The Vagrant (20 page)

The Vagrant nods and looks back to the growing puddle of people.

‘My mission is to find you. The comms-rocket told us to expect three. My skiff can take three. Not three thousand. Not three hundred. Not thirty. Three. One extra baby, I can accommodate, but this!’ She jabs a finger over his shoulder. ‘This defies words! Now get up, it’s time to go.’

The Vagrant remains on his knees, watching her stride away. He sighs, stands up. Vesper waves as Harm brings her over, echoing the sigh.

‘You’re not going are you?’ He gets a weak smile of affirmation. ‘I understand.’

‘Squires,’ says Phia. ‘Get on to the bloody skiff. That is a direct order.’

‘Sorry,’ replies Harm. ‘We’re not coming.’

‘Fine. Surrender the sword to me and we’ll happily leave you here.’

The Vagrant begins to unbuckle his scabbard.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Harm asks, searching the Vagrant’s eyes.

‘Able, bring the sword to me.’

Able clasps his hands in front of him, bows. ‘With respect, Ma’am, I must ignore your order.’

‘What?! Have you all taken the same drug? Has the Uncivil converted you all while I wasn’t looking?’

‘No, Ma’am.’

‘Then do as I say!’

‘My time in Slake has soiled me, Ma’am. I’m not worthy to approach a relic of The Seven … Not anymore.’

‘Then get on the skiff and prepare her for immediate departure.’

Able bows and obeys.

Phia advances on the Vagrant, who kneels, lowers his head and offers the sword, hilt first. It shifts in his grip, a restless sleeper. Phia holds out her hands, forcing them steady. As the inches lessen between knight and sword, she slows, unsure.

An unpleasant smile spreads across Harm’s face.

Behind silvered wings, an eye twitches, attentive.

The knight takes several deep breaths. Sweat springs out on her forehead.

The Vagrant waits, unmoving.

Phia withdraws her hands and backs to the waiting skiff. ‘This is your last chance. My authority comes direct from The Seven themselves. Come with us now, or face the consequences.’

The Vagrant looks up, surprised. He holds out the sword again.

‘So be it,’ she says, clipped.

The skiff’s engine comes to life, a thing of light, not sound and they jet away.

Mouth open, frown deep, the Vagrant watches them go. When the skiff has fled fully from sight, he lowers the sword.

Tucked under stone, safe from the eyes of infernal hunters, a cave lies. A tube of yellow warmth glows within, bringing little comfort to the three faces caught in its light.

Attica makes them wait, hiding until he deems it safe to travel on. He tells them they cannot hope to outrun their pursuers. He does not tell them why.

While they wait, the squires train. One has practised swordplay before, dreaming of knighthood all his years. He is agile in a common way, remarkable only in self-belief. The other is unpractised though possessed of a good voice. Both have potential for adequacy.

‘You,’ he says to the first youth, ‘you swing like a knight and sound like a drunkard, all fire and enthusiasm. There’s no room for your sword to breathe. Your voice is an instrument that must be played alongside your weapon. No more shouting! And you,’ he turns to the second, ‘sing sweetly but weakly. You must give direction to the sword’s energy, give it direction or it will overwhelm you.’

Eyes low and brooding, the young men slink away to practise.

Attica closes his eyes and rests. Sleep is elusive and he listens to the sounds of his squires repeating the forms, wincing at each missed note. After a while the singing stops, leaving only the crunch of feet on loose stones and blades swishing, mundane, through the air.

He has intended to give them space but is not sure he has the luxury. Concern turns to irritation and Attica gets up, moving awkwardly to where the young men spar. He watches them trade blows, playfighting, and tries to master his frustration. ‘What is this?’

The two squires freeze mid motion, practice swords squeaking comically together, heads twisting in surprise.

Despite wide open mouths, no answers emerge.

‘Well?’

The first squire recovers himself, lifts his chin. ‘We were training.’

The second squire sees Attica’s face and says nothing.

‘Training were you? Is that what you call this, pointless, willy-waving nonsense? No, you must put away these childish notions and practise the stances I taught you, and the notes.’

‘But what’s the point of that? If the demons come, we can’t defend ourselves by singing.’

‘True, singing alone won’t be enough but neither will one of those sticks.’ He unsheathes his own sword slowly, drawing out the hum as the blade tastes air.

