The Fallen

by Tarn Richardson

  Always he had feared where the voices and lights were leading, down which path they were drawing him. But Tacit always followed without question. For after all, they gave him only strength, and could such a force be a terrible thing?

  The lights and the voices were with him now and he knew what he had to do. All his life he knew he had been waiting for this moment, that everything which had gone before had merely been passages of time down which he had travelled to be here now. He looked down at Isabella and his love for her surged like a wave he could not hold back. He kissed her on the forehead as the lights spun and shone and sparkled and took hold of him, filling him with their corrupt power, emboldening him with the mastery of life over death.

  An energy wrenched its way out of him and he felt himself begin to rise from where they sat, elevated on invisible hands. The chain which held Isabella to the stone snapped free and fell away, and the wound in her chest, which throbbed with blood, dried in an instant and sealed. And suddenly Isabella coughed, a short choking cough, colour once again returned to her face, and there was movement behind her eyelids. Tacit ripped her clothing to reveal the place where she had been shot. But the wound had vanished, and with it the lights began to vanish and fade too.

  He held her, weeping, refusing to let go, as if fearing she might slip from his grasp and return once more to the world of darkness beyond his reach.

  “Tacit?” she muttered weakly, feeling she had returned to a safe place after a long, cold and terrible sleep. She was aware of strong arms holding her.

  “You’re all right,” he wept, kissing her forehead and clutching her tightly. “You’re all right.”

  “What have you done?” she whispered, “What have you done, Tacit?” For she knew the place from where she had come and she knew that she should never have returned, that some force, some power too great and terrible to comprehend had drawn her back.

  “I told you,” he said, wiping the blood and tears from her eyes, his chest shuddering as he swallowed. “I promised you, I would never leave you behind again.” And he smiled and held her close to him, kissing her hairline.

  ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN

  THE ITALIAN FRONT. THE SOČA RIVER. NORTHWEST SLOVENIA.

  The storm hit the Carso with unnerving speed. All across the Karst Plateau, soldiers tried to seek shelter from the torrential rain and lashing lightning that had unleashed itself upon the world. Water flooded trenches and soaked anyone not able to find cover, turning the limestone mountain red with blood from the massacre on the plateau above.

  On the pinnacle rock, Priests hunched beneath their drenched cloaks in wonderment at the powers being unleashed around them, each rejoicing at the forces being invoked and trusting that this time the offering, the baptism of blood, would be enough. All eyes were on the bearded High Priest and the kneeling six-fingered man in front of him, not able to tear their eyes away, not even for a moment to wipe the rain from their eyes.

  “We have soaked the lands with the pure blood of the innocents,” the High Priest began. “Into this let us spill Satan’s blood that courses within his descendant’s veins before me.”

  He turned the knives in his hands, the cold steel catching the rising moonlight and shards of white lightning clashing above.

  “Abaddon, Prince of Darkness, Lord of the Abyss, I summon thee and thy princes forth from your chains of Hell! Cross over the Abyss! Ascend, and make manifest yourselves within our mortal world and with our mortal semblance. For he is returning and he must be protected. We are willing servants but unable to provide him the succour and protection he requires as he prepares to ascend once more to his throne. Only you, and your lieutenants, can offer him the solace of the shield and the mace. Share with us thy thoughts and make known to me thy will, for thou art our guardians, and we are thy foot soldiers.”

  The candles, which had remained lit despite the howling wind and the lashing rain, suddenly went out, plunging the pinnacle into darkness, the only faint light being that of the rising moon climbing ever higher.

  But lights now began to appear in front of Pablo, swirling fiery balls, almost too bright to look at.

  “With these blades I commit this final sacrifice.” He looked down at Pablo and presented the knives to him. “Take them, and decide now if you wish a quick death from which all pain will be removed, or if you will have your hand forced and submit your soul to the endless torments of hell for the remainder of all time.”

