Читать книгу The Seven - Peter Newman, Peter Newman - Страница 7

Vesper leaves the next day. Her father watches her march towards the coast with the buck and her personal guard of Seraph Knights, the Order of the Broken Blades. Each member is devoted to Vesper, owing her a personal debt. Their armour glints in the sunslight, pride adding crispness to their movements.

When they are nothing more than a spot on the horizon, he remains, and when that spot has vanished entirely, he remains.

Finally, when even that memory of it has undeniably gone, he sighs and turns back towards home.

Business resumes in the Shining City, each denizen returning to their appointed tasks. But something has changed, excitement infusing even the simplest of actions. The twin statues of Duet that stand either side of the southern road are cleaned. The gardens that curl, unkempt, around the great platinum pillars are cut back. Buttons are polished an extra time, bodies held slightly straighter, a mix of worry and excitement fuelling the drive towards perfection.

Without anyone explicitly arranging anything, the choirs of children meet for additional devotion sessions. When squires train, they lament their mistakes far more, and the knight instructors punish them all the harder.

In quiet industry and whispered speculation, a few days pass.

Like most of the citizens of the Shining City, the Knight Commander spends his spare moments looking up at the sky. Sometimes, at night, he thinks he sees the Sanctum of The Seven, a new star glimmering in the heavens. With the Bearer of Gamma’s sword abroad, and Obeisance in silent meditation, out of his reach, it is up to him to prepare the Empire for whatever is coming next.

And there is an undeniable sense that a change is coming. He likes to think that the return of The Seven is a reward for their good work, that finally he and his people are worthy to receive the blessings of their immortal guardians again. He does his best to ensure that worthiness, exhorting his people to work harder, to be better, than they ever have before. Each day, the Shining City behaves as if it were on parade, its citizens outfitted in their best, moving purposefully through corridors that gleam. Every corner is scoured, every piece of equipment cleaned, and any inhabitant that does not come up to the Knight Commander’s high standards is given tasks that keep them out of sight.

When the call finally comes, he is prepared, his armour finely polished, and a score of officers are on standby to be given the word, whatever word that will be.

The familiar form of Obeisance is projected in front of him, lines of light describing her shape. Despite the magnitude of the occasion, she does not seem any different, but then he does not expect her to. Obeisance communes with The Seven daily, her life a string of abnormal events threaded together by brief periods of sleep. Their wonder is her mundanity.

‘Knight Commander.’

He salutes. ‘Obeisance.’

‘Do not look so solemn, old friend. Rejoice. For we live in glorious times. The Seven have spoken, Their light shines upon us again, and we have been chosen as the instruments of deliverance.’

‘How can I serve?’

‘You are to gather the fleet for Their pleasure and prepare Alpha’s sky palace for travel. Have them assemble on the southern coast, at Greyspot Three.’

‘If I may, Obeisance, Greyspot Three is a civilian port with a troubled history. Skylanding would much more suitable for such a historic occasion.’

She does not reply immediately and he wonders if she is considering his words or if there is interference.

‘You misunderstand, Knight Commander. You are being given an order, not a recommendation. In any case the sanctum has begun its descent, and Alpha has already taken wing. He is on His way to you as we speak. I trust everything will be ready when He arrives.’

‘He’s coming here? Now? I don’t see how –’

But her image has already winked out. Cursing, the Knight Commander blinks the flickering afterglow from his eyes and starts barking orders.

Minutes later the Knight Commander is standing at the base of the silver steps. Somewhere high above is the Sanctum of The Seven, and in the space between them, diving through the ether, is Alpha.

He has had to run to get here, and beneath his armour the Knight Commander is sweating. Behind him a row of Seraph Knights have formed up, hastily, several rows of soldiers rushing into position at their backs. He hears the last stamp of boots, the snap of people standing to attention. Then silence.

They all stand in perfect formation, watching the sky for the first sign of Alpha’s arrival.

Though his body is still, the Knight Commander’s mouth continues to move, organizing, giving orders via comms link, coordinating the fleet. To meet Alpha’s needs he has taken from all over the Empire, stripping the coast and the nearby colonies of protection.

He checks in to see if Vesper’s father, the Champion, remains in the Shining City but he has already left, on foot. The Knight Commander shakes his head at the bizarre custom. The Champion has not gone far, is only just reaching the gates but he does not call him back. This is to be a historic moment, and he has no wish to share it.

