the speed and the strength. Worlds are dashed beneath my feet.'
Veitch snatched his head away as the Night Rider brought a hoof down sharply. It slammed the ground an inch from his ear, jolting his head upwards so powerfully he knew his skull would have been crushed if contact had been made. With the next blow, sparks burned his cheek. He was trapped beneath the body of the creature, with no way of wriggling free.
'This sacred place belongs to the Machan who made me. Totem of Rig Antona, our Great High Queen, who made the sky and the stars and the green grass on which we run.' The words reminded Veitch of a recorded announcement programmed to be delivered to intruders in the earliest of days. 'In this place, where the barrier is thin, the wild, untamed spirits of the horse gallop to the Grey Lands and back.'
Another hoof came down in punctuation, this time clipping Witch's shoulder; a bolt of pain shot down his arm.
'No one but the Machan may ride here betwixt sunset and sunrise. That is the law.' The horse had human features, but the Night Rider's face was now wholly that of a demonic horse with blazing red eyes, an alien conqueror who would brook no trespass on his domain. Veitch felt swallowed up by that scarlet glow, forced to accept his place in the scheme of things. You are nothing, it said. Insignificant in the face of a higher power. You will obey, and you will die.
It meant nothing to Veitch. As the Night Rider rose up high, its hooves tearing at the air ready for the killing blow, Veitch brought the crossbow up and loosed a bolt directly into the creature's belly. That unmistakable metal- onconcrete roar erupted from its wildly shifting face as it threw itself into a furious downward drive at Veitch's head.
But the bolt had unbalanced it. In a sinuous movement, Veitch pulled out the short sword from his belt and drove it upwards at the same time as he kicked himself backwards. The sword ripped into the belly and tore upwards. 'Nothing scares me any more,' Veitch growled defiantly.
He was too busy doing a backward roll to see the results of his attack, but he could hear the Night Rider's hideous cries. And then he was sprinting for the bridge, scrambling up the bank at the side of it, his feet slipping on the weeds, but gaining enough purchase to propel himself to the top.
Only when he was on the bridge did he allow himself a glance back. There was neither blood nor intestines, but the Rider was lurching from side to side in obvious discomfort, his head held back, roaring his pain to the night. Once his gaze fell on Veitch, the face changed once more to the demonic horse's head and, with the eyes shining like red lanterns, the Rider overcame his agony to spur himself into pursuit.
Veitch paused to give him the finger, then flipped over the wall of the bridge and landed on the Tarmac path that curved around the trees into the flat summit of the hill. Nearly there, he thought breathlessly, energised by his escape and his defiance. For a moment he felt indestructible, until he heard the Night Rider thunder effortlessly up the side of the ditch and the hooves clatter on the Tarmac surface.
Veitch weighed up the prospects of loosing some more bolts, but he estimated the effect would be negligible. It was now all down to his fitness and his energy reserves. He followed the curve of the path until he saw the lawns laid out before him, silver-grey in the moonlight with the dry dew pond at the centre. Before him the dark bulk of the house loomed up. The comforting golden glow of candlelight illuminated a square on the courtyard from the window of Robertson's quarters.
Behind, the rumble of hooves came on like a runaway train.
I can make it, Veitch told himself.
He ran as if caught by the north wind, hurdling the small fence and pounding across the courtyard. The hooves grew closer, only yards now. He couldn't outrun a horse, but the house was close enough to reach before it got to him. Past the stable block with its silent ghosts of horses past. Their energy was everywhere, he thought.
Now he could hear the beast's breath, explosive bursts punctuated by the gnashing of its teeth. He waited for the hot bloom of it on the back of his neck.
He slammed into the door, sending the panes ringing in their frames. Fumbling around, he caught the handle and yanked. Locked.
'Robertson!' His throat was torn by the yell.
Robertson appeared at the window, his face pale and desperate. Veitch was already reading the signs, recalling the man's nature. 'Come on, you bastard,' he said under his breath. The sound of hooves was deafening; Veitch forced himself not to look. As Robertson took in the situation in a glance, an expression of revelation crossed his face; and the revelation was that the world was the hell he had always imagined, where reason didn't exist and superstition crushed lives at random. He backed away rapidly, waving his hands in front of him.
From behind, there was a hiss like escaping steam, loaded with a note of triumph.
Veitch cursed under his breath and turned, the house heavy at his back, the enclosing walls of the courtyard too oppressive; nowhere to run.
The Night Rider had slowed his speed, revelling in the cornering of his prey. In the candlelight, Veitch could make out more details of his pursuer. The rider's legs went directly into the body of the horse, not just fused there, but utilising the same muscular and vascular system. The rider's arms disappeared into the mane, the horse hair wrapping round, becoming part of the human flesh; and still the features on both the heads were hideously changing places.
Nowhere to run.
The rider came to a halt. Slowly one hoof dragged along the ground, raising sparks. The head at the front lowered, the rider leaned forward.
Still a chance to move, Veitch told himself optimistically. Don't give up. Never give up.
Before he could break away from the door, a voice boomed across the courtyard. The tone and volume made Veitch jump in shock. It was in a language he didn't comprehend, but the words-if that was what they were-made his ears hurt just by hearing them.
It had an effect on the Rider too; he paused as he prepared for the charge, cantered round, backed off. Veitch noted the mutating appearance had speeded up; the features were now just a blur, suggesting uneasiness.
For a time the whole of the world hung in abeyance. With his heart in his mouth, Veitch saw movement in the shadows surrounding the stable block. Whatever had spoken was there. Veitch wanted to flee to a secure hiding place immediately, but the figure was now emerging from the gloom. The Night Rider, too, appeared to be waiting with something like apprehension.
When the figure stepped into the moonlight, Veitch was shocked to see it was Tom. He was staggering a little, as if exhausted, but the most curious detail was that he was smoking, as if he had been singed by a blaze. The Rider focused all his attention on the slight figure. When Tom was ten feet away he made a strange hand movement which appeared to involve another set of joints in the wrist. It was followed by another word; Tom whispered it, but it crashed like the peal of cathedral bells.
The Rider responded as if chastened by a whip. The front of the horse bowed down, bending its front legs until its head was almost on the ground. The Rider followed suit with a similar act of deference. Then it rose back up and, without a second glance at Veitch, calmly cantered off.
Veitch remained tense for a few seconds, barely believing what he was seeing, but then his shoulders relaxed and he turned to Tom with a broad grin. 'You old bastard! Like the bleedin' cavalry!'
Tom marched over and stabbed a finger into Veitch's face. 'I thought I told you to get off the hill at nightfall!'
Veitch's expression soured. 'Since when did I do what you say, you senile old bastard?' The adrenalin still pumped deliriously around his system. 'Hang on a minute.' He turned and launched a hefty kick at the door, which burst off its hinges, shattering all the panes at once.
Tom recognised the expression on Veitch's face, the consuming rage that he carried with him at all times. 'Now, steady on-'
Veitch had already marched inside. There was a loud crashing within and a moment later he emerged, dragging a writhing Robertson behind him. The squatter was almost insane with fear, his eyes rolling, his jaw sagging.
'Ryan! He's scared!'
'Yeah? Well, here's something to be scared of.' He thumped Robertson so hard on the side of the head, Tom
