The Vagrant

by Peter Newman

  ‘The Usurper’s knights are right behind us,’ Harm says quietly, as if pronouncing a sentence.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Tough Call says, looking round. ‘Where are the others?’

  None of the rebels answer.

  ‘Did the knights get them?’

  The rebels look uncomfortable. ‘We’re not sure,’ says one eventually.

  ‘Right.’ Tough Call runs a hand through her hair. ‘Everybody, crack open those boxes, looks like we’ll be testing these weapons sooner than we thought.’ She gives her attention to the Vagrant. ‘My hands are tied here. There’s going to be a fight and it’ll be hard as hell. I don’t know if I owe you or if there’s bad blood between us and right now I don’t care. We could use your help, now more than ever.’

  The Vagrant shakes his head.

  ‘I get the feeling that’s non-negotiable.’

  ‘It’s this way,’ Harm says, beckoning.

  Tough Call puts a hand on her hip. ‘You going too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There is no time for argument. None is made.

  ‘Good luck getting out of here. We don’t use the other tunnels much and there’s a chance they won’t have survived the quakes we made.’

  Nodding, the Vagrant starts to leave but Tough Call grabs his arm. ‘Word is, those knights are only here cos of you. If you could draw some of them off, it’d give my people a better chance of survival.’

  Shrugging sharply, the Vagrant breaks away, leaving the rebels behind. He goes Harm’s way, weaving through passages long forgotten, crumbling. Away from the rebels and the fighting, silence presses in. Only footsteps and ragged breaths challenge its dominion.

  Tiny fingers rise from inside his coat, probing upwards. They find stubble and pause, thoughtful. Not satisfied with his chin, the fingers stretch higher, questing. At full extension they find a nose and grip hard, scissoring, clamping nostrils shut.

  The Vagrant coughs.

  Harm’s voice is gentle. ‘It bothers you, leaving them behind.’

  Nobody responds.

  The baby squeezes harder. Torchlight glimmers at the corners of the Vagrant’s eyes.

  From far away comes the cry of fresh destruction. Harm and the Vagrant tense and the goat bleats unhappily. Walls rumble and rocks drop from above.

  Gradually, things settle. The passage remains.

  The group move on.

  ‘I think that was more of Tough Call’s heavy artillery.’

  The Vagrant nods slowly, little fingers still clamped to his face.

  ‘She must be desperate, trapped between the Usurper’s knights and Patchwork’s forces.’ Harm glances at the other man, his face solemn. ‘It’ll be a slaughter.’

  The Vagrant bows his head, keeps walking.

  ‘I know we didn’t do right by you but that’s on me and Joe, nobody else.’

  Their footsteps echo, rhythm unbroken, heading north.

  With unknown purpose the baby’s hand begins to twist, and twist. The Vagrant stops, his sigh nasal. Gently, he liberates his nose, guiding the hand back into his coat, then he draws the sword, tapping it lightly against stone. It sings, one note, long and round. When it stills he taps it again, and again, charging the air as minutes pass.

  In time it is heard. Six off-key replies disturb, followed by another, deeper. The sword’s silvered wings twitch in anticipation.

  Harm smiles, soft. ‘Thank you.’

  At speed, they depart. Every few steps, every new turn, the Vagrant declares their presence. Now the replies are constant, gaining.

  Without need to discuss, fast walking becomes jogging, then running.

  Rubble springs up at the edge of their light. Fresh dust floats, decorating the collapse. Harm examines the damage, hope of escape fading. ‘We could go back, try another route?’

  The Vagrant nods, sheathing the sword, and they rush the way they came, towards the hunters, coming to a side passage, narrow, unused.

  Harm plunges in, strands of web break on his face, masking, tickling his mouth. He stumbles, the torchlight jerking, catching glimpses of skittering, shy things. In places the roof has fallen, forming mounds that trip, raising the floor.

  An arm bursts from the Vagrant’s coat, grasping. He tilts his head back, foiling fingers that scrape past his nose, snaring his bottom lip; the baby chuckles.

  They run, breath coming harder. Legs slow, no longer light.

