The 13th Horseman

THE TALL GRASS and weeds whipped at Drake as he high-tailed it away from the clearing. His heart thudded in his chest like a bongo drum made of terror as he frantically tried to put as much distance between himself and the shed as he possibly could. Were the men still inside? More importantly, had they heard him? One thing was for certain: he wasn’t sticking around to find out.

With a gasp he leaped from the grass, expecting to land on the uneven concrete of the back step. Instead his feet found themselves touching down once more on neatly cropped lawn. The shed stood before him, exactly as it had done a few moments ago. He’d gone round in a circle.

He turned and surged back into the jungle of weeds. How could he have been so stupid? He wouldn’t let it happen again. Fixing his eyes on the house, Drake made a beeline straight for it.

A few moments later he spilled out into the clearing. Toxie gave a happy yelp as Drake skidded to a halt on the grass. This was wrong. This was all wrong! Trembling with panic, Drake spun on his heels and darted back towards the high weeds. The men in the shed could be wanted criminals for all he knew. Murderers. Possibly even cannibals, judging by the size of the fat one. He had to get away.

“Haw, pal, you’re wasting your time,” boomed a voice from behind him. Drake’s stomach bunched into a tight knot of fear and he propelled himself into the head-high undergrowth, not daring to look back. The weeds seemed to work against him, tangling and grabbing at him as he ran.

When he emerged into the clearing for the fourth time it didn’t come as any great surprise. His legs and arms ached, his hands and face were covered in insect bites – even breathing was proving painful. The way he felt right now, death would almost come as a relief.

“Told you,” said the bearded giant who stood in the clearing. He was casually running a large brick along the length of an enormous sword, spraying the grass with little orange sparks. “Now, you can try running again, but you’ll only end up back here, and I’m getting fed up of hanging around waiting for you to get that through your heid.”

The man had looked big when he was sitting down in the shed, but out here he managed to make the rest of the world look small. Arms as thick as tree trunks bulged from his torso, which spread out like a brick wall on either side of the long, flowing beard. Rusted chain mail covered two telegraph pole legs. Boots that may have once been wild animals of some kind were pulled tight over feet large enough to make the very planet itself shake. He looked dangerous. And he was staring directly at Drake.

“Wh-who are you?” Drake stammered.

“To some I’m the living embodiment of cruelty and suffering, who will rain fire and fury down upon them come the Day of Judgement,” the man said gruffly. “To others I’m a big bugger with a red horse. Just depends who you ask, really.” With a flourish he flicked the sword around and slid it into a sheath slung across his back. He wiped his hands on his leather tunic, then extended one for Drake to shake. “But you can call me War.”

Hesitantly, Drake reached out and shook War’s hand. His own fingers felt all too fragile in the giant’s grasp.

“Drake,” he said. “Drake Finn.”

“Aye. I know.”

The shed door flew open and the skinny man Drake had seen earlier stomped out. He shielded his dark, sunken eyes from the sun as he marched angrily across the lawn.

“He’s done it again!” the man shrilled. “He’s eaten my antiseptic cream! That’s the fourth one this week. I’ll never get this rash cleared up at this rate!”

“I was hungry,” called a voice from inside the shed. The wooden doorframe groaned in protest as the fat man appeared and squeezed himself through. He inched slowly forward, supporting himself with two walking sticks.

“You’re always hungry!” snapped the scrawnier figure. He folded his frail arms across his pigeon chest in the universal language of sulk.

“Yeah,” the fat man mumbled, licking dollops of thick white cream from round his mouth, “and you’ve always got a rash.”

“This is Pestilence,” War explained, stabbing a thumb in the skinny man’s direction. “The walking dustbin over there’s Famine.”

“Nice to see you again,” gushed Pestilence.

“All right?” nodded Famine. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any crisps on you?”

“I’d shake your hand, but you’d only catch something,” Pestilence continued, laughing nervously. “Still, I don’t suppose it matters really, what with you being—” War glowered at him, cutting him short.

