The Vagrant. Peter Newman

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СКАЧАТЬ Vagrant looks back often and each time they are closer. He has yet to see them move. Five pursue, driving them towards one ahead, waiting, blocking the way to Verdigris and safety. In the sky, faster than either group, the suns have almost set.

      Despite the failing light, details emerge on the figure ahead. A knight of sorts, risen from the ranks of the Seraph, an infernal mirror of what was. Behind its armour unseen growths reach for freedom, distorting metal, disturbing its cloak. Smoke wafts from its helm, marking cracks and joins.

      With irrefutable firmness the goat stops, refusing to go further. The Vagrant does not argue, crouching slowly, laying the baby amidst the dirt. A wheeze is heard, followed by laughter. He does not react, his face unreadable as he stands again, facing the knight.

      Only thirty metres separate them, the Vagrant crosses them quickly. At his side, the sword trembles with anticipation. He draws. The motion catches a final ray, lining its edge in gold.

      In answer, the knight raises a bloated weapon, twisted steel and living jade, discordant, suffering.

      Behind him, not close but not so distant, echoes come. Five moans join the first, then, from the north east, a tortured cry, longer than the others, closing.

      Amidst the cacophony, the baby’s whimpering goes unheard.

      Sword high, the Vagrant attacks. As he nears the enemy his downward arc slows, struggling through air thick with wailing, welcoming the heavy parry.

      The return attack is powerful, deathly.

      The Vagrant does not wait for it, stepping, spinning and striking again. A hump of armour falls away. The Vagrant sees skin exposed, clinging like wet rag to shrivelled bone.

      The knight stops swinging for its nimble opponent, groaning defensively, holding him at bay. It knows it cannot defeat him. It does not need to.

      Inexorably its troop draws in.

      The Vagrant feints left, goes right, makes an opening, doesn’t take it, keeps moving, turning faster than his enemy, behind it now, cuts low, a triumphant note blasting bone and backs of knees.

      It sways, moaning, descending as the Vagrant sprints back, scooping baby and leash in one hand.

      He looks up; misshapen swords loom over them, too close.

      They run. This time the goat is happy to oblige.

      Ahead, Verdigris rises hopeful. Against its silhouette hulks another shape, charging, trying to cut off their escape. A seventh knight, like the others but greater, more purposeful. The threat spurs them to greater speeds.

      Blade first, the lumbering figure reaches for them.

      They feel the breath of its dirge but pass by safely, momentum unbroken.

      The knight ploughs on past them, unable to stop. It tries to turn as it decelerates, unable to match its more nimble prey and is forced to watch as they near the city’s sanctuary, well beyond sword-reach now. Frustrated, it returns the keening thing to its sheath and pulls forth a stubby lance.

      Something flies past the Vagrant’s shoulder, sizzling into the gates, munching stone. He turns, sword held protectively before him, backing the remaining distance. Seconds after the first, more shots arrive. He cuts them from the air, burning fragments showering around him. One ignites the corner of his coat, another catches the goat’s tail.

      Flame sprouts, the goat protests but they keep running, trailing smoke as they vanish into Verdigris’ embrace …

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      The Knights of Jade and Ash form up around their fallen comrade. At their commander’s nod four of them collect the torso, a fifth gathers the feet. Though rare, it is not the first time their shells have shattered. A remaking is called for.

      But something is wrong. The body is too light, too brittle. Innards are dried out, failing in their role as infernal glue. The armoured torso collapses flat in mailed hands, powder spills on the floor.

      They investigate the abandoned sword. It too has changed; jade has faded, gone still. With a boot, the commander prods and cracks yawn along its edge, falling away from each other a thousand times.

      Instinctively, the knights step away.

      From the city’s archway comes a new sound, bones ratchet against each other, three jaws not quite in time, an approximation of laughter.

      The knights approach the gates, alert to the newcomer lurking within.

      Not quite neutral, Verdigris is a city with two masters, torn a little more with every spin of the world. By day it belongs to the Uncivil, by night to the Usurper. In the grey between, things are often broken.

      Normally the commander would wait for night to complete its fall; its instincts cry out to wait but there is no denying the Usurper’s order. It steps through into the long archway. In formation the unit drops back, following. The commander’s hands lower, weaponless palms forward. It waits.

      From the shadows scuttles Patchwork, sometimes Duke, Southern Face of the Uncivil. Amorphous within its robes, it appears to glide, a moving puddle, tiny legs busy under the surface, until it is less than a foot away. With one long indrawn breath, it rises, thin body extending from multi-coloured fabric, matching the commander’s height. A squat face slides beneath the robes, climbing the body till it finds the hood, pushing out rudely, tongue first.

      The commander’s helm swings forward harder than necessary. Contact is violent, essences touch, each pressing the other, testing, setting the tone for what follows.

       Eight Years Ago

      Two young men wait anxiously for the return of their heroes. Their youth makes them stand out – the other young and fit members of their village had been snapped up by the army when it passed through the first time.

      To their utter dismay, they missed it. Missed Gamma’s palace floating by, missed the armies of the Winged Eye and their Seraph Knights.

      More than this, they missed their chance to be heroes.

      All because their parents were too afraid and tucked them away, out of sight, tricking them into a cellar and locking it firmly until the army had passed. A deliberate act to keep them from joining up.

      Selfish. Understandable. Wise.

      But parents cannot protect their children forever and the young men are determined. They resolve not to leave their post until the Empire’s forces return. Then, they will invoke the rite of mercy and the knights will be forced to take them in.

      To stave off boredom, the men discuss what life will be like, sharing well worn stories about the knights and rumours about how squires are trained.

      And then, finally, they see movement from the south and stories give way to reality.

      A metal snake winds its way through the countryside from the direction of the Breach. СКАЧАТЬ