by Peter Newman
Passengers find themselves alive, injuries widespread but minor. Nobody celebrates, saving that for Deke’s appraisal of the ship and their chances.
‘Well,’ he reports. ‘She ain’t flying again but I reckon she can still manage calm waters. Second time that’s happened. If I’m not careful, I’m gonna get me a reputation.’
He deploys two emergency rafts, self-inflating spheres of plastic that he tethers to the mother vessel. Powerless but buoyant, the rafts are soon stuffed with people. A few have followed the Vagrant on this last leg to the Shining City, a mish mash of people from different places. Deke and his nephew Genner come from Six Circles, Chalk and the other escapees from Griggsy’s employ tag along, as much to avoid going home as to travel anywhere specific, and lastly there are those rescued from Slake, who survived sickness, travelled to the wall and fled to First Circle when it fell.
Vesper sits up front with Deke, both talking rapidly. Occasionally they wait for the other to finish. Often they giggle. The goat stands on one wing, at ease with the rocking motion. The Vagrant sits on the other.
Harm is crouched by the cockpit’s entrance. ‘Deke, can I ask you something?’
‘Sure can, long as you don’t mind me answering it.’
‘Do you think we can make the journey like this?’
‘Well, we can’t just blunder any old way across the waves like one of them big cruisers, we got to work with the currents and the winds where we can.’ He pats the dashboard. ‘This old girl’s got all the regular charts stored, plus I got a few I found the hard way.’
Harm begins to relax. ‘Aren’t you worried about the First following us?’
‘That’s land-thinking, that is. Not much point worrying. Nope, if any hostile vessel finds us we’re screwed. Just like if the weather turns bad or if one of our engines gives out, or if—’
Harm cuts in. ‘I think I get it now, thanks, Deke.’
‘You should take your cue from Vesper here.’
‘Esper!’
‘Yep, this little feller’s a natural. When everything’s going alright, best thing you can do is sit back and enjoy it till things turn to shit, which they surely will.’
Silence takes over, the open sea encouraging contemplation. The suns swirl slowly out of sight behind a bank of cloud, hastening darkness.
‘Hey everyone,’ calls Deke, cheerily. ‘Good news: We’re not far from the Spine Run! We can follow the land for miles and make good time. And my navpack’ll get us through the rocks no problems. When the suns are up tomorrow we’ll start the run. In the meantime we can get some rest on Tail Rock.’
Tail Rock is neither long nor thin. Shaped like a battered spade, its name comes solely from its position, the first in a line of undersea mountains that march to the horizon.
They set up camp. The goat sets off to explore and is uninspired by the local army of sea birds and their messy paintwork.
The humans need no more excitement, happy to huddle in the camp. Most people fall quickly to sleep. A circle of heaters provide warmth and gentle light, reassuring and soft. Conversations become reflective, intimate, then fade away, to be forgotten.
Hours later, a scrabble of hooves on stone stirs people awake. Birds shriek and take to the air, abandoning nests and young. Desperate calls penetrate the skulls of even the heaviest sleepers. The goat charges past camp and leaps onto Deke’s ship. Without pause she dives into the cockpit, vanishing from sight.
Lights are turned to full. People look at each other and then at the blank sky for answers.
At the Vagrant’s side, the sword stirs, restless.
‘Up there,’ says Chalk, shining his light upward. On the rocks, high where the birds usually hold sway, is a silhouette, broad, imposing. Armour glints in patches, is dark in others. The silhouette moves, drawing a sword that twists and moans, challenging.
The lonely sound lingers, hanging in ears long after it should.
‘I don’t hear any others,’ says Harm.
Genner unslings his rifle. ‘Let’s take it together.’
‘I’m not usually up for a fight but if you need me, I’m there,’ adds Deke.
Two of the three sisters from Slake share the sentiment. The rest appear lost, frightened. They back towards the ship, following the goat’s example.
The Vagrant’s gaze seems distant as he takes in their faces. With closed eyes he plants a kiss on Vesper’s forehead. It is a goodbye, unwelcome. Vesper clings to the Vagrant, crying as her fingers are prised free. Harm’s waiting arms are poor consolation.
