Jem shakes his head. ‘Look, I’ve bandaged a few cuts before, but this? I can’t. I don’t even know where to start.’
The Vagrant has not been here long and already the room’s smell is dominated by smoke and burnt skin, strong enough to taste. He points again, desperate.
Vesper’s breathing is laboured, her body covered in injuries that cross each other, a giant homogenized wound.
Where possible, clothes are loosened or cut away. However there are many places where skin and fabric weave together, binding, a succession of hybrid scabs. Jem’s hands hover over them, unwilling to take actions that may be regretted later. ‘We need a doctor. I’ll do what I can but we need someone else! I can’t do this alone.’
Mazar is sent for and a call for any skilled physicians to present themselves is made. Most take one look and walk away, unwilling to be connected with any failed treatment.
In the end, Mazar and Jem decide that any action is better than none. The Vagrant hovers over them all, amber eyes unable to watch, unable to look away.
‘This is pointless, she’s too badly burned,’ states Mazar. ‘She won’t survive.’
Jem and the Vagrant look at her, shocked.
‘Best to accept it now.’
But they do not accept it and soon Mazar is taking off her gloves and readying what few tools they have. As they begin to cut and clean the Vagrant starts to sway.
For Jem, it is too distracting. ‘Keep over there, I’m trying to concentrate!’
‘Wait,’ says Mazar. ‘He’s bleeding.’
The Vagrant seems as surprised as they are. He looks down to find that blood is caked around a small hole in his hip. Contemplating it, he sits down.
They continue to work, like makeup artists treating a kidney failure, a feeling of gloom descending. Increasingly, Mazar shakes her head.
‘Sir Samael!’ blurts Jem. ‘Where’s Sir Samael?’
From his slumped position against the wall, the Vagrant shrugs, and Jem jumps to his feet. ‘Fine, I’ll find him. Mazar, do whatever you have to, just keep her alive.’
Mazar mutters something but keeps working.
The Vagrant moves to follow, but somewhere between intent and action there is a failing, and he remains where he is.
Time passes with cruel speed as Jem searches. Nobody seems to have seen the half-breed or his Dogspawn. Rumours of Vesper’s fall are already spreading like wildfire and Jem is bombarded with questions he cannot answer. Where is she? Is she dead? Is she dying? What is going to happen now?
Eventually he finds Samael sitting on the edge of New Horizon’s delegation. A tiny no-man’s land, demarking the borders of human and infernal domains.
‘There you are!’ he gasps, catching his breath.
Samael does not respond.
Jem slows as he approaches, noticing the slant, odd, of Samael’s back, and the way Scout is flopped on one side, flanks pumping raggedly.
‘Are you okay?’
Only Samael’s mouth moves, his voice far away, making Jem lean down to hear it. ‘Their weapons are poison to us.’
‘Were you hit?’
‘Yes.’ He points to two holes, one on his chest, the other by his ribs, and the matching ones on his back. Half-breed eyes read Jem’s shocked face and the concern underneath. ‘We will survive. Not that it matters.’
‘What are you talking about? Of course it matters. Now come on, Vesper needs you.’ He turns to go and manages two steps before realizing Samael hasn’t moved. ‘Weren’t you listening?’
‘I’m no use to her. Today has proven that.’
‘Today isn’t over, and she’s dying. You have to help.’
It takes Samael a moment to heave himself off the ground but then he is able to move fairly quickly, Scout left behind to whine, self-pitying.
When they get back to Vesper’s room, they find Reela has managed to sneak in. She sits next to the Vagrant, holding his hand. A small replica of his misery.
Jem nearly loses his temper. ‘How did she? Why didn’t you-’ He shuts his mouth, resolving to deal with it later, and leads Samael to Vesper’s side.
Mazar has been busy while he was away. Smearing the remains of their burn medication on the worst areas and applying Skyn to the others. ‘I’ve taken out the shrapnel that’s near the surface and tidied her up as best I can. She’s still alive, somehow.’
‘It’s the Malice,’ says Samael. ‘It won’t let her die.’
They all look at the sword, and the way her fingers remain curled around the hilt.
Somehow the time away makes the shock of her injuries fresher. Jem covers his mouth. ‘Can you help her?’
‘That depends on the Malice.’
