The Demon Horsemen

by Tony Shillitoe

  He extended his arms horizontally above the glass fragments scattered across the stage. To his colleagues’ astonishment, the fragments fused into their original shape. Creator picked up the container and held it up for his colleagues to view. As they studied it, he drew his hand from under the vessel and let it float in the air.

  ‘These are not illusions. My mind wills the event and it happens. Watch closely.’ An instant later, the container ignited in flames and burned until nothing remained. Creator smiled. ‘That is the easy part,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Do we all get access to this enlightenment?’ Seer Prayer asked eagerly.

  Creator looked to Scripture, but the senior Seer merely stood and said, ‘Is that all?’

  Creator bowed his head. ‘No, Your Eminence. There is much more. If Word, Prayer and Order will join me?’

  The three Seers rose and climbed onto the stage. He offered each a container of the amber enlightenment and indicated that they should drink.

  Word glanced at Scripture, noted the smile on his colleague’s face, and drank. He felt a tingling through his body as the oily liquid passed down his gullet into his stomach.

  ‘My friends, if you will concentrate with me, please. Think clearly as you focus,’ Creator said.

  ‘Impossible!’ Word blurted. He turned to Prayer and Order, who were staring at Creator. ‘You heard him too!’ he said, seeing the astonishment on their faces.

  ‘He was in my head.’

  ‘And mine.’

  ‘Do it again,’ Word urged.

  Creator grinned like a cheeky boy. The enlightenment enhances my psychic energy more than the old euphoria, he transmitted to them. I think of someone and I can send my thoughts to his head.

  ‘Can we do it too?’ Word asked.

  ‘Try,’ Creator encouraged. ‘Focus on someone and send a thought to him.’

  Word closed his eyes to aid his concentration and formed his message. He heard a startled gasp followed by a snort of disgust and opened his eyes to find Scripture glaring at him.

  ‘My head is my business!’ the Seer snarled.

  ‘Is there a range to this Blessing?’ Prayer inquired.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Creator replied. ‘It works better when there is a group.’

  Word suddenly flinched, cried out and sank to his knees.

  ‘What happened?’ Creator asked.

  Word’s eyes fixed on Order. ‘He was trying to get inside my head!’

  Everyone turned to Order, who made the sign of the circle. ‘I didn’t mean to cause harm, brother,’ he blurted. ‘I was just testing—’

  ‘Test on someone else!’ Word said threateningly as he got to his feet.

  ‘That is an unusual aspect of the Blessing,’ said Creator, looking at Scripture warily. ‘We discovered the effect in much the same way.’

  ‘It could have a very interesting application,’ said Scripture. ‘What else does this enlightenment allow?’

  ‘All of the Blessings we have generated in the past are enhanced if we work as a group, Your Eminence,’ Creator explained, ‘but the group must be focussed on the same thought.’

  He picked up two long metal poles and handed one to Order and one to Prayer. ‘Stand two paces apart and hold the poles vertically,’ he instructed. When the Seers were in position, he said, ‘Everyone must focus on that place,’ and pointed to an area of floor at the far extremity of the chamber. ‘You too, Order and Prayer. Everyone must hold the image of that area exactly in their minds. Now I must warn you both,’ he said, looking at the pair holding the poles, ‘you will see light form between the poles. It won’t hurt you. Please don’t let go of the poles. All right—by the grace of almighty Jarudha, form an image of the place in your minds.’

  Word looked to Scripture; he was staring at the space between the poles. He sighed and imagined the area at the other end of the chamber. As the image sharpened in his mind, blue light crackled into existence between the poles. Prayer blanched, but he and Order kept the poles erect.

  ‘What is that?’ Word asked.

  Before Creator could reply, Scripture intervened. ‘A portal,’ he said. ‘A doorway through space.’

  Creator turned to Scripture with a broad smile. ‘Yes, Your Eminence. It is. But how—’

  ‘I read,’ Scripture replied sourly. ‘I have read how the Abomination used portals to escape our predecessors in the old Shessian kingdom. The concept has always fascinated me. My mentor was Seer Vision.’

