The Vagrant (7 page)

The Knights of Jade and Ash form up around their fallen comrade. At their commander’s nod four of them collect the torso, a fifth gathers the feet. Though rare, it is not the first time their shells have shattered. A remaking is called for.

But something is wrong. The body is too light, too brittle. Innards are dried out, failing in their role as infernal glue. The armoured torso collapses flat in mailed hands, powder spills on the floor.

They investigate the abandoned sword. It too has changed; jade has faded, gone still. With a boot, the commander prods and cracks yawn along its edge, falling away from each other a thousand times.

Instinctively, the knights step away.

From the city’s archway comes a new sound, bones ratchet against each other, three jaws not quite in time, an approximation of laughter.

The knights approach the gates, alert to the newcomer lurking within.

Not quite neutral, Verdigris is a city with two masters, torn a little more with every spin of the world. By day it belongs to the Uncivil, by night to the Usurper. In the grey between, things are often broken.

Normally the commander would wait for night to complete its fall; its instincts cry out to wait but there is no denying the Usurper’s order. It steps through into the long archway. In formation the unit drops back, following. The commander’s hands lower, weaponless palms forward. It waits.

From the shadows scuttles Patchwork, sometimes Duke, Southern Face of the Uncivil. Amorphous within its robes, it appears to glide, a moving puddle, tiny legs busy under the surface, until it is less than a foot away. With one long indrawn breath, it rises, thin body extending from multi-coloured fabric, matching the commander’s height. A squat face slides beneath the robes, climbing the body till it finds the hood, pushing out rudely, tongue first.

The commander’s helm swings forward harder than necessary. Contact is violent, essences touch, each pressing the other, testing, setting the tone for what follows.

Two young men wait anxiously for the return of their heroes. Their youth makes them stand out – the other young and fit members of their village had been snapped up by the army when it passed through the first time.

To their utter dismay, they missed it. Missed Gamma’s palace floating by, missed the armies of the Winged Eye and their Seraph Knights.

More than this, they missed their chance to be heroes.

All because their parents were too afraid and tucked them away, out of sight, tricking them into a cellar and locking it firmly until the army had passed. A deliberate act to keep them from joining up.

Selfish. Understandable. Wise.

But parents cannot protect their children forever and the young men are determined. They resolve not to leave their post until the Empire’s forces return. Then, they will invoke the rite of mercy and the knights will be forced to take them in.

To stave off boredom, the men discuss what life will be like, sharing well worn stories about the knights and rumours about how squires are trained.

And then, finally, they see movement from the south and stories give way to reality.

A metal snake winds its way through the countryside from the direction of the Breach. It is borne along on fat caterpillar tracks, wrapped around diamond capped sprockets. Twin stacks protrude from each segment of the machine, a dozen smoking plumes.

The villagers rush out to greet it waving homespun flags; a hundred homages to the Winged Eye. They are proud to salute their returning champions. The cheers die in their throats as the metal snake draws nearer. Cracks mar its silver skin and one of the stacks has split, belching hot black fumes at any that get too close.

A young knight stationed at the snake’s head orders the crowd to part. He wears no helm, uniform brown stubble visible from crown to chin.

Stunned, the people comply, flags hanging limply at their sides. Nobody needs to ask, they know the battle has been lost. They do not know, however, that these knights are fleeing the enemy, that soon the infernal flood will wash over these fields in pursuit of their prize, wiping away the village and its culture. In years to come their descendants will forget the teachings of the Winged Eye, The Seven and their Seraph Knights, only remembering that it failed them when they needed it most.

The road ahead is clear, save for two young men, who stand boldly, too naïve to yet know fear.

From his seat in the snake’s open mouth, the knight roars: ‘Get out of the bloody way!’

The young men do not move. They glance at each other then up at the knight, chanting as one:

‘We invoke the rite of mercy. Save us, protect us, deliver us.’

After a quick curse to the sky, the knight invites them in.

A few miles past the village, the metal snake belches black smoke and dies. The flanks hiss as they cool; a last impression of living.

The Knight Commander calls his last follower and the fresh recruits. The day’s travel has taken its toll, he knows he has reached the limits of his strength, inside he is crumbling, broken.

