Page 3 of The Malevolent Eight
The seven of us– well, six, because we really weren’t sure what Temper wanted out of all this– had sworn to do whatever it took to prevent this war between the Infernals and Aurorals. Seeing the anguish she was trying to hide behind the determined expression on her face, I wavered. ‘Listen, if it’s too much—’
Galass cut me off, raising one arm to point towards the scarab. Her fingertips twitched as her attunement to the flow of life sought out whatever it was that enabled the Infernal beetle to exist on the Mortal plane. ‘It’s not blood, exactly,’ she murmured, ‘but I can work with it.’
‘What about the speech, though?’ Corrigan asked. ‘That’s my favourite part.’
Aradeus, eyes gleaming grey with the tactical perception afforded rat totemists, reminded us of concerns more pressing even than Corrigan’s hurt feelings at not being chosen to lead our coven. ‘The new Schemelord appears to be initiating a cunning plan for our capture. Those Hellion front lines are preparing to flank us,’ Aradeus warned, ’while the rest of the infantry are preparing more conventional cannon– oh look! The Scarabist intends to unleash his lovingly nurtured beast upon us while the other troops encircle us to prevent our escape. I grant there’s nothing particularly clever there, but I suspect their bosses will be pleased with the result.’
‘The new Schemelord is also positioning herself to get a better view of the scarab devouring us,’ I added. ‘Sorry, Corrigan. Looks like neither of us gets to give the big speech. Maybe if you’d prepared one as short as your—?’
Corrigan’s thick fingers clamped down on my shoulder and for an instant, I thought we were going to have the conversation we’d been avoiding these past three months on the subject of who was best qualified to lead our little band of psychotic pacifists, and why I kept acting like the obvious answer was me. ‘It’s not for me,’ he whispered. ‘It’s Temper. I think he’s feeling a bit left out lately. Maybe if we let him give the speech. . . ?’
I looked back over my shoulder at the unnerving otherworldly creature whose twitching—No, it’s better when you see him in action.
‘“Temper” does not speak,’ Alice reminded Corrigan. ‘This is because “Temper” is not a person. It is a fucking ka—’
‘Fire!’ bellowed the recently elevated Schemelord to her Scarabist.
Smoke and flame erupted from the barrel of the cannon as it hurled the massive blue-carapaced bug at us. For a second, I wondered if Corrigan and I had bickered ourselves into an early grave, but just as suddenly, the Infernal beast halted in mid-air, coming to a stop five feet from Galass’ outstretched hand. Slowly, the scarab turned on its axis, spindly insect limbs darting out at its captor in futile rage.
‘This is sadistic,’ Galass said quietly as she stepped closer to the scarab.
‘It’s an Infernal weapon,’ I reminded her. ‘Sadism istheentirepoint of its creation.’
She shook her head, ignoring the hissing and spitting of the deadly creature bound by her control over its life fluids. ‘You don’t understand. The scarab isn’t just acting out of instinct. This one was specially selected from among its siblings for the joy it takes in causing pain.’ Galass turned to me, her scarlet tresses weaving in a manner I always take as subconscious resentment at the moral quagmires I kept drawing her into. ‘Why wouldanyoneput so much effort into creating a living being that takes pleasure in the suffering of others? Isn’t the sole point of a weapon to kill efficiently?’
In fact, the answer was a bit more complicated than, ‘Because the Lords Devilish are a bunch of cruel shitbags who get off on torturing anyone who opposes them.’ Mortals like us, being prone to thinking in absolutes, struggle to appreciate that Infernals aren’t actually ‘evil’– not in the way most of us define the term– any more than the Aurorals are entirely ‘good’. The essence of the Infernal dogma boils down toexperience: the belief that one must savoureverysensation,everyemotion,everypart of what it meansto exist.
Self-restraint is no virtue to an Infernal: it’s a sin. Demoniacs, malefics, diabolics and the rest don’t just eat, theydevour. They don’t walk or run, they dance and whirl and race. When they make love, it’s in search of the most transcendent pleasure, and when they make war, they don’t simply kill their enemies; they obliterate them in the most horrific ways imaginable.
