Читать книгу The Malice - Peter Newman, Peter Newman - Страница 9

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.

Samael works his way up, pulling himself onto a turret that has toppled over and become a path. The slippery curved sides have been battered into rough flatness by many feet. Boots ring out on metal, clanking dully, off key.

Beneath them, things stir. Red and green eyes appear at glassless windows, peering upwards, angry. Samael ignores them, continues at a steady pace. An infernal hauls itself out of a hole, blocking the way. A beast with two backs, joined at the hip, at the chest, at the chin. Like a person pressing themselves against a mirror, it stands on four legs, toes touching their opposites, fused together. With effort, it twists its heads towards him, skin pulling tight where they join.

Samael is forced to look up to meet its gaze, higher ground emphasising their greater size.

In each hand, the creature holds a weapon. A rock, the claw of a victim, a rotting branch and a Dogspawn dangling from a chain. Of the four weapons, only the half-bred hound remains animate, broken legs kicking feebly, mouth still strong, savage.

The sword that Samael carries is a simple piece of metal, sharp but voiceless. He draws it and prepares to fight.

Immediately, the creature swings for him, misjudging the distance, and Samael rushes forward, sword high. The infernal stumbles back, bonded legs unable to accommodate the demands of combat. At the last second it raises all four arms, making an ugly barrier.

Samael continues forward, turning so that shoulder, not blade, makes contact. Not a cut but a push.

There is a slam, then a squeal. The infernal pitches backwards. Soles of feet are briefly visible, then it is gone, Dogspawn and all, swallowed into the swamp.

Samael sheathes his sword and walks on.

His progress is steady. Soon he reaches the point where tower meets floor and steps onto sloping stones. He passes another half-breed, hauling a sack of ill-gotten gains. Her body is naked to the air, the skin healthier, greener. She is one of the younger ones, born tainted. Though both have a mix of mortal and infernal essence, the two could not be more different.

Studiously, they ignore one another.

Many watch Samael as he climbs higher, intent on the Palace’s heart, but none dare attack. This last tower remains whole, both broader and taller than its fellows. A place of power, fit for a king. The gleaming metal walls are covered in green veins, thick and lumpy.

Samael finds he does not like this, feels an impulse to scrape them off. It is everything he can do to resist, to not kneel down and tear away the offending growths.

At the base of the tower is an archway, leading to a spiral staircase. He climbs inside and begins to ascend. Because of the way the tower leans, he alternates between using steps and wall to tread. Up he goes, cutting through webs as thick as ropes. The silk patterns are irregular, lopsided, spun by spiders drunk on tainted essence. He feels a surge of pleasure to be destroying them.

He came here once with his creator. The tower did not lean so badly then. He recalls how vacant his thoughts were at that time, when he was merely a follower, a tool. In many ways his own life was facilitated by his creator’s death.

Retracing his steps, he muses, half present, half in the past. He walks through corridors, winding, and ducks through angled doorways, pulling himself up the floor until, at last, he comes to it: the tomb.

Fly eggs gather in piles by the door, like swollen grains of rice. Samael has another urge, to crush them under his boot. This he resists.

The door opens before he can knock, revealing the figure he has come to see. Samael pauses, not sure which words to apply to the Man-shape. Friend? Ally? Co-conspirator?

Though the essence that flows within the Man-shape’s shell is completely alien, outwardly it appears the more human of the two. Its skin has barely changed since the initial possession and muscles have remained in correct proportion. Unlike most of its kind, the Man-shape wears clothes, choosing them with care. How they remain clean is a mystery.

Its immaculate presentation makes Samael feel like the monster. Reluctantly, he removes his helm.

The Man-shape moves forward, until noses touch.

Samael opens his mouth and the Man-shape does the same, revealing a dark where tongue and vocal cords should be, cavernous.

Two mouths nearly meet, forming a tunnel of sorts. Inside, essences rise, tentative.

Usually, such a sharing would be hazardous between pure infernal and half-breed, but both are careful and the Man-shape excels at treading lightly.

