by Peter Newman
The Vagrant leans out over the battlements and points Delta’s sword at Alpha’s back. Both man and sword seem to sag momentarily before straightening. His mouth opens and sharp song comes out, is caught by the blade and focused, making a line of blue fire, streaking.
Down it goes, an ethereal comet, straight, unerring, until it strikes Alpha square in the back. At this distance the song has lost much of its power, more a slap in the face or a flick of an ear than a real attack.
Somehow, this is worse.
A quick flicker of a wing whirls Alpha round, sky-blue eyes finding the Vagrant instantly. Another beat and he is flying up at them, at speed.
The Vagrant waves Mazar and Reela back, urging them away with a frantic wave of the hand. They go, though Reela resists, her feet kicking in all directions, heels drumming against Mazar’s armour.
Satisfied, the Vagrant readies himself for Alpha’s charge.
As he draws nearer, Alpha levels his blade with the Vagrant’s chest, before giving his response to the chal-lenge.
The Vagrant’s face falls.
The eye in Delta’s sword widens in fear.
And everything between them explodes.
Alpha’s rebuke reverberates, passing through every corner of the sky palace, every part of Wonderland, even reaching Crucible, startling men and goats alike.
In the streets of the palace, on its battlements, and in various corridors, infernals, humans and half-breeds pause, taking a moment to appreciate that they are not the target of the immortal’s rage.
Delta and Beta cease their argument, curiosity drawing them outside.
And in the bowels of the palace, an eye glances up, Vesper’s following. A curse escapes her lips and she starts running, despite the knowledge that she is already too late.
The Vagrant blinks against the dust, rising from his crouch. There is space in front of him where moments before there were battlements. A circular gouge that encompasses a section of floor, allowing new views of the levels below and an uninterrupted view of Alpha’s charge.
Alpha is only twenty feet away and closing fast, his sword remains focused on the Vagrant, a second blast of song coming hot on the heels of the first.
The Vagrant tries to parry but it is like blocking a hurricane. Though no flame touches his skin, the force pushes him back, until heels hang over the courtyard.
Before the Vagrant can recover, Alpha attacks a third time, thrusting forward, adding the power of his arms to that of his wings.
Delta’s sword bravely puts itself between them, wings trembling, eye half closed.
If the Vagrant does try to augment the parry with song, it is overwhelmed, lost in the roar of fire and rage.
The point of Alpha’s sword strikes the flat of Delta’s pushing it into the Vagrant’s chest, punching him into the sky.
Like a leaf, he tumbles, head over heels towards the waiting courtyard. He sticks out his arms, instinctive, useless, falling just as fast as before.
Delta’s sword is slightly more effective, the silvered wings that make the crosspiece stretching wide, using currents of essence to slow their descent.
Even so, the landing is an ugly, lopsided, rolling thing. The Vagrant comes to a stop, his armour scuffed in every place, his face down, his eyes closed.
Above, Alpha circles, building up to something. Blue fire trails from his sword, growing steadily brighter.
There are other combatants in the courtyard, but both Crucible and Empire forces clear the area, united in their desire to avoid what’s coming.
Only one person is going the opposite way. A small figure, cradling one arm, who has finally escaped her captor’s grip; she rushes over to the Vagrant, kneeling at his side as Alpha completes his second circle.
Her arrival catches the attention of Delta who has been watching for some time. Sympathy crosses her face and she takes a step forward before Beta’s hand finds her shoulder, stopping her.
A small silver wing and a small hand nudge the Vagrant, eliciting some kind of noise. It is not a word, not even a grunt but its meaning is clear: no.
Neither girl nor sword respects it, nudging harder.
The Vagrant looks up, irritation spurring him to consciousness, but fading as the situation presents itself.
Alpha makes a third circle, faster, as the Vagrant struggles to his feet.
The trail of fire grows longer, almost making a hoop as Alpha pulls up with a powerful wingbeat.
The Vagrant raises Delta’s sword, stepping in front of Reela.
