in corners, bodies scrunched small.
The Vagrant rises from his crouched advance, moving to strike.
Joe’s surprise curves into a smile. More than a sword length separates them. He fires as the Vagrant swings.
Blade and bullet meet, sparks flare and the shot ricochets harmlessly upwards.
Still too far away, the Vagrant stands, sword stretched high, body exposed.
Joe levels the pistol but his smile falters at a sound behind him. Before he can understand its nature, an unknown force collides, charging hard against his legs, knocking him forwards. At speed, the goat emerges from the tunnel.
The Vagrant’s eyebrows shoot up. The sword comes down, Joe follows a moment after. There are no sparks, no fire and this blood does not burn. It stains the blade, running along its edge, forming drops, falling.
The Vagrant nods to the goat but she doesn’t respond, running past, head twitching left and right, searching for an exit. The Vagrant frowns, looks the way the goat has come, peering into the dark.
Faintly, something moves.
The sword’s attention fixes on the motion, thrumming a warning against the Vagrant’s hand. Its sound is caught by the approaching menace, sent back, distorted, a strangled cry of metal.
The Vagrant sighs, his shoulders droop, then he forces in a deep breath and straightens.
‘The Usurper’s knights are here!’ Tina screeches. ‘Shut the door, shut it now!’
Stunned rebels begin to move, unsure of which enemy to face first. Some watch the intruder in the room, others move to the door.
Harm pushes onto his knees. ‘There’s another way out of here.’
The Vagrant crosses to the green-eyed man, towering over him.
‘I could show you.’ Again, Harm offers the baby.
Sheathing his sword, the Vagrant takes the baby and holds it. His eyes close. Little fingers worm into his hair, turning circles.
Harm waits while rebels struggle with the door. It closes, a brief denial of what comes.
Reluctantly, amber eyes open. Harm swallows, meets them. ‘We have to go.’
The Vagrant nods, retrieves the goat.
Tina has hobbled to the shadows of the opposite wall. At her touch one deepens, opens. Rebels race for the new door, friendships forgotten in the rush to live. The ratbred is knocked aside, crushed against the wall. Fatigue buckles knees, frustration drives her down. She draws a breath, ‘Help me, please.’
The Vagrant walks past without looking down.
‘Please!’
Harm closes the way behind them. The door pushes her back into the chamber, muffling the baby’s cries on the other side.
Hands shaking, Tina reaches for the wall, pulls, begins to stand.
Behind her the essence lamps grow brighter.
Her injured leg fails and she clings to the wall until fingernails fracture.
Behind her the door shakes with impact, rippling like rusted water, boiling, moaning.
Sweaty faces shine in shielded lamps. Box-laden, men and women labour through tunnels. Maxi leads them, hair spikes combing the ceiling. At the rear of the group, Tough Call stands, watching for pursuit.
Max waits with her, huge hands cradling a cylinder, an acquired treasure. Fine engravings run its length, unnoticed through thick calluses. ‘You think they’re coming, boss?’
The kick is affectionate but firm. ‘Keep your voice down! And yes, they’re coming.’
‘You see them?’
Tough Call hunches forward, peering into the pistol scope. ‘Not yet.’
A droplet of sweat rolls down the back of Max’s skull. Slow at first, it gathers speed down his thick neck, racing on to meet its fellows budding in the curve of his back. ‘But … if you can’t see them … how do you know they’re coming?’
She kicks him again, firmer this time.
Robed figures enter her sights. They walk in single file, a queue of killers, patient. From the hidden recesses of their ranks she hears bones grinding together, an alien laughter.
Max forgets to whisper. ‘Was that Patchwork?’
‘Bring down the tunnel.’
‘That was Patchwork
The Vagrant rises from his crouched advance, moving to strike.
Joe’s surprise curves into a smile. More than a sword length separates them. He fires as the Vagrant swings.
Blade and bullet meet, sparks flare and the shot ricochets harmlessly upwards.
Still too far away, the Vagrant stands, sword stretched high, body exposed.
Joe levels the pistol but his smile falters at a sound behind him. Before he can understand its nature, an unknown force collides, charging hard against his legs, knocking him forwards. At speed, the goat emerges from the tunnel.
The Vagrant’s eyebrows shoot up. The sword comes down, Joe follows a moment after. There are no sparks, no fire and this blood does not burn. It stains the blade, running along its edge, forming drops, falling.
The Vagrant nods to the goat but she doesn’t respond, running past, head twitching left and right, searching for an exit. The Vagrant frowns, looks the way the goat has come, peering into the dark.
Faintly, something moves.
The sword’s attention fixes on the motion, thrumming a warning against the Vagrant’s hand. Its sound is caught by the approaching menace, sent back, distorted, a strangled cry of metal.
The Vagrant sighs, his shoulders droop, then he forces in a deep breath and straightens.
‘The Usurper’s knights are here!’ Tina screeches. ‘Shut the door, shut it now!’
Stunned rebels begin to move, unsure of which enemy to face first. Some watch the intruder in the room, others move to the door.
Harm pushes onto his knees. ‘There’s another way out of here.’
The Vagrant crosses to the green-eyed man, towering over him.
‘I could show you.’ Again, Harm offers the baby.
Sheathing his sword, the Vagrant takes the baby and holds it. His eyes close. Little fingers worm into his hair, turning circles.
Harm waits while rebels struggle with the door. It closes, a brief denial of what comes.
Reluctantly, amber eyes open. Harm swallows, meets them. ‘We have to go.’
The Vagrant nods, retrieves the goat.
Tina has hobbled to the shadows of the opposite wall. At her touch one deepens, opens. Rebels race for the new door, friendships forgotten in the rush to live. The ratbred is knocked aside, crushed against the wall. Fatigue buckles knees, frustration drives her down. She draws a breath, ‘Help me, please.’
The Vagrant walks past without looking down.
‘Please!’
Harm closes the way behind them. The door pushes her back into the chamber, muffling the baby’s cries on the other side.
Hands shaking, Tina reaches for the wall, pulls, begins to stand.
Behind her the essence lamps grow brighter.
Her injured leg fails and she clings to the wall until fingernails fracture.
Behind her the door shakes with impact, rippling like rusted water, boiling, moaning.
Sweaty faces shine in shielded lamps. Box-laden, men and women labour through tunnels. Maxi leads them, hair spikes combing the ceiling. At the rear of the group, Tough Call stands, watching for pursuit.
Max waits with her, huge hands cradling a cylinder, an acquired treasure. Fine engravings run its length, unnoticed through thick calluses. ‘You think they’re coming, boss?’
The kick is affectionate but firm. ‘Keep your voice down! And yes, they’re coming.’
‘You see them?’
Tough Call hunches forward, peering into the pistol scope. ‘Not yet.’
A droplet of sweat rolls down the back of Max’s skull. Slow at first, it gathers speed down his thick neck, racing on to meet its fellows budding in the curve of his back. ‘But … if you can’t see them … how do you know they’re coming?’
She kicks him again, firmer this time.
Robed figures enter her sights. They walk in single file, a queue of killers, patient. From the hidden recesses of their ranks she hears bones grinding together, an alien laughter.
Max forgets to whisper. ‘Was that Patchwork?’
‘Bring down the tunnel.’
‘That was Patchwork
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