The Fallen

by Tarn Richardson

  “I never said that,” cautioned the Corporal, smiling. “It has value, beyond measure. And no, the enemy has not left.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it’s been long prophesied.”

  “What has?”

  “The battle. The battle to come. On top of the Carso.”

  As they climbed higher still they passed through towns, sad and decrepit, all of them empty, save for old people who couldn’t or wouldn’t leave. Slovenians, Hungarians, Italians, all eyed the vast line of soldiers with suspicion and a distant unflinching stare. Few soldiers dared to return their stares, as if to do so would curse and send them to damnation.

  By midday on the third day of the climb, had they crossed the broad Isonzo river and reached the flooded plain’s low lying areas beyond, where the sluices had been blown up by the Austro-Hungarian army to further slow any assault. After the initial burst of excitement of an army on the move, the slow torment of the constantly interrupted march into the Carso towards the enemy had worn away at hope with every tired step, so that it now hung by the finest of threads. It seemed to the soldiers that all they were doing was climbing over the unforgiving terrain or stopping to clear the path ahead.

  “Does this route never end?” asked Pablo, stumbling among the stones of the scorched earth and struggling to regain his rhythm with those alongside him.

  “We are walking in the valley of death,” the Corporal called from behind.

  “It is a valley without end, save when he decides you have reached it.”

  “By he I suppose you don’t mean God?”

  “Look about you. Do you see God in all this desolation?”

  Pablo didn’t need to look. He’d seen enough of the Carso to know it was forsaken.

  THIRTY TWO

  PLEVEN. BULGARIA.

  Poré sat some distance from the rest of the men, as he did every night, nestled close to his own fire, preferring his private company. Rowdy drunkenness enslaved the faction who followed him. They were intoxicated by the power they wielded in the wolf pelts Poré had given to them and by the strong liquor inside their bellies.

  Poré had had many doubts in the days after the Mass for Peace, particularly doubts about those in his employ. He had encountered this bunch of drunken thieves and strays as he had wandered, broken and lost, within Paris, sharing with them at first nothing more than a desperate thirst for vengeance and the desire to thrust an eager blade deep into Catholic flesh. This had been enough at the beginning, when his plans for the Mass for Peace had been thrown into disarray. At the time he was grateful to find solace with others as desperate as he had been, people who shared a common hatred for that accursed religion.

  From an inside pocket he took out the letter he had carried ever since leaving Paris, the letter which now drove him and had given him a reason to keep going. To keep fighting.

  At the time, when Cardinal Monteria lay dead on the floor of Notre Dame at the Mass for Peace, Poré had thought he had failed in the task allotted to him, but that, he now knew, was a merely a cul-de-sac, a false hope. An impasse.

  Now, with the letter in his hands and the revelations it presented, he understood.

  The letter had never been meant for him. Poré had taken it from the mauled and partially devoured remains of a young Inquisitor whom had he slaughtered and fed upon in one of the quieter suburbs of Paris a month after the events at Notre Dame. Poré had told himself that he wasn’t getting a taste for young Catholic flesh, but, as a wolf, he found their meat as sweet as any he tasted when a human.

  Perhaps it was chance that Poré had happened upon the Inquisitor and the letter, but deep inside he supposed it was always meant to be. As he plucked the letter from the bloodied envelope, once he had fed, he supposed it contained general orders from the Inquisition, a broad suggestion as to what deed was expected of the Inquisitor.

  It turned out that he was only partially correct.

  Carrying the mark of the Vatican, the letter had outlined a most pressing and urgent case, one which required the Inquisitor, one of several it seemed, to act swiftly and precisely. According to the Bishop who had written the letter, one of the two knives of Gath, a relic from an earlier age last used in a satanic ritual years ago in the fields of Pleven, Bulgaria, had gone missing from where it had been kept safe under inquisitional guard within the Church of Saint Pierre de Montmartre. Its retrieval, so it seemed by the tone of the letter, was of the utmost importance to the Bishop and those he represented within the Church.

