The Malice (14 page)

He wonders why he is competing for the Usurper’s throne. He cares little for power, cares little for anything. Standing atop his steel hill and watching the Breach gave him a kind of peace. Not happiness but better than anything else. Now, the Yearning has taken that from him, forced him to search for the Malice.

But the Malice scares him. He turns the thought over in his mind. I am not afraid of death but I am afraid of the sword. Why?

He cannot fathom the answer, leaving the question to circle, recasting itself with each pass, increasingly irritating.

And if he does fear the Malice, if he does not even want to be part of the Fallen Palace’s madness, why do what the Man-shape suggests? The truth is simple: pride. As much as he does not want to rule, the idea of an infernal doing so irks him. They are not worthy. He cannot imagine bending the knee to any of them.

In the dirt ahead, a mangy Dogspawn sniffs for scraps. He ignores it.

It is tempting to stand aside and allow the Yearning to take them all. It would be simpler that way. Let there be an end to it, finally.

And yet …

A part of him is not satisfied by that. A part of him imagines the infernals having to bow to him, painting intricate pictures of their rage. How they would hate being subservient to a half-breed. Yes, even more than he would enjoy watching them die, he would enjoy their suffering.

The Dogspawn growls at him as he gets closer, a halfway threat, as if the beast still deliberates whether to attack.

The animal looks thin, desperate but not mad. Somewhere nearby it must have a Handler. He surveys the environment, seeing little. Flatlands stretching to mountains in the east and the horizon in the west. Few hiding places.

He approaches the Dogspawn, noting its mismatched eyes are both unclouded, though the human one droops half closed. A wave of revulsion strikes then and he has the sudden urge to destroy. He raises his sword above his head, moving into range.

Unbidden, a memory rises. So clear it eclipses the present.

He sits on a boat in a tranquil bay. Sunslight dances on the waves, hypnotic. Red and gold and blue and green, a shifting mosaic of beauty. If such things were still possible, he would weep. Around him are other boats, a motley collection of jury-rigged rafts and ships with well-worn repairs. One drifts close, a small sky-ship no longer good for flight, its pilot chatting happily with an alert looking dog on the prow. He remembers how happy the two appeared, how lonely his own boat was in comparison.

When the memory fades, he finds the world terribly grey in its absence.

During the reminiscence, time has passed. Though his sword arm remains up, ready to attack, the Dogspawn has moved off, something small wriggling in its jaws.

On impulse, he diverts to follow it.

They travel surprisingly far. Most Handlers and Dogspawn keep close together, unable to cope if their bond is stretched too thin. Eventually, they come across a set of dips in the ground, giant hoof-prints left long ago. In one of them lies a woman’s body, caked in sweat. Shockingly young and painfully thin, with livid red skin covered in irregular grey spots. Her skin is naturally red but the spots are a recent addition, parasites determined to suck her dry.

But she is not dead, not quite. As they get closer the woman contorts, twisting, painful, as if trying to wring her infection out.

The Dogspawn approaches, lowering its head by her side. It opens its mouth and a small beetle drops out, legs waving in the air, broken. Next to it are other insects and scraps of meat, a pile of offerings unnoticed and unappreciated.

Bitemarks decorate the exposed skin on her feet and shoulder. In a few places, the flying leeches still gorge, their veins swelling beneath translucent shells.

The Dogspawn nips at them, tossing them away but it is too late, the Handler is nearly gone, her convulsions easing, her face smoothing out. The Dogspawn sits by her side and whines softly.

Soon, she will die, and soon after the Dogspawn will go wild. A grim future full of madness and death.

The whining continues long after her breathing stops.

Another impulse comes, unexpected, and Samael’s hands are reaching down to the woman’s still warm corpse. Knowledge guides them, secret arts taken from the Uncivil by his creator and buried deep in his unconscious.

Realising what he is about to do, he hesitates, then takes off a gauntlet and pushes open her eyelids. Her left eye is bloodshot blue and human. Her right a rich brown, canine. He plucks her right with deft fingers, extracting it carefully. His own half-breed eyes see the tether of essence running silver grey from the soft orb to the skull of the Dogspawn.

He pulls off his helmet.

He places the eyeball in the palm of his gauntlet, leaving his other hand free to operate.

There is another hesitation but he finds he wants this enough to continue and reaches up towards his face …

It is as if another’s will takes him through the procedure. There is pain, brief, and half the world goes dark.

He takes the eyeball sitting in his palm and raises it to the hole.

The physical actions are mere mechanics, the manipulation of essence and inner surgeries immensely complex.

