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She fell without a sound. I froze for a second, watching her fall, before lunging for the Sword, but I was too late. Mogart dived on it first, rolling out of the way as I launched myself at him.
I scrambled to my feet and pulled the black sword from my belt, meaning to switch it to my right hand, but Mogart was on me too fast, the Sword of Kings whistling toward my head.
I lifted my blade just in time and then cried out when Excalibur smashed against it with a ringing crash. The force of it almost snapped my wrist. I stepped back, flailing my sword in the air as Mogart, almost leisurely, took swings at me. He smiled, enjoying himself, and he was saying things like, “Good, Mr. Kropp! Excellent! Fine parry, sir! On the balls of your feet, step lightly and keep your sword up!”
He kept advancing and I kept backing up. He came from the right, then the left, then the right again, very fast, and finally the force of a blow slung my arm away so hard, I heard the joint in my shoulder pop.
His free hand caught the wrist of my blade hand, and his grip was cold and hard. I felt the tip of Excalibur pressing under my chin. Mogart brought his face very close to mine and he whispered, “There is one thing that has always troubled me about you, Alfred Kropp: Why do you persist? I kill your uncle, and you join Bennacio. I kill Bennacio, and you strike out on your own. I kill Natalia, and still you fight. So tell me, boy, tell me why you persist.”
“I . . . I made a vow . . .” I stammered.
He cocked his head to one side, and his eyes twinkled as he started to smile.
“A vow! Alfred Kropp has made a vow!” He laughed harshly. “To Lord Bennacio, no doubt.”
“No,” I answered. “To heaven.”
And I brought my knee up into his crotch as hard as I could. I ripped my blade arm free and stepped back as he went down to the stone floor. This was it! Go, Kropp, while he’s down—take him out with your sword! But something stopped me. Instead of killing him, I just stood there, gulping air, waiting for him to stand up.
“It isn’t yours, Mr. Mogart,” I said. “Don’t you see? It isn’t anybody’s.”
Mogart stood up, his face distorted by pain and something else, not anger exactly, but something like anger and sadness mixed together, like a pouty little boy who’s just learned he can’t have his favorite candy.
“Who are you?” he gasped. “Who are you, Alfred Kropp? How is it that I find you at every turn, like a fat stone in my path, blocking my way?” With each question, he took a step toward me. And with each step he took forward, I took one backward.
“Why did Bennacio come to you after Samson’s fall?” Step. “And bring you here?” Step. “Why did he demand the vow of you?” Step. “Who are you, Alfred Kropp?”
“I’m Bernard Samson’s son and the heir to Lancelot.”
He stopped. He looked as if I had slapped him. Then all the pain and sadness drained out of his face and left nothing but anger.
He launched himself at me with a terrible roar. I raised my black sword just in time to block the downward arc of Excalibur, and the impact made my ears ring with pain. Mogart’s eyes glittered with rage as he swung at me, so fast, Excalibur was just a silvery blur.
As Mogart swung furiously at me, I backed up until I ran out of room and smacked into the wall behind me. Now I was left with two choices: Stand up and fight, or give up and die.
I was moving on just instinct, holding the sword in both hands as Mogart’s shoulders dipped and hunched and swiveled, and the sound of our swords meeting was an awful screech of metal striking metal. I could feel the jagged teeth of the wall behind me cutting through the gray cloak, taking nibbles from my back.
I screamed Bennacio’s name as loud as I could. This only made Mogart angrier, and he slammed his left hand against my right shoulder. The force of the blow jarred the sword from my hand, and the blade clattered to the floor.
Mogart pressed his forearm against my neck, and as I struggled to breathe against the pressure, I knew the fight was over.
“The heir to Samson!” he hissed into my face. I felt the tip of Excalibur pressing into my stomach, penetrating the cloak and tearing slowly into the shirt under it. “The heir to Lancelot! The reason for my exile! How things have come full circle, Alfred Kropp!”
“Please,” I whispered. “Please, Mr. Mogart . . .” I wasn’t sure exactly what I was begging him to do. Or not do.
“Did noble Bennacio tell you how your father met his fate? Did anyone tell you, Alfred Kropp, how Daddy died?”
I felt the steel tip pierce my skin, and the sickening warmth of my own blood trickle down my stomach.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please.”
“I tortured him. I cut him a thousand times, until upon his knees he begged me to finish it, to end his miserable life. Just as you are begging now.”
His arm moved forward. The blade sank deeper into my body, maybe four or five inches, and I could taste blood in my mouth.
“And when he had no more breath for begging, I lopped off his miserable head.”
His right arm jerked forward, harder this time, and now my mouth was full of my own blood.
