The Bandalore

by D K Girl

  He saw now its formidable height, its withers could brush his nose, its elegant head reached far above his own. It grew ever likely that he was to be trampled, but Silas would not move, could not move. The horse sank back onto powerful haunches and launched into the air—graceful as though it were a butterfly and not the solid, muscled bulk that it was—soaring over the hedge with its streaming mane mimicking the high windswept cloud. The animal’s oddly tinged coat shimmered with hints of the softest green, as though moss lay beneath the pale grey hairs. With silent weight the animal landed not a stride from where Silas stood and held itself still as though a sculpture stood there.

  Silas’s heart marked a steady beat in his chest. He ought to have been frightened but there was not a bead of sweat upon him. Guttural sounds came from the swell of the beast’s broad chest. The beast’s eyes were coloured as uniquely as the great body: a watery yellow, as though deeper colour had run free and only a hint remained. The pale horse’s coat twitched where a great blow fly tried to settle. Silas lifted his hands, desiring to touch that coat himself. Surely it would be like touching the very clouds.

  ‘Do not hesitate. Lalassu will not shy from you, Silas.’

  Silas jumped, having forgotten entirely that he was not alone. The Lady Satine stood Clarence at the hedge, caressing the velvety snout of the black horse. Her animal was the most imposing of them all, she had to stretch Clarence upon his toes to reach and scratch the horse behind its flickering ear. But Silas spent would challenge any who denied that the horse by his side was not the most splendid, regal animal that ever existed.

  ‘Lalassu.’ The name whispered from him. He sank his hands in behind the stunning cascade of mane, the colour of shadows. The hair was fine as silk and soft against his skin. The horse nickered, blowing hot breath against Silas’s shoulder, and nuzzled against him. Sudden tears pricked the back of Silas’s eyes. The angsts he’d carried since the moment he awoke to this new life dropped away, as though the horse had nudged them free. He rested his head against the powerful neck and the horse did not protest.

  ‘Good gods, now there’s a sight to rouse a man.’ Flippant laughter rang out. But

  Silas remained as he was, the steeds muscles rippling beneath his touch, is smell rich in his nostrils. He did not need to move an inch to know who approached.

  ‘Oh my.’ Another voice, the woman who had jested with Pitch. This time Silas did turn. Sybilla was a sturdy woman. She marched through the rose arch, clad in britches and a patchwork blouse. Her skin so deep brown it hovered upon ebony, her short natural curls tight upon her head and coloured the golden gleam of fresh dried straw.

  Pitch followed just behind her, his shirt pulled free of its waistband, his hair tousled and unkempt. He winked, jerking his chin towards Silas. ‘Why was I not invited to this party, were you keeping yourself for the horses alone?’

  A frown marred Silas’s face. ‘This is no party, Pitch.’

  ‘Mr Mercer,’ The woman stared at his feet as she spoke, ‘you may wish to, ah…cover yourself.’ She fluttered her fingers in his general direction, but it took several moments before her meaning dawned upon him. Silas glanced down, and uttered a horrified cry.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ He had unknowingly released the blanket and it puddled at his feet. Silas shook with the shame of it. The grey horse tossed its head and whinnied, pressing large damp nostrils against his chest. Grumbling, Silas nudged it away, stooping to regather the blanket and wrap it tight around him. He could feel the pierce of his nails into his palms as he clung to it. Why had the Lady Satine said nothing of his nakedness? Heat roared into Silas’s cheeks.

  ‘What’s all this then?’ Pitch said.

  ‘I have told Mr Mercer of his task.’ The lady declared, her attentions still upon the magnificent black animal.

  ‘Ah, and were you delighted to learn, Sickle, that Black Annis is but the first of the horrors you are expected to dispatch?’

  It was the dispassionate and condescending way that Pitch spoke that drove Silas to nod, for he was so very tired of feeling the lesser man. ‘I am ready. And Annis was not born a horror.’ He’d seen it with his own eyes. That ghostly figure at the very end, standing over him as he bled. She had been a woman of god. And she had been grateful for her release. ‘I do not dispatch them, I set them free.’

  ‘Well, you tell yourself whatever you need to get you through. Self-delusion is a very effective survival instinct, I agree.’

  Pitch sauntered closer and the pale horse snorted, stamping a hoof into the soft grass. The light played against its legs, setting off flickers of the green beneath the grey. It was the gentle colour of ferns upon the forest floor.

  ‘Where were you hiding these nags, Satty?’ he said. ‘I’ve not seen sign of these stallions since we arrived.’

  ‘The Four are mares.’ Lady Satine’s indignation was evident. ‘There are no stallions among them.’

  ‘Cock or pussy, I truly have no issue. I assume you intend for Sickle to lope along on this sickly coloured nag.’ Pitch gave up his attempt to stroke the pale horse and moved towards Clarence. ‘Shall I take that black beast for myself?’

