The Vagrant

by Peter Newman

  The suns are low in the sky and he squints against them.

  He is alone, abandoned, betrayed.

  He stops, shakes his head.

  From behind a rubbish pile a voice calls, imperious and infantile.

  The Vagrant smiles.

  Under a lonely gold sun, a small group travels. Night is close; the red sun has already swung beneath the horizon, making way for eager stars.

  Harm speaks, too low to discern, soothing the creature in his arms. Exhausted, the Vagrant walks alongside, pulled in jerks by a tyrannical goat making the most of fortune’s reversal.

  Verdigris fades easily from sight and memory, and the four walk in the last of the light, beyond the Usurper’s reach, northward, towards Wonderland and Slake, jewels in the crown Uncivil.

  Mountains line up either side of the valley, standing watch. Their stone faces are pockmarked with caves, a mix of homes, tunnels and traps for the unwary. In their shadow, travellers rest. Two are awake, alert with hunger. Two sleep.

  Harm stares at the man and baby, sees the tiny hand making a bed in the larger one, snuggling under a thumb made blanket. He drinks in the sight, barely blinking.

  In turn he is watched by the goat.

  Both watchers appear guilty. Ignored in the chaos of recent times, the goat has her leash in her mouth and chews towards freedom. She does not care about the angst lines on the green-eyed man’s face.

  The sky begins to yawn lighter.

  A small foot twitches.

  The baby is awake.

  The baby is hungry.

  To the baby this is unacceptable.

  Pink lips open and a small chest rises, doubling in size.

  ‘Ssh,’ says Harm, shuffling forward on his knees, until he is leaning over them.

  Urge to yell forgotten, the baby stares up at him.

  ‘It’s alright,’ he says softly, reaching down.

  The baby’s expression says otherwise.

  With the utmost care, Harm takes the Vagrant’s hand, turning it, releasing the baby from its grip.

  Amber eyes snap open, the Vagrant jerks up, catching Harm’s wrist in steely fingers, his hand reaching for the sword, muscles preparing for violence.

  The baby holds its breath.

  The goat drops the leash from its teeth, assuming an expression of nonchalance.

  Harm’s voice is strained. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to shock you. Please, can you let go? You’re hurting me.’

  The Vagrant’s gaze travels down from Harm’s face, along the man’s twisted arm to his own fingers. His eyebrows lift in surprise. He lets go.

  Both men look away.

  Small eyes flick between them. The baby is still hungry. It does not intend to suffer alone.

  ‘Sorry to wake you,’ Harm says softly.

  The Vagrant holds up a hand and makes a dismissive gesture.

  A loud cry from the baby stirs the other three into action and milk travels quickly from goat to tin to hungry mouth.

  For a time there is peace and a golden sun lifts itself over the shoulders of the mountains.

  ‘I know you’re tired but we should go.’

  The Vagrant nods, handing the baby over to Harm and picking up the leash. He does not notice the tooth marks.

  Travelling north, they look back often. The Blasted Lands stare back, dusty and worn. They see no pursuers.

  Harm’s voice prods the silence gently, appeasing the baby, making one-way conversation. Shadows recline and split as the second sun rises. The redness catches in dark smudges under the Vagrant’s eyes, like angry bruises.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  The Vagrant nods.

  ‘We need supplies and shelter, do you have a plan?’ Harm glances over, rubbing his wrist. ‘I know a place we can go but we’ll need something to trade. All I have are the clothes on my back. That is, if you want me to stay with you?’

  The Vagrant stops walking, his face creasing in thought.

  ‘I’d understand if you don’t trust me. But if you’ll have me, I’ll come with you.’ He reaches out a hand, the movement pulls back his sleeve, revealing red stripes recently made. The Vagrant tenses as he steps closer. ‘I haven’t always done the right thing. I have the feeling you understand what that’s like.’ Harm’s fingertips brush against the Vagrant’s arm, daring only the briefest touch. His voice is soft, barely a whisper. ‘You don’t have to be alone.’

