Terry Pratchett - Reaper Man

The wheels had been sharp, like ice skates. He was definitely feeling tattered around the legs. Now, how did healing go?

Reg Shoe was helped into a sitting position.

"What's happening?" he said. "No-one else was coming in, and I came down here to see where the music was coming from, and the next thing, there's these wheels -"

Count Arthur returned to his approximately human form, looked around proudly, realised that no-one was paying him any attention, and sagged.

"They looked a lot tougher than the others," said Ludmilla. "Bigger and nastier and covered in sharp edges."

"Soldiers," said Windle. ‘We've seen the workers. And now there's soldiers. Just like ants."

"I had an ant farm when I was a lad," said Arthur, who had hit the floor rather heavily and was having temporary trouble with the nature of reality.

"Hang on," said Ludmilla. "I know about ants. We have ants in the back yard. If you have workers and soldiers, then you must also have a -"

"I know. I know," said Windle.

"- mind you, they called it a farm, I never saw them doing any farming -"

Ludmilla leaned against the wall.

"It'll be somewhere close," she said.

"I think so, " said Windle.

"What does it look like, do you think?"

"- what you do is, you get two bits of glass and some ants -"

"I don't know. How should I know? But the wizards will be somewhere near it."

"I don't see vy you're bothering about them," said Doreen. ‘They buried you alive just because you vere dead."

Windle looked up at the sound of wheels. A dozen warrior baskets turned the corner and pulled up in formation.

"They thought they were doing it for the best," said Windle. "People often do. It's amazing, the things that seem a good idea at the time."

The new Death straightened up.

Or?

AH.

ER.

Bill Door stepped back, turned round, and ran for it.

It was, as he was wonderfully well placed to know, merely putting off the inevitable. But wasn't that what living was all about?

No-one had ever run away from him after they were dead. Many had tried it before they were dead, often with great ingenuity. But the normal reaction of a spirit, suddenly pitched from one world into the next, was to hang around hopefully. Why run, after all? It wasn't as if you knew where you were running to.

The ghost Bill Door knew where he was running to.

Ned Simnel's smithy was locked up for the night, although this did not present a problem. Not alive and not dead, the spirit Bill Door dived through the wall.

The fire was a barely-visible glow, settling in the forge.

The smithy was full of warm darkness.

What it didn't contain was the ghost of a scythe.

Bill Door looked around desperately.

SQUEAK?

There was a small dark-robed figure sitting on a beam above him. It gestured frantically towards the corner.

He saw a dark handle sticking out from the load of timber. He tried to pull at it with fingers now as substantial as a shadow.

HE SAID HE WOULD DESTROY IT FOR ME!

The Death of Rats shrugged sympathetically.

The new Death stepped through the wall, scythe held in both hands.

It advanced on Bill Door.

There was a rustling. The grey robes were pouring into the smithy.

Bill Door grinned in terror.

The new Death stopped, posing dramatically in the glow from the forge.

It swung.

It almost lost its balance.

You‘re not supposed to duck!

Bill Door dived through the wall again and pounded across the square, skull down, spectral feet making no noise on the cobbles. He reached the little group by the clock.

ON THE HORSE! GO!

"What's happening? What's happening!"

IT HASN'T WORKED!

Miss Flitworth gave him a panicky look but put the unconscious child on Binky's back and climbed up after her. Then Bill Door brought his hand down hard on the horse's flank. There at least there was contact - Binky existed in all worlds.

Go!

He didn't look around but darted on up the road towards the farm.

A weapon!

Something he could hold!

The only weapon in the undead world was in the hands of the new Death.

As Bill Door ran he was aware of a faint, higher-pitched clicking noise. He looked down. The Death of Rats was keeping pace with him.

It gave him an encouraging squeak.

He skidded through the farm gate and flung himself against the wall.

There was the distant rumble of the storm. Apart from that, silence.

He relaxed slightly, and crept cautiously along the wall towards the back of the farmhouse.

He caught a glimpse of something metallic. Leaning against the wall there where the men from the village had left it when they brought him back, was his scythe; not the one he'd carefully prepared but the one he'd used for the harvest. What edge it had had been achieved only by the whetstone and the caress of the stalks, but it was a familiar shape and he made a tentative grab at it. His hand passed right through.

The further you run, the closer you get.

The new Death stepped unhurriedly out of the shadows.

You should know that, it added.

Bill Door straightened up.

We will enjoy this.

ENJOY?

The new Death advanced. Bill Door backed away.

Yes. The lacking of one Death is the same as achieving the end of a billion lesser lives.

LESSER LIVES? THIS IS NOT A GAME!

The new Death hesitated. What is a game?

Bill Door felt the tiny flicker of hope.

I COULD SHOW YOU -

The end of the scythe handle caught him under the chin and knocked him against the wall, where he slid to the ground.

We deed a Crick. We do not listen. The reaper does not listen to the harvest.

Bill Door tried to get up.

The scythe handle struck him again.

We will not make the same mistakes.

Bill Door looked up. The new Death was holding the golden timer; the top bulb was empty. Around both of them the landscape shifted, reddened, began to take on the unreal appearance of reality seen from the other side...

You ‘re out of Time, Mr. Bill Door.

The new Death raised his cowl.

There was no face there. There was not even a skull.

Smoke curled formlessly between the robe and a golden crown.

Bill Door raised himself on his elbows.

A CROWN? His voice shook with rage. I NEVER WORE A CROWN!

You never wanted to rule.

The Death swung the scythe back.

And then it dawned on the old Death and the new Death that the hissing of passing time had not, in fact, stopped.

The new Death hesitated, and took out the golden glass.

It shook it.

Bill Door looked into the empty face under the crown. There was an expression of puzzlement there, even with no features actually to wear it; the expression hung in the air all by itself.

He saw the crown turn.

Miss Flitworth stood with her hands held a foot apart and her eyes closed. Between her hands, in the air in front of her hovered the faint outline of a lifetimer, its sand pouring away in a torrent.

The Deaths could just make out, on the glass the spidery name: Renata Flitworth.

The new Death's featureless expression became one of terminal puzzlement. It turned to Bill Door.

For YOU?

But Bill Door was already rising and unfolding like the wrath of kings. He reached behind him, growling, living on loaned time, and his hands closed around the harvest scythe.

The crowned Death saw it coming and raised its own weapon but there was very possibly nothing in the world that would stop the worn blade as it snarled through the air, rage arid vengeance giving it an edge beyond any definition of sharpness. It passed through the metal without slowing.

NO CROWN, said Bill Door, looking directly into the smoke. NO CROWN. ONLY THE HARVEST.