The ground shook with each clash.
Gawain and the giant stood at the center of their own私人 battlefield, a crater forming around them as their swords met again and again and again. The giant's blade was a slab of dark iron, wide as a door, thick as a tree trunk. Gawain's great sword was smaller, lighter, but no less deadly in his hands.
CRASH!
CLANG!
BOOOOOOM!
They moved like forces of nature each strike sending shockwaves through the air, each block cracking the earth beneath their feet. Soldiers from both armies gave them a wide berth, none foolish enough to step into that killing zone.
The giant stepped back, creating distance. His empty hand reached for his bow the massive thing of iron and gold slung across his back. In one fluid motion, he nocked not one, not two, but three arrows, each thicker than a man's arm, each tipped with barbed iron.
He drew.
The bow creaked. The air shimmered around the arrows, charged with something beyond physics, beyond reason.
He released.
FWIP-FWIP-FWIP!
Three arrows. Three streaks of death. Three trajectories designed to intersect at the exact point where Gawain stood.
Gawain's eyes narrowed. His grip on his great sword shifted not tightening, but loosening. He threw the blade into the air, spinning end over end, a blur of silver against the grey sky.
The first arrow met the spinning blade DING! deflected, screaming off into the rocks.
The second DING! same fate, its trajectory shattered.
The third DING! spun away like the others, burying itself in the ground twenty feet from its target.
Gawain's hand shot up, catching his sword by the hilt as it completed its spin. Without pause, without breath, he launched himself forward, blade extended, aimed at the giant's throat.
CRAAAAAASH!
The giant's sword was there. Blocking. Always blocking.
They stood frozen for a moment, blade against blade, muscle against muscle, will against will. The giant's empty eyes stared into Gawain's fierce ones.
"You're fast," the giant rumbled.
Gawain grinned. "You're not as slow as you look."
They exploded apart then crashed together again.
CLANG! CRASH! BOOM!
It was like watching two mountains fight. Every strike carried enough force to shatter boulders. Every block sent tremors through the earth. They circled, struck, retreated, struck again a dance of death played at speeds that should have been impossible for men their size.
The giant swung low—Gawain leaped over it, twisting in mid-air, bringing his own blade down in an arc that should have split the giant's skull.
The giant's free hand his empty hand caught the blade.
Bare-handed. Fingers wrapped around the edge, blood pouring from the grip, but holding. Holding.
Gawain's eyes widened. "You"
The giant pulled. Yanked Gawain forward, off-balance, and headbutted him.
CRACK!
Gawain flew backward, blood spraying from his broken nose. He hit the ground, rolled, came up swinging just in time to block the giant's follow-up strike.
CRASH!
His arms shuddered. His feet slid back, carving furrows in the stone. The giant pressed the advantage, raining blows like a blacksmith hammering hot iron each one harder, faster, more desperate than the last.
CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!
Gawain blocked them all. Barely. His arms were going numb. His vision blurred with blood. But he held.
Above them, Darlington watched with something like hunger in his eyes.
This is what I need, he thought. This is what Lancelot needs to see. Not victory. Not heroics. This the raw, desperate, human struggle of two warriors who refuse to die.
He looked toward Lancelot, who was catching his breath at the edge of the battle, watching the same fight with something like awe in his eyes.
Watch, Lancelot. Learn. This is what it means to fight when you have nothing left. This is what it means to be a warrior.
Below, the fight continued.
The giant abandoned defense entirely. He swung with both hands, putting everything into each blow power, speed, rage. His sword became a blur, a storm, an avalanche of steel.
Gawain met it. Met all of it. His great sword moved in perfect arcs, each block flowing into the next, a river of defense against an ocean of offense.
CRASH-CRASH-CRASH-CRASH-CRASH!
The sound was continuous now one long scream of metal against metal. Sparks flew like fireworks. The ground beneath them melted from the heat of their clash.
The giant roared a sound of pure, animal frustration. He pushed harder, faster, his blows coming so quickly they blurred into a single, continuous impact.
Gawain's arms were shaking. His legs were shaking. His soul was shaking. But he didn't retreat. Didn't yield. Didn't break.
I am a knight of Camelot, he thought, the words a prayer, a mantra, a promise. I am Sir Gawain. I do not fall. I do not yield. I do not
FWIP.
The sound was tiny. Insignificant. Lost in the chaos of their clash.
But Gawain heard it.
An arrow. Fired from somewhere in the chaos not by the giant, but by another archer, hidden in the rocks. A coward's shot. A killer's shot.
It took him in the side.
Pierced his armor. Pierced his flesh. Pierced his liver.
Gawain gasped. His rhythm broke just for an instant. Just long enough.
The giant's sword slammed into his guard, and this time Gawain couldn't hold. He flew backward, tumbling across the ground, fetching up against a boulder with a crunch that spoke of broken bones.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the grey sky. The arrow shaft protruded from his side, dark with blood. His liver he could feel it, the warm spread of internal bleeding, the slow creep of death.
Ah, he thought calmly. That's not good.
The giant approached, sword raised for the killing blow. His empty eyes held no triumph, no satisfaction. Just the blank acceptance of a job nearly done.
"Your king will fall," the giant rumbled. "Your knights will die. Your legend will end. And Excalibur will serve Caesar."
Gawain laughed.
It was a wet sound, bubbly with blood, but a laugh nonetheless.
"You think," he gasped, "that a little thing like death stops a knight of Camelot?"
The giant's sword began its descent.
Gawain's hand moved to his left arm. To the vambrace there plain steel, unremarkable, ignored by everyone who saw it.
He pressed.
A mechanism clicked. A blade snicked forth from the vambrace not steel, not iron, but something else. Something that gleamed with an inner light, silver-white, impossibly sharp.
Mithril.
The mythical metal. The indestructible iron of legend. Forged in the depths of the earth by craftsmen whose names were forgotten, whose secrets died with them. Gawain had carried it for centuries, through life and death and Valhalla itself. He had never used it. Never needed it.
Until now.
The giant's sword met the mithril blade.
SHIIIIIIING!
The sound was beautiful. Pure. Clean. The sound of impossibility made real.
The giant's sword that massive slab of dark iron that had survived a hundred battles shattered. Pieces flew everywhere, glittering in the grey light like dark rain.
The giant stared at his empty hand. At the hilt, still gripped in his fingers, the blade gone. At the small silver blade that had destroyed it.
"What…" he breathed. "What is that?"
Gawain pushed himself upright, ignoring the screaming of his body, the blood that poured from his side, the arrow that grated against his organs with each movement. He held up his left arm, the mithril blade catching the light.
"Mithril," he said simply. "Figured I'd save it for a special occasion."
The giant's empty eyes found his. For the first time, something flickered there. Not fear Romans didn't fear. But respect. The acknowledgment of a worthy opponent.
Gawain drew his great sword with his right hand. The mithril blade extended from his left.
Dual wielding.
"Let's finish this," Gawain said, and his voice was calm, peaceful almost. "You and me. Last round."
The giant looked at him for a long moment. Then he reached down and picked up a fallen soldier's sword inferior to his own, but sharp enough to kill. He hefted it, testing its weight.
"Yes," he said. "Last round."
They faced each other across the cratered ground. Two warriors. Two legends. One would walk away. One would not.
Above them, Darlington leaned forward, his eyes burning.
This, he thought, is what I came to see.
And the battle began again.