by Peter Newman
Copyright
HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GF
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: 2015-02-27
Dedication
To Em,
for lighting the way
Contents
Cover
Title Page
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
About the Author
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
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
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
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.