by Peter Newman
‘What about Vesper?’
‘The best thing you can do for her is to give her time. Hold back the Empire until she wakes.’
For a moment Samael simply stares at him, then he begins to put on his helmet, threading his long hair through the top.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll stay and watch over her.’ Samael stops to look at him a second time and Genner adds, ‘Go! Now! Before it’s too late.’
‘Yes,’ replies the half-breed, marching out with sudden speed.
Genner waits until the door has closed again before turning back to Vesper. In a way Samael’s ministrations have made his task easier. She is an abomination now, soiled by the attentions of a infernally marked man and his dark arts. It helps too, that her body is so badly marked, makes it easier for him to distance the thing in front of him from the woman he has known for so long. This is not a murder, he tells himself, it is a mercy.
He is thankful that Gamma’s sword is focused inward, its eye closed. Even so, he moves quietly, sliding the pistol from its holster with aching slowness.
Again, there is a feeling of being watched. He spins round to find no one there. The Vagrant still sleeps, as does Reela. For a moment he thinks the eye of Delta’s sword is on him but a second glance reveals that no, it has not changed position.
Before he can turn back, there is a knock at the door and then it is opening. The knight that he spoke to before is there, another person, hidden, behind her.
‘I told you not to disturb us.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but Savmir of Red Rails is here. He says he can save us.’
Genner crosses the room, pistol stowed so fast it is as if it was never drawn. ‘Quickly then.’ He keeps the sneer from his face as the self-proclaimed Ratbred Prince presents himself.
Richly dressed, plump, Savmir’s mutations are well developed. He is tall for one of his kind, the top of his head nearly reaching Genner’s collarbone, and elongated front teeth brush against a narrow chin. Coarse hair dusts his body evenly. ‘Not you!’ he cries. ‘I need to speak with her. Urgent! Urgent!’
‘She isn’t ready. You’ll have to make do with me. Now tell me, what have you got?’
Small hands hook around the edges of sleeves, squeezing in frustration. ‘Our weapon! It is time to use it. We can turn the fight.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Savmir’s lips curl into a hunter’s smile. ‘A secret. Prepared under your nose, in case we needed it.’
‘You have a weapon that can defeat the Empire?’
‘Yes. We must work together to maximize its power.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Come! Come! I will show you.’
Genner looks back at Vesper, torn, before allowing himself to be led from the room.
Delta’s sword watches Genner go. Its eye does not blink. A silver wing taps on the Vagrant’s thigh, taps again, taps two more times, rapid.
Humming with impatience, it tries again more forcefully, drawing up so that the wingtip can stab at him, forceful.
The Vagrant’s hand moves, grabbing the wing before it can descend. He looks at the sword, nods, one finger to his lips. He is already easing himself up, his eyes on the door.
The humming quietens but Delta’s sword continues to thrum silently in his hand.
Stepping outside, the Vagrant nods to the knight there, looking both ways down the corridor. He sees a rat’s tail snaking away out of sight and gives chase, Delta’s sword needlessly pointing the way.
A nearby detonation rumbles through the dome, forcing the Vagrant to lean against the wall. As it settles he sets off again, following the curve of the building’s perimeter until he reaches the area set aside for Red Rails.
Usually packed full of ratbred, the abandoned space seems larger than it should. Additional hangings lower the generous doorway, so that the Vagrant has to duck to enter.
He passes by a few empty rooms. They are full of junk, arranged without care. Only brief glances are given before he moves on. Signs of gentle disturbance are visible, glasses tipped over, bowls of indiscriminate sludge, still steaming, unfinished.
Not a single ratbred is to be seen. But he hears one.
The voice comes from a room he’s already passed. He takes a step back, looks again.
The room is still empty.
With a flap, Delta’s sword pulls his right arm into the room. The Vagrant follows, ears straining to identify the source of the sound. He looks from wall to wall, checking behind a cabinet when he hears it again, a soft voice with a slight lisp.
