The Vagrant (12 page)

The commander begins to lean, a knee buckles. More bodies join the fray. The commander cannot move its arms, cannot aim its weapon. It fires anyway and flames belch outward.

Flesh, necrotic or otherwise, burns.

Further up the hill, the Vagrant is safe from the flames. He parries another wave of attacks, the sword-song losing resonance. The knights press their advantage, unaware of the shadow unfolding behind them. The Vagrant’s mouth drops open and the sword glares at the new arrival. The knights pause, jade light pales, they feel the wrongness too late.

A shroud of teeth ripples through the air, wrapping itself around a knight. Within the black cloth, bones grind on metal, essence boils and Patchwork claims another victory for the Uncivil.

Four knights remain. Two between the Vagrant and Patchwork, two between the Vagrant and the way out. They are slow to react to the change of fortune, weapons twisting in their hands, grief stricken.

The Vagrant too is slow, arms drooping, heavy despite the sword’s enthusiasm. Already to his right Patchwork begins to rise, ratcheting erect, wide-thin body becoming tall-thin, the curtain of robes lifting to reveal the ruined shell of its victim.

The Vagrant spins from the sight to the pair at his back and charges, swinging the sword wide, a desperate note. The first knight parries, its sword groaning with effort. The Vagrant pushes past and blades stroke each other, blue sparks dancing downward.

He stumbles on, head bowed, into the path of the second knight. It stands ready, sword poised. The Vagrant tries to raise his guard but muscles falter. The sword’s eye bulges with anger as it dips, blade tip brushing the floor.

Defenceless, he steps forward.

The attack does not come.

With clenched teeth, the Vagrant raises his head, staring into the fathomless dark of the knight’s helm. For a moment, neither move.

The knight sees no fear in his eyes, cannot read his essence, cannot think of anything save the sword that glares, promising death. All too easily, it remembers what the Malice did to its companion …

It wavers, uncertain, when the Vagrant steps forward again.

Another step brings them close, like lovers. The Vagrant doesn’t turn from the knight, doesn’t blink, he continues to push forward.

The knight steps aside.

The Vagrant keeps walking.

Behind him, Patchwork gives chase, dodging between the other knights.

From below, the commander watches, its armour scorched but intact. Corpses smoke, welded to their killer, a mass of smudged limbs. It pulls against them until an arm and a weapon come free. The lance is damaged, coughing tears of fire. More half-lifers threaten but the commander attends only to the scene above, raising his weapon at his enemy’s enemy.

Patchwork glides after the Vagrant, coiling and launching after its prey, faces eager. Airborne, it closes the distance quickly but from behind comes a roar, faster.

It is the sound of the commander’s lance misfiring, exploding.

Air ignites and rock falls, removing the Vagrant from sight and slamming into Patchwork, half burying the Uncivil’s Duke. Exposed bones flap impotently, laughing no longer.

The commander looks at the hand that held the lance. The fingers of its gauntlet have been woven together in the lance’s explosion, fused in a lump, unrecognizable.

New assailants approach the commander, half-lifers climbing over their dead brethren, keen to finish their hated foe.

The commander reaches for its sword.

The Usurper has defeated Gamma of The Seven, has stood against, and surpassed, its infernal peers, becoming a monarch among monsters, yet this does not seem like victory. A remnant of Gamma lives on in her sword, a thing of malice, dreaming of its death, stirring wounds deep within.

The Usurper is growing accustomed to Gamma’s body, adjusting to the feelings of being contained and defined. As it moves further from the Breach, the world’s reality asserts itself, ever stronger, rejecting. The Usurper treats it like any other enemy, fighting, pushing back. Each time its forces kill or corrupt, the Usurper inches forward. Each time the Breach convulses and fresh clouds of essence belch into the world, it is like wind in the Usurper’s sails. Even so, the invasion will be long and both sides are already injured.

The sound of a challenge draws the Usurper’s attention. The head of the infernal horde is breaking around a metal snake, like a river around a stone. A lonely cannon spits defiance as the Usurper’s lieutenants smother the ailing vehicle.

Something escapes however, a silver arrow streaking skyward, leaving bright fire in its wake. The vessel is too small to hold a body, too small even for a sword.

The Usurper wonders as to the arrow’s purpose. In moments the clouds have hidden it from view.

