It looked as if the fabric of the heavens had been stretched out, pulled so thin that he could see the stars shining through it.
“I’m ending the world,” Mr Franks cackled, as he saw the moment of realisation spread like a rash across Drake’s face. “But, lucky for you, you’re not going to be on it.”
Drake grabbed at the battle armour. A shock jolted through him, but he kept clawing, kept trying to find a way of pulling the helmet open, of tearing the exo-skeleton apart.
A glug of red coolant slicked his fingers and he lost what little grip he had on the armour. He heard Mr Franks laugh, even over the whistling of the wind, but his attention was fixed on the blood-like liquid.
He thought back to the cave of the Deathblade Guardian, and to the cupboard in Dr Black’s room. Air conditioning. Climate control. The engine coolant dribbled from his fingertips, and everything clicked into place.
They began to rise through a bank of cloud, which had appeared as if from nowhere. A horse-shaped section of the vapour suddenly became solid beneath Drake, and their impossibly quick ascent stopped impossibly quickly.
Drake took a moment to look around. He could see the curvature of the Earth stretching out far, far below. He could see the colours of the upper atmosphere, swirling like the surface of a giant bubble. He could see the stars, above and around them, and he could hear... nothing at all. Mr Franks was speaking – shouting – but Drake could not hear a sound.
There was no air, but neither Drake nor his horse required it. Drake looked down at the world spread out below him. It would not end today.
Ignoring the shock of pain, he took hold of Mr Franks’ metal frame. He didn’t even need to think the next command. The horse moved all by itself.
Down they went, plunging through the atmosphere, faster even than they had climbed. The silence ended with a sudden boom, and the sounds of hooves and wind and screaming filled Drake’s ears.
The metal of the battle armour went orange, then red, then white as the heat generated by their re-entry into the atmosphere began burning the suit up. Heat. That was the key. That was the weakness.
“Stop!” Mr Franks pleaded. But Drake did not stop. He rode, not across the sky, but straight down, ushering in one very specific, localised Apocalypse.
The heat was intense. Drake could feel it scorching against his skin, but it didn’t burn him, couldn’t burn him.
“Give me her soul back,” Drake snarled. “Let her go.”
Mr Franks tried to swing with a wild punch, but the heat was making the armour seize up. His fist creaked to a stop several centimetres from its target.
“Let her go, or you die!”
Mr Franks’s eyes were wide with terror, but he was hanging on to his defiance. “You won’t do it. You’re not a murderer.”
“No,” Drake agreed. “Murderers can be stopped. Death can’t. Not by burning, not by falling, not by you! “
“You won’t do it!”
“Yes,” said Drake. “I will.” He released his grip. A look of puzzled terror crossed Mr Franks’s face and he suddenly found himself freefalling.
Down, Drake thought, and the horse raced after the plummeting teacher, keeping pace, but making no attempt to intercept him. Drake listened to Mr Franks’s screams all the way down to the ground.
The madman closed his eyes and prepared himself for the end as the tarmac rushed up to meet him. But he did not hit it. At least, not right away. A firm hand caught him by a robotic ankle, stopping his skull splattering like an egg on the concrete.
“Well, well, well, look who dropped in,” War growled. He opened his hand and the armour, with Mr Franks inside, clattered down on to the ground.
Mr Franks looked up to see War, Famine and Pestilence glaring down. War’s sword was back in the giant’s hand, the tip of the blade held just centimetres from the teacher’s face.
“Oh God,” Mr Franks groaned. “Not you three.”
“Lovely to see you too,” Pest said. “We really mustn’t do this again some time.”
There was a moment of ominous silence, when even the blaring of the police sirens died away, and Drake’s horse touched down beside them. The other three horsemen stepped aside as Drake strode over, pausing only to pick up the fallen scythe. Even without the Robe of Sorrows, he looked every inch the embodiment of Death.
“Give me back her soul,” he commanded, in a voice like