For a moment Alpha seems to hang in the air, and then he is turning, diving, his wings folding close to his back, his sword so bright that the air shimmers in fear.
Like a meteor heralding the end, he comes down.
As Alpha’s song grows in strength, Vesper pushes herself to run faster. The sword urges her on, humming with worry. They make a strange sight as they storm along, and people on both sides of the conflict hurl themselves aside rather than get in their way.
She bursts out into the open in time to see Alpha’s dive. The Vagrant is just a shadow underneath it, a stick man with a stick sword with an even smaller shadow behind.
Without pausing, Vesper leaps into the air, spinning, singing out. As she completes her turn the sword points at a space where Alpha will shortly arrive, blasting it with song.
Unwittingly, Alpha races to intercept it, his attention so fixed on the Vagrant that he doesn’t see it coming.
She is not strong enough to knock him from the sky or to take away the force of his attack, but she is strong enough to divert it, sending Alpha off at a tangent, to crash into a nearby building.
The immortal dives straight through the roof, straight through several floors, and a shockwave blasts out, shredding the walls and rippling the floor. What is left collapses, the roof folding in on itself, no longer supported.
Vesper skids to a stop at the Vagrant’s side.
He nods to her, one eyebrow cocked.
‘Are you ready for this?’
He nods again and she knows he is lying. She finds herself smiling anyway. ‘Me too.’ Her gaze moves to Reela. ‘You need to go hide, now.’
The girl shakes her head.
‘Reela!’
She shakes her head a second time, stepping behind the Vagrant.
Vesper sees the fear in her girl’s face: of the battle, the violence, of her own mother. She tries to soften her expression and reach out to her daughter when the rubble that was once a building blasts into the air, and Alpha climbs out.
‘It didn’t have to be this way,’ she murmurs, making the Vagrant turn his head, puzzled. ‘We take him together, okay?’
The Vagrant nods.
Alpha is upright now, bits of debris falling from his shoulders as he strides towards them. The collision has not marked him, and exertions have taken no toll on his strength.
The closer he gets the more the difference in height is pronounced.
‘You’ve lost,’ says Vesper. ‘Look around You. The army You sent has surrendered, Your palace has been anchored and is being overwhelmed as we speak. But there’s still a chance to save lives. Order the Empire to stop fighting and I can stop this right now.’
But there is no relief to be found in Alpha’s eyes. It is like asking the mountains for mercy. He continues to advance.
Vesper’s expression hardens. ‘The Empire needed You for years. They prayed for You to come, and You ignored them. I know why.’ She glances over to where Delta stands, Beta’s hand still restraining her shoulder. ‘You were scared.’
Alpha’s sword begins a low, growling hum.
‘You were scared of the Breach, so while generations suffered and Your own sister sacrificed herself, You hid in Your room. Then You were scared of the Yearning, and while good people—’ her voice chokes for a moment ‘—sacrificed themselves, You hid in Your room. Only now, when the biggest threats have passed do You decide to come out. And what do You do? You kill the very people you’re suppo
sed to be protecting. And why?’
Alpha is nearly within sword reach now, and his blade is already rising to strike, the hum becoming a roar.
Vesper carries on, shouting above it. ‘Because You are scared again! You’re scared of what You let happen to the world, and rather than take responsibility for it, You—’
Alpha’s sword comes down.
Two swords meet it and the collision is thunderous, driving Vesper and the Vagrant backwards. The two exchange a look and the briefest of nods before assuming positions of readiness.
‘And rather than take responsibility for it,’ Vesper continues, ‘You’d just destroy everything. Because purging is easier than understanding. Because if You get rid of us …’ She tails off, meeting another of Alpha’s attacks, the Vagrant lending his strength to hers.
Again, one blade strikes two, again, they hold fast.
‘If You get rid of us, You don’t have to take responsibility for us, or for Yourself, or for all the ways You failed. I’m asking you again: Surrender.’
