Sir Tor's body was overflowing with an excess release of adrenaline.
His skin turned red not flushed, not heated, but crimson, as if he had been boiled from the inside. His metabolism had increased beyond any natural limit, burning through his body's resources at a catastrophic rate. Sweat poured from him in great rivers, steaming as it hit the cool air of the battlefield.
He looked cooked. Overdone. A man whose body was consuming itself to keep him alive.
Sir Dagonet saw him as he fought the Roman soldier in the dark cloak. His eyes went wide. His heart stopped for a single, terrible moment.
"Tor!" He shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Get your head together, damn it!"
Tor could not hear him.
Anger and adrenaline had overflowed to their maximum. They had broken both the limits of his body and the limits of his mind. He was no longer a knight. No longer a man. No longer thinking.
He was a beast.
Above them, Darlington's eyes gleamed.
"Wow." The word escaped him like a breath. "A berserker state."
He watched Tor's reddened form, the wild eyes, the uncontrolled power radiating from every movement.
"Sir Tor has become something else entirely. Something that doesn't think. Doesn't plan. Doesn't hesitate."
He smiled.
"Let's see what happens next."
Tor turned.
His head snapped toward the sound of Dagonet's voice not because he recognized it, not because he understood the words, but because it was noise. And noise meant target.
He rushed.
His body blurred across the sand, faster than should have been possible for a man with a bleeding wound in his side. One of his snake blades flew from his hand thrown ahead, spinning through the air like a propeller of death.
He ran toward it.
Toward Dagonet.
Toward anything.
He was a wild animal now. Acting on pure instinct. Pure rage. A roar tore from his throat not words, not language, just sound as he closed the distance.
Dagonet saw the blade coming.
His mind still sharp, still working processed the situation in an instant.
A blade, he thought. Well. Let me use it to my advantage, shall I?
He kicked the Roman soldier he was fighting.
Not hard.Just a quick, sharp blow to the leg a bait. The soldier's knee buckled. His focus shifted. His weight dropped.
Dagonet dropped his own weapon.
The Roman's eyes widened. He saw the opening the unguarded throat, the exposed neck and he lunged. His sword stretched forward, aimed directly at Dagonet's jugular.
Dagonet turned his neck.
The blade passed by close, so close missing by less than a finger's width. And in that same motion, his hands shot forward, grabbing the Roman's armor, his arms, his body.
He drew the soldier close.
Their chests touched. Their faces were inches apart. Dagonet's motion was fluid, graceful, almost beautiful like a man dancing with a partner who did not know the steps.
Above, Darlington's eyebrows rose.
"His movement in battle doesn't really fit his battle style." He watched Dagonet's flowing motions, the way he moved with his enemy rather than against him. "I guess that's what makes it special."
He tilted his head, considering.
"He's like a brute who was taught how to dance. That motion where he drew the Roman soldier in it was beautiful. Flawless."
He smiled.
"Interesting."
Dagonet held the Roman close, their bodies pressed together like lovers.
"I welcome you," he said, his voice calm despite the chaos, "to death's embrace."
He tightened his grip.
"In my embrace."
Behind the Roman, the blade that Tor had thrown earlier arrived.
SHLIK!
It stabbed into the Roman's back not deep, not fatal, but present. The soldier's body jerked. His eyes went wide with shock and pain.
Dagonet smiled.
Perfect.
The Roman's face contorted.
And then he bit Dagonet's neck.
His teeth pierced flesh deep, vicious. They sank into the muscle, into the artery, into everything that kept Dagonet alive. Blood erupted from the wound, spraying across both of them.
Dagonet screamed.
"AAAAAAHHHHHH!"
His joy was not long-lasting. His victory had been stolen in an instant. The Roman's jaws locked, grinding, tearing.
But Dagonet did not yield.
He could not.
His hands found the blade the one embedded shallowly in the Roman's back. He gripped it. And with every ounce of strength left in his dying body, he dragged it.
SHLIIIIK!
The blade cut through flesh, through muscle, through spine. The Roman's back split open. His vertebrae cracked and separated. The blade pierced his heart.
The Roman's body went limp.
His jaw locked still biting, still holding but his eyes were empty. His heart had stopped.
He was dead.
Dagonet stood there, the dead Roman's teeth still embedded in his neck, the body hanging from his throat like a grotesque ornament.
He pulled.
RIIIIP!
The mouth came away but so did a large portion of Dagonet's flesh. A chunk of his neck, of his throat, came with it. Blood gushed from the wound, dark and unstoppable.
Dagonet swayed.
His hand pressed against the injury, but the blood poured through his fingers. He could feel his strength draining. Could feel his consciousness fading.
"I won't survive long enough with this injury," he said, his voice already weak. "The bleeding is too much."
He looked at the battlefield around him.
"And even if I survive, this won't be our only battle. There's more to come." He shook his head slowly. "I'll become a weakness to the rest."
He forced his eyes to focus to count.
His vision was dizzy, the world spinning around him. But he had to know. Had to understand.
"There were five of them when we were attacked." He spoke slowly, working through the numbers. "They killed Sir Ywain, making our number fall to three."
He looked at the bodies around him at the Roman with the shattered skull, at the Roman with the split spine, at the Roman Tor was still pummeling somewhere in the distance.
"But now, two of them are dead." A weak smile crossed his face. "It's making it equal now. Three against three."
He swayed, caught himself.
"If there would be no unforeseen event occurring again..." He took a ragged breath. "This would be our victory. Then all we need to do is wait for backup."