The Vagrant (37 page)

Authors: Peter Newman

Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Epic, #Science Fiction, #Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic, #General

And yet, for many of the invaders, there is a kind of sadness. For the Usurper gave them purpose. It was the Green Sun around which they orbited. Where once an iron will defined them, now there is emptiness and uncertainty.

The Vagrant steps out of The Seven’s sanctum and into empty space. He doesn’t hesitate, gliding down towards the steps, sword out, Vesper held tight.

The sword’s silvered wings spread wide, catching invisible currents.

He lands, takes the stairs at a more stately pace. Down he goes, leaving the Sanctum and The Seven behind. Tension falls away like an old skin. Shoulders relax, straighten. He lifts his gaze from the floor, looks around as he returns to the Shining City.

An eye does the same, mirroring exactly.

They see children in groups, chip-linked, so similar in expression, in presentation, it takes effort to tell them apart. They see structures carefully maintained from a bygone age, statues of The Seven and the great shining pillars that give the city its name. They see the last of the knights in their ancestral armour, treasured, polished.

Nothing new. Nothing but carefully controlled decay covered in beautiful greenery, a civilization lost and stagnant.

An eye closes, unwilling to see any more.

The Vagrant walks on, past soldiers and citizens, young and old. He does not fit into their hierachies, there is no codex to apply to him, no social codes that work.

He is a man without rank and yet he walks in The Seven’s grace, untouchable.

Most kneel as he passes, all watch, none get in the way.

Vesper waves cheerily at the crowds. When she does not get a response, she waves all the harder, trying to smile them into submission.

One of the knights returns the wave formally. Devoid of emotion, the gesture is hollow, eerie.

They pass windows in the hillside, the only sign of buildings hidden underground and the maze of tunnels that connect them. Faces press against the glass, their expressions blank.

The Vagrant keeps walking.

Little legs soon tire and Vesper is lifted onto familiar shoulders. She enjoys the view, pointing at plants, at clouds, calling out names with delight.

Dutifully, the Vagrant nods, giving her ankle an encouraging squeeze each time she manages a new word.

The purging facility is not covered with a carpet of grass. It stands solid, metal walls dull, catching rather than reflecting the light. It is shaped like an egg, twenty feet high and ten across and every inch is covered in etchings, a blend of language and artistry. Words become wings and swords and hands that hold them, drawing the eye to its only entrance. All unfortunates that end up here go through this door. Those that survive leave via the tunnel on the opposite side.

Next to the facility is a second building, only partially above ground. Simpler in design but larger, where bodies recover from their ordeal or undergo preparation for burial.

The Vagrant approaches the second building.

A man stands outside, his uniform crisp. He holds up a hand. ‘Who are you?’

Vesper waves at him. ‘Esper!’

The man is not amused. ‘I’ve not been informed of any inspection. Who are you? Where is your authority?’

The Vagrant raises an eyebrow, raises the sword.

The man looks at it, double takes. ‘I, forgive me, I had no idea, I …’ He opens the door.

As Vesper trots past, she looks at the man, then points at the Vagrant with extreme satisfaction. ‘Dada.’

The inside of the building is divided into cells, all locked. Rooms of healing, of holding, where those that survive the purging await official approval of their purity and permission to return to society.

The doors are transparent, and the Vagrant looks into each room as he passes. Sir Phia sits hunched in one cell, her eyes dark, her body wasted. Jaden’s body is next door, an unrecognizable husk, awaiting disposal. Nurses attend to the living and the dead with equal care.

In another cell, he sees one of the sisters from Slake, weak but alive, and yet another, the boy Chalk, heavily sedated and fighting a fever.

He makes eye contact with those he knows, nodding encouragement, concern creeping into his face each time he comes across an empty room.

At last he finds what he is looking for and opens the door. Vesper goes in first, frowning at the cell’s occupant: A man with bandages wrapping the top half of his face.

‘Umbull-arm?’

The man’s voice cracks as he answers. ‘Vesper? Is that you?’

‘Umbull-arm!’

The Vagrant races Vesper across the room and all three embrace, wrapping each other in a circle of arms, foreheads touching, safe.

A dark shape moves under the water, running on silent engines. It moves slowly, navigating its way past energy nets and dormant sentinel drones, treating the drifting husks with caution, lest contact wake them again.

It surfaces at the coast, allowing a single passenger to disembark.

The First has not been this far north before. The presence of infernal feet on the northern continent is historic. It is pleased how easy it is, and wary. For it feels The Seven even from this distance. Their grief shakes the sky, disturbing the essence currents for miles around.

Ever patient, the First observes the lights above that so few can see, prepared to run if things develop. But soon the signs are clear. This storm will pass and The Seven will quieten, returning to their self imposed exile.

It tries to sense the Malice but cannot perceive anything within the strange walls of the city.

For now, the north is too dangerous for the First to interfere. Better to consolidate its hold on the seas and the Empire’s many colonies.

The underwater vessel turns around, returning south, leaving a fragment of the First behind, to watch, to wait.

On top of a hill sits a house, half built. Vesper lies in the grass nearby, plucking with both hands and throwing their contents into the air. Wind catches the loose blades, swirling them in spirals of green.

The goat does not approve of such waste. A small army of kids work voraciously by her feet, keeping the hill neat. Male goats wait at the hill’s base, knowing better than to venture up uninvited.

By an unfinished wall, two men sit. They talk quietly, kindly. One is scarred, the other blind, both appear happy.

At their side a sword sleeps, peaceful.

Acknowledgments

This feels a bit like my wedding speech, with so many wonderful people to thank. First off, an honourable mention to all those who believed in
The Vagrant
during the early days, the lovely Friday Flash community and my test readers: Katherine Hajer, Conall O’Brien, Liz Newman, Mike Newman, Phil Tozer and John Xero, who fed me with enthusiasm and educated where necessary.

A massive thanks has to go to my agent Juliet Mushens for, well, pretty much everything really but especially the lightning-fast edits, calming presence and always replying promptly to my panicky emails! I hope this is the first of many books we usher into the world together.

And then there’s my editor of awesomeness, Natasha Bardon, whose taste in books is matched only by her taste in games. Thanks for giving
The Vagrant
a chance and for helping it to grow. May all of our editing experiences be as painless as this one!

I’m also delighted with the artist Jaime Jones for creating a cover that makes me smile every time I see it. There are others, too, people I’d never even thought about before I started this process, who all contribute in vital ways but are rarely mentioned: my copy editor (thanks, Joy), the designer who brought the cover elements together (thanks, Dom), and others in the Harper
Voyager
team, many of whom work from the shadows like book ninjas. Thank you, all!

Last of all I need to thank my wife, Emma, who realised back in 2011 that I was a frustrated writer and put me on the path. Thank you, my love. I dread to think where I’d be without you.

About the Author

Peter Newman lives in Somerset with his wife and son. Growing up in and around London, Peter studied Drama and Education at the Central School of Speech and Drama, going on to work as a secondary school drama teacher. He now works as a trainer and Firewalking Instructor. He sometimes pretends to be a butler for the Tea and Jeopardy podcast, which he co-writes, and which has been shortlisted for a Hugo Award.