by Peter Newman
Gull turns to give a quiet command to his companion. The Champion cannot hear the words but he can guess their meaning. He moves out of cover, rushing to support Leeram as the woman opens fire.
The man to Leeram’s right falls, the one to his left runs, and the last one freezes just long enough for the woman to touch the space over his heart with a small red dot.
‘No, please!’ he manages before the dot becomes a hole and the man crashes to the ground.
As the Champion arrives beside Leeram the woman hesitates, the barrel of her rifle veering away. Gull snaps something at her, unimpressed.
‘But it’s him, isn’t it?’ she replies. ‘The Champion, the one that fights with Gamma’s sword.’
‘He did,’ says Gull, ‘but he’s not carrying it now, you can shoot him, and the governor.’
Still hidden behind the wall, Borz and Nama make eye contact with the Champion.
The Champion gives a very slight but very definite nod.
The two squires nod back.
‘But,’ the woman begins, raising her rifle halfway into position. ‘What if The Seven get angry?’
Gull sighs as the two squires spring up from the wall.
Everything happens at once, one action cascading into another.
Gull points an empty hand at Leeram as the Champion steps between them …
The woman clocks the two squires running towards her, starts rising from her crouch …
As a dart flies from beneath the skin of Gull’s wrist …
And the woman’s rifle swings towards Nama’s face …
And, turning, the Champion catches the dart on a thick shoulder plate, where it quivers, harmless, toxins and tip held safe …
While Borz’s blade cuts down, slapping the rifle clear …
And Nama’s slices low, shattering an ankle, sending the woman into a cartwheel as Borz steps in, jabbing with the pommel, cracking her skull …
Nama letting momentum carry her forward, making for Gull …
Who shimmers, flickers, and is no longer there.
Nama, Borz, and the Champion stop, looking around in confusion.
Behind them, Leeram begins to babble, the words shredded by a shaking jaw and teeth clattering together. Though no bullet or dart has touched him, the governor has gone into shock.
There is a swish as Nama swings in the space where Gull stood.
Another as Borz does the same, swapping from vertical to horizontal slices.
The Champion moves to the rock wall, crouching down to scoop up a handful of pebbles and dust. Using the wall for support, he pulls himself up again, casting his arm outwards, the contents scattering to make the briefest of clouds.
For a moment, for the barest of blinks, the shape of an elbow is visible, moving away.
Nama’s sword finds it, the tip nicking, making blood seem to leak from empty air.
Gull starts to run but they see him now, a man-sized distortion of light, subtle, the edge of one elbow strikingly red. He is making for the gun dropped by his companion.
Borz approaches from the opposite direction, looking to arrive precious seconds too late.
Ignoring muscles that complain, sharp, the Champion goes to intercept, lowering a shoulder.
Nama tries to cut Gull down but he leaps away from her strike, sailing the last few feet towards the waiting gun, and the Champion.
There is a crunch as one flying form meets another, armoured, heavier, and Gull cries out, smashed off course into Borz, who, on instinct, raises his sword.
There is a second crunch, of sword meeting sternum, going through, life ending, cutting off screams before they can start.
Borz’s sword slips from his fingers and Gull’s body crashes to the ground.
For a while shock grips the young squire, until he sees Nama trying to help the Champion to his feet.
‘Are you hurt?’ Borz asks.
The Champion tilts his head in thought. He looks down at himself, moves one arm, stiffly, then another. For a moment it looks as if he is going to try and communicate something complicated but then gives a quick shake of the head.
‘Thank the Eye!’
‘Champion,’ begins Nama, ‘what about the lift?’
Amber eyes widen, remembering, and he waves the squires in the direction of the controls, limping after them.
Borz makes a few abortive attempts at stopping the lift. ‘He’s done something to the panel, the last command is locked in!’
Nama tries to cut the cables. In order to reach them she has to grip the rocks with one hand and lean out, over the edge. Even then it is a stretch.
