General Titus watched everything from his place on the sand.
His eyes moved lazily from one fight to another, cataloging, assessing, judging. Three knights remained on this side of the battlefield. Three of his black cloak soldiers remained as well.
Sir Tor the berserker, the animal, his body red and steaming, his attacks wild and unpredictable.
Sir Dagonet bleeding from his throat, his life draining away with every heartbeat.
Sir Leodegrance the queen's father, old but fierce, still fighting.
And across from them, three Romans in dark cloaks, their blades still sharp, their wills still empty.
"Well." Titus scratched his ear lazily. "At least I am entertained."
His gaze settled on Tor on the red-skinned knight who was pummeling one of his soldiers into the ground.
"That one called Tor." He tilted his head. "What's wrong with him?"
He watched Tor's body move too fast, too strong, too much. The knight's wound was still there, still bleeding, but it didn't seem to matter. Didn't seem to exist for him.
"He's yelling like a wild dog." Titus frowned. "I don't like him. But I wonder what's going on in his body for him to gain this level of strength and speed?"
His eyes tracked the wound.
"And most importantly, his wound. It's there, but..." He paused. "It's almost as if it doesn't exist to him."
He leaned forward slightly, genuinely curious.
"He's interesting." A rare flicker of something crossed his face something almost like longing. "I wish I had a power-up like that."
He frowned deeper.
His attention shifted to Sir Leodegrance.
The old knight was engaged with one of the black cloak soldiers, their blades meeting again and again in a rhythm that had become almost dull. Neither was gaining ground. Neither was losing it.
Titus watched for a long moment, then yawned.
Above them, Darlington's eyes were fixed on the same fight.
"Their fight is balanced," he murmured. "None of them yielding to each other. But I'll say the Roman soldier is fighting without any will in his heart. While Sir Leodegrance..."
He leaned closer.
"He's fighting with will."
He studied the old knight's movements the way he held his sword, the way he shifted his weight, the way he hesitated.
"Should I really call this will?" Darlington's voice was uncertain. "I don't know whether to give him a pathetic look or to be amazed."
He watched Leodegrance block another attack, retreat, block again.
"One's mind state usually reflects in their body movement and in the actions they take." He shook his head. "He's fighting like a coward. All of his attacks are unplanned. Sloppy. All aiming to end the battle quickly."
He ticked off the problems on his fingers.
"Because of that, there is no real thinking in the force he has to put behind the attack, or where he has to strike. Most of his effort goes into defense. Making him survive long enough but how long?"
He was about to continue his analysis when movement below changed.
Tor ran.
Not toward his own opponent but toward Leodegrance. Toward the Roman soldier who was pressing the old knight back.
He moved like an animal. Like something that had forgotten it was ever human. His arms swung at his sides. His head was low. His eyes those crimson, burning eyes were fixed on a single target.
He reached a good distance.
And he pounced.
His body launched through the air, head-first, like a missile aimed at the Roman soldier. His skull crashed into the soldier's metal helm with a sound like a hammer striking an anvil.
CRAAAAAAAAAACK!
The sound was terrible.
Tor's skull cracked. Blood erupted from his mouth, from his nose, spraying across the Roman's armor. His body reeled back, staggering like a man who had drunk beyond all reason.
He was stunned. Disoriented. Finished.
Above, Darlington shouted.
"NO!" His voice cracked with frustration. "This was a really good wild card! It's a shame it went down!"
His fists clenched. His face twisted with disappointment.
Then he paused.
His eyes narrowed. His breathing slowed. His mind, that brilliant, calculating mind, began to work again.
"Well," he said slowly, "simply because he dies or loses this pseudo-transformation doesn't mean another with something similar or the same won't arise."
He smiled.
"The seeds have been planted. The lesson has been taught. Others will learn."
Below, Tor's body began to break.
The consequences of all his actions the adrenaline, the speed, the force he had pushed through his battered frame came crashing down on him like a wave. Like a reflection of an image in a mirror, everything he had done was now being done to him.
His entire body ached.
Every muscle screamed. Every bone groaned. His legs gave.
He fell to the floor.
Spit and foam bubbled from his mouth, his eyes rolling back in his head. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
But he had not fallen alone.
The Roman soldier he had headbutted the one with the cracked helm was staggering. The impact had shaken him, disoriented him, left him vulnerable.
Sir Leodegrance saw it.
His hesitation vanished. His fear died. He shoved his sword forward not a sloppy attack, not a desperate strike, but a clean, focused thrust.
The blade punched through the Roman's head.
SHLIK!
It entered between the eyes. It exited through the back of the skull. The Roman's body stood for a single, frozen moment and then fell.
Leodegrance pulled his sword free. Stood over the body. Breathed.
Darlington counted.
The battlefield had shifted.
"Now," he said quietly, "on this side..."
He looked at the fallen. At the living. At the dead.
Sir Tor unconscious, foam still bubbling from his mouth.
Sir Leodegrance tired, wounded, but alive.
Sir Dagonet suffering a great injury, bleeding out, but standing.
And across from them
General Titus had now been fully entertained.
He was getting up.
And Mordred stood there, waiting.
Darlington's voice was barely a whisper.
"What will happen next?"
Titus rose to his feet.
Mordred stood in the shadows.
And three broken knights faced what was coming.