The Huntress and The Four Horsemen (The Dawn of Judgment #1)

Prologue

The towering stalks whisper and sigh as they fall, their collapse swallowed by the musical notes of distant birds. The scent of grain hangs thick in the air, making my nose itch and my eyes water, but that grants me no excuse from the work that must be done today.

“They are to be cut down so new growth can replace what once was.” That’s how Sister Odessa explained it to me.

She moves through the field with the others, swinging her scythe in steady arcs as they reap what has grown wild and unruly in our absence. The blade curves wickedly, flashing silver each time it catches the sun.

Her skin glistens with sweat. The beige work shirt, darkened under the arms, is now covered with remnants of wheat from a hard day’s labor.

Her ankle-length skirt is tied up on one side, exposing dust-streaked calves.

It’s normally not allowed, but since no men are present, the sisters have bent the rules to make it easier to move about.

Even like this, she’s still pretty. Her green eyes hold flecks of gold like mine, and her hair, the color of cinnamon, falls in damp strands around her face.

We’re very similar, except my hair and freckles are a few shades darker than hers. Closer to the rich brown color of my boots. Because of this, I have often wondered if she’s the sister who birthed me.

It’s a question I have never dared to ask.

We do not speak of such things in the Order.

So it’s a thought I keep secret and safe and just to myself.

When she pauses to rest, she takes a handkerchief from her pocket and dabs her brow. I choose this moment to approach and tug at her skirt, the coarse fabric rough between my fingers.

“Sister, my hands hurt.”

I hold them out so she can see.

After gathering armfuls of wheat for what feels like hours, the skin on my arms is raw, and my palms sting from binding the bundles tight with twine.

She bends, grabbing her canteen. The water inside sloshes softly as she lifts it. After taking a few deep swallows, she peers down at me and addresses my complaint. “Any blisters?”

“No, not yet, but they’re red and itchy.” The itch grows sharper as I speak of it. I rub my hands together in small, quick motions. “See?”

Her lips purse. “Hmm. That might make it worse. Here.” She raises her canteen and pours cool water over my palms. The stream spills out between my fingers and drips onto the thirsty earth below. For a moment, all I feel is relief—the cold a balm to the feverish heat, washing away the pain.

“Better?”

“A little, yes.”

A small smile builds on her mouth, softening her features, and her gaze lingers for a moment over my face as if measuring my discomfort.

Then her gaze leaves me to wander over the field to the endless stretch of wheat and bent figures.

The slow, rhythmic swish of slicing blades is nothing but background noise.

“We still have so much to do before we’re done for the day. ”

My hope floats away as I, too, take in the work that still lies before us. At this rate, we’ll be back at it tomorrow. Maybe the day after. My hands will not survive it. “I know.”

Her eyes turn kind and compassionate. “Tired?”

I shrug. Complaining when others haven’t seems like a sin, like a failing I should conceal. I should be able to keep up with the other girls my age. But it’s hard to breathe in this muggy heat, and I would much rather work inside on days like this than out beneath the burning sky.

She releases a long sigh. “I guess a small break would be okay.”

“Really?” I can’t contain my excitement as it rushes through my chest, sudden and bright.

“Yes, but stay close.” Her frown is instant, stern lines replacing her softness. “Don’t wander off. You tend to do that, and I don’t want to have to stop working to hunt you down. You hear?”

I’m already skipping off as she calls after me.

“Stay where I can see you!”

“I will. I promise!” I shout back, the breeze snatching my words and carrying them off to her.

Even louder, she hollers, “I’ll call for you when it’s time to come back. Listen for me.”

“Thank you, Sister!”

A few minutes later, my legs are bent like the grasshopper’s, pulled in tight beneath me. My hands are planted in the dirt. It’s as close as I can get to mimicking him, this creepily strange insect before me with wings. Wings!

He tries, but he can’t truly fly. Or well, he can, but only for short bursts.

When he hops down the road, I follow, all the while cautious to stay far enough back that I don’t make him panic. Like before, when I first came upon him, and he nearly got away.

Seven more jumps. Then something bizarre happens.

The pebbles underneath us both begin to tremble. At first, only slightly. Then more.

They rattle. Shift. Bounce.

I pick one up, curious, and turn it over in my palm. It is still. Ordinary. Nothing but a normal rock in my dirty palm.

But the others are not.

They lift from the ground, rising higher and higher, dancing as though the earth has forgotten how to hold them.

While I’m distracted, my grasshopper friend takes off. He’s several leaps ahead, and before I can catch up with him, his momentary attempts at flight carry him off into the field, where he disappears.

The trembling beneath my feet intensifies.

The ground bucks, rolling in uneasy waves. I stumble and throw out my arms to keep from falling.

In the distance, the sisters cry out. My heart jumps. I turn toward them. Many have dropped their scythes, the blades half buried in wheat. Some point in my direction. Others hold their arms out, as if trying to steady themselves against the same shifting earth.

I follow their pointed fingers.

Above the road in the distance, the air begins to move.

At first, it is faint—thin currents twisting together.

Then it thickens into a dark, smoke-filled writhing mass, the wisps curling in on themselves like a small storm has been pulled from the sky.

