The Seven. Peter Newman

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,