‘Alone, neither voice nor sword is enough, they must be brought together.’ He assumes a fighting stance, then swings, intoning a single note as he does so. The sound travels along the blade, harmonizing with vibrating metal. Just as Attica’s swing completes, the sound reaches the sword’s tip. Blue light flashes, extending out and into the rock, slicing deep.

The squires gasp.

He beckons. ‘Now, you try.’

The first squire steps forward eagerly.

‘No, not you.’ He looks to the second. ‘You.’

He offers his sword, hilt first and the squire takes it. ‘Now remember, all of the power is in the blade. All you need to do is wake it, and control it. Your voice and stance provide direction but it is more than simple technique. You must be strong in yourself, pure of intent, if you are truly to master being a knight.’

The squire nods, assumes the stance, notices the other squire subtly shaking his head and looking at his feet. He smiles a thanks and adjusts them.

‘Ready? Now, I want you to repeat the strike I did and make an incision into the rock. Take a breath, prepare yourself, let your arms be guided by the sword but don’t let it pull you off course.’

The squire nods, takes a breath.

‘And remember your own note must finish with the strike, if the harmony is off, your strike will be sloppy.’

The squire nods.

‘You don’t need to push too hard, let the sound come easily. Well? What are you waiting for, strike!’

The squire sings, swings, and the blade cuts through the air, humming with power. The humming rises rapidly in volume, eclipsing the squire’s voice. Blue light flashes, igniting the air, striking stone.

All three blink against the loud boom.

When the squire opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Attica’s disapproval.

The knight points to the wall. Below the clean line made earlier is a large black scorchmark. ‘See this? You haven’t even scratched it. Without control, the energy can go anywhere. You’re lucky to still have your eyebrows!’ Suddenly, the knight looks tired, older than his years. He takes back his sword. ‘More practice, both of you, the proper forms. I’ll tell you when you can stop.’

They set to work with renewed purpose and Attica leaves them to stretch uncomfortably in his makeshift seat. The ache in his bones grows daily. He thinks of the Knight Commander, imagines the man chanting defiantly in his last moments, canons shredding the hordes surrounding the dead snake. The Knight Commander will have made their enemies pay dearly for every step.

There are no turrets in the mine, nor legions to battle. The enemy is invisible, picked up from exposure to the Breach, eroding Attica’s essence from the inside. He resolves to fight it anyway, wondering if he will last six months? A year? More?

He will use the time well, fashion the squires into something better. Not knights, they have neither skill nor steel for it, but the Shining City does not need knights here, it needs smugglers and shadows. Small men to slip through the cracks of history.

Hidden away, Attica and the squires catch only rumours of the world changing. They do not see the first wave of the Usurper’s horde surge north, passing them by. They do not see the wild feast or the corpse towns or the plagues.

For them a year passes in relative quiet.

One morning a girl approaches, bearing news and supplies. It is not her first visit. Her parents don’t like sending her but they have no choice.

Wandering children are among the few beneath the notice of the village gossips, enjoying a freedom already forgotten by their elders.

Even so, the girl has left early.

She taps on the rocks and two youths appear to clear the entrance for her. They work quickly, eager to impress. One manages a shy hello before the other begins his interrogation.

‘Hey Tammy. You’re looking taller.’

‘I am?’

‘It suits you.’ Tammy blushes. ‘How’s your sister?’

‘Reela? The same, I guess.’

‘She ever talk about me?’

‘No.’

The bold squire doesn’t even flinch. ‘You sure?’

‘Uh huh.’ Tammy looks down, pretending to be coy. ‘She does write about you though.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, and she draws you sometimes.’

‘Give me details, Tammy.’

‘I don’t have any. She’s really protective of her stuff.’

‘But you’re smart, and pretty.’ She blushes again. ‘You could find out.’

‘Like a mission?’ she asks, eagerly.

‘Yes! A mission. Your first test. A Seraph Knight needs to be cunning as well as brave.’

‘Do you think I could be a knight one day?’

He makes a show of studying her. ‘Maybe. But it’s a lot of work.’

‘I can do it! When can I start?’

