from each segment of the machine, a dozen smoking plumes.
The villagers rush out to greet it waving homespun flags; a hundred homages to the Winged Eye. They are proud to salute their returning champions. The cheers die in their throats as the metal snake draws nearer. Cracks mar its silver skin and one of the stacks has split, belching hot black fumes at any that get too close.
A young knight stationed at the snake’s head orders the crowd to part. He wears no helm, uniform brown stubble visible from crown to chin.
Stunned, the people comply, flags hanging limply at their sides. Nobody needs to ask, they know the battle has been lost. They do not know, however, that these knights are fleeing the enemy, that soon the infernal flood will wash over these fields in pursuit of their prize, wiping away the village and its culture. In years to come their descendants will forget the teachings of the Winged Eye, The Seven and their Seraph Knights, only remembering that it failed them when they needed it most.
The road ahead is clear, save for two young men, who stand boldly, too naïve to yet know fear.
From his seat in the snake’s open mouth, the knight roars: ‘Get out of the bloody way!’
The young men do not move. They glance at each other then up at the knight, chanting as one:
‘We invoke the rite of mercy. Save us, protect us, deliver us.’
After a quick curse to the sky, the knight invites them in.
A few miles past the village, the metal snake belches black smoke and dies. The flanks hiss as they cool; a last impression of living.
The Knight Commander calls his last follower and the fresh recruits. The day’s travel has taken its toll, he knows he has reached the limits of his strength, inside he is crumbling, broken.
‘There is only one order,’ he tells the three of them, ‘return the cargo to the Shining City whatever the cost. Failure is unacceptable, everything else permissible. That is all.’ The three digest the news. Even together they barely add up to one man. ‘From now on, Sir Attica is in charge, you take your instructions from him.’
With effort the younger knight marshals his face to calm. ‘What about you, Commander?’
‘I’m not in the mood for running today, Attica, but I am in the mood to shoot something. Carry me up to the turret and you can be on your way.’
The youths have grown up with hard labour and make short work of moving the older man, armour and all, into the raised diamond on the snake’s back.
Attica straps his superior into place. Plastic loops take the strain where muscles cannot. Words fumble out. ‘Commander, I’m not sure I can do this.’
The Knight Commander injects courage into his man, mixing personal gravitas, legendary status and lies. Attica leaves straighter than he came, determined. Alone once more, the Knight Commander loads a comms-rocket for launch, and records a full account of the tragedy. His voice stays even when describing the scale and nature of the invaders, and the fate of the brave knights and soldiers that went to fight them. It only cracks when he speaks of Gamma’s fall. He plays back the report three times, then waits for the rocket’s pre-launch checks to cycle through.
The freshly made squires carry supplies, Attica a long lacquered box. Far behind them, fingers of smoke start to rise, a giant’s hand raised hazily skyward. It grows from the village, the smell of smoke reaching the group, turning them.
Packs fall, forgotten, and two youths run back towards the village. Attica calls to them.
‘But it’s our home, we have to help them!’ protests one.
The other keeps running. He ascends the hill they have just skirted, sparse strands of grass lolling over its top, a comb-over of yellow-green. The bitter view stops him dead. The other two catch up and stand by his side.
As they watch, a dark stain spreads from the edges of the village. A living seep, a pseudopod, it probes forward, tasting the land, searching. A ragged multitude of teeth and claws mark its growing boundary.
‘We have to move on.’ Shocked ears fail to hear. ‘Come,’ Attica repeats.
A beat later the three run.
No more words are exchanged.
The Vagrant runs along Verdigris’ main street. Boots and hooves click on hard stone, the sounds distinct, punctuated by the goat’s shrieks and a strong smell of smoke. The Vagrant darts down an alley and stills, eyes darting from the flames eating his coat to those that dance on the goat’s tail, careless of the other less pressing dangers that surround them. The sword comes down once, twice, and strands of tail float to the ground, burning bright.
Without his usual care the Vagrant puts down the baby and the sword, rolling on the floor until the fire is out.
He gets up, picking up the baby in one hand and clamping the goat’s mouth shut with the other. Both give him reproachful looks.
He waits for himself and them to calm before continuing, putting away the sword and pulling out the scope to check behind them, lenses piercing the night.
No one follows.
Engines hum softly in the gloom, waiting. Like the rest of the city, they hold their breath, poised for Darktime, when the Usurper’s forces will command the city. When it comes, lights stutter to life, haphazard in their arrangement, illuminating unfairly. The signal brings people from their homes. Shops reopen, curtains of chain slide back out of sight, doors grind sideways, groaning. Signs lift, are turned by grimy hands and dropped with a bang. A hundred banners to the Uncivil wink, vanish and convert to the Usurper.
Soon, voices call out; exaggerations and lies masquerade as hope. Others join them with offers and bargains. Unbeatable prices for the belongings of the beaten.
People spill like vomit onto the streets, congealing into crowds.
The Vagrant weaves through, oblivious, till the leash pulls tight, yanking his arm backwards. The goat strains to look back at the charred thing on its rear, still smoking.
The Vagrant stops, and in Verdigris’ marketplace stopping invites attention.
‘Trouble with your beast I see? Yes, getting old now isn’t she? Old and tired, I know how she feels!’ The patter is only punctuated by laughs that come thick and fast and fake. ‘Funny things these, only get more stubborn with age, not less, like my children!’ More laughter. ‘But forgive me, where are my manners, I am Ezze. And you are?’
The Vagrant blinks. Ezze’s hand snakes around his shoulder, guiding him through sweaty bodies towards a set of wide open doors.
‘And a truly noble name it is! I am pleased to make your acquaintance, from this moment on you should consider Ezze your friend. Verdigris is a grand city, full of wonders but many of them are shy, not like the women! Ah, come now, don’t be like that, it is just Ezze’s joke. A gift to you. Enjoy, it’s the only thing you get for free tonight, that I promise! Now step this way my serious friend, I know a place where we can solve all of your problems.’
The
