by Peter Newman
There is reluctance, a mix of pragmatism and bloodlust, but they obey. Weapons are thrown into a pile, helmets with them, hands and ankles bound with a mix of chain, rope and wire.
He finds Flat Head checking bodies, seeing how many of the Thousand Nails have survived. He does not need to read her essence to know the news is bad. ‘You’ve been shot,’ he says.
She musters a grin, ‘Yes! Many times!’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Strong!’
Samael sees the lie in her body as much as her words. ‘You will get weaker. There is poison in your blood. Gather your survivors, bring them to me. I will help them.’
Flat Head slaps him on the arm. He does not feel it. ‘We not need help. We strong.’ She pauses. ‘But we take help. Sign of friendship!’ She slaps him on the arm again for emphasis.
Though the sights are grim, there is one thing that lifts Samael’s spirits. Scout has returned with the dawn. Recovered and well rested, the Dogspawn bounds across the battlefield drawing attention to the wounded. There is a simple joy in his work. To Scout, this is not a disaster, it is a game, and his barks are playful, excited.
The fighting has been intense, horribly efficient, with losses high on both sides. The salvaged armour used by most of Crucible’s forces is no match for imperial artillery. It should have been worse for us, he thinks. Walking between groups of newly bound prisoners, he begins to understand.
For many of the Empire’s soldiers, this is their first true battle. A far cry from the scared little settlements they’ve smashed along the way, or the odd lone half-breed, encountered and hunted down. No amount of reading about the infernal prepares one for actual contact. Meditation on death is no substitute for actually seeing it. They were not ready.
In the golden light of the morning, the Empire’s failings are all too easy to see. Metal snakes show signs of damage caused long before the fight started, old wounds poorly treated. Equipment shows its age, veteran warriors, their rarity.
A tug on the thread of essence that links him to Scout pulls him from grim musings. The Dogspawn has found something.
Samael looks over to see a red tail, ragged, sticking up from the mud. Unsure how much of the curiosity is his own, he drifts closer to Scout, who is already digging.
Through their bond, he knows Scout is hunting for a familiar scent. Then, realization jolting through his mind, he joins in. Wet earth is clawed away in clumps, heavier bits of stone pulled out and thrown aside.
Gradually, they excavate a hand, then an arm, then a shoulder, all armoured, filthy.
As Scout continues to work the body free, Samael crouches down, establishing a grip under the armpit. The hand spasms for a moment, then feels the side of Samael’s arm. After a moment’s pause, it establishes a grip on his bracer. In a slow, smooth movement, the half-breed straightens, making the ground gurgle.
With a final muddy burp the Vagrant is brought back into the world. Delta’s sword comes with him.
Scout barks. He knows this body!
Samael pats the Dogspawn, then stands the Vagrant up, examining him for damage.
Though the Vagrant lets Samael take his weight, there are no obvious wounds, and after a few moments, the half-breed steps back.
The Vagrant coughs, spits out something black, wipes his mouth. Only then does he seem to take in his surroundings. His lips draw into a line and the eye in Delta’s sword seems about to close when something inside it rallies, opening again, looking, seeing.
When the Vagrant turns back to Samael, his eyebrow is raised in question.
‘She is out there,’ he replies, pointing away from Crucible. ‘With Delta.’
The Vagrant nods to Samael. One hand rises as if to stroke Scout’s head but, as the Dogspawn looks up, eager, the Vagrant’s fingers seem to wilt inwards and the affection reduces to a second nod.
Then, he is walking away.
The red sun makes its way into the sky, giving a bloody wash to the proceedings, and a second, less-defined shadow.
Walking in the rut left by caterpillar tracks, the Vagrant makes his way towards the far end of the field, where a line of people kneel. Nearby, two figures stand, framed by a solar disc.
He keeps going, squinting, until squelching footsteps draw Vesper’s attention.
