The Four Horsemen

By M.E. Brines

What if the only way to prevent the Apocalypse is to find a way to kill those who cannot die? Mercenary Captain Ishmael had no idea when he stepped ashore in the port of Safehaven that his mysterious patron would require him to do just that.

Along the way he assembles a team of unlikely heroes: a gardener turned prophet, a runaway barbarian princess, a wizard who only knows one spell, a fierce and furry love-struck warrior of the cat-like Div and a washed up elderly war criminal who shares Ishmael’s shadowy past. Together they must discover a way to defeat the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Through a magical voyage on a flying ship to the Four Corners of the Earth, where even the very gods help or hinder them, they must succeed or the world will end in fire. But will treachery from within bring on the Apocalypse?

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.E. Brines
• Release date: Aug 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465744333

M.E. Brines

M.E. Brines spent the Cold War assembling atomic artillery shells and preparing to unleash the Apocalypse (and has a medal to prove it.) But when peace broke out, he turned his fevered, paranoid imagination to other pursuits. He spends his spare time scribbling another steampunk romance occult adventure novel, which despite certain rumors absolutely DOES NOT involve time-traveling Nazi vampires! A former member of the British Society for Psychical Research, he is the author of three dozen books, e-books, chapbooks and pamphlets on esoteric subjects such as alien abduction, alien hybrids, astrology, the Bible, biblical prophecy, Christian discipleship, conspiracies, esoteric Nazism, the Falun Gong, Knights Templar, magick, and UFOs, his work has also appeared in Challenge magazine, Weird Tales, The Outer Darkness, Tales of the Talisman, and Empirical magazine.

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151

The Four Horsemen

Second (much better edited) Smashwords Edition

By M.E. Brines

Copyright 2011 by M.E. Brines

Cover Art by Viktor Vasnetsov

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be duplicated and re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

* * *

Call me Ishmael.

I couldn’t recall ever using that name before, but no sense tempting fate, even this far south.

The clerk in his little pulpit-like desk at the landward end of the quay nodded and recorded the name in his logbook with a flourish of his quill, then proceeded to question me about my nationality, occupation and reason for traveling to Safehaven. The answers I gave were as false as my name, all except the question about my occupation.

Mercenary.

He glanced distastefully at my military style tunic and trousers and at the worn handle of the short sword hung at my waist before answering with downcurled lip.

We don’t have much call for… that sort of… work here.

I’m just passing through.

Where are you bound?

I shrugged. I’ll know when I get there.

I handed over the sixpence toll, the real reason for this inquisition, hefted my bag on one shoulder and strode off into the crowd.

The warm noonday sun shone down upon us as stevedores bustled past with heavy loads. Beside me a tame seagull waddled along the line of weary travelers and sailors anxious to pay the toll and hurry on into the waiting taverns and fleshpots of the busy seaport.

From long experience I ignored the sleazy taverns and inns that lined the wharf and headed into town looking for a quiet place with good food and clean sheets, things I’d sorely missed on the long sea voyage from the city states in the north. A sudden outbreak of peace had left me unemployed amid a sea of other freebooters and I’d decided to start over far away where there was less competition.

And fewer chances of being recognized.

My hobnailed boots clattered on the cobblestones as I made my way down a street crowded with people: sailors, laborers, urchins, a fat merchant in velvet robes accompanied by a pair of clerks, but no soldiers. Other than some sailors wearing cutlasses, the only armed men I saw were a pair of city watchmen at an intersection dozing on their halberds.

The well-fed people and clean, undamaged buildings indicated a level of peace and prosperity completely alien to the turmoil and chaos I was used to in the northern city states.

Not that all the wealth transferred from the merchants and peasants there had managed to stick long in the hands of the soldiers either.

I patted my small bag of coins, secure inside my tunic from the unwelcome attentions of pickpockets and cutpurses. There wasn’t much left, but it shouldn’t be too long before I got hired on somewhere to protect some wealthy merchant’s possessions from other men like me.

The street eventually opened into a large cobblestone square covered with little booths selling everything imaginable: fresh vegetables, roast joints, sweetmeats, lotions and potions. There was a gypsy telling fortunes she could supposedly read off the inside of a large glass ball, and a tinsmith whose glittering booth was hung with platters and mugs and forks and lanterns and candleholders and sconces and shiny objects whose function I could not even begin to guess.

