The Demon Horsemen

by Tony Shillitoe

  She tapped four times on the shutter and waited. The woman in the bed didn’t move. She tapped again, repeating the rhythm, and watched. This time the woman raised her head and stared at the window, her blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders. Slowly she eased out of bed, still staring at the window, grabbed a blanket to cover herself and came across the room. Swift took a firm grip on the broad wooden sill. The woman paused at the shutter. Then she unlatched it and opened it slowly. With all her strength and agility Swift vaulted in a fluid motion through the window, scraping her arms and sides against the wooden frame. Her head struck the terrified woman in the face, and as the woman fell she smashed her elbow against her larynx. The woman flailed her arms in desperation as she gasped for air through her crushed windpipe, but Swift covered her mouth and slashed her throat before she could scream. With cat-like skill, she rolled to her feet and moved to the door as her victim’s blood flowed across the floorboards.

  Beyond the door the tavern was quiet. Swift looked back at the spread-eagled woman, blonde hair flared around her head, surrounded by a widening pool of blood. Who were you? she pondered, then dismissed the thought as sentimental. She rolled the body under the bed, then threw the woman’s discarded clothes over the blood. It was probably an unnecessary caution, but someone might come into the room before the alarm was sounded, and habit made her cover all possibilities.

  She sat on the bed and doused the lantern.

  The alarm came quicker than she had anticipated. Men yelled in the street and doors slammed inside the building. Shots cracked in the distance. The chase was on. Then, to her surprise, the door swung open and a man stood silhouetted against the hallway lantern light. She lay flat on the bed, knife ready.

  ‘Lin,’ a voice whispered. ‘Are you all right?’ The man approached. ‘Where’s your lantern?’ The question was followed by a curse and ‘Your clothes are everywhere!’ He sat on the bed and reached for Swift, saying, ‘Lin, wake up, there’s—’

  Swift struck. Once. Twice. The man grunted and started to yell, but her fist smashed against his mouth and he toppled off the bed. She dropped onto him and stabbed and stabbed until he stopped struggling.

  Breath coming in rapid gasps, she rose and went to the door. The immediate hallway was empty, but she heard boots clomping on the floorboards and shadows skewed across the walls. Soldiers appeared at the top of the stairs. She shut the door. Quickly, almost tripping on the second body, she went to the lantern and tried to light it, but it refused to spark. Someone knocked and a voice called, ‘Your Highness?’

  Swift ran to the window. As she climbed out into the rain, the door swung open and light flooded the room. She dropped to the cottage roof peak, her foot caught on a loose shingle and she tumbled backwards, slid down the wet roof and plunged into the garden. Her right ankle exploded in pain as she landed and she collapsed, clutching her leg. ‘Always something,’ she gasped and swore.

  Chase couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that he was being trailed. As he moved through the city streets and lanes in the shadows of early evening, weaving towards the Northern Quarter, the feeling increased. The rain kept the streets empty except for the Ranu soldiers huddled in doorways and under makeshift awnings who barely glanced at him. Instead of stopping everyone and demanding to know every intricate detail like the Kerwyn City Watch habitually did, the Ranu acted as if they trusted everyone. The empty streets suited Chase’s purpose perfectly—if only he didn’t feel as though he was under surveillance.

  Several times he stepped into alcoves and alleys and waited to see if he could catch anyone following him, but no one appeared to be. He was glad of it; he was weaponless and his slight frame wasn’t likely to intimidate anyone. In the end he assumed his jumpiness was simply his apprehension at returning to the city while it was under Ranu occupation.

  He was astonished at the damage in the Northern Quarter, especially close to the palace. The Ranu presence increased dramatically there, and the soldiers’ attitude changed. They were alert, as he’d expect of soldiers occupying enemy territory, and evenly spaced to guard the wall and gates. He made a prudent choice and veered away from the roads leading to the palace, taking a more circuitous route to his destination: a house with grey slate roof tiles and a dolphin fountain.

