The Vagrant (33 page)

The commander notes the bearer’s face, the open mouth, the wide eyes. He is used to inspiring fear and horror but this is different: this is the shock of recognition. The bearer knows him, has seen his shell before. The commander wonders if it will have a chance to pluck that knowledge from the bearer’s mind before destroying him.

They raise their swords. Neither are knights but both use the salute of the Seraph, compelled by habits thought forgotten.

The Malice strikes first and quickly, crackling with rage. Each physical attack is parried but the commander feels sparks showering his chest, disturbing the essence within.

To be this close to the Malice is draining, and the commander realizes that the fight cannot be allowed to go on for long. He forces the bearer to fight at his pace, swinging powerfully, relentlessly, pushing the enemy back until his feet slip on uneven stones.

Taking the opportunity, the commander feints and chops for the wrists. The enemy uses a complex counter, reversing the attack, changing the flow of combat, moving smoothly into a combination, blurring and brilliant.

Familiar.

The commander blocks the first flurry unconsciously, his shell doing what is needed without instruction. Part way through the combination’s second section he predicts where the Malice will strike next. Again without context he knows these movements. Knows that they are his creation. A wave of exultation passes through him as he steps unexpectedly, throwing the enemy off balance and aiming to take off a leg.

Somehow the enemy brings the Malice down to parry but the bearer’s stance is weak and the commander pushes harder, his sword biting deep into a thigh until a wild swing of the Malice forces him back. Rage sings out from the sword, making armour vibrate, shaking the very glue that holds the commander together. He bears the discomfort, seeing the move for what it is, desperate.

The sword sings a different note and the bearer lays the flat of the blade against his recently injured thigh. Skin sizzles as the bearer’s wound staunches itself, purifying, painful. Agony clouds eyes with tears, squeezing them shut. The enemy is stunned, momentarily blind and defenceless.

The commander takes his chance.

Moaning, his sword comes down.

Meeting another as it swings across.

For the enemy is not blind. A third eye, the sword’s, remains open, blazing fury. The parry is elemental, inhumanly strong and in a shower of shards and relief, the commander’s sword shatters.

He is left with the hilt, smoking, useless. He throws it away.

Unarmed, he watches his half-fallen opponent, twisted down on one knee, wracked with pain.

Gauntleted fists clench, swinging for the bearer’s head.

To the commander it seems as if the sword is the first to rise, drawing the bearer with it. His first strike is parried, then the second, severing both limbs at the elbow. He lets momentum carry his body forward, moving inside the Malice’s reach, slamming into the bearer.

They fall together, the commander pinning his enemy with weight alone. Amber eyes stare into the darkness of his visor, held by the wisps of green moving inside.

Unarmed, maimed, the commander has one gambit left, to bend the bearer to his will. Essence moves through the slits in the commander’s visor, a smoke that drips down onto the bearer’s face, slipping through his skin, making contact.

Physical things fall away, becoming distant, irrelevant. The commander exists outside of time, gathering within the fog inside the soul of the man. Here there are no secrets. Through the man’s eyes, the commander sees himself, experiences revulsion and something else.

Sadness?

Yes; when he looks at the commander he remembers the previous inhabitant of his body: the Knight Commander of the Seraph and loyal servant of The Seven.

The commander sees an image: a bearded man with hard eyes and a harder voice, proud, quick-witted and tough as stone.

He is mesmerized by this, and the awe it inspires in the bearer. To learn more becomes all and the commander pushes harder, deeper, immersing himself in the past.

But then he detects another vein of memories, even richer than the ones on his tongue, and he chases them. But each time he gets close, they recede deeper, teasing him, luring him on.

He follows without question, drawn by another presence lurking within the bearer’s soul, more dangerous than memories.

And then, within the dark soup of their shared essence he hears a sound, reverberating deep inside. It is majestic, mournful, bigger than both of them.

The Malice.

It calls to him and he finds himself answering in a voice not his own. Hidden within his own confusions, the conflict between himself and the master, the questions and possibilities raised by the Uncivil, the mystery of his past. The commander feels something else stir, an echo of the Malice that lies within him, that has always been there, sleeping.

Around him, the sense of man fades, murky fog burnt away by star-bright essence, silver-laced and edged in darkness, a chorus of wings spiralling around an eye.

And before thought can form, it takes him.

