Книга - The Vagrant

The Vagrant
Peter Newman


The Vagrant is his name. He has no other.Years have passed since humanity’s destruction emerged from the Breach.Friendless and alone he walks across a desolate, war-torn landscape.As each day passes the world tumbles further into depravity, bent and twisted by the new order, corrupted by the Usurper, the enemy, and his infernal horde.His purpose is to reach the Shining City, last bastion of the human race, and deliver the only weapon that may make a difference in the ongoing war.What little hope remains is dying. Abandoned by its leader, The Seven, and its heroes, The Seraph Knights, the last defences of a once great civilisation are crumbling into dust.But the Shining City is far away and the world is a very dangerous place.























Copyright (#u1c0c1c85-509d-50e1-b0bd-dff8f91b0233)


HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk (http://www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2015

Copyright © Peter Newman 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Jacket illustration © Jaime Jones

Peter Newman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007593071

Ebook Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9780007593101

Version: 2016-03-08




Dedication (#u1c0c1c85-509d-50e1-b0bd-dff8f91b0233)


To Em,

for lighting the way


Contents

Cover (#u7d17f5a9-e2a2-52c7-bd18-582d549bd5c1)

Title Page (#u7401eb23-3f1e-54d4-83ce-fc32a71be610)

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Eight Years Ago

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Eight Years Ago

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Eight Years Ago

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Eight Years Ago

Chapter Fourteen

Eight Years Ago

Chapter Fifteen

Eight Years Ago

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Seven Years Ago

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Seven Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Three Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Three Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Three Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Eight

One Year Ago

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

One Year Ago

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Acknowledgments

Read an extract of The Malice

About the Author

About the Publisher




CHAPTER ONE (#u1c0c1c85-509d-50e1-b0bd-dff8f91b0233)


Starlight gives way to bolder neon. Signs muscle in on all sides, brightly welcoming each arrival to New Horizon.

The Vagrant does not notice; his gaze fixes on the ground ahead.

People litter the streets like living waste, their eyes as hollow as their laughter. Voices beg and hands grasp, needy, aggressive.

The Vagrant does not notice and walks on, clasping his coat tightly at the neck.

Excited shouts draw a crowd ahead. A mixture of half-bloods and pimps, dealers and spectators gather in force. Platforms rise up in the street, unsteady on legs of salvaged metal. Wire cages sit on top. Within, shivering forms squat, waiting to be sold. For some of the assembled, the flesh auction provides new slaves, for others, fresh meat.

Unnoticed in the commotion, the Vagrant travels on.

The centre of New Horizon is dominated by a vast scrap yard dubbed ‘The Iron Mountain’, a legacy from the war. At its heart is the gutted corpse of a fallen sky-ship; its cargo of tanks and fighters has spilled out in the crash, forming a skirt of scattered metal at the mountain’s base.

Always opportunistic, the inhabitants of New Horizon have tunnelled out its insides to create living spaces and shops, selling on the sky-ship’s treasures. Scavenged lamps hang, colouring the shadows.

One tunnel is illuminated by a glowing hoop, off-white and erratic. In the pale light, the low ceiling is the colour of curdled milk.

Awkwardly, the Vagrant enters, bending his legs and bowing his head, his back held straight.

Corrugated shelves line the walls, packed with bottles, tins and tubes. The owner of the rusting cave hunches on the floor, cleaning a syringe with a ragged cloth. He appraises the Vagrant with a bloodshot eye.

‘A new customer?’

The Vagrant nods.

Syringe and cloth are swiftly tucked away and yellowing fingers rub together. ‘Ah, welcome, welcome. I am Doctor Zero. I take it you’ve heard of me?’

The Vagrant nods.

‘Of course you have, that’s why you’re here. Well, what can I get you? You look tired. I have the finest selection of uppers this side of the Breach, or perhaps something to escape with?’ His eyes twinkle, sleazy, seductive.

One hand still on his collar, the Vagrant’s amber eyes roam the shelves. They alight on a small jar, its label faded to a uniform grey.

‘Ah, a discerning customer,’ says Doctor Zero, impressed. ‘Rare to have somebody who knows what they’re looking for. Most of the rabble I get through here can’t tell the difference between stardust and sawdust.’ He picks up the jar, flicking something sticky from the lid. ‘I assume whoever sent you appreciates the scarcity of good medicine … and the cost.’

In answer, the Vagrant kneels and places two platinum coins on the ground, sliding them across the floor towards the Doctor.

‘I hope you aren’t trying to trick me,’ the Doctor replies, picking them up and tapping each one in turn with his finger. The coins vibrate and a brief two-note duet fills the cramped space. For a moment neither speak, both moved to other memories by the sound.

Doctor Zero holds them to the light, the clean discs incongruous with his sallow skin. ‘My apologies,’ he says, handing the jar over quickly, hoping no change will be asked for. ‘And if you have any other needs, don’t hesitate to come back.’

Doctor Zero watches the Vagrant go, his fingers twisting together, untwisting and twisting again. He picks up the syringe and, after a moment’s deliberation, pricks his finger on it, wincing at the little stab of pain. A bead of blood appears on the end of his finger. He waits until it has grown to the size of a small pea and then whispers his message.

The Vagrant makes his way towards the city gates, famous for always being open. The Demagogue, demonic caretaker of the city, claims this is because New Horizon admits anyone, a lie to conceal their dysfunction. The great engines that control the gates are silent, critical parts stolen or broken long ago.

Beggars’ cries mix with heavy drumming and the taste of sweat. A girl, aged prematurely by life, pulls at the Vagrant’s arm. ‘Ey, you come from Zero’s? You wanna share?’ She runs a hand over her curve-less frame. ‘You give me high, I give you ride. Big high, big ride.’ The Vagrant stops, looking at her hand until she withdraws it. He walks on, the girl’s stream of curses following after.

A large, hound-like animal sits on its haunches, square in the middle of the road. Tainted by infernal influence, it is larger than its ancestors, fearsome, ferocious, a Dogspawn. No Handler is in sight and the usually easy-going wastrels of New Horizon give it a wide berth.

The Vagrant does the same.

It watches him with mismatched eyes. One canine, black in the poor light, unreadable, but the other human one: it flickers in recognition. Somewhere outside the city a Handler watches, viewing the wanderer through their swapped orbs.

For a time, both are still and the crowd follows the lead of the fading stars above, retreating, one by one into the darkness.

The Dogspawn pants heavily, its foul breath adding to the thick cocktail of smoke and rot that passes for New Horizon’s air.

The Vagrant does not run. There is no point. Over the years, desperate prey has tried many things to hide its scent from these half-breeds: perfume, mud, excrement, even the blood of another member of the Dogspawn’s pack.

All fail.

The hunters do not track the body’s scent. The Vagrant knows this: it is why the rest of the pack and their Handlers lie dead.

With a growl, the Dogspawn stands up, refuse clinging to blood-crusted legs. It pads forward with difficulty, dragging itself through the muck.

The Vagrant watches, unmoving.

Eight metres from him, the Dogspawn leaps. It is a weak gesture, a mere suggestion of its usual power.

The Vagrant steps back, leaving it to sprawl exhausted at his feet. Its flanks heave, gasping and ragged. Blackish blood dribbles from its rear. Soon, it will die. The growls soften, become a whine which gives way to a fading, wheezy pant.

The Vagrant steps around the body but the Dogspawn is not quite dead. It snaps at him with the last of its strength, too slow to catch his ankle, but the long teeth snare his coat.

The Vagrant pulls at it, once, twice, the Dogspawn glaring at him through half-closed eyes. Its jaws stay locked onto the worn material in a last act of defiance. The Vagrant continues to pull: harder and more urgently until fabric tears on teeth. He pulls free but there is a cost, his coat is opened by the struggle.

The Dogspawn’s eyes open one final time, widening at what is revealed.

In the crook of his arm, a baby sleeps, oblivious; chubby cheeks are dusted with fever spots. A sword hangs at the Vagrant’s side, a single eye glaring from the crosspiece. It returns the Dogspawn’s dying stare, peering beyond to find the tether of essence that will lead to its tainted Handler.

Swiftly, the Vagrant walks towards the great gates of New Horizon, pulling his coat about him once more.

The rust-bruised gates loom high, thick chains frozen along their length. To their right is a watchtower, ruined, its broken roof hanging from defunct cables.

The Vagrant passes under its shadow and over the city’s boundary, walking purposefully into the gloom beyond.

Chunks of rock jut out across the barren landscape, a row of giant’s teeth. Repeated bombardments and exposure to poisonous demonic energies have taken their toll on the environment. Craters pepper the ground like pockmarks. There are no trees, no colour and little life to be seen. The Blasted Lands are named without irony.

From nearby a cry rings out, quickly muffled. It is enough. The Vagrant turns and moves toward the sound.

Behind a jagged slab of stone sits the Handler cradling his head. His dark animal eye has necrosed in his skull, making nerve endings scream. The Handler does not know he is found.

The Vagrant crouches, carefully lays the baby in the dust. He stands slowly, his blade singing as it tastes the air.

Now the Handler realizes. He scrabbles backwards, promises babbling from his lips until the Vagrant’s shadow covers him.

Abruptly there is silence.

Stick-like people and bloated flies gather in the twilight, both drawn to the still warm corpse of the Dogspawn. By morning they have picked the bones clean. By afternoon half of the people have died, their stomachs unable to accept the rich meat. By evening their skeletons are bartered over by Necrotraders.

In New Horizon nothing is wasted.




CHAPTER TWO (#u1c0c1c85-509d-50e1-b0bd-dff8f91b0233)


On the outskirts of New Horizon a caravan has formed, preparing to leave with the dawn. The Vagrant joins it, blending with the ragged collection of traders and travellers, lost and forgotten.

Axles creak and pack beasts grunt and people shuffle. As New Horizon recedes like a fading nightmare, tongues loosen and conversation hums uncertainly.

The yellow half of the sun is the first to rise that day, crowning the sky gold. The merchants, ruled by superstition, take this as a good sign, one even going so far as to share his drink with a neighbour in thanksgiving. For most though, the colour only alters the palette of hopelessness.

Soon the horizon takes on a reddish tint, heralding the second sunrise of the day.

Once, a single star warmed the world. None remember that time, though all agree that it must have been better then.

People thought that when the sun tore it would bring about the end of the world but the two star fragments did not explode as predicted, nor did they blaze down from the heavens, raining fire and destruction. Instead they continue their slow orbit of the sky and each other, like drunken dance partners, struggling on long past the death of the music.

The Vagrant approaches one of the largest waggons, drawing the driver’s attention away from his roll-up. A word squeezes out around the stub: ‘Yeah?’

The Vagrant looks to the rear of the waggon and back to the driver. Another precious coin changes hands and the Vagrant is allowed inside.

Beyond the curtain the back of the waggon is full of boxes, scratched plastic and battered metal. No space is wasted, even the smells squeeze to fit between the crates. A few are covered with threadbare cloth, but they are the exceptions; the majority brazenly expose their wares.

The Vagrant is uninterested. He glances over his shoulder, pulling the fabric between him and the world outside.

In the cramped square of privacy he removes his coat and sword, squatting awkwardly with the baby he has smuggled inside. The infant sleeps unnaturally, immunized from the rough handling it has received in recent days by worsening fever.

Using his sleeve, the Vagrant mops its brow, blowing cool air onto the pink-red face. The baby wrinkles its nose, head turning sluggishly. As it begins to stir, the Vagrant takes out the precious jar, unscrewing the lid and scooping out lilac jelly with his fingers. He puts his finger into its mouth and waits. Toothless gums nibble and the baby starts to suck. Twice more, the Vagrant offers medicine on his finger. The baby takes it all down greedily.

For a time both doze, lulled by the waggon’s creaking, rocking movements.

Without warning, a whisper comes from the recesses of the waggon.

‘Help me.’

The Vagrant stiffens, turning towards a large metal cage. Grubby fingers pull back the covering cloth, exposing a child’s face, not a half-breed born to tainted humans, but not quite free-born, not pure, either. His features are sharp, his body small and thin, forged by a lifetime’s survival on scraps and wits. He misses nothing, mouth gaping open at the scene before him.

‘That sword,’ gasps the boy. ‘You’re a Seraph Knight. I thought you were all dead this side of the Breach.’ He speaks in tones of hushed excitement and something foreign creeps into his eyes, the possibility of an alternative to death and pain.

