They struck the camp an hour before dawn, riding in on their mighty phantom steeds amid a hail of fire from a pair of Maker-forged pistols wielded by the Rider of the White Horse which cut down the sentries of the Nephilim before they could close the gates.
Warned by the shooting, however, two of the Nephilim ran to throw their weight and their might, born of the fusion of demonic and angelic blood, against the gates, forcing them closed even as the foremost rider, mounted on a mighty red horse, reached them. For a moment the quiet of the camp was broken only by the sound of booted feet ringing on the ground and the wooden steps to the parapet, but then, with a mighty crash, the doors split asunder beneath the iron-shod foot of the Red Rider, and he strode in over the broken bodies of the soldiers.
Upon the rampart, the Nephilim exchanged shots with the White Rider. The Rider of the Black Horse swept a fiery whip from her belt and lashed out, snaring one of the crenelations. With a snap, the whip shortened, dragging the Rider up into the air. She sailed gracefully over the battlements and then struck out with the whip, felling many Nephilim. Those who withstood her assault were forced to stagger back, rising into the deadly hail of fire from her brother on the white horse.
The Red Rider clove his way through the camp like a force of nature, his massive blade sweeping through any who dared approach him. Some hung back, seeking to ambush him, but that was when the last of the Riders struck, emerging from the shadows to ambush the ambushers, wielding a hooked scythe of dreadful aspect that sang as it killed and visibly drank in the souls of its victims.
At last, silence fell, and the four came together at the centre of the camp, where the Nephilim captain lay dead at the Red Rider's feet.
The White Rider laughed softly. "It was a good fight," he hissed.
"It was barely a fight at all, Strife," the Red Rider replied. "The Council have made us powerful beyond compare; executioners more than warriors."
"I doubt you'll be complaining by the end, War," the Black Rider noted in a soft purr. "This was but a trial; the real work of our pact with the Charred Council is yet to come."
"I relish it, Fury," Strife assured her.
"And I would welcome the challenge," War agreed.
Fury raised an eyebrow and turned to the Pale Rider. "And what of you, brother. You are uncharacteristically silent in the aftermath of battle."
"I have slain my own kin and kind," the Pale one replied. "I feel... lessened." He bent down and lifted from the ashes the mask of a Nephilim battle-helm. He breathed upon it and polished it, bending it with his powerful hands until it bore the aspect of a skull, before donning it over his own features.
"Do you suggest we stop?" War demanded. "We made a pact with the Council."
"I know, brother," the Pale one agreed. "I do not suggest that we stop; merely that we proceed with some modicum of... decorum." He gave a soft call and his steed, Despair, rose like mist from the ground at his feet. "Let us go," he said. "There is indeed more and bloodier work ahead of us." He mounted his steed, and as he waited for the others to call and mount their own horses - the red Ruin, black Charnel and white Desolation - stared out across the plain ahead of them. The smoke curled around him, heavy with the stench of his slaughtered kin, and words came into his mind, thin and fragile, as if whispered a world away and a life time hence, but heavy with meaning.
"For today I am become Death," he declared, "the destroyer of worlds."
And he forged down the hill, Death upon his Pale Horse, and Hell fled before him.