The Demon Horsemen

by Tony Shillitoe

  ‘What if it’s two-way?’

  ‘I can’t know that until I’ve stepped through,’ Law argued. ‘It’s too risky.’

  Word nodded slowly. ‘I understand. You would be mad to go through.’ He stroked his white beard and studied the portal. ‘His Eminence needs to know,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Is there someone else on the island we could ask to go through?’ Word asked. ‘Someone…expendable?’

  ‘I’ve thought of that,’ Law said. ‘I…I wasn’t sure it would be seen as a good thing. I’ve already taken too much of a risk experimenting like this.’

  ‘Accepted,’ said Word, but then he smiled wisely and added, ‘Perhaps you can draw upon scripture to sustain you. “He who loses the wonder and curiosity of childhood will lose the capacity for faith, for faith resides in those who are always willing to learn, and learning only truly arises from wonder and curiosity.” Alun would have you do what you are doing.’

  Law’s eyes widened and he made the holy sign. ‘You are truly Jarudha’s servant,’ he said, unable to hide his joy. ‘I know the scripture as well as anyone, but sometimes what it says is hidden from me. But not from you, my brother.’

  Word’s smile softened. ‘The Word has more possibilities for some than for others,’ he said. ‘His Eminence interprets it as he needs at times, and so do we all.’

  ‘There is a faithful acolyte in the settlement. I’ll fetch him,’ said Law. ‘His faith is unquestioned and he would see this as a pathway to Jarudha’s favour.’

  Word appraised the tall young man who stood before him at the cave’s entrance. In his traditional yellow robe, his head shaved, he looked like every acolyte, but a long scar across his right cheek down to his collarbone and his harsh expression suggested he had seen terrible sights.

  ‘This is Rainbow,’ said Law. ‘He is Jarudha’s child. His knowledge of scripture is a blessing, especially as he cannot yet read The Word.’

  ‘I am Seer Word,’ said Word, and made the sign of the circle. ‘How old were you when you joined the order?’

  ‘I think I was seventeen,’ Rainbow answered.

  ‘You think?’

  Rainbow nodded. ‘I don’t know my age for certain. I was called from the streets by Jarudha.’

  Which explains the illiteracy, thought Word. ‘And now you are…’

  ‘I say I am twenty-two,’ Rainbow replied.

  Word looked at Law. ‘Does he know what he is being asked to do?’

  Law nodded.

  Word met Rainbow’s gaze. ‘You believe that Jarudha has called you to make this sacrifice?’

  Rainbow smiled. ‘There is no sacrifice for Jarudha; only service.’

  Word smiled in return and nodded, recognising the paraphrased text from The Word. ‘You know scripture by heart. That is a blessing.’

  The Seers led the acolyte into the cave to the shining portal haze. The blue light threw Rainbow’s face into harsh relief. In another life this one would kill without remorse or joy, Word found himself thinking.

  ‘After you have stepped through, we want you to have a look around, but don’t go too far,’ said Law. ‘Then come back to us.’

  Rainbow nodded, his eyes fixed on the image in the light as if he were entranced. Law looked at Word, and Word, reading uncertainty on his colleague’s face, said, ‘Go with Jarudha’s blessing, Rainbow. You will walk in Paradise.’

  Rainbow turned to Word and his smile reappeared. ‘Thank you, Master Seer.’ Then he faced the portal, drew a short breath and stepped into the light.

  Word and Law could see the shadowy image of Rainbow standing on what seemed to be a flat plain with scattered, leafless trees. The acolyte took several tentative steps and his feet appeared to sink into loose dust. Then he looked back. He approached the portal as if he were going to step back through it, but at the last instant he vanished.

  ‘What happened to him?’ Word asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Law replied in a hushed voice.

  The blue-hued image of the featureless plain was unchanged. Word edged closer and squinted, trying to make out details in the hazy distortion, but the image remained grainy and indistinct. He flinched as Rainbow’s figure reappeared from the left, several paces further into the landscape. He seemed to be searching for something.

  ‘What’s he looking for?’ Law asked.

  ‘He can’t see the portal,’ Word said, straightening up. ‘It’s one-way only.’