  Pablo hesitated, unsure what was being asked of him. Abelli crouched and spoke into his ear. As if held in a trance, Pablo reached forward and took the daggers into his hands. He saw there were holds down the edges of both grips for the six fingers and thumbs of his hands. Now he understood. Now he knew why. Tears and rain mixed on his cheeks. He shuddered, his face racked with pain.

  “It is time,” growled the High Priest. He looked up and addressed the congregation in a loud clear voice. “Let his blood merge with that of the others fallen in this place, given to you as a sacrifice, and be as a lifeblood to their returning. We have praised you in the three sins, we have given you this mass sacrifice to provide succour for your thirsty tongues. Now we ask you to come across the great divide and be among us, to act as his defenders, his lieutenants and guide us all for when he returns!”

  Lightning struck the pinnacle of rock and many of the Priests leapt in shock at the power which had gathered.

  “So much majesty!” someone called. “They are coming! They are coming through! You can feel them!”

  “My head!” another cried, his hands clutched to the side of it. “You can feel them! So much pressure! Too much!”

  “Do it!” the High Priest commanded to Pablo. “Do it now!” And, as if in a trance, Pablo pulled the knives to his throat, and pressed the blades into his skin.

  ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT

  THE ITALIAN FRONT. THE SOČA RIVER. NORTHWEST SLOVENIA.

  Gathered around Isabella in the cavern below, transfixed by the miracle which had happened in front of their eyes, the first they knew that something was happening on the pinnacle above them was when the storm struck the broad shard of rock and the air turned electric. Tacit turned, his vision blurred with emotion and tears.

  “They’re coming,” he growled, his face twisted with anger and revulsion. “They’re coming through. Nothing can stop them now. Look after her.” Tacit lifted Isabella gently from the ground and turned to place her in Henry’s waiting arms. In the skies above the Karst, the dark storm shook the pinnacle. Tacit turned to look at the pentagram. The lines had begun to shimmer and smoke, as if an energy was forcing up between the interconnecting lines. “You all need to leave,” he commanded, running his hand down Isabella’s face. “Both of you, you cannot fight this. Get away. Get as far away as you can!” He stood and pointed with his finger to the passageway down which they had entered. “Quickly! Go!”

  “Where are you going, Tacit?” Sandrine asked.

  “Where am I am destined to go,” said Tacit gravely.

  “Tacit,” said Henry, “what do you mean?”

  “Inquisitor Cincenzo. He spoke my name, at the end, when he died.”

  “Yes,” said Sandrine, tears in her own eyes. “He spoke it to Isabella.”

  Tacit nodded. “He knew. He knew it was me, the one who would complete the ritual. To close the circle. To bring them back. He wasn’t telling you to find me. He was warning you that I would be the one to blame. I would be the one to bring them back.”

  “Where are you going now?” cried Henry after Tacit.

  “To finish something I should have finished last time.”

  Tacit ran up the cavern slope, the toes of his boots biting into the limestone floor. Ahead he could see the opening to the pinnacle beyond, the wind and rain lashing down on the black rock and the figures gathered upon it. Lightning flashed and thunder shuddered, as if the forces of hell were finally being unleashed upon the place.

  Tacit bounded up the slope, his teeth clenched, his fists ti
ght white. He knew certain death lay ahead for him. He just hoped he could take as many of the Darkest Hand with him before his time was up.

  In the mouth of the cave he could make out the outline of Georgi. He narrowed his eyes on his old friend and sped towards him.

  A terrible noise erupted from behind him, the thundering pad of heavy feet on stone, the animalistic growl of a pack, chilling howls reverberating. At once Tacit stopped and turned wide-eyed to see a great clan of wolves appear out of the cavern, pouring from holes and side passageways and tearing up the passage towards him, wide blood-red jaws, glinting black talons, the odious stink of matted fur. Instinct kicked in and instantly he reached for this gun but it was too late, the wolves were upon him, swallowing him in their howling mass.

  Rolling over and clawing his way to his feet, Tacit watched in shock and surprise as the wolves passed over him, leaving him unharmed. They charged onto the pinnacle and threw themselves into a killing frenzy on the Priests gathered for the ritual.

