by Peter Newman
A force from behind pushes the Vagrant, making him stumble, a great downdraft that nearly has him on his knees.
Screaming, the warhead stops directly above their heads.
The warhead stops screaming.
The warhead stops, caught, a pair of silver hands either side of it. Without power of its own, only Delta’s wings hold it aloft.
Hesitantly, together, the Vagrant and Delta’s sword look up.
They see Delta’s song surrounding the warhead, suppressing, not quite containing, but forcing the explosion into slow motion. Metal buckles beneath Delta’s fingers, going molten, the shell of the warhead disintegrating as fire bulges, threatening to wash out in all directions.
Delta’s wings sweep around the flames, head lowering, cocooning them with her body.
There is a boom, muffled, far away, and then Delta is falling. She does not have far to go. There is a thud and then the only movement comes from the smoke curling upwards from wings and limbs and chest and head.
The Vagrant has time to blink before Samael reaches Vesper and the Knight Commander. The half-breed grabs the man’s right wrist as Scout’s jaws close around his left. Gauntlet and jaws squeeze together, and bones break, synchronous, canine and infernal strength more than enough to snap flimsy wrists.
The Empire’s knights move to assist their leader, and the Vagrant moves to intercept them. Though outnumbered the Vagrant has some advantages. He carries Delta’s sword and he is known to them, a legend of sorts, a mystery.
Such things give the knights pause, their opening attacks more salutation than slash. The Vagrant swings, singing, and his opponent makes a pretence of a parry, blasted backwards into the people behind him.
Another comes at his left, swinging for his neck, and he meets the attack, stopping it in its tracks. Eyes lock over crossed swords. Though the Vagrant is the more skilled of the two, the other knight is younger, stronger, and reinforcements are right behind her.
The Vagrant narrows his eyes, aims a kick at the other knight’s knee. There is a satisfying crack and the Vagrant feels all resistance fade, pushing his opponent into the dust.
A natural pause occurs in the battle, brief, where Samael is forced to release the Knight Commander, drawing his own Necro-blade in order to meet the coming storm. The Order of the Broken Blades are at his side now. They form a barrier in front of Vesper just as the Knight Commander is swallowed up by a wall of Seraph Knights.
Empire soldiers spill out to either side of the living wall, moving to flanking positions.
The Vagrant sees their situation but is already engaged. The enemy are finding their courage and he has become the nearest opportunity for glory. Attacks come thick and fast, growing bolder. He finds Delta’s sword distracted in his hand, dragging left to where its immortal counterpart has fallen. Gritting his teeth, he pulls against it, forced to give ground to keep his head.
He is not the only one. While the blades that Neer and Samael have created are impressive, they cannot hold against the legendary swords of the Seraph Knights.
Moving as one, striking and singing in harmony, the Empire advances. With each step, they bring their swords down, each cut accompanied by song that sets the air shimmering. Sound made physical, pushing, burning.
It is too much for Scout, who turns and runs while Samael flinches away, the infernal parts of his soul trying to curl in on themselves.
Bravely, the Order of the Broken Blades resist. Veterans all, they have received the highest training of the Empire and fine tuned it with years of fighting at Vesper’s side. They use every technique at their disposal trying to temper the Seraph’s song with their own, but it is not enough.
A Necro-blade shatters and moments later, its wielder falls, blood running from his ears. Two more barrages and another of Vesper’s knights goes down.
‘Retreat!’ shouts Vesper. And suddenly she is at the Vagrant’s side, then past him, virtually face to face with the enemy.
Essence boils around her, unseen but felt, and the Seraph Knights instinctively lean back. She draws the sword, sweeping it wide, roaring. Air explodes outward, an arc of blue extending well beyond the metal.
The Seraph Knights are blasted backwards, their swords tumbling from their grasp.
She sweeps the sword back again and even though the Vagrant is behind her, he winces, uncomfortable.
