The Seven

‘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.