by Peter Newman
‘You’re good to go,’ says the pilot.
Sir Heras insists the Champion wait while they ensure the vessel is safe to board. Borz is pushed to the edge of the open hatch and clipped to one of the cables before being ejected, unceremonious.
When he has landed, and waved to prove he is alive and unbroken, Sir Heras attaches herself. ‘When I’m satisfied with our initial search, I’ll give the all clear.’ And then she steps out, to be whisked away by cable, magnets and gravity.
Nama and the Champion watch from the hatch. The young squire risks a look over her shoulder, then says, ‘May I ask a question?’
The Champion gives a nod, firm.
‘Why did you bring us here?’
The Champion reaches out, taps the side of her head.
‘Oh,’ says Nama, ‘well, if was going to guess, I’d say you don’t trust the governor.’ The Champion moves his index and middle finger in a circle. ‘… And you wanted to see the ship for yourself …’ His fingers keep circling. ‘… But we already knew about the ship from the briefing so there’s no point in coming here unless …’ Her eyes widen. ‘You don’t trust the briefing either!’
The Champion gives her shoulder a squeeze and starts connecting himself to one of the cables.
Not long after, Sir Heras gives the signal and the two of them rappel down to deck.
Stripped of weapons, supplies and crew, the warship feels barren, forsaken. The Champion begins to walk, moving quickly from one area to the next, Nama following in his wake. There is little to examine; few places warrant a search.
‘It’s as reported,’ says Sir Heras, joining them. ‘The ship’s been completely ransacked. Everything that isn’t bonded to the frame has been taken, and a few things that were. What really puzzles me is that the main engines are missing. I don’t see how that’s possible. The raiders would need something of this class of ship or bigger to manage that. Worrying. Very worrying. And how did they perform the operation at sea without cutting a great big hole in the hull? I’m no engineer but it suggests skills and expertise beyond even the …’ she trails off, shaking her head. ‘No, it’s ridiculous to even consider it.’
The Champion keeps walking, finding little, a frown settling beneath the visor.
‘I’ve sent Borz to complete the search below but I doubt he’ll find anything.’
They arrive at the main mast. Pieces of black armour have been riveted into place, close to each other but not touching, making the shape of a man, exploded. On top is the face plate of a helm, cracked, three pieces arranged to show the original shape but not rejoined, emphasizing the breaks.
The Champion looks up at it thoughtfully. After a while he puts a hand on the mast. Stripped bare, there are no handholds, nothing to aid the climb.
‘Nama,’ snaps Sir Heras, ‘bring the Champion down a piece of the armour.’
Dutifully, the young squire tries, scrambling up partway before sliding down again.
Sir Heras tuts. ‘I’m going to check on Borz. By the time I get back, I expect to see some black plate in the Champion’s hands.’
Nama salutes and returns to the task. Enthusiasm gains her an extra two inches of height, her prize still well beyond her grasp.
‘Useless,’ mutters the knight, ducking through a nearby door.
As Nama tries a third time, the Champion shakes his head.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m just not good enough.’
The Champion gives a sad sigh then walks to the base of the mast. Linking his hands together to make a platform, he braces himself before looking at Nama, expectant.
‘I couldn’t,’ she begins, but a smile, small, determined, has already appeared on her face.
The Champion continues to watch her.
‘I’ll go on three,’ she says, backing off to get a good run up. ‘One, two, three!’
At speed she leaps, her foot finding his waiting hands. He pushes up, she kicks off, sailing into the air. Using that momentum, Nama climbs for all she’s worth, getting far higher than before.
But not nearly high enough.
When she cannot get any further she clings stubbornly to the mast, as if a pause will restore her strength, not drain it further. Gravity slowly asserts itself and, with a long, shrill squeak, she slides back to the deck.
The Champion sighs.
Nama hangs her head. ‘I am useless.’
For a few moments neither move. Then the Champion smacks the side of his head, and marches away. He goes to the cables running to the sky-ship above, and detaches them, before walking back to towards Nama.