  Clarence turned at the lady’s behest to level Pitch with a waspish stare. ‘Nergal is mine. You will never ride her, Tobias.’

  The animal, Nergal, pierced the air with its cry, lifting its front hooves from the ground in a brief rear, before breaking into a maddened gallop and flicking up dinner-plate sized unshod feet as it hurtled back up the slope from whence it had come. Soil and tufts of grass flew in the air in its wake. The copper red and snow white horses followed suit, tails unfurling like flags to snap and curl at the air. Lalassu remained at his side, ears pressed forward, watching her sisters thunder out of sight.

  Pitch raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Fine. I’ll not touch your precious fleabag. But as you have deemed that I must follow along after Sickle like a lost lamb, I’ll assume you do not intend I do so on foot.’

  Clarence joined Silas at the pale horse’s side, the lady muttering hotly beneath her breath, something about sending Pitch back to the River Styx. ‘Your mount is over there, Tobias.’

  The lady waved Clarence’s hand over the white horse’s head, towards a smaller paddock whose borders touched upon the woods. It contained a solitary animal, barely half the size of the heavy-set equine at Silas’s side, and with its ribs on show. The dull chestnut stood with head lowered, as though it slept on its feet. The mane was clipped to a stunted ridge along its neck, and the tail was a stringy affair, as though far too much brushing had been done against it. There seemed to be a marking on its haunches, a dark line that might be a scar.

  ‘That?’ Pitch’s displeasure soured his face. ‘I rather think Silas should have it, for death is already resting upon that bag of bones.’

  ‘Enough.’ The Lady barely raised Clarence’s voice but that single word held them all still. Even the Lalassu seemed to brace. ‘I’ll hear no more, Tobias. Sanu is a steady mount and she will serve you well. As you will serve me equally as well. I thought that had been made quite clear.’

  Silas thought for one dreadful moment Pitch meant to challenge the lady. The air deadened as though a winter storm sat upon them. At last, Pitch lowered his gaze, kicking hard at the grass.

  ‘Yes, very clear, my lady.’ He set his teeth into the words.

  Lady Satine turned Clarence’s attention to Silas. ‘As my Horseman you must trust Lalassu. She knows where your scythe is needed. Tobias will be at your side to protect you from the living, but the dead are yours alone to fell.’

  Silas ran his hand down Lalassu’s solid neck, feeling every rise and fall of muscle there. The animal was strength personified, and Silas drew from it to steady his nerves. ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Once you are recovered fully, Sybilla will assist you with your riding skills,’ Lady Satine said. ‘There is no finer horsewoman to teach you.’

  ‘Can she bring that nag back to life?’ Pitch chewed on a stalk of grass,
tranquil once more. He thumbed towards the dozing chestnut.

  ‘She will surprise you, Pitch,’ Sybilla spoke up. ‘It is you who will need to prove your worth, not Sanu.’

  Spitting his grass free, Pitch said, ‘Then the nag will be left disappointed, for I believe I’ve been deemed quite worthless. Have I not, Satty?’ He grinned, that arresting smile that Silas had seen disarm so many. But Clarence’s cool stare did not waver.

  ‘My judgement is yet to be passed. I cannot speak for others.’ The lady turned Silas. Clarence’s freckled face unnervingly pale. ‘Rest well. There is much work ahead of you, I fear.’

  ‘Might I ask,’ Silas said. ‘The Blight…what causes it to act so, do you have any idea?’

  The lady took her time with her answer, running Clarence’s hand the long length of Lalassu’s neck. ‘No. Mr Mercer, I do not. And that is what bothers me most. I do not raise a Horseman lightly, I assure you, but needs must. Now, I must return this man to those who would miss him. Follow the Pale Horse and do not sway from the course she sets you. Serve well in my name.’ Clarence’s gaze once again found Pitch. ‘Both of you. I have neither time nor patience for effrontery.’

  Pitch smirked, rolling the stalk of grass between his lips. ‘Of course, my lady.’

  Silas rubbed absently at Lalassu’s cheek. For all intents and purpose his legs should be twitching to break into a run, vanish himself over the rolling hills and far away from all this talk of horseman and monsters. He had no desire to run. Alongside the gleaming white beauty Silas felt he’d never been in more a true a place.

  ‘Be well, gentlemen, we shall meet again.’ The lady took Clarence away, striding him towards the house where Sybilla waited. They spoke as they stepped inside but their words did not reach Silas.

  He stood alone with the daemon and the Pale Horse. Lalassu’s alabaster muzzle nudged at Silas’s hands. Silas leaned into the animal’s rock steady side, enjoying the warmth as the evening cooled. He really must find some clothing, but he was not yet ready to leave the beast’s side.

  ‘Do you know who Lady Satine truly is?’ Silas said at last.

  ‘I’m not sure anyone knows that.’