‘There is only one order,’ he tells the three of them, ‘return the cargo to the Shining City whatever the cost. Failure is unacceptable, everything else permissible. That is all.’ The three digest the news. Even together they barely add up to one man. ‘From now on, Sir Attica is in charge, you take your instructions from him.’

With effort the younger knight marshals his face to calm. ‘What about you, Commander?’

‘I’m not in the mood for running today, Attica, but I am in the mood to shoot something. Carry me up to the turret and you can be on your way.’

The youths have grown up with hard labour and make short work of moving the older man, armour and all, into the raised diamond on the snake’s back.

Attica straps his superior into place. Plastic loops take the strain where muscles cannot. Words fumble out. ‘Commander, I’m not sure I can do this.’

The Knight Commander injects courage into his man, mixing personal gravitas, legendary status and lies. Attica leaves straighter than he came, determined. Alone once more, the Knight Commander loads a comms-rocket for launch, and records a full account of the tragedy. His voice stays even when describing the scale and nature of the invaders, and the fate of the brave knights and soldiers that went to fight them. It only cracks when he speaks of Gamma’s fall. He plays back the report three times, then waits for the rocket’s pre-launch checks to cycle through.

The freshly made squires carry supplies, Attica a long lacquered box. Far behind them, fingers of smoke start to rise, a giant’s hand raised hazily skyward. It grows from the village, the smell of smoke reaching the group, turning them.

Packs fall, forgotten, and two youths run back towards the village. Attica calls to them.

‘But it’s our home, we have to help them!’ protests one.

The other keeps running. He ascends the hill they have just skirted, sparse strands of grass lolling over its top, a comb-over of yellow-green. The bitter view stops him dead. The other two catch up and stand by his side.

As they watch, a dark stain spreads from the edges of the village. A living seep, a pseudopod, it probes forward, tasting the land, searching. A ragged multitude of teeth and claws mark its growing boundary.

‘We have to move on.’ Shocked ears fail to hear. ‘Come,’ Attica repeats.

A beat later the three run.

No more words are exchanged.

The Vagrant runs along Verdigris’ main street. Boots and hooves click on hard stone, the sounds distinct, punctuated by the goat’s shrieks and a strong smell of smoke. The Vagrant darts down an alley and stills, eyes darting from the flames eating his coat to those that dance on the goat’s tail, careless of the other less pressing dangers that surround them. The sword comes down once, twice, and strands of tail float to the ground, burning bright.

Without his usual care the Vagrant puts down the baby and the sword, rolling on the floor until the fire is out.

He gets up, picking up the baby in one hand and clamping the goat’s mouth shut with the other. Both give him reproachful looks.

He waits for himself and them to calm before continuing, putting away the sword and pulling out the scope to check behind them, lenses piercing the night.

No one follows.

Engines hum softly in the gloom, waiting. Like the rest of the city, they hold their breath, poised for Darktime, when the Usurper’s forces will command the city. When it comes, lights stutter to life, haphazard in their arrangement, illuminating unfairly. The signal brings people from their homes. Shops reopen, curtains of chain slide back out of sight, doors grind sideways, groaning. Signs lift, are turned by grimy hands and dropped with a bang. A hundred banners to the Uncivil wink, vanish and convert to the Usurper.

Soon, voices call out; exaggerations and lies masquerade as hope. Others join them with offers and bargains. Unbeatable prices for the belongings of the beaten.

People spill like vomit onto the streets, congealing into crowds.

The Vagrant weaves through, oblivious, till the leash pulls tight, yanking his arm backwards. The goat strains to look back at the charred thing on its rear, still smoking.

The Vagrant stops, and in Verdigris’ marketplace stopping invites attention.

‘Trouble with your beast I see? Yes, getting old now isn’t she? Old and tired, I know how she feels!’ The patter is only punctuated by laughs that come thick and fast and fake. ‘Funny things these, only get more stubborn with age, not less, like my children!’ More laughter. ‘But forgive me, where are my manners, I am Ezze. And you are?’

The Vagrant blinks. Ezze’s hand snakes around his shoulder, guiding him through sweaty bodies towards a set of wide open doors.

‘And a truly noble name it is! I am pleased to make your acquaintance, from this moment on you should consider Ezze your friend. Verdigris is a grand city, full of wonders but many of them are shy, not like the women! Ah, come now, don’t be like that, it is just Ezze’s joke. A gift to you. Enjoy, it’s the only thing you get for free tonight, that I promise! Now step this way my serious friend, I know a place where we can solve all of your problems.’