  ONE HUNDRED AND NINE

  THE ITALIAN FRONT. THE SOČA RIVER. NORTHWEST SLOVENIA.

  At the very moment they attacked, Pablo snapped out of his trance and withdrew the knives from his throat.

  “What are you doing?” shouted Corporal Abelli above the screams of the dying. “Cut your throat or reside forever in hell.”

  But Pablo shook his head, as all around them bodies were ripped down and devoured by slavering jaws and talons, the feel of the blows reverberating through the rock.

  “Do it!” Abelli screamed, stretching towards him to force the blades back to his throat. But Pablo was too quick for him. He forced the tip of the right knife through Abelli’s uniform and between his ribs, finishing hilt-deep in his chest. Abelli croaked and sank to his knees, the breath straining from his lungs, staring disbelievingly at Pablo before he toppled forward to lie still on the black rock. The heavens crashed with thunder and lightning and with it the pressure seemed to burst.

  And the rain dashed down on Tacit, who had now run after the wolves onto the pinnacle, his murderous eyes on his old friend.

  ONE HUNDRED AND TEN

  THE ITALIAN FRONT. THE SOČA RIVER. NORTHWEST SLOVENIA.

  Georgi caught sight of Tacit and smiled. He opened his hands, his right holding his blade dripping with wolf blood, as a sign for Tacit to come at him. Behind Georgi a narrow flight of stairs climbed above the pinnacle, running up and around a further needle of high stone. Georgi turned and ran up them, taking the steps two at a time. Instantly Tacit bounded after him.

  The pinnacle shook and raged with the howls of wolves and dying Priests, smoke of the faltering ceremony drifting across the scene, flashing sparks of lightning punching through the clouds. Tacit charged up the winding stair, leaving the noise and chaos below, in and out of the lashing rain and wind, as he wound around the needle of rock. Forty stairs, cut by the elements, led to the narrow roof of the shard of black rock, appearing slick from the storm raging all about them.

  At its edge stood Georgi, drenched in lashing rain, his head bowed, his dark eyes fierce on Tacit, his hands drawn into fists.

  “Poldek!” he shouted in greeting through the storm.

  “Georgi,” replied Tacit. He was already soaked, his dark hair slick to his face, his overcoat stuck to his body by the torrential downpour. “It’s over. I could gun you down right now,” he said, pulling back his coat to reveal his revolver in its holster.

  “You could,” replied Georgi calmly, puckering his face in agreement, weighing the announcement in his mind, “but you won’t. Because then you’d never know if you could beat me.”

  “I’ve beaten you already,” growled Tacit.

  “Have you?” replied Georgi, surprised. “I think not. I’ve beaten you, Poldek. Twice. You’ve done exactly what was required of you. You’ve opened the doors to hell. They are coming through.” He turned his eyes skywards, rejoicing in the storm raging above them. “We’ve been waiting all our lifetimes for this moment. And now your work is complete.”

  “You’re wrong,” replied Tacit. “The wolves. They’ve killed everyone.”

  “Well then. I’m going to kill you, Poldek. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You’ll try.”

  “Oh, I will try. And I will succeed. I’m going to kill you, slowly, so you can feel the shame at what you have done, what you have unleashed upon the world, for the petty emotion of love.”

  He came at Tacit wildly. He was strong, stronger than Tacit ever remembered, as if the opening of the doorway to hell had empowered him. But there was something not quite right, as if he was carrying a burden. As if the might of hell’s curse weighed him down. Tacit swivelled to face him, his own fists raised. Georgi smiled.

  “What is it, Tacit? Think you have the drop on me?”

  “No,” replied Tacit. “It’s just that I feel no shame for saving Isabella. Putting love before hate.”

  He launched himself at Georgi, feigning a blow and catching his old friend on the side of the head as he tried to duck. Georgi rolled away, turning over onto his hands and knees and then springing to his feet, shaking the punch clear.

  “What you have done?” Georgi cried, flinging himself forward, kicking out with his boots. Tacit parried the blows and pummelled him hard in the chest, putting Georgi onto his back. He rolled clear and sprang to his feet, breathing hard. “Are you not aware of what you have done to the world?”

