The Legend of Billy Stallion

1

Death left ashes in its wake through the snow and the echo of the complaints of its victims, which it had carefully enclosed in its lantern. She hurried on, for Death feared death and the latter pursued her.

On the back of his steed, the bounty hunter followed his prey without ever catching up. The snow fell heavily, covering him with a thin, jagged blanket. However, he did not dread the cold of winter nor the long rides. Dressed in a warm cloak under a heavy black coat, a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of leather boots, he rode steadily. Slowly, but always forward.

If he could not quantify the distance or the time that separated him from his target, he knew how to trust his senses. His eyes recognized the dirt left in the snow, like a stain, a disease that tainted all purity. His sense of smell identified a foul odor in the air, bitter, but subtle, barely perceptible to average people, but he knew it all too well, like a foggy memory that haunts the subconscious. His ears discerned the moans of souls escaping from the lantern with green flames. And among these laments, he heard the call of his children. They begged him to deliver them. Of course, he had promised to free them, for he was a father. And a good father does not abandon his children, even when death is at stake. So he would not rest until his task was done. The reaper herself could not stop him. She knew it. And knowing this, she galloped away on her white horse, for her deadly grip had no hold on such strong determination.

The father, the bounty hunter, the man. He had been traveling the north country for so long now that he couldn't tell how many days or nights had passed since he had last encountered a soul to talk to. Life, since the advent, was scarce. Time was passing strangely. A night could last a month and a day a few minutes. And both were intertwined, confusing the limits and landmarks of time to form a single entity.

He had for company only his mount: a gigantic horse, black from mane to hoof and, like his master, graced with unerring endurance. The formidable stallion trotted without slowing down, without moaning, without weakening. The fruit of this collaboration, between this man and this animal, is the tale of another story that will not be tell today. It is enough to say that they are linked by soul and body and that one will not abandon the other.

One day (or night, for no one could know for sure), a great storm arose. It hit the bounty hunter like a thousand spears of ice. This was not the first time he had faced the forces of nature, far from it. But this one was more aggressive, as if an ancient god had awakened from a thousand years of sleep. In spite of the fire that animated the man, his ardor could not resist for long in the face of such a calamity. The mountain itself bent under the wrath of the heavens. The blizzard was so violent that it forced the father to take refuge in a cave. He did not like the idea. And as he feared, Death escaped him.

When the storm subsided, the hunter could no longer hear the cries of his children. He looked for the ashes, but the snow covered the entire mountain to the tops of the tallest trees and beyond. The sky and the earth, immaculately white, combined to paint an untouched blank canvas. The wind itself had vanished, carrying no scent or rustle other than the breathing of man and horse.

No one heard his angry howl or felt the mountain vibrate. For he was alone in the distant white landscape.

2

Much later, the traveler opened a door, which was barely standing on its hinges. Snow had seeped in from holes in the roof and cracks in the wood. It covered the floor in a thin white carpet, and piled up against the moth-eaten walls. The furniture, too, was hiding under a winter sheet. The hunter remained under the doorframe for a few seconds. On the sideboard, a gaunt rat watched the figure against the light, wondering what madness could have led a man to venture out into such a desolate land.

What madness, indeed!

Much earlier, following the violent storm that had threatened to destroy the mountain, the hunter tried his best to find the trail of Death. Alas, it had escaped him. The traveler found no ashes in the snow, did not perceive any bitter perfume and did not hear any voice calling him. He had nevertheless continued his ride, either out of hope or stubbornness. Now, the world in which this story took place is a place that is constantly changing. Worlds and dimensions collide, so beacause you find a river, a mountain, or a city somewhere does not mean it would still be there the next day. You will agree that in such a situation, maps are not very useful. A man could only rely on his senses and instinct.

Only the outer gods know how long it took before the father resigned himself to search for another solution. The celestial vault was covered with a gray mantle and seemed to collapse on the world as if it were going to crush it. The hunter was now in a forest whose black trees were bending under the weight of the snow to form tunnels with disturbing claws. It was not the first time he had ventured into the witch's lair and, if he had promised himself not to return there, the situation obliged him, once again, to make a pact with the devil... a devil, anyway.

The witch of the whispering wood.

