Peter Newman - The Malice

‘I’m sorry!’ she blurts. ‘I had to, I—’

Genner’s frown smoothes suddenly. ‘It chose you!’ he exclaims. ‘We expected it to call your father … but it’s you! You … you are the new bearer.’

Caught between trouble and truth, she nods, her eyes darting back towards the house with the lie.

He goes down on one knee, lowering his head. Ginger hair refuses to be sombre, springing from its tie like an angry bush. Words are intoned, soft, musical, their meaning lost on Vesper. Genner looks up. ‘Thank The Seven. Bearer, we must—’

‘Me?’ She stifles a laugh. ‘I’m not … I just thought, well, if my father doesn’t want to use the sword, I should take it to someone who did.’

‘Vesper, you don’t understand. The sword lets you carry it. It has chosen you.’

She remembers the way it looked at her and doesn’t believe him. ‘I suppose so.’ Vesper looks warily over her shoulder.

Behind Genner, the air shimmers as if struck by the summer suns. A beat later, the space is filled by a sky-ship. Vesper’s eyes widen, taking in the stars reflected in its surface, and the tapering wings where twin engines spin, murmuring.

Genner smirks. ‘That’s exactly what I said when I first saw one.’

The kid is less impressed, diving for cover behind Vesper’s legs.

‘Are you ready, bearer?’

On the side of the sky-ship a door opens, swinging upward on a hinge. ‘This way,’ Genner says, gesturing to the door. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

Vesper allows herself to be led aboard, hesitating briefly as thoughts of her parents flare, worried faces, words of disappointment, and that frown.

The kid panics. Before he can make a decision, the girl and the man have climbed inside. With a cry, the kid dashes after them.

The door shuts before he gets there.

The kid cries out again.

The engines spin faster, light building, taking the weight of the sky-ship, preparing to leap towards heaven.

The door opens again and Vesper’s head appears. ‘Come on then!’

This time the kid doesn’t hesitate.

As soon as he has leapt inside, the door closes again. Light pulses, pushing down, and grass sprays outward. The frame of the vehicle trembles, the air around it becoming opaque.

A moment later, the sky-ship is gone.

The first of the suns begins to rise, charging the air gold. Its light picks up a house on top of a hill. The house is quiet, full of tension. The door opens and a man steps out. He limps quickly across to the smaller house and looks inside.

Dark eyes glare at him.

He ignores them and goes back into the other house. Minutes pass and he appears again, this time with a hand-carved staff. The wood is worn with use, much like the man that carries it. He sets out quickly, wincing as he goes, amber eyes hunting the grasses.

Harm steps out soon after, moving slowly. He also carries a stick but, rather than leaning on it, he lets it brush the earth by his feet, bouncing lightly, testing for bumps.

‘Any sign of her?’

Vesper’s father doesn’t answer, continuing his study of the ground.

Irregular footprints are easily found in the dirt. Nodding grimly, he follows.

The red glow of the second sun tints the clouds as he reaches the bottom of the hill.

He stops, frowning at the carnage inflicted on the ground. Powerful forces have churned earth here, eating the trail. His frown deepens. No tracks appear on the other side.

He looks up, shielding his eyes from the light.

Nothing.

Eventually, Harm’s hand finds his shoulder. He allows himself to be turned round, takes a breath to speak but, instead of words, tears fall.

For a long time they stand, two men joined in sadness, their shadows circling, the suns slow-dancing across the sky.

*

Away from the hustle and bustle of the imperial port, three figures haggle. Waves lap the rocks. Gossip and insults fly back and forth, changing hands faster than goods. Underneath gruff exteriors a strange affection lies. Each has survived long enough to weather the distaste of the other. Each has a secret.

One is a woman who fled from the south years ago. As her companions fell around her, she found the strength to move forward, fuelled by their failure. Sometimes she dreams of those days, waking with the taste of raw meat on her lips.

One is a man who steals goods from others, passing them off as his own.

One is neither woman nor man. Appearing to mortal eyes they appear as a woman of middling years. Perhaps her hair is a little lank, her skin a little pale, but this is hardly uncommon for those forced to live beyond the Shining City’s border.

The three hide their true natures, keeping well clear of the Winged Eye’s agents, skulking in the fringes.

As they continue their haggling and grumblings, a sky-ship passes overhead, quick, invisible.

Two of the figures do not notice. The third looks up sharply, as if a wasp has stung her on the crown.

‘You alright there, Nell?’

She pauses. The others cannot see the essence flow around her. Normally, the First keeps each of its fragments buried deep within mortal shells, to protect them from the rage of the world. However, a link between them remains, faint, a spiderweb drawn in watercolour, more memory than substance, an echo. And while each is distinct, evolved slightly away from the original, they can, for a moment, become one again.

The First takes the moment. Experiences jar together, jumbling, confusing, multiple timelines jostling, arranging themselves, finding order. Briefly, the First breathes easily, unconstrained.

Then the burning starts and it is over.

Lines of essence fade and consciousness divides, shrinking down.

In total, the pause is little more than the heartbeat of a hummingbird, but that is all it takes for the information to pass unseen across the ocean.

Such exertions cause the First terrible pain but impulses are easily controlled. In a dozen different places, faces twitch, stammer and reset to normal.

‘Can’t complain, Jacky,’ replies Nell. ‘Reckon we might be havin’ a storm soon though.’

‘You reckon?’

Nell looks up at the apparently empty sky and scratches at her belly, making the action appear spontaneous. ‘Feel it in my bones so I do. It’s a storm alright. A big one.’

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.