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Exemplar Prologue - The End Of The Age Of Heroes.

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Whenever you asked anyone about the Battle of Calenhad, for years and decades to come, they would call it the day the Age of Heroes died.

Jack Myrddin, quoted in ‘On The Night’s Fall’.

***

Calenhad Field, Albion, November 10th, Year 1873 of the Dreizan Calendar.

There was blood on the air. The scent of it lingered, twisting and turning through the red-tinged smog that had descended over the barren field of Calenhad. Harsh, booming sounds, like the distorted thunder of cannons, fired off in the distance, and the harsh clanking of metal on metal echoed through the valley.

A man with raven-coloured hair and a small, determined smile visible through a dark beard was standing at the head of a force of soldiers. He carried a longsword, and he was clad in a pale red tabard and heavy battle-armour, a red cloak flowing behind him.

He raised his sword, cutting through a figure in patchwork armour. A thin wisp of smoke floated from where the electrified blade had met material and skin.

“Hold the line!” he called out. All around him, Avaloni soldiers in battered plate armour fought against the raging, shambolically-equipped warriors that assailed them. Many of his comrades had already fallen, slain by their enemies in the chaotic melee around them.

Cultists and madmen, the warrior thought, grimacing, but for all that they’re insane, they’re still skilled enough to take seriously.

“For the dark gods!” a voice bellowed, and the warrior turned his attention to yet another enemy slamming into him, driving him back. With a shout, he lashed out, cutting the cultist down in a single strike and wincing at the smell of burnt flesh.

“Ser Percival!” someone called. The warrior – Ser Percival – turned, breathing hard. One of his comrades, this one an Avaloni Captain, judging by the feathered plume sticking from his helm, jogged up to him. A moment later, the man removed his helmet, showing a shock of red hair.

“Ser Percival,” he greeted.

“Captain Thorsson,” Percival replied, nodding respectfully. “What’s the situation?”

“Our men have routed the enemy on the left flank, but they’re still harrying our centre,” Thorsson replied, his voice tinged with a rough Avalonian accent, dulling his vowels. “We’re trying to rally our forces for the final push, but the line’s become fragmented. It’s difficult to gather men through the chaos.”

“And the other knights?” Percival asked.

Thorsson paused for a moment, his expression becoming dour. “Ser Jackson and Ser Vivienne have both fallen.”

Percival closed his eyes for a moment, taking the blow as stoically as he could. Two more dead friends. Grieve later. Even today, it had not been the first loss. It wouldn’t be the last.

“And the others?” he asked after a moment.

“I believe Ser Tristram was among the warriors at the centre,” Thorsson said. “Whether any of your other fellows were alongside him, I cannot say.”

Percival nodded. “I understand.” He paused, and then, after a moment, he whispered. “And… him?”

The Captain’s expression hardened. “I couldn’t tell you, Ser. The battle has become fragmentary, chaotic. There were whispers that he fought at one flank, but… we do not know.”

“Damn,” Percival swore, shaking his head. “Very well. Gather as many of our men here as you can. I’ll rally the centre, and we’ll end it there.”

Thorsson nodded, throwing a quick salute before running off, leaving Percival alone. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the day’s bloodshed threatening to crush him.

They had known it would be like this. Or at least he had.

***

Calenhad Camp, the night before.

It had been their last night together, camping in the fields near the Calenhad mountains as they awaited the arrival of their enemy’s armies.

Evelyn hadn’t been there, of course – the Lady Nimue had already seen to it that she was safely hidden in Charle City, and a handful of trusted fellows with her. Vivianne, Jackson and Geraint had been there, drinking with Tiberius and Bors: Tiberius, blue-eyed, dark haired and jovial as ever, had been making bets with everyone there about how many cultists he would kill. Tristram, the blonde haired knight normally so grim and resolute, had been laughing. Fatherhood, it seemed, had done wonders for his sense of humour. And then there was Bors, the biggest and strongest of them all, his white tabard covered in beer stains from yet another drinking game with their Avalonian allies, his bearded face split by a massive grin.

