Horseman

by Shayne Silvers

  I also saw that he wasn’t holding onto the staff, because he lowered his hands towards the ground – still rocking back and forth, madly – extending his bone fingers down as if reaching for something. Purple sparks began spitting out from both the ground and his fingerbones, and then the sparks abruptly connected, creating a pulsing purple thread from each fingertip.

  Then he began to lift them, slowly, up over his head.

  And as he did, I realized he had access to a metaphysical fog machine, because the ground was suddenly covered in thick, roiling fog, as agitated as a sea in storm, and in that fog floated hundreds of ancient skulls – thankfully lifeless.

  I almost lost my balance before understanding why. I was standing on top of these new clouds of fog. It wasn’t fog in the natural sense. Death had just made our battleground a shifting, turbulent obstacle course.

  And it was walled-in by Famine’s perimeter of black dust.

  Mordred snarled, ignoring the uneven footing, and flung out his hands.

  Living shadows whipped out like a cat-o-nine-tails from Mordred’s wrist, intending to slash across War’s chest. War sidestepped minutely, and the whip missed him by mere millimeters. But something about the amused flicker of flame in the Horseman’s eyes let me know this was intentional. War suddenly whipped out a great sword dripping with fire, and threw it at Mordred, kneeling into a crouch the moment his weapon left his fingers. The blade sliced right through Mordred’s hand, lopping it off in a cauterizing hiss. Mordred screamed – a beautiful melody to my ears.

  Everyone was staring down at Mordred’s dismembered hand as an arrow of virulent poison slammed into the palm of the detached appendage, pinning it to one of the skulls poking above the fog. Mordred’s hand began to rot and decay at a rapid rate, oozing with virulent pus and blisters.

  Not knowing what else I should be doing, I had already started sprinting towards the crouched over Horseman of War. My wings propelled me to cover the uneven fog faster, and before I knew it, I was sprinting up War’s unsuspecting back and using his head as a launching point – which elicited a surprised grunt.

  My wings furled out, and I hurled my Devourer right at Mordred’s heart. My wings instinctively beat at the air, lifting me higher the moment I released the spear, reminding me of martial arts.

  When punching with the right hand, instructors taught you to whip the left hand back to your hip just as forcefully as you’re trying to punch with your right. This concept turns a mildly potent linear punch into a much stronger circular motion, giving your strike a significantly more powerful oomph factor.

  But the coolest part was that my wings had done it all on their own. Kind of like how you didn’t need to think about breathing. You just did it.

  Or, in a real-world example, if you see a projectile flying towards your chest, you don’t have to consciously tell yourself the exact speed the projectile is flying, what parabolic arc it has, or the local weather status that might affect the projectile’s ETA with your heart.

  No.

  You somehow know to subconsciously calculate all of that and – most often – can at least get your hands in the way in time, if not bat away or catch the projectile.

  But in Mordred’s unfortunate case, my Devourer totally smoked him.

  It ripped straight through his heart and out his back, disproving my theory on subconscious muscle memory. Then again, he’d been too distracted watching his hand rotting away.

  Mordred gasped as his wound began to smoke. Not wanting my Devourer damaged, I whistled loudly. My spear ripped out of Mordred’s body the same way it had entered, but as the blade left the wound – momentarily illuminating his gory chest cavity with red light – I noticed a tendril of shadow had latched onto it.

  As the spear flew back to my hand, the tendril of shadow stretched, growing thicker and darker, stuck to the ruby stone in my blade. It was so dense that I thought it was the strange black poison filling his veins, but as the spear haft hit my open hand, I heard the faint wailing sound of a soul fighting for freedom. I idly wondered why I could hear it now when I hadn’t heard any of the others make a sound. Was that a Horseman perk? To be able to hear a soul? I hoped not.

  I also heard a loud slurping sound, like a straw sucking up the last dregs of a soda.

