I should have guessed it. The blood bay horse is ridden by none other than the savage devil who beheaded the man, his sword still dripping with fresh blood while his other hand guides the reins of the horse.
My eyes widen as my lips automatically mutter a verse from the Bible under my breath. "When He broke the second seal, I heard the second living creature saying, 'Come.' And another, a red horse, went out; and to him who sat on it, it was granted to take peace from the earth, and that men would slay one another; and a great sword was given to him."
My priest was right. The sins of our father and the fathers before them are coming back, and the four horsemen are the bringers of doom. War dons the skin of a savage upon a stolen charger, the visual of it horrifying as it is beautiful. He doesn't carry or hold a shield like the rest of the devils, only a sword, and he wears their clothing like it is stitched on his skin—armor, pants, boots, and all. Though a black fur coat hangs from his shoulders, giving him a flashier appearance as compared to the rest of the savages, he leads to destroy our holy lands.
I can't decipher the features of War, pretending to be a man, but I can see his long, dark mane styled in a single braid, much like a woman would do before bed.
He then angles his head down, and I suppose he is staring at the man he has slain in such a cowardly manner. He pulls the reins of his horse, which prances around the dead body in almost a complete circle, then stops at the end of the alley, causing me to be trapped.
Before he can spot me, I quickly push my body behind a stinking barrel of rot and clamp a hand over my mouth and nose. My breaths are quick and heavy against my palm, and I feel I will suffocate by my own doing, but it is the silence in the alley that sickens me to my stomach, despite the cries of battle surrounding me. I fear, above all, that War will hear me, as my heartbeat and breaths sound so loud to my own ears, so why not in his?
I am sure I am going to be the next one to have my head sheared off my neck by the sword he holds in his hand. I pray to God in my mind to save me, to have mercy on my soul, hoping He would hear and spare me.
I listen to the gallop of the horse going in the opposite direction and sigh into the palm of my hand. I slump down against the wall, in relief. God must have heard my prayers. I must be having a greater purpose, or I will be helping someone who does.
I wish I could stay hidden in this very spot and be safe, but I know I will be discovered sooner than later. God would not want me to be a coward after my life has been spared so. I force my shaky legs to straighten and slowly start to approach the end of the alley where the slim man had met his end. I hesitantly peer out, but there is no one, not even War or his red horse.
I am so close to the body, the blood nearly touching my shoe, but the worst is the smell, so strong that I could taste copper in my mouth. The sight of blood still gushing from this neck churns my stomach as my eyes take in the spine sticking out from the severed red muscle. My breakfast threatens to come back up, but I force it down by sheer will. This is not the time or place to vomit.
Before exiting the safety of the alley, I scrutinize both ways, checking the whole street. Not seeing a living soul, I leave the only place that has been my safe corner in this bloodbath. I give one last look at the decapitated man and see a dagger in his hand, which was missed the first time I saw him. It is bloody, so I guess he must have hurt one of the savages.
I quickly lean down and pry open the dead man's fist, grabbing the blade from his still-warm hand. A weapon for myself. I grip it, the warmth of the man's dying flesh passing to me, but as I walk into the open, on the street bereft of all life, I begin to feel alone and vulnerable.
I move forward, trying my best to keep watch for extra sounds. I am constantly looking over my shoulder and in all directions. My grip tightens around the helm of the dagger, though my fingers tremble, almost preparing myself to attack any of the savages, devils, or horsemen, if necessary.
As I walk down the street, more than anything, I regret causing my poor mother trouble by running away after my baptism. She must have been worried to death about my safety. If only I had stayed with her like an obedient child, I would have been within the safety of the castle walls, not having to fret about outrunning devils on horses.
As I continue walking forward at a good pace, I hear someone running behind me. I turn quick on my heel, holding the dagger out, ready to charge into the person, whoever they may be. Much to my surprise, I find the patter of shoes to be one of the townsmen, a wealthy one from the looks of it, as I watch his fat belly bounce up and down with every step.
He holds a box of things to his chest as sweat pours down his cheek from his forehead. Perhaps he is a merchant or someone like that since I see beads and chains of necklaces swinging from his box, threatening to fall out at any moment.
I stop, stepping to one side, and allow the fat merchant to run past me. I watch as his short, plump legs take him forward, then follow his sweat-soaked back, not wanting to be the first one to run into the savages. It seems everyone who runs blindly is now dead.
I am right. It is not long before I hear the man, who has just crested the top of the hill, begging for his life to someone. "Have Mercy! Please."
And it is none other than the devil sitting atop the blood bay horse to whom he asks to spare his life. A savage whose visage was once clean, but now bears the proof of his crimes, covered in the blood of his victims—the poor, innocent souls.
My eyes follow his arm, where his hand holds another dead man's head by the hair, but not for long. He lets go, and the head rolls down the hill toward me, bouncing over the bumpy path like a ball.
I start walking backward before he could notice me, my eyes not tearing away from the Viking. He does not listen to the fat man's pleas, and just like I expected, he drives the sword, which is already carrying the life's blood of many good men, through his chest. The rich merchant chokes on his own words, and a stream of blood oozes from his mouth. And he is gone. I bite my lower lip hard to prevent the sob that threatens to spill out.
The sword not only pierces the man's chest but also the wooden box he was huddling close to his being. The coins, silver and gold, and jewelry spill to the ground, the box breaking on impact, and get soaked in the dead man's blood.
The necklaces snap, especially the ones with expensive beads. Some of the coins and beads bounce and roll toward me. A wave of revulsion reverberates in my ear, and my heart pounds painfully in my chest.
A feeble whimper escapes my lips, and unlike the last time, the man notices me, his dark blue eyes burning holes into my skull.
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