“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.
“Awesome, man! Simply awesome,” Mike said. “You wanna come work for us?”
“It’s the football,” I gasped. “Finally paid off.”
“Mr. Kropp,” Mogart said. “I beg you to reconsider.”
I took a couple of steps backward, so I could keep both of them in sight. Mogart was smiling now.
“It is not yours to take,” Mogart said.
“It isn’t yours either,” I said. My voice sounded very small and quivery to me.
“Actually, it’s mine,” Mike said. “I mean, it’s the property of my employer. Anyway, we bought it fair and square. Alfred, I’m gonna give Monsieur Mogart here the access code to the Swiss bank account so he can have his money and then you, me, and the Sword are outta here. How’s that sound?”
“Not very good, Mike,” I said, and then I ran.
43
Of course it was dark and foggy and I was in a strange country, but as I stumbled along I thought I’d try to make it to the forest we had driven through. The back of my neck tingled and my hair stood up, waiting for Mike’s bullet. He wouldn’t have hesitated to kill Mogart for the Sword and I didn’t think he’d hesitate to kill me for it either.
I’m not a fast runner to begin with, and hefting the Sword didn’t make me any faster. The long wet grass pulled at my feet and I might have just gone in circles in the dark, but the floodlights helped; I kept looking over my shoulder and they kept getting smaller as I ran. I listened for the sound of Mogart’s army coming after me, but there was no sound at all except my huffing and puffing and the swish-swish of the grass rubbing against the soles of my shoes as I ran.
I stumbled onto the edge of the paved road. If this was the same road we drove in on, then following it would take me back into the woods. I still couldn’t hear any sound of pursuit and I was too tired to run any more, so I started walking. Fog and sweat flattened my hair and I kept having to wipe the moisture off my face. My shirt clung to my chest and I shivered. I could feel a bad cold coming on. For some reason, the scar on my thumb was throbbing to beat the band. Maybe because the Sword was near it.
I was still walking with no woods in sight, just rolling hills that disappeared into the fog, when I heard the car coming up the road behind me.
I ran to the side of the road and threw myself onto the ground, making myself as flat as a fat, bumbling simpleton can get. But I didn’t get flat enough, because the car stopped and a voice called out softly, “Alfred! Alfred Kropp, get over here!”
I lifted my head. Mike was sitting behind the wheel, smiling, smacking, waving his hand urgently at me.
“Come on! We don’t have much time . . .”
He was probably right about that and I didn’t have much of a choice. I scrambled up the embankment to the car and dived into the backseat. Mike hit the gas and the Bentley’s back wheels spun out, screeching on the wet pavement like a wounded animal.