  The house appeared relatively unchanged in the fading light—abandoned, but not damaged by the Ranu bombardment. He waited patiently, observing the street and the surrounding buildings for signs of someone keeping an eye on the Joker’s house, but the area was dark, quiet and secure. When he tried the front door it was locked. He went to the rear, which overlooked the ocean and the Joker’s private dock at the base of the cliff, but the doors there were locked too and the windows shuttered. Satisfied that no one was in the building, he shinned up a drainage pipe onto the balcony and forced open a window into a bedroom.

  The musty smell of disuse permeated the building. The sun had already gone and the interior was dark so he had to move through the room partly by feel, partly by guessing. He hoped to find a lantern on a cabinet or shelf, but couldn’t locate one, and when he felt the wire-lightning switch by the door he didn’t want to risk switching it on. I should have come better prepared, he reprimanded himself. Nothing seemed out of place in the room; it was as if the house’s occupants had just stepped out and would return soon. Chase wondered if the Joker had left when the Ranu began their invasion, then remembered that she was more likely to have been arrested by Shadow when he learned who had brought the canvas bag to his brother. The Joker’s empire had collapsed and, he thought, strangely enough it was because of something unrelated to her drug trade. He felt sorry for Crystal Merchant. She had seemed nice enough, despite her initial disbelief of his story, and no one deserved to have enemies like Shadow and the Seers.

  He left the bedroom and carefully descended the stairs. Beneath this house was a labyrinth of tunnels and he knew one led directly to the palace. He crept through the common room and down the next flight of stairs to the servant quarters, wary in case anyone was still hiding there from the Ranu. After a long and frustrating search in the darkness he found an old lantern. He was sure that he heard a noise in the rooms overhead, like a board squeaking, but nothing stirred while he waited patiently in silence. Satisfied he was alone, he lit the lantern, located the door to the staircase that dropped into the underground network and descended.

  The tunnel was well constructed and shored by solid beams, but he was conscious of the small piles of earth along the way, probably shaken loose by the Ranu bombardment. He came to a section that had partially collapsed and had to squeeze through a tight gap. Loose earth trickled from the curved ceiling, making him less assured of the tunnel’s stability.

  He again felt the uncanny presence of someone else, so he stopped, extinguished the lantern and listened in the darkness. Nothing. He relit the lantern and continued, until he reached a point where the tunnel split into three. He eliminated one direction because it seemed to go deeper into the earth. Of the other two, he was unsure and chose the left one. If it was the wrong tunnel, he would retrace his steps and go down the other.

  A short distance on, he felt cool fresh air on his cheeks and knew the tunnel opened to the outside world. The tunnel he wanted had to enter the palace. Although his curiosity to see where it opened teased him, he retreated to the junction and headed down the right-hand tunnel—until he felt cool air stirring again. He was puzzled: both led outside. Perhaps the tunnel he’d eliminated first actually came up again inside the palace.

  This time, however, he decided to sate his curiosity and crept towards the opening. Shielding the lantern with his hand he peered out—to discover that he was in the middle of some ruins. He took a moment to understand what he saw around him—the walls that leaned precariously against each other, as if seeking comfort for their damage; stairs that ended mid-air. He realised he had found the palace, but not as he’d expected it to be. He lifted the lantern to let its light spill across the rubble. From what r
emained of the building, he worked out he was in the stores and kitchen quarters. If Shadow had hidden the canvas bag in his quarters it was now buried beneath a massive weight of stone and timber, beyond retrieval. He had to hope the man had stored it somewhere else. But where? He suddenly realised that his grand mission was reckless and wishful.

  As he lowered his lantern a voice ordered, ‘Don’t move.’ Chase didn’t hesitate. He threw the lantern at the voice and bolted into the tunnel.

  Running blind was not his forte. He smacked into a wall before realising it was smarter to move quickly but not madly. He glanced back to see light framing the tunnel entrance and the silhouettes of men. Soldiers. The junction might save him. He scrambled towards the intersection, then barrelled blindly into the descending tunnel—and stumbled into a body. He yelped and swung a fist, missed and crouched. ‘Who’s there?’ he challenged.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Who?’ He was uncertain of the voice, except that it was young.

