Page 2

Chapter 2

Diplomacy

The rising sun at our backs sent our shadows stretching out before us like grim heralds as seven of the deadliest wonderists ever to wield magic strode towards the gallows. Well, six of us strode. One of us hopped. I’ll get to him in a minute.

The repugnant mechanics of angelic torture ground to a halt once the Infernal soldiers became aware of our approach. More than three dozen demoniac Hellions, Burrowmancers and Subjugators froze in contorted poses of gleeful dancing. The wailing of the captive Angelic Valiants quietened, leaving behind the aching memory of an Auroral melody that had once thrummed in my own heart. As for the townsfolk, they just stood there, watching and wondering what new misery was coming into their lives. The grimy stone walls of the settlement behind them were so weatherworn that a single decent catapult shot would have tumbled them to the ground– yet near the centre of town were spires of gleaming marble and alabaster rising up to kiss the sky.

Such beneficent architectural gifts had become common in the six months since the Lords Celestine and Lords Devilish had passed through the gates left behind by the Pandoral wonderists whose invasion plot we seven had foiled, only to discover we’d been played by the Aurorals and Infernals. The temporary truce was over and now both sides were intent on claiming as much of the Mortal realm as possible before they finally settled down to the mass slaughter of their Great Crusade. The fact that a troop of demoniacs had seen fit to capture and torture a squad of Angelic Valiants meant war was getting closer– the very war Corrigan, Galass, Shame, Aradeus, Alice and I– along with Temper, assuming he understood any of it– had sworn to avert.

‘Kneel,’ the four-horned Schemelord commanded. The demoniac looked rather dashing in his bronze uniform, though it wasn’t so much a uniform as a gooey orange oil Infernal soldiers dunked themselves in which hardened into a type of flexible lacquer armour impervious to most weapons.

Which is different from being impervious to all weapons.

An ear-splitting thunderclap accompanied the bolt of indigo lightning that tore through the Schemelord’s chest. It left behind a hole big enough to see his terrified subordinates cowering behind him. The confused Schemelord, not yet aware he was dead, reached up a hand so his fingers might trace the curve of one of his ram’s horns, something they generally do when trying to puzzle out a particularly thorny problem, like, Why is there a hole in my chest? I found the gesture oddly human in a way that pricked at my conscience. Fortunately, I’d taught my conscience to shut the hells up long ago.

Corrigan’s spell hadn’t quite finished, so the rest of us stood and watched as the last sparks of his Tempestoral obliteration spell dissolved that impressive oil-lacquer armour into blackened ooze and Infernal flesh into ashes which blew away in the gentle breeze.

‘Speech?’ Corrigan asked.

According to all the literature on ethical warfare we’d consulted these past months, it’s considered good manners to make at least a token effort at diplomacy.

‘The laws of armed conflict demand an overture,’ Alice reminded me sternly, as if I hadn’t been a Glorian Justiciar long before my former mentor– a crazy old bat named Hazidan Rosh– had decided to indoctrinate a demoniac into an Auroral order, and one which no longer existed because the Justiciars were almost all dead. With her long silvery hair and bluish leathery skin engraved with the esoteric markings of her lineage, Alice looked as if she should be taking the dead Schemelord’s place rather than giving me grief about the proper etiquette for wiping out enemy troops. Like generations of petulant teenagers before her, she crossed her arms and declared, ‘I will not fight until the speech has been given.’

The Infernal troops, having decided that their commander’s death had not, in fact, been some sort of practical joke, were now being formed into attack lines by a demoniac Subjugator who had quickly promoted herself to acting Schemelord.

‘Cade?’ Corrigan asked with rare deference.

‘Yeah?’

‘Can I give the speech this time?’

‘That depends. Do you think you can deliver a diplomatic overture without making reference to your genitals?’

A look of long-suffering patience darkened the thunderer’s already onyx-black features. ‘That was one time, and it was only a practise run. I needed a word to rhyme with “massive cock”.’

‘That’s not how rhymes work,’ I reminded him. ‘Also, that “practise” speech went on for half an hour. You’d think someone whose magic revolves around sudden explosions could get to the point expeditiously.’

Aradeus drew his rapier, plastering one of his dozen or so debonair smiles on his lips. ‘Those Hellions look better organised than other Infernals we’ve fought,’ he warned. Dressed all in grey, with paradoxically youthful collar-length grey hair, neatly trimmed beard and whiskery moustache, Aradeus Mozen cut a fabulously dashing figure. He pointed his sword at the enemy as if awaiting permission to challenge them– all of them– to a duel. ‘I do believe there might be a pair of Malefic Blademasters among their number.’

The subjugator who’d taken the reins of command was tall, with a septet of short curved horns protruding in a circle around her hairless skull, which made her look as if she were wearing a crown. I supposed that qualifies a diabolic for rule as much as any formal leadership training.

‘Your suffering will be the stuff of nightmares,’ she hissed at us. ‘You will join the angelics in the myriad agonies await — ’

Alice interrupted. ‘The moron is right,’ she said to Corrigan. The moron to whom she was referring was me. ‘Your speeches go on for even longer than the Fallen One’s.’

‘ Fallen One ’ is Alice’s pet name for me on account of my having abandoned the Order of Glorian Justiciars.