  With a final popping noise, the soul whipped into my Devourer fully, and I felt the wooden haft crack alarmingly loud. The Devourer flashed once, bathing the foggy ground in a harsh, crimson light. The flash of light also let me see the wide crack from the base to the tip in the haft of my Devourer. I blinked down at it in disbelief and fear. That couldn’t be good.

  I heard a gasping wheeze from the distance, and saw Conquest fall from the sky, slamming down into the cloudy floor like a limp rag. His body simply evaporated less than a heartbeat later. I spun, searching for the other Horsemen, wondering what the hell had just happened.

  And my heart lurched in my chest to see them all wobbling drunkenly, shaking their heads as if they’d suffered simultaneous concussions. War was trying to stand, but gripping his Mask with one fiery claw as if he’d been hit between the eyes. Famine had finished his circuit, but was tripping and stumbling over his own feet, dragging his burning bowls on the foggy ground. I dropped back down to the fog, pulling Death to his feet, since he had fallen from his crazy perch atop his scythe.

  “What happened? I thought you said it was safe to use this?” I asked, alarmed. Had I just killed Conquest?

  Death flinched, snapping out of his daze to look for War and Famine. He let out a sigh of relief upon finding them, and shakily bent over to scoop up his scythe. He leaned on it wearily, locking eyes with me.

  Well, his eyes were just balls of purple flame, so we just faced each other very intensely for a second. “It doesn’t matter, now,” he said. “We must hurry. This is much more dangerous than we feared…” And I sensed his gaze latching onto the crack in my Devourer’s haft, his alarm doubling. “The Soul must be straining your Devourer. We best get this over with. Better to let Hell have Mordred’s souls than to risk damaging your blade, even if it upsets the Dueling Grounds. The Devourer is…” he hesitated, then attempted to turn away. I gripped his shoulder, squeezing hard.

  And I almost grimaced in disgust as I watched his legs buckle in pain. I released him immediately, staring down at my claw in horror. What the hell? How had that hurt him? Death spun, looking just as startled as me as he stared down at my claw, as if he didn’t know the answer either.

  “What were you going to say, Death?” I whispered, hearing Mordred reviving behind us. Four Souls left, now, I thought to myself. But at what cost… Killing the Horsemen?

  Death sighed, glancing over my shoulder. “The Devourer is vital to your survival. To all our survival.”

  “But Conquest—”

  “Allies fall in battle,” War growled from directly behind me. “We’ll cry about it over drinks, later. Now, we fight.” He saw Famine limping over to us, looking severely shaken at his abrupt loss of strength, or injury, or whatever had befallen the Horsemen when my Devourer ate Mordred’s soul.

  The three Brothers seemed to snap out of it mostly, and we all turned to see Mordred climbing back to his feet, his chest almost completely healed, now.

  Four of us against Mordred’s Four remaining Souls.

  Mordred shook his head once, staring down at the wound, and I saw him clenching his jaw in fury. He lifted his head and his eyes locked onto me and my Devourer. Then he was running at us, fingers extended in long, dagger-sized claws, dripping with what looked like black oil.

  In a blindingly fast blur, Famine dove towards the threat, swinging his scales into Mordred’s ankles on the way, making him trip and fall. I felt a sigh of relief to see that the Horsemen could still kick major ass. Famine was back on his feet before Mordred could process what he had tripped over, and immediately began beating the living hell out of Mordred’s back with his smoking scales. Black, rotten grains spilled from the bowls on the end of the chains
with each blow, and wherever they touched, Mordred flinched, body distorting grotesquely.

  I tucked my wings back as tightly as possible and crouched down beside a large charred section of bleachers that must have been too tall for Death’s fog to roll completely over. I curled in on myself, using the black stone of my skin to conceal myself in the wreckage while Mordred was distracted by Famine. War and Death caught onto my plan, and began swinging their blades at Mordred, but not before he sent Famine flying with a burst of power, his entire body swarming with black shadows.