  The passage opens up, becomes vast, its edges unseen.

  The Vagrant stops, shoulders drooping. Harm collapses against the wall, letting ancient stone take his weight, lungs working like bellows. With an air of finality, the goat sits.

  Harm moves the torch slowly, revealing the remains of the old city, a monument to what was. Buildings have become pillars, curves beautiful beneath flakes of rust; they stop the sky from falling. Just above head height, pipes run. They are dead now, purposeless. In the centre of the square is a statue, features lost to time. One arm is missing, the other extends, palm upwards holding a pitted orb. Hills of rock and debris intrude upon ancient streets.

  They begin to explore. Cracks in the walls are numerous, big enough to promise escape. Other passageways present themselves, three still useable. The Vagrant points at the highest and Harm starts to climb.

  The goat does not move.

  The Vagrant frowns and tugs at the leash.

  The goat does not move.

  The Vagrant closes his eyes, swaying slightly. He takes a breath, exhales, opens his eyes, and pulls.

  Much to its displeasure, the goat is standing.

  With deliberation, the Vagrant follows Harm up the rubble slope. The goat bounds ahead of him, mockingly agile. The green-eyed man is waiting inside the new corridor, pointing at a gap in the stone wall. ‘You see that?’ A shaft of light cuts across the passage, winking sporadically. ‘There’s an essence lamp on the other side.’ Harm peers into the hole. ‘It looks like a cellar, still in use.’ Using the back of the torch he begins to batter at the hole, making it crack and widen. The Vagrant joins in, kicking at the wall.

  A sound stops them. Not the keening of a tortured blade but the clank of armour.

  ‘They’re close!’ Harm says, voice fearful. He redoubles his efforts to break through.

  The Vagrant looks back down the passage, then down to the baby. It giggles, reaching for his face again. He lifts it closer, lips pressing against its cheek, then holds it out towards the green-eyed man.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Harm asks, as the baby is put into his arms.

  The Vagrant wraps the goat’s leash around Harm’s wrist and points at the hole, urgent.

  Harm looks into the Vagrant’s eyes. Words squeeze through a throat, suddenly tight. ‘I understand. I’ll wait for you, beyond the north gate.’ He feels the Vagrant’s fingers gripping his elbow, fingers hard against the bone. ‘I understand.’

  While Harm struggles through the hole, the Vagrant drags his feet back towards the cavern. He looks back, once, twice, and is gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  From high in the cavern, the Vagrant sees them coming. Tina emerges first, slack limbed, followed by the Knights of Jade and Ash. He waits at the passageway’s edge, hidden, his laboured breathing held slow and quiet.

  At the commander’s signal they spread out, searching for him, sensing his closeness. Without lamps, only their essence is visible, luminescence seeping green through visors, joints, and cracks in their living armour.

  The ratbred looks up, pink eyes finding him in the dark. Her foot points in his direction but she does not let it move, refusing to go closer. Within her broken mind impulses war, fear rises, matching in strength the compulsion to obey. Taut muscles quiver, threaten to cramp.

  In ignorance one of the knights walks the way Tina stares.

  Seizing his chance, the Vagrant accelerates down the hill of rubble, scattering chunks of stone. The sword’s wings unfurl, its unblinking eye fixed on the target. A low hum sounds as it splits the air, lik
e a bomb from the heavens, descending.

  But the Vagrant is tired, his edge dulled and the knight raises its own blade to fend him off, turning the mortal wound brutal. The knight falls back to the safety of its companions. Though the sword wants to strike again there is no time to finish the injured infernal; other knights already approach, like sharks drawn to blood. The Vagrant struggles in the dark, climbing towards his perch, to the exit he must bar.

  This time, the knights are faster. Two scramble ahead, blocking his escape; another three advance together, blades reaching for his heels.

  He is forced to face them, to catch the heavy blows with the sword, two handed, body jarring with each impact. They drive him up the slope, strike by strike, towards the pair on higher ground.

  The Vagrant does not fight to win but to delay. Grudgingly, he gives way, pushing against every attack. Sweat coats his face, dampening the dirt that inks his scowl.

