Oh. Right, said the Deathblade. Who’s done that, then?
“Dunno.”
Someone playing silly beggars, I expect.
“Yeah, probably,” Drake said. He felt like he was losing his already slim grip on the situation. “Want me to untie it?”
Go on, then.
Drake approached the wardrobe. The draught from the air-conditioning was freezing. His fingers were beginning to feel numb as he hooked the halo over his wrist, and reached for the knots in the string.
Oh, but before you do, the voice said, those who seek to claim the Deathblade’s power, must first face the Deathblade Guardian.
Drake stopped untying the string. He looked the wardrobe up and down, as if its expression might somehow give something away.
“Deathblade Guardian?” he asked. “What’s that?”
POP.
A few metres away on Drake’s right, the lid of one of the plastic boxes that made up the floor sprang open. It landed with a clatter somewhere close to Drake’s feet.
In the glow of the halo, Drake saw an arm pull itself free of the box. The arm was around fifty centimetres long from the tip of the fingers to the elbow, where it ended in a tangle of wires. It was metal, chrome in colour, and had pyramid-shaped spikes jutting up from every knuckle where the fingers met the hand.
Drake watched the robotic arm drag itself slowly towards him. He didn’t move back. As arms went, it was a nasty-looking one, but it was, after all, just an arm.
POP.
Another lid flew into the air behind him. Another arm, identical to the first, dragged itself out. Drake turned side-on so he could see both of them. They crawled closer, pulling themselves across the floor on their long metal fingers.
“OK...” Drake muttered, suddenly feeling much less confident.
POP, went another lid. POP. POP. POP.
Drake spun. Robotic body parts were emerging from the floor all around him, like the final act of a future-set zombie movie. Sections of upper arm and of metallic thigh wriggled like snakes across the box lids. Two armoured feet hopped towards him, their metal shins pointing towards the cave ceiling.
Drake felt the cold touch of metal against his ankle. He leaped sideways and let out a little shriek. The hand clattered back down on to the hollow floor and Drake darted a few metres to the left, keeping out of its reach.
The body parts did not move to follow him. They kept hopping and squirming and crawling towards the spot where he’d been standing. With a whirr and a clank, the forearms connected with the upper arms, and the shins joined with the metal thighs.
“What the Hell is this?” Drake muttered, as the arms reached into other boxes and pulled out more parts. A chestplate. Two round shoulders, studded with deadly-looking spikes.
There was more whirring, more clanking, as these parts and more attached themselves to one another. Drake watched, awestruck and terrified in equal measures as the limbs connected with the newly formed torso.
POP!
A final box opened. Two long, curved horns rose up, followed by a gleaming metal skull. The skull’s mouth was fixed in a malevolent grin that stretched almost all the way up to its hollow eye-sockets.
The skull clambered out of the box, carried on eight spindly metal legs that extended from within its neck. It scurried like a spider across the floor, before rolling into position next to the chest.
The metal legs gripped the top of the chestplate and pulled the skull into position. Wires squirmed from the neck and from the body, joining together, forming connections.
With a clunk, the skull snapped into place. Deep in its eye-sockets, a dull red light began to glow. Metal squeaked, and the robot sat upright. The horned head swivelled 180 degrees until it was looking directly at Drake.
Behold the Deathblade Guardian, said the voice in Drake’s head. Defeat it and claim the power of the Deathblade, or else die in the attempt.
The Deathblade Guardian raised itself up on its hydraulic legs and looked down at Drake. Drake looked up at the Deathblade Guardian.
“Um, hi,” he said.
And then he ran away.
THE VOICE IN Drake’s head screamed angrily at him, ordering him to turn back. Drake ignored it and powered on along the passageway, racing towards the exit. Behind him, he heard the hollow thunk, thunk, thunk of heavy footsteps hitting the plastic floor. He glanced back over his shoulder, but the light from the halo only reached a few metres, and all he could see of the Deathblade Guardian were its two red eyes burning in the dark.
A robotic demon. War hadn’t mentioned any snap-together robotic demons guarding the scythe. Something else that had ‘slipped his memory’, no doubt.