  Creator bowed his head. ‘I understand, Your Eminence. You would know more than I on this matter.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Scripture acidly. ‘Does it work?’

  Creator turned to Word.

  ‘You expect me to step into that?’ Word asked, understanding Creator’s intention. ‘It’s your creation. You go through it.’

  ‘Creator is not expendable,’ Scripture said quietly. ‘Step through the portal.’

  The order rankled Word, not just because of the issue of expendability but also because it implied that he was no longer Scripture’s right hand. But to defy a direct order would be to defy Jarudha’s will. He whispered a brief prayer to Jarudha and approached the soft blue glow between the poles. He drew a breath and stepped into it. Instantly he felt nauseated and disoriented, and only the sound of voices kept him from succumbing to vertigo. Then realisation set in, and he lifted his eyes to see his colleagues staring at him in disbelief from the circular stage twenty paces away.

  ‘Understand that, more than any task you have arranged in the past, this one will require an expertise and stealth that ensures there is absolutely no chance of anyone making a connection between us and the action. If there is any mistake made in this enterprise, no matter how infinitesimal, you will be the first sacrificed as an act of political appeasement.’

  Warlord Fist nodded obediently as he grappled with the immensity of the task the king was placing on his head. He wanted to ask why he was being given the responsibility, but he knew the answer. It was his role. He remembered how he had envied Warlord Roughcut and aspired to be his replacement. Now he was starting to understand that with the fleeting opportunities for glory came darker tasks—those the warlord had to carry out because the king could not. The day had started well, but was turning sour.

  He raised his head. ‘Is there anything else, Your Highness?’

  ‘How are our special prisoners?’

  Fist met Shadow’s steady gaze. ‘The young woman continues to hold out, Your Highness.’

  ‘And Mrs Merchant?’

  ‘I don’t visit her.’

  Shadow smiled and sank back into his armchair. ‘You should, Fist. She is a remarkable woman. If it wasn’t for her business, we wouldn’t be here now.’

  Fist had no answer to the comment. As far as he knew, the Joker had been imprisoned so the Seers could acquire her lucrative euphoria business and give away the drug to the common people for free. He didn’t see the logic in giving anything away for free.

  ‘And what about the old man? Is he still breathing?’ Shadow asked.

  ‘He is, Your Highness. I’ve never asked before, but who exactly is he?’

  ‘He was the last Shessian warmaster,’ Shadow replied. ‘At least that’s what the records show. Which probably explains why my grandfather threw him in the Royal Gaol. As to why he kept him there all these years instead of executing him, I have no idea. Seems my father had no idea what to do with him either.’

  ‘Then wouldn’t it be simpler just to get rid of the old man?’

  ‘Probably,’ agreed Shadow. ‘How old must he be now? In his seventies? He’s hardly going to cause trouble at that age.’ He shook his head as if he’d had an idea that amused him. ‘Take the old bastard out into the countryside and let him loose like an animal. Move Mrs Merchant into his cell instead.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I just slit his throat and slip him into the harbour, Your Highness?’

  ‘Is that what you did for your father, Fist?’ asked Shadow mischievo
usly.

  ‘My father died heroically in battle,’ Fist retorted, then bowed his head. ‘I apologise, Your Highness.’

  Shadow laughed. ‘No. You should defend your father’s name. Disposing of the old man is a good idea. But I am feeling generous. Take him out into the countryside and let him live the last days of his life in freedom. He has a right to it after being locked away so long. Even an old Shessian warrior deserves some respect in his last days.’

