Sir Galahad's voice was barely a whisper, but it carried across the blood soaked sand like a stone dropped into still water.
"I took him down using the Death Sword."
Tristan blinked. His brow furrowed deep lines of confusion cutting across his sweat-streaked face.
"Huh?" He tilted his head, as if he had misheard. "What do you mean by the Death Sword? You fought him with the Sword of David. It's the only weapon you use in combat."
He gestured at the blade still clutched in Galahad's trembling hand.
"Or is it like a reflection of the Sword of David? Another ability it has apart from the other two?"
Sir Galahad shook his head.
"No."
Percival remained silent. His bleeding eyes still strained, still pushed beyond their limits were fixed on Galahad's face, reading every micro-expression, every flicker of emotion.
Inside his mind, a voice spoke.
The sword style he used... I've never seen it before. Using the ability of my eyes in the moment where he swung I was unable to predict any further move or action. Everything was still. In place.
He replayed the memory the impossible cut, the general's body separating, the stillness that had preceded it.
His heart stopped beating. His entire body stopped. A good way to describe it would be... still water. Unable to flow.
He looked at Galahad.
Was it magic? Or an ability like mine?
Galahad met his eyes.
"No." His voice was firm despite his trembling. "It's absolutely nothing like that. This is not an ability. Nor is it anything like magic or mystical powers."
He paused, gathering himself.
"As you know, I can't use that."
He looked at the Sword of David at the blade that had served him for years, that had cut through shields and armor and space itself.
"This is simply the embodiment of death in a sword."
Tristan's eyes widened.
"The Sword of Death." Galahad's voice grew stronger, though his body still shook. "A sword path that can only be used by one who is truly dead. It is a sword path that doesn't exist."
He looked at Titus's body at the impossible wound that still bled.
"A sword path that cannot be copied. It cannot be predicted. Because this sword comes from a place greater than life... greater than Valhalla itself."
He paused.
"It comes from death."
Tristan sweated bullets.
Great droplets rolled down his temples, his cheeks, his chin. His throat worked, swallowing against a dryness that had nothing to do with thirst.
"Oh, damn." His voice was quiet, almost reverent. "Then it must really be invincible."
He looked at Galahad at the trembling hands, the pale face, the exhaustion that hung on him like a shroud.
"I know there's more to it. But I'm sure you can explain it to us later." He gestured at the battlefield around them at the fallen, at the survivors, at the war that was not yet over. "Let's first end this fucking war."
Galahad nodded slowly, wearily.
"Yeah. Yeah, let's do that now, shall we?"
He held himself together, his hands still shaking, his body still vibrating from the force of his return to life. But it felt... wrong. As if something had been taken from him. As if the Death Sword had consumed the last of his fighting spirit.
He could not fight anymore.
But he could stand.
And that would have to be enough.
General Titus's body lay on the sand.
The two halves separated by a cut that had no edge, no explanation had not moved. The blood still pooled, dark and endless, spreading across the battlefield like a dark tide.
Then a shadow.
A bird descended from the grey sky.
It was a raven but unlike any raven any of them had ever seen. Its feathers were not black, but blue. Deep, vivid blue, like the sky before a storm, like the depths of an ocean no man had ever reached.
It landed on Titus's body.
Its beak dipped into the pooling blood. It drank long, deep swallows that should have been impossible for a creature its size. The blood did not diminish. It kept drinking, kept consuming, kept taking.
Then it began to peck.
Not at the flesh at something else. Something attached to the general's armor. A metal plate, inscribed with Roman letters. The bird's beak clinked against it, prying it loose from the leather straps that held it in place.
It lifted the plate.
GENERAL TITUS.
The letters were plain, unadorned. A marker of rank. A name that had meant something.
The bird rose.
Its wings spread wide, powerful and it launched into the sky with a speed that cracked the air. The force of its ascent rippled through Titus's body, shaking the dead flesh, disturbing the blood that had begun to settle.
It flew across the battlefield.
Above them, Darlington watched.
His eyes those observer's eyes, trained to notice every detail tracked the blue-feathered raven as it soared across the grey sky.
"Wait up." His voice was sharp, confused. "What's this?"
He leaned forward, his mind racing.
"Where did this strange bird come from?"
The bird flew across the third front the place where the battle had once been, where the bodies of the fallen still lay. It flew across the second front—where the son of Arthur stood, taking Sir Tor hostage, holding Sir Lamorak prisoner.
It flew across the first front.
Sir Bors and Sir Gareth stood on a mountain of piled corpses.
The bodies of Roman soldiers lay beneath their feet dozens, hundreds of them, stacked and bleeding and dead. The two knights stood side by side, their armor dented, their blades dripping, their breath coming in ragged gasps.