“With me being what?” asked Drake.

“With you being... so handsome!” Pestilence gushed.

“Or some cakes?” asked Famine hopefully. “I could really go a Swiss Roll.”

“To understand who you are, you need to know who we are,” War explained. He bent forward slightly and glared down at Drake. “Do you know who we are?”

Drake’s gaze swept across the expectant faces of all three men. None of them had made any move to kill him, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t coming. It’d probably be safer to play along with their game, then make a run for it the first chance he got.

“War, Pestilence and Famine,” he mused. “Those are the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, aren’t they?”

“You’ve studied your religious texts,” said War approvingly.

“Actually, I saw it in a cartoon,” Drake confessed.

“Oh.”

“Even some mints would do! I’m not fussy.”

“Sorry, I don’t have any food,” apologised Drake. Famine sighed and rubbed his swollen stomach sadly. “Hang on though, aren’t there supposed to be four of you?” Drake asked.

“Aye, well... There are four of us,” said War. There was a note of caution in his voice that couldn’t be missed. “We’re all here.”

Drake frowned. Not only did these lunatics think they were mythological characters, they also couldn’t count.

“No,” he ventured. “There’s three.” He pointed at each of them in turn. “One, two, three.”

“One,” repeated War, pointing at himself. “Two.” He pointed towards Pestilence, who gave a little wave. “Three.” Famine’s stomach rumbled as if on cue. “And four.” The giant held out a finger in Drake’s direction.

“Erm... what?”

“You’re the fourth,” War intoned.

“The fourth what?” asked Drake. He was stalling for time now, his eyes scanning for the easiest escape route through the weeds.

“The fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse,” explained Pestilence.

“The rider of the pale horse,” Famine chipped in.

“Death,” announced War gravely. “You are the living personification of Death.”

“Right,” chirped Drake, after a pause. “Well, that’s a turn-up for the books.” He rested his hands on his hips and shook his head in wonder. “Death, eh? Who’d have thought it?”

“You’re taking it very well,” Pestilence told him. “I mean it must come as a bit of a shock, that. Finding out you’re Death and everything.”

“Not really,” Drake shrugged. “I suppose it’s just a case of – YOU’RE ALL A BUNCH OF NUTJOBS!”

With that he launched himself into the weeds once more, shouldering his way through them as quickly as he could manage.

“Mum!” he squealed as he crashed on through the grass. He wasn’t even sure if she’d still be home, but he shouted for her anyway. “Mum, help, the nutters are back, the nutters are back!”

“She can’t hear you, you know,” War sighed, as Drake stumbled back into the clearing. “We’ve... we’ve... What have we done again?”

“Created a reality loop,” whispered Pestilence.

“We’ve created a reality loop in the garden,” continued War. “Nothing gets in, nothing gets out. All roads lead right back to this shed. A bit of techno-magic mumbo jumbo the old Death put together for us before he packed up and went.”

“Went? Went where?”

“Went mental,” Famine snorted. He was munching on a hunk of beef. Drake didn’t want to think about where he’d found it.

“That’s enough, Famine,” War warned. “He went away. Retired.” War was choosing his words carefully. “To... pursue other projects.”

“And you’re the replacement!” beamed Pestilence. “You’re our new leader!”

“I’m not the replacement anything!” Drake exclaimed, throwing his arms up in the air. “I’m not Death!”

“Course you are,” Pestilence argued. “Think about it, even your name says you are. Drake Finn. D. F. Death.”

“What? D. F? What’s that? That doesn’t sound like Death!” Drake protested. “It’s deaf, if anything! What, the end of the world is going to be ushered in by the hard of hearing, is it?”

Something nudged gently against his ankle. Toxie sat by his foot, gazing happily up at him, his tail thudding out a regular beat on the ground.

“And I suppose this is my horse, is it?” Drake scoffed, as he bent down and took his money from the animal’s mouth.

“Actually,” said War, “he’s a Hellhound, but he owed us one so he helped bring you here.”

“A Hellhound?” Drake said, stuffing the note in his pocket.

