by Peter Newman
‘I’ve not been back there since I was a child, but I know the colony, and,’ she adds with a frown, ‘I know my brother.’
She is about to say more when the pilot’s voice comes to them from the cockpit. ‘We’re on approach to Fortitude’s Peak but they’re refusing to clear us for landing.’
‘Are they now!’ exclaims Sir Heras, unstrapping herself and getting up. ‘We’ll see about that.’
The Champion watches as the diminutive knight storms out of the hold. Though he makes no move to follow, he cannot help but hear her.
‘… And you tell them that the Champion of the Empire of the Winged Eye is on board. Yes, that Champion. Perhaps you’d like me to put him on and you could refuse him directly … Oh. A problem with the landing pad? It’s unsafe? Really? What unfortunate timing … I have no doubt you do think you’re sorry about this but when I arrive, I assure you, you’ll realize that you were mistaken. This is only a hint of sorry, a little fucking sniff of sorry. When I’m through with you, you will be sorry inside and out. You will sweat sorry. You will shit sorry, do you hear me, you sad excuse for a human being?’
The squires lean forward in their seats, thrilling to every syllable.
‘Give me your name and rank … Yes. Go on … Yes, I think that’s the very least you can do. And when we reach Fortitude’s Peak, rest assured that I will be inspecting this landing pad, and if I find it to be anything other than exactly as you describe, then you had best crawl back into whichever substandard birthing tube produced you. And tell the governor that if this is an indication of how Fortitude’s Peak is run, our report is going to be very damning, very damning indeed!’
Sir Heras walks purposefully back to her seat, shaking her head. The squires instantly return to their old positions, staring at the wall as if nothing has happened. ‘I don’t believe this story about a faulty landing pad, Champion. Not for an instant. They’re obviously stalling us. The question is: why?’
*
The sky-ship puts down on a small, flat rock at the base of Fortitude’s Peak, and the Champion, Sir Heras, and the two squires climb out to drizzle and the last of the day’s light. Salt and spray fill the air, along with a multitude of birds, crying, circling.
The Champion gives the birds a wary glance as he disembarks.
Fortitude’s Peak is mostly one large mountain with a small skirt of rock at its base. An old pathway winds around the mountainside, stopping at each segment of civilization on the way to the top. Lifts still function, simple discs of metal fenced in with rusting lattice, taking heavier goods and lazier travellers where they need to go. Regular maintenance only slows their degeneration, and the lifts creak constantly when in motion, breakdowns a regular part of colony life.
Sir Heras commandeers the last spot on a lift as it is about to ascend, squeezing in between a crate of fish and several sacks of unidentified mush. ‘I’ll prepare the way for you, Champion, and find out where the welcoming party is. When I’m satisfied things are as they should be, I’ll send down a lift for you.’ She looks critically at the lift. ‘Which might be a while.’ Sir Heras turns to the young man and woman next to the Champion, who immediately snap to attention. ‘Squire Borz, Squire Nama, if the Champion is anything less than delighted when I return, you will be held responsible.’
‘Yes, Sir Heras,’ they say together.
‘And remember,’ she adds as the lift begins to hoist her upwards. ‘The Winged Eye is watching, always.’
The three of them watch the disc sway as it lurches slowly towards its first stop. Neither squire relaxes until it is out of sight.
Wind whistles free and loud around them, underscored by the screech of birds and waves breaking on the rocks.
Time passes.
Borz begins to fidget.
Nama looks off to her right in order to surreptitiously scratch her nose.
The Champion works to suppress a yawn.
‘Excuse me, Champion, sir,’ says Nama. ‘Are you hungry?’
The Champion shakes his head.
She looks disappointed, then asks, ‘Thirsty?’
The Champion shakes his head.
‘Oh.’
A stubborn glow hangs in the sky, staving off the night if not the cold.
The Champion yawns.
Borz yawns.
Nama yawns.