They had made this place a living hell for their enemies.
Sir Bors looked up at the sky and saw the blue-feathered raven fly past.
"So." His voice was tired, but there was something in it. Relief. Understanding. "The war is over?"
He looked at Gareth.
"Finally."
Arthur stood at the center of his front.
Excalibur blazed in his hand not the calm golden light of before, but flames. The blade was a pillar of fire, burning bright against the grey sky. His hair and beard had taken on the same quality flaming, living flames that danced in an unfelt wind.
He looked at the remaining Roman soldiers before him.
Thirty.
Thirty men, still standing, still breathing, still holding their weapons with trembling hands.
"Thirty," Arthur said, his voice calm despite the flames that consumed him. "There are thirty of you remaining."
He raised Excalibur.
"This war is over."
The blade blazed.
"In a swing of my sword you all will now die."
The blue-feathered raven flew over him a flash of color against the flames and left the battlefield.
Mordred watched the bird pass.
He stood on the second front, Sir Tor's unconscious body slung over his shoulder, Sir Lamorak's bound form kneeling at his feet. The knight of the storm had not spoken could not speak, with the gag in his mouth but his eyes burned with hatred.
"It's time," Mordred said quietly.
He looked at Tor. At Lamorak. At the hostages he would use to bring his father to his knees.
"Hey." His voice was almost cheerful. "Who would like to meet their king?" He smiled. "Aren't you excited for it?"
He grabbed them both.
And he ran.
The blue feathered raven flew to the mountain.
Where General Titus had once sat where his stone throne still stood the remaining soldiers in black cloaks waited. Thirteen of them. Twelve stood in a perfect line, their heads bowed, their bodies still.
One stood at the center.
His cloak was different darker, heavier, adorned with golden trim that marked his rank. He had not descended with Titus. He had waited.
The bird approached.
The metal plate GENERAL TITUS gleamed in its beak.
Twelve of the cloaked soldiers knelt.
Their knees hit the stone in perfect synchronization, a sound like thunder rolling across the mountain. Their heads bowed. Their hands pressed against the ground.
The one at the center stepped forward.
He stretched out his hand palm up, fingers spread and the bird landed on it. Its talons gripped his leather glove. Its beak dropped the metal plate into his waiting palm.
He collected it.
He looked at the inscription at the name of the man who had failed and his expression did not change.
"And so." His voice was calm, measured, utterly without emotion. "It was just as it was predicted. That you would be unable to fulfil this mission."
He turned the plate over in his hands.
"You ranted about your love for Caesar. Your devotion. Your loyalty." His voice hardened. "See now that you have brought the greatest of disgrace to Rome. You have given the lives of many troops to the enemy."
He looked at the kneeling soldiers.
"It was just as Caesar predicted." He paused. "Your fall. And your replacement."
He removed his black cloak.
The fabric fell away, revealing the armor beneath the armor of a general. Bronze and gold, polished to a mirror shine. His head was bald, smooth as stone, and his face was hard. Unreadable.
He hung the metal plate around his neck.
It settled against his chest, covering his heart.
The bird began to chirp a rapid, complex series of sounds that seemed almost like language. The new general listened, his head tilted, his eyes focused.
He understood everything it said.
When the chirping stopped, he nodded.
"This battle is far from over." His voice carried across the mountain. "Their forces have been wiped out. Just like our forces. And their aces halved. Just like ours."
He looked at the kneeling soldiers.
"Due to the delusions of a general who did not understand orders..."
He touched the metal plate on his chest.
"...from this moment, under the authority of the one greater than all his grace Caesar I am now the new general."
His eyes swept over the twelve kneeling soldiers.
"I am the new General Titus."
He turned to face the battlefield.
"The son of Arthur was aware of our plan. He has received our signal through this bird." He stroked the raven's blue feathers. "He is on course to Arthur. Now."
He smiled a thin, cold expression.
"We will use the emotion of a father reunited with a son."
His smile widened.
"And his death... shall be paramount."
Above them all, Darlington watched.
His eyes were wide. His mouth was open. His mind that brilliant, overclocked engine was racing.
He had not expected any of this.
Wow.
The thought was barely formed.
Wow. Wow. WOW.
A laugh began to build in his chest not a laugh of joy, not a laugh of madness, but a laugh of genuine surprise.
"This is beautiful," he murmured. "Unexpectedly... this might just be what I need."
His smile spread across his face.
"I will take all of this into account. And make it follow my path."
He threw his head back and laughed.
"HAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHA!"
The blue-feathered raven took flight again.
Mordred ran toward his father.
And somewhere above them all, a false god laughed and watched and planned.
The war was far from over.