Something whistled past Drake’s ear. He chanced another look back. The light from the entrance up ahead lifted away the veil of shadow. The polished chrome of the guardian came stomping from the darkness, one clenched fist raised.
There was a puff of smoke, a flash of flame, and a pyramid-shaped knuckle rocketed towards Drake’s head. Drake ducked and stumbled, and the missile streaked harmlessly past. It hit the side of a plastic tub at a shallow angle, and ricocheted into the softening gloom up ahead.
The Deathblade Guardian marched on, the plastic floor buckling beneath its immense weight as it closed the gap between it and Drake. Its arm remained raised, the fist trained on the boy’s back. Another flash. Another puff of smoke. Drake barely had time to twist sideways. He felt the turbulence the spike caused as it streaked by him.
“Look, keep the scythe,” Drake cried. “I don’t want it.”
The clanking and thudding of the robot seemed to be right behind him. He daren’t look back now. Had to keep moving, keep running, get to the exit and get away.
The lights of the Junk Room weren’t particularly bright, but they dazzled him as he stumbled from inside the cave. He took a brief moment to get his bearings, and then a somewhat more leisurely moment to realise he was trapped.
One cliff face led upwards, the other led down to the ground far below. He had climbed quickly, but there was no way he would be fast enough to make it up or down before the guardian could take aim.
A whirring of hydraulics behind him made Drake spin round. The demonic figure of the robot clanked out from the confines of the cave. Its polished metal frame glinted in the glow from the overhead lights. Its demented grin seemed to twist further up its unmoving face, as the twin red circles in its eye-sockets glowed even brighter.
Drake backed towards the edge of the cliff. A weapon, he needed a weapon. If only he had some sort of—
His eyes went to the halo in his hand. It looked like the flying disc he’d been given for his birthday a couple of years ago. It had been a fun gift. Perhaps not as much fun as the games console he’d asked for, but he’d become pretty good with it in the weeks after his birthday.
The guardian’s clenched fist briefly tightened. The final projectile on its left hand streaked across the gap between the boy and the robot. Drake dropped to one knee, curled the halo in against his chest, then flicked out sharply with his wrist.
The hoop of holy light spun as it sliced through the air towards the Deathblade Guardian. Drake followed its flight, praying to whichever deity was listening that his aim was good.
It was. The spinning ring found its target. “Yes, yes, yes!” Drake cheered as the halo struck the guardian across its exposed metal throat.
“No, no, no,” he groaned, when the glowing hoop bounced harmlessly off the robot, and clattered noisily to the ground.
The mechanical demon clanked closer, its arm still raised, fist still clenched. But, Drake realised, the knuckle-spikes were all used up. He may not have a weapon, but nor did the Deathblade Guardian!
There was a sound in Drake’s head, like a snigger. The robot lowered its left arm...
...and then raised its right one. Four more pyramid-shaped projectiles took aim at Drake’s head. The robot was too close now, and Drake was too near the cliff edge. There was no way he c
ould dodge another attack.
He saw the guardian clench its fist tighter. Drake’s hands went to the lid of the box by his feet. The clasps unclipped as four puffs of smoke and four fiery flashes sent four little missiles hurtling towards him.
The lid wouldn’t stop a direct hit, he knew, but if he could angle it correctly, like the wall back in the cave, he might stand a chance. He thrust the rectangle of plastic out in front of his face, tilted upwards.
A sound like machine-gun fire rattled across the lid’s surface. The force of four impacts almost sent him toppling backwards over the edge of the cliff, but he held his ground and laughed, half with relief, half with amazement, when the spikes deflected upwards to be lost in the vastness of the Junk Room.
He didn’t laugh for long. A pincer grip tore the lid from his hands. Drake found himself looking up into the red-eyed glare of the guardian.
“Can’t we talk about this?” he pleaded.
A metal arm reared back, a metal fist was driven down towards him. Drake rolled clumsily and the fist punched a hole through another plastic lid. The hand raised again, bringing the entire storage box with it.
