Graham Rowat

The brothers mounted their horses and ran them down.

It was easy for them.

The rest of the town was still huddled in their homes, praying to whom Slake had called the Hooded Harlot.

Slake and Savage rode in circles around the tight, compact town as Slaughter and Sully charged into their houses.

Those who were driven out either by the Brothers of Green and White or the spreading blaze from the stables ran straight into the knives of Slake and Savage.

By sundown, the town was in flames, and 347 people were dead.

Slake stood watching the flames as his three brothers stood beside him.

His face was just as placid as it had been when he spoke to Jacob of philanthropy and drank his ale without his mouth.

Why?

Far away, the four brothers heard the crash as the stone statue of the hooded lady toppled to the ground and broke into pieces.

It brought a smile to the four-mouthed face of the clay swarm in suits.

Come and see.

Savage stood with his body of sticks, eyes of glass, and face of clay.

The four brothers watched the flames for a few seconds more, then mounted their horses.

There was no more time to waste on admiring their work.

Slake looked into the sky of Halleck, choked with smoke, starless and cold.

Slake snapped his horse whip, and the four horsemen rode on.

...says... Maybe you should take a break while we're preparing dinner.

What's a day job?

All right.