Soon it was impossible to tell who was who, everyone so drenched in blood that soldiers paused, looking for a sign to tell friend from foe, so that they didn’t kill an ally. Fighting became more a game of wits and luck than skill. Everything turned red, a slick, stinking convulsing mess in the mounting heat of the day.
And all the time Pablo fought surrounded by a slowly dwindling shield of Italian soldiers, as if they were his own bodyguards, his protectors.
NINETY NINE
THE ITALIAN FRONT. THE SOČA RIVER. NORTHWEST SLOVENIA.
It felt to Isabella that they had been walking in infernal darkness for days. After leaving the train, clapped in handcuffs and led like a prisoner by Georgi, he had commandeered a truck which had taken them the last few miles to the foot of mountain she supposed was the Carso, the place Tacit had spoken about so often. They’d been met by others there, awkward wicked-faced people, with a hurried excited look about them. They’d watched her as if she was some great prize that had been obtained for their pleasure.
Georgi had taken a pack from them and a lantern, and had headed off into the foothills of the mountain with Isabella, now holding her by the arm. At least the handcuffs had been removed once they had begun to walk again. She needed her hands, for the climb was treacherous and steep in places.
He’d found the entrance to the cave quickly and had pushed her inside, checking for a last time that they had not been spotted, before following and guiding her along the sandy path which climbed inside the heart of the mountain.
She’d asked him on many occasions where they were headed, but he never replied and she knew anyway, from the fact that the path climbed all the time, that they were heading for the summit of the mountain, the Karst Plateau, as Tacit had predicted. She suspected she knew the devilish conclusion which lay there for her and fought to keep her fears from overwhelming her.
At times they stopped and ate, the unappetising food seeming all the more bland through the pallid light of the lantern.
“What are these caves?” she asked him, trying to win his trust and perhaps the chance to flee should his attention drop for long enough.
“They run through the Carso, forged by underground rivers running through the limestone long ago. The mountain is riddled with them, like honeycomb.”
That was all she got from him. Georgi never rested for long, only enough for them to stave off hunger and then continue, as if time was of the essence. Isabella snatched brief moments of sleep whenever they stopped, for she was deathly tired, all the time aware of Georgi’s cold unyielding eyes on her.
Finally the path levelled out and the tunnel up which they were walking opened to reveal a broad chamber, thirty feet high and thirty wide, a silty fine dust covering the floor. From within it she could hear the sounds of battle hammering out of the darkness beyond and she supposed they were now close to the summit. Another passageway, a yawning tunnel twisting up and away to their left, curved into pale light that Isabella guessed was daylight.
Georgi dragged her to the wall of the cavern and threw her onto the ground. There was a ring hammered into the rock close to where she landed and he looped the handcuffs around it and locked them about her wrists.
“What are you doing?” asked Isabella, watching as he stepped into the very centre of the cavern. He set the lantern down and walked away from it, a set number of strides, silently counting as he went. He set the toe of his shoe into the silty floor and began to drag it over the surface, walking towards her, making a line. He stopped, his foot still dug into the earth, and turned back on himself, walking once more, making another straight line, the same length as the previous one.
“He’s coming for you,” Georgi said, turning again and creating a third line, this one running over the first one he had made. “Tacit. He’s coming for you.” He stopped and turned for a fourth time, dragging his toe to make yet another line, this one crossing the second he had made. Isabella recognised the symbol he was creating. She had seen it in many dark places of the world and she knew its function. He turned for a final time at the fifth point of the star and dragged his foot back to the tip of the very first point. “Can you hear that?” he asked Isabella, raising his palm to his ear. “The battle? The carnage which is unfurling just beyond this chamber? Ninety thousand soldiers will come together on that plateau. Sixty thousand of them will perish, broken to bloody pulp under the blunt edge of man’s combined hate. Their bodies will make a carpet of the dead, their dead fluids will run into the rocks of this mountain. Their deaths, their life blood is his welcoming toast. The blood to stir his arrival and the coming of his lieutenants.”