“Aye.”

“But... it’s a cat.”

The thudding of Toxie’s tail stopped, and an uneasy silence descended on the clearing. Even Famine had paused, his food halfway to his open mouth.

Pestilence cleared his throat quietly. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it,” he said, his eyes fixed on the scabby cat. “It’s a lot for him to take in.”

For a few long moments the world seemed to stand perfectly still. Then, with a low “Woof,” Toxie turned and wandered off across the grass. All three men let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“Bit of advice,” War scowled. “Don’t go insulting a Hellhound, particularly not one that’s standing next to you at the time.”

“But... it’s a cat,” Drake said, his voice a low whisper. “I wasn’t insulting him, he’s a cat!”

“He’s got some problems. With changing,” Pestilence said, mouthing the last two words silently. “Bless.”

“Changing? What are you—?”

“It’s not important,” War intoned, his voice clipped by irritation. “You need to join us in the shed.”

“No.”

The giant frowned. “No?” he repeated, as if hearing the word for the first time in his life.

Drake’s fear had temporarily deserted him, replaced instead by anger at being kept against his will. “You said I’m in charge here, right?”

“That’s right,” said War reluctantly. “Death is technically the leader of the Four Horsemen, but—”

“Then I order you to let me go. No garden looping or any of that. Put it back to normal and let me go home.”

“But we haven’t even started discussing your responsibilities,” War protested. “There’s a lot to get through if—”

“Now!” Drake demanded.

War’s bulging muscles twitched briefly. He bit down on his lip, fighting the urge to shout. An icy shiver of terror shot down Drake’s spine as he realised he may have gone too far.

Eventually, though, the giant gave a single nod of his head. “Whatever you say,” he said. “Pest.”

Pestilence reached into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary television remote control. He jabbed a few buttons, then slipped the device back in his pocket.

“You’re free to go,” said War.

Drake eyed the men closely as he backed towards the high grass. When he felt the foliage brushing against him, he turned and plunged off through the weeds. The others watched as the trodden undergrowth sprang back into place in his wake.

“Well,” breathed Pestilence, “all in all I’d say that went really rather well!”





“SETTLE DOWN GUYS, settle down.”

It was first period. Science. The teacher, Mr Franks, swaggered into the classroom, one hand shoved casually in his trouser pocket. In the other hand he carried a sheet of paper that he studied as he crossed to his desk. He half sat, half leaned on the table, facing the assembled class, still reading the note.

“Stop mucking about with that gas tap, Kara,” he muttered, without looking up. “They’re not for playing with.”

Near the back of the class, Drake gazed absent-mindedly out of the window. The events at the shed yesterday evening were replaying over and over in his mind. He should have told his mum about the men again. She could have called the police and had all three of them arrested.

Then again, if she hadn’t believed him, he’d be back at the child psychologist, and she’d be worried sick. Besides, she seemed so tired when she’d finally arrived home. He’d slipped off to bed without saying anything soon after that. And, he only now realised, he never did get that pizza.

He’d just have to stay out of the garden for a while, that was all. For ever, if possible. Life was complicated enough without a freak show trying to recruit him as their ringmaster.

Getting lost in the grass so many times had been weird, though. He was still convinced there was a perfectly rational explanation for it all. He just couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was. Still, it was bound to come to him eventually.

“Right, listen up, everyone,” said Mr Franks. The low murmur of the class died down, as all eyes turned to the teacher.

“Billy Sharp, Michael Ash and James Bing didn’t return home from school yesterday. The police are searching for them, but as of this morning I’m sorry to say they still haven’t been found.”

A low wave of chatter swelled across the room, sweeping from pupil to pupil as they turned to each other and began to guess what could have happened to their missing schoolmates.

“Can anyone remember seeing any of them after lunchtime yesterday?” Mr Franks continued. “If so, it’s very important you let me know now.” His gaze washed over the class. “Anyone?”