At a bakery cart I paid a penny for a honey-drenched bun studded with currants. Its cloying sweetness aggravated my growing thirst as the sun beat down, the shade of my broad-brimmed felt campaign hat more than overwhelmed by the burden of carrying my sea bag on the long uphill walk from the harbor.

I bade the market farewell, not that I could really afford much anyway, and sought out a tavern. What I needed most right now was employment. And most of the deals I’d been involved with had begun over a foamy mug somewhere.

A sign on one of the buildings lining the market square caught my eye: a large black cat in the act of pouncing. The wording underneath read: The Roaming Panther.

Inside it was crowded, always an encouraging sign. Unfortunately it also meant no empty tables. I scanned the dim interior and spotted a table near the back with only one person. He sat with his back to me wearing a long robe embroidered with celestial and astrological symbols similar to the ones decorating his tall, conical hat.

Great, just my luck. Only one empty table in the place: empty except for a wizard.

I’d never been comfortable around those bearded eggheads. They spent their days poring over ancient dusty tomes studying things man was not meant to know, and what they did at night fooling around with pentagrams and summoning circles was worse. All I wanted was a cold drink and something to eat that didn’t involve salted codfish or weevilly ship’s biscuit. But all the other tables were full and as much as I disliked dining with a guy who thought eye of newt was a condiment, the chances of a quiet, restful meal seemed worse at a table with a bunch of half-drunken locals who couldn’t even manage to all sing the same verse of a drinking song. So I threaded my way through the maze of tables to the back.

Mind if I join you?

The sorcerer or conjurer or whatever he was looked up from a bowl of stew he’d been shoveling down like he hadn’t eaten since Tuesday and the sight of his downy cheeks astonished me. He was hardly full-grown; never mind the long beard traditional to practitioners of the magical arts. He was barely old enough to enlist as a soldier in a mercenary company, although he was a bit too old to be a drummer boy.

His eyes wide, he responded in a quavering voice as if I was a city watchman demanding to know what had happened to all the cats in the neighborhood last night and just what was that strange smell coming from his cellar window.

Uh, no, sure.

I plopped my sea bag down by a chair and sat next to it with a grateful sigh, laying my hat on the table. The old peacock feather awarded by a grateful eastern potentate so long ago drooped mournfully, almost dangling into the kid’s bowl. I shoved the hat to one side, more out of concern for the dilapidated feather than consideration for his appetite.

My back was to the wall, of course. No sense in tempting fate. I’d learned long ago it was always a good idea to sit facing the door, even in a foreign land like this. There was no telling which old acquaintance might wander in, and my odds were better if I saw him first.

I waved over one of the barmaids and ordered a mug of cheer and a bowl of stew. I didn’t bother to ask what kind of meat was in it. Usually my imagination was more appetizing than whatever fiction the waitress would spin for me. Likely as not, it was probably one of those unfortunate neighborhood cats anyway. Not that I hadn’t eaten worse during a couple of memorable sieges.

The boy-wizard followed all this with interest. I was feeling in a particularly good mood, and as the barmaid turned to go I added, and bring my friend here another round, too.

He warmed up to me right quick after that, and the food wasn’t bad. The girl brought out part of a loaf of bread and some dry cheese, too, although the boy gave me a startled look when I pulled a dirk out of my boot to carve it up.

I was starting in on my second bowl when a fellow closer my own age entered and looked the place over before coming to the same conclusion I had and walking back to our cozy corner. Before he could speak I gestured to an open seat, Sure, sit down, friend. There’s plenty of room. But you can buy your own food, though. I can’t feed the whole world.

He smiled broadly and held out his hand for each of us to shake. Thank you, kind sirs. My name is Joshua. What are yours?

The kid smiled and answered, Timothy.

After a moment of silence I reluctantly added, You can call me Ishmael.

Joshua nodded and joined us, dropping a dusty bedroll off his broad shoulders. He was dressed in worn workman’s clothing of the sort you usually see on farm workers and new mercenary recruits. He had and hands that were calloused from hard work. I figured he was a local laborer come to pay his respects to his favorite watering hole. Maybe I could get some useful intelligence about the local power structure, who might be hiring, or where the best loot might be. The waitress hurried over with another mug and bowl.

