The Vagrant (13 page)

‘I travelled into the city and started work, doing odd jobs, you know, whatever I could scrounge. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t always clean and the pay was crap. In the end, I did what everyone else was doing and went to the Uncivil.’

As the Vagrant raises an eyebrow, he raises his hand. ‘Don’t worry, it didn’t work out. Actually I had to leave Wonderland in a bit of a hurry, but that’s another story. Sorry, didn’t mean to give you my whole life history.’

The Vagrant’s smirk is not without warmth.

‘Funny to think they were right. My family, I mean. I assume that’s why we’re going north, to rendezvous with the others?’ He looks at the Vagrant for confirmation and his face falls. ‘There are no others, are there?’

The Vagrant shakes his head.

‘Oh. Then we’re not going north to attack, we’re going to escape. Maybe I will be able to help you after all. I’ve had a lot of experience of running away. I also had a lot of younger sisters, so I’m no stranger to handling babies either. The goat’s all yours though.’

Taking the green-eyed man’s lead, the group make their way towards a gap in the mountainside, a jagged alcove where things watch and wait.

The Knights of Jade and Ash dig among the corpses of the no longer Half-alive. They work quickly, untroubled by darkness. Between them the commander’s body is raised from bloody mulch and placed on the ground. Lovingly, they peel and scrape charred chunks from their leader’s armour. One retrieves the commander’s sword, offering the hilt.

But the commander does not move.

The knights form a circle around him and kneel, leaning forward till their heads touch. Essence flows between them, swirling downward, reaching into the dulled space within the commander’s visor.

Deep within the shell, they find the commander’s essence, ragged and pale, a spiderweb afterglow of what was. Together the knights cradle the fragmented cloud, repainting its edges, filling the spaces with portions of their own souls, remaking.

Panic slides between them, gaining speed and power. The knights are so close they struggle to know which of them began to doubt. All of them feed it, making it grow, till they tremor with its force.

‘Broken. Broken. The circle is broken. Leaking. We bleed from head and hearts.’

Gloom threatens to overwhelm them, then there is a spark, ignited within their shared conscious, and the commander’s thoughts take form, bringing order.

‘Report.’

‘We have defeated the Uncivil’s servants. The Malice is gone. We are afraid. The sixth has fallen.’

‘And Patchwork?’

‘Trapped by your fire. Patchwork lies in the rocks nearby. It lives. It dies.’

‘Take me there.’

‘There is more. Should we say? We don’t know. We are afraid.’

‘Tell me.’

‘The rebel’s fire brought down the rocks behind us. We are trapped. We cannot follow the Malice. We have failed.’

The commander has lost two knights, and a fear wound has spread through the others. Its lance is broken, one gauntlet ruined, unusable save as a club.

It does not matter.

The commander breaks contact and picks up its sword. The knights help their leader to where Patchwork expires, a half-buried mash of robe and bone, flopping obscenely.

With a cry, the commander’s sword drives down, piercing, pinning the exposed limb tight. The commander waits patiently, allowing the enemy’s strength to fade. As the Uncivil’s Duke begins to fragment, the commander enters its fraying mind, rifling.

New realizations come:

The bulk of the Uncivil’s power has been spent in the tunnels.

Verdigris is, for the moment, masterless.

The Uncivil endures despite her distance from the Breach. Her aim is set still further north, where war rages between her armies – the Uncivil has armies! – and the Empire’s forces that still hold the coast.

She fears to face the Usurper, is fleeing its reach. She knows it cannot travel.

She knows! The commander sways with the idea, somewhere it knows this too, has always known. But she is wrong. The Usurper can reach this far north. They will be the fingers of Ammag, the fist of the Green Sun.

But first they must escape.

The Knights of Jade and Ash shift rocks, tunnelling while the commander flays the remnants of Patchwork, sometimes Duke, Southern Eye of the Uncivil.

Both jobs take a long time.

There are those who live between Slake and Verdigris, secret groups hiding in the gaps. Like most small things, they survive through stealth and solitude. Sometimes however, the need for trade, for stories or the sharing of despair brings them together. At these times a Shadowmarket is convened.

