by Peter Newman
Vesper watches the ant-like figures scrambling below, feels yet another stab of remorse at the waste of talent. Bile is swallowed down before she gives the order.
Small pods spit from the sky-ship, firing the crew at one of the gun towers while Vesper leaps from the hatch. The sword is held high, silver wings spreading, navigating rich currents of essence.
Meanwhile the sky-ship accelerates, plunging itself like a dagger into the palace below. Too late, the ants try to scatter, their ambush inverted.
Vesper forces herself to watch the explosion before turning her attention to the tower.
The soldiers manning the turret are focusing their attention on the pods, waiting for each to land before blasting it off the battlements. She glides down above their heads, coming to land on the cannon’s steaming barrel.
Reversing the sword, she plunges it into the control panel, causing the two operators to leap back in alarm. They reach for sidearms, neither able to take their eyes from the apparition in front of them. One of the soldiers misses his holster, his hand drawing air instead. The other raises a pistol, shaking.
Vesper swings the sword in a wide arc, letting out a single note, sharp. No steel touches the soldiers, but the force of the song blasts them both backwards. Heads rock, slamming into the wall, and sense falls from faces.
Meanwhile, the pods pop open, one after another. A motley crew made of the best that Crucible has to offer. ‘Go,’ she tells them.
They nod, scattering quickly as she raises the sword again, this time issuing a challenge. It blasts out, bright and loud, even above the sounds of battle.
And then, on the other side of the palace, just visible over rooftops, streets and courtyards, five figures spread their wings, taking to the sky.
Reela slips from her seat, running over to Delta. The Vagrant goes to follow but in his haste he fumbles the clasp, contemptuous straps arresting his movement and throwing him back into the chair.
He makes a grab for Reela but she has already gone beyond his reach, moving to stand by Delta.
The clasp confounds him a second time, then a third. Bemused, the eye in Delta’s sword watches him.
Mazar drops out through the hatch, her rifle giving a warm welcome to those nearby. Delta follows, Reela com-pliant at her side.
Finally, the clasp parts and the Vagrant tumbles out, running headlong through the hatch and into a courtyard.
Already, skirmishes are taking place all around, in the streets, across battlements, the forces of the palace organizing themselves into hunting parties, dividing the prey between them.
A group of soldiers come running into view led by a pair of knights. Delta takes Reela in the opposite direction, a door opening at her approach. The Vagrant and Mazar block the doorway, preparing themselves for battle.
As the knights get closer the Vagrant’s eyes flick to theirs, to little details in the way they hold their swords, one with the point dipping like a ramp, the other held aloft, flagpole straight. They are familiar styles to match the faces under the helms.
He moves to engage them, making the knights a wall between him and the soldiers’ guns behind.
They come at him then, their blades taking turns, running him through a series of parries that he recognizes, that, years ago, he showed them. It is a form of respect, a recognition of their history before the proper fight begins.
It is also an ideal opportunity to strike.
The Vagrant does not take it, letting the swords ring out in sequence, one against the other, letting Reela and Delta get further away.
Though ritualistic, the Vagrant is still forced to give ground, the two knights pushing him back towards the wall, closing down options as the ritual comes to an end.
The last parry rings out and all three pause. One sword held high, the other low, Delta’s sword at a level between them, waiting to see which needs to be met first.
The knights break rhythm, attacking together, one blade going for his neck, the other his knees.
Ducking low, the Vagrant feels a blade sing over his head, the song pushing down on him, as Delta’s sword forces the other away.
He sees an opening, hesitates, a thrust that could slide up under a breastplate to bring death becomes one that swings down, cracking an ankle.
While one knight staggers, the other attacks, sword held in two hands.
The Vagrant meets it, his parry augmented by song, throwing back his opponent.
From his left, a shot rings out, sparking the stones by his feet. Before he can react, the knights are attacking again, battering the Vagrant’s defences, looking for an opening.
Two blades slam into Delta’s sword together, pressing down. The Vagrant’s elbows begin to bend, one of the silver wings digging into his shoulder.
The Vagrant bares his teeth, takes breath to sing again when a grinding sound of metal on stone comes from behind him, from the floor, distinct.
He looks down, the knights, despite themselves, copying the movement, all three watching as a trio of grenades rolls between the Vagrant’s legs, then through the knights’ to come to a stop a few feet past them, where the soldiers are.
The Vagrant looks up in time to meet their young eyes and see the knowledge in them, before they are ripped apart, armour, skin and bone, gone. He pulls the sword flat to his chest, singing out, and the last of the grenade’s fury disperses around him, flames licking the wall either side.
‘Come on!’ yells Mazar. ‘The Seven are moving!’
She is right. Their shadows fall tenfold around him, a flight of immortal birds. Two of the shadows are blurring together, shrinking, deepening, as the immortal that casts them descends.
The Vagrant doesn’t bother to check which one, following Mazar through the door at a run.
Not all of The Seven come for Vesper. Beta parts from the others, diving away into a nearby courtyard. Smoke belches up to meet him and his wings hack through it scythe-like, then he is gone, a slowly expanding hole left behind.
