Run Pete, Write!

This is part of a series, go here for previous episodes.

The Vagrant goes Harm’s way, weaving through passages, crumbling, forgotten. Away from the rebels and the fighting, silence presses in. Only footsteps and ragged breaths challenge its dominion.

Tiny fingers rise from inside his coat, probing upwards. They find stubble and pause, thoughtful. Not satisfied with his chin, the fingers stretch higher, questing. At full extension they find a nose and grip hard, scissoring, clamping nostrils shut.

The Vagrant coughs.

Harm’s voice is gentle. “It bothers you, leaving them behind.”

Nobody responds and the group march on.

The baby squeezes harder. Torchlight glimmers at the corners of the Vagrant’s eyes.

From far away comes the cry of fresh destruction. Harm and the Vagrant tense and the goat bleats unhappily. Walls rumble, unsettled, and rocky tears drop from above.

Gradually, things settle. The passage remains.

The group move on.

“I think that was more of Tough Call’s heavy artillery.”

The Vagrant nods slowly, little fingers still clamped to his face.

“She must be desperate, trapped between the Usurper’s knights and Patchwork’s forces.” Harm glances at the other man, his face solemn. “It’ll be a slaughter.”

The Vagrant bows his head, keeps walking.

“I know we didn’t do right by you but that’s on me and Joe, nobody else.”

Their footsteps echo, rhythm unbroken, heading northwards.

With unknown purpose the baby’s hand begins to twist, and twist.

The Vagrant stops, his sigh nasal. Gently, he liberates his nose, guiding the hand back into his coat, then he draws the sword, tapping it lightly against stone.

It sings, one note, long and round. When it stills he taps it again, and again, charging the air as minutes pass.

In time it is heard. Six off-key replies disturb, followed by another, deeper. The sword’s silvered wings twitch in anticipation.

Harm smiles, soft. “Thank you.”

At speed, they depart. Every few steps, every new turn, the Vagrant declares their presence. Now the replies are constant, gaining.

Without need to discuss, fast walking becomes jogging, then running.

Rubble springs up at the edge of their light. Fresh dust floats, decorating the collapse. Harm examines the damage, hope for escape fading. “We could go back, try another route.”

The Vagrant nods, sheathing the sword, and they rush the way they came, towards the hunters, till a side passage appears, narrow, unused.

Harm plunges in, strands of web break on his face, masking, tickling his mouth. He stumbles, the torchlight jerking, catching glimpses of skittering, shy things. In places the roof has fallen, forming mounds that trip, raising the floor.

An arm bursts from the Vagrants coat, grasping. He tilts his head back, foiling fingers that scrape past his nose, snaring his bottom lip; the baby chuckles.

They run, breath coming harder. Legs slow, no longer light.

The passage opens up, becomes vast, its edges unseen.

The Vagrant stops, shoulders drooping. Harm collapses against the wall, letting ancient stone take his weight, lungs working like bellows. With an air of finality, the goat sits.

Harm moves the torch slowly, revealing the remains of the old city, a monument to what was. Buildings have become pillars, curves beautiful beneath flakes of rust; they stop the sky from falling. Just above head height, pipes run. They are dead now, purposeless. In the centre of the square is a statue, features lost to time. One arm is missing, the other extends, palm upwards holding a pitted orb. Hills of rock and debris intrude upon ancient streets.

They begin to explore. Cracks in the walls are numerous, big enough to promise escape. Other passageways present themselves, three still useable. The Vagrant points at the highest and Harm starts to climb.

The goat does not move.

The Vagrant frowns and tugs at the leash.

The goat does not move.

The Vagrant closes his eyes, swaying slightly. He takes a breath, exhales, opens his eyes, and pulls.

Much to its displeasure, the goat is standing.

With deliberation, the Vagrant follows Harm down the new passage, it is small but even. The green eyed man stops, pointing. “You see that?”

A shaft of light cuts across the passage, winking sporadically.

“There’s an essence lamp on the other side.” Harm peers into the hole. “It looks like a cellar, still in use.” Using the back of the torch he begins to batter at the hole, making it crack and widen. The Vagrant joins in, kicking at the wall.

A sound stops them. Not the keening of a tortured blade but the clank of armour.

“They’re close!” Harm says, voice fearful. He redoubles his efforts to break through.

The Vagrant looks back down the passage, then down to the baby. It giggles, reaching for his face again. He lifts it closer, lips pressing against its cheek, then holds it out towards the green eyed man.