‘I told you, Tammy, you’ve got your first test. We’ll talk more when you’ve completed it.’ But the girl wants more, she begs and flatters and the young squire soon capitulates. ‘Would you like to see my sword?’

Of course she does.

He ignores the warning look from the other squire and takes the light with him to the back of the cave. There, Sir Attica sleeps, forehead clothed in thin sweat. At this hour the man shows few signs of life. The squire takes his master’s sword and returns to the others.

‘Here it is.’

Tammy makes a reverent noise. ‘I wish you could take it out.’

‘I can.’

‘But I thought the knights could only draw their swords in battle. Don’t you have to shed blood before you put it back?’

Both squires glance at each other and fall about laughing.

‘Oh Tammy, Tammy, Tammy! Don’t listen to idiots, they’ll make you stupid!’

‘It’s not true?’

‘Of course it isn’t. Do you want me to prove it?’

She nods excitedly.

Before his friend can stop him, the young man draws the sword. He doesn’t dare shout but Attica’s sword holds its own tune. It’s lighter than he expects and flourish nearly becomes throw. Tammy doesn’t notice, her moon-wide eyes mesmerized by the singing steel. He holds it out for her, keeping his grip loose, letting his arm quiver to prolong the sound. As the blade passes by her the note changes, souring until the point is clear.

The squires exchange another look.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Tammy breathes.

‘Yeah,’ the squire replies, forced and light. His friend has already gone to wake Attica.

The knight is moved rudely from troubled dreams to his aching body. He asks what has happened. They tell him their story. After he has demolished it they tell him the truth.

One squire hangs his head in contrition. ‘What does it mean?’ asks the other.

‘Lots of things,’ Attica replies. ‘For you it means punishment. And be grateful I need both of you sorry sacks of meat or things would be much worse. For her,’ he looks at Tammy, his beard twitching unhappily. ‘I’m not yet sure. What are you not telling us, girl?’

She shrugs.

Attica picks up his sword, willing his hand steady. ‘I’ve only heard my sword-song do this once before and that was at the Breach. What are you really?’

Tammy begins to back away.

‘Hold her.’

The squires comply. The girl shrieks.

‘Strip her.’

This time the squires look at each other, hesitate.

Attica repeats the words, edges them with menace. They jolt obedience into the young men. Fabric is pulled, tears a little, comes loose. Scrawny limbs wrap about a child’s body. Goose pimples stand to attention.

From the front Tammy appears normal but Attica is not fooled. ‘Turn her.’

On her back is a patch of yellow between the shoulders. A spreading rash, like the underside of a bruise. The affected skin curves out from her body, elevated by a hump of muscle, thickening, growing.

One of the squires steps back, covering his mouth with a hand.

The girl’s voice squeaks a question. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You’ve been in contact with an infernal.’

‘I haven’t!’

‘I am a servant of the Winged Eye,’ Attica rasps. ‘Don’t lie to me again.’

‘I’m not lying! I wasn’t in contact with one. I just saw one, that’s all.’

‘Tell me.’

Tammy talks quickly while tears hover close by. ‘I wanted to see the monsters. A pack of them had been spotted near Kolat.’

‘Kolat? I’ve never heard of Kolat.’

‘There’s no reason to, it’s just another stupid little village like mine.’

‘Carry on.’

‘The monsters were roaming closer and closer. Some of our hunters had come across scattered bones only a mile from outlying farms. They said the bones were still warm to touch!’

‘How many?’

‘There were three as big as you but on four legs and another dozen about my size. Kolat’s best hunters had gone with the army last year, so they only had the old ones left and ones a few years older than me. The other villages are the same but we thought if we got a really big group together we’d be alright.’

Attica shakes his head. ‘What happened?’

‘I wasn’t supposed to go but I wanted to see them for myself. I wanted to understand the enemy. They weren’t what I expected.’

‘Go on.’

‘They were horrible and scary but …’ She pauses, fear of lying warring with fear of the truth. ‘They were also familiar, in a way. I can’t explain it. But I didn’t touch them, I swear.’

Attica’s fingers firm their grip on his sword. ‘You didn’t need to.’

The Vagrant stares at the ceiling, unable to sleep. His eyes close, open again, close. It makes no difference; the cries of the dying pierce the tattered walls. The original contents of the storehouse are long gone, along with most of its roof.