Come here often? I asked.

He shook his head, and after washing down his first greedy mouthful with a thirsty gulp he hooked a calloused thumb at his bedroll. No, this is my first day here. I just arrived down the western road.

Looking for work?

No, I am a prophet bringing the word of God to this heathen place.

Well, that was a sure conversation stopper. As far as I was concerned the only thing worse than wizards were priests.

But eventually curiosity got the better of me.

So, if you’re a priest.…

Prophet, he corrected.

Prophet, priest, whatever, same thing. All the priests I’ve ever seen were all plump with smooth hands from not workin’. They’re always going about in snazzy robes doin’ their god’s work in a fancy gold temple somewhere, not dressed like a worn down peasant on the run from his feudal master.

He smiled. I know, I’m not much to look at. I said the same thing myself when God told me to quit being a gardener and go and preach his message to the world. But he told me to go anyway, so I did.

At this point the kid, who’d spent most of his time testing the capacity of his gullet, spoke.

Who told you that?

God.

Yeah, I heard you, but which god?

The One True God.

I looked at the kid and laughed, That’s what they ALL say. There’s like a zillion different religions and each one thinks it’s got the whole truth. If you ask me they’re all just different ways to trick the gullible out of their money.

And I should know. A lot of that money had ended up in the hands of me and my boys when we looted said temples, not that any of my former associates had much of it left by now either. If I didn’t find something soon I was going to have to turn freelance. And I much preferred keeping my plundering on the right side of the law, working FOR the government, whomever they might be, rather than trying to work against them, although I had worked for a usurper or two. After all, if I’d have been more successful I’d probably be the captain of a company of the Royal Guard somewhere rather than contemplating banditry in a lower class tavern in a foreign country.

My mind had drifted but the two of them continued the conversation.

So what’s the name of your god? Maybe I’ve heard of him.

He doesn’t really have a name.

Again, as much as I avoided religion my curiosity kept dragging me back into the conversation. Your god doesn’t have a name?

Well, no. You see names are necessary to keep things straight when you have more than one of something. I’m Joshua, you’re Ishmael and he’s Timothy. But if there were only one person in the world there’d be no need for him to have a name.

Yeah, but there’s like a zillion gods, I said.

Ah, but in the beginning, before the Creator-god made the heavens and the earth there was nothing but Him. He didn’t need a name.

So what do you call him then? The Nameless One?

He shook his head, No, ‘He Is.’ That’s his name.

He is... what?

He just is. He exists and always has. He has no beginning and no end. He’s eternally in the present, the Self-existent One. Most people just call Him The One.

While the young wizard seemed to be drinking in all this philosophical nonsense, I quickly lost interest, glancing around the room in a hopeful search for a patron. But this was a low class pub, full of working-class men with a sprinkling of high-end thugs and ladies-of-the-early-evening to leaven the dough. No chance of running into some passed-over second son of a king or a wealthy merchant who needed someone to organize security for a caravan.

As I pondered my prospects I noticed an old crone making her way from table to table. I thought at first that she must have been begging, since she’d stop in front of each one and eye the occupants for a moment, often to the accompaniment of encouragement or abuse from that or a nearby table. Each of her pronouncements was greeted by a happy grin from the recipient or ribald comments by nearby tables. Occasionally someone would toss her a small coin in token of appreciation, but most just gave her a good-natured wave and then ignored her.

Timothy saw my attention and commented, That’s old Greta. Some say she has the second-sight and can foretell the future. Other people just think she’s crazy.

I took in her ragged clothing and filthy appearance. I might not be able to tell the future, but I could read the past, and hers was not exactly the best endorsement of her abilities.

At the crowded table next to ours she stopped and watched as a burley man downed a mug of ale. He smacked the empty mug onto the table with an accompanying belch of pleasure. Best I’ve had today.

His companions’ laughter was cut short when Greta announced in a loud voice, Enjoy it while you can, for today’s the last day you’ll be drinkin’ ale forevermore.

Bugger off, old woman, he growled, flicking a gnawed bone off his platter at her.

One of his companions taunted him. So, Brent, tell me, are you gonna switch from ale ta wine?