Something about the lone warrior in the metal snake draws it in. Gamma’s wings no longer allow flight, scything air as the Usurper moves forward in long, ponderous leaps. Sensing their master’s interest, the horde abandons the attack, leaving a metal snake’s shredded shell – on top sits the Knight Commander, head tilted like a merry king, fingers still gripping the triggers of the ruined cannon.

The Usurper studies the warrior like a favoured book, tracing the contours of strength and loyalty etched in the old knight’s bones. It comes closer, raising the body it carries as an offering.

In response the Knight Commander draws his sword, cutting the air with song.

The Usurper waits.

The Knight Commander bares his teeth and sweat runs into his eyes. Muscles tremble, fight, fail and his sword slides downward with a sigh, wistful.

Slowly, the Usurper lifts the body towards the old knight, like a mother bringing a babe to breast.

‘No!’ exclaims the man, struggling, his seat unwilling to let him go.

From within the eyeless body, something stirs, issuing forth from red holes to pour into the Knight Commander’s mouth.

He dies instantly but not soon enough.

The Usurper steps back.

It is not enough for the Usurper to simply take another empty body, this man must be made to kneel, just as one day, the world will conform to the Usurper’s design.

All through the Knight Commander’s corpse changes occur. The sliver of the Usurper’s essence absorbs the remnants of the man, blending with it, becoming something new, greater than before, and less. Unlike its infernal parent, this blended being has a claw-hold in reality, tenuous but enough. Enough to move freely, to hunt.

Straps tear from their housings and a new thing rises: the commander. The once proud Seraph Knight is no more. The commander’s sword is lifted in salute and the blade shrieks in protest, cries stretching out as metal distorts, twisting, protesting, succumbing. Smoke issues from the rents in the commander’s armour, hissing softly until the essence turns crystal, fossilizing, dull and green.

The commander asks no questions. It does not remember its previous lives but purpose burns within it, an urgency defying words, a memory of malice that must be quenched, of peace that must be found.

The Usurper approves of what has been wrought. It begins to search the battlefield for more of the Seraph Knights, hoping that some might yet live. Corpses do not interest it. To occupy a vacant space is insufficient. The Usurper wants more, to dominate, to re-envision. Of the ten thousand knights that came, less than a dozen survive. But one of them has already fled and two are quick witted enough to take their own lives. The Usurper gathers the others and returns to the Breach, blending the fragments of their souls with raw, alien essence, shaping twisted versions of what was: the Knights of Jade and Ash.

The Vagrant places one foot after another, slowly, never stopping.

Muffled through stone, he hears a sound, like the death cry of a giant. From its scabbard, the sword thrums in agitation.

He keeps walking, slowly, never stopping.

Passageway becomes cellar, becomes steps, becomes house, becomes street.

He heads north, slowly, never stopping.

The gate remains open and he goes through.

The suns are low in the sky and he squints against them.

He is alone, abandoned, betrayed.

He stops, shakes his head.

From behind a rubbish pile a voice calls, imperious and infantile.

The Vagrant smiles.

Under a lonely gold sun, a small group travels. Night is close; the red sun has already swung beneath the horizon, making way for eager stars.

Harm speaks, too low to discern, soothing the creature in his arms. Exhausted, the Vagrant walks alongside, pulled in jerks by a tyrannical goat making the most of fortune’s reversal.

Verdigris fades easily from sight and memory, and the four walk in the last of the light, beyond the Usurper’s reach, northward, towards Wonderland and Slake, jewels in the crown Uncivil.

Mountains line up either side of the valley, standing watch. Their stone faces are pockmarked with caves, a mix of homes, tunnels and traps for the unwary. In their shadow, travellers rest. Two are awake, alert with hunger. Two sleep.

Harm stares at the man and baby, sees the tiny hand making a bed in the larger one, snuggling under a thumb made blanket. He drinks in the sight, barely blinking.

In turn he is watched by the goat.

Both watchers appear guilty. Ignored in the chaos of recent times, the goat has her leash in her mouth and chews towards freedom. She does not care about the angst lines on the green-eyed man’s face.

The sky begins to yawn lighter.

A small foot twitches.

The baby is awake.

The baby is hungry.

To the baby this is unacceptable.

Pink lips open and a small chest rises, doubling in size.

‘Ssh,’ says Harm, shuffling forward on his knees, until he is leaning over them.

Urge to yell forgotten, the baby stares up at him.

‘It’s alright,’ he says softly, reaching down.

The baby’s expression says otherwise.

