by Peter Newman
‘Doesn’t look good for those meat runners. Have you fought that kind of infernal before?’
The Vagrant doesn’t answer, just points down again more firmly.
‘You want me to go down there?’ Mazar asks.
The Vagrant nods.
Jem steps into the cockpit, drawn by the noise. ‘Something wrong?’ His quick eyes take in the scene below. ‘Why are we getting closer to that?’ Realizing the Vagrant is behind this, he grabs the other man’s outstretched arm. ‘This is a mistake. We need to get Reela to safety. We need to get us to safety! And,’ he drops his voice, ‘what about Delta? Who knows what She’ll do. It’s too risky.’
As the sky-ship descends, Jem’s voice takes on a pleading quality. ‘Just for once, please, can we do things my way?’ Nobody answers and the pleading stops, replaced by bitterness. ‘We’ll regret this.’
‘I have no assisted targeting,’ Mazar says. ‘Do you want me to fire anyway?’
The Vagrant shakes his head, continuing to point down.
‘I’m wary of landing in that soup. We could get snarled. If it were up to me I’d bring us in low enough for you to jump out but keep us airborne. That work for you?’
The Vagrant nods.
‘Okay. Move to the hatch, we’ll be green in sixty. I’ll get you as close as I can.’ As the Vagrant leaves, she adds, ‘There’s a lot of them, you sure you can handle it alone?’
This time, the Vagrant does not nod, his gesture non-committal.
Jem’s voice rises to a shout. ‘You don’t know? You’re going down there and you’re not even sure you’ll survive? You’re an idiot!’
The Vagrant pushes past Jem, going through the hold to the hatch, and sure enough, a minute later it is opening. The ground is getting closer, near enough to jump, far enough for second thoughts.
The Vagrant grips the sides of the hatch, takes a breath, and heaves himself out, jumping, flailing, falling.
Luckily, he does not fall for long.
Boots connect with earth already churned by the sky-ship’s vertical engines, plunging deep, twin knives into soft butter.
The Vagrant blinks, takes in his situation.
Already, the meat runners have tethered several beasts to the stricken waggon, coordinating the first attempt to tug it out. Meanwhile the wormlike things have nearly managed to struggle free.
The Vagrant can empathize, his own legs buried up to the knee. Finding a nearby clump of weeds, he begins to pull himself out, constantly sprayed by mud and filth as the sky-ship hovers overhead.
Cries are going up now, the meat runners seeing the infernal threat approaching. A few draw slender blades of curving glass, moving to defend their fellows while the rest redouble their efforts.
Now free of the ground, the wormlike things shiver, connecting other joints, waking sleeping tendons. Each one has a set of eight legs, feline, furless, that are tucked away whilst underground. These legs stretch, claws flexing, the movement of muscle easy to trace. One by one, the infernals stand up. Slung back on the top of their worm mouths is what appears at first glance to be a ridge of skin but is in fact a second head. Like hoods, the infernals pull them down and there is a succession of wet clicks as each sphinx-head locks into place. Pointed ears flick into life. Eyes, some blue, some green, all glowing, adjust to the light, pupils narrowing to razor slits.
The living quickly draw their attention. Though the infernals have arrived together, they do not act as one, picking targets seemingly at random, some advancing towards the meat runner guards, others prowling round, seeking softer targets.
Beasts and humans wail together, their panic blending, indistinguishable.
At last, the Vagrant is able to stand up. He claws the mud from his face and draws Delta’s sword, rushing forward, taking breath as he closes on the nearest infernal.
Something catches in his throat however and singing makes way for coughing.
Glass blades flash out, and claws flash back, faster. Both find their targets but the infernals feel no pain, the damage to their shells cosmetic. By contrast, the meat runners stagger back, precious blood staining their robes.
Delta’s sword watches one of the infernals crouch, pre-paring to spring. Its eye looks to the Vagrant as he spits out a lump of brown, then back to the infernal as it sails towards them.