With utmost care, essences brush together, two bubbles threatening to become one.

‘You have been away too long. You are needed here, you know that … you … you are troubled.’

‘There is trouble at the Breach. A new threat.’

‘There are always threats at the Breach but they cannot reach us at the Palace. You should concern yourself more with what is happening here. We have new challengers for the Usurper’s throne: Hangnail, the Backwards Child, Lord Felrunner, Gutterface. You could fight them.’

‘You deal with their kind all the time. You fight them. Why bother me?’

‘They have been patient, built their strength. I am a king-maker not a king.’

‘I am not a king either.’

‘What are you then?’

‘I …’

‘I see a man riding land that flows, is this what you are?’

‘I …’

‘I see a man dressing up, playing as something he is not. Is that what you are?’

‘No. I … I don’t know.’

‘Exactly. You do not know. But I know. We are what we are made to be. In you the essence of your creator lives on, and the essence of the Usurper was in your creator.’

‘Stop distracting me. My place is at the Breach. There is a new threat. It is bigger than anything I’ve seen before.’

‘As big as our master?’

‘The Usurper was not my master.’

‘As big as my master was?’

‘I don’t know, I never saw your master, not until its end.’

‘I could show you.’

‘No. Let me show you.’

‘Yes.’

Samael thinks, remembers the Yearning, its strength. Memories rise up like ghosts on glass.

The Man-shape never physically smiles in public, though it practises often in private. Nevertheless, Samael feels the intent to smile. A brief flush of smugness washes over him, not his own.

‘What is it?’

‘Perhaps I was too hasty before. Yes, I see it now.’

‘See what?’

A second wave of smugness comes, more emphatic. ‘The answer to all our problems.’

*

Inside the sky-ship, there is little sense of movement. Gyroscopes and energy fields work hard to maintain peace, buffering, adjusting. Padded straps hold Vesper close; she in turn holds the kid and a bottle of milk. Greedy sucking sounds loud above the hushed song of the sky-ship’s light drives.

Above and around her, others sit, the lines of seats describing a dome. Men and women, squires mainly, their armour highly polished, their weapons ready, all trying not to stare.

Genner sits opposite, holding himself in a position of authority.

Vesper glances round at the serene faces, then frowns. She takes a breath to speak, glances again and lets it out, noisily.

‘What is it?’ asks Genner.

‘Are we actually flying?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘That depends on you. This –’ he spreads his hands outward ‘– is all to protect you. Tell us what you need and we’ll provide it. Tell us where you need to go and we’ll take you.’

Vesper scratches the kid behind its ear, contemplating. ‘Well, do you think I could have a torch?’

‘We are all your torches.’

‘Oh. Does that mean I can’t have my own?’

Genner’s expression flickers between amusement and irritation. ‘No – I mean, yes, you can have one but that’s not the point.’

Nuances bounce off the girl’s smile. ‘Then I’d like a torch please. And some more milk for my goat.’

‘We’ll see you get them. Now tell us, what are Gamma’s orders?’

Her smile falters. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Ever since your father returned Gamma’s sword to us, we have been watching, waiting for it to act. Our sole purpose here is to facilitate your mission. So tell me, what are Gamma’s orders?’

‘I don’t know about any orders.’

‘Yes, you do. Something made you take up the sword. That was Gamma.’

She shakes her head. ‘I just wanted to bring the sword to one of the knights. Then you could use it against the demons and my father’s life would go back to normal.’

‘But the sword didn’t call to me or a knight, it called to you. And if you let it, the sword will communicate its wishes to you. All you have to do is listen.’

Vesper’s smile falls away completely as she thinks. The sword is quiet. No sound comes form it, no edicts spring into her thoughts. After a pause, she says, ‘You said the problems were in the south?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then we need to go there.’

‘Where in the south? Does Gamma mean to return to the Breach?’

Vesper looks down at the sword for a moment before mumbling something ambiguous.

‘I knew it! And she intends to destroy the infernals there?’

A blush creeps across Vesper’s cheeks, and she nods.