  Famine flew, tumbling a dozen paces away, only mildly saved by his sudden outstretched wings. War and Death lunged, stabbing and swinging in perfect unison – a flurry of crackling purple lightning and splashes of molten lava peppering Mordred even when the blows didn’t land. All the while, they backed Mordred closer to the fire where I hid. And as I watched the chaotic Shaolin weapons fight, I noticed something very strange. Mordred was a misshapen mess, like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

  His back was a massive hump, one arm was long enough to touch the ground – with not an ounce of muscle on it, just skin over bone – and his clawed hand was overly large.

  His other arm was massively muscled, but that claw was tiny and stumpy, like a baby’s hand. Still black and sporting claws, but almost laughable compared to his bulging bicep and forearm. What had Famine done to him? Starved parts of his body while overfeeding others? That was… disgusting.

  Still, Mordred put up a fight.

  Death’s scythe bit into Mordred’s shoulder, tearing right out his back, and I saw Death was using his other hand to wake a pair of skeletons in the fog. Mordred snarled in agony, but somehow managed to notice Death’s gesture. I blinked in disbelief as two skeletons abruptly rose from the fog and attempted to tackle Mordred from behind, but Mordred spun in time, grabbed onto their skulls with each hand, and flung them at War, using them as a shield for War’s flaming sword that had been intended for Mordred’s gut. The magma blade skewered the skeletons into puffs of bone dust.

  Christ. Until this moment, I had kind of forgotten that Mordred had been a knight, no stranger to direct combat.

  But I noticed Famine’s attack had done more than mess with his arms. One of his legs was shorter and bony with malnutrition, but the other was long and strong, making him scuttle around in an awkward shuffle as he tried to fend off War and Death’s elemental blades.

  Famine came out of nowhere to jump onto Mordred’s back, tackling him right into me. I lifted my Devourer at the last moment, and Mordred must have sensed my motion, finally learning that muscle-memory thing.

  One problem. He tried to block my spear with his cute little baby claw.

  My Devourer tore right through the vile little baby hand and into Mordred’s open mouth.

  Mordred stared at me with wide eyes, my spear permanently wedging his jaws open.

  I leaned forward, flicked him gently on the nose, and said, “Boop,” like I had with Midas earlier. Mordred was too busy dying to get overly upset about it like Midas had.

  Famine grabbed Mordred by the hair and tossed him backwards.

  Except my Devourer remained stuck through his head, yanking it entirely out of my grasp. I cursed, shoving Famine aside as I sprinted after Mordred. I winced as I heard Famine cry out in pain, especially when I heard something snap like a bone. But I didn’t look back, hoping to retrieve my Devourer before Mordred revived himself.

  Because maybe Mordred came to, saw the Devourer, and decided to see what would happen if he broke the ruby. I shivered at the thought, imagining him somehow reclaiming the Two Souls my Devourer had eaten. I whipped out my wings to increase my speed. They pounded at the ground and I was suddenly airborne, wind pelting at my eyes. I glided for a moment before tucking them back in and racing back to the ground like a paratrooper. I landed beside Mordred in a crouch, and didn’t waste any time ripping the Devourer from his mouth.

  The blade came free, but the departing Soul gripped onto the ruby like a rubber band. I hopped onto Mordred’s chest, yanking back as hard as I could. Then I began flapping my wings, pulling as hard as I could. The Soul finally did snap free, sending me cartwheeling through the air as the world flashed an even darker red.

  The Devourer cracked and made a splintering sound this time.

  Followed immediately by a chorus of groans. War and Death were on all fours, shambling forward like drunk puppies. I stared at them in disbelief. “What is wrong with you guys?” I demanded. They were the freaking Horsemen. I’d expected a little more professionalism than this. Were they just rusty?

  Famine was simply gone.

  Mordred was now down to Three Souls, and Team Temple was also down to Three Horsemen. Dare we continue this insanity?

  War and Death looked up at me weakly, the flames of their eyes fainter, practically sputtering. “I don’t know what’s happening. Mordred must have done something to us,” War wheezed, climbing painfully to his feet. Death did the same, actually falling over in the process. I glanced over at my Devourer in horror. It was an angrier, darker red, now. And although the wooden haft was damaged and still vibrating in my grip, it felt more like a satisfied purr. But it looked held together by mere splinters.