The guardian shook its arm, flicking its hand up and down as it attempted to dislodge the box. Seizing the opportunity, Drake leaped to his feet and drove a shoulder against the robot’s back, trying to knock it off balance.
Something buzzed across his skin and through his bones as he made contact with the Deathblade Guardian. A shock of energy pushed him away, and sent him spiralling down on to the floor. He skidded on the smooth plastic and slid, screaming, towards the sheer drop.
His hands grabbed at the edge of a box lid as he slipped across it. His fingers, curved into claws, caught hold just as his legs swung out over the cliff edge. Bicycling wildly with both feet, he dragged himself back on to slightly more solid ground and rolled over on to his back.
The metal demon turned its attention away from the box on its arm. It took two clanking steps towards Drake and raised a knee to the level of its chest.
A foot came down. Drake squirmed into the shape of a letter C, and a metal heel was driven straight through the lid of another box, right where Drake’s stomach had been a half-second before.
Drake scrambled out of the guardian’s reach. The robot wobbled unsteadily, its right foot deep inside a storage tub, its left foot still standing atop the next box over. It was right at the edge of the cliff. Drake knew he wouldn’t get another chance like it.
He scurried, crab-like on his hands and feet over to where the robot teetered, and stopped at the box the metal foot was stuck in. The horned skull turned to face him. The red eyes burned with mechanical fury. Drake dug his heels against the edge of the box’s lid, gritted his teeth, and pushed.
The guardian’s own size worked against it. As soon as the box began to move, the robot’s weight helped to increase its momentum. The one hand of the Deathblade Guardian that wasn’t stuck inside a plastic box reached out and grabbed for Drake, but it was too late. As the top box fell away from the cliff, it brought the others below it along for the ride.
The robot let out a high-pitched whine, as the vertical stack of a hundred or more plastic storage boxes toppled like a felled tree towards the ground far, far below.
Drake watched the tumbling demon-shaped figure until it smashed hard against the junk-strewn floor. He kept watching for another few minutes, but it didn’t get back up.
“I did it,” he muttered to himself, scarcely able to believe it. Then, to the voice of the Deathblade, “I did it!”
But the voice of the Deathblade didn’t answer.
He had just started walking back towards the cave, when he heard a movement from the far edge of the cliff, where it curved round out of sight. Drake tensed, fearing another attack. He had lucked out against the first guardian, and doubted he’d survive a clash with another one.
A towering figure stepped out from the cliffside. Behind, and slightly below him, a much smaller figure wheezed his way up a flight of steps.
“Never again,” panted Pestilence. He took two short puffs on an inhaler and massaged the centre of his chest. “Never... again.”
“What you doing up here?” War demanded gruffly. He held Drake in a tractor-beam stare as he strode across the plastic floor. “You were told – the Deathblade is over by that ridge.”
“What? No, it isn’t,” Drake said. He pointed into the cave. “It’s in there.”
Pestilence mopped some non-existent sweat from his brow with a spotted handkerchief, then placed the handkerchief in a small plastic bag marked: FOR INCINERATION.
“Whatever makes you say that?” he asked.
“Because I heard it,” Drake explained. “It called to me.”
Pestilence turned to look at War, but War didn’t look back, leaving the other Horseman to stare at the back of the giant’s head. “That’s why you changed direction, is it?” War asked. “We were watching you.”
“Yeah,” Drake said. “And thanks for telling me about the Deathblade Guardian, by the way. I mean, it wasn’t a big problem,” he said coolly. “I was able to beat it and everything, but it would’ve been nice to know about it beforehand.”
“Right, aye, sorry,” War said. He scratched his chin through his beard. “So, just to recap: you heard the Deathblade calling to you and leading you here, and you managed to defeat its guardian?”
Without really meaning to, Drake puffed out his chest. “That’s right.”
“You hear that, Pest? The scythe spoke to him, and he leathered seven shades out of the Deathblade Guardian. Amazing that, eh?”
“It is,” Pestilence agreed. “It’s, um, it’s certainly amazing.”
