The 13th Horseman - By Barry Hutchison Page 0,8

the wind.

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