The Vagrant (11 page)

Behind her the door shakes with impact, rippling like rusted water, boiling, moaning.

Sweaty faces shine in shielded lamps. Box-laden, men and women labour through tunnels. Maxi leads them, hair spikes combing the ceiling. At the rear of the group, Tough Call stands, watching for pursuit.

Max waits with her, huge hands cradling a cylinder, an acquired treasure. Fine engravings run its length, unnoticed through thick calluses. ‘You think they’re coming, boss?’

The kick is affectionate but firm. ‘Keep your voice down! And yes, they’re coming.’

‘You see them?’

Tough Call hunches forward, peering into the pistol scope. ‘Not yet.’

A droplet of sweat rolls down the back of Max’s skull. Slow at first, it gathers speed down his thick neck, racing on to meet its fellows budding in the curve of his back. ‘But … if you can’t see them … how do you know they’re coming?’

She kicks him again, firmer this time.

Robed figures enter her sights. They walk in single file, a queue of killers, patient. From the hidden recesses of their ranks she hears bones grinding together, an alien laughter.

Max forgets to whisper. ‘Was that Patchwork?’

‘Bring down the tunnel.’

‘That was Patchwork wasn’t it?’

‘Max, bring down the tunnel.’

He looks over at her. ‘You sure, boss?’

She doesn’t look back, one eye closed, the other pressed against the scope. ‘You want to be a glove puppet for the Uncivil?’

‘No, boss.’

‘You want to be turned into pick and mix for the half-lifers?’

‘No, boss.’

‘Then stop asking stupid questions.’

‘Sorry, boss.’

She holsters the pistol, puts her hand on his shoulder. ‘And Max?’

‘Yes, boss?’

‘Before you fire, give me a five count.’

‘Sure,’ he says but Tough Call is already running.

A low rumble shakes the underground room. Dust shrugs downwards, settling on the Knights of Jade and Ash, who wait, ever patient.

From the commander’s hand, a ratbred dangles, bare feet lightly brushing the floor. She stares, eyes wide and vacant, temples pulsing in time with the living metal at her throat.

The commander releases her. It has been difficult, connecting with essence so dry. Stubborn like cement, it slows thought, yet the commander has left the necessary mark in her mind. Around it, cracks have started.

Muscles fail on the ratbred’s face and her right cheek succumbs to gravity, mouth turning down on one side, a confused squiggle. But behind the empty eyes she knows what is sought. With effort, she approaches the wall, injured leg dragging behind.

The knights watch, expressionless.

Memories move slowly, hands spasm in momentary rebellion, then they move among the stones.

The hidden door opens once more.

She sniffs, thick air invading her nose, making her sneeze. She sniffs again, sifting scents till she finds it, faint, hooking her nostrils, compelling her forward into the tunnel.

Like shadows, the knights follow.

In his arms, the baby nestles, content. The Vagrant blinks against the dust, pulling his collar across his mouth.

Ahead the earth roars again and chunks of stone fall from the ceiling, shattering around the feet of the fleeing people. Their essence lamps quiver but stay lit.

The Vagrant does not slow, staying close to their reluctant guide.

Forced to keep pace with him, the goat flicks her ears, irritated.

Other branches present themselves but Harm does not take them, still following the rebels, moving towards the source of the noise. He glances back at the Vagrant, eyes dipping guiltily to the hidden bundle. Ahead the rebels are conversing in tense whispers. They cannot go back, can they go forward? What should be done? Anxiety becomes inertia and they slow to a crawl as footsteps come pounding through the dark, numerous and giant. They ready their weapons.

Then a rebel cheers. A familiar voice answers: Maxi. Verdigris’ resistance reunites, clasping arms, swapping well-worn names.

Tough Call moves among them, firing questions. She does not like the answers. Her last question is asked angrily. A forest of fingers points towards the Vagrant.

Harm speaks as she marches towards them. ‘It’s not his fault, it was Joe. He—’

‘Looks like we have a problem,’ she says loudly, pushing aside the green-eyed man. ‘I’ve brought down two of the entryways to hold off Patchwork. With luck we’ve buried the bastard but more likely we’ve slowed them down. We were coming back this way to get somewhere defensible but now I’m told we’ve got trouble in the southern passages too?’

‘The Usurper’s knights are right behind us,’ Harm says quietly, as if pronouncing a sentence.

