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.
.
.
in
a
dark
alley
in
Morpork
a
night
soil
entrepreneur
clutched
at
his
chest
and
pitched
forward
over
his
cart
.
.
.
.
Mort
rolled
and
came
up
swinging
the
sword
double
-
handed
over
his
head
,
feeling
a
twang
of
dark
exhilaration
as
Death
darted
backwards
across
the
checkered
tiles
.
The
wild
swing
cut
through
a
shelf
;
one
after
another
its
burden
of
glasses
started
to
slide
towards
the
floor
.
Mort
was
dimly
aware
of
Ysabell
scurrying
past
him
to
catch
them
one
by
one
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
across
the
Disc
four
people
miraculously
escaped
death
by
falling
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
and
then
he
ran
forward
,
pressing
home
his
advantage
.
Death
’
s
hands
moved
in
a
blur
as
he
blocked
every
chop
and
thrust
,
and
then
changed
grip
on
the
scythe
and
brought
the
blade
swinging
up
in
an
arc
that
Mort
sidestepped
awkwardly
,
nicking
the
frame
of
an
hourglass
with
the
hilt
of
his
sword
and
sending
it
flying
across
the
room
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
in
the
Ramtop
mountains
a
tharga
-
herder
,
searching
by
lamplight
in
the
high
meadows
for
a
lost
cow
,
missed
his
footing
and
plunged
over
a
thousand
foot
drop
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Gutwell
dived
forward
and
caught
the
tumbling
glass
in
one
desperately
outstretched
hand
,
hit
the
floor
and
slid
along
on
his
stomach
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
a
gnarled
sycamore
mysteriously
loomed
under
the
screaming
herder
and
broke
his
fall
,
removing
his
major
problems
–
death
,
the
judgement
of
the
gods
,
the
uncertainty
of
Paradise
and
so
on
–
and
replacing
them
with
the
comparatively
simple
one
of
climbing
back
up
about
one
hundred
feet
of
sheer
,
icy
cliff
in
pitch
darkness
.
There
was
a
pause
as
the
combatants
backed
away
from
each
other
and
circled
again
,
looking
for
an
opening
.
’
Surely
there
’
s
something
we
can
do
?
’
said
Keli
.
