The Vagrant

by Peter Newman

  The stone is thicker here, forming a second barrier to those seeking passage. The Vagrant stops and looks at the sword. It looks back and something like agreement seems to pass between them. He puts Vesper down on the ground, guiding the toddler behind him.

  Obeisance and the Knight Commander take a step back.

  The sword swings, singing, and rock falls like rain, breaking into chunks, into powder. Gleaming doors are unveiled. They open for the Vagrant as he limps forward, sword held high. Vesper is dragged after, clinging to the back of the Vagrant’s coat.

  The Knight Commander raises a foot to follow and an eye glares at him. Swallowing, he puts it back. Obeisance gets the same treatment. The sword watches them both until the doors close.

  Pale lights illuminate The Seven’s inner chamber. Once bright, the lamps are overgrown, dimmed by a sheet of stone. The room is octagonal, one side for the supplicant, unadorned. Six others each house a figure, statue-like, covered from head to toe in a thick layer of rock. All appear human shaped, with discernible wings, their postures neutral, dead. The seventh alcove lies empty.

  The Vagrant holds the sword up, letting it hum, calling, calling.

  As if returning from a dream, The Seven respond, slowly, sonorously. Splitting the shells that cover them, yawning into life. One by one, they catch the call and return it, till the harmony swells, reverberating from the walls and leaping up, vanishing into the fathomless, ceilingless dark above.

  Beautiful sounds mature, becoming words, musical, passed from one to the other, filling the chamber and the Vagrant’s ears.

  ‘Mourning has become morning, and we rejoice …’

  ‘We rejoice in the proximity of your flame once more …’

  ‘Once more we are Seven …’

  ‘Are Seven together, come …’

  ‘Come and join with us …’

  ‘Join with us your light, diminished but still bright.’

  Six arms drift out, gesturing to the last alcove, inviting.

  Neither Vagrant nor sword move. An eye studies the chamber, pausing at each alcove, noting the blades housed there, buried beneath layers of stone, useless. Rage simmers between sword and Vagrant. He takes a lock of hair from an inner pocket, throws it down on the floor between them. The sword lowers to point at it, then sweeps across the figures, then makes a hard stab towards the doors.

  Six faces freeze as the joyous echoes of song die out.

  The Vagrant swallows in a throat suddenly dry.

  Vesper dares a quick peek from behind the Vagrant’s coat.

  Alpha, of The Seven, sings out. The note begins wondrous but imperfect, the others soon match him.

  ‘We see now your pain, most furious …’

  ‘Most furious you are and desperate to fight …’

  ‘To fight once more, your desire …’

  ‘Your desire we grant, go forth, take a second flame to our enemies …’

  Voices come together, their force rocking the Vagrant backwards until he is pinned to the wall. Vesper holds his hand tightly, little feet rising from the floor.

  ‘Do not stop …’

  ‘Stop when the cancer …’

  ‘Cancer is cut …’

  ‘Cut from the bones …’

  ‘Bones and flesh …’

  ‘Flesh of the land …’

  ‘Land is clean!’

  The Vagrant closes his eyes, squeezes them tight. He braces himself against the sound, pulling Vesper behind him raising the sword in front. Silvered wings unfurl protectively, shielding his face. An eye widens, blazing with indignation.

  ‘Then …’

  ‘Then, then and only then …’

  ‘Only then will you be free …’

  ‘Be free to return to us …’

  ‘Return to us and rejoice …’

  ‘Rejoice for true, complete again. Immaculate.’

  Six go quiet, demands echoing after. Vesper’s feet touch floor again and she wraps herself around a comforting leg.

  In the Vagrant’s hand, the sword trembles, humming dangerously. He takes a deep breath. From the depths of his stomach something is forged, travelling inevitably, gaining force as it goes, following tubes behind ribs, up through the chest, into the throat, teeth parting, allowing it outside.

  The Vagrant opens his eyes, they are full of weariness, disgust, conviction.

  ‘No.’

