The Vagrant (31 page)

Seconds later, Vesper is asleep.

He is woken by the howls of the approaching pack. Barely an hour has passed.

The village scrambles into action. Houses are locked and people arm themselves, a lucky few with real weapons, the rest with tools. The squire emerges from the house, having swapped a baby for a sword. Vesper remains where he was, on the ground, saving his energy. Expression grim, he listens to the enemy’s cries. ‘There are lots of them. This could get ugly.’

The other squire raises his sword.

Vesper stands up. ‘No. You have to leave.’ His friend starts to protest but Vesper cuts him off. ‘Listen to me! I don’t know if we can handle this. Even together, even with the whole village behind us, I don’t know.’ He looks hard at the other squire, lowers his voice. ‘It’s probably our fault they’re here. You were right, we should have left a long time ago but we didn’t. We have to finish the mission.’

They both know Vesper speaks truth. The squire turns to leave but stops when he notices the other isn’t following.

‘Sorry, I can’t come with you. This place is my home. My family is here. I can’t abandon these people but you have to, for the greater good.’

Vesper’s friend sags.

‘There’s no time for this. You have to go. You have to finish the mission. Now!’

The squire looks back at Reela’s house.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll protect them with my life.’

He grits his teeth and runs home. The door is left open, swinging, as he packs hurriedly. Essentials are grabbed, the long box, travelling clothes and a pouch of coins that were the Knight Commander’s, then Attica’s, now his. Before leaving he checks, twice, that the lock of Reela’s hair is safe in an inner pocket. The house he abandons is bare, impersonal. It is not home. Even so, the squire hesitates, unwilling to leave the world he knows.

He is spurred on by another round of howling, distant, closer.

Outside, Vesper is waiting. ‘I was beginning to think you would never come out!’

Both men pause, lacking the words or the time to find them.

The squire spreads his hands, gives a sad smile, and starts north quickly.

Vesper finds his voice at the last minute. ‘If you make it to the Shining City tell them about me, okay? And exaggerate. I’d like my statue of honour to be a bit taller than I am!’

The squire wipes at his face, starts to run. Howls get louder behind him. Eventually, they turn to shouts, then to screams. The road ahead gets harder to see, tear-blurred. Running is unsustainable, so is walking.

Despite the logic of leaving, he finds that he can’t go on, that it isn’t in him to abandon his friends.

He stops and draws his sword. Morning’s light points out its insufficiencies. Another moment’s indecision, then he casts it aside, kneels down and opens the box …

Inside, wrapped in a cloak, is Gamma’s blade. In reality it is only slightly longer than those used by the Seraph Knights. To the squire, however, it appears massive, too big for his hands. The hilt is unique, silvered wings curl protectively around something, something sleeping.

The squire’s fingers brush the grip. He pauses but nothing terrible happens. The sword does not wake, his fingers remain as they were. He picks up the sword, still in its sheath, and attaches it to his belt. Committed now, the squire turns and runs back towards the village.

As it comes into view, horror stalls him.

A few of the bolder people lie in the street, weapons torn from bloody hands, moaning. Doors cry out as Dogspawn throw themselves against them. On the outskirts, men and women watch with mismatched eyes; their skin is livid red, a full-body sore, covered by too few clothes.

In the square, Vesper fights on. Two of the pack bleed out by his feet but they have cost him. The would-be knight holds Attica’s blade one handed, the other arm hangs useless. Long teeth have made shreds of his trouser leg, letting blood flow unimpeded. The grin on his face, once cocky, is forced, held on by habit alone.

The squire sees the carnage, knows that this is his last chance to save what he loves. Still, a part of him cringes in fear of what is to come.

At his side, the sword begins to hum, the wings at the hilt quivering, starting to unfurl. The squire holds the hilt tightly and draws. As the blade rises, so does a note from deep within the young man. It bursts upwards, pushing out his chest, punching through his throat, springing wide his jaw, to soar, malevolent, into the air.

Silvered wings stretch to either side of the sword’s hilt, revealing a closed eye that twitches madly.

