The Vagrant (16 page)

Max and Maxi move to the front. They turn; the sister raises her voice: ‘Is this our city?’

‘Yes!’

‘Did you fight for it?’

‘Yes!’

‘Will you fight again?’

‘Yes!’

‘And will you win?’

‘Yes!’

‘I said,’ she bellows, ‘will we win?’

‘Yes!’ they shout. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’

From around a corner comes the sound of clanking armour, at which the crowd’s chanting falters to a murmur. A figure steps out in front of them and a feeling of dread leeches into the waiting army. Four more knights join the first, their armour writhing as if trying to escape its host, stretching and straining and collapsing back into shape. Endlessly, hopelessly.

The crowd’s front line trembles, guns point uncertainly toward the knights.

‘Hey down there!’ shouts Tough Call, leaning from a high window.

The knights march on, heedless.

In her only hand the woman holds a rocket launcher. Soot clings to the filigree around the barrel. ‘I’d stop if I were you.’

Three feet from the crowd, the knights pause.

The rebels are forced to gaze at their enemies. They do not recognize their fallen champions within the pitted, breathing metal. Quietly, they despair.

From her perch, Tough Call has strength to share. ‘That’s better,’ she continues. ‘Everyone, let them through, and somebody open the gates!’

A ragged path opens as the crowd pulls back.

‘Just so there’s no misunderstanding, I am a hundred per cent behind you leaving Verdigris. But if you so much as threaten any of my people or try and come back, know that we’ll be waiting for you.’

There is a pause, lengthy. The knights are fathomless, impossible to read. People begin to sweat. A gauntlet moves to grasp a warped hilt. Four others echo the gesture.

‘Just give me an excuse,’ says Tough Call, watching them through winged sights. Led by her example, scores of guns find their courage, clicking in salute, ready.

Turning slowly, the knights take in their opponents, measuring each one. Every individual feels their images being taken, burned into alien memory. Then, swords still sheathed, the knights march from Verdigris.

Tough Call punches the air and the rebels cheer, drawing warmth from each other. They shout and laugh till the knights are tiny dolls in the distance. With a bang, the north gate closes, unable to shut out the secret dread flowering in their hearts.

Stones slip underfoot, under fingers. The mountain is keen to move the Vagrant on. He stays upright, mostly. Skating and stumbling, making his way down. At his side, the sword thrums a warning. The Vagrant stops and half draws the weapon. It stares back up the mountainside. He follows the arrow of its gaze.

Keeping her distance, nestled in the rocks, he sees the Hammer. Amber eyes seek the sky briefly, asking hard questions.

The sky does not care to answer.

He continues his descent, pausing sometimes to raise the scope to his eye, scanning the flatlands below. It is a clear day and the small round screen soon finds Harm’s body, bringing it close. Vesper is next to him, hands and feet drawing circles in the air. A half smile finds its way onto the Vagrant’s face. He puts the scope away and heads towards the distant speck. The sword growls softly all the way.

By late evening he arrives.

From his back, Harm raises a hand in greeting. ‘I can’t believe it! You’re alive!’

The Vagrant nods and squats next to Vesper. Toes are tickled, smiles exchanged. The Vagrant sniffs the air and leans back, wrinkling his nose.

Vesper giggles.

‘She needs a change,’ Harm adds needlessly. ‘You’ll have to do it. When you’re done, can you look at my leg? I think it’s broken.’

The Vagrant gets to work. Soiled clothes are removed. Naked legs pedal with increased vigour. The Vagrant starts cleaning, then reaches for something that isn’t there. He stops mid-motion. A frown dawns.

‘Your goat’s run away,’ says Harm. ‘And she’s taken our supplies with her.’

Still frowning, the Vagrant removes his scarf and wraps Vesper in it.

‘She’ll need feeding soon. We all will. Do you have a plan?’

The Vagrant doesn’t answer, crawling over to examine Harm’s leg.

‘How does it look?’

The green-eyed man studies the silence. ‘Oh. Isn’t there anything you can do?’ The Vagrant presses his lips together, his face paling. ‘Please, help me!’

‘EeeeeEEEEeee!’ says Vesper.

The Vagrant gives a tiny shake of his head and shuffles backwards.

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.

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.

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.