With magnification from his visor, he makes out a speck directly above, growing quickly, and his heart starts to pump faster. Despite the fact he is standing still, he continues to sweat.

In the scant time that remains the Knight Commander considers what kind of greeting would be appropriate, and how best he can appear both humble and strong at the same time.

Meanwhile, Alpha continues to dive.

Thoughts flicker, disjointed, through the Knight Commander’s mind.

Perhaps I should have summoned Alpha’s sky palace here instead of sending it to Greyspot Three.

Would it be better to sing in honour of Alpha’s arrival or remain silent?

Is it odd that I have not called the citizens here to greet Him? Surely it is better to have a small, perfectly formed greeting, than a great, ugly one. There were too many to organize in the time. This is better. I’m sure this is better.

A song would be more appropriate, I think. Yes, a song would be best, and I should lead it. The image of him singing, his knights a supporting chorus, is pleasing. It seems right. But which song? He wonders.

Alpha is close now, wings drawn tight to his sides. The Knight Commander takes a breath, still unsure which note to begin with.

He’s coming in awfully fast. A nagging sensation begins to build in the Knight Commander’s stomach, a sense that something is wrong. He’s not going to stop. He’s going to crash into us. Is this some kind of test? A test of our resolve?

He can almost hear Obeisance admonishing him for trying to predict the actions of The Seven. If Alpha were a sky-ship or even a bird, then perhaps there would be a danger of him not slowing down in time. He is far beyond either of those things, far beyond anything the Knight Commander can imagine. Shaking the doubt from his mind, letting the awe grow within him, the Knight Commander begins to sing.

Flawlessly, as if rehearsed, the knights join in.

Alpha continues to dive, to accelerate.

He’s not going to stop! He’s not going to stop!

Ignoring the growing terror, the Knight Commander continues to sing, clinging to his faith.

And at the last, Alpha’s silver wings unfurl, and he moves from dive to glide, cutting over their heads, cutting through their song, silencing, and carrying on, leaving the Knight Commander and his followers behind.

On instinct, they have all turned to watch the immortal’s progress, a line of confused faces.

‘Sir?’ asks one of the knights, an irritating quake in her voice. ‘What does this mean, sir?’

A good question, he thinks. What does it mean? ‘Get me airborne!’ he shouts. ‘Where He goes, we follow.’

The journey to the landing pillar takes too long. The capsules that spirit them up to the pillar’s top take too long. The Knight Commander can feel Alpha moving further and further away. He berates himself for not having predicted this. What a fool he was to imagine that The Seven would care for welcomes or parades. They are above such things. Alpha must have come ahead of his brothers and sisters for a reason, to do something glorious for the good of the Empire. And while the Knight Commander cannot guess what that is, he is determined to be a part of it.

Only a handful of Seraph Knights fit into the hold of the sky-ship with him, the rest forced into land vehicles.

They race south, over neatly ordered hillsides and lines of trees, tall and straight, that look like points on a grid when viewed from above.

Reports of Alpha’s progress come in fits and starts. Brief sightings reported in terms of wonder directly into the Knight Commander’s ear. The immortal is flying in a straight line, but when his course is plotted on a map, the Knight Commander is surprised to find it is not taking them directly to Greyspot Three.

A call comes through from one of his soldiers. ‘Report.’

‘He’s here, sir. I can see Him!’

The Knight Commander confirms the soldier’s location. A small village known as Diligence to its inhabitants. There is little to recommend it. In fact the place is not connected to any major settlements, forcing traders to walk hard paths to get there. A backwater, mostly forgotten.

Could Alpha remember it as something more? Is this a site of significance that we have unwittingly neglected?

He turns his attention back to the soldier. ‘What is Alpha doing now?’

‘Circling, sir.’

‘Just circling?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then hold your position. We’ll be there shortly. Keep me informed if there are any changes.’

‘He’s seen something, sir. He’s … diving.’

The soldier sets a flare off from his position, and the sky-ship zooms in on it. Diligence is a grim and rocky place. The power stations and main gathering areas are built under the earth, along with half of the housing, but it has grown over the years, simple extensions jutting directly from the walls. None of these extensions appear to be to standard and the number of them indicates a much higher population than is currently registered.

