Мор - ученик смерти

           Eventuallyhe–orshe–producedanosebag,fasteneditoverthehorse’sears,andgaveitafriendlypatontheneck.

           Theairtookonathick,greasyfeel,andthedeepshadowsaroundMortbecameedgedwithblueandpurplerainbows.Theriderstrodetowardshim,blackcloakbillowingandfeetmakinglittleclickingsoundsonthecobbles.Theyweretheonlynoises–silenceclampeddownonthesquarelikegreatdriftsofcottonwool.

           Theimpressiveeffectwasratherspoiltbyapatchofice.

           OH,BUGGER.

           Itwasn’texactlyavoice.Thewordswerethereallright,buttheyarrivedinMort’sheadwithoutbotheringtopassthroughhisears.

           Herushedforwardtohelpthefallenfigure,andfoundhimselfgrabbingholdofahandthatwasnothingmorethanpolishedbone,smoothandratheryellowedlikeanoldbilliardball.Thefigure’shoodfellback,andanakedskullturneditsemptyeyesocketstowardshim.

           Notquiteempty,though.Deepwithinthem,asthoughtheywerewindowslookingacrossthegulfsofspace,weretwotinybluestars.

           ItoccurredtoMortthatheoughttofeelhorrified,sohewasslightlyshockedtofindthathewasn’t.Itwasaskeletonsittinginfrontofhim,rubbingitskneesandgrumbling,butitwasaliveone,curiouslyimpressivebutnot,forsomestrangereason,veryfrightening.

           THANKYOU,BOY,saidtheskull.WHATISYOURNAME?