The Vagrant

The Vagrant makes his way towards the city gates, famous for always being open. The Demagogue, demonic caretaker of the city, claims this is because New Horizon admits anyone, a lie to conceal their dysfunction. The great engines that control the gates are silent, critical parts stolen or broken long ago.

Beggars’ cries mix with heavy drumming and the taste of sweat. A girl, aged prematurely by life, pulls at the Vagrant’s arm. ‘Ey, you come from Zero’s? You wanna share?’ She runs a hand over her curve-less frame. ‘You give me high, I give you ride. Big high, big ride.’ The Vagrant stops, looking at her hand until she withdraws it. He walks on, the girl’s stream of curses following after.

A large, hound-like animal sits on its haunches, square in the middle of the road. Tainted by infernal influence, it is larger than its ancestors, fearsome, ferocious, a Dogspawn. No Handler is in sight and the usually easy-going wastrels of New Horizon give it a wide berth.

The Vagrant does the same.

It watches him with mismatched eyes. One canine, black in the poor light, unreadable, but the other human one: it flickers in recognition. Somewhere outside the city a Handler watches, viewing the wanderer through their swapped orbs.

For a time, both are still and the crowd follows the lead of the fading stars above, retreating, one by one into the darkness.

The Dogspawn pants heavily, its foul breath adding to the thick cocktail of smoke and rot that passes for New Horizon’s air.

The Vagrant does not run. There is no point. Over the years, desperate prey has tried many things to hide its scent from these half-breeds: perfume, mud, excrement, even the blood of another member of the Dogspawn’s pack.

All fail.

The hunters do not track the body’s scent. The Vagrant knows this: it is why the rest of the pack and their Handlers lie dead.

With a growl, the Dogspawn stands up, refuse clinging to blood-crusted legs. It pads forward with difficulty, dragging itself through the muck.

The Vagrant watches, unmoving.

Eight metres from him, the Dogspawn leaps. It is a weak gesture, a mere suggestion of its usual power.

The Vagrant steps back, leaving it to sprawl exhausted at his feet. Its flanks heave, gasping and ragged. Blackish blood dribbles from its rear. Soon, it will die. The growls soften, become a whine which gives way to a fading, wheezy pant.

The Vagrant steps around the body but the Dogspawn is not quite dead. It snaps at him with the last of its strength, too slow to catch his ankle, but the long teeth snare his coat.

The Vagrant pulls at it, once, twice, the Dogspawn glaring at him through half-closed eyes. Its jaws stay locked onto the worn material in a last act of defiance. The Vagrant continues to pull: harder and more urgently until fabric tears on teeth. He pulls free but there is a cost, his coat is opened by the struggle.

The Dogspawn’s eyes open one final time, widening at what is revealed.

In the crook of his arm, a baby sleeps, oblivious; chubby cheeks are dusted with fever spots. A sword hangs at the Vagrant’s side, a single eye glaring from the crosspiece. It returns the Dogspawn’s dying stare, peering beyond to find the tether of essence that will lead to its tainted Handler.

Swiftly, the Vagrant walks towards the great gates of New Horizon, pulling his coat about him once more.

The rust-bruised gates loom high, thick chains frozen along their length. To their right is a watchtower, ruined, its broken roof hanging from defunct cables.

The Vagrant passes under its shadow and over the city’s boundary, walking purposefully into the gloom beyond.

Chunks of rock jut out across the barren landscape, a row of giant’s teeth. Repeated bombardments and exposure to poisonous demonic energies have taken their toll on the environment. Craters pepper the ground like pockmarks. There are no trees, no colour and little life to be seen. The Blasted Lands are named without irony.

From nearby a cry rings out, quickly muffled. It is enough. The Vagrant turns and moves toward the sound.

Behind a jagged slab of stone sits the Handler cradling his head. His dark animal eye has necrosed in his skull, making nerve endings scream. The Handler does not know he is found.

The Vagrant crouches, carefully lays the baby in the dust. He stands slowly, his blade singing as it tastes the air.

