The Vagrant (The Vagrant, #1)

by Peter Newman

The Vagrant does the same. It watches him with mismatched eyes. One canine, black in the poor light, unreadable, but the other human one: it flickers in recognition. Somewhere outside the city a Handler watches, viewing the wanderer through their swapped orbs.

The Vagrant takes a breath. His jaw works, but the air from his lips is empty. He looks away, eyes pressed shut. There is silence. The woman closes the space between them, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Frowning, he lowers the scope. Small hands tug at his collar and he looks down. The baby raises its eyebrows but this time the Vagrant’s brow does not lift. He grabs the goat’s leash and pulls it sharply, taking them away from their pursuers. In his arms the baby freezes, shocked. Possibilities cross the tiny face. With renewed force, it tries again; eyes grow wide, stretching towards its forehead. Glancing down, the Vagrant’s mouth twitches but his attention soon flickers north, then south, scowling both ways. Dust rises at their feet, stirred by the returning wind. Again his collar is tugged. His sharp look down is met by surprise; little features collapse inward, forming thunder. With all its might, the baby glowers. Stolen from tension, two smiles bloom.

‘We did a lot of fighting in those days, lot of dying too. Lost me an arm. Well, that’s not quite true. I know exactly where it is, I keep it in a cabinet out the back. It’s still moving, even now. Cut the damn thing off myself. It was that or give my body over to the taint and, no offence to the rest of you here, but I’d already given enough.’ The goat yawns.

He lets go and momentum drags synthetic teeth from her thigh to her toes. She hits the ground awkwardly, squealing childlike but not stopping, vanishing into the dark innards of the building. Leaning on the wall, the Vagrant pauses, catching his breath. Ten breaths pass, becoming slower. He draws the sword, humming softly as it tastes air, then touches its tip to the newly stained window. Tainted blood flashes, burns away with a hiss. He climbs inside, entering the tunnel, leaving daylight behind. The sword tugs at his hand, guiding him down and right; another flash, another hiss and he moves forward, drawn through the darkness, drop by drop.

The Vagrant takes another step, raising the sword. A low note resonates from the motion, sending forth a ripple of sound. Teeth set on edge, essence lamps stutter; their unnatural flames dance away, bent by the sound, then cough straight again. The rebels retreat, leaving only space between Harm and the advancing Vagrant.

The Vagrant frowns, looks the way the goat has come, peering into the dark. Faintly, something moves. The sword’s attention fixes on the motion, thrumming a warning against the Vagrant’s hand. Its sound is caught by the approaching menace, sent back, distorted, a strangled cry of metal.

The ratbred looks up, pink eyes finding him in the dark. Her foot points in his direction but she does not let it move, refusing to go closer. Within her broken mind impulses war, fear rises, matching in strength the compulsion to obey. Taut muscles quiver, threaten to cramp.

They walk for a while in a silence Harm finds unbearable. ‘Can I ask you something?’ The Vagrant nods. ‘Are you able to talk?’ The Vagrant looks up at the sky as if seeking inspiration, none comes. He shakes his head.

His captor squats nearby, hunched forward, hiding something from sight. The Vagrant pushes up onto his elbows, looks about. The ledge appears much like the one he recently rested on. He and the Hammer are alone. There is no sign or sound of Vesper or Harm or even the goat. He closes his eyes, covering his face with quick hands to hide the trembling. Three slow breaths come and go, then hands lower, revealing features firm, resigned.

The point drifts towards the hulking figure, lining up with her neck. He walks carefully, quietly, until he stands behind her. She touches the coins together a second time, starting another song. Massive shoulders shake and she underscores the melody with rasping sobs. The Vagrant sighs again, forcing the sword back into its sheath. Wiping memories from his eyes, he turns and walks to the mountain path, beginning the long descent.

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.

‘I’m sure it is. And there’ll be time for all of it when we’re away from here. We’d just about given up hope when we started to hear rumours of a knight still alive in the south. We assumed it was Attica but evidently it was you. Where are you keeping Attica’s sword?’ The Vagrant shakes his head again, his lips a grim line. ‘You lost it? Damn! But wait, that means you’ve been using the Gamma’s sacred blade. You? Ridiculous!’ ‘The baby is clean, Ma’am.’ ‘Thank you, Able. We’ll take her back with us as well. So the sword allows you to use it?’ The Vagrant nods.

The Bonewings appear to hang in the air as the world turns beneath them. Wonderland approaches, brightly lit, vibrant. Towers race each other to the stars, rendering a chaotic skyline. Necrotic pipes line the high ceilings. As the Bonewings approach a number of them lift up, like antennae, sphincters opening, gaping and splitting into four petal fingers, ready to accommodate the silent gliders. Bonewings and pipes meet, one sheathing itself in the other. Rejoined. Wisps of essence detach themselves from the Bonewings, rushing through the pipes. Before a bird can blink they shoot through the ridged tunnels, across the roof, slipping within walls, and down again, beyond the cracked paving stones, into the bowels of the city, streaking to its centre, its beating heart, their mother, the Uncivil.

