The Vagrant. Peter Newman
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enemy. Her sword is her battle cry and its call turns the infernal foes to ash. At her approach, the formless thing pauses, retreating back towards the safety of the Breach. It is not ready to face her, not yet. Arrow-like Gamma pursues it and no creature from the Breach dares oppose her, the enemy falls away like leaves before a breeze, until she lands on the dark-shifting surface of her foe, plunging her sword deep into its formlessness.
Silent since it cannot scream its pain ripples outward in strands of boiling essence. It tries to flee and Gamma follows, her blade pouring hate into the wound, sowing seeds of itself within the enemy. They float within, dormant, waiting to bloom.
It is forced to turn from the yawning void and, reluctantly, face her.
They fight.
It is said that she fought well. It is said that she died well. The Knight Commander will not have it otherwise. Whatever else is said however, Gamma of The Seven fell that day.
The order to retreat comes soon after. Barely two thousand survive the first retreat.
There is no second retreat.
By mid-afternoon the broken suns have swapped places, dappling the mountains in gold and the sky in blood. The caravan continues its slow and lonely way north.
Inside one of the waggons a cage door hangs open. Stretching happily outside it is a young boy. He is watching the man who saved him, eyes expectant. It is evident he wants the man to come with him, perhaps even hopes he might become part of their lives; a companion to his mother, a father to him.
The man has offered none of these things however, sitting quietly while the baby sucks down the last of the medicine.
‘So, I guess this is goodbye then?’ the boy says eventually.
The Vagrant nods.
Disappointed, he leaves the man and the baby alone in the waggon. It is quiet without the boy’s constant chatter.
The Vagrant stares at the coins in his hand, each with the power to buy and sell life. Only five remain now. They have been spent on necessities such as food and medicine as well as indulgences, acts of charity that do little to pay off the debt of conscience.
The last few coins have bought a boy’s freedom, a goat and a modicum of privacy for the journey. Of the three, only the goat can be classed as a necessity. Not many creatures survive the Blasted Lands without change. After the arrival of the infernals most died or were altered by the tainted energy that flowed from the Breach. Over time the survivors have by its infection bred far from their original forms until only a shadow of their former shape remains.
Although the goat is scrawny, bad tempered and stubborn, she is otherwise untainted and a reliable source of anemic grey milk.
Gradually the caravan slows, circling itself like a cat preparing a bed. With a groaning of wheels and bones, the waggons and their beasts of burden come to rest. People eat their rations sparingly, jealously eyeing their neighbour’s fare.
With renewed energy, the baby wakes and starts to cry. The fever is finally loosening its grip, allowing hunger to return in full force.
The Vagrant gets up quickly, gathering his things. He picks up the baby, covering it with his coat once more. Tucked in the dark warm space, it calms a little but continues to grumble as the Vagrant climbs out of the waggon.
When he approaches the goat, she eyes him with open suspicion. She tries to back away but is held in place by the wire tethering her to the waggon. Unlike many of the humans held in bondage to the caravan, the goat remains defiant. The Vagrant works quickly however, and soon the goat has capitulated to his wishes, chewing apathetically while he collects the precious liquid in an old tin cup.
A man approaches, fashionably starved, eyes alive with desperation. ‘Hey pal,’ he begins, mouth twitching. ‘Doin’ alright?’
The Vagrant inclines his head slowly.
‘What you got there? That a baby you carryin’?’
Sounds of the caravan can be clearly heard as the two men look at each other; people cooking on makeshift fires, bolts being tightened, bent spokes knocked back into line again, blades being sharpened.
‘C’mon, man, I weren’t the only one that heard it. And I ain’t the only one that’ll take an interest. So let’s talk.’ He scratches the sores on his chin as he makes his pitch. ‘I been watchin’ you, got me some ideas ’bout what you’re up to. You got an untainted there, right? You reckon you’re smart, smuggling it out like you have. Gonna trade somewhere up north I’m bettin’, make a nice bit on the side. Is it a boy or a girl? The Uncivil’s offering a lot on baby girls, you could make a killing if you get that far. I’ve got a contact up that way, handles independent sales with the Fleshtraders, no questions asked? So, how about it? We could be partners, you got the goods, an’ I got the contacts. We split the profits and keep it all nice and cosy, just between us. What do you say?’
The Vagrant’s eyes narrow a fraction.
‘Course if you don’t like it, I could speak to some friends of mine an’ we could take the little nipper off your hands, free of charge. Your choice.’
With deliberation the Vagrant puts the cup of milk on the ground, the baby next to it.
‘Oh, that’s a beauty all right. I really hope it’s a girl, yes I do.’
The Vagrant stands up and takes a step forward. He is taller than the man by several inches.
‘So, what do you say?’
At his side, beneath his coat, the silvered wings that curl about the sword’s hilt twitch and the blade hums ever so softly. The man’s blood is more than tainted; it is thick with the infernal.
‘Well?’
The Vagrant’s right hand flexes, a pained frown crosses his face. He reaches down, into his coat, pulling a coin from his pocket and offering it to the man. He puts a finger to his lips.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ The coin has already vanished. ‘Not what I was hopin’ for, but alright, you got yourself a deal. I ain’t seen a thing.’
Back in the waggon, the Vagrant feeds the baby through a piece of rubber tubing. He listens to the sounds of the wheels turning outside and the voices of the people, whispering, gossiping.
Many miles south of New Horizon, the Fallen Palace languishes. After the battle of the Red Wave, it limped through the sky, fleeing the Breach and the monsters birthing endlessly from its rocky womb.
The Palace did not escape, pecked from the sky by the pursuing swarm until it kissed the earth one last time, cutting a new valley into the landscape and diverting one of the great southern rivers. Now the Fallen Palace is forever surrounded by fetid marshland.
Turrets and walls lean several degrees to the right, appearing drunk in the daylight, a sickly slant. Weaving towards them, unnoticed by poor souls wandering the sloping streets, flits a messenger, wings buzzing like tiny motors.
No glass remains in the Fallen Palace. Windows were shattered in the crash, covering the floors in a layer of cheap crystal. Now every shard has gone, from the longest sliver to the tiniest piece, all taken.
Many openings gape, from holes in the cracked pavements, from doorways, from windows, but they do not distract the messenger. It moves directly to a tower, where brassy walls fight a doomed battle against encroaching green lichen.
At the top of the tower is an arched window and in that window is a Man-shape. At the fly’s approach, the Man-shape’s face splits like a clam, yawning open: the fly lands on an overlong tongue, its work concluded, its frantic wings still.
The Man-shape closes its mouth, tasting the words hidden in the blood, hidden in the fly. It digests both and walks swiftly into the tower’s darkness, untroubled