  The Knight Commander and Obeisance wait before the doors, indecisive. Of the two she is the more composed, having endured The Seven’s silence for many years. Before it was empty, a void which threatened to swallow her, bone and soul. Now, it is full of potential, deafening. The inhalation before the storm. Such subtleties are lost on the Knight Commander. Dimly, he perceives a deep and fathomless terror, nothing more.

  Regardless, the two wait, held in place by strong will and stronger training.

  ‘That sound, that was Them, wasn’t it? They’ve returned.’

  Obeisance does not take her eyes from the doors. ‘They never left us.’

  ‘Of course. I did not mean … But that was Them, and They sounded joyous. That was a good sign, was it not?’

  ‘Did you feel joyous when you heard Them?’

  The passing of those feelings have left tracks in his spirit, easy to find and recall. ‘Yes.’ He does not add that he felt more than simple joy, does not dare.

  ‘And how do you feel now?’

  ‘I …’ He tails off.

  ‘Precisely,’ she adds. There is a wrinkle in her cape, irritating. She does not touch it, does not move. Her stillness serves to underscore each creak of his armour, each nervous breath.

  The doors swing open and they both bow, deferent.

  The Vagrant strides out, sword in one hand, Vesper wrapped around the other. He passes them by without pause.

  The Knight Commander risks a glance. Eyes widen in surprise and words blurt. ‘Wait! Where are you going? What’s going to happen to us?’

  His question bounces off the Vagrant’s back, unnoticed.

  Anger comes, pushing past confusion. The Knight Commander goes in pursuit. Before he can catch up, Obeisance rushes between them, forming an obstacle stronger than steel, a wall built of oaths and honour. He cannot move her, cannot even touch her. For she is an instrument of The Seven, not above him so much as beyond him. It does not stop his anger however. ‘Let me pass. He denied The Seven! He is taking the sword we have waited so long for!’

  She shakes her head. ‘The denial was not his alone.’

  Anger drains, replaced by dread. ‘But what does this mean?’

  ‘It means I must go to inside. Maintain order until I return. Allow none to pass.’

  He nods, glad to hide behind duty.

  Obeisance seems to glide through the doors. They close, leaving the man alone. He ponders what to do as the seconds pass into minutes. Then there is a change in the air. The doors begin to shake, slowly at first, then faster, building, humming. On instinct, the Knight Commander starts to run.

  Tremors pass through the inner sanctum as six voices rise together, passing through stone and silver, through men and women, land and sky.

  Keening.

  With a last pull, the commander’s boot sucks free of the marsh. Samael helps steady him as he moves onto solid ground. They continue the remainder of the journey more directly, a welcome contrast to what has been. Maimed and weakening, the commander has been forced to hide along the way, like a thief. Necessity is well understood but a sour taste remains.

  Nobody stops their approach to the Fallen Palace but things watch, ready to pounce if the commander falls. Several times he staggers on the sloping floors, thoughts drifting, along with his essence.

  But he does not fall.

  Iron will drives him forward. He neither knows nor cares anymore about its origins. When it wavers, Samael is ready at his side, obedient to the last.

  They walk alone through broken streets and under the shadow of buildings, lurching, until at last they
reach a tower, hints of brass hidden behind lichen.

  Samael assists him up winding steps, through corridors well walked. The Man-shape sees them approach and opens the door.

  Inside, the Usurper lurks, its body a mass of repairs. It is hard to reconcile the ailing thing before him with the great monarch whose name inspires fear in human and infernal alike.

  Shrugging off any further help, the commander walks the final steps towards his old master. At every moment he expects to be exposed, for the Usurper to see him for what he is and attack, but it barely seems to notice him.

  As the end of his journey draws close, he stumbles, legs finally giving way to gravity.

  Sensing something at last, the Usurper looks up, opening its arms to receive the commander as he falls.

  The battered shell is drawn close and the Usurper licks the rim of the commander’s visor, drawing back essence spent long ago.

  The commander is absorbed whole, experiences, wants, desires, failures, regrets and something else. A single note, a call to action, a message of malice sent by Gamma’s sword, passed through the commander and into the Usurper.