‘So what’s the plan?’ asks Genner, nervous and eager. The Vagrant puts his hands on the young man’s shoulders, easing him back into his seat. ‘But I don’t get it … We’re with you, we all are. We’re ready to fight.’ The Vagrant nods, begins to back away. ‘You don’t have to do this alone!’ After a last, sad smile, the Vagrant begins to climb. In desperation, the guard turns to Harm. ‘I don’t get it. Why’d he smile at me?’
‘Because that’s what I normally say. And because it’s not true. Even if he wanted to be, he’s never alone.’
High up, the rocks are slippery with sea foam and bird droppings. The commander watches the bearer of the Malice clamber towards him. There is an impulse to strike now, send the enemy to their death on the stony beach, but another, less logical, makes him wait. A reason comes after: the Malice must be destroyed, its essence ruined, silenced. To lose it to the sea would mean death for the master.
And himself.
But it is not reason that stays his hand. With growing self awareness, he knows this. The thought is without context or sense, unsatisfying, nothing more than the fact it would feel wrong. Of late, the commander misses his former certainty.
Imprisoned in his hands, the tainted sword cries ceaselessly, metal twisting free of shape, stretching, threatening to split, then falling back, a blade again.
When the bearer finishes his climb, he pauses, chest heaving. The commander waits for the mortal to recover breath and approach. It is not the first time the two have met but previously one has fled the other, or third parties have been distracting. Now, when the Malice wakes and the air bursts with light, the two see only each other.
The commander notes the bearer’s face, the open mouth, the wide eyes. He is used to inspiring fear and horror but this is different: this is the shock of recognition. The bearer knows him, has seen his shell before. The commander wonders if it will have a chance to pluck that knowledge from the bearer’s mind before destroying him.
They raise their swords. Neither are knights but both use the salute of the Seraph, compelled by habits thought forgotten.
The Malice strikes first and quickly, crackling with rage. Each physical attack is parried but the commander feels sparks showering his chest, disturbing the essence within.
To be this close to the Malice is draining, and the commander realizes that the fight cannot be allowed to go on for long. He forces the bearer to fight at his pace, swinging powerfully, relentlessly, pushing the enemy back until his feet slip on uneven stones.
Taking the opportunity, the commander feints and chops for the wrists. The enemy uses a complex counter, reversing the attack, changing the flow of combat, moving smoothly into a combination, blurring and brilliant.
Familiar.
The commander blocks the first flurry unconsciously, his shell doing what is needed without instruction. Part way through the combination’s second section he predicts where the Malice will strike next. Again without context he knows these movements. Knows that they are his creation. A wave of exultation passes through him as he steps unexpectedly, throwing the enemy off balance and aiming to take off a leg.
Somehow the enemy brings the Malice down to parry but the bearer’s stance is weak and the commander pushes harder, his sword biting deep into a thigh until a wild swing of the Malice forces him back. Rage sings out from the sword, making armour vibrate, shaking the very glue that holds the commander together. He bears the discomfort,
seeing the move for what it is, desperate.
The sword sings a different note and the bearer lays the flat of the blade against his recently injured thigh. Skin sizzles as the bearer’s wound staunches itself, purifying, painful. Agony clouds eyes with tears, squeezing them shut. The enemy is stunned, momentarily blind and defenceless.
The commander takes his chance.
Moaning, his sword comes down.
Meeting another as it swings across.
For the enemy is not blind. A third eye, the sword’s, remains open, blazing fury. The parry is elemental, inhumanly strong and in a shower of shards and relief, the commander’s sword shatters.
He is left with the hilt, smoking, useless. He throws it away.
Unarmed, he watches his half-fallen opponent, twisted down on one knee, wracked with pain.
Gauntleted fists clench, swinging for the bearer’s head.
To the commander it seems as if the sword is the first to rise, drawing the bearer with it. His first strike is parried, then the second, severing both limbs at the elbow. He lets momentum carry his body forward, moving inside the Malice’s reach, slamming into the bearer.
