by Peter Newman
The girl sees her in the doorway, skids to a stop, her babbling voice cutting off in shock.
Delta finds her sword, herself, reluctant. She cannot imagine Gamma permitting this tainted thing to exist. It makes no sense to her.
The girl finds her voice and starts to scream.
A man walks slowly over to her, his voice soft, soothing. ‘It’s alright, Reela, it’s alright. I’m here now.’ He keeps one hand lightly on the wall, letting it guide him to the weeping girl.
Through Delta’s eyes his essence is scarred. Hints of taint remain at the edges, a sign of something far worse that has been burned away, something centred where his eyes once were.
He pauses, head tilting in her direction. ‘Hello? Hello? Is someone there?’
Delta does not answer, her hand makes a fist around the hilt of her sword. Gamma spurned our love, for this?
‘I know you’re there. What do you want?’
Shaking her head, Delta turns away.
The metal snake comes to a sliding stop nearby, disgorging knights from its open mouth. They kneel before her, waiting for her to pass before carrying out their orders. She has seen nothing to make her interfere with them.
As the knights advance on the house, she sinks to her knees, dragged down by misery.
Raised voices soon reach her.
‘I will not stand aside! And I will not leave my home! I took your trials years ago and I passed them. I earned my right to be here.’
The knight’s reply is amplified by his helmet. ‘This house is tainted. It will be purged. If you do not leave, you will be purged with it.’
‘Contact the Bearer, she will not stand for this!’
‘The Bearer serves The Seven in all things. Our orders come direct from Them. Strip off your clothes, step away from the house and report for re-purging immediately.’
‘Just contact her, please.’
‘You have sixty seconds to get out of our way.’
‘Don’t do something you’ll regret.’
Delta listens despite herself.
‘You have fifty seconds, failure to obey will be seen as rebellion.’
‘I will not leave. If you’re going to hurt an innocent girl you’ll have to go through me.’
‘Thirty seconds.’
‘Wait!’
‘Twenty seconds.’
The knights charge their lances.
‘Ten seconds.’
A tear of liquid stone rolls down Delta’s cheek.
Flames dance, reflected in amber eyes that widen, horrified. He slows on the hillside, taking it in. When he sees Harm’s charred body in the doorway, he stops completely. Tears well, falling fat and fast down creased cheeks. One hand claws at his chest, stricken. No sound comes from his mouth but it twists open, grief shaped.
His home has become a pyre. Those he loves, ashes. Himself, a vagrant again.
But above the crackle of fire, almost buried, there is a sound, a voice, familiar, wailing.
Teeth bare, fists clench, and he is running again, past the kneeling winged figure, past the circle of knights with lances, spewing fire. They call out a warning, too late, too surprised to intercept him.
He veers from the front of the house where the heat is strongest, diving in through a side window. Shoddy joinery is, for once, an asset, his body punching the whole plasglass sheet from its frame.
With a heavy thump, he lands. Smoke already clouds the room, making the space strange. The Vagrant keeps low, covers his mouth and moves forward.
Heat buffets from all sides, pressing on exposed flesh, making breath painful.
The Vagrant pauses, enduring discomfort to listen.
Like a siren, the voice comes from the kitchen. He follows until he crouches by the dining table. Ducking under, he comes face to face with Reela.
She stares at him, howling, incoherent, snot bubbling from nostrils to mix with tears and soot.
The Vagrant lifts a finger, puts it to his lips.
Still sniffling, she copies the gesture.
The Vagrant nods, then looks round, squinting against the smoke until he finds what he is looking for. Leaving Reela where she is, he pulls his old coat from its hook and moves to a tank of water. Coughing now, he kicks the tank, then kicks again, and again, until it splits open. As the water gushes out he holds his coat underneath, turning it, soaking it, before rushing back to Reela’s cowering form.
It is harder to see her, the smoke encroaching ever lower. She has not moved, her finger still pressed, firm but shaking, to her lips.
