by Peter Newman
If it were human, the Usurper would smile.
They shriek as it chases them, like a sinister game of tag. With each contact, a new set of transformations begin and another Usurperkin is made.
One of the girls does not run however. Barely four years old, and small for her age, she is no stranger to threats, or to violence.
The Usurper stops in front of her, fascinated by the fiery spirit within the tiny body.
It jerks forward, trying to scare her.
In answer, the girl bares an incomplete set of teeth.
Looking at her, the Usurper recognizes something of itself; an inability to flee and an unwillingness to back down no matter the size of the opponent. Though she cannot hope to win, she would rather fight and die.
It approves.
More than with the others, the Usurper makes sure to imprint something of itself upon the girl. She fights of course, just as the Usurper would if the positions were reversed.
But there can be only one outcome.
When it is finished, the girl from before has gone and in her place is a monster shaped in the Usurper’s image. A tool to smash its enemies, a hammer that walks.
Breath labours in the dark.
A baby cries, pain pitched, shocked, unbearable.
Only six people and a goat make it inside before the Hammer seals the entrance. One of them knows the cave well, can navigate through crawlways on memory alone.
He has already gone.
Two others follow him, losing first the trail, then their way. Sanity will be the next to evade them.
The Vagrant sits against the rock, content to be still. He hears the sound of sniffing, then eating and Harm’s voice, reprimanding. The baby is clamped to his side, clenched fists making handles in his clothes. He rocks it until the screams go hoarse, then fade to sleep.
Something moves, unseen in the blackness, nudging the Vagrant’s hip. Reflexively his hand grabs it, snaring a bone, stick thin, wrapped in a single layer of paper flesh. A vein presses against his thumb then retreats, then dances forward again to a thready beat. The Vagrant works his hand along the leg, drawing the outline with his fingertips. They skate over the back of a knee, a hamstring, a buttock but as they pass the hipbone flesh yields, wet and warm.
The Vagrant lowers his head, returning his hand to the stranger’s ankle.
Time slips by, unnoticed.
When the pulse has made its final retreat the Vagrant slides himself along the wall until he can find the man’s face with his hand. Gently, he smooths out the wrinkles of pain, closing the stranger’s eyes against the dark.
Then he searches the body.
In return for his kindness it offers little. A chunk of biscuit baked brick hard, a small tube of unknown liquid and a handful of gems, tiny and sharp. He pockets them all.
Harm’s voice sends ripples through the silence. ‘Are you alright? Kick once for yes, twice for no.’
The Vagrant kicks once, then once more.
‘Are you injured?’
Two kicks.
‘Stuck?’
Two kicks.
‘Something else?’
A kick.
‘Do you need help?’
A pause. One kick, then two.
‘Sorry, I don’t understand. I’ve tried moving these rocks but they’re stuck fast. The others have gone so there must be a way out. Are you ready to go?’
Two kicks.
‘Oh.’
Harm talks on, wondering about what to do, where to go and if they will be able to get out. Eventually he notices the Vagrant has stopped kicking, and the goat has stopped trying to bite him. He asks another question.
Nobody answers, they are too busy sleeping.
On the far side of the mountains, a man emerges from a cave, peering left and right before sneaking into the night. He is unremarkable, not the one.
The Hammer that Walks lets him go.
It is within reach, she feels it, hidden nearby.
Hatred swells within her and something else. A memory of dissonant beauty that demands attention. In her mind she sees the Shadowmarket, the squealing rabble, all noisy sacks of fear. Pathetic. But then amid it all there is the coin singing through the air. Captivating. Beautiful.
Able to bear it no longer, she begins to climb.
The ragged woman is easy to find, her shack only hidden from the ground. Like all the unblessed she is slow and predictable. Believing herself alone, the old woman examines the coin, dancing it across her fingers. It winks invitingly at the giant Usurperkin.
With one blow the Hammer changes her. Bones crack and fall, forming a humble pile of sticks.