As his drinking buddies laughed she shuffled over to our table, stopping for a moment with closed eyes. I thought she was about to cry, perhaps from the long train of abuse and contempt she’d suffered as she begged from table to table.

But her eyes popped open with a look of sheer terror, and screeched, a high, shrill scream more like the squeal of a wounded sea bird than a human cry, then threw her arm out pointing at us and shouting, Behold! Behold, the savior of the world! Then she turned and ran from the building, colliding at the doorway with an imposing man of great height dressed in a dark traveling cloak and broad brimmed hat similar to my own.

As she fled past him, the newcomer stepped inside, quickly scanning the room before spotting me and then setting off towards our table with a confident stride. His manner alarmed me. I didn’t recognize him. The city states were a long sea voyage away and I’d only just arrived today. What unfinished business from my past could have possibly followed me here so quickly?

He halted in front of our table. His huge brooding presence on top of the screeching of the crazy old woman had stopped all conversation in the place. Everyone was staring at us – so much for my quiet meal in peace.

My name is Michael.

His voice was surprisingly deep and strong. He looked straight at me and asked, I seek the one called Ishmael.

The other two pointed at me. But I disagreed.

I think you must have the wrong guy.

How could he possibly know who I was? I’d only been using the name since this morning. Even the sailors on the ship that brought me here had known me by a different name.

You are a mercenary captain, are you not? My master wishes to hire you to lead an expedition to retrieve an artifact for him. When you return with it he will pay you its weight in gold.

Now THAT got my attention. I looked around the room at all the prying eyes and spying ears, then waved over at the barmaid with four fingers in the air. As she threaded her way between the tables with a tray of fresh mugs, I invited the stranger to make himself comfortable.

After she left I continued in a lower voice. So what’s this dingus you want me to retrieve and how much does it weigh?

An ounce of gold would buy a lot: a horse or a good sword, actually a VERY good sword. Or it’d keep me in ale and chips for the rest of the month, maybe longer. And a pound of gold was closer to a whole year’s pay.

Michael continued on in his deep voice, but at a lower tone. It wasn’t long before the other tables lost interest in trying to make out what we were talking about. Soon the room was filled with a background noise of laughter and fragments of bawdy songs.

The artifact is a metallic fragment of what some call the Punishing Star.

I looked at him blankly.

Timothy stepped into the conversation asking, Isn’t that just a myth? A stone from the heavens that fell to earth destroying an ancient city for its wickedness?

Joshua commented, It is no myth. The judgment of The One is swift and complete.

I turned to the others. So where is this Punishing Star?

Timothy answered, I would have to do some research, but if I remember correctly it’s located in the far north in the steppes along the coast of the Lettic Sea. A great crater is all that remains marking the spot.

I nodded. Hun country.

Have you been there before? Michael asked.

Near there. Near enough to find the place and return with your rock. How big is it, anyway? Any idea?

The Master has told me that the metallic portion he is interested in weighs four and a half pounds.

Almost five pounds of gold, pure gold—five years pay but only if we got it back. Even divided three ways it was a considerable fortune. I looked at the other two. As much as I disliked wizards, I’d seen them fight and a combat wizard was a nice thing to have on your side. And as for the priest, well, he seemed like he was at least familiar with the dingus in question. Perhaps he’d come in useful tracking down the ruins of the ancient city. And military units often had their own priests, both for spiritual comfort and more practical needs like caring for the wounded. I turned to him.

Hey, Josh. You know much about healing?

He smiled. I was once a gardener. Healing herbs were my specialty. I’d love to come along. I have a message to deliver from The One to the Huns, anyway.

Can I come, too? Timothy implored.

I turned to Michael. Before I could say a thing he pulled a large leather bag out from under his cloak and set it on the table. As he did so it made that dull, clinking noise large numbers of coin are notorious for, a sound I’d often heard but never managed to become bored of.

This is the down payment. You may need it for expenses for the journey. You will receive the rest when you return with the object. He rose to leave.

Timothy asked, But where do we take it when we’ve got it?

I will meet you here, Michael answered.

But how will you know when we’ve returned. It’ll be a long journey. We’ll be gone a long time.

My master will know. I will be sent.

As he turned to leave, Joshua voiced the question that I was already asking in my mind.