Alert to the change, the pilot allows the sky-ship to drift with him, making it appear as if the Champion were dragging it across the sky, like a giant metal balloon.
Cables are quickly attached to the mast and Nama to the cables. The Champion steps back, smiling, as the young squire is whisked into position, removing the armour with ease.
By the time Sir Heras comes back, Nama has returned to deck, and the Champion is studying part of the faceplate.
‘You did it in the end then,’ comments the knight before walking round to the Champion’s side. ‘Yes, that’s the First’s armour alright.’
The Champion shakes his head.
‘But it’s the same black armour it wears. And these weird lines around the mouth look like teeth. Horrible.’
The Champion shakes his head.
‘But … if this isn’t the First’s armour, then what’s going on?’
‘It could be to scare people away,’ says Nama. ‘If they can convince—’
‘Quiet,’ interrupts Sir Heras. ‘We’re trying to think. If we want your opinion we’ll tell you.’ She turns back to the Champion, oblivious to the way amber eyes have narrowed. ‘Clearly this is a ruse to scare the local populous. If they believe these raiders can defeat the First, then no ship will dare to sail these waters. But again, the question is who would profit from this?’
Nama looks for an invitation to speak, hopeful. She doesn’t get one.
Instead they go below deck, walking through storage chambers, smooth walled, where Borz is waiting for them, trying to conceal his excitement.
‘Report, Squire Borz,’ says Sir Heras.
‘I searched the ship but I couldn’t find anything.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Well,’ says Borz, ‘yes and no, Sir Heras.’
‘You had better start making sense soon, squire.’
‘Y-yes, Sir Heras. I thought it was odd to find nothing, that is, no signs of battle, and so little onboard. This is a war vessel, at least it looks like one, but the gun ports are empty. There’s no ammo pods, which is understandable because the raiders would have wanted to steal them but there are no turrets either. Not a single one!’
‘We know this already and it makes sense. The raiders have the skill to take the engines, so taking the guns is hardly a problem.’
‘But, but, if they can do that, why not take the ship?’
‘Because,’ says Sir Heras, ‘they wanted to leave this here as a warning, to show their power. Now I think it’s time we were going.’
Borz raises a hand. ‘I have more to say.’
Before Sir Heras can reply, the Champion gives a nod.
In his excitement, Borz’s words come thick and fast and hard to follow. ‘I checked carefully and the only damage the ship has received is where she’s drifted into some rocks. Otherwise she’s in perfect condition. I thought this was odd too: most of our ships have seen years of action. So I tried to find out which ship this is and it doesn’t have a name or log number! And then I had an idea, it’s just a theory but I think it’s right, it feels right anyway—’
‘For suns’ sake, Borz, get to the point!’
‘Sorry, Sir Heras, sorry, yes, what I’m thinking is: this ship was never launched or named or crewed at all. And the raiders didn’t steal the engines because the ship never had any! Do you see? This is just a shell that was never outfitted.’
‘So,’ Sir Heras says, ‘the raiders towed an unpowered frame out here and spread the rumour that it belonged to the First.’
‘If there even are raiders,’ adds Nama.
Sir Heras is about to glare when a voice crackles to life inside her helmet, distracting. ‘That was the pilot. He picked up a strange reading nearby, something under the water, then it vanished. It could be a glitch,’ she says, starting up the stairs. ‘But it won’t be. I’m going to investigate. You two, stay here and protect the Champion, and be on your guard.’ She draws her sword, the blade ringing out, amplified in the hollow guts of the ship.
Neither squire dares to speak, though both draw their weapons.
Minutes pass, tense, and then a sound reaches them, fizzing, hissing. Slowly, the two squires edge towards it, the Champion following until they reach the far side of the hull, where heat makes glowing lines on the curving wall. They arrive to see two sides of a rectangle already formed, a third quickly joining them, made by a glittering, spark spitting light.
Old instincts stir from slumber and the Champion reaches for his sword, fingers closing on empty air where once a hilt would be waiting.
Behind his visor, the Champion’s lips move, shaping a curse.
