From far away, a man in a black cloak watched through a scope.
He was positioned on a small rise a mound of earth and rock that had been formed by some long-ago battle, now serving as a vantage point. His cloak was pulled tight around his body, hiding his armor, his weapons, his identity. Only his hands were visible pale, slender fingers wrapped around the brass tube of the scope.
On his face, a golden mask.
It covered everything his eyes, his nose, his mouth. The metal was smooth, unadorned, reflecting the grey light of Valhalla like a mirror. There were no holes for vision, yet he saw clearly. Magic, perhaps. Or something older.
Behind him, two others waited.
One wore armor that covered only his lower body leather and bronze plates strapped to his legs, his chest bare, his arms exposed. His skin was marked with scars old wounds, ancient wounds, the kind that never fully healed.
The third lay on the sand, wearing scavenged armor from a dead Camelot soldier. The armor was too large for him the plates shifted when he moved, the leather creaked, the chainmail dragged against the ground. He did not seem to care.
The man with the scope watched Mordred and Gareth.
"Oh my." His voice was muffled by the mask, but the amusement was clear. "It seems that Lord Mordred is not doing well with that knight."
He adjusted the scope, zooming in on the scene.
"I can't believe he got himself caught in that type of trap."
The bare-chested man snatched the scope from his hands.
"Hey!" His voice was rough, impatient. "Stop hugging all the good views to yourself."
He pressed the scope to his eye.
"Yeah." He grunted. "Damn. It's pretty bad."
The third man the one lying on the sand yawned.
"So what?" His voice was lazy, unconcerned. "It's not as if he's going to lose. I mean, we know how strong he is."
The man with the golden mask Markie, as his brother had called him nodded slowly.
"Yeah. He's strong. So it won't be easy to take him down." He paused. "But strength in battle isn't really something to be proud about."
He gestured at the distant figures.
"In a battle like this, one of the things you need to consider is strategy. Like now..." He tilted his head. "I'm sure, even though it hasn't started to affect him, he'll be drained in stamina and strength a bit. Which is quite unfortunate."
He looked toward the distant golden light where Arthur still fought, where Excalibur blazed, where the sun of Camelot burned.
"If the last person he has to face here is Arthur..."
The bare-chested man lowered the scope.
"Hey, Markie." His voice was curious, almost childlike. "I want to ask if Arthur was to face him while both of them were fully charged, who would win?"
Markie laughed.
The sound was muffled by the golden mask, but it shook the metal, vibrating through the air.
"Oh my." He leaned back. "Isn't that obvious?"
He spread his hands.
"King Arthur would win."
He pointed at the distant golden light.
"This display of strength King Arthur is showing here isn't even near his full power." His voice grew reverent. "King Arthur's power is like that of a god. During the time he was alive, there were times he went on conquest on his own and he would be able to wipe an entire country off the map simply by making one attack."
He paused.
"That's the true power of Excalibur. The holy sword."
The man on the ground coughed.
His body convulsed once, twice and he pushed himself up on his elbows.
"Then why isn't he using its true power?" His voice was rough, disbelieving. "If you say that... he could have ended everything quickly. ASAP."
He spat on the sand.
"But it's almost as if he's suppressed. Unable to bring out its full power." His face twisted. "This is pathetic."
-
Markie tilted his head.
"Well." His voice was thoughtful. "Maybe it's that. Or maybe..."
He looked at the distant golden light—at the king who blazed like a sun, at the knights who fought beside him, at the people he was trying to protect.
"...it's just that he cares too much about the people around him. His subordinates."
He paused.
"If he used it... the entire battlefield would be turned to ash."
He opened his mouth to say another word.
SHLIK!
A sword cut through his neck.
The blade was black straight at the base, curving sharply at the tip, forged from metal that had never seen the sun. It passed through flesh, through bone, through everything that connected Markie's head to his body.
His head fell.
The golden mask clattered against the ground still smooth, still unadorned, still reflecting the grey light.
His body crumpled beside it.
The other two brothers were so shocked that they could do nothing.
Their bodies froze. Their eyes widened. Their mouths opened but no sound came out. They stared at their brother's headless corpse, at the blood spraying from his neck, at the impossible thing that had just happened.
A horse rose.
Not from the ground from the shadow. It was a grand stallion, black as night, its eyes burning with red fire, its breath steaming in the cold air. Its hooves struck the earth with a sound like thunder.
On top of it sat a man.
His armor was bronze and gold, polished to a mirror shine. His head was bald smooth as stone, reflecting the light like the golden mask had reflected it. Around his neck, a metal plate hung: GENERAL TITUS.
He held a sword.
The blade was black curved at the tip, dripping with blood. The same blood that had belonged to Markie. The same blood that still sprayed from the headless corpse.
The new General Titus.
He looked at the two remaining brothers at the bare-chested man, at the one in scavenged armor and his expression was cold.
"Traitors of the Roman army." His voice was quiet, but it carried. "I will now purge you."
He raised his black blade.
"Rome cannot have ants that eat its flesh from within."
The sight was dreadful.
His bald head reflected all light the grey of the sky, the red of the blood, the white of the brothers' faces. It was like looking into a mirror that showed only death.
He showed killing intent.
Not the wild, chaotic killing intent of the previous general. Not the refined, focused killing intent of Mordred. Something darker. Something that pressed down on the brothers like a physical weight, crushing their lungs, stopping their hearts.
It was like a monster.
The horse snorted.
The sword dripped.
And the grey sky watched.