“What are you doing?” Harm asks, as the baby is put into his arms.

The Vagrant wraps the goat’s leash around Harm’s wrist and points at the hole, urgent.

Harm looks into the Vagrant’s eyes. Words squeeze through a throat, suddenly tight. “I understand. I’ll wait for you, beyond the north gate.” He feels the Vagrant’s fingers gripping his elbow, fingers hard against the bone. “I understand.”

While Harm struggles through the hole, the Vagrant drags his feet back towards the cavern. He looks back, once, twice, and is gone.

This is part of a series, go here for previous episodes.

Sweaty faces shine in shielded lamps. Box-laden, men and women labour through tunnels. Maxi leads them, hair spikes combing the ceiling. At the rear of the group, Tough Call stands, watching for pursuit.

Max waits with her, huge hands cradling a cylinder, an acquired treasure. Fine engravings run its length, unnoticed through thick calluses. “You think they’re coming boss?”

The kick is affectionate but firm. “Keep your voice down! And yes, they’re coming.”

“You see them?”

Tough Call hunches forward, peering into the pistol scope. “Not yet.”

A ball of sweat rolls down the back of Max’s skull. Slow at first, it gathers speed down his thick neck, racing on to meet its fellows budding in the curve of his back. “But…if you can’t see them…how do you know they’re coming?”

She kicks him again, firmer this time.

Robed figures enter her sights. They walk in single file, a queue of killers, patient. From the hidden recesses of their ranks she hears bones grinding together, an alien laughter.

Max forgets to whisper. “Was that Patchwork?”

“Bring down the tunnel.”

“That was Patchwork wasn’t it?”

“Max, bring down the tunnel.”

He looks over at her. “You sure boss?”

She doesn’t look back, one eye closed, the other pressed against the scope. “You want to be a glove puppet for the Uncivil?”

“No boss.”

“You want to be turned into pick and mix for the half-lifers?”

“No boss.”

“Then stop asking stupid questions.”

“Sorry boss.”

She holsters the pistol, puts her hand on his shoulder. “And Max?”

“Yes boss?”

“Before you fire, give me a five count.”

“Sure,” he says but Tough Call is already running.

***

A low rumble shakes the underground room. Dust shrugs downwards, settling on the Knights of Jade and Ash, who wait, ever patient.

From the commander’s hand, a ratbred dangles, bare feet lightly brushing the floor. She stares, eyes wide and vacant, temples pulsing in time with the living metal at her throat.

The commander releases her. It has been difficult, connecting with essence so dry. Stubborn like cement, it slows thought, yet the commander has left the necessary mark in her mind. Around it, cracks have started.

Muscles fail on the ratbred’s face and her right cheek succumbs to gravity, mouth turning down on one side, a confused squiggle. But behind the empty eyes, she knows what is sought. With effort, she approaches the wall, injured leg dragging behind.

The Knights watch, expressionless.

Memories move slowly, hands spasm in momentary rebellion, then they move among the stones. The hidden door opens once more.

She sniffs, thick air invading her nose, making her sneeze. She sniffs again, sifting scents till she finds it, faint, hooking her nostrils, compelling her forward into the tunnel.

Like shadows, the Knights follow.

***

In his arms, the baby nestles, content. The Vagrant blinks against the dust, pulling his collar across his mouth.

Ahead the earth roars again and chunks of stone fall from the ceiling, shattering around the feet of the fleeing people, their essence lamps quivering but staying lit.

The Vagrant does not slow, staying close to their reluctant guide.

Forced to keep pace with him, the goat flicks its ears, irritated.

Other branches present themselves but Harm does not take them, following the other rebels, moving towards the source of the noise. He glances at the Vagrant, eyes dipping guiltily to the hidden bundle.

The rebels converse in tense whispers. They cannot go back, can they go forward? What should be done? Anxiety becomes inertia and they slow, unsure.

Footsteps pound through the dark, numerous, giant. The group ready their weapons.

Then a rebel cheers. A familiar voice answers, Maxi. Verdigree’s resistance reunite, clasping arms, swapping well-worn names.

Tough Call moves among them, firing questions. She does not like the answers. Her last question is asked, angrily. A forest of fingers points towards the Vagrant.

Harm speaks as she marches towards them. “It’s not his fault, it was Joe. He-“

“Looks like we have a problem,” she says loudly, pushing aside the green eyed man. “I’ve brought down two of the entryways to hold off Patchwork. With luck we’ve buried the bastard but more likely we’ve slowed them down. We were coming back this way to get somewhere defensible but now I’m told we’ve got trouble in the southern passages too?”

