Мор - ученик смерти

           Therewasadreadfulmetallicwheezingnoiseandthetrapdoorsintheclockfaceslidopen,releasingtheclockworkmen.Swingingtheirhammersjerkily,asiftheywereafflictedwithroboticarthritis,theybegantoringinthenewday.

           ’Well,that’sit,’saidLezek,hopefully.They’dhavetofindsomewheretosleep–Hogswatch-nightwasnotimetobewalkinginthemountains.Perhapstherewasastablesomewhere....

           ’It’snotmidnightuntilthelaststroke,’saidMort,distantly.

           Lezekshrugged.ThesheerstrengthofMort’sobstinacywasdefeatinghim.

           ’Allright,’hesaid.’We’llwait,then.’

           Andthentheyheardtheclip-clopofhooves,whichboomedrathermoreloudlyaroundthechillysquarethancommonacousticsshouldreallyallow.Infactclip-clopwasanastonishinglyinaccuratewordforthekindofnoisewhichrattledaroundMort’shead;clip-clopsuggestedaratherjollylittlepony,quitepossiblywearingastrawhatwithholescutoutforitsears.Anedgetothissoundmadeitveryclearthatstrawhatsweren’tanoption.

           ThehorseenteredthesquarebytheHubroad,steamcurlingoffitshugedampwhiteflanksandsparksstrikingupfromthecobblesbeneathit.Ittrottedproudly,likeawarcharger.Itwasdefinitelynotwearingastrawhat.

           Thetallfigureonitsbackwaswrappedupgainstthecold.Whenthehorsereachedthecentreofthesquaretheriderdismounted,slowly,andfumbledwithsomethingbehindthesaddle.