  As the sound reverberates inside it, dark lines manifest in the Usurper’s essence, scars from its battle with Gamma, still fresh.

  The great infernal feels a flash of terrible pain as old injuries stir from their slumber. It tries to hold itself together, to fight as it has always done, but it is tired, weak, and the scars deepen, open, living wounds that rend the Usurper from within, tearing essence in all directions, singing their song of death.

  The Usurper’s destruction sends ripples through the ether. Invisible, silent, they are nevertheless felt far and wide.

  At the Fallen Palace, infernals pause in their business, slapped with sudden freedom. Thoughts turn to the empty throne and who among them might fill it. Monsters circle one another, wary, while the lesser infernals cluster, gambling on new masters to take them through the coming chaos.

  Further north, in New Horizon, the Demagogue’s relief is palpable. It holds a celebration, grotesque, and begins to plan.

  Elsewhere packs of infernals drift apart. No longer driven by the Usurper’s order, they wander, mindless, allowing petty hungers to lead them. Attacks on human settlements become increasingly random, increasingly petty. Few of the victims appreciate the difference.

  And yet, for many of the invaders, there is a kind of sadness. For the Usurper gave them purpose. It was the Green Sun around which they orbited. Where once an iron will defined them, now there is emptiness and uncertainty.

  The Vagrant steps out of The Seven’s sanctum and into empty space. He doesn’t hesitate, gliding down towards the steps, sword out, Vesper held tight.

  The sword’s silvered wings spread wide, catching invisible currents.

  He lands, takes the stairs at a more stately pace. Down he goes, leaving the Sanctum and The Seven behind. Tension falls away like an old skin. Shoulders relax, straighten. He lifts his gaze from the floor, looks around as he returns to the Shining City.

  An eye does the same, mirroring exactly.

  They see children in groups, chip-linked, so similar in expression, in presentation, it takes effort to tell them apart. They see structures carefully maintained from a bygone age, statues of The Seven and the great shining pillars that give the city its name. They see the last of the knights in their ancestral armour, treasured, polished.

  Nothing new. Nothing but carefully controlled decay covered in beautiful greenery, a civilization lost and stagnant.

  An eye closes, unwilling to see any more.

  The Vagrant walks on, past soldiers and citizens, young and old. He does not fit into their hierachies, there is no codex to apply to him, no social codes that work.

  He is a man without rank and yet he walks in The Seven’s grace, untouchable.

  Most kneel as he passes, all watch, none get in the way.

  Vesper waves cheerily at the crowds. When she does not get a response, she waves all the harder, trying to smile them into submission.

  One of the knights returns the wave formally. Devoid of emotion, the gesture is hollow, eerie.

  They pass windows in the hillside, the only sign of buildings hidden underground and the maze of tunnels that connect them. Faces press against the glass, their expressions blank.

  The Vagrant keeps walking.

  Little legs soon tire and Vesper is lifted onto familiar shoulders. She enjoys the view, pointing at plants, at clouds, calling out names with delight.

  Dutifully, the Vagrant nods, giving her ankle an encouraging squeeze each time she manages a new word.

  The purging facility is not covered with a carpet of grass. It stands solid, metal walls dull, catching rather than reflecting the light. It is shaped like an egg, twenty feet high and ten across and every inch is covered in etchings, a blend of language and artistry. Words become wings and swords and hands that hold them, drawing the eye to its only entrance. All unfortunates that end up here go through this door. Those that survive leave via the tunnel on the opposite side.

  Next to the facility is a second building, only partially above ground. Simpler in design but larger, where bodies recover from their ordeal or undergo preparation for burial.

  The Vagrant approaches the second building.

  A man stands outside, his uniform crisp. He holds up a hand. ‘Who are you?’

  Vesper waves at him. ‘Esper!’

  The man is not amused. ‘I’ve not been informed of any inspection. Who are you? Where is your authority?’

  The Vagrant raises an eyebrow, raises the sword.