He reaches under, grabs her arm and drags her to his side. Desperate, she flails, trying to cling to him, but before she can get a grip, he sweeps the sodden coat over her head, bundling her up.
Reela gasps but does not cry out.
Lifting the bundle in his arms, the Vagrant runs for the nearest window. He can no longer see it, the smoke forcing him to navigate by memory alone.
His recollection is off by an inch, and he jars painfully against the wall before diving out, through fire, through cracked plasglass that shatters, rolling smoking into the last of the evening light.
For a moment he crouches on the grass, breathing heavy. His armour is blackened but not broken, steaming but not alight.
Parting the coat, he checks that Reela still breathes. She does, in ragged gulps. Picking her up again, the Vagrant starts to run.
The Seraph Knights surrounding the house see him. Commands are relayed from chip to chip, the ones furthest away running over, the others closing ranks to cut off escape. The nearest knight steps into his path. ‘We have no quarrel with you, Champion! Drop the – uhnn!’
The Vagrant’s elbow connects with the knight’s helm and, as the woman staggers back, the Vagrant takes stock. There is nowhere to run, no allies to turn to.
He runs anyway.
The knights raise their lances and a gout of fire shoots out to his right, turning him left, then another comes from his left, trying to pin him.
Ducking his head, raising an arm, he goes under it, mostly. Ignoring the way his backplate sizzles, the Vagrant presses on until he reaches the kneeling figure of Delta.
This close to one of The Seven, the knights do not dare to fire. They put their lances away, and draw their singing swords.
The air trembles with sudden song and Reela flinches in the Vagrant’s arms, stung by the sound.
As the knights move into a circular formation, the Vagrant looks down at Delta on her knees. She seems oblivious, a line of stone drying on her face.
He swings Reela under his arm and reaches down, carefully.
‘Step away!’ orders one of the knights. ‘It is a sin to touch Her!’
When it is clear the Vagrant is ignoring them, one of the knights closes in, sword raised.
He grits his teeth, takes the hilt of Delta’s sword.
Nothing. No pain, no reaction.
He pulls Delta’s sword free, swinging it up and out, opening his mouth to direct its power.
The knights pause, the nearest one stepping back in shock.
Unlike their swords however, Delta’s doesn’t sing. Silver wings wrap tight around its eye and the weapon feels heavy in his hand, dull.
Quickly, the knight recovers himself and moves to attack.
The Vagrant frowns, glares at the sword, then shakes it hard. In answer, the wings tighten even more.
There is no more time, he parries the first attack, then the second, each blow jarring his arm. Only the proximity of Delta holds the other knights at bay. They are painfully careful, terrified of bringing harm to their beloved immortal.
One of the knights keeps the Vagrant occupied while the others move in behind, advancing together.
He glances over his shoulder at them, barely making the next parry. Forced down to one knee by the impact, Reela slips from his grasp, rolling away.
The knight he has been fighting steps back, raising his sword over Reela’s body. The others are now behind him, ready.
<
br /> ‘Surrender, Champion. This is your last chance.’
The Vagrant grips the sword in both hands and points the tip at Delta’s neck.
There is a pause. Such blasphemy has never even been considered before. A whispered conference is had within the knights’ helmets. Would he dare? Could he do Delta actual harm? There is no precedent, no protocol to follow.
The Vagrant makes eye contact with Reela, beckoning her with a twitch of his head.
Without a sound, the girl stands up.
Dumbstruck, the knights watch her as she walks past them, dragging the old coat like a blanket behind her.
When she reaches the Vagrant, Reela wraps herself around his leg.
There is a pause. The knights dare not attack, dare not report what is happening. Too afraid to act, they become spectators to a tale of horror, unfurling slowly in directions they cannot fathom.
The Vagrant touches the point of the sword to Delta’s throat.
There is an audible clink, then he lifts the sword under her chin, levering her to her feet.
Two of the knights cover their eyes, five others begin to recite the litany of the Winged Eye.