  The mention of Satan, ratified by the Seal of the Vatican, had at once captured Poré’s attention, impelling him to discover more about the little-known events in Bulgaria, events of which he had not been previously aware.

  He’d followed what evidence he was able to gather in secret across Paris and then France, his path taking him away into the east, always under the pretence to those who followed and fought for him that he was hunting Catholics. But all the time Poré was hunting for something else: knowledge about just what had happened in Pleven on that fateful night. For he knew it was his destiny to find out. The call to do so had come from a higher power, many years ago, an event he recalled as if it had happened only yesterday.

  He held the letter now, reading over the words, devouring them by the light of the fire, as he did most nights, before raising his eyes to the darkness beyond. Somewhere out there in the dark something fearful had taken place, something that was attempting to return again.

  A drunken cry rose up out of the gloom from the valley below, a barking voice imploring Poré to join them at the bottle. He ignored the call and folded the sheet of paper, carefully placing it back in his inside pocket, holding his hand there for a moment. Tomorrow, he trusted, the long journey he had taken from Paris might reach an end after which … but beyond tomorrow he dared not think.

  THIRTY THREE

  THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.

  “Blasted crows!” Cardinal Korek cursed from the window of the chamber, his arched spine turned away from the gathered assembly of Cardinals and Bishops behind him. “They’re making a terrible mess of the roofs and the square.” His face was scrunched in disgust as he attempted to wave them away with a hand. There was dandruff on his shoulders, his skin a pallid grey like that of a dying man. “Where did they all come from? Blasted things!” He waved again, even more frantically.

  “They might have come in from the shoreline,” suggested Cardinal Adansoni, stepping closer, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his robe. “The storms of late must have forced them inland. I’ve noticed the same with the gulls.”

  “They’re chasing the doves away!” said Korek, clapping his pale hairless hands, calling out to the birds in a futile attempt to scare them away.

  “Undoubtedly,” said Cardinal Secretary of State Casado from the heart of the room, his own face pale and drawn as if sleep had been at a premium lately, “but can we leave the crows for just a little while please, Cardinal Korek, and focus our attention on the more urgent matters of the hour?”

  “Such as the Eagle Fountain bleeding?” asked the white-haired Cardinal Berberino, and Casado looked crestfallen at its mention.

  “That, among other things,” he replied.

  Korek grumbled quietly, casting a final stare in the direction of the black oily birds, before returning to the gathering and looking to take a seat around the table set in the very centre of the room. This chamber was plain, by Vatican standards, and around it the other members of the meeting were waiting impatiently for proceedings to begin. Cardinals, Priests and all manner of other clergy were present. Casado prepared to speak, but the door to the chamber suddenly opened and through it lurched an imposing looking man, dressed all in white. Casado paused and looked up knowingly as a shudder reverberated around the room at the man’s arrival, many turning away and busying themselves elsewhere so not to have to look at the menacing figure.

  They knew him all instantly. Grand Inquisitor Düül, the head of the Inquisi
tion.

  Chilled sweat glistened on his dark skin, shimmering like mother of pearl under the pale lights of the chamber. The white folds of his garments, hanging from his weighty frame, gave him an eldritch glow, as if he were a ghost returned to bring retribution to all from beyond the grave.

  Grand Inquisitor Düül had been a handsome man, at least until a blade had nearly split his face in two. He had lost an eye in the incident. Afterwards he claimed the wound helped him shoot faster with his revolver as he no longer needed to close one eye to aim.

  Most Inquisitors wore only dark colours. It aided them when skulking in the shadows, avoiding being seen by an enemy until it was too late for their victim. But Düül wasn’t like most Inquisitors. He liked to make sure he announced his arrival long before he thrust the death blow between the ribs of a victim. To put the fear of his reputation into them, before the fear of God followed. He’d worn white on the very day he was made a Grand Inquisitor. It was his little joke, suggesting that his soul was pure, his methods clean. Anyone who knew him knew he possessed the blackest of hearts and a history to match.