‘And the Breach itself, she’s going to seal it, isn’t she?’

Vesper’s nod, tiny, timid, is more than enough for Genner.

‘This is incredible!’ he exclaims, and takes a deep breath, freckles fading on reddening skin. ‘Forgive me. We have waited a long time for this. You should ask your questions now. There may not be much time to talk when we land.’

‘Why is it so important to seal the Breach?’

He looks at her for a moment, calculating, making her worry. ‘Outside of the Shining City, the world is very different. It’s going to be a shock for you, Vesper, but I’ll do my best to prepare you for it. There is a thing called the Taint. Sometimes it can be seen as a kind of smoke but mostly it’s invisible to the unaugmented eye. It changes everything it touches – plants, animals, people – mutates them. It’s like a poison being pumped into our atmosphere and it all comes from the Breach. And then there are the infernals. The smaller ones will hurt you if you’re lucky, eat you if you’re not. The larger ones possess people, make them their slaves. An infernal is stronger and faster than we are. They don’t get tired and they can twist and break you from the inside. I don’t mean to scare you …’

Vesper pulls a face at the suggestion. ‘You aren’t scaring me. My uncle told me about the infernals, but he said they weren’t all bad.’

‘Yes, well. They’ve taken control of the south, more or less, and their reach is getting longer. There are thousands and thousands of them and every single one has come from the Breach. The only way for the Empire and humanity to survive is if we close it. And only one of The Seven –’ his eyes go to the sword ‘– has the power to do that. Gamma was chosen for the task and you have been chosen to bear the sword that holds Her remains, to bear Her.’

Vesper opens her mouth to protest but Genner continues regardless. ‘But remember, you’re not alone. Each person on board is within the top one per cent of the Empire’s finest and all of us are ready to fight, and die if need be.’

‘Are there knights here?’

‘Twenty-five are with us, all veterans hand-picked by the Knight Commander himself. Each has three squires. In addition, we have a small infantry unit packed into the base of the ship.’

Vesper begins looking around again, then points excitedly at the people either side of her. ‘Are they knights? Are you knights?’

One stares straight ahead, contemplating infinity. The other looks back at the girl, catches herself and looks away.

‘This,’ says Genner, gesturing to the two women, ‘is Duet. She’s a Harmonised, which is incredibly rare—’

‘Is that a special kind of knight?’

‘Well, no, not exactly. The Harmonised are a subset of the Order. They’re guardians, specially trained to protect against infernal influence.’

Vesper nods, disappointment peeking through the gesture. ‘That sounds good.’

Despite the girl’s lack of enthusiasm, Duet remains stoic beneath her visors.

Genner’s reply is earnest: ‘It is. Where we’re going it won’t just be your body at risk but your mind and spirit. Any contact, even just being close to an infernal, is dangerous and there are a lot of infernals between us and our destination. That’s why we’re travelling fast and light. We should be able to sail straight over the enemy’s forces. If the Winged Eye wills it, we’ll be able to set you down right next to the Breach.’

Minutes tick by and Genner settles back like the others, meditative. Vesper bites her lip and strokes the kid, who has fallen asleep in her lap. ‘How long till we get there?’

‘Four hours.’

She tries not to be sick. A lip receives further mauling. Toes wriggle, heels tap repeatedly against the wall. Everyone else remains still.

Nerves overwhelm her. She contemplates confessing but dares not, nearly asks Genner to turn the sky-ship around, but between mind and mouth, the question wilts into something mundane. Anything to fill the silence.

‘So we’re actually flying?’

Genner opens his eyes. ‘Yes. We’re actually flying.’

‘I wish we could see outside.’

‘Only the pilot needs to see.’

‘Where’s the pilot?’

‘In the iris pod.’

Feet pause their tapping. Vesper’s brow creases in thought. She begins to open her mouth, pauses.

‘What is it?’

‘Please, would it be possible for me to sit in the iris pod?’

‘That’s not standard procedure.’

‘Oh. I understand.’