‘The Lords Devilish are shitbags,’ Alice replied tersely, cracking her whip-sword in the air to emphasise her disdain. The two of us had debated this point many times; she vehemently disagreed with my perhaps rosy assessment of her fellow Infernals.
The recently promoted Schemelord, having witnessed us taking control of the scarab, was busily revising her attack plans, no doubt concocting something even more macabre. Like I said before, Infernals don’t rush blindly into battle. Mere death isn’t enough to get poets composing 47-verse laments to the true horror of your demise.
‘The optimal time to strike is now,’ Aradeus observed. ‘While the Schemelord wastes her advantage concocting ways to make a truly memorable end to us, we can throw off their rhythm and gain the upper hand.’
Aradeus might actually have made a good leader for our coven. He was cunning, yet kind; idealistic, yet sensible. Alas, not even Galass credited him with the ruthlessness it would take to prevent this war. ‘Peace at any price’ was our motto, which is why we were willing to kill as many people as it took to get the job done.
Still, when seeking to avert a cataclysmic crusade between two despotic supernatural armies who’ve been waiting for countless millennia to finally unleash their hate upon one another, not to mention any innocent bystanders who get in the way, who’s to say diplomacy can’t win the day?
‘You do it,’ I said to Galass.
She was still mesmerised by the hideous four-foot-long scarab floating in front of her face. ‘Hmm?’
‘The speech. You give it.’
Now she turned. ‘Me?I’ve never even practised “the speech”. It was always supposed to be you or Corrigan or Alice. What do you expect me to say?’
‘I don’t know, but we’re trying to stop a war that threatens humanity and yours is the only form of wonderism born of the Mortal realm. You’re attuned to the wild magic of life itself. That’s got to mean something.’
‘Indeed!’ Aradeus exclaimed. He was never one to let a sappy sentiment go by without horning in on the action. ‘Yours, my lady Galass, is the voice these troubled lands most need to hear: yours, the words left too long unuttered. Speak you now on behalf of our noble cause and share with these otherworldly belligerents the infinite wisdom and compassion we battered souls all sense resides in your heart.’
See what I mean about rat mages? The prick even managed to turn coaxing a speech out of someone else into its own speech.
Galass hesitated, her gaze travelling from the Infernals to the four Angelic Valiants noosed to the gallows, to the townsfolk beyond. I wondered if her attunement allowed her to peer into their hearts. Probably not, I decided, since hearts are muscles with no actual emotional or spiritual significance. No one knows precisely how blood magic works, because those attuned to it never live long enough to find out. Watching Galass, however, I could see she was intuiting precisely what her disparate audience needed to hear.
She began quietly, no unnecessary shouting or forced passion, unlike Corrigan. ‘We are seven wonderists of no particular repute,’ she started. ‘We wear no crowns, hold no insignia of rank. We possess neither the authority nor the right to speak for the peoples of this world, and yet we stand before you as uncommissioned emissaries of the Mortal realm, bearing this message for your masters.Desist from this place. If your continued existence holds any attraction for you, abandon the path upon which you have set yourselves. Turn away from the innocents you bribe, cajole and blackmail to your cause.’ Her voice deepened, becoming louder, as if she meant her words to echo from the mountain range that ringed the desert. ‘This world is not a board upon which you and your opponents may play your childish games. Humanity will not be reduced to toy soldiers for you to move from one square to the next. Take your Great Crusade back to your own demesnes if you must– argue over boundary lines on ancient maps and concoct such devious battle plans as feed your arrogance. Raze forests and fields, obliterate cities and temples, eradicate the cultures of your own domains. But heed these words, you would-be conquerors: from this day onwards, when you step upon the soil of this realm, you find yourself in’– a wry smile came to her lips– ‘Malevolent territory.’
‘Damn,’ Corrigan muttered next to me. ‘Why can’t you give speeches like that?’
