The archer never saw him coming.
He knelt among the rocks, bow still raised, eyes fixed on the distant figure of Sir Gawain. His shot had landed he'd seen the arrow pierce the knight's side, seen him stumble, seen him fall. Victory was close. So close.
He never heard the whisper of steel behind him.
Aronde flew through the air like a silver comet, spinning end over end, aimed directly at his spine.
But the archer's instincts were sharp. At the last possible moment, he moved throwing himself sideways, the blade slicing past him to embed itself in the rock where his head had been.
He turned, reaching for another arrow
Lancelot was already there.
Not with a blade. Not with a weapon. Just his fist, clenched so tight the knuckles were white, pulled back with every ounce of strength in his body.
The archer's eyes widened.
CRACK!
The punch connected flush with his face.
It was not a knight's punch. Not clean, not proper, not honorable. It was a brutal thing raw, desperate, animal. Lancelot's fist crushed the front of the archer's skull, shattered the delicate bone of the eye sockets, pushed the face inward like a stepped-on egg.
The archer flew backward, limbs flailing, and crashed to the ground in a heap.
He lay there, twitching. His face was no longer a face just a ruin of bone and blood and something wet that glistened in the grey light. He coughed, and blood sprayed from the wreckage of his mouth. He tried to breathe, but his nose was destroyed, his airway blocked. He tried to see, but his eyes those once-sharp eyes that had tracked Gawain across the battlefield were simply gone, crushed into jelly by the force of Lancelot's blow.
He couldn't see.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't move.
And so, for the first time in his centuries of existence, the Roman warrior felt something he had never felt before.
Fear.
Pure, absolute, paralyzing fear.
Fear.
Darlington's voice came, calm and satisfied, like a teacher observing a student's success. The ultimate tool of the battlefield. When your opponent knows fear, you have already won. There is no way to battle fear once it enters a person. No strategy, no strength, no courage. It consumes everything.
He watched the archer twitch and moan, and something like pleasure curled through his mental voice.
Isn't it exhilarating, Lancelot?
But Lancelot didn't hear him.
His mind was elsewhere.
Thoughts crashed through him like waves in a storm too many, too fast, too much. The giant. The woman. The archer. Beloberis's blood on his face. Arthur's words. Arthur's silence. The voice in his head. The power in his blade. The weakness in his body. The rage. The grief. The nothing that filled him when he tried to feel anything at all.
No, he thought. No, it's not I don't what am I
Darlington's words passed through him like wind through a ghost. Unheard. Unnoticed. Irrelevant.
He jumped down from the rocks, landing lightly despite the chaos in his mind. His footsteps were slow, deliberate, as he walked toward the dying archer. Each step crunched on the gravel. Each step brought him closer.
The archer heard them.
"Please" The word was wet, garbled, barely understandable through the ruin of his mouth. "Please stop don't come here PLEASE"
He scrabbled backward, blind hands grasping at rocks, at dirt, at anything. His legs kicked uselessly. His breath came in wet, choking gasps.
Lancelot stopped beside him. Looked down at him.
"So you feel it," he said quietly. His voice was strange distant, detached, as if someone else were speaking through his mouth. "Pain. Fear."
The archer whimpered.
"I don't know what I'm feeling anymore." Lancelot's brow furrowed. "I don't understand myself. It's eating me. I don't know why it's eating me."
He stared at the archer's ruined face, and for a moment just a moment the world shifted.
It was like looking at a Rubik's cube. A complex, impossible puzzle with too many faces, too many colors, too many pieces. Every emotion he'd ever felt love, loyalty, rage, grief, hope, despair all of them spun and twisted and rearranged themselves into patterns he couldn't recognize.
At the same time, it was hell. Fire and darkness and screaming. At the same time, it was nothing just void, just empty, just the cold grey of Valhalla's eternal sky.
He understood nothing. He understood everything. He understood that he understood nothing.
"But," he said slowly, as if working through a difficult problem, "as these emotions clash… there has to be something that forms at the end, right?" He looked at the archer, though the archer couldn't see him. "There always is. Something new. Something born."
He reached down and pulled Aronde from the rock where it had embedded. The blade came free with a soft shing.
The archer heard it. Began to shake.
Lancelot raised the sword.
"Perhaps," he said, "in Valhalla… I will find the answer."
He drove the blade down.
It entered the archer's head already ruined, already dying and ended whatever thoughts, whatever fears, whatever self remained. The body went still.
Lancelot stood there for a moment, blade dripping, staring at nothing.
Above him, Darlington smiled.
Perfect, he thought. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.
He leaned back on his invisible platform, savoring the moment. This was what he'd been waiting for. This was what he needed.
This is how it's always been, since the beginning of time. Man doesn't understand his existence. His emotions. His pain. And so, in the depths of despair, in suffering, he wishes to lay it somewhere. Anywhere. He searches for something greater.
His eyes, invisible to all below, fixed on Lancelot's still form.
That's how idolism came about. Man moulded gods to hope. Man needs hope. Needs something greater to exist.
His smile widened.
Soon, that something greater will be me.
Below, Lancelot shook himself literally shook his body, as if trying to dislodge something clinging to his skin. He looked around, orienting himself. His eyes found Gawain.
The great knight was rising, mithril blade gleaming on his left arm, great sword in his right hand. Across from him, the giant hefted his new sword inferior, but still deadly. They were about to begin again. The final round.
Lancelot's gaze shifted. Found Tristan.
The hunter still fought, surrounded by Roman soldiers. But something was wrong. Darlington noticed it too his attention sharpening, focusing on the melee.
The soldiers Tristan faced weren't extraordinary. Their skill was average, their weapons standard, their tactics predictable. But they fought with an energy that shouldn't have been possible. They didn't tire. Didn't slow. Didn't stop. Wounds that should have crippled them barely registered. One soldier took a spear through the shoulder and kept fighting, the wound closing as Darlington watched.
They're boosted, he realized. Enhanced by something. Someone.
He looked toward the distant mountains, where Caesar's throne sat hidden among the rocks.
The gods of Greece. Their grace. It's not just for the strong it's for all of them. Every Roman soldier in Valhalla carries a piece of that power.
"Darlington." Lancelot's mental voice was sharp, focused now. "How much longer can Tristan hang on?"
Darlington considered. Calculated. Probably a long time. His skill is enough to survive, even against enhanced soldiers. But he can't win. Can't break out. He's pinned.
"Then what do we do?"
I have a plan. Darlington's voice was calm, certain. Simple and plain. We watch. We wait. We let Gawain finish his fight.
Lancelot's eyes returned to the two warriors Gawain and the giant, circling each other, preparing for the final exchange.
I predict, Darlington continued, that the battle will end in something close to a tie. Both wounded. Both weakened. Both vulnerable. And in that moment…
He let the words hang.
You will draw your blade through the enemy's heart. The weak cannot fight against betrayal, can they? The wounded cannot defend against a strike they don't see coming.
Lancelot was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile crossed his face. Not warm. Not kind. Something else. Something new.
His mindset, Lancelot thought, and Darlington heard it clearly. He really is a god of battle tactics. Even the ones that seem… dirty.
The dirtiest tactics are the ones that work best, Darlington replied. Honor is for the living. We're all dead here. What do we have to lose?
Below, Gawain and the giant moved toward each other.
The final round was about to begin.
And Lancelot waited in the shadows, blade ready, watching for his moment.