The Four Horsemen 3 - Famine

 

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Famine
ISBN #978-0-85715-892-5
©Copyright 2012 T.A. Chase
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright February 2012
Edited by Laura Hulley
Total-E-Bound Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2012 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a
heat rating
of
Total-e-sizzling
and a
sexometer
of
1.

 

This story contains 142 pages, additionally there is also a
free excerpt
at the end of the book containing 11 pages.
The Four Horsemen
FAMINE
T.A. Chase
Book three in the Four Horsemen series
Saving a dying man might be just what Famine, the Black Horseman, needs to feed his starving heart.

Having been sacrificed by his village shaman, Famine knows what it’s like to do anything to survive. He wanders the world, sowing drought and starvation in his wake. Yet he hates being the Black Horseman more than anything in the world, except the man who ended his life all those centuries ago. Famine never stops doing his job, and never allows himself to fall in love.

Ekundayo wants a better life for himself, so he steals a diamond from the mine where he works. Nothing goes well for him after that, and he finds himself dying in the desert on his way to the border. When he’s rescued by Famine, Ekundayo isn’t sure if his luck has changed or not. The longer he stays in Famine’s company, the more Ekundayo discovers he just might be falling in love with Famine.

One bad choice on Ekundayo’s part and a future together seems out of reach. Will Famine let his only possibility of love go or will he defy Death himself to keep Ekundayo?
Dedication
Thank you to all my readers and fans. Knowing you’re out there, patiently waiting for my next book, keeps me writing.
Prologue

The sky wept, huge tears to be soaked up by the parched ground. The villagers rejoiced, dancing and hugging each other. They sang praises to the Gods, thanking them for the lifesustaining liquid from the blue expanse above them. Too many growing seasons had dried up and the crops died in the fields. There hadn’t been enough food; and the animals they hunted had moved from their territory, looking for water. Maybe the rain would bring them back. Maybe the village would survive for another season, and the Gods would never turn their back on the village again.

Only one didn’t dance. He didn’t raise his voice in joy over the possibility of surviving another season, of crops growing after so many cycles of heat and no food. The dawning realisation that children might live, and the elderly might not pass into the afterworld yet, didn’t make him sing or dance.

No, Kibwe stood, arms spread wide, and felt the trickle of not only rain, but also blood slide down his body to feed the thirsty dirt under his feet. Blinking, he stared up into the sky, and thought about demanding why it was his blood the Gods demanded as a sacrifice. Why, when he’d tried to save their lives and their souls, had his fellow villagers turned on him and offered him up to the Gods?

He struggled against the ropes holding him to the posts, but his strength waned with each drop of blood as it seeped from his wounds. He wanted to rail against the powers and scream his defiance to the sky, yet deep in his heart he did understand why he’d ended up on the hill.

Too many had died in the drought that had stretched on for more seasons than Kibwe could remember. Too many young ones crying for food their parents didn’t have. Too many elders lying in their huts, curled into themselves, with silent tears running down their faces because there wasn’t a bite to spare for them. The warriors had to eat, to protect the village from marauding bands of enemies, who searched for food for their own villages.

The old shaman had told Kibwe’s village what the Gods required as payment to return the water to the ground. At first, they had been horrified. Their Gods had never demanded the blood of a human before, but the shaman explained that their debt with the Gods was huge, and only the blood of an innocent could appease them. Kibwe hadn’t believed their Gods would be so bloodthirsty.

In the beginning, they had baulked at the thought of killing one of their own, even though seven of their kin died every day. Kibwe had tried so hard to convince them there were other ways of appeasing the Gods. If they were patient, the rain would come. But, as more died, the villagers grew fearful. They no longer listened to Kibwe. The old shaman’s words brewed in their ears and hearts until all they cared about was living, no matter who had to die.

The council had spoken of bringing all the people together, and choosing who was to lose his or her life to the whims of the Gods. Kibwe had tried one more time to convince them that the path they were about to take would change them all in ways they didn’t understand. He hadn’t truly known how they would be different, but he knew in his soul that killing a fellow villager wasn’t the way to make the Gods happy.

His voice had been the only one raised in opposition to the course the old shaman had declared. So he wasn’t surprised when it was his stone drawn from the bag, and he became the sacrifice for rain. The triumphant glance the shaman had sent him had informed him how he’d been picked. It hadn’t been chance or fate, but the manipulations of a jealous old man.

Kibwe was his apprentice, and the connection he had with the spirit world was far stronger than his teacher’s. The shaman was scared that Kibwe would push him out of his place in the village and on the council, no matter how many times Kibwe had promised not to take his rightful place until the older man had gone on to the afterlife.

Fear was the prominent emotion running through everyone. Fear of dying from the drought. Fear of becoming victims of other raiders. Fear of becoming nothing more than a memory.

Kibwe didn’t fight when the warriors came for him. There wasn’t any point by then. He was going to die, and, while he hadn’t done anything to deserve it, all he could do was find a way to accept his fate. All of his kin had died during the barren seasons, and so there was no one to speak for him either.

Yet, as the first knife had cut into his flesh, thunder boomed above them. As his life force drained from him, drop by drop, the rain had begun to fall. It was almost like the land sighed in relief with the nourishment.

