Percival's nod was slow, deliberate. But his eyes those warm, trusting eyes that had seen too much and yet still believed in goodness they searched Lancelot's face like a man reading a letter in dim light.
"How do you know this?" Percival asked quietly. "How can you be so sure?"
Lancelot's jaw tightened. For a brief second, he hesitated. The question hung between them, heavy with implication. How did he know? What could he possibly say? That a voice from the sky a self-proclaimed fallen god had whispered it to him? That he was hearing things now, perhaps losing his mind along with everything else?
Tell him, Darlington's voice came, smooth and calm. Just tell him to trust you. If it doesn't end up true, isn't that better for both of you? You'll bear the responsibility.
Lancelot's teeth ground together. The logic was sound, but it felt like a lie. Another lie. How many would he have to tell before this was over?
"Just trust me," Lancelot said finally, his voice rough. "As a fellow knight. That's all I can say. And if it doesn't end up true…" He met Percival's eyes. "Isn't that better? For both of us? I'll bear the responsibility."
Percival stared at him for a long moment. Something shifted in his expression a recognition, perhaps, of the weight Lancelot was carrying. The weight they were all carrying.
"The pain of loss," Percival murmured, almost to himself. "It changes people. I've seen it before." His eyes searched Lancelot's, and what he found there made his shoulders sag slightly. "I can't even read your eyes anymore, Lance. Are they dead? Or are they filled with something else? Something… new?"
Lancelot said nothing.
"We haven't talked," Percival continued softly. "Not since Beloberis. Not really. I've wanted to, but…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Don't let this war affect your mind, Lance. Don't let it change who you are."
Something snapped inside Lancelot. The words well-meaning, gentle, kind they hit him like a physical blow. Who he was? Who he was was a man who had watched his cousin die. Who he was was a knight whose king had failed him. Who he was was a soul in hell, fighting for reasons that grew murkier by the hour.
"Now is not the time," Lancelot said, his voice cold as winter stone, "to dwell on the mistakes of Pendragon."
The name—Pendragon, not Arthur, not "my king" hung in the air like smoke.
Percival flinched. He saw it then, clearly: the wound beneath Lancelot's composure, still raw and bleeding. This was not the time for healing words. This was the time for action. For survival.
His face fell, the warmth draining away, replaced by something grimmer. Resignation, perhaps. Or acceptance.
"Alright," Percival said quietly. "Let's not waste our breath. The enemy is waiting for us." He straightened in his saddle, the knight reasserting itself over the friend. "I'll get Sir Gawain and Sir Tristan. They'll follow you. They trust you." A pause. "We all do, Lance. Even now."
He turned his horse, ready to ride.
"You should tell Arthur about this," Percival added over his shoulder. "We can't leave him in the dark. Rome is order discipline, structure. To beat them, we need the same. We need our king."
Lancelot watched him go, the words echoing in his mind. We need our king.
Did they? Did they really?
Above them, invisible to all but the keenest eyes, Darlington watched the scene unfold. His gaze wasn't on Lancelot or Percival, though. It was fixed on something else a distant ridge, barely visible against the grey rocks, where a single figure stood with a scope pressed to his eye.
Titus.
The Roman general lowered his scope, a thin smile playing across his weathered face. Around him, hidden in the rocks and crevices, nearly a thousand soldiers waited in perfect silence. Legionaries in segmented armor. Auxiliaries with barbarian tattoos and hungry eyes. Cavalrymen holding their mounts' mouths to prevent any sound.
"Foolish Britains," Titus murmured, his voice carrying only to the officers beside him. "They believe their planning will save them. They gather in little groups, whisper little secrets, think themselves clever." He chuckled, soft and contemptuous. "There is no need to even use force against them. They will defeat themselves. They always do."
The officers laughed quietly, the sound swallowed by the wind.
Darlington observed all of this the hidden army, the confident general, the oblivious knights below and felt something cold settle in his chest.
The odds are already stacked against them, he thought. Even with warning, even with preparation, they're outnumbered, outpositioned, outclassed. The only trump card they have is Excalibur. Its full power needs to be drawn out. If I'm right, that's why these men were sent. Not to defeat Arthur's army to take the sword.