‘I’m Jem,’ the boy blurts, whispering, urgent, afraid that stopping will give the Vagrant cause to leave, ‘my mother trades between here and Verdigris, but, something went wrong last night, a group of men came, held her down, and then others came, angry, took me away, said she owed them money. I wanted to fight but then they’d have hurt me worse so I stayed small, like a bug. They pushed me in this cage and put me onto the caravan. I have to get back to New Horizon. I have to find her, make sure she’s alright.’

The Vagrant says nothing.

‘I’m sure she’d be grateful, she has money. Not lots but enough and’ the boy falters, unsure of how to play things, ‘she’s pretty too, real pretty.’

Jem is one of the last born before the lean times, old enough to remember the stories, to have been fed on them from a young age. To him the Seraph Knights are heroes from a time when childhood was more than the few moments between consciousness and disappointment. But he is also a child of the present, and knows how to bargain hard when necessary. He recites the words in a sing-song whisper:

‘I invoke the rite of mercy. Save me, protect me, deliver me.’

The Vagrant closes his eyes.




Eight Years Ago (#u1c0c1c85-509d-50e1-b0bd-dff8f91b0233)


Ten thousand Seraph Knights march to fight in what will become known as the Battle of the Red Wave. Most strong men and women of the region walk with them, becoming squires and servants and soldiers.

Mechanized beasts carry the majority of the army, for the knights four-legged walkers with armadillo backs or metal snakes on tracks, for the soldiers waggons and tanks.

At their head is one of The Seven, borne across the sky in her floating palace. Sky-ships trail after, like ducklings following their mother.

The ground trembles at their passing.

For more than a thousand years, the crack in the ground known as the Breach has been watched by Seraph Knights in the name of the Empire of the Winged Eye. It was prophesied that the Breach would one day open, spilling terror. But as the centuries passed and that day did not come mankind lowered its guard. It is hard to be vigilant for a lifetime, harder still for generations. Even The Seven, ageless, flawless, overseers of the Empire, have become distracted, their visits to the southern region oft neglected. The first invaders to float up from the depths of the Breach find the knights unsuspecting. Hungry to exist, to claw some purchase in the world, the demons attack quickly and a sleepy thousand-year watch ends with screams and blood.

One man escapes, a squire who fled as the fighting began. He carries news of the catastrophe north, across the sea, all the way to the Shining City, capital of the Empire and sanctum of The Seven.

On bended knee, he gives his report, a stuttering, babbling confusion punctuated with apologies. He is forced to repeat it many times, moving up the chain of command, until he is taken to the Knight Commander, the Empire’s supreme military authority who, within minutes of hearing the tale, brings the matter, and the young man directly to The Seven for guidance.

After two days of silence The Seven decide to punish the squire for incompetence. Once this is done, The Seven fall to pondering what action should be taken. Thirteen months after the first invaders arrive, the decision is made for the armies of the Winged Eye to ride out in force. Gamma of The Seven leads them, leaving her sanctum, her brothers and sisters and their devoted, for the first time in living memory.

They travel slowly across the Empire, parading, glorious. The young and strong of each region are collected, swelling numbers and pride. New recruits come eagerly, for all wish to become part of history.

When finally the army arrives at the Breach, the enemy are waiting. From the ravine walls of them rise, hissing, into the air like great clouds of blood. They are composed of indistinguishable things, unidentifiable save by their teeth, smiling knives side by side, a thousand thousand hungry mouths.

As the army of the Winged Eye forms up, the Breach vomits strange multi-legged things at them, a river of screeching scabs, scuttling towards the living.

The soldiers answer with cannon and lightning, and the knights draw their singing swords.

On the ground nameless monsters are blown apart or pierced or shot. They crumble to sludge, bodies unable to hold integrity so far from their native soil. In the sky, dark shapes flit between the turrets of the floating palace, plucking men from the battlements. Occasionally a turret pins one with fire, lighting its blue veins from the inside as it plunges to earth, a flaming rag of skin.

Then, from the Breach something powerful emerges. In time it will be known as Usurper, or Ammag, or Green Sun but it does not yet have form, appearing as a green shade, an unborn malevolence. Where it passes, husks fall, bearing little resemblance to the brave men and women they were moments before.

A ripple of fear passes through the army, the possibility of defeat rising in their minds.

Gamma of The Seven watches the battle with eyes that mirror the sky. Seeing the true threat reveal itself, she signals her attendants. They open the doors for her as she stretches, shattering the thin stone that encases her, like a bird emerging full grown from its egg.

On wings of silver and fire she descends upon the enemy. Her sword is her battle cry and its call turns the infernal foes to ash. At her approach, the formless thing pauses, retreating back towards the safety of the Breach. It is not ready to face her, not yet. Arrow-like Gamma pursues it and no creature from the Breach dares oppose her, the enemy falls away like leaves before a breeze, until she lands on the dark-shifting surface of her foe, plunging her sword deep into its formlessness.

Silent since it cannot scream its pain ripples outward in strands of boiling essence. It tries to flee and Gamma follows, her blade pouring hate into the wound, sowing seeds of itself within the enemy. They float within, dormant, waiting to bloom.

It is forced to turn from the yawning void and, reluctantly, face her.

They fight.

It is said that she fought well. It is said that she died well. The Knight Commander will not have it otherwise. Whatever else is said however, Gamma of The Seven fell that day.

The order to retreat comes soon after. Barely two thousand survive the first retreat.

There is no second retreat.




CHAPTER THREE (#u1c0c1c85-509d-50e1-b0bd-dff8f91b0233)


By mid-afternoon the broken suns have swapped places, dappling the mountains in gold and the sky in blood. The caravan continues its slow and lonely way north.

Inside one of the waggons a cage door hangs open. Stretching happily outside it is a young boy. He is watching the man who saved him, eyes expectant. It is evident he wants the man to come with him, perhaps even hopes he might become part of their lives; a companion to his mother, a father to him.

The man has offered none of these things however, sitting quietly while the baby sucks down the last of the medicine.

‘So, I guess this is goodbye then?’ the boy says eventually.

The Vagrant nods.

Disappointed, he leaves the man and the baby alone in the waggon. It is quiet without the boy’s constant chatter.

The Vagrant stares at the coins in his hand, each with the power to buy and sell life. Only five remain now. They have been spent on necessities such as food and medicine as well as indulgences, acts of charity that do little to pay off the debt of conscience.

The last few coins have bought a boy’s freedom, a goat and a modicum of privacy for the journey. Of the three, only the goat can be classed as a necessity. Not many creatures survive the Blasted Lands without change. After the arrival of the infernals most died or were altered by the tainted energy that flowed from the Breach. Over time the survivors have by its infection bred far from their original forms until only a shadow of their former shape remains.

Although the goat is scrawny, bad tempered and stubborn, she is otherwise untainted and a reliable source of anemic grey milk.

Gradually the caravan slows, circling itself like a cat preparing a bed. With a groaning of wheels and bones, the waggons and their beasts of burden come to rest. People eat their rations sparingly, jealously eyeing their neighbour’s fare.

With renewed energy, the baby wakes and starts to cry. The fever is finally loosening its grip, allowing hunger to return in full force.

The Vagrant gets up quickly, gathering his things. He picks up the baby, covering it with his coat once more. Tucked in the dark warm space, it calms a little but continues to grumble as the Vagrant climbs out of the waggon.

When he approaches the goat, she eyes him with open suspicion. She tries to back away but is held in place by the wire tethering her to the waggon. Unlike many of the humans held in bondage to the caravan, the goat remains defiant. The Vagrant works quickly however, and soon the goat has capitulated to his wishes, chewing apathetically while he collects the precious liquid in an old tin cup.

A man approaches, fashionably starved, eyes alive with desperation. ‘Hey pal,’ he begins, mouth twitching. ‘Doin’ alright?’

The Vagrant inclines his head slowly.

‘What you got there? That a baby you carryin’?’

Sounds of the caravan can be clearly heard as the two men look at each other; people cooking on makeshift fires, bolts being tightened, bent spokes knocked back into line again, blades being sharpened.

‘C’mon, man, I weren’t the only one that heard it. And I ain’t the only one that’ll take an interest. So let’s talk.’ He scratches the sores on his chin as he makes his pitch. ‘I been watchin’ you, got me some ideas ’bout what you’re up to. You got an untainted there, right? You reckon you’re smart, smuggling it out like you have. Gonna trade somewhere up north I’m bettin’, make a nice bit on the side. Is it a boy or a girl? The Uncivil’s offering a lot on baby girls, you could make a killing if you get that far. I’ve got a contact up that way, handles independent sales with the Fleshtraders, no questions asked? So, how about it? We could be partners, you got the goods, an’ I got the contacts. We split the profits and keep it all nice and cosy, just between us. What do you say?’

The Vagrant’s eyes narrow a fraction.

‘Course if you don’t like it, I could speak to some friends of mine an’ we could take the little nipper off your hands, free of charge. Your choice.’

With deliberation the Vagrant puts the cup of milk on the ground, the baby next to it.

‘Oh, that’s a beauty all right. I really hope it’s a girl, yes I do.’

The Vagrant stands up and takes a step forward. He is taller than the man by several inches.

‘So, what do you say?’

At his side, beneath his coat, the silvered wings that curl about the sword’s hilt twitch and the blade hums ever so softly. The man’s blood is more than tainted; it is thick with the infernal.

‘Well?’

The Vagrant’s right hand flexes, a pained frown crosses his face. He reaches down, into his coat, pulling a coin from his pocket and offering it to the man. He puts a finger to his lips.

‘Is that what I think it is?’ The coin has already vanished. ‘Not what I was hopin’ for, but alright, you got yourself a deal. I ain’t seen a thing.’

Back in the waggon, the Vagrant feeds the baby through a piece of rubber tubing. He listens to the sounds of the wheels turning outside and the voices of the people, whispering, gossiping.

Many miles south of New Horizon, the Fallen Palace languishes. After the battle of the Red Wave, it limped through the sky, fleeing the Breach and the monsters birthing endlessly from its rocky womb.

The Palace did not escape, pecked from the sky by the pursuing swarm until it kissed the earth one last time, cutting a new valley into the landscape and diverting one of the great southern rivers. Now the Fallen Palace is forever surrounded by fetid marshland.

Turrets and walls lean several degrees to the right, appearing drunk in the daylight, a sickly slant. Weaving towards them, unnoticed by poor souls wandering the sloping streets, flits a messenger, wings buzzing like tiny motors.

No glass remains in the Fallen Palace. Windows were shattered in the crash, covering the floors in a layer of cheap crystal. Now every shard has gone, from the longest sliver to the tiniest piece, all taken.

Many openings gape, from holes in the cracked pavements, from doorways, from windows, but they do not distract the messenger. It moves directly to a tower, where brassy walls fight a doomed battle against encroaching green lichen.

At the top of the tower is an arched window and in that window is a Man-shape. At the fly’s approach, the Man-shape’s face splits like a clam, yawning open: the fly lands on an overlong tongue, its work concluded, its frantic wings still.

The Man-shape closes its mouth, tasting the words hidden in the blood, hidden in the fly. It digests both and walks swiftly into the tower’s darkness, untroubled by the tilt of the floor. Emerging into its master’s chamber, it pauses, waiting to be acknowledged.

In the gloom, a great bulk stirs. The movement is accompanied by several excretions, as violent as they are small. The Man-shape eyes the bindings on its master’s shell, even the newest ones are starting to fray. It mentally notes that they will need to hasten the next order.

Fully awake now, the Usurper moves, animating the body that once belonged to Gamma, distorting her features, beckoning for the Man-shape to come closer. The gesture is laboured, hardly fitting for the greatest of infernals and the Man-shape is glad that neither the Uncivil nor the First is here to witness it.

The Man-shape obeys, crossing the distance between them eagerly, pressing its forehead against its master’s, soft features appearing ethereal next to the ridged, splitting monstrosity.

Heads close, like lovers, the two touch tongues, and thoughts rush between them in a torrent.

‘I have a finger in the skull of a Zero, who tells of singing coins and a silent man who hides his treasures.’

‘He who culled the pack?’

‘It must be, master.’

‘He who tore our Kin?’

‘It must be, master.’

‘He who bears the Malice?’

‘It can be no other, master.’

‘I want him.’

‘But your skin seeps, master, you must rest.’

‘Rest will come again when the Malice is ours.’

‘When will you leave, master?’

‘At once. The Malice taunts me from the shadows and I thirst for action.’