‘Yeah,’ agrees Jaden. ‘Let’s get out of here while we can.’ The Vagrant’s shoulders droop and he takes a step forward, then another. Then he stops. Again he presses a hand to his ribs. A strange smile touches his face. He brings the sword tight to his body and begins to spin. A song is sung in all directions. It is simple, of one note. The Scabs understand immediately, dropping away from their hosts, seeking sanctuary, finding none. Trapped between their former prisoners and a layer of plastic, they writhe, then burn.

racks. The fastest leap to their feet, staggering, and race for the door. The Vagrant is waiting for them, sword barring their exit. They ask him to move, their blue lips cracking with the effort. He points past them to those still struggling. The injured, the young. They look into his eyes, just once, then run back, offering assistance.

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.

‘But I wanted to thank you. For my sisters’ lives and my own. And, and for giving me a little dignity. We won’t forget.’ She takes the Vagrant’s hands in hers, pressing a shy kiss onto each palm and steps back. Three more come forward, following suit. Personal stories are shared, each mixed with different pains, and kind words are planted, like rare desert flowers. When the women have left, fault lines appear in the Vagrant’s face. Tears follow, silent.

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.

Yuren gestures for the Vagrant and Harm to enter. They leave behind a forlorn Genner watching them through closing doors. As they walk through the building, walls and doors swap places, sliding aside, reforming space. Distance is confused, their destination seeming to materialize, meeting them halfway. It is unclear if they have entered the room or if it has gathered them into its angular embrace.

They work with detachment, eerie. A melted gauntlet is cut away, as is the shrivelled hand inside. Charred veins like overcooked spaghetti are stripped from the forearm and the limb is re-plumbed. When a match for the original hand is found, animate stitches assist surgical lasers to get the job done. Bones and skin and sinew connect. At the last moment they extract the essence spark from the new hand, leaving the whole shell empty, ready for repossession.

‘Oh yes, it’s a simple procedure and we have the expertise on board.’ He takes out a transparent plastic wallet. Inside is a square of silver the size of a baby’s fingernail. ‘My last partner was young. We’d planned to have more children and …’ Harm’s eyes spark tears, preempting the old man’s. He looks away quickly. ‘… and I don’t need it any more. I’d like very much to see it used. It’s of the finest quality and will assist with language acquisition, memory and calculations. The encyclopedia is excellent and it’s fully aspected.’

Private Ro, newly demoted, still angry, offers the goat a piece of rubber. The goat sniffs, then moves in, nipping a finger for good measure. ‘Ow!’ ‘Something wrong, Private?’ Ro shakes her hand behind her back. ‘No, Captain.’ ‘Then keep your noises to yourself.’ Other guards snigger. The goat chews experimentally then spits the rubber onto the floor. ‘And Private?’ ‘Yes, Captain?’ ‘Pick that up will you?’ She complies, ignoring the silent laughter of her peers. While crouched, woman and goat exchange hateful stares.

Vesper concentrates. ‘Marm?’ ‘Nearly. Harm. H-arm. Can you say that? H-arm.’ ‘Mama!’ The Vagrant staggers, shoulders shaking, the laughter silent, uncontrollable. He grabs the wall for support. ‘No, not Mama. Harm.’ ‘Dada?’ Harm points to the breathless Vagrant. ‘That’s Dada.’ He points to himself. ‘Harm. Or Uncle. Can you say Uncle? Un-cle.’ ‘Umm-bull.’

‘A Seraph Knight? Here!’ Griggsy shakes his head. Booth doors open, revealing a mix of faces, three curious, three scared, two bloodthirsty, one ashamed. ‘Do you know what they do to Seraph Knights in these parts?’ Griggsy raises the bar and the hairs on his arm stand to attention. ‘No? I’ll—’ With a cry, the sword is drawn. Sound buffets the assembled, judging. Blood runs from ears, from noses, men run from the room. Griggsy stays, grits his teeth. ‘As I was saying, I’ll show you!’ Lightning arcs from the bar, aiming for the Vagrant’s chest. At the last moment it veers away, drawn to the sword’s edge. The two men stand, weapons held out front, energy crackling between them. The Vagrant lowers the sword ninety degrees and lightning flows backward, until brass turns white. Griggsy drops the bar, screaming. It lands softly on the rubber floor.

At his side, the sword begins to hum, the wings at the hilt quivering, starting to unfurl. The squire holds the hilt tightly and draws. As the blade rises, so does a note from deep within the young man. It bursts upwards, pushing out his chest, punching through his throat, springing wide his jaw, to soar, malevolent, into the air. Silvered wings stretch to either side of the sword’s hilt, revealing a closed eye that twitches madly. The sword’s sound shakes the very essence of those unfortunate enough to hear it, pure, otherworldly, too much for a mortal to control. Breath begins to burn. Panicked, the young man tries to close his mouth but finds he cannot. The note distorts, twisted by rage, by grief. The air becomes fire and lightning, noise and fury. An eye opens.