And yet Percival had not felt the same joyful mood as his fellows. He sat alone in one corner, melancholy settling over him. There was… something. A foul feeling in the air, maybe, or a sense of something coming that he couldn’t quite see.

Or maybe it was just the quiet despair of loss. So many of his friends had not made it this far. How many, he wondered, would even survive this battle?

“A copper piece to hear your thoughts, old friend?” a voice asked as he sat, brooding.

Ah, of course Myrlin was there. His shabby grey robe was conspicuous among the varied colours of knighthood present, his wrinkled face smiling, his beard bristling.

“Tomorrow will be a day long remembered,” the wizard said quietly, not waiting for his answer. “Though whether it is for the right reasons, we shall have to wait and see.”

“Am I meant to feel better?” Percival had asked. He gave the wizard a tired, empty smile. “Tomorrow might be remembered, but who’ll do the remembering? Cara, Lionel, even…” He closed his eyes. “Even him, for the Thirteen’s sake. They’ll still be gone.”

“Don’t tell me you fear death, Percival,” Myrlin said, poking him in the shoulder. “After all the battles we’ve been through, this is something of an odd time to start.”

“Not death.” Percival shook his head. “Change. And maybe… maybe the thought that whatever world we make with tomorrow, no one will remember who made it.”

Myrlin nodded. He let out a soft sigh, his smile disappearing and a more melancholic look replacing it.

“I have lived a very long time,” he eventually said, his tone even, yet tinged with something morose. “Everything gets forgotten in the end. The Dreizan Templars remember the Revanchist, but they forgot his name and the names of his comrades an age ago. Avalon recalls the legends of the Shieldmaiden, but how many warriors fought and died alongside her?” He turned back to Percival. “We who fight for the future may be forgotten, Percival, that much is true.” He gave the Knight a small, hopeful smile. “But the future will be there. That’s something to hope for, isn’t it?”

As he said it, he moved his hand, tapping the symbol sewn onto Percival’s tabard – the star of knighthood, eight connected points around a single centre. Percival sighed, mulling over the wizard’s words, and looked down at the symbol, thinking about it and all it represented.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “Maybe…”

“Percy!” came a call from one of the knights. Tiberius Von Nachten, his hands full with mugs of beer, was grinning over at Myrlin and Percival, and he raised both mugs up. “Come over here and help us drink some of this stuff, will ya?”

Percival couldn’t help but smile. “Gimme a minute, Tiberius.”

Tiberius nodded, turning back to Bors, who was currently arm wrestling with Tristram (and winning, not that anyone was surprised).

None of this deserves to be forgotten, Percival thought, watching his friends. None of these people deserve for the world they build to leave them behind.

“Tomorrow,” Myrlin said, cutting into Percival’s thoughts, “we fight the most important battle of an age.” Percival looked at him, and Myrlin was smiling again. “We decide the shape of the world. Whatever your fears, my friend, know this.” He put a hand on Percival’s shoulder. “You all have fought to bring the best future we can have to pass. I know, whatever happens, that the world you make will be a good one.”

Percival nodded slowly. “I’m glad you, at least, believe that, Myrlin.” He stood. “I’ll say this much. Tomorrow we fight.” He grinned. “And I’m not afraid of that part.”

“I know,” Myrlin said, nodding. “Now, I believe there are beers waiting for you, and…”

He trailed off, chuckling as he turned to look at the collection of knights. Bors and Tristram’s arm wrestle had turned into something of an impromptu boxing match.

“Eden preserve us.” Percival rolled his eyes, getting to his feet. “Those two idiots are going to injure themselves, and the night before a battle, too!”

He moved over to them, letting his worries for the future fade into the background of his mind, and completely missing the knowing smile Myrlin had as he watched the knights bicker amongst themselves.

***

The Battle of Calenhad.

His mind returned to the present as he raced through the smog of war, occasionally happening upon injured soldiers or small fights as he did so. Deep in his bones, Percival felt fatigue beginning to settle, but he grit his teeth and pressed on.

As he did so, he came upon a rocky outcrop, upon which stood a group of warriors: some in the heavy armour of Avalon, but more in the lighter, darker armour of the soldiers of Charle City. Amongst them was a healer, the woman moving from soldier to soldier with a grim expression.