  A sorrow-woven smile touches the Vagrant’s lips. He nods once, firmly, and walks on faster than before.

  ‘Thank you.’ Harm pauses, unwilling to break the moment. ‘Do you have a plan?’

  The Vagrant points north.

  ‘And a way to get food?’

  Slipping his free hand into a pocket, the Vagrant produces a coin, pure and silver.

  Harm’s fingers twitch, drawn to the singing metal. ‘That’s good but it’s a long way from here to the next settlement.’

  The Vagrant frowns but keeps walking.

  ‘As I said, I know a place we could go. It’s not much of a detour and we could get everything we need. What do you think?’ The Vagrant nods, though the frown remains in place. ‘Then please, follow me.’

  They walk for a while in a silence Harm finds unbearable. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  The Vagrant nods.

  ‘Are you able to talk?’

  The Vagrant looks up at the sky as if seeking inspiration, none comes. He shakes his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t embarrass you.’ After a pause, he speaks again, papering over the awkwardness. ‘They call me Harm. Everyone ended up being given a name when they joined the rebels. It wasn’t official or anything, we called each other all kinds of things, but for me, Harm was what stuck. I hated it at first. The name seemed too scary for a man my size. It felt like a joke. Joe used to call me Harmless. Bastard. But I’d been called worse before, so I got used to it. It’s funny what becomes normal after a while.’ He clears his throat, self-conscious. ‘I thought you might want to know a bit about me, seeing as we’re travelling together.’

  The Vagrant gestures for him to continue.

  ‘I grew up in one of the tethered towns outside Wonderland. And like most people, I didn’t really understand what was happening when the Uncivil took the city. My mother and my uncle were machinists and we were comfortable. Not rich but we didn’t want for anything. They’d done well under the Empire and were loyal to the teachings of the Winged Eye. When the Uncivil came, they refused to accept her, and tried to encourage others to stand firm and not be tempted by her gifts. It was a bad business decision. The old infrastructure in the city was already failing, and the Uncivil had solutions to our problems. She didn’t attack my family, didn’t need to. She just waited while they became obsolete. I tried to tell them to join her cults but they were stubborn, kept saying that The Seven would send their Seraph Knights one day and that on that day, their loyalty would be rewarded. As far as I know they’re still saying that.

  ‘I travelled into the city and started work, doing odd jobs, you know, whatever I could scrounge. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t always clean and the pay was crap. In the end, I did what everyone else was doing and went to the Uncivil.’

  As the Vagrant raises an eyebrow, he raises his hand. ‘Don’t worry, it didn’t work out. Actually I had to leave Wonderland in a bit of a hurry, but that’s another story. Sorry, didn’t mean to give you my whole life history.’

  The Vagrant’s smirk is not without warmth.

  ‘Funny to think they were right. My family, I mean. I assume that’s why we’re going north, to rendezvous with the others?’ He looks at the Vagrant for confirmation and his face falls. ‘There are no others, are there?’

  The Vagrant shakes his head.

  ‘Oh. Then we’re not going north to attack, we’re going to escape. Maybe I will be able to help you after all. I’ve had a lot of experience of running away. I also had a lot of younger sisters, so I’m no stranger to ha
ndling babies either. The goat’s all yours though.’

  Taking the green-eyed man’s lead, the group make their way towards a gap in the mountainside, a jagged alcove where things watch and wait.

  The Knights of Jade and Ash dig among the corpses of the no longer Half-alive. They work quickly, untroubled by darkness. Between them the commander’s body is raised from bloody mulch and placed on the ground. Lovingly, they peel and scrape charred chunks from their leader’s armour. One retrieves the commander’s sword, offering the hilt.

  But the commander does not move.

  The knights form a circle around him and kneel, leaning forward till their heads touch. Essence flows between them, swirling downward, reaching into the dulled space within the commander’s visor.

  Deep within the shell, they find the commander’s essence, ragged and pale, a spiderweb afterglow of what was. Together the knights cradle the fragmented cloud, repainting its edges, filling the spaces with portions of their own souls, remaking.