Alpha’s answer is immediate, furious, his sword raining down in a series of strikes, each falling like a hammer, heavy and fast, forcing his enemies back.
The Vagrant fights well, but he is just a man, and his link with Delta’s sword still fragile. Vesper fights well, moving as Gamma would, a match in skill and anger. But she too is mortal, with muscles that tire and a body that is already broken.
Moreover, to match Alpha’s song, they push themselves. Throats quickly burn, straining, their own efforts ravaging them from within just as Alpha’s whittles from without.
For a time, Vesper does not have the space to sing and speak, using everything she has just to survive. They are holding Alpha, but they will not be able to do so forever. Something has to change, and quickly, if they are to win.
Every time she thinks she sees an opening, Alpha has already closed it. He and his sword read her intentions even as she conceives them.
The sword gives her the same advantage, meaning neither side can surprise the other. Gloomily, she realizes that Alpha does not need to do anything but wait.
For all her talk, the taking of the palace will mean nothing if The Seven still stand. And if she falls, the alliance with the infernals falls too, and Crucible will fail.
There has to be something I can do!
But Alpha’s attacks send any possible plans fleeing from her mind, forcing her back, and back again, each time a little more weary than before.
The Vagrant is getting slower too, his parries only just joining hers in time.
She knows that somewhere behind her is her daughter, can only hope that the girl has found a safe place to hide. At the thought of Reela, there is an accompanying surge of guilt. It shouldn’t have been this way for her. This is my fault.
Something pricks her finger and she looks over to see that the sword has stabbed her with a wingtip. It is telling her to focus. More than that, it is telling her to attack.
As Alpha’s blade comes down, she steps aside instead of meeting it, letting the Vagrant face it alone. She hears the ring of sword on sword but, without her aid, he is overwhelmed, blasted backwards, tumbling out of her periphery.
She has got an opening but has abandoned her father to get it. Another sacrifice, she thinks. Another betrayal.
The sword does not give her the luxury of remorse, driving her forward.
Somehow, the idea that she would dare to attack surprises Alpha. He is already wrong-footed, preparing to strike again in the place where Vesper was.
He manages a clumsy parry, her sword sparking off his blade and then a second time against his shoulder. Before he can recover, she presses her advantage. Alternating high and low, striking quickly, feinting. An anger fuels her, giving her much-needed strength. Vesper is not sure how much of it is hers and how much the sword’s but she doesn’t care, happy to use it regardless.
Stumbling away, Alpha does all he can to keep the sword from biting him. His own weapon races to put itself between him and danger. On his back wings flick out, stabilizing, then sweep in turn, trying to buffet Vesper, break her flow.
And she is buffeted, but she does not fight it, allowing the sideways momentum to add to her slice, breaking Alpha’s guard and drawing a dark line across his silver chest.
On the one hand, the injury is minor, more cosmetic than anything else. On the other, it is historic, massive, a spoiling of perfection. Alpha is no longer quite as the creator made him.
An eye blinks in surprise, staring at the mark it has made, and a feeling of wrongness locks Vesper into place.
Alpha swings out, bellowing with a wild rage even the sword is not ready for, blowing out the candle of Vesper’s resistance.
The flat of his blade catches her in the ribs, making several crack, and she somersaults backward, a limp-limbed gymnast that fails to plant her landing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Samael has come deep within the heart of Wonderland. He is drawn here. Since his last visit, the empty necrotic pipes have become active, pulsing with life, filling the veins of the city with the First’s essence.
This was to be the Uncivil’s dream. A shell capable of sustaining her growth, and allowing her to travel the world as she wished. Power and freedom, a complete package. Though the Uncivil has been destroyed, her dream lives on, in Samael and Neer and the bones of the city, the three of them coming together to restore it, making a shell fit for the greatest infernals.
Now there is no doubt that Wonderland lives again. The sense of the First, rejoined, whole, is intoxicating. With his half-breed eyes, Samael can read the flow of essence in the city. A swirl in one pipe tells him that Crucible’s armies continue to be transported onto the palace, a bunching of cloud in another indicating pain and fear.