“The Usurper’s Knights are right behind us.” Harm says into the sudden quiet.

“Wait a minute,” Tough Call says, looking round. “Where are the others?”

None of the rebels answer.

“Did the Knights get them?”

The rebels look uncomfortable. “We’re not sure,” says one eventually.

“Right.” Tough Call runs a hand through her hair. “Everybody, crack open those boxes, looks like we’ll be testing these weapons sooner than we thought.” She gives her attention to the Vagrant. “My hands are tied here. There’s going to be a fight and it’ll be hard as hell. I don’t know if I owe you or if there’s bad blood between us and right now I don’t care. We could use your help, now more than ever.”

The Vagrant shakes his head.

“I get the feeling that’s non-negotiable.”

“It’s this way,” Harm says, beckoning.

Tough Call puts a hand on her hip. “You going too?”

“Yes.”

There is no time for argument, so none is made.

“Good luck getting out of here. We don’t use the other tunnels much and there’s a good chance they won’t have survived the quakes we made.”

Nodding, the Vagrant starts to leave but Tough Call grabs his arm. “Word is, those knights are only here cos of you. If you could draw some of them off, it’d give my people a better chance of survival.”

Shrugging sharply, the Vagrant breaks away, leaving the rebels behind.

(Go to Part 28)

This is part of a series, go here for previous episodes.

Essence lamps flicker, green-tinting the chamber. Rebel faces stare into the tunnel, trying to understand what comes. A couple flank the doorway while others form a line, barbed poles and repurposed tools held forth, aggressive.

Harm stands among them, unarmed save for a bundle of squirming irritation.

Humming, ominous, the point of a sword penetrates the room. The Vagrant follows.

As the lamps sketch him, Tina screams, dragging her injured leg towards the far wall. “Don’t let him touch me!”

“He’s not here for you,” Harm murmurs, but none attend to the words.

“Get out of here,” says one of the rebels to the intruder, his pole indicating the exit. “And we’ll not hurt you.”

The Vagrant shakes his head, eyes intent on the baby. He takes a step forward.

The rebels exchange hurried looks. Poles quiver, uncertain. There are no weak rebels, Verdigree does not permit such to survive, but the strongest of the group have left, aiding their leader, seeking precious artillery. Courage has gone with them.

The Vagrant takes another step, raising the sword. A low note resonates from the motion, sending forth a ripple of sound. Teeth set on edge, essence lamps stutter; their unnatural flames dance away, bent by the sound, then cough straight again.

The rebels retreat, only space is left between Harm and the advancing Vagrant.

“Here,” says the green eyed man, holding out the baby. “I’m sorry.” There are more words, explanations, but they die in his throat when he meets the Vagrant’s eyes.

The Vagrant reaches for the baby with his free hand.

The baby reaches for the Vagrant.

Fingers nearly touch.

A click sounds sharp from the doorway. “Nah, I don’t think so,” Joe spits. “I’ll be taking that baby.”

“It’s over Joe,” Harm replies softly.

The gunman rubs at the new swelling on his temple. “Shut up!”

The Vagrant starts to turn.

“Don’t move!” Joe shouts. “And keep that sword where I can see it. If the bloody thing so much as waves I’ll put you down.” He glares at Harm. “And as for you, you freak, I’m going to put a hole right between those weird eyes of yours, you two faced, double crossing c-“

The sword comes down in a swift cut, air sings, Harm jumps back, Tina hides her face, rebels tense.

“What?” Joe says, incredulous, his hair lifting as the sound wave passes. “You think I’m joking? I’ll…“

With a chorus of gasps, the essence lamps go out.

“…kill you?”

Cries of alarm mingle with muffled footsteps.

Harm stands, shock-still, for the first gunshot. The baby wails, its cry distinct in the dark. He curls his body round the baby as the second shot grazes his shoulder, pushing him down on his side, hard. The third bullet passes overhead. Cold stone slaps one cheek, a tiny fist the other.

One of the rebels rekindles a lamp, making sense of the soundscape.

People cower in corners, bodies scrunched, small.

The Vagrant rises from his crouched advance, moving to strike.

Joe’s surprise curves into a smile. More than a sword length separates them. He fires as the Vagrant swings.

Blade and bullet meet, sparks flare and the shot ricochets harmlessly upwards.

Still too far away, the Vagrant stands, sword stretched high, body exposed.

