Darlington watched the scene below unfold, his mind already dissecting, calculating, predicting.
"It seems his power will only be properly gauged when he goes against those others." He gestured vaguely toward the distant parts of the battlefield where Arthur's golden light still blazed. "Like Lancelot. Arthur. Or even Galahad."
He looked at Titus's reclining form the general lying on the sand like a man napping, utterly disinterested in the knights before him.
"Because these guys here are very much below his power. I can say he didn't even try to kill those two."
His eyes lingered on Palamedes's body.
"The one I'll say left an impression on him was that knight. Palamedes." He tilted his head. "But what good was the impression he left when there was no damage laid on him? If he had at least given him serious damage, then the others might have risked it all, aiming at that weakness."
He scratched his chin.
"Though it might be a disadvantage if he had a weakness. He would become like a wounded tiger. A wounded tiger will be furious and do anything to defend itself when put in a precarious position."
He smiled grimly.
"And if it's him put into that situation, then it means that they won't just die. It would be a quick and horrific death for them."
He looked at Titus's relaxed form.
"So that's what his laziness is about. I guess there's no need to think about them. I'm wasting brain power on them. Their fate has been sealed."
He shook his head.
"Death is their portion. But at least let me watch. I might see something interesting."
He settled back, thinking.
"If I were to propose a theory, I would say the pressure put on them was the wrong type of pressure. Pressure is meant to force growth. But the kind of pressure they faced the kind Titus applied was the pressure that would kill them."
He thought about evolution, adaptation, the way life found a way.
"Adaptation or evolution in humans would not have occurred if we were hit by a large fucking asteroid. The asteroid is what hit them."
He looked at the four remaining knights Sir Leodegrance, Sir Tor, Sir Dagonet, Sir Ywain.
"That's why I have a feeling this next battle for them might be an evolution. And might also buy them some time for backup to arrive."
He leaned forward.
"So let's see how this will play out."
He counted them, one by one.
Sir Leodegrance the queen's father, old but fierce, his sword already drawn.
Sir Tor the first knight Arthur ever knighted, his twin snake blades gleaming.
Sir Dagonet the fool who was no fool, his face unreadable.
Sir Ywain son of King Urien, his stance ready.
Four knights.
And the Roman warriors in black cloaks—four who had risen to fight, and one who still knelt in the sand, unmoving.
Darlington's eyes narrowed.
"At first, I didn't want to put my mind on those Roman warriors. But it seems they are quite special." He looked toward the distant mountain where the other cloaked figures still stood. "Now that I think of it, there are still some maintaining their position on the other side of the mountain. Thirteen of them. While five are on the ground."
He smiled.
"Special soldiers, huh."
He settled back to watch.
"Well, let's test the strength output, shall we?"
Sir Tor stepped forward.
His twin snake blades were already in his hands—thirteen inches long, each inch forming a curve that made the path of his attacks impossible to predict. In battle, against any enemy at his full strength, he had a high percentage win rate.
He moved.
His blades danced curving, twisting, striking from angles that shouldn't exist. He attacked two of the Roman soldiers from the rear, his swords stabbing into their defenses again and again.
Sir Leodegrance joined him, his long sword cutting a path through the chaos. Sir Dagonet followed, his movements unpredictable, mad. Sir Ywain took the flank, his blade finding gaps in the Roman formation.
Four knights against four Romans.
The cloaked soldiers smiled.
Their blades rose. Their movements were fluid, inhuman, perfect. They met the knights' attacks with counters that seemed to come from nowhere, their swords finding weaknesses that shouldn't exist.
It was a four-way deadlock. Neither side advancing. Neither side retreating. Neither side winning.
General Titus watched from the ground, his eyes half-lidded, his body still stretched out on the sand.
"So it's a four-way deadlock, isn't it?" He yawned. "This isn't going to be good entertainment. At least even if I'm not involved in the entertainment I should at least get entertained to a level."
His eyes drifted to the fifth Roman soldier the one who still knelt in the sand, who had not moved since rising with the others.
"Hey." Titus's voice was sharp, cutting through the clash of steel. "What's wrong? Is it an act of chivalry you're trying to display now?"
The Roman soldier did not move.
"No." His voice was rough, emotionless. "I have left that path long ago. In life... and in death."
His hands rose to his cloak.
The dark fabric fell away.
Sir Ywain's eyes went wide.
His blade stopped mid-swing. His body froze. His mind trained by years of battle, hardened by countless wars simply... stopped.
Because the face beneath the cloak was impossible.
He knew that face. Had seen it in paintings, in memories, in the stories told by every knight of Camelot. The sharp jaw. The dark hair. The eyes those eyes that held something ancient and terrible and familiar.
"How can it be?" Ywain's voice was barely a whisper. "You're"
The name came out like a curse.
"Arthur's son."
The figure moved.
Ywain's body tried to react tried to raise his blade, tried to defend but his mind was still frozen, still processing, still denying what his eyes were telling him.
The blade punched through his skull.
CRACK!
The steel entered just above his eye and exited through the back of his head. Blood and brain sprayed across the sand. His body stood for a single, terrible moment and then fell.
Sir Ywain was dead before he hit the ground.
The figure stood over him, sword dripping, face revealed to all who could see.
Mordred.
The traitor. The usurper. The son who had brought Camelot to its knees.
He looked at the remaining knights at Leodegrance, at Tor, at Dagonet and smiled.
Mordred had returned.
And the battlefield had just become infinitely more complicated.