The army of Camelot was divided into four.
Around them, the Roman forces pressed from every direction a siege of steel and shadow, designed to crush the knights from all sides at once. But Camelot's finest did not break. They stood.
On the first front, Arthur led the charge.
The king of Camelot held Excalibur high, its holy light cutting through the grey like a beacon. Beside him fought Sir Galahad, the purest of knights, his blade singing as it found Roman throats. Sir Kay, Arthur's foster brother, held the left flank with shield and sword, his movements efficient and deadly. Sir Bors fought like a man possessed, his twin axes carving through enemy ranks. Sir Gareth, youngest of the Orkney brothers, covered their rear, his sword never still.
They pushed forward, slowly, inexorably. Romans fell before them like wheat before the scythe.
On the second front, Sir Agravain commanded.
Cunning and sharp-tongued, Agravain fought with a precision that bordered on cruel. Beside him, Sir Lamorak one of the strongest knights of the Round Table cut through enemies like a storm. Sir Ector, Arthur's beloved foster father, held the line with the wisdom of age and the strength of youth.
They held. They fought. They did not yield.
On the third front the one that mattered most Lancelot stood frozen.
Sir Gawain's corpse smiled beside him. Sir Tristan fought desperately against impossible numbers. Sir Percival bled from a dozen wounds.
And in their midst, Lancelot was changing.
On the fourth front, the remaining knights held the line.
Sir Gaheris, another of the Orkney brothers, fought with grim determination. Sir Palamedes, the Saracen knight, his skin dark as night and his eyes sharp as eagles, cut down Romans with elegant precision. Sir Leodegrance, Guinevere's father, fought with the fury of a man protecting his daughter's kingdom. Sir Tor, the first knight Arthur ever knighted, proved his worth with every stroke. Sir Dagonet, the fool who was no fool at all, fought with a madness that terrified his enemies. And Sir Ywain, son of King Urien, covered them all with his tireless blade.
Four fronts. Four battles. One war.
And above it all, on a mountain overlooking the carnage, General Titus watched.
The Roman commander stood at the peak, his armor gleaming even in the grey light. Behind him, eighteen soldiers stood in perfect silence. They wore cloaks that covered their bodies completely, shrouding them in shadow. Their faces were hidden. Their forms were still. But each one of them radiated a terror that went beyond the physical an aura of death that made the battlefield below seem almost peaceful.
Titus held a scope to his eye, surveying the battle.
"Interesting," he murmured, his voice carrying in the thin mountain air. "These British mongrels actually stood their ground."
He watched as Arthur's front pushed forward. Watched as Agravain's front held firm. Watched as the fourth front refused to break.
"How pathetic." His lip curled. "It is our side that has lost men. And yet only one of the Knights of the Round Table has fallen."
He lowered the scope, his jaw tightening.
"Rome should be greater than this."
He turned slightly, as if to address the cloaked figures behind him. But before he could speak, something changed on the battlefield below.
Titus's eyes snapped back to the scope.
On the third front, something was happening. Black steam—no, something darker than steam was rising from one of the knights. It formed shapes. Hands. Legs. Heads. Mouths. They swirled around a single figure, wrapping him in darkness.
Lancelot.
Titus watched, transfixed, as the black shapes molded into a ball. They wrapped around the knight completely, covering him entirely. The ball grew. And grew. And grew.
It was darker than black.
Light itself seemed to die when it touched that surface. No reflection. No shadow. Just nothing. An absence. A void.
And from that void, Titus felt it.
Cold.
Not the cold of winter. Not the cold of death. Something worse. Something that crawled into his chest and squeezed.
Malice.
It touched him like the fingers of a corpse cold, stiff, dead. His skin crawled. His breath caught. His hand moved, almost without thought, to the long sword strapped at his waist. The blade within its scabbard hummed, responding to something Titus couldn't name.
"So this is..." He swallowed. "This is a human emotion?"
He stared at the black sphere, still growing, still absorbing.
"Forget King Arthur. Forget Excalibur." His voice was barely a whisper. "What power is that? What has caused such a sight on this battlefield?"
His hand tightened on his sword hilt.
And something strange happened.
Titus's cheeks flushed red. His pupils expanded. His breath came faster.
It was not fear he felt. Not anymore.
It was love.
The response to Lancelot's heart to that pure, undiluted malice was not revulsion in Titus. It was attraction. The call of a warrior to a worthy opponent. The hunger of a hunter who has finally found prey worth pursuing.
He wanted to jump into battle immediately. To face that darkness. To clash with whatever was emerging from that void.
But he held himself.
"As much as I would like to..." He forced the words out through clenched teeth. "I can't. My sword is reserved for the head of King Arthur."