  ‘I’ll test if he can hear us,’ Law suggested. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called to Rainbow. The hazy figure through the portal kept walking in erratic lines, searching, looking as if he was quite lost.

  ‘He’s fading,’ said Word. Rainbow’s shadowy form steadily lost clarity as he moved further from the portal entry.

  ‘I was afraid of this,’ said Law. ‘I’ve sacrificed him. Killing is one of the greatest sins.’ He made the sign of the circle and fell to his knees to pray.

  Word put a hand on his colleague’s shoulder. ‘Rainbow was given a choice to serve Jarudha and he chose to serve. His fate is not in your hands but in Jarudha’s. You have no responsibility in this. Ask Jarudha to be merciful to his faithful servant, but do not ask for your own forgiveness because you are not in need of it.’

  Law looked up at Word and nodded acceptance. ‘I wish I had your wisdom,’ he said.

  Word smiled and stared into the blue haze.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Azeem A’Khamat hurried along the echoing metal corridor within the Ranu dreadnought, ignoring the salutes from guards every twenty paces. His patient was awake and he could not keep him waiting. It had been only six years since his promotion to surgeon-general, a rise in status he had long aspired to but had not expected to achieve in his lifetime. The unfortunate death of Surgeon-General Karshem from a heart attack had surprised everyone, and had filled Azeem with sorrow because Karshem had been his mentor. But the death had also bestowed on Azeem his new rank so, in a strangely satisfying way, he appreciated his mentor’s passing. He stopped outside the metal door to smooth back the grey side hair below his balding pate, acknowledged the four bodyguards, and entered the room.

  It was spacious, and filled with paintings of scenes from different parts of the Ranu empire: mountains, forests, open plains, cities along shorelines. A massive Ranu national flag—a rampant black dragon on a white field—hung from the ceiling, filling one wall.

  ‘He is quite lucid,’ said a matronly figure dressed in white.

  Azeem smiled at the president’s chamber woman, Renza, and asked, ‘How long has he been like this?’

  ‘A good hour,’ she replied.

  ‘Fluids?’

  ‘He’s maintained a good intake.’ Renza reached for a glass container and held it up for the surgeon to inspect. ‘One of the wounds is still weeping,’ she explained.

  Azeem adjusted his nearseeing lenses to assess the yellow fluid. He cleared his throat. ‘Has he made water or waste yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Azeem waved the sample aside and headed to the bed on the far side of the room. The president’s eyes were closed and his face was pale grey in complexion, but there were hints of colour that gave Azeem hope. The dressing around his neck was clean. He would inspect the other wounds later in the day. The president’s eyes opened and stared at him.

  ‘I was told that you wished to see me, President,’ Azeem said quietly.

  A Ahmud Ki swallowed and licked his dry lips. ‘It seems I am meant to live,’ he rasped.

  ‘There’s never been any doubt of that,’ Azeem replied.

  ‘Perhaps not for you,’ A Ahmud Ki said, and smiled weakly.

  ‘It will be some time before you are able to leave this bed,’ Azeem explained. ‘We are steaming back to Tul Ethta. By the time we make port you should be well again. Of course, having heard the rumours of your assassination, the people will see you as invincible.’

  A Ahmud Ki forced a weak cough and said,
‘We are not going back to Ranu Ka Shehaala. I am awaiting news.’

  Azeem was surprised. ‘But, President, it is not—’

  A Ahmud Ki’s eyes narrowed and the anger on his face warned Azeem to avoid contradicting him. ‘Your job, Surgeon-General, is to make sure I am well.’

  ‘Yes, President,’ Azeem answered.

  A Ahmud Ki’s expression relaxed and he sighed. ‘Azeem, as far as anyone outside this room is concerned, I am close to death.’

  Azeem saw the steady intent in the president’s grey eyes and understood. He nodded.

  ‘Thank you,’ A Ahmud Ki rasped. A faint smile crossed his lips. ‘Now, make sure the opposite is true.’

  General Shalam placed his white cap with its black and gold markings on the table beside the president’s bed as he took the seat that Renza offered. He greeted the president as the chamber woman withdrew. ‘You are looking much more alive than dead, President Ki,’ he noted with a wry grin.

  ‘Thank you, Shalam. I would sit up, but the wound in my side is still tender. Please excuse me. Any news?’

