of his throat and making him gag.

  “Why?” the man asked, ignoring Poré’s reaction. “Tell me, why are you driven to fight these Priests you say are summoning the seven Princes of Hell? Why should it you care? They hunt you, like they hunt us, if what you have told us is true. Why should you wish to do the duty of the Catholic faith, when they have long turned you from their flock?”

  Poré didn’t speak immediately. Instead he turned his eyes to the earth and cast his mind back to when he was a young man, beating hard against the church door, as hard as his broken arm would allow.

  “I was an Inquisitor,” he revealed, and the wretched man hissed and showed blackened rotten teeth, rearing back, his long gnarled fingers splayed wide like talons about to strike. “For two months and only ever an acolyte.” The words seemed to momentarily quell the Hombre Lobo’s anger. “I was forced to commit to their cause and, when I refused, they beat me, mercilessly, until one day they beat me too hard.”

  Poré recalled the day he went to the Church to ask to be excused from the organisation, the memory still bitter. Still raw. “Cardinal Gílbert,” said Poré, and the pallid filthy man could tell at once it was a name loathed by the gaunt figure in front of him. “He wore a robe of gold to greet me that day, the day of hearing, but a cloak of black suited his soul better.”

  Poré remembered the way the opulent Cardinal’s glowering eyes had darkened and the scowl on his face deepened as he’d approached the dais, how Cardinal Gílbert had run his hand down his long black beard as he watched the broken man labour down the aisle towards him, while figures in the shadows inched into the light for a better vantage point. “I told them my wishes, that I wanted no part of the Inquisition, that I wished to return to the mainstream faith, to open worship. To lead services. To offer hope to the needy. To provide solace for the weak and afflicted within my local church. ‘Weak and afflicted like yourself?’ the Cardinal spat, and the flanking Bishops made no effort to mask their laughter.”

  The crouched man before Poré sneered and felt the rage of deception seize him. “So this desire for revenge, it’s solely because of how you were made to feel, ridiculed when you asked to leave their employment?”

  But Poré hardened. “No. It’s because of what they took from me afterwards.”

  “And what was that?”

  “My family.” In the dark of the cavern, Poré’s face blackened to match the shadows around him. “They took my parents, my brother, for what purpose I cannot, or do not dare to think, only that they assured me that my failings would be branded onto my family for eternity.”

  “And so you plotted your revenge?”

  Poré nodded.

  “And yet still I do not understand. If you wished revenge upon the Inquisition, upon this Cardinal Gílbert, why does this summoning fascinate you? How is it that it drives you and compels you to act? Why do you not seek out Cardinal Gílbert yourself?”

  “Who says I have not?”

  “I don’t understand,” growled the wolf.

  “The one who committed the final excommunication upon your kind and Cardinal Gílbert are the same person, the High Priest who is to perform the final ritual on the topmost pinnacle of the Carso.”

  NINETY EIGHT

  THE ITALIAN FRONT. THE SOČA RIVER. NORTHWEST SLOVENIA.

  All the
fighting that had gone before, every barrage, every charge, paled into insignificance ahead of the horror which filled the Karst Plateau now. Pablo clutched his rifle as a club, no longer as a firearm. It seemed that few in the Third Army in fact had any ammo left, and those that did used their allocation sparingly. Instead soldiers fabricated themselves weapons from whatever they could lay their lands on, barbed wire wrapped about clubs, nails driven hard through sticks, the handles of axes finished to a sharp stabbing point, brutal barbarous things for an army long brutalised by the torturous climb, reduced to animals in every sense.

  And it also proved true that the Austro-Hungarians had very little ammunition either, two armies starved on that mountaintop, that bowl of blood, save for their fists and whatever weapons they could fashion themselves. So the battle of these two great seas of men, fifty thousand strong on both sides, crashed into each other, fists, feet, blades, maces, the butts of rifles being their tools of war, only the occasional crack of a bullet punctuating the terrible clamour. They were marooned on the plateau with only their anger and their hate and their brawn.

  Knuckledusters and knives, anything which could be wielded quickly and still be delivered with force, proved the most efficient. Very occasionally an explosion rocked one corner of the plateau, a bomb thrown, annihilating several soldiers on both sides. The butt of a rifle or the blade of a spade was often enough to take an enemy down. There was no need to hit such an enemy twice. If the blow was good, it would do for him, and if he only went over onto his knees or side, the ground and the relentless feet would pound him slowly to death. There was no need to waste time and energy on one mortally wounded. Pablo soon learnt all this, that it was more important to worry about those who weren’t being slowly crushed on the floor of the plateau.