It comes from a rug at his feet.
Leaning down, he pulls back the rug to reveal a hole. He and Delta’s sword exchange a look of satisfaction and he is about to jump down when he notices a small shadow in the doorway.
Reela is standing there.
A number of expressions cross the Vagrant’s face and he raises a stern finger.
She steps more into the light, revealing a grimy face, full of worry.
The Vagrant sees, his expression melting into one of sadness. His finger hesitates, then changes direction, pointing at the cabinet.
Reela runs and climbs inside. He puts a finger to his lips and she does the same. He musters a smile for her, then shuts the door.
Delta’s sword virtually drags him back to the hole.
Without hesitation, he jumps down.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The group is growing. As Savmir leads Genner deeper underground, more of his ratbred people pop from the shadows, moving easily in the dark.
He dips his head to manage the tunnels, rough rectangular shapes burrowed out and skinned in a substance Genner is not familiar with. It is tacky to the touch, moist, and smells fragrant. He is careful to keep his head clear.
The smaller sounds of battle do not penetrate the earth above, but the rumble of the metal snakes can be felt through the walls along with the roar of explosives, muffled.
All at once Savmir stops, whirling round. ‘Do you see? Do you see?’
‘I see,’ he replies. ‘How far does this go?’
What poor light there is glints on Savmir’s front teeth. ‘All the way.’
‘You mean we could bring our troops up behind them?’
‘Yes!’ hisses Savmir. ‘Behind them, underneath them, any-where we want!’
‘Or we could collapse the tunnels right underneath them.’
‘You do see! But must be now.’
Genner cannot help but be impressed. ‘How did you manage all this without being discovered?’
‘Are you listening? We must act now! Bragging will come later.’
‘I agree,’ says Genner, his hand sliding over the grip of his pistol. ‘Does anyone else know about this?’
‘No. A secret. Wasn’t sure who to trust. Wasn’t sure Vesper would approve.’
Genner runs his empty hand through his hair, a gesture to keep their attention on his face. ‘She wouldn’t have.’ There are at least three other ratbred in the tunnel, and two of them are armed. One with a short spear, the other with a shrapnel gun. He decides to take them first, then Savmir, then the fourth one.
‘Hey, did you hear—’ he begins, pointing towards the ratbred with the shrapnel gun, just over her shoulder. As she turns he raises his palm, releasing the dart housed within his wrist. It streaks out, silent, burying itself just under her jaw. ‘—something?’
She looks at him, puzzled. Then her small eyes widen a fraction, barely noticeable, a sad last act of life. Without a word, she falls.
In the moment that the others turn to her, Genner raises his pistol. Even as he shoots the ratbred holding the spear, his other hand moves towards the charge in his pocket, Lenses’ training forcing the mind to think three moves ahead: After the armed threats are eliminated, kill Savmir, kill the witness, then collapse the tunnel.
Light shines from his pistol, poking a hole straight through the forehead of the ratbred holding the spear. The weapon, held out to thrust, drops from senseless fin
gers.
Kill Savmir, kill the witness, collapse the tunnel.
He swings the pistol round, squeezing the trigger as the barrel lines up with Savmir’s chest.
Nothing happens. No light, no death.
Savmir screeches in horror, rearing away.
It takes Genner a moment to register that something is wrong. His ears are suddenly full of noise, a rumbling sea contained in his head. He looks down at his pistol to see what the problem is.
But the pistol isn’t there. Neither is Genner’s hand.
Blood spurts, energetic, from the stump of his right wrist, spattering on the floor, dappling the edges of Savmir’s toes.
Despite the shock, Genner realizes that the remaining ratbred are not the problem. He turns to find three eyes watching him. Two are human, amber, the other set into the crosspiece of Delta’s sword.
Instantly, he revises his plan. Collapse the tunnel, he thinks. This was not the way he had intended things to go but, whatever happens to him, his mission will have been a success. Collapse the tunnel. He grips the charge in his remaining hand, brandishing it in front of the Vagrant like a trophy. His grin is manic and he takes satisfaction from the way the other man’s eyes widen in realization.