They fall together, the commander pinning his enemy with weight alone. Amber eyes stare into the darkness of his visor, held by the wisps of green moving inside.
Unarmed, maimed, the commander has one gambit left, to bend the bearer to his will. Essence moves through the slits in the commander’s visor, a smoke that drips down onto the bearer’s face, slipping through his skin, making contact.
Physical things fall away, becoming distant, irrelevant. The commander exists outside of time, gathering within the fog inside the soul of the man. Here there are no secrets. Through the man’s eyes, the commander sees himself, experiences revulsion and something else.
Sadness?
Yes; when he looks at the commander he remembers the previous inhabitant of his body: the Knight Commander of the Seraph and loyal servant of The Seven.
The commander sees an image: a bearded man with hard eyes and a harder voice, proud, quick-witted and tough as stone.
He is mesmerized by this, and the awe it inspires in the bearer. To learn more becomes all and the commander pushes harder, deeper, immersing himself in the past.
But then he detects another vein of memories, even richer than the ones on his tongue, and he chases them. But each time he gets close, they recede deeper, teasing him, luring him on.
He follows without question, drawn by another presence lurking within the bearer’s soul, more dangerous than memories.
And then, within the dark soup of their shared essence he hears a sound, reverberating deep inside. It is majestic, mournful, bigger than both of them.
The Malice.
It calls to him and he finds himself answering in a voice not his own. Hidden within his own confusions, the conflict between himself and the master, the questions and possibilities raised by the Uncivil, the mystery of his past. The commander feels something else stir, an echo of the Malice that lies within him, that has always been there, sleeping.
Around him, the sense of man fades, murky fog burnt away by star-bright essence, silver-laced and edged in darkness, a chorus of wings spiralling around an eye.
And before thought can form, it takes him.
One Year Ago
From above, the arrangement of bodies seems artful. A man lies on his back, arms splayed at right angles. Smoke drifts gently from his open mouth. At his side, the sword sleeps, sated. In the immediate vicinity the ground is scorched black and small lumps are scattered around him, a decorative pattern. Further away, the shapes increasingly retain form and colour, becoming men and beasts, infernal and half-breed, all lying together, unified in emptiness.
The village is silent.
Only the man’s chest moves and only then with reluctance.
Time passes.
From somewhere nearby, crying begins.
Amber eyes open and stare blankly at the sky. They fail to track the movement of the clouds.
Time passes.
Eventually, they close again.
The crying continues, muffled, pathetic.
Eyes squeeze tight against the sound, then fly open, painfully aware. The man rolls onto his side and gets up. Every movement is laboured, an act of will. He stumbles forward, leaving the sword in the ashes. He does not need to listen to know which house the crying comes from.
The building looks battered, its front door buckled, half torn open.
He finds the energy to run.
Inside is carnage. A Dogspawn has been killed with improvised weapons. Broken handles protrude from its flanks and nails pepper its sides. One has lodged in the half-breed’s skull, an upside down exclamation mark.
Three corpses are also present, made messy by jagged teeth. Their blood carpets everything. He kneels by a woman’s broken body. She lies on the floor, face down. Even so, she is recognizable. Reela. Gently, he turns her over, revealing a ruined landscape of arms and chest. He stumbles backwards, bloodstained hands covering his mouth. Reela is still in her bedclothes. It is clear that she fought the Dogspawn unarmed. It is easy to imagine the fight was short.
Colour drains from his face as legs waver. A wall catches him and he leans into it, eyes closing.
After a while stunned ears tune in to the crying. It has become hoarse now.
He crouches down and looks under the bed to find a face, purple and strained, looking back at him.
There is no decision to be made. He pulls the baby out and lifts it up, striding from the house with quick steps. He doesn’t look back, the sight already dream-etched, permanent.
Once outside he tries to soothe the screaming child but no words come, just a pain that flares in the throat. Slowly, he sinks to his knees, holding the baby close.
Both cry.
After a while the baby sleeps. He gets up again. Evening is coming and he uses the last of the light to count Dogspawn bodies.
