“May I?” he said.
BE MY GUEST.
The name Mort was engraved on the top bulb. He held it up to the light, noting without any real surprise that there was hardly any sand left. When he held it to his ear he thought he could hear, even above the ever-present roar of the millions of lifetimers around him, the sound of his own life pouring away.
He put it down very carefully.
Death turned to Cutwell.
MR WIZARD, SIR, YOU WILL BE GOOD ENOUGH TO GIVE US A COUNT OF THREE.
Cutwell nodded glumly.
“Are you sure this couldn’t all be sorted out by getting around a table—” he began.
NO.
“No.”
Mort and Death circled one another warily, their reflections flickering across the banks of hourglasses.
“One,” said Cutwell.
Death spun his scythe menacingly.
“Two.”
The blades met in mid-air with a noise like a cat sliding down a pane of glass.
“They both cheated!” said Keli.
Ysabell nodded. “Of course,” she said.
Mort jumped back, bringing the sword round in a too-slow arc that Death easily deflected, turning the parry into a wicked low sweep that Mort avoided only by a clumsy standing jump.
Although the scythe isn’t pre-eminent among weapons of war, anyone who has been on the wrong end of, say, a peasants’ revolt will know that in skilled hands it is fearsome. Once its owner gets it weaving and spinning no-one—including the wielder—is quite certain where the blade is now and where it will be next.
Death advanced, grinning. Mort ducked a cut at head height and dived sideways, hearing a tinkle behind him as the tip of the scythe caught a glass on the nearest shelf…
… in a dark alley in Morpork a night soil entrepreneur clutched at his chest and pitched forward over his cart…
Mort rolled and came up swinging the sword double-handed over his head, feeling a twang of dark exhilaration as Death darted backwards across the checkered tiles. The wild swing cut through a shelf; one after another its burden of glasses started to slide towards the floor. Mort was dimly aware of Ysabell scurrying past him to catch them one by one…
… across the Disc four people miraculously escaped death by falling…
… and then he ran forward, pressing home his advantage. Death’s hands moved in a blur as he blocked every chop and thrust, and then changed grip on the scythe and brought the blade swinging up in an arc that Mort sidestepped awkwardly, nicking the frame of an hourglass with the hilt of his sword and sending it flying across the room…
… in the Ramtop mountains a tharga-herder, searching by lamplight in the high meadows for a lost cow, missed his footing and plunged over a thousand foot drop…
… Cutwell dived forward and caught the tumbling glass in one desperately outstretched hand, hit the floor and slid along on his stomach…
… a gnarled sycamore mysteriously loomed under the screaming herder and broke his fall, removing his major problems—death, the judgement of the gods, the uncertainty of Paradise and so on—and replacing them with the comparatively simple one of climbing back up about one hundred feet of sheer, icy cliff in pitch darkness.
There was a pause as the combatants backed away from each other and circled again, looking for an opening.
“Surely there’s something we can do?” said Keli.
“Mort will lose either way,” said Ysabell, shaking her head. Cutwell shook the silver candlestick out of his baggy sleeve and tossed it thoughtfully from hand to hand.
Death hefted the scythe threateningly, incidentally smashing an hourglass by his shoulder…
… in Bes Pelargic the Emperor’s chief torturer slumped backwards into his own acid pit…
… and took another swing which Mort dodged by sheer luck. But only just. He could feel the hot ache in his muscles and the numbing greyness of fatigue poisons in his brain, two disadvantages that Death did not have to consider.
Death noticed.
YIELD, he said. I MAY BE MERCIFUL.
To illustrate the point he made a roundarm slash that Mort caught, clumsily, on the edge of his sword. The scythe blade bounced up, splintered a glass into a thousand shards…
… the Duke of Sto Helit clutched at his heart, felt the icy stab of pain, screamed soundlessly and tumbled from his horse…
Mort backed away until he felt the roughness of a stone pillar on his neck. Death’s glass with its dauntingly empty bulbs was a few inches from his head.
Death himself wasn’t paying much attention. He was looking down thoughtfully at the jagged remains of the Duke’s life.
Mort yelled and swung his sword up, to the faint cheers of the crowd that had been waiting for him to do this for some time. Even Albert clapped his wrinkled hands.
But instead of the tinkle of glass that Mort had expected there was—nothing.
He turned and tried again. The blade passed right through the glass without breaking it.
The change in the texture of the air made him bring the sword around and back in time to deflect a vicious downward sweep. Death sprang away in time to dodge Mort’s counter thrust, which was slow and weak.
THUS IT ENDS, BOY.
“Mort,” said Mort. He looked up.
“Mort,” he repeated, and brought the sword up in a stroke that cut the scythe’s handle in two. Anger bubbled up inside him. If he was going to die, then at least he’d die with the right name.
“Mort, you bastard!” he screamed, and propelled himself straight towards the grinning skull with the sword whirring in a complicated dance of blue light. Death staggered backwards, laughing, crouching under the rain of furious strokes that sliced the scythe handle into more pieces.
Mort circled him, chopping and thrusting and dully aware, even through the red mists of fury, that Death was following his every move, holding the orphaned scytheblade like a sword. There was no opening, and the motor of his anger wouldn’t last. You’ll never beat him, he told himself. The best we can do is hold him off for a while. And losing is probably better than winning. Who needs eternity, anyway?
Through the curtain of his fatigue he saw Death unfold the length of his bones and bring his blade around in a slow, leisurely arc as though it was moving through treacle.
“Father!” screamed Ysabell.
Death turned his head.
Perhaps Mort’s mind welcomed the prospect of the life to come but his body, which maybe felt it had most to lose in the deal, objected. It brought his sword arm up in one unstoppable stroke that flicked Death’s blade from his hand, and then pinned him against the nearest pillar.
In the sudden hush Mort realised he could no longer hear an intrusive little noise that had been just at his threshold of hearing for the last ten minutes. His eyes darted sideways.
The last of his sand was running out.
STRIKE.
Mort raised the sword, and looked into the twin blue fires.
He lowered the sword.
“No.”
Death’s foot lashed out at groin height with a speed that even made Cutwell wince.
Mort silently curled into a ball and rolled across the floor. Through his tears he saw Death advancing, scytheblade in one hand and Mort’s own hourglass in the other. He saw Keli and Ysabell swept disdainfully aside as they made a grab for the robe. He saw Cutwell elbowed in the ribs, his candlestick clattering across the tiles.
Death stood over him. The tip of the blade hovered in front of Mort’s eyes for a moment, and then swept upwards.
“You’re right. There’s no justice. There’s just you.”
Death hesitated, and then slowly lowered the blade. He turned and looked down into Ysabell’s face. She was shaking with anger.
YOUR MEANING?
She glowered up at Death’s face and then her hand swung back and swung around and swung forward and connected with a sound like a dice box.