  Panic slides between them, gaining speed and power. The knights are so close they struggle to know which of them began to doubt. All of them feed it, making it grow, till they tremor with its force.

  ‘Broken. Broken. The circle is broken. Leaking. We bleed from head and hearts.’

  Gloom threatens to overwhelm them, then there is a spark, ignited within their shared conscious, and the commander’s thoughts take form, bringing order.

  ‘Report.’

  ‘We have defeated the Uncivil’s servants. The Malice is gone. We are afraid. The sixth has fallen.’

  ‘And Patchwork?’

  ‘Trapped by your fire. Patchwork lies in the rocks nearby. It lives. It dies.’

  ‘Take me there.’

  ‘There is more. Should we say? We don’t know. We are afraid.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The rebel’s fire brought down the rocks behind us. We are trapped. We cannot follow the Malice. We have failed.’

  The commander has lost two knights, and a fear wound has spread through the others. Its lance is broken, one gauntlet ruined, unusable save as a club.

  It does not matter.

  The commander breaks contact and picks up its sword. The knights help their leader to where Patchwork expires, a half-buried mash of robe and bone, flopping obscenely.

  With a cry, the commander’s sword drives down, piercing, pinning the exposed limb tight. The commander waits patiently, allowing the enemy’s strength to fade. As the Uncivil’s Duke begins to fragment, the commander enters its fraying mind, rifling.

  New realizations come:

  The bulk of the Uncivil’s power has been spent in the tunnels.

  Verdigris is, for the moment, masterless.

  The Uncivil endures despite her distance from the Breach. Her aim is set still further north, where war rages between her armies – the Uncivil has armies! – and the Empire’s forces that still hold the coast.

  She fears to face the Usurper, is fleeing its reach. She knows it cannot travel.

  She knows! The commander sways with the idea, somewhere it knows this too, has always known. But she is wrong. The Usurper can reach this far north. They will be the fingers of Ammag, the fist of the Green Sun.

  But first they must escape.

  The Knights of Jade and Ash shift rocks, tunnelling while the commander flays the remnants of Patchwork, sometimes Duke, Southern Eye of the Uncivil.

  Both jobs take a long time.

  There are those who live between Slake and Verdigris, secret groups hiding in the gaps. Like most small things, they survive through stealth and solitude. Sometimes however, the need for trade, for stories or the sharing of despair brings them together. At these times a Shadowmarket is convened.

  ‘The Shadowmarket has rules,’ explains Harm as the Vagrant takes the baby back within the confines of his coat. ‘Never give anyone your name. Never draw a weapon. Never show your face. Never go back.’

  Hooded figures sit behind piles of wares, haggling, exchanging. Banter is curt, as hard as the survivors. Figures come and go, flitting between the traders, mothlike, taking turns to watch for intruders.

  They enter and the sword vibrates against the Vagrant’s leg, hum stifled within its sheath. He hastens to the first stall. The owner’s face is hidden, only glimpses of her skin are seen, tough, wrinkled, like a dried nut. She guards her thin produce jealously and the Vagrant wants all of it. She in turn wants all of his coins.

  The goat edges towards the food, getting closer, saliva building at the corner of her mouth. Her nose hovers over it, then descends, encountering a hand, slapping, fast.

  The owner’s words turn sharp as do the Vagrant’s gestures.

  ‘Please,’ says Harm. ‘We all suffer if we can’t agree on a fair price.’ He talks further, soothing, understanding of the woman’s troubles. Her defences are up however and his fight to lower them is long. Unfortunately, neither Harm nor the owner of the goods have the luxury of time.

  Shade falls across the Shadowmarket, a false sunset.

  As one, they look up. The mountain above seems to have grown taller, its blunted head blocking the light. But mountains do not grow, nor do they move.

  This one jumps.

  Chunks of rock break away from the descending shape as it falls, spreading arms and legs. The ground screams as the living comet makes contact. A ripple of stone and sound booms outward, scattering people, redistributing wealth.

