Mort vs Death 3

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.

***

Mort p199-200