  ‘Runner.’

  Light glowed in the tunnel behind them. ‘Run,’ Chase urged.

  ‘Where does this go?’ Runner asked.

  ‘No idea,’ said Chase abruptly, and pushed the boy ahead of him deeper into the darkness.

  Soaked from the rain, Swift gave up trying to stand, the pain in her ankle too intense. She leaned against the wall in the darkness and gingerly felt the area around the top of her boot, wincing when her fingers encountered a stickier wetness. Blood. She bit her lip and swore. There could be no staying in the garden because, sooner or later, a soldier would stumble upon her. She could hear nothing beyond the wall of drumming rain. Angered by her luck, she unsheathed her knife before she dragged herself across the sodden earth towards the corner of the building to see what options she had for escape.

  The lantern light washed around the corner and over her before she could scramble to safety. Squinting, she sat up, her knife ready, and assessed the threat. Four soldiers. If her ankle was good, escape might still have been possible. Take out the light and the odds will be higher, she decided. The shadowy figures separated. The lantern holder raised the light and his three companions raised their peacemakers to take point-blank aim. No chance now, she realised. But then what? She knew what would happen. She’d killed Shadow, so she was already dead. It was just a matter of choosing how to die. With deadly accuracy, she threw her knife at the lantern holder. All three peacemakers roared.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Meg woke refreshed from a full night’s sleep, but with her head buzzing with the challenges she faced. First, she had to locate Inheritor’s army so that she could tell the others what she had learned. Then she had to find Shadow—he still had the canvas bag, and the sword hilt in the bag was the only bargaining tool they would have to persuade the Seers not to release the Demon Horsemen.

  ‘They were marshalling the army outside Port of Joy to trap Shadow between them and the Ranu,’ Passion told Meg as she stirred a warm pot of wheatmeal in the underground hideaway. ‘They’d have to be somewhere near that village Swift took us to.’

  Meg formed a portal, hugged Jon and Jewel goodbye, farewelled the others at the rebel base, then stepped with Whisper into the blue light. Time was running out.

  She emerged in the centre of Littlecreek to find the village empty. The rain had stopped, but a low ceiling of grey clouds still obscured the sun and the light breeze carried an ocean chill far inland. ‘Where are they?’ she muttered.

  While Whisper fossicked in the grass, Meg crossed the little wooden bridge, passed Keeper Shepherd’s abandoned hut and climbed the hill to where the sheep had wandered. There was no trace of the sheep now. At the crest she surveyed the landscape and spied wisps of white smoke curling skywards away to the north-west, at least a day’s travel on foot. The distant camp had to be Inheritor’s army. She couldn’t open a portal link into an area she couldn’t see clearly in her mind, but she had to get there quickly.

  Whisper, she projected. The bush rat came trotting up the grassy slope and sat up inquisitively. Stay, Meg told her. Wait.

  Going? the rat queried.

  Yes, Meg replied. Not for long.

  Whisper dropped to all fours and slid into the long grass again, as if uninterested in the matter.

  Although she didn’t want to leave her little companion behind, her intended method of transport meant they couldn’t travel together. She spread her arms slightly and focussed on taking the form of a magpie. Her spine tingled and the familiar sense of vertigo enveloped her and the ground reappeared close to her face—close to her beak. She tested her shape, felt the breeze lift her wings as she extended them, and felt more comfortable with the spell.

  Baby birds take a leap of faith, she thought, remembering her previous clumsy experiences at attempting to fly. She looked across to the tree where Keeper and Blade Cutter had liked to sit while minding the sheep, and wished she had thought of climbing into it to launch herself. It will happen here, from the earth, she told herself and inwardly smiled. Then: Do birds smile? she wondered.

  She stretched her tail feathers, letting the tendons and muscles work within her light frame, and knew what it felt like to be fragile. This time I will fly, she decided, and leapt into the air.

  A Ahmud Ki disobeyed his advisors by deciding immediately to accept Inheritor’s invitation to meet on neutral ground a short distance out of Port of Joy, on a long hill known as Penny Rise. To their further horror, he chose to fly by dragon egg to the designated meeting, through the rain and strong winds.

