The Demon Horsemen (8 page)

T
he 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 forward. 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 outside. ‘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.

M
atters 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.

Resplendent in his white military uniform, white turban and black waist sash fastened with a gold clasp in the image of the mother goddess Fareeka, a spiritual relic of the ancient Ranu empire, A Ahmud Ki stood atop a six-wheeled metal and wood motorised vehicle
surrounded by eight of his hand-picked bodyguard with their shining peacemakers visible to all. His entourage of eight vehicles, their steam drivers clattering and clanking as they turned the cogs and pulleys to rotate the wheels, wound along the main thoroughfare of the Kalan capital towards the grey facade of the palace. The crowds packed along the roadside clapped and cheered and threw handfuls of the blue petals of the king’s tears flower, the Kalan national emblem.

I am more than a Dragonlord could ever be
, A Ahmud Ki decided, seeing the joyous faces and hearing the happy shouts of so many people, people his army had conquered.
I am a god
.

He looked up as a flight of white dragon eggs soared above the palace.
Once I would have commanded a flight of dragons
, he mused, and chuckled to himself at how the world had so radically changed and yet his ambition was still fulfilled.

After the signing of documents and making of speeches, and the official recognition of the interim Kalan government by the Ranu republic, he had to attend a clandestine meeting with his generals. The Kalan objective completed, the next target for his military was to erode the control of the leadership of the two neighbouring nations, Ma-Tareshka and Jaru, in preparation for the next phase of expansion. His advisors calculated the operation would take up to two, perhaps three, years at most. Ma-Tareshka was a large land ruled by tribal chiefs who formed a coalition whenever the nation was under threat. Like Kala, it would quickly collapse in the face of Ranu efficiency and technology, although the vast distances it covered would pose a challenge to policing it in the transition phase. The Ranu army had faced a similar challenge years before when it invaded the Vasilo empire, but the Ranu’s technological advances since then made A
Ahmud Ki’s generals confident that Ma-Tareshka would fall with greater efficiency.

The Jaru nation posed a thornier problem. Although it had a king as its nominal head of state, it was a democratic nation with a central government of elected regional representatives. Essentially free people, the Jaru would almost certainly fight to retain their freedom. A purely military acquisition of that nation would be costly and would require years of post-war suppression as nationalist terrorists continued to fight the invaders. Instead, the Jaru nation would have to be politically infiltrated and undermined from within—a much more delicate and intelligent operation and one very much to A Ahmud Ki’s liking because it represented a complex challenge.

He was startled by a bodyguard slumping against him. Someone shouted above the din of the cheering crowd. Then he felt a thump against his shoulder, another against his back, and his legs gave way as the entire world tilted inexplicably to the left.

Creeper waited nervously at the corner, his hands sweaty, his heart racing. He could hear the crowds in the main street several blocks away, but his street was almost empty, everyone having gone to see the parade. A man in a white Ranu robe appeared at a corner thirty paces on, looked furtively over his shoulder and walked swiftly towards Creeper.

‘Well?’ Creeper asked as the man reached him.

‘Three hits on him. Two on his bodyguards.’

‘But is he dead?’

‘He has to be.’

Creeper looked over his shoulder along the street. ‘Where’s Baker?’

‘He’ll be here.’

‘And the ship?’

‘Leaves this afternoon.’

Creeper grinned. ‘Good job, Harez.’

‘There’s Baker,’ Harez indicated, and Creeper turned to see another man in Ranu dress approaching quickly.

‘Where did you leave your peacemaker?’ Baker asked as he reached his comrades.

‘Down a shithole,’ Creeper said. ‘No one will find it. You?’

‘Under some roof tiles.’

‘Time to go,’ said Harez, and he led the assassins across the empty street towards an alley. The shadow of a dragon egg drifted over them as they entered a small building. Baker and Creeper slipped out of their Ranu disguises and into shirts and trousers, storing their knives in their belts and possessions while Harez waited patiently.

‘What’s the name of the ship again?’ Creeper asked as he tightened his belt.

‘
The Princess
,’ Harez replied.

‘Schooner?’

‘No. An old barque.’

‘And the shipmaster knows we’re coming?’

‘He’s one of your countrymen.’

Creeper grinned and winked at Baker. He turned back to the dark-skinned Kalan and said, ‘Thanks for helping us these past three days.’ He fished in his pocket. ‘You’ve earned your payment.’

Harez smiled as Baker moved past him towards the door. ‘It is a pleasure to help you rid my people of a foreign parasite,’ he said. Then his eyes popped wide and his mouth gaped in shock as Baker stabbed him from behind.

Creeper grabbed the man’s robe at the neck and slid his knife across Harez’s throat, saying, ‘Again, thanks. You’ve been a real help.’

Shipmaster Gaffer of
The Princess
was a man of Jarudha, so when King Shadow announced the new Jarudhan order he embraced the change enthusiastically. He immediately enforced on his crew the ritual of praying three times daily, insisting that because the ocean was Jarudha’s domain sailors had to pray for permission to cross the waters safely, and were beholden to thank Jarudha every day for letting them do so.

He praised the clampdown on thieves, tricksters, gambling, alcohol and prostitutes—all of which had played havoc with his crews and his capacity to trade over the years—and he had no qualms about the strict penalties being meted out to transgressors of Jarudha’s laws. That he should receive a highly secret commission from the Seers to oversee the demise of two notorious cut-throat murderers he was to take on board in the Kalan capital port, men who spat upon Jarudhan law and order, came as an unexpected blessing and he was both keen and determined to ensure that the job was done well.