The Vagrant jumps sideways, twisting, inhaling, drawing back Delta’s sword as the infernal lands alongside. Its jaws snap at him as he brings down the weapon.
Blue light surrounds the blade as it cracks the sphinx head, making contact with the second layer of flesh beneath. Keen metal touches the taut, thin skin, and it splits like overripe fruit, the whole body popping, spilling innards twice burnt, by sword and sunslight.
The remaining infernals all turn to the new threat, snarling.
But Delta’s sword meets their gaze, unflinching. Its wings give a proud flap, urging the Vagrant forward.
He steps towards them, singing a second time, Delta’s sword joining him. Their song drowns out the growling, each infernal slapped by the sound, flinching away, scraggy ears plastering themselves flat on every head.
The Vagrant advances and they all retreat. Silver wings stretch in newfound confidence and the Vagrant takes breath to sing again.
And then, as if from the earth, something else answers, a shuddering moan that seems to be felt through the feet as much as heard.
A row of ears bounce back up again and sharp teeth are bared, the catlike faces easily conveying a sense of sudden smugness.
While the meat runners redouble their efforts to free the waggon, there is a second rumble. The eye in Delta’s sword jerks down, not directly, not beneath the Vagrant, but at an angle. The Vagrant follows the line of its gaze, finds he is looking at a spot directly underneath the sky-ship.
He raises the sword, waving it, giving a signal to Mazar.
Too late.
Like an eruption of lava, a pillar of flesh and fangs bursts from the earth. It reaches up, a ten foot wide ‘V’ of teeth that snaps shut either side of the sky-ship. Wings buckle, light drives snuff out, and the body of the vehicle shrinks in on itself under the pressure with a shriek, sickening.
The Vagrant runs towards it, his sword arm dragging behind him. Silver wings droop and an eye stares in horror.
There is a pop and the top of the cockpit detaches. A second pop and two seats launch into the air, clear of danger.
For a moment the Vagrant is distracted by them. At this height only the undersides are visible, the occupants impossible to see.
The infernals sense that moment, leaping for him. Claws scrape down his backplate, scratching but not penetrating. He staggers forward, feet struggling to free themselves from the mud, and nearly falls.
By the time he has caught his balance they are on him, circling quicker than he can, lashing out at his back. He makes wide swings with the sword, catching one, bursting it. And always his eyes flick up to the floating seats, each time an invitation for the enemy.
The first seat comes into view. A small emergency light drive fires in controlled bursts, fighting gravity and the burdens placed beyond its design. Mazar sits in the chair, sighting up with her rifle. She struggles to do this, in part because she is moving and in part because Jem is on her lap, his arms wrapped around her neck.
The second seat glides in a more stately fashion. It is empty.
Reela is still inside.
Amber eyes and single eye go wide, turning back to the monstrous thing eating the sky-ship.
The Vagrant puts his back to the infernals, raising the sword and humming a long note. The air about the blade quivers, distorting in colour.
One of the infernals moves to take advantage, is shot in the eye by a buzzing bullet. Steam hisses from the wound as essence burns. The next to try is shot in the temple, the one after that in the teeth. Locations matter little for the infernals have no vital organs. However, breaks in their shell can be fatal this far north and these bullets sting
enough to make them think twice.
Lowering Delta’s sword to point directly at the pillar of flesh, the Vagrant opens his mouth, letting the hum expand into song. The air between sword tip and target sparks and shimmers, and a patch of ridged skin bursts into blue-tinged flame.
In surprise, the infernal roars, writhing, shaking the sky-ship, a dog with a rag doll.
The Vagrant continues to sing and Mazar continues to fire; wormlike bodies stagger, stunned, flames lick across the giant infernal, and still they keep going, till lungs burn and trigger pulls make clicks rather than bullets.
With a final inhuman howl, the pillar drops the sky-ship and draws back into the safety of the earth. Immediately, the minor infernals do the same, retracting their feline limbs, casting off cat-faced hoods and burrowing down.
As Mazar comes into land, the Vagrant struggles towards the remains of the sky-ship, forcing tired legs onward. It is a sorry looking thing now, a crushed insect. He does not bother with the buckled hatch, cutting a new entrance in the battered hull.