Genner makes a speech, about safety, about protocol, trying to explain, to restore the happy face of moments ago. ‘I’m sorry, that’s just how it is.’ Before he can say more, a square lights up at his throat, then another within his ear.

The communication makes the young man sit up, straps cutting into his shoulders. He speaks rapidly. ‘How many? How do they even know we’re here? Is the stealth active? Yes. Yes. I’ll await your report.’

As lights fade from skin, Genner meets Vesper’s eye.

A quaver disturbs the girl’s voice. ‘What was that?’

‘Rogue sky-ships, three of them. They’re on an intercept course.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means no more talking. Brace for impact!’

Figures tense, gripping the arms of seats about and above her. No words are said but many mouths move, intoning the litany: Winged Eye save us, protect us, deliver us.

Three sky-ships move in formation. Once, they wore their allegiance to the Winged Eye proudly. Now, those signs have been defaced, with blood or with knives, symbolic. They swoop down together, ready to attack. Their target is invisible, hidden from mortal sight. This does not stop them, for the First guides their hand, finding the needle in the sky and plucking it.

Missiles fire, and the three ships peel away, keen to avoid retaliation.

The target makes an optimistic attempt to evade the attack. It spins, dives, spits balls of light in its wake, distractions that sparkle, tempting.

But the pilot’s manoeuvres are as out of date as the countermeasures. Superior missiles find their mark, shattering shields, tearing engines.

In a gasp of fire, the Light-drives fail.

As the sky-ship begins to fall, a cloud of pods explodes from it in every direction, like a sneeze. Each pod is just bigger than the adult it carries. Orders mobilize them and they streak towards the nearest landmass; a formation of white-tailed comets heading to a half-made island, home of the Harmonium Forge and the airy prison: Sonorous.

Part prison colony, part port, Sonorous looms up from the water, buildings bolted onto a vast semicircle of rock. Within the sheltered waters, ships rest. Lifts sway gently as they move between the different sectors, from the dock level at the bottom to the watchtower three miles above. The prison is built on the outer curve, cells dangling from chains over the open ocean.

Tiny roads spiderweb between crammed buildings on the lower levels. By contrast, Sonorous’ main road, the Tradeway, sprawls out like a fat tongue, running from the port to the mountain’s edge. From here it angles mildly up, a leisurely spiral snaking towards the mid-level, where it meets the machine factories.

Only the Tradeway is large enough to support the four crawlertanks as they groan from their hangars. Mechanised legs bear heavy oval bodies, packed with troops. They travel the length of the Tradeway at speed, warming cannons as they go, for the island kingdom has only recently declared independence and when its rulers see the flurry of pods streaking overhead they assume the worst.

Fearing that the Empire of the Winged Eye has come to reclaim its wayward colony, they summon their soldiers, send a message to the First for aid, and hide in custom-made bunkers, prepared for just such an occasion.

Above, the pods decelerate and spend the last of their reserves in fields of energy, dazzling, sparking as they take the impact of landing.

They come down, some in the streets, some punching through walls. Metal rain that destroys noisily.

People run. Unable to tell which way is safest, they go in random directions. Dust plumes around them, lending a gritty mystery to the scene. Gradually, noise settles. Air clears.

A pod sits in a trench of its own making. A rectangle of white fades up along one of its sides. Soon after, there is a popping sound, soft, anticlimactic, and a segment of metal falls away, allowing a man to stumble out. He brings a hand to his forehead. His fingers come away moist, a much darker red than his hair. He wipes them quickly, then pulls a gun free from its holster.

He scans the streets, counting pods, watching them disgorge their contents onto the floor. Aside from his own people, the streets are empty.

They will not stay that way for long.

The man intones his name, not Genner, his real one. In answer, knights clank to attention, drawing swords, saluting. Squires rush to their sides and soldiers come limping, come running, moving as best they can into formation.

Duet does not join them, choosing instead to watch through a hole in a cracked wall. She stands either side of a pale-faced Vesper, fencing her between steel and stone.

The girl straightens, trying to peer through the hole. ‘What’s—’

Duet’s hands find her shoulders, silencing, pushing her back down.

