The Demon Horsemen

by Tony Shillitoe

  ‘This?’ said the dark-skinned man, holding up the piece of paper he’d fished from Runner’s only pocket. He unfolded it and held it up to the lantern. ‘Can’t read it,’ he said.

  ‘Cos you can’t read!’ the hook-nosed man ridiculed. ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘Why?’ the first man asked. ‘You can’t read either.’

  ‘If it’s meant for Dingo, then I’m giving it to him. He’ll rip off your nuts if you mess around with his letter,’ said the hook-nosed man, and he held out his hand until his companion begrudgingly passed him the letter.

  ‘Who’s it from?’ he asked Runner.

  ‘A soldier,’ Runner answered.

  ‘Dingo’s getting love letters from soldiers now, is he?’ the dark-skinned man scoffed, and the man holding Runner laughed along with him.

  ‘So what do we do with this street filth?’ he said.

  ‘You let the lad go,’ said a firm voice, its deep tone enhanced by a faint echo in the chamber.

  Runner’s arms were released, and he shook them to restore his circulation as he stepped away from his guard and assessed the speaker. The man was very slim, of average height, and had unremarkable features except that his head was shaved like a Jarudhan acolyte. He approached Runner, his face expressionless, and asked, ‘What’s your name?’

  Runner was tempted to give his habitual ‘None of your business’ reply, but the man’s demeanour warned him not to take risks. ‘Runner,’ he said.

  ‘Odd name to give a lad,’ the man noted. ‘Street kid?’

  ‘I look after myself,’ Runner replied haughtily.

  ‘Most of us do,’ the man replied. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘No.’ The man’s eyes were quite dark, Runner noted.

  ‘Do you know the name of the soldier who gave you the letter?’

  ‘No. He’s waiting outside the warehouse.’

  The man looked at the hook-nosed individual.

  ‘Twenty,’ he reported. ‘Fifteen in a leading squad; five trailed them as a sweeper group. No interest in distractions. They came straight here.’

  ‘And I wasn’t told?’

  The hook-nosed man rubbed the end of his nose nervously. ‘We were waiting to find out their business. They seem to have something specific in mind.’

  The slim man held out his hand for the letter. He unfolded it and scanned the page. When he’d finished, he said to Runner, ‘Can you read?’

  ‘Don’t need to,’ Runner replied.

  ‘You should,’ the man said bluntly. ‘People carry important information in writing that might make you rich. What did the soldier tell you?’

  ‘Give the letter to Dingo.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And to go back to tell him that I’d done it.’

  ‘Then you’d better go back,’ the man said. He nodded to the others. ‘See the lad gets back out safely.’ Then he headed out of the light, his steps silent as he disappeared.

  ‘Was that Dingo?’ Runner asked the hook-nosed man.

  ‘None of your business, lad,’ the man replied. ‘Consider yourself reborn—you get to go back upstairs.’

  The soldiers were waiting when he emerged from the warehouse ruin. The hordemaster beckoned to him to approach and asked, ‘Did you give the letter to Dingo?’

  ‘Yes,’ Runner said.

  ‘Describe him to me.’

  Runner hesitated, wondering if the instruction was a trick to give the soldiers an identity to hunt, but before he could manufacture an answer the hordemaster spoke again.

  ‘Shaved head. Average height. Nothing to look at. Speaks with a commanding voice. Seems like he might be your best friend, but has a look that could kill you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Runner, astonished at the hordemaster’s accuracy.

  ‘He was my older brother, a long time ago.’ The hordemaster hauled a small bag of coins from his pocket, fished out a shilling and some pennies and dropped them at the surprised boy’s feet. ‘That should get you something. Don’t waste it on euphoria. The priests give it out for free.’ Then he issued orders to his squad and they began their wary retreat out of the old docks.

  Runner scooped up his payment, glanced at the warehouse facade, glad to be out of the Warren in one piece, and trotted away to enjoy his windfall.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The soldiers reined in two hundred paces from the village and dismounted. Their prisoner, head hooded, his hands bound to the saddle of his horse, sat rigidly awaiting his fate. He let the men drag him from his horse and complied as they straightened him up. To his surprise, someone loosened his bonds. He shook and flexed his hands and wrists, glad to feel the blood circulate freely again. Then his hood was removed and he blinked at the rush of daylight, gradually taking in his surroundings, breathing in fresh country air for the first time in thirty years.