Joe’s smile falters at a sound behind him. Before he can understand its nature, an unknown force collides, charging hard against his legs, knocking him forwards.

The sword comes down, Joe follows a moment after. There are no sparks, no fire and this blood does not burn. It stains the blade, running along its edge, forming drops, falling.

At speed, the goat emerges from the tunnel.

The Vagrant’s eyebrows shoot up. He nods to the goat but it doesn’t respond, running past, head twitching left and right, searching for an exit. The Vagrant frowns, looks the way the goat has come, peering into the dark.

Faintly, something moves.

The sword’s attention fixes on the motion, thrumming a warning against the Vagrant’s hand. Its sound is caught by the approaching menace, sent back, distorted, a strangled cry of metal.

The Vagrant sighs, his shoulders droop briefly then he straightens, ready, resigned.

“The Usurper’s Knights are here!” Tina screeches. “Shut the door, shut it now!”

Stunned rebels begin to move, unsure of which enemy to face first. Some watch the intruder in the room; others move to the door.

Harm pushes onto his knees. “There’s another way out of here.”

The Vagrant crosses to the green eyed man, towering over him.

“I could show you.” Again, Harm offers the baby.

Sheathing his sword, the Vagrant takes the baby and holds it. He closes his eyes. Little fingers worm into his hair, turning circles.

Harm waits while rebels struggle with the door. It closes; a brief denial of what comes.

Reluctantly, amber eyes open. Harm swallows, meets them. “We have to go.”

The Vagrant nods, retrieves the goat.

Tina hobbles to the shadows of the opposite wall. At her touch one deepens, opens.

Rebels race for the door, friendships forgotten in the rush to live. The ratbred is knocked aside, crushed against the wall. Fatigue buckles knees, frustration drives her down. She draws a breath, desperate. “Help me, please.”

The Vagrant walks past without looking down.

“Please!”

Harm closes the way behind them. The door pushes her back into the chamber, muffling the baby’s cries on the other side.

Hands shaking, Tina reaches for the wall, pulls, begins to stand.

Behind her the essence lamps grow brighter.

Her injured leg fails and she clings to the wall. Fingernails fracture.

Behind her the door shakes with impact, rippling like rusted water, boiling, moaning.

Abandoned.

(Go to Part 27)

This is part of a series, go here for previous episodes.

Within Verdigree’s 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.”

The green eyed man frowns and the baby chuckles like an old man, distracting, drawing his attention down. “You like that don’t you, little one.”

“Harm, you know it can’t understand a word you’re saying? It’s a baby.”

The green eyed man stops. “You’re not going to the north passage.”

Joe looks over his shoulder, biting back angry words. “I told you, we’re just going a different route, it’s a bit out of the way but safer.”

“You did, but that was a lie.”

There is a moment, awkward, tense. Joe fingers the handle of his gun. “Is that going to be a problem, Harm-less?”

“That depends,” Harm replies softly. “Where are we going?”

“We’re going to go and make a fortune!” Teeth glint in the torchlight. “We’re off to market. It’s all worked out.”

“Really?”

“Yep, I’ve got a contact waiting, old friend of mine. He’s going to sell the brat on for us, make us all rich. He’s even throwing in a few extras for ‘the beast’.” Joe tugs at the leash for emphasis. “Which is why I haven’t turned it loose yet, bloody thing keeps trying to go the wrong way.”

Harm whispers words that fall like feathers, light, just beyond hearing. The baby stretches, reaching for the source of the sound.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, but why take me?”

“To be honest,” Joe replies. “Tough Call told me to take you, that’s why.”

“She won’t like this.”

“Yeah, which is why we aren’t going to tell her.”

“I’m not sure I like this.”

“It’s a bit late to grow a conscience now. I saw that lad you used to play with, what was his name, Ness? Nate? You weren’t too kind to him from what I remember. What did happen to him anyway, nobody’s seen him in ages?”

Harm looks away, swallowing, the soft light of his eyes eclipsed. The baby struggles, frustrated by its lack of freedom.

“I’m pretty sure Tough Call wouldn’t like to know about that either, or doesn’t it count once they hit puberty?”

“Ok,” comes the reply, broken.

“Ok?”

“I’ll help you. I’ll say nothing.”

“That’s smart. And don’t worry, there’s plenty of money to go round. You’ll get your share, and money is the best antidote to guilt I know.”

They walk on until their lights reveal a sagging ceiling, cutting the passage in half. Joe wraps the leash around his wrist, pulling the goat’s head low as he stoops to continue.