‘And what of the next display?’

‘What of the next display?’

‘It approaches, master.’

‘So soon?’

‘Yes, master. It comes and your majesty must be seen, the chains must be redrawn.’

‘So be it. But the Malice will be retaken, send out the word.’

‘Who is chosen to go in your stead, master?’

‘The Knights of Jade and Ash.’

‘I will send them.’

‘The Hammer that Walks.’

‘I will send her.’

They pull apart and the Man-shape retreats, plagued by thoughts that are not its own; echoes of the master’s desires dominate as it moves down the tower steps. They have won many victories in this new world, claimed much of the land, but it fights them at every step, picking at their essence, peeling at their protections. Even just a few miles from the Breach, the sky presses down on them, hostile. The Man-shape feels the master’s frustration and something else, an unwanted gift, a murmuring of fear.

For once it is glad of its separateness; for once its own simplicity is soothing. Still, the knowledge remains, now stuck fast: the Usurper is weakening. The Man-shape does not know how long this can be hidden from the Uncivil’s agents or the First’s nomads.

It glances at its own body. The skin remains smooth and unbroken, a testament to its control. The Man-shape’s usual calm creeps over it once more. It turns back to the business of finding the Malice and the man who hides it from them, stepping out into the slick street.

It opens its mouth, tasting the air as the flies scrabble from its gullet, each sucking a droplet of the master’s wishes before swarming into the darkening sky.




CHAPTER FOUR (#u1c0c1c85-509d-50e1-b0bd-dff8f91b0233)


Clanking and dilapidated, the caravan arrives at its first scheduled stop: the fields of Kendall’s Folly. Though faded, the squares of green stand out vividly from the barren dust surrounding them.

In places, machines function, pumping greying water through metal pipes that arch twenty feet above the vegetation. Where they don’t, slaves wander the fields with fat plastic pouches strapped to their backs, like pregnant women trapped in reverse.

Pairs of guards walk the perimeter, punctuating the barbed fence encircling the fields with hard looks and loaded guns. An Unborn hangs from a chain over the centre of the fields, quivering unseen within its coiled shell. On the outside it appears lumpy, off-white, a thing stolen from the depths of the sea. Suspending the chalky mass is a challenge but fertile land this far south is precious and the Unborn’s infernal presence keeps away the hungry bugs and beasts of the Blasted Lands.

A mixed group comes out to greet the caravan, traders, travellers and pimps keen to get the best goods and latest gossip. Feral smiles are swapped first, a last approximation of enthusiasm. The Vagrant chooses this moment to leave, slipping from the back of the waggon and taking his goat with him.

For once, the eyes of the caravan do not follow him, too wrapped up in their present greed to remember the enigmatic man and his precious cargo.

Without a backwards glance he moves away from the noisy gathering, disappearing behind an assortment of battered metal fins that serve as windbreaks for those too poor or too weak to have fully enclosed shelters. A small heel kicks against his stomach. The Vagrant grunts and walks on.

Others have also retreated from sight of the crowd. A man is hunched down, nursing something soft in his gnarled fingers. Two more men have followed the first and approach from behind, secretly, hungrily. The man has sneaked away some precious fruit. They reach him just as he tears it open, a waft of sweetness gracing the air, kick him and pull him backwards, grabbing for their share of the food. He struggles and six hands dance, pulping the watery flesh of the fruit, ruining it.

The Vagrant watches, motionless. Again, beneath his coat, he is kicked by a tiny foot. Before him the fight continues. Hands have separated now and, feet take their turn, smashing into the ribs of the first man like eager lovers, keen to kiss and kiss, one after the other.

The man stops struggling.

The victors share the pathetic remnants of sticky flesh, most of it licked from fingers, before slinking, dissatisfied towards the collection of rundown buildings forming the Folly’s main dwelling space.

The Vagrant walks on, his gaze on the hard-packed dust at his feet. A third kick makes him suck a breath through his teeth. He glances about – only the goat watches him. Ignoring its malevolent stare, the Vagrant opens his coat to peer inside. The baby is awake. Their eyes meet and a few seconds pass. The Vagrant closes his coat and walks on.

Behind him the beaten man moans piteously.

The next kick is more vigorous. Pulling back his coat once again, the Vagrant frowns down at the baby. It stops kicking and looks up at him. He raises his eyebrows at it and the baby smiles. The cycle repeats several times, the baby smiling a little more with each repetition.

The Vagrant stops walking and sighs. He touches a finger to the baby’s lips and closes his coat firmly. Then he turns round and walks back to the injured man on the floor. The goat objects to the change in direction as it takes them further from the fields.

She pulls against the Vagrant.

The Vagrant pulls back.

The goat knows she cannot win but tries again anyway. The miniature rebellion is rewarded with an even sharper tug on her leash. The goat concedes, this time.

Please, no more!’ begs the man, covering his face with his arms. ‘You took it all already.’ Freshly broken teeth make him lisp.

The Vagrant waits, ignoring the enthusiastic beat being played across his chest and stomach.

Timidly, the bruised limbs retreat to reveal a matching collage of red and purple on his face. ‘Are you a new eye for the Overseer? I’m sorry.’ With the lisp he sounds childish despite his age. He struggles for breath before continuing, ‘I just took a moment, please don’t say anything. It was just a moment. I’ll go back now … I’ll go …’ lifting himself several inches before crumpling back in pain.

The Vagrant loops the tether twice around his wrist and offers the man his hand.

The man eyes it as one might a bomb or a snake. There is hesitation, then he grasps it, fingers trembling in the Vagrant’s grip. Between the man’s injuries and the Vagrant’s burdens it is an awkward manoeuvre but eventually the man is upright and leaning heavily on the goat, who is pragmatic about her newest indignity.

‘Thank you, stranger … I need … patching up before I’m much use to … anyone. Would you help me over to Lil’s? It’s just … over there.’ He points to a crumbling building, blasted out from a single stone monolith. Incomplete lights display their half-memory of the structure’s original name.

The Vagrant nods and begins their journey towards it.

After only a few steps the man gasps, ‘Have to stop … a moment, catch … my breath.’

They wait, silence playing with their nerves.

Catching his breath eventually, the man speaks. ‘I think I’d be a goner if you hadn’t showed when you did. Look, I haven’t had … much cause to talk … for a while. I know I don’t look like much but … there was a time, before things … well, before, when I was known to be something of a talker, if you know what I mean.’ He coughs, wiping blood and spittle on the back of his hand. ‘Anyway, back when names meant a damn, people called me Ventris. What’s your name, stranger?’

The Vagrant hauls open the badly fitting door, buckled metal scraping against stone to briefly obscure the inside of the building by a curtain of dust. One by one the group enters, a bizarre procession of Vagrant, injured and goat.

Within the room is a plastic tent, age turning the once-white fabric a mottled cream, a small island of clean. There is evidence that many battles against the encroaching filth have taken place. Beyond the small scrubbed circle are tables and benches lining the periphery of the room, separated by pillars of chipped stone. Between the tent and the entrance stands a woman and in her hands sits a gun. It too is remarkably clean …

‘That’s far enough.’ The woman’s voice still clings to a little youth. It left her face long ago.

The Vagrant steps aside, allowing the wounded man to struggle into view. Even the short journey has paled him, his cheeks ghostly under the bruises.

‘Go easy, Lil,’ the man wheezes. ‘He’s just … helping an old man.’

‘Ventris, is that you under there? Suns, you’re a mess!’ Shooting the men an imperious look she does not wait for an answer. ‘Well don’t just stand there bleeding in my doorway. Get yourselves over here, and shut the door. I don’t want anyone else thinking it’s okay to wander in any time of day!’

Her orders are met without protest and a minute later Ventris is laid inside the tent and the Vagrant sits by the wall. They have been warned to touch nothing.

The tent only gives the illusion of privacy and voices drift through, secrets carried on the backs of whispers.

‘So what happened this time?’

‘I got careless.’

‘You’ve always been careless, it’s a wonder you survived this long. Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘Two of the workers attacked me, caught me by surprise. Bastards left me out for the worms.’

‘Hold still. I think they’ve cracked a rib. Which ones? No, let me guess, one of the bunch that came from the north, Kell or one of his … I thought so. Now what aren’t you telling me? Come on, Ventris, don’t make me do something you’d regret.’

‘I stashed a little pasha, sneaked it out. Guess I didn’t sneak it well enough.’

There is the sound of an ear being flicked and a grunt of discomfort.

‘You bloody fool! You’re lucky it was Kell that saw you and not one of the Overseer’s crew or I’d need more than a few threads to put you back together.’

‘I wasn’t that careless, none of them saw.’ Another flick is heard. ‘Ow, easy, Lil!’

‘And if they notice something was taken, what then? I’ve a good mind to unstitch this and roll you outside for the scavs.’

‘You’re a good friend, Lil. Not many like you left.’

‘Don’t push your luck. This is the last time, you hear me? Any more stupidity and I’ll shoot you myself and take what’s left for trade.’

Unnoticed, the goat picks up a glove from the table and starts to chew.

‘So,’ she continues, voice not low enough, ‘who’s the guy that dragged your sorry carcass to my door?’

‘Damned if I know. He’s not one for conversation. Hasn’t said a word to me, just popped up out of nowhere and brought me here. Maybe he’s one of the half-breeds? I’ve heard stories that some of the unlucky ones don’t get regular tongues.’

‘He doesn’t look like a half-breed to me.’ There is the clink of something metallic being placed on a tray. ‘I don’t know what he does look like and that worries me. Don’t think there’s much room for a trader who can’t shout. He’s no slave either.’

‘Well he’s got some means.’

‘Not that you’d know by his clothes.’

The man’s chuckle is cut off by a hiss. ‘Damned ribs!’

‘And did you notice the way he moved? He’s trying to hide something. I don’t know if he’s deformed or armed but I know that man’s trouble.’

‘Not like you to care what’s under a man’s coat, Lil.’

‘I’ve seen under your coat enough times, Ventris. Nothing much to care about there!’

For a while there are only the quiet rustlings of needle against skin. Shadows pass the murky windows and flies buzz industrious at the door. Now an irregular snoring issues from inside the tent, and soon a woman and her gun follow.

‘Okay, stranger, what’s your angle?’

The Vagrant looks up, amber eyes tired.

‘Let’s be clear. Ventris hasn’t got anything to give you, besides stories and advice and they’re worth less than the air behind them. So if you’re waiting for a reward you might as well leave.’

The Vagrant waves the idea away.

‘So who are you and what do you want?’ Her gaze is relentless, the gun’s barrel unwavering. ‘Well, you don’t look dumb to me. You don’t look shy either, so how about you stop playing games and give me some answers?’

The Vagrant takes a breath. His jaw works, but the air from his lips is empty. He looks away, eyes pressed shut. There is silence. The woman closes the space between them, laying a hand on his shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t …’ she begins but is cut off as she finally gets a response, a soft cry coming from his armpit. ‘What the …?’

His shoulders drop a fraction as he lets his arm fall. She opens the coat and the baby gurgles happily, its feet now free to wriggle. With a jerk she throws the gun to the floor.

Chewing and snoring and gurgling blend in the stillness. The woman lifts the baby to her face, caught between grief and some thought now lost.




CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_22ceed19-7fd0-55e4-88b3-1ecdaaa4c37d)


A few days pass in unlikely peace. The world outside is cruel, but within the bubble of Lil’s place an illusion of sanity holds sway.

Sunslight points through cracks in the doorframe, painting the dust red. Tiny fingers reach for sparkling dirt. They might as well reach for the stars themselves.

The Vagrant sweeps the floor methodically. His shoulders hang low, robbed of their usual tension.

Slowly, the goat chews, a mangled fabric finger hanging from her mouth. Her black eyes never leave the glove’s twin, sat helpless on the table.

This quiet industry is underscored by a woman’s voice. Lil is not normally one for talking but has been unable to stop since her new guests took up residence. She shares her observations about the workers at Kendall’s Folly, which ones to watch out for, which to avoid, and the few who will last. She talks about her role as surgeon, how the workers often get injured. Those that can pay for treatment do so with food or supplies, those that can’t are turned away. Lil is clear that she isn’t in the habit of charity.

She pauses but the Vagrant doesn’t take the bait, his broom’s rhythm is unbroken.

