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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 (#ua1144d59-138e-5dbd-be78-1aa8f715494e)
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.’
Jem is one of the last born before the lean times, old enough to remember the stories, to have been fed on them from a young age. To him the Seraph Knights are heroes from a time when childhood was more than the few moments between consciousness and disappointment. But he is also a child of the present, and knows how to bargain hard when necessary. He recites the words in a sing-song whisper:
‘I invoke the rite of mercy. Save me, protect me, deliver me.’
The Vagrant closes his eyes.
Eight Years Ago (#ua1144d59-138e-5dbd-be78-1aa8f715494e)
Ten thousand Seraph Knights march to fight in what will become known as the Battle of the Red Wave. Most strong men and women of the region walk with them, becoming squires and servants and soldiers.
Mechanized beasts carry the majority of the army, for the knights four-legged walkers with armadillo backs or metal snakes on tracks, for the soldiers waggons and tanks.
At their head is one of The Seven, borne across the sky in her floating palace. Sky-ships trail after, like ducklings following their mother.
The ground trembles at their passing.
For more than a thousand years, the crack in the ground known as the Breach has been watched by Seraph Knights in the name of the Empire of the Winged Eye. It was prophesied that the Breach would one day open, spilling terror. But as the centuries passed and that day did not come mankind lowered its guard. It is hard to be vigilant for a lifetime, harder still for generations. Even The Seven, ageless, flawless, overseers of the Empire, have become distracted, their visits to the southern region oft neglected. The first invaders to float up from the depths of the Breach find the knights unsuspecting. Hungry to exist, to claw some purchase in the world, the demons attack quickly and a sleepy thousand-year watch ends with screams and blood.
One man escapes, a squire who fled as the fighting began. He carries news of the catastrophe north, across the sea, all the way to the Shining City, capital of the Empire and sanctum of The Seven.
On bended knee, he gives his report, a stuttering, babbling confusion punctuated with apologies. He is forced to repeat it many times, moving up the chain of command, until he is taken to the Knight Commander, the Empire’s supreme military authority who, within minutes of hearing the tale, brings the matter, and the young man directly to The Seven for guidance.
After two days of silence The Seven decide to punish the squire for incompetence. Once this is done, The Seven fall to pondering what action should be taken. Thirteen months after the first invaders arrive, the decision is made for the armies of the Winged Eye to ride out in force. Gamma of The Seven leads them, leaving her sanctum, her brothers and sisters and their devoted, for the first time in living memory.
They travel slowly across the Empire, parading, glorious. The young and strong of each region are collected, swelling numbers and pride. New recruits come eagerly, for all wish to become part of history.
When finally the army arrives at the Breach, the enemy are waiting. From the ravine walls of them rise, hissing, into the air like great clouds of blood. They are composed of indistinguishable things, unidentifiable save by their teeth, smiling knives side by side, a thousand thousand hungry mouths.
As the army of the Winged Eye forms up, the Breach vomits strange multi-legged things at them, a river of screeching scabs, scuttling towards the living.
The soldiers answer with cannon and lightning, and the knights draw their singing swords.
On the ground nameless monsters are blown apart or pierced or shot. They crumble to sludge, bodies unable to hold integrity so far from their native soil. In the sky, dark shapes flit between the turrets of the floating palace, plucking men from the battlements. Occasionally a turret pins one with fire, lighting its blue veins from the inside as it plunges to earth, a flaming rag of skin.
Then, from the Breach something powerful emerges. In time it will be known as Usurper, or Ammag, or Green Sun but it does not yet have form, appearing as a green shade, an unborn malevolence. Where it passes, husks fall, bearing little resemblance to the brave men and women they were moments before.
A ripple of fear passes through the army, the possibility of defeat rising in their minds.
Gamma of The Seven watches the battle with eyes that mirror the sky. Seeing the true threat reveal itself, she signals her attendants. They open the doors for her as she stretches, shattering the thin stone that encases her, like a bird emerging full grown from its egg.
On wings of silver and fire she descends upon the enemy. Her sword is her battle cry and its call turns the infernal foes to ash. At her approach, the formless thing pauses, retreating back towards the safety of the Breach. It is not ready to face her, not yet. Arrow-like Gamma pursues it and no creature from the Breach dares oppose her, the enemy falls away like leaves before a breeze, until she lands on the dark-shifting surface of her foe, plunging her sword deep into its formlessness.
