Tacit stopped dead in his tracks as he strode through the village and turned his head urgently to the cacophony of horror coming from the front. His eyes were wide and full of alarm.
“What is it?” Isabella cried, her hands to her mouth.
“Someone has opened a door to hell,” roared Tacit, trundling into a run. He charged to the end of the road, where the ground rose and gave them a better view of the front line, two hundred yards away. He stared and without a word ran on through the village, Isabella racing after him, using the buildings for cover. The howling of the wolves and the cries of the soldiers were dreadful to hear, as if countless wild packs of dogs were snarling as they closed on helpless prey.
“Where are you going?” Isabella cried. “The wolves aren’t this way.”
“I am well aware.”
Tacit thundered up the battered side street and turned into the main square, charging across its broken stones to the crumpled remains of the hall. He reached the main doors and dug into a coat pocket.
“Here,” he said, handing a silver coloured revolver to the Sister. “Six rounds. Use them if you need to, but use them wisely.”
She took it and held it in trembling hands, as if it were a thing of terrible mystery. These weapons were part of the sacred arsenal, passed down from Inquisitor to Inquisitor for generations. Tacit put his hand up on the door of the village hall and thrust his way inside. There was no sentry to be seen. He stormed across the room and pushed at the doors on the far side of it. They were locked. He raised a boot and kicked it hard, busting the doors open. Behind the desk, the figure of the Major jumped and he flinched backwards into his chair.
“You’ve got a problem,” Tacit growled, striding to the desk. He put his immense fists down on the table in front of him. “You can’t solve it. Only we can.”
“This is the British Army. Of course we can solve it!” Pewter spat back, but his eyes didn’t look at Tacit. Instead, they were fixed to the window and the trenches far off in the distance, to the howling and the chaos unfolding outside. He shuddered and it looked as if tears were forming in his eyes.
“You can’t beat them,” replied the Inquisitor grimly. “Trust me.”
There was a sudden noise from the door of the hall and Ponting ran inside, his eyes half-crazed, his face drawn and very white. He had lost his cap and his hair was wild with haste.
“Sir, it’s your horse, sir!” he announced, hopping anxiously from foot to foot, as if the ground was on fire. “It’s been killed!”
“My what?”
“Your horse, sir.”
“Good God, she was a beauty!”
Isabella scowled. “You’re more worried about your horse?” she cried. “Major, you’re losing entire units out there.”
“Help us,” Pewter stuttered, swallowing hard on his dry throat. “Help, God damn it. Help us.”
“It might be too late,” Tacit replied, staring at the window. “Seems you have tunnelled into hell.” He looked back at the Major, who cowered under the Inquisitor’s gaze. “Give the order to pull back. There is nothing you can do out there tonight.”
“Pull back? Are you mad? If we pull back, we’ll give the Boche our trench! I won’t allow it. If they take the trench, they’ll be able to take the village! No, I’m sorry, I won’t allow it.”
“You’re going to lose the village whether you stay in your trenches or not. Tell your men to retreat back to the village. They need shelter. They need to get indoors. Lock themselves in. If you want to stay and fight, you’ll die. You asked for my advice. You have it. Pull them out of there.”
Tacit levered himself back and strode swiftly from the room, Isabella in his wake.
“What are you going to do?” asked Pewter desperately, tears running down his cheeks. All his dreams lay in tatters.
“Me?” replied Tacit, stopping at the door and looking back to the window. “Sleep. There’s nothing that can be done, not during night time. Not with this many of them.” He stepped past the sentry and pulled out another silver revolver, opening the chamber and checking the silver bullets were in place. “Just pray they’re not still hungry by morning.”