The Vagrant

by Peter Newman

  Desperation and adrenaline give Harm strength. He pushes up on his elbows. ‘Look at me. My leg’s ruined, maybe for good. Without help I’ll die out here. Please, I need you, I …’ He trails off, eyes widening. ‘… You didn’t kill the Hammer did you?’

  The Vagrant shakes his head.

  ‘She’s followed you here.’

  The Vagrant nods.

  Harm instinctively tries to flee. Pain punishes his forgetfulness and he falls onto his back again.

  The Hammer that Walks stands in the open a hundred feet away. Conflicted muscles twist in her face, mashing expressions together, while her hands make fists, uncommitted.

  By contrast, Vesper knows her mind. She shrieks and cries with fear. The sound soon moves up, finds comfort in the Vagrant’s arms, is softened by his coat.

  The Vagrant waits, free hand brushing the sword’s hilt.

  With neither side willing to act, time passes. The suns dip lower, stretching shadows till the Vagrant’s shade touches the Hammer’s boots.

  Then, without warning, she lumbers forward, her strides devouring distance, planting herself in front of the Vagrant. With a creak she bends down, a menacing cliff, bringing her face inches from his.

  ‘Why?’ she rasps.

  The Vagrant blinks surprise.

  She holds up her fists, opens them. Inside each sits a round, flat, silver eye. ‘Why?’

  From behind them, Harm speaks. ‘You want to know why he gave you the coins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The Vagrant looks at Vesper, then less certainly, at the green-eyed man.

  Harm answers for him. ‘He doesn’t want to fight you, he just wants to be left alone. But you haven’t come here to fight us.’

  The Hammer’s answer is more whisper than words. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re confused. I know what that’s like. He did the same to me.’ Harm ignores the Vagrant’s silent question, keeps his focus on the giant Usurperkin. ‘I used to live in Verdigris but I left that life behind to follow a rogue Seraph and his baby. When I stop to think about it, I realize it’s madness but I don’t care. This new life is many things but it’s not poison.’

  The Hammer edges forward, passing the Vagrant, drawn to Harm’s words, a flame-struck moth.

  ‘Everything changed for me when I met them. It’s like I was sleeping through my life, carried along by the currents, and then all of a sudden I see somebody going the other way. I didn’t even know there was another way. And now I’ve seen it, I can’t stop wondering what it might be like to live differently, to be something else. You understand. I know. I could be telling your story instead of mine. For me, it began with a simple choice. It’s the same for you. You could kill us now if you wanted. I’m already crippled and he’s tired, so very tired. It would be easy for you. But if you do, you’ll be alone.’

  Thin tears spill from the Hammer’s eyes. They struggle over cheeks riveted in metal and die before they reach her chin. She takes the coins and tucks them behind her wrist guard. Hands free, she reaches for Harm’s leg, straightening it. The injured man screams.

  ‘No,’ says the Hammer. It is an order.

  Harm bites down on his sleeve while his other hand claws at the dirt beneath, digging shallow trenches.

  The Hammer pulls at the bracer on her left arm till rivets scream and submit. Then she drops to one knee, placing the metal across her armoured thigh. She begins to beat it with her fist, rhythmic strikes that ring out, bouncing off distant mountains.

  Vesper ventures a worried glance from the Vagrant’s armpit. Gradually fear is replaced by curiosity, which in turn falls to hunger. A small mouth opens, expectant. The milk however, has run away. Seeing the impending storm, the Vagrant rocks the baby but Vesper only wrinkles her nose, unimpressed.

  The Hammer stops, grunting in satisfaction. The bracer has become a rough, unsealed tube. She places it around Harm’s injured leg and squeezes it snug.

  ‘Up,’ she says.

  ‘I can’t,’ Harm replies. ‘It’s too painful.’

  ‘Up!’

  He tries to comply, moving awkwardly into a sitting position.

  ‘Up!’ demands the Hammer, putting one hand around his ribs and lifting him to his feet. She grins with monolithic teeth. ‘Yes!’

  ‘… Thank you.’