From above, the arrangement of bodies seems artful. A man lies on his back, arms splayed at right angles. Smoke drifts gently from his open mouth. At his side, the sword sleeps, sated. In the immediate vicinity the ground is scorched black and small lumps are scattered around him, a decorative pattern. Further away, the shapes increasingly retain form and colour, becoming men and beasts, infernal and half-breed, all lying together, unified in emptiness.

The village is silent.

Only the man’s chest moves and only then with reluctance.

Time passes.

From somewhere nearby, crying begins.

Amber eyes open and stare blankly at the sky. They fail to track the movement of the clouds.

Time passes.

Eventually, they close again.

The crying continues, muffled, pathetic.

Eyes squeeze tight against the sound, then fly open, painfully aware. The man rolls onto his side and gets up. Every movement is laboured, an act of will. He stumbles forward, leaving the sword in the ashes. He does not need to listen to know which house the crying comes from.

The building looks battered, its front door buckled, half torn open.

He finds the energy to run.

Inside is carnage. A Dogspawn has been killed with improvised weapons. Broken handles protrude from its flanks and nails pepper its sides. One has lodged in the half-breed’s skull, an upside down exclamation mark.

Three corpses are also present, made messy by jagged teeth. Their blood carpets everything. He kneels by a woman’s broken body. She lies on the floor, face down. Even so, she is recognizable. Reela. Gently, he turns her over, revealing a ruined landscape of arms and chest. He stumbles backwards, bloodstained hands covering his mouth. Reela is still in her bedclothes. It is clear that she fought the Dogspawn unarmed. It is easy to imagine the fight was short.

Colour drains from his face as legs waver. A wall catches him and he leans into it, eyes closing.

After a while stunned ears tune in to the crying. It has become hoarse now.

He crouches down and looks under the bed to find a face, purple and strained, looking back at him.

There is no decision to be made. He pulls the baby out and lifts it up, striding from the house with quick steps. He doesn’t look back, the sight already dream-etched, permanent.

Once outside he tries to soothe the screaming child but no words come, just a pain that flares in the throat. Slowly, he sinks to his knees, holding the baby close.

Both cry.

After a while the baby sleeps. He gets up again. Evening is coming and he uses the last of the light to count Dogspawn bodies.

There are many but not enough. Somewhere in the nearby woods the pack endures.

He collects the sword, pulls a coat from one of the corpses, wrapping it around him and the baby. Its forehead rests against his neck, alarmingly hot. He frowns and starts toward New Horizon. A broken man with no voice, no friends and no home. A vagrant.

The suns dip below the horizon and howling starts as if on cue.

He does not try and hide his tracks.

‘I’ve seen worse,’ says Deke, bending forward, hands on thighs. ‘But I’ve seen a lot better.’

‘Will he live?’ Harm asks softly.

‘I reckon. Might not be so lively for a while.’

The Vagrant lies flat, covered with a blanket. On the exposed ground, winds are cruel. All present shiver.

‘Course the real question is how we’re gonna get him back down again.’

‘Ssh!’ says Harm. ‘I think he’s waking up.’

They watch him expectantly, Deke blowing into cupped hands, Harm biting his lip.

With a grimace, the Vagrant wakes.

‘Welcome back,’ says Harm.

The Vagrant returns the smile, grimaces again. His hand moves questioningly towards his right temple.

‘Careful, Scout,’ warns Deke. ‘We haven’t had a chance to clean you up yet.’

More gently, the Vagrant explores the side of his head. He finds stripes cut through his hair; where he touches the skin it’s smooth, burn white. Fingers track down to where a sliver of metal threads through his cheek, welded in place.

‘Did he use one of them shrapnel guns on you, Scout?’

The Vagrant shakes his head.

‘A grenade?’

‘No,’ says Harm. ‘Genner says he saw the other knight’s sword explode.’

‘Damn. So you got him good then, Scout?’

The Vagrant sits up and stares at the two severed arms lying side by side, then nods, uncertain.

‘Are you in pain,’ asks Harm. In answer, the Vagrant holds up a hand, finger and thumb a quarter inch apart. ‘Bearable then. Enough to let us winch you down?’

‘Gonna have to be,’ interrupts Deke. ‘We put plenty of the good stuff in your veins, it ain’t gonna get any easier than this.’

The Vagrant draws back the blanket, pointing to a silvery patch on his thigh. He raises an eyebrow.