She swings once, twanging cable. A second swing is managed before a hail of gunfire rains upwards. Bullets punch the sword from her hand, and the tip of a finger, sending both spinning out to sea.
The Champion hauls Nama back; the squire sinks to a sitting position to stare at her hand, numb.
Meanwhile, the raider-filled lift continues to rise.
Failing to find other inspiration, Borz begins beating on the panel. ‘It’s not working! It’s not working!’
The Champion looks at the panel, at the cables and the winch that works them, then, as if guided by an invisible hand, his head turns to Gull’s body and that of his dead companion, and the rifle.
With laboured steps he goes over to it, grimacing as he bends to pick it up. Hands move slowly, uncertainly, into place. One finding its way to the grip, the other trying to get comfortable on the barrel, failing.
The first shot goes wide, a spinning bullet racing off in the direction of the gold sun. The second is closer, sparking rock a few feet from the target. The third and fifth hit.
There is a groan from the motor and then it dies. Cables reverse direction as gravity takes hold. A collective shout comes from the raiders below, juddering as safety mechanisms lock into place, stopping the lift from falling, leaving it to hang, suspended, three quarters of the way up the mountain.
Very carefully, as if it might wake and cause trouble at the slightest disturbance, the rifle is placed back on the ground.
‘You did it!,’ says Borz, turning to grin. But something else catches his eye over the Champion’s shoulder and all joy flees his face, his body snapping to attention.
The Champion turns to see Sir Heras has arrived, her sword already drawn and marked with use.
‘Thank you, Champion,’ she says, ‘I can take things from here.’
She sings out, her blade humming as it cuts through the air, horizontal, the essence-charged note carrying far beyond her physical reach to sever the cable.
Out of sight, the lift plummets to the ground, a chorus of screams going with it.
The Champion’s mouth forms an ‘O’, shocked, as Sir Heras comes to an abrupt stop next to her brother. ‘Leeram, the Winged Eye finds you wanting, both as governor and citizen. You are guilty of having failed in your duty, of betraying the Empire’s trust and its people for the sake of greed. As such, you are judged and condemned a traitor.’
Leeram lifts his hands, palms out. ‘Wait, please, I didn’t know this was going to happen.’
The Champion nods in agreement, making sure to move into the knight’s line of sight.
Sir Heras gives a warning look. ‘You have done your duty, Champion,’ she says. ‘Now I must do mine.’
‘But he saw! I was just as surprised as you were. It was Gull! It was all Gull! I tried to stop him but it was too late.’
Sir Heras’s sword hums as it lifts up, ready to strike. ‘There are no excuses, and no mercies to be found.’
He sinks to his knees in front of her. ‘I know I failed. I made poor choices, I accept that. Take everything, but please…’ he trails off, lowers his head.
The Champion raises a hand to protest but Sir Heras’s sword falls faster, ending the need for argument. By contrast, the Champion’s hand drifts slowly back to his side.
He walks away from Sir Heras putting his back to her and the colony. The firing has stoppe
d now, some of the defenders celebrating while others seek treatment for fresh wounds and the dead are counted.
Out to sea, the raider’s ship begins to sink, its one gun silent, the tiny crew squeezed onto a raft, forced to flee towards deeper waters.
The Champion watches their efforts, hopeless, and gives a long, sad sigh.
Though he does not look, he cannot help but hear Sir Heras’s voice making order, hard and decisive.
‘Squire Nama, on your feet. The Empire is not done with you yet.’
‘But, Sir Heras,’ Borz protests, ‘her hand.’
‘It’s just a fingertip, nothing to cry over.’ There is the sound of movement, then: ‘No Borz, let her stand on her own. Now, listen to me: Our mission is complete. You both need to clean up and shape up, as you are to deliver the Champion back to the Shining City immediately. Understood?’
‘Yes, Sir Heras,’ they reply.
‘But,’ adds Borz, nervous, ‘what about you?’
The Champion doesn’t need to see her smile, it is so present in her voice. ‘I will be staying here to oversee cleanup, as the Governor of Fortitude’s Peak. It’s a temporary post to tide things over until such time as the Empire finds a permanent solution.’ She cannot help adding: ‘But I imagine I will be here for a long time.’