  At the base of the rubble, the commander waits. It is nearly time to engage, to break the Malice, but something is wrong. Something is coming. Another’s essence intrudes on the chamber, muted, dangerously close. The commander steps back from the fighting, prepares itself.

  Lights wink from a lower passage and a river of robes rushes forth, numerous, violent. There is no mistaking the Half-alive cult of the Uncivil, or their leader. Patchwork has come, drawn by the sounds of the Malice and the chance to revenge itself against the Usurper’s knights. The commander turns to face them, raising the stubby lance, but something snakes out from the shadows, dead flesh coiling around the commander’s bracer, pulling the weapon wide.

  Tina vanishes in the initial charge, final thoughts smashed beneath hammering feet. The half-lifers break about the commander, spilling either side, grabbing for arms and legs.

  The commander begins to lean, a knee buckles. More bodies join the fray. The commander cannot move its arms, cannot aim its weapon. It fires anyway and flames belch outward.

  Flesh, necrotic or otherwise, burns.

  Further up the hill, the Vagrant is safe from the flames. He parries another wave of attacks, the sword-song losing resonance. The knights press their advantage, unaware of the shadow unfolding behind them. The Vagrant’s mouth drops open and the sword glares at the new arrival. The knights pause, jade light pales, they feel the wrongness too late.

  A shroud of teeth ripples through the air, wrapping itself around a knight. Within the black cloth, bones grind on metal, essence boils and Patchwork claims another victory for the Uncivil.

  Four knights remain. Two between the Vagrant and Patchwork, two between the Vagrant and the way out. They are slow to react to the change of fortune, weapons twisting in their hands, grief stricken.

  The Vagrant too is slow, arms drooping, heavy despite the sword’s enthusiasm. Already to his right Patchwork begins to rise, ratcheting erect, wide-thin body becoming tall-thin, the curtain of robes lifting to reveal the ruined shell of its victim.

  The Vagrant spins from the sight to the pair at his back and charges, swinging the sword wide, a desperate note. The first knight parries, its sword groaning with effort. The Vagrant pushes past and blades stroke each other, blue sparks dancing downward.

  He stumbles on, head bowed, into the path of the second knight. It stands ready, sword poised. The Vagrant tries to raise his guard but muscles falter. The sword’s eye bulges with anger as it dips, blade tip brushing the floor.

  Defenceless, he steps forward.

  The attack does not come.

  With clenched teeth, the Vagrant raises his head, staring into the fathomless dark of the knight’s helm. For a moment, neither move.

  The knight sees no fear in his eyes, cannot read his essence, cannot think of anything save the sword that glares, promising death. All too easily, it remembers what the Malice did to its companion …

  It wavers, uncertain, when the Vagrant steps forward again.

  Another step brings them close, like lovers. The Vagrant doesn’t turn from the knight, doesn’t blink, he continues to push forward.

  The knight steps aside.

  The Vagrant keeps walking.

  Behind him, Patchwork gives chase, dodging between the other knights.

  From below, the commander watches, its armour scorched but intact. Corpses smoke, welded to their killer, a mass of smudged limbs. It pulls against them until an arm and a weapon come free. The lance is damaged, coughing tears of fire. More half-lifers threaten but the commander attends only to the scene above, raising his weapon at his enemy’s enemy.

  Patchwork glides after the Vagrant, coiling and launching after its prey, faces eager. Airborne, it closes the distance quickly but from behind comes a roar, faster.

  It is the sound of the commander’s lance misfiring, exploding.

  Air ignites and rock falls, removing the Vagrant from sight and slamming into Patchwork, half burying the Uncivil’s Duke. Exposed bones flap impotently, laughing no longer.

  The commander looks at the hand that held the lance. The fingers of its gauntlet have been woven together in the lance’s explosion, fused in a lump, unrecognizable.

  New assailants approach the commander, half-lifers climbing over their dead brethren, keen to finish their hated foe.

  The commander reaches for its sword.