She lived in a ruined tower, without a roof, from which wisps of ochre smoke escaped. A field of skeletons encircled what had once been a splendid castle. Each step of the steed cracked the bones with an uneasy sound. Through the faint whistling of the wind, the hunter had the unpleasant impression of hearing the rumblings of some beasts. They were spying on him from the depths of the woods, advancing towards the stranger in secret. The ghouls, slaves of the bewitchress, jealously guarded their territory, preventing anyone from approaching their mistress. They gave off the smell of putrefaction and wore the face of decay. They embodied greed, cowardice and indignity.

The man felt his heart pounding. He was not welcome in these desolate woods. And though he had faced far worse than scavengers, a hunter should never underestimate his opponents, especially when they were as numerous and deceitful as those lurking in the shadows. A single bite from these undead was enough to paralyze a man. If that were to happen, then it would be the end of him.

The hunter moved forward, however, and as he feared, the creatures leapt at him from the groves. There were many of them. Perhaps thirty or more. Drawing his weapons would do him no good. He could kill as many as the fingers of one hand, maybe even a dozen, but sooner or later he would be overwhelmed.

Thus, the man did not draw either his revolver or his sword. He untied his fur and his cloak and then uncovered a pendant which he held up in front of him. A seven-pointed circle of ivory, engraved with a sentence:

He who serves the darkness shall perish under the light

The White Sun. A gift given to him by the angel St. Miguel, one of the seven swords, as he succumbed to his injuries. On each of the flames was set a ruby in which the light of the divine burned. The hunter could now only use four. He tried to save this precious power, to use it only in case of extreme necessity. He considered the situation in which he found himself as one of them.

The man spoke the sacred words, and then immediately one of the rubies shattered to release the light of the White Sun. The energy spread like a shockwave, sweeping away everything that belonged to the darkness. The phenomenon lasted only a few seconds. After that, there was no trace of the creatures or the skeletons that littered the clearing.

The traveler dusted off his clothes with a stifled sigh. He took off his hat, shook it and put it back on before adjusting his scarf. He then walked through the field of ashes to the foot of the tower.

There was no door to stop him from entering the building. So he entered. The witch was perched on a bench, near her enormous cauldron licked by the flames. It was a cliché that did not fail to raise a slight smile on the face of the hunter. The woman of great lust welcomed him with a bowl of soup, which he accepted after allowing himself a seat around the fire. She joined him and together they ate in deep silence, for they were friends and sworn enemies. Both united in an eternal conflict and, in a way, a mutual respect.

The interior of the tower housed science and alchemy machines as impressive as they were grotesque. They took up most of the large circular room. The hunter did not care much about them. Animal furs, bones, gris-gris, dream catchers, books and scrolls; he didn't care about the witch's evil machinations. Despite her hospitality, she was vile, he knew. Goodness had long ceased to inhabit this world. However, she was pretty and beauty was rare. No doubt a charm, a shameless disguise, but it didn't matter. He would be content with an illusion as a candy eyes.

The delicious young woman camouflaged her face behind a complicated make-up, which depicted a skull. Her black clothes, made of different skins, underlined her feminine features with disturbing perfection. The man quickly looked away before succumbing to the charm. In answer, the witch discovered a leg. The hunter contemplated against his will. She drew his gaze into his, transporting him into the starry vault. He let himself be rocked despite the voice that begged him not to flinch. But he was living in a cruel world, a dark world, a world without hope. He would never escape it. His mission was as futile as it would be futile even if he succeeded. Why, then, couldn't he allow himself a little pleasure? The traveler was a man, and the man was demanding his due. The woman accepted, approached him, discovered his body, itself colored with a strange fresco. The traveler saw, in the painting, mountains dressed in white, a forest black as night, a tower surrounded by corpses. They were dancing around the building while a charcoal smoke was escaping from the roof along with a detuned song, blasphemous, irritating for the ear and burning for the soul. He then saw himself chained to a sacrificial altar. A skeletal woman with hair like snakes was riding him in a perverse wiggle. She was feeding on him while he was enjoying the flesh. And while she drank of his soul (a meager meal, however, that suited her), the man saw on the woman's body a white horse and on the mount, Death. The latter was carrying a lantern with an emerald flame. And through the flames, he saw thousands of pure souls summoning him back to spirit. Among his voices, only two managed to wake him up: those of his children. They were counting on him.

It was then that he opened his eyes. The witch, as in his dream, was riding him wildly. Without surprise, he discovered the seductress under her true features: hideous. She was horribly old, skin on bones, body covered with fungus and mucus, black eyes hollowed out in their sockets and hair swarming with glass. Maggots were falling on the hunter's face as the vixen continued her disgusting embrace with snarl. She had not yet realized that her victim had lost her spell.

