The 13th Horseman - By Barry Hutchison Page 0,39

blew, as Pest had suggested. What came out sounded almost exactly like the white horse’s last bowel movement. “See? Can’t do it.”

“No, you can’t, can you?” Pest said glumly.

“I can whistle normally. A bit,” Drake said. He pursed his lips together and made a warbly, high-pitched squeak. “That any use?”

“Oh, aye, that’ll be very handy if we ever need to summon a budgie,” War spat.

“Keep practising and it’ll come,” Pestilence said encouragingly.

“And what do you suggest we do in the meantime?” War asked.

Pestilence looked up and squinted in the glare of the sun. “It’s a lovely day,” he said brightly. “What’s say we go for a ride?”

THE GROUND ROLLED by in a blur beneath the horse’s hooves. Despite appearances, Pestilence’s horse was strong. It galloped across the fields and bounded over fences, matching the pace of War’s mount without any sign of difficulty.

On its back, Pestilence clutched the reins. Drake sat behind him, holding on to a handle at the rear of the saddle, and silently praying that the horse wouldn’t go airborne.

“You OK back there?” Pest asked.

“Well, I haven’t fallen off yet,” Drake replied.

Pestilence smiled. “That’s a good start.” He was holding the reins with one hand. With the other, he was applying a thick white cream to his face. “Got to put this stuff on or I’ll blister something terrible in this sun,” he explained. “I got so burned last time I looked like I’d been bobbing for chips.”

“Shouldn’t you, you know, see a doctor?” Drake asked him.

“For sunburn?”

“For everything. It’s just, you seem to have a few medical... issues.”

The horse leaped over a small stone wall. Pestilence waited for it to touch back down before he replied. “Comes with the job, don’t it? Pestilence means plague and disease and viruses and stuff. That’s me all over, that. And it’s not exactly a barrel of laughs, let me tell you.”

“Is that why you wear the gloves and stuff? So you can try and avoid catching germs?”

“More the other way round,” Pest explained. “I can’t catch anything from humans, but there’s no saying what they might catch from me.”

Drake subtly slid himself further back in the seat. “Relax,” Pest laughed. “You’re not human any more.”

“What? Well, what am I, then?”

“You’re a Horseman of the Apocalypse, of course.” Pestilence paused a moment, letting this information sink in. “Well, for the next ninety days, anyway.”

“What happens after ninety days?” Drake asked.

Pestilence smiled, but Drake couldn’t see it. “You’re going to quit, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. So I am,” Drake nodded. “Is Famine going to be OK?”

“Hmm? Oh, he’ll be fine. Just over-exerted himself a bit. Best to let him sleep it off.”

Up ahead, War’s horse cleared a five-metre-wide stream in a single leap. Pest slipped his suncream into his jacket pocket and gave the reins a flick. Drake felt the ground fall away as the horse jumped. It seemed to hang in mid-air for several seconds, before landing on the opposite bank with a jarring jolt.

“What’s my horse like?” Drake asked. He had to admit, he was a little disappointed he hadn’t been able to summon it.

“No idea,” Pestilence replied. “Every Death has had a different horse. Yours doesn’t exist yet. It won’t exist until you summon it.”

“War keeps saying I’m the rider on the pale horse, though.”

“Just a Bible quotation,” Pest shrugged. “I think the first Death’s horse was a sort of sickly green colour, but there’s been all sorts since then. Death Eight’s horse was made of living magma. Used to ruin his trousers whenever he sat on it.” Pest sighed sadly. “No wonder the poor beggar killed himself. The goldfish had a lime-green one, if I remember right.”

“The goldfish had a horse?” Drake gaped. “What, you mean even it could whistle?”

“After a fashion,” Pest said. “If you squeezed it hard enough.”

“You didn’t!”

“Of course the goldfish didn’t have a horse,” laughed the horseman. “It borrowed mine. But anyway, the point is your horse might be pale, or it might be bright purple, we’ll just have to wait and see. War just likes his Bible quotes.”

“I don’t think he likes me,” Drake said.

There was a lengthy pause before Pestilence spoke again. “He doesn’t like anyone. Not really. And he’s... not convinced you’re a suitable choice for Death.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think we could’ve done a lot worse.”

“Thanks,” Drake said. “But what if he’s right? What if there’s been a mistake? Maybe I’m not supposed to be Death.”

“The powers that be don’t make mistakes,” Pest assured him.

“What about the goldfish?”

“The powers that