Even without the flare to guide them in, it is easy to see where Alpha has landed. A circle of charred grass surrounds a new hole in the ground, a new entrance to Diligence’s underground network of tunnels.

They set down, leaping from the hatch the moment the sky-ship has settled, and rush toward the hole. The footing is unsteady near the edge, and more than one knight wobbles, graceless, as they try to stay upright.

Around them the air feels charged and angry, making it hard to breathe.

Suddenly nervous of what he will see, the Knight Com-mander peers over the edge. Below he sees Alpha of The Seven, his sword drawn, shimmering as the echoes of song slowly fade.

At the immortal’s silver feet is a smear of ash, making the loose shape of a body.

Alpha holds up his other hand. In it is a visor, black, featureless. The Knight Commander has seen pictures of it before. It is the kind of armour preferred by the First, largest and most powerful of the remaining infernals.

He finds his eyes drawn to Alpha’s. Their blue is like a second sky, a better horizon. When Alpha speaks, each word strikes deep, a hammer to his chest.

‘Diligence is tainted.’

‘We will evacuate the town at once, destroy it, cleanse the ground, and send the inhabitants to the purging centres.’

The visor crumples in Alpha’s fist. ‘Destroy, yes. Cleanse, yes. But send none away.’

The Knight Commander swallows at the thought. He has just looked at the population figures for Diligence. They number in the hundreds and are likely conservative. Surely the majority are in ignorance? Surely it is only a few that have been colluding with the First?

Even as he thinks this, he is drawing his sword. His knights have already done so. Anything else would be an act of defiance.

There is no further reflection. The Seraph Knights begin to sing, their swords flaring to life, and Diligence begins to burn.

Vesper’s father nods to the soldiers as he makes the long walk out of the city. An endless cycle of salutes and responses, nods and smiles, polite. They have become especially sharp of late, exhausting in their exactitude.

His lips move as he walks, silently counting steps until he is well beyond the outer boundary. Then he stops, pulling eagerly at his collar, loosening the straps on his armour.

A deep breath and a long sigh follow as his body settles, changing posture, relaxing.

The next part of the walk is taken at a more leisurely pace, thoughts of the day playing across his face in a series of frowns, raised eyebrows and the occasional smile.

Many times, the Knight Commander has offered him a room at the city or transportation home, and he has refused them. The Knight Commander doesn’t understand why but tolerates the decision out of respect for past deeds and honours.

Vesper’s father slows, stops. He glances over his shoulder but nothing is there. Then, gradually, as if lifted by an invisible hand, his head tilts towards the sky.

He lifts a hand to shield his eyes, squinting against the light of the evening suns. A shape is just discernible, des-cending, distant, yet getting closer. A cube.

The sanctum of The Seven returns.

There is something different about the way it comes down compared to its ascent. Not faster but more purposeful.

He stares at it, face darkening despite the glare.

Because of this, it takes him far longer to notice the movement at ground level. From the Shining City comes another shape. A snake of metal, mechanized, a machine of war to carry Seraph Knights and soldiers. Caterpillar tracks pull it swiftly across the countryside, towards him. Towards his home.

He stops staring, turns, and runs.

A few miles away Jem stands on a hill holding a battered scope to his eye. Through it he sees high platinum pillars capped in green, gardens decorating their sides in leafy spirals. These pillars visibly mark the Shining City’s border. Another border, invisible, runs along their perimeter, a fizzing screen of energy to keep the infernal at bay. Jem cares little for the screen or the pillars, his interests lie deeper. But his attempt to find the sanctum of The Seven is doomed to failure. Even at full magnification it is nothing more than a vague shimmering.

He begins to wander down the hill, leaving Harm and Reela at the house. Twice he stumbles on uneven ground, his attention kept on the air.

Finally, the cube comes into focus, and something else. At first he thinks it is a bird, but it is too close to the Sanctum for that to be true. And it is the wrong shape, far larger than any of the wildlife at this end of the world.

One of The Seven has left the Sanctum.

It is flying towards him.

Directly beneath it, keeping pace, is a metal snake. At this distance it seems to slide over the hills like a boat riding waves.