  By his estimation, he had been taken more than half a day’s ride out of the city. He expected the journey to end with his execution. It had been too long coming. He assumed the newest king, Shadow, was cleaning out his father’s and grandfather’s refuse.

  He looked at the soldiers; all of them seemed so terribly young to him. I must have looked like that once, he reminisced. He identified the soldier who seemed to be leading the small squad and asked, ‘Now what?’

  ‘You’re free, old man,’ the soldier replied. ‘Warlord Fist says you can go wherever you like, as long as you stay out of the city.’

  The old man stared at him. ‘Are you taunting me?’

  The soldier’s face remained serious. ‘No.’

  The old man shook his head, as if he was trying to comprehend the concept of freedom after thirty years. He gazed down the hill at a tiny village alongside a creek. ‘What is that place?’

  ‘Littlecreek,’ the soldier replied.

  ‘Why am I being set free?’

  ‘I don’t question orders,’ said the soldier. He gestured to his squad to remount and they reined in the spare horse. ‘Not many people get a chance to start a new life, especially at your age,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t question why if I were you.’

  He saluted, wheeled his horse around, and the squad cantered away.

  The old man watched the riders disappear over a low crest. He tilted his head back and squinted at the bunched clouds in the sharp blue sky, and sniffed the air, savouring the aromas. For thirty years his world had been four stone walls, a plank bed with a kangaroo hide for a blanket and an old jacket for a pillow, a three-legged stool, a copy of The Word and a heavy gum-tree door with iron bindings. For light he had a slit window five arm-spans overhead that admitted direct sunlight for a few days each year, and a lantern. He became accustomed to the stench of his filthy body and its wastes—the bucket in his cell was emptied every three days, and he was allowed to bathe once every cycle. Food was provided twice a day, at sunrise and sunset, through a hatch in the base of the door—usually gruel or soup in a rough wooden bowl. At first he was convinced that he would go mad, and for a time he thought he had, but he gradually adjusted to the narrow life he was given, determined to survive long enough to deserve his execution. That it never came was the cruellest of torments. King Ironfist had him interrogated to find out where Lady Amber planned to go next, but when he gave nothing to his tormentors they left him to rot in his cell. No one came to see him. He was forgotten.

  He studied the soft white smoke curling from two chimneys in the village. There were seven grey-thatched and whitewashed buildings clustered under the shade of the gum trees along the creek, and a small wooden bridge connected the six buildings on one side to the seventh on the other. Sheep dotted the slope beyond the village and he thought he could make out a human figure standing there too. He squinted, but it made little difference. I am going blind, he realised.

  He drew a breath and walked towards the village, his legs stiff and his back and bum sore from the travel. It’s been a long time since I sat on a horse, he mused, feeling his muscles and chafed skin complaining as he shuffled forwar
d. But he was glad to be in the world again and thrilled to feel a breeze on his cheeks and rough ground beneath his bare feet.

  The dark-haired girl stared at the stranger walking along the road towards her. The two dogs with her growled. ‘Come on,’ she said, and pulled on the collar of the bigger dog whose black hackles were raised aggressively. ‘Come on, Snarl,’ she ordered, but the dog wouldn’t budge. She let go of the collar and retreated, insisting that the dogs obey her, but when they pulled away and trotted towards the solitary traveller she gave up and ran back to the village.

  ‘Someone’s coming!’ she called.

  A woman’s tousled head appeared in the doorway of the closest hut. ‘Who is it, Jewel?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said the girl, jogging up to her.

  ‘Go to your home,’ the woman urged.

  ‘But Snarl and Snap?’ she protested.

  ‘They’re doing their job. Go home now.’

  As Jewel reached the third house in the row, a rounded, middle-aged woman emerged. ‘There’s a stranger walking up the road, Auntie Sparkle,’ Jewel announced.

  ‘Alone?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’d better go in. I’ll call Keeper.’

  Jewel went inside and climbed onto a stool to peer out of the window by the door. She watched Sparkle cross the tiny wooden bridge and knock on the door of the hut on the far side where Keeper Shepherd lived alone. Keeper emerged, carrying an old Kerwyn thundermaker. He crossed the bridge with Sparkle and they moved out of sight. Annoyed at not being able to see what was unfolding, Jewel crept through the hut to the rear door and opened it a tiny margin. A ginger cat mewed and stretched in anticipation. ‘Go away, Ginger,’ Jewel whispered, as she eased the door open to squeeze through, her foot preventing the cat entry.

