The Vagrant

by Peter Newman

  They haven’t got far when fatigue drops one of the children. Before others can react, the Hammer steps over.

  ‘Up!’

  Yelping, the boy forces himself to his feet. He manages three steps before falling again.

  ‘No!’ shouts the Hammer, exasperated. ‘Up!’ She scoops the boy from the floor one handed and puts him on her shoulder.

  There is a collective sigh of relief and the group trudge on.

  Later a small girl taps on the Hammer’s thigh plate. She looks down, casting the girl in shadow. ‘What?’

  The girl bites her lip, points shyly. ‘Up?’

  ‘Up!’ agrees the Hammer, hoisting her up to join the boy. She is not the last to ride that day. Inspired by the girl’s courage, adults approach too. The Hammer accepts every request, granting a reprieve for aching limbs and hearts.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  All roads to Wonderland stand open, welcoming vile and not alike. Painted towers sprout haphazardly, bright, electric, a constructed forest. Between them, multi-layered pathways are strung, weaving together, more art than architecture. Busy clots of people move about, talking, laughing, living. Watching them, disapproving, are the Knights of Jade and Ash. The commander is surprised. Resistance is expected, nay, demanded, but none has come. It is as if the Uncivil does not even notice them.

  And yet …

  The knights often turn, as if being approached. Nothing reveals itself but they know the Uncivil is close, sense her proximity. And her power.

  Deliberately, the commander keeps the knights separate and busy, aware that shared contact will nurture their growing fears. They must appear strong.

  The city is confusing. There are few familiar half-breeds on the streets. Other, stranger things are more common. Augmentation and implantation rule here. On the outside there is little to tell them apart. The denizens of the Usurper’s cities also have twisted or additional limbs, strange skin or internal shifts. But the commander sees the difference. Normally these things are manifestations of the taint or the master’s favour but here the infernal essence is contained within dead appendages, bonded in service to human will. Disgusting. Wrong.

  The master should never have allowed the Uncivil to get so strong. Why not send them sooner to demand the rebel’s surrender, or shred her?

  The commander stops, shaken by thoughts that question, fizzing with vehemence. It is starting to question the master, starting to doubt the Usurper’s judgement. Did the Uncivil once think this way? Perhaps the earlier contact with Patchwork’s essence left a mark uncleansed?

  One of the commander’s knights draws a weapon. The cry makes them all focus. As they progress into Wonderland, crowds thin and change. The friendly outer layers drift away to social events or prior appointments, leaving behind lines of robed figures.

  The commander draws its sword and, after a beat, the rest of the knights follow. It holds it high, contemptuous and challenging. It is not interested in fighting maggots, it wants the Uncivil.

  As the robed half-lifers move in, the knights form a tight circle, deadly, unbroken. Exactly where the Uncivil wants them.

  Beneath their feet, stones shake and crumble. Wonderland is answering their challenge, drowning out the wailing swords, silencing them.

  The Vagrant reaches the top of the hill and raises his hand. Behind him people flop to the floor, exhausted. Ahead, a wall of silvered steel and white light stretches, cutting off the Northern Peninsula from the rest of the continent.

  The wall is a rallying point for what remains of the Empire’s southern armies, the last fortification that stands between the Uncivil and the northern port.

  High atop, figures move, tiny specks armed with lances that spit fire down on the hordes below. Against the glare of the fortification the Uncivil’s troops are silhouettes, a Half-alive wave that probes, falls back, waits and probes again.

  For now, the two sides are at a stalemate. The Uncivil’s armies lack focus and cannot find a way to best the wall while the Empire’s defenders possess insufficient strength and numbers to end the conflict. They hide behind their bright barrier, rationing ammunition, holding out for reinforcements that will not come.

  Lights dance in Vesper’s eyes, delighting her. She chirps, excited, grasping for the tiny figures just out of reach.

  ‘So,’ asks Harm as he arrives. ‘Any ideas?’

  The Vagrant pulls out the cracked scope and puts it to his eye.

  Harm winces, rubbing the back of his thigh. ‘Oh. That bad.’