But how do you know that we won’t just steal your down payment and disappear?

Michael turned and answered in the same deep, level voice.

You won’t.

He had barely cleared the exit when a wild-eyed man with an axe burst through the doorway. With both hands clenched around the shaft of the axe like a sailor grips a life preserver in a storm, he glanced wildly around the room looking for his victim. I turned to my new companions.

Uh, oh, boys, time to go.

Timothy glanced at the disheveled axeman asking, Why? Is he after you for some reason?

I don’t care who he’s after. He’s got an axe and with that look in his eye, when he finds who he’s looking for, it ain’t gonna be pretty.

I threw some coins on the table for the barmaid just as the newcomer let out a screech not unlike the old woman’s. He aimed his axe at the burley man at the next table.

BRENT! I’m a gonna kill you!

Snatching up my hat and bag I headed behind the long polished bar counter. These places always had a back door. Behind me Joshua and Timothy hurried to follow. Meanwhile the burley man argued across the room with the angry man with the axe, always a bad idea in my experience. For some reason crazed axe murderers are pretty much immune to reason.

Now Ben, it’s not as bad as all that. I didn’t mean no harm. I’ll make things right. Here, I’ll even marry your daughter and make an honest woman out of her.

I brushed my way past the bartender who was looking anxiously at the short-handled club he had hidden beneath the bar and wondering if it was really such a wise idea to try and match that against a double-bladed axe.

Behind us the axeman bellowed, Me daughter, too? I’m here fur what you been doin’ wid me wife!

I passed through the curtain into the back room. A kid perched on a tall stool was washing dishes in a big sink the size of a bathtub. I didn’t envy him: the pile of dirty mugs and platters was higher than his head, even perched on the stool.

To one side a tubby fellow in a filthy apron challenged us, hefting a cleaver.

Hey, you can’t come back here!

I slid my sword out of its sheath about a hand’s-breadth and made an offer with my eyes. He glanced at his cleaver and decided that the fish he’d been working on when we interrupted needed his immediate attention.

Behind us the shouting was cut short by a meaty THUNK and the sound of breaking crockery.

We hit the back door running with more shouting and a stampede of terrified patrons right behind us. We didn’t stop until we were a block away.

Pausing on a street corner to catch our breath, passersby gave us strange looks: it wasn’t often you saw a wizard running down the street hoisting his robe high with one hand on his pointy hat, especially in the company of a fighting man and a laborer. A few of them glanced nervously up the street, probably wondering if there was a fire raging out of control somewhere.

I gasped, That was fun. Nothing like a little domestic dispute to liven the day.

Joshua shook his head. And just like the old lady said, I don’t think Brent will be having any more ale after this.

Timothy glanced around and asked, What now?

Didn’t you say you needed to do some research? How long’s that going to take?

Not long at all. I’ve got books and maps up at my place. It’ll only take a few minutes to find the right ones.

Joshua said he had a pretty good idea he could find the place even without a map.

It’s kind of hard to miss a hole a mile wide blasted in the steppe.

We kept walking and ended up at Timothy’s place. It wasn’t too far. The buildings were all stone. Some had little gardens out front behind walls tall enough to discourage riff-raff like us but short enough to let passersby see that whoever lived there had the money to afford a gardener. Joshua nodded appreciatively at some of them.

Notice that one? They’ve got the cooking herbs all planted alongside the house close by the door to the kitchen: nice use of space.

As we passed by, a woman across the street waved at us and called out, Hi, Timmy!

He waved back, Hi, Mrs. Goswin.

How’s the old man?

His smile vanished like an unattended virgin at an orgy. He reluctantly called back, Same as usual, then picked up his pace. Two buildings down he led us up a set of marble steps to his front door.

I commented, Nice place for such a young guy.

He seemed startled and stammered. Uh, yeah, I do pretty well for myself.

The foyer had a polished marble floor inlaid with silver stars and different colored planets, including one with a glowing yellow ring around it. He ushered us into a large consulting room on the first floor with leather-upholstered chairs for clients and an elaborately carved table piled with books and a stack of faded manuscripts with a human skull for a paperweight. A stuffed crocodile hung from the ceiling.

Bookshelves lined one wall while another had been given over to shelves of jars and bottles of every size and color containing all manner of secret and