“Lieutenants?” hissed Isabella. “What do you mean?”
“Come, come, Sister Isabella,” smiled Georgi. “You can’t have a Lord without lieutenants to protect him. The time is right for their returning. The time long prophesied has come. The world is ready for them, the ground fertile with the dead. Together they shall complete the work and make a world truly ready for the Antichrist.” He looked at the pentagram he drawn in the dirt. “Through this gateway they will come. For so long they have been desperate to be free of their chains and return once more to our world above. Every night I have heard them crying out to be freed. Trying to get across. It is nearly time.”
“Lust of eyes. Lust of the flesh!” muttered Isabella. “The ritual.”
Georgi nodded. “Correct. The first two rituals have been completed. It is now the third, Pride of life, which is all that remains before the gateway shall be opened and they will come through. Pride of life. The arrogance to defeat the powers of life, the very fabric of existence and draw life back from the dead.” He studied Isabella as he spoke. “Don’t cry,” he said, as she dropped her head. “Don’t be scared. After all, you’re the starring role. And Tacit is your lead. He will never leave you, you know? He loves you. He loved Mila. But she wasn’t the one. He knew that. Or he would have saved her. He’s always been able to save those he’s loved. He’s always had the power. The lights, the power they imbue. And the voices which drive him on. He has been prophesied for so very long. And he knows you’re the one. And he will save you.” Georgi grew angry that Isabella was still not looking at him, her head hanging, and he shouted at her. “Listen to me! Stop crying! He will come and he will save you. And by doing so, you and he will be together. But at such a price for mankind!”
ONE HUNDRED
ST PETERSBURG. RUSSIA.
Cool dawn light flooded through the windows of the Church of the Saviour of the Spilled Blood, charging the gold-haloed saints adorning the walls with a dazzling raiment almost too beautiful to behold, their gowns of flame orange and iris blue appearing like lush fabrics around their shoulders. The maniacal cries from the antechamber of the church had died instantly, like an extinguished flame. Where barked curses and roars had polluted the sanctity of the place moments before, quiet sobs and whimpers of benediction from the rescued victim were all that could now be heard.
The door to the antechamber opened and a haggard-looking Priest appeared, dropping his head and taking a moment to gather his breath. Exhaustion washed over him and he swayed woozily on his legs, drunk with fatigue from the night’s trials. The exorcism had been long and difficult, dangerous too at times. Recently they had been getting harder to complete, demonic possessions far stronger, the toll on the Priest this time even more costly. This was his third exorcism this month, and without doubt the most testing yet. Exorcism had been the domain of Inquisitors, but Father Svyatoslav had not seen an Inquisitor in the city for the last two weeks and lately the duty had fallen to him.
He waited for his breathing to recover and looked back over his shoulder at the sleeping woman. She had been brought in last night, but now slept, at peace again, free of the demon who had possessed her. He smiled wearily, satisfied at this latest victory over the Devil. He would never triumph, not here in Father Svyatoslav’s church, or in his city. People had been talking of bad omens, of ill signs being seen within t
he lands predicting End Times. But Svyatoslav would never give up. He would give every ounce of his body and his soul to the fight. He would be victorious no matter how long the journey, how hard the sacrifice. He would overcome, just as he had this morning.
He surveyed the grandeur of the church with its intricate mosaics, every wall alive with colour and shimmering light. In that moment, in the quiet of the ornate building, he felt peace and satisfaction. A little gift from heaven.
Svyatoslav closed the door behind him to allow the woman to sleep and began crossing the marbled floor to his offices on the opposite side of the church. He would change out of his clothes, fouled by the demon, and wash with the water brought to him last night, still untouched due to his being called to perform the exorcism. He reached the central point of the church and looked up, as he always did whenever he crossed it, to acknowledge Jesus Christ captured in the vivid coloured mosaic in the dome directly above. Christ looked down upon him, his head adorned with a silver and gold halo, a host of angels enshrining him with their wings, the colours of ochre and laurel.
