The Malice

CHAPTER THREE

Samael walks the last mile to the Fallen Palace. He does not need to slow down. Muscles can be forced beyond human limits and fatigue is a stranger to him, a person passed by in another life, no longer relevant. He walks to appear more powerful. He walks because, despite the growing threat behind him, it feels like the right thing to do.

Mud clings to his boots, to his shins, reaching up to his knees like a desperate lover. Flies buzz in close orbit, circling, never landing, both drawn to and repelled by his rotting body.

Ahead of him the Fallen Palace rises from the swamp. Once it flew, an airborne fortress for Gamma of The Seven. Infernal forces brought it low, smashed it, climbed inside. A haven of demons ruled by the strongest. For a long time the Usurper held that title, now it is in dispute. Infernals turn on one another. The strong fight the weak, crushing them, making followers or bloody examples. Factions form, face off, break apart. Despite several attempts to take it, the Usurper’s throne remains empty.

The residents of the Fallen Palace are ever watchful. Any could rise to the top and all are fair game.

This is why Samael walks.

Over the years, the Fallen Palace has begun to sink, like a boat going down in slow motion. In tiny incremental shifts one half plunges lower, exaggerating the tilt of the floor, raising the other half upwards. The increased strain shakes foundations. From time to time, towers break, sometimes caught between their fellows, sometimes sliding into the swamp, piling onto one another, forming new habitations.

Samael works his way up, pulling himself onto a turret that has toppled over and become a path. The slippery curved sides have been battered into rough flatness by many feet. Boots ring out on metal, clanking dully, off key.

Beneath them, things stir. Red and green eyes appear at glassless windows, peering upwards, angry. Samael ignores them, continues at a steady pace. An infernal hauls itself out of a hole, blocking the way. A beast with two backs, joined at the hip, at the chest, at the chin. Like a person pressing themselves against a mirror, it stands on four legs, toes touching their opposites, fused together. With effort, it twists its heads towards him, skin pulling tight where they join.

Samael is forced to look up to meet its gaze, higher ground emphasising their greater size.

In each hand, the creature holds a weapon. A rock, the claw of a victim, a rotting branch and a Dogspawn dangling from a chain. Of the four weapons, only the half-bred hound remains animate, broken legs kicking feebly, mouth still strong, savage.

The sword that Samael carries is a simple piece of metal, sharp but voiceless. He draws it and prepares to fight.

Immediately, the creature swings for him, misjudging the distance, and Samael rushes forward, sword high. The infernal stumbles back, bonded legs unable to accommodate the demands of combat. At the last second it raises all four arms, making an ugly barrier.

Samael continues forward, turning so that shoulder, not blade, makes contact. Not a cut but a push.

There is a slam, then a squeal. The infernal pitches backwards. Soles of feet are briefly visible, then it is gone, Dogspawn and all, swallowed into the swamp.

Samael sheathes his sword and walks on.

His progress is steady. Soon he reaches the point where tower meets floor and steps onto sloping stones. He passes another half-breed, hauling a sack of ill-gotten gains. Her body is naked to the air, the skin healthier, greener. She is one of the younger ones, born tainted. Though both have a mix of mortal and infernal essence, the two could not be more different.

Studiously, they ignore one another.

Many watch Samael as he climbs higher, intent on the Palace’s heart, but none dare attack. This last tower remains whole, both broader and taller than its fellows. A place of power, fit for a king. The gleaming metal walls are covered in green veins, thick and lumpy.

Samael finds he does not like this, feels an impulse to scrape them off. It is everything he can do to resist, to not kneel down and tear away the offending growths.

At the base of the tower is an archway, leading to a spiral staircase. He climbs inside and begins to ascend. Because of the way the tower leans, he alternates between using steps and wall to tread. Up he goes, cutting through webs as thick as ropes. The silk patterns are irregular, lopsided, spun by spiders drunk on tainted essence. He feels a surge of pleasure to be destroying them.

He came here once with his creator. The tower did not lean so badly then. He recalls how vacant his thoughts were at that time, when he was merely a follower, a tool. In many ways his own life was facilitated by his creator’s death.

Retracing his steps, he muses, half present, half in the past. He walks through corridors, winding, and ducks through angled doorways, pulling himself up the floor until, at last, he comes to it: the tomb.

Fly eggs gather in piles by the door, like swollen grains of rice. Samael has another urge, to crush them under his boot. This he resists.

The door opens before he can knock, revealing the figure he has come to see. Samael pauses, not sure which words to apply to the Man-shape. Friend? Ally? Co-conspirator?

Though the essence that flows within the Man-shape’s shell is completely alien, outwardly it appears the more human of the two. Its skin has barely changed since the initial possession and muscles have remained in correct proportion. Unlike most of its kind, the Man-shape wears clothes, choosing them with care. How they remain clean is a mystery.

