Horseman

by Shayne Silvers

  Nefarious Nate was going to battle the Magnificent Moe in the Fight of the Century!

  Midas had probably had a hand in beefing up the attendance, seeing the revenue potential for a prize fight like this. I shot a look over at him and he shrugged shamelessly, accepting bets from the long line of Freaks waiting their turn.

  As soon as spectators began to take notice of our arrival, it was like a fuse had been lit. The air grew tense and thick, and all I could hear were our boots crossing the dying grass. Then we stepped over the line of rocks that marked the fight ring itself.

  The bleachers weren’t full of people, but they were full of the right people.

  Alucard’s foxy proxy – that cute little old black lady – had a few vampires sitting beside her, literally on leashes. They didn’t look happy about it, but they concealed their unhappiness well, holding a parasol and drink for her as she bided her time, knitting happily. She glanced up at my arrival, and my eyes settled briefly on her knitting before flashing her a smile and a thumbs up. She grinned, and I tipped a figurative hat at her attendants.

  Alvara, surprisingly, sat beside two ridiculously handsome Legolas types who had obviously been juicing and chugging protein drinks since their victory over Sauron. They watched me impassively, their long, lustrous blonde hair held back by braided leather cords set with dark gems that rested on their foreheads.

  Not for the tenth time, my mind began to wander, wondering what terrible act had earned them banishment from the Land of the Fae. Maybe the Chancery had been too nice for the merciless Fae Courts.

  But it was good to see Alvara pulling through for me – and so quickly. She gave me an almost imperceptible nod, then leaned in close to her companions, speaking softly. I openly waved at her. “Can’t wait until our next tea party!” I called out. The three stiffened, and the two men began speaking to her more urgently.

  The foxy proxy vampire glanced up thoughtfully, considering the information I had just given up. That I was close with the Chancery. At least, that’s what it looked like.

  Baron Skyfall was there in a typical Englishman’s perfectly tailored wool suit. He wore a vest and a paisley tie, roguishly loosened to give his massive ebony tree trunk of a neck some room to turn. Fook and Yu sat beside him – wearing different shirts, I noticed with a grin. I flashed them a thumbs up, nodding and tugging at my own shirt. They grinned crookedly.

  “Avast, ye landlubber!” Baron bellowed, and I found myself instantly grinning from ear to ear. He was laughing loudly for all to see, but subtly telling me that we had no bad blood over our last encounter.

  And letting the rest of the crowd know that I was close enough to the dragons to have inside jokes.

  I didn’t need to really acknowledge anyone else, because it was well known I was pals with the werewolves, but I did nod respectfully at Drake and Cowan, Gunnar’s top werewolves, who sat a little apart from the others on their bench, glaring openly at Mordred. Drake was a mischievous looking scrawny guy, his eyes always dancing with an inner light that usually made you feel like he’d robbed you blind without ever touching you. Cowan, on the other hand was a tall, stoic man with the emotional capabilities of a statue. Somehow, the two were pals. Not just pals, but more like adopted brothers. I liked them.

  There were many faces I didn’t recognize from all walks of life – Native Americans in tribal attire, a charcoal-skinned couple in outlandish suits and decorated fedoras, a group of burly mechanics, and many more. Each group stood or sat in small antisocial huddles.

  I gave many of them direct, personal, secretive nods – almost enough to flirt with a bow.

  Which startled the hell out of them, making them look to the other families I had acknowledged, and cringe at the sudden suspicious glances they received back in turn.

  My gestures made it look like I had more discreet connections in the supernatural community of St. Louis, on top of my open alliances with the wolves, vampires, Chancery, and dragons.

  I realized Mordred had stopped, and that the crowd was now holding their breaths.

  I glanced back, frowning. Mordred didn’t look scared, but he did look hyper-aware. “You did warn me you didn’t fight fair,” he said, smirking faintly. So faint that I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or amused.

  I turned around to where he was looking.

  Alucard, Talon, and Gunnar were laughing loudly in a small huddle, slapping backs and teasing each other. Like you would expect at a bar. My friends noticed the silence and looked over at us. Then their faces slowly changed, and they made their way towards me, seeming to strut. They looked like someone had just changed the song on the Jukebox, and that they had a very strong opinion on the new song.