He raised his scope again, searching the battlefield until he found the golden gleam of Excalibur. Arthur stood at the center of his front, blood splattered across his face, his eyes somehow, impossibly looking directly at Titus.
Across the impossible distance, through the chaos of battle, Arthur's gaze found him.
"How disgusting," Arthur said, though Titus could not hear the words. But he could feel them. "I'll rip out your eyes."
Titus smiled.
"Come then, Pendragon," he murmured. "Come and try."
On the third front, Percival was still in shock.
He stared at the black sphere that had once been Lancelot. At the darkness that absorbed all light. At the malice that made his soul shiver.
His reaction to it was simple.
Fear.
Pure, primal, overwhelming fear.
He didn't understand what he was seeing. Couldn't process what was happening. His mind, sharp as it was, had no framework for this. No context. No words.
And in that moment of frozen terror
SHLIK.
A blade punched through his back.
Percival gasped. His eyes went wide. He looked down and saw the tip of a Roman long sword protruding from his chest, wet with his blood.
"What " He coughed, blood spattering his lips. "What the hell "
He hadn't anticipated the strike. Hadn't seen it coming. The winged messenger the fast one, the one he'd been dancing with had used his moment of distraction. Had stabbed him while he stared at Lancelot.
But Percival did not fall.
His hand snapped back, grabbing the messenger's wrist. His other hand clenched into a fist. And he punched.
CRACK!
The messenger's face exploded sideways from the impact. His grip on the sword released as he flew backward, flipping through the air before landing on his feet several yards away.
He touched his jaw. Felt the damage. And laughed.
"Hehehe. Hehehe. HEHEHEHE!"
The sound was high, manic, wrong.
"I finally landed a proper blow!" The messenger's eyes gleamed with insane delight. "Now you die! You die and meet your knight in arms in whatever hell waits for failed warriors!"
Percival's fear transformed.
Into rage.
He stretched out his spear the blade still in his chest, the pain a distant scream and pointed it at the messenger.
"I'll cut you into a million pieces," he said, his voice low and cold, "if you ever run your mouth again."
He ran.
The sword was still in his chest. He could feel it with every movement, every breath, every heartbeat. It grated against his ribs. It moved inside him.
A miracle, he thought as he ran. The blade didn't pass through any vital organs. I can still fight.
But not for long.
I won't be able to last in this battle. I need to speed up. I need to end this. Now.
He contracted the muscles around his eyes.
Blood began to flow from them trickling down his cheeks like crimson tears. The pain was incredible. But so was the effect.
His vision enhanced.
The world sharpened. Colors brightened. Movements that had been blurs became clear. He could see the messenger's every twitch, every breath, every intention.
He thrust his spear.
One hand only. The other pressed against the wound in his chest, trying to keep himself together. But his footwork that was something else entirely.
Back. Front. Left. Right. Jump. Twist. Flow.
Each thrust was faster than the last. Each one aimed at a vital point. Each one nearly landing.
The messenger danced through them, his face shifting from manic glee to something else. Confusion. Fear.
"What the hell is this?!" He dodged another thrust, barely. "His stabs are getting faster! But he's supposed to be dying! What the fuck is going on?!"
Thirty seconds.
Eighty stabs.
The messenger ducked, spun, almost found an opening to counter. He saw an angle a weak spot in Percival's rhythm. He moved to exploit it.
His head came up.
The spear was already there.
It grazed his forehead deep enough to take flesh, deep enough to take his head armor with it. The bronze helm flew off, clattering to the ground.
The messenger stumbled back, touching his exposed forehead. Blood poured down his face.
Percival grinned through his own blood.
"Good," he said. "I always hated that armor."
His eyes continued to bleed. The world continued to sharpen. But he could feel the cost the limit approaching.
Less than thirty minutes, he thought. That's all I have. Less than thirty minutes before this kills me. Before I go blind.
The messenger stared at him. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his bloody face.
"I like you," he said. "I really, really like you."
He pointed at Percival's bleeding eyes.
"So that's how you're damaging me. It's not that you're faster. You can't be faster you've got a sword in your chest." He laughed, delighted. "You amplified your eyes! Beyond normal limits! So you can keep up with my speed!"
He clapped his hands together.
"I love it! I absolutely love it!"
He bowed a mocking, theatrical bow.
"Because I like you so much, I'll tell you my name." He straightened, his smile wide and sharp. "My name is Zeraled."
He spread his arms wide.
"And I'm fast."
He vanished.
Percival's enhanced eyes tracked him barely. A blur. A streak. A ghost. He moved like nothing Percival had ever seen, faster than the eye should be able to follow, faster than thought.
Thirty minutes, Percival thought, spinning to face the blur. I have thirty minutes to kill someone I can barely see.
Behind him, the black sphere that was Lancelot continued to grow.
And somewhere inside it, something was waking up.