by Peter Newman
A crack appears along the blade, turning the note into a screech.
Neither Alpha nor the Vagrant notice, but when the next attack comes, Delta’s sword spins from the Vagrant’s broken hand, and he falls.
Delta’s sword clatters next to him, its eye staring upwards, bulging, shocked.
The Vagrant does not get up. His arm twitches, useless, at his side. One knee rises only to flop down again. His head remains at an angle, smoke curling from his open mouth, a faulty exhaust.
Alpha turns from him, knowing, wanting him to see what will happen next as he walks over to Vesper.
But amber eyes strain elsewhere, seeking out Delta, who remains removed, an observer.
His tongue moves over dry lips and air passes through a red-raw throat to whisper a word, given shape by a cracked, bloody mouth.
‘Please …’
In Wonderland, they throw themselves in the path of Epsilon, Theta and Eta. None of them can hope to win the fight and so they do all they can to slow them down, making barricades and obstacles, and when they fail, their bodies are used to block the way.
Half-breeds and broken-bladed knights fight shoulder to shoulder, soldiers from a dozen locations united under Crucible’s banner.
It feels strange to Samael to be hanging back. If it were up to him alone, he would be joining the defenders’ lines, most likely at the front.
Perhaps they will consider him a coward. The thought troubles him, for the truth is that duty makes him wait. Vesper’s orders were clear: if she does not survive, he needs to endure, so that the alliance between human and infernal endures. He can see the wisdom in this. He is a living bridge between the two, and he has the Man-shape’s trust and the First’s gratitude, as well as a position of sorts within the Empire.
It still rankles to not commit.
He cannot help but notice that while some of Crucible’s forces have diverted here to aid Wonderland, the Man-shape has not come. It has sent some of its minions, even a few lesser infernals but none of the great ones are here, aside from the First itself.
Fear has kept them away. Few things can threaten the Man-shape or the Backwards Child now, but The Seven are among them. Perhaps, if they had come, allied with him and the First, they would have been able to mount a credible defence.
But they have not and when the three immortals break into Wonderland’s heart, they will destroy the First from the inside.
For this reason, the people that still live in the city have joined the fight, a mix of children and young adults, raised by Neer. None of them have a chance against The Seven but they go anyway, because it is better than doing nothing.
Samael respects that. Soon he will be doing the same.
‘Please!’ says Reela, her face, tear-streaked, turned to Delta’s. ‘Please! Please! Please!’
The immortal regards the girl, well aware that her brother, Alpha, is moving over to Vesper, intent on revenge.
Beta’s hand has been on her shoulder for some time now, a calming restraint.
She shrugs it off, feeling his dismay as she does so. The hand does not come back however, nor does he stop her as she leaps forward, gliding across the space between them. She passes Alpha, who ignores her, arrogant as ever, banking past Reela to retrieve her sword.
It feels different in her hand. It has changed, she thinks. And I have changed too.
She knows Alpha so well that she feels his movements as much as sees them. The ground whips underneath her as she comes back towards her brother, passing him on the other side as he lifts his sword.
Turning sharply, the momentum whirls her round, bring-ing them face to face. Alpha glares at her, dares her not to approach and she remembers their last meeting.
And she is afraid.
Her sword sends a wave of courage up her arm and into her heart. It is natural to be afraid because she is standing up. At last, she is standing up.
Alpha does not notice, turning his attention to Vesper and her death.
Her wings beat, driving her ever faster towards him.
When Alpha’s sword arcs towards Vesper’s chest, it finds Delta’s in the way.
He pulls his strike wide, then points for her to stand aside. She shakes her head.
He orders it, and she shakes her head.
He threatens her, and she does not deign to respond.
Alpha raises his sword, the threat made physical, and a third time she shakes her head.
From the sidelines, Beta calls out, a voice of reason, ignored.
With a roar, Alpha’s sword comes down, striking Delta’s.
Song meets song and steel meets steel with explosive force. Cracks recently made yawn wide, and Delta’s sword breaks apart in a shower of slivers and essence, silvered.
Delta groans, falling to her knees, staring shocked at the ruined edge jutting, too short, from the hilt.
Then, she looks up.
And Beta looks up.
Even Alpha’s rage is doused, his eyes going the same way as his siblings’.
Minutes pass in silence.
Then, in the sky, the red sun falters, its light fading as if suddenly covered with a veil. Details are easier to see on the muted orb, a new set of dark lines in one corner, spreading fast.
Another minute passes before the cracks meet each other. There is a second flicker, a deeper diminishing, and then the sky lights up and blood washes over the heavens. Under the strain, the red sun breaks, spitting out a chunk of itself to birth a third body, another smaller sun.
Samael stands ready with empty hands. A number of tools that the Necroneers use are easily translated into weapons, but he has left them on their hooks. It feels strange not to have a sword.
Some of the brightest of Neer’s students are with him, guarding the door to the chamber that contains Wonderland’s nexus, the one place where every necrotic pipe connects, where the greatest concentration of the First’s essence is to be found.
It has been a long wait, the minutes stretched by nerves, listening to the sounds of battle getting steadily closer.
But for a while now, silence.