Eventually she talks about her own story, how her grandfather raised her, taught her to survive. How he gave her a trade to make a living, and a gun to protect it. She remembers why she never talks about him, tears thought long gone returning to her cheeks. She retreats quickly to the back of the tent, her grandfather’s voice alive in her thoughts: ‘Tears are no good to you, Lil, tears will get you killed.’

As the light fails, Ventris gathers his scars and limps to the door.

‘Thanks again, stranger,’ he says, smile more space than teeth. His eyes flicker briefly to the baby, asleep in the Vagrant’s arms. The smile grows a fraction.

After the old man has gone, the Vagrant stares at the door. Tension creeps back into his shoulders.

Faeces and sweet decay vie for dominance in the Overseer’s domain, each smell determined to maintain a separate identity. Once the dwelling would have borne the name of office but now the walls breathe, as half-bred as their new master.

Vestigial wings sprout from the Overseer’s back, small nubs mocking her bulbous body. Their only use is to indicate her mood to those that serve. Tonight they hum pleasantly.

‘I am told you have something for me. I am told it will please me.’

The man opposite nods obediently. He is nearing the end of his productivity. Soon she will take him from the fields and lay him down for her children.

‘Will it please me enough to compensate for what you stole?’

This time, the nod is fuelled by fear and accompanied by a meaningless apology.

‘You workers are all the same, thinking only of yourselves. You think that a single fruit will go unnoticed. What you do not understand is that I have quotas to fill. The Fallen Palace has needs, New Horizon has needs, Verdigris has needs, everybody does. Even the First’s nomads come to me on occasion. Every detail is accounted for, every action weighed by cost and value. I am going to reassign your value. I do hope it is greater than the loss you have incurred me. Now you may speak.’

The old man tells his story. As he finishes the hum of pleasure grows louder.

‘You will return there and watch my prize until I am ready to take it. Once it is in my hands, I will consider your debt repaid. I might even consider a change in your status.’

He bows deeply, biting back the pain of the movement.

‘Yes,’ she continues. ‘I think you have a place serving those dearest to me.’

He thanks her and hobbles out.

When his scent has faded she pricks one of her human fingers on a wiry leg hair. The flies pause in their feasting, drawn to the familiar ritual. The Overseer whispers into the liquid gem and waits.

More mundane means are used to summon the people in her employ and a common coin is enough to motivate. They are used to nothing, so the pittance she lays before them gains a dreamlike quality. As one, they leave, united in hunger and expectation.

As soon as they have gone, a fly settles on her finger, drinking deep the news that will make her fortune.

The Overseer sits back as the messenger speeds on its way. Her skirt of limbs twitches in anticipation; with the Usurper’s favour comes the promise of completion.

She does not hear the soft whisper from beyond her doorway nor does she see the fly fork downwards from the air, landing twice, the message flecking the floor.

Casually, the door yawns open, drawing her attention.

The Vagrant enters, sword first, humming softly.

Between them the winged insects buzz their distress, they throw themselves against furniture, against each other, unable to escape the blood that vibrates within them.

The sound builds, shaking the Overseer’s skull. She rises, stretching her body out to its full size, shadow sprawling behind, nightmarish.

In answer, the Vagrant raises his blade. At its hilt, silvered wings unfurl.

An eye opens.

Two storm-heads of sound build: infernal wings and dying insects vying with steel-bound song.

The Overseer sizes up her adversary, copied many times by her compound eyes. Each image is still and waiting. She falters under the glare of the sword; it hates her in ways she cannot fathom, stirring feelings of fear, of shame. Normally she would crush a man without thought but instinct tells her to be cautious.

Subtly the sound changes.

With no preamble or announcement, the Overseer moves first, reaching into a drawer.

In four steps the Vagrant has crossed the room, his blade stretching out for her across the desk. His mouth opens with the stroke, a mournful note blending with the sword’s voice, igniting the air lightning blue.

Squealing, the half-breed leaps back, avoiding humming metal, shrivelling wherever flames touch her monstrous body. In her human hand she now holds a gun, ugly and battered and ready to kill.

The Vagrant freezes. There is little cover in the cramped room and less time to think. He spins to the left, blade pointed downwards, silver wings reaching to protect his face.

Six times, the gun shouts angrily, spitting its hot metal phlegm. Four are lost to the air, one is foiled by the sword, ringing out in fury but the last finds its mark, slamming the Vagrant against a moist wall.

Frantically the gun clicks, its voice momentarily spent. The Overseer begins to reload, many of the bullets spill hastily on the floor, rolling among the dead flies.

By the time she has raised the smoking weapon again the Vagrant has stood and drawn breath. He rushes forward, she squeezes the trigger. The barrel flashes but this time does not shout, yielding to the Vagrant’s song. There is a wet smack as the Overseer’s hand strikes the floor, leaving a stump waving in the air, pink and crazy.

Pain lances all thought from the half-breed and she latches her many limbs to the desk, its metal legs screeching as they’re ripped from the ground. With a grunt she hurls it down on her enemy.

He answers with a long cry as he blocks, sadness counterpointing the wrathful resonance of the sword. The desk crashes to the floor, once, twice. Neither half touches the Vagrant.

There is a flurry of movement, a mix of arms and sword, of man and half-breed, of bestial grunts and sharp song. When it is over, the Overseer lies prostrate and limbless, a grotesque pear-shape.

He plunges the sword deep into her. Fire burns blue, devouring the corpse greedily, until only charred chunks remain.

An eye closes.

The Vagrant hurries along the path. It is dark and starless. From their shelters people hear him stumble. They do not yet understand what has happened but they sense that change is coming and they tremble.

Neon letters sputter into view. They hang above a doorway where stronger lights blaze, telling a story of violence within.

Outside a man lingers, uncertain. He turns towards the Vagrant, squinting.

‘Stranger, is that you? It’s me, Ventris. Looks like you got here just in time. A whole bunch of guys showed up just now and barged their way into Lil’s. I heard an explosion, suns knows what that was! Then gunfire and now, well, just the occasional groan. You better get in there, see what’s happened, though you’d best prepare for the worst.’

‘Liar!’ sings the sword without words as it cuts loose from its sheath, splitting the old man’s chin and nose. The Vagrant looks away as the body falls. He shakes his head, pressing onwards.

The door curls on the floor, battered into a cartoon smile. Flames dance on tables, smoking, and clouds of dust fill the air, blanketing the bodies of the dead and dying. Some have been burnt, others shot. He moves about them, his quiet sword giving mercy where needed.

The Vagrant proceeds into the tent, stepping over another corpse at the entrance.

The goat is over in the corner, Lil’s body by her side, a gun just beyond her motionless fingers. The gun no longer shines, but smokes from use. From beneath her arm a tiny foot kicks angrily. He turns the woman’s body over, revealing the blood-stained baby. His eyes widen in alarm.

The baby smiles.

It only wears the woman’s blood. It has not been hurt.

The Vagrant sways, his face pale. His legs begin to tremble.

With a groan, the woman spits something thick onto the floor. ‘Where the hell were you, you son of a bitch? I thought you’d run out on us.’

The Vagrant shakes his head, opens his mouth uselessly.

‘Listen,’ she says, pressing her hand against a spreading patch of red at her side, ‘I’ll be dead by the time you get your story out. So shut your mouth and save me. Everything you need is here. First thing you do is find my box of tricks. It’s metal and oval and it’ll be in the tent, you can’t miss it.’

But the Vagrant does not close his mouth, nor does he move.




Eight Years Ago (#ulink_373ead81-9dd6-5826-99c7-33f369e043f4)


Gamma of The Seven lies broken on the edge of the Breach. By her cracked beauty floats the thing that will become the Usurper, hungry for its prize. Above, Gamma’s Palace lists drunkenly, plumes of fire racing each other skyward from rents in the walls and towers. Shapes flicker about the ailing fortress, relentless, swarming and diving and biting and clawing, delivering death through thousands of tiny indignities.

As it begins its casual fall, other shapes rise from the Breach. They too are formless, nameless, all seeking Gamma’s remains.

Beyond mortal perception, the infernals fight, vicious clouds of dream that swirl through one another, blending, breaking and diminishing.

One removes itself from the fighting, descending upon the fallen men and women furthest from the Breach. It chooses with care: those that died from shock or single wounds, whose bodies are more or less whole. Into each it gifts a portion of itself, protecting its precious essence within a dead shell. Reanimating what should not be, in stark defiance of the reality in which it finds itself. By fragmenting its essence it is weaker and safer, smaller but more numerous.

A man stands impossibly and the First is born. It gathers its brothers and sisters quickly and sets out to explore. Soon the First has vanished from the field, an uncomfortable addition to the new world.

Behind it, the fighting between the infernals continues until, with elemental force, one infernal drives back the others, winning the contest and stamping its majesty upon them, indelible. Above Gamma’s body the claimants separate, blown outward from their new master, a smoke ring of losers. They retreat with ethereal hisses, seeking bodies easier to inhabit.

For the lesser beings this is simple, the ground is rich in corpses, but for the greater ones, Gamma was their only chance for a whole birth. Lacking the invention of the First and cowed by the Usurper’s power, they panic. Many squeeze into bodies that cannot hope to hold them. Chests split and burst and essence spills, sliding into a soup of animal energy, bubbling with regret and rage. This pool of essence is raw and unfocused, an unnatural force. Lacking a will of its own, the tainted river surges forth, carried along by the multitude, following the other infernals blindly.

Seeing the fate of its peers, the last of the great shapes moves quickly, the world already clawing at its edges. Unable to find a suitable shell, it weaves a cloak of corpses about itself. Skulls, feet and ribs marry uneasily. Within the necrotic ball, the Uncivil is birthed.

New desires appear, flooding the Uncivil’s senses: the wish to see, to experience, to grow. For now they are held in check by a greater power, resulting in a frustration that is almost too much to bear. Despite this, the Uncivil holds on to the idea of independence, of difference. It feels important to choose an identity now, to have something to hold onto when orders come from their new master.

Inspiration is close at hand. The bodies that make up her cloak each housed a unique being and it is easy for the Uncivil to sniff at their fading essence to gather ideas. A gender is chosen. It is not much but it is a starting point, a secret victory to build on.

She turns, awaiting her new master’s pleasure.

Free to take its prize, the victor descends upon Gamma’s body. Wind screams backwards, drawing the infernal essence into the once great shell. It twitches, animates and Ammag, Green Sun, the Usurper, takes its first physical steps. Compared to the First it is inelegant and brutish, lurching as Gamma’s body buckles and warps, trying to accommodate the new host. But nothing of this world, even one of The Seven, can fully contain the Usurper. With irritation, it portions a fragment of itself into another body, a temporary home, the greenness slipping easily through the absence of eyes. This form does not animate, it is too weak, a box for safekeeping, nothing more.

Now stable, the Usurper turns its attention deep within. Buried in the heart of its essence, a wound festers, as alive as the weapon that caused it. The Usurper reaches down, looking for Gamma’s sword, to smash the blade and end the dream of its undoing.

But the sword is gone.

The Usurper searches among the corpses, scattering them, and finds nothing. With increasing anger it lifts its gaze higher, over the carnage, over bodies mutating as infernal hosts settle in, until at last its attention is drawn by a glinting metal speck.

Distantly, beyond the feasting and the slaughter, a snake of metal flees the field, heading northward.

At the sight of the thieves the Usurper’s anger surges but fear flickers beneath it. It is too soon for another conflict. Defeating Gamma and fighting off the other challengers for her body has been costly.

Unwilling to face the sword again, the Usurper dispatches its horde. The Uncivil is the first to respond, her eagerness to taste the new world dressed as loyalty. Others follow, the Fellrunners, the Earmaker’s Three, Hangnail, all bound to their new master by defeat. Drawing the lesser infernals around them, a misshapen horde with lopsided wings and uneven legs, they spread across the land, a living fire.




CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_bf8f4ef1-2d9e-581e-bc66-4e700f2fb4ce)


‘I swear if you don’t do something right now, I’ll put a bullet in your empty head!’

The woman raves, anger keeping back the urge to sleep. She has fought off many men, surviving against the odds, but now death comes for her again, stealthily. Not long now and she will bleed to death, each beat of her heart pumps precious blood from the hole in her side. Salvation is so close she could cry. She doesn’t, instead using the last of her strength to reach out to the Vagrant.

He looks at her and through her, unfocused on the now.

Gasping, she pulls off her monitor ring. The pulsing light fades as it leaves her finger. A moment later it sails through the air, narrowly missing the Vagrant’s ear, as do the curses that follow.