  Adansoni did not look at him, instead following the still muttering Cardinal Bishop Korek to the table, joining him in the empty chair to Korek’s left. His eyes caught the narrow glance of Bishop Basquez opposite and something twisted inside him. The Bishop’s lips pressed into a thin leer before he turned his attention to the clamour of the meeting. Since Tacit’s escape from Toulouse, it seemed to Adansoni that Basquez’s demeanour had turned even more sour.

  Cardinal Bishop Casado cleared his throat, a deeply resonant growl into which he seemed to pour all his frustration. “I hope none of you object, but I took the liberty of inviting Grand Inquisitor Düül to our gathering. Considering the concerning nature of recent events, I thought he should be fully informed, and we might be able to benefit from his superior knowledge.” Düül swept the room with a fierce inquiring eye; Casado cleared his throat and made his main announcement. “You will no doubt all be aware that Poldek Tacit broke out of Toulouse Inquisitional Prison a week ago.”

  “Good heavens! I was not aware!” muttered Berberino, his hand slipping to his throat.

  “How was Tacit allowed to escape?” Cardinal Korek demanded to know from the far side of the circle, his face seeming to flush at the news. “I thought that anyone confined to the prison never came out?”

  “We don’t know how he escaped,” replied Casado, pinching his nose as he studied his notes. “We don’t know what happened, other than it seems Tacit broke free of his cell and rampaged through the prison complex.”

  “The monster,” muttered Korek, staring firmly down into his lap, his thin lips drawn back against his bared teeth. “What has the warden at the prison to say for himself?”

  “The warden’s dead,” snarled Düül, his eye as cold as the blade in his belt.

  “And Salamanca?”

  Casado chewed the side of his mouth. “Salamanca cannot speak. He has no tongue.”

  “What happened to him?” asked Berberino, from the confusion of gasps accompanying this latest revelation.

  The old Cardinal Bishop gripped the ridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. “Whatever Tacit said to him, did to him, it made Salamanca chew off his own tongue.”

  Korek cursed and hung his head.

  Düül smirked. “Poldek Tacit. He was always very good.”

  “Do you think he’ll come looking for us?” asked Berberino.

  “I doubt it, Cardinal,” replied Adansoni, calming with the wave of a hand. “I am sure he escaped to find freedom, rather than come back to the Vatican looking for trouble and risk further incarceration.”

  Düül chuckled slowly, a sound like nails being drawn down a chalk board. “Don’t be so sure, Cardinal Bishop,” he said.

  “You have news?”

  “More than that. I have a sighting. Father Stradlov came face to face with the man in the residence quarter of Vatican City.”

  “Is Father Stradlov alright?” asked Adansoni.

  “He’ll live. As for Father Strettavario …”

  “What about the Priest?” asked Berberino, his fingers turning white.

  “Gone.”

  “Gone?” asked Basquez, the suggestion of pleasure pulling at his lips. “What do you mean, gone?”

  “The door to Strettavario’s residence was broken down. Tacit almost certainly came to visit him.”

  “How dreadful,” squeaked Berberino.

  Düül sneered at the sound the man had made. “Seems that Strettavario was lucky on this occasion. He wasn’t home when Tacit came to call. If he was ever there.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “There was no sign of a struggle. And we’ve not found his body. But a car was seen leaving the residence matching the very same one seen a week ago and pursued during the disturbances in the capital. The car was trailed to a property, but the residence was found to have been recently vacated.”

  Adansoni cleared his throat. “Have you any leads as to where Tacit might have gone to now?” he asked, attempting to draw the increasingly chaotic proceedings to order.

  “Not yet,” replied Düül, “but we have a heavy presence within the city. We already had a number here due to recent occurrences.”

  “By which you mean these demonic signs?” asked Basquez.

  Düül did not reply directly, instead saying, “We’ve increased our numbers wherever possible.”

  Casado nodded. “Grand Inquisitor Düül is at the moment mobilising Inquisitors all across the city, and Monsignor Benigni has already begun to direct the Sodalitium Pianum, his team of investigators. If Tacit attempts anything else, he will be caught. Between the Inquisition and the Sodalitium Pianum we’ll find him, one way or another.”

