The Vagrant (21 page)

Within the circular sweep of the outer wall is a honeycomb of rooms. People shelter there from the wind, bare skin flinching from icy surfaces, clustering in for warmth. Most suffer from exposure, shivers evolving to shakes, to fever, a juddering orgasm of cold sweat that marks the living from the more dignified dead.

‘Can’t sleep?’ asks Harm. ‘Nor can Vesper. All the noise is unsettling her. You okay to take her for a while?’

The Vagrant sits up and Harm feels a way to his side. Vesper is handed over in the dark, grumbling, her hand flailing the air till it finds a familiar nose to grasp. The Vagrant’s sigh becomes a whistle. Vesper giggles.

Harm hovers nearby. ‘I’m freezing. Do you mind if I sit with you?’

The Vagrant says nothing and Harm moves in closer to curl around him.

With unerring accuracy, Vesper finds a second nose.

‘For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing. At least this way they have a chance.’

Another moan cuts the nighttime and Vesper startles. The three press tighter, burying heads, holding on.

In the morning, Harm counts the bodies. Half of the group fail to meet the dawn. Of the survivors, only forty-three are strong enough to travel. The Vagrant leads them further from Slake, towards the outlying villages.

Along the way, a man stops suddenly and begins to scream. Attempts to help him are met with louder screams and gnashing teeth. The Vagrant looks away and keeps going. By the time a familiar tower comes into sight, another four have split off, chancing their fates elsewhere. At the edge of the village a child falls over. She doesn’t get up again.

With a vulture’s instinct, a group of traders appear to welcome the ragged travellers and the last of the Vagrant’s coins slip through his fingers. In return, thirty-seven mouths are fed. Several fail to keep the food down, staining their new clothes yellow.

Harm’s fingers brush the Vagrant’s elbow. ‘That was noble. But what’s going to happen tomorrow?’

The Vagrant looks past the green-eyed man, intent on the horizon.

‘These people are sick and they’re getting worse. They need meds and a skilled physician. I’m sorry, you did your best but this is a lost cause. It’s time to let them go.’

The Vagrant whirls round, his face lined with anger.

Arms raise hastily in defence but no fists fall. When Harm dares to look again, the Vagrant is striding away, Vesper staring mournfully at him over his shoulder.

Harm rubs a sleeve across his face and enters the tower. He climbs the ladder quickly, Exocast taking the strain for his injured leg, and goes directly to their old rooms.

The Hammer sits with her back to the edge of the bubble. A shoulder plate bends between her hands, groaning slightly. To her right, the rest of her armour lies stacked, to her left, a messy mountain of yellow stalks dominates the room. The goat lays on top, sleeping, content.

‘Hello again,’ says Harm quietly.

‘You!’ exclaims the Hammer. ‘Back!’ Crooked teeth emerge in a crooked grin.

‘I promised we would be. How are you?’

She opens her arms to expose her injuries. Plugs of blood sit where the holes were, studding her body, arms and legs. ‘See?’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Liar!’

The Hammer’s eyes narrow, dangerous. Then she smiles again. ‘A little.’

After a moment, Harm smiles back. ‘They’re healing quickly by the look of them, that’s good. Doesn’t look like they’re infected.’ He pauses, thoughtful. ‘I’ve no idea how that’s possible. Are you mobile?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. We’ll have to get moving soon.’

They stay in the tower that night. Nine more die. When the group gathers again, five cannot face further travel and elect to stay. From the tower, the Hammer emerges into the red and gold dawn. She is wearing her armour again. She has changed it, fixing the plates to each other rather than her flesh. At her side trots the goat, a bunch of yellow stalks spiking from each side of her mouth, whisker like.

The spectacle causes three more hasty goodbyes.

Of the original escapees, twenty remain to follow the Vagrant north. He continues on his original route, cycling away from Wonderland through Slake’s outlying settlements. Behind him the group string out in order of fitness. He doesn’t bother to try and hide them, there is no point. Often, his amber eyes search the clouds. There are no predators, no Bonewings, nothing. He doesn’t relax.

They haven’t got far when fatigue drops one of the children. Before others can react, the Hammer steps over.

‘Up!’

Yelping, the boy forces himself to his feet. He manages three steps before falling again.

‘No!’ shouts the Hammer, exasperated. ‘Up!’ She scoops the boy from the floor one handed and puts him on her shoulder.