The Priest muttered a silent prayer of thanks and continued to cross the floor. A noise like a clap made him stop and turn. At first he couldn’t see anything, but Svyatoslav’s interest was caught and he went back, looking over the floor for the thing which made the sound. A small coloured stone was lying on the black marble circle in the centre of the church. The Priest bent down and picked it up, holding it in his fingers to examine it. It was a mosaic tile and Svyatoslav looked up at the ceiling from where he supposed it must have fallen.
“Loose mortar,” he muttered to himself, searching the dome’s image to see if he could spot from where the piece had dropped.
The clack of a second falling tile sounded nearby and focused his eyes on where it had landed. He stepped over to the spot and picked it up, rattling the square of stone in his palm next to the other piece.
Where one goes, often another will follow, he thought, before a third fell onto the marble in front of him, joined by a fourth. He bent down to pick them both up, but before he could do so a fifth tile fell and then a sixth, this one striking him on his shoulder. He looked up squinting through the pale light, peering hard at the domed ceiling. Perhaps there was a hole in the roof and rainwater had worked its way into the mortar, weakening it? He frowned and made a private agreement with himself to ensure it was looked at straight away.
He bowed his head to leave the moment a seventh piece fell, after which a cascade of tiles flew down, thundering like hard rain onto the marble all around him. Almost at once he was aware that the air had grown cold, his breath billowing, his chest tight. He spoke a rushed panicked prayer and made to step away, but now a great shower of mosaic was flung down forcibly in front of him, blocking his route, ripped from the ceiling and thrown by enraged invisible forces. He jumped back and tried to step around it, but still more tiles fell, barring any way through. He shrieked and turned around. Coloured mosaics had begun to fall from the opposite side of the dome, preventing any chance of escape that way too. There was dust in the air and in his throat, his eyes now blinded. The noise was like thunder. His senses were overwhelmed, not knowing which way he should, or could, go. He tried to push his way through the torrent of stones but the force of the hurled masonry was too strong, ripping his clothes and flesh, his hands and arms cut open.
“Please!” he wailed pathetically, moments before the tiles began to be hurled directly onto him, slicing the skin from his skull with their razorsharp edges.
Father Svyatoslav stumbled through the growing downpour of coloured stones, drenched in his blood, hanging ribbons of flesh stripped from his face. He fell onto his knees, the mosaics falling even harder still, battering him over onto his side, his skinned hands clasped tight to the bloodied hunk of flesh his head had become. He wept, pleading for the onslaught to stop, but there was no remission. In seconds he was covered in debris, his cries, and then soon after his lungs, crushed by rubble and the dust of the once beautiful mosaic of Christ.
ONE HUNDRED AND ONE
THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.
It had been Cardinal Bishop Casado’s idea that the casket be left open to allow people to look upon the deathly pale figure of Cardinal Korek for a last time as they paid their final respects to him. He’d been a constant presence, in wisdom as well as body, at the Vatican for over sixty years. His death had shocked and touched everyone, both within the small circle of the Holy See and in the wider community of the Vatican. The golden rays of sun burst through the stained glass window at the back of the church, drenching the casket in a gentle glow. A long stream of well-wishers and mourners shuffled slowly by, a general murmuring and praying rising up from the snaking line.
Casado leaned across to Adansoni as they stood watching from the rear of the ambulatory, their faces drawn tight, their hands clenched. “It was a shock,” said Casado, nodding to himself. “A shock to us all.” He looked across at Adansoni. “For him to have died this way.”
“He fell on his back,” replied Adansoni. “His face was almost entirely undamaged.”
“God’s grace. God’s way of preserving his body. It is a shame God could not have preserved his life for a few years more. Goodness!” he exclaimed, “I am amazed I am saying this!”
“He was old,” countered Adansoni gently, reaching with his hands and patting Casado’s in a show of kindness and care. “He must have slipped and tumbled out of the room. Probably chasing crows. You know how he hated those crows!”
