General Titus clapped his hands together.
The sound was sharp, deliberate, echoing across the blood-soaked sand like a verdict. He looked at the three remaining knights at Tor's unconscious body, at Dagonet's bleeding throat, at Leodegrance's tired stance and smiled.
"Congratulations." His voice was almost warm. "You have done well to survive against the black cloaks."
He began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Some of you evolved. Some died. Some are still the same." His eyes lingered on Tor's fallen form. "And some will soon die."
He stopped, tilting his head as if considering something.
"Perhaps if I had not landed on this part of the battlefield, this disaster would not have befallen you." He shrugged. "I mean, it would have. But you wouldn't probably be able to think as you died. It would have been a blissful death."
His smile faded.
"But we do not speak of regret on the battlefield. Whether you are the victor or the loser to speak of regret is to ruin such a fun sport."
He moved.
One moment he was standing across from them. The next, he was in front of Tor the unconscious knight who lay crumpled on the sand, foam still bubbling from his mouth.
His hand shot out.
Fingers closed around Tor's throat. He raised him high lifting the unconscious knight off the ground like a ragdoll, his arm straight, his grip absolute.
Tor's body dangled, limp, his head lolling, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
Titus studied him the reddened skin, the cracked skull, the potential he had shown.
"I am jealous of you." His voice was low, almost confidential. "That boost in your strength. What made you become like that? It was as if you became a monster. A demon on the battlefield. With endless stamina and strength."
He lowered Tor slowly, bringing the unconscious knight down to his level.
"As such..." He released his grip.
Tor's body dropped but before it could hit the ground, Titus's hand shot out again, not to catch, but to propel.
He threw Tor across the battlefield.
Toward Mordred.
Mordred caught him.
Not with open arms with a kick. His foot slammed into the back of Tor's neck as the knight flew toward him, a brutal impact that cracked against vertebrae and sent a spray of blood from Tor's mouth.
Tor's eyes flew open.
He was conscious now just barely. His body twitched, convulsed, struggled against the agony that flooded every nerve.
Mordred grabbed him by the hair.
He lifted Tor's head, forcing him to look at the battlefield, at the bodies, at the victory that was not his. Then he turned to Titus, his face a mask of cold fury.
"What is the meaning of this?" His voice was sharp, demanding. "Aren't they all to die? That was what Caesar sent us to accomplish. That was my deal with you was it not?"
He yanked Tor's head back further, making the unconscious knight groan.
"Are you turning deaf ears to Caesar's words?"
Titus's eyes hardened.
"Watch your words, boy." His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of centuries. "You will not frame my actions as a betrayal to Caesar."
He stepped closer, his presence suddenly looming.
"It is you I should ask." His eyes bored into Mordred's. "Do you really love Caesar?"
Mordred's jaw tightened. His grip on Tor's hair did not loosen.
"Yes." The word came out like a blade. "I love Caesar. And Caesar loves me. It's the whole reason he personally chose me. Showed me the light."
Titus nodded slowly, his expression unreadable.
"Then you should know." He spread his hands, gesturing at the battlefield around them. "This world we are in is unpredictable. Powers and people we have no information on exist here. And every one of them..."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"...poses a threat to the one we love. To Caesar."
Mordred's eyes flickered just slightly.
"As such," Titus continued, "if we find anything unknown that we can get our hands on even if it has the chance of less than a grape to strengthen Caesar and strengthen his army we will take it."
His voice grew harder.
"If the sands may favor Caesar, we will steal it. Same goes for the mountain. If time would favor Caesar, we would buy it."
He looked at Tor's unconscious form at the knight who had become something more in the heat of battle.
"All is for Caesar."
Mordred stared at him for a long, silent moment.
Then slowly his grip on Tor's hair loosened.
"Okay."
He tossed Tor over his back like a sack of grain, settling the unconscious knight's weight against his shoulders. His face was unreadable now, the cold fury replaced by something colder. Something emptier.
"Before I retreat from the war..." His voice was flat, emotionless. "I would like to visit my father. I want to bring him news of his death."
He smiled a thin, bloodless thing.
"Before his death."
Titus's face split into a grin.
"You can go now." His voice was almost warm. "You messenger of death."
Mordred moved.
He vanished into the chaos of the battlefield, Tor's unconscious body slung across his shoulders, heading toward the distant golden light where Arthur still fought.
General Titus stood alone.
The battlefield around him was quiet now or as quiet as a battlefield could be. The black cloaks were dead. The knights were broken. And he...
He drew his blade.
The sword gleamed in the grey light, its edge hungry, waiting.
He looked at Sir Leodegrance.
The old knight stood across from him, his sword still raised, his stance still ready. His chest heaved with exhaustion. His arms trembled with fatigue. But he did not run. Did not yield. Did not break.
Titus ran.
Not fast. Not blurred. Just... ran. A soldier's run. A killer's run. A man who had done this a thousand times before and would do it a thousand times again.
He reached Leodegrance.
His blade swung.
SHLIK! SHLIK!
Two cuts. Two slices. Two hands separated from wrists.
Leodegrance's hands fell his sword still gripped in them, his fingers still wrapped around the hilt. They hit the ground with wet thuds, the sword clattering beside them.
The old knight stared at his stumps. At the blood spurting from them. At the absence of what had been there a moment before.
He did not scream.
He did not have time.
Titus's foot slammed into his chest.
CRAAAAAAAAACK!
Ribs shattered. Sternum caved. The old knight's body flew backward, crashing to the ground with a force that drove the air from his lungs.
He lay there, staring at the grey sky, his chest crushed, his hands gone.
Titus stood over him.
A chest stomp.
Leodegrance lay broken at Titus's feet.
And somewhere in the distance, Mordred carried Tor toward his father's golden light.