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?”
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