The Fallen (51 page)

ONE HUNDRED AND TEN

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

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.

Georgi ran to the side, laughing to see Tacit clinging by his fingertips to a rocky outcrop ten feet below.

He leaned over, hands on his hips, and shook his head.

“Yes, it was always the damned lights. For years you ignored them, scorned them. Never used them. Tried to follow the faithful, honourable path, without their wickedness influencing your life. Me? I was sent to do the Devil's bidding.”

Tacit felt his fingers slip on the wet rock and found a new hold.

“I would offer you a hand but I'm otherwise engaged. I'll return to the cavern below. I'll find Isabella. I'll throttle the life out of her. And then I'll wait for the Dark Lord to call for me.”

The aquamarine river swam up from below. Tacit swung across to try to find another hold but there were none to be found, his cold wet fingers beginning to ache.

“Come on, Poldek!” laughed Georgi, “don't keep us hanging around all day! There are a great many things I need to do. A certain person to kill, demons to meet.”

A howl came from the stairs and Georgi turned just in time to see a huge feral creature leap from the stairs and cross the needle's tip. It landed squarely on his chest, bucking him backwards towards the edge. Georgi fought against gravity, his arms flapping wildly, his eyes manic. And then he slipped and fell. Shooting past Tacit, he managed to grasp Tacit's right boot and wrenched him from the pinnacle. Together they tumbled and fell in an embrace.

The wolf sat at the edge of the cliff face looking down and watched as the two figures fought and tussled all the way to the valley bottom before they hit the surface of the blue Soča River far, far below with an enormous splash.

ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN

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

On the summit of rock, the High Priest turned and surveyed the carnage all around him, his plans lying in bloodied, tattered ruins. Pablo was crouched on the floor still cradling the knives in his hands, one slick with Abelli's blood.

“You!” he cried, and it seemed as if the heavens thundered above him as he spoke. “Why could you not have done what was commanded of you? Forever now you are condemned to lie open to the torments of hell!”

He strode towards the terrified young man, who held his hands across his face in readiness for the killing blow. A shadow swept over him, something large, smelling of blood and rot, and instantly his eyes snapped open.

An enormous wolf stood between Pablo and the High Priest, standing on its hind legs but hunched over so that its giant front talons were almost scraping the surface of the rock floor. Even bowed, the wolf still towered above the tall bearded Priest, monstrous in size.

But if there was any fear in the Priest's mind, he showed none. He stared hard at the beast and spat at the ground in front of it.

“You dare to come and face me, condemned and cast down off-cut of man?” the Priest seethed, his eyes like flaming orbs, the burn on his face glistening in the rain. He took a step forward and pointed at the creature. “You do not have the authority to threaten me, if you cannot face me as a man! And you were stripped of that title long ago. Get out of here! Go back to your lair and your cursed existence!”

With that, the wolf reached up with one of its taloned hands and grappled at its neck, pulling the ragged pelt from its head. Instantly the wolf withered and shrank to the naked, gaunt figure of Poré.

“But I do face you as a man!” shouted Poré, and the High Priest glowered and sank back, his hand to his heart.

“What is this witchcraft?” he hissed.

“Do you not remember me, Cardinal Gílbert?” Poré asked, his pallid skin splashed with dirt and blood. The great bearded Priest hesitated, confused. “Many years ago you placed a curse upon me, but of a different kind, the condemnation to a life of full of bitterness, of longing, of questions. My family taken from me, sent to the rack and the torturer's chair of the Inquisition. Sent there by your hand!

“By the time I had regained enough of myself and my senses to seek you out, you had vanished from the Catholic Church, slipped into the black hole and onto this corrupt path you have followed ever since. I have sought you much of my life, and now I have found you. Now I shall have my revenge!”

But Cardinal Gílbert laughed. “Pathetic!” he spat. “That you should have carried such a burden of resentment and spite towards me for so long, and yet I have no memory of who you are, or your family. I suppose I should feel pride that you think of me with such passion, but then, I sent so many to the inquisitional chambers. And still so many are weak and in need of correction and grinding out, under the guidance of my Lord.”

Poré shook his head. “No,” he said. “It's over. It's finished.”

But the Priest scowled, rage gathering in his face. “It's never finished!” he roared. “This is only the beginning! Now I see you, skin and bone!” His eyes grew wide. “All the easier to kill!” He reached for a knife at his belt and sprang forward, wrestling Poré to the ground and rolling with him over the prostrate figure of Pablo. His hand gripped tightly around Poré's gaunt throat, as he fumbled with his blade in the other. But as Poré struggled, he managed to snatch one of Pablo's knives and, turning over, raised it above his shoulder and plunged it deep into the High Priest's chest.