There is little room to search inside, the hull reduced to an eighth of its former size. Curled on one knee is Delta, a silver ball wrapped in wings, statue still.
He squeezes in, clambering over, and two sets of little fingers hook around the top of the wings. A moment later, Reela’s head peeks out.
Amber eyes linger on a new bruise on her temple and one on her cheek, then come to rest on her smile.
One set of little fingers wave.
The Vagrant stops, raises a weary hand and waves back.
She reaches out to him and he closes the last of the gap, sliding her out of the winged cocoon and into his arms.
For a long time, they simply hold each other. Safe.
‘We’ve come into visual range of Seraph’s Rock, sir.’
The Knight Commander nods, tired. Seraph’s Rock is their last stop before the rendezvous. Behind them, his fleet has left a trail of fire and carnage, no doubt matched by the other half of the fleet travelling with Obeisance. By now, word of their coming must have spread. He wonders if they’re going to meet resistance. In a way, he would welcome a real fight. Something to test their mettle. Something more glorious than shooting people as they fled or bombing them out of existence.
‘Have they launched any of their ships, captain?’
There is a pause as the captain confers with their scouts and his instruments. ‘No, sir.’
His reply sounds more like a sigh than he would like. ‘Have they mounted any kind of defence at all?’
‘There are people on the walls, and the docks are packed, sir.’
Easy targets, he thinks. ‘Can you tell what they’re doing?’
‘It appears they’re welcoming us, sir. They’re … singing.’
‘Singing?’
‘Yes, sir. They’re singing the rite of mercy. Would you like me to feed the audio to you direct?’
‘That won’t be necessary, captain.’
The Knight Commander gets up and walks over to the porthole. They are a long way south now, and encounters with the taint are frequent. The chances are that Seraph’s Rock is corrupted, and he has his orders direct from Alpha of The Seven. They are very clear. But these people are asking for his help. They are invoking the rite of mercy. Perhaps they could be purged. Perhaps they could be saved. Surely that would be a better solution?
He imagines going amongst them, basking in their song, purging, making them pure again.
Then he imagines explaining his disobedience to Obeisance. Or rather, he cannot imagine it. He cannot think of any words that would breach her disapproval. The Knight Commander shakes his head, defeated. He has his orders. It is not his place to question or second guess The Seven.
He gives the word.
The fleet opens fire.
And on the walls and docks of Seraph’s Rock, songs are swapped for screams, then silence.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Vesper and the buck take a tour of Crucible, struggling to keep track of all the new structures and the steady stream of arrivals. The first refugees have begun to appear. They bring word that The Seven’s armada has reached the coast.
Stories of mass purging come with them, of whole colonies left burning. There are counter rumours, of loyal servants of the Empire being spared, even elevated, but these are rare. And most people she speaks to are either too corrupt, too tainted or too cynical to place any hope in them.
Construction continues apace, many of the refugees quickly assimilated into digging teams or building crews. Even the very young are found jobs, passing tools and messages. Vesper cannot help but notice that the old or infirm have remained in their places of origin.
Several of the bunkers have been finished, low walls now being strung between them. Due to the lack of material, the majority of these walls are made of mud. Mercenaries from West Rift spray them with a fine resin.
Curious, she approaches one of them, a man encased from head to toe in bronze-edged armour. The gaps in the armour are covered by a flexible membrane that glistens in the sunslight and a heavy breather tube runs from his belly up to a mask on the front of his face.
‘Hello,’ she says. ‘What are you doing?’
There is a wheeze and a click, then he replies. ‘Coating the walls.’
‘I can see that. How does it help?’
‘It stops snipers being able to see what’s on the other side. This mud isn’t going to stop the enemy shooting us but it will stop them seeing us.’
‘They’re not the enemy.’
The man gives a short grunt, unconvinced, and as Vesper walks away, she finds it hard to see the diplomatic centre tucked behind layers and layers of soldiers and military structures. She has a sudden sense of Crucible having its own momentum, that she is tethered to it, rather than the other way around.
