Death slow time

IT’S TIME, said Death, giving Mort a nudge with a sharp elbow. FOLLOW ME.

Death walked toward the king, weighing his sword in his hand. Mort blinked, and started to
follow. The girl’s eyes met his for a second and immediately looked away—then swiveled back,
dragging her head around, her mouth starting to open in an “o” of horror.

Mort’s backbone melted. He started to run towards the king.

“Look out!” he screamed. “You’re in great danger!”

And the world turned into treacle. It began to fill up with blue and purple shadows, like a
heatstroke dream, and sound faded away until the roar of the court became distant and scritchy, like
the music in someone else’s headphones. Mort saw Death standing companionably by the king, his
eyes turned up towards—

—the minstrel gallery.

Mort saw the bowman, saw the bow, saw the bolt now winging through the air at the speed of a
sick snail. Slow as it was, he couldn’t outrun it. It seemed like hours before he could bring his leaden
legs under control, but finally he managed to get both feet to touch the floor at the same time and
kicked away with all the apparent acceleration of continental drift.

As he twisted slowly through the air Death said, without rancor, IT WON’T WORK, YOU KNOW. IT’S
ONLY NATURAL THAT YOU SHOULD WANT TO TRY, BUT IT WON’T WORK.

***

Mort p36-37