The Vagrant (23 page)

‘Yes. Will you keep it for me?’

‘Yes.’ She touches her belly. ‘Here. In deep.’

‘We’ve all had to do terrible things to survive. This world makes us cruel. I thought it was the way of things until I met him. He’s different. I don’t know how to explain it, it’s like he’s found a way to hang on, despite everything. But it’s precarious, you know?’

‘No.’

‘I mean, he’s holding on but only just, only with fingertips, and I can’t bear to let him fall. Does that make sense?’

The Hammer thinks. ‘No.’

‘I see him and Vesper together and I want to protect them from everything out there.’

‘Ah. Yes.’

‘And sometimes I have this feeling, that they need us to help them. And I think that if I can do that, keep them safe somehow, then maybe there might be some hope for me, too.’

‘Hope?’

‘I’m saying that if I stay with them, I might become someone else, someone better. And that person could have the kind of life I’d given up on.’

The Hammer’s face dips shyly. ‘And me?’

‘Yes!’ whispers Harm, fierce. ‘And you. All of us together.’

‘Good.’ She strokes the sleeping goat with a hand, unprotected.

Dinner is served and the goat is awake. Four mouths work in concert, savouring warm, oily flesh.

Vesper does not join them. She is busy. Summoning her power, she turns the world, spinning the floor behind her and the ceiling above. Words of encouragement and a gentle touch pass her by. A question demands an answer. Can old order be restored? She tries to wind things backwards but it is harder. Strange forces resist her efforts. She howls her anger.

Familiar hands move her onto her front. She calms, takes a breath and tries again.

Later, lips smack and thin bones are picked clean. Vesper flops over and over, grin winking every other turn, contagious. But hard work and full bellies demand their due. The fire’s warmth lulls and comforts, sleep soon follows.

The last of the Knights of Jade and Ash runs across the empty field. Its broken form has been remade, severed parts replaced, a hotchpotch of mismatched limbs. Dead muscles pump beneath grey skin, forcing strides long and even, naked legs ridiculous beneath armoured torso. Its shell is near empty, a sheath for a weapon and little else, held together by the Uncivil’s arts and the commander’s orders. Fear and battle and surgery and invasions of the soul, repeated, have taken their toll.

Single-minded, fashioned for a final act of misery, it follows the Bonewings, racing towards the coast. It arrives at the beach of junk and glass where others have come recently, and plunges over the side. The sheer incline is no obstacle, adding momentum, propelling it down, fast. The knight reaches the beach’s edge and stabs through the water, submerging, vanishing from sight.

In the gloom beneath, steps become timeless, each one stretching out, an ode to flight. Onward it goes, until it passes under a shadow on the surface, irregular. Stopping, the knight climbs the natural wall, rising from depths, emerging to a starlit sky. Its helm rotates, noting the vessel of junk bobbing nearby, the wire tying it to the rocks by the cave and the flickering fire within.

Seeing its target, the knight pulls itself out of the water. Convulsions stagger its approach, body bucking as the essence within begins to burn.

Pain jolts the Vagrant awake. He looks for trouble, finds none. Time has quietened the fire, lighting the cave in soft ember shades. He lifts a hand and turns it slowly, revealing a point of blood, fresh on his palm. At his side, the sword twitches, wings parted, metal feathers unashamedly tipped in red.

An eye is open, glaring angrily.

Moving into a crouch, the Vagrant grasps at the sword’s hilt, sliding it free. He hurries to the cave’s entrance. Just outside sits a statue, part melted, of jade and steel, of skin and bone. The helmet slides down, sinking into the boiling body. Armour ripples, hot, blowing bubbles of living green. They grow, stretch, pop, releasing a hissing stream of essence. It fades from sight as it enters the world, too rarefied for mortal eyes.

The Vagrant steps aside, sword raised protectively, but for once, he is not the target. The threat passes him and vibrations guide his arm in a circular arc, the sword humming low, tracing the projectile, invisible. When the blade stops, it points toward the sleeping Hammer.

Something lands in her open mouth, forcing it shut.

The Vagrant creeps closer.

She swallows several times, breathing rapidly, her face folding inward.

Jaw clenched, the Vagrant raises the sword. He watches the struggle, a sentence suspended above her sleeping form.