Drake watched the other pupils with interest. He had no idea who the three missing kids were, so he couldn’t be of any help, but he hoped someone would know something. Their parents had to be worried sick.

“OK, then,” said Mr Franks. “If any of you do remember anything, then let me or one of the other teachers know. Right away. I can’t stress that enough.”

He sat the paper down on his desk, then stood up straight. His eyes locked on to Drake and his mouth curved into a friendly smile.

“You must be Drake,” he said.

“Um... yeah,” Drake confirmed.

“Good to meet you. I’m Mr Franks, but everyone here knows my first name. Doesn’t bother me. It’s Darren, OK? Write that down if you want, so you remember. D-A-double-R-E-N. I’m not into that whole teacher-pupil thing. I like to think that we’re all friends here, just sharing knowledge. That’s all. We’ve all got knowledge and we’re just sharing it around. Sound good?”

Drake nodded. “Um... OK.”

“I thought it might,” said the teacher, smiling broadly. “I’m quite new here too, so I know it can be a bit daunting.” He looked around at the class. “But we’re a pretty good bunch, I think. We won’t see you stuck. If you need anything, just give me a shout.”

“Thanks,” Drake said.

“No bother,” Mr Franks replied. He had just started to say “Right, let’s crack on,” when a knock at the door interrupted him.

“Come in.”

The door opened slowly and a younger girl scurried a few paces into the class, then stopped, like a rabbit caught in headlights. Without a word, she thrust a note in Mr Franks’s direction.

“Thank you,” he said, taking it from her and reading it over. “You can go back to class,” he told her, and she retreated gratefully into the corridor.

“Looks like you’re already in demand, Drake,” he said.

Drake blinked. “Um... what?”

“Dr Black wants to see you,” the teacher said.

“He does? Why?”

“Doesn’t say,” Mr Franks replied. He looked down at the note again, in case he’d missed something. “Just says he wants to see you in his classroom as soon as possible.”

Drake realised every eye in the room was trained on him. A summoning to Dr Black’s classroom, he guessed, was not something that happened every day. A few rows away, he saw Mel looking back at him. She smiled encouragingly. For some reason, this made him even more nervous.

The legs of his chair scraped noisily in the sudden silence as he stood up.

“You’d better hurry,” Mr Franks said, as Drake made for the door. “It’s not a good idea to keep him waiting.”

Drake’s footfalls echoed eerily along the empty corridor. He turned over and over in his hands the photocopied map of the school that Mr Franks had given him, trying to figure out where in the twisting black and white labyrinth he was supposed to be. But he was coming to the conclusion that the map was a complete waste of time. He folded it neatly in half, stuck it in his back pocket, and went off in search of anything that might look familiar.

Why did the history teacher want to see him? That was the thought that occupied him as he wandered through the bewildering maze of corridors and passageways. Was he in trouble? He hadn’t done anything, so he didn’t think so.

Unless those three bullies had said something about him peeing on them, of course.

He walked on, up a flight of stairs that he vaguely remembered from yesterday. He felt himself becoming more anxious with every step. It had to be about the incident in the toilets. Why else would Dr Black call for him.

Self-defence, that would be his argument. It was a desperate, last-ditch attempt at avoiding a beating, and he wouldn’t, of course, even contemplate urinating on anyone again.

He stopped outside a gloss-painted door and read the little brass disc screwed into the wood. D9. This was the place.

Self-defence, he reminded himself, as he knocked once, then reached for the door handle. Dr Black would understand. He was probably a reasonable enough man, deep down.

Drake drew in a breath, assured himself there was nothing to worry about, then pushed open the door.

He paused with the door half open and stared in wonder. A sphere, about the size of a large beach ball, lay on the floor. Its surface shone like polished chrome. Drake saw a distorted reflection of himself as he leaned in closer to get a better look.

SNIKT!

Two blades extended suddenly from hidden compartments within the ball. Drake leaped back, as the sphere rose into the air, and the blades began to spin.

