General Titus sat on the ground, cross-legged, his discarded sword gleaming beside him. He looked at the six knights before him at their frozen forms, their uncertain eyes, their hesitation and smiled.
"What's this?" His voice was light, almost teasing. "Why aren't you guys moving?"
He tilted his head, studying them like a man examining curious insects.
"Is it fear?" He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Or is it lack of loyalty to your king?"
His smile widened.
"You are disloyal to your king. I should have known such would be the case." He shook his head sadly. "The Britains. Fools who claim they are the pinnacle of civilization."
He laughed a short, sharp sound.
"Wrong."
Above them, Darlington watched with narrowed eyes.
"This is not pride," he murmured. "This is flexing his power. If it were a match where death was uncertain, it would be fun."
He leaned forward, analyzing.
"Though it's fun for me to watch, it's definitely not fun for them." He considered the knights below. "How will they respond? Perhaps a jumping would be best. They have to put in all their power to attack him together. Take him down as a group."
He scratched his chin.
"It would also be beneficial to them. He's been watching the entire battle it's obvious that he knows their tactics, their habits, their patterns when fighting. For someone who has reached the rank of general, it means he has mastered the art of war and the battlefield."
He did the calculation in his head.
"So together, it buys them a percentage of success in battle against him." He paused. "But he's an unknown factor. Under all circumstances favorable to them..."
His eyes went cold.
"...it's less than five percent."
He held his head, pressing on his nose as if he were tired an old habit from his human days.
"But why am I assuming and calculating this?" He sighed heavily. "This is a waste of mental energy."
He looked at the knights below at their proud stances, their gleaming armor, their ideals.
"Knights." The word came out like a curse. "Really annoying. This is really eating me up. People who value their pride, their loyalty, the people they protect, and their weapon above anything else."
He shook his head.
"Yeah. This is the worst case scenario."
He considered their options. A one-versus-one for each of them would be suicide. But perhaps perhaps there was another approach.
"I don't believe their ideal will be great enough to compensate for their battle IQ. But there must be something they have in place." He thought harder. "Perhaps it's that."
His eyes lit up with understanding.
"A typical case of adaptation transmission. Pretty simple, actually."
He began to pace, working through the logic.
"One battles with him. Even if that one loses, there's a possibility of laying heavy damage. And for the others to learn of their enemy's battle habits his techniques, his rhythms, his weaknesses."
He stopped.
"The only error with this is that there is a price they need to pay." His voice dropped. "Can they really pay the currency of death?"
Below, Sir Gaheris stepped forward.
His face was twisted with emotion with grief, with rage, with something that burned too bright to contain. His hand tightened on his sword until his knuckles went white.
"Oh yes!" His voice rang out across the battlefield, fierce and wild. "I've been longing for a battle with the strong! The general of the Romans!"
He raised his blade, pointing it directly at Titus.
"I, Sir Gaheris, challenge you to a duel of life and death!"
The words hung in the air like a declaration of war.
Titus's smile widened. His eyes gleamed with something that might have been respect or might have been hunger.
"Yeah." He rose slowly, brushing sand from his armor. "This is fun. These knights they're all fucking idiots."
He picked up his sword, testing its weight.
"Okay then." He pointed the blade at Gaheris. "I'll send you, barbarian, to your fallen brother."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"Sir Gawain."
The name hit Gaheris like a physical blow.
His eyes went wide. His face contorted. The grief he had been carrying the loss of his brother, the pain of it erupted into something terrible.
"YOU BASTARD!"
He raised his sword.
And he ran.
Straight at Titus. Full speed. Full fury. Full death wish.
Titus watched him come, utterly calm, utterly pleased.
"Well," he said quietly, "that's more like it."
Gaheris ran toward his death.
And Titus waited with open arms.