  The man looks at it, double takes. ‘I, forgive me, I had no idea, I …’ He opens the door.

  As Vesper trots past, she looks at the man, then points at the Vagrant with extreme satisfaction. ‘Dada.’

  The inside of the building is divided into cells, all locked. Rooms of healing, of holding, where those that survive the purging await official approval of their purity and permission to return to society.

  The doors are transparent, and the Vagrant looks into each room as he passes. Sir Phia sits hunched in one cell, her eyes dark, her body wasted. Jaden’s body is next door, an unrecognizable husk, awaiting disposal. Nurses attend to the living and the dead with equal care.

  In another cell, he sees one of the sisters from Slake, weak but alive, and yet another, the boy Chalk, heavily sedated and fighting a fever.

  He makes eye contact with those he knows, nodding encouragement, concern creeping into his face each time he comes across an empty room.

  At last he finds what he is looking for and opens the door. Vesper goes in first, frowning at the cell’s occupant: A man with bandages wrapping the top half of his face.

  ‘Umbull-arm?’

  The man’s voice cracks as he answers. ‘Vesper? Is that you?’

  ‘Umbull-arm!’

  The Vagrant races Vesper across the room and all three embrace, wrapping each other in a circle of arms, foreheads touching, safe.

  A dark shape moves under the water, running on silent engines. It moves slowly, navigating its way past energy nets and dormant sentinel drones, treating the drifting husks with caution, lest contact wake them again.

  It surfaces at the coast, allowing a single passenger to disembark.

  The First has not been this far north before. The presence of infernal feet on the northern continent is historic. It is pleased how easy it is, and wary. For it feels The Seven even from this distance. Their grief shakes the sky, disturbing the essence currents for miles around.

  Ever patient, the First observes the lights above that so few can see, prepared to run if things develop. But soon the signs are clear. This storm will pass and The Seven will quieten, returning to their self imposed exile.

  It tries to sense the Malice but cannot perceive anything within the strange walls of the city.

  For now, the north is too dangerous for the First to interfere. Better to consolidate its hold on the seas and the Em
pire’s many colonies.

  The underwater vessel turns around, returning south, leaving a fragment of the First behind, to watch, to wait.

  On top of a hill sits a house, half built. Vesper lies in the grass nearby, plucking with both hands and throwing their contents into the air. Wind catches the loose blades, swirling them in spirals of green.

  The goat does not approve of such waste. A small army of kids work voraciously by her feet, keeping the hill neat. Male goats wait at the hill’s base, knowing better than to venture up uninvited.

  By an unfinished wall, two men sit. They talk quietly, kindly. One is scarred, the other blind, both appear happy.

  At their side a sword sleeps, peaceful.

  Acknowledgments

  This feels a bit like my wedding speech, with so many wonderful people to thank. First off, an honourable mention to all those who believed in The Vagrant during the early days, the lovely Friday Flash community and my test readers: Katherine Hajer, Conall O’Brien, Liz Newman, Mike Newman, Phil Tozer and John Xero, who fed me with enthusiasm and educated where necessary.

  A massive thanks has to go to my agent Juliet Mushens for, well, pretty much everything really but especially the lightning-fast edits, calming presence and always replying promptly to my panicky emails! I hope this is the first of many books we usher into the world together.

  And then there’s my editor of awesomeness, Natasha Bardon, whose taste in books is matched only by her taste in games. Thanks for giving The Vagrant a chance and for helping it to grow. May all of our editing experiences be as painless as this one!

  I’m also delighted with the artist Jaime Jones for creating a cover that makes me smile every time I see it. There are others, too, people I’d never even thought about before I started this process, who all contribute in vital ways but are rarely mentioned: my copy editor (thanks, Joy), the designer who brought the cover elements together (thanks, Dom), and others in the Harper Voyager team, many of whom work from the shadows like book ninjas. Thank you, all!

  Last of all I need to thank my wife, Emma, who realised back in 2011 that I was a frustrated writer and put me on the path. Thank you, my love. I dread to think where I’d be without you.