  Fist withdrew from the king’s chamber and walked briskly along the palace corridors. Outside, he acknowledged the saluting soldiers as he collected his bodyguard entourage and headed for the gates. The king had charged him with a very difficult assignment and his life depended on its success. This was not quite how he had envisaged his status in the new kingdom. He needed to find experts who could carry out the task with silent and ruthless efficiency, and they had to be expendable. When the deed was done, no one must know the source. No one. First, however, he had to organise the fates of the prisoners.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Runner watched the soldiers from the shadows. The City Watch in the old docks meant trouble. The area was the last refuge for the city’s down-and-outs—the dying drug addicts, the homeless old folk, the terminally sick, the refuge of the poor and those who didn’t want anyone to know they were alive. Before the fanatical cleansing under the new king, the old docks had been the habitat of the cruellest cut-throats and the assassins that operated as lone dingoes outside of the outlawed Guild. These were men with no compassion for any aspect of human life, men whose greatest pleasure was to look into the eyes of the person whose throat they’d cut to watch them die. The new laws had brought soldiers into the district to eradicate the human sewer rats, and for several days the old docks had been ablaze as the City Watch systematically flushed out and killed or arrested as many of the denizens as they could find. The cunning veterans, however, men who thrived on a hard, brutal existence while cheating death, had hiding places that even razed buildings failed to reveal. When the waves of soldiers had come and gone, they emerged from their holes and tunnels and went back to the ways they understood, a little more wary of the new king’s laws. Soldiers back in the district meant a new wave of cleansing was underway.

  Runner’s commonsense warned him to leave. His curiosity dared him to stay. He listened to the curiosity. Keeping a careful eye on the soldiers, counting them to make certain he did not blunder into a trap, checking that the squad was a single unit without reinforcements, he artfully tracked them along the narrow lanes and twisting alleys.

  What became obvious was that they were purposeful, deliberately heading into the area where the hardest criminals went to ground. They passed derelicts high on euphoria and ignored taunts from surly voices hidden in dark windows and doorways. At one intersection a gang of youths appeared, hurled stones at the soldiers and ran, but the soldiers did not give chase as they normally would. They simply kept on their pathway. Runner was bewildered.

  The soldiers halted at the entrance to a ruined warehouse, its stone facade scarred by fire, its roof long collapsed, rubble shoring the walls. Runner knew the building, though he had never ventured within. According to rumour, under the cobbled floor, buried beneath the rubble, was a massive cellar—actually a maze of cellars known to the locals as the Warren—which was the stronghold of several legendary street figures renowned for their cold-blooded and brutal methods. The soldiers had tried to clean the place out before—unsuccessfully, because the hideout was fed by a maze of tunnels that snaked under the entire district, through which the hunted had escaped. The fifteen soldiers there now would hardly be a threat to the inhabitants. So why are they here? Runner wondered.

  He slid between two walls, ignoring the cobwebs that caked his arms and shoulders, and crouched behind a pile of rubble to keep watch. Three men emerged from an alley to his left, but the moment they spotted the soldiers they vanished back into the buildings. He was certain the soldiers had seen the men, but they showed no interest in pursuing them. Seeing the soldiers settling down to wait, Runner eased into a comfortable position too, leaning against a slanting beam. Hunger gnawed his stomach, but it was an accustomed sensation, given his need to steal and scavenge for a living, although it had become harder to survive now that his aunt was imprisoned.

  He flinched at the cold touch of metal against his nose, and when he went to scramble to his feet a solid blow across the side of his face from the stock of a peacemaker sent him sprawling. He tried to spring up, but a heavy boot crunched onto his back and pressed him to the ground. Did I fall asleep? he wondered as he struggled vainly against the weight.

  ‘Ease up, lad,’ a man’s voice warned. ‘Your life’s still your own if you’re willing to calm down and do some honest work for once.’

  He turned his head, his cheek stinging from the blow, but all he could see were dusty black military boots a thumb-span from his nose.

  ‘That’s better,’ said the voice. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘None of your business,’ Runner snarled, angry at himself for his carelessness.

  The soldier chuckled. ‘Okay then, None-of-your-business, what do you know about the Warren?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Runner answered.

  ‘Then you’re perfect for the job,’ said the soldier. ‘Lift him up.’

  Hands hauled him to his feet. The speaker was a hordemaster, signified by the gold bear on the upper sleeve of his red jacket. The man’s face was solid, like a wrestler’s, and his blue eyes were narrow and cruel. Runner recognised a hardened adversary, someone who’d fought on the battlefield and hunted his enemies through the streets, a man of ruthless ability equal to the murderers and thieves lurking inside the Warren.