The others, Alpha, Epsilon, Theta and Eta, all remain airborne, heading straight for her.
Vesper has a moment of grim satisfaction. Her plan has worked, Alpha’s hatred of her has proven more important than any tactical concerns. Reality comes soon after. Four immortals are coming for her, where one would surely do. There is no hope of survival and she has to swallow the knowledge that she is going to die in this palace. Again, no fear comes at the thought, just determination. If her life is to be the price of victory, she has to sell it high.
And so she runs.
Along the battlements she goes. Twice, she swings her sword, scattering soldiers who stand in her way. There isn’t time to destroy the next turret she passes but she allows the tip of her blade to screech alongside the barrel, impairing it to an unknown degree.
Up above, Alpha draws his sword. A low thrum sounds as it comes free of its scabbard, a death knell. He raises his sword towards the heavens, then lowers it to point straight at Vesper.
She is still running, head down, trying to reach the relative safety of a turret. An eye watches for her, however, and her sword arm moves so that her fist is behind her head, the blade running down her back.
Alpha’s mouth opens, and a single note barks out. Between his weapon and his target, the space explodes in fire, blue-white.
When it has passed, the turret is rubble, and the entrance that would have taken Vesper deeper into the palace, into cover, is no more.
Vesper herself is still moving, groggily, her right arm pulling her forward even as she struggles to clear her head. She scrambles across the rubble and keeps going.
Alpha points again but this time he doesn’t sing. Epsilon, Theta and Eta draw their weapons together in near synchrony, a beat of wings carrying them up, ready to dive.
She is close to one corner of the battlements now, where another tower joins the two walkways. She is so close, so nearly there.
Eta swoops in behind, missing narrowly, close enough to buffet Vesper forwa
rds, wingtips slicing fabric but not drawing blood.
An eye watches Eta pass, narrowing.
Whatever thought the sword has is put aside for Theta’s attack. Vesper spins, letting momentum carry her through the air backwards, managing to parry the attack as it comes down, a diagonal slice of death.
Swords and song ring together, charging the air. Theta shoots past, starting a majestic turn, while Vesper is sent reeling, bouncing once on the floor before hurtling through the tower’s door.
She rolls, graceless, backwards, before coming up on her feet. Somehow she manages to turn the right way, controlling the momentum, letting it carry her forward into a running beat.
Eta lands on one side of the tower, Epsilon on the other but she is heading towards neither of them, plunging down the stairwell.
A man in Empire uniform is coming the opposite way, fleeing something else. He screams when he sees Vesper, throwing himself against the wall. She ignores him but, as her mind clears, she notices the sounds of violence below.
The respite of the stairwell is brief, the tower spitting her out into a street where Empire forces do battle with Gut-tershamble and the Faceless Prince.
Their bullets sting, slowing the two infernals but not stopping them. She has a glimpse, stark, of Guttershamble grabbing one of the soldiers, crushing his skull in its rotten fingers. Another soldier flies through the air, her legs missing.
All their lives, the people of the Empire have lived in the shadow of the infernal threat and now it is in front of them, a nightmare made real.
Vesper turns away and runs. She has put two streets be-tween her and the carnage before she hears Alpha’s cry of outrage.
She keeps running.
For a while, Alpha’s anger, and that of his brother and sisters, is directed elsewhere. She uses that time to put as much distance between them as possible. What she needs is a way deeper inside, where flight will be difficult. None presents itself, forcing her to keep moving.
But she is no stranger to the palace. Through the essence that links them, the sword whispers memories of another time and her vision shifts. The buildings around her begin to change, structurally the same but lit differently, by a single, stronger sun.
‘Thank you,’ she whispers, and the sword hums ac-ceptance.
Behind her, she hears the sound of four immortals singing together, engaging the infernals. They will not stand long but it doesn’t matter.
She knows exactly where she has to go.
It does not take long for Mazar and the Vagrant to catch Delta and Reela up. The two move at a stately pace, hand in hand.
The corridor is only wide enough for two, forcing them to match the immortal’s strides. The Vagrant exchanges a look with Mazar, frustration passing between them as they check the urge to push, like a pair of dogs keen to be off the leash.
Just as they turn a corner, the Vagrant checks behind and sees Beta in pursuit. He does not run either, though he seems to gain on them in agonizing inches.
They meet few others in the palace, hallways strangely empty, deserted. And when another person is seen, they kneel immediately, deferent, allowing Delta to pass unhindered.
The walls are decorated, the Empire’s history inlaid in silver, layer upon layer of images and words, grand, glorious, a foundation for unshakable pride.
Many of the images feature The Seven, working miracles, dispensing justice. There is a permanence to them, a sense that no matter what else transpires, be it demonic or human or otherwise, that afterwards, The Seven will remain.
Gamma’s fall is nowhere to be found on the walls however, neither is Delta’s betrayal.
They are nearly across the hall when Beta enters behind them. Without anger, he calls his sister’s name. Nuances are loaded into the word. Joy in seeing her, sadness in the way things are, hope of reconciliation.
It is the kindness that knifes into Delta. She stops walking, her own essence a conflicting bubble of emotion.