  ‘Not enough,’ Shalam replied. ‘We’ve uncovered the chain at least as far as the Kerwyn capital. A Kalan local must have been the link in Yul Ki. He was murdered the same day you were shot, three streets from the incident, and people who knew the man said he was seen with strangers. The strangers were known to have boarded a Kerwyn trading barque, The Princess, which set sail for Port of Joy the same afternoon. We tracked down a sailor from that vessel when it stopped at a Jaru port two weeks ago, and he informed us that two strangers fitting the description given by Kalan informants were thrown overboard mid-ocean on that trip. We also learned that the barque’s captain disappeared in Port of Joy that same trip.’

  ‘Convenient,’ A Ahmud Ki murmured and coughed. Seeing the general’s concern, he waved a hand, saying, ‘I’m fine. What else have you found?’

  ‘Nothing, President,’ Shalam said apologetically. ‘The trail ends in Port of Joy.’

  ‘Assumptions?’

  Shalam snorted. ‘The obvious one is an assassination attempt by Kalan insurgents who hired foreign assassins to avoid direct implication or to deflect the blame.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Every Kalan we’ve interrogated utterly denies Kalan activity. The murdered Kalan was a member of an insurgent group, but a peripheral one. There’s no other Kalan link beyond the murdered man and incidental contact.’

  ‘The peacemakers?’

  Shalam shook his head. ‘It’s easy to get even our latest weapons on the black market with the right money. Whoever organised the attempt was a professional with substantial financial backing.’

  ‘Which also eliminates the Kalan suspects. So who’s next?’

  ‘The evidence points back to the Kerwyn monarchy or a Kerwyn interest group. The murder of the ship’s captain confirms that suspicion.’

  ‘I thought he just disappeared?’

  ‘His corpse turned up in an area of Port of Joy called the old docks. Apparently murders in that area are not uncommon so no one was all that concerned. Our people there haven’t been able to find any clue as to who might have killed the captain. His corpse had been looted, but that’s a given in that part of the city.’

  ‘Coincidental death?’

  ‘Always a possibility,’ Shalam conceded, ‘but too convenient. The captain seems to have been the only person to have known the strangers, and they seem to be the only real suspects for the shooting.’

  ‘Why those two?’

  ‘Our people in Port of Joy found out that one of them, Ream Baker, had a reputation for marksmanship with peacemakers and thundermakers. The other man was less known, went by the name of Ham Creeper. Neither had been seen much in recent times.’

  ‘So why would the Kerwyn monarchy want me dead? Don’t we have good diplomatic relations with King Shadow?’

  Shalam gave a grim smile. ‘With all due respect, President Ki, our steady domination of the world is no longer subtle. If I were the ruler of another country, I would be very wary of us.’

  A Ahmud Ki nodded. ‘I have to keep reminding myself that other powerful men think like I do,’ he noted, smiling. ‘Can you get proof of the Kerwyn complicity?’

  ‘I will try, President.’

  ‘If you do, I need to know at once. This could open a door we hadn’t planned to open yet.’ A Ahmud Ki’s smile faded. ‘Thank you, Shalam. I will remember your service.’

  Shalam rose, collected his cap, and saluted.

  Rumours were spreading that there were men looking for anyone with information about Shipmaster Gaffer’s murder. From his perch in the loft of the abandoned leather factory, Runner listened to Swing the butcher and Limb, the one-armed man, discussing the matter as they cooked a fish for their evening meal.

  ‘Carve Sawmaker says they’re foreigners,’ said Limb. ‘Says they’re paying for information.’

  ‘How much?’ the butcher asked, his craggy face bright in the firelight.

  ‘Five shillings.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Swing exclaimed. ‘Sawmaker’s lying.’

  ‘Carve don’t lie,’ said Limb angrily. ‘He might be stingy on his prices at times, but he don’t lie.’

  ‘Why so much interest in a dead body?’ Swing asked. ‘Lots of people end up dead in the old docks. No one cares two hoots about them.’

  ‘They say it’s something to do with politics. How’s that fish?’

  ‘Politics my arse,’ Swing growled as he tested the fish. ‘It’s done.’ He lifted the meal from the fire onto a slab of concrete. ‘What would an old sailor know about politics?’