He moves quickly down dark corridors, finding Neer hard at work. ‘Managed to pierce the shell,’ she says without turning from the scorched wall. ‘I cut off the flow of essence before their blasted fire could get here but we’ve lost another limb.’
‘Can you repair it?’
‘Of course I can,’ she replies. ‘Give me a few months and the raw materials and I’ll have Wonderland good as new.’
‘I see.’
‘Those winged bastards are breaking through. You have to stop them.’
‘I can’t stand against The Seven.’
‘Problem is, Wonderland can’t either. Against one of Them maybe, but three?’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s hopeless. But if you weighed in, distracted a couple of Them, maybe then we’d have a chance.’
He nods, not needing her to guide him to where Epsilon, Theta and Eta are. He can feel their song even from here. ‘What defenders do we have?’
Neer tuts. ‘We have apprentice Necroneers and stock, none of them are much use in a fight.’
‘Give them to me.’
‘Fine, but don’t get them all killed!’
Samael ignores the comment and reaches up to pluck a fly from his shoulder plate. It does not resist, allowing itself to be placed on the white skin of his wrist, in the space between gauntlet and bracer.
He does not feel it bite but senses the sliver of essence being absorbed, along with his call for help. Samael sends the fly away, unsure if the Man-shape will come to their aid, unable to wait for the answer.
‘Goodbye,’ he says to Neer, and perhaps it is his imagination, but her answering grunt seems softer than usual.
The Vagrant gets up, retrieving Delta’s sword as he does so. One hand is pressed flat on his chest, and a wheeze now accompanies each exhalation.
In front of him, Vesper is prone on the ground, the motionless, charred body bearing an uncomfortable resemblance to a corpse.
Behind him, Reela whimpers.
Compared to the multiple scrapes and scuffs on the Vagrant’s armour, the single mark on Alpha’s chest seems trivial. And yet, there is nothing trivial in Alpha’s reaction. His voice turns the air into a sphere of liquid fire around him, and where he s
teps, prints are left behind in part-melted stone.
He is stepping towards Vesper and one does not need to read his essence to be able to guess his intent.
The Vagrant looks over to where Delta and Beta stand, hoping for support. Beta’s dark eyes are unreadable and Delta does not meet his gaze.
Alone, the Vagrant moves to intercept Alpha. His limping shuffle isn’t enough to put him in the immortal’s path, so he swings out, the end of his sword clipping one of Alpha’s wings.
There is a neat sound, a ‘shing’, and two feathers spin their way to the ground.
Alpha stops.
The Vagrant swallows, raises Delta’s sword.
Alpha’s head turns towards the Vagrant and the hatred that had been raining down on Vesper focuses on him like a force, physical.
The attack comes immediately after, a blurry set of strikes. Each time the Vagrant parries, there are flames rather than sparks, that fly in all directions.
Mist begins to rise from his armour, and the gauntlet that holds Delta’s sword shimmers, the skin of the metal becoming tacky.
The Vagrant’s song is barely audible and grows rapidly weaker, the notes sounding tortured, the aura around Delta’s sword flickering, fading away.
Somehow, he continues to hold his weapon up. Each of Alpha’s strikes knocks his sword arm wide but it is always back in position before the next lands.
He is dying, but in a slow, dogged fashion.
And Delta’s sword supports him, forcing his arm to move when his muscles give out, watching for him when tired eyes blink against the sweat and heat, taking his sad little notes and making the best of them.
Alpha’s sword comes down, it comes down, the sheer force of it breaking the Vagrant from the inside, shuddering bones, wrenching the heart.
Smoke comes from his throat now, and the metal on his gauntlet and right forearm begins to melt. He stands, but Alpha’s sword continues to come down.
Delta’s sword fights almost alone now, puppeting the man as best it can. But it is not without limits. Another strike, the next in an endless blur, comes down, meeting little resistance, striking hard.