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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.
It is twelve years since his second birth, since he was taken from his life on the sea, and only his hair remains unchanged. Beneath his armour, Samael’s skin is bone white, fossilised into a mockery of cracked marble. Unlike the rest of him, his hair is full of life. He wears it tied up, a horses tail that flows from a slit in the top of his helmet. A vanity he knows his creator would disapprove of. The thought brings a shudder and a smile.
Of course, his creator, the commander, was destroyed by the Malice, along with the other Knights of Jade and Ash but that doesn’t stop Samael thinking about him. Or seeking approval. He wishes it were different.
The armour he wears is a collection of mismatched plates, dug up from the battlefield and roughly beaten into shape. The result is ugly and ill-fitting. It feels right. A second skin he has made for himself. Wearing it has become habitual. Of this at least, his creator would surely approve. He hopes so but cannot be sure. Since the commander’s sudden end, he has been left with freedom and too many questions.
A fresh wave of essence bubbles from the Breach. Once, the chasm could not be seen from this hill and a village stood between his vantage point and the great crack. The village is gone now, swallowed by the earth, sucked down to other unknowable realms, deep, beyond the Breach.
Samael does not know how he knows this, but he does. He remembers buildings, faces, their hope fading as he passes them, leaving them to die. This flash of memory that is both his and not his goes as quickly as it arrives, leaving behind a cauldron of unprocessed feelings.
Grudgingly, his mind returns to present.
This is where the demons find their way in. He cannot change what has been done to him, cannot stop the infernals further north from plaguing the world, but here, he can make a difference. Here, he can at least stem the tide.
Clouds of unborn essence begin to form on the Breach’s edge, along with a host of skittering, hungry scabs, the lowest of the infernals. The scabs spread out, hunting for food amidst the dirt. The unborn spirits search for a way into the world, needing host bodies if they are to remain.
Samael smiles, knowing they will fail.
The few remaining corpses he cleared years ago, those not already claimed as hosts, condemning any new infernal to haunt the Breach’s boundary, dissipating slowly, horrific concepts never finding expression.
He has watched this sight countless times but it never fails to please.
Something is different this time, however. A second wave of unborn clouds confirms it. His half-breed eyes read the patterns in their essences. They are desperate, yes, this is common, but the flavour of fear in their smoky swirls is new. It is not the hostile world they have arrived in that scares them most. It is something else. Something behind them.
They are running away.
A rumble passes through the earth, radiating outward until it shakes the metal hill. Samael throws his arms out, balancing, riding the shockwave until it has passed. Another rumble comes quickly, and the sound darkens the sky, essence spewing from the Breach, thick and black and purple.
Samael is thrown from the hill, landing heavily in the dirt. The half-breed pulls himself up quickly, untroubled by physical pains. The ground still shakes, constant now, as the Breach heaves, trying to dislodge its burden. Earth trembles, gives, and reality retreats a little further north.
The thing that emerges is too big, stretching through dimensions even Samael cannot see. It is both great and small, contained and limitless. But more than that, it has purpose. Without a host, without a birth, it exists.
The Yearning has come.
Samael does not need a second look, the first has already found a permanent place in his consciousness. He falls back on another old habit, and runs.
*
Far to the north, across the sea, in lands of waning green, lies the Shining City. An invisible field defines its boundary, tuned to the infernal taint, ready to burn. Within this field windows peek from grassy hillsides, hinting at the tunnels, pods and infrastructure hidden within. Pillars of silver punch towards the sky, landscaped gardens attached to their sides and tops. Within the circles of hills and spires is a grand open space. At its centre stands a set of steps, polished, dazzling. They climb fifty feet straight up, ending in nothing. A further twenty feet above the top step, a giant cube of metal floats, turning slowly, colossal, held by invisible strings.
The cube is packed full of secrets, with its own hierarchies and troubles, both above and beyond the world below.
At its heart is the sanctum of The Seven.
Even here, in this haven, miles from any infernal, they feel the quake. Even here, behind walls of denial and power, platinum and energy, the shift in earth and essence stirs them.
Alpha of The Seven is the first to wake. His eyes open, matchless orbs, sparkling with the wisdom of his maker and a thousand years’ experience. They sweep across five other alcoves, each a home, a tomb for the immortal within.
Heads turn slowly, moving to meet his gaze. Stone flakes fall from faces as they emerge once more, tentative.
No words are spoken, no songs are sung, not yet. Their power is there, waiting to be called but there lacks the will to call it.
Alpha feels the question in the eyes of his brothers and sisters. A new trouble has presented itself. They want to see his response. He flexes fingers, freeing them from their stony prison, and looks towards his sword. It is buried, a barely discernible lump, shrouded in grey rock. His siblings’ swords are no better, covered in tears of stone, wept in the years of grief.