  ‘Listen carefully and it’ll save your life, lad,’ the hordemaster said, studying Runner’s face. ‘I need to speak to a man in the Warren. His name is Dingo. Do you know him?’

  Mad Dog, Runner thought. Of all the scum inside the Warren, Mad Dog, or Dingo, had the cruellest reputation. It was rumoured that he ate the eyes of his victims. ‘No,’ he said.

  A wry smile appeared on the hordemaster’s lips. ‘Good,’ he said, nodding. ‘All I need you to do is go into the Warren and give this letter to Dingo. That’s all. Nothing else. Can you read?’

  ‘What’s reading?’ Runner asked.

  The hordemaster chuckled, amused by the boy’s game. ‘Good. Give the letter to Dingo and come back and tell me that it’s done. Got that?’

  ‘What do I get?’ Runner asked.

  The hordemaster’s hand slid to his belt and a peacemaker muzzle was pressed against Runner’s temple. ‘You get to keep your brains inside your skull. Like that?’

  You’re a funny man, Runner thought, but he simply said ‘Yes’ in answer.

  ‘Good,’ the hordemaster said and returned his weapon to its holster. He jiggled his pocket and coins rattled. ‘If you do what I ask, you might find it easier to eat for a few days as well.’

  The sound of the coins changed Runner’s attitude. ‘How much?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t be greedy,’ the hordemaster warned. ‘Do your work and get your pay. That’s all anyone should want from life, lad. And if you’re lucky, you might even like your work.’ He chuckled again and winked at Runner. ‘That’s free advice from my father to you, lad. Take it and you might live longer.’

  The smartest decision, Runner thought as he entered the ruined shell of the old warehouse, would be to vanish. The soldiers wouldn’t know me from a dog in the streets. Going into the Warren to find Mad Dog wasn’t a healthy option. He knew of lads who’d gone into the Warren and never come out again. But the clink of coins reverberated in his head. A few pennies, a shilling even, would mean living in luxury for a day—buying food, buying a beer from one of the illegal distilleries operating in the Foundry Quarter—without the risks associated with stealing.

  He scanned the piles of rubble and the broken and charred beams for entry points. The obvious one was a gaping hole
near the ocean end of the warehouse, a dark space wide enough for two men to enter abreast. But it seemed too obvious. He moved as quietly as he could towards the opening, but with the intention of entering it only as a last resort. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed the soldiers watching him from the safety of a doorway in the front facade. He wondered if they were anticipating he would bolt. It was still an option. Then he noticed seagulls congregating on the crest of a large pile of rubble several paces short of the dark entry hole. Food scraps, he reasoned and grinned as he circled out of the soldiers’ direct line of vision.

  The seagulls scattered, squawking in protest, as he approached. He carefully assessed the rubble, looking for a sign—and spotted the rotted tabletop lying across the stones on an angle. He crept to it, and checked again that the soldiers couldn’t see him, before he slid the wood aside to uncover a manhole in the rubble. Not ingenious, he concluded as he listened and looked in, but easy to protect. The squawking seagulls were a nuisance because they prevented him from hearing any sounds that might betray a guard inside the hole. He could still sneak away; the soldiers would never find him again. But there was easy money in this—and he’d never actually been down in the Warren.

  He slid into the hole feet first, and struggled in fright as strong hands grabbed his ankles.

  ‘How scrawny are the rats getting?’ taunted a dark-skinned man with a gap between his yellowed front teeth as he prodded Runner’s ribs. ‘No point eating this one. All gristle and bone.’

  ‘What brought you in here, lad?’ asked a lanky, hook-nosed individual with long greying hair.

  ‘I’ve got a letter for Mad Dog,’ Runner replied, straining against the grip that pinned his arms to his sides. In the yellow lantern light, he glimpsed a stretch of brickwork, which he assumed was part of the warehouse’s cellar. He’d kicked and bitten as they wrenched him down the tunnel and bundled him into the chamber.