The Hammer digs out the coin and throws it, head tilting back as it ascends and down as it thunks against her hand.
It does not turn or trill for her.
Disappointed fingers curl around the silver disc. She holds it close like a mother and returns to her post. Waiting. Stone still.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Vagrant sits up. His muscles compete for stiffness, tingling awake, complaining. At his side, the body is cold.
He kicks out, finding his companions in the dark.
‘Welcome back,’ says Harm dryly. ‘Are you ready to go now?’
He kicks once and they go, feeling their way on hands and knees until they find the back of the cave where two circular tunnels sit side by side, empty eye sockets waiting to be filled.
‘Which way?’
The Vagrant shrugs, disturbing the baby, who resettles against his side, grumbling.
Harm takes them through the left passage.
The rock is smooth beneath their knees, stroking their backs with gentle undulations. In places there are holes, fist sized, randomly scattered. A smell issues from them, pungent with life. The passage takes them deeper, sloping down until their crawl becomes a shuffling descent.
Muffled sounds drift towards them, like men humming through a gag.
Harm is the first to find them. Two figures quiver with fear, wrapped side by side in a film of softly glowing fungus. The sight startles him and he slides closer, involuntarily, lurching forward with both hands. Palms squelch against wetness that adheres to his skin. He pulls one hand away and feels resistance, strands of sweaty web tethering him to the other men.
‘I need help,’ he hisses. The men hear his voice and try to answer, blowing fear-thick bubbles in the living wrap. Their struggles shake the fungus, sending tremors along its surface. ‘I’m stuck, help me!’
The Vagrant works his way down, juggling his burdens.
A new sound can be heard from the fist-sized holes, hundreds of tiny fingernails drumming on stone, closing quickly.
Harm pulls against his bonds. They stretch but do not break, holding him fast. ‘Hurry, please!’
Sword in hand the Vagrant arrives at Harm’s side. He slices down, locating the strands by their soft light. They release the green-eyed man, snagging the blade instead. The Vagrant twists the sword, trying to free it.
From holes by his feet, above his head and by his shoulders, things scuttle. They sound like severed hands, long nailed, moving with alien purpose. Fortunately it is too dark to see their true form.
Harm propels himself back up the tunnel but his escape is blocked by the goat. She is stuck. She cannot climb backwards, cannot turn round, will not go forward. A cork in a bottle, scared and angry.
Silvered wings twitch at the sword’s hilt and smoke plumes upwards where fungus and steel touch. The Vagrant is free. He jumps back, shapes falling around him, bumping against his elbow, rolling over his boots. He jumps back again, head knocking against low stone. The crawlers do not follow, swarming instead for the trapped men, who are forced to wait, trembling. He looks away quickly and joins the others. Behind him, the fungal glow dims, blotted out by a blanket of nightmares.
Harm grabs at his shoulder. ‘We’re trapped!’
The Vagrant shrugs off his hand, sheathes the sword. He passes the baby over and climbs pas
t Harm to the trembling goat. He does not need to see to know her expression. Taking a deep breath, he finds her shoulders with his hands and pushes. The going is slow, every inch painful. Limbs already taxed to their limits burn with outrage at this new demand.
The goat’s teeth snap the air, catching the Vagrant’s ear on the third attempt.
Bleating, bleeding, crying, they tumble from the tunnel back into the original cave.
This time, Harm takes the right tunnel.
Like the previous passage, this too has been made by a wild Burrowmaw. It takes them on a gentle curve to the right. The Vagrant runs his hand along the wall as he crawls, checking for holes.
Ahead, a splinter of red light shines from a crack in the ceiling. It is fresh-made by the Hammer’s assault, dust forming miniature mountain ranges on the floor beneath. They follow it gratefully and it widens, rewarding them with a view of the sky.
‘Let’s climb out here,’ says Harm. ‘These tunnels will kill us.’
The Vagrant agrees.
It is a short and brutal journey. The two men manage the climb with grunting ease, passing between them the baby, who contemplates sky and suns and other unknowable things.