There are many but not enough. Somewhere in the nearby woods the pack endures.
He collects the sword, pulls a coat from one of the corpses, wrapping it around him and the baby. Its forehead rests against his neck, alarmingly hot. He frowns and starts toward New Horizon. A broken man with no voice, no friends and no home. A vagrant.
The suns dip below the horizon and howling starts as if on cue.
He does not try and hide his tracks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
‘I’ve seen worse,’ says Deke, bending forward, hands on thighs. ‘But I’ve seen a lot better.’
‘Will he live?’ Harm asks softly.
‘I reckon. Might not be so lively for a while.’
The Vagrant lies flat, covered with a blanket. On the exposed ground, winds are cruel. All present shiver.
‘Course the real question is how we’re gonna get him back down again.’
‘Ssh!’ says Harm. ‘I think he’s waking up.’
They watch him expectantly, Deke blowing into cupped hands, Harm biting his lip.
With a grimace, the Vagrant wakes.
‘Welcome back,’ says Harm.
The Vagrant returns the smile, grimaces again. His hand moves questioningly towards his right temple.
‘Careful, Scout,’ warns Deke. ‘We haven’t had a chance to clean you up yet.’
More gently, the Vagrant explores the side of his head. He finds stripes cut through his hair; where he touches the skin it’s smooth, burn white. Fingers track down to where a sliver of metal threads through his cheek, welded in place.
‘Did he use one of them shrapnel guns on you, Scout?’
The Vagrant shakes his head.
‘A grenade?’
‘No,’ says Harm. ‘Genner says he saw the other knight’s sword explode.’
‘Damn. So you got him good then, Scout?’
The Vagrant sits up and stares at the two severed arms lying side by side, then nods, uncertain.
‘Are you in pain,’ asks Harm. In answer,
the Vagrant holds up a hand, finger and thumb a quarter inch apart. ‘Bearable then. Enough to let us winch you down?’
‘Gonna have to be,’ interrupts Deke. ‘We put plenty of the good stuff in your veins, it ain’t gonna get any easier than this.’
The Vagrant draws back the blanket, pointing to a silvery patch on his thigh. He raises an eyebrow.
‘Your face ain’t too pretty no more but its mainly just surface stuff. Your leg is where the problems are gonna be. Don’t worry though, I happen to have some top-of-the-line burn meds stashed away for a rainy day.’ The old man winks. ‘Best not to ask how I came across them.’
They winch him down the rocks to a collection of waiting hands that carry him to Deke’s boat. Despite the discomfort, the Vagrant relaxes, letting others take his weight for a time. Before he is stowed aboard, sleep comes.
At first light the trio of vessels leave, daring the sharp edges of the Spine Run in return for its quick currents and shallow waters.
The Vagrant sits in his customary place on the wing, one leg outstretched, the other drawn up against his chest. Harm sits next to him.
From the cockpit, Vesper calls: ‘G-on.’
‘What’s that?’ asks Harm.
‘G-on.’
‘Gone?’
‘Gone!’
‘Gone? What’s gone?’
‘Dada.’
‘No,’ smiles Harm, ‘he’s right here.’ The Vagrant turns to face the toddler and smiles too.
Vesper takes their smiles and doubles them. ‘Gone!’
‘Oh,’ says Harm, realization dawning. ‘She’s talking about your teeth. You must have lost one in the fight.’
The Vagrant’s tongue probes around his mouth, finding the spaces. He sighs, holds up two fingers.
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure they can fit you with new ones at the Shining City. When you get there, you’ll be a hero. They’ll probably promote you, maybe even build a statue in your honour.’ Harm’s laugh dies when he sees the Vagrant’s face. ‘Look, what I was trying to say is that things are going to change soon, and for the better. There’s a place for you in the Shining City. I’m just not sure if there’s a place for me.’ His voice quietens, getting harder to hear. ‘Deep down I knew this couldn’t last but it felt so good, I didn’t want it to stop.’ He notes the Vagrant’s puzzled look. ‘You don’t know what I’m talking about do you?’