He looked at Excalibur, sheathed at Arthur's hip, glowing faintly even from this distance. And for a moment just a moment he saw something strange.
A reflection.
Himself, staring back from the blade's surface.
Could I…? The thought came unbidden, half-formed. Could I enter Valhalla through that blade? Use it as a doorway? A vessel?
He pushed the thought away. Later. For now, there was a battle to win. Or at least, to survive.
Lancelot, he sent. Their aim is to wipe you all out and retrieve Excalibur. Titus has nearly a thousand men hidden in the rocks. You need to move. Now.
Below, Lancelot wheeled his horse and rode hard toward the front of the column, where Arthur rode at the head of his knights. The king glanced up at his approach, something flickering in his eyes concern, perhaps, or wariness. They hadn't spoken since the funeral. Not really.
"Arthur." Lancelot reined in beside him, his voice tight. "We are surrounded by Rome. I'm going to take some knights—a shadow operation against one of their forces on the flank. Break their encirclement before it closes."
Arthur looked at him. Not with surprise, not with alarm. Just… calm. Accepting.
"Yes," Arthur said quietly. "I know."
Lancelot blinked. "You… know?"
"Excalibur told me." Arthur's hand rested on the sword's hilt, almost unconsciously. "The enemies. Their positions. Their numbers. Not everything the blade has limits but enough." He met Lancelot's eyes. "I've known since we entered this territory."
Lancelot's mind reeled. Excalibur told him? Since when does the holy sword have such an ability? He glanced at the blade, its soft glow, and felt a chill run down his spine. What else could it do? What else did it know?
Above them, Darlington's eyes narrowed. Excalibur told him? Interesting. Very interesting. The sword is more than a weapon it's a tool. A conduit. A bridge between worlds.
He stared at the blade, and for a moment, the reflection of himself seemed to stare back. Could I…?
Lancelot pushed aside his questions. There was no time. "If that's the case, then I'll go. We'll hit them before they're ready."
He turned his horse, ready to ride.
"Lancelot."
Arthur's voice stopped him. He didn't turn, but he waited.
"Would you like to wield Excalibur?" The king's voice was quiet, heavy with meaning. "Now? In this battle?"
Lancelot's back stiffened. For a long moment, he didn't respond. The offer hung in the air between them a gift, a test, an apology, all wrapped in one.
Take it, Darlington urged silently. Take the sword. It's the only way.
But Lancelot only shook his head, once, and rode away without answering.
They rode hard Lancelot, Percival, Gawain, and Tristan four knights against whatever Rome had hidden in the rocks. The main army fell behind them, shrinking to a distant smudge on the horizon. Ahead, the terrain grew rougher, more broken, the rocky outcroppings rising like the teeth of some buried beast.
Gawain rode with his great sword across his back, his face set in determined lines. He asked no questions he never did. If Lancelot said there was a fight, there was a fight. That was enough.
Tristan rode in silence, his eyes constantly moving, scanning, assessing. The hunter's gaze. He'd been a tracker in life, and death hadn't dulled the instinct.
Percival rode close to Lancelot, his earlier warmth replaced by a focused intensity. Ready. Waiting.
Lancelot broke the silence first.
"The enemy we're about to face," he said, his voice carrying to all three, "is Roman. But not the Rome you know from stories. These are harder. More brutal. They've been in Valhalla longer, fought more battles. They've adapted."
He glanced at each of them in turn.
"We'll be facing a squad. Small, but deadly. Four members." He held up his hand, ticking off fingers. "One is as big as a giant eight feet tall, at least. A wall of muscle. Another is fast, very fast probably a scout or skirmisher. The third…"
He never finished.
FWIP.
The sound was nothing a whisper, a breath, a bird's call. But Lancelot's instincts, honed by decades of combat, screamed a warning an instant before his mind processed what it was.
An arrow.
Tearing through the air, aimed directly at his chest.
DON'T DODGE! Darlington's mental voice shrieked. PARRY IT! THERE'S ANOTHER COMING FROM THE SIDE IF YOU DODGE, YOU'LL FLY RIGHT INTO IT! YOU HAVE TO TANK THIS ONE!