The Dogspawn howls.

Samael remains silent throughout.

When it is done, he replaces his helmet.

New senses flood his own, smells and fears. Hunger has long been irrelevant to him but he finds the return of the sensation refreshing.

‘Eat,’ he says, pointing to the pile of leavings, and the Dogspawn does.

It is a sad looking creature. Underfed. Reddish fur shaggy and covered in scars from past battles. One ear has been chewed away, the other stands straight and alert.

When it has finished eating it sits and looks at him.

He gropes through the dark sea of his mind, wondering what he should do. The Dogspawn is excited and afraid, he knows this. Haltingly, he touches its head, scratching behind the good ear.

A heavy tail begins to thump on the ground.

And then a sliver of memory comes back and his cracked lips curve into a smile. He kneels down so that he is face to face with the creature. ‘I am Samael, your new master. From now on, I will call you Scout.’

The building is small, fin shaped, and barely large enough to house a toilet. Bird shit runs in frozen streaks down its sloping side. A flapping curtain covers the front, struggling against metal clips.

Runty chews at what’s left of a thumbnail. ‘She’s in there.’

‘Good. Do we go in?’

‘She’ll come out.’

Vesper glances up at the fading light. ‘We need her to come out soon.’

‘Neer comes when she comes.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What I said. You got earmould?’

‘Do you mean she’ll be here in a few minutes, or hours or days?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s not good enough. I have to see her now.’

The girl takes a step back. ‘Go on then.’

‘Aren’t you coming with me?’

She shakes her head. ‘Me? Go in the Don’t Go? Never!’

Vesper takes off one of the clips and lifts the curtain. Behind it is a large circular chute, angling down into the dark. Air wafts up, damp and sweet. ‘Is this safe?’

‘Yeah, we drop stuff down there all the time.’

‘And you think she’ll help?’

Runty shrugs. ‘Probs. If she wants. Just don’t make her angry.’

Vesper climbs into the chute and sits down, patting her thighs. The kid scampers over and joins her. She throws the clip back to Runty. ‘How do I get back out again?’

‘Climb out. She does.’

She sets the Navpack to torch setting and shines it down the hole. It continues at the same angle as far as the light extends, undamaged. She ties the Navpack to the side of her boot to illuminate the way down, nodding to herself. ‘Okay …’ She presses her hands and feet against the chute’s insides, inching forward. Gravity notices and starts to pull, testing young muscles.

Further down they go, slow and careful.

With a sense of casual inevitability, the kid slides off her lap, dropping into the space between her open legs, accelerating.

Vesper reacts quickly, catching the kid with her feet. They hang there for a moment, all of their weight on Vesper’s arms. Sweaty palms struggle to grip, squeaking against the smooth sides of the chute.

She has time for three different exclamations before she falls.

The chute is cut from several pieces of metal, fused together. Vesper feels the joins thrumming against her back, like a finger flicking, flicking, flicking.

From side to side they bounce, separating, one rolling, the other spinning. Hooves clatter in the dark, animal noises are made.

Seconds later they spill into a larger chamber.

Vesper checks herself. Old bruises have been remastered, new ones added but nothing worse than that. She sits up, one hand rubbing the back of her head, the other pulling the Navpack off her boot.

The room is moist and smells of death. Bugs carpet the walls, crawling over each other, constant, shifting, giving glimpses of a honeycomb brick underneath. By contrast, the floor is completely clear.

The kid takes one look before burying his face in Vesper’s coat.

Vesper looks around for an exit, cannot see one. When she steps forward to study the walls more closely, the sword begins to hum, angry. Insects flee from the sound, flowing away, parting like a black tide. She steps back and the humming softens. Insects pour into the gap, sealing it in moments.

She steps forward a second time, watching as the humming rises and the insects retreat. Stepping back, the actions reverse themselves.

Leaning her shoulder and the sword’s hilt towards the wall, she makes a quick circuit of the room. The crawling creatures rush away from her like a wave, revealing a desiccated chalky structure.

And a door.

It opens easily at Vesper’s touch and she goes through, dragging the kid after her.

A figure waits on the other side, shrouded in robes and mystery, her voice a hard, dry croak. ‘Who are you?’

Vesper’s torch beam finds a face within the cowl, a mask of leather stitched to old bone. The Navpack slips from her fingers, landing with a clatter, over-loud, and going out.

A pair of pupils glow green in the darkness. ‘Well? Name yourself.’

‘Vesper,’ she replies, hands fumbling towards her pocket. ‘Are you Neer?’

