by Peter Newman
Rapidly, his head bobs, and he swallows, trying to turn an expression of terror into something else. ‘My predecessor was removed from office. There were problems you see, we had – the people had – become angry because of her corruption—’
He is interrupted by Sir Heras’s sword, which seems to twitch towards him, eager. ‘You look like an expert on corruption to me. I would remind you that you stand before the Champion of the Empire of the Winged Eye, and one of its Seraph Knights. Lies cannot fool us but they will condemn you.’
The Champion folds his arms, continues to glare.
‘I …’ begins the man, dabbing at his forehead, suddenly speaking very slowly, ‘… was put into this position because the old governor was—’
‘By who?’ asks Sir Heras.
‘Who?’
‘Yes. If we didn’t put you into power who did?’
‘I …’
‘And what had the old governor done to anger the people so?’
‘She was overworking the colonists and keeping profits for herself.’
Her sword hums low. ‘Lies!’
The Champion narrows his eyes.
With a sob, the man throws himself forward onto the desk. ‘Forgive me, please! I have information. I’ll tell you everything, everything! All I ask is that you spare me.’ A thought seems to strike him and he adds, ‘And no pain, I can’t bear pain!’
‘Confess all and we will see. You can start by answering this question: was your predecessor corrupt?’
The man has the grace to look guilty. ‘No.’
‘Then how did you expect to survive our judgment? Are you really as stupid as you look?’
‘They told me the Empire wouldn’t come. They promised I had nothing to fear.’
‘Who did? Who told you?’
There is a pause as the man works some saliva into his dry throat. ‘The raiders did.’
Borz gasps aloud, and the Champion’s eyebrows rise.
‘And how exactly,’ asks Sir Heras in a near whisper, ‘would raiders know what the Empire would or would not do?’
‘Because their leader used to be one of you.’
‘A knight? I think not!’
‘No, not a Seraph Knight, a Lens. He made all this happen, the coup, the trade agreements, all of it. I provide the raiders with food and a base, and in return, he gave me this position and free reign to do things as I saw fit.’
‘What’s the traitor’s name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘I’ve never met him but he promised that everyone would be too scared to come here and that, by the time the Empire took action, it would all be over.’
Sir Heras lets the tip of her sword drift down until it sits next to the man’s ear. ‘What would be over?’
‘The attack on Fortitude’s Peak. The raiders got the call to mobilize this morning.’
*
Within minutes of landing, the Champion, Sir Heras, and the two squires are stood in front of Governor Leeram. Gull is at his side, a calm balance to his superior’s open fear.
‘Now?’ asks Leeram, hoping that there’s been some terrible mistake. ‘The raiders are coming now?’
The Champion nods.
‘How many? How long do we have?’ He begins to pull at his hair. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Calm yourself,’ says Sir Heras. ‘The Empire will not sit idly by while raiders attack loyal citizens.’
‘Praise be to the mercy of the Winged Eye!’
While the Leeram has switched from terror to joy, Gull remains unmoved. ‘Might we enquire as to the specifics of this aid?’
‘It will be sufficient to drive off some raiders, believe me.’
‘And when, precisely, is it expected to arrive?’
‘I’m not sure I like your tone, citizen.’ Sir Heras gives Gull her best look of disapproval. ‘The reinforcements are still mobilizing. We will need to hold the raiders off for however long it takes them to get here.’
‘But,’ says Leeram, his joy fading faster than it arrived, ‘that could take days! Weeks!’
‘May I remind you, Governor, that you are supposed to be a role model for those under your care, not a burden for your staff.’ She makes a cutting gesture with her hand. ‘Enough. There are preparations to make. We’ve encountered the raiders ourselves. They’re competent, but poorly armed with short to medium range capabilities at best. Fortitude’s Peak is easily defendable. Pull up the lifts, block the paths and the only option they have is to climb. We’ll be able to pick them off the mountainside with ease.’
Leeram takes a breath to calm himself, ‘With what?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You said we could pick them off the mountainside. I’m asking you what tools my people will have to achieve this?’
Sir Heras points a finger, accusing. ‘Are you saying you don’t have your own weapons tucked away? Oh yes, we know about your secret stash.’
Leeram covers his face for a moment, then the tension leaks out of him, and he stands straighter. ‘Yes. It’s true, I have been trying to trade for weapons.’
‘Illegally.’
‘Yes, illegally. In three years of asking, you’re the first help we’ve seen. I was worried that the raiders would come here eventually and so I took matters into my own hands.’ Sir Heras shakes head, but this seems to stir Leeram to anger rather than shame. ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll see me punished, sister, but what was I supposed to do?’
‘Obey the law.’
‘If only it was so simple. Obeying the law is fine, but what about my duty to protect those in my care? What happens when that conflicts with the law?’ He gives a laugh, short, bitter. ‘The irony is, the weapons aren’t effective. Anything we could buy more complex than a sharpened stick is as likely to blow up in our hands as to kill an enemy. We kept them though, just in case. You can go and look if you like, our secret scrap pile.’
‘Have no fear of that. When the time comes, there will be a full accounting.’