Now the Handler realizes. He scrabbles backwards, promises babbling from his lips until the Vagrant’s shadow covers him.

Abruptly there is silence.

Stick-like people and bloated flies gather in the twilight, both drawn to the still warm corpse of the Dogspawn. By morning they have picked the bones clean. By afternoon half of the people have died, their stomachs unable to accept the rich meat. By evening their skeletons are bartered over by Necrotraders.

In New Horizon nothing is wasted.

CHAPTER TWO (#u1c0c1c85-509d-50e1-b0bd-dff8f91b0233)

On the outskirts of New Horizon a caravan has formed, preparing to leave with the dawn. The Vagrant joins it, blending with the ragged collection of traders and travellers, lost and forgotten.

Axles creak and pack beasts grunt and people shuffle. As New Horizon recedes like a fading nightmare, tongues loosen and conversation hums uncertainly.

The yellow half of the sun is the first to rise that day, crowning the sky gold. The merchants, ruled by superstition, take this as a good sign, one even going so far as to share his drink with a neighbour in thanksgiving. For most though, the colour only alters the palette of hopelessness.

Soon the horizon takes on a reddish tint, heralding the second sunrise of the day.

Once, a single star warmed the world. None remember that time, though all agree that it must have been better then.

People thought that when the sun tore it would bring about the end of the world but the two star fragments did not explode as predicted, nor did they blaze down from the heavens, raining fire and destruction. Instead they continue their slow orbit of the sky and each other, like drunken dance partners, struggling on long past the death of the music.

The Vagrant approaches one of the largest waggons, drawing the driver’s attention away from his roll-up. A word squeezes out around the stub: ‘Yeah?’

The Vagrant looks to the rear of the waggon and back to the driver. Another precious coin changes hands and the Vagrant is allowed inside.

Beyond the curtain the back of the waggon is full of boxes, scratched plastic and battered metal. No space is wasted, even the smells squeeze to fit between the crates. A few are covered with threadbare cloth, but they are the exceptions; the majority brazenly expose their wares.

The Vagrant is uninterested. He glances over his shoulder, pulling the fabric between him and the world outside.

In the cramped square of privacy he removes his coat and sword, squatting awkwardly with the baby he has smuggled inside. The infant sleeps unnaturally, immunized from the rough handling it has received in recent days by worsening fever.

Using his sleeve, the Vagrant mops its brow, blowing cool air onto the pink-red face. The baby wrinkles its nose, head turning sluggishly. As it begins to stir, the Vagrant takes out the precious jar, unscrewing the lid and scooping out lilac jelly with his fingers. He puts his finger into its mouth and waits. Toothless gums nibble and the baby starts to suck. Twice more, the Vagrant offers medicine on his finger. The baby takes it all down greedily.

For a time both doze, lulled by the waggon’s creaking, rocking movements.

Without warning, a whisper comes from the recesses of the waggon.

‘Help me.’

The Vagrant stiffens, turning towards a large metal cage. Grubby fingers pull back the covering cloth, exposing a child’s face, not a half-breed born to tainted humans, but not quite free-born, not pure, either. His features are sharp, his body small and thin, forged by a lifetime’s survival on scraps and wits. He misses nothing, mouth gaping open at the scene before him.

‘That sword,’ gasps the boy. ‘You’re a Seraph Knight. I thought you were all dead this side of the Breach.’ He speaks in tones of hushed excitement and something foreign creeps into his eyes, the possibility of an alternative to death and pain.

‘I’m Jem,’ the boy blurts, whispering, urgent, afraid that stopping will give the Vagrant cause to leave, ‘my mother trades between here and Verdigris, but, something went wrong last night, a group of men came, held her down, and then others came, angry, took me away, said she owed them money. I wanted to fight but then they’d have hurt me worse so I stayed small, like a bug. They pushed me in this cage and put me onto the caravan. I have to get back to New Horizon. I have to find her, make sure she’s alright.’

The Vagrant says nothing.

‘I’m sure she’d be grateful, she has money. Not lots but enough and’ the boy falters, unsure of how to play things, ‘she’s pretty too, real pretty.’