Мор - ученик смерти

           BehindthemCutwellburstoutofhisdoorway,acceleratingdownthefrostystreetwithhisrobesflyingoutbehindhim.

           Nowthehorsewascantering,wideningthedistancebetweenitshoovesandthecobbles.Withaswishofitstailitclearedthehousetopsandfloatedupintothechillysky.

           Cutwellignoredit.Hehadmorepressingthingsonhismind.Hetookaflyingleapandlandedfulllengthinthefreezingwatersofthehorsetrough,lyingbackgratefullyamongthebobbingicesplinters.Afterawhilethewaterbegantosteam.Mortkeptlowforthesheerexhilarationofthespeed.Thesleepingcountrysideroaredsoundlesslyunderneath.Binkymovedataneasygallop,hisgreatmusclesslidingunderhisskinaseasilyasalligatorsoffasandbank,hismanewhippinginMort’sface.Thenightswirledawayfromthespeedingedgeofthescythe,cutintotwocurlinghalves.

           Theyspedunderthemoonlightassilentasashadow,visibleonlytocatsandpeoplewhodabbledinthingsmenwerenotmeanttowotof.

           Mortcouldn’trememberafterwards,butveryprobablyhelaughed.

           Soonthefrostyplainsgavewaytothebrokenlandsaroundthemountains,andthenthemarchingranksoftheRamtopsthemselvesracedacrosstheworldtowardsthem.Binkyputhisheaddownandopenedhisstride,aimingforapassbetweentwomountainsassharpasgoblins’teethinthesilverlight.Somewhereawolfhowled.

           Morttookanotherlookatthehourglass.Itsframewascarvedwithoakleavesandmandrakeroots,andthesandinside,evenbymoonlight,waspalegold.Byturningtheglassthiswayandthat,hecouldjustmakeoutthename’AmmelineHamstring’etchedinthefaintestoflines.