The Fallen by Tarn Richardson

the needle of stone, the tip almost lost in the black of night. “The Priests,” he replied in a hushed tone. “They have reached the foothills of the Carso. The descendant of Gath is with them and has been delivered safely into the hands of the unit. All is in hand.”
    â€œExcellent. This war, this carefully orchestrated conflict, it is a testament to what we have become, how far our power has spread, how much control we can command. Already most of Europe is in flames. The English, French and Germans have ground themselves into an impasse on the western front. The same can be said on the eastern front, the Russians pouring themselves into the fire of the German and Austro-Hungarian cannons for little gain. Now a third front has been opened, a third side to close the triangle and to lock in the horrors, the killing. The magicks.”
    He smirked grimly with an anticipation he could barely contain. “Three fronts to mirror the three cardinal sins of man. Three cardinal sins to wake them from their chained slumber. A fertile ground drenched ready to accept them.”
    He exhaled and shook his head, pushing back his hood to reveal his weathered, hard features. His muscular jaw was square and shadowed with dark growth of several days. “It seems like a lifetime for us to have finally reached this moment. For me I suppose it has been a lifetime.”
    The man looked down into his lap, as if touched by sudden emotion at recalling his past. “I died for them, you know,” he said, rubbing his calloused hands gently over each other, “when the time came, when the call was made to leave the faith and join them. I pretended I had been defeated. Murdered. It has been a weight I have carried ever since, the pretence that I was weak, so weak that I would die in the line of duty.”
    He looked and stared across the square, any sorrow now replaced with rage. “It is the Catholic faith that is weak!” he spat. “What power do they wield that can possibly compete with that of the lord of darkness? When I served in the Inquisition, every day brought news of yet more deaths of our fellow Inquisitors until only Poldek Tacit and I remained from the yearof our intake. I knew then that they were failed by a faith which could not face its enemies with any hope of victory. Only one could assure me of dominance. He has shown and given me so much.”
    â€œGeorgi, the signs of their returning are already everywhere,” spoke the Priest. “Visions of their legacy manifest within the cities and the towns all across the region. Across the world! Talk of possessions and devilish occurrences. The Inquisition is barely able to cope. Those of us who have seen the light, we are doing all we can to propagate the fear and fan the flames of hell’s brood.”
    Georgi nodded. “Good. This time things will proceed as planned. There can be no chance of failure. Not this time. We have invested so much, sacrificed all in their name.”
    â€œThe rituals of the sins?” asked the Priest.
    â€œI will begin them at once.”
    The Priest smiled, as if satisfied. “Sister Isabella,” he said, after a long pause, his eyes still not leaving the pillar of rock, as if he spoke more to himself than to Georgi beside him. He noticed that the man did not move, save for the lines around his eyes which seemed to deepen, as if the name was known to him. “She killed three Inquisitors.”
    Georgi unfolded his arms, knotting his fingers together in his lap and looking down at them with quiet resignation. “The woman has spirit. And a talent few of us realised when she was first chosen to accompany Poldek Tacit in Arras. It was a surprise to me when I discovered she had witnessed Cincenzo’s execution.”
    â€œAnd you’re sure it was her?”
    â€œThe cloak I retrieved, discarded at Sisto Bridge. It was hers. I could smell her scent upon it. Someone helped her