Мор - ученик смерти

           Mortbackedawayuntilhefelttheroughnessofastonepillaronhisneck.Death’sglasswithitsdauntinglyemptybulbswasafewinchesfromhishead.

           Deathhimselfwasn’tpayingmuchattention.HewaslookingdownthoughtfullyatthejaggedremainsoftheDuke’slife.

           Mortyelledandswunghisswordup,tothefaintcheersofthecrowdthathadbeenwaitingforhimtodothisforsometime.EvenAlbertclappedhiswrinkledhands.

           Butinsteadof.thetinkleofglassthatMorthadexpectedtherewas–nothing.

           Heturnedandtriedagain.Thebladepassedrightthroughtheglasswithoutbreakingit.

           Thechangeinthetextureoftheairmadehimbringtheswordaroundandbackintimetodeflectaviciousdownwardsweep.DeathsprangawayintimetododgeMort’scounterthrust,whichwasslowandweak.

           THUSITENDS,BOY.

           ’Mort,’saidMort.Helookedup.

           ’Mort,’herepeated,andbroughttheswordupinastrokethatcutthescythe’shandleintwo.Angerbubbledupinsidehim.Ifhewasgoingtodie,thenatleasthe’ddiewiththerightname.

           ’Mort,youbastard!’hescreamed,andpropelledhimselfstraighttowardsthegrinningskullwiththeswordwhirringinacomplicateddanceofbluelight.Deathstaggeredbackwards,laughing,crouchingundertherainoffuriousstrokesthatslicedthescythehandleintomorepieces.

           Mortcircledhim,choppingandthrustinganddullyaware,eventhroughtheredmistsoffury,thatDeathwasfollowinghiseverymove,holdingtheorphanedscythebladelikeasword.