Мор - ученик смерти

           EveryonehadseenMortrunthroughitthreetimes.Hejusthadn’topenedit.

           Binkyfoughtforheight,risingnearlyverticallywithhishoovesthrashingtheairandhisbreathcurlingawaybehindhimlikeavapourtrail.Morthungonwithkneesandhandsandmostlywithwillpower,hisfaceburiedinthehorse’smane.Hedidn’tlookdownuntiltheairaroundhimwasfreezingandthinasworkhousegravy.

           OverheadtheHubLightsflickeredsilentlyacrossthewintersky.Below

           anupturnedsaucer,milesacross,silveryinthestarlight.Hecouldseelightsthroughit.Cloudsweredriftingthroughit.

           No.Hewatchedcarefully.Cloudswerecertainlydriftingintoit,andtherewerecloudsinit,butthecloudsinsidewerewispierandmovinginaslightlydifferentdirectionand,infact,didn’tseemtohavemuchtodowiththecloudsoutside.Therewassomethingelse...ohyes,theHubLights.Theygavethenightoutsidetheghostlyhemisphereafaintgreentint,buttherewasnosignofitunderthedome.

           Itwaslikelookingintoapieceofanotherworld,almostidentical,thathadbeengraftedontotheDisc.Theweatherwasslightlydifferentinthere,andtheLightsweren’tondisplaytonight.

           AndtheDiscwasresentingit,andsurroundingit,andpushingitbackintonon-existence.Mortcouldn’tseeitgrowingsmallerfromuphere,butinhismind’searhecouldhearthelocustsizzleofthethingasitgroundacrosstheland,changingthingsbacktowheretheyshouldbe.Realitywashealingitself

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