Jem nearly drops the scope. Fear grips him, an old friend embracing hard. He has but seconds to act. If they have not seen him already, it is only a matter of time. He looks back to the house, thinks of Harm, of Reela. The fear grips tighter. There is nothing he can do. If they see him, they will judge and find him wanting. If they see Reela – he shakes his head, cutting off the thought.

Fear leaves no time for deliberation. Keeping low, moving between the hills, he makes for a destination. Not towards the Shining City and the approaching forces, not towards home, but away, to a hiding place where the trees grow wild. From there he watches, shivering among the leaves.

His daughter is in danger. She needs him! An impulse to go to her is checked by an older, more cynical one. He cannot get to her in time and any act of heroism on his part would be suicide. What could one man hope to do against an immortal and the armed might of the Empire?

Nothing.

He has stood up before, for his mother, and paid for it in years. The memories are knife sharp, cutting still. Jem has learned from past mistakes, been shaped by them.

But Reela needs him!

He shakes his head, knowing that he cannot go to her, hating himself for it. Better to wait, to choose the right time. And if that time does not come, better to live. He repeats the words a second time, silent, bitter, and forces himself to swallow them.

On silvered wings, Delta of The Seven soars. It has been a long time since she has flown, too long.

Behind her, mirror-like, is her brother, Alpha. He flies away from her towards the coast, in search of other prey.

Orders have been given, the worthy have been mobilized. Soon, the purge will begin. The thought of it weighs heavy in Delta’s mind. For it is their failure as much as their people’s.

She does not disagree with Alpha’s plans. He is the first of them, the strongest, and she admires his purpose. And yet … she wishes there was some other way to restore the creator’s perfect vision.

Though she is awake and active once more, the weariness remains, and a sadness, deep, that she carried even in the earliest days.

A dwelling comes into view. Two houses, ugly, messy shapes. The sight displeases her. Why would the remnant of her sister choose to be here rather than at their side?

She comes down to land, feet making gentle contact with the earth, wings folding behind her like a cloak.

Unmoved by what she sees, yet curious to find its hidden appeal, she looks around while her knights catch up, the hissing of the snake that bears them half a mile distant.

The smaller house has no door. She approaches to find it is a home for animals, nothing more. Despite the space, only one ancient goat seems to dwell here.

Irritated by the disturbance, the goat looks at Delta.

With eyes like bleak winter clouds, Delta looks at the goat. She sees fading strength and many flaws, but all are natural. No taint clings to the creature. It is not the source of wrongness that she senses hidden close by.

She moves away, towards the main house.

Behind her, the goat snorts, derisive.

She ignores it, drawn by lingering echoes of her sister’s essence. Metal fingers brush an uneven wall. Once, Gamma’s sword rested here. She feels a faint sense of contentment, of peace.

Greedily, she lets the experience wash over her. All too soon it is over. And it is not enough.

She moves to the door and opens it.

Running footsteps approach and a voice, loud, high pitched. ‘I’m bitey goat! Baaa! Baaa! Bite! Bite!’

A girl comes into view. Unruly, messy, tainted.

Delta’s hand moves to the living sword at her side, grasping the hilt.

The girl sees her in the doorway, skids to a stop, her babbling voice cutting off in shock.

Delta finds her sword, herself, reluctant. She cannot imagine Gamma permitting this tainted thing to exist. It makes no sense to her.

The girl finds her voice and starts to scream.

A man walks slowly over to her, his voice soft, soothing. ‘It’s alright, Reela, it’s alright. I’m here now.’ He keeps one hand lightly on the wall, letting it guide him to the weeping girl.

Through Delta’s eyes his essence is scarred. Hints of taint remain at the edges, a sign of something far worse that has been burned away, something centred where his eyes once were.

He pauses, head tilting in her direction. ‘Hello? Hello? Is someone there?’

Delta does not answer, her hand makes a fist around the hilt of her sword. Gamma spurned our love, for this?

‘I know you’re there. What do you want?’

Shaking her head, Delta turns away.

The metal snake comes to a sliding stop nearby, disgorging knights from its open mouth. They kneel before her, waiting for her to pass before carrying out their orders. She has seen nothing to make her interfere with them.

As the knights advance on the house, she sinks to her knees, dragged down by misery.

Raised voices soon reach her.