Drake shrugged, but couldn’t hide his grin. “Yeah, I suppose it was pretty impressive.”
“Oh, no, that’s not what I meant,” War explained. “I didn’t mean you were amazing. What’s amazing is that the scythe cannae talk. It’s just a scythe.” He took another step closer until his shadow seemed to block out the glow of the overhead lights. “And,” War continued, “there is no Deathblade Guardian.”
The words trundled around inside Drake’s head, not quite making any sense. “Yes, there is,” he said at last. “And yes, it can. It spoke to me. It said someone had been playing silly beggars with its wardrobe.”
To his credit, War’s face remained completely impassive. “Its wardrobe?”
“Look, I’ll show you, it’s in here,” Drake insisted. He made for the entrance to the cave. “It’s just along—”
The mountain beneath their feet trembled as an explosion tore through the cave. Drake and Pestilence hurled themselves to the floor. Only War remained standing as the fire spat, and choking clouds of melting plastic began to spew from the hole in the cliff wall.
Drake raised his head and coughed as the fumes swirled round him. He looked into the cave and saw the darkness licked away by a flickering wall of flame.
“The Deathblade!” he yelped.
“It isn’t there,” War told him. “It was never there. It’s down by the ridge, where Pest hid it yesterday.”
Drake looked up at War, then back into the burning cave. Gloopy strands of melting plastic dangled like stalactites from the ceiling. Or was it stalagmites? He could never remember.
“So... if it wasn’t the scythe calling me,” he began, voicing the question that was bothering all three of them, “what was it?”
“I don’t know,” War admitted gravely. “But I suggest we don’t hang around to find out. All in favour?”
“Seconded,” said Pestilence, raising a rubber-gloved hand from his position, face-down on the floor.
“Sounds good to me,” Drake agreed. “But it’s a steep climb.”
“We took the stairs up,” War said. He hoisted both Drake and Pest on to their feet, one in each hand. “It’s a pretty safe bet they go all the way back down too.”
“I didn’t know there were stairs.”
“Did you look?”
&nb
sp; Drake was about to shoot War a sarcastic response, when he heard the thunk, thunk, thunk of plodding, heavy footsteps approaching. He didn’t bother to tense up this time, and waited instead for the gargantuan shape to heave itself up the final few steps.
Famine’s face was a bright scarlet red when he finally dragged his blubbery frame on to the clifftop. He doubled over after the last step, his slab-like hands resting on his staggeringly bulky knees as he gulped in lungful after lungful of smoky air.
Finally, with several low grunts and groans, Famine straightened himself up. He looked at the others and did his best to fold his gummy lips into a smile. “All right?” he puffed. “What’d I miss?”
DRAKE OPENED THE shed door and looked out. He saw his garden, beyond which lay his house, and, beyond that, his world.
The journey back across the desert of Limbo had been uneventful enough. Before they left the Junk Room, War had collected the Deathblade, which was tightly wrapped in a sheet of blue plastic, and Pestilence had reluctantly agreed to carry the Robe of Sorrows.
Drake had offered to carry both, but had been told by War in no uncertain terms that he was ‘nowhere near ready’. And so he had followed behind the two horsemen, doing his best to encourage the waddling Famine along.
From somewhere off in the distance, an a cappella version of House of the Rising Sun – without the twiddly bits – had floated tunelessly across the sand. This had made them all pick up their pace, and in no time they were back at the shed. Just a few seconds after that, they were back in Drake’s garden.
“So, the second challenge,” Drake said, still looking out at the high grass of the garden. “I failed it, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” War said.
You could’ve heard a pin drop in the shed.
“What happens now?” Drake asked.
War took almost a full thirty seconds to reply. When he did he sounded hesitant, as if he were unsure of what he was saying. “We’ll call it ‘outside interference’,” he said.
Drake turned to face him. War was back in his usual seat at the table, his face serious, his fingers steepled in front of him. Pestilence was quietly setting up the board game, Guess Who? while Famine, for his part, was eating a Twix.
The 13th Horseman Page 8