On impulse, Harm throws his torch at Joe’s head and runs. Behind him he hears a clunk and a curse. The baby squirms in his arms, unimpressed.

Harm risks a backwards glance.

Joe swings the gun round for a clear shot but his other hand still holds the leash, linking him to the goat. The goat has no interest in turning; it pulls hard, arresting Joe’s turn. He tries to hold his balance, tries to pull his captive with him. The goat is used to such trials, it does not move. The small man falls, cursing again as he hits the ground, legs bent behind him.

The gun fires, loud and impotent.

The goat bolts.

Joe and the baby scream.

Harm runs.

Green eyes glow softly, twin moons too weak to penetrate the dark. He fights to hold the baby, unable to stop its noise in his haste while, unseen, uneven walls beat at his arms and shoulders, bouncing him from one side of the passage to the other. Distantly he hears struggling and swearing, and the sound of pursuit.

The chase is slow, both men struggling to find their way, both desperate to be faster.

Harm reaches a familiar door. He puts the baby down fast, and wrestles to open it. Little hands and feet rage against the world, then against Harm’s stomach as he lifts the unwilling bundle. Pale light issues from the doorway, glistening on the baby’s back. He looks down, sees blood on the floor, the door, smearing its lower quarter. His hands begin to shake. The baby’s cries stutter, transforming, becoming laughter, juddering.

People wait in the chamber, armed, tense, clustering around something, voices low and frantic. His arrival startles them but panicked looks turn swiftly accusatory, freezing him.

“What’s happened?” he asks, throat dry.

They move aside, allowing him to see Tina, pale, injured, angry. Fresh bandages cover her leg, red stained from the inside.

“What happened to you?”

Tears of pain roll down her cheeks. “Him! When he saw his baby wasn’t there, he tried to kill me. I only just escaped.”

He avoids the glare of pink eyes. “You didn’t escape.”

“He was faster but I lost him once we got underground.”

Harm readjusts his grip on the baby, waits for her thoughts to form.

“You think he’s still coming? You think he followed me?”

He nods sadly.

“Oh shit!”

“I just hope Tough Call returns before he does.”

“Wait!” says Tina, small face crinkling with discomfort. “Where were you and where’s Joe?”

“Joe betrayed us.”

Amazement seizes the ratbred’s features, contempt follows. “Crap! I’ve known Joe years, I trust him. I don’t trust you.” Mutters of agreement come from the assembled. Harm has always been on the outside, Joe is known to all. “What have you done to Joe?”

Hard faces and weapons converge, demanding answers. Harm sways under the pressure. “I…”

“Ssh!” interrupts Tina, tensing with effort. “Something’s coming.”

The rebels take up positions, covering the door. In the darkness of the tunnel there is a distant flash of fire, of amber, and a hiss, inhuman.

(Go to Part 26)

This is part of a series, go here for previous episodes.

Robes sit smoking on a rusty block, inside them, meat sizzles.

The Vagrant sheathes the sword, striking out north across the square.

His spectators have no protocol for what they have witnessed and instincts take over. Bodies rush to and fro, bashing together, grunting, crying out. None go near the Vagrant, peeling away from him, parting.

Tiny black husks litter the square; they crunch under the Vagrant’s boots.

Tina peeks from a nearby doorway, pink eyes wide. She beckons to him, leading the way through rooms, numerous, empty of people. Beds and belongings vie for space, their little stories mingle in the mess, rendered meaningless, trampled under trespassing feet. They reach a boiler, stretching from ceiling to floor. Tina dives behind it and into tunnels below. The Vagrant follows, lines of rust painting his coat as he squeezes past.

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

They emerge at the north end of Verdigree 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 gate that waits as promised, open, unguarded.

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

The Vagrant’s eyes narrow. He looks along the wall both ways. Between mounds of junk strewn the length of Verdigree’s perimeter, 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, more even. 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 it 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 downwards 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 he 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 the non-thing. “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 the Duke 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.

An old anger stirs, born of majesty, of malevolence.

“I give you one last warning.”

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

The non-thing is talking still, words floating by the commander. It does not hear them, raising its lance.

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

Swords lament, twisting through bodies that burn, silenced.

The Malice whispers again from the north, agitating, setting the Knights into motion.

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

(Go to Part 25)

This is part of a series, go here for previous episodes.