The two squires exchange a look and something passes between them. Borz is the first to crack, his serene expression crumbling under the urge to giggle. Nama gives him a warning look but soon follows. The harder they try to remain composed, the more energy the unvoiced laughter gains. But a lifetime of training is not for nothing and the squires slowly marshal their faces to calm.
When the Champion takes off his helm, his grin is broad, and he has to wipe wetness from the corner of his eye. When he is sure he has the squire’s attention, he yawns again.
Nama locks her jaw into place but Borz is not so successful, contorting his face in a variety of ways to stop the yawn from taking over.
The Champion’s shoulders start to shake and Nama howls with laughter, undignified. This is too much for Borz, who starts laughing too.
When the three have settled, Borz plucks up some courage. ‘Ch-Champion, may I ask, forgive me, I mean no offence, but I was wondering, I, well, that is … are you bored?’
Still smiling, the Champion nods.
Borz looks to Nama for support but the other squire stands transfixed by the moment, unable to offer help. ‘Ah, good, I mean, not good, bad in fact, that is, if you don’t mind me asking, what would you like to do?’
The Champion considers, breath misting in the evening air. Amber eyes sparkle with a sudden idea. The helmet is clicked back into place and he points at the sword on Nama’s back, before opening his hand.
As if moving in slow motion, Nama draws her squire’s sword and offers the hilt to the Champion.
He takes it, tests it, nods. Little more than a practice weapon, the blade has no song and no essence flows within, but it is well made and weighted, more than capable of causing injury.
The Champion points at Borz’s sword.
‘You want to take, no, you want me to give you my weapon too?’
The Champion shakes his head. He points at Borz, then assumes a ready position.
‘You … want to spar? M-me?’
The Champion nods.
Even as Borz’s brain tries to cope with what is happening, his body assumes the proper form, his weapon held high, tip pointing towards the Champion’s head.
‘Are you, are you really sure?’
The Champion lifts his free hand, beckons.
‘A-alright then,’ says Borz, teeth chattering from nerves rather than cold. The young squire takes a breath and then attacks, singing the accompaniment to each move out of habit, unnecessarily. The first attack starts swiftly, but slows before impact, Borz unable to bring himself to hit the Champion properly.
Thrusts are swiftly parried, the two blades moving easily into a rhythm.
Even boosted by his armour, the Champion is not much taller than Borz, the squire having the advantage of size and youth. As his confidence grows, so too does the strength of his attack. The Champion steps back, allowing them to slice air, or he blocks, twisting the heavy strikes away, skilful.
Then, without warning, the Champion moves forward, breaking the rhythm. Borz is thrown, trying to pull back into a defensive stance, his blade naturally moving to a high guard.
But the Champion’s attack is low, the flat of the blade slapping his unguarded thigh. On reflex, Borz yanks his sword down but the Champion’s is no longer there, arcing up, to tag Borz’s shoulder.
‘Shit!’ says Borz and then falls into a long litany of apologies.
The Champion steps back, salutes, and Borz, still apologizing, does the same.
Nama looks at the Champion, nervous, but daring to hope her turn has come. When he returns her weapon, he does not ask for Borz’s, instead he gestures for the two of the
m to practice.
Instantly, they do, Borz using height and reach to his advantage, favouring the high stance, while Nama goes low, aggressive.
Only when they are fully committed does the Champion’s posture slump. Panting, shoulders rounding, he leans against a rock to recover, working his sword arm in gentle circles. Now that he no longer hides it, his hand trembles with fatigue.
But when the squire’s have finished, he stands tall again, their champion, unbreakable, unbeatable, a rock for resting hope.
*
The lift, when it finally descends, has undergone a transformation. Cleared of crates and sacks, sandblasted, scrubbed, a rushed job done well. Some stains are too stubborn to shift but, around them, polished surfaces glint under neon lights.
Sir Heras and an honour guard come down with it.
Next to the Seraph Knight, the guards look messy, young men and women in ill-fitting uniforms, worn through years of use and repair. Despite the fact that life and opportunity still stretch ahead, they show little spark.
