Peter Newman - The Malice

Harper Voyager an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2016

Copyright © Peter Newman 2016

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2016

Peter Newman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007593163

Ebook Edition © March 2017 ISBN: 9780008201043

Version: 2016-09-19

For Daniel

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

One Thousand, One Hundred and Thirty-Seven Years Ago

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

One Thousand, One Hundred and Twenty-Six Years Ago

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

One Thousand, One Hundred and Twenty-Five Years Ago

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

One Thousand, One Hundred and Sixteen Years Ago

Chapter Ten

One Thousand, One Hundred and Sixteen Years Ago

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

One Thousand, One Hundred and Fourteen Years Ago

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

One Thousand One Hundred and Thirteen Years Ago

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

One Thousand One Hundred and Eleven Years Ago

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

One Thousand One Hundred and Five Years Ago

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

One Thousand One Hundred and Two Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

One Thousand and Ninety-Seven Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

One Thousand and Ninety-Seven Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Six

One Thousand and Seventy Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Acknowledgements

Coming Soon …

Also by Peter Newman

About the Publisher

In the south, the Breach stirs.

For over a thousand years it has grown. Slowly at first, a hidden cancer under the skin of the earth, a hairline crack exhaling alien wisps, disturbing yet harmless. But beneath the surface, pressure grows until the crack becomes an opening, and the opening splits wide, a gaping womb, a wound in the world, erupting.

Infernals pour forth, shapeless nightmares that slaughter their way into reality, inhabiting the bodies of the fallen and mutating them, taking the natural order and tainting it, corrupting plants, animals, even the air itself.

As the infernals take on physical form, they find identities and names: greatest of them is the monstrous Usurper, who raises itself to power by force of will, who strikes down Gamma of The Seven and breaks her armies. It is the Usurper who heralds the end of hope and the retreat of humanity’s influence.

But Gamma’s living sword is not destroyed and its continued presence nags at the marks left on the Usurper’s essence, festering, weakening. The Usurper sends its horde in search of the sword, named Malice by the infernals, but their efforts fail. A man takes the sword from them, and in time its power topples the Usurper and a kind of peace returns. Not true peace, too much is broken for the world to simply recover. This is merely a pause, a holding of breath. It is but a temporary thing. For in the south, the Breach stirs.

*

On the other side of the world a man stands by a window, his amber eyes intent on a small figure outside. Her name is Vesper. She is doing nothing of note and yet the man smiles as he watches her, her very existence comforting, warming like the suns.

For a long time he was alone and lost, a vagrant. Now he has a home, a family and more goats than he knows what to do with. It is a good life.

And yet lately a shadow seems to loom around the corner, a hint of coming disquiet. His home is built outside the Shining City, a step removed from people and politics and the expectations of others. News has to battle to get to his door. This is no accident.

Behind him, the sword begins to tremble, rocking back and forth, folded wings tip-tapping on the wall, but the eye remains closed. For years it has slept, deeply, peacefully, a quiet companion.

He turns to it, a smile sliding from his face. Absently, he scratches at old scars, on his thigh, his face, the side of his head. It has taken years to heal. Years of gentle work to make a new life, a safe space for those he loves.

His attention goes back to Vesper, who chats idly with the goats. Slowly, he returns to work but the tapping of the sword continues, like a thorn in his boot, needling, never quite out of mind. Lips form a line. At his sides, fists clench.

The sword is taken to his room, the door shut.

It is not enough.

He wraps the sword, making a thick bed of fabric for it, muffling the sounds it makes.

It is not enough.

Though it no longer bumps against the wall, the sword’s unease comes out in half-made notes, little things that catch on the edges of his soul.

He finds himself standing at the door, staring, one hand starting to open it, to reach out to the sleeping sword. It would be a small matter to lift it, to wake it once more, to …

‘What are you doing?’

He starts, turns to find Vesper standing there, face bright. With her, every day is a marvel. How tall she has become! How reminiscent of her mother.

Her head tilts to one side, trying to see past him. ‘What are you doing?’

He musters a half-smile, shrugs.

‘Are you okay?’

He nods.

‘What’s in there? I thought I heard a noise. Can I have a look? Is it an animal? It sounded unhappy. Can I see?’

He waves the questions away and puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, moving away from the room and taking her with him.

Later, when other distractions have led the girl away, he returns to the room with tougher materials and a box.

But it is not enough.

*

Twenty years have passed since the first wave of infernals came into being but the Breach has not ceased. A steady trickle of twisted creatures has dribbled from it, sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs, occasionally in gluts, but always, always, it grows; by inches, getting a little bigger, convulsing, then stretching again.

For eleven of these years, Samael has watched.

He stands on a rusting hill. Once a snake of mechanised metal, now a monument to things forgotten. Beneath his feet native moss does battle with tainted strains. Spongy carpets, yellow and brown, spreading with intent. Samael does not notice, his attention is on the Breach. He first came here on impulse. Drawn by voices he couldn’t quite hear, buried deep within his essence. He likes his impulses, just as he likes his habits. They give him direction.