As much as Kibwe hadn’t been able to bring himself to believe the Gods would really want blood for rain, his conviction had started to slip. More and more rain came down, drenching the people and ground around him. He dropped his head back to bathe his face with the cold water, letting his tears mingle with it.

“Now they will worship me,” the familiar, harsh voice of his teacher rasped in his ear.

Kibwe had no strength to lift his head, so he rolled it to the side and peered at the shaman. The old man’s eyes gleamed and burned with a manic fire.
“Was that one of your plans?” he whispered under the crash of lightning.
“Oh yes. I had hoped killing you would bring the rain as well, but getting rid of you was my ultimate goal.” His teacher danced, an evil grin slashing across his face.
“If I have to die, at least the drought is over. While I would have wished to live, my death will mean something.” Kibwe turned away from the shaman and closed his eyes. “It is your place in the afterlife you should worry about, teacher. The Gods do not like to be used for personal vendettas.”
A blinding pain ripped through Kibwe’s side and he gasped, unable to move away from it. He opened his eyes and saw the shaman held a stone dagger in his hand. Red blood dripped from its blade, and Kibwe could barely see the gaping wound just below his ribs.
He looked back up to see the shaman howling in glee at the sight of Kibwe dying in front of him. As Kibwe’s vision faded to darkness, he prayed to the very Gods who were instrumental in his death for justice. He wanted the shaman to pay for using Kibwe’s death as a stepping stone to a better position in the village.

* * * *
“You must get up.”

Kibwe groaned as pain rippled through his body. How was it he could hear someone speaking? When his vision had gone dark, he’d known he was dying. He shouldn’t be able to hear anything or anyone. Something hit his side, and he grunted.

“I know you are awake. Get up. We do not have time for you to lie about. I must teach you what you have been chosen to do.”
Forcing his eyes open, Kibwe blinked as the blurred image solidified. A pale-haired man stood over him, his black eyes glaring at him with barely hidden impatience. He didn’t look like anyone Kibwe had ever met before, and certainly wasn’t from the neighbouring tribes either.
“Who are you?” Kibwe asked, struggling to sit up, though his muscles didn’t seem to want to obey him.
The stranger rolled his eyes, but bent to grab Kibwe’s arm and yanked him to his feet. Kibwe’s head spun at the sudden uprightness of his body. He clung to the man’s arm for a moment before he finally decided he could stand on his own. Taking a step back, he took a deep breath and frowned.
He looked around at the barren land around them. It definitely didn’t look like the savannah he lived on, not even when it was at its driest. The ground was an odd black colour, and he shuffled his feet, realising it wasn’t even dirt. He wasn’t sure what it was.
“Where are we?”
“Which question would you like me to answer first? Who am I? Or where are we?” The stranger folded his arms over his chest and studied Kibwe.
Kibwe thought about it, and coughed. “I guess I want to know who you are. We will start there.”
“I am Death.”
“Death? What an odd name. Why would your parents call you Death?” Kibwe felt slightly horrified by the idea of some mother giving her child such a name.
“Because it is who I am. I deal death to people, and lead their souls to the gates.”
Confused, Kibwe stared off into the distance, noticing the two horses standing near them. One was black as a starless night sky. The other was the same pale ash grey as Death’s hair. He had seen horses during a trip the old shaman and he had made to a tribe bordering the Great Desert. The tribe had several horses and, while Kibwe had never ridden one, he found them beautiful. There were no horses in the lands where his tribe lived. He tilted his head. There was something different about these two horses, though. They didn’t move or even seem to be breathing.
“You kill people? What gates?”
In his world, when people died they woke up in the afterlife. Only shamans knew what existed in the afterlife. Kibwe was merely an apprentice, so he hadn’t been allowed to enter the dream world before he’d died. The only place he would have learned about the afterlife was in the dream world. Shamans weren’t allowed to talk about the Gods or what might come after death.
“There are gates where every soul is taken. You are judged there, and allowed to enter one of them, but you never leave the place you are banished to.” Death narrowed his eyes. “You do not know what I am talking about, because your people have never developed any true concept of Heaven or Hell.”
“Heaven or Hell?” Kibwe pinched the bridge of his nose, the pounding in his head growing with each word the other man spoke.
“The place where good souls go is Heaven. The place where the bad people go is Hell.” Death shook his head. “Never mind. You will learn about that as you do your job.”
“What job? All I have trained to do is be a shaman, and I have not passed the tests needed to take my place in the village as one.” Kibwe shook his head. “I am not sure what I can do.”
Death whistled, and the horses raced to them. The black stallion came to him, and nudged him with its nose.
“This is your mount. As Famine, you will travel the world, bringing drought and starvation to help maintain the balance between humans and nature.” Death swung aboard his ash grey stallion. “Come. I will tell you all you need to know about being Famine, and joining the rank of the Horsemen.”
“I do not know how to ride.” Kibwe stroked the unusually cold nose of the horse standing next to him.
“Does not matter. Your mount will take care of you.” Death motioned for him to mount. “We do not have any more time left. You must come with me, and I will explain why you are not in your afterlife.”
Some emotion urged him to mount his stallion, and, when his ass touched the stallion’s back, both horses whirled and leapt into the sky. He bit back a yell as a boom of thunder exploded in his ears, and his vision went black again.