  Light returns, dazzling, revealing green skin, laced purple with veins rope-thick. Metal plates meant for tanks cover her body, worn so long the flesh grows over them like ivy. Only her face appears normal, sitting too small in the triangle of muscle between shoulders and forehead. She is called Usurper’s Daughter, she is called the Hammer that Walks and she is looking for someone. She stays in her landing crouch, poised. Only her head moves, sweeping left and right.

  People scream and scrabble, trapped between the new arrival and the mountainside. A few cower, most begin to climb. None think to fight.

  Harm grabs at the cloth by his feet, pulling up the corners to make a sack, bulging with food.

  The owner shrieks, rising from the floor onto her knees, clawing for her possessions.

  Harm pushes her backwards and runs, making for a small opening in the rock wall.

  The Vagrant glares at his retreating back but goes to follow, pauses and looks once more to the woman sprawled in the dust, defeated. He tosses a precious coin.

  It flies towards her, spinning, singing and lands in her lap.

  The Hammer’s head tracks the movement, then reverses the action until her gaze settles on the Vagrant. She stands up.

  Vagrant and goat race for the cave. The goat is first and squeezes swiftly into the dark.

  The Hammer leaps.

  The Vagrant forces forward into the crack. It does not want him. Stones grate against his back, pressing hard on his ribs. The baby’s cries go high pitched with pain but he is through.

  The Hammer strikes the wall where her prey has hidden and keeps striking until the mountain sheds slabs of granite, sealing all within.

  Eight Years Ago

  While the infernal horde spread northward, hunting for the Malice, the Usurper attends to its new home.

  Life draws it. From the smallest blades of grass, to the wild networks of weeds and vines, jostling for space. It is a conflict the Usurper can understand.

  Of more interest is the town that sprawls before the great infernal. Tucked away at the base of a valley, it has been spared the attention of the other invaders. Turbines still turn and lights continue to illuminate. Rows of solar panels run across the valley’s sides, synthetic palms tilting upwards to catch the last of the day’s sunslight.

  And there are people.

  They form a shaky line at the town’s border. Men and women too old or too young to join the army.

  In two gliding bounds the Usurper stands before them.

  They flinch back, most raising their makeshift wea
pons, a few dropping them.

  The Usurper scoops up one of the youngest, turning him slowly in a massive hand.

  Though desperate to help their dangling companion the trembling humans gaze upon the Usurper, unsure of what to do.

  One brave soul rushes forward, firing her weapon, bellowing a challenge.

  But bullets only glance off the Usurper’s silver-green skin, and words make even less impact.

  The brave soul stops advancing, stops being brave.

  The Usurper does not notice. Its attention is held by something much more interesting.

  Unseen by human eyes, the Usurper is surrounded by a moat of infernal essence, the broken-down remains of its kin that failed to manifest properly in the world.

  Wherever the Usurper steps is tainted by this essence, changed in some way, and now the same begins to happen to the young boy in the Usurper’s hand.

  Mortal essence is distorted by the infernal, swelling within the young body. It becomes larger but less subtle, stronger but more volatile.

  And as the essence within shifts, so too does the physical body. Skin takes on a greenish hue, muscles bunch and grow, limbs stretch. The boy screams, his voice already a few octaves lower than it was moments ago.

  By the time the transformation is complete, the suns have set and the other humans are long gone.

  The Usurper drops the body in the dirt and advances on the town. It leaves behind a half-breed, no longer fully human but not a true infernal either. The first of the Usurperkin.

  The town is quiet, most people wisely having hidden or fled. But the Usurper’s senses go beyond the physical and it moves quickly to a house, sensing an abundance of life somewhere just under the ground.

  Clever design has hidden the trapdoor well and the Usurper quickly loses patience. It drives its clawed hands through the floor and makes its own hole, peeling back the sides until it is large enough.

  Small mortals cluster together, their eyes wide with terror as the Usurper drops in among them. The youngest of the town are hidden here, from babies swathed in protective bubbles to boys and girls ranging from two to eight years old.

  So many humans! So fresh! So malleable and full of potential!