The Vagrant. Peter Newman
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just the occasional groan. You better get in there, see what’s happened, though you’d best prepare for the worst.’
‘Liar!’ sings the sword without words as it cuts loose from its sheath, splitting the old man’s chin and nose. The Vagrant looks away as the body falls. He shakes his head, pressing onwards.
The door curls on the floor, battered into a cartoon smile. Flames dance on tables, smoking, and clouds of dust fill the air, blanketing the bodies of the dead and dying. Some have been burnt, others shot. He moves about them, his quiet sword giving mercy where needed.
The Vagrant proceeds into the tent, stepping over another corpse at the entrance.
The goat is over in the corner, Lil’s body by her side, a gun just beyond her motionless fingers. The gun no longer shines, but smokes from use. From beneath her arm a tiny foot kicks angrily. He turns the woman’s body over, revealing the blood-stained baby. His eyes widen in alarm.
The baby smiles.
It only wears the woman’s blood. It has not been hurt.
The Vagrant sways, his face pale. His legs begin to tremble.
With a groan, the woman spits something thick onto the floor. ‘Where the hell were you, you son of a bitch? I thought you’d run out on us.’
The Vagrant shakes his head, opens his mouth uselessly.
‘Listen,’ she says, pressing her hand against a spreading patch of red at her side, ‘I’ll be dead by the time you get your story out. So shut your mouth and save me. Everything you need is here. First thing you do is find my box of tricks. It’s metal and oval and it’ll be in the tent, you can’t miss it.’
But the Vagrant does not close his mouth, nor does he move.
Gamma of The Seven lies broken on the edge of the Breach. By her cracked beauty floats the thing that will become the Usurper, hungry for its prize. Above, Gamma’s Palace lists drunkenly, plumes of fire racing each other skyward from rents in the walls and towers. Shapes flicker about the ailing fortress, relentless, swarming and diving and biting and clawing, delivering death through thousands of tiny indignities.
As it begins its casual fall, other shapes rise from the Breach. They too are formless, nameless, all seeking Gamma’s remains.
Beyond mortal perception, the infernals fight, vicious clouds of dream that swirl through one another, blending, breaking and diminishing.
One removes itself from the fighting, descending upon the fallen men and women furthest from the Breach. It chooses with care: those that died from shock or single wounds, whose bodies are more or less whole. Into each it gifts a portion of itself, protecting its precious essence within a dead shell. Reanimating what should not be, in stark defiance of the reality in which it finds itself. By fragmenting its essence it is weaker and safer, smaller but more numerous.
A man stands impossibly and the First is born. It gathers its brothers and sisters quickly and sets out to explore. Soon the First has vanished from the field, an uncomfortable addition to the new world.
Behind it, the fighting between the infernals continues until, with elemental force, one infernal drives back the others, winning the contest and stamping its majesty upon them, indelible. Above Gamma’s body the claimants separate, blown outward from their new master, a smoke ring of losers. They retreat with ethereal hisses, seeking bodies easier to inhabit.
For the lesser beings this is simple, the ground is rich in corpses, but for the greater ones, Gamma was their only chance for a whole birth. Lacking the invention of the First and cowed by the Usurper’s power, they panic. Many squeeze into bodies that cannot hope to hold them. Chests split and burst and essence spills, sliding into a soup of animal energy, bubbling with regret and rage. This pool of essence is raw and unfocused, an unnatural force. Lacking a will of its own, the tainted river surges forth, carried along by the multitude, following the other infernals blindly.
Seeing the fate of its peers, the last of the great shapes moves quickly, the world already clawing at its edges. Unable to find a suitable shell, it weaves a cloak of corpses about itself. Skulls, feet and ribs marry uneasily. Within the necrotic ball, the Uncivil is birthed.
New desires appear, flooding the Uncivil’s senses: the wish to see, to experience, to grow. For now they are held in check by a greater power, resulting in a frustration that is almost too much to bear. Despite this, the Uncivil holds on to the idea of independence, of difference. It feels important to choose an identity now, to have something to hold onto when orders come from their new master.
Inspiration is close at hand. The bodies that make up her cloak each housed a unique being and it is easy for the Uncivil to sniff at their fading essence to gather ideas. A gender is chosen. It is not much but it is a starting point, a secret victory to build on.
She turns, awaiting her new master’s pleasure.
Free to take its prize, the victor descends upon Gamma’s body. Wind screams backwards, drawing the infernal essence into the once great shell. It twitches, animates and Ammag, Green Sun, the Usurper, takes its first physical steps. Compared to the First it is inelegant and brutish, lurching as Gamma’s body buckles and warps, trying to accommodate the new host. But nothing of this world, even one of The Seven, can fully contain the Usurper. With irritation, it portions a fragment of itself into another body, a temporary home, the greenness slipping easily through the absence of eyes. This form does not animate, it is too weak, a box for safekeeping, nothing more.
Now stable, the Usurper turns its attention deep within. Buried in the heart of its essence, a wound festers, as alive as the weapon that caused it. The Usurper reaches down, looking for Gamma’s sword, to smash the blade and end the dream of its undoing.
But the sword is gone.
The Usurper searches among the corpses, scattering them, and finds nothing. With increasing anger it lifts its gaze higher, over the carnage, over bodies mutating as infernal hosts settle in, until at last its attention is drawn by a glinting metal speck.
Distantly, beyond the feasting and the slaughter, a snake of metal flees the field, heading northward.
At the sight of the thieves the Usurper’s anger surges but fear flickers beneath it. It is too soon for another conflict. Defeating Gamma and fighting off the other challengers for her body has been costly.
Unwilling to face the sword again, the Usurper dispatches its horde. The Uncivil is the first to respond, her eagerness to taste the new world dressed as loyalty. Others follow, the Fellrunners, the Earmaker’s Three, Hangnail, all bound to their new master by defeat. Drawing the lesser infernals around them, a misshapen horde with lopsided wings and uneven legs, they spread across the land, a living fire.
‘I swear if you don’t do something right now, I’ll put a bullet in your empty head!’
The woman raves, anger keeping back the urge to sleep. She has fought off many men, surviving against the odds, but now death comes for her again, stealthily. Not long now and she will bleed to death, each beat of her heart pumps precious blood from the hole in her side. Salvation is so close she could cry. She doesn’t, instead using the last of her strength to reach out to the Vagrant.
He looks at her and through her, unfocused on the now.
Gasping, she pulls off her monitor ring. The pulsing light fades as it leaves her finger. A moment later it sails through the air, narrowly missing the Vagrant’s ear, as do the curses that follow.
Small eyes glance between the two. Sensing a problem, the baby joins its strength to the ruckus, easily matching the woman’s despair.
The Vagrant blinks, wipes perspiration from his