The Fallen (45 page)

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.”

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

A
PPROACHING THE
I
TALIAN
F
RONT
. T
HE
I
TALIAN
-S
LOVENIAN
B
ORDER
.

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

T
HE
V
ATICAN
. V
ATICAN
C
ITY
.

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

T
HE
I
TALIAN
F
RONT
. T
HE
S
OČA
R
IVER
. N
ORTHWEST
S
LOVENIA
.