Small eyes glance between the two. Sensing a problem, the baby joins its strength to the ruckus, easily matching the woman’s despair.

The Vagrant blinks, wipes perspiration from his forehead and looks anew at the scene before him. At his attention, the baby wriggles, shameless and gory.

‘Welcome back!’ snaps Lil. ‘Now here’s what you have to do if you don’t want me to kill you …’

She winces at his slowness, wonders if speech is the only thing he lacks as he plods, donkey-like under the lash of her voice, gathering the tools to save her life. She directs him to what she would call ‘the good stuff’, medical supplies that have been transformed into relics since the Overseer’s arrival.

All business, she stabs herself with a needle, eyes popping open with artificial alertness.

‘Okay, stranger, the first thing we’ve got to do is clean out the wound. Those amateurs were using cheap-assed shrapnel guns, which is about the only reason I’m still talking. There’s a hand scanner and a pair of tweezers you can use. Don’t waste the battery, we don’t have any spares.’

His hands fumble about the job, hesitant, and Lil’s patience rapidly vanishes. ‘Just stop, please! Scav’s teeth, I’ve got more chance of saving myself! Just pick up that mirror and hold it like I tell you, okay?’

The Vagrant nods, lips pressed together.

‘All you have to do is keep it steady.’

Chemicals silence the pain in her side and she works quickly, no time left for squeamishness. Jagged bits of metal clink as they’re dropped into the dish, shy at first, they allow themselves to come free with growing eagerness. She takes a handful of Skyn, slathering grey jelly all over the wound. Instantly it adheres, staunching the blood and darkening in approximation of Lil’s muddy skin.

‘There, that wasn’t so bad,’ she says, as much to herself as anyone else. ‘Nothing I can’t do with enough drugs and medtech. These corpses used to work for the Overseer, so we’d better not hang around. I don’t know what’s going on but I’m damn sure it’s your fault.’

She jabs a finger at the Vagrant, who leans against the tent pole. He peers at her. Slowly his eyes close.

‘Hey, are you …?’

Before she can finish, the Vagrant slides down the pole and topples over.

‘… Oh, that’s just great!’

The wound is small and clean. She assumes he has passed out through shock rather than blood loss.

Lil has seen a lot of bodies in her life, each with a story to tell, most depressingly similar.

On this body a few things catch her eye. The man bears the blade of a Seraph Knight, which immediately marks him out as a fugitive, yet his hands are callused as much through labour as combat. She turns them over to find smooth skin, the little hairs recently burned away. She notes his tongue is still intact.

Carefully, she removes the bullet. It has gone deep and released its payload but there are no spider web signs of skin degeneration. Amazed, she probes further until she sees the Burrowmaw’s inert tail, tucked under his rib. Snagging it on a tiny hook, Lil works it out with slow, steady pressure, till finally the mouth sac comes loose. The little creature smokes in her hand; something has cooked it from the inside.

It joins the shrapnel in the dish.

The suns rise together, dividing the sky like a god’s standard. Lil and the Vagrant step cautiously into the daylight. Ventris remains where he fell, face down in the dust opposite Lil’s door. His boots have not.

Sounds of fighting are heard from the fields. News of the Overseer’s death has spread quickly and people are keen to take advantage of the spoils before a replacement arrives. The goat wishes to join them, spitting out fabric fingertips in anticipation of greater prizes. Again the Vagrant holds firm to her leash but the goat senses weakness and pulls, rewarded with feet sliding in the dust.

The Vagrant regains his balance, grits his teeth but Lil puts a hand on his arm.

‘She’s got a point, we all need to eat. If we’re going to have a chance out there we’ll need supplies and goods to trade. There’s a fortune to be had in the fields.’

He glances to her hand and back to her face.

‘What? You got a problem with me touching your arm? A few hours ago I had my hands inside your guts; it doesn’t get more personal than that.’

The Vagrant shakes his head, places his hand over hers. She pulls free quickly, drawing her gun as she runs towards the shouting.

‘Look sharp, stranger, we got about three hours before the stims wear off!’

They run towards the field’s perimeter, watched by those that have chosen to hide, the innumerable weak.

‘Looks like we’re not the first!’ shouts Lil, voice full of excitement and chemicals. She points to the fence where it bends low, forming half of a barbed smile. The gap is spanned by a living bridge; guards who could not stem the greed-tide are spitted together, forming a carpet. Many boot-prints mark their writhing backs.

The Vagrant turns away.

He cuts a new path through the fence with his sword, impassive. The wire springs apart, making loose spirals by their feet. They watch as two opposing armies form clumps of fighting in the chaos; on one side guards, on the other workers. Neither has a uniform, both are desperate. Only the dead appear united, their faction already the largest. The battle is scrappy, motivated by greed not bravery. The brave have already fallen, piles of them still protecting their more cautious peers.

There is space between the clumps of fighters. With uncharacteristic energy, the goat finds an unspoiled patch and begins to gorge. Lil and the Vagrant fill sacks with precious fruit, loading them onto the goat. Rough movements and battle sounds wake the baby who voices its distress.

The Vagrant works faster.

Pendulous between the pipes that arch above the fields swings the Unborn, lulled in its slumber by the song of the dying. About its shell the air quivers but does not tear.

Emerging from the grasses at speed three men approach the laden goat, armed with sharp metal and hate. The lead man only just stops in time. A pistol presses into the skin of his forehead.

‘I’ll give you people one chance to back off,’ Lil says, ‘then I start shooting.’

Quick looks are exchanged, between themselves, at the woman, at her gun. A decision is reached and the men are gone.

The Vagrant nods, the hint of a hint of a smile on his face.

‘There ain’t nothing to smile about here you idiot!’ Lil shouts. ‘We’d better be gone before they’re back in force.’

Carefully they pick their way across the fields. Bodies lie all around, racing for death. They cry for help, for mercy, for their mothers. The baby just cries.

Eyes locked on the horizon, the Vagrant walks onwards. The goat fights him along the way, sometimes winning a bite of the yellowing grasses, sometimes bowing to the leash. Progress is slow, the ground is boggy and full of debris but, grudgingly, the far edge of the field comes into view.

People have gathered in front of the gate, clustered like a flock around a man who moves with the swagger of power. His muscles are drug fed and firm, his rifle steady in his hands. Blue cables run from the gun to his backpack, fizzing with potential.

‘Hold there!’ he shouts in a voice rough with living.

Lil’s pistol stares back at the rifle, neither blinks. ‘Looks like you’re moving up in the world, Kell.’

‘Well damn, is that you, Lil? I’d heard you got blown up with your house!’

‘Nope, still here.’

Kell laughs, the sound echoed eerily by his companions. ‘For now maybe. Seems you been taking what’s mine.’

‘Listen, this doesn’t have to turn ugly, just let us go and we’ll be no more bother to you.’

‘Maybe,’ replies the man, rubbing his stubble with a nailless finger. ‘Or maybe you could entertain us a little first, then we let you go.’

‘How about I entertain a hole through your head?’

Tension ripples through the group and weapons twitch in hands.

The Vagrant steps forward, he holds a sack open, displaying its contents, offering.

‘Well now,’ says Kell. ‘Looks like your partner here is feeling a little less confrontational.’

Lil scowls at the Vagrant. ‘It’s the best deal you’re gonna get from us, Kell. We go free and you get goods to trade without risking any more of your men in the field. Deal?’

He makes a show of consideration. ‘Deal!’

Handing the sack over, the Vagrant walks down the narrow path between Kell’s followers, his shoulders brushing those on either side. The goat follows, for once obedient. Lil comes last, she and Kell turn slowly as they pass, neither willing to look away.

Under his coat, the baby kicks and whimpers.

Everything stops, focusing on the foreign sound.

The Vagrant closes his eyes.

Hands grab at his arms and shoulders, the baby’s cries get louder.

‘Well, well,’ Kell crows. ‘Looks like we’ve got a new deal on. You give us—’

The first bullet punches the rifle from his hands, the second goes through his knee. Kell screams reflexively as he falls forward.

Lil’s pistol nestles in behind his ear. ‘Here’s the new deal: Let us go, right now, or I put a new piercing in your brain.’

‘Argh! You’ll die for this you bitch!’

‘Not before you. Tell them to let us go.’

Kell spits on the floor, bites back another wave of pain. ‘Let the bastards go. You hear me, let them go!’

The colony of grimy fingers retreats, and the Vagrant moves forward, reaching the gate.

Lil watches, the time is coming when she’ll have to run for it. There are too many people and too few bullets for her to succeed. She grits her teeth, allowing no time for tears or second thoughts, preparing to take her chance.

She turns, pointing the pistol at those immediately in front of her. They flinch away and she jumps for the gap, focusing on the goat’s lank tail, still in sight. Her flight is brief, arrested by a chunk of stone that strikes her temple, stunning her. A fist catches her between the shoulders, and Lil falls into the pale grass.

Too late, the Vagrant sees. His hands itch for the sword but they are full already. His foot lifts, wanting to rush to her side, but he cannot put the baby down here, dares not take it back into danger. Head low, he carries on.

A crowd gathers around Lil, boots stamping down.

The tension in the air grows, drawing tighter with each kick. Kell’s people step back. Between them, Lil’s body lies face down in the dirt, a sliver of blood runs from her temple.

Alone, her death would be but a whisper. She is not alone. Many have fallen, each adding weight to a cry that passes beyond mortal ears and into another place, where it demands response.

With a shriek, the air splits above the fields, and something that should not be manifests within its shell. The pipe arches groan with the added weight, until the Unborn’s chain snaps, unleashing its cargo upon the wretches below.

Just once, the Vagrant turns back.

The Unborn’s burst shell rocks back and forth, spurting liquid from many cracks.

Long grasses undulate, a sea of pale yellow, allowing glimpses of the new horror birthing in the field. Where it finds people it consumes them, not the careful possession of its elders but a wild, destructive instinct.

Above it, the air ripples and folds, fighting to close once more.

Most in the fields have been taken by surprise but those further out pause in their petty struggles. Weapons are trained on the new threat, men and women briefly united in their desire to survive. Precious bullets are spent.

Voices fade away, the grass whispers.

Nobody emerges from the field.

In its sheath, the sword begins to hum softly. The Vagrant rests two fingers on the hilt but the noise does not quieten. He walks away, leaving Kendall’s Folly to its fate.




CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_6593abfd-7aa0-5fc1-91c3-f63ea14d0455)


Gravel crunches rhythmically underfoot. The suns rush across the sky, manic compared to the broken mountains that inch past. Under their uneven shadows, the Vagrant walks. Their progress is steady.

The baby will not stop crying. It screams beneath his coat, inconsolable. Neither the warm dark under his arm nor the stimulus of the landscape bring consolation.

There is little sustenance in the Blasted Lands, and so sacks of fruit and food are magnets for the lean denizens slipping between the rocks. New breeds appear regularly, half-breeds, quarter-breeds and blends unrecognizable. People have given up naming them. Most are lumped together as food, threat or nuisance.

Eventually steps slow, the group’s previous exertions demand their due: the resting of tired limbs and heavy hearts. The Vagrant squeezes pasha juice into the baby’s down-turned mouth. Even the sweet liquid fails to draw a smile, though the smacking of lips and swallowing is more palatable than the wailing.

As the hours tick by the Vagrant and the baby cling to each other, sometimes stealing snatches of oblivion. While the baby dozes, the Vagrant’s amber eyes twitch.

Something ventures forward from the twilight, hunting. It scampers lightly, alert for danger. Scurry, pause, scurry, pause. Eyes dangle from its head, bouncing with each advance on sinewy threads. Its flickering tongue tastes the air before it storms the last few feet, scaled legs whirling with effort. Blisteringly fast, it seeks a way into the sack, racing up the coarse fabric, an opportunistic thief.

Overhead a shadow moves. Preceded by a spike of white hair, it descends, opening until it blocks the creature’s path; a moving, living cave.

Feet frantically spin in the opposite direction but the creature cannot stop, momentum delivering it straight into the cavernous mouth.

As the suns rise, the goat chews.

A rising wind flicks at their eyes, throwing grit and flecks of moist matter. The Vagrant moves on, arm raised against the clouds of dust that blow past.

Distantly, shapes are visible, seeming to grow out of the ground.