‘But you’ll try?’
‘Yes.’ Though his knowledge comes from an alien source, few knew more about the inner working of the human body than the Uncivil. A master of manipulating essence and flesh, living and dead, she was the architect of Necrotech and all the cults that sprang up around it, and her knowledge floats within the soup of Samael’s soul.
He pulls off a gauntlet, turning his hand until he finds the rent in his palm. Feeling nothing, he is forced to do this by sight. Then he presses it against one of Vesper’s open wounds, letting his essence probe the edges of hers.
Though the sword remains inert, he feels it tense, knows it is watching him from inside her.
‘What is it?’ asks Jem.
‘Nothing,’ replies Samael.
‘Is there anything we can do to help?’
‘Yes. I’m going to need some raw materials.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A body.’
Jem swallows. ‘Alive?’
‘Or dead. So long as it’s fresh. And hurry, I do not think the Malice will tolerate my closeness for long.’
Alone at last, Jem scrubs at his hands with a worn fibrous pad. With water being rationed, only a few drops can be used, making it as much a case of scraping off the top layer of skin as it is of cleaning it.
No stranger to dirt, or to the sight of sick or dying people, today has taken him from his comfort zone and well beyond. The weight of the cadaver against his palms remains, though he has not carried it for over an hour now, and the smell of Vesper’s injuries still plays in his nostrils.
He pulls a face, tries not to retch, and continues scrub-bing.
Footsteps are heard behind him. ‘Not now.’
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ says Genner from the doorway. ‘But I wanted to know how she’s doing. The other delegations need an update.’
‘How is she doing?’ Jem’s hands stop their work and his shoulders slump. ‘I’m not sure where to begin answering that question.’
Genner waits and when it is clear Jem isn’t about to elaborate, asks, ‘Is she alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ he replies, though nothing in Jem’s expression suggests that to be the case. ‘Is she stable?’
‘Yes, I think. I don’t know. Better than she was.’
‘Has she given any orders?’
‘No. She’s not ready for any of that yet.’
‘Are you saying she’s conscious?’
‘Look, she’s not up to visitors and I wouldn’t say she’s awake like we are now.’
‘What would you say?’
Jem sucks in an angry breath. ‘Can’t this wait? Suns! She’s half dead!’
‘I have to make a report. There’s an army sitting out there that could attack us at any moment and a lot of very nervous people waiting for news. This all hinges on Vesper. Without her, I don’t know what they’ll do. I’ve already got requests from all the leaders for an update, and several of them have made it clear that they won’t rest until they get an audience with her.
‘Jem, they want to know why you and Mazar dragged a dead body up there.’
‘No they don’t, believe me.’
‘That’s not a satisfactory answer.’
‘It’s the only one I’ve got.’
He hears Genner’s sigh. ‘I’ll stall them as long as I can.’
‘Whatever,’ mutters Jem, starting to scrub once more.
Three figures use the last of the day’s light to pick their way across a churned field. They wear crisp clothes, simply cut, austere fashion favoured by the Empire of the Winged Eye.
Recent injuries have vanished, an illusion of meds and makeup, and if any notice them stumbling, it is easily attributable to the uneven terrain.
All three are unarmed, unarmored, exposed. Easy targets. But no bullets, arrows, darts or explosives come their way and eventually they come to a stop in front of Crucible’s walls.
The middle of the three figures speaks, his voice broadcast through speakers on a score of Empire vehicles, the sound carrying for miles in all directions.
‘My name is Garth Grains, I was a doctor and council member of the city of Verdigris. I’ve been sent here on behalf of the Empire of the Winged Eye to make you an offer.
‘When Vesper came to make her arrogant demands, we chose to give ourselves over to the mercy of The Seven. We had nothing to fear from Them. Why should we? We had done nothing wrong.’ He gestures to his companions. ‘As you can see, our faith was rewarded and we have been recognized as loyal subjects. There was a lot of talk about the Empire destroying everything they came across in the south. These are lies spread by the infernals and their lovers. The Empire is here to protect us. If you are tainted you will be purged, but if you are strong, you will come through it pure and worthy.
‘So I have this message: to the good people of the south, if you present yourselves here, where I stand, by midday tomorrow, you will be spared. Come without weapons or anger and you will be received in kind.