The letter that brought the commission described where and when he should collect the men and urged him to ignore anything they might say to try to save their miserable, sin-polluted lives. It ordered that the men should be imprisoned immediately they set foot upon
The Princess
, and then should simply disappear at sea, neither buried nor cremated—an appropriate punishment for their corrupted souls. The letter also instructed that when the commission was done, Shipmaster Gaffer was to return to Port of Joy and deliver the news directly to Seer Deeds, who would be waiting at the temple in the Southern Quarter. The privilege of meeting a Seer in person gave Gaffer hope that he might himself be on the path to everlasting life in Jarudha’s Paradise.

He stared at the two bound, gagged and blindfolded prisoners kneeling on the deck before him, and felt his anger rise.
It is not for me to punish them
, he remembered, tempering his feelings.
Jarudha will determine their eternal punishment
.

He ordered his crew members to hoist the two prisoners onto the railing and turn them to face him. When they were perched on their precarious seats he stood before them and said perfunctorily, ‘May your souls not suffer too long in the hells,’ and gave the signal for his men to shove the prisoners overboard.

Duty done, he gave the order for the midday prayer to be held, and murmured, ‘Jarudha be praised,’ as he headed for his cabin to pray in solitude.

Walking on land never quite felt right to Gaffer, but his legs were buoyed by his excitement. Jarudha had singled him out for reward, had given him a glimpse of Paradise by sending to him the commission to rid the world of two despicable creatures. This afternoon, fresh in port, he was hurrying towards the temple in the Southern Quarter. By his estimation, he would arrive in time to speak with Seer Deeds and then be able to join the local congregation for the evening prayer session. He had never prayed in a temple, in a house of Jarudha; only at sea, either in his cabin or on the rolling deck with his crew.

Neither had he ever spoken with a Seer. The holiest of holy men were beyond the common reach of ordinary people, and even when they appeared in public they remained aloof, apart, as if listening to Jarudha’s voice above the cackle of the crowds of sinners. Yet he was about to meet a Seer personally, who wanted to thank him for serving Jarudha faithfully. His life was truly blessed.

He ignored the stares of people he passed in his rush to meet the Seer. He stopped twice only, to ask soldiers
for directions to the temple in the Southern Quarter. Crossing a small market square, he was momentarily distracted by a hawker who tried to force a ceramic pepper pot into his hands, but he evaded the man and hurried into the narrower streets of the Southern Quarter, heading in the direction of the old docks.

When a blond street urchin ran into his path and grabbed at his sleeve, he beat the boy off with a flurry of hands.

‘Are you Shipmaster Gaffer?’ the boy said.

Gaffer stared at the boy. ‘I am.’

‘You have to come with me,’ he said, and tugged at the shipmaster’s sleeve again.

‘Why? Who are you?’ Gaffer asked warily, annoyed to be interrupted in his quest.

‘I’m nobody, but there’s a Seer wants to see you.’

The soldiers had told him that the temple was in the square near the head of the old docks region, which was further on, so Gaffer was suspicious that the boy was trying to lead him astray, but it was too coincidental that his ploy concerned a Seer. No one else knew why he was ashore.

‘Seer Deeds?’ he asked.

‘Yes. That’s him,’ the boy said.

Gaffer followed the boy down a narrow lane into a vacant lot between ramshackle buildings. The lot was overgrown with weeds and cluttered with rubble but at its centre stood a blue-robed Seer, hood up, waiting. ‘That’s him,’ said the boy and he dashed back up the lane.

His excitement returning, Gaffer straightened his shoulders and slipped off his baggy blue seaman’s cap to smooth down his greying hair. He took a tentative step towards the Seer.

‘I take it you are Gaffer the shipmaster?’ a deep voice asked from within the hood.

Gaffer bowed his head deferentially and answered, ‘Yes, Your Holiness. I am he.’

‘Lift your head so that I can see your face,’ the Seer instructed. Gaffer lifted his chin obediently. The Seer’s face was shadowed by the hood. ‘Is the deed you were asked to complete done?’

‘Yes, Your Holiness,’ Gaffer replied, allowing a little pride to seep into his voice. ‘The sinners are receiving judgement.’

‘Did they tell you anything?’

‘About what, Your Holiness?’

‘Their business in Kala.’

‘They babbled something about having booked my ship, but we tied them up and gagged them so their blaspheming tongues were silenced. They went into the deep that way.’

‘Were you followed here?’

Gaffer chuckled. ‘No, Your Holiness. I wouldn’t let anyone else spoil this moment for me. I didn’t even tell my crew where I was going.’

‘Then your work is good and you have earned your reward.’

Gaffer’s heart raced with expectation, but when he saw the metal muzzle of a hand peacemaker appear from within the Seer’s robes his anticipation turned to confusion and fear. A shot echoed in the enclosed space and Gaffer fell.

The Seer stepped up to the dying man and fired a second bullet into his head. Then he lowered his hood and stripped off the robe, revealing a wiry frame and a shaved head. After neatly folding the robe over his arm and tucking the peacemaker in his belt, he headed for a gap between two derelict buildings, satisfied with his work.