  I turned back to Mordred. “Oh, them? That’s not me fighting dirty. You’ve just got your Ten Souls, so I figured it was only fair to bring a few friends. You’ve still got us outnumbered,” I added.

  “Okay,” Mordred said, rolled his shoulders a few times, cracking his neck from side to side to loosen up. “Just surprised me. Made me briefly consider that this might have been arranged beforehand,” he said drily, flicking his gaze about the crowd of attendees and King Midas taking last bets in a gruff shout.

  “Sometimes coincidences just happen,” I told him. “Not everything has to be all mystical and shit.”

  Chapter 46

  Asterion stepped between us, clearing his throat with an ear-splitting bellow to get everyone’s attention. It was entirely unnecessary, because all eyes were already on us, sensing the tension in the ring.

  “Welcome to Fight Night!” he shouted, holding up his massive arms as the crowd went wild. “As you have no doubt noticed, we changed the scheduled fight card for the evening. If anyone has a problem with this decision, I encourage you to drown your sorrows at Carl’s Heel… courtesy of the house.”

  He pointed a massive, sausage-sized finger at the make-shift bar. Unsurprisingly, a group of Myrmidons were the loudest, cheering and clinking mugs, but a pleased hum rolled over the entire place.

  Leonidas and Achilles were conspicuously absent, so maybe they were keeping an eye on the reporters at Chateau Falco.

  “We’re all about happy customers, here,” Asterion continued. He smiled for the crowd – a horrible, wicked look on his bull face – but I sensed it was hollow. He fingered his massive prayer beads absently, a gesture he did only when nervous. He didn’t know my plan, but he knew me well enough to expect this event to go very badly, very quickly. But I shrugged it off. The worst that could happen was that Mordred killed us and we woke up in bed, embarrassed at our failed fight.

  I scanned the crowd as Asterion continued on, still speaking to the guests about general rules. I’d heard it so many times I could recite it by now, but Mordred was paying very close attention, probably making sure there wasn’t some trickery afoot. There wasn’t, at least not on Asterion’s part. The Dueling Grounds was neutral, and didn’t manipulate the fights. Ever. One act like that would ruin its integrity, and the well would run dry.

  The Dueling Grounds held many memories for me, both pleasant and unpleasant. My first time here had been when dealing with Alaric’s dragons invading St. Louis. Asterion had given me a coin after I beat him in a Duel – a coin given to him by Hermes. Flip once to save your life, flip again to save the life of another, he had told me.

  I’d had my fair share of not-so-pleasant times, too, but overall it felt good to be back in the ring. Like shore leave for sailors, at the bar with the cheapest beer closest to the docks, but with a lot more violence and magic.

  Asterion said something that seemed to catch everyone’s attention, so I glanced up. “Tension has been high in St. Louis since yesterday, possibly even before. Many of you know I’ve had past dealings with Nate Temple, and consider him a friend. That being said, Fight Club transcends all personal ties. That is the entire purpose of the place – to let you guys duke it out without leveling a city or killing bystanders. To have your little grudge matches, settle old feuds,
let off steam, and… HAVE FUN!” he roared, lifting his arms again.

  Mordred nodded, satisfied with the affirmation that he wasn’t walking into a trap.

  The Minotaur waited for the crowd’s roar to calm down before continuing. “St. Louis is our home, and we all love her savagely. Hopefully, the outcome of tonight’s fight will cool some tempers, and make their meeting tomorrow more… productive.” Asterion turned to Mordred, then my group, arching a furry eyebrow. “Agreed?” he asked.

  But it wasn’t really a question.

  Mordred bowed deeply. “Agreed. This is all rather exciting. Do you own it with Midas?”

  Asterion’s face grew impassive. “I am more the bouncer and referee. Midas owns the farmland, and holds it as neutral territory.”

  Mordred was nodding thoughtfully. “Ah, but I meant this place,” he said, tapping his foot on the earth. “Not the land that holds the entrance to this place. Imagine the chaos that would cause. Anyone with a doorway inside could claim an entire place all for themselves…”

  His eyes shot briefly to mine, and I could see what he was getting at. The Armory.