Beta continues his approach, sword held down at his side, relaxed, its eye watching the Vagrant. Again he calls Delta’s name and this time, she turns, her eyes drawn to the dark voids of his own.
‘Beta,’ she says.
The immortal smiles at the sound of his name, and the love she infuses it with, his pace more enthusiastic now, the gap between them closing.
Mazar drops her rifle, falling to her knees.
Reela and the Vagrant stare, uncertain.
Beta, still smiling, comes close, Delta able to do nothing but bask in his approval.
Gently, without taking his eyes from his sister, Beta reaches out, touching Reela’s hand. His essence brushes the girl’s, making the tainted marks on the back of her hand flare red, then white, burning. Her body locks, rigid, a scream trapped behind the bars of her teeth.
Surging forward, the Vagrant raises Delta’s sword, trying to cut through the hold. But Beta’s sword comes up of its own accord, guiding away the Vagrant’s strike, a light touch to divert his momentum.
Delta’s sword slides against Beta’s until the two hilts catch together.
Without turning his head, smile still radiant, Beta flicks his wrist, launching the Vagrant across the room. He slides across the floor, turning slowly on his back, Delta’s sword skidding away.
Beta and Delta commune, their essences coming together, sharing thoughts and emotions. Not the smashing of rage that she experienced with Alpha, but gentle brushing, arguments passed back and forth without judgement.
Reela continues to burn, a slow moving fire that follows the lines of her taint, creeping from hand, to wrist, to elbow, leaving a nerveless limb behind.
Her hand slips free and Delta blinks, breaking contact with her brother.
Reela falls, and storm-cloud eyes follow her down.
Delta blinks again and her expression darkens.
Beta’s smile wavers. He raises a hand, palm out, a mute appeal. Surely she understands that he was only doing what is right? Surely she would not be angry with him for doing the creator’s will?
Delta’s essence flares and Beta takes a step backwards.
Meanwhile, the Vagrant rolls over his new bruises, col-lecting Delta’s sword from the floor.
He sucks in a breath, pressing down with his free hand, and stands up.
One Thousand and Nine Years Ago
When Massassi dies, something of reality dies with her. The pressure that has borne down for so long, from another reality, pushes harder. Old wounds on the sun’s surface reopen, the cracks widening, tearing and splitting it apart.
But Massassi’s death is not total, for much of her essence remains, housed in the hearts of her seven creations, in their swords and, in lesser quantities, in the weapons of the knights and the soldiers, in the essence-powered machines of her Empire, and in the thousands of little coins she has made.
A single human, scattered piecemeal, then wrapped in silver and platinum.
And, like a solar mirror, the sun’s death is not total either. It is broken, diminished, the whole returned to the value of its parts, but not gone.
For days, fire fills the sky, a series of distant explosions that spell death for millions of those that watch, helpless, earthbound. The nights become strange, flickering things, with pale strobing flashes hinting at the astral violence viewed on the other side of the world. True darkness is swiftly forgotten.
While people run and hide and mostly die, The Seven watch, unmoving, grief-shocked.
Days and nights pass. The death toll, crop failures, mass blindness and scrabble for resources seeming discreet beneath the apocalyptic reverberations above.
Meanwhile, The Seven watch.
There is general agreement that the world is going to end but, despite a number of convincing arguments and passionate doomsayers, the sun does not fall from the heavens.
When the skies finally clear two suns are revealed where one was before. Lesser, weaker; one red, the other gold, orbiting each other in small lazy circles.
The Seven gather at the place where Massassi died. Peace-Fifteen is waiting for them. She asks a simple question. ‘What do we do?’
For a while, The Seven do not answer. Massassi has created them to withstand the ravages of time, to be leaders, champions, symbols of power and permanence. She has tried to prepare them for every problem she could think of through a combination of intelligent design, of balancing one against the other, and teaching them, sharing her knowledge and skill.
The one thing that she did not consider, did not prepare them for, was her death. The Seven’s love for their creator is paramount, a glowing wondrous thing that unites them and gives them strength.
Gone.
In its place is grief. Massassi, their maker, their teacher, their beloved, is dead. Something of themselves is dead too, gone forever, and they know that things will never be the same.
This is problematic. They have been taught that their role is to guide humanity, to preserve the glory of the Empire and to prepare them for the coming threat. But such a task is impossible, pointless.
For their creator is gone, her perfection cruelly taken from them, the Empire of the Winged Eye has been reduced to a shadow of what it was. They cannot bring Massassi back any more than they can restore the sun.
Peace-Fifteen knows better than to rush The Seven, so she waits, the question hanging between them.
What should they do? What can they do? The Seven are not of one mind.
Alpha cannot bear how far the world has fallen, to even look upon it brings him pain. He cannot understand how his creator could abandon them to this existence, or why she did not warn him.
Beta tries to consider the long-term problems but each solution turns quickly to another issue in his mind, and another, and yet another, a succession of disappointments leading to failure and death.
Gamma’s grief is tinged with anger, at Massassi, at her brothers and sisters. They all disappoint. She feels helpless, bitter. Though she does not love her creator as the others do, her tears fall just as freely.