‘Wait a minute,’ Tough Call says, looking round. ‘Where are the others?’

None of the rebels answer.

‘Did the knights get them?’

The rebels look uncomfortable. ‘We’re not sure,’ says one eventually.

‘Right.’ Tough Call runs a hand through her hair. ‘Everybody, crack open those boxes, looks like we’ll be testing these weapons sooner than we thought.’ She gives her attention to the Vagrant. ‘My hands are tied here. There’s going to be a fight and it’ll be hard as hell. I don’t know if I owe you or if there’s bad blood between us and right now I don’t care. We could use your help, now more than ever.’

The Vagrant shakes his head.

‘I get the feeling that’s non-negotiable.’

‘It’s this way,’ Harm says, beckoning.

Tough Call puts a hand on her hip. ‘You going too?’

‘Yes.’

There is no time for argument. None is made.

‘Good luck getting out of here. We don’t use the other tunnels much and there’s a chance they won’t have survived the quakes we made.’

Nodding, the Vagrant starts to leave but Tough Call grabs his arm. ‘Word is, those knights are only here cos of you. If you could draw some of them off, it’d give my people a better chance of survival.’

Shrugging sharply, the Vagrant breaks away, leaving the rebels behind. He goes Harm’s way, weaving through passages long forgotten, crumbling. Away from the rebels and the fighting, silence presses in. Only footsteps and ragged breaths challenge its dominion.

Tiny fingers rise from inside his coat, probing upwards. They find stubble and pause, thoughtful. Not satisfied with his chin, the fingers stretch higher, questing. At full extension they find a nose and grip hard, scissoring, clamping nostrils shut.

The Vagrant coughs.

Harm’s voice is gentle. ‘It bothers you, leaving them behind.’

Nobody responds.

The baby squeezes harder. Torchlight glimmers at the corners of the Vagrant’s eyes.

From far away comes the cry of fresh destruction. Harm and the Vagrant tense and the goat bleats unhappily. Walls rumble and rocks drop from above.

Gradually, things settle. The passage remains.

The group move on.

‘I think that was more of Tough Call’s heavy artillery.’

The Vagrant nods slowly, little fingers still clamped to his face.

‘She must be desperate, trapped between the Usurper’s knights and Patchwork’s forces.’ Harm glances at the other man, his face solemn. ‘It’ll be a slaughter.’

The Vagrant bows his head, keeps walking.

‘I know we didn’t do right by you but that’s on me and Joe, nobody else.’

Their footsteps echo, rhythm unbroken, heading north.

With unknown purpose the baby’s hand begins to twist, and twist. The Vagrant stops, his sigh nasal. Gently, he liberates his nose, guiding the hand back into his coat, then he draws the sword, tapping it lightly against stone. It sings, one note, long and round. When it stills he taps it again, and again, charging the air as minutes pass.

In time it is heard. Six off-key replies disturb, followed by another, deeper. The sword’s silvered wings twitch in anticipation.

Harm smiles, soft. ‘Thank you.’

At speed, they depart. Every few steps, every new turn, the Vagrant declares their presence. Now the replies are constant, gaining.

Without need to discuss, fast walking becomes jogging, then running.

Rubble springs up at the edge of their light. Fresh dust floats, decorating the collapse. Harm examines the damage, hope of escape fading. ‘We could go back, try another route?’

The Vagrant nods, sheathing the sword, and they rush the way they came, towards the hunters, coming to a side passage, narrow, unused.

Harm plunges in, strands of web break on his face, masking, tickling his mouth. He stumbles, the torchlight jerking, catching glimpses of skittering, shy things. In places the roof has fallen, forming mounds that trip, raising the floor.

An arm bursts from the Vagrant’s coat, grasping. He tilts his head back, foiling fingers that scrape past his nose, snaring his bottom lip; the baby chuckles.

They run, breath coming harder. Legs slow, no longer light.

The passage opens up, becomes vast, its edges unseen.

The Vagrant stops, shoulders drooping. Harm collapses against the wall, letting ancient stone take his weight, lungs working like bellows. With an air of finality, the goat sits.

Harm moves the torch slowly, revealing the remains of the old city, a monument to what was. Buildings have become pillars, curves beautiful beneath flakes of rust; they stop the sky from falling. Just above head height, pipes run. They are dead now, purposeless. In the centre of the square is a statue, features lost to time. One arm is missing, the other extends, palm upwards holding a pitted orb. Hills of rock and debris intrude upon ancient streets.