She jabbed a finger at Corrigan’s chest. ‘Furthermore, you appear incapable of uttering so much as a stanza without dropping your trousers.’

‘Pantaloons,’ Corrigan corrected, hastily refastening the belt around his waist to cinch the blowsy, purple-striped leggings that he had been about to let fall. Given how quickly the temperature rose around him whenever he hurled bolts of aetherial thunder at his enemies, I suppose it was understandable that he preferred a little air circulation to keep from getting hot and sticky down there.

Shame tapped my shoulder. ‘The demoniac artillerists appear to be arming some sort of weapon.’

I tried not to flinch. There’s something unnerving about being touched by someone who can sculpt your flesh any way she chooses and has no real attachment to humanity. Having been created as an Angelic Emissary, her own form was perpetually mutable. To her, the physical world was little more than an ever-changing set of arbitrary circumstances to which she adapted herself as needed. Ever since we’d freed her from the brothel ship to which the Lords Celestine had consigned her to curry favour with a local prince, which gave a whole new meaning to the term ‘all-loving’, Shame had chosen to spend most of her time in the form of a heavyset, plain-faced middle-aged woman. She claimed this made her invisible to most humans, which pleased her no end. At the moment, however, she had adopted the form of an over-muscled armoured rhinoceros on two legs, with crab pincers at the end of her tree-trunk-thick wrists– a wise choice given the Infernal scarab currently aimed in our direction.

One might have expected the Infernals and Aurorals to use more classical weaponry, like flaming longswords and tridents with poisonous tines– although, the Infernals did employ such tridents and they’re rather clever, actually, made from a trio of poisonous snakes, each snakebite delivering a different venom — All right, fine. Fascinating as that particular piece of military cryptozoology might be, the weapon about to be deployed against us right at this minute was of an entirely different order of magnitude.

The scarab, a four-foot-long blue-carapaced beetle, was being jammed arse-first into the barrel of a large cannon whose only function was to generate initial velocity, as the scarab had its own wings and would fly to its target regardless of any inaccuracies in aiming. The Scarabist who’d no doubt raised the creature from birth was currently whispering into what passed for its ear, telling it who to attack and how spectacularly gruesome to make the victim’s demise. That’s kind of a theme with Infernals: these guys really like putting on a show.

So do we, as it happens.

‘Galass,’ I asked, ‘does that thing bleed?’

I could tell from the tightness at the corners of her eyes and mouth that she’d been anticipating the question. Trained as a Glorian Sublime since childhood, she’d been raised to believe that spiritual fulfilment came only from giving oneself utterly to whomever the local Glorian Ardentor gifted her. If you’re starting to think that the Lords Celestine employ this particular brand of diplomacy more often than is theologically sound, re-read your copy of the Seventeen Hundred and Seventy-Seven Auroral Edicts. I’m telling you, whoring oneself out for God comes up a lot .

You’d expect a Sublime to be demure and submissive, but from the moment an Ascendant Prince had tried to reward me with Galass in gratitude for a particularly bombastic piece of destruction Corrigan and I had perpetrated against his enemies, she had proven to be rude– and worse, prone to picking philosophical fights with me. Having someone argue that trying to give them their freedom is an insult to their religious devotion gets really old, really fast. Oddly, the subsequent Infernal pact made on her behalf that turned Galass into a blood mage smoothed out some of those rough edges. I suppose that’s what comes of constantly trying to restrain yourself from exsanguinating every living being with whom you come in contact. Galass was utterly determined never to descend into the madness that was endemic to blood magic, which was why the spell I was asking from her bordered on cruelty.

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 is the entire point 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 would anyone put 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 to experience : the belief that one must savour every sensation, every emotion, every part of what it means to exist .

Self-restraint is no virtue to an Infernal: it’s a sin. Demoniacs, malefics, diabolics and the rest don’t just eat, they devour . 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?’

She was no longer that traumatised young Sublime I’d met in Ascendant Lucien’s war camp. With her right hand extended, she made a fist. It looked as if the scarab were collapsing in on itself. Then she suddenly spread her fingers wide– and the creature exploded into thousands upon thousands of glittering shards of iridescent shell and gobs of sickly yellow blood that splattered over the demoniacs surrounding us.

‘Desist, you petulant children masquerading as warriors,’ she said, ‘else we seven shall henceforth Fuck. Your. Shit. Up.’

Peace at any price , I thought proudly.

The sizzle of Corrigan’s thunder joined the crack of Alice’s whip-sword and the eerier sounds accompanying the rest of our respective magics. I offered a silent apology to whichever spirit of decency might be questioning the ethics of seven wonderists trying to stop a war by engaging in rampant bloodshed. Well, those spirits could go ahead and close their eyes if they were squeamish, because peace was a dirty business, especially now. The gallants of long ago had left the rest of us with a world unprotected from the supernatural sons-of-bitches presently fighting over it. Corrigan had named us ‘The Malevolent Seven’ and that’s what we’d become. Maybe we weren’t the kind of heroes the world deserved, but we were the ones it got, and we sure as shit weren’t going to save it by pretending to be the good guys.

And now, without further ado, let me to introduce you to Temper.