The Fallen (50 page)

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

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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

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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 tight 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

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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.