It is time to take them up again.
Alpha lifts his hand and the others inhale together. Five hands tense, ready to take action.
An invisible force draws Alpha’s eyes to the third alcove, the empty one. Once their sister, Gamma, resided there. Now there is nothing.
She is lost to them.
Lost.
That which they thought immutable was brought low, broken by the Usurper’s power. If they go to war, will this new threat claim another? Even the idea is too much to bear.
Alpha stills his hand, lowers his head.
Five other hands relax and six minds retreat, returning to darkness and sweet oblivion.
A few miles away, hidden in darkness, wrapped in cloth, wrapped in wood, wrapped in dust, an eye opens.
*
A bird drifts in the sky, lazy. A worm dangles from its beak, frantic, hopeless. With a flap of wings, it ascends, riding the currents, spiralling around a great pillar. At the top sits a gleaming sky-ship and cradled within its turrets are a number of nests.
The nests should not be there. The workers should have scrubbed them away but there have been no inspections, not this year, nor the four before that. Nobody can see the top of the sky-ship from below, so the workers don’t clean them. An indulgence that goes unnoticed. There are others. Tiny flaws in the slowly rotting Empire of the Winged Eye.
Shrill voices penetrate the air, begging for food. The bird ignores them, moving towards its own offspring, letting the worm fall towards a trio of gaping beaks before diving away, carried by currents to new adventures.
Far below and several miles distant, a girl watches the bird through an old, battered scope. Her name is Vesper and her feet itch to travel to the pillar, her hands to climb it. But the pillar, along with everything else around the Shining City, is forbidden. They are but images, only dimly understood, no more real to her than Uncle Harm’s stories.
She tucks the scope into a pocket and looks around, seeking inspiration. None comes and her eyes go back to find the bird, staring enviously until the curved line becomes a black dot. Soon even this is gone. Without it, the sky appears blank, uninteresting.
Because she is young, because she is sheltered, because she is different, Vesper plays. She spreads her arms and runs, flapping them like a bird. Enthusiasm cannot defeat physics however and she remains earth bound, an amusement for the goats that crowd the fields.
She arrives at the border of her world, panting. No energy field prevents further travel, just a simple fence and the endless warnings of her family.
Vesper takes a step towards it. She does not need to fly to cross this obstacle. A glance over her shoulder stops the plan before it can form. Her father stands outside the house, amber eyes searching her out. Feigning innocence, Vesper raises her hand, waves. Her father’s hand calls her back towards home.
She loves her father and her Uncle more than words but sometimes she wishes they weren’t there. Not forever. Just for an hour, or an afternoon. As she trudges back up the hill, she imagines the glories such an afternoon might bring.
Before she gets back, however, an angry bleating demands her attention.
‘Here we go,’ mutters Vesper and starts to run.
The male goats follow her a few paces, then stop, knowing their place well.
At the top of the hill, next to her house is another, smaller one. Inside, offerings litter the floor, some barely recognizable remnants, others only half chewed. A mutigel cube has been spread thin across the floor, like a translucent pancake. A blanket partly covers it. The goat stands on top, unsteady, her belly swollen with young. Dark eyes regard Vesper bleakly as she arrives. The goat is old now, too old for such nonsense, yet it keeps happening. The goat is not sure who needs to be punished for the latest in a long line of pregnancies and so tends to bite at anybody stupid enough to get close.
Vesper has learnt this the hard way. She stops at the doorway, absently rubbing the old scar on her hand. ‘Don’t look at me. It’s not my fault.’
The birth is quick and blunt, a few moments of sweat and struggle. A newborn slides into being, deadly still, wearing its membrane suit like a shroud.
The goat eyes the bundle disapprovingly, and waits. During the early pregnancies, she tended her young but she too has learnt.
‘Go on!’ Vesper urges.
The goat ignores her.
‘Quickly!’
The goat ignores her.
With a curse, Vesper pulls a rag from her pocket and starts to wipe the mucus from the newborn’s head. Practiced hands find their way into the kid’s mouth and nostrils, unplugging goo. Vesper curses again, borrowing words overheard, exotic, adult. Slowly, the gunk is removed, some of it finding its way to the floor, much of it adhering to Vesper’s trousers.
The goat’s eyes glint, victorious, and she begins to pick at some stray tufts of grass by the door.
Still, the kid does not move, a damp lump, not quite dead but not fully alive either. Vesper strokes the little animal’s side.
‘Come on, you can do it. Breathe for me.’