They pull up the goat with a rope. She sways slowly, comments rarely, dark eyes seething, planning revenge.
When all are safely out, Harm, baby and Vagrant lie side by side, fatigue plastering them to the fat ledge. Only one of them moves, stretching for the sky itself. Clouds delight and slip through fingers, an endless parade of gods and monsters.
The Vagrant watches the little head, flitting left and right, enraptured. He sees a patch of skin, reddened and raised through the downy black hair. The Vagrant closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. His lips move, cursing himself. He bends down, planting the softest of kisses on the baby’s head.
When the suns set, the group huddles together for warmth. Harm opens up the stolen sack, sharing the joyless food inside.
Reluctantly the Vagrant accepts. He frowns as he eats.
‘You don’t agree with what I did,’ says Harm. It is not a question. ‘I’m sorry but we didn’t have much time. If I hadn’t taken her things, we’d be starving now.’
The Vagrant shrugs.
‘Tell me, why are they following you? What do you have that they want so badly?’ He looks from baby to sword, to the Vagrant, weighing each one. Tired amber meets soft green, then breaks away. ‘It’s your sword. You must be the only Seraph Knight left this side of the Southern Sea. It’s a symbol. No, more than that. Is it alive? I swear it watches me sometimes.’
Both men glance at the sword, inert in its scabbard and Harm is suddenly eager to change the subject. ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’
This time, the shrug is wary.
‘Your baby, does she have a name?’
Lines appear on the Vagrant’s face, sorrowful, adding years. His mouth opens, closes again. He begins to nod, shakes his head. Defeated, he covers his head with his hands.
‘Everyone should have a name,’ says Harm softly. ‘Perhaps I could help you choose one.’
The Vagrant gives no sign of having heard.
Harm leans over the baby, distracting it from the stars that sparkle, too distant. ‘Let us see if we can find a name that you like. Let me know if any of these work for you: Seran, Baylis, Leoni. Any thoughts?’
Eyes wide, the baby waves its tongue in a circle, from nose to chin and back again.
More names are offered. The baby seems unmoved. Eventually, the goat falls asleep.
Green eyes glint. ‘What about Vesper?’
Hands fall from the Vagrant’s face, revealing disbelief, naked, shocked.
The baby blinks, drool running past its chin.
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ He shakes the baby’s hand, eliciting a long gurgling noise. ‘Pleased to meet you, Vesper, I’m Harm.’
Eight Years Ago
The infernal horde surges north under the Usurper’s order. A river of essence surrounds them, made of those that were too big or too unfortunate to find a host body, who lost integrity and blended with other unfortunates into a single unconscious, a soup of blood and failure. Known as the taint, it flows around the horde’s feet, around claws and other, less recognizable limbs as they thunder across the landscape. Where it touches native plants and creatures it infuses them with infernal essence, changing them, corrupting and enhancing, sewing a path of half-bred corruption in its wake. In time, the strongest of these mutations will spread far, shattering an already troubled ecosystem.
The suns glare down at the horde, slowly eroding dead shells and making smoke dance where essence is exposed. From a distance individual horrors blend into one mass, their shapes blurred within the taint, indefinable, maddening. Over time, however, patterns emerge. Greater infernals that collect lesser terrors in their orbit. All bound to the Usurper, all seeking Gamma’s fallen sword, the Malice.
At their head is the Uncivil. Unlike the others she does not inhabit a single host body, instead wrapping her essence in a cloak of corpses. Unlike the others, she has space for thoughts of her own, of rebellion. She cannot disobey the Usurper, its majesty is stamped within her core, indelible. But its orders are simple, given in haste and pain. Pursue the Malice! Destroy it! The Uncivil dares to dream that perhaps, perhaps, there is room for other things too. Her own desires bubble close to the surface, unformed and insistent, like a child’s, more emotion than direction. She wishes for independence. She does not yet care how she spends it.