Samael waits it out, unwilling to be drawn into a trap. Their mission is to delay Epsilon, Theta and Eta of The Seven, not engage them. Besides, none of the young women and men here are in a hurry to die.
As the time stretches on, he cannot shake the idea that something is wrong.
‘Stay here,’ he rasps at the others and walks towards the last place he heard fighting. It is not far to go. In the dimly lit corridor, he sees bodies, some burned inside and out, others in pieces, a thick carpet, uneven.
But none of The Seven are to be seen.
Samael continues, following the carnage in reverse order. He is forced to climb in places where the fighting was heaviest. Many of the faces are known to him, if only in passing. Half-breed eyes find none among the living.
A bleak part of his mind considers that Neer will be pleased. There is a lot of raw material to work with, speeding her efforts to repair Wonderland.
Three figures come into view, walking slowly towards Wonderland’s surface. Their wings are curled close at their backs, and all three heads tilt up.
There is nothing on the ceiling of note and it soon becomes apparent that they are looking through it, not at it. The Seven are hard for him to read, their essence too bright, too harsh on the eye to see details but he thinks they are worried.
Despite the many dead around them, none of the silver figures bear a single injury.
Eventually they reach a hole, blasted recently in the roof. One by one, they spread their wings and take to the air, leaving Samael to stare after, finally able to see the thing that has drawn them away.
For now, Wonderland is safe from The Seven but, when he looks up at the sky, he feels no relief.
Through Reela’s tears everything looks blurry. Her mother is lying on the floor, too still. Her grandfather’s eyes are closing. The sky is red and angry, and clouds unlike any she has seen are appear
ing on the horizon, thick and dark and fast, driven by unearthly winds.
Delta is on her knees in front of Alpha. Both look up, open mouthed, at the sky. Beta, nearby, does the same.
Meanwhile, three more winged figures come in to land. They too have been looking at the sky but now their eyes, and those in their swords move as one, to the sword in her mother’s hand, to Delta cradling her shattered blade, and finally, to Alpha.
The immortal seems to jolt under their stare, jolting a second and third time as Delta and Beta turn their attention to him.
Alpha spreads his arms in something approaching a shrug, his look is beseeching and although she hates him, Reela briefly forgets, wanting to go to the immortal and give comfort.
Before she can, however, the others speak, their sentences blending one into the other, circling around the space where Alpha stands.
‘First and greatest of us you were …’
‘Were, but now fallen, the saddest of shadows …’
‘Shadows have been made, a third where there were two …’
‘Two of our sisters cautioned you …’
‘You did not listen …’
Gradually, Delta rises to her feet. The others form a circle with her, their wings spreading, enclosing Alpha within.
‘Our purpose was to protect and preserve …’
‘Preserve that which the creator held dear …’
‘Dear to us was Gamma and we abandoned her when we were needed …’
‘Needed to do our duty …’
‘Duty that we have forgotten …’
Under the weight of their judgement, of his guilt, Alpha sinks to his knees, the others leaning forward, making a dome.
‘Blindly, we followed …’
‘Followed you to ruin …’
‘Ruin for our sisters …’
‘Sister’s sword …’
‘Sword that is broken like the sun …’
Reela can feel their song building, just as the storm builds on the horizon, a roiling darkness that stretches from floor to sky. The sound makes her skin itch. She wants to run away but does not know where to go. Instead, she squats by the Vagrant, the game of copying him forgotten. ‘Please wake,’ she begs, ‘please!’
The Vagrant does not move, and the voices of the immortals grow ever louder.
‘You will lead us no longer …’
‘No longer will we be muted …’
‘Muted voices will rise together …’
‘Together, we will take your voice …’
‘Your voice is ended, for the good of all.’
Reela holds on to the Vagrant’s arm, burying her face in his chest, pleading for him to wake as the winds howl and crimson clouds break over Wonderland and the sky palace, smothering everything, blotting out the sky.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
While winds rock buildings and scream through streets, and lightning flashes amid boiling cloudscapes, infernals and humans huddle in their homes.
Within Wonderland, Neer stands over her work-slab, tutting to herself. The subject of her disapproval is a man’s body, riddled with scars and burns. ‘Seems like a lot of work if you ask me. Better to replace most of the parts. Better yet, just transfer what’s left into a new shell.’
Samael shakes his head. ‘He won’t like that.’
‘Well, it doesn’t really matter what he likes. Look at him! He’s not in any state to complain.’
‘True.’
‘Besides, he looks like the kind of person that will only break whatever we give him. Waste of effort if you ask me.’
Samael nods, good natured. He knows that she will do as he asks eventually.
‘At least let me scrap the arm.’
‘Why? The bones are mostly intact. If you rewire the nerves in his fingers and repair the tendons he should regain function in the hand.’
Neer huffs, ‘Partial function.’
‘Yes, it won’t be perfect but he will prefer it.’
‘At least it won’t be hard to find a good skin match.’
‘About that, I don’t think he’d want another’s skin.’
‘Don’t push your luck. I’m fonder of you than most people but there are limits.’
‘Don’t worry about the match, use a synthetic sleeve for his right arm and hand.’