  “I don’t think you want to meet the owner of this place,” Asterion said, scraping at the earth with a size thirty-eight boot. “I am merely its Warden.”

  I frowned at that. Warden implied prisoners…

  I glanced past the ring of ever-burning torches, at what lived beyond. Asterion’s prisoners.

  Grimm had been living there, the crazy bastard – about as far from a rainbow as one could possibly get. In the past, I’d heard all sorts of wild, nasty sounds coming from out there, but the beings must have grown accustomed to our Fight Nights since they hardly ever made the sickening song of murder anymore. Either that or we were all accustomed to it, now.

  And Mordred was staring at it thoughtfully again.

  Asterion noticed and clenched his jaws. “The fight is here. Not out there. Only certain death lies out there.”

  Mordred blinked, and then nodded. “Of course.”

  “Is everyone ready?” Asterion asked. I nodded, feeling my friends fan out around me.

  Alucard smiled like a model on the runway. He even wore dark sunglasses with his jeans and white tee.

  Gunnar winked – or blinked – at Mordred. His stone eyepatch glinted, reflecting the reds, oranges, and yellows of the eternal setting sun.

  The last time I’d donned my Horseman’s Mask, I’d grown an adorable pair of skeletal wings made of some flavor of quartz-like stone. I’d also sported claws, and from what I’d been told, my entire skin had changed to the same stone-like texture.

  And Gunnar, being magically bonded to me as a result of the family rune tattooed on his wrist, had caught some accidental power-up as a result. And it was permanent. Even when I wasn’t wearing the Mask, his claws and eyepatch were now that same stone substance, making me think that on some distant level, I was officially a part of the Apocalypse team. But I’d been told that third time was the charm, and that I would hear a great, heavenly bell toll in the skies – announcing to the world that a new Horseman had been born.

  The Four Horsemen hadn’t offered up a detailed explanation, but they were notorious dicks, so they were probably waiting on some form of official confirmation. A letter from God, or that stupid bell to ring out.

  War had told me he wore his Mask several times before it became official.

  I had a sinking suspicion that tonight I would hear a big fucking bell. Because I’d felt Mordred’s power. He was stronger than anyone I’d ever faced.

  Athena.

  Kai.

  Castor Queen.

  Anubis.

  Maybe even a few of them combined.

  I faced Mordred, no longer laughing. It was time to be Nate. No more façade. I had him where I wanted him.

  “Even though this is all fun and games,” I said loudly enough for all to hear. “I want you to know that I take great personal offense to you bumbling into my city and stirring up shit. Each resident of St. Louis is under my protection. And whether they want to accept that or not, I will still step in to fight for them. Not because I personally like them, or think they can’t take care of themselves, but because this is my home, and even if I disagree with some of my neighbors, I won’t tolerate some punk teenager driving recklessly through my street, bashing down mailboxes and toilet-papering the trees, thinking he’s hot shit with the wisdom of a sixteen-year-old clutching his brand-new driver’s license, driving the car his…” I smirked smugly, “parents bought for him. Trying desperately to do something outlandishly flamboyant to get some attention, since all the kids on his street considered him a joke.”

  You could have heard a pin drop, and I felt every single eye in the crowd upon me. Mordred, for his part, looked about as furious as I’d ever seen someone look – especially at all the clever analogies and comparisons I’d used to poke and prod at him, mocking his life in Camelot. But he also kept his mouth shut, recognizing that all I had done was stand up for my city, so any comment on his part would only confirm my statement, because he would be mocking everyone here.

  Without breaking eye contact, I ripped open a Gateway to my right, about the size of my torso and hovering in midair rather than settled on the ground. “I won’t bother giving you my resume, listing all the assholes I’ve taken care of in the last few years, how much I’ve bled for this city – whether asked to or not – because you already know all of that. You know, since you killed Tomas Mullingsworth to spy on me,” I told Mordred. Several in the crowd gasped in disbelief. Tomas hadn’t been a celebrity or anything, but his name had gotten around.