Each time the horde passes through a settlement, a piece breaks away. The lesser infernals are easily distracted, always hungry. The stronger ones see opportunities for better shells and some wonder if perhaps the Malice is hidden somewhere among the squealing, pink-faced mortals.
Always the Uncivil presses on. Overtly pursuing the Malice. Secretly running from the Usurper.
As distance and flesh is devoured, the Uncivil begins to notice something. The horde is slowing down. Little by little she begins to stretch ahead of the others.
When they reach the city of Horizon the horde breaks on its gates like a wave on the cliffs. For the first time since the Battle of the Red Wave, resistance is met. Horizon has its own sky-ship, along with a rag tag reserve of defenders. Neither these nor the gates stop the horde for long. The sky-ship is overrun and sent plunging into the streets, the defenders are shredded, pushed aside, as are the gates. In the end it is the city of Horizon itself that stops the horde’s advance. There are too many lights, too many temptations. Overwhelmed by possibility, a full third of the invading force is sucked up within Horizon’s pores.
The Uncivil presses on with the remaining army, trailing flames and mortal screams.
Here, the land opens up. There is no obvious way on, no path to follow. The horde begins to falter. The further they go from the sanctity of the Breach the more sluggish the taint becomes, thinning at their feet. Comfort is but a memory now, each step taking them deeper into a place that neither wants nor needs them.
Soon, the Uncivil leaves them behind, fragmenting, poisoning.
Though the Usurper’s orders remain a constant, looping through her (Pursue the Malice! Destroy it!), she is able to notice other things: the shape of a flower, open, that pleases her. The call of a bird that does not. Away from the other infernals, she has space to breathe, to be. This too pleases her.
Time and travel begin to take their toll. Her cloak of corpses starts to break down. Dead flesh flakes away, old tendons wear thin and cracks appear in bonded bones. The Uncivil diverts from her course, seeking fresh material for her shell.
She soon finds them. A group of mortal children stand together, curled hands joining them. They skip round each other, a bouncing, singing circle. Earnest frowns testify to their effort.
‘The eye is in the circle,
The wings surround the circle,
They watch you,
They judge you.
We all bow down!’
The words mean nothing to the Uncivil, though she does not like the way the song gathers their essence, threatening to join them into something greater, terrifying.
The Uncivil pauses, preparing for flight. But the song is just a song, a misremembered echo of something lost long ago. Skipping slows, voices quieten, the song has no hold on their essence.
From within her cloak, the Uncivil extends half of a ribcage, mounted on a thick cable of femurs. The limb is a mockery, more rake than hand.
She begins to spin, going faster and faster, until the teeth that stud her shell rattle like a thousand broken bells, dull and dolorous.
Song forgotten, the children fall to making sounds of simpler, more primal communications.
Rolling between them swiftly, harvesting, the Uncivil quietens them. Bodies fall, one by one, until silence descends. The wind stops, aghast as the Uncivil prepares to assimilate the bodies.
But there is a problem. As the Uncivil parts her cloak to make space for the new corpses, pain drives in through the gap. This far north, the very air is hostile. Where it touches her, essence fragments.
Sealing the cloak once more, the Uncivil sits and broods. She needs help. She cannot survive this far north for long but dares not return south for fear of falling further under the Usurper’s power.
A noise disturbs her. One of the children is not dead. She rolls herself to the source of the sound to examine the child in more detail. A neck twitches, muscles responding to half-formed impulses.
The Uncivil extends her limb once more, matching it to the dozen holes recently made in the child’s side, and presses in. Safely under the quivering flesh, the Uncivil extends her essence. The child’s own essence is weak and strange. Hard, fixed, limited. The Uncivil rolls it around like a marble in the mouth, tasting.
She reads many things there. Fear, anger, bitterness, the desire to live. Familiar things. A plan begins to form.
The child dies.
The Uncivil gathers the bodies with her bone rake and rolls on.
The next mortal the Uncivil meets is an old man. They talk. She gives him a new leg, powered by a shred of her essence, linked by threads to his. In return he helps add the children’s corpses to her shell.