  “I have saved my love,” replied Tacit, and he caught Georgi’s leading fist and snapped hard at his wrist, battering him twice in the face and flinging him to the ground. He followed with a boot in the rib cage, turning Georgi over so that he rolled to the edge of the plateau, putting a little distance between himself and any more blows for the moment. “Tell me, Georgi, have you ever loved?”

  Tacit moved towards him fast, hunkered low like a boxer, and swung with a strong right. Georgi ducked but Tacit caught him firm with a quick left followed by a devastating uppercut.

  Georgi stumbled back, his hand to his chin, grimacing in admiration. He nodded and laughed coldly.

  “Love?” he spat, so that bloody spittle splashed Tacit’s face. “Pah! You talk of love. You cannot understand the true value of love till you have been touched by the Devil’s care.”

  “The Devil has no care!” growled Tacit, stalking closer.

  Georgi laughed louder, and seemed to grow more powerful as he did so.

  “No care?! I think you’ll find the Devil cares very much for those who serve him. Very much indeed.” He charged Tacit and ducked at the last moment, battering him hard in the stomach and then bringing up his knee which he powered into Tacit’s face. Tacit somersaulted backwards and landed hard on the ground. “I’ve unleashed hell!” cried Georgi, his eyes wild. “I’m stronger than I’ve ever been.”

  He leaped forward and Tacit tried to spring clear, but Georgi’s speed was ferocious. He knocked Tacit back to the ground and kicked him hard in the head, skidding him across the shimmering wet stones. The plunging cliff face of the pinnacle grew near, and Tacit scratched hard with his fingertips to find grip and avoid going over the edge. “We’re not here to love, Poldek! We’re here to play our part. You? Me? We’re mere cogs in a giant machine.” Tacit came at him and Georgi spun forward in a cartwheel, knocking Tacit to his knees and then striking him in the temple with a downward punch.

  Tacit lay on his back, staring up, his coat thrown open, rain pouring on his face. Georgi stood over him, smiling. “Tell me,” he asked, swinging a boot hard into Tacit’s side and making the giant man curl up. “Tell me, don’t you ever feel that life is just one long cruel joke?”

  He swung again, but Tacit caught his boot and spun him away, dragging his revolver from its holster. Immediately Georgi knocked it clear, spinning it out of his hand.

  “No, my friend,” he said, wagging a finger, “we do this the hard way. You and me. With fists. We never fought like this. Not when we were younger. I wanted to. Many times. To beat you. I
envied you. I hated you.”

  He swung a fist and Tacit ducked under it, rolling away, his fingers splayed to the ground, watching every move his friend made. They circled each other, neither daring to make the next approach.

  “That’s why I loved cutting Mila open,” said Georgi, his eyes flashing with dark pleasure.

  Tacit snarled. “What are you talking about?”

  But Georgi laughed and began to pace back around the other way, watching Tacit for any sign, any weakness to prove that his words had struck home. “She begged me, like a whore. Begged me to stop. Swore she’d come away with me, leave you, if only to save your child, but that wasn’t in the plan. Me? I couldn’t have cared less whether you did or not. But it was always you in their plans, you and the damned lights!”

  Tacit surged forward, his aim and balance wild, shattered by his confusion and hatred. Georgi battered him aside with his fist, drawing yet more blood from his nose.

  “Your child,” he said. “It was a boy, you know?”

  Tacit roared and launched himself, but Georgi ducked under his trailing arms and threw him over onto his back.

  “It fought for life when I cut it from Mila’s womb, though she clawed at me to stop, pleaded me not to kill it, or her. She would have made you proud, the way she fought, to save your son. He died in my arms. Slowly. Perished because of the cold and the blood in his lungs.”

  Scalding fury tore out of Tacit and he threw himself at Georgi, snatching out at him, looking to drag him with him to the edge of the pinnacle and throw him over. But Georgi spun aside and kicked Tacit away, toppling him instead over the edge.