  Why did it seem happy if it was breaking? And why were the Horsemen dying?

  “We need to finish this. I’m not sure I have much more left in me,” Death mumbled, sounding like I had woken him after a three-day bender.

  War nodded forcefully. “Yes. We need to end this. Now.”

  He took two steps towards me, dragging his massive body on the ground, staring at Mordred who was climbing to his feet, looking as healthy as he had at the beginning. Well, Mordred’s pain was deep in his eyes, his confidence shaken.

  War lifted his hands, and I almost gasped in horror as lava golems of some sort began to climb up from the fog, answering their master’s call. Then I heard a final gasp from behind me and the lava golems immediately splashed back under the fog. Mordred blinked over at them, face stretching into a very hungry grin.

  I spun to see War suddenly collapse into a pile of embers.

  I stared in numb disbelief.

  Scratch that. Two Horsemen against Mordred’s Three Souls—

  Death made a strange gasping sound behind me, and I turned to see him look me in the eyes, the flames in those ghoulish sockets flickering weakly, sputtering like a range stove with no propane.

  Then he fell, too – a sound like rattling bones scattering over a marble floor.

  I slowly turned at the sound of Mordred’s sudden triumphant laugh.

  I stared at him, walling off my emotions. The Horsemen had died. Was that for real, or like everyone else at the Dueling Grounds? Had the birth of the Fifth Horseman literally been at the expense of the first Four Horsemen?

  “Alright, Chuckles,” I growled murderously. This was all Mordred’s fault. I needed to avenge my fellow Horsemen. Make them proud.

  I focused on my Mask, gripping my Devourer like it was the edge of a cliff. I was a fucking Horseman. It was time to see what that meant. The others had started to do some pretty cool stuff before dying. Maybe I had some cool tricks, too. I drew deep on my new powers, not really knowing what I would find, or what I was doing, exactly. I just focused on my memories of my fallen Brothers…

  War…

  I instantly felt an ocean of boiling, roiling magma consume my soul, demanding nothing but the complete and utter annihilation of my foes. I smiled as I heard the sweetest song imaginable – the Horns of War.

  Famine…

  A waterfall of hunger suddenly drowned me in a desperate need to devour every flicker of life within a three-mile radius. An Apocalyptic hunger-pang.

  Conquest… Pestilence…

  I felt every ache, pain, minor sniffle, memory of a past injury, and any imagined sense of self-doubt, fear, or lack of confidence suddenly evaporate into nonexistence. My life was abruptly wholly and entirely disease free – any and all maladies of the mind an
d body, simply gone.

  Death…

  I saw my death in complete and vivid detail, watching my body torn apart a thousand different ways in the span of a baby taking its first breath, and all I could feel was…

  A ridiculous urge to laugh at the very concept of fear.

  War demanded absolution.

  Famine was just fucking hangry.

  Conquest had cleansed my soul.

  Death had made me fearless.

  The Four Horsemen were not dead… They were part of me, Nate Temple.

  The Fifth Horseman. The Rider of Hope. That nerd with the unicorn.

  And I felt… #WokeAF, as the Reds would say. Or, hyper conscious of the world around me, to put it in non-millennial slang.

  I saw Mordred frowning uncertainly, and I gave him a very slow smile. My arms suddenly blazed with white fire, crackling down my wrists and over my Devourer.

  Whatever was left of the wooden haft instantly burned to ashes in that merciless white flame, cleansed of all sins…

  Abandoning all hopes of remaining a spear.

  But the blade remained unharmed, as did the feathers attached to it. They began to fall, no longer supported by the wooden haft, but abruptly halted at shin level to swing back and forth like a pendulum.

  Because the blade and feathers now dangled from a crackling white chain of pure energy – not fire, not ice, not lightning, not air, and not earth – but all of those things. And every link of that ethereal chain sprouted an inky black thorn on both edges, as long as a finger, and as sharp as a surgeon’s needle.