The Malice (30 page)

Vesper walks along the edge of the Breach, following curves and jagged corners. Occasionally, she stops to look over the side. The walls of the Breach are smooth and grey, like volcanic rock, long cooled. Small indentations can be seen, darker spots where bubbles have burst. There is nothing to interrupt the vertical view and Vesper finds herself leaning out, squinting, trying to see to the bottom. Mercifully, the sunslight only goes so far, preserving mystery.

She walks on, keen to map its length. But a dry throat and empty belly conspire against her and she is forced give up. One last time, she looks out at the Breach: this is one of the narrowest places she has seen, less than half a mile wide. On the other side, the landscape is barren and she wonders if anything survives further south. Did all the infernals come north with the Usurper or are there more?

Bleak thoughts are shaken away.

The Breach appears dead. A scar left by history. Vesper knows better. She holds out the sword, letting it swing, to look along the Breach’s length one way, then the other. An eye narrows, then swivels towards her.

On impulse, she closes her eyes, letting the sword see for her again. Though there are no new infernals rising up, she sees empty threads of essence wafting and feels them play against the sword’s wings, gently tugging as they pass.

Eyes open and something passes between girl and sword. It dips a wing towards the Breach, looks at her pointedly, and then down, into the darkness.

‘No,’ says Vesper. ‘I can’t … I can’t go down there. I’m scared … and you’re scared, too, I know it.’

An eye looks at her, patient, unyielding.

‘We have to do this, don’t we?’ Vesper nods to herself. ‘Alright. Tell me what I have to do and I’ll try.’

Silvered wings quirk up, reminiscent of a shrug.

Vesper shuffles to the cliff’s edge, toes touching nothing. The sword bobs in her hands, made almost weightless by the updrafts of essence.

She senses the sword’s intention, starts to protest. ‘No, I’m not ready, I—’

And with a sharp tug, it pulls her over.

She falls, quickly at first, then wings spread, and the plummet slows, becomes a glide.

• Down.
  
• Down.
  
• Down.
  

Sheer rock passes her by, the slice of daylight above becoming rapidly distant. She grips the sword tightly but it does not slip in her grasp. It is holding onto her just as tight. Essence binds hand and hilt securely, she could not let it go any more than she could let go of her limbs.

The kid is another matter. Only a firm arm keeps him close.

Deeper they go, beyond the reach of the sunslight, to the very bowels of the world.

And there, twitching, malignant, is the heart of the Breach itself. After being stretched wide to birth the Yearning, it has shrunk down, a puckered sphincter-shadow of its former glory. In time, it will recover and stretch again, refilling the crack in the earth with alien emptiness.

Vesper does not intend to give it that time.

Essence is visible here, arriving in constant gasps from the Breach, casting a greenish pall.

She glides down to a nearby ledge, stumbling, holding the sword out for balance. Briefly, she teeters, looking out over the crack that goes still deeper, seemingly without end.

With a single stroke of its wings, the sword pulls her back.

‘Thank you,’ she whispers.

The kid is placed carefully into a nook. He whimpers but does not move, head tucked firmly into his belly.

Together, girl and sword sing. Softly at first, Vesper’s voice is uncertain, slipping from high to higher in order to find the right note. The sword waits for her, keeping tune simple, soft, holding back its power.

She finds it, and briefly their voices swell together with strength, then she loses it, finds it again, struggles to hold the sound. She has not been trained for this but the instincts are there. Imprinted early in the days before her conscious memories.

The edges of the Breach retreat from the sound, sucking inwards, shrinking, wrinkling, like a slug doused in salt. On the other side of it, in the realms beyond, infernal shapes not yet born hear the disturbance, are drawn nearer. They see the Breach, notice the change, see their chance to enter our world vanishing, and, as one, they dive forward.

None have names, none are fully realised yet but they are different in size and potency and potential horror.

As the first three clouds burst into the world, Vesper staggers away, till back hits stone, her mind unable to process what stands before her.

