Peter Newman - The Malice

Duet raises a pistol in her spare hand, points it at the First as it advances. ‘We will not –’

The sentence hangs, unfinished.

Duet looks to her partner, still by the wall, silent. ‘Stay with me!’

The First shakes its head. ‘But you are not … together on this. You’ve never truly been together. You are a pretence of oneness. You are a mockery of it.’

The pistol begins to charge. ‘Shut up!’

‘You would rather fall to violence than admit the truth of your position? How sad.’

She squeezes the trigger. But the First has already stepped aside. Powder explodes from the back wall as she swings the gun round trying to track the infernal.

There is a blur of movement, too fast for the human mind to follow, and a broken gun falls to the floor. Moments later, Duet joins it, groaning in the dust.

The First turns to the other half of the Harmonised. ‘And you? What is your … judgement?’

She looks at the trembling girl and her dazed counterpart. ‘I don’t know.’

‘But you do. Allow yourself the thought and it will come.’

Her blade lowers. ‘She’s yours. But I want what you promised.’

Vesper chokes back a sob.

‘And you shall have it.’ The First crouches by Vesper, leans forward until only inches separate them. ‘You are lost. How could you not be? That broken … relic cannot help you. It is a reminder of something dead, nothing more. Give it up to me and I will let you go.’

Vesper shakes her head, the movement slight, fearful.

The First reaches out to touch the girl’s face. The kid flinches and Vesper tries to retreat. But there is nowhere to go, all she can do is twist away, hiding her face from the inevitable. The First is suddenly presented with Vesper’s back and the sword strapped to it.

Humming builds to a sudden roar and metal wings part, flaying the plastic that covers them.

An eye opens.

In the space between the First and the sword, air ignites, burning blue and angry.

The infernal staggers back, stunned, one arm across its face.

Vesper drops the kid and reaches into her pocket. The action swings the sword away, forcing it to glare at an innocent wall.

‘So this is the Malice,’ says the First, swaying as it speaks. ‘I had hoped for more … nuance. You are a tool without a user, a shoe without a foot. You are … nothing.’

In a shaking hand, Vesper raises the gun. The trigger pulls too easily, activating with little more than a touch. Light pokes a hole through the First’s body. Blood spurts and essence hisses.

The First lowers its arm, staring at the new wound. When it speaks, there is no trace of pain in its voice. ‘Our … agreement … stands. Hold her … here.’ With infinite dignity, the infernal sinks to its knees.

Duet levers herself from the wall, crossing the room with sudden speed. Her sword flicks out, making to disarm.

Too late, Vesper realises the threat. The flat of the Harmonised’s blade smacks the gun from her hand. Vesper wants to run but Duet raises the sword again, threatening.

‘Don’t move. There is—’

The tip of a blade protrudes from her stomach, sudden, cutting her off.

‘– Only one judgement.’

Duet looks down to find her counterpart awake, sword in hand. Last words are gargled through blood, then she falls, beating the First to the floor.

As it sinks down onto its back, body weakening, the First’s eyes remain steady, locked on Vesper’s. ‘I will … remember … this … You … cannot—’

Duet’s sword comes down, silencing. ‘I said: shut up!’

The statement echoes in the bare room, hollow.

She stabs the First again just to be sure but cannot bring herself to look at the other body. Vesper does. She picks up her gun and points, watching intently. Duet’s chest is still, like a lake on a calm day. Lifeless. She puts the gun away.

Outside, soldiers move from door to door, knocking, searching, not far now.

Vesper’s gaze remains on the two corpses. ‘What are we going to do?’

Duet doesn’t answer. Her sword droops and blood runs down the blade. Vermilion tears, dripping, heavy.

Off-colour rain patters on the tilting square. At its edges, things gather. In the centre of the square is a hole, known as the Pit of Whispers, and within the hole lives a lonely creature, all limbs and barely covered bones. The denizens of the Fallen Palace call it Slate. Little sense rattles within its hollow skull but even Slate knows when there is to be a display.

Too stupid to run, Slate presses its face against the dark wall of the pit and, momentarily, the world goes away.

At the top of the pit, the Man-shape waits, Samael by its side, while, in factions, the infernals cross the square to meet them.

First come the Felrunners, carried on an abundance of weeping legs. Their Lord stands foremost among them, proud. Raised to power by the Usurper and gifted with a crown of green muscle, it is as close to popular as any of the contenders.

Next comes Hangnail, alone, head studded with claws, its coat of skins flapping in the wind, ragged.

Then, a small girl riding a large Usurperkin comes: the Backwards Child, stretched neck coiled like a serpent, half-breed followers lumbering behind.

Lastly, comes Gutterface. Sometimes called the Unspeakable, even its peers do not care to look at it for long. Swarms of the lesser infernals infest its many pockets and crevices. An army of dysfunctional young, suckling at a hundred teats.

When all have arrived at the pit’s edge, the Man-shape reaches down, finding one of Slate’s many appendages and lifting it high. One by one, the others copy the gesture, until Slate is lifted slightly off the ground, murmuring and clicking to itself.

Whenever infernals converse there is danger. Even if both parties are peaceful, essences can mix, desires swapping or implanting themselves. No one challenger dares outright confrontation and yet, to end the stalemate, each needs to display its power to the others. A good enough display could convince the others to submit, giving the winner the infernal throne without conflict.

Slate’s essence is weak, allowing other infernals to make contact without risk. They use it as a conduit, a patchy curtain that divides like gauze, keeping them apart but allowing communication.

With careful timing the infernals bring the limb they hold deeper into their shells, until it connects with the essence inside them. Now, when any of them forms a thought, it travels into Slate, into the pit and the others can read the echoes.

Inevitably, there is posturing. Each trying to appear bigger than the other, probing for changes, hoping that time will have made new weaknesses. The Man-shape allows this to happen, keeps itself small, unreadable. It suspects that Lord Felrunner is ready to make its bid for power and that Gutterface has a secret it struggles to contain. The other two give little away.

All share a moment of pleasure that the other challengers have not dared come. Then the Man-shape presses itself onto Slate’s essence.

‘I was made to serve …’ the Man-shape begins.

‘Lesser.’

‘Taste.’

‘Evres.’

‘Us.’ Swirl the responses.

‘… And for much time, I served the master.’ It notes the ripple of unease the reminder of the Usurper still brings. ‘Where the Green Sun blazed, there is only void. Which of you will fill it?’

Four answers come, declarations of suitability.

‘So you say. But the master did not trifle with words, the master took and others trembled. Now a new master comes, one that will take, and change, and wipe us away.’

Questions come thick and fast and Slate’s essence stretches dangerously thin. The Man-shape casts a shadow between them, the image of their new enemy.