  I tugged off my satchel and tossed it through the Gateway without looking. Since I had already slipped the vial from the Round Table into the satchel, I had one less thing to worry about – Mordred stealing it from me during the fight. I began to roll up my sleeves, still locking eyes with Mordred – who looked livid. “And I want you to know that tonight, in front of all my friends…” I said, sweeping the crowd meaningfully, speaking loud enough for all to hear.

  I locked eyes with Mordred again, grinning. “I’m going to fight you like I’m the third monkey on the ramp to Noah’s Ark,” I said, blindly reaching back into the Gateway to grasp a wooden haft on the other side. “And Brother… It’s starting to rain.”

  And I pulled my Devourer into the Dueling Grounds.

  My Neverwas didn’t shine. The black haft and blade seemed to merely amplify the tone of our play date. But the ruby on the tip looked hangry, flickering with crimson lightning and red smoke.

  I let the Gateway wink out. My satchel was now safe in the Sanctorum, and I’d given the prearranged signal to those on the other end – that the vial was inside.

  Mordred’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’re just a shadow of twenty different flavors,” he snarled. “Wizard, Godkiller, Maker…” he trailed off, waving his hand to signify any others he may have missed. “You don’t know how to truly harness any of them.”

  “But I know how to make a mean mixed drink,” I muttered, having expected the comment a long time ago.

  “BEGIN!” Asterion said, shuffling backwards to get the hell out of the way.

  Chapter 47

  Mordred lifted his palms, and was suddenly holding two great big swords of green flame.

  Gunnar howled, clothing exploding everywhere as he shifted into his Wild Side version of his werewolf form – a seven-foot tall monster with matted white fur and finger-thick claws of stone that matched his eye-patch.

  The audience roared excitedly to see their local Alpha werewolf – who was fast becoming a legend in St. Louis for how casually he’d dispatched a couple of very powerful werewolves, recently – shift into his exquisitely lethal Wild Side form, but also because of the new body armor he wore. GRIMM TECH was emblazoned across the front. The roaring excitement of the crowd changed, slightly, or perhaps melded with another harmonious chorus… of gut-busting laughter as some of the audience read the word on the b
ack.

  MANIMAL.

  The body armor was strong against the usual elemental attacks, and could withstand extreme abuse in the physical arena as well, not that a werewolf really needed much help there, but when standing up against some of the bigger nasties, it couldn’t hurt. Claws of all speeds and sharpness sliced off it like chainmail, not that it wouldn’t break-down at some point, but it gave that added protection like magical Kevlar.

  It was also designed to fit him as a human, but would modify to his new form as a wolf – which had been a tricky fucking thing to nail down, let me tell you.

  “I think I’m going to enjoy this,” Mordred said, spinning his swords in slow circles, warming up his wrists. “Don’t take it personally.”

  “I was about to say the same thing,” Yahn said, materializing out of nowhere to send his glass fist hammering into Mordred’s throat like a battering ram. It connected with a sickening crunch, destroying his windpipe, and sent Mordred flying. But surprisingly, Yahn roared in pain as well, now fully visible. He clutched his shattered fist, now just a stump of broken glass.

  I ignored Yahn’s agonized groans, walling off part of my heart. This wasn’t permanent. I had to remember that. We had a job to do and tending to Yahn was both pointless and a weakness, because the worst that could happen was he died and woke up in his bed in a few minutes, probably with a pair of overly concerned red dragons who would be more than happy to tend to his damaged pride.

  Instead, I turned to the crowd. Everyone had grown silent at the stunning end to the fight, staring at the scene in disbelief. “For the dragon nation,” I told them, my voice echoing in the silence as I lifted my spear in tribute.

  Maybe some of them were thinking they had placed the wrong bet earlier.

  Maybe, like many lonely wives, they were disappointed in Mordred’s ten-second-long performance.

  My attention was solely on Mordred, because Yahn had just performed the first experiment of the night, delivering a fatal killing blow to Mordred. Now, we watched for the result. I gripped my spear tightly as I saw Mordred’s form shiver involuntarily. He took a desperate gasp of air, despite his supposedly ruined throat, and slowly climbed to his feet, shaking his head drunkenly.