Twice, the lift stalls on the way up, prompting Sir Heras to impatient muttering and the guards to mumbled apologies. They pass several small clusters of buildings, mostly habitation. The best offer views of the sea, the worst have no windows at all. None of the residents have decorated, leaving the birds free to paint instead, speckling and streaking, off-white on grey plastic.
The sound of industry greets them at the top: four giant cylinders, fat legged, each squatting over a hole in the floor. Milky tubes run vertically from beneath them into the mountain, humming. Around them are scattered a number of factory buildings, linked by more tubes, shadows flickering inside as unidentified objects are passed from one location to another.
Not many people are outside in the open on top of the mountain, but those who are move quickly, nervously. As soon as they see the Champion and his entourage, they form a line and kneel. Several recite the litany of the Winged Eye, regarding the new arrivals with a kind of grudging hope.
‘I checked the landing pad,’ Sir Heras says to the Champion as they pass the line of lowered heads. ‘One of the support struts was damaged. It was difficult to get a close look at it but I could see signs of wear.’ She tuts. ‘So it may just be poor maintenance. Either way, they should have informed us of the situation earlier. There are protocols for dealing with problems like this. Clear and detailed protocols. It troubles me when they’re not followed.’
They are led up a steep set of steps towards the highest part of the mountain where a solid building awaits them. Little spikes have been set into the rock, a hundred middle fingers raised against any birds with the desire to nest. At the top of the steps, beneath broken antennae and a turret, the long barrel well oiled, is a door.
Inside, they find a small room filled with a rotating image of the colony that switches off as they enter, leaving the space bare, save for a short man in governor’s robes, and a bland-faced attendant at his shoulder.
‘Welcome to Fortitude’s Peak, Champion,’ says the short man, and as soon as his face animates, the likeness to Sir Heras is unmistakable. ‘My name is Leeram. How may I assist you?’
Sir Heras answers for him. ‘You can start by explaining yourself. Things have gone downhill since I lived here.’ She begins ticking things off on her fingers: ‘Faulty lifts, a landing pad unfit for purpose, disrespectful comms staff!’ Her voice has risen an octave. ‘And your soldiers can’t even muster a decent set of fucking clothes!’
The attendant’s face twitches at the sound of swearing but Leeram doesn’t react. ‘I do apologize. Things have been trying of late.’
‘Trying? Have you looked out of your window lately? Fortitude’s Peak is unclean, undisciplined, unfit for purpose.’
Leeram gives the Champion a nervous look. ‘That seems a little harsh.’
‘It does not. This colony is a disgrace!’
‘Yes,’ he agrees, lowering his head, submissive. ‘You’re right. We should be doing better.’ The attendant’s lips move and Leeram’s eyes lose focus for a moment before he adds, ‘Now that you’re here I’m confident we’ll be able to turn things around. As I mentioned, we’ve been having difficulties. Would you care for refreshments or do you wish to get straight to business?’
At the mention of food, the Champion starts to nod but Sir Heras is already replying. ‘I think we’ve had enough time wasted for one day, don’t you? Let’s get to it.’
Something in her manner manages to get under Leeram’s skin, and for a moment his face becomes a mirror of her aggression, before fading, making the man seem older, weaker. ‘Of course. As you know, these are difficult times and, out here on the fringes, it sometimes feels as if the Empire forgets we exist.’
Sir Heras grinds her teeth. ‘The Empire has never forgotten Fortitude’s Peak, nor has it forgotten that you haven’t delivered your latest quota.’
Leeram seems to crumble; he looks at the floor.
‘In the governor’s defence,’ responds the attendant in neutral tones, ‘he has sought aid for maintenance through proper channels, including a number of requests for skilled engineers to come and fix the lifts, latterly flagged as urgent, but they have been ignored. If it pleases you, Champion, I can have the exact times and dates of each request for engineers and special parts made available to you. Our records go back over three years.’
The Champion shakes his head.