‘We’re not taking turns, child. You are a trespasser and you will answer my questions first. All of them, if you know what’s good for you. And then we’ll see what we will see, hmm?’

She nods, then, because it’s dark, adds: ‘Okay.’

‘I should warn you, I’ll know if you lie to me.’ The figure moves in the dark and bones pop, reconfiguring. The kid makes a soft plopping noise as he faints. ‘Where are you from?’

‘The Shining City. Well, not the city itself but nearby, on the outskirts. Within the protected boundary but apart from the others. On a farm.’

‘What do you farm?’

‘Goats mainly.’

‘Goats? Untainted goats?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Well, well. This is most unexpected. You seem well armed for a farmer.’

Her fingers curl around the gun’s handle, finding comfort there. ‘Yes, I am. But I’m not here to fight.’

There is a pause. ‘I believe you.’

‘I’m here to ask for Neer’s help.’

‘And why would Neer be interested in helping you?’

‘Because I can tell her about the north if she’s interested, and the Shining City, or I can trade with her.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. News, or … or supplies. I’ll do whatever I can but my friend is hurt and she needs help and she doesn’t have much time.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘She got injured in a battle a few days ago. Her ribs are broken. I’ve done my best but it wasn’t good enough and now she’s getting worse.’

‘Alright my little farmer, I’ll see what I can do. No need to cry.’

She sniffs, self-conscious. ‘I wasn’t!’

‘Of course you weren’t.’

‘Are you Neer?’

‘In a manner of speaking. I’ll explain on the way.’

Vesper stands at the bottom of the chute looking up. The kid sits in her arms, awake now, but keeping a low profile. Neer stands behind them. ‘Are you ready?’

She shivers as Neer’s cold arms wrap around her. ‘Ready.’

Under Neer’s robes are three square spirals of bone, two attached to her hips, one to her spine. As she steps onto the chute, the spirals unfurl, becoming extra legs. Longer than her own, they straighten, lifting all three of them off the ground.

Vesper shivers again. On her back, the sword’s wings twitch and an eye cracks open, the thinnest of slits. Trapped in its sheath, it shakes angrily between the girl and the half-alive woman.

Neer chuckles, though her head pulls back from the sword quickly enough.

Without talking, they ascend. Silence punctuated by bones clicking on metal and the sword’s rage, muffled.

At the top, she deposits her cargo and Vesper stumbles away several paces. By the time she turns, Neer’s extra limbs have lowered her to the ground, retracting beneath the robes again, out of sight.

‘What are you?’

‘My name is Ferrencia, and I was the Surgeon General to the Uncivil, greatest of her Necroneers.’

Most of the words pass her by, save one. She draws her gun and points it at the half-alive. ‘The Uncivil … You’re an infernal!’

‘No, no, no. I’m not the girl I used to be, that’s true enough. But an infernal? The very idea!’

The gun continues to point at her. ‘You look like an infernal!’

‘Seen a lot of them have you? Don’t answer that. What you call an infernal is something from another world. And no person, not me and certainly not you can understand what that is. And besides, infernals don’t talk. They don’t need to.’

‘The First does.’

‘Clever little farmer, aren’t you? Well, yes, the First does, but I think it’s the exception, not the rule.’

‘So, you’re like a Dogspawn?’

Neer folds her arms. ‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. My essence is human, through and through. It just happens to be attached to a few benign fragments of the Uncivil’s essence.’

‘But your face …’

‘Is dead. Most of me is. I was old when the Uncivil recruited me and I’d look a lot worse than this if it wasn’t for her intervention.’

‘If you’re not a half-breed, and you’re not an infernal, what are you?’

‘A human being, like you.’ Her hand turns, describing circle after circle. ‘Just with a few more years and a some major augmentations. But in here,’ she taps her head, ‘or, if you’re the sentimental type, here,’ she taps her heart, ‘I’m unchanged.’

Vesper puts the gun away. ‘But I thought the infernals take over people’s bodies.’

‘Some do, like the First. The Usurper and its minions were famous for it but the Uncivil wasn’t like them. She believed in independence. She dealt with us one by one, listened to our needs, and if we could help her, she satisfied them.’

‘You make her sound like a person.’

Neer’s smile is small, her face too set to allow anything more. ‘Do I now? She wasn’t. I didn’t understand her, even after years of working on her. But at least with the Uncivil I knew where I stood and that’s a lot more than I can say for most.’ Her eyes go pointedly to the sword on Vesper’s back, then to Vesper herself. ‘Hmm?’