“It hurts!” one of the soldiers was yelling. “It hurts so much…!”

Percival stopped for a moment, before moving over to the man, kneeling by him.

“Alright, lad,” he said, speaking softly. “Calm down. Everything will be fine.”

The soldier – no more than a boy, really – stilled, meeting Percival’s eyes. Percival examined him – he had a ragged hole torn in his arm, bleeding copiously, and a similar hole in his leg, but nothing that would require amputation. But one look at his expression told Percival that the boy was afraid.

“It’s alright,” Percival said, putting a hand on his shoulder and concentrating. “It will all be alright, lad. You’ll get through this.”

The boy’s expression calmed as Percival channeled a small modicum of power into soothing his fear.

“What’s your name, lad?” Percival asked.

“W-Will Renner, Ser,” the soldier said.

Percival smiled. “You haven’t been a soldier long, have you, Will?”

“N-no, Ser,” the boy said, smiling nervously. “I just… I needed to do my part.” He paused. “T-this is actually my first battle.”

Percival let out a small chuckle at that. “Well, you certainly picked a time to join, didn’t you?” He put his other hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ll make it through today, lad, and you’ll have a tale or two to tell when you’re through, don’t doubt it.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Will Renner said. He grimaced again. “I… I'm sorry I couldn’t do more.”

“Every little is a gain, lad,” Percival said with a wink. He looked up at the healer, who was approaching the two of them. “Ma’am.”

“Ser Knight,” the woman said, inclining her head. “How is the boy?”

“Will here’s doing fine,” Percival said, standing. “I can’t see anything life-threatening, but I think he’ll benefit from your experience.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” the woman said blandly. Her expression softened, and when she spoke again, it was quieter. “I’m afraid… one of your comrades was among us.”

“‘Was’,” Percival repeated, frowning.

“Ser Geraint,” the healer said. She sighed. “He fell, fighting a cultist berserker.” She glanced at Will. “The boy slew his killer: that is how he got his wounds.”

Percival glanced back at Will, who looked somewhat glum.

“Thank you,” Percival said quietly to him. “It was a well struck blow.”

“T-thank you, Ser,” Will said quietly. “I… I’m sorry I couldn’t save him.”

“There are many we could not save today,” the healer said. “This day will reap a heavy cost, I fear.”

That much is true, Percival thought, nodding without speaking. He patted Will once more on the shoulder, and then moved on, following the sound of battle along the field.

He still had a job to do.

***

Elsewhere on the field, another warrior strode among the dead, gripping the hilt of a mighty greatsword and pondering the battle around him with a feeling of detachment. Blood was splattered across his armour and black tabard, and for a moment he pondered just how much was on his hands by now.

Enough, some would say, he thought, but he dismissed it. But no. Not enough. Not until the task is done.

It almost was: only a few Knights remained. Today, he would end their order, end the war, end all of it… forever.

***

It took him longer than he thought it would, but finally, in the midst of the smog, breathing hard, Percival saw his brothers in arms. Their tabards and armour were covered in the grime and filth of battle, and their weapons slick with blood, though all their blades glimmered and glinted with energy that ran up and down the blades. They were clustered around several crates and a single, broken cannon. Despite this, however, they seemed to be in high spirits as he approached.

A couple of figures in the same dark, patchwork armour charged their little group, and one of them – Tiberius, in his pale blue tabard and stole – stepped forward and cut him down in a single swift stroke, blood spraying across his face. He spat, a grimace crossing his face, before his smile returned in full force. No more foes seemed to charge forward for the moment, and the group took a moment to breathe.

“Is that it?” Tiberius asked, finally, letting out a deep sigh. “Is it over already?”

“Don’t count on it,” Bors said grimly. The big man leaned heavily on his greatsword, planting the tip in the dirt with a wet-sounding thunk, and its energy dissipated. The man looked at his gauntleted hand: it was covered in blood.

“Not quite the battle for Blackreach, is it, Bors?!” Tiberius said, flashing the burly man a cheeky grin and a wink. Bors scowled, but said nothing.

