Hail, Lord of the White Horse,
From He of the Red Horse.
Greetings and good tidings to you, Honoured Comrade.
The first two seals are broken. You and I are freed, and I send you glad news of the human world. War is rampant and the field sanguinary. I ride forth into carnage and chaos, sword unsheathed, and feel the ancient joy coursing through my limbs. The only lack in this wondrous storm is your magnificent presence. I implore you, as my brother-in-arms, to make haste. There is much good work to be done here.
This modern era of the humans surpasses anything I have witnessed in our long existence. Imagine all the age-old hatreds and fears coupled with an unearthly array of weapons. The ingenuity of the mortals is beyond belief. Their tools of war are as those of the gods, yet their grasp of consequence is no more than childlike simplicity. This happy combination causes destruction to rain from the very heavens.
You may doubt my words, as only first-hand witness can convey the magnitude of mankind’s folly and thus our joy. Yet my eyes now see horrors that defy millennia of experience. The terrible siege engines of old are children’s toys compared to that which the humans have wrought. Missiles and bombs rain down on the cities. These new bombards are not fired from outside besieged walls but rather launched from many leagues distant. More than that, these missiles are guided by mechanical intelligence.
Entire cities are reduced to rubble in a matter of hours. What would have of old been the work of a year-long siege is now accomplished in the course of a single day. Buildings tumble, crushing those sheltered inside. The screams of the wounded and moans of the dying rise into the dark pall. And above it all, the shriek of more missiles descending in a final deadly arc.
These terrible weapons penetrate the very earth itself, rupturing the waterlines and collapsing the sewer tunnels. Filth and drought plague the survivors. Thus, I beseech you to come at once and bring with you your bow of pestilence. The plagues of old await only your arrival. The time is well ripe for disease to follow war.
I write that the humans have achieved the destruction of the gods and that much is true. Yet here, astride my horse amid this ruination, I am reminded of our long work inside medieval walls. The barbarity of old has returned, and I call for you to return as well. Bring with you, I beg, your craft and doom. Cry havoc! and loose the scourge of cholera, typhus, and all your terrible epidemics.
Now I must set aside my pen and raise again the unsheathed sword. The battle rages yet and there is much good work to be done. I pray you come at once that we may again ride as one. Together, none can withstand us. Our glory will be great, and our path dreadful.
With fealty and admiration, I remain your Faithful Comrade,
He of the Red Horse.
Greetings to the Lord of the Black Horse,
From He of the Red Horse.
Honour and Salutations to you, Beloved Comrade.
The third seal is sundered, Good Sir, and I write to you from the smoke and flame of battle joined and horrible ruin. The human world is afire. The reek rises above the ruin, bearing the stench of the dead to lure the carrion birds. I lower my sword only long enough to pen this missive to you, begging you to come in haste.
We have ridden together many long centuries. I long to once again see your black steed beside my red. Many marvellous and terrible events have come to pass, wrack, ruin, slaughter, and despair. The worst and best are yet to come and wait only for your arrival on the field.
You know that it is beyond my abilities to tell a falsehood, yet you will think my words false for what I write next. But doubt me not, Comrade, for every word is true, as it must and always will be.
The mortals set upon themselves with every tool of destruction at their command, and their modern weapons have grown very great. They rain death from the skies and cut across the landscape like a reaping scythe. The earth lies barren beneath the rubble and no seed will take root. The innocents suffer the pangs of hunger and parching thirst, and this is only the beginning.
Know that there are well-meaning men who attempt the folly of salvation. These humans, meaning well, drop canisters of food from the sky. And not unlike the missiles that crush the cities, these canisters meant to be manna fall upon the hungry and crush them to the ground.
Truly I say to you, the humans have taken madness to new and desolate horizons. They kill one another from great distances using their soulless machines as surrogates. These killing machines do not discriminate between warriors and the innocent. Women and children, the old and infirm, all are cut down.
I see before me the hospitals crushed to rubble, the food stores burned, and the wells scorched dry. Your time is at hand. The black horse must ride forth. I implore you to come to me. Bear with you your dreaded scales that you may weigh out the doom of famine and spread it across this blighted land.
Pestilence, war, and famine will be united once more. We shall ride together and trample all that would oppose us. The hoofbeats of our valiant warhorse will sound a tocsin that echoes around this pitiful Earth.
Come at once, I entreat you, and may swiftness attend your passage hence. I have only to petition the fourth horse, our liege lord, and this I will do.
With unyielding devotion, I remain your True Confederate,
He of the Red Horse.
Most Honoured Lord of the Pale Horse,
From He of the Red Horse.
Humble Greetings to you, My Liege Lord.
My Lord, I ask your leave to report that all is made ready for your arrival on this terrible field of battle. The fourth seal is broken, and nothing now restrains us.
The humans have descended into a madness of bloodlust, revenge, and annihilation. Here in this birthplace of their small gods, the mortals extract an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and vengeance for vengeance’s sake.
These poor mortals are as blinkered fools, battling each other at the crumbling edge of the abyss, oblivious to their looming plunge. Each side demands the complete eradication of the other. There will be no surcease. Thus is our board set, and the pawns in play.
The riders of the white and black horses have been summoned to my side. We await only your presence for the dread quartet to be complete. The conflagration has begun, My Lord.
I beg you, in your own time, to come before us and lead us hence. We shall ravage this human world with the bow, the sword, the scales, and your merciless scythe. For surely it is written that we are given authority over a full fourth of the human world.
As you know, Lord, this ruined battlefield is but the opening act in a saga long awaited. War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death shall ride as one, and we will be as unstoppable as eternal doom. The bell tolls its last, My Liege, and we are gladly summoned. White, red, and black, your humble servants, stand ready to do your bidding.
I pray for your esteemed arrival and the swift fulfilment of our purpose.
With fealty and humility, I remain your Devoted Servant,
He of the Red Horse.
Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. His story “Power Tools” has been nominated for Best of the Web for 2023. Power Tools is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a new ‘zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.