There is a collective sigh of relief and the group trudge on.

Later a small girl taps on the Hammer’s thigh plate. She looks down, casting the girl in shadow. ‘What?’

The girl bites her lip, points shyly. ‘Up?’

‘Up!’ agrees the Hammer, hoisting her up to join the boy. She is not the last to ride that day. Inspired by the girl’s courage, adults approach too. The Hammer accepts every request, granting a reprieve for aching limbs and hearts.

All roads to Wonderland stand open, welcoming vile and not alike. Painted towers sprout haphazardly, bright, electric, a constructed forest. Between them, multi-layered pathways are strung, weaving together, more art than architecture. Busy clots of people move about, talking, laughing, living. Watching them, disapproving, are the Knights of Jade and Ash. The commander is surprised. Resistance is expected, nay, demanded, but none has come. It is as if the Uncivil does not even notice them.

And yet …

The knights often turn, as if being approached. Nothing reveals itself but they know the Uncivil is close, sense her proximity. And her power.

Deliberately, the commander keeps the knights separate and busy, aware that shared contact will nurture their growing fears. They must appear strong.

The city is confusing. There are few familiar half-breeds on the streets. Other, stranger things are more common. Augmentation and implantation rule here. On the outside there is little to tell them apart. The denizens of the Usurper’s cities also have twisted or additional limbs, strange skin or internal shifts. But the commander sees the difference. Normally these things are manifestations of the taint or the master’s favour but here the infernal essence is contained within dead appendages, bonded in service to human will. Disgusting. Wrong.

The master should never have allowed the Uncivil to get so strong. Why not send them sooner to demand the rebel’s surrender, or shred her?

The commander stops, shaken by thoughts that question, fizzing with vehemence. It is starting to question the master, starting to doubt the Usurper’s judgement. Did the Uncivil once think this way? Perhaps the earlier contact with Patchwork’s essence left a mark uncleansed?

One of the commander’s knights draws a weapon. The cry makes them all focus. As they progress into Wonderland, crowds thin and change. The friendly outer layers drift away to social events or prior appointments, leaving behind lines of robed figures.

The commander draws its sword and, after a beat, the rest of the knights follow. It holds it high, contemptuous and challenging. It is not interested in fighting maggots, it wants the Uncivil.

As the robed half-lifers move in, the knights form a tight circle, deadly, unbroken. Exactly where the Uncivil wants them.

Beneath their feet, stones shake and crumble. Wonderland is answering their challenge, drowning out the wailing swords, silencing them.

The Vagrant reaches the top of the hill and raises his hand. Behind him people flop to the floor, exhausted. Ahead, a wall of silvered steel and white light stretches, cutting off the Northern Peninsula from the rest of the continent.

The wall is a rallying point for what remains of the Empire’s southern armies, the last fortification that stands between the Uncivil and the northern port.

High atop, figures move, tiny specks armed with lances that spit fire down on the hordes below. Against the glare of the fortification the Uncivil’s troops are silhouettes, a Half-alive wave that probes, falls back, waits and probes again.

For now, the two sides are at a stalemate. The Uncivil’s armies lack focus and cannot find a way to best the wall while the Empire’s defenders possess insufficient strength and numbers to end the conflict. They hide behind their bright barrier, rationing ammunition, holding out for reinforcements that will not come.

Lights dance in Vesper’s eyes, delighting her. She chirps, excited, grasping for the tiny figures just out of reach.

‘So,’ asks Harm as he arrives. ‘Any ideas?’

The Vagrant pulls out the cracked scope and puts it to his eye.

Harm winces, rubbing the back of his thigh. ‘Oh. That bad.’

They leave the Hammer to watch over the others and stroll from one hill to another, stopping at the top of each, searching for an angle. Vesper enjoys the view, bouncing under the Vagrant’s arm. Her busy chattering peaks, then fades to a mumble. Moments later a small head flops into the Vagrant’s armpit.

‘I wish someone could carry me!’ says Harm.

The Vagrant ignores him, keeping a fast pace. They return to the original hill just after sunsdown. The group dare not light a fire, and they have no food to eat. Tentative conversation substitutes sustenance.

The Hammer’s gauntlets sit in her lap. Without them, her hands gain confidence, tossing a coin again and again, charging the night air. People and goat are lulled by the sound, empty bellies briefly distracted.