Armoured figures fly from their feet, away from her, to land in heavy heaps. ‘Retreat!’ yells Vesper a second time.
Oaths taken to defend clash against oaths to obey but the Order of the Broken Blades do as they are told, running for the safety of the walls.
The Vagrant turns, finds that Doctor Grains is not running, the small group from Verdigris down on their knees, mur-muring the rite of mercy over and over.
He grabs Grains’ shoulder, shakes it, but the man refuses to budge.
‘You are the ones who need to fear, not us.’
The Vagrant lets go and continues to retreat, pulling Delta’s reluctant sword after him.
Having taken up positions either side of Vesper, the Empire’s soldiers begin firing, twin hails of bullets, horizontal, scissoring into the fleeing force.
The Vagrant inverts Delta’s sword, twirling as he moves, song and steel deflecting shot after shot. But Delta’s sword is sluggish, and many get through, the majority confounded by his armour, making dents, bruises. Three brush his more exposed side, slicing through plating and clothing to nick the skin. Three more scars for his collection.
As he spins he catches glimpses of Vesper’s knights, some getting lucky, some managing to fend off the worst of the attack, others faltering, their strides losing rhythm, their bodies falling into the dirt.
He sees several shots find Samael, tearing through his battered armour. The half-breed lumbers on however, showing no sign of injury.
Instinctively, his attention returns to Vesper. He squints to make her out through hazy air, blue tinted, rippling as if viewed through water. She walks backwards, eyes closed, singing, the sword making slow circles in front of her. Bullets collect at her feet, thousands of petitioners paying respects. Not a single one has found her.
Delta’s sword has been fixed on Delta’s prone body, getting more agitated the further behind it is left. Now it looks up just as two mirages resolve into sky-ships.
All at once the Empire’s forces focus their fire. Soldiers with their rifles, Seraph Knights with blade-touched song, the cannons of the sky-ships and the metal snakes, firing from range. All focused on Vesper.
He catches a glimpse of her jumping backwards, the sword moving so fast it appears like a series of giant fans, trails of light building a second skin in front of her, and then she is buried in smoke and fire.
A second volley is fired before the bombardment pauses, the Empire’s forces seeming to lean forward as one, straining to see what lies beneath the unfurling smoke.
The Vagrant is running, not towards safety as Vesper desires, nor towards Delta as her sword desires. He does not register the counterattack from his own side. Does not see the First’s sky-ships chasing off the Empire’s or the footprints of the projectiles, range finding, walking their way towards the enemy soldiers.
The Vagrant reaches the smoke as it thins to wispy fingers and gasps.
Vesper still stands. Her head lolls to one side, her left shoulder drooping, a puppet missing several strings. The plates on her jacket are scorched, the white fabric burnt black, seared in places to her skin. But Vesper still stands, the sword held upright in a trembling arm.
The Vagrant dashes in front of her, hauling her over his shoulder. Around him, chaos reigns, shots firing in all directions, explosions and shouts merging, the echoes of one becoming the other.
He runs, this time for Crucible. Vesper’s body is limp against him, save for her right arm that sticks out, arrow straight, allowing the sword to glare behind them. Delta’s sword stops resisting, silver wings covering an eye that no longer wishes to see.
&nb
sp; The Vagrant keeps going.
Shockwaves and near misses send him stumbling, ears give up trying to process sound, resorting to a one-note ring, dull, persistent. The world becomes unreal.
The Vagrant keeps going.
Finally, Vesper’s right arm drops, flopping against his back. Though her fingers loosen, the sword does not slip from her grasp. A lucky shot ricochets off his hip, turning him but not dropping him. Several times he trips on a body but doesn’t fall.
The Vagrant keeps going, past the walls, into safety, past staring eyes and gawping faces, he keeps going.
The Knight Commander stands on deck once more, creating the illusion that things have returned to normal. They have not. Beneath replacement bracers, slender casts hold his wrists straight. Meds reduce the swelling and allow him to focus, though he still has no use of his hands, unable to dress or attend to matters of base biology without assistance.