The roaring in his ears grows louder, the edges of his vision losing cohesion. Though he cannot hear himself, Genner shouts out a last salutation for the Empire’s glory.
The Vagrant pulls back Delta’s sword.
Already primed and poised, it is a small matter for Genner to activate the explosive charge. The countdown is set to allow him time to leave but it doesn’t matter, once activated, there is nothing anyone can do to stop the countdown. He wishes it had not ended this way, that Vesper had not forced his hand. But in the end his life and hers are nothing compared to the greater good.
Ten lights activate on the side of the charge. Immediately, the first goes out.
Delta’s sword swings towards him but it does not matter, he has done what he had to.
For the Empire.
Delta’s sword passes through Genner’s elbow without resistance, parting hand, wrist and forearm from the rest of his body.
Before it can fall, the Vagrant snatches the explosive out of the air, caging it with his fingers. Nine lights shine along its surface. He looks at them, then to Savmir, who is trying to press himself through the wall with little success.
Genner simply collapses, his features locked in a grin.
Savmir screams again.
The Vagrant frowns at him, then notices the ratbred prince is pointing at the charge in his hand. Another light has gone out.
Eyebrows raise and then all three are running. Savmir and his remaining companion back towards the surface, the Vagrant going the opposite way, deeper into the tunnel.
There is no light here, save for the seven green ones on the charge, and the Vagrant stumbles often, catching his head on the ceiling, tripping, lips moving in silent, frequent curses.
Another light goes out.
The Vagrant keeps going, making good progress until the tunnel splits into two. Unable to see the choice in front of him, the Vagrant takes neither, slamming into the dividing wall.
Air rushes from lungs and sparkles dance before amber eyes. Though he manages to keep hold of Delta’s sword, the charge slips from his fingers.
A few seconds pass, precious, before the Vagrant snaps back to attention, sucking in breath. He looks down, Delta’s sword hums at him, urging him on, and soon the charge is spotted again, a five-eyed spider, legless, staring up.
He reaches for it as another light goes out.
The distant rumbling of a group of metal snakes can be heard getting closer. Cocking his head to one side, the Vagrant listens.
He lets his ears guide him, moving closer to the sound. It is not above him, not yet, but it is coming his way. He presses the charge to the ceiling, and it adheres to the coating immediately.
The Vagrant doesn’t pause to count how many lights are left, breaking into a sprint, Delta’s sword pulling his arm straight, guiding, dragging him away.
And behind him, faster than seems fair, the last light goes out.
Samael marches out of the dome and into chaos. He does not have the kind of voice to carry over the cacophony so does not bother giving orders or rallying troops. Instead he takes stock, half-breed eyes untroubled by the poor pre-dawn light.
Above him, a sky-ship battle rages, the First’s nomads pitting their skills against the Empire’s pilots. It is too early to see which way the tide will go.
Tough Call rallies the bulk of the defenders by the walls, leaving the main camp mostly undefended. Shock troops dropped in by the Empire are making the most of the situation, running through civilian areas, firing indiscriminately at anyone foolish enough to be on the move. Fires rage in several places, more being started all the time.
Distantly, he is aware that Scout is curled in a corner, miserable, still recovering from the Seraph Knight’s chorus. Though distracting, there is a comfort in knowing that the Dogspawn is hidden and safe.
Samael reaches for his sword and remembers that he no longer has one. A feeling of sadness, of failure washes over him.
Then he marches towards the nearest Empire soldier, who is in the middle of taking up a sniper position on the roof of one of the flimsy stalls. She sees him coming, shoots as he lumbers forward.
The first shot misses him, the second takes him in the shoulder, the spinning bullet seeming to hum as it passes through. Vision mists as his essence spasms, then clears again. He feels no pain from the impact, only a slight hangover from the bullet’s essence-disrupting properties.