Before the wall cuts the scene from her eyes, shots ring out. A squire catches a bullet with his hip, spinning twice before falling. The bullet continues on its merry way, barely slowed, bouncing off walls, looking for more targets. Knights and soldiers disperse, returning fire.

Behind the wall, Vesper struggles to make sense of the chaos outside. She hears more orders being given. They are under attack. More shots, shouts, the sudden belching of fire and screaming, like pigs being savaged by wolves. Pushing aside Duet, she manages to catch a glimpse of the action. Bodies twisting and tearing, people running, some of them on fire. She does not know who is dying and suddenly it does not matter. Nobody should suffer this way.

Vesper ducks down, unwilling to see further.

But the sounds continue, forcing past hands pressed over ears. Fire rumbles, steady, underscoring the highs and lows of battle, constant against the chatter of guns and screams of the injured. Time stretches, each moment heaping age on Vesper’s shoulders. She weeps, but war cares little for tears or the children that shed them.

Then, twenty-five voices rise together, thrumming along sacred blades, irresistible. And even though their judgement is not directed at her, even though the girl knows that this is the sound of the Seraph Knights joining the fight, she shivers.

In her arms, the sword is heavy and cold.

Hands release their pressure from Vesper’s shoulders but they do not leave. Duet nods, two heads moving as one. ‘It is safe –’

‘– For now.’

Her voices are complementary, not identical but seamless in the way they join their sentences.

Vesper looks from one to the other, quickly wipes her eyes. ‘I don’t understand … they weren’t infernal, they were just people. Like us. All the blood!’ Her mouth twists with horror. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t …’

Duet looks down at her and her sentence dies, unfinished.

‘They are –’

‘– Calling us.’

‘We must –’

‘– Go now.’

Duet guides her around piles of rubble. On the far side of the street, Vesper can make out something charred, smoking. Fascination and horror come hand in hand. For a while she cannot tell which side the body belonged to. No, she thinks, it is not one of theirs. Flecks of magenta in the uniform identify the unfortunate as Sonorous independent military. The realisation brings little relief.

A palm presses in the small of her back, moving her on. There is so much wreckage for such a small skirmish, she cannot take it all in, nor can she stop looking. Limbs, bits of clothing, unrecognisable hunks of meat, still sizzling on the stone. Smells invade nostrils, snake up into the brain to make memories, lasting.

On broken chunks of brick, she sees blood glistening. The sight makes her stop. There are no corpses here, just bricks flecked crimson and a dark puddle spreading between them. The strangeness of it holds her, troubling a traumatised mind.

‘What happened here?’

‘It doesn’t –’

‘– Matter.’

‘But how did the blood get here? Who did it belong to? This doesn’t make any sense.’

‘This is war –’

‘People die. That’s –’

‘– All.’

‘But there has to be more to it than that!’

Duet exchanges an exasperated look with herselves. ‘They are traitors –’

‘– Who side with demons.’

‘It’s them –’

‘– Or us.’

Vesper’s eyes are too wide, staring but not seeing.

‘We have –’

‘– To go.’

She doesn’t hear Duet, doesn’t catch the urgency in the Harmonised’s tone. ‘But who were they?’

‘We have –’

‘– To go.’

‘This was a person once.’

One of Duet tuts, the other sighs heavily, and both take one of Vesper’s arms, dragging her the rest of the way.

As they get closer to the main group, Vesper sees that Sonorous has lost many troops this day. Their own forces have fared better. Only one knight has fallen. Squires attend their dead master, reclaiming armour and sword. Such items are priceless, made by the creator when the Empire of the Winged Eye was born. Stripped of office and dignity, the corpse is placed with the others. There is no time for ceremony, so the soldiers move quickly, levelling their lances, incinerating remains. A knight’s death is regrettable, an untainted corpse left behind for the infernals, unforgivable.

Genner strides over to meet them. ‘You’re unharmed?’

Duet answers for the young girl. ‘The bearer –’

‘– Is unharmed.’

