The Seven. Peter Newman

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.

       One Thousand and Fifty-TwoYears Ago

      The Empire of the Winged Eye holds power, undisputed. A great engine made of millions of people, machines and essence-fuelled weapons. Its purpose is simple: protect the world from infernal threat.

      The Empire stands ready to do its duty. Spheres of metal orbit the globe watching for trouble, and the Lenses, the Empire’s watchers, have agents on land and sea, ever vigilant. Legions of knights train daily, keeping senses and swords sharp. Harmonized humans, their souls linked to better withstand infernal possession, train with them as living shields. Armies of soldiers march with essence guns and launchers, keeping constant patrols on the Breach.

      There is but one problem.

      The Breach has not yet opened.

      Massassi, who alone was able to perceive the threat, created the Empire of the Winged Eye in answer to the coming invasion. But she was born too early, has readied humanity too soon.

      While her loyal servants keep watch, other voices whisper dissent in the shadows. They question the reality of the threat and if the huge resources required to maintain the military could be better spent in other ways.

      She knows that none will dare oppose her now, but after she is gone is another matter. And Massassi already feels her years of struggle, feels each weary pump of her scarred heart.

      Despite her godlike power, she is getting old. She will be dead, the skin rotted from her bones, long before the infernals find their way into her reality.

      But she is as much a mechanic as a deity. The Empire is simply a complex solution to a complex problem. She has already modified it many times as new data came to her. This is no different. As the problem evolves, so too must her creation. Only politicians and idiots ever think that things are finished or perfect. Massassi is neither.

      Leaving the world in the hands of her commanders she returns to her workshop, one last project in mind.

       CHAPTER THREE

      A metal snake moves effortlessly over hills, matching their undulations. Inside the head, the Vagrant works the controls. Anger manifests in his gestures, making course corrections sharp.

      He looks over his shoulder often but Delta of The Seven remains folded in the space behind them, a placid statue. Her sword is on the floor by the Vagrant’s side. It too, has gone quiet again, its eye closed tight.

      Reela sniffles quietly in the seat next to his. As he works, she tries to get closer to him but straps hold her tight, thwarting the effort. A hint of a storm crosses her features and she begins to wail.

      The Vagrant glances over, touching a finger to his lips.

      Reela copies him.

      Her stormy expression abates and he goes back to managing the vehicle. Calmer now, she attends to the Vagrant. She positions her left hand like his, her fingers hovering over imaginary buttons. With her right, she mimes holding the control stick. She straightens her back, raises her chin, and after another glance at his face, adds a frown.

      When the Vagrant looks through the viewing screen, staring intently, she leans forward to do the same. When, briefly, he presses his fist to his forehead, the frustration is mirrored in miniature.

      The Vagrant does not notice.

      Gradually, the hills flatten out and the snake winds its way over flatlands and between trees planted in orderly rows, wide spaced, with branches that only start high up, shade-making