He looks out onto the battlefield, trying to make sense of what has happened. A part of him hopes that Vesper is not dead, though there is little logic to the thought. Her end is coming one way or the other. Is it not better that her suffering end now?
Most of his thoughts concern Delta, however. As absurd as it sounds, he cannot escape the idea that one of The Seven has acted to save him. He had been ready to die, as all of them are, should the Empire require it. It would have been a glorious death, one that would surely have been added to the stories. The logical part of his mind tells him that Delta was simply saving Vesper but he does not believe it, turning the idea of his importance to Delta over and over in his mind, thrilling to it.
‘Sir, Obeisance wishes to speak to you.’
He goes to wave a hand but fingers ignore the request, forcing him to lower his arm. ‘Put her through.’
Her image resolves and he takes a moment to marvel at it. To him, she seems unshakeable, her tone, her greeting the same as ever. ‘Knight Commander.’
‘Obeisance.’
No mention is made of the fact that she presided over an order that would have seen him dead. No apology is given, none is asked for. ‘Report.’
‘Delta is inert on the battlefield, I do not know Her status.’
‘She is alive. What of Her sword?’
‘It remains with the enemy. Vesper, that is,’ he corrects himself. ‘The Bearer was critically injured and heavy losses were inflicted on her party. It appears that they have developed some kind of technology that apes our swords, however it is inferior.’
‘It is profane. Is the Bearer in our custody?’
‘No.’
Obeisance’s hairless brows raise. ‘No?’
‘Gamma’s blade protected her, as did her own forces. And they prepared the ground, making it hard for our land vehicles to pursue. The First fielded a sizeable fleet of sky-ships and while we could have defeated them, it would have been costly. I thought it better to—’
‘We accept your judgement in these matters, Knight Commander, and trust that you will have made more significant progress when we arrive.’ He inclines his head. ‘Is there anything more?’
‘I had several scouts in place ready to cut off the Bearer’s escape, yet none of them acted. We’ve received no communication from them and all attempts to locate them so far have failed. It is as if they’ve vanished.’
‘Troubling.’
‘Yes. We are aware of no major detonations in their area or enemy troops. A mystery I am keen to solve. There is one last thing. A number of the civilians you mentioned did not flee. Most were killed in the crossfire but one or two survived. I wouldn’t normally trouble you with it but they were flying our flag and all of them are pure. No taint. They claim to have information that may be valuable to us and wish to serve in any capacity they can.’
‘See them cared for, their injuries treated and have them dressed in new clothes. Let us make an example of them, Knight Commander.’
‘It shall be done.’
When she is gone he returns to the window. ‘Captain,’ he says, ‘do we have eyes on Delta?’
‘We do, sir.’
‘What’s Her status?’
‘Her eyes are open, sir. She’s …’ he turns in his seat, fearful. ‘She’s looking in our direction.’
A sense of buoyancy fills the Knight Commander. It is ridiculous but could it be that she looks for me? Could it be that she sees me?
Several of his officers are looking at him now, the captain voicing a fear for all of them. ‘What does it mean, sir?’
What indeed? Inwardly, he smiles, at last able to recycle one of the many lines fed to him by Obeisance over the years. ‘It is not our place to interpret The Seven, captain.’
‘No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’
‘Back to work, all of you. The Seven are watching so be sure there are no mistakes.’
The command centre is filled with the quiet sound of activity, people tucking uncertainty beneath their tasks. Satisfied, the Knight Commander stares at the distant gleam of perfection in the dirt, wondering what it means for all of them.
One Thousand and Twenty-Three Years Ago
Days become like fragments, a part of one jumping to a part of another, disjointed, incoherent. In her more lucid moments Massassi is able to appreciate how far she has fallen. Like a diver returning briefly for air before being lost to the depths.
Mini eternities are spent studying the ceiling and there are many blank spots, though whether these are due to inactivity or failing memory she cannot say.