‘Ah yes,’ says Leeram, rallying. ‘This is Gull. ‘He knows the workings of the colony better than anyone.’
‘Nobody should know the colony better than its governor,’ says Sir Heras.
‘Regarding the landing pad,’ Gull continues, ‘until your unscheduled visit, we’ve had no cause to use it. We have no sky-ships of our own and all visitors come by sea. Your arrival brought to light the state of decay in a number of key load-bearing sections. This was a cause for great alarm. I take full responsibility for the oversight, but felt that, above all, your safety was paramount. The conduct of the comms officer is regrettable, and you will have a formal apology and details of punishment by midday tomorrow. Is that acceptable?’
The Champion steps forward, silencing Sir Heras, and nods.
‘You mentioned the state of our soldiers,’ says Gull. ‘The truth is we have no army, those that came to greet you are volunteers who operate for us on a part time basis.’
‘Yes,’ says Leeram. ‘Which really is the heart of the problem. Since the troops stationed here were redeployed, we’ve only had a skeletal force to protect the colony. That isn’t usually an issue, our isolation alone is enough to protect us. But with all this talk of raiders, I felt I had to do something.
‘And, as always, Fortitude’s Peak rose to the challenge. There was no shortage of volunteers. Willing bodies we have in abundance but they’re poorly equipped and mostly unarmed. May I ask, Champion, if you are planning to send troops to fortify our position?’
The Champion shakes his head.
‘But the raiders?’
The Champion makes a show of looking for something, his head turning left, right, left and right again, then armoured shoulders shrug.
‘It’s true,’ Leeram concedes, ‘we don’t know much about them, but they’re real, and they’ve taken Sea Garden. Word is they’re on their way here. Even the First couldn’t stop them! One of its warships is floating out there as testament to that. Our captains are afraid to sail, and others are afraid to come to us. Morale is getting lower by the day. There’s even talk of people abandoning the colony altogether. Champion, I’m begging you, help us before it’s too late.’
‘There is another option,’ Gull adds quietly.
‘Oh, not this again,’ mutters Leeram.
‘Go on,’ says Sir Heras. ‘All options should be heard.’
Leeram steps back, allowing Gull to continue. ‘A cache of weapons is stored here, enough for us to outfit a sizeable force, but they are locked tight in the colony vault. While the Governor has the key, he cannot use it with
out authorization from the Empire. If you, Champion, were to give that authorization, the colony could arm itself.’
There is a pause.
‘Would you consider doing that for us?’ asks Leeram.
Everyone looks at the Champion.
The Champion looks from the pleading face of Leeram, to the unhappy one of Sir Heras. Out of the corner of his eye, two squires stare.
After a while, he shakes his head.
‘But what about the raiders?’ asks Leeram.
The Champion points at the governor, then points to his eye.
‘Have I seen them?’
The Champion nods.
‘Well … not in person, no.’
The Champion points at Gull.
‘I haven’t seen them either,’ the attendant replies, ‘but ships have gone missing, and the loss of Sea Garden is undeniable.’
The Champion points to himself, to his own eye, then points towards the door.
‘You’re going to Sea Garden yourself?’ Leeram exclaims. ‘But that would be suicide. You can’t!’
‘You forget yourself,’ Sir Heras interrupts. ‘The Champion goes where he pleases. Now, show us to our beds. We leave at dawn.’
*
‘Between us,’ Sir Heras says as the sky-ship skims dawn-touched seas, ‘there is considerable risk in approaching a hostile location with such small numbers. Are you sure you wish to proceed?’
The Champion raises an eyebrow.
‘I’m not concerned for my own life or that of the squires,’ she adds. ‘But if anything happened to you, it would be a great loss to the Empire.’
The Champion turns away so she cannot see him roll his eyes.
The sky-ship soon reaches its destination: a lone warship, drifting, the prow dangerously low in the water.
Setting its engines to hover, the sky-ship hangs in the air. Cables unspool from one wing, magnetic tips locking into place on the larger vessel’s deck.