  ‘What if the Kerwyn airbirds come?’ the advisors asked.

  ‘Not in this weather,’ said A Ahmud Ki.

  ‘And it’s too rough for a dragon egg.’

  ‘Rain and wind,’ said A Ahmud Ki dismissively. ‘Since when have such things stopped the Ranu empire?’

  ‘Make the Kerwyn come to us to beg,’ they argued.

  But their warnings and arguments were meaningless to him. Since his discovery of the latent energy on the Fallen Star Islands, the fates of the Ranu empire and the Kerwyn kingdom had become insignificant in the grander scheme of his plans to grow and harvest vast quantities of euphoria. In its purest state, the drug was his key to the past—to his long-buried ambition to become a Dragonlord. A quick peace with the Kerwyn, the cost being the official annexation of the Fallen Star Islands and unconditional access to the former owner’s knowledge of euphoria production, would give him the future he’d always wanted.

  As he stepped from the dragon egg’s carriage dressed in a crisp white suit, a black sash at his waist, a red cravat neatly arranged at his throat, his silver and white hair and beard precisely trimmed, flanked by an entourage of bodyguards, military leaders and advisors, A Ahmud Ki knew that he looked every part the supreme head of the most powerful empire in history. He savoured the moment, satisfaction flowing through every nerve as he strode towards the pavilion erected on the hilltop, watched by the audience of Kerwyn soldiers.

  The man he was meeting had briefly been the Kerwyn king, before his brother usurped the throne. A Ahmud Ki’s ambassadors and spies spoke highly of Inheritor, reporting that he’d been amenable to an alliance with the Ranu and willing to negotiate. He had all the requisite qualities of a good leader. General Shakir had established a puppet ruler in the city—a wilful and unreliable boy, the last son in the Kerwyn line—but the boy was useless for establishing a political arm of the Ranu empire and had to be replaced. Shadow and his Seers were too treacherous to involve in an alliance, so eliminating them from the Kerwyn political scene was a high priority. Inheritor’s unexpected play for the throne was a surprising and convenient boon.

  Inheritor was waiting to greet A Ahmud Ki outside the light green pavilion. A Ahmud Ki appraised him and approved of what he saw. The man was broad-shouldered, with long black hair and a healthy beard. His face was scarred from a brutal accident, rumoured to be the legacy of the assassination attempt by his brother. Dressed in khaki trousers and tunic, he had the build
and appearance of a formidable warrior, but closer inspection suggested a softer nature lurking beneath the bold exterior; the astute eyes of an intellectual shining in the darker frame of a man fighting for his freedom and his birthright.

  Inheritor bowed his head to the Ranu president. As he lifted his face he said, ‘You have shown considerable trust in coming to meet with me.’

  A Ahmud Ki smiled. ‘Coming with an army of twenty thousand isn’t exactly showing trust.’ When he saw Inheritor’s serious frown dissolve into a grin he knew that he had not underestimated the man. ‘We should talk alone,’ he said.

  Inheritor waved his attendants aside. ‘The president and I will talk alone. Bring food and water to his men.’

  He opened the flap of the pavilion and waited for A Ahmud Ki to enter. Inside, there was a rudimentary table, its mallee supports partly hidden beneath a rough red table spread, and a dozen chairs. Inheritor ordered the six guards within to leave and indicated that A Ahmud Ki should sit. When they were alone, Inheritor began with pleasantries, asking A Ahmud Ki if his flight had been pleasant and how he had fared during the storm.

  A Ahmud Ki answered politely, but he wasn’t interested in niceties and didn’t ask about Inheritor in return. The instant he could redirect the conversation, he said, ‘Your brother is an impatient man. My reports suggest he’ll renew his assault on you tomorrow morning, the moment the storm has moved away.’

  ‘I have the same reports,’ Inheritor replied.

  ‘You don’t have the military strength to fight Shadow. You’re courageous and resilient, but in the end Shadow’s army will easily overwhelm your rebels and your cause will be lost.’