‘To those tainted by the touch of demons I say this: do not despair! You have a chance for salvation. One chance. Kneel before the Empire, here, by midday tomorrow and find your humanity again.
‘I also have a message for the infernals among you. To them the Empire says this: your time is coming. The Seven have come at last and They will end you.’
Grains kneels in the dirt. ‘We are here to offer you an alternative. We are your friends. Know that the Empire will only destroy its enemies. Until midday tomorrow, we will wait here, ready to deliver you to mercy. After that, we will go and righteous judgement will fall upon any who remain.’
Genner watches the different groups assemble in the dome. Rumours have been flying around the camps; of the Empire’s offer, of Vesper’s health, of bodies being moved in the night.
Urgency has driven them all together, a shared need to find a way to navigate the storm. But nobody holds the centre space, leaving a Vesper-shaped absence that none of the other leaders dare to fill.
There is a lot of muttering, of people looking at each other across the floor, but Tough Call from Verdigris is the first to speak. ‘Reckon somebody has to get this thing mov- ing and it might as well be me. Way I see it, we’re fucked any which way we look at things so we might as well do something. Sorry about Grains by the way. That’s my bad.’
From his shadowed throne, the Man-shape speaks. ‘I assume you all know that their offer of amnesty is woven of lies. There is no mercy to be found for any of us.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ says one of the group from West Rift. Genner cannot be sure which one.
Bickering begins, distrust spilling over into argument. Positions are taken, predictable. The Thousand Nails, New Horizon and Red Rails having no option but to fight, the others trying to decide if either path available will end in their survival.
‘What we need,’ says the Man-shape, speaking into a sullen pause in the vitriol, ‘is the counsel of an expert. While Vesper is not here, we must turn to her advisors, let them advise us.’
With surprise, Genner realizes the infernal is pointing at him.
‘Samael tells me you were of the Lenses. You know how the Empire thinks. Tell us, what will they do?’
Genner feels exposed, doubly so under the infernal’s gaze. Training keeps him calm however. ‘Honestly? I doubt most of you would survive the purging, you’re too far gone. And even if you did, the Empire is unlikely to look kindly on the leaders of what they see as a rebellion.’
Slake’s leaders confer in hasty whispers, then Gorad leans forward, painted lips pursed. ‘Really? Seems to Gut-pumper and I, that this would be the best time for negotiation.’
‘There’s a chance, I suppose. If you acted now. But the Empire don’t negotiate. You’d be throwing yourselves on The Seven’s mercy. They might let you live as an example but it would be on Their terms.’
There is further debate, though it seems that all sides know they are merely postponing the inevitable.
‘Kill this doctor!’ yells Flat Head of the Thousand Nails. ‘Kill him now, rip off his head. Show our enemy strength. Show our people, no running away.’
Genner sees many of the others nodding in agreement. ‘That’s true,’ he says. ‘But I’d advise you to wait until midday tomorrow before you make that statement. As soon as you do that, they’ll attack, and Vesper needs time to recover.’
‘How is Vesper?’ asks the Man-shape.
‘She’ll be back with us soon,’ Genner lies, ‘but the longer you can give her, the better.’
The delegations grudgingly agree to stay and fight together. Each leader agrees to keep their people on the right side of the wall, even a single defection sure to start a tide. The Thousand Nails are posted along the perimeter as a deterrent for any having second thoughts about staying.
Genner urges patience, promising that by morning Vesper will return and they can plan for the day’s battle.
The meeting breaks apart, delegations returning to their separate camps to brood. During the night messages flit between groups, private, sharing suspicions and smaller, secret plans.
Regular requests are made for an audience with Vesper, all are ignored. Instead, Genner gives updates on her progress, vague, optimistic, completely fabricated.
And then, an hour before dawn, as the night begins to relax its grip on the sky, the Empire of the Winged Eye attacks.
Light floods across the field, filling it. There is a wide range of sources: miniature torches fixed to rifles or built into visors, great lamps set into the eyes of the metal snakes, searchlights fastened to the underside of the Empire’s sky-ships, all cast back the night with disdain.
Guns flash and shells arc overhead, indiscriminate, paving the way for their ground assault.
Stealth has been abandoned in favour of a swift, relentless advance.