The man grabbed one of the knives lying on the altar and stabbed her in the eye before pushing her away with one blow. The dreadful minx began to scream in pain. Her shrill cry pierced the ears of the poor traveler. Now it was up to him to act quickly. He took advantage of the moment of respite to throw himself on his scabbard in order to recover the sword. Meanwhile, his opponent withdrew the blade from his eye with a groan that was as much pleasure as pain. She threw the blade on the ground and raised a hand in direction of her aggressor. From her mouth suddenly came guttural sounds, an indecipherable incantation from the forbidden books of Ur'Shamash.

The hunter, using the sword of St. Miguel, cut off her hand as easily as he would cut a leaf. He then placed the silver blade on the back of the witch's neck so that she would understand that one more word would mean her end.

From then on, she was much more docile.

The man made his request, knowing full well that a witch served death in all its forms. She negotiated... in vain. The traveler did not give in. He was trading information for his life, nothing more, nothing less. She accepted the deal before pulling out a collection of old books from her huge library.

"I cannot tell you where Death is except that he is everywhere at once," she said, "but the mirror of Gaskyath can tell you."

The legend of the mirror of truths. He had heard about it in another life, but could it really exist? In this apocalyptic world, myths and legends came to life and the word ''impossible'' doesn't mean much anymore. The witch didn't know where to find him, but she knew a demon who did. And she put the hunter on his trail. She did not lie, because for some mysterious reason she abhorred lying. A lesser sin, however, compared to all the other atrocities she religiously committed.

3

No one had lived in this house for a long time. No trace of feet or paws betrayed the oppressive calm that pervaded the atmosphere like a leaden sky before a storm. Yet this was where he was supposed to find the demon. She had told him, the witch of the whispering wood, that he was holed up here, in this cursed village, feeding on the half-zombified inhabitants.

The hunter pushed back an old piece of furniture, removed the carpet that was molding underneath and discovered a trap door. He opened it and withdrew. A stench rose from the basement like a septic tank that had been abandoned for too long. The scarf he wore against his mouth and nose was not enough to protect him from such an infection. However, he had to venture into the basement at all costs. With a grimace, he took on himself and began his descent.

In the basement there was an unbreakable darkness. The man retrieved his lantern, but the glow from it struggled to come alive. He moved slowly. His feet sank into the damp earth; the low ceiling forced him to keep his back arched; the asphyxiating air strangled him, leaving a taste of metal in his mouth. And the nauseating smell gave him the impression of being poisoned.

He suddenly stopped.

Something was breathing in the darkness. The hunter held out the lantern at the end of his arms in the hope of seeing more clearly. A multitude of eyes flashed in an amber glow. These were not rats. He moved further forward and discovered an abominable creature lurking on a bed of half-consumed men and women, some of whom still appeared to be alive. The thing did not care about the intruder. It was sucking the finger of a woman who had been gutted, but who was still alive and seemed to be enjoying the treatment she was receiving. The hunter was disgusted. He drew his gun and threatened the demon.

A moment later, he sent the creature tumbling into the snow. He had chained it so that it could not escape, for he knew its name. The identity of the horror will not be revealed to you, for it can be dangerous to misuse it. The hunter however knew how to pronounce it. The witch had taught him. This power gave him the right of life or death over the poor devil.

Without politeness, he ordered his new slave to point out the location of the mirror of Gaskyath, also known as the mirror of truths. The creature had no choice but to tell him his secret.

Thus, they set out for the valley of solitude...

4

The traveler reached the top of a steep hill. On the edge of the ledge, he observed the valley struck by the bite of winter. He saw the high snowy peaks, which dominated a crystallized forest. An icy river cut the region in two and was lost on the horizon in a frosted sky, as if it was itself covered with ice. The landscape seemed frozen in time. No wind whistled, no rustling came from the trees and no animal or creature showed its nose.

The man did not lose himself in contemplation. Perched on his steed, he rode down the hill, breaking the silence that had reigned there for decades.

Together they carried something barely human, a horrible creature, an imp. The embodiment of lust. Although one could distinguish two arms and two legs, hands and feet, the rest looked like a grotesque amalgam of human parts that had been hurriedly assembled in total chaos. The monster had no head, for it had long since lost its identity to envy. Its eyes rested in the centers of its numerous hands that covered its frail body. Its mouths, scattered over its torso, arms and legs, looked like orifices lined with hooked teeth from which one or more tentacles oozed tar.