‘But until then,’ says Leeram, ‘what are we going to do?’
‘You will do all you can to hold off the invaders. As for us, that will depend on the Champion.’
All eyes go to the Champion, who steps forward and puts his hands on Leeram’s shoulders, drawing the man straight again.
‘Will you stay with us, Champion?’
The Champion nods.
‘Fight with us?’
The Champion nods.
‘Thank you.’
‘If,’ Gull adds, ‘the Champion were to allow it, we could arm ourselves.’
‘Those weapons are not meant for civilian use,’ says Sir Heras.
‘But,’ replies Gull, ‘we have soldiers here.’
‘Hardly. What you have are poor imitations.’
The Champion raises a hand for silence, then looks at Gull and Leeram, giving them a nod.
Sir Heras’s lips pale as she presses them together. ‘Champion, might I ask we have a word in private.’
The Champion assents.
‘Please, use my office,’ says Leeram. ‘We will await you at the vault.’
Sir Heras watches them leave, taking breath but not speaking until the echoes of their footsteps have faded.
‘With your permission, Champion, I will return to the sky-ship and make contact with the Shining City. I have a report to make and some questions to ask. If we can identify which of the Lenses has betrayed us, it may give us insight into their strategy.’
The Champion nods.
‘What should we do, Sir Heras?’ asks Nama.
‘Whatever the Champion tells you, and after that, practice.’
*
A new dynamism grips Fortitude’s Peak, born of panic. Factory blocks quiver and fall silent, drills and extractors cease their labour, and workers join guards, gradually shepherded into a rough kind of formation outside the great vault.
From the outside most of it is hidden save f
or a circle of silver, six feet in diameter, set deep into the mountain. Leeram, Gull and the Champion stand before it.
Gull officiates, asking questions that Leeram answers, every word recorded for the sake of protocol.
‘And you do this of your own free will, without coercion and with the blessing of the Winged Eye?’
Leeram glances at the Champion. ‘I do.’
‘Then step forward and place your hand against the vault’s door.’
Leeram does so, announcing his name, position and desire for access. He feels metal hum underneath his palm, and for a moment, the conviction that his hand has adhered to its surface, immovable. Then it passes and the door splits into segments, spiralling open to reveal a chamber packed with relics, guns and fire lances, waiting to be used.
While Gull oversees their distribution, Leeram organizes the defences. Mined rock that has sat for years, collecting moss, is hefted to the main mountain path and turned into a crude barrier. All three lifts are brought up to the top level and deactivated, and ships are moved from the dock to the opposite side of the mountain, hidden in the hope they will be overlooked.
Meanwhile, the Champion retreats to a quieter ledge, watching the two squires work on their technique. Both are determined, pushing themselves to be better. Their blades swish back and forth, running through sequences that have served generations of Seraph Knights.
As they prepare for another bout, the Champion comes over, steps between them. Nama and Borz move to put away their weapons but the Champion stops them. Moving around the squires, he makes subtle adjustments, widening their stance, getting Nama to loosen her grip, getting Borz to sit lower in his guard position, with a slight bend to the knees.
Slowly, he walks them through the sequences, pausing them, as if they were characters on a screen, to refine each movement, then playing them again, and again, not perfect but improved.
Borz’s weaknesses highlight Nama’s and vice versa. He favours the high stance, her the low, one collecting bruises on his ankles, the other on her shoulders.
The Champion borrows Borz’s sword, beckons Nama to attack him. She does, and he steps back, slapping the side of her head with the flat of his sword.
As she rubs vigorously at her ear, he returns Borz’s weapon, takes Nama’s. Borz’s blade comes for the Champion’s head, but the Champion has already sidestepped, smacking Borz across the back of the legs.
‘We understand, Champion. We’ll try and protect ourselves better.’
‘But, Borz, you always fight high.’
‘And you, low,’ he says back, nerves making it sound like an insult.
‘I know. My point is that we can’t change it now.’
‘Sorry, it’s just the raiders will be here any moment and we’ll never be ready in time. What are we going to do?’
Nama shrugs. ‘Practice more?’
‘But it won’t be enough!’
The Champion walks over to Borz and puts his hands on the squire’s shoulders. Thinking this is a gestures of support, Borz is surprised to find himself moving, the Champion turning him in a circular arc until he is standing next to Nama.
As the two squires watch him, puzzled, the Champion raises a fist and moves it in slow motion towards Nama’s head. With his other hand he reaches out, fingers guiding Borz’s sword to block the strike.
Then, as if underwater, he moves as if to kick Borz in the shin.
Nama smiles, moves her sword in the way.
The Champion steps back.
‘We fight together!’ says Borz. ‘I block high.’
‘And I block low,’ Nama finishes.
The Champion nods at them.
Seconds later, shouts are heard, one word repeated over and over, neighbours passing it from one to the other across Fortitude’s Peak. ‘Raiders!’
*
A warship drifts towards Fortitude’s Peak. Whatever powers it is barely up to the task. The colonists take up positions high up on the mountainside and wait for the battle to get to them, palms sweating on the grips of guns and makeshift weapons.
They are forced to wait a long time.