Beneath Verdigree’s streets, tunnels lie, old arteries of a city forgotten, buried under its successor. Most are crushed, impassable, but some allow passage, connecting ancient rooms, housing the rebels of Verdigree. In the greatest of these spaces, people and half-breeds gather to listen to their leader addressing the Vagrant, her hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll get right to it. Word on the street is that the balance of power in Verdigree is changing, things are swinging against the Usurper and we don’t want that to happen.”

The Vagrant glances over to the giant Usurperkin twins and back to her.

“No, Max and Maxi’s inheritance has nothing to do with it. This is about survival. It’d be just as bad if the Uncivil’s hold was broken. As things stand we can’t hope to win a war but we can survive theirs, underground, in the cracks. We’ve been doing it for years. It’s not glamorous but it’s better than being dead. Fact is we need them focused on each other so they’re not focused on us.”

The Vagrant’s face is impassive.

“In the ruins at the centre of town is a cache of weapons, top of the line kit that got here just before the occupation. It was supposed to be sent south to support the war effort but by the time it arrived here the war was already over. We could use that firepower to strengthen our position and strike against the Uncivil’s agents. Only problem is we can’t get to them without drawing the wrong sort of attention.” She lets her hand slip from his shoulder. “We need you to cause a distraction so we can move in and take the weapons. It just so happens that their recruiter is holding a rally in town today, he’s a nasty piece of work, literally.” A few of the crowd murmur in agreement. “You’re going to kill him and as many of his traitorous recruits as you can. We’ll bring you up right by the place so nobody’ll know you’re there till it’s too late. You go in, hit them hard and fast and then get the hell out of Verdigree. We’ll arrange for the north gate to be open for you and help you get through. After that, you’re on your own.”

With a frown, the Vagrant points at the baby burbling in the arms of the green eyed man.

“I’ll have Harm bring the baby and your things to the north gate. Succeed, and they’ll be waiting for you.”

The green eyed man keeps his attention on the baby, whispering sadness, guilt, shame.

“Do we have a deal?” Tough Call asks.

The Vagrant closes his eyes, nods.

“Good. Joe, give our man back his sword.”

A bundle of rods is taken from the goats back, untethered and allowed to spill on the floor. The sword lays among them, restless. Joe does not pick it up. The Vagrant steps past, collects it, leaves it sheathed.

“Looks like we have a busy day ahead,” says Tough Call. “Good luck, all being well we won’t see each other again.” She nods, ending the meeting, and turns back to her people.

The Vagrant watches the baby until they take him from the room, reluctant.

***

The square is full of people and flies baking together. It is Starktime and the suns are high overhead, giving each spectator two shadows.

On a block of rusted iron stands what was a man. Like many of the Uncivil’s creatures he is robed, the horror of his re-creation hidden. He has brought many over, pleasing Patchwork, his Duke and master. In return he is augmented, part infernal, part man. His arm is still recognisably human; it protrudes from the robes, unremarkable down to the wrist, handless, crowned instead with an old woman’s head. Though the face’s skin is black and shrunken, the people know the features well. Once, the head belonged to their leader.

The crowd are no longer disturbed by this sight, just relieved he does not display his other arm.

Tendons flex and old jaws move like an obscene glove puppet.

People listen, some held by fear, others by twisted hope. Only one moves; sliding between the motionless figures, drawing closer to the speaker. His hand grasps the sword’s hilt, eager to respond.

***

The sixth Knight of Jade and Ash returns, joining the others in darkness. Its head touches theirs and the commanders, essences weave in a metal circle.

“Report.”

“Nothing. Nothing. Patchwork has returned to the city with fresh purpose. Nothing. The Malice has resurfaced. Are we weakening?”

“Where?”

“Do we fight? Do we fight? Do we fight? Can we fight? In Verdigree’s centre, it stalks Pathwork’s mouthpiece. Will we go the way of the seventh?”

“No, let the Malice fall among our enemies, let the pawns of the adversary blunt its edge. Then we will fight, and win. For now we watch.”

The commander goes to break the circle but stops, troubled.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. We bleed from the hole made of the seventh. The Malice will end us. The Malice will end us.”

“Enough. We watch.”

Ending contact, the commander leaves. The Knights form up behind, two a step behind the others.

(Go to Part 24)

This is part of a series, go here for previous episodes.

“Check him,” commands the voice behind the gun.

One of the giant half-breeds restrains him while the ratbred sniffs him over, bony hands probing beneath the robe. He pushes her away, hard, and she stumbles back against the rock. From beneath the robe comes a soft complaint. The Vagrant turns, placing his body between the gun and the baby.

