The Riders

When the riders arrived at the ridge of the sloped field, evening was well underway. The crimson sun hid behind a thin veil of cloud, suspended on the horizon, and its red glow made the sky appear on fire. Twenty-score riders stood atop the ridge of the great golden-grassed plain. As they peered down the steppe from their vantage, they saw the reason of their muster. Score upon score of men, ranked and filed; at their front stood line of artillery, with men stationed at twelve-pounder guns stood ready to receive them. A single rider at the front of the rank rode forward to the very edge of the ridge and turned to face his men: his countenance was that of a wild beast — harsh, with unforgiving eyes and a thin, lipless mouth. But he was resplendently garbed in a fine golden tunic beneath a silver-plated cuirass which glittered in the sun, so that he looked almost godly before the fiery sky; and a light red cloak, clasped on the left shoulder with a golden brooch, billowed gracefully. Brown locks of hair sailed in the evening breeze like a banner. He then spoke as his horse reared and neighed. His voice was strong and low, and filled the air; it echoed along the line of riders so that all heard. 

  ‘Now, men, is the time you prove your might. Now, men, is the time to prove your existence, prove you’re alive; and with the steel you bare, fight now and win your right for life. Fight, fight, and show them, and show the world, you still draw breath. Forth, now! Down the plain. Charge not for your homes or families. But for life! Forth, now. Ride!’ 

His horse reared once more and turned away from the line of riders to look, again, down the sloping steppe.

  The blast of a war-horn echoed into the azure and down the plain; it came from somewhere in the ranks of riders. It was the order to attack. In an instant and with no reservation the great host thundered down the steppe to the ranks below, and a terrible crack and boom thrashed their ears like a roll of thunder, for the cannons at the base of the sloping field had been loosed upon them, and flame flashed from their muzzles.

  ‘Onward, down to the flank!’ One rider called out, apparently the commander; and the sound of singing steel was heard somewhere at the front of the line of galloping horses, a blade was drawn from its scabbard; and then the whole van joined, and there was a terrible sound as a multitude of blades were unsheathed simultaneously. The riders raised their sabres into the air, and they glittered and scintillated as they caught the smouldering evening light, for the sky was red and ablaze. Then, from the skies, down, down rained the bombardment of cannon-shot. It was like thunder after lightning, as great and many plumes and pillars of black smoke and soil erupted up from the earth. And many black balls of death passed thro’ unsuspecting rider and steed, and lo, they were shivered into many fragments of flesh and blood and viscera; and some horses reared and neighed and discarded their riders, so that they were left to be trampled, or their broken bodies to be claimed by a slow death. But still the van thundered on, unhindered and with no demur they rode; their horses heaving the very foundation of the earth as they galloped to doom, and with doom they rode.

And as the riders passed the seemingly interminable plain of which they charged over, they approached their nemeses. They raised their deadly, light-kissed sabres of steel, and a sonorous roar of cries, terrible and many, were loosed from the riders’ mouths as they approached the flank. The galloping of hooves, loud and quick, sounded like the rolling of many drums. And great was their ire. 

Then they hit.

  Horses whinnied as they crashed, calamitous, into the ranks of cannoneers. Deadly were the riders with their glimmering blades in the burning light, for they dealt out death swiftly and with malice, rending the flesh of those their sabres met, hacking and hewing, and killing; those whom the blades bit reeled back, grasping at gaping wounds. And even before those unfortunate to meet the riders could cry out in terror to their gods or mothers or friends, they were felled. And the soil drank their blood, as the rank was sent to oblivion. The tumult of battle climaxed into a horrific din of terror. Men who tried to run were trampled under hoof, and those who tried to fight had their flash sundered. Then the smouldering, golden sky waned. And as the last light of the day died beneath the horizon, so did the sound. As the sky became a grey and overcast gloom, the tumult of war became a groan of death. And then was silenced. And in the murky darkness of the end of the day, the riders found themselves standing in a recess of emptiness: only death filled it. And a great sea of black blood in the night. And a fetid reek of carrion polluted the air. The vultures would feast this night.