  She listened and looked around carefully. Other strangers had come since her mother’s last visit—soldiers looking for her mother; more soldiers with a priest wanting to teach everyone about Jarudha, and looking for children of Jewel’s age to go to schools in the city—and Sparkle had chased them all away somehow, warning Jewel to stay out of sight until the strangers were gone. Jewel always hoped that she would see her mother walking or riding along the road, but she hadn’t visited for more than a year now.

  She crept across the gaps between the huts until she was crouching behind a small shed at the back of Nectar’s hut. She could see the road from there. She stifled a snigger when she saw that Snarl and Snap had bailed up the stranger. He had grey hair and stooped shoulders, and his clothes were plain brown. He didn’t look dangerous at all. Sparkle was walking towards him with Keeper, who was carrying the thundermaker. A magpie rose from a small gum tree and flew towards the hill above the village. Sparkle and Keeper addressed the man, and called off the dogs before they talked again, but she couldn’t hear the exchange. Then all three began walking towards the village. Assuming the old man was not a danger, Jewel trotted out of her hiding place to meet them.

  ‘I thought I told you to stay inside!’ Sparkle scolded when she saw the girl approaching.

  ‘Who is he?’ Jewel asked, squinting in the bright daylight.

  ‘Someone you should show respect to, young lady,’ Keeper told her brusquely. ‘Go fetch the biscuit jar and fresh water.’

  Miffed by the abrupt dismissal, Jewel stomped ahead of the trio towards her home to fetch the requested items. By the time she returned, the rest of the villagers were gathered at the edge of the creek, listening to the conversation between Sparkle and the old man.

  ‘They’ve been here,’ Sparkle was saying as Jewel arrived. ‘They came with a priest, but decided our village wasn’t worth their time.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the old man said as he accepted a mug of water and the offer of a biscuit from Jewel. He was full-bearded, his grey hair long and straggly, and his pale, craggy face was scarred with purple lines and pockmarks. He had few teeth left in his mouth and those surviving were yellow and blackened.

  ‘The Seers are in charge,’ Nectar remarked. ‘There’s all that talk of the Last Days and the coming of the Demon Horsemen.’

  ‘Do you think that’s true?’ asked Swan, a tiny spinster who lived alone, eking a living by spinning yarn from the sheep’s wool which she sold to a weekly trader who made the journey from Port of Joy to collect produce to sell in the markets. ‘Spade Marketboy says it’s all true.’

  ‘It’s religious rubbish,’ said Nectar’s husband, Bandi, and he spat a wad of tobacco to emphasise his contempt.

  ‘I don’t know much at all,’ said the old man. ‘I only know there’ve been changes.’

  ‘And that’s why you came here?’ asked Sparkle.

  The old man nodded. ‘I just needed to get out of the city.’

  ‘No family?’

  The old man looked up at Sparkle, his eyes watery. ‘Not for a long time,’ he said, shaking his head slowly.

  ‘You’re welcome to shack with me,’ Keeper offered. ‘I don’t have much, but we can ask others for some materials to fashion you a bed.’

  ‘I’m used to sleeping on a hard floor,’ said the old man. ‘I don’t need much.’

  ‘You can help me mind the sheep to pay your way,’ Keeper continued. ‘I won’t begrudge the company.’ He grinned at Jewel. ‘The girl there pays me visits, but an older man’s company is not what she needs, and I haven’t heard much about the city in a long time.’

  ‘You talk to Spade every week,’ said Nectar. ‘Don’t go telling us you don’t. He has to pry you off him like a dog on heat.’

  The adults laughed, but Jewel screwed up her nose. Dogs on heat weren’t funny.

  Snarl was sniffing at Jewel’s feet as she dried a bowl beside the washtub, his black nose intent on the lingering odour of spilt egg. ‘Stop it, Snarl,’ she said irritably. She looked out the window and saw Keeper and the old man sitting under a gum tree on the hill, the freshly shorn sheep around them shining in the harsh midday light. ‘What’s his name?’ she asked.

  Sparkle passed her another wet bowl. ‘Blade.’