“Try that again pal and I’ll put a bullet in you. If you’re lucky it won’t hit the little one.”

The Vagrant’s eyes widen, despite the glare.

“Yeah, you heard me. We know about the baby you’re carrying, what, you think you can hide one of those squealers in a man’s house and him not notice?” The gunman snorts. “So hand it over, as well as any other weapons, and then we can all make like friends.”

He shakes his head. Again his eyes seek the sword but it remains bound with the goat, useless.

“In case you’re simple or something, that’s not a request.”

They rip the robe from him, using it to wrap the tentacle. The ratbred moves to take the baby but he pushes her away again.

“Oh for the love of… Maxi, make our friend cooperate.”

A thick arm circles the Vagrant’s neck, squeezing till air is thin and strength runs out. The baby is slipped from flaccid arms. It begins to scream. The Vagrant’s eyes twitch but he doesn’t move. They search him, this time there is no resistance.

The half-breed slings him over her shoulder as they make the last few turns. “Thought you were gonna shoot him.”

“Shut up, Maxi!”

As soon as they enter the room the way behind them is sealed, stone grinding on stone, moved by pulleys and many hands. Intricate carvings line the walls, their lights broken, their gems stolen, an echo of an echo of what was. Flames burn green, held by cups, inverted; bright but cold, the unnatural sheen falls on many faces, all expectant.

The Vagrant is dropped, wheezing, on the ground.

A woman moves forward, her face inked in angry swirls, an arm missing. The others part for her. “Hello there,” she says, speaking quietly under the baby’s screaming. “I hope they weren’t too rough with you.” She tilts her head, examining him carefully. “I’m sorry if they were. These times make monsters of us all. I’m told that you cannot speak but that you hear well enough.”

The Vagrant’s eyes open fully. He stares at her for a moment, then looks to the baby.

She waves a man forward who takes the baby from the ratbred. The Vagrant examines him. He is dressed pale like the others, his eyes as green as the flames in the room. The man hesitates, looks down, whispers. The baby's cries settle to an insistent complaint.

“Now, it is time for us to have a talk, you and I. But first let me make some introductions. The people here call me Tough Call, or Tough for short. If we get on I might even tell you my real name one day but given the look on your face I won’t set any false hope. Around here, names are important; they’re about all any of us have left. I’ll tell you how I got mine, so you know the kind of person you’re dealing with.

“My parents used to run with the top dogs in Verdigree. And believe me they were strong. They always told me to stay true to yourself no matter what the cost, anything less and you were already dead.” Tough Call sighs. “So when Verdigree got taken by the Usurper, and my good folks were turned into suits for demons that took up residence in our home, I found their advice mighty hard to follow. But follow it I did. Found some good people who felt the same way.

“We did a lot of fighting in those days, lot of dying too. Lost me an arm, well, that’s not quite true. I know exactly where it is, I keep it in a cabinet out the back. It’s still twitching, even now. Cut the damn thing off myself. It was that or give my body over to the taint and, no offense to the rest of you here, but I’d already given enough over to them.”

The goat yawns.

“So that’s me.” Tough Call points to the gunman. “That there’s Honest Joe. His name isn’t really Joe and he’s not really honest but the name’s kind of stuck. He’s a survivor though and proof that intelligence can make a man attractive.”

“Hey!” shouts Joe over the laughter.

“Tina’s the little lady that helped you find your way in the dark and the twins are Max and Maxi, full grown, first generation, half-breed loyalists. They’re usually pretty calm, so long as you’re respectful and never get them mixed up.” Tough Call gestures to the others. “There’s a lot of folk here you haven’t met yet but I want to make it clear: these here are people, determined people, they all got their own names and stories. They’re all decent, turns out the taint don’t always turn the mind, just makes it work a little harder.

“I’m hoping you’ll help us because you really are some good-hearted Knight right out of the past but if knowing us and our struggle’s not enough then let’s be clear on this too: you help us and we’ll help you out of Verdigree like you want. You don’t, and we take everything you’ve got and claim that fresh reward that’s been placed on your head. Clear?”

The Vagrant nods.

“Good.” Tough Call smiles and puts a hand on his shoulder. “So that’s us. Now let’s talk about where you come in.”

(Go to Part 23)

This is part of a series, go here for previous episodes.

The group shuffles along Verdigree’s main street. It is clearing, people instinctively seeking shelter before the Darktime fails. A desperate few conclude business, snatching bargains.

As the group passes, people stare.