‘What should we do?’ asks Borz. The Champion puts a finger to his lips but the young squire doesn’t notice, too busy staring at the light turning ninety degrees to start the fourth line of the rectangle. ‘Sir Heras,’ he cries out, ‘we need you! Help!’
The fourth line meets the start of the first, and a section of hull pops out, tumbling down with a clatter. Smoke wafts in through the new hole and through it another ship, a small submersible, is visible, connected to them by a short tunnel. Like all of the technology involved, the seal around the edge is worn, imperfect, a steady stream of sea water accompanying the two men that jump inside.
The new arrivals wear tough clothes, travel worn, their faces covered by masks. Other details take second place to the shrapnel gun in the hands of one, and the blow torch in the hands of the other.
The first one lands, firing off a shot, wild, as he finds his feet, while the second slips, falling hard on his back.
Borz charges the gunman, but the space between them is too large, allowing the man plenty of time to take aim.
Swordless, the Champion rips off his helmet, drawing back to throw. However it is not weighted for flight and drags in the air, slowing to tap politely on the gunman’s leg.
The shrapnel gun explodes into life, covering Borz in a spray of twisted metal and knocking him to the ground.
While Nama freezes, unsure what to do, the Champion charges.
A thin sheen of water already covers the hold, making wet slapping sounds each time one of the Champion’s boots strikes the ground. He is going as fast as he can but old injuries in his thigh plague him, forcing the run into a stuttering limp, frantic.
The gunman turns but holds fire, allowing the Champion to get close before pulling the trigger.
Unlike the squires, the Champion is wearing the finest armour the Empire can produce, far too tough to be penetrated by cheap projectiles. The force however, is enough to blow the Champion off his feet, sending him skidding through shallow water.
He lays there on his back, wheezing, trying to gulp down air while the gunman advances, taking his time, taking aim at the Champion’s unprotected face.
Nama tries to move to his aid but the other man is on his feet now, holding her off with a plume of flame, sweeping it back and forth.
The Champion raises his arms as the shrapnel gun fires again, and water tinkles to the sound of rain, razor sharp. He risks a look. The gunman slams a fresh cartridge into place and the Champion tries to sit up, to take action before it is too late, but instead his face twists in discomfort, one hand going to his side.
From the other end of the hold, a voice calls out, given resonance by a singing sword. Air shimmers as the note strikes the gunman, blasting him sideways, his death cry cut off as something explodes within his skull.
The man with the blowtorch sees his companion fall. He sees Sir Heras leaping down the last few steps into the hold, and runs.
Her song is faster.
The man falls, blood leaking from his ears to mix with the rising seawater. There is a hiss and the blowtorch sputters and goes out.
Sir Heras sheathes her sword and helps the Champion to his feet. ‘Forgive my lateness, Champion.’
He waves the need for apologies away.
‘Are you hurt?’
He coughs a few times but shakes his head, pointing instead at Borz’s crumpled form.
Sir Heras glances over. ‘He’ll live. Now, we’d better get you back to the sky-ship.’ As she helps the Champion up the steps, the knight calls over her shoulder, ‘Squire Nama, check the bodies for anything of interest, and retrieve the Champion’s helmet.’
‘Yes, Sir Heras.’
‘Then patch up Borz enough to transport him onto deck.’
‘Yes, Sir Heras.’
‘And be quick about it, this ship isn’t staying afloat for much longer.’
*
The hold of the sky-ship is quiet, Sir Heras busy composing her report, the others focused on recovery.
Stubborn bits of shrapnel are wiggled and pulled, worked free of the Champion’s armour. Each one leaves behind a scar where the metal has been gouged. The Champion insists on doing this job himself, insists on having something to do, anything that keeps him from observing the similar operation taking place nearby.
Borz is strapped down flat, his face and body relaxed. Meds keep him docile as Nama tends to his injuries, teasing out shards that have hooked through armour and into flesh.