Its immaculate presentation makes Samael feel like the monster. Reluctantly, he removes his helm.

The Man-shape moves forward, until noses touch.

Samael opens his mouth and the Man-shape does the same, revealing a dark where tongue and vocal cords should be, cavernous.

Two mouths nearly meet, forming a tunnel of sorts. Inside, essences rise, tentative.

Usually, such a sharing would be hazardous between pure infernal and half-breed, but both are careful and the Man-shape excels at treading lightly.

With utmost care, essences brush together, two bubbles threatening to become one.

‘You have been away too long. You are needed here, you know that … you … you are troubled.’

‘There is trouble at the Breach. A new threat.’

‘There are always threats at the Breach but they cannot reach us at the Palace. You should concern yourself more with what is happening here. We have new challengers for the Usurper’s throne: Hangnail, the Backwards Child, Lord Felrunner, Gutterface. You could fight them.’

‘You deal with their kind all the time. You fight them. Why bother me?’

‘They have been patient, built their strength. I am a king-maker not a king.’

‘I am not a king either.’

‘What are you then?’

‘I …’

‘I see a man riding land that flows, is this what you are?’

‘I …’

‘I see a man dressing up, playing as something he is not. Is that what you are?’

‘No. I … I don’t know.’

‘Exactly. You do not know. But I know. We are what we are made to be. In you the essence of your creator lives on, and the essence of the Usurper was in your creator.’

‘Stop distracting me. My place is at the Breach. There is a new threat. It is bigger than anything I’ve seen before.’

‘As big as our master?’

‘The Usurper was not my master.’

‘As big as my master was?’

‘I don’t know, I never saw your master, not until its end.’

‘I could show you.’

‘No. Let me show you.’

‘Yes.’

Samael thinks, remembers the Yearning, its strength. Memories rise up like ghosts on glass.

The Man-shape never physically smiles in public, though it practises often in private. Nevertheless, Samael feels the intent to smile. A brief flush of smugness washes over him, not his own.

‘What is it?’

‘Perhaps I was too hasty before. Yes, I see it now.’

‘See what?’

A second wave of smugness comes, more emphatic. ‘The answer to all our problems.’

*

Inside the sky-ship, there is little sense of movement. Gyroscopes and energy fields work hard to maintain peace, buffering, adjusting. Padded straps hold Vesper close; she in turn holds the kid and a bottle of milk. Greedy sucking sounds loud above the hushed song of the sky-ship’s light drives.

Above and around her, others sit, the lines of seats describing a dome. Men and women, squires mainly, their armour highly polished, their weapons ready, all trying not to stare.

Genner sits opposite, holding himself in a position of authority.

Vesper glances round at the serene faces, then frowns. She takes a breath to speak, glances again and lets it out, noisily.

‘What is it?’ asks Genner.

‘Are we actually flying?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘That depends on you. This –’ he spreads his hands outward ‘– is all to protect you. Tell us what you need and we’ll provide it. Tell us where you need to go and we’ll take you.’

Vesper scratches the kid behind its ear, contemplating. ‘Well, do you think I could have a torch?’

‘We are all your torches.’

‘Oh. Does that mean I can’t have my own?’

Genner’s expression flickers between amusement and irritation. ‘No – I mean, yes, you can have one but that’s not the point.’

Nuances bounce off the girl’s smile. ‘Then I’d like a torch please. And some more milk for my goat.’

‘We’ll see you get them. Now tell us, what are Gamma’s orders?’

Her smile falters. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Ever since your father returned Gamma’s sword to us, we have been watching, waiting for it to act. Our sole purpose here is to facilitate your mission. So tell me, what are Gamma’s orders?’

‘I don’t know about any orders.’

‘Yes, you do. Something made you take up the sword. That was Gamma.’

She shakes her head. ‘I just wanted to bring the sword to one of the knights. Then you could use it against the demons and my father’s life would go back to normal.’

‘But the sword didn’t call to me or a knight, it called to you. And if you let it, the sword will communicate its wishes to you. All you have to do is listen.’

Vesper’s smile falls away completely as she thinks. The sword is quiet. No sound comes form it, no edicts spring into her thoughts. After a pause, she says, ‘You said the problems were in the south?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then we need to go there.’

‘Where in the south? Does Gamma mean to return to the Breach?’

Vesper looks down at the sword for a moment before mumbling something ambiguous.

‘I knew it! And she intends to destroy the infernals there?’

A blush creeps across Vesper’s cheeks, and she nods.

‘And the Breach itself, she’s going to seal it, isn’t she?’

Vesper’s nod, tiny, timid, is more than enough for Genner.

‘This is incredible!’ he exclaims, and takes a deep breath, freckles fading on reddening skin. ‘Forgive me. We have waited a long time for this. You should ask your questions now. There may not be much time to talk when we land.’

‘Why is it so important to seal the Breach?’