At first the shapes are simply shelter. The Vagrant crouches behind a structure, leaning into boned fabric that gives but takes his weight. Breathing becomes less laboured and he looks around, running his fingers along the edge of the thing he sits by. Coarse plastic is stretched around a frame that juts out of the ground at a forty-degree angle. The external bars are two inches thick, made for burdens. His hand pauses as it reaches the frame’s end; the metal there is flat, edged.

Something has cut through it.

The Vagrant frowns, investigates further. Objects lie just beneath the surface, so badly broken they seem foreign. He tightens his grip on the baby, digging one handed.

Half buried in dirt and tipped on their sides, the waggons from the caravan are not immediately recognizable.

Neither are the bodies.

A face emerges, brushed into view. Sores stand proud on desiccated skin. Something has stolen the moisture, the eyes and more from the corpse. Further excavation allows it to be worked free. Tattered clothes hang loose on shrivelled bones, ridiculous, clown-like. The Vagrant slides his hand between the layers and new smells rise up. Muscles work in his jaw but he does not stop, exploring nooks and secrets.

When his hand seeks air again, it brings out a prize. Small, silver, shining: a coin. The Vagrant stares at it, emotions threatening at the edges of his face. Amber eyes look back from the coin’s flawless surface, accusing. Under that stare his compsure breaks, swept away by grief and guilt.

Disturbed, the baby stirs in his arms, wriggling until a more comfortable position is found. Sleepy hands find the Vagrant’s thumb and establish a firm grip.

The Vagrant looks from coin to baby and back again.

Nodding grimly he puts it away.

When the winds falter after hours of pounding, and racing clouds slow and settle, the caravan’s inglorious end is revealed. The scene appears ancient, aged by the elements.

The waggon’s roof moves, rising at the centre, a plastic pyramid. Dirt rolls off as it sweeps upward, folding, falling aside to reveal its treasures. From the hole, the Vagrant pulls himself into the afternoon, squinting against the light. He walks around the wreckage, baby tucked under his arm. It sucks on his sleeve, watching his fingers as they tick off the bodies, one by one.

There should be more bodies than fingers but there are not.

Beneath the Vagrant’s boot, things crunch. He steps to the side, finding more uneven ground; it flattens under his weight with a long wheeze.

The baby giggles.

Crouching, the Vagrant finds a blob of black rubber as big as his fist, trailing tubes, a backup lung now redundant. Standing, he drops it back in the dirt and it wheezes again.

The baby laughs louder, reaching for the sound.

He goes to move on but urgent tugging at his collar demands attention. He looks down at the baby, raising his eyebrows; in miniature, his gesture is mirrored. The Vagrant’s eyebrows stretch a little higher, again he is matched. For a time both hold their position. There is no obvious winner in this contest, no clear rules.

Both parties break with dignity intact.

However the baby is dissatisfied. Straining against his arm, it points at the discarded respirator. Victorious or otherwise, it wants a prize.

Dutifully, the Vagrant delivers the lung to its new owner.

The Vagrant searches for abandoned treasure. From the wreckage he finds a crate full of decorated fabric. Some he cuts for the baby; a new wrap of shimmering girls and imaginary lakes. Some he cuts into a long strip, which he folds thick and lays across the goat’s back. For himself, the Vagrant makes a scarf, covering his face with softness.

Further hunting procures food containers, a cracked scope and a navpack. He holds the projector high to help ailing solar cells. Sunslight seeps through and in return they stutter out an image, low-res and incomplete, mapping the land that was. A ribbon of blue light marks the caravan’s route. Verdigris, the next place never visited, is close by. Further north are mountains and beyond them swirl meaningless logos; broken cities reshaped and remade by the Uncivil.

Lifting the scope to his eye, the Vagrant searches the horizon, turning slowly. In the distance he sees a figure watching, stone still, shaped like a person.

Soon they leave the caravan, striking out towards the mountains. A fast pace is kept and the nameless figure is left behind.

The Vagrant does not relax.

Sometimes they march to false wheezing and laughter, sometimes to muffled snoring but they do not stop until it is dark.

Their arrival has been noticed. From a crack in the ground rises a head, curious, leathery. The local peers at their camp but does not like what it sees, returning to the earth.

At first light the Vagrant looks through the scope again. Two figures stand distantly behind, unmoving. To the south east is a third figure, apart from the first pair, yet like them.

Frowning, he lowers the scope. Small hands tug at his collar and he looks down. The baby raises its eyebrows but this time the Vagrant’s brow does not lift. He grabs the goat’s leash and pulls it sharply, taking them away from their pursuers.

In his arms the baby freezes, shocked. Possibilities cross the tiny face. With renewed force, it tries again; eyes grow wide, stretching towards its forehead.

Glancing down, the Vagrant’s mouth twitches but his attention soon flickers north, then south, scowling both ways. Dust rises at their feet, stirred by the returning wind.

Again his collar is tugged. His sharp look down is met by surprise; little features collapse inward, forming thunder. With all its might, the baby glowers.

Stolen from tension, two smiles bloom.

They press on. Dirty clouds belch over them, shrinking the world. The Vagrant stares into the obscuring mass, eyes watering. Often he glances over his shoulder, the view frustrating in every direction.

Ahead, a fence-like arrangement of bones stands tall, as if propped up like a proudly cleaned plate. The ribcage is several metres high, made massive by its infernal patron, now abandoned. The Vagrant attaches fabric to them, forming a colourful shelter. With each gust threaded women dance manically.

They wait for the winds to ease, eating, resting, and milking.

When calm comes again, the Vagrant jumps up, swinging the scope from left to right. He finds the three, still separate, closer now. A fourth and fifth emerge from the dust to the south west.

He rips the shelter down, splitting lakes, and prepares to run.

The dust retreats with them, offering a first glimpse of Verdigris. Four of its towers have fallen but three remain defiant, high discs glinting on their tops; golden ears warmed by the second sunset.

Between the travellers and the towers stands a sixth figure, too low now for the light to reach it.

The Vagrant slows, a muscle flexes in his jaw. Trapped.

Slow and inevitable, the hunters draw in.

The Vagrant looks back often and each time they are closer. He has yet to see them move. Five pursue, driving them towards one ahead, waiting, blocking the way to Verdigris and safety. In the sky, faster than either group, the suns have almost set.

Despite the failing light, details emerge on the figure ahead. A knight of sorts, risen from the ranks of the Seraph, an infernal mirror of what was. Behind its armour unseen growths reach for freedom, distorting metal, disturbing its cloak. Smoke wafts from its helm, marking cracks and joins.

With irrefutable firmness the goat stops, refusing to go further. The Vagrant does not argue, crouching slowly, laying the baby amidst the dirt. A wheeze is heard, followed by laughter. He does not react, his face unreadable as he stands again, facing the knight.

Only thirty metres separate them, the Vagrant crosses them quickly. At his side, the sword trembles with anticipation. He draws. The motion catches a final ray, lining its edge in gold.

In answer, the knight raises a bloated weapon, twisted steel and living jade, discordant, suffering.

Behind him, not close but not so distant, echoes come. Five moans join the first, then, from the north east, a tortured cry, longer than the others, closing.

Amidst the cacophony, the baby’s whimpering goes unheard.

Sword high, the Vagrant attacks. As he nears the enemy his downward arc slows, struggling through air thick with wailing, welcoming the heavy parry.

The return attack is powerful, deathly.

The Vagrant does not wait for it, stepping, spinning and striking again. A hump of armour falls away. The Vagrant sees skin exposed, clinging like wet rag to shrivelled bone.

The knight stops swinging for its nimble opponent, groaning defensively, holding him at bay. It knows it cannot defeat him. It does not need to.

Inexorably its troop draws in.

The Vagrant feints left, goes right, makes an opening, doesn’t take it, keeps moving, turning faster than his enemy, behind it now, cuts low, a triumphant note blasting bone and backs of knees.

It sways, moaning, descending as the Vagrant sprints back, scooping baby and leash in one hand.

He looks up; misshapen swords loom over them, too close.

They run. This time the goat is happy to oblige.

Ahead, Verdigris rises hopeful. Against its silhouette hulks another shape, charging, trying to cut off their escape. A seventh knight, like the others but greater, more purposeful. The threat spurs them to greater speeds.

Blade first, the lumbering figure reaches for them.

They feel the breath of its dirge but pass by safely, momentum unbroken.

The knight ploughs on past them, unable to stop. It tries to turn as it decelerates, unable to match its more nimble prey and is forced to watch as they near the city’s sanctuary, well beyond sword-reach now. Frustrated, it returns the keening thing to its sheath and pulls forth a stubby lance.

Something flies past the Vagrant’s shoulder, sizzling into the gates, munching stone. He turns, sword held protectively before him, backing the remaining distance. Seconds after the first, more shots arrive. He cuts them from the air, burning fragments showering around him. One ignites the corner of his coat, another catches the goat’s tail.

Flame sprouts, the goat protests but they keep running, trailing smoke as they vanish into Verdigris’ embrace …




CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_e37b9476-4219-5ea7-a8e0-52c83f62a39d)


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.




Eight Years Ago (#ulink_b1908d4e-5562-5ae6-b560-16d17a24f879)


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.




CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_c1d5879f-398d-505e-86fc-cf40da1f9c6e)


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—’

The Vagrant catches the descending hand before it can point. He shakes his head, slowly this time, holding Ezze’s gaze.

‘Of course, of course, you are a serious man with a very firm grip and you like it that way! I see it all now. But give Ezze something! What do you want? I work miracles for you, but first you say what markets you love.’

He releases Ezze, takes out the navpack, shining its flickering light between their feet.

‘Is sad, yes? Looking at picture of what’s gone.’

The Vagrant points to the image of the mountains, flicks his finger northwards.

‘Ah, you wish to travel, to Wonderland? My friend it is an amazing place but trust Ezze when he says, it is not for you. Better that you stay here, make a life. Or travel south, so much easier to go back. The Usurper welcomes all to his cities but the north gate is watched, closed to the likes of you.’ Ezze’s frame shakes with a theatrical sigh. ‘But Ezze sees your heart is set. It will take a miracle and lots of wealth but it can happen. You stay here out of sight and Ezze will go, see what can be done for you, my travel-hungry friend.’

With practised ease, Ezze slips out into the shop. ‘Bruise, watch for customers. Remember, they cannot leave until they buy. And you, beast—’ he picks up a heavy piece of striped plastic sheeting ‘—your hairiness must be hidden!’ He throws the plastic over the goat’s head. ‘And if you shit on my floor, Ezze eats goat’s eyes tonight, ha!’

Bruise watches his master leave, smile settling to a sneer.

In the shopkeeper’s absence, other noises take their turn. Erratically, tech ticks and legs scuttle just behind the walls. Though dimmed the street continues to bustle outside.

Small hands press on the inside of the Vagrant’s coat. He puts the baby on the bed, begins to search the room, lifting covers and lids. Mismatched earrings sit with nipple rings and nose studs, too clean to be innocent. Toes peek beneath a cloth in a corner, motionless. Frowning, the Vagrant pulls it away revealing a woman of foam, headless, her hips squished flat. He drops the cover back, searching no further.

A fresh smell fills the room, pungent, violent.

The baby giggles.

The Vagrant sighs, folds the soiled cloth and hides it, a secret memento. Bare legs wave excitedly, dancing to a beat unheard.

Hours pass. The baby drinks, wriggles, sleeps.

Footsteps herald the shopkeeper’s return. The Vagrant’s coat sweeps down, swallowing the baby once more.

‘Now it is all clear! Ezze has heard rumours, strange things.’ A hand waves towards the Vagrant. ‘Ezze has many friends and they tell him that the Usurper’s knights came here when they should not, entering the city before Darktime. Can you imagine such a thing? They are searching for a man. Some say he has killed one of them. Impossible, yes, but they are here. Ezze hears a challenge has been made between these knights and the Uncivil’s Duke. The one who gets this man first, wins. Both sides, they are hungry for victory, they will give a great reward to whoever helps them win. You understand, yes?’

The Vagrant’s hand drifts slowly towards the sword’s hilt.

‘All of Verdigris is looking for this man. If he wishes to escape he will need to be clever, to have powerful friends and great wealth. Ezze can be that friend, he has found people that can help but they are scared. Ezze is scared. But everything has a price; freedom, courage, it can all be bought if you have the right goods.’

Getting up, the Vagrant uncovers the goat, detaches a sack.

‘Ah yes, Ezze is interested. What else do you have?’

The Vagrant’s eyes narrow.