‘Your face ain’t too pretty no more but its mainly just surface stuff. Your leg is where the problems are gonna be. Don’t worry though, I happen to have some top-of-the-line burn meds stashed away for a rainy day.’ The old man winks. ‘Best not to ask how I came across them.’

They winch him down the rocks to a collection of waiting hands that carry him to Deke’s boat. Despite the discomfort, the Vagrant relaxes, letting others take his weight for a time. Before he is stowed aboard, sleep comes.

At first light the trio of vessels leave, daring the sharp edges of the Spine Run in return for its quick currents and shallow waters.

The Vagrant sits in his customary place on the wing, one leg outstretched, the other drawn up against his chest. Harm sits next to him.

From the cockpit, Vesper calls: ‘G-on.’

‘What’s that?’ asks Harm.

‘G-on.’

‘Gone?’

‘Gone!’

‘Gone? What’s gone?’

‘Dada.’

‘No,’ smiles Harm, ‘he’s right here.’ The Vagrant turns to face the toddler and smiles too.

Vesper takes their smiles and doubles them. ‘Gone!’

‘Oh,’ says Harm, realization dawning. ‘She’s talking about your teeth. You must have lost one in the fight.’

The Vagrant’s tongue probes around his mouth, finding the spaces. He sighs, holds up two fingers.

‘Don’t worry, I’m sure they can fit you with new ones at the Shining City. When you get there, you’ll be a hero. They’ll probably promote you, maybe even build a statue in your honour.’ Harm’s laugh dies when he sees the Vagrant’s face. ‘Look, what I was trying to say is that things are going to change soon, and for the better. There’s a place for you in the Shining City. I’m just not sure if there’s a place for me.’ His voice quietens, getting harder to hear. ‘Deep down I knew this couldn’t last but it felt so good, I didn’t want it to stop.’ He notes the Vagrant’s puzzled look. ‘You don’t know what I’m talking about do you?’

The Vagrant shakes his head.

‘I don’t think I’m going to be welcome where we’re going. You saw what they did to those poor bastards on Third Circle. What do you think they’re going to do to me?’ The next words he forces out, one by one. ‘I’m tainted. Not badly like the Hammer was but enough. I picked it up in Wonderland, long before I met you.’

Green and amber eyes meet and Harm doesn’t bother to hide his shock. ‘You knew? How? How long have you known?’

The Vagrant reaches over the side and scoops seawater into his palm. Carefully, he rests the back of his right hand against the sword’s hilt and touches Harm with his left.

The water begins to move, magnifying the sword’s tremors, tiny ripples making patterns, swirling.

‘All this time I thought I was hiding it from you …’

The Vagrant shrugs, tips the water away.

‘Do you want me to go?’

He shakes his head.

Harm breaks away again, seeking solace in the ocean’s calm. ‘Before you make that decision, there’s something I have to tell you. If you still want me around after that, I’ll follow you wherever you go, no matter what. But if you don’t. If after this you hate me or … or want to kill me. I’ll understand.’

Eyebrows raise, unnoticed. For once, Harm’s focus is purely inward.

‘I said I picked up the taint in Wonderland. I mean that literally. It was about two years ago when I had the operation done. The Uncivil’s surgeons gave me these eyes. It was an expensive procedure, more than I could afford. Most of the money was provided by other groups in the city as advanced payment for my services. I knew it meant they’d own me for a while but I thought I could handle it. I thought …’ he pauses ‘… maybe I didn’t think much at all. I wanted to be special. Most of us do. The operation was supposed to let me read other people, to tell if they were lying, or if they intended trouble. It was supposed to make me rich.

‘What I didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, was how it would affect me. My eyes work by taking in something of the people I’m close to, the same way their scents drift into my nostrils, their personalities would drift into my eyes. That visual scent told me things about them, but it …’ Harm struggles to find the right word ‘… infected me somehow. I wasn’t keeping the best company at the time and my eyes exposed me to the worst parts of them. The hidden parts. The destructive, twisted parts.’ Harm hangs his head. ‘And in me, they found a way to be expressed. Ironically, the sickest of them came to like having me around. They felt comfortable around me and I wonder now if my being there encouraged them in some way. Sometimes I copied them, sometimes they copied me and sometimes …? Maybe some of it was just me, I don’t know. But I did things, terrible things that I can’t take back.