The 13th Horseman Part 8

The next box was filled with wooden cups, shaped like old-fas.h.i.+oned goblets. The next had two flat rectangles of stone, one atop the other. There was writing carved into the surface of the top stone, but Drake couldn't tell what it said.

Another box contained CDs, mostly, and a few books. The next one appeared to be filled with salt. Something hissed and snarled in the box after that one. Drake decided not to open it, and moved on to the next.

He decided to check two more of the plastic containers. If he didn't find anything to light the way by then, he would turn back. There was no way he was carrying on in the dark, regardless of what the whispering voice in his head might say.

Drake didn't know what was in the next box, but the smell was enough to make him close the lid without checking too closely. It smelled a lot like Toxie the h.e.l.lcat, but with a burned-meat edge to it that made Drake's eyes stream.

He crawled over to the next box and put his hands on the lid.

Then he took them off again. A feeling, like the one that had led him to the cave, steered him three boxes to the left. His fingers found the lid's plastic clasps and a feeling of warmth spread along both arms.

Drake opened the lid and the sound of a choir rang out from within the tub. A bright, brilliant light flooded the cave. Drake screwed his eyes shut and covered them with both arms, but the light still shone through. Blinded, Drake reached clumsily into the box. His fingers wrapped round some kind of hoop and he pulled it free.

He clicked the lid back into place and the music stopped. The blinding light went with it, leaving only the glow of the object in Drake's hand to chase away the darkness in the cave.

Drake looked at the thing he was holding. It was a ring of glowing white light, about the size of a dinner plate. The light itself was solid enough for Drake to hold.

It felt warm to the touch, and the surface of the light seemed to move beneath his grip. It was a bit like holding on to a pipe, through which warm water was running, but a magical glowing pipe, that made you want to shout "Hallelujah!" as loudly and as often as you could. Even with everything he'd seen recently, this seemed particularly incredible.

Drake lowered the ring towards the floor. The shadows fled from its warm glow, revealing a printed label stuck to the lid of the plastic box.

HALOS, the label read. (a.s.sORTED SIZES) Now come, the voice in his head insisted. Drake did as he was told. Holding the halo out before him to light the way, he continued down the plastic pa.s.sageway towards whatever lay ahead.

The cave came to a stop twenty or so metres later, in a wall of brightly coloured stackable tubs. A slim wooden wardrobe stood against the wall, its double doors tied together with string. The air was colder around the wardrobe, and Drake found himself rubbing his arms to try to keep warm.

His breath clouded into mist as he opened his mouth and said, "h.e.l.lo?"

No reply came. Drake took a step closer to the wardrobe. It looked like a cheap, flat-packed one, which surprised him. If the Deathblade was as powerful a weapon as War had said, why keep it in a flimsy wardrobe? In fact, why keep it in a wardrobe at all?

"h.e.l.lo?" he said again, raising his voice to be heard above the low droning noise that filled this part of the cave. The voice in his head stayed silent.

Drake raised the halo, casting its eerie yellow light across the walls and the ceiling. Above the wardrobe were four large vents. The cold breeze was blowing from within them. An air-conditioning system in a land without temperature. But why?

Welcome, chimed the whispers in his brain. I am the Deathblade. Have you come to claim my power?

"Uh... yeah," Drake said. "I think so."

Then come. Claim the power of the Deathblade as your own. "Where are you?"

There was a pause. Guess.

"Are you... are you in the wardrobe?" Drake asked.

I am in the wardrobe, the voice confirmed.

Drake took another step. "The handles are tied together," he said.

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 s.h.i.+ns 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 s.h.i.+ns joined with the metal thighs.

"What the h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sageway, racing towards the exit. Behind him, he heard the hollow thunk, thunk, thunk of heavy footsteps. .h.i.tting 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 ofa"

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 sn.i.g.g.e.r. 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 could 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 ma.s.saged 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 a" 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."