  ‘They’re strange, those who go to sea,’ said Limb, bending towards the fish to tear away a piece of flesh.

  ‘Five shillings,’ Swing repeated. ‘That’s a week’s wages for a working man.’

  ‘Carve says they’ll pay a lot more for the right information,’ mumbled Limb as he chewed the delicacy.

  Runner’s mouth was watering from the sight and smell of the fish. He scrambled down from the loft and sauntered towards the two men, the firelight flickering shadows across his legs and feet.

  ‘Well, look what the stink of fish brought out of the darkness,’ said Swing. Limb glowered at the intruder, but Swing gestured for Runner to join them. ‘Hungry?’ he asked.

  ‘The little bastard is always hungry,’ Limb complained, ripping more flesh from the fish before Runner could reach it.

  Runner glared at the one-armed man.

  ‘Don’t take any notice,’ said Swing. ‘Have a bite, lad. You can find us something for tomorrow night, all right?’

  Runner dug his fingers into the fish flesh and lifted the hot food to his mouth. ‘What’s this about a dead body?’ he asked.

  Limb scowled but Swing gave a brief summary.

  ‘Where was he found?’ Runner asked.

  ‘No idea,’ said Swing. He looked at Limb. ‘What did your friend Carve say?’

  Limb scowled, but then said, ‘For what it’s worth, he was found near the temple, in a vacant lot.’

  Swing chuckled as he took a chunk of fish. ‘There’s a hundred of those in that area. Your mate could have been a little more original.’

  ‘Carve knows what he’s talking about,’ Limb said.

  Runner’s hand slid to his pocket and fingered the scrunched paper stored there. He’d spent the shilling and pawned the ring, but he remembered Dingo’s words about writing. Maybe the paper was worth something to the strangers.

  The strangers were easy to recognise, despite their clumsy attempts at disguise; their darker skin, trimmed beards and moustaches marked them from the locals. Runner observed them from the roof of a cobbler’s shop as they talked to vendors and passing citizens. They seemed wary of the City Watch and when a pair of soldiers came along the street they entered a hardware shop and waited in there until the men left, then headed in the opposite direction.

  Runner left his observation post and loitered beside a tanner’s shop t
wo streets further along, hoping the owner wouldn’t come out to chase him away as usually happened. As the strangers approached, he assessed their potential to pose a threat to him and determined how he would escape if the meeting went badly. Then he stepped into their path. ‘Good morning,’ he said as politely as he could muster.

  ‘What do you want?’ the shorter man asked, distrust manifest in his tone. His companion’s hand went to a sword pommel jutting from his thick brown belt.

  ‘You want information about a dead man?’ Runner said.

  The short man glanced at his companion and turned back to Runner. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘How much is it worth?’

  ‘Depends on what you’ve got to tell us.’

  ‘What I’ve got is worth more than twenty shillings,’ Runner said cockily.

  ‘We should go inside,’ suggested the taller man.

  ‘There’s a tavern over there.’ Runner pointed to a ramshackle building displaying a battered sign of an emu. ‘No beer any more, thanks to the stupid priests.’

  The strangers followed him into the dark interior, where a young man greeted them and asked if they intended eating.

  ‘Water only,’ said the short man, and indicated a chair to Runner. When they were all seated, he said, ‘So what do you have?’

  Runner extracted the crumpled paper from his pocket. ‘It’s a letter,’ he said, but held on to it tightly.

  ‘Well, hand it over,’ said the short man curtly.

  ‘Twenty shillings.’

  ‘We didn’t agree on anything,’ the man snapped.

  Runner stood and pushed the paper into his pocket. The waiter arrived with a jug of water and three mugs. The tall man stood too, as if to convince Runner that it was wiser to sit, but Runner remained where he was, assessing his escape plan.

  ‘Look, how do we know you aren’t trying to trick us?’ the short man said. ‘Twenty shillings is a lot of money for a boy like you.’

  ‘It’s four weeks’ wages,’ Runner told him. ‘I’m not stupid.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were,’ the man replied. ‘But we’re not stupid either. If you let us look at the paper we can tell you if it’s any good to us.’