He looks at her for a moment, calculating, making her worry. ‘Outside of the Shining City, the world is very different. It’s going to be a shock for you, Vesper, but I’ll do my best to prepare you for it. There is a thing called the Taint. Sometimes it can be seen as a kind of smoke but mostly it’s invisible to the unaugmented eye. It changes everything it touches – plants, animals, people – mutates them. It’s like a poison being pumped into our atmosphere and it all comes from the Breach. And then there are the infernals. The smaller ones will hurt you if you’re lucky, eat you if you’re not. The larger ones possess people, make them their slaves. An infernal is stronger and faster than we are. They don’t get tired and they can twist and break you from the inside. I don’t mean to scare you …’

Vesper pulls a face at the suggestion. ‘You aren’t scaring me. My uncle told me about the infernals, but he said they weren’t all bad.’

‘Yes, well. They’ve taken control of the south, more or less, and their reach is getting longer. There are thousands and thousands of them and every single one has come from the Breach. The only way for the Empire and humanity to survive is if we close it. And only one of The Seven –’ his eyes go to the sword ‘– has the power to do that. Gamma was chosen for the task and you have been chosen to bear the sword that holds Her remains, to bear Her.’

Vesper opens her mouth to protest but Genner continues regardless. ‘But remember, you’re not alone. Each person on board is within the top one per cent of the Empire’s finest and all of us are ready to fight, and die if need be.’

‘Are there knights here?’

‘Twenty-five are with us, all veterans hand-picked by the Knight Commander himself. Each has three squires. In addition, we have a small infantry unit packed into the base of the ship.’

Vesper begins looking around again, then points excitedly at the people either side of her. ‘Are they knights? Are you knights?’

One stares straight ahead, contemplating infinity. The other looks back at the girl, catches herself and looks away.

‘This,’ says Genner, gesturing to the two women, ‘is Duet. She’s a Harmonised, which is incredibly rare—’

‘Is that a special kind of knight?’

‘Well, no, not exactly. The Harmonised are a subset of the Order. They’re guardians, specially trained to protect against infernal influence.’

Vesper nods, disappointment peeking through the gesture. ‘That sounds good.’

Despite the girl’s lack of enthusiasm, Duet remains stoic beneath her visors.

Genner’s reply is earnest: ‘It is. Where we’re going it won’t just be your body at risk but your mind and spirit. Any contact, even just being close to an infernal, is dangerous and there are a lot of infernals between us and our destination. That’s why we’re travelling fast and light. We should be able to sail straight over the enemy’s forces. If the Winged Eye wills it, we’ll be able to set you down right next to the Breach.’

Minutes tick by and Genner settles back like the others, meditative. Vesper bites her lip and strokes the kid, who has fallen asleep in her lap. ‘How long till we get there?’

‘Four hours.’

She tries not to be sick. A lip receives further mauling. Toes wriggle, heels tap repeatedly against the wall. Everyone else remains still.

Nerves overwhelm her. She contemplates confessing but dares not, nearly asks Genner to turn the sky-ship around, but between mind and mouth, the question wilts into something mundane. Anything to fill the silence.

‘So we’re actually flying?’

Genner opens his eyes. ‘Yes. We’re actually flying.’

‘I wish we could see outside.’

‘Only the pilot needs to see.’

‘Where’s the pilot?’

‘In the iris pod.’

Feet pause their tapping. Vesper’s brow creases in thought. She begins to open her mouth, pauses.

‘What is it?’

‘Please, would it be possible for me to sit in the iris pod?’

‘That’s not standard procedure.’

‘Oh. I understand.’

Genner makes a speech, about safety, about protocol, trying to explain, to restore the happy face of moments ago. ‘I’m sorry, that’s just how it is.’ Before he can say more, a square lights up at his throat, then another within his ear.

The communication makes the young man sit up, straps cutting into his shoulders. He speaks rapidly. ‘How many? How do they even know we’re here? Is the stealth active? Yes. Yes. I’ll await your report.’

As lights fade from skin, Genner meets Vesper’s eye.

A quaver disturbs the girl’s voice. ‘What was that?’

‘Rogue sky-ships, three of them. They’re on an intercept course.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means no more talking. Brace for impact!’

Figures tense, gripping the arms of seats about and above her. No words are said but many mouths move, intoning the litany: Winged Eye save us, protect us, deliver us.

Three sky-ships move in formation. Once, they wore their allegiance to the Winged Eye proudly. Now, those signs have been defaced, with blood or with knives, symbolic. They swoop down together, ready to attack. Their target is invisible, hidden from mortal sight. This does not stop them, for the First guides their hand, finding the needle in the sky and plucking it.

Missiles fire, and the three ships peel away, keen to avoid retaliation.

The target makes an optimistic attempt to evade the attack. It spins, dives, spits balls of light in its wake, distractions that sparkle, tempting.