The sword’s sound shakes the very essence of those unfortunate enough to hear it, pure, otherworldly, too much for a mortal to control. Breath begins to burn. Panicked, the young man tries to close his mouth but finds he cannot. The note distorts, twisted by rage, by grief. The air becomes fire and lightning, noise and fury.

An eye opens.

In First Circle, rumours dance. Names are brushed with slander, with truth and moved on to partners new. Dark mutterings rise and fall with the waves, intensifying when Yuren’s call comes. The Council wishes to address its people, summoning them to the base of the tower.

At midday, the people answer. The background hum of countless engines fades to quiet, giving the sea its voice once more. Pilots step from their boats, passengers unpack themselves from the hold and en masse they go, uncertain streams pouring into the central courtyard, each from a different street, running together, unwilling to mix.

Worried faces pack the surrounding space and nearby houses, some lean from windows or squish together on grassy rooftops. Guards move protectively in groups of four, patrolling the perimeter. Axler stands ready, lance charging in his hands.

A figure appears on the tower’s high balcony. His head is nearly bald, reflecting spots of red and gold. To those on the ground he is indistinct, small, remote. Amplifiers bring his voice to the assembled, smoothing over cracks, adding gravitas.

Yuren begins: ‘People of First Circle, I bring sad news. Yesterday a matter was brought before me. A terrible business. Even here, on our little floating island, it seems we are not free from abuse or crime.’ The great disc rocks gently, as if moved by the words. Yuren is forced to grip the railings as he continues. ‘Not only is there corruption on board ship, corruption that hurts our most innocent, but that corruption goes through every level of our society, right to its core.’

Words sink in but another greater wave steals their effect. This more literal force rocks First Circle, making people stumble into one another, like dominoes fighting for balance. Even as senses recover, something rises from the depths, ascending alongside First Circle. Water runs down its sides, giving shape. The new vessel is a relic of the Empire, a Wavemaker, its blunt nose angling thirty metres high, the rest cloaked in ocean. Other ships follow it up from the depths, smaller, each bearing modified symbols of the Winged Eye. On one the wings have been scratched away, on another the eye is painted over, forced shut. A third is covered by scores of bloody hand prints. There are seven in all, spread evenly around First Circle, surrounding, intercepting hope.

Axler’s voice punctuates shock, scrambling guards into defensive positions.

A short distance across the water, the ships wait. They bear no flags. Broken swords hang above the decks, suspended from cables. The wind makes them chime, off key and eerie. Silence stretches and cannons slide from hatches, massive, mocking the tiny rifles held against them.

High above, two sky-ships drop from cloak, circling, full stops on a declaration of superiority. From one of them a lone figure climbs into view. Loose cut clothes sit over skintight body armour. Hard plastic covers the face, giving nothing away. No weapons are evident and yet there is a sense of threat in its manner, polite but present. As the crowds watch it leaves the safety of the cockpit. Sure steps carry it across the wing, untroubled by wind pulling at sleeves. Eventually, it stands high above First Circle’s edge. With a performer’s timing, arms are raised.

It jumps.

Several people look away, not wishing to see the landing.

Impact.

Legs bend into a crouch, absorbing the force, not breaking. Standing, the figure pulls off the mask, turning to allow all a good view. Half of its head is bald and ridden with old scars. Hair flows from the other half like streamers in the wind, white, grey and black. Behind it the sky-ships descend slowly, two butterflies that sit, watchful, a few metres above the water.

‘I am the First,’ it shouts. ‘And I am not human.’ It pauses, letting fear travel. ‘I have come here to make you an offer. I hope you will appreciate my candour. A quality I often find lacking among your … people.’

‘Go ahead,’ replies Axler, voice amplifiers emphasizing his disgust.

‘I did not come to this …’ the First waves a hand, searching for inspiration ‘… shape, by choice. To survive I was forced to seek a host, one of your kind. Or, rather, many hosts, since no single one of your physical structures is enough to sustain me. But this one, the primary body.’ It places its palms across its chest. ‘This one, was damaged when I claimed it. As you know, we came to you in a place of war, a time of chaos. I have sustained this body up till now but the time is coming when I will need a … replacement.’

‘Never!’ shouts Axler.

