The Vagrant. Peter Newman

panic the Uncivil’s Half-alive men shrug off their robes, revealing bodies ravaged by extreme surgery, grafted dead limbs reanimated, original parts reworked, joints altered, muscles rewired, augmentations gifted by the Uncivil in exchange for service.

      The commander squeezes the lance, spraying them all with liquid fire.

      The Half-alive howl with pain, violently waving limbs that burn, trying to put them out, trying to fight their way towards the commander. Before they can reach their target, the knights step forward, tightening the circle, hacking at the flailing appendages. When the knights step back, gouts of fire pour from the commander’s lance. Between each burst the knights close again, cutting away another layer of the enemy like skin from an onion. All the while their swords lament, twisting through bodies that burn, silenced.

      When the last of the Uncivil’s Half-alive men have fallen the knights move about the corpses ensuring every part of them is truly lifeless.

      Then the knights pause, shocked into contemplation until the Malice whispers again from the north, agitating, setting them into motion.

      Soon Patchwork will discover the carnage and war will follow. Despite its instincts, the commander doesn’t mind.

      Within Verdigris’ underground, two men travel. One has green eyes and carries a grumbling baby; the other has a gun and pulls a goat behind him.

      ‘Joe?’ says the first, quiet.

      ‘Yeah?’

      ‘Something’s wrong.’

      ‘Yeah, it’s a sign of our times.’ Joe snorts. ‘Or are you talking about something in particular?’

      ‘We should be at the north passage by now.’

      ‘Nah, I’m just being extra careful, we’re taking a different route.’