Death - severed king

The bolt struck. Death brought his sword around in a double-handed swing that passed gently
through the king’s neck without leaving a mark. To Mort, spiraling gently through the twilight world, it
looked as though a ghostly shape had dropped away.

It couldn’t be the king, because he was manifestly still standing there, looking directly at Death
with an expression of extreme surprise. There was a shadowy something around his feet, and a long
way away people were reacting with shouts and screams.

A GOOD CLEAN JOB, said Death. ROYALTY ARE ALWAYS A PROBLEM. THEY TEND TO WANT TO HANG
ON. YOUR AVERAGE PEASANT, NOW, HE CAN’T WAIT.

“Who the hell are you?” said the king. “What are you doing here? Eh? Guards! I deman—”

The insistent message from his eyes finally battered through to his brain. Mort was impressed.
King Olerve had held on to his throne for many years and, even when dead, knew how to behave.

“Oh,” he said, “I see. I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

YOUR MAJESTY, said Death, bowing, FEW DO.

***

Mort p37