Visibly, the set of her features alter, sculpted by hands unseen. Muscles ripple and tighten, peace erasing itself from her expression, making way for hate. She groans, restless and eyelids flutter, preparing to open.

The sword pulls at his hands, eager to dive down, to burn and cleanse. The Vagrant holds on, intent on the Hammer’s face, searching, hoping.

Lips curl and teeth mash together, grinding in rage, in pain.

The sword trembles in the air, expectant, forcing the Vagrant to grip tighter, knuckles whitening.

She wakes, her face twisting towards the Usurper’s likeness, then back. A storm of expressions. It is unclear what will lies behind them.

She moves – and the Vagrant drives the sword into her unarmoured chest, too quick for screams. Blue shines from within, lighting ribs, stilling limbs. From a slack fist, two coins roll drunkenly and fall over.

The Vagrant rests his head against the pommel, squeezing his eyes shut.

A beat after, an eye closes.

Carefully, the Vagrant slips the blade free and sheaths it. He arranges the Hammer’s arms across her chest and retrieves the coins. For a long time he stares at them. Finally he taps them together and they sing, a two part requiem. When they are finished, the Vagrant slips one under her hands, pockets the other.

Green eyes watch him, large and afraid. ‘What have you done?’

The Vagrant collects Vesper, still sleeping.

‘You killed her! She was our friend and you killed her!’

The Vagrant walks over to the goat but Harm steps in the way. ‘Don’t ignore me, I’m talking to you!’ He reaches up, a hand cupping the Vagrant’s cheek. ‘Look at me, please.’ When he turns the Vagrant’s face towards his, there is no resistance.

Harm studies the defenceless expression and his hostility evaporates, burnt away by other feelings, complex.

They embrace, the Vagrant hesitant at first, then accepting. Snuggled between them, Vesper exhales noisily, a sigh aspiring to be a tune.

Harm breaks away and approaches the Hammer. Reverent, he kneels by the body. Her chest wound is sealed, bloodless, a fresh scar blending with many others. Harm traces each one with his fingers, the bumps and dips of a hundred battles, and other things, torture, self-hate, a body that grew too fast.

He whispers into her ear. Private things. Leaning forward, Harm touches his lips to hers. They are still warm and surprising in their softness.

The Vagrant nudges the goat with his foot. She stirs briefly, making clear her preference to be left in peace. The Vagrant’s boot makes a counter-argument. The goat stands up but when it comes time to leave she holds her ground. The Vagrant reaches for her chain but it is not there. He stops, looks toward Harm, who shrugs.

‘I haven’t seen it since we picked her up after Slake.’

He grabs for her collar but the goat is too swift, trotting over to the Hammer. She sniffs the large hands, always generous. She nudges a green cheek with her nose. Nothing. Tucking her front legs underneath, the goat settles, laying her bearded chin on the Hammer’s chest.

Outside, a hint of gold dances on the water. The Vagrant frowns and takes a step towards the goat who shows no signs of ending her vigil.

‘Wait a moment,’ says Harm.

This time the Vagrant establishes a firm grip on the goat’s collar. He pulls, so does she. The battle is evenly matched. He is the stronger but only has one hand free, and she has the will to win.

Harm shakes his head. ‘It doesn’t need to be like this.’ He unwraps a small rag and the smell of fish rises.

The goat springs up and the Vagrant staggers, letting go, waving an arm for balance. With dignity she approaches Harm who breaks off a morsel of white flesh. He offers it on his palm and the goat accepts. Harm walks to the cave’s entrance, the next piece between finger and thumb, in sight, tempting.

The goat follows.

‘The Hammer saved it for her,’ Harm says as they leave.

The sight of the infernal knight’s shell arrests them. It appears harmless but they give it a wide berth, leaving the corpse to cool.

The raft seems bigger than before. There is more space to sit and more work to do. Harm and the Vagrant take turns to punt it along, struggling to overcome obstacles and currents.

On a soft piece of cloth in the raft’s centre, Vesper wakes up. She rocks to her left several times, building momentum and then: she flips over. Harm scrambles into action but Vesper sneaks in another flip before hands scoop her up, thwarting.

‘Good morning, Vesper. Are you in a rush today?’

Little legs kick at the air. ‘Nooo!’

‘No? Well it certainly seemed like it.’

‘Nooo!’

‘I’m sorry but it’s too dangerous to let you loose here. What if I hold you up so you can see the sea?’