She turns towards him. ‘You came. I knew you’d come.’ She looks at his face, sees the shock. ‘I haven’t had a chance to see myself yet. It’s bad isn’t it?’
Tears seem to bleed from his eyes as he nods. He closes the last of the space between them, reaching out carefully, as if she were made of glass. They embrace, the two swords watching each other, awkward, at their sides.
When they part, she sighs. ‘How is everyone?’
The Vagrant shrugs.
‘Is Reela okay?’
The Vagrant nods, musters a little smile.
‘Good, and Jem?’
He shrugs again, making her frown. ‘I have to go and see. Look, this isn’t over yet, you know that don’t you?’
The Vagrant nods.
She points to a shape on the horizon, a black smudge like a pupil in the eye of the red sun. ‘The rest of The Seven are coming. We have to make sure all of the Empire’s soldiers are secured before they get here. And I need to speak to whatever is left of the delegations one more time.’ She pauses, her voice losing some of its command. ‘And I need you to be with me, I mean for what’s coming. I can’t do this alone.’
He nods, immediate.
‘You know what I’m asking?’
The nod is slower this time, definite.
‘Thank you.’
They turn towards Crucible together, leaving Delta to stare, solemn, at the horizon.
One Thousand and Nine Years Ago
Sleep seems to lose its grip on Massassi. She spends her days outside, watching the sun make its way across the sky. Epsilon, Theta and Eta stand further back, watching the watcher. All four of them seem to be waiting for something.
Peace-Fifteen has tried asking but might as well be a shadow for all the older woman acknowledges her. As for the three silver figures, they do not speak. Mostly they ignore Peace-Fifteen entirely, and for that she is grateful, for when they do look at her, she feels pity and the urge to run away.
But she does not, for she is a loyal creature. While Massassi sits in her harness, Peace-Fifteen administers her medications, sustenance and hygiene. She notes with concern that Massassi is requesting a further reduction in rations. It is as if there is less of her to feed.
When Peace-Fifteen tries to argue, she is ignored. When she questions, she is ignored. Massassi’s gaze is only for the sky now. And if the rays damage her eyes, she does not complain.
There is an intensity to her that frightens Peace-Fifteen. It reminds her of the way her mistress used to watch the Breach in the early days.
At night they carry Massassi back to the workshop where she murmurs to herself, working through dark hours on little pieces of platinum. No longer strong enough to create another like Alpha, she makes coins, each infused with a sliver of feeling, a moment of life. They take from her in insect sized bites. It is a slow diminishing, a whittling away of the soul.
Meanwhile, the Empire continues its job, patrolling the Breach, staying vigilant for signs of new fractures. The divide between citizen, soldier and knight grows deeper. Beta wisely keeps only the finest families in the Shining City, the ones that Alpha approves of. He moves the others away to less desirable locations.
A new generation is trained, furnished with skills and stories from the old.
Though happiness is as rare as ever, the Empire of the Winged Eye is stable, safe in the hands of its immortal leaders.
Massassi has succeeded in her task. She has prepared humanity for the day when the infernals will come, armed them, trained them, given her own blood and being, ensuring that things are ready, and will remain so after she is gone.
And yet she does not rest.
Every day she
studies the sun and every day ends without satisfaction. The scar is still there. A thin line of darkness running right down the middle that only she can see. No matter what she makes, it remains.
It appeared the day she almost died, a three pointed fracture to mirror her wounds. And though she has healed, though the sun has healed, both of them remain marked.
Massassi does not know why this is, does not understand the link between her and the world. She knows only that it exists, and that the sun’s fate is tied in some way to her own. In some way, she is the bastion of this reality, an anchor that must remain strong, even after death. And so at night, she works, until the coins fill every corner of her workshop, a treasure hoard of self, fragmented.
Even when the sense slips from her and her jaw begins to hang, slack and drooling, she keeps going.
Days of sun and nights of making platinum moons in miniature repeat, seeming endless.
But they are not.