  “The Sodalitium Pianum?” asked Adansoni, raising a bushy eyebrow in surprise. “I thought their work was rooting out rumour and suspicion of modernity rather than getting involved with inquisitional work?”

  “It is,” said Casado, his reply measured, “but Monsignor Benigni has been working with the Inquisition closely in recent months.”

  “We’ve been forced to combine forces,” said Düül dryly, his expression showing he was less than enamoured at the prospect. “Resources are … stretched.” He clicked his tongue.

  “So I heard,” said Basquez guardedly. “I heard that Monsignor Benigni was seen reviewing the scene of Inquisitor Cincenzo’s death?”

  “It’s no secret that the Sodalitium Pianum and the Inquisition have been trying to see if there is any truth behind these recent rumours,” said Düül.

  “And what rumours would those be?” Adansoni asked.

  Casado coughed and straightened the front of his gown. “That End Times might upon us.”

  The air seemed at once heavy with unease. “Why say such a thing, Cardinal Bishop Casado?” asked Adansoni, aghast.

  But Cardinal Berberino was less easily perturbed. “Inquisitors running amok through the streets of Rome? Gun battles within the city? Prisoners escaping Toulouse Prison? We were warned,” he said, and Adansoni saw that his hands were shaking. “I know I am not alone in having witnessed countless exorcisms throughout the city of late, and the births of hideous things.”

  “It seems you are not alone, Cardinal Berberino,” muttered another. “Every day brings new signs, new horrors. We were warned long ago. That dark times would return. That one would come out of the East and that a trail of destruction would be left in his wake. Which brings us back to the one we have long been concerned about. The one who has escaped. The one who is back in Rome. Tacit. He is dangerous.”

  “I agree,” said Korek. “Tacit is a concern, if the prophecies are true.”

  Adansoni scowled and placed the tips of his fingers together. “I was never one for the prophecies,” he riposted.

  “If memory serves, it was you who suggested such a prophecy involving Tacit in the first place, Cardinal Bishop Adansoni?” retorted Korek.

/>   “I was younger then. Hasty and more free to embrace the implausible. Perhaps arrogant too.”

  “You are saying you lied to the Holy See about Tacit then, Cardinal Bishop Adansoni?” asked Casado, sweat under his skull-cap drawing his thinning white hair into clumps. “When you first brought him to us as a young man?”

  “We were all younger men,” added Korek, grimacing. Adansoni smiled in acknowledgement before continuing to speak.

  “I merely want to make it clear that when I first found Tacit and brought him to the Vatican, the excitement of the moment overtook me. I remembered the Pope’s words, his suggestion that someone great would soon return, recalling the prophecies of the sages of old. I was full of excitement and youthful overenthusiasm, as you point out. I accept now that Tacit is just a man. Nothing more.”

  “I also heard that members of the Chaste were gunned down in cold blood at the Ponte Sisto?” said Berberino. “Along with Inquisitor Cincenzo?”

  “Father Pellegrini was killed also, an innocent,” muttered a Bishop from the far side of the circle of tables. Casado’s and Korek’s eyes met briefly before they swept the congregation.

  “I heard too that Sister Isabella was somehow involved,” continued Berberino, “that she was caught up in proceedings.”

  “Sister Isabella?” questioned Korek, amazed. “Weren’t she and Tacit on assignment together? Peculiar if you ask me.” He looked around the gathering before continuing. “Sister Isabella chased though the streets, while Tacit escapes from prison and returns to Rome? Sounds like the two might in some way be connected.”

  “I agree,” said Berberino. “For isn’t it true that they formed some sort of … fondness for one another during their last assignment?” He cast a sideways glance at Adansoni, but Adansoni shook his head once again.

  “Sister Isabella is apparently dead,” he said. “I have it on good authority.”

  “Whose authority?” asked Berberino.

  “Members of the Inquisition. They appear to have heard a rumour that Father Strettavario apprehended the Sister and killed her himself as she tried to escape the city.”