The two squires offer their congratulations. ‘May I ask about us, Sir Heras?’ says Borz. ‘Will we be coming back here to continue training with you, or will we be assigned to a new tutor?’
‘Well, that is up to the Knight Commander, but I will be recommending you both for knighthood.’
Two gasps, surprised, follow the statement, and the Champion half turns to watch what follows.
‘But,’ begins Nama, the words coming out before she can stop them, ‘I thought you hated us.’
Sir Heras laughs. ‘I was hard on you because the world is hard. The infernals won’t give second chances or care about apologies so the Empire can’t either. This training isn’t about making friends, it’s about hardening weapons. And you’re hard now. Ready. I can see it.
‘You went into battle with nothing but a mute sword at your side against soldiers with guns! And you didn’t falter. That takes courage. And you didn’t die. That takes skill. And you completed the mission, despite the odds, to restore the Empire’s glory. That is the heart of being a Seraph Knight. I’m proud of you both.
‘All you have to do now is get the Champion home without incident. Don’t fuck it up.’
‘Yes, Sir Heras,’ says Borz, who suddenly looks worried. ‘I mean, no Sir Heras, we won’t.’
‘Yes, Sir Heras,’ agrees Nama, making Borz look more worried than before.
The Knight turns away from them both, a more familiar expression of disgust on her face. ‘Just go.’
*
Without Sir Heras in the sky-ship’s hold, there is nothing to dampen the squires’ enthusiasm. Recent events are recounted, bathed in nostalgia, triumphant. Fears of the time given a dramatic air of romance, injuries transformed into badges of honour.
The sky-ship’s engines hum softly in the background, doing little to distract the Champion from their babble. Like a karmic balance, the more they build each other up, the more miserable his face becomes.
‘I thought Sir Heras was a monster,’ says Nama. ‘But all along she was teaching me to be self-reliant.’
‘And did you see the way she took out the lift and all those raider scum in one hit?’ asks Borz as Nama nods along. ‘I hope we’re like that one day.’
‘Yes. Strong and loyal to the Empire of the Winged Eye, no matter what.’
Borz twists in his seat to look at Nama directly. ‘Are you thinking about when she killed the governor?’
‘Yes.’
‘I mean, he was from the same batch as her and she executed him like it was nothing. And then she carried straight on as if nothing had happened.’
‘It was amazing,’ says Nama.
‘Inspirational,’ says Borz.
The Champion shakes his head, eyes rolling upwards. The gesture is big enough to catch the squires’ attention.
‘I’m sure that’s nothing compared to what the Champion’s done,’ says Nama.
‘Oh yes,’ agrees Borz, plucking up some courage, ‘you’ve killed hundreds of traitors and infernals and half-breed scum, haven’t you, Champion?’
Amber eyes turn on the squires, glaring, angry.
Shocked, they both sit straight in their seats, mouths closed.
The Champion’s anger falters, and he looks down at his hands instead, face clouding with thoughts of the past.
The rest of the flight continues in silence.
*
Back in the Shining City, the Champion is taken from the sky-ship’s hold to a capsule, plunged underground, and escorted to the room where he was given his armour.
The armour stand is still there, and next to it a pair of battered boots and a set of old clothes, clean and neatly folded. The Champion bends over to stare at them, suspicious.
The squire escorting him leaves to be swiftly replaced by Genner, who salutes him with a smile.
The Champion returns the salute only.
‘No need to go back to the debriefing room. I’ve already had word from Sir Heras. Sounds like you walked into a complete mess. I’m just glad I sent you when I did. If you’d arrived any later we’d have had two rogue colonies on our hands, well resourced and equipped for war. On behalf of the Empire, I thank you. Was there anything you wanted to add to her report?’
The Champion looks away, shakes his head.