Drake’s blood pitter-pattered on the scuffed vinyl floor in perfect time with his frantic footsteps. He sprinted along a corridor, trying desperately to escape the ball and its blades as they sliced through the air somewhere behind him.

He wiped his sleeve across a deep, bloody scratch on his cheek as he skidded round a corner and two-at-a-timed down a flight of stairs. The ball could easily outpace him on the straights, but it had to slow down for the bends, he’d quickly discovered. If he could find enough corners he could put some real distance between him and it.

“Help!” he tried for the fourth or fifth time. “Someone help me, please!” Once again, no one answered his plea. It was almost as if the school had been emptied of everything but the armoured sphere and himself.

Drake stumbled to a stop outside a classroom. Twisting the dull metal handle he shoved against the door with his shoulder, throwing it wide open. Staggering inside, he slammed the door shut again behind him, then turned to find something to block it with.

A strangled yelp of shock escaped his lips. Instead of a classroom, he found himself in a corridor. Not just any corridor, either. His trail of blood spots led directly up to the door he had just closed. Somehow he’d ended up back in the same corridor he’d just tried to escape from. How was that possible?

His mind raced back to the garden yesterday afternoon. A reality loop, they’d called it. And now it was happening again. They were trying to kill him. Those nutjobs were trying to kill him!

The next corridor swung into view as he flung himself round another corner. Drake felt his heart crash down to his toes. Ahead of him, the walls stretched out into infinity. He could hear the ball of death whizzing closer and closer, its spinning blades already stained with his blood. Pointlessly he powered forward, painfully aware that there was no way he could outrun the thing on a straight like this.

Within seconds the blades were biting at his back, their sharp teeth chewing up the fabric of his uniform.

He cried out in shock as the first blade scraped against his exposed skin. Instinctively, he threw himself to the ground. Death, he knew, would be on him soon.

A shadow fell over him. He heard the soft creak of leather and the gruff growl of a Scottish accent. “Stay down.”

A sword flashed in a wide, horizontal arc across the corridor. With a screech of tearing metal, the blade passed through the ball, mid-flight. War crouched down, shielding Drake from the brief, blinding explosion. Shards of metal rained down around them, peppering the floor and walls.

When the debris had stopped falling, War stood up, his sword still held at the ready. The floating ball was no longer floating. Nor was it a ball. A tangled mound of wreckage lay on the floor, smouldering gently. War gave it a cautious poke with the tip of his sword.

“What... what was that thing?” Drake asked, using the wall to pull himself to his feet.

War’s eyes narrowed. “Techno-magic mumbo jumbo,” he muttered.

“What, like—?”

“Exactly like that,” War nodded. He looked along the corridor in both directions. “And exactly like them.”

Drake made a noise that was embarrassingly like a whimper. Two more floating balls blocked each end of the corridor. Their blades spun to a high-pitched hum as they began to hover closer.

“Hold on,” War commanded, scooping Drake up and depositing him on his back. Drake caught hold of the giant’s armoured shoulders and clung on for dear life. “We’re leaving.”

“How?” Drake asked, his gaze flitting between the two spinning spheres. “There’s no way out.”

War’s muscles tensed. He sprang towards the corridor wall, raising a leg. Plaster and brick exploded outwards as he kicked. “Aye, there is,” he replied. The whine from the floating balls increased in pitch as they raced towards the hole in the wall. “Right then, sunshine,” War warned, “whatever you do, don’t let go.”





DRAKE DUCKED, KEEPING his head behind War’s as they crashed through the hole in the wall and out into the car park. War took two big paces, then jumped, clearing a waist-high wall with ease. The ground quaked when he touched down on the other side, and Drake had to kick frantically until he found a foothold on the giant’s back.

War scanned the car park, his eyes flitting from vehicle to vehicle. Behind them, the floating spheres came in single file through the gap. Drake craned his neck to see them. They were back to moving slowly, creeping cautiously across the tarmac, weaving between the parked cars. Their blades spun, but they were hanging back, as if aware of the danger War posed.

“They’re getting closer,” Drake warned. “Shouldn’t we be running? What are you doing?”