A host of afternoons stretch, long and pleasant, being walked through gardens by her beloved creations and Peace-Fifteen. She enjoys the sun on her face, and the warmth on her heart, shone continually at her by Alpha, Beta and Delta. These afternoons feel to her like one, a single experience divided up and portioned out.
Occasionally, she is drawn to her workshop, the need to create remaining even after all else is gone. Though Massassi has given away much of her essence, some ghost still tugs at her, a tiny thread of dissatisfaction, a sense that her task is not finished.
Peace-Fifteen does her best to fill Massassi’s days with good news and pleasant experiences, anything to keep her from another project. But arguments about health and self-care have never held much sway with Massassi and, seemingly out of spite, the more Peace-Fifteen makes things easy, the more difficult Massassi becomes.
Sunny days pass, morphing into weeks, months, years, a golden age of peace and prosperity for the Empire of the Winged Eye.
For Massassi they are like sands shifting around a fixed point. A tunnel of time with another project at the end of it. She is merely waiting for that time to catch her up.
And one day, sure enough, Gamma comes. She takes Massassi’s arm and leads her to the workshop, putting tools into her hands and stepping back.
A change comes over Massassi then, a shifting of posture, a return to purpose.
And she works.
This time a man takes shape in the silver, similar in general to his brothers yet very different. Massassi does not craft as sharply as before, making features more abstract, like a mask, the face seeming ancient even when new.
Not long into the process, Alpha arrives. He takes up his customary position, as does Beta who follows. Delta joins them not long after, assuming a place at her brother’s side, another silent witness in the ritual of creation.
A harness holds Massassi in place now, supporting her weight, monitoring her health, separating the dozens of tubes that lacerate her body. Food and medicine is taken in, waste removed, all without interruption.
She works, sleeps, works and sleeps, not having to leave the spot. She prefers it this way, wishes they had designed the set up years ago.
A sword is made, simple and clean.
When the time comes to bring life, she raises her hand, the iris in her metal palm opening. For a moment nothing happens and then it comes, an exhalation of essence, easing from one body to another.
Epsilon’s birth is gradual, gentle. Unlike his
brothers and sisters, Epsilon’s eyes are pale misty things, the pupils hard to discern.
No, Massassi thinks, that is not it.
In her mind, she goes straight on to making another, a sister called Theta. Then, without pause, a seventh, Eta.
In reality the three creations are ten years apart.
And yet they do seem of an era, a different generation to the ones that came before. Epsilon, Theta and Eta share common features and behaviours. They travel constantly together, speak little and seem preoccupied. The three follow Massassi everywhere, on walks, in her room, equally attentive whether she is muttering, bathing, complaining or sleeping.
Alpha makes use of the three when it pleases but mostly ignores them, going back to the business of running the Empire. Beta goes with him, but studies the trio when other duties allow. Gamma tolerates them mainly because she is elsewhere and Delta keeps her distance, finding their presence disturbing. Though in most ways they seem inferior, she feels that her three younger siblings are privy to a secret the creator has kept from the rest of them. Some hidden knowledge that haunts them, keeping them apart.
It is as if they are holding their breath, waiting.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jem shakes his head. ‘Look, I’ve bandaged a few cuts before, but this? I can’t. I don’t even know where to start.’
The Vagrant has not been here long and already the room’s smell is dominated by smoke and burnt skin, strong enough to taste. He points again, desperate.
Vesper’s breathing is laboured, her body covered in injuries that cross each other, a giant homogenized wound.
Where possible, clothes are loosened or cut away. However there are many places where skin and fabric weave together, binding, a succession of hybrid scabs. Jem’s hands hover over them, unwilling to take actions that may be regretted later. ‘We need a doctor. I’ll do what I can but we need someone else! I can’t do this alone.’
Mazar is sent for and a call for any skilled physicians to present themselves is made. Most take one look and walk away, unwilling to be connected with any failed treatment.