Silent since it cannot scream its pain ripples outward in strands of boiling essence. It tries to flee and Gamma follows, her blade pouring hate into the wound, sowing seeds of itself within the enemy. They float within, dormant, waiting to bloom.
It is forced to turn from the yawning void and, reluctantly, face her.
They fight.
It is said that she fought well. It is said that she died well. The Knight Commander will not have it otherwise. Whatever else is said however, Gamma of The Seven fell that day.
The order to retreat comes soon after. Barely two thousand survive the first retreat.
There is no second retreat.
CHAPTER THREE (#ua1144d59-138e-5dbd-be78-1aa8f715494e)
By mid-afternoon the broken suns have swapped places, dappling the mountains in gold and the sky in blood. The caravan continues its slow and lonely way north.
Inside one of the waggons a cage door hangs open. Stretching happily outside it is a young boy. He is watching the man who saved him, eyes expectant. It is evident he wants the man to come with him, perhaps even hopes he might become part of their lives; a companion to his mother, a father to him.
The man has offered none of these things however, sitting quietly while the baby sucks down the last of the medicine.
‘So, I guess this is goodbye then?’ the boy says eventually.
The Vagrant nods.
Disappointed, he leaves the man and the baby alone in the waggon. It is quiet without the boy’s constant chatter.
The Vagrant stares at the coins in his hand, each with the power to buy and sell life. Only five remain now. They have been spent on necessities such as food and medicine as well as indulgences, acts of charity that do little to pay off the debt of conscience.
The last few coins have bought a boy’s freedom, a goat and a modicum of privacy for the journey. Of the three, only the goat can be classed as a necessity. Not many creatures survive the Blasted Lands without change. After the arrival of the infernals most died or were altered by the tainted energy that flowed from the Breach. Over time the survivors have by its infection bred far from their original forms until only a shadow of their former shape remains.
Although the goat is scrawny, bad tempered and stubborn, she is otherwise untainted and a reliable source of anemic grey milk.
Gradually the caravan slows, circling itself like a cat preparing a bed. With a groaning of wheels and bones, the waggons and their beasts of burden come to rest. People eat their rations sparingly, jealously eyeing their neighbour’s fare.
With renewed energy, the baby wakes and starts to cry. The fever is finally loosening its grip, allowing hunger to return in full force.
The Vagrant gets up quickly, gathering his things. He picks up the baby, covering it with his coat once more. Tucked in the dark warm space, it calms a little but continues to grumble as the Vagrant climbs out of the waggon.
When he approaches the goat, she eyes him with open suspicion. She tries to back away but is held in place by the wire tethering her to the waggon. Unlike many of the humans held in bondage to the caravan, the goat remains defiant. The Vagrant works quickly however, and soon the goat has capitulated to his wishes, chewing apathetically while he collects the precious liquid in an old tin cup.
A man approaches, fashionably starved, eyes alive with desperation. ‘Hey pal,’ he begins, mouth twitching. ‘Doin’ alright?’
The Vagrant inclines his head slowly.
‘What you got there? That a baby you carryin’?’
Sounds of the caravan can be clearly heard as the two men look at each other; people cooking on makeshift fires, bolts being tightened, bent spokes knocked back into line again, blades being sharpened.
‘C’mon, man, I weren’t the only one that heard it. And I ain’t the only one that’ll take an interest. So let’s talk.’ He scratches the sores on his chin as he makes his pitch. ‘I been watchin’ you, got me some ideas ’bout what you’re up to. You got an untainted there, right? You reckon you’re smart, smuggling it out like you have. Gonna trade somewhere up north I’m bettin’, make a nice bit on the side. Is it a boy or a girl? The Uncivil’s offering a lot on baby girls, you could make a killing if you get that far. I’ve got a contact up that way, handles independent sales with the Fleshtraders, no questions asked? So, how about it? We could be partners, you got the goods, an’ I got the contacts. We split the profits and keep it all nice and cosy, just between us. What do you say?’
The Vagrant’s eyes narrow a fraction.
‘Course if you don’t like it, I could speak to some friends of mine an’ we could take the little nipper off your hands, free of charge. Your choice.’
With deliberation the Vagrant puts the cup of milk on the ground, the baby next to it.
‘Oh, that’s a beauty all right. I really hope it’s a girl, yes I do.’