“Trying to remember where I parked,” War muttered. His gaze swept across the rows of vehicles.

“What? You mean... you’ve got a car?”

War shrugged. The sharp movement almost made Drake lose his grip. “Not exactly,” he said. He ran up the bonnet of the closest car and thudded on to the roof. The metal dented where his feet slammed down, and an alarm began to wail in complaint.

The school minibus was parked right next to the car. War raised his arms and placed his palms flat against the minibus roof. With a grunt of effort, he pulled them both up on to it.

“Aha!” he said, looking down. “There you are.”

Drake heaved himself high enough to look over War’s shoulder. A horse stood on the other side of the minibus. But a horse like none Drake had ever seen.

It was bigger than a normal horse, but that was only to be expected. War, after all, was bigger than a normal man. Much, much bigger.

The horse’s skin was a bright, brilliant red, that shone like a ruby in the mid-morning sun. Its mane and tail were shades of orange and yellow. They danced like fire when the horse turned towards the minibus roof.

A worn leather saddle was slung across the horse’s wide expanse of back. War leaped from the roof and landed expertly astride the saddle. The horse gave a loud snort, but otherwise didn’t react to the sudden weight on its back. The spheres did react, though. They swooshed forward, suddenly appearing at either end of the minibus, their blades spinning into overdrive.

“Yah!” War roared, giving the horse’s reins a flick. It sprang into action, clearing the next parked car from a standing start. The car behind it wasn’t so lucky. Its roof caved in, shattering the windows and spraying glass in all directions.

The impact was too much for Drake. His grip slipped, and he found himself sliding down War’s back. War shifted his weight forward, making room for Drake to land on the saddle.

“I told you not to let go,” War said.

“Well... sorry.”

“Don’t do it again.”

War’s shoulder armour was held on by two thick leather straps. Drake caught hold of them just as the horse bounded forward again. It cleared the whole row of cars this time, landing on the road. The road surface cracked beneath its hooves, but there was no stopping it now. With another leap it cleared the low wall that surrounded the car park, and they were out on the open road, leaving the school behind.

Another alarm squealed. Drake looked back to see the spheres slicing through the air after them, their blades tearing through everything in their path. Four cars, five, fell apart like broken toys. The wall became bricks, the bricks became dust, and the balls of death were after them once again.

The horse galloped along the road, Drake’s teeth rattling in his head with each thunderous footstep. The ground whizzed by, a speeding blur of grey. Up ahead, a car’s rear lights flashed red as its brakes began to squeal. Drake caught a glimpse of the driver’s wide eyes in the rear-view mirror, before the horse was leaping again, soaring over the car then resuming its run on the other side.

“That... that was incredible,” Drake said.

“That? That was nothing,” War told him. His beard was being blown backwards over his shoulder. Drake had to lean to the left to avoid swallowing the thing. As he shifted in the saddle, he saw the traffic lights looming ahead. They were on red. A steady stream of traffic flowed across the street just beyond them. War flicked the reins. “Watch this!”

Drake could see the faces of every passenger on the bus. They wore matching expressions of amazement as they watched the horse hurl itself into the sky. Its hooves skitted across the flat metal roof, showering the street with sparks. And then it was plunging back towards the ground, and Drake could feel his stomach being tossed up somewhere around his ears. The landing bounced him out of the saddle. He opened his mouth to scream, before War’s hand wrapped round his ankle and pulled him back down.

“Thanks,” he croaked.

“No bother.”

The spheres sliced through the moving traffic, their blades puncturing the tyres and chewing the metal of every vehicle they passed. Horns blared, people screamed, more alarms joined in the chorus, but it was all just background noise to the clattering of the horse’s hooves.

Drake turned in the saddle. “They’re still coming!” he cried, though his voice was almost lost to the wind.

War nodded. “Aye.”

“What do we do?”

A hesitation. “Can you ride?”

“What... you mean ride a horse?”

“Naw, a bike,” War spat. “Aye, a horse.”

