The Vagrant by Peter Newman Page B

or if there’s bad blood between us and right now I don’t care. We could use your help, now more than ever.’
    The Vagrant shakes his head.
    ‘I get the feeling that’s non-negotiable.’
    ‘It’s this way,’ Harm says, beckoning.
    Tough Call puts a hand on her hip. ‘You going too?’
    ‘Yes.’
    There is no time for argument. None is made.
    ‘Good luck getting out of here. We don’t use the other tunnels much and there’s a chance they won’t have survived the quakes we made.’
    Nodding, the Vagrant starts to leave but Tough Call grabs his arm. ‘Word is, those knights are only here cos of you. If you could draw some of them off, it’d give my people a better chance of survival.’
    Shrugging sharply, the Vagrant breaks away, leaving the rebels behind. He goes Harm’s way, weaving through passages long forgotten, crumbling. Away from the rebels and the fighting, silence presses in. Only footsteps and ragged breaths challenge its dominion.
    Tiny fingers rise from inside his coat, probing upwards. They find stubble and pause, thoughtful. Not satisfied with his chin, the fingers stretch higher, questing. At full extension they find a nose and grip hard, scissoring, clamping nostrils shut.
    The Vagrant coughs.
    Harm’s voice is gentle. ‘It bothers you, leaving them behind.’
    Nobody responds.
    The baby squeezes harder. Torchlight glimmers at the corners of the Vagrant’s eyes.
    From far away comes the cry of fresh destruction. Harm and the Vagrant tense and the goat bleats unhappily. Walls rumble and rocks drop from above.
    Gradually, things settle. The passage remains.
    The group move on.
    ‘I think that was more of Tough Call’s heavy artillery.’
    The Vagrant nods slowly, little fingers still clamped to his face.
    ‘She must be desperate, trapped between the Usurper’s knights and Patchwork’s forces.’ Harm glances at the other man, his face solemn. ‘It’ll be a slaughter.’
    The Vagrant bows his head, keeps walking.
    ‘I know we didn’t do right by you but that’s on me and Joe, nobody else.’
    Their footsteps echo, rhythm unbroken, heading north.
    With unknown purpose the baby’s hand begins to twist, and twist. The Vagrant stops, his sigh nasal. Gently, he liberates his nose, guiding the hand back into his coat, then he draws the sword, tapping it lightly against stone. It sings, one note, long and round. When it stills he taps it again, and again, charging the air as minutes pass.
    In time it is heard. Six off-key replies disturb, followed by another, deeper. The sword’s silvered wings twitch in anticipation.
    Harm smiles, soft. ‘Thank you.’
    At speed, they depart. Every few steps, every new turn, the Vagrant declares their presence. Now the replies are constant, gaining.
    Without need to discuss, fast walking becomes jogging, then running.
    Rubble springs up at the edge of their light. Fresh dust floats, decorating the collapse. Harm examines the damage, hope of escape fading. ‘We could go back, try another route?’
    The Vagrant nods, sheathing the sword, and they rush the way they came, towards the hunters, coming to a side passage, narrow, unused.
    Harm plunges in, strands of web break on his face, masking, tickling his mouth. He stumbles, the torchlight jerking, catching glimpses of skittering, shy things. In places the roof has fallen, forming mounds that trip, raising the floor.
    An arm bursts from the Vagrant’s coat, grasping. He tilts his head back, foiling fingers that scrape past his nose, snaring his bottom lip; the baby chuckles.
    They run, breath coming harder. Legs slow, no longer light.
    The passage opens up, becomes vast, its edges unseen.
    The Vagrant stops, shoulders drooping. Harm collapses against the wall, letting ancient stone take his weight, lungs working like bellows. With an air of finality, the goat sits.
    Harm moves the torch slowly, revealing the remains of the old city, a monument to what was. Buildings have become pillars, curves beautiful