‘I will not stand aside! And I will not leave my home! I took your trials years ago and I passed them. I earned my right to be here.’

The knight’s reply is amplified by his helmet. ‘This house is tainted. It will be purged. If you do not leave, you will be purged with it.’

‘Contact the Bearer, she will not stand for this!’

‘The Bearer serves The Seven in all things. Our orders come direct from Them. Strip off your clothes, step away from the house and report for re-purging immediately.’

‘Just contact her, please.’

‘You have sixty seconds to get out of our way.’

‘Don’t do something you’ll regret.’

Delta listens despite herself.

‘You have fifty seconds, failure to obey will be seen as rebellion.’

‘I will not leave. If you’re going to hurt an innocent girl you’ll have to go through me.’

‘Thirty seconds.’

‘Wait!’

‘Twenty seconds.’

The knights charge their lances.

‘Ten seconds.’

A tear of liquid stone rolls down Delta’s cheek.

Flames dance, reflected in amber eyes that widen, horrified. He slows on the hillside, taking it in. When he sees Harm’s charred body in the doorway, he stops completely. Tears well, falling fat and fast down creased cheeks. One hand claws at his chest, stricken. No sound comes from his mouth but it twists open, grief shaped.

His home has become a pyre. Those he loves, ashes. Himself, a vagrant again.

But above the crackle of fire, almost buried, there is a sound, a voice, familiar, wailing.

Teeth bare, fists clench, and he is running again, past the kneeling winged figure, past the circle of knights with lances, spewing fire. They call out a warning, too late, too surprised to intercept him.

He veers from the front of the house where the heat is strongest, diving in through a side window. Shoddy joinery is, for once, an asset, his body punching the whole plasglass sheet from its frame.

With a heavy thump, he lands. Smoke already clouds the room, making the space strange. The Vagrant keeps low, covers his mouth and moves forward.

Heat buffets from all sides, pressing on exposed flesh, making breath painful.

The Vagrant pauses, enduring discomfort to listen.

Like a siren, the voice comes from the kitchen. He follows until he crouches by the dining table. Ducking under, he comes face to face with Reela.

She stares at him, howling, incoherent, snot bubbling from nostrils to mix with tears and soot.

The Vagrant lifts a finger, puts it to his lips.

Still sniffling, she copies the gesture.

The Vagrant nods, then looks round, squinting against the smoke until he finds what he is looking for. Leaving Reela where she is, he pulls his old coat from its hook and moves to a tank of water. Coughing now, he kicks the tank, then kicks again, and again, until it splits open. As the water gushes out he holds his coat underneath, turning it, soaking it, before rushing back to Reela’s cowering form.

It is harder to see her, the smoke encroaching ever lower. She has not moved, her finger still pressed, firm but shaking, to her lips.

He reaches under, grabs her arm and drags her to his side. Desperate, she flails, trying to cling to him, but before she can get a grip, he sweeps the sodden coat over her head, bundling her up.

Reela gasps but does not cry out.

Lifting the bundle in his arms, the Vagrant runs for the nearest window. He can no longer see it, the smoke forcing him to navigate by memory alone.

His recollection is off by an inch, and he jars painfully against the wall before diving out, through fire, through cracked plasglass that shatters, rolling smoking into the last of the evening light.

For a moment he crouches on the grass, breathing heavy. His armour is blackened but not broken, steaming but not alight.

Parting the coat, he checks that Reela still breathes. She does, in ragged gulps. Picking her up again, the Vagrant starts to run.

The Seraph Knights surrounding the house see him. Commands are relayed from chip to chip, the ones furthest away running over, the others closing ranks to cut off escape. The nearest knight steps into his path. ‘We have no quarrel with you, Champion! Drop the – uhnn!’

The Vagrant’s elbow connects with the knight’s helm and, as the woman staggers back, the Vagrant takes stock. There is nowhere to run, no allies to turn to.

He runs anyway.

The knights raise their lances and a gout of fire shoots out to his right, turning him left, then another comes from his left, trying to pin him.

Ducking his head, raising an arm, he goes under it, mostly. Ignoring the way his backplate sizzles, the Vagrant presses on until he reaches the kneeling figure of Delta.

This close to one of The Seven, the knights do not dare to fire. They put their lances away, and draw their singing swords.