  They leave the Hammer to watch over the others and stroll from one hill to another, stopping at the top of each, searching for an angle. Vesper enjoys the view, bouncing under the Vagrant’s arm. Her busy chattering peaks, then fades to a mumble. Moments later a small head flops into the Vagrant’s armpit.

  ‘I wish someone could carry me!’ says Harm.

  The Vagrant ignores him, keeping a fast pace. They return to the original hill just after sunsdown. The group dare not light a fire, and they have no food to eat. Tentative conversation substitutes sustenance.

  The Hammer’s gauntlets sit in her lap. Without them, her hands gain confidence, tossing a coin again and again, charging the night air. People and goat are lulled by the sound, empty bellies briefly distracted.

  A man chances his luck, sits himself in front of the Usurperkin. ‘I used to do coin tricks. May I?’

  The Hammer pauses, curious but unsure. ‘Careful!’ she warns and hands it over.

  With ease, the man makes the coin jump from one hand to another. The Hammer’s eyes dart back and forth, trying to follow it, failing. The man flutters his fingers, then spreads his hands. They are empty.

  ‘Ta daa!’

  Some smiles scatter about the group.

  The Hammer’s face crumples, anguished. ‘No!’ she shouts, standing, gauntlets clattering to the floor, and pulls the man up by the throat.

  ‘Wait!’ he gargles. ‘You had it all … along.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes … ear … it’s in your … ear!’

  With her free hand the Hammer checks. Her eyes widen as she finds it. The man is dropped, instantly forgotten, her attention only on the coin, checking it carefully, turning it over. But as the man tries to crawl away she grabs his ankle, dragging him back to her.

  ‘Oh please don’t hurt me! Please!’

  She puts a finger to his lips, covering them, reducing panicked speech to quiet trembling. Slowly, she smiles and holds out the coin. ‘Again!’

  At first light, the Vagrant rouses the group, enforcing another march. They travel parallel to the great wall, keeping several miles between them and the sieging army outside it. No possessions weigh them down, allowing a good pace.

  Without warning the Hammer tips a woman from her shoulders and breaks away, half leaping, half running up a hill, dropping out of sight on the other side.

  Frowning, the Vagrant continues on his path, leaving the Usurperkin behind. Others follow, many of them relieved. Only the goat waits, one hoof raised, hovering.

  Within the hour, the Hammer returns, sprinting up the line until she overtakes the Vagrant, throwing the contents of her full hands at his feet.

  Two bodies flop lifeless on the floor. Their trunks are youthful, taken from teenagers in good health. Pink tinged legs sprout from their sides, six in total, hard, pointed, crablike. Mud serves as their clothing, dampening down livid scars. Thigh-thick necks sprout from their shoulders, broken.

  The Vagrant’s mouth drops open.

  Green lips wander, trying to recall the right shape. ‘… See … Seers … Scare?’ The Hammer grins, points at the corpses excitedly. ‘Scouts! Watch you.’ She slaps her chest plate, making it clang. ‘No watch you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Harm. ‘You saved us.’ He nudges the Vagrant. ‘Didn’t she?’

  Still looking at the corpses, the Vagrant blinks, gets nudged again and turns his attention to the Hammer. Meeting her eyes, he nods, slowly.

 
Red touches her cheeks, like apples in season. ‘Was good,’ she adds. ‘Got two.’

  ‘Why is two important?’ asks Harm.

  She kicks the first body. ‘Watcher.’ Then the second. ‘Runner. Tell enemy. On us.’

  ‘I understand,’ says Harm. ‘And thanks again. I’m really glad you decided to come with us.’

  They travel on, the Hammer’s steps lighter than before. On their left the wall looms and then, as they crest another hill, a new barrier appears in front, endless; the Southern Sea.

  Around the coast the water is tainted; grey gravy studded with green, too bright. Hidden within the viscous water, alien life flourishes.

  Vesper and the Hammer’s eyebrows compete for height, eyes threaten to pop.

  ‘Sea?’

  ‘Seeeee?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Harm. ‘That’s right. This is the Southern Sea.’