  Silas jumped as Tobias appeared most suddenly at his side. Lalassu threw her head in irritation, light-footed upon the grass. ‘Steady on, fleabag. I’m not intent on harm.’ He sidled in close, titling his head to gaze up at Silas. His eyes shone luminous green, gems set in a face of perfect construct. When it came to it, Pitch was difficult to look away from. There was an undeniable mesmerising nature to him, the graceful femininity coupled with an undercurrent of hardness and barely stifled temper. He traced a fingertip along the edge of the blanket around Silas’s waist, his nail finding some of the dark hairs exposed there. Silas bit into the side of his cheek, perturbed at how close the man stood, and his own unwillingness to step away. ‘Are you terribly afraid, Sickle?’ The richness of gingerbread moved with his breath.

  Lalassu shifted, sidestepping to leave Silas without his steadying wall.

  ‘No.’ Silas scowled at the flicker in his voice. Pitch was far too close, his cupid bow lips too pink, too near. The daemon was toying with him, working his foul magick so as to cause Silas’s groin to tighten and his pulses to trip. Playing him as steadily as he’d done the young man on the train. But it were as though one part of Silas’s mind watched on uncaring, while the other blustered with protest, and both sides were equally matched.

  ‘You do not fear being run through again?’ Pitch’s fingers marched southward, over the edge of Silas’s ribs, passing over the tender marks left by Black Annis, and sending shivers down Silas’s back.

  ‘Quite sure, indeed.’ Of course he was no such thing. He dreaded sleeping for the nightmares it would bring. But he’d not say as much to this man. Silas could not pull his gaze from Pitch’s face, the pristine rises and falls of it. ‘You saw what I am capable of. And I know full well what you are capable of.’

  ‘Caution, Sickle. You know nothing yet.’

  Pitch’s finger ran down over his stomach, bringing with it unwelcome stirrings. Blood thundered in Silas’s head. The Pale Horse nickered, dancing upon the ground. Pitch lifted on his toes, bringing himself to within an inch of Silas’s face. They breathed into one another. And Pitch’s hand slipped lower. His palm resting on the hard press of Silas’s hip, his finger tips brushing the velvet cushion of flesh just above the harder swell below.

  Silas groaned, pressing his hips forward, mortified and yet tantalised all at once. A wave of heat rose between his legs, and the blanket stretched tight over the taunt flesh beneath. Pitch’s grin was a sly, slippery thing. He swept his hand between Silas’s legs and laid a quick caress upon Silas’s heat.

  ‘Enough.’ Silas shouted, shoving the daemon hard away.

  ‘Well done, my Sickle.’ Pitch said, his own cheeks flushed. ‘Perhaps you shall make it through this game yet. Because rest assured, we play one.’

  ‘Who’s game?’ Silas said, unsteady from their encounter. The tempo of his heart still rapid.

  ‘Those greater than you or I, my good man. And they will break you as readily as they made you. Believe me. They have a taste for torturous things.’ He touched his fingers to Silas’s cheeks. He appeared terribly well-worn in that instant, as though he’d not known sleep for a long while. The glimpse was over in an instant. The light shone again in his eyes. ‘Fuck, I’m hungry. Let’s indulge ourselves, soak in good wine and forget these bloody horses until the morrow. What do you say?’

  Silas allowed himself a small smile. ‘I would say it is the most reasonable invitation you’ve made since we met.’ Thankfully his body had ceased to betray him, all as it should be now between his legs.

  ‘Excellent. Shall we go then?’

  ‘I’d like just a moment. Alone.’

  Pitch nodded, offering no protest. He turned on black heels and moved in his sidling way back towards the cottage.

  Lalassu made her way back to Silas’s side, and watched the departing man every bit as closely as Silas did. Horse and horseman stood in the darkening evening. The lights in the house threw a golden haze onto the cobbles surrounding it, the distant murmur of voices reached him, but still Silas remained. Wondering at Pitch’s words. If they were pawns in a greater game, what purpose did they truly serve?

  The drift of material caught his eye, the flow of the curtains in his room lifting out through the still-open doorway. Raising his hand, Silas thought upon the bandalore. Imagined it upon his outstretched hand. The soft baying of cattle in a distant paddock disturbed the countryside’s silence, the hoot of an owl came from the woods, and the tinkle of piano keys caressed the descending night. Through the busy air the bandalore heeded him. Sliding from its hiding place beneath his pillow, whisking through the air to settle upon his palm.

  Silas regarded it in the encroaching darkness. He could not know what would face him as Lady Satine’s Horseman, he barely even understood what it meant to bear such a title, but the bandalore, the scythe, had rescued him already from monsters and daemons. And Silas had learned that he was strong enough to survive both. Silas landed one last pat upon Lalassu’s shoulder.

  ‘I will see you tomorrow, my friend. And we shall let this ride take us where it will.’

  He turned to find Pitch watching him from the doorway. The daemon held two wine glasses, both filled to the very brim.

  Silas Mercer, spiritualist, ankou, Horseman and deadman, made his way on sure feet to meet him.

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