  The Vagrant offers his shoulder and Harm throws an arm over it. Together the two men leave. The Hammer watches, wearing the posture of someone smaller, more innocent. She sees one whispering in the ear of the other, a monologue broken by occasional gasps. They stop and the Vagrant’s head tilts upwards, shaking gently from left to right. The other turns back, regarding her gently.

  They walk on, and after a pause, she follows.

  Seven Years Ago

  When the Usurper hears of the Uncivil’s rebellion the response is swift. Flies spread word of the Green Sun’s displeasure, carrying the taste of bile far and wide, seeking out still-loyal subjects to find and drag the Uncivil back to the Fallen Palace.

  The Earmaker’s Three are the first to respond. Not exactly siblings, the trio of infernals are cut from the same cloth: hook wielding hunters, known more for what they do after a killing than before.

  The Uncivil waits for them in Verdigris, and she is not alone. Her cult grows swiftly. New people come every day, her promises of augmentation and immortality too much to resist.

  The Uncivil’s trail is not hidden and the Earmaker’s Three follow it, through open gates and empty streets. The city’s population hides away behind closed doors, or in tunnels, deep and old. They know this is a spectacle best viewed from a distance. The truly wise turn away completely, and sleep the better for it.

  They find her in a deserted market square. The Earmaker’s Three pause as she comes into view. While the northern climate stifles them, the Uncivil sits comfortably within her shell, blossoming, safe. Her cloak is thick with new sacrifices. On its surface, a hundred dead eyes swivel to take in her opponents, and finds them wanting.

  Around her, her Half-alive cult gather proudly. Normally they hide their gifts beneath perfumed robes, to disturb rather than terrify their unaltered fellows. Now they stand revealed, grafted limbs waving beneath a repulsed sky.

  The Earmaker’s Three ready their curling hooks and stir the poisons in their neck folds.

  A silence gathers. The Three spread out, trying to flank the Uncivil’s position.

  From the cloak of corpses, half of a ribcage extends, beckoning them closer, the gesture almost human, almost charming.

  Spindly legs carry the Three forward, like scurrying spiders. Their hooks flash out, all three finding a home in the Uncivil’s shell. They each pull in a different direction, trying to split the cloak of corpses. Three lines tug tight and woven bodies creak like old boards, threatening to tear asunder.

  But the Uncivil does not need to endure long. Her Half-alive followers answer with barbs of their own. Tentacles and nature-defying limbs of alien design wrap around the Earmaker’s Three. For each of the infernals, the Uncivil has a dozen of her own servants.

  The Earmaker’s Three are pushed on the defensive. They try and pull their hooks free to use on the new threat but they are held fast by the Uncivil. Trapped in a web of reanimated limbs, they begin to panic. Venom spurts from their thin mouths, most of it wasted on the earth.

  Before they can break free, the Uncivil twists, pulling them all to her. Once they are reeled in close, the cloak of corpses animates. Lone fingers, hands, jaws, all tear at the trapped infernals while, at their backs, the cult beat and tear and twist.

  It is soon over and the Half-alive humans retreat, awaiting further command.

  The Earmaker’s Three remain tethered to the Uncivil’s shell, their bodies broken, mist leaking in wheezy clouds from multiple holes. As their essences fade the Uncivil reaches out to them and, briefly, four become one.

  ‘We hate-fear-hate you!’

  ‘Hate-hate-fear you!’

  ‘Fear-fear-hate you!’

>   ‘I am the Uncivil and I am free. You are neither and never will be and yet I give you a choice.’

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘What are these words?’

  ‘We don’t understand.’

  ‘Live and die as the Usurper’s creatures or exist as mine.’

  ‘We fear the Usurper more than you.’

  ‘Then die.’

  ‘Wait!’

  ‘Wait!’

  ‘Wait!’

  ‘Don’t be hasty.’

  ‘Tell us more.’

  ‘We are listening.’

  ‘Your individual essences are bound to Ammag, the Green Sun, Usurper of all. They wane, they die. I will save your scraps and bond you to each other and to me. I will give you life free of Ammag’s power.’

  ‘But slave to you?’

  ‘Exiled like you?’