They see a slave master and his three wretches, heavy with death’s stench. They see the boy drool and moan, one eye open, the other pus sealed. They see the tainted man, his tentacle seeping, dead. They know he will soon follow. The third is twisted by mutation, horns and tails sprouting from all available spaces, a second form grows from its back, mercifully covered from view. It moves slowly, every step a labour.

Hurriedly, the onlookers turn away.

Machines power down, their lights no longer needed. Verdigree stills. It is not the Uncivil’s domain, not yet, but change can be felt, the air pregnant with Starktime.

The group move on, now alone. None speak save the boy, who wails as if under torture.

Old buildings lean together, making tired arches. In places they collapse, closing streets, forcing new ways to be forged. Homes become throughways, windows become doors. In turn the piles of rubble accommodate life. Handlings scuttle between the cracks, competing for space with rats, ubiquitous, tainted.

Here, the group stops. The boy shrieks again, a fat blob of mucus splatters on the ground.

“What is with all the noise boy?”

The pussy eye opens, winks. “You told me I am dying father, so I make dying noises.”

“Ey! Ezze say look sick, and why did Ezze say this?”

“To trick everyone?” A hand clips his ear. “Ow!”

“Yes! To make them not look. Noise makes them interested, makes them remember us. If they look hard they see you are not sick boy, not diseased, just thick in head!” Ezze clips the boy’s ear a second time.

“Ow! Why you hit me again? You always hit me. It’s not fair!”

“Be grateful you have ears left to hit. Your aunt was stupid, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And Ezze is wondering, where is aunt of little Ez now?”

“She’s been taken away.”

“Exactly! She is taken to breeding pits of Slake, and will not be seen again.” Ezze turns to the Vagrant. “Actually this is something of a mercy, but,” Ezze continues, attention back on the pouting boy. “She is stupid, she is worse than dead. So Ezze hit all the stupid out of you and you thank Ezze for it, yes?”

“Yes. Thank you father.”

“Is better, now go wipe off your pus and make sure to get it back in the jar for next time.”

“Yes father.”

“I’ll meet you at home.”

“Yes father.” The boy leaves them.

“Ah he is good boy but stupid, so stupid. More like his mother than his aunt but Ezze think you not interested in that story. Now we are here and deal is done.”

The Vagrant looks from left to right; his eyes rove empty streets and buildings.

“You are wondering where they are, yes? Of course you are. Have faith my friend, they will come. So, Ezze will be leaving you now.”

The Vagrant’s mouth opens, protesting.

“All endings in Verdigree are fast, yes? But Ezze must go. Please, keep the tentacle. Perhaps it reminds you of our friendship!” The shopkeeper starts walking quickly. “May all your lovers be sweet and may their paths never cross, ha!”

The Vagrant shares a look with the goat as the suns rise. Starktime has come. Distantly, sounds are heard. Doors close, signs reverse, doors open, the first steps of Verdigree’s daily dance.

From a ruined building, figures emerge. Their clothes grey with hard living, uniform. Size marks them out. A man and a woman tower over the rest. Half-breed teenagers, covered in muscle and greening scars, the common Usurperkin markers. Patches of spiked hair decorate their skulls, black flags on a pitted map. Another, normal sized, holds a gun, ugly and mismatched. It points at the Vagrant’s head. The last is a tiny woman, barely four feet in height, ratbred teeth too much for her mouth to contain.

A wave of the gun signals the Vagrant to follow. Reluctantly, he does. Giant hands take the leash from him and briefly, the goat flies. Sprinting they return to the darkness.

A chain of hands is formed, leading the Vagrant down, deep, through lightless buildings, then steps, then tunnels, the ratbred finding their way in the dark. More than once, big heads brush rock; curses fall till they are hissed quiet.

The Vagrant is taken down further, where cold becomes chilling. Objects are hefted, then replaced, a trail of obstacles left for any would be followers. A torch shines yellow, recycled sunlight perched on the top of a gun. It pokes at the Vagrants eyes, making him squint.

“What you make of him?” murmurs the large man, unimpressed.

The man’s counterpart shrugs. “Good for spare parts, maybe.”

“Spare parts?” says another voice, the one that belongs to the gun. “This here’s the real deal, at least he’d better be. We certainly paid enough to get him.” The light and the voice come closer still. “I see what you mean, but we’ll get our money’s worth, one way or another.”

The Vagrant’s squint becomes a scowl. Beneath the robe, his fists clench.

(Go to Part 22)