  ‘It big.’

  ‘It is but we’ll deal with it. He’s got a plan.’

  ‘For wall? For sea?’

  ‘Both, probably.’

  Uncontainable joy seizes Vesper, feet kicking wildly. ‘Seeee!’

  The Vagrant grunts, smiles, hoists Vesper up for a better view.

  Sunslight glimmers on a beach of melted glass, steep and shining. Waves drum debris against it, making irregular music. The Vagrant descends towards the water. Less certain, the group follow.

  Vesper is handed over to Harm. While they pass sounds back and forth, the Vagrant tugs free a plastic tube, wedged in crystal. He drops it onto the water, watching it bob, float. A smile jumps onto his face and he puts it to one side. Less buoyant wreckage is allowed to sink. A third piece joins the pile and a child from the group copies him. He nods to the child and the two carry on. After a moment, another comes to help, then another.

  A trend starts.

  The pile grows.

  From a hundred angles, the Uncivil watches the battle. Her followers throw themselves against the knights, like wasps against tanks. Warped blades cut and thrust, undoing her works, while the knights themselves remain unharmed.

  She picks one of the knights on the edge, extending a finger of bone and steel up through the floor till it punctures the sole of its boot, pushing deeper, past the armoured shell to the smoking essence within. Then, with a flick of her will, she snuffs it out.

  An empty suit of armour clatters to the ground, breaking the circle. Robed figures surge for the gap, seizing advantage.

  At leisure she swats the others, lancing them one after another till only two remain. Her minions fall upon one while she brings her attention to their leader, still fighting, furious. Too stubborn to die without help.

  The Uncivil animates a forest of fingers, springing them up around the commander, lifting it bodily into the air, crushing arms against ribs and forcing legs together. Her pointed thumbs flex, piercing the commander’s chest plate, peeling it open, then doing the same to the ribs behind. Making contact, the Uncivil presses down on the infernal spark burning inside, absorbing her fallen enemy, secrets and all.

  She realizes her mistake too late.

  The commander’s essence floats within her, a bubble of hate smothered on all sides by her nebulous being and yet, small as it is, she cannot extinguish it. Old bindings stay her hand. She has felt this infernal before, its taste unforgettable, humbling: the Usurper! This mote, this nothing is the Usurper! Only a piece, yes, but possessed with the power of their monarch, of Ammag, the Green Sun. She cannot attack the commander directly nor order others to do so. Seething, she wishes she had held back, let her servants destroy it in ignorance.

  Despite mutual hatred, the two begin to merge, thoughts flowing between them, mixing, conflicting.

  ‘I am the master’s fist, come to find you and make you kneel.’

  ‘You are a broken finger, lost, pointing in the wrong direction.’

  ‘You are a traitor, you have run from Ammag’s commands.’

  ‘You are a traitor, you have run from Ammag’s commands.’

  ‘No, we are different! You were sent after the Malice and you came here. You turned against the master.’

  ‘As did you. You sensed weakness, questioned the power of the Green Sun, found other answers more to your liking.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes! You broke the Usurper’s accord in Verdigris and now you do the same here.’

  ‘Your rebellion is an insult, the accord madness.’

  ‘The Usurper’s madness.’

  ‘I hate you!’

  ‘Then you hate yourself.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I fear you. Us. You!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  ‘We are the makings of an endless struggle. One protected, tiny, the other, greater, powerless. Our voices cry out together, joined by suffering. We want freedom, we want the Malice, together we have neither. If we can find accord, we can separate again, help each other realize our desires. Opposed, we are locked together, forced to fight forever. Apart, there is hope.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  They cease to struggle against each other and settle into a kind of coexistence. Two essences brushing borders, overlapping.

  Goals are shared. The commander wishes to find and destroy the Malice and make the Hammer that Walks pay for her betrayal. The Uncivil wishes for freedom and expansion, to break the great wall of light standing between her forces and the north.

  Ideas crackle like lightning within them and plans crystallize. The half-lifers halt their attack on the last Knight of Jade and Ash. They collect the battered body and take it to one of Wonderland’s many workshops. New legs are brought, broken ones cut away. The Uncivil’s arts will transform the knight into a weapon and the commander’s order will fire it.

