The Malice. Peter Newman
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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.