Мор - ученик смерти

           Therewasnoopening,andthemotorofhisangerwouldn’tlast.You’llneverbeathim,hetoldhimself.Thebestwecandoisholdhimoffforawhile.Andlosingisprobablybetterthanwinning.Whoneedseternity,anyway?

           ThroughthecurtainofhisfatiguehesawDeathunfoldthelengthofhisbonesandbringhisbladeaundinaslow,leisurelyarcasthoughitwasmovingthroughtreacle.

           ’Father!’screamedYsabell.

           Deathturnedhishead.

           PerhapsMort’smindwelcomedtheprospectofthelifetocomebuthisbody,whichmaybefeltithadmosttoloseinthedeal,objected.ItbroughthisswordarmupinoneunstoppablestrokethatflickedDeath’sbladefromhishand,andthenpinnedhimagainstthenearestpillar.

           InthesuddenhushMortrealisedhecouldnolongerhearanintrusivelittlenoisethathadbeenjustathisthresholdofhearingforthelasttenminutes.Hiseyesdartedsideways.

           Thelastofhissandwasrunningout.

           STRIKE.

           Mortraisedthesword,andlookedintothetwinbluefires.

           Heloweredthesword.

           ’No.’

           Death’sfootlashedoutatgroinheightwithaspeedthatevenmadeCutwellwince.

           Mortsilentlycurledintoaballandrolledacrossthefloor.ThroughhistearshesawDeathadvancing,scythebladeinonehandandMort’sownhourglassintheother.HesawKeliandYsabellsweptdisdainfullyasideastheymadeagrabfortherobe.HesawCutwellelbowedintheribs,hiscandlestickclatteringacrossthetiles.

           Deathstoodoverhim.ThetipofthebladehoveredinfrontofMort’seyesforamoment,andthensweptupwards.