Briefly, she feels repulsed, afraid, then just as she starts to recover, grappling to understand the shapes that exist both inside and out of her perception, the sword’s sound changes and she is filled with grief and rage so pure it leaves room for nothing else.

Without thought, Vesper kicks out, into the space above the Breach, the sword’s wings beating down, catching currents, powering her leap. Air burns blue around the blade, crackling with energy.

She sings, swings the sword once, splitting a cloud and setting the two halves aflame.

She swings the sword a second time, and a third, shredding two more invaders.

For a moment she hovers there, the sword known as Malice held above her head, three eyes glaring down, daring any more to come forward.

None take up the challenge.

Then, slivered wings fold, and Vesper falls, straight down, straight towards the Breach itself. She grabs the sword in both hands, inverts it, so that the tip points unerringly towards the Breach’s centre.

Together they sing. Together they fall. A wordless song of woe, of loss, of anger.

The Breach recoils, shrinks still further, but not enough.

The sword plunges into it, searing its edges, blocking the flow of essence.

Vesper feels the pressure. As if they had just plugged a dam and the weight of an ocean was pressing against them. She stands on top of the sealed Breach, feet braced on not quite stone, not quite flesh. Smoke plumes at the point that Breach meets sword, and Vesper feels it shaking in her grasp where it works still to burn, to seal, to shut this door that should not be.

She struggles to hold it in place. The muscles in her arms are too small, the weight of her body laughable against the forces, elemental, pushing against them.

But she has to hold on, to give the sword time to complete its work. And so she commits more than muscle and bone. She gives song and heart and every part of her will.

And still it is not enough. Her throat grows raw from singing, her spirit wanes, and the sword presses up into her hands.

But the sword is more than just a sword. It is part of Gamma, and she is more than just a human, she is part of a family and she carries their strength with them. Vesper sings for them all, for her father, her Uncle Harm, for Genner and the knights, for Samael and Jem. For all those that died for her to get here and those that might live if she succeeds. And when that is not enough, when the urge to stop becomes unbearable: she thinks of Duet.

And her song surges again, filling the air with sound and fury and fire, and then, with a hiss, the sword comes free, leaving a husk where the Breach was. Silvered lines like scars stitch the sides together, binding fast.

The echoes of their song fade, the light going with it. Vesper sways, stumbles. Somehow she staggers back to the ledge, dragging the sword with her before laying down and passing out.

Rough stone pokes at soft skin, forcing the end of sleep. Vesper groans. Around her it is dark, save for a distant slit of gold, far above her. She switches the Navpack to torch mode and hauls herself upright, picking up the sword soon after. It feels heavy. An eye moves sluggishly, glancing at what remains of the Breach. Everything appears as it was and an eye moves to close.

‘Wait …’ begins Vesper, then gasps, her throat raw and burning. ‘Wait …’ she whispers. ‘Can you fly us out?’

A wing extends but with the Breach closed, no currents remain to ruffle silver feathers.

She puts the sword away and moves to the wall. It is a daunting climb and the wall looks sheer. For a long time she looks up, then shoulders slump in defeat. She has no idea where to begin.

It is easier to sit down.

Somehow the victory tastes less sweet now it seems she will die here.

‘I have to try,’ she mumbles, standing once more. A few abortive attempts are made. Fingers slip on smooth stone, knees are scuffed. She swears, falls for a third time and sits down again. Vesper’s head sinks down into her hands and stays there.

All becomes quiet.

From a nearby nook, a dark pair of eyes dare to peek out. The kid sees Vesper slumped forward. He sees very little to eat. But more than that, he sees a climb of such immensity, such wonder, that terror is forgotten.

The kid gets up.

The kid looks up.

The kid begins to bounce.

By the time Vesper reacts, the kid has already made a start, hooves naturally moving to the best places, treading a winding path towards the surface.

Vesper follows, trying her best to track the kid’s progress, to use the holds he reveals. Sometimes the kid waits for her, balancing easily on ledges too small to see. Often he does not.

Nails crack and fingertips bleed. Muscles ache and limbs tremble. Vesper pauses often, gasping for breath, listening to the sound of little legs clipping merrily above her.