Silvered wings spring open on the sword’s crosspiece, alarmed, and an eye opens wide in surprise.
At the same moment, Delta’s eyes open, locking with the Vagrant’s, forcing him to look up.
Softly, Delta begins to hum. Her sword takes up the tune. The Vagrant finds his hands starting to shake. Muscles lock all over his body, trembling in time with Delta’s melody. Stiffly, against his will, he rises on tiptoe.
Delta raises her hand and the Vagrant’s mouth opens. She reaches inside, fingers finding the old scars there. As if reading music, her song changes as she traces the lines, learning their history and that of the man marked by them. Her voice and her sword’s fall to disharmony, becoming a thing of grief and pain. The air around them darkens, tints blue. Briefly, it threatens to spark, then dies down, the hand leaving, and Delta covers her eyes, her song little more than a moan.
Released, the Vagrant slumps down, clutching at his throat.
After a few moments, his vision comes into focus again. He sees Reela looking up at him, afraid and hopeful. She clings to his leg, a dark-haired barnacle.
He blinks at her, then nods, reassuring.
Switching to a one-handed grip, he takes Delta by the arm and starts to walk. Delta does not resist, allowing herself to be dragged alongside him.
The Vagrant moves with an exaggerated limp, Reela still firmly attached to his leg. In other places, the image would be comical but the knights see nothing funny in it. They give ground to him, and when he points for them to step aside with Delta’s sword, they comply.
Delta is manoeuvred into the metal snake. The driver is pulled out. Reela is unpeeled and belted into one of the chairs in the snake’s head. The Vagrant sits in the other. He looks at the controls, frowns.
A button is pressed, a stick twisted. Nothing happens. More options are exhausted, manipulations becoming increasingly forceful until, at last, the hissing of the engines grows in volume and the snake turns away from the burning house and the staring knights, making towards the coast.
One Thousand and Fifty-TwoYears Ago
The Empire of the Winged Eye holds power, undisputed. A great engine made of millions of people, machines and essence-fuelled weapons. Its purpose is simple: protect the world from infernal threat.
The Empire stands ready to do its duty. Spheres of metal orbit the globe watching for trouble, and the Lenses, the Empire’s watchers, have agents on land and sea, ever vigilant. Legions of knights train daily, keeping senses and swords sharp. Harmonized humans, their souls linked to better withstand infernal possession, train with them as living shields. Armies of soldiers march with essence guns and launchers, keeping constant patrols on the Breach.
There is but one problem.
The Breach has not yet opened.
Massassi, who alone was able to perceive the threat, created the Empire of the Winged Eye in answer to the coming invasion. But she was born too early, has readied humanity too soon.
While her loyal servants keep watch, other voices whisper dissent in the shadows. They question the reality of the threat and if the huge resources required to maintain the military could be better spent in other ways.
She knows that none will dare oppose her now, but after she is gone is another matter. And Massassi already feels her years of struggle, feels each weary pump of her scarred heart.
Despite her godlike power, she is getting old. She will be dead, the skin rotted from her bones, long before the infernals find their way into her reality.
But she is as much a mechanic as a deity. The Empire is simply a complex solution to a complex problem. She has already modified it many times as new data came to her. This is no different. As the problem evolves, so too must her creation. Only politicians and idiots ever think that things are finished or perfect. Massassi is neither.
Leaving the world in the hands of her commanders she returns to her workshop, one last project in mind.
CHAPTER THREE
A metal snake moves effortlessly over hills, matching their undulations. Inside the head, the Vagrant works the controls. Anger manifests in his gestures, making course corrections sharp.
He looks over his shoulder often but Delta of The Seven remains folded in the space behind them, a placid statue. Her sword is on the floor by the Vagrant’s side. It too, has gone quiet again, its eye closed tight.
Reela sniffles quietly in the seat next to his. As he works, she tries to get closer to him but straps hold her tight, thwarting the effort. A hint of a storm crosses her features and she begins to wail.