  ‘Hunted like you?’

  ‘Yes, all of these. But you will continue.’

  ‘We accept.’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘We do.’

  She takes them from the streets, to a secret place, hidden from the stars. There she weaves their essences together into a patchwork, a new composite being. She gives it a body to match, with too many faces, each with too many teeth.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Of all the beasts and people in the line, the goat is among the smallest. This fact does not concern the goat. Despite capture she kicks and bites anything foolish enough to get close. The trait endears her to the meat runners, who dub her ‘Grim Beard’ and chuckle each time she makes a larger animal squeal.

  Six people drive the caravan, a mix of ages, men and women. Shared genes and lifestyle give them a similar look. Hard-nosed, tough like weathered stone. They keep an economic pace on the way to Slake, eating only what they need, feeding their charges just enough to maintain weight. Calorie control calculated for maximum profit.

  The giant Usurperkin overtakes them easily, planting herself between them and their destination. Cradled in the crook of her arm is a man. His green eyes are soft, if not kind.

  ‘Good morning,’ he says quietly. ‘We’ve come to collect a goat.’

  A meat runner steps forward, thin lips cutting a smile across her cheek. ‘You’re in luck. We’ve got one. Untainted and full of spirit. You see her there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want her?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one.’

  ‘What do you have to trade?’

  Harm pauses, keeps his voice low. ‘We haven’t come to trade. The goat belongs to us.’

  ‘I don’t think so. The animal is wild. My own son found her, masterless and alone.’

  ‘Then he also found our possessions strapped to her back. Food and trade goods. We want those too.’

  The meat runner turns to her son, does not like what she discovers on his face. ‘I’m sure we can gather and return your things, minus a little compensation for looking after them.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘It’s a fair offer, more than fair.’

  The Hammer steps forward, naturally threatening.

  In response, six people reach for concealed weapons together, like slivers of the same glass. ‘We can protect what’s ours!’ shouts the son, defiant.

  ‘Good,’ replies the Hammer.

  The meat runner puts a hand on her son’s arm. ‘Wait! Wait. We accept your terms.’

  A sack and a goat are brought forward, deposited in the space between parties. The Hammer lifts the sack, shakes it. ‘More.’

  Meat runners confer in swift whispers, except for the son, whose voice breaks confidence with the others. ‘That’s all there was, I swear!’

  ‘More!’ demands the Usurper’s Daughter.

  ‘She’s running out of patience,’ Harm adds. ‘I suggest you give us what we want or she’ll kill you all, starting with the smallest and working up.’

  The meat runner is quick to appease but her son protests. ‘You can’t let them rob us like this!’

  ‘Yes,’ she hisses. ‘I can. Which of your brothers is worth your pride? Name one and I’ll fight.’

  No names are given and weapons slide back into sheathes. Another sack is prepared and left with the first.

  Harm appraises the new offering. ‘Now this is more than fair!’ He notices the Vagrant approaching and gentles his expression. ‘We were right,’ he says. ‘They were traders. And look who we found.’ He indicates the goat. ‘Good news for once.’

  The Vagrant’s eyes move across the people, over tight mouths and fear-pale faces, lingering on a meat runner whose fist trembles by his side. He looks back at Harm, holding his gaze till red blooms on the other man’s cheeks. Vesper shifts restlessly against his side.

  A precious coin appears from the Vagrant’s pockets, instantly grabbing the Hammer’s attention. Ignoring her, the Vagrant walks to where the meat runners stand. He takes the son’s fist, unpeels, soothes with silver. Stammered thanks are acknowledged with a nod and the Vagrant takes up the goat’s chain, striding away. Scooping up sacks one handed, the Hammer follows, her face shuffling between confusion and anger.

  When they are gone, son turns to mother wide-eyed. ‘Look! Look what he gave me! It must be worth a fortune!’

  ‘Yes it is, even more than the coin.’

  ‘Eh? What are you talking about, mother?’

  ‘The world has always been made of hard edges but it used to have other things too.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will one day.’

  ‘I can keep the coin though? He gave it to me. And I found that goat in the first place!’