‘Alright, but it’ll be ugly as hell.’
‘Do you wish me to stay and assist?’
She gives him a hard look. ‘No, I’ve had quite enough of your help already.’ Two of her extra limbs lock into place to stabilize her, while another two start lining up tools. Meanwhile, her fleshy fingers click together, summoning aid. ‘I’m going to use this as a teaching case, might as well get some good out of the time.’
‘Thank you.’
He leaves her to work, going to another room, where Scout comforts Reela, allowing her to absently stroke his patchy fur. All around them is the presence of the First, it presses down on Samael, a pressure headache that is hard to ignore.
As he steps into the room, she looks up at him, small and afraid. ‘Will he?’
‘He will live.’ The girl crumples with relief as Samael sits down next to her. ‘Now tell me how it was I found you at the sky palace.’
‘Delta.’
‘She took you there?’ Reela rubs her eyes and nods. ‘Did you see Vesper?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alive?’
Reela gives a miserable shrug.
‘She was hurt badly?’
A sniff, then a nod. Samael can see the worry radiating from the girl. ‘What happened to her?’
‘Took her.’
‘Who did?’
She frowns, searching for the words, then shrugs, help-less.
‘Can you show me, in your mind?’
Reela looks unsure but Scout barks encouragement and she tries, her face folding in concentration. Samael pulls off a gauntlet and puts a finger just inside her bottom lip, pressing it to her gum.
He feels her memory taking shape on the edge of her essence, opens himself to it, and closes his eyes.
Instantly he is rewarded with a sight of Beta standing over Vesper’s body. He is trying to take the Malice but it does not want to go, stubbornly refusing to be removed from Vesper’s curled fingers.
He hears crying, Reela’s, in the background but Beta ignores it. He puts his hand on the Malice, and though Samael cannot see it in her memory, he is certain that the immortal and the sword are communing.
After a pause, he bends down and picks up Vesper and the Malice, carrying them both away.
Samael withdraws from the memory. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘Your mother is still in the sky palace. I’m going to go and get her out.’
The battle has long been over but the storm continues with no sign of calming. Combatants forget their feuds with each other and hunker down. The few remaining Empire soldiers hide in Alpha’s sky palace, praying for guidance, finding none, while Crucible’s fighters retreat to Wonderland, sharing rations behind glittering walls and making idle predictions about what will come.
In Crucible itself they flock to the dome, the tent city unable to withstand the heavens’ elemental punishment. People pack in tight, arms rubbing against each other, sweat mingling in the stale air. Every inch of space is used, even the remains of the ratbred’s tunnels are turned into extra sleeping spaces.
Infernals from New Horizon are forced to squeeze in with the other factions, uncomfortably close. The greater ones fold themselves into cramped spaces, staying there, motionless. The lesser ones barely contain their delight, chirruping and salivating at the sight of so many people, all within reach of their jaws.
None bite though. A mutual respect keeps everyone honest, and where that isn’t enough, proximity and lack of opportunity step in.
And so Crucible’s alliance endures despite the storm. In the dome and in Wonderland, little moments of decency light up the dark. One woman offers another a little of her food. A half-breed with no
thumbs slowly feeds the bound Empire prisoners, and a merchant from Verdigris tells a story so dirty that one of the listeners snorts drink from her nose.
There is little dignity to be had; the storm has gone on long enough to force people to attend to the body’s daily needs. Bottles, still warm, are passed along lines, as are helmets, repurposed, held upside down and at arm’s length. But despite this, despite it all, a warmth grows between the survivors, a weak flame kindled in the dark, fed with shared experience and growing understanding, mutual.
A sphincter opens in the wall, allowing Samael access to the tunnel. It is the inside of one of Wonderland’s bone-limbs, and it will enable him to climb straight up to Alpha’s sky palace, sheltered from the storm, by far the safest and quickest method of travel. Samael wishes there was a second option.
He clambers inside, having to slide his armoured shoulders in. There is a slick squishing sound as the tunnel accommodates his bulk and then he is lying flat, horizontal.
‘I am ready,’ he says, and feels the shift in essence around him. Clearly, the First has heard.
The sphincter closes at his heels, sealing him inside, and then muscles begin to work, bunching, rippling, driving Samael up the tunnel at a forty-five degree angle. A thick wall of tissue and a layer of bone protect him from the elements outside but he still feels them, muffled, as they buffet the limbs, making them sway from side to side.
Like a pip stuck in the throat, Samael is vomited upwards in convulsive jerks, until he spurts out onto a hard polished floor.
He has left Scout behind with Reela, as much to stop the girl from trying to follow as to look after her. Now he regrets the decision, missing the Dogspawn’s keen tracking senses.
Standing up, he flicks mucus from his visor and takes stock. The hallway has taken some superficial damage but remains striking. The ceiling is high, built for things greater than him and decorated in silver, each shape painstakingly made, crafted by loving hands.
He feels uglier just looking at it.
Down empty corridors he wanders, searching for signs of life. The fighting has been heavy in the palace and nobody has yet cleared up the mess.
Occasionally the floor rocks under his feet, and he realizes that Wonderland has become an anchor, steadying the palace against the worst of the winds.