A last coin is made. It falls clinking with the others, setting them off too, echoing, echoing as Massassi lets her hands fall on her lap, becoming still.
For such a dramatic life, it is a small and lonely end.
Peace-Fifteen finds Massassi shortly after. Anger rises through the grief. She cannot believe that the old woman would dare to die in the scant few hours she wasn’t there.
From their scattered positions across the world, The Seven stop as one, all looking the same way, all looking up. All looking at the sun.
Minutes have ticked by and now they see the black line on its surface too. It grows quickly, a vertical band of darkness. For a fraction of a second, the sun dims, seeming to wink down on all below.
Then, without sound but with light so bright it sears the vision from any mortal eyes turned that way, it explodes.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Walking towards Crucible, Vesper has a view of the devastation. Large parts of the field have collapsed, exposing bare roots and building foundations, like a bottom lip pulled away from old teeth.
The makeshift wall has been obliterated, only a few bumps in the earth suggesting what was there the day before, and only two of the bunkers remain intact, the others broken or smoking or both.
Amidst the wreckage, wounded are found, dug out and helped to safety. Meanwhile the trade for scarce medical supplies has already begun, a new kind of war, with very different rules.
As she gets closer she sees the Empire’s forces slumped together, bound and watched over, their guards angry, hurt, looking for an excuse to lash out, to make the prisoners pay.
‘Listen,’ says Vesper, making everyone turn to her. ‘You came here to receive my protection, and you have it. Now, the people who have surrendered their arms are also under my protection.’
Assent is given, the potential for violence receding.
Vesper and the Vagrant continue, not stopping until they stand where the wall used to be.
The fighting has been heavy, brutal, explosives employed to devastating effect. New craters pepper the ground, the largest made by a fallen sky-ship, the impact so severe that only shreds of wreckage remain.
She sees a Usurperkin limping towards her, is aware of the way the Vagrant tenses at her side. The figure is familiar but she cannot place him. Strange, she thinks, she is usually good with names. The Usurperkin wears a tattered marshall’s uniform, one of those favoured in Verdigris. There is dried blood in his ears that has run down, staining both sides of his neck.
‘You’re one of Tough Call’s people, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah, I’m Max.’
‘Are you hurt?’
He looks surprised at her question. ‘Yeah but this ain’t about me.’ He clears his throat as if about to say something important, the effect spoiled slightly by his inability to meet her eye. ‘We wanted you to know that the boss held the wall. Those Empire bastards didn’t get through.’
‘Then I owe you and Tough Call my thanks.’
‘Not a one of them,’ he continues. ‘They piled it on thick and she stood right there with us. When she ran out of rockets she used a knife and when that broke she used her fist … and … and when that broke …’ Max shakes his head. ‘We wanted you to know what she did. We want you to tell the others.’
Vesper rests a hand on his forearm. ‘I will, Max. You have my word.’ She squeezes, then asks, ‘Where is she? I’d like to see her.’
Max leads her back to the dome. The Vagrant follows as far as the entrance but then splits off, hurrying towards another section while she and Max go to the rooms allocated for Verdigris. There are new cracks in Crucible’s walls, a few shards of daylight getting in where they shouldn’t. One falls across Tough Call’s face.
There are others here. A Usurperkin called Maxi, covered in bandages, who wipes at her eyes, and Ezze, who for once appears humble.
Vesper nods to them and goes to Tough Call’s side. Most of the woman’s body is covered, giving the impression of someone merely sleeping.
Leaning down, Vesper whispers goodbye.
A few ratbred have returned to the dome already, setting their rooms to rights. They tense at the sound of the Vagrant’s boots hurrying down the corridor. He gives them apologetic waves as he passes, moving on before any questions can start.
One door is passed by, then another. He goes through the third one, ducking late, the hangings pulling at his hair. A few strides take him to a cabinet. He crouches down, pulls open the door.
Inside are some folded clothes, rumpled by the indentation of a small bottom, and nothing else.