Though the offer of amnesty has proven to be a trick, it could be said that in the end the Empire does show a kind of mercy to those who surrender. Doctor Grains and his companions are dead seconds after the attack begins, reduced to atoms long before any shock or pain has time to register.
To begin with, there is only a limited response from Crucible, the defenders offering little in reply to the sudden onslaught. Taking advantage of their air superiority, the Empire’s sky-ships shoot overhead. They make several passes before the First’s nomads have time to scramble a response, dropping bombs on the early runs, and troops on the later ones.
Both are guided to the places where they can cause the most chaos by light-tags that wink, cheery, amidst the unfolding horror.
A few of the tags have sat there in secret, for weeks, but Genner has had to place the majority by hand over the last few hours. He has only just finished when the bombs start exploding. If any were paying attention they would see his silhouette ghosting away but the people of Crucible are too busy looking up.
At last, the defenders begin to respond. Tough Call comes charging from a tent, a different one, Genner notes, than she had said she was staying in, her Usurperkin marshals behind her. They all carry guns and launchers, relic weapons meant to support the Empire’s soldiers that never quite made it to their destination.
At her order, they open fire, making up in accuracy what they lack in discipline, and one of the Empire’s sky-ships is falling, already a ruin, the others pulling clear.
West Rift mercenaries rush to support the Thousand Nails at the wall, several gunned down before they can make it, none realizing they are being killed from behind.
As one of the First’s sky-ships begins to lift off the ground, it explodes, sudden, without warning, showering ground crews in molten shrapnel.
Genner has only had the opportunity to sabotage one of the sky-ships but he knows the First’s nomads will be too afraid to fly until the others are checked, buying more precious time for the Empire.
He does not stop to observe the results of his handiwork however, moving swiftly past people as they tumble from their tents, making for the dome itself and the climax of his mission.
Two of the Order of the Broken Blades stand at the en-trance.
‘Hold!’ he calls as he runs towards them. ‘It’s me!’
‘What’s going on, sir?’
‘The Empire betrayed us. They’re everywhere. Hold the door at all costs, do you understand? I’m going to help Vesper.’
They salute him, attention returning to the night.
He passes several more of the order, and various members of the other delegations that stay here. He gives them instructions appropriate to their station. Telling some to arm themselves, others to hide, giving them purpose and destination, away from his.
In the corridor outside her room, he finds himself alone, the sounds of battle outside muted through the curving walls. For a moment, he pauses, gripped by uncharacteristic nerves. Despite having already done so before setting out, he checks his pistol is fully charged, that the darts implanted under the skin of his wrist are functional and that the charge he carries is primed. They are ready, and he has no time to be otherwise.
Another of Vesper’s knights stands at the door.
‘Any word?’ he asks her.
‘None, sir.’
‘See that we’re not disturbed.’
She nods to him, opening the door.
Inside, the room is stuffy, the air choked by strong chemicals and the kind of scents normally locked inside the body. Fortunately most of Vesper is covered over and Samael’s armoured back obscures his view of the rest. He clocks the other occupants, pleased to see the Dogspawn is absent. Vesper’s father and her tainted child slumber in a corner, Delta’s sword laid across his lap. Its eye is open but looks elsewhere, fixed on a random spot on the wall.
Genner moves across the room until he is next to the half-breed, within striking distance of his target. ‘How is she?’
‘I have done all I can.’
‘And?’
‘I’ve replaced the damaged bones and patched the holes in her body. Cosmetic repair will have to wait. The Malice has been sustaining her essence. Now that her body is stable, I expect it to wake her soon.’
Genner has the sudden feeling of being watched. He looks over his shoulder, to find things unchanged. He double checks Delta’s sword but it continues to stare in another direction. ‘You’ve done well, Samael, but if you’re finished here, the Order of the Broken Blades need you to lead them. The Empire is attacking and it’s going badly for us.’
‘What about Vesper?’
‘The best thing you can do for her is to give her time. Hold back the Empire until she wakes.’
For a moment Samael simply stares at him, then he begins to put on his helmet, threading his long hair through the top.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll stay and watch over her.’ Samael stops to look at him a second time and Genner adds, ‘Go! Now! Before it’s too late.’