  Eight Years Ago

  The Usurper has defeated Gamma of The Seven, has stood against, and surpassed, its infernal peers, becoming a monarch among monsters, yet this does not seem like victory. A remnant of Gamma lives on in her sword, a thing of malice, dreaming of its death, stirring wounds deep within.

  The Usurper is growing accustomed to Gamma’s body, adjusting to the feelings of being contained and defined. As it moves further from the Breach, the world’s reality asserts itself, ever stronger, rejecting. The Usurper treats it like any other enemy, fighting, pushing back. Each time its forces kill or corrupt, the Usurper inches forward. Each time the Breach convulses and fresh clouds of essence belch into the world, it is like wind in the Usurper’s sails. Even so, the invasion will be long and both sides are already injured.

  The sound of a challenge draws the Usurper’s attention. The head of the infernal horde is breaking around a metal snake, like a river around a stone. A lonely cannon spits defiance as the Usurper’s lieutenants smother the ailing vehicle.

  Something escapes however, a silver arrow streaking skyward, leaving bright fire in its wake. The vessel is too small to hold a body, too small even for a sword.

  The Usurper wonders as to the arrow’s purpose. In moments the clouds have hidden it from view.

  Something about the lone warrior in the metal snake draws it in. Gamma’s wings no longer allow flight, scything air as the Usurper moves forward in long, ponderous leaps. Sensing their master’s interest, the horde abandons the attack, leaving a metal snake’s shredded shell – on top sits the Knight Commander, head tilted like a merry king, fingers still gripping the triggers of the ruined cannon.

  The Usurper studies the warrior like a favoured book, tracing the contours of strength and loyalty etched in the old knight’s bones. It comes closer, raising the body it carries as an offering.

  In response the Knight Commander draws his sword, cutting the air with song.

  The Usurper waits.

  The Knight Commander bares his teeth and sweat runs into his eyes. Muscles tremble, fight, fail and his sword slides downward with a sigh, wistful.

  Slowly, the Usurper lifts the body towards the old knight, like a mother bringing a babe to breast.

  ‘No!’ exclaims the man, struggling, his seat unwilling to let him go.

  From within the eyeless body, something stirs, issuing forth from red holes to pour into the Knight Commander’s mouth.

  He dies instantly but not soon enough.

  The Usurper steps back.

  It is not enough for the Usurper to simply take another empty body, this man must be made to kneel, just as one day, the world will conform to the Usurper’s design.

  All
through the Knight Commander’s corpse changes occur. The sliver of the Usurper’s essence absorbs the remnants of the man, blending with it, becoming something new, greater than before, and less. Unlike its infernal parent, this blended being has a claw-hold in reality, tenuous but enough. Enough to move freely, to hunt.

  Straps tear from their housings and a new thing rises: the commander. The once proud Seraph Knight is no more. The commander’s sword is lifted in salute and the blade shrieks in protest, cries stretching out as metal distorts, twisting, protesting, succumbing. Smoke issues from the rents in the commander’s armour, hissing softly until the essence turns crystal, fossilizing, dull and green.

  The commander asks no questions. It does not remember its previous lives but purpose burns within it, an urgency defying words, a memory of malice that must be quenched, of peace that must be found.

  The Usurper approves of what has been wrought. It begins to search the battlefield for more of the Seraph Knights, hoping that some might yet live. Corpses do not interest it. To occupy a vacant space is insufficient. The Usurper wants more, to dominate, to re-envision. Of the ten thousand knights that came, less than a dozen survive. But one of them has already fled and two are quick witted enough to take their own lives. The Usurper gathers the others and returns to the Breach, blending the fragments of their souls with raw, alien essence, shaping twisted versions of what was: the Knights of Jade and Ash.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Vagrant places one foot after another, slowly, never stopping.

  Muffled through stone, he hears a sound, like the death cry of a giant. From its scabbard, the sword thrums in agitation.

  He keeps walking, slowly, never stopping.

  Passageway becomes cellar, becomes steps, becomes house, becomes street.

  He heads north, slowly, never stopping.

  The gate remains open and he goes through.