The buck seems to share her bewilderment. Though he trots along after Vesper, his head swings from left to right, drawn by random movements. Often, he darts off to investigate only to return to her side shortly after, downcast.
Vesper scratches the base of his horns. ‘Do you think I’ve made a mistake?’
The buck stares into the distance.
‘I don’t know. It seems like every time we start to get anywhere, there’s a new obstacle in the road. I’ve had to move round so many now I’m not sure if I’m still going in the right direction, you know?’
The buck’s head turns at some faraway sight, and he runs off, a last flick of hooves visible as he ducks round the side of a large cart.
‘Thanks for the support,’ she mutters.
‘Trouble with your beast, yes?’ says a voice from behind her.
‘Hello Ezze,’ she replies, not needing to turn round to identify the speaker. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t spoken to you yet. It’s been … hectic.’
‘No sorry is needed. You are here and Ezze is here and that is all that matters.’
Vesper rubs at tired eyes. ‘Okay. You said something about an offer?’
‘Ah, you do remember! Let us be walking and talking. These things are not for the ears of the West Rifters. If we excite them too much, their bits will be falling off!’
Vesper frowns but allows Ezze, still talking, to lead her away.
‘Too much? I thought it was a crime to be telling the lies in your presence? Your people of West Rift are not long for these markets.’ His voice becomes a theatrical whisper. ‘They buy too much of the stitching and the happiness drinks and not enough of anything else. There are messages in people’s trading habits and Ezze is the most avid reader of them all.’
‘Are you saying they’re too ill to fight?’
‘No, no. They are sick enough to be great warriors. No fear of death and lots of envy for us healthy ones.’ He pats the curve of his stomach and winks. ‘They will fight hard and fast. But this is not the deal of which we should be talking.’ He waves a hand vaguely. ‘Over there are your broken knights practising with their swords.’ He waves again, in a
different direction. ‘And there you have your wild Usurperkin, the ones with the nails in their brains. Good for the lifting but not the thinking.’ Another wave. ‘Then there are the good people of Verdigris.’ And another. ‘The ratbred of Red Rails.’ And still another. ‘The smelters, workers and winners from Slake, and then all the misfits who fit in not at all. Quite the mess, yes?’
‘Where’s this going?’
‘Ah, truly you are a great lady, with her father’s single-mindedness and charm! You see them all, all in their little pockets, with Ezze and his friend Vesper in the middle.’ He puts an arm round her, being careful not to touch the sword. ‘We should be building bridges together, joining up all of the dots to make something beautiful. You have many dots here. Many, many dots of different sizes but you have no picture.’
‘Actually I do,’ Vesper protests.
‘Ah, but you are talking of the big picture, yes? Ezze is talking of the small ones. What people will be eating tonight. How they will be fixing their broken bed or easing the pain of the swollen foot.
‘If they are not coming to you, great lady, then who? Who are the great traders they will seek and befriend?’
Vesper folds her arms. ‘You, I suppose.’
His grin broadens and he squeezes her shoulders. ‘You are bathing Ezze in your words of honey! It is true that Ezze always seeks new friends and finds ways to make them happy but there is little of the trust here and much of the fear. It is hard to help those too scared to ask, no?
‘But you are trusted, great lady. If you were to support Ezze then people would know him as a friend and they would come. Ezze would fulfil their dreams but they would not remember humble Ezze, no.’ He squeezes her shoulder a second time. ‘They would remember you!’
The sword begins to growl softly and an eye opens, regarding Ezze until he removes his hand. ‘That’s what all this is about? You want to use me to get the best deals.’
Ezze regards the sword warily. ‘Yes, it is true, but these deals are best for your people also. And perhaps, if there is little trust in your heart for Ezze, ask yourself this question: is there more for the First? Or does the great lady prefer the twin rulers of Slake, Gorad and Gut-pumper? For if we do not build the bridges together, they will be building them and Ezze does not think you are wanting that.’