Other ships follow it up from the depths, smaller, each bearing modified symbols of the Winged Eye. On one the wings have been scratched away, on another the eye is painted over, forced shut. A third is covered by scores of bloody hand prints. There are seven in all, spread evenly around First Circle, surrounding, intercepting hope. Axler’s voice punctuates shock, scrambling guards into defensive positions. A short distance across the water, the ships wait. They bear no flags. Broken swords hang above the decks, suspended from cables. The wind makes them chime, off key and eerie. Silence stretches and cannons slide from hatches, massive, mocking the tiny rifles held against them.

‘In return I will gift the rest of you with smaller portions of my essence. Those recipients will be changed in other ways. They will be connected to me but distinct. Independent but never alone. They will also enjoy extended life spans, the ability to supersede their fellows in physical contests. They could, for example, duplicate my jump onto this ship. They will share my spectrum of perception and be able to control their old senses more directly. Disease will not threaten them again, nor will mediocrity. ‘I am not the Usurper, I do not seek to subjugate you. Neither am I the Uncivil, I do not seek to control you. Nor am I like The Seven, who accept your loyalty and leave you to die. I am the First and I believe that we can coexist. Together we are strong enough to live a different way, beholden neither to my kin in the South or your masters in the North. There is a price. I will repeat it: One of you must give yourself to me, willingly and without coercion. That person will cease to be. In return I will give that life back to you tenfold.’

Seven war ships surround his prize and around them a web of essence, spread thin across those on the boats and thinner to those beyond. It is the Thousand Cuts, the Unbound, the Nomad King, the First. It is here in force if not totality.

‘Looks like we’re about to find out.’ Axler swings the lance into line with the First’s chest. ‘You’ve got exactly five seconds to turn around and go back to wherever you came from.’ As the First replies, Axler’s lips shape numbers, counting down silently. ‘If you truly speak for the people here, put it to them. If the majority agree with you, I will leave without another word and I will take Yuren and Roget with me. If they do not, then you will give yourself—’ Fire surges from the lance. ‘Five!’ Even as Axler’s finger is squeezing, the First is moving, fast enough to race the flames. Heat explodes in the space where the First was, the edges of it reaching out to lick at a retreating arm, catching a flowing sleeve. Axler has time to look surprised; the infernal weaving around the stream of fire and underneath his lance. Fabric bursts alight, making a tail behind the First’s palm as it slams, open, into Axler’s side. In sympathy, ribs and armour crack together. The lance goes quiet and its bearer falls to the floor.

By the time the goat catches up, a space yawns between First Circle and escape. The goat’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t slow down, glare fixed on her target. Hooves kick on plasteel, then air, as she sails over the water, a meteor, malevolent. Vesper points, delighted. ‘G—’ Her shadow falls across the Vagrant who turns, too slow to escape fate. ‘—oat!’ Man becomes crash mat and the boat rocks, water spraying up, dappling faces.

‘What’s the plan?’ Deke swings the boat around, threading between the waiting warships and First Circle’s curves, a lizard slipping under the noses of lions. Two sky-ships come into view. ‘That’s the plan.’ The nearest one notices their approach and a pilot steps out, weapon in hand. Genner’s rifle fires twice, silent, silencing. No more challenges come and they dock, unloading from one vessel into another quickly.

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 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.

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.

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.

Before he or anyone else can act, the Vagrant draws the sword. Four squires surge forward but the Vagrant turns, and something in them falters. Sir Phia and Able are already on their knees. Surprised, an eye opens. Understanding dawns on young faces. Baby swords are dropped from shamed fingers and suddenly they cannot prostrate themselves fast enough. By contrast the Vagrant brings the sword down slowly, until the blade is an inch from Vesper’s face. An eye looks at her sleepily. Vesper puts a finger to her lips. The sword is quiet. An eye closes. The Vagrant takes a step nearer Sir Phia, sword pointed towards her, offering judgement. She gets up quickly, backs away. ‘You’ve made your point. The girl can stay with you. Now please, put away the sword. The Seven are waiting.’ She backs off hastily and leads the way.

For most it is hard to see where the land ends and the Shining City begins and yet there are walls. Invisible fields of energy, ready to repel the unworthy. The Vagrant feels them as he passes, the charge making Vesper’s hair rise about her head, a dark and fuzzy cloud.

A glance back reveals the Knight Commander, still waiting. The Vagrant’s lips shape a prayer, he takes a deep breath … and steps out. Vesper buries her head in the Vagrant’s chest. The air is not solid but there is resistance. With spongy strides, the Vagrant goes up. He focuses on the cube, muscles tight with tension. One step, then another, fighting the urge to look down. As they get closer, details emerge on the side of the cube. A lip juts out below an archway, inviting, the back of Obeisance’s cloak already vanishing through it.

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 …’

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 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.

‘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.’