Vesper keeps stroking, keeps talking. She doesn’t know if the kid can hear her, or if it helps but she does it anyway.
The goat flicks the stump of her tail in irritation and trots over. She gives her child a quick inspection, flicks her tail again, then kicks out.
The kid judders into life, gulps down air, whimpers a little.
Vesper scowls at the goat. ‘Was that really necessary?’
The goat ignores her.
Injury forgotten in sudden hunger, the kid looks between the two figures, mouth open and eager.
‘I take it you’re not going to feed him?’ Vesper rolls up her sleeves. ‘Didn’t think so.’ Alert for retaliation, she snatches up a nearby bucket and starts to milk the goat.
Too tired to fight, the goat decides to be merciful.
When she finishes, Vesper stands up, hefting the bucket. ‘I need to get a bottle, don’t go anywhere, okay?’
The kid watches the girl leave. He turns to his other mother but she has already gone. Tongue lolling, he swings his head back and forth, unsure. He takes his first steps, stumbling into the goat’s domain.
There is a thud and a squeal.
A moment later he scurries out, running for safety. He doesn’t dare look back.
Tin bowls sound like anemic bells as they are moved, and a soft voice chatters in the kitchen. Vesper attends to the words and pauses, holding her breath. She does not go through or say hello, preferring to wait. If they do not know she is there, they will be their other selves, the ones that worry more, that hint at secrets.
As usual, her Uncle Harm does the talking while her father potters, bringing order to a space bent on chaos. ‘You know, a messenger from the Lenses came again today. They wanted to know if everything was alright here. I told him things were nice and quiet. All the usual questions but something felt different this time. He was agitated, kept scratching at something. I almost asked him in for a drink. Poor man seemed exhausted with stress. I suppose they all are up there. Of course, he wouldn’t tell me anything.’
A soft whirring begins. Her father must be Bondcleaning the surfaces.
‘I’m sure,’ Harm continues, ‘if you went and spoke with them yourself, I’m sure we could find out more. They’re only here for you, after all.’
The cleaning device is clicked to a higher setting and the whirring gets louder, irritating. Vesper takes another deep breath and edges closer, daring a peek into the kitchen.
Her Uncle Harm sits in the good chair, steam curling from the mug in his lap. He raises his voice, managing to keep the tone gentle. ‘I know you’ve made up your mind about this but it wouldn’t hurt to know what’s going on. Please, go and talk to them? It would put my mind at rest. And can you come over here? I hate talking to you when you’re far away.’
The whirring of the machine slows, becomes irregular, stops. Broad shoulders sag. Vesper retreats a step as her father turns and limps across the kitchen. His hair grows long now. Vesper has spent many evenings watching Uncle Harm brush the long brown-grey strands. Even so, it does not hide the scars running through the hairline. Apparently, these could be fixed, just like the missing teeth and the scarred leg, but her father always refuses any offers of surgery. Harm says he’s as stubborn as the goat, which makes her father smile. But he never changes his mind.
Vesper likes the scars. They’re proof of a different life. When her father was the heroic knight that her Uncle talks about, not this tired man who frowns too much.
Her father stops by the chair, leans on it, stoops forward. Harm’s hands fumble their way upwards, searching for his face.
‘There you are.’ Fingers brush features: a chin that needs shaving, crow’s feet deepening around the eyes. They find lines furrowing the forehead and smooth them away. ‘They know you’re not going to fight again. Nobody’s expecting you to. But I think we should at least know what’s going on, just in case.’
Soothing hands are taken in callused ones. The two stand peaceably, enjoying the moment.
As usual, Harm is the first to speak into it. ‘I hear things. From the people who bring us offerings. There aren’t so many as there used to be but some still come. Apparently, Sonorous has declared independence and the First has recognised them. There’s been no official response from the Empire yet but either way it won’t be good. And have you heard about what’s going on in the south? There’s a rumour that—’
Hands break apart. Amber eyes fix on the doorway. Vesper is caught in their glare. She smiles quickly, and goes in, clearing her throat. ‘What rumour is that, Uncle?’
‘Ah, Vesper,’ comes the bright-voiced reply, ‘it’s just gossip, nothing important. How’s the goat?’
‘She’s getting worse. Didn’t even bother with this one. It would’ve died for sure if I hadn’t been there.’
‘That’s the third you’ve saved now, isn’t it?’
‘The fifth, actually. But each time, she’s doing less.’
‘If I was her age, I doubt I’d be much better.’
‘How old is she, Uncle?’
Spontaneously, both men smile. ‘We’ve got no idea. But old. If she were human, she would be long past having babies, that’s for certain.’
‘Well, she’s having them but she’s not feeding them. I need to get a bottle.’