‘Then all is not lost. Help is coming but it will take time to reach us. We’re going to take the forge and hold out for rescue.’

‘This is wrong!’ Vesper exclaims, clutching the fabric of Genner’s uniform in her fists. ‘These people have died because of me! I’m not the bearer. I’m just a stupid girl. You take the sword. Here.’

He leans closer to her ear, lowering his voice. ‘It’s too late for that. You are the bearer, you have to believe that and they –’ he gestures to the troops and squires, patching wounds and forming up behind him ‘– have to believe it too.’

Tears stream down cheeks, mixing with snot on her top lip.

Genner turns to the Harmonised. ‘She’s in shock. Get her some stims and keep her under cover until we’re ready to move.’

There is a pause that threatens to become a protest but Genner kills it in its infancy. ‘Step to it!’

Duet salutes and escorts Vesper back towards the wall. One of her hands is firmer on the girl’s shoulder. Vesper grits her teeth, stifling complaint.

They climb through a dusty hole into a washroom. Vacuum pipes coil untouched in transparent cases. A crashed pod covers most of the space, spearing the cleaning booth, like a dart in a board. Duet releases Vesper in a corner, then turns, wrenching the door from the booth and placing it across the hole.

Vesper’s thoughts are a jumble, she doesn’t know what to do or say or think. To her surprise, she sneezes.

She blinks. A moment later, she sneezes again.

Dust is tickling her nose. She looks up, sees a trickle coming from a crack in the ceiling in bursts, uneven.

In seconds, Duet is by her side.

Through the silence, footsteps can be heard, multiple and fast, each one sending a fresh spray of dust as it passes overhead.

From outside, a new noise invades: a rumbling, heavy and distant, heralding the coming of metal beasts.

Duet moves either side of the door and raises her swords, ready.

‘What should I do?’ asks Vesper.

‘Hide –’

‘– In there,’ replies Duet, pointing to the booth.

Before she can go further, invisible forces hammer the door, wrenching it half from housings to swing drunkenly open. Vesper’s mouth mirrors the spirit of the movement.

A metal ball the size of a baby’s fist rolls into the room.

It stops, clicks.

Instinctively, Vesper leans back.

And Duet is moving, breaking harmony. One throws herself at the girl, trying to push her clear, trying to put herself in harm’s way. The other’s sword sweeps down, flicking the ball back the way it came. The move is quick, sure, too late.

Halfway out of the room the ball explodes, filling the air with corkscrew slivers, burning hot. They carve through Duet’s chestplate, biting a hundred times into flesh beneath.

She takes two paces back, then two more, sword slipping from her fingers. She sways like a reed in the breeze before following her blade, a graceful slide onto her knees. While one woman goes down, the other leaps up, eyes intent on the doorway.

Bullets come first, fired wild to clear the way. Figures follow, vaulting into the space at angles, making room for more behind. Even hurrying, they are stealthy, magenta battle suits muted to shadow grey. They see the injured woman and the young figure curled in the corner. They see the other woman flying at them, sword glinting as it falls.

They do not see the gun in the injured woman’s hand.

Lights and sharpened steel flash, strobing the room.

Vesper watches the silhouettes on the ceiling, making their jerky way towards death.

When it is over, a dozen bodies lie contorted in a thin puddle of blood.

Duet reunites. Worried hands rest on shoulders, move to take off a battered helmet.

They are pushed away. The gesture is not hard but it sends one half reeling, uncertain.

Alone, the injured woman opens a panel on her bracer. From it she pulls a tiny needle and injects it under the strap of her helm. Alone, she stands.

The noise outside is louder, closer.

Genner’s face appears at the broken wall; it does not flicker at the sight of the bodies. ‘Report.’

‘The sword –’

‘– And the bearer –’

‘– Are intact.’

Genner nods. ‘And you?’

‘We are –’ There is a beat, barely noticeable as one glances towards her battered counterpart.

‘– We are fine.’

Whatever else Genner might say is superseded by the floor starting to shake. ‘Move!’ he shouts, pointing towards the door opposite. ‘Move now!’