The air trembles with sudden song and Reela flinches in the Vagrant’s arms, stung by the sound.

As the knights move into a circular formation, the Vagrant looks down at Delta on her knees. She seems oblivious, a line of stone drying on her face.

He swings Reela under his arm and reaches down, carefully.

‘Step away!’ orders one of the knights. ‘It is a sin to touch Her!’

When it is clear the Vagrant is ignoring them, one of the knights closes in, sword raised.

He grits his teeth, takes the hilt of Delta’s sword.

Nothing. No pain, no reaction.

He pulls Delta’s sword free, swinging it up and out, opening his mouth to direct its power.

The knights pause, the nearest one stepping back in shock.

Unlike their swords however, Delta’s doesn’t sing. Silver wings wrap tight around its eye and the weapon feels heavy in his hand, dull.

Quickly, the knight recovers himself and moves to attack.

The Vagrant frowns, glares at the sword, then shakes it hard. In answer, the wings tighten even more.

There is no more time, he parries the first attack, then the second, each blow jarring his arm. Only the proximity of Delta holds the other knights at bay. They are painfully careful, terrified of bringing harm to their beloved immortal.

One of the knights keeps the Vagrant occupied while the others move in behind, advancing together.

He glances over his shoulder at them, barely making the next parry. Forced down to one knee by the impact, Reela slips from his grasp, rolling away.

The knight he has been fighting steps back, raising his sword over Reela’s body. The others are now behind him, ready.

‘Surrender, Champion. This is your last chance.’

The Vagrant grips the sword in both hands and points the tip at Delta’s neck.

There is a pause. Such blasphemy has never even been considered before. A whispered conference is had within the knights’ helmets. Would he dare? Could he do Delta actual harm? There is no precedent, no protocol to follow.

The Vagrant makes eye contact with Reela, beckoning her with a twitch of his head.

Without a sound, the girl stands up.

Dumbstruck, the knights watch her as she walks past them, dragging the old coat like a blanket behind her.

When she reaches the Vagrant, Reela wraps herself around his leg.

There is a pause. The knights dare not attack, dare not report what is happening. Too afraid to act, they become spectators to a tale of horror, unfurling slowly in directions they cannot fathom.

The Vagrant touches the point of the sword to Delta’s throat.

There is an audible clink, then he lifts the sword under her chin, levering her to her feet.

Two of the knights cover their eyes, five others begin to recite the litany of the Winged Eye.

Silvered wings spring open on the sword’s crosspiece, alarmed, and an eye opens wide in surprise.

At the same moment, Delta’s eyes open, locking with the Vagrant’s, forcing him to look up.

Softly, Delta begins to hum. Her sword takes up the tune. The Vagrant finds his hands starting to shake. Muscles lock all over his body, trembling in time with Delta’s melody. Stiffly, against his will, he rises on tiptoe.

Delta raises her hand and the Vagrant’s mouth opens. She reaches inside, fingers finding the old scars there. As if reading music, her song changes as she traces the lines, learning their history and that of the man marked by them. Her voice and her sword’s fall to disharmony, becoming a thing of grief and pain. The air around them darkens, tints blue. Briefly, it threatens to spark, then dies down, the hand leaving, and Delta covers her eyes, her song little more than a moan.

Released, the Vagrant slumps down, clutching at his throat.

After a few moments, his vision comes into focus again. He sees Reela looking up at him, afraid and hopeful. She clings to his leg, a dark-haired barnacle.

He blinks at her, then nods, reassuring.

Switching to a one-handed grip, he takes Delta by the arm and starts to walk. Delta does not resist, allowing herself to be dragged alongside him.

The Vagrant moves with an exaggerated limp, Reela still firmly attached to his leg. In other places, the image would be comical but the knights see nothing funny in it. They give ground to him, and when he points for them to step aside with Delta’s sword, they comply.

Delta is manoeuvred into the metal snake. The driver is pulled out. Reela is unpeeled and belted into one of the chairs in the snake’s head. The Vagrant sits in the other. He looks at the controls, frowns.

A button is pressed, a stick twisted. Nothing happens. More options are exhausted, manipulations becoming increasingly forceful until, at last, the hissing of the engines grows in volume and the snake turns away from the burning house and the staring knights, making towards the coast.