‘Before, a sack of pasha would be enough. But now? Now everything is changed. Now they are looking for you, all of them. Terrible things would happen if we are caught and then what would happen to the thirteen children, the three sisters, the sick brother who coughs blood, the hungry wives, and the lovers who keep Ezze going?’

Sacks are lined up between them, leaving the goat skinny, unburdened.

‘For this, Ezze can disguise you, get you to the gates a safe way, even bribe the guards. But you will need a distraction. It will cost. You understand, miracles are never cheap, eh?’

The Vagrant holds out a coin. It sits in his palm, too bright for the dingy room.

Ezze peers at the shining disk. ‘But what is this, another mystery? Ezze is speechless! There is a good price for these on the market now, so rare.’ Happy sweat lines the shopkeeper’s lip. ‘This is good, very good. Ezze accepts your offer.’ The coin is taken, kissed and tucked away, soft luminescence hidden within folded sleeves. ‘You still stare at Ezze, why? Ah you want change. Of course Ezze would normally give something back to balance such a valuable gift but it is not so simple. The coin is valuable, yes? Yes, this is not to be argued with but most have been seized, and to sell this one on will make questions. Ezze does not enjoy questions of this kind. When your distraction is bought and discretion for sale is bought, not much left for poor Ezze. So with much sadness I can give you no change.’

The Vagrant sighs.

‘Do not be that way, deal is done.’ Ezze’s hands smack together. ‘Now we must get to work, friend, if you are to escape Verdigris with all your fingers!’

The shopkeeper rummages, commentary unceasing. A pile of objects begins to grow at their feet.

‘Ezze sees problem. You are too strange, easy to spot. But fear not, friend, here are the answers!’ A pair of horns is held up, painted plastic given the appearance of bone. ‘For your beast,’ Ezze explains. ‘Make her look like a tainted male, yes? Ezze give her hump too, and fake double tail, even you will not know her! There used to be demand for costume, some customers like the taint, sexy, you know what I mean? Of course you do! But now market is full of real thing, so hard to shift costume.’ The shopkeeper examines the Vagrant, shaking his head, pursing his lips. ‘You are more tricky, for you Ezze needs to make purchase.’ A bundle of grimy cloth is offered. ‘Put this on while Ezze is out, and hide your things in a separate bag, we hide it in the hump, yes? They are looking for man with weapons so we give them something else to look at.’

Ezze leaves. Quiet follows.

The Vagrant begins to dress the goat, pulling it into the back room. Horns, tail and hump are attached, the latter’s hollow space stuffed with the Vagrant’s coat. The sword is too big for the hump. The Vagrant lashes it to a bundle of poles, crooked and rusty, wraps them in old sacking, hangs them by flaccid bags already slung across the goat’s back. The goat does not care, her nose dives into a sack, comes away with stolen fruit.

He turns to his own outfit. Stale plastic drops over his head, a giant’s poncho. He ties it loosely at the waist, slips the baby inside. It coughs delicately but does not wake. He waits.

Puffing is heard at the doors. ‘Good news, friend! Ezze finds perfect thing at Necrotraders.’ The shopkeeper emerges, unfurling something long, suckered and dead. ‘Impressive, no? Come closer, smell it.’

The Vagrant covers his nose, steps back.

‘Yes! You see, friend? We disguise you not just as tainted, but as sick. We fix tentacle to you, pad your clothes more, add a little juice, make them think you have leak. Nobody goes near you, no searching, no troubles.’




CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_a1960489-4b34-5109-9ce3-44153aeb84e6)


The Knights of Jade and Ash return to the gate, hands empty.

Under the arch lurks the commander. It is still, redrawing its boundaries, shaking off the sense of Patchwork and the echo of the Uncivil. New thoughts swirl within, taken from the blending of their essences. Patchwork is afraid of their coming, that they will find something, a secret. It did not expect them.

The group forms a circle, leaning together, visor to visor, essences touching, thoughts running as one.

‘Did you find the Malice?’

‘No. No. No. No. No. This feels wrong.’

‘Did you find its trail?’

‘No. No. No. No. No. There is a hole where the seventh should be.’

‘Patchwork will commune with the adversary.’

‘They will fight us?’

‘They will seek what is ours. We must hunt.’

‘Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. We are diminished. Will the Malice take us too?’

‘We hunt.’

They separate, forming behind the commander, one a step behind the others.

People part for them, pressing against the walls, staring. The commander senses something is wrong. It observes the humans recoiling but not running, their lack of fear disturbs.

A building looms, original walls hidden under repair plates hidden under yellowing skin. The Usurper’s banner hangs proud. Unlike the rest of Verdigris, it is forever loyal.

They push through unguarded doors, pass dozing half-breeds, moving deeper. They enter a hall, filled with living matter and walls that pulse, skin-cushioned, veined. A figure nestles within. It jerks up to meet them, features hidden within its robes. The commander remembers it was larger once.

It flinches from contact but the commander gives no choice, drawing out its fragmented essence.

‘Why … you … here?’

‘The master’s will.’

‘… Why?’

‘Where are the others?’

‘I …’

‘Where are our allies?’

‘They …’

‘What have they done to you?’

The memories are scattered, muddled, enough. The commander’s fists clench, powdering the empty shell beneath its fingers. This is the secret Patchwork hides. The Usurper’s agency in Verdigris is broken. It has been for some time, allowing the Uncivil’s hold on the city to grow strong. Her cults are swelling with new recruits, her Necrotech fills the markets. She already rules Wonderland and Slake, and Veridgris is hers in all but name. If the coup is successful, word will reach the other infernals and they will doubt the Usurper’s majesty, flocking instead to the Uncivil’s banner or contest the master themselves. The commander’s thoughts fill with concern, with questions. How has the Uncivil become so powerful? How was this not seen? How did the master not know?

The group shuffles along Verdigris’ main street. It is clearing, people instinctively seeking shelter before the Darktime ends. A desperate few conclude business, snatching bargains.

As the group passes, people take notice. They see a slave master and his three wretches, heavy with death’s stench. First, they see the boy drool and moan, one eye open, the other pus-sealed. Second, they see the tainted man, his tentacle seeping, dead. They know he will soon follow. The third is a pitiful creature twisted by mutation, horns and tails sprouting from all available spaces, a second form grows from its back, mercifully covered from view. It moves slowly, every step a labour.

Hurriedly, the onlookers turn away.

Machines power down, their lights no longer needed. Verdigris stills. It is not the Uncivil’s domain, not yet, but change can be felt, the air pregnant with Starktime.

The group moves on, now alone. None speaks save the boy, who wails as if under torture.

Old buildings lean together, making tired arches. In places they collapse, closing streets, forcing new ways to be forged. Homes become throughways, windows become doors. In turn the piles of rubble accommodate life. Handlings scuttle between the cracks, competing for space with rats, ubiquitous, tainted.

Here, the group stops. The boy shrieks again, a fat blob of mucus splatters on the ground.

‘What is with all the noise, boy?’

The pus-lined eye opens, winks. ‘You told me I am dying, father, so I make dying noises.’

‘Ey! Ezze say look sick, and why did Ezze say this?’

‘To trick everyone?’ The father’s hand clips his ear. ‘Ow!’

‘Yes! To make them not look. Noise makes them interested, makes them remember us. If they look hard they see you are not sick boy, not diseased, just thick in head!’ Ezze clips the boy’s ear a second time.

‘Ow! Why you hit me again? You always hit me. It’s not fair!’

‘Be grateful you have ears left to hit. Your aunt was stupid, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Ezze is wondering, where is aunt of little Ez now?’

‘She’s been taken away.’

‘Exactly! She is taken to breeding pits of Slake, and will not be seen again.’ Ezze turns to the Vagrant. ‘Actually this is something of a mercy, but,’ Ezze continues, attention back on the pouting boy, ‘she is stupid, she is worse than dead. So Ezze hit all the stupid out of you and you thank Ezze for it, yes?’

‘Yes. Thank you, father.’

‘Is better, now go wipe off your pus and make sure to get it back in the jar for next time.’

‘Yes, father.’

‘I’ll meet you at home.’

‘Yes, father.’ The boy leaves them.

‘Ah, he is good boy but stupid, so stupid. More like his aunt than his mother, but Ezze think you not interested in that story. Now we are here and deal is done.’

The Vagrant looks from left to right; his eyes rove empty streets and buildings.

‘You are wondering where they are, yes? Of course you are. Have faith, my friend, they will come. So, Ezze will be leaving you now.’

The Vagrant’s mouth opens, protesting.

‘All endings in Verdigris are fast, yes? But Ezze must go. Please, keep the tentacle. Perhaps it reminds you of our friendship!’ The shopkeeper starts walking quickly. ‘May all your lovers be sweet and may their paths never cross, ha!’

The Vagrant shares a look with the goat as the suns rise. Starktime has come. Distantly, sounds are heard. Doors close, signs reverse, doors open, the first steps of Verdigris’ daily dance.

Figures emerge from a ruined building, their clothes grey with hard living, uniform. Size marks them out. A man and a woman tower over the rest. Half-breed teenagers, covered in muscle and greening scars, the common Usurperkin markers tracing their lineage back to the Usurper. Patches of spiked hair decorate their skulls, black flags on a pitted map. Another man, normal sized, holds a gun, ugly and mismatched. It points at the Vagrant’s head. The last is a tiny woman, barely four feet in height, ratbred teeth too much for her mouth to contain.

A wave of the gun signals the Vagrant to follow. Reluctantly, he does. Giant hands take the leash from him and the group return to the darkness. For a moment the goat resists, then the leash snaps tight and she flies after them, a furry, hate-filled balloon.

Underground, a chain of hands is formed, leading the Vagrant down, deep, through lightless buildings, then steps, then tunnels, the ratbred finding their way in the dark. More than once, big heads brush rock; curses fall till they are hissed quiet.

The Vagrant is taken down further, where cold becomes chilling. Objects are hefted, then replaced, a trail of obstacles left for any would-be followers. A torch shines yellow, recycled sunslight perched on the top of a gun. It pokes at the Vagrant’s eyes, making him squint.

‘What you make of him?’ murmurs the male Userperkin, unimpressed.

The other half-breed shrugs. ‘Good for spare parts, maybe.’

‘Spare parts?’ says a third voice, the one that belongs to the gun. ‘This here’s the real deal, at least he’d better be. We certainly paid enough to get him.’ The light and the voice come closer still. ‘I see what you mean, but we’ll get our money’s worth, one way or another.’

The Vagrant’s squint becomes a scowl. Beneath the robe, his fists clench.

‘Check him,’ commands the voice behind the gun.

One of the giant half-breeds restrains him while the ratbred sniffs him over, bony hands probing beneath the robe. He pushes her away, hard, and she stumbles back against the rock. From beneath the robe comes a soft complaint. The Vagrant turns, placing his body between the gun and the baby.

‘Try that again, pal, and I’ll put a bullet in you. If you’re lucky it won’t hit the little one.’

The Vagrant’s eyes widen, despite the glare.

‘Yeah, you heard me. We know about the baby you’re carrying. What, you think you can hide one of those squealers in a man’s house and him not notice?’ The gunman snorts. ‘So hand it over, as well as any other weapons, and then we can all make like friends.’

He shakes his head. Again his eyes seek the sword but it remains bound with the goat, useless.

‘In case you’re simple or something, that’s not a request.’

They rip the robe from him, using it to wrap the tentacle. The ratbred moves to take the baby but he pushes her away again.

‘Oh for the love of … Maxi, make our friend cooperate.’

A thick arm circles the Vagrant’s neck and squeezes. He pulls at it, kicking and twisting till air is thin and strength runs out. Afterwards, the baby is slipped from flaccid arms. It begins to scream. The Vagrant’s eyes twitch but he doesn’t move. They search him, this time there is no resistance.

The half-breed slings him over her shoulder as they make the last few turns. ‘Thought you were gonna shoot him.’

‘Shut up, Maxi!’

As soon as they enter the room the way behind them is sealed, stone grinding on stone, moved by pulleys and many hands. Intricate carvings line the walls, their lights broken, their gems stolen, an echo of an echo of what was. In their place are essence lamps, an innovation of the Uncivil, turning souls into fuel. Their flames burn green, held by cups, inverted; bright but cold, the unnatural sheen falls on many faces, all expectant.

The Vagrant is dropped, wheezing, on the ground.