As tension rises, one man cracks, a mix of fear and the desire to test his new weapon getting the better of him, and he fires, a volley of spinning bullets arcing out over the water, then down, to splash midway between the raider’s ship and the colony.
Next to him, several jump in surprise and another two discharge their weapons. Then people start shouting at each other, their angry voices going on long after the shooting has ceased.
Meanwhile, the raider’s ship plods forward.
The early shots are not entirely wasted, giving the defenders an idea of range. It seems simply a case of waiting for the raiders to crawl into their sights.
The Champion reaches for something at his belt and finds it isn’t there. With a silent curse, he walks to the makeshift battlements, taking a rifle from one of the soldiers. He lifts the weapon, sets his eye to the scope.
With magnification, the warship appears similar to the one encountered outside Sea Garden. A frame without weapons or operating systems, a floating box, hollow.
Masked figures can be seen on deck; one is moving but the others are waiting, motionless.
The Champion frowns, continues to watch as the minutes tick by. The raiders seem preternaturally still, like bodies possessed by infernals, or the dead.
He returns the rifle and walks towards the other side of the mountain, Nama and Borz trailing after him.
‘Is something wrong?’ asks Nama.
The Champion holds up a finger. He points at Nama, then to his eye, then to his right. He does the same for Borz, pointing to his left. As they hurry off, he strides forward, until he reaches the edge of the cliff.
Looking down past the tips of his boots he sees only rocks and the waves breaking on them. But he continues to look, slowly following the cliff’s edge.
A cry from Nama gets his attention. ‘Over here!’
And he goes, Borz overtaking him, despite having double the distance to travel.
‘I saw movement down below,’ she says. ‘There are people down there!’
‘How many?’ asks Borz.
‘Hard to tell. They’re well hidden.’
‘The warship is a diversion! It must be. While we’re shooting at it, the raiders can scale the mountain this side.’
‘But,’ says Nama, ‘they’re not scaling it. They’re not moving at all.’
‘That doesn’t make sense. Surely they should be making the most of the distraction, unless they’re going to wait until we open fire. Yes, that must be it! Then they could use the noise of our guns to cover their attack.’
‘But it would take them hours to scale Fortitude’s Peak.’
Borz spreads his hands, ‘Then … they must have something else in mind.’
‘But what?’
‘I don’t know!’
They all peer over the side again, straining to make out any movement, but no raiders stir from their hiding places.
Borz suddenly jerks upright as if he’s been stung, and stands to attention. ‘Yes, Sir Heras, at once.’ He makes an adjustment to his helmet and the voice of the Seraph Knight comes through, distorted but audible.
‘I’ve finally got cooperation from the Shining City. They’ve sent details through of the Lenses that went missing. One of them has gone rogue and I recognized his face immediately: it’s Gull. He’s been here the whole fucking time! I’ve no doubt Leeram is in this up to his neck as well. That means there’ll be conspirators already inside Fortitude’s Peak, trained and, thanks to us, armed. This is going to be a bloodbath.
‘I’m on my way back now though we have permission to withdraw if that is your wish, Champion.’
Borz looks at the Champion for a moment. ‘That’s a very definite negative, Sir Heras.’
‘In that case,’ comes the crackling reply, ‘let’s make these bastards pay.’
As Sir Heras signs off, they hear the so
und of distant gunfire. The warship is discharging a single cannon, much to the amusement of those on the battlements. Though thunderous, each shot barely reaches the mountain’s base.
The Champion pulls off his helmet, lowering his head to listen.
Nama copies him, both picking up on another sound, quieter, less dramatic. ‘Is that…’ she asks, ‘Is that the sound of one of the generators turning back on?’
The Champion sets off at a run towards the lifts, the two squires joining him. When they hear the sound of shots being fired, they overtake him; Borz’s loping gait matched by Nama’s rapid strides.
Soon, the two squires have raced around the corner of one of the factory buildings, heading in the direction of battle.
Unlike them, the Champion slows rather than speeds up, old injuries catching up with him. When he reaches the same corner, he stops, one hand against the wall, the other against his side, taking long, laboured breaths. Each one comes slightly easier than the last, allowing him to straighten and set off again at a more conservative pace.
By the time he arrives, the lift is already descending, giving him one glance at a pile of guns stacked on its floor before it moves out of sight. Gull stands in front of the controls, while a woman crouches nearby, her back to him, her gun facing towards the rocks Nama and Borz crouch behind. The bodies of several colonists carpet the ground between them, an economic use of bullets in the ending of lives.
A few other defenders remain, but none dare to put their heads out of cover.
In the distance, the warship is visible, sparks flying on its hull where the colonists have started firing, its own cannon, useless, sounding loud in regular response.
With a screech, the lift cables stop moving, and Gull leans over the controls, making adjustments.
The Champion can see Borz and Nama planning their move, can see Gull’s companion ready to take them out. He edges forward, using cover to keep out of her line of sight.
Before he can close however, Leeram arrives with three more defenders. His face falls when he takes in the scene. ‘Gull! What in suns’ name are you doing?’
The cables begin to move again, in the opposite direction, and motors groan louder, the lift much heavier than it was on the way down.