The Vagrant

Hand in hand they weave through the darkness, the Vagrant stumbling enough for both of them.

They emerge at the north end of Verdigris by a quiet street. Tina refuses to leave the tunnel’s refuge. ‘No further,’ she says, lisping the words around curved teeth. ‘You go on alone.’

He shakes his head but she is already retreating, trying to slip bony fingers free.

The Vagrant grips her hand tight and steps out, forcing her to follow. She protests, shielding her face with her free hand.

A passer-by at the end of the street turns, sees the pair, hides their concern and looks away with polished nonchalance.

Tina makes a decision and takes the lead again, showing him the nearby gate that waits as promised, open, unguarded.

Vagrant and ratbred step through the gate, entering the Uncivil’s territory. Mountains loom to the left and right, battered and strong, like weary combatants. Ahead, the way is clear.

Tina’s nose twitches in surprise.

The Vagrant’s eyes narrow. He looks along the wall both ways. Between mounds of junk strewn the length of Verdigris’ boundary, small things dart, otherwise it is quiet. No goats mutter. No babies cry.

‘Shit,’ says Tina, twisting free.

The Vagrant turns to find her running, head down, aiming back the way they came. His lips move, a silent curse, and then he re-enters the city, giving chase.

They fly across the street, Tina intent on the nearby tunnel entrance, the Vagrant drawing closer. He catches up as she dives for the window, her small body sailing easily through broken plasti-glass.

He grabs her mid-flight, fingers and thumb overlapping round her ankle, pulling her down, onto the jagged frame. 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.

Spread out across the northern quarter, the Knights of Jade and Ash wait, swords held high, softly moaning.

Only the commander moves, turning slowly, alert for trouble. Somehow the bearer of the Malice has eluded them and they are left directionless and exposed. If their enemies find them here in Starktime, war will follow.

Suns lower, starting their downward arc.

Then their swords flinch from a distant sound. The Malice has resurfaced. Brazen, the commander marches through the streets, intent on the trail, gathering knights as it goes.

From a side street, a strange voice calls out: ‘Hold!’

The commander pauses as robed figures move between them and their trail. Something about them is wrong. Broken essence hangs from the humans, woven to them in bags of dead flesh. What madness has the Uncivil wrought? What are these non-things?

‘You are in violation of the treaty,’ says a Half-alive man. ‘This is the Uncivil’s domain. Return to your lair until Darktime immediately! Do it now and all we will demand is compensation. Disobey and Patchwork will have you ended!’

The knights await their commander. The master’s orders are clear but surely war must be avoided? This twisted non-thing speaks truth, they are in the wrong, they should go back. But the commander does not retreat.

‘I give you one last warning.’

The commander knows they should pull back, wishes it even, but the Malice is too close. The first wound burns and memories surface, of greatness, of coherence, lost.

The Uncivil’s creature is talking still; words float by the commander. It does not hear them, raising its lance.

The knights understand, closing around the non-things, who begin to wail.

In panic the Uncivil’s Half-alive men shrug off their robes, revealing bodies ravaged by extreme surgery, grafted dead limbs reanimated, original parts reworked, joints altered, muscles rewired, augmentations gifted by the Uncivil in exchange for service.

The commander squeezes the lance, spraying them all with liquid fire.

The Half-alive howl with pain, violently waving limbs that burn, trying to put them out, trying to fight their way towards the commander. Before they can reach their target, the knights step forward, tightening the circle, hacking at the flailing appendages. When the knights step back, gouts of fire pour from the commander’s lance. Between each burst the knights close again, cutting away another layer of the enemy like skin from an onion. All the while their swords lament, twisting through bodies that burn, silenced.

When the last of the Uncivil’s Half-alive men have fallen the knights move about the corpses ensuring every part of them is truly lifeless.

Then the knights pause, shocked into contemplation until the Malice whispers again from the north, agitating, setting them into motion.

Soon Patchwork will discover the carnage and war will follow. Despite its instincts, the commander doesn’t mind.

Within Verdigris’ underground, two men travel. One has green eyes and carries a grumbling baby; the other has a gun and pulls a goat behind him.

‘Joe?’ says the first, quiet.

‘Yeah?’

‘Something’s wrong.’

‘Yeah, it’s a sign of our times.’ Joe snorts. ‘Or are you talking about something in particular?’

‘We should be at the north passage by now.’

‘Nah, I’m just being extra careful, we’re taking a different route.’