The First regards him for a long moment, and then gives a bow. ‘You are a man that knows his mind. I acknowledge that. But this offer is for everyone here and I have not yet made it. If you change your mind after hearing me, I will understand.’

‘I want to hear it,’ says a voice from the crowd.

‘And so you shall,’ replies the First. ‘Simply put, I need one of you to be a receptacle for my essence. They must be unsullied by any of my kin, pure. That individual’s being will be subsumed and will, as you understand it, become … me.’ It pauses again. ‘In return I will gift the rest of you with smaller portions of my essence. Those recipients will be changed in other ways. They will be connected to me but distinct. Independent but never alone. They will also enjoy extended life spans, the ability to supersede their fellows in physical contests. They could, for example, duplicate my jump onto this ship. They will share my spectrum of perception and be able to control their old senses more directly. Disease will not threaten them again, nor will mediocrity.

‘I am not the Usurper, I do not seek to subjugate you. Neither am I the Uncivil, I do not seek to control you. Nor am I like The Seven, who accept your loyalty and leave you to die. I am the First and I believe that we can coexist. Together we are strong enough to live a different way, beholden neither to my kin in the South or your masters in the North. There is a price. I will repeat it: One of you must give yourself to me, willingly and without coercion. That person will cease to be. In return I will give that life back to you tenfold.’

Whispers begin, tentative. Individuals seek to know their neighbour’s minds without revealing their own.

Axler steps forward, pointing his lance towards the First. ‘That thing is a monster and if anybody approaches it, they’ll have to answer to me.’ He addresses his guards. ‘Hold. Hold the line. Nobody crosses it on either side without my permission.’

Guards form up as Axler fights his way to the line. The goat does not follow, watching from a safer distance.

‘Also,’ the First adds. ‘I am loyal to those who deal with me. You hold a … friend of ours. His name is Roget. You will return him immediately or I will be forced to demonstrate my loyalty. You do not want that.’

The Vagrant stands at the back of the crowd, battered coat blending, easy to miss. Those who know seek him out, pushing their way to his side. Among them number a half dozen children. Their dull eyes trail after a boy called Chalk. The others are lean, professional survivors, led by three sisters from Slake.

He glances at them. Frowns. Worries settle on his shoulders, get comfortable.

Beyond the press of people, beyond the ring of guards, he sees Axler squaring off with the First. Soon, it will break, one way or the other. From his vantage point he scans the crowd, noting groups, the shifting stances. Weighing the mood. He takes a step forward, hesitates. There are many expressions on display, none friendly.

Harm arrives at his back, Vesper hoisted on one hip. He leans in close, lips brushing the Vagrant’s ear, keen to keep their secrets. ‘We have to go, now. Genner knows a way, we can escape.’

The Vagrant turns, and Harm gestures to the young guard loitering in a nearby alley, uniform far from formation, conspicuous.

‘Come on.’

The Vagrant looks at those who gather close to them, looks back at Harm.

‘I don’t know, we’ll take as many as we can. But it has to be now.’ The green-eyed man tugs at his sleeve.

He looks at the First, then to Genner and back again.

The sword shakes in its sheath, wingtips drumming his thigh. He clenches the hilt, muffling with his fist. It pulls at his arm, keen to attack; Harm pulls at the other.

The Vagrant closes his eyes.

Gentle undulations pass under the boat’s surface, encouraging. Samael works quietly, using currents and winds and sailor’s intuition to close the gap between them and their prey. Dedication is total but sometimes muscles are misplaced. A jaw falls slack, flapping in the wind, a sphincter loosens, a tongue lolls.

The commander watches him, noting the signs. He has seen this before. It’s the world beating down on them, growing angrier with each passing day, driving their essence deeper within their shells. The further north they go, the worse it will become. It would be good to catch the Malice soon, before it slips from reach completely.

Samael signals him even as he senses it: another enemy, stronger than him, more numerous, known. He joins his servant by the prow and stares at the horizon, willing shapes to appear.

Soon, they do.

Seven war ships surround his prize and around them a web of essence, spread thin across those on the boats and thinner to those beyond. It is the Thousand Cuts, the Unbound, the Nomad King, the First. It is here in force if not totality.