Lancelot's body moved before his mind finished processing. His sword came up not to deflect, but to block. The arrow struck the flat of the blade with a force that jarred his entire arm. Sparks flew. His horse screamed and reared. The impact nearly threw him from the saddle.
Such strength! The thought flashed through his mind. That must be from the giant
But even as he struggled to stay mounted, he saw it. The second arrow. Coming from the side, just as Darlington had warned. A killing shot, perfectly timed to catch him as he dodged the first.
He couldn't move. Couldn't block. Could only watch as death flew toward him.
THWOK.
A spear no, Tristan's spear rose from beside him, slamming into the arrow's path. The shaft deflected the missile, sending it spinning harmlessly into the rocks. The force of the impact made Tristan grunt, his arm trembling, but he held.
Lancelot looked up.
On a rocky outcrop thirty feet above them, a figure stood silhouetted against the grey sky. Massive. Eight feet tall at least, shoulders broader than a door, arms like tree trunks. He held a bow that looked like a child's toy in his enormous hands but the arrow he'd just fired had nearly killed the greatest knight in Camelot.
The giant looked down at them, his face expressionless. Then, slowly, he reached for another arrow.
Lancelot's sword came up, pointing at the monster above.
"If this were a righteous land," he shouted, his voice ringing off the rocks, "I would ask your name! I would give you mine! We would meet as warriors, as men!"
He kicked his horse forward, muscles coiling.
"But it is NOT!"
He launched himself from the saddle, his legs exploding with power. The horse stumbled beneath him, but he was already airborne, soaring upward, his free hand catching a rock outcropping, pulling, throwing himself higher still.
"My enemy DIE! "
He crested the outcrop in a blur of motion, his sword arcing toward the giant's throat.
The giant moved.
Fast. Much too fast for something his size. He dropped the bow, his hand snapping up to catch Lancelot's wrist in mid-swing. The grip was like iron no, like stone. Lancelot's momentum stopped instantly, his blade inches from its target.
They stood there, frozen, the giant's face inches from his own. Empty eyes. No hatred, no joy, no anything. Just the blank stare of a killer.
Lancelot smiled.
"For a warrior of Rome," he said, his voice calm, "you're built like a block of clay."
The giant's eyes flickered confusion, perhaps, or suspicion.
Then he heard it.
The sound of chains.
Aronde, Lancelot's sword, had a secret. A gift from the Lady of the Lake, long ago, in a world that no longer existed. The blade could connect form a bond with its wielder that transcended distance. And Lancelot could choose what form that connection took.
Right now, he chose chain.
The blade, still gripped in the giant's other hand, shifted. Its form blurred, stretched, became a length of gleaming silver chain that whipped around the giant's arm, his shoulder, his neck. Before the monster could react, the chain pulled and the blade, reformed at its end, slashed across the giant's face in a spray of blood.
The giant roared, releasing Lancelot's wrist to claw at his ruined eye. Lancelot twisted in mid-air, caught the chain as it retracted, and landed in a crouch with Aronde back in his hand.
He didn't hesitate.
He leaped forward, blade extended, and shouted:
"Warrior of Rome HERE IS YOUR DEATH! "
The giant's remaining eye widened. His hand came up too slow. Much too slow.
Aronde punched through his throat and out the back of his neck.
For a moment, they stood frozen knight and giant, killer and killed. Then the giant's legs buckled, and he crumpled, falling from the outcrop to crash among the rocks below.
Lancelot stood at the edge, breathing hard, watching the body fall. His heart pounded. His arm ached. But he was alive.
Percival, he thought, sending the prayer to whatever gods might listen. I leave the rest to you. Let us survive this.
Below, Percival, Gawain, and Tristan had already engaged the remaining three Romans. Steel clashed against steel. War cries mixed with the screams of dying men.
And above them all, Darlington watched.
They will die, he thought coldly, analytically, as if calculating the outcome of an equation. Most of them, anyway. That's the math of it. That's the truth.
He looked at Lancelot, standing victorious on the outcrop, blood dripping from his blade.
But you will survive.
You will survive, Lancelot.
Because I need you.