The Vagrant’s hand goes to his mouth.
He stands up, checks the back of the cabinet.
Nothing.
A quick glance round the room reveals plenty of ornaments, all shiny or studded with glass. Many are on their sides. Not one of them looks like Reela.
He runs over to the rug, still folded over, and looks down the hole.
Nothing.
Hand still pressed to mouth, he stands there, his face caught in an expression somewhere between intense thought and panic.
Behind him, there is a soft giggle.
The Vagrant’s eyebrows shoot up.
He nods to himself, the worry lines easing, then turns to his left, until he faces in the opposite direction.
Nobody is in sight.
He scratches his head and gives an exaggerated sigh.
There is another giggle behind him, stifled, louder.
He turns again, faster this time, catching a glimpse of hair trailing off to his left, and the bottom of a foot raised in flight.
Another sigh and he tilts left before turning right, catching a naughty-faced Reela in the act.
He shakes his head at her but is usurped by his own smile.
She smiles back, cheeky, and he shakes his head again, at himself, before sweeping her into an embrace.
They cluster in Vesper’s room: the Vagrant, Jem, Samael and Vesper. Reela has been put next door with Scout, and the sounds of running feet and happy barks form an incongruous underscore for the otherwise grim proceedings.
‘I need to know the state of things before I speak to everyone,’ says Vesper. With difficulty, she adds, ‘I’ve already seen Tough Call.’
For once, Samael’s whispery tones are appropriate. ‘The Thousand Nails have taken heavy losses and over half the survivors are wounded or suffering essence poisoning. I will help those I can but they are not what they were.
‘The West Rift delegation was hit worst. Their leaders are dead, their numbers decimated.’
‘What about New Horizon? Red Rails? The Order of the Broken Blades? And where is Genner?’
The Vagrant looks up at the name. He catches Vesper’s eye and shakes his head.
She seems to deflate a little. ‘Oh … Sorry, he’s been with me so long I thought … Do you know where his body is? I’d like to see him, if there’s time.’
The Vagrant looks away.
‘New Horizon is still with us,’ says Samael. ‘I don’t
know exactly how they fared but the Man-shape seems happy. Without their support the Empire would have killed us from the inside. The ratbred of Red Rails didn’t get involved in the fighting but their tunnels allowed us to bring the fight to the Empire.’
‘I see. What about the Order?’
‘We remain but the Necro-blades are unworthy.’ Samael lowers his head. ‘I failed you and I failed them. I’m sorry.’
‘No Samael, if anyone failed here, it’s me. Please, look up. This isn’t over, and with Genner gone I need you to be strong, now more than ever.’
He meets her eye. ‘I am yours to command.’
‘Good. Anything else?’
‘There were civilian casualties. Although the Empire’s main attack was held at the wall, a smaller force were dropped in at the start of the battle.’
The sword hums softly at Vesper’s side. ‘They came to me for protection …’ There is a pause, awkward, then she adds, ‘How have people taken it?’
‘A few have fled. Most have stayed. A large number have asked to fight.’
‘Then we need to give them weapons. Tell Gorad and Gut-pumper to see it done. We can worry about compensation for Slake when all of this is behind us. Is that it? Good. Samael, convene a meeting of the delegates. The rest of The Seven are only hours away and we need to be ready.’
As the group breaks up and Vesper starts for the door, Jem approaches, tentative. ‘You’re not actually going to fight them are you?’
An eye regards him, incredulous. ‘Of course I am. There’s no other choice now.’
‘I know there has to be a battle. What I’m asking is do you have to be at the head of it? You’ve been asking about everyone else, but what about you? Those people out there, they don’t care about you. They just care about them-selves.’ He makes a vague gesture in her direction, his hand not quite touching hers. ‘Haven’t you given enough already?’
‘I’m not doing this because I want to, I’m doing it because I have to. There’s no one else, Jem. Just me. I made this happen and I have to see it through to the end.’