The shop is cramped, broken tech and old skinsuits compete with encroaching filth in the limited space. Jammed between twin cog stacks is a half-breed, shoulders bare, purple tinted. In his hands is a needle, potent and smoking. On his face a paid-for smile.

‘Welcome to my shop,’ says Ezze. ‘Be at home here. You’ll like Bruise—’ a scrawny arm indicates the smoker. ‘He’s like you, not one for the words. Ugly too, eh? Well you cannot all be beautiful like Ezze!’ He laughs into the silence. ‘Not one for jokes, I see that. Now tell me, what do you think of this?’ From the chaos a cylinder appears, scarred metal, topped with tubing, like wild hair. ‘It may not look it but this beauty is fresh from Wonderland, the very finest Deadtech. She’ll produce milk just as well as your beast but without the complaints.’

The Vagrant shakes his head.

‘You are thinking Ezze is mad but he is not! Let me explain how it works. We simply extract the required organs of your beast and place them in the tube. The miraculous device will sustain them and stimulate them to produce milk whenever you need it. You look like one who travels; imagine how it would be to have drinks on tap, even in the middle of the Blasted Lands? Truly we live in an age of wonders!’

The Vagrant says nothing.

‘You are worried about the cost. Let Ezze massage away your fear. The price will be fair and you can even part-exchange the rest of your beast to make the deal still sweeter. You see what Ezze did there? Ah yes, not one for the jokes. Are you ready to deal?’

Turning, the Vagrant begins to walk from the shop.

‘Wait, wait! There are other things, many things, to interest you here. You do not want to miss out!’

Outside the street is choked with bodies sliding past each other, touching. Skin thieves weave through them, stock-sampling, tiny claws seeking, tireless. But something unusual stirs the crowd, drives them from Verdigris’ southern gate. Amongst the anxious faces, glinting helms are glimpsed. Six predators spreading fear.

Vagrant and goat step back together.

A hand waits for each, sliding onto their necks. ‘Friend, you have made the right decision! This time, Ezze will let you do the talking. Say what you need and Ezze will deliver or deliver you to it, whatever it is. What do you need, friend?’

The Vagrant reaches for the door, pulls.

‘What are you doing?’ Ezze’s head appears between him and the outside, alert to strangeness, bobbing as it searches. ‘There’s trouble out there, Ezze sees it. That is not for us. We’re in the business of living, yes? Don’t close the door; you’ll draw them to us. You best stay here and we make deals. Ezze finds a nice place for you, a safe one. You live a good long life. Understand?’

Nodding, the Vagrant pulls some fruit from a sack, throws it over.

Ezze smiles, rubbing his nose over taut flesh. ‘The pasha is fine! You have more? Of course you do, you are a wise, rich man. This way, this way and don’t worry, you are in safe hands now.’

The Vagrant squeezes between piles of junk and lost treasures. The back room to the shop is small, shrunk further by the invasion of things, mysterious under cloth. A bed lines one wall, a jigsaw of rubber and foam, scavenged, forced into shape by wiry netting.

‘Welcome to my inner sanctum!’ Ezze proclaims with a flourish. ‘You will be safe here tonight. Now, share with me your dreams and I will make them true for a very fair price!’ Automatic laughter follows as the man pats the Vagrant’s arm. He stiffens. ‘So tense, my friend, maybe you want something to bring a smile back to that face of yours, eh? I have a friend, he has a girl, just tainted enough, hey!’ A finger waggles for emphasis. ‘You want Ezze to let you meet? For a little extra I let you use the room. What do you say?’

He shakes his head quickly.

‘What is this? You have not even let Ezze tell you about her, she is good girl, diligent, yes? Ezze will paint her with words and you will not resist!’ The Vagrant leans forward, it does not stop the words. ‘She is pert, very healthy, no rashes, no growths, Ezze only brings his friends goods he can trust. Ah, her hips are … are … Is there a problem, friend, you look unhappy? Ah Ezze sees now,’ fingers tap loudly against the shopkeeper’s forehead, ‘so obvious, Ezze is being blind man, many apologies. Forget the girl, she is too plain for you. I have another friend, he has a cousin, handsome boy, firm biceps, a tattoo, very tasteful, goes from the tip of his—’