‘The Shadowmarket has rules,’ explains Harm as the Vagrant takes the baby back within the confines of his coat. ‘Never give anyone your name. Never draw a weapon. Never show your face. Never go back.’

Hooded figures sit behind piles of wares, haggling, exchanging. Banter is curt, as hard as the survivors. Figures come and go, flitting between the traders, mothlike, taking turns to watch for intruders.

They enter and the sword vibrates against the Vagrant’s leg, hum stifled within its sheath. He hastens to the first stall. The owner’s face is hidden, only glimpses of her skin are seen, tough, wrinkled, like a dried nut. She guards her thin produce jealously and the Vagrant wants all of it. She in turn wants all of his coins.

The goat edges towards the food, getting closer, saliva building at the corner of her mouth. Her nose hovers over it, then descends, encountering a hand, slapping, fast.

The owner’s words turn sharp as do the Vagrant’s gestures.

‘Please,’ says Harm. ‘We all suffer if we can’t agree on a fair price.’ He talks further, soothing, understanding of the woman’s troubles. Her defences are up however and his fight to lower them is long. Unfortunately, neither Harm nor the owner of the goods have the luxury of time.

Shade falls across the Shadowmarket, a false sunset.

As one, they look up. The mountain above seems to have grown taller, its blunted head blocking the light. But mountains do not grow, nor do they move.

This one jumps.

Chunks of rock break away from the descending shape as it falls, spreading arms and legs. The ground screams as the living comet makes contact. A ripple of stone and sound booms outward, scattering people, redistributing wealth.

Light returns, dazzling, revealing green skin, laced purple with veins rope-thick. Metal plates meant for tanks cover her body, worn so long the flesh grows over them like ivy. Only her face appears normal, sitting too small in the triangle of muscle between shoulders and forehead. She is called Usurper’s Daughter, she is called the Hammer that Walks and she is looking for someone. She stays in her landing crouch, poised. Only her head moves, sweeping left and right.

People scream and scrabble, trapped between the new arrival and the mountainside. A few cower, most begin to climb. None think to fight.

Harm grabs at the cloth by his feet, pulling up the corners to make a sack, bulging with food.

The owner shrieks, rising from the floor onto her knees, clawing for her possessions.

Harm pushes her backwards and runs, making for a small opening in the rock wall.

The Vagrant glares at his retreating back but goes to follow, pauses and looks once more to the woman sprawled in the dust, defeated. He tosses a precious coin.

It flies towards her, spinning, singing and lands in her lap.

The Hammer’s head tracks the movement, then reverses the action until her gaze settles on the Vagrant. She stands up.

Vagrant and goat race for the cave. The goat is first and squeezes swiftly into the dark.

The Hammer leaps.

The Vagrant forces forward into the crack. It does not want him. Stones grate against his back, pressing hard on his ribs. The baby’s cries go high pitched with pain but he is through.

The Hammer strikes the wall where her prey has hidden and keeps striking until the mountain sheds slabs of granite, sealing all within.

While the infernal horde spread northward, hunting for the Malice, the Usurper attends to its new home.

Life draws it. From the smallest blades of grass, to the wild networks of weeds and vines, jostling for space. It is a conflict the Usurper can understand.

Of more interest is the town that sprawls before the great infernal. Tucked away at the base of a valley, it has been spared the attention of the other invaders. Turbines still turn and lights continue to illuminate. Rows of solar panels run across the valley’s sides, synthetic palms tilting upwards to catch the last of the day’s sunslight.

And there are people.

They form a shaky line at the town’s border. Men and women too old or too young to join the army.

In two gliding bounds the Usurper stands before them.

They flinch back, most raising their makeshift weapons, a few dropping them.

The Usurper scoops up one of the youngest, turning him slowly in a massive hand.

Though desperate to help their dangling companion the trembling humans gaze upon the Usurper, unsure of what to do.

One brave soul rushes forward, firing her weapon, bellowing a challenge.

But bullets only glance off the Usurper’s silver-green skin, and words make even less impact.

