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“Oh yes, how I long for mercy from you,” Mogart sneered. “Sir Bennacio! Gentle Bennacio! The kindest and bravest of knights! The last knight!” The mocking expression disappeared and a shadow fell over his face. “I am the last knight, Bennacio. I am the heir to Lancelot, the master of the Sword!”
I leaned over and whispered into Mike’s ear. “Shoot him.”
Mike shook his head. I could have grabbed the gun from him and fired, but I had never fired a gun in my life. I was afraid of guns, to tell you the truth. Mike was slowly chewing his gum, working it so hard, his jaw clicked as he gnawed.
Bennacio drew his black sword from the folds of his brown robe and held it by his side, casually, like a man carrying an umbrella.
“You always had poor taste in friends,” Mogart said. “Cowards and fools. But what an admirable choice in your squire, Lord Bennacio! A fat, bumbling simpleton with hardly the intellectual wherewithal to tie his own shoes. You have outdone yourself, Bennacio.”
“The Sword belongs to neither of us, Mogart.” Bennacio used the same tone he had used with me sometimes, like a patient father talking to a thick-headed kid. “In your heart, unless it is totally corrupted, you know this. You may betray your sacred vow, but you cannot change the truth. You lay claim to something that is not meant for you. Abandon this madness that you might yet live.”
“Wise words coming from the man whose sole purpose is to kill me.”
“I wish harm to no man, Mogart. I shall ask you just once more. Relinquish the Sword that you might live. Answer now, yes or no.”
Bennacio raised his sword, holding it with both hands, the hilt at chest level, the blade right in front of his face, about two inches from his sharp nose. Mogart smiled and raised Excalibur, holding it with both hands like Bennacio, so they mirrored each other, Bennacio with his brown robe and black sword, Mogart in his white robe and the much longer and wider Sword of Kings.
“Here is my answer,” Mogart said softly, and launched himself at Bennacio.
41
Bennacio’s blade was a black blur, its shiny surface sparking now and then in the glare of the floodlights. As he spun and turned and sidestepped around the circle, his brown robe fluttered and snapped. Bennacio was taller than Mogart, and he was faster. They held their swords with both hands as they fought, and each time Excalibur struck Bennacio’s sword, I saw black flecks and sparks shooting off against the charcoal-colored backdrop of the great stones.
The blades whined and whistled as they cut through the cold air, and I don’t know if it was the ringing in my ears from the gunshots, but there was a faint sound like a choir singing, and I remembered Bennacio telling me of the angels lamenting the last time he and Mogart met.
I remembered how it felt when I used the Sword, how it seemed a part of me or more like I was part of it. I remembered Bennacio telling me how it could not be defeated or destroyed, and then I realized what Bennacio had known all along: There was no winning against the Sword. Bennacio didn’t have a prayer, and that made my chest hurt, because Bennacio didn’t have a prayer—and he prayed anyway. He couldn’t win, but he fought anyway.
Mogart was getting impatient. He must have thought Bennacio should be dead already. His blows came faster and Bennacio’s parries a little slower, until Mogart swung the Sword high and brought it down in a sweeping arc straight at Bennacio’s head. Bennacio raised his sword to block the downward blow and, when Excalibur struck, Bennacio’s sword flew from his hands and skittered away into the shadows. The force of the blow knocked him to his knees.
Then he did a strange thing, a horrible thing, the strangest, most horrible thing I’ve ever seen anybody do: Bennacio raised his head and brought his arms straight out from his sides, very slowly, palms turned upward. He was offering himself!
Mogart hesitated, the tip of the Sword poised a few inches from Bennacio’s heaving chest.
“No,” I whispered.
Then Mogart slammed the Sword into the last knight’s chest and Bennacio fell over without a sound, his eyes still open.
42
Somebody was screaming loud enough to drown out the high-pitched singing or ringing or whatever it was going on inside my head, and it took me a second to realize the screaming person was me.
The next thing I knew, I was running across the circle of stones, straight for Mogart, with Mike yelling after me, “Kropp! Kropp! Kropp!”
When I was about twenty feet away, Mogart pulled the Sword from Bennacio’s chest, and the last knight fell to his side, eyes wide open staring right at me as I ran.
At ten feet, Mogart began to turn toward me.
At five, he was raising the tip of the Sword, its blade still glistening with Bennacio’s blood.
At two, he actually started to smile.
I didn’t let him finish that smile. I smashed my forearm into his face and he staggered backward. My forward momentum carried me right into him and we fell into the grass. I landed on top, knocking the wind out of him. He started to bring the Sword up, but I slapped my hand down hard on his wrist. When his hand struck the ground, I pulled the Sword out of his hand and stood up.
I backpedaled, gasping for air, my breath fogging and swirling. Mogart slowly sat up, gulping air.
A voice behind me said, “Alfred.”
I turned, the Sword rising without me thinking about it. Mike was walking toward me, smiling widely, still holding the gun in his right hand, the left outstretched.