“Not everything’s a joke, Tiberius,” Tristram said. The blonde man was busy wiping blood from his weapon – unlike the others, he carried an axe rather than a sword, and it had clearly been through the works, its blade notched.

“Of course not,” Tiberius replied. “Some things are a lark. Or a jape. Occasionally a jest, but I never liked the word ‘jest’.”

Bors rolled his eyes, before elbowing Tristram. “How are we doing?”

“How do you think we’re doing?!” the blonde man replied.

“Forty three,” Percival said, getting the group’s attention He glanced around the group, grinning as they smiled at him. “Or was that not the question?”

“Percival!” Bors said, laughing. “Was beginning to think you’d never get here!”

Only now did Percival see the bloody stain on Bors’ tabard, from a wound to his side. It didn’t look terminal, but there was no way to be sure.

“Aye,” Percival said, refusing to worry about it yet. He smiled again. “Well, you lot do tend to get lost without me.”

“Well, I got forty one kills last I checked,” Tiberius said after a moment, “counting those few I got when we started.”

“Thirty nine and a half, Tiberius,” Tristram snorted. “I killed the one with the axe you seemed to think was charging you, and that pikeman was half dead anyway.”

“Still about three more than you, Tristram,” Tiberius chuckled. He rolled his shoulders, his stole rippling in the soft wind.

“Children,” Bors muttered, grimacing as he clutched his wound. He paused, looking up at Percival with a suddenly grave expression. “Vivienne? Geraint?”

Percival paused, and then shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “And Jackson, too.”

Tristram cursed loudly, kicking one of the dead cultists in frustration. Bors closed his eyes, and even Tiberius’ ever-present smile faltered.

“Dead?” he whispered.

Percival nodded. “I wasn’t there. Captain Thorsson told me about Vivienne and Jackson, and Geraint died protecting the wounded. Right now, they’re gathering to push the enemy back in the centre, but I needed to find all of you -”

“Was it him?” Tiberius asked suddenly. The coldness of his voice struck Percival dumb, such a contrast it was to his usual manner.

“We’ve not seen him here,” Bors added, a growling timbre to his words. “But he must be, somewhere. He wouldn’t miss this.”

Percival swallowed. “Thorsson said there were whispers, but nothing concrete. I -”

“Wait,” Tristram said, holding up a hand. His eyes had widened. “Listen!”

The smog was thick, making it impossible to see beyond the immediate area. There was ringing in the air, but the sounds of battle were dying off.

“What?” Bors asked from next to him.

“Bet you’re just wondering how many the rest have left for us,” Tiberius said, though his renewed grin quickly faded.

Percival’s eyes widened too. He knew what the quiet meant.

“Tiberius, Tristram,” he said, “I need you to get back to the rally point. Tell them they might want to pull back.”

Tiberius raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He immediately turned and began jogging back towards their lines, disappearing into the smog. Tristram frowned.

“You want rid of us?” he asked.

Percival said nothing, instead meeting Tristram’s gaze evenly, hoping he was conveying his feelings adequately. After a moment, Tristram nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “You’d better come back alive. My son deserves to know his father’s best friend.”

“I know,” Percival said. He smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Tristram nodded, and then jogged after Tiberius, leaving Bors and Percival alone.

“So,” Bors said after a brief silence. “What’s that about?”

“Can’t you hear it?” Percival asked, motioning to the smog.

Bors turned, frowning in concentration, then he shrugged.

“No battle,” Percival said quietly. “There were thousands of them, Bors. Where have they gone? Where are our people?”

Bors’ face paled as he realised what that must mean.

“We should pull back,” he said at once. “There’s no way we can -”

“Bors,” Percival said, smiling ruefully at him. “Can you get back to the rally point?”

Bors scowled. “Can. Won’t.”

Percival’s smile faded. “Bors -”

He paused, turning back to look at the smog. A single figure was emerging from the swirling red-tinged smoke, a purple-black cloak flowing behind him like the shadow of death. A long greatsword was held lazily in a single gauntleted hand, coruscating energy glimmering across the blade, and his black armour glinted with the light of the smog and fire around him. He wore a black tabard, the scarlet symbol stitched onto his chest a mockery of the star of knighthood.

