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.
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.
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
