Free The Fallen by Tarn Richardson

if he has already returned.”
    â€œHe is not returned yet, Cardinal Bishop Adansoni,” the Sister announced. She lifted an eyebrow pointedly. “But he will return. That is certain. It will not be long. When the forces of Britain and Germany meet on the plains of the Somme, when a whole generation is wiped from existence within one morning, from out of their bloodshed and sacrifice he will be born.”
    â€œWhat about the others, those who come before him?” asked Adansoni without ceremony, his left hand tightening into a fist. “The ones who will protect him?”
    â€œWhy do they concern you, Cardinal Bishop Adansoni?” asked Sister Malpighi, a light in her eyes, the hint of suspicion on her lips.
    â€œDoes the coming of the Seven Princes of Hell not concern everyone?”
    The Sister took a breath, a leathery stilted gasp, as if breathing was difficult. “It is unclear. There are forces, uncertainties, things which are still to be revealed. The waters of time are muddied and there is a breeze whichblows over the top of them. But if you mean is there still time to stop them from returning, my answer to you, Cardinal Bishop Adansoni, is yes.”

TWELVE
    T HE I TALIAN F RONT . T HE S OČA R IVER . N ORTHWEST S LOVENIA .
    The Italian Third Army had been held in the clearing for days, just down from where the mountainside began the slow long climb to the Karst Plateau of the Carso. Pine forests surrounded them for miles in every direction, the scent of the sap rich in the heady air. It was hot, too hot for the soldiers’ heavy uniforms, infrequent solace provided only when the sun slipped behind the occasional cloud. The choke of coal smoke was in the air, the endless bark of Sergeants’ commands echoing down the mountain towards where valleys ran with the dazzlingly clear cold water of the Soča River.
    The trudge of a hundred thousand pairs of boots sounded like a beating snare drum, the maddening noise echoing up and around the steep rocky valleys and sheer cliffs. White limestone shone with vivid light from the mountain, its glare so bright that the soldiers at times squinted to see. Units marched aimlessly in long snaking grey lines up and then back down the surrounding paths and tracks, or put their backs into lugging provisions and supplies to the depots of the camp.
    As a break to the monotony of camp life, a new contingent of soldiers had recently arrived and were being processed and broken out into their allotted units. They looked too young and lost among the sea of men who had arrived earlier and already experienced some of what the mountainside and the elements could throw at them.
    With them, a group of Priests, black-cassocked, peaked birettas balanced on slick foreheads, had followed at the rear, all five of them flanking a solitary young Private, as if in some way he was special, ordained. As soon as they arrived in the camp, it was clear that they intended to direct this new intake themselves, gesticulating and leading the nervous band of young men towards a particular unit of soldiers who watched the new influx arrive with interest.
    The Italian Sergeant Major, standing at the top of the track up which they marched, didn’t try to mask his disagreement at the small entourage of Priests seemingly doing his own job for him. He rubbed his hands down the front of his coat, filthy from his work, and looked from the starched collars of the Priests’ necks to their road-weary features. He tried to measure the greeting he should give the clergymen and the end opted for, “What’s your jurisdiction here then, Fathers?”
    The leading Priest scowled and sized the solider up disdainfully.
    Immediately the Sergeant knew there was something different about these Priests, all of them sombre, hollow-eyed, cheerless. Worn, as if they had travelled far and hard to reach this place under great difficulties.
    â€œLong way off the beaten path, aren’t