  ‘That’s like a soldier’s name,’ said Jewel.

  ‘He was a soldier,’ said Sparkle, sponging down another dish. ‘A long time ago, in the old army.’

  ‘What old army?’

  ‘The queen’s army. He was a soldier then.’

  ‘What’s a queen?’ Jewel asked.

  Sparkle stopped washing and stared at the girl. Then she smiled, remembering that Jewel was just eight years old, born in the Kerwyn era, and had never heard of Queen Sunset or the old Shessian history. ‘It’s a woman who does the same thing as a king,’ she explained.

  ‘A woman?’ Jewel said, surprised. ‘Can a woman become king?’

  Sparkle laughed. ‘She would be a queen, not a king, but it’s the same thing.’

  ‘Then why not call her a king?’ Jewel argued.

  ‘Why not?’ said Sparkle as she handed another dish to the girl. ‘It’s because people have made up different names for boys and girls.’

  ‘Do they do that for everything?’

  Sparkle shook her head. ‘No. Not for everything.’

  ‘Can I become a queen?’ Jewel asked.

  ‘You’re already a little princess,’ said Sparkle, grinning.

  ‘Do you have to be a princess to be a queen?’

  ‘It helps.’

  Jewel was silent as she dried the dish and waited for the next one. Then she asked, ‘Why has the old man got so many scars on his face?’

  Sparkle shook her hands and lifted the tub of wash water to take it out to her vegetable garden. ‘He fought in a lot of battles. He almost saved the old kingdom from invasion.’

  ‘Who was invading?’ Jewel put down the last dish and wiped her hands.

  ‘The Kerwyn.’

  ‘But aren’t we Kerwyn?’

  Sparkle snorted. ‘We are now. We have been for a long time. But I was little like you when the Kerwyn came.’

  Jewel followed the older woman outsi
de. ‘Were they mean people like they are now?’

  ‘Meaner,’ said Sparkle.

  ‘Then why do we let them stay here?’

  ‘Because they won the war.’

  ‘But couldn’t we fight them again until they go away?’

  Sparkle put down the empty water bowl and lifted Jewel onto her ample hip. ‘You’re getting too big to do this,’ she complained gently and lowered the squirming girl back to the ground.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ said Jewel.

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Why don’t we fight the Kerwyn until they go away?’

  ‘Because there’s no one left to fight them.’

  ‘Would the old soldier fight them again?’

  Sparkle squatted before Jewel, her expression serious. ‘No. He’s too old to fight any more. And I don’t want you pestering him about his past, little princess. All right?’

  ‘Why not?’ Jewel asked.

  ‘Because it’s private and you shouldn’t be nosy. He’s come here to live in peace and quiet and you should respect that, please.’ Sparkle fixed Jewel with a firm stare to emphasise her request. Jewel nodded. ‘Good girl. Now, I’m going to bake a cake. When it’s finished I want you to fetch Keeper and Blade so they can have a slice while it’s still warm. In the meantime, you can clean underneath the chicken roost.’

  Jewel dawdled in the yard and counted the nine hens scratching in the yellow grass and dust for insects and seeds. The rooster was strutting around in the paddock, his red comb vivid against his white feathers. Snarl came around the corner of the hut, and stopped to sniff and lick Ginger the cat before he dropped in the shade by the wall.

  Cleaning away the chicken droppings wasn’t her favourite chore, but Jewel found her scraper and headed for the thin branch strung between two poles that served as the roost for all the chickens in the village. As she set to her task, she gazed up the hill at the two figures and focussed on the one with white hair, wondering what it felt like to be so old.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Matters of state were always tedious, but President Ki enjoyed being lauded by his public, and his coterie of advisors recommended that he make numerous public appearances in order to maintain his popularity. The fall of the old Kalan aristocracy necessitated the establishment of a new democratic system in its place. As president of the vast Ranu People’s Republic, he was the authority that would place the seal on the interim government charged with guiding the growth of the fledgling democracy. He was assured by his security personnel that there was no threat to him in visiting the Kalan capital, newly renamed Yul Ki in A Ahmud Ki’s honour by the interim Kalan government. Indeed, the Kalan people hailed him as a liberator of their country from centuries of oppression under the Kalan kings, and it was expected that hundreds of thousands would line the streets to catch a glimpse of the Ranu president.