The brave soul stops advancing, stops being brave.

The Usurper does not notice. Its attention is held by something much more interesting.

Unseen by human eyes, the Usurper is surrounded by a moat of infernal essence, the broken-down remains of its kin that failed to manifest properly in the world.

Wherever the Usurper steps is tainted by this essence, changed in some way, and now the same begins to happen to the young boy in the Usurper’s hand.

Mortal essence is distorted by the infernal, swelling within the young body. It becomes larger but less subtle, stronger but more volatile.

And as the essence within shifts, so too does the physical body. Skin takes on a greenish hue, muscles bunch and grow, limbs stretch. The boy screams, his voice already a few octaves lower than it was moments ago.

By the time the transformation is complete, the suns have set and the other humans are long gone.

The Usurper drops the body in the dirt and advances on the town. It leaves behind a half-breed, no longer fully human but not a true infernal either. The first of the Usurperkin.

The town is quiet, most people wisely having hidden or fled. But the Usurper’s senses go beyond the physical and it moves quickly to a house, sensing an abundance of life somewhere just under the ground.

Clever design has hidden the trapdoor well and the Usurper quickly loses patience. It drives its clawed hands through the floor and makes its own hole, peeling back the sides until it is large enough.

Small mortals cluster together, their eyes wide with terror as the Usurper drops in among them. The youngest of the town are hidden here, from babies swathed in protective bubbles to boys and girls ranging from two to eight years old.

So many humans! So fresh! So malleable and full of potential!

If it were human, the Usurper would smile.

They shriek as it chases them, like a sinister game of tag. With each contact, a new set of transformations begin and another Usurperkin is made.

One of the girls does not run however. Barely four years old, and small for her age, she is no stranger to threats, or to violence.

The Usurper stops in front of her, fascinated by the fiery spirit within the tiny body.

It jerks forward, trying to scare her.

In answer, the girl bares an incomplete set of teeth.

Looking at her, the Usurper recognizes something of itself; an inability to flee and an unwillingness to back down no matter the size of the opponent. Though she cannot hope to win, she would rather fight and die.

It approves.

More than with the others, the Usurper makes sure to imprint something of itself upon the girl. She fights of course, just as the Usurper would if the positions were reversed.

But there can be only one outcome.

When it is finished, the girl from before has gone and in her place is a monster shaped in the Usurper’s image. A tool to smash its enemies, a hammer that walks.

Breath labours in the dark.

A baby cries, pain pitched, shocked, unbearable.

Only six people and a goat make it inside before the Hammer seals the entrance. One of them knows the cave well, can navigate through crawlways on memory alone.

He has already gone.

Two others follow him, losing first the trail, then their way. Sanity will be the next to evade them.

The Vagrant sits against the rock, content to be still. He hears the sound of sniffing, then eating and Harm’s voice, reprimanding. The baby is clamped to his side, clenched fists making handles in his clothes. He rocks it until the screams go hoarse, then fade to sleep.

Something moves, unseen in the blackness, nudging the Vagrant’s hip. Reflexively his hand grabs it, snaring a bone, stick thin, wrapped in a single layer of paper flesh. A vein presses against his thumb then retreats, then dances forward again to a thready beat. The Vagrant works his hand along the leg, drawing the outline with his fingertips. They skate over the back of a knee, a hamstring, a buttock but as they pass the hipbone flesh yields, wet and warm.

The Vagrant lowers his head, returning his hand to the stranger’s ankle.

Time slips by, unnoticed.

When the pulse has made its final retreat the Vagrant slides himself along the wall until he can find the man’s face with his hand. Gently, he smooths out the wrinkles of pain, closing the stranger’s eyes against the dark.

Then he searches the body.

In return for his kindness it offers little. A chunk of biscuit baked brick hard, a small tube of unknown liquid and a handful of gems, tiny and sharp. He pockets them all.

Harm’s voice sends ripples through the silence. ‘Are you alright? Kick once for yes, twice for no.’

The Vagrant kicks once, then once more.

‘Are you injured?’

Two kicks.

‘Stuck?’