“Ah, hells,” Bors hissed. “Him.”

“Go, Bors,” Percival said quietly. “I’ll hold him off.”

Bors blinked, and opened his mouth as if to speak. Percival held up a hand, forestalling any objections, and simply smiled again. Bors hesitated, and then he nodded, before reluctantly limping away.

Percival watched him go for a long moment, before turning to the dark figure, a scowl on his face. For a second, something twitched on his face, and he closed his eyes briefly. Then he took a deep breath, his eyes opening, blazing with anger.

“So,” he said, loud enough that his foe might hear. “It’s nice to see you again.”

The dark figure said nothing. He raised his sword and pointed it at Percival in a gesture of challenge.

“What?” Percival asked with an easy grin, bringing his own sword into a guard stance. “No mocking words, no banter? Come, old friend, this is probably gonna be my last fight. Give me something to remember you by, at least.”

The figure did not move from his stance, and quiet descended between the two of them, nothing but the distant sounds of battle and the whistling of the wind. Finally, Percival broke the silence, his tone less jovial and his smile gone.

“You won’t touch them,” he said, his grip on his sword tightening. “Not while I’m standing here.”

The dark figure said nothing for a moment, bringing his other hand up to his sword and settling into a guard stance of his own.

“Surrender,” he finally said, “or you will die.”

Percival growled. “I have stood firm against evil for my entire life. What in the hells makes you think I’ll give in to you?”

The dark figure seemed to consider this, holding his ready stance for a long moment.

“Noted,” he finally said. He raised his sword a fraction. “This will be… interesting.”

Percival growled. “Let’s just get on with it, you bastard.”

He shifted his grip ever so slightly, feeling a wave of certainty settle upon him. His enemy raised his sword fractionally, bending his knees and lowering his stance into a ready posture. Both were waiting for some unseen signal. Percival could feel it in the air. He moved one hand briefly to the symbol on his tabard.

I call upon the virtue of courage, he thought. May fear never rule my heart, may doubt never cloud my thought, and may despair never dull my senses.

How many times had he repeated the catechism in his mind, before meeting some great evil? Would this be the last?

If it is, he decided, it will be worth it, if he dies too.

And then it began.

***

Half a mile away from the duel about to start, Tiberius and Tristram had already reached the rear of their lines, climbing up the slopes of the Calenhad hills. This far from the main battle, the smog was visible as a red cloud hanging over the entire field. The two stopped at a small outcropping, and Tiberius looked down at the battlefield, letting out a low whistle.

“That’s… disturbing,” he said.

“Understatement of the age,” Tristram murmured from next to him, his own eyes wide in horror. “What in the hells is that? Some sort of… of sorcery?”

“I don’t know,” Tiberius said quietly, “but whatever it is, I’m hoping Percy gets his arse out of it sooner rather than -”

He stilled. Behind them, there came the sound of footsteps. Turning, both of them saw a young woman in a deep purple cloak, her white-blonde hair tousled by the wind and a pistol holstered by her side. She was followed by a man in a deep grey robe, his hood covering his face and a grey beard poking out, barely visible.

“What happened?” the woman asked. “Where are Percival and Bors?”

Tiberius and Tristram shared a glance, but before they could answer, there came the sound of wheezing and groaning.

Bors was walking up the hill, clutching at his side.

“Bors!” Tristram yelled, running to his friend’s side. “Where’s Percy?”

In answer, Bors pointed down at the battlefield. The woman’s eyes widened in horror, and she turned to look at the hooded man.

He said nothing. Hobbling over to the edge of the outcrop, he looked down at the battlefield silently, the others behind him.

“Myrlin?” the woman asked.

Still the old wizard said nothing. Tiberius’ eyes widened, and he looked back over the battlefield.

“Him,” he stated, knowing it wouldn’t be a question. Bors nodded once.

“Percival can’t fight him alone,” Tristram growled, taking a step forward, only for Bors to hold up a hand, stilling him.