A woman moves forward, her face inked in angry swirls, an arm missing. The others part for her. ‘Hello there,’ she says, speaking quietly under the baby’s screaming. ‘I hope they weren’t too rough with you.’ She tilts her head, examining him carefully. ‘I’m sorry if they were. These times make monsters of us all. I’m told that you can’t speak but that you hear well enough.’

The Vagrant’s eyes open fully. He stares at her for a moment, then looks to the baby.

She waves a man forward who takes the baby from the ratbred. The Vagrant examines him. He is dressed pale like the others, his eyes as green as the flames in the room. The man hesitates, looks down, whispers. The baby’s cries settle to an insistent complaint.

‘Now, it is time for us to have a talk, you and I. But first let me make some introductions. The people here call me Tough Call, or Tough for short. If we get on I might even tell you my real name one day but given the look on your face I won’t get my hopes up. Around here, names are important; they’re about all any of us have left. I’ll tell you how I got mine, so you know the kind of person you’re dealing with.

‘My parents used to run with the top dogs in Verdigris. And believe me they were strong. They always told me stay true to yourself no matter what the cost, anything less and you were already dead.’ Tough Call sighs. ‘So when Verdigris got taken over by the Usurper and the Uncivil, and my good folks were turned into suits for demons that took up residence in our home, I found their advice mighty hard to follow. But follow it I did. Along the way found me some good people who felt the same.

‘We did a lot of fighting in those days, lot of dying too. Lost me an arm. Well, that’s not quite true. I know exactly where it is, I keep it in a cabinet out the back. It’s still moving, even now. Cut the damn thing off myself. It was that or give my body over to the taint and, no offence to the rest of you here, but I’d already given enough.’

The goat yawns.

‘So that’s me.’ Tough Call points to the gunman. ‘That there’s Honest Joe. His name isn’t really Joe and he’s not really honest but the name’s kind of stuck. He’s a survivor though and proof that intelligence can make a man attractive.’

‘Hey!’ shouts Joe over the laughter.

‘Tina’s the little lady that helped you find your way in the dark and the twins are Max and Maxi, full grown, first generation, half-breed loyalists. They’re usually pretty calm, so long as you’re respectful and never get them mixed up.’ Tough Call gestures to the others. ‘There’s a lot of folk here you haven’t met yet but I want to make it clear: these here are people, determined people, they all got their own names and stories. They’re all decent; turns out the taint don’t always turn the mind, just makes it work a little harder.

‘I’m hoping you’ll help us because you really are some good-hearted knight right out of the past but if knowing us and our struggle’s not enough then let’s be clear on this too: you help us and we’ll help you out of Verdigris like you want. You don’t, and we take everything you’ve got and claim that fresh reward that’s been placed on your head. Clear?’

The Vagrant nods.

‘Good.’ Tough Call smiles and puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘So that’s us. Now let’s talk about where you come in. Word on the street is that the balance of power in Verdigris is changing, things are swinging against the Usurper and we don’t want that to happen.’

The Vagrant glances over to the giant Usurperkin twins and back to her.

‘No, Max and Maxi’s inheritance has nothing to do with it. This is about survival. It’d be just as bad if the Uncivil’s hold was broken. As things stand we can’t hope to win a war but we can survive theirs, underground, in the cracks. We’ve been doing it for years. It’s not glamorous but it’s better than being dead. Fact is we need them focused on each other so they’re not focused on us.’

The Vagrant’s face is impassive.

‘In the ruins at the centre of town is a cache of weapons, top of the line kit that got here just before the occupation. It was supposed to be sent south to support the war effort but by the time it arrived here the war was already over. We could use that firepower to strengthen our position and strike against the Uncivil’s agents. Only problem is we can’t get to them without drawing the wrong sort of attention.’ She lets her hand slip from his shoulder. ‘We need you to cause a distraction so we can move in and take the weapons. It just so happens that Patchwork’s recruiter is holding a rally in town today. He’s a nasty piece of work, literally.’ A few of the crowd murmur in agreement. ‘You’re going to kill him and as many of his traitorous recruits as you can. Better they be dead than fight in the Uncivil’s new army. We’ll bring you up right by the place so nobody’ll know you’re there till it’s too late. You go in, hit them hard and fast and then get the hell out of Verdigris. We’ll arrange for the north gate to be open for you and help you get through. After that, you’re on your own.’

With a frown, the Vagrant points at the baby burbling in the arms of the green-eyed man.

‘I’ll have Harm bring the baby and your things to the north gate. Succeed, and they’ll be waiting for you.’

The green-eyed man keeps his attention on the baby, whispering sadness, guilt, shame.

‘Do we have a deal?’ Tough Call asks.

The Vagrant closes his eyes, nods.

‘Good. Joe, give our man back his sword.’

A bundle of rods is taken from the goat’s back, untethered and allowed to spill on the floor. Among them lies the sword, restless. Joe does not pick it up. The Vagrant steps past, collects it, leaves it sheathed.

‘Looks like we have a busy day ahead,’ says Tough Call. ‘Good luck, all being well we won’t see each other again.’ She nods, ending the meeting, and turns back to her people.

The Vagrant watches the baby until they guide him from the room, reluctant.




CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_c4d6b871-3072-5b37-9b80-9a4e51b106a0)


The square is full of people and flies baking together. It is Starktime and the suns are high overhead, giving each spectator two shadows, overlapping, imperfect, forever trying to align.

On a block of rusted iron stands what was a man. Like many of the Uncivil’s creatures he is robed, the horror of his re-creation hidden. He has brought many over, pleasing Patchwork, his Duke and master. In return he is augmented, part infernal, part man. His arm is still recognizably human; it protrudes from the robes, unremarkable down to the wrist, handless, crowned instead with an old woman’s head. Though the face’s skin is black and shrunken, the people know the features well. Once, the head belonged to their leader.

The crowd are no longer disturbed by this sight, just relieved he does not display his other arm.

Tendons flex and old jaws move like an obscene glove puppet.

People listen, some held by fear, others by twisted hope. Only one moves, sliding between the motionless figures, drawing closer to the speaker. His hand grasps his sword’s hilt, eager to respond.

The sixth Knight of Jade and Ash returns, joining the others in darkness. Its head touches theirs and the commander’s and essences weave in a metal circle.

‘Report.’

‘Nothing. Nothing. Patchwork has returned to the city with fresh purpose. Nothing. The Malice has resurfaced. Are we weakening?’

‘Where?’

‘Do we fight? Do we fight? Do we fight? Can we fight? In Verdigris’ centre, it stalks Patchwork’s mouthpiece. Will we go the way of the seventh?’

‘No, let the Malice fall among our enemies, let the pawns of the adversary blunt its edge. Then we will fight, and win. For now we watch.’

The commander goes to break the circle but stops, troubled.

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. We bleed from the hole made of the seventh. The Malice will end us. The Malice will end us.’

‘Enough. We watch.’

Ending contact, the commander leaves. The knights form up behind.

Robes sit smoking on a rusty block. Inside them, meat sizzles.

The Vagrant sheathes the sword, striking out north across the square.

His spectators have no protocol for what they have witnessed and instincts take over. Bodies rush to and fro, bashing together, grunting, crying out. None of the crowd go near the Vagrant, peeling away from him, parting.

Tina peeks from a nearby doorway, pink eyes wide. She beckons to him, leading the way through rooms, numerous, empty of people. Beds and belongings vie for space, their little stories mingle in the mess, rendered meaningless, trampled under trespassing feet. They reach a boiler, stretching from ceiling to floor. Tina dives behind it and into tunnels below. The Vagrant follows, lines of rust painting his coat as he squeezes past.

Hand in hand they weave through the darkness, the Vagrant stumbling enough for both of them.

They emerge at the north end of Verdigris by a quiet street. Tina refuses to leave the tunnel’s refuge. ‘No further,’ she says, lisping the words around curved teeth. ‘You go on alone.’

He shakes his head but she is already retreating, trying to slip bony fingers free.

The Vagrant grips her hand tight and steps out, forcing her to follow. She protests, shielding her face with her free hand.

A passer-by at the end of the street turns, sees the pair, hides their concern and looks away with polished nonchalance.

Tina makes a decision and takes the lead again, showing him the nearby gate that waits as promised, open, unguarded.

Vagrant and ratbred step through the gate, entering the Uncivil’s territory. Mountains loom to the left and right, battered and strong, like weary combatants. Ahead, the way is clear.

Tina’s nose twitches in surprise.

The Vagrant’s eyes narrow. He looks along the wall both ways. Between mounds of junk strewn the length of Verdigris’ boundary, small things dart, otherwise it is quiet. No goats mutter. No babies cry.

‘Shit,’ says Tina, twisting free.

The Vagrant turns to find her running, head down, aiming back the way they came. His lips move, a silent curse, and then he re-enters the city, giving chase.

They fly across the street, Tina intent on the nearby tunnel entrance, the Vagrant drawing closer. He catches up as she dives for the window, her small body sailing easily through broken plasti-glass.

He grabs her mid-flight, fingers and thumb overlapping round her ankle, pulling her down, onto the jagged frame. He lets go and momentum drags synthetic teeth from her thigh to her toes. She hits the ground awkwardly, squealing childlike but not stopping, vanishing into the dark innards of the building.

Leaning on the wall, the Vagrant pauses, catching his breath. Ten breaths pass, becoming slower. He draws the sword, humming softly as it tastes air, then touches its tip to the newly stained window. Tainted blood flashes, burns away with a hiss.

He climbs inside, entering the tunnel, leaving daylight behind. The sword tugs at his hand, guiding him down and right; another flash, another hiss and he moves forward, drawn through the darkness, drop by drop.

Spread out across the northern quarter, the Knights of Jade and Ash wait, swords held high, softly moaning.

Only the commander moves, turning slowly, alert for trouble. Somehow the bearer of the Malice has eluded them and they are left directionless and exposed. If their enemies find them here in Starktime, war will follow.

Suns lower, starting their downward arc.

Then their swords flinch from a distant sound. The Malice has resurfaced. Brazen, the commander marches through the streets, intent on the trail, gathering knights as it goes.

From a side street, a strange voice calls out: ‘Hold!’

The commander pauses as robed figures move between them and their trail. Something about them is wrong. Broken essence hangs from the humans, woven to them in bags of dead flesh. What madness has the Uncivil wrought? What are these non-things?

‘You are in violation of the treaty,’ says a Half-alive man. ‘This is the Uncivil’s domain. Return to your lair until Darktime immediately! Do it now and all we will demand is compensation. Disobey and Patchwork will have you ended!’

The knights await their commander. The master’s orders are clear but surely war must be avoided? This twisted non-thing speaks truth, they are in the wrong, they should go back. But the commander does not retreat.

‘I give you one last warning.’

The commander knows they should pull back, wishes it even, but the Malice is too close. The first wound burns and memories surface, of greatness, of coherence, lost.

The Uncivil’s creature is talking still; words float by the commander. It does not hear them, raising its lance.

The knights understand, closing around the non-things, who begin to wail.

In panic the Uncivil’s Half-alive men shrug off their robes, revealing bodies ravaged by extreme surgery, grafted dead limbs reanimated, original parts reworked, joints altered, muscles rewired, augmentations gifted by the Uncivil in exchange for service.

The commander squeezes the lance, spraying them all with liquid fire.

The Half-alive howl with pain, violently waving limbs that burn, trying to put them out, trying to fight their way towards the commander. Before they can reach their target, the knights step forward, tightening the circle, hacking at the flailing appendages. When the knights step back, gouts of fire pour from the commander’s lance. Between each burst the knights close again, cutting away another layer of the enemy like skin from an onion. All the while their swords lament, twisting through bodies that burn, silenced.

When the last of the Uncivil’s Half-alive men have fallen the knights move about the corpses ensuring every part of them is truly lifeless.

Then the knights pause, shocked into contemplation until the Malice whispers again from the north, agitating, setting them into motion.

Soon Patchwork will discover the carnage and war will follow. Despite its instincts, the commander doesn’t mind.

Within Verdigris’ underground, two men travel. One has green eyes and carries a grumbling baby; the other has a gun and pulls a goat behind him.

‘Joe?’ says the first, quiet.

‘Yeah?’

‘Something’s wrong.’

‘Yeah, it’s a sign of our times.’ Joe snorts. ‘Or are you talking about something in particular?’

‘We should be at the north passage by now.’

‘Nah, I’m just being extra careful, we’re taking a different route.’





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/peter-newman/the-vagrant/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.