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.
CHAPTER NINE
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
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.
CHAPTER NINE
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
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