The creature was securely chained from its main limbs to the saddle of the horse. It had no way to escape. Diminished, it kept pace awkwardly, sinking into its own legs, staggering under the yoke of fatigue, sometimes falling asleep and letting itself be dragged along like a dead weight. The man didn't care to treat her like that, because this thing was evil and he himself was not much better. If there was an ounce of goodness left in his heart, he would not share it with a demon.

One evening... or one day, no one could specify with certainty, the bounty hunter paused to give himself a meager respite. He lit a fire and sat down on a dead trunk covered with mushrooms. He was in the middle of a dense wood whose twisted trees intertwined to form an impassable labyrinth. Only the power of his determination allowed him to open a path, but the road was lost in the valley and the river itself seemed to escape him.

And as the traveler satiated his hunger with a piece of dried meat, the imp told him:

"You seek the mirror of truths, but I warn you, this one will not give you what you seek. Having coveted it myself, I searched for it for a long time and when I finally found it, this is what it made of me: a demon."

The father did not answer. His gaze was focused on nothingness and his movements were mechanically executed. Many others had tried to dissuade him from his quest and all had failed. An imp would not reason with him.

The demon did not insist further. He curled up and slept under the heat of the fire.

The next day, the creature guided the hunter to the hollow of the forest, where an icy stream also ran. He had no choice but to obey, for the traveler knew his name. They walked along the stream for a long time before reaching their destination. Moons, suns and other strange stars crossed the sky and then had long since left the valley, but the stream meandered on and on through the mountains.

During all this time, neither the imp nor the hunter spoke. They traveled in silence, stopping only rarely for food, but eating little; for sleep, but without dreams or nightmares, and they did not meet any merchant, any pilgrim, any preacher or martyr. The expedition was proving to be a difficult one, for there were no paved roads, and the eternal winter was not always kind. As time goes by, they suffered from fatigue, starvation and silent despair.

Finally, a natural arch invited them to enter a plateau where the stream reached a frozen pond. The imp refused to go near it to the point of showing his teeth. The man soon had no choice but to utter the unholy name to force him to comply. The lesser demon clenched his jaws, closed his eyes and moved forward.

The hunter stepped beyond the arch and felt a calmness. For the first time since the advent, he felt a sense of well-being as if something good was filling the air. He took a deep, long breath. Purity, light, an embrace of love and hope, a feeling of comfort like a kindred spirit embracing the soul, the first kiss; he felt all these emotions, savored them attentively and then exhaled. A soft snow began a waltz as he approached the pond.

Weeping willows girdled the pond like priests worshipping their god. The imp warned the traveler not to approach the pond. The man rejected him violently, drew his revolver and almost pulled the trigger. Had it not been for the peace that dominates the plateau, he was convinced, he would have shot this horrible insult of a thing with a single bullet. Only, some love lingered in his heart, so he did not wish to sully this sanctuary with his anger. The creature retreated as far as its chains would allow.

The traveler quickly forgot his detestable companion. He observed the frozen pond. The water seemed more transformed into crystal than simply frozen by the cold. He crouched down, first to contemplate the beauty of the ice floe and then to be distracted by his reflection. The man he saw did not look like him. At least not from the memories he had of himself. How many moons had passed since he had last seen his reflection? Was he not a man of implacable will? Did he not wear the armor of justice? And didn't his eyes reflect hope, redemption and mercy?

But that was not what he saw, there in the pond. The reflection detailed a dark individual, lost in disappointment. His eyes, rimmed with heavy bags, were drowning in the ink of a nightmarish life. He emanated the fear that he himself felt in his darkened heart. He exuded the vice he had once chased away. Who was this stranger? It was not the brave warrior with whom the woman of diamonds had fallen in love, the one who had given him a golden descendant...

5

It is true, my friend," said his reflection. Who else would I be if not you? An image in the mirror cannot lie. You are what you are, so I am what you are. You came all the way here to find Death? Look closely. Open your eyes, hunter, and you will find it."

The traveler blinked. His head was now a yellowed skull. In its black orbits shone a greenish glow, the light of the souls he fed on. Under his coat and cloak, his body was a skeleton. Between the bones, souls in pain whimpered as they were literally digested.