But she does not stop. She does not allow herself to stop. With a grim certainty she realises that she is not done yet. There are still things to do.

And so she climbs.

When she finally reaches the top, she allows herself a brief sleep and a cuddle with the kid, then she strikes out north, putting her back to the Breach.

It is not forgotten though.

There are few distractions as she walks, letting thoughts drift. Vesper murmurs to herself, biting her lip or shaking her head. She sighs often, though not through fatigue.

Sometimes she remembers the kid and strokes his head. Hooves crunch on little carpets of crystal, marking the remains of an alien forest. Rations are eked out, shared. The kid’s presence brings only a brief reprieve and soon Vesper’s thoughts turn inward again, a frown like her father’s returning.

*

Scout pads out of the broken building, weaving through rubble where the door used to be. From his mouth hangs the body of an infernal, one of Gutterface’s children. It thrashes around, little arms clawing the air in wild sweeps. Scout shakes it violently, turning the shrieks into stutters.

The Dogspawn finds Samael in the street, presiding over a growing pile of empty shells. Bodies, animal and human, distorted for the pleasure of their hosts, now broken by the Man-shape’s army.

He opens his mouth, letting the mangled form drop at Samael’s feet.

It lands on the floor with a soft plop, beady eyes peeking through slitted lids, hoping for escape.

Before such ideas can take root, Samael inserts a finger and thumb into a ragged wound in the infernal’s stomach, plucking out its essence.

The impish spirit tries to flee, throwing its formlessness about his hand, like a fly against glass. He studies it, a wisp of hate and mischief, curiosity and venom. Just like the others.

Samael begins to work the tiny essence, spreading it out, isolating individual moods and thoughts. He remembers that the Uncivil used to do this. With time he will be able to distill the essence down to its basic form, cutting away the personality until only a pure, neutral substance remains.

While he works, Scout picks up new scents and goes hunting.

The battle for New Horizon has been quick and relatively bloodless. Gutterface met them at the walls with the bulk of the Demagogue’s forces but quickly realised it could not win. When the great infernal surrendered the rest fled and now the noises that ring out in nearby streets are of slaughter, not combat, as the last of the Demagogue’s allies are dug out of their holes and destroyed.

Undaunted, Samael works on.

It is dark when Vesper arrives at New Horizon, its many lights smudging the sky like a dirty beacon. As ever, the gates are open and, as ever, all the bodies have been swept away. Such precious resources are never ignored for long.

The air is full of unease. New monsters rule the city now, exploring its nooks and crannies, staking territory, jostling for the most gain.

But, however grim it might become, life goes on. Human slaves may be off the menu but bodies can always be sold, one way or another. Drums beat and voices shout, trading insults and prices, the two often interchangeable. Many may have died or lost holdings but every loss is a chance for someone else, and the people of New Horizon waste no chances.

Vesper glances at the horned figures scurrying past, at the groups who clump together, dangerous, and loners hugging to the shadows, willing to do anything but make eye contact. The kid stops and begins to shake, simply unable to cope with further horrors. She scoops him up and tucks him into her coat, away from hungry faces.

Up ahead, a Dogspawn blocks the road, prowling its width, the play of its muscles visible beneath patchy fur.

There is no Handler in sight and the people of New Horizon give the creature a wide berth.

Vesper stops in front of it and raises a hand. ‘Hello Scout.’

The Dogspawn barks in acknowledgement and runs off, forcing Vesper to jog to keep his wagging tail in sight.

They travel quickly through grimy streets while people get out of their way, pressing themselves against walls with haste and, often, choice words.

Soon, the Iron Mountain comes into view. A great mound of junk, the outside peppered with lights, the inside riddled with holes and chambers. At first the edges of the junk pile appear hazy, as if viewed through a dark veil. As Vesper gets closer, she sees the veil is moving. The distortion created by thousands of insects swarming together, crawling over neon. Some lights are hot enough to cook, snuffing out little lives with a pop.

Scout stops and sits back on his haunches.

‘We’re stopping here?’ asks Vesper.