The mass continues to expand until it reaches the far edges of the road. An opening forms at its center and widens as the seconds pass. A great white muzzle emerges—a nose, then eyes, connected to a long face.

Not human at all.

Animal.

It’s a brighter white than the cloud itself as it pushes through, taking the unmistakable shape of a large horse’s head. Beside it, another emerges, a jet black one, then two more—one pale grey, and one the color of red-brown scorched earth.

A hoof strikes the road.

More follow as each of them steps through.

At first, the creatures seem formed of the smoke itself—wispy, ghostlike—but as the vapor slowly peels away from their bodies, solid muscle reveals itself beneath their glossy hides, and their strength becomes visible.

The women of my Order scream in unison. It’s a cacophony of sound.

“It’s them! They’re here! Run! Get inside!”

Their terror prompts mine.

I turn and bolt toward them. Sister Odessa calls my name in such a high-pitched wail that my heart leaps in my chest. I trip. My hands slide out from under me as I hit the road. A pain-filled hiss leaves me as my kneecap makes contact with a rock.

Tears sting my eyes as I scramble to stand, but the earth won’t hold still. I rise, only to fall again.

On the fourth fall, I stop trying to get back up. Instead, I crawl as fast as I can—until I reach the edge of the field. Once hidden, I pull my knees close and wrap my arms around them.

The stalks are tall enough to rise over my head, their dry blades moving slightly, but they shield me from the massive beasts down the road.

As if the appearance of the giant horses isn’t frightening enough, men now sit upon them—or what look to be men.

Beneath the deep hoods of their cloaks rests pure darkness. No face.

Their cloaks are trimmed in silver symbols, rich in color, blending in with those of their mounts—white, bloodred, grey, and black. Armor covers them, like the warriors in the old stories—chainmail and plated steel, sharp and cruel in their design.

Each wears a crown. The grey rider’s resembles a silver halo with accents, stark and severe, while the white looks to be made of bleached bone.

The black wears gold, heavy and regal, like a king.

But the red one—the largest and most terrifying of them all has a wicked black crown.

It contains spikes in varying lengths that shoot straight up from the ornate base.

The moment they break away from the mist, the entire world goes deathly silent, and the earth stops shaking.

The screaming stops so abruptly that I question whether sound itself has vanished or if I have lost the ability to hear.

It returns all at once—

In the pounding of hooves.

The grey horse’s front hoof repeatedly strikes the ground, each stomp sending a tremor through the earth.

The white turns in a slow, deliberate circle as if anxious.

The red rears up. Its front two legs kick violently at the air. It lets out a horrible sound that sends shivers racing down my spine.

The black horse remains utterly still, silent, and watchful.

Then, as if they move as one, they ride away from one another. Like in an X. The white and grey head in opposite directions, as do the red and black.

I shrink down, pressing myself into the wheat to conceal my presence. My bones seem to rattle beneath my skin as the White Horseman nears, each thunderous step echoing through my entire body.

He passes so very close. Too close. I hold my breath so I do not give myself away. As if he can sense me there, he slows and pauses for a moment on the road. He speaks—softly, in a language I do not understand.

His horse turns its head.

Its pale eyes look straight toward me.

I duck out of sight, pressing my forehead into the dirt, my pulse roaring in my ears.

A moment later, the horse’s footsteps resume, the sound fading with each thumping beat of my heart.

I lay there for what feels like hours, until the sun begins to sink below the horizon and the sky deepens the shadows around me. Until the moon rises. Until a voice I know well calls out.

When my feet finally touch solid ground again, I stand on aching and trembling legs to see a beautiful young man in a black frock, the gold and red accents of his stole barely visible in this light.

It’s Grand Minister Judiah standing on the other side of the wheat field where the women were hours ago.

“Come, child,” he says harshly as he motions me to him.

I run faster than I have ever run before. He holds out his hand as I draw near. Once my fingers are clasped within his, I turn my head and look around at the others in the field.

I cannot see them all, but the sisters I do see lie motionless, prone among the flattened wheat. Sister Odessa is there, staring up at the duskening sky.

“Sister—” I try to go to her, but Grand Minister Judiah pulls me the other way.

Vehemently, he says, “No. You mustn’t touch her.”

“Are they…?”

His tone lowers. “Yes, child. They are gone.”

“What happened? Who were those riders? What did they do to them?”

He hushes me. “We have no time for that now. We must go.”

Grand Minister Judiah is the highest man in the Order—our leader—while also being the youngest adult male among us. He does not age as I do, and because of this, he seems to know nearly everything.

I want answers.

But I bite my tongue and let him lead me away from the death that surrounds me and toward the entrance of our underground sanctuary.

Life beneath the mountain is stifling—days and nights lit only by candlelight, the air heavy and still. The hours can sometimes drag on and on down there.

But now…

Now I am grateful for it.

It’s security and protection from a world where those four Horsemen roam free.

Only when the great metal doors seal shut behind us—thick and unyielding, locking us away from everything above—does the tightness in my chest begin to ease.

I bow my head, whispering a prayer of thanks to God for sparing me.

For sending the Grand Minister when he did.

For saving me when so many were lost this day.

Why me and not them is a question that lingers. One I don’t give voice to, but one that stays with me all the same.