They cross the shadowed courtyard, under a giant head’s glassy gaze. Tentacles drag a battered torso across their path. Vesper and the kid don’t even flinch.

‘Our little show didn’t fool you then?’

‘It did at first but –’ she reaches down to stroke the kid ‘– when we got close we saw through it.’

‘Hmm. Used to be Necrotech powered the whole thing. It was really something then. But each time, a little essence leaked away and even I couldn’t find a way to make the seals perfect.’

A ramp waits for them, leaning against the barrier. Neer strides up and unfolds a rope ladder, dropping it over the other side.

Vesper chews her lip, and scurries down after her.

It is dark now, stars pushing through the fading film of blue, illuminating little. The huge yellow stalks have paled to grey, gatekeepers to a hundred hidden threats.

Vesper listens, wondering if there are hunters nearby, doing the same. Sounds come to her, unfamiliar, nocturnal calls and movements and … something else … a raised voice, manic.

Neer slows to a stop. ‘I take it your friend is that way?’

But Vesper is too busy running to answer.

*

The running figure catches Samael’s eye, too fast for an animal, too fluid for a machine. A competitor, one of many known to him: Hangnail. Anger rises and Scout howls in empathy.

His detour has been costly, the head-start given him by the Man-shape spent. There is nothing to do but give chase. He sets off and Scout keeps pace, tail waving like a bloody flag.

He and Scout race Hangnail to the ever open gates of New Horizon.

From a distance the city is characterful. Ruined turrets lean against rusting walls like a crowd of merry drunks. The comings and goings of its denizens appear to obey an algorithm, abstract and colourful. From a distance imagination can paper over the cracks with more palatable illusions.

Sadly, both runners make quick work of the distance.

A stab of memory makes Samael stumble. It is quick, barely even an image, gone before he can process it. He stops and stares at the city with renewed contempt, paralysed by the desire to destroy.

Hangnail runs on, extending its lead.

But Samael doesn’t notice, held in place by thought shards and feelings, disconnected, disconnecting.

Hangnail runs on, passing through New Horizon’s great southern gates and beyond, out of sight.

From further behind Samael comes a broken chorus of shouts and shuffles, burping, popping, boasting and growling. He doesn’t notice that either.

Something taps against his armoured thigh. No sensation reaches him but the ringing of claw on metal draws his attention. Scout sits at his feet, one paw raised, uncertain.

He pats its mangy head and it whines, dashing back the way they came to freeze, arrow-straight, head pointing at distant shapes. Samael doesn’t need to turn round, using their shared vision to see the new threat.

Gutterface and the Backwards Child travel in full force, close but not together. On one side, a motley crew of muscle-heavy Usurperkin, bearing their diminutive leader above their heads. On the other, a pick-and-mix of the most loathsome infernals, bulging in the skins of rodents and the bodies of chicks burst untimely from dead eggs, all clustered around Gutterface, rubbing against it, affectionate and sickening.

With new incentive, Samael runs and soon the noise of the pursuing infernals is lost to the discordant music of the city.

On New Horizon’s streets, people cleave together in packs or move quickly, heads down, avoiding eye contact. Skin is more colourful than clothes here, purples, greens, yellows, oranges and browns stark against pale fabrics. Bruises mark many faces, decorative. And chains, physical or otherwise, link slaves to masters. Samael’s eyes cannot help but see them all.

He is an oddity here and they know it. Neither full infernal nor half-breed in any sense they understand. They have heard of Seraph Knights and memories of the Knights of Jade and Ash still have power enough to disturb sleep but Samael falls between the gaps. Neither one or the other, somehow mocking both.

A not quite anything, an ugly mystery.

In New Horizon, the rules are simple. If in doubt: run or hide or die.

And everyone old enough to think for themselves plays by the rules.

For Samael, it is a strange novelty, he is used to being despised rather than feared. The streets clear for him as he walks, the sensible slipping back to their holes of residence, the young watching from alleys or the empty sockets of tortured houses.

A reluctant circle of people breaks at his approach, meat traders and flesh merchants keen to save their own skins. They leave a slave to shiver alone in the road, abandoned. Cables tie him to a metal spike, knots too complex for quick release.

Samael ignores the whimpering as he passes. Scout does not, stopping to sniff. In response, the slave retreats to the other side of the spike and cords dig deep into his neck, holding him in tight orbit.

Saliva collects around sharp teeth, hanging in strands, thick and stringy. A Dogspawn and its belly growl together. Jaws open, ready to grind against a spindly leg.