The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (Alfred Kropp #1)(61)

“Very good,” Mogart said. “Now, the Sword, please.”

“Let her go first.”

He laughed. “My, how bold we’ve become! But boldness, Mr. Kropp, can never be a substitute for intelligence.”

The dagger pressed into Natalia’s side. Her eyes went wide and she cried out, “Kropp!”

Mogart said, “Decide now, Alfred Kropp. Throw down the Sword or watch her die.”

Natalia was just one person and, like Mike said, what was one person when the whole world was at stake? If I refused to give him the Sword he’d kill Natalia; if I gave him the Sword he would probably kill her anyway and my sacred vow—and the only vow I ever made—would be broken.

I knew whatever decision I made would probably turn out to be wrong, as wrong as every decision I had made since this whole thing started. I kept screwing up and then just kept coming back for more. Maybe to fix it I needed to decide what the best thing to do was, and then do the opposite.

Looking at Mogart, I realized the plain truth was that he wasn’t my greatest enemy. My greatest enemy was the fifteen-year-old homeless loser holding the Sword of Kings.

“Choose, Mr. Kropp,” Mogart said softly.

I chose.

I tossed the Sword toward him. It clattered to the ground about halfway between us. I expected him to throw Natalia to the floor and dive on the Sword, but he didn’t move. He wasn’t even looking at the Sword; he was looking at me and I got that sinking feeling I had in Uncle Farrell’s apartment, right before Mogart rammed the Sword into his body.

“Don’t, Mr. Mogart,” I pleaded. “You don’t need to do that now. Don’t hurt her, please.”

“Oh, Mr. Kropp,” Mogart answered. “After all that has happened, have you learned so little?”

And with that he plunged the dagger into Natalia’s side.

49

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.