With the utmost care, Harm takes the Vagrant’s hand, turning it, releasing the baby from its grip.

Amber eyes snap open, the Vagrant jerks up, catching Harm’s wrist in steely fingers, his hand reaching for the sword, muscles preparing for violence.

The baby holds its breath.

The goat drops the leash from its teeth, assuming an expression of nonchalance.

Harm’s voice is strained. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to shock you. Please, can you let go? You’re hurting me.’

The Vagrant’s gaze travels down from Harm’s face, along the man’s twisted arm to his own fingers. His eyebrows lift in surprise. He lets go.

Both men look away.

Small eyes flick between them. The baby is still hungry. It does not intend to suffer alone.

‘Sorry to wake you,’ Harm says softly.

The Vagrant holds up a hand and makes a dismissive gesture.

A loud cry from the baby stirs the other three into action and milk travels quickly from goat to tin to hungry mouth.

For a time there is peace and a golden sun lifts itself over the shoulders of the mountains.

‘I know you’re tired but we should go.’

The Vagrant nods, handing the baby over to Harm and picking up the leash. He does not notice the tooth marks.

Travelling north, they look back often. The Blasted Lands stare back, dusty and worn. They see no pursuers.

Harm’s voice prods the silence gently, appeasing the baby, making one-way conversation. Shadows recline and split as the second sun rises. The redness catches in dark smudges under the Vagrant’s eyes, like angry bruises.

‘Can I ask you something?’

The Vagrant nods.

‘We need supplies and shelter, do you have a plan?’ Harm glances over, rubbing his wrist. ‘I know a place we can go but we’ll need something to trade. All I have are the clothes on my back. That is, if you want me to stay with you?’

The Vagrant stops walking, his face creasing in thought.

‘I’d understand if you don’t trust me. But if you’ll have me, I’ll come with you.’ He reaches out a hand, the movement pulls back his sleeve, revealing red stripes recently made. The Vagrant tenses as he steps closer. ‘I haven’t always done the right thing. I have the feeling you understand what that’s like.’ Harm’s fingertips brush against the Vagrant’s arm, daring only the briefest touch. His voice is soft, barely a whisper. ‘You don’t have to be alone.’

A sorrow-woven smile touches the Vagrant’s lips. He nods once, firmly, and walks on faster than before.

‘Thank you.’ Harm pauses, unwilling to break the moment. ‘Do you have a plan?’

The Vagrant points north.

‘And a way to get food?’

Slipping his free hand into a pocket, the Vagrant produces a coin, pure and silver.

Harm’s fingers twitch, drawn to the singing metal. ‘That’s good but it’s a long way from here to the next settlement.’

The Vagrant frowns but keeps walking.

‘As I said, I know a place we could go. It’s not much of a detour and we could get everything we need. What do you think?’ The Vagrant nods, though the frown remains in place. ‘Then please, follow me.’

They walk for a while in a silence Harm finds unbearable. ‘Can I ask you something?’

The Vagrant nods.

‘Are you able to talk?’

The Vagrant looks up at the sky as if seeking inspiration, none comes. He shakes his head.

‘I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t embarrass you.’ After a pause, he speaks again, papering over the awkwardness. ‘They call me Harm. Everyone ended up being given a name when they joined the rebels. It wasn’t official or anything, we called each other all kinds of things, but for me, Harm was what stuck. I hated it at first. The name seemed too scary for a man my size. It felt like a joke. Joe used to call me Harmless. Bastard. But I’d been called worse before, so I got used to it. It’s funny what becomes normal after a while.’ He clears his throat, self-conscious. ‘I thought you might want to know a bit about me, seeing as we’re travelling together.’

The Vagrant gestures for him to continue.

‘I grew up in one of the tethered towns outside Wonderland. And like most people, I didn’t really understand what was happening when the Uncivil took the city. My mother and my uncle were machinists and we were comfortable. Not rich but we didn’t want for anything. They’d done well under the Empire and were loyal to the teachings of the Winged Eye. When the Uncivil came, they refused to accept her, and tried to encourage others to stand firm and not be tempted by her gifts. It was a bad business decision. The old infrastructure in the city was already failing, and the Uncivil had solutions to our problems. She didn’t attack my family, didn’t need to. She just waited while they became obsolete. I tried to tell them to join her cults but they were stubborn, kept saying that The Seven would send their Seraph Knights one day and that on that day, their loyalty would be rewarded. As far as I know they’re still saying that.