Drake shook his head. “No.”

“Well, that’s just bloody marvellous,” War muttered. “A horseman that cannae ride a horse.”

“What? I can’t hear you, it’s too noisy!”

“Doesn’t matter,” War said more loudly. “Can you hold a rope?”

Brakes screeched behind them, followed by the crunch of metal colliding with other metal.

“What kind of question’s that? Of course I can hold a rope.”

War’s hand reached back over his shoulder and plucked the boy from the saddle. Drake barely had time to realise what was happening before he was plonked down again. He recoiled in the force of the sudden wind. He was in front of War now, the big man’s body no longer shielding him. A rein was pressed into Drake’s hands. He heard the shhnnk of a sword being drawn from a sheath. “Good,” War intoned. “Hold that, and for God’s sake don’t—”

The end of the sentence was lost as War rolled sideways off the horse’s back. He hit the ground shoulder-first, rolled on the tarmac, then sprang to his feet, his broadsword raised and ready.

Drake felt himself sliding in the saddle and clutched the reins tightly to his chest. “Don’t what?” he cried. “Don’t what?”

But War was too far away to hear. He stood his ground before the spinning orbs, eyes flitting from one to the other. They crisscrossed along the street, moving over, around and occasionally through the now stationary traffic.

“Ye want some?” the giant growled, twirling his sword round in his right hand. “Come get some.”

The blades screamed through the air. One of the spheres raced ahead, closing in for the kill. War planted his size nineteens, put his weight on his front leg, and swung. The first ball exploded before the sword could connect. A hail of razor-sharp metal barbs burst forth. They rattled against War’s armour and dug into the few exposed patches of his leathery skin.

He gave a low grunt as the hooks tore into his flesh, but followed through with his swing. The sword whistled through the space the first orb should’ve been occupying, then arced round in a full circle. He spun on the spot, bringing the blade back round, directly into the path of the second sphere.

The ball dipped sharply, dodging the sword and clattering against the ground beside War. He brought up a foot, slammed it down with a ker-ack, but the sphere was past him. It bounced twice, like a basketball, then spluttered back into the air. With blades whirring, it streaked off after the horse, and the boy on the horse’s back.

“Aw,” grimaced War. He pulled the first of the hooks from his arm and watched the ball rocketing away. “Bugger.”

Drake bounced violently in the saddle, his knuckles white on the reins, his face fixed in a mask of terror. The horse’s breath snorted in and out through its wide, flared nostrils, slow and steady, as if even this frenzied pace was taking no effort to maintain.

“Slow down!” he wailed. “Whoa! Stop! Whatever it is you do!”

Drake hadn’t seen War’s encounter with the armoured spheres, but that didn’t matter. They were a distant memory now, a distant threat. The threat of falling off and splattering like an egg against the ground – that one was much more pressing.

The horse thundered on, muscles moving beneath its ruby flanks, its mane blazing like an inferno. They were almost at the end of the street now, surely moving far too fast to take the ninety-degree bend that was racing up to meet them. A row of shops lined the road dead ahead. Drake could see himself reflected in the glass fronts, four identical versions of himself on four identical horses, all about to be caught up in the same identical crash.

“Look. Building!” Drake cried, leaning down and shouting directly into the horse’s ear. The ear flicked, as if swatting away a fly, but the horse’s gallop didn’t falter. “Come on,” he begged. He bounced backwards in the saddle and gave a sharp yank on the reins. “We need to—”

With a whinny, the horse leaped into the air. Drake gripped with his legs and wrapped the reins round his wrist and braced himself for another jarring impact.

It never came.

“Stop,” Drake whimpered, as the ground fell away and the horse’s hooves began to clatter across the wide-open sky.

A long way back along the street, War plucked the last of the barbs from his skin as he watched his horse take to the air. Even there, a hundred or more metres away, he could hear the boy’s panicked screams.

War shook his head. “I told him,” he sighed, sliding his sword back into its sheath. “What did I tell him? For God’s sake, don’t pull back on the reins.”