They begin to explore. Cracks in the walls are numerous, big enough to promise escape. Other passageways present themselves, three still useable. The Vagrant points at the highest and Harm starts to climb.

The goat does not move.

The Vagrant frowns and tugs at the leash.

The goat does not move.

The Vagrant closes his eyes, swaying slightly. He takes a breath, exhales, opens his eyes, and pulls.

Much to its displeasure, the goat is standing.

With deliberation, the Vagrant follows Harm up the rubble slope. The goat bounds ahead of him, mockingly agile. The green-eyed man is waiting inside the new corridor, pointing at a gap in the stone wall. ‘You see that?’ A shaft of light cuts across the passage, winking sporadically. ‘There’s an essence lamp on the other side.’ Harm peers into the hole. ‘It looks like a cellar, still in use.’ Using the back of the torch he begins to batter at the hole, making it crack and widen. The Vagrant joins in, kicking at the wall.

A sound stops them. Not the keening of a tortured blade but the clank of armour.

‘They’re close!’ Harm says, voice fearful. He redoubles his efforts to break through.

The Vagrant looks back down the passage, then down to the baby. It giggles, reaching for his face again. He lifts it closer, lips pressing against its cheek, then holds it out towards the green-eyed man.

‘What are you doing?’ Harm asks, as the baby is put into his arms.

The Vagrant wraps the goat’s leash around Harm’s wrist and points at the hole, urgent.

Harm looks into the Vagrant’s eyes. Words squeeze through a throat, suddenly tight. ‘I understand. I’ll wait for you, beyond the north gate.’ He feels the Vagrant’s fingers gripping his elbow, fingers hard against the bone. ‘I understand.’

While Harm struggles through the hole, the Vagrant drags his feet back towards the cavern. He looks back, once, twice, and is gone.

From high in the cavern, the Vagrant sees them coming. Tina emerges first, slack limbed, followed by the Knights of Jade and Ash. He waits at the passageway’s edge, hidden, his laboured breathing held slow and quiet.

At the commander’s signal they spread out, searching for him, sensing his closeness. Without lamps, only their essence is visible, luminescence seeping green through visors, joints, and cracks in their living armour.

The ratbred looks up, pink eyes finding him in the dark. Her foot points in his direction but she does not let it move, refusing to go closer. Within her broken mind impulses war, fear rises, matching in strength the compulsion to obey. Taut muscles quiver, threaten to cramp.

In ignorance one of the knights walks the way Tina stares.

Seizing his chance, the Vagrant accelerates down the hill of rubble, scattering chunks of stone. The sword’s wings unfurl, its unblinking eye fixed on the target. A low hum sounds as it splits the air, like a bomb from the heavens, descending.

But the Vagrant is tired, his edge dulled and the knight raises its own blade to fend him off, turning the mortal wound brutal. The knight falls back to the safety of its companions. Though the sword wants to strike again there is no time to finish the injured infernal; other knights already approach, like sharks drawn to blood. The Vagrant struggles in the dark, climbing towards his perch, to the exit he must bar.

This time, the knights are faster. Two scramble ahead, blocking his escape; another three advance together, blades reaching for his heels.

He is forced to face them, to catch the heavy blows with the sword, two handed, body jarring with each impact. They drive him up the slope, strike by strike, towards the pair on higher ground.

The Vagrant does not fight to win but to delay. Grudgingly, he gives way, pushing against every attack. Sweat coats his face, dampening the dirt that inks his scowl.

At the base of the rubble, the commander waits. It is nearly time to engage, to break the Malice, but something is wrong. Something is coming. Another’s essence intrudes on the chamber, muted, dangerously close. The commander steps back from the fighting, prepares itself.

Lights wink from a lower passage and a river of robes rushes forth, numerous, violent. There is no mistaking the Half-alive cult of the Uncivil, or their leader. Patchwork has come, drawn by the sounds of the Malice and the chance to revenge itself against the Usurper’s knights. The commander turns to face them, raising the stubby lance, but something snakes out from the shadows, dead flesh coiling around the commander’s bracer, pulling the weapon wide.

Tina vanishes in the initial charge, final thoughts smashed beneath hammering feet. The half-lifers break about the commander, spilling either side, grabbing for arms and legs.