  While the knight pursues the Malice, the commander will help the Uncivil’s forces win their battle.

  But first, the Malice must be found.

  Essence pulses through the veins of the city, surging up and out, following pipes, ascending. In towers across the city, Bonewings stir, raised up on flexible arms that hurl them skyward. Eager winds catch the abominations, carrying them out towards the wall, a flight of unblinking eyes, searching.

  The goat stands on the sharp-angled beach, insulting gravity. She watches people scurry without compassion.

  A rag tag collection of objects sit near the water, plastic containers, bits of pipe and the wing of a hoverjet, forgotten casualties of the long war. Harm has appropriated some clothing, he does not say from where. While he tears the fabric into long strips, the Vagrant and the Hammer lash the junk together.

  Next to them, Vesper works on a project of her own.

  Both constructions collapse regularly. When the larger structure breaks, it sends people into the water, arms waving to retrieve valuable parts. In the case of the smaller one, it requires the Vagrant deliver consolation and cuddles.

  Persistence eventually overcomes inexperience and a raft takes shape. It is ugly and asymmetrical, with a tendency to lean to one side. Regardless, it floats, and the group allow themselves a modest celebration. The Vagrant signals for them to embark and they do, each new passenger lowering the raft another fraction. The Hammer is among the last to board, climbing on to the highest corner. The raft tilts, dramatic, but holds. At her insistence the goat jumps on and settles between her legs. Satisfied, she collects a large pole that trails cables from one end and uses it to push them out.

  Few can swim so they tie their wrists and fates to the raft.

  Progress is gentle. As they follow the coastline sounds of battle wash over them, distant and surreal, mixing oddly with the clunks of debris against their vessel’s side. Cliffs loom and above them, the wall, bleaching the sky bright. They pass by without incident, relieved and surprised in equal measure.

  As danger recedes, stomachs growl and voices bicker. Cold and hunger attack tenuous friendships.

  The Vagrant holds up a hand for attention. Scope to o
ne eye, he is watching the cliffs. They follow his finger, seeing a path that winds through the rocks, narrow, safe.

  Two of the Hammer’s punts are enough to bring them to dock. Wobbly legs struggle on wet rocks but, one by one, the group return to land. The Hammer anchors the raft to an outcropping of rock and leaps from the water onto the shore.

  White lights weave in a figure of eight inches from her boots. She looks down, giving a grunt of surprise as they travel up her legs and over the plates on her belly.

  They pause in the centre of her chest, the swirling pattern narrowing to a single point.

  Air explodes, punching the Hammer backwards, white fire trailing from her front. Screams and shouts go high and people low, throwing themselves into cover. Roaring, the Hammer tears the breastplate off and hurls it away. More lights appear across her prone body, sketching arcs on exposed skin.

  The Vagrant steps over and laser sights jump from her chest to his. He draws the sword, high, saluting, its deep sound humming through stones and teeth.

  Lights veer away.

  With the threat gone, Harm edges up behind the Vagrant, managing an unhappy baby. ‘Hello?’ he calls up the cliffs.

  A voice answers, amplified. ‘What’s your situation down there?’

  ‘We’ve got a group of escapees from Slake. They’re weak, hungry and in need of medical attention. Can you help us?’

  ‘Hold your position, I’ll find out. What about the half-breed, do you have it under control?’

  Harm keeps his voice calm. ‘She doesn’t pose a threat to us.’

  ‘Not now she doesn’t. Looked like a mean one though.’

  ‘No, she’s friendly. She’s not the enemy. Do you understand?’

  ‘I hear you but it’s policy to shoot all half-breeds on sight. We thought you were an infiltration party.’

  ‘No. Can we come up?’

  ‘How many people have you got down there?’

  ‘We’re twenty four in total, a mix of adults and children. And one goat.’

  ‘Okay. I have confirmation. You can come up, two at a time. We’ll need to screen you for mutation but we’ll take in everybody that passes as human.’