Luckily, most of the wounds are superficial, the kind that will make good stories when the squires return home. Lost blood is replaceable, and a cocktail of pills and a liberal application of Skyn enough to have Borz back on his feet.
There is no time to repair his squire’s armour however, Sea Garden already visible to the naked eye from the cockpit.
Sir Heras comes and sits next to the Champion. ‘How do you want to proceed? I’d recommend a high pass in the sky-ship. They might see us but we could at least get some idea of the situation down there.’
The Champion assents, and the pilot gets to work.
From above, Sea Garden seems peaceful. No buildings burn, no bodies litter the streets. Each little island sits serenely with its neighbours, flowers blooming in the rocks. Open bridges connect each one, and people can be seen walking them, calm and without fear.
The port appears busy, a gaggle of trader ships, independents, gathered together, ant-like people barrowing their goods by ramp, down and up again.
‘Doesn’t look like a colony under siege to me,’ says Sir Heras. ‘What now?’
The Champion points and the sky-ship descends, touching down on sheltered water between three of Sea Garden’s islands.
Much of the colony’s value is hidden beneath the surface, underwater farms that once stretched for miles in all directions. Now a more modest crop is kept, the outlying sea fields too hard to maintain in tainted waters.
Regular size insects buzz happily from one plant to another, giving a rare glimpse of what the rest of the world was like before the Breach and the arrival of the infernal hordes.
The Champion, Sir Heras and the squires clamber over one of the isles, making for the nearest bridge. People stop and stare; several find reason to be elsewhere, and soon, boats are pulling in their ramps, making for open waters.
A sailor climbs onto the bridge ahead of them and drops to one knee. ‘I knew you’d come!’ he says. ‘I was loyal! I never stopped believing in the Empire! Don’t punish me, punish them!’
Another man joins him, pulling off his cap and pressing it against his chest. ‘Yes, make them pay. I got goods rotting in my store because of these bastards!’
The Champion ignores them, focusing on one of the central isles, where Sea Garden’s adm
inistration are based.
A woman watches from another bridge, a battered harpoon slung over one shoulder. She is neither deferent nor afraid.
Sir Heras leans closer to the Champion as they walk. ‘I’ve seen a few like her since we landed. Clean them up, put them in uniform and they could be soldiers. They’ve had training, I’d stake my name on it.’
At the other end of the bridge a lone house is flying a flag of the Empire of the Winged Eye. The creases have yet to drop out of it. Further up, they see people hurriedly putting things away, ornaments and trinkets from the south, signs of new wealth, of guilt.
‘Mark them,’ says Sir Heras to the squires. ‘I want the names of every failed citizen recorded for my report.’
The rocky path that leads to Sea Garden’s headquarters is empty, people falling over each other in their rush to not be seen, retreating behind closing doors, ducking behind buildings and rocks. One woman even dives into the sea, screaming, as the Champion strides into view.
Doors open before the group arrive, the people on the other side of them careful to bow their heads. None of them wears uniform or identification, and the squires stop to add them to their lists.
‘Where is the governor?’ asks Sir Heras.
They are led to an office with pleasant views of rocks, flower carpeted, and clear waters. Before the grand window is a comms desk, a dent on one side of its screen the only sign of recent relocation. Between the window and the desk is a man, doing his best to look small, despite his height. Robes in the governor’s style adorn him but they have been tailored differently, adding a little width to the shoulders, then tapering down to make a triangle at the waist. The sleeves are longer too, edged in fine silver plate, the kind famously forged in Fortitude’s Peak.
The Champion and Sir Heras glare at the man, seeming to conjure sweat on his forehead, lip and neck by rage alone.
He looks from one to the other, then, hopefully, over their shoulders but the doors have already closed, sealing him inside. ‘Welcome to Sea Garden,’ he says at last.
‘We have the governor of Sea Garden in our records,’ says Sir Heras. ‘My chip is projecting a picture of her face into my mind as we speak. You are not her. Your authority has not been given by the Empire.’ She draws her sword. ‘You will explain who you are and what has happened.’ She raises the weapon in line with his neck. ‘Speak.’