The man stumbled, staggered and fell to the ground. He stepped back awkwardly as his reflection broke through the ice, rose from the polar waters, and broke free of the pond to come to life before him. Only he did not see the bounty hunter. It was Death. He was Death. But he refused to believe what his eyes were telling him. He leaned against a tree and drew his gun. The reflection waved its index finger.

"Useless. Don't waste your precious bullets. I don't really exist. I'm just a reflection of your truth. The one you were after, right? You were looking for Death? You are Death. Taking people's lives is literally your job. That was true in the old world and it's a little more true in this one. How many victims have you had in your career? Hundreds? Thousands? All those souls you took... who do you think harvested them? The Grim Reaper never gets her hands dirty. She has lieutenants who do it for her. Disease, Suicide, Murder and War, for example. Those last two, you know them well, don't you? You do! Death is all around us... and in us, even in life. As they say: we start dying the second we are born. So we are a part of death, its flesh and blood. We are The Harvester, and he only appears at the very end to claim his due."

The words of his reflection shook the hunter. He was telling the truth, however. Death, at the very end, would come for his reward. He realized then how foolish he was to go after her. All he had to do, in the end, was to die. Something he had denied himself even when he had longed for it. So he closed his eyes, breathed slowly, drew one of his knives, and with conviction drove it into his flesh. The pain hit him like lightning. It faded quickly, however, and left him with a great relief.

The man dropped to the ground. He gazed up at the luminous sky as ruddy rivulets spread across the snow. His breathing was deep, but regular, and he remained that way, free from the burden of life. He would die at last, and in death, his nemesis would come to him.

She appeared through the snow: The Grim Reaper. She wore impeccable ivory clothing and rode a perfectly white steed to which was attached a lantern with a greenish flame. Her skull was not yellow, but silver and engraved with symbols that only she knew. She did not represent decay and despair as the hunter imagined, but rather purity. The Gravedigger did not speak the language of men. Her dialect was more akin to the chanting of the time before the worlds. However, she allowed the father to understand her words.

This is what I offer you," she said, "deliverance. Death is simple and peaceful. Light. Easy. Natural. Let yourself go, my old friend. You have served me well. Your rest is deserved."

The hunter did not intend to leave this world in solitude. He drew his revolver and prepared to unleash hell! The bullet could have killed her, for it had been forged, along with the revolver, in the very heart of the white sun, by Archelyon, the knight of the seven swords. But Death was not fooled. She was expecting a trap, so she disarmed her attacker before he had time to pull the trigger. She crushed his hand and scoffed. And the man didn't say a word, but smiled, for he had another weapon that could take out his nemesis. And as he mocked his opponent, he discovered the amulet of the White Sun. This time the Harvester had no time to react. The ruby released the light of the divine in a blinding flash. The father took advantage of this opening to rush for the lantern with the green flame, but his wound was blocking him. Although he had outwitted his opponent, he was still dying. At this point, he only hoped to keep his promise to free his children.

The light of the White Sun lasted for a long time as if it was fighting against the Reaper to eradicate him. The latter released all his power to resist. The duel caused a great implosion, which swallowed the trees, the ice pond, the frozen earth and the entire plateau up to the arch. When the phenomenon faded, there was nothing left of the place where the mirror had been. Nothing but the cosmos in the middle of a winter sky...

6

The mountain, surrounding what was once a plateau, was slowly, very slowly, crumbling. The black hole was gradually absorbing the world. After a million years, there would be nothing left but nothingness. This, however, is the result of another story.

Meanwhile, the father crawled through the snow, leaving a trail of blood. He had escaped in extremis with the help of his friend, his loyal stallion. Together, they had jumped beyond the arch, a second before the powerful wind of the vortex carried them away. He reached a rock on which he leaned. His long journey was coming to an end. All he had to do now was open the lantern.

Which he did.

Then the green flame spread, releasing a thousand pure souls. Children, most of them, whom the Grim Reaper had taken before their time to his necropolis. The souls spread throughout the world in search of their former lives. The father let the emerald wind wash over him, fighting death one last time so that he would not be extinguished, not before saying goodbye to his descendants.

They appeared through the jade flames. Two children. His own. A little girl and a boy. They looked like their father before the advent, shining with righteousness, goodness and life. They embodied beliefs, values and qualities that had long since disappeared. They were a threat to this world and a hope for the future.

The father embraced them tenderly and gave them all the love that was left in him. It wasn't much... but it was more than enough.

The End