  She sighs. ‘Or maybe you won’t.’

  From a distance, Slake is a sprawling mass of vertical pipes, a giant cage topped by a smog canopy that chokes the sky. Day or night, the factory-city is as dark as it is noisy. Protruding from the city’s side is a metal umbilical, running three miles north west to join its prettier twin, Wonderland.

  Since Verdigris’ uprising, few travel south of Slake and there is nobody to bother the Vagrant and his companions as they make their way past an abandoned station. Once Monocars whooshed along the route, riding the metal halo that linked Slake’s belt of satellite villages. The cars are gone now, cockpit carcasses stripped and guide cables taken, broken and given new purpose. Only unwanted scraps and pieces too large to move are left behind, rusting into the landscape.

  Harm reclines in the Hammer’s arms, bouncing gently with each stride. ‘Where are we going? You know I’ll come with you, wherever it is. I just want to know.’

  In answer, the Vagrant points north.

  ‘Yes, but how far north? To the Crag? To Six Circles? To the coast?’

  The Vagrant’s face is unreadable.

  ‘Over the sea! You’re going back to the Shining City.’ He doesn’t bother to wait for confirmation.

  ‘Sea?’ asks the Hammer.

  ‘Yes. How to explain? Try and imagine living water that moves on its own and goes on as far as the eye can see.’

  The Hammer scowls. ‘No.’

  ‘Alright, can you imagine a puddle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Imagine a puddle so deep you can’t see the ground through it, so deep you could jump into it and move around inside.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ooh!’ echoes Vesper.

  The Hammer growls and a small head vanishes into the shadows of the Vagrant’s coat.

  ‘You’ll understand when we get there. Some things you need to see for yourself.’ He pats her shoulder plate and turns back to the Vagrant. ‘We have enough supplies to bypass Slake but I’ve never been north of Wonderland. Do you know the way?’

  The Vagrant keeps walking.

  ‘That’s not an answer.’ Harm looks for support, gets none. ‘We need to talk about this!’

  The Vagrant stops.

  ‘Thank you. I know this isn’t easy for you but—’

  Turning, the Vagrant breaks into a run, passing him,
arrowing for the station. His retreat starts a charge into cover. Moments later they all hunker down in the rusted shelter, panting. The Vagrant’s eyes are on the sky. A swarm of shapes hang there, grey specks against the clouds. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the scope and looks again.

  A score of Bonewings glide overhead, silent and sinister. The Uncivil’s hand is evident in their making. Each one is a ribcage, grown and splayed out. Wings of skin stretch between the curved, white fingers, studded with eyeballs, dry, unblinking.

  They pass by without comment.

  ‘Do you think they saw us?’ Harm asks as the Vagrant stands up. He gets a shrug for an answer. ‘We need to be under cover when they come back. If we follow the old ringway we should come across a settlement before too long.’

  The Vagrant nods. They hurry out from the station, making the most of empty skies.

  The Knights of Jade and Ash travel into the Uncivil’s lands unmolested. They have picked up the trail of the Malice and, despite the bearer’s head start, they are gaining ground. The commander finds evidence of battle near the mountains, a muddling mess of tracks firing in all directions, footprints crossing, one on top of the other, making strange new shapes. From the chaos comes a line of tracks, heading north, aligned.

  The knights travel day and night without complaint until they are rewarded with a distant glimpse of their prey. They see the bearer, another man and their pet, and walking alongside them, a familiar figure, large and armoured. They are unnerved by the sight. The Hammer that Walks and the Malice? Together? The knights quiver with unspoken questions. Why does the Usurper’s Daughter walk with their enemy? What does this mean?

  With a sword, one of the knights points out a flurry of shapes in the sky. Bonewings.

  The commander stops. The Uncivil lies to the north east in Wonderland but the Malice is taking a path to the north west. Their primary goal remains unchanged but now the commander knows the depth of the Uncivil’s rebellion and his essence burns with rage. She must be brought to heel.

  The commander makes no effort to hide, setting a march toward Wonderland.

  Without hurry the Bonewings glide past, glassy eyes snatching reflections of the knights, keeping them.