The Fallen
Authors: Tarn Richardson
THE FALLEN
TARN RICHARDSON
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© 2016 by Tarn Richardson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
The right of Tarn Richardson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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eISBN:
UK: 9780715650813
Typeset by Charlotte Tate
DEDICATION
For Maurice East, Tacit's right-hand man, and mine too.
In memory of Anthony John Maddocks 1944â2015
“Let not the dead live, let not the giants rise again.”
Isaiah 26:14
Contents
PROLOGUE
T
UESDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
11
TH
, 1877.
P
LEVEN
. B
ULGARIA
.
“Whoever knew men could bleed so much?”
The Priest's knees trembled as he took a step forward from the assembly of clerics into a landscape of nightmares. A hand caught and steadied the ailing figure, holding him firm until his nausea had passed.
Everywhere was covered in blood. In the cloying, churned earth, dashed across the rocks, gathered in curdled puddles from the heat of the day. Over the carpet of bodies piled on the cold ground.
“Is this really a vision of our dream?” the Priest asked, as a taller cleric, bearded and dressed in a black satin robe inlaid with carefully laced fabrics and glistening jewels, pushed past him to stand ahead of the gathered congregation. Slowly he surveyed the ruined, blasted battlements, where a mighty fortress had stood only a short time before.
“No,” he said, beside a shattered column of rubble, once a vast support for the Turkish southern defences. He turned his head to look at the Priests who had accompanied him to this hellish place. “This is no dream. It is a nightmare. One that will soon embrace the entire world.”
All in their party fell quiet, the only sounds those of the battlefield being cleared by those who had survived. The sounds of suffering and disorder polluted the silence, the moans of the wounded and the dying, the shrill whinny of horses trying helplessly to rise from the dirt onto shattered limbs, the panicked shouts of Russian officers attempting to regain control of their broken troops and urgently strengthen defences at the hard fought site.
The clinging stench of smoke, the stink of gunpowder and butchery drifted across the battlefield, ravaging senses, choking throats. All life had been torn from the land with the weight of the conflict, leaving everything black and grey and crimson, everything smashed, turned to stones and wooden splinters. Every inch of the landscape had been burnt and charred, as if a great fire had been unleashed on the Turkish defences that had guarded the place and consumed almost all within it. Blackened craters littered the ground, filled with contorted bodies, twisted and torn, soldiers
blown apart and lying where they had come to rest, so that they looked as if they were emerging from the fetid earth, clawing their way into the light.
For those not blasted away into bloodied hunks of meat, their bodies had taken on a drawn pallid hue, slaughtered and left to ripen under the infernal sun. Blood still dripped from the open wounds, nostrils and mouths of those caught by shrapnel, rifle bullets or the bayonet's charge. In places, Russians and Turks lay side by side, some in an embrace as if holding onto each other in a final death pact.
One of the Priests cleared his throat. “General Skobelev has taken the southern fortresses. He will hold them â”
“â until the Turks return,” answered the great bearded Priest, his skin as white as the dead about him, “and in greater numbers too. We must work quickly.” He peered back across the dusky landscape to the valley on the far side from where they had first entered the battlefield, towards the bleached white tent pavilion nestled on the grey granite hillside.
“They are watching,” spoke the cleric who had come to close to fainting. “Czar Alexander and the Grand Duke.”
“Of course they are watching us,” replied the High Priest, casting his black glittering robe wide. “We promised them a miracle. Let us not leave them disappointed.”
He went forward, his eyes fixed on the corpse-ridden floor over which they walked, as if searching for a specific spot, a certain location upon which to draw down his spell.
“The enemy might come back at any time!” called one of the party, his eyes trained to the far horizon.
“They will return,” replied the Priest, “but not yet. Not till our work is done. It was so decreed. Here!” He commanded with a finger thrust towards the shattered ground, close to where a lone tree still stood, so much of it blasted away that only its twisted trunk and a solitary branch remained. Blood dripped from its bark, as if it were bleeding. “Set down the items here.”
At once the Priests scurried forward and laid out the elaborate relics with well-trained efficiency and speed. A large silken black cloth was unrolled and set out on the churned ground, over which they laid a length of white ribbon and black candles, as thick as a man's wrist, set as the points of a star.
The moon, still drenched in the blood-red of sunset, had risen so that it sat like a dull orb in the heavens, weakly illuminating the spot where the Priests worked. Barely a breeze now graced the place the High Priest had chosen, as if nature itself had fallen silent to acknowledge the dark powers gathering.
A shard of crimson moonlight shone through the remaining tangle of twigs of the single branch, catching the folds of the Priest's dark cloak and making the gemstones sparkle like watchful eyes. He stepped back to the black cloth and regarded the assembly of objects laid before him. It seemed to please him and he smiled, turning his head heavenward, studying something within the stars. Around him the Priests had formed a circle, every eye trained on him alone.
“Will it be enough?” someone whispered.
“We have followed the ritual. Mirrored the sins. We have done all that was required of us.”
“Twenty thousand lives?” another said. “Surely that is ample?”
“For them is anything enough?”
The bejewelled Priest drew himself up to his full height, his eyes staring hard into the fiery sunset. He drew a staff from his cloak, the head of which had been whittled into the image of a horned ram. At once lightning began to flicker in the heavens, and he turned his head to admire it. Thunder rumbled from the deep valleys leading down towards the Black Sea far in the east. A storm was growing. All eyes turned to scour the heavens for signs as to their coming, evidence that a link had been made. Crows, drawn by the summoning magicks and activity, had gathered in great numbers around the jagged stones and blasted trees, croaking and yammering angrily.
