Mort

'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 round 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 realized 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, scythe-blade 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.

It was nothing like as loud as the silence that followed it.

Keli shut her eyes. Cutwell turned away and put his arms over his head.

Death raised a hand to his skull, very slowly.

Ysabell's chest rose and fell in a manner that should have made Cutwell give up magic for life.

Finally, in a voice even more hollow than usual, Death said: WHY?

'You said that to tinker with the fate of one individual could destroy the whole world,' said Ysabell.