He ducks under the roof, punching up through thin fabric to get a hold of her ankle. With inhuman strength, he pulls the soldier through thin planks, down to his level. There is a struggle, brief, that ends with a neck snapping under his gauntleted grip.
A few more are hunted down before he spots a group of Empire soldiers, trying to come in behind Tough Call and the defenders at the wall.
This time he does shout, collecting a burning piece of wreckage to wave over his head while running full-tilt at the enemy.
There are ten Empire shock troopers, each armed with weapons designed to kill infernals, though they are equally effective on humans and half-breeds. Samael doubts he will be able to take them alone.
Tough Call and her people seem understandably distracted, and it does not surprise him that the shock troopers notice him long before his allies do.
Out in the open, there is little for him to do but put down his head and run.
Shots fire, wild, missing, missing, missing again.
As he gets closer he sees a soldier flailing at his own face, trying to clear a visor thick with flies. The shock troopers all have night vision in their visors but a new kind of darkness has descended, one made of bodies tiny and black.
And then Samael is on them. He does not fight as a knight should, with discipline and skill. He has failed in that role and so gives it up, letting another side of his heritage take over.
He grabs and gouges, twists limbs, breaks bones beneath his fists. The swarm hums, drowning out any cries for help.
When the flies clear, all ten are dead.
Samael makes his way to what remains of the wall. Repeated bombardment has blown it full of holes, leaving plenty of room to see the Empire’s advancing forces. Tough Call’s people squat either side of the gaps. Those with ranged weapons trying to thin out the enemy while keeping their own heads, those without keeping low, waiting for their time.
The one-armed leader of Verdigris clocks his approach, shouting to be heard even at close quarters. ‘You better be bringing good news, ’cos I’m only bringing the bad.’
‘How bad?’ asks Samael.
‘Word is, the West Rift commanders got blown to hell in their beds along with half their best people. I got what’s left here. The ground’s been torn to shit in all the firing. It’s slowing down their snakes but it als
o means we can’t deploy our brawlers. We’re having to fight at range and that’s a problem because they’ve got more guns than us. Reckon they’ve got more ammo too, we’re running low.’
‘That is bad.’
‘Tell me about it! We need some infernal backup from your friends in New Horizon.’
‘They’re already helping.’
‘Oh yeah? Well I need to see it to believe it. Get them here.’ Before he can answer, she adds, ‘I don’t suppose Vesper is coming?’
‘Soon, I hope.’
‘It’d better be or there’ll be none of us around to greet her.’
A dull boom from the battlefield catches their attention. One of the metal snakes drops half from view, headlamps sinking into the mud, a pair of eyes squinting in confusion, before vanishing completely. Another explosion, louder, comes from the metal snake. They cannot see the extent of the damage but can guess. There is a belch of smoke, then flames surge up from the hole, waving and wild.
The other snakes seem to pause in sympathy, bringing a temporary halt to the Empire’s advance.
‘Anything to do with you?’ asks Tough Call.
Samael shakes his head.
Using the brief respite, Tough Call moves up and down the line, directing aid to the injured, fighters to where the wall is breached, bolstering flagging courage.
He is about to follow, not sure what else to do when a squealing figure catches his eye. Though dishevelled, the glittering from of Savmir is easily distinguishable from the other ratbred in Crucible. ‘You!’ he shouts, pointing a tiny hand. ‘You! Come, now!’
Samael goes to Savmir’s side, struggling to make sense of the other half-breed’s babbling explanations. He does not question Genner’s reported betrayal, the fact slotting cleanly into his mind with the ease of a truth already known.
A sixth sense has drawn Tough Call back to his side. She waits until Savmir is finished before speaking. ‘This is our chance. Samael, take your knights, Flat Head and the Thousand Nails, and any infernals you can get. Get to those tunnels, use them to get in close. And make it quick, if they get to the wall, we won’t hold for long.’