Page 69 of The Malevolent Seven

The skinnier one to his right asked, ‘Do you truly believe the town of Mages’ Grave will continue to exist much longer, regardless of our intentions?’

‘Could you annoying fuckers talk one at a time?’ Corrigan asked.

‘This is your idea of diplomacy?’ I asked quietly.

He jabbed a thumb at the forty-two dead wonderists hanging from the ceiling. ‘They’re going to kill us anyway. Do I have to sit here and listen to all this bullshit or can I blast at least one of these fuckers before I die?’

‘We mean no harm to anyone,’ the brother opposite assured me. He spread his arms wide as if to contain within them the landscape depicted upon the table between us. ‘All we ask is to be left in peace within this minuscule, forgotten tract of territory none of you would ever choose to set foot on had not our true enemies tricked you into doing so. I assure you, our intentions are peaceful.’

‘Peaceful is my very favourite place in the whole world,’ I said. ‘I hope to visit it one day, but no one can ever point it out to me on a map. And despite your pleasant talk, I can’t help but notice you haven’t stated precisely what your intentions are for this admittedly shitty patch of land.’

One of the others began to speak, but I heard that buzzing again and the guy across from me waved him off. ‘Let us speak plainly,’ he said to me, ‘for we are unaccustomed to communicating in this fashion with outsiders and it is. . . irksome to us.’

‘We have that effect on people,’ Corrigan said. ‘It gets even worse when we’re blasting their arses out of existence, motherfucker.’

Aradeus had been sitting quietly, watchful and contemplative, but now he intervened. ‘You speak as if you are not like us, yet I believe you are human, are you not?’

‘We were born as you are,’ the fellow opposite me said. I guess he’d be doing all the talking from now on. Of the lot of them, he looked the most normal– you know, despite the red eyes and veiny skin thing. ‘Once we were wonderists, like yourselves. However, our attunements were. . . incomplete, our spells so feeble as to be trivial. It was only recently that we understood the cause of our weakness.’

‘Let me guess,’ I said, finally working through a few details that hadn’t made sense until now. ‘The seven of you were born attuned to a plane outside the ones with which most mages are familiar?’

He gave me an appreciative smile– kind of like you give a puppy who’s just performed his first trick.

If you liked that one, you’ll really find this amusing.

‘A mystical plane that’s in trouble, I presume?’ I asked. ‘One whose denizens– who also happen to be the source of your remarkable abilities– are slowly dying?’

‘Why do you say that?’ the heavier-set brother to his left asked, his voice raised both in volume and pitch.

For the first time since we’d arrived, the seven of them looked surprised, and I was reminded that, for all her heretical philosophising, Hazidan Rosh had been one hell of a teacher in the art of investigation.

I shrugged as if the inference was obvious. ‘Even presuming you can open a permanent gate between two planes, translation from one realm to another isn’t easy. Consciousness– or spirit, as you might call it– can transcend the laws of physics between realities, but it’s an unpleasant experience at the best of times. Besides, it’s not like the Mortal plane’s all that enticing, even on a good day. Your patrons are desperate for a new home, and you’re desperate to give it to them.’

That got me a laugh from the one on the far right, who looked to be the youngest. His laughter spread like an infection to the others, one after another, which was exactly as disturbing to watch as you might expect.

‘Was that funnier than I thought it was?’ Corrigan whispered to me.

The middle brother sitting opposite me took control again. ‘We appreciate your. . . candour. Allow us in return to make our own intentions plain. As you’ve surmised, there is a plane of reality previously unknown to mages, yet closely aligned with this one.’

‘Who are these beings?’ Galass asked. ‘What are they like?’

A tolerant smile appeared on every face. ‘The Pandorals are like us, in a way,’ replied the middle brother. ‘Where the Infernals and Aurorals oppress themselves and their followers with rigid hierarchies, these beings see each other as equals. They have no interest in twisting and manipulating the spiritual beliefs of others’ demesnes, for they do not seek war with anyone.’

‘If this Pandoral demesne is so close to the Mortal realm, why haven’t any of us heard of it?’ Corrigan asked. He turned in his chair and glanced up at the forty-two dead wonderists floating above the chamber. ‘Why wouldn’t there be hordes of mages attuned to it?’

‘The Pandorals are. . . quiet beings,’ the brother answered. ‘Their realm cannot be accessed from without unless a door is opened from their side.’

‘But the seven of you have some spiritual connection to this Pandoral plane?’ Galass asked.

‘As we mentioned earlier, we were born with this most rare and precious of attunements.’

‘Why?’ Aradeus asked. ‘What caused the seven of you to be more innately attuned to their plane than other wonderists?’

‘We prefer not to discuss the reasons.’

It’s funny how sometimes the strangest beings– the ones least like regular folks– are actually the easiest ones to read. Hazidan would have said it’s because we’re always more aware of that which is foreign to us.

‘They lied earlier,’ I said, my gaze never leaving the brother opposite me. ‘Or at least, they encouraged my incorrect assumption. The brothers didn’t come to the Blastlands solely because of their connection to the Pandoral demesne. They came here because they’re attuned to the devastation. That’s what’s fuelling their powers.’ I leaned in close, getting into my counterpart’s face with a justiciar’s interrogatory gaze. ‘Was it one of your ancestors who fought in the mages’ war?’

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