by Peter Newman
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
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
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.