‘Yes,’ replies the half-breed, marching out with sudden speed.
Genner waits until the door has closed again before turning back to Vesper. In a way Samael’s ministrations have made his task easier. She is an abomination now, soiled by the attentions of a infernally marked man and his dark arts. It helps too, that her body is so badly marked, makes it easier for him to distance the thing in front of him from the woman he has known for so long. This is not a murder, he tells himself, it is a mercy.
He is thankful that Gamma’s sword is focused inward, its eye closed. Even so, he moves quietly, sliding the pistol from its holster with aching slowness.
Again, there is a feeling of being watched. He spins round to find no one there. The Vagrant still sleeps, as does Reela. For a moment he thinks the eye of Delta’s sword is on him but a second glance reveals that no, it has not changed position.
Before he can turn back, there is a knock at the door and then it is opening. The knight that he spoke to before is there, another person, hidden, behind her.
‘I told you not to disturb us.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but Savmir of Red Rails is here. He says he can save us.’
Genner crosses the room, pistol stowed so fast it is as if it was never drawn. ‘Quickly then.’ He keeps the sneer from his face as the self-proclaimed Ratbred Prince presents himself.
Richly dressed, plump, Savmir’s mutations are well developed. He is tall for one of his kind, the top of his head nearly reaching Genner’s collarbone, and elongated front teeth brush against a narrow chin. Coarse hair dusts his body evenly. ‘Not you!’ he cries. ‘I need to speak with her. Urgent! Urgent!’
‘She isn’t ready. You’ll have to make do with me. Now tell me, what have you got?’
Small hands hook around the edges of sleeves, squeezing in frustration. ‘Our weapon! It is time to use it. We can turn the fight.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Savmir’s lips curl into a hunter’s smile. ‘A secret. Prepared under your nose, in case we needed it.’
‘You have a weapon that can defeat the Empire?’
‘Yes. We must work together to maximize its power.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Come! Come! I will show you.’
Genner looks back at Vesper, torn, before allowing himself to be led from the room.
Delta’s sword watches Genner go. Its eye does not blink. A silver wing taps on the Vagrant’s thigh, taps again, taps two more times, rapid.
Humming with impatience, it tries again more forcefully, drawing up so that the wingtip can stab at him, forceful.
The Vagrant’s hand moves, grabbing the wing before it can descend. He looks at the sword, nods, one finger to his lips. He is already easing himself up, his eyes on the door.
The humming quietens but Delta’s sword continues to thrum silently in his hand.
Stepping outside, the Vagrant nods to the knight there, looking both ways down the corridor. He sees a rat’s tail snaking away out of sight and gives chase, Delta’s sword needlessly pointing the way.
A nearby detonation rumbles through the dome, forcing the Vagrant to lean against the wall. As it settles he sets off again, following the curve of the building’s perimeter until he reaches the area set aside for Red Rails.
Usually packed full of ratbred, the abandoned space seems larger than it should. Additional hangings lower the generous doorway, so that the Vagrant has to duck to enter.
He passes by a few empty rooms. They are full of junk, arranged without care. Only brief glances are given before he moves on. Signs of gentle disturbance are visible, glasses tipped over, bowls of indiscriminate sludge, still steaming, unfinished.
Not a single ratbred is to be seen. But he hears one.
The voice comes from a room he’s already passed. He takes a step back, looks again.
The room is still empty.
With a flap, Delta’s sword pulls his right arm into the room. The Vagrant follows, ears straining to identify the source of the sound. He looks from wall to wall, checking behind a cabinet when he hears it again, a soft voice with a slight lisp.
It comes from a rug at his feet.
Leaning down, he pulls back the rug to reveal a hole. He and Delta’s sword exchange a look of satisfaction and he is about to jump down when he notices a small shadow in the doorway.
Reela is standing there.
A number of expressions cross the Vagrant’s face and he raises a stern finger.
She steps more into the light, revealing a grimy face, full of worry.
The Vagrant sees, his expression melting into one of sadness. His finger hesitates, then changes direction, pointing at the cabinet.
Reela runs and climbs inside. He puts a finger to his lips and she does the same. He musters a smile for her, then shuts the door.
Delta’s sword virtually drags him back to the hole.
Without hesitation, he jumps down.