Casado chuckled sadly, a solitary tear rolling down his face. He let it run down the length of his cheek to his chin where it welled and hung from the coarse white hairs missed from his morning’s shave. “He could be a difficult man sometimes,” Casado said, turning his head a little so that only Adansoni would hear. Casado nodded his head. “But he’ll be missed. He was loved.”
A cry rang out, high pitched, from the line of mourners and both Casado and Adansoni frowned. The line jostled and then withdrew, hurriedly. People were shouting, some were screaming but everyone was running, fleeing from the casket, trying to get away from it as quickly as possible. Both Cardinals stepped forward, watching as people scrambled to get away. A woman went down and people ran over her in their urge to flee.
“What is it?” called Casado as a member of the Swiss Guard, posted to oversee proceedings, rushed forward in an attempt to bring calm. Something was stirring within the coffin. Casado and Adansoni saw it as they stood behind the casket, saw the pallid grey of Korek’s scalp rise to reveal the butchered crushed wound at the back of his head, caved in and blackened with congealed blood. Both of them fell back, their hands to their mouths.
“Lord preserve us!” Adansoni cried, his heels catching on the ground and causing him to lose his balance. He flailed out and Casado caught him, just managing to hold him upright.
“What is that thing?” Casado cried, his eyes firm on the hideous ghoul, as it began to sit up in the casket, bony hands gripping the edges of the box.
“When the dead rise …” Casado heard Adansoni say, above the clamour and roar of the disintegrating line. The Cardinal Secretary of State turned to look at his fellow Cardinal and friend. “The third ritual! The pride of life!”
At the far end of the church, doors were thrown open and Inquisitors surged in, sprinting up the aisle to where Korek was now attempting to stand in the casket. Words were on his rotting lips, indiscernible sounds, but baleful and cruel. A revolver was raised and trained at the creature. As a shot sounded, Korek’s blackened mouth twisted into a smile before he was thrown backwards. He somersaulted off the back of the casket and flipped over onto the white marble of the apse. Korek’s corpse twitched and stirred for just a moment and then fell back onto the marbled floor. Black blood seeped out from the wound in his chest. But this blood seemed strange. It didn’t flow. It looked as if it was crawling, as if it was made up of individual little elements, each moving, writhing out from beneath the body of the Cardi
nal. And then they realised the blood wasn’t blood at all but a host of tiny insects, biting and stinging creatures burrowing out of his chest and out of hell’s depths.
PART SEVEN
“Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits, who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit.”
Psalm 103:3–4
ONE HUNDRED AND TWO
THE ITALIAN FRONT. THE SOČA RIVER. NORTHWEST SLOVENIA.
Pablo realised that there was no one left to fight, just a carpet of dead, three bodies thick, all around him. Already corpses had started to bloat and expand in the heat of the day. Around him he saw other Italian soldiers, bloodied and bowed from the scourge of battle, clutching their battered makeshift weapons, all dripping with the remains of the enemy. There was nothing else, only bodies and ash and smoke and stone, all punctuated with the mournful cries of the dying, for whom Pablo could do nothing, and had no compulsion to help either. Not anymore.
Pablo felt sticky and hot and sick. His whole body shook and he dropped the short bloodied pick he had armed himself with mid-way through the battle. It fell with a dull thud onto the bodies beneath him and he looked east to the haze of the plateau’s horizon, the smudge of grey growing more faint as the last of the Austro-Hungarian army fled the field.
He wanted to cry, to roar out his passion to the heavens, but he had no energy to do so. And so instead he just stood and stared, stared into the eastern haze, mind empty.
And then he stopped and he blinked the filth from his eyes. Corporal Abelli.
Desperation grasped him like a noose. Now the tears came and he sobbed, weeping for his loss, weeping for fear he was the last one alive from his unit on that mountainside. A cloud passed in front of the sun and he shivered.
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