A man chances his luck, sits himself in front of the Usurperkin. ‘I used to do coin tricks. May I?’

The Hammer pauses, curious but unsure. ‘Careful!’ she warns and hands it over.

With ease, the man makes the coin jump from one hand to another. The Hammer’s eyes dart back and forth, trying to follow it, failing. The man flutters his fingers, then spreads his hands. They are empty.

‘Ta daa!’

Some smiles scatter about the group.

The Hammer’s face crumples, anguished. ‘No!’ she shouts, standing, gauntlets clattering to the floor, and pulls the man up by the throat.

‘Wait!’ he gargles. ‘You had it all … along.’

‘No!’

‘Yes … ear … it’s in your … ear!’

With her free hand the Hammer checks. Her eyes widen as she finds it. The man is dropped, instantly forgotten, her attention only on the coin, checking it carefully, turning it over. But as the man tries to crawl away she grabs his ankle, dragging him back to her.

‘Oh please don’t hurt me! Please!’

She puts a finger to his lips, covering them, reducing panicked speech to quiet trembling. Slowly, she smiles and holds out the coin. ‘Again!’

At first light, the Vagrant rouses the group, enforcing another march. They travel parallel to the great wall, keeping several miles between them and the sieging army outside it. No possessions weigh them down, allowing a good pace.

Without warning the Hammer tips a woman from her shoulders and breaks away, half leaping, half running up a hill, dropping out of sight on the other side.

Frowning, the Vagrant continues on his path, leaving the Usurperkin behind. Others follow, many of them relieved. Only the goat waits, one hoof raised, hovering.

Within the hour, the Hammer returns, sprinting up the line until she overtakes the Vagrant, throwing the contents of her full hands at his feet.

Two bodies flop lifeless on the floor. Their trunks are youthful, taken from teenagers in good health. Pink tinged legs sprout from their sides, six in total, hard, pointed, crablike. Mud serves as their clothing, dampening down livid scars. Thigh-thick necks sprout from their shoulders, broken.

The Vagrant’s mouth drops open.

Green lips wander, trying to recall the right shape. ‘… See … Seers … Scare?’ The Hammer grins, points at the corpses excitedly. ‘Scouts! Watch you.’ She slaps her chest plate, making it clang. ‘No watch you.’

‘Thank you,’ says Harm. ‘You saved us.’ He nudges the Vagrant. ‘Didn’t she?’

Still looking at the corpses, the Vagrant blinks, gets nudged again and turns his attention to the Hammer. Meeting her eyes, he nods, slowly.

Red touches her cheeks, like apples in season. ‘Was good,’ she adds. ‘Got two.’

‘Why is two important?’ asks Harm.

She kicks the first body. ‘Watcher.’ Then the second. ‘Runner. Tell enemy. On us.’

‘I understand,’ says Harm. ‘And thanks again. I’m really glad you decided to come with us.’

They travel on, the Hammer’s steps lighter than before. On their left the wall looms and then, as they crest another hill, a new barrier appears in front, endless; the Southern Sea.

Around the coast the water is tainted; grey gravy studded with green, too bright. Hidden within the viscous water, alien life flourishes.

Vesper and the Hammer’s eyebrows compete for height, eyes threaten to pop.

‘Sea?’

‘Seeeee?’

‘Yes,’ says Harm. ‘That’s right. This is the Southern Sea.’

‘It big.’

‘It is but we’ll deal with it. He’s got a plan.’

‘For wall? For sea?’

‘Both, probably.’

Uncontainable joy seizes Vesper, feet kicking wildly. ‘Seeee!’

The Vagrant grunts, smiles, hoists Vesper up for a better view.

Sunslight glimmers on a beach of melted glass, steep and shining. Waves drum debris against it, making irregular music. The Vagrant descends towards the water. Less certain, the group follow.

Vesper is handed over to Harm. While they pass sounds back and forth, the Vagrant tugs free a plastic tube, wedged in crystal. He drops it onto the water, watching it bob, float. A smile jumps onto his face and he puts it to one side. Less buoyant wreckage is allowed to sink. A third piece joins the pile and a child from the group copies him. He nods to the child and the two carry on. After a moment, another comes to help, then another.

A trend starts.

The pile grows.

From a hundred angles, the Uncivil watches the battle. Her followers throw themselves against the knights, like wasps against tanks. Warped blades cut and thrust, undoing her works, while the knights themselves remain unharmed.