Vesper twists and turns, shouting, fighting. Soon, firmer hands take over. She rails against them too, hammering, slamming her head against an unyielding chest. Unwanted tears come, forcing their way out, taking anger with them.

A compromise is reached. In exchange for peace, she delves into an inside coat pocket, fingers finding something soft. She pulls free a lock of hair, a shade darker than her own. The end is inserted into her mouth where it sits, comfortable.

The Vagrant holds Vesper close, resting his nose on the baby’s head. Downy fuzz tickles. They stay like that, waves and minutes slowly passing.

For the last time, two squires seal the cave entrance, turning home into tomb. There are mixed feelings. They are alone in a world made strange and they are afraid but also young and easily excited. Attica has held on for four years, working them, hiding them, and they itch for new adventures.

Their master’s death sets them free.

One wears Attica’s sword as if it were his own, walking the walk, if nothing else. The other has a training weapon, the songless blade appearing deadly while it sits in its sheath. Both are laden with equipment and, well wrapped and tucked away, their secret burden. Attica’s instructions ring in their heads:

‘Guard this box with your lives. Never open it. Never let it out of your sight. Deliver it only to the servants of the Winged Eye. Never open it.’

Eager talk belies nerves and feet find themselves heading east not north, in search of friendly faces.

The village has fed them while they trained and kept its silence. It has changed since their first visit, shrinking in upon itself, like a snail pulling back into its shell. Buildings mark the boundaries of previous glory, empty monuments, fading into history.

A man wanders into view, thoughts elsewhere, his quest for solitude doomed. The squires approach at speed, voices bubbling in greeting.

Screeching, the man runs away.

‘Hey, wait! We’re friendly. Stop will you! Look at us!’

From a safer distance the man stops and examines them. His feet still point away, hopeful for escape.

One squire steps forward, cloaked in confidence. ‘See? We just want to talk, that’s all.’

‘W-Who are you?’

‘I’m Sir Vesper, Seraph Knight, and this—’ he jerks a thumb over his shoulder ‘—is my squire.’ Behind him comes a strangled cough. He ignores it. ‘What’s happened here?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Where are all the people?’

The man’s words are seasoned bitter. ‘Gone. You took our strong ones away and then there was nobody to stop them taking our young ones.’

‘Who’s taking them?’

‘The monsters. They come hunting sometimes. It got so bad we had to give up a lot of this.’ He gestures around them. ‘We couldn’t protect it. Now we just keep a couple of the central farms going and that we do by hand. A lot have gone cos they hated it here so much. Can’t say I blame them.’

‘Where do they go?’

The man gives a shrug, tired. ‘Nowhere to go. The local villages are all as bad. New Horizon’s the nearest city.’

The squires exchange an ignorant look. ‘New Horizon? What happened to Horizon?’

‘A sky-ship crashed into it and the monsters chewed up the remains. Place is a nightmare now from what we hear.’ He leans closer, eyebrows bristling. ‘The people what live there aren’t exactly people no more.’

‘And there are monsters here?’

‘Yeah and they’re getting bolder. There’s one, keeps coming back. I think it’s got a taste for us.’

‘Do you know where it lives?’

‘Might do, got a place we could start anyways. You going to do something about it then?’

‘Of course we are. That’s what we do.’

The man nods, half-believing. ‘We could use some good luck.’ He takes them out past the village but word has already done the rounds, drawing people to the edge of their shelters.

In muttered whispers the two squires argue.

‘I remember what he said too but we can’t just abandon these people. Who else do they have? It’s probably our fault the infernals are here, I bet they’re looking for us. We’ll deal with this and be on our way.’ The bold squire smiles at his less impressed partner. ‘What do you think of my new name? Our old names were too common. Sir Vesper sounds heroic, don’t you think? And you need to come up with one too, something squirely. Any ideas?’

The argument carries on until they reach a farmhouse.

The man points towards it with a gnarly finger. ‘It’s been hanging round here mostly. I reckon it’s taken that place as a nest. Only comes out when the suns are down, if you go in now it might still be asleep.’

‘Thank you,’ replies Vesper. ‘We’ll take it from here.’

Two squires walk towards the house. From the village, people gather to watch them from a safe distance. They see the young men put down their large packs and venture inside. The unguarded possessions of a knight are tempting but their proximity to the monster’s lair gives the would-be thieves pause.