‘Good. Well I imagine you’ll be wanting to get home. One thing before you go: it has been decided that the business with the rogue Lens is to be kept secret. Would be terrible for morale. Orders are to tell no one, understood?’ At the Champion’s nod, Genner continues, ‘Good. I’m assuming you want to leave the armour here? You’re welcome to take it with you if you wish.’
The Champion makes a point of putting his helmet back on the stand, making Genner grin.
‘Thought so.’ He starts to walk to the door. ‘I’m also assuming you don’t want to be flown home.’
This time the Champion does smile.
‘Oh, one last thing, Squire Nama and Squire Borz asked if they might have the honour of escorting you back.’
The Champion purses his lips, thinking, then shakes his head.
‘As you wish. Thank you again, Champion,’ says Genner, giving a final salute before stepping outside.
Before the door shuts, the squire who brought him here slips back inside and assists the Champion’s efforts to shed plates as fast as possible. Straps are loosened, webbing detached, and then the squire has to race to keep up, catching one piece and placing it carefully back on the rack, to scurry back just as the Champion drops the next.
As the armour is stripped away, so does the Champion shrink, shoulders returning to normal, chest reduced to a broadness of mere human proportions.
After the squire is waved away, he peels off the close fitting undergarment and throws it in a corner.
He takes a moment to stretch, naked. Arms are swung, easy, unimpeded, and the lines made by tight cuffs and collar along his neck, wrists and ankles gradually fade as blood pumps freely again.
Old clothes are sniffed, then put on. Something in the bondcleaning process has changed them. He sees in the mirror that they do not hang from his body as they did before. Frowning, he pulls on his boots and coat, and makes for the door.
*
When the last pillars are behind him he slows down. Approvingly, he looks at hills, randomly placed, and the creatures scurrying about them. There are goats, several varieties of birds, moths, and the occasional mouse.
A large hill comes into sight, familiar, two buildings of unequal size sitting on top. Rather than go direct to his front door, he makes a quick tour, inspecting things. A few goats are stroked, a crack in the wall inspected, and, with a tut, the lids to several barrels are pushed down until t
hey seal properly.
He looks into the smaller house and his face registers a little disappointment when a pair of dark eyes look back.
Then, he pulls his top straight, ignoring the way it moves immediately back to an odd angle, and goes into the house.
As soon as he enters the hallway, a familiar voice calls, ‘Who is it?’ and a smile springs onto the man’s face. He hurries into the kitchen to find Harm in his usual chair, a hot drink steaming in front of him, a small cloth between his hands and the cup.
Halfway to Harm’s side, amber eyes find themselves drawn to other details. Dirty bowls and plates sitting on surfaces, unwashed.
He tuts.
‘Oh,’ says Harm, delight bringing him to his feet, ‘you’re back! Welcome home!’
The rest of the distance is quickly crossed and the two men embrace, Harm’s head coming to rest on his chest, his own tilting so that his cheek presses against Harm’s forehead.
‘We were worried about you, you know? You shouldn’t have left like that. Then Vesper told us where you’d gone and that made it worse! By the end of the first day I’d convinced myself that something had happened to you. I don’t know what was worse, thinking that the last time we were together I was cross, or that I’d never have the chance to say goodbye.
‘Anyway, you’re back now, that’s the most important thing. I hear it was all a big success. Are you alright?’
He squeezes Harm tighter, and the two hold each other for a while. When Harm starts to let go, he is pulled into a second embrace.
‘That bad?’ Harm says as he steps back.
Taking Harm’s hand in his own and pressing it to his cheek, the man nods.
‘Ah. We’ve had some developments here too, actually. Not bad but … complicated. You’d best go and see for yourself. They’re in Vesper’s room. Oh, and can you take this up?’ Harm feels for the cloth and unwraps it from the cup.
The man takes it but remains where he is, stubbornly holding Harm’s hand.
‘Go on, I’ll still be here when you’re done.’
He leaves the kitchen, following uneven stairs that creak. At the landing, he hears a squeal, high pitched, unhappy, then from the other side of the door, he hears Jem say: