The mountain rose from the desert like a broken tooth, jagged and grey against Valhalla's eternal sky. It was not a place of life no plants, no water, no movement save the wind that whispered through its cracks and crevices. It was a place of stone. Of waiting. Of war.
At its peak, carved from the very rock by forces unknown, sat a throne.
The man who occupied it was not large by the standards of legends. He did not have the bulging muscles of a Hercules or the towering height of a Goliath. He was of average build, his hair thinning, his face marked by time and ambition. But when he sat on that throne, he filled it completely. Not with his body, but with his presence. His will.
Julius Caesar.
He wore the armor of a Roman general bronze and red, polished to a mirror shine even in this desolate place. A crimson cloak hung from his shoulders, untouched by dust. At his hip rested a gladius, short and deadly, its hilt worn smooth by decades of use. His eyes, dark and calculating, were fixed on the distant horizon where a golden light had just bloomed like a second sun.
The light faded. The echo reached him moments later, a voice carrying across the impossible distances of Valhalla:
"CRUEL SUN! "
Caesar's lips curved into a smile. It was not a warm expression.
"So," he murmured, his voice carrying easily in the thin mountain air. "Arthur has finally made himself known."
He leaned back in his stone throne, one finger tapping thoughtfully on the armrest. The sound was loud in the silence tap, tap, tap the rhythm of a mind already calculating, already conquering.
"What a fool. You should have stayed in hiding, Pendragon. Kept your little kingdom secret. Built your strength in the shadows." He chuckled, a short, sharp sound. "If you had, perhaps I would not have found you this early. Perhaps you might have survived longer."
He shifted his head slightly, not turning, just acknowledging the presence that had been standing behind him in perfect silence.
"Now," Caesar continued, his smile widening, "I, Caesar, will conquer you. As I have conquered everything. As I will conquer everything."
The man behind him stepped forward. He wore the same Roman armor, but where Caesar's was gold and bronze, his was dark as night blackened steel that seemed to drink the light. His face was handsome in a worn, weathered way, the face of a man who had seen too many battles and lost too many friends. But his eyes… his eyes still burned with the fire of loyalty.
Marcus Antonius. Antony. Caesar's right hand. His general. His friend.
"Antony." Caesar's voice was casual, conversational. As if he were discussing the weather rather than the annihilation of a legendary kingdom. "Tell Titus to summon a small army. Nothing overwhelming we don't need to show all our cards yet. But enough."
Antony nodded, waiting.
"Make him commander of this force." Caesar's eyes never left the distant horizon where Arthur's light had faded. "He is to lead them to Arthur's position. He is to wipe out the Knights of the Round Table every last one of them, if possible." He paused, his finger stopping its tapping. "And he is to retrieve the weapon Excalibur from the dead hands of Arthur Pendragon."
The words hung in the air like an edict from the gods themselves.
"That is my decree."
Antony saluted, fist to chest, the gesture sharp and final. Without a word, he turned and descended the mountain, his dark armor disappearing into the shadows between rocks.
Caesar watched him go, then turned back to contemplate the horizon.
"Arthur," he murmured, tasting the name like wine. "Let us see if your legend is as strong as they say."
A day had passed since Beloberis's funeral.
Darlington observed from his invisible perch as the army of Camelot moved across the desert. They traveled in formation knights at the front, soldiers behind, supply wagons creaking in the rear. It was efficient. Organized. The march of a kingdom that had survived countless battles.
But something had changed.
Lancelot rode among the knights, his posture straight, his face composed. To anyone watching, he seemed recovered. The grief of yesterday had been packed away, stored in some private compartment of his soul. He nodded to passing soldiers. He exchanged quiet words with Sir Bors. He was, by all appearances, himself again.
Darlington knew better.
He's been thinking, Darlington observed. Processing. Coming to conclusions.
The terrain had begun to shift. The endless golden sand was giving way to something else rocky outcroppings pushing through the dunes like the bones of some ancient giant. The ground beneath the horses' hooves was changing too, becoming harder, more solid. Soon they would be riding on stone rather than sand.
Arthur led from the front, as always. Excalibur hung at his hip, its glow subdued but present. His white hair moved in the wind, his red beard catching the light. He looked every inch the king weary, determined, carrying the weight of his people on shoulders that had long since stopped complaining about the burden.
The army rode deeper into unfamiliar territory.
And finally, Lancelot spoke.
If you are a god, his thought came, careful and controlled, then help me. Help me, and I will help you.
Darlington felt the words like a physical touch. After a day of silence from the knight, the contact was almost startling. He composed himself, adopting the calm, knowing tone he had decided suited a deity.
So, he replied mentally, you finally reply. After all that time. A pause, deliberately weighted. Even a god has emotions, you know. We can be hurt by silence.
Lancelot's mental presence flickered annoyance, perhaps, or impatience. Spare me the divine drama. You know what I'm asking.
I do. Darlington's mental voice grew serious. But you know what you've said, correct? You understand the weight of it. Swear full allegiance to me your new god and I will give you what you need.
Silence from Lancelot. The horse kept moving, its rhythm unchanged. The knight's face remained impassive.
Then:
I am loyal to my king. The words were slow, deliberate. I am loyal to Camelot. Those loyalties are not negotiable. They are not for sale.
Darlington felt a flicker of something disappointment? Respect? Both?
But, Lancelot continued, because of my loyalty, I will do anything to protect them. Anything. Even if it means betraying them. Even if it means rendering them weak as infants to save them from something worse.
The words hit Darlington like a physical blow.
Because of my loyalty, I will do anything to protect them.
He understood, suddenly, with crystalline clarity. Lancelot wasn't betraying Arthur out of anger or ambition. He was betraying Arthur out of love. The deepest, most painful kind of love the kind that would burn down the world to save one person, consequences be damned.
These gods, Darlington thought, awe threading through his mental voice, they dragged me to their game. Made me a pawn. A witness. But now… now I will use this very game against them.
And then, before he could stop himself, he laughed.
It started as a chuckle, low and dangerous. Then it grew, swelling into something larger, something unhinged. The laugh echoed through the mental connection, pouring into Lancelot's mind like water through a crack in a dam.
"Hahaha. Hahahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHA!"
It was the laugh of a man who had lost everything. The laugh of a boy who had watched his friends turn to dust. The laugh of someone who had been given power beyond comprehension and was only now beginning to understand what he could do with it.
Lancelot's horse shifted nervously, sensing something wrong. The knight himself kept his composure, but his knuckles whitened on the reins.
Are you quite finished?
Darlington's laugh cut off instantly. Apologies. It's been a while since I had reason to laugh. A pause. You want my help. Very well. I cannot give you power in the state I'm in—I'm… diminished. A fallen god, as I said. But knowledge? Knowledge I have in abundance. And knowledge, Lancelot, is power enough.
Then share it.
Gladly. Darlington's mental voice sharpened, became clinical. For example: you have fallen into a trap.
Lancelot's head twitched slightly, the only sign of his reaction.
Within a few kilometers, Darlington continued, this desert will become the resting place of the Knights of the Round Table. The enemy you face now is not shadow demons. It is not the scattered remnants of darkness.
He paused for effect.
Rome is here.
The word hit Lancelot like a spear.
Rome.
Even in Valhalla, the name carried weight. Rome the empire that had conquered the known world. Rome whose legions had never been defeated in their prime. Rome whose very name meant order, discipline, and absolute, merciless power.
In the hierarchy of Valhalla, Rome was seen as the closest thing to heaven. Not because they were holy, but because they were perfect. An army that functioned as a single organism. A machine of war that had never been matched.
Lancelot's mouth went dry. How many troops?
Enough, Darlington replied. More than enough. And the one leading them is Titus a general of considerable skill. You cannot defeat them in a straight fight. It's impossible.
Then we warn Arthur. We change course. We
Don't. Darlington's voice cracked like a whip. You idiot. Don't you know the first basics of war?
Lancelot's jaw tightened.
Know yourself. Know your enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.
The quote came automatically. Sun Tzu.
So you do know something. Darlington's approval was grudging. Now you understand the kind of god I am. I am a god of wisdom. Of battle. Of strategy. We will not run from Rome, Lancelot. We will defeat them.
Lancelot swallowed. His grip on the reins tightened further.
This attack, Darlington continued, is not their full force. Caesar is testing Arthur. Probing. He sent just enough to win, not enough to risk. But even this "small" force will be difficult to stop.
Then what do we do?
First, you break formation. The way you're riding now, in this neat little column, you're asking to be surrounded. And surrounded you will be. Darlington's mental voice became a flood of information. The forces arrayed against you: Titus commands overall. Under him, Marcus Flavius a solid legate, nothing special. Quintus Diligens cavalry expert, dangerous on the flanks. And Legio X.
Lancelot's blood ran cold.
Legio X. Caesar's favorite. The Tenth Legion. Legends within legends.
Most of their forces are auxiliaries, Darlington continued. Barbarian troops made berserk Romans have always been good at using others to die for them. But the core… the core is Roman. Disciplined. Unbreakable.
Lancelot's eyes scanned the sky without thinking. And there they were crows. Dozens of them, circling lazily overhead. Too many. Too organized.
They're watching us, Darlington confirmed. Using the crows as scouts. They know exactly where we are, exactly how we're arranged. They're waiting for the perfect moment.
Lancelot's mind raced. You said we break formation. How? Where?
There are four forces surrounding us. One to the north, one south, one east, one west. The weakest is the third party the one to the right of your current heading. Attack there first. Punch through, then wheel around. Turn their encirclement into chaos.
And then?
Then we see how good Titus really is.
Lancelot didn't respond immediately. He processed, calculated, weighed. Then, without a word, he guided his horse toward the rear of the column, where Sir Percival rode with his characteristic easy grace.
Percival was smiling, his face tilted up to catch the breeze. For a moment, watching him, Lancelot could almost pretend they were back on Earth riding through the forests of Camelot, hunting, laughing, alive.
"This would be so much nicer," Percival murmured, almost to himself, "if we were actually alive."
Lancelot pulled alongside him. "Percival."
Percival started, pulled from his reverie. "Huh? Oh, Lancelot!" His smile returned, warm and genuine. "You're doing well, right? I know yesterday was "
"That's not the point now." Lancelot's voice was low, urgent. "I have something to tell you. Something important."
Percival's smile faded at the tone. "What is it?"
Lancelot leaned closer, his voice dropping to barely a whisper.
"We're under siege. By Rome."
Percival's face froze.
The smile didn't just fade it shattered, replaced by something Lancelot had never seen on his friend's face before. Fear. Real, primal fear.
"Rome?" Percival's voice cracked. "Here? How do you "
"There's no time to explain. Just listen." Lancelot's hand gripped Percival's arm, hard. "We're going to break right. Through the third party. When I give the signal, you follow me. No questions. Understood?"
Percival stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
Above them, the crows circled. Waiting. Watching.
And in the distance, barely visible against the grey rocks, the first glint of Roman armor caught the light.
The trap was about to spring.