The Vagrant glances over, touching a finger to his lips.
Reela copies him.
Her stormy expression abates and he goes back to managing the vehicle. Calmer now, she attends to the Vagrant. She positions her left hand like his, her fingers hovering over imaginary buttons. With her right, she mimes holding the control stick. She straightens her back, raises her chin, and after another glance at his face, adds a frown.
When the Vagrant looks through the viewing screen, staring intently, she leans forward to do the same. When, briefly, he presses his fist to his forehead, the frustration is mirrored in miniature.
The Vagrant does not notice.
Gradually, the hills flatten out and the snake winds its way over flatlands and between trees planted in orderly rows, wide spaced, with branches that only start high up, shade-making and unobtrusive.
There is a scratching sound from behind the head of the snake.
Instantly, the Vagrant tenses. He releases the straps that hold him then turns, one hand still on the controls, the other reaching down for Delta’s sword.
Reela’s eyes light up with new knowledge. She presses the central buckle where the straps cross over her chest but nothing happens. She presses it again, using two fingers, then again with her fist. With a soft click, the straps spring apart.
The scratching sounds again. It is close, coming from the other side of the metal that separates the head section from the body of the snake.
The Vagrant raises Delta’s sword, his eyes flicking between where Delta sits and the intruder’s location.
There is a click, then a soft exhalation of machinery, and the panel slides back to reveal Jem. He has mud on his face and in his hair but appears untouched by sword or flame.
‘It’s me! It’s just me! I was out tending the goats when the knights came. By the time I got here it was … too late. I managed to climb in the back while they were all distracted with you.’
The Vagrant stares at him for a moment, then places Delta’s sword back on the floor.
Jem’s face splits in a relieved smile. ‘Reela! You’re alive. Thank—’ he notices Delta, springs back against the wall. His voice is much softer when he speaks again. ‘Is that …?’
The Vagrant nods.
A moment later, Ree
la nods.
‘But you can’t just take Her! What are you thinking?’
The Vagrant shrugs.
Reela shrugs.
‘What are we going to do?’
The Vagrant holds up a hand. Jem’s face sours as Reela does the same. Before he can comment however, something over the Vagrant’s shoulder, on the other side of the viewing screen, grabs his attention. ‘Look out!’
The Vagrant whirls back to the controls to see they are heading directly towards one of the great pillars. Proximity alerts rapidly ramp up in volume, streams of numbers representing distance and time to impact appear on the view screen, flashing to show their urgency. He jerks the controls, throwing the snake to the right and everyone inside the cockpit to the left.
Only Delta does not move, her serenity untouched. Jem is thrown into the opposite wall, Reela and the Vagrant hurled from their seats.
A musical array of flesh smacking against hard surfaces follows.
While the humans recover, the metal snake continues to veer to the right, until it catches sight of its own tail, making circles of muddy brown in the grass beneath its tracks.
The Vagrant hauls himself back onto his chair, one hand pressing against the new bump on his skull, the other taking the control stick, pointing the snake forward once more.
Jem also gets up, going to where Reela curls on the floor. ‘It’s alright,’ he says, gathering her into his arms. ‘It’s alright. Ohh, you poor thing.’
She begins to cry and Jem holds her tighter. ‘Are you hurt? Does it hurt anywhere?’
Reela blinks, looks over to where the Vagrant is, then takes a deep breath. She squeezes her face, squishing the tear on her cheek and forcing down the other ones.
‘Reela?’ Jem asks. ‘Are you okay?’
She nods.
‘Does it hurt anywhere?’
She shakes her head and Jem moves her over to the empty chair. As he fixes Reela into place, he glances at the Vagrant, mutters, ‘She should have been strapped in.’
The Vagrant’s mouth opens in protest but he says nothing.
The snake travels on, its eyes lighting the dark ahead. On the viewing screen, green lines fill in details for frail human eyes. The gradations in the landscape, the outline of trees and, on the horizon, the line where the sea begins.