showering around him. One ignites the corner of his coat, another catches the goat’s tail.
Flame sprouts, the goat protests but they keep running, trailing smoke as they vanish into Verdigris’ embrace …
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Knights of Jade and Ash form up around their fallen comrade. At their commander’s nod four of them collect the torso, a fifth gathers the feet. Though rare, it is not the first time their shells have shattered. A remaking is called for.
But something is wrong. The body is too light, too brittle. Innards are dried out, failing in their role as infernal glue. The armoured torso collapses flat in mailed hands, powder spills on the floor.
They investigate the abandoned sword. It too has changed; jade has faded, gone still. With a boot, the commander prods and cracks yawn along its edge, falling away from each other a thousand times.
Instinctively, the knights step away.
From the city’s archway comes a new sound, bones ratchet against each other, three jaws not quite in time, an approximation of laughter.
The knights approach the gates, alert to the newcomer lurking within.
Not quite neutral, Verdigris is a city with two masters, torn a little more with every spin of the world. By day it belongs to the Uncivil, by night to the Usurper. In the grey between, things are often broken.
Normally the commander would wait for night to complete its fall; its instincts cry out to wait but there is no denying the Usurper’s order. It steps through into the long archway. In formation the unit drops back, following. The commander’s hands lower, weaponless palms forward. It waits.
From the shadows scuttles Patchwork, sometimes Duke, Southern Face of the Uncivil. Amorphous within its robes, it appears to glide, a moving puddle, tiny legs busy under the surface, until it is less than a foot away. With one long indrawn breath, it rises, thin body extending from multi-coloured fabric, matching the commander’s height. A squat face slides beneath the robes, climbing the body till it finds the hood, pushing out rudely, tongue first.
The commander’s helm swings forward harder than necessary. Contact is violent, essences touch, each pressing the other, testing, setting the tone for what follows.
Eight Years Ago
Two young men wait anxiously for the return of their heroes. Their youth makes them stand out – the other young and fit members of their village had been snapped up by the army when it passed through the first time.
To their utter dismay, they missed it. Missed Gamma’s palace floating by, missed the armies of the Winged Eye and their Seraph Knights.
More than this, they missed their chance to be heroes.
All because their parents were too afraid and tucked them away, out of sight, tricking them into a cellar and locking it firmly until the army had passed. A deliberate act to keep them from joining up.
Selfish. Understandable. Wise.
But parents cannot protect their children forever and the young men are determined. They resolve not to leave their post until the Empire’s forces return. Then, they will invoke the rite of mercy and the knights will be forced to take them in.
To stave off boredom, the men discuss what life will be like, sharing well worn stories about the knights and rumours about how squires are trained.
And then, finally, they see movement from the south and stories give way to reality.
A metal snake winds its way through the countryside from the direction of the Breach. It is borne along on fat caterpillar tracks, wrapped around diamond capped sprockets. Twin stacks protrude 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
Flame sprouts, the goat protests but they keep running, trailing smoke as they vanish into Verdigris’ embrace …
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Knights of Jade and Ash form up around their fallen comrade. At their commander’s nod four of them collect the torso, a fifth gathers the feet. Though rare, it is not the first time their shells have shattered. A remaking is called for.
But something is wrong. The body is too light, too brittle. Innards are dried out, failing in their role as infernal glue. The armoured torso collapses flat in mailed hands, powder spills on the floor.
They investigate the abandoned sword. It too has changed; jade has faded, gone still. With a boot, the commander prods and cracks yawn along its edge, falling away from each other a thousand times.
Instinctively, the knights step away.
From the city’s archway comes a new sound, bones ratchet against each other, three jaws not quite in time, an approximation of laughter.
The knights approach the gates, alert to the newcomer lurking within.
Not quite neutral, Verdigris is a city with two masters, torn a little more with every spin of the world. By day it belongs to the Uncivil, by night to the Usurper. In the grey between, things are often broken.
Normally the commander would wait for night to complete its fall; its instincts cry out to wait but there is no denying the Usurper’s order. It steps through into the long archway. In formation the unit drops back, following. The commander’s hands lower, weaponless palms forward. It waits.
From the shadows scuttles Patchwork, sometimes Duke, Southern Face of the Uncivil. Amorphous within its robes, it appears to glide, a moving puddle, tiny legs busy under the surface, until it is less than a foot away. With one long indrawn breath, it rises, thin body extending from multi-coloured fabric, matching the commander’s height. A squat face slides beneath the robes, climbing the body till it finds the hood, pushing out rudely, tongue first.
The commander’s helm swings forward harder than necessary. Contact is violent, essences touch, each pressing the other, testing, setting the tone for what follows.
Eight Years Ago
Two young men wait anxiously for the return of their heroes. Their youth makes them stand out – the other young and fit members of their village had been snapped up by the army when it passed through the first time.
To their utter dismay, they missed it. Missed Gamma’s palace floating by, missed the armies of the Winged Eye and their Seraph Knights.
More than this, they missed their chance to be heroes.
All because their parents were too afraid and tucked them away, out of sight, tricking them into a cellar and locking it firmly until the army had passed. A deliberate act to keep them from joining up.
Selfish. Understandable. Wise.
But parents cannot protect their children forever and the young men are determined. They resolve not to leave their post until the Empire’s forces return. Then, they will invoke the rite of mercy and the knights will be forced to take them in.
To stave off boredom, the men discuss what life will be like, sharing well worn stories about the knights and rumours about how squires are trained.
And then, finally, they see movement from the south and stories give way to reality.
A metal snake winds its way through the countryside from the direction of the Breach. It is borne along on fat caterpillar tracks, wrapped around diamond capped sprockets. Twin stacks protrude 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
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