“He didn’t want us there,” the burly man said quietly. “He wanted to fight alone.”

“That’s suicide!” Tristram snapped.

“I agree,” the woman said. She turned to Myrlin. “We have to go down there.”

“At this point, Nimue,” Myrlin said quietly, “we will not make enough of a difference for it to matter. Percival must face this enemy alone.”

“He’s going to die,” Tristram hissed.

Myrlin turned back and gave the blonde knight an impassive glance, only his eyes - the soft glint of liquid visible - hinting that he felt anything at all. All the others there could do was watch the smog, and wait.

***

The first blow sent a shockwave out that rippled outward, scattering loose stones and bodies and sending the smog flying backwards, revealing the true state of the battlefield. Soldiers in the raggedy armour of the cultists lay amongst warriors in different gear, some in gold-tinted plate with red cloaks, some with brown cloaks and light armour, some wearing the same silver armour and tabards Percival and his comrades had, and many in Avaloni and Albionite armour.

Percival’s eyes were fixed on his opponent, his sword blocking the dark knight’s greatsword at every turn. Sparks flew from the blades, the metal grinding with a harsh, screeching whine, and then the two disengaged.

Clang, clang, clang.

The sound of swords clashing against each other sounded almost like the tolling of a bell. Somehow, even as he desperately parried strike after strike, Percival couldn’t help but smile at the comparison.

He parried a blow almost instinctively, letting his muscles remember the movements. Parry, parry, riposte, block… every step, every strike, every movement, honed, trained…

But not enough.

He parried another blow, and the dark knight immediately brought his blade up for an overhead strike, but Percival was too fast, and dodged sideways immediately, before slamming the butt of his sword into his opponent’s chestplate, staggering the dark figure momentarily. Grinning, Percival slashed, but his foe brought his gauntlet up and blocked the sword with his wrist, the armour sparking from the impact. Percival’s grin disappeared, and suddenly the gauntlet had grabbed him by the throat. In a single heaving motion, the dark knight threw Percival across the field, before settling into an almost leisurely guard stance.

Coughing and rubbing his throat, Percival scowled at the dark figure, before pushing himself to his feet.

“It’s going to take more than that,” he hissed, bringing his sword up and pointing it at the dark figure.

“I know,” the figure said, bringing his own sword up.

For a moment, Percival stepped back, taking a breath and adjusting his guard as his foe did the same.

The dark figure did not move, instead merely standing there, waiting. Percival hesitated for a brief moment: here was the man who had killed dozens of his brothers and sisters in arms. Here was the man who had laid low some of the finest warriors that had ever worn the mantle of knighthood. And Percival thought he had a chance?

May fear never rule my heart.

“I’m kind of disappointed,” Percival said, giving his foe a cocky grin. “You’ve got such a reputation, after all.”

At this, a slow, low sound emanated from the dark helmet. It took Percival a moment to realise that it was laughter.

“Geraint,” the figure said, his voice low and tinged with dark amusement. “Gareth. Vivienne. Cara. Lionel.”

Percival’s face hardened at each name spoken, until it became a mask of rage, his nostrils flared, his eyes glinting with hatred.

“You dare,” he hissed through his teeth. “You dare!”

He charged forward, bringing his sword up and slashing at the dark knight. The dark figure blocked the strikes lazily, holding his sword one-handed as he parried strike after strike. He gave ground, in the manner a full grown man gives ground to a furious child striking impotently with tiny balled fists. Finally, he blocked a fierce overhead strike and pushed against it, sending Percival off-balance.

“You will not get past me!” Percival yelled, spinning and lashing out. Again the dark knight blocked the blow, before sending the blade’s tip into the dirt. A single gauntleted hand came up and smacked Percival across the jaw, sending him to the ground. Rolling, Percival avoided a strike that would have cleaved him in two, and stood up, blocking another overhead blow. The dark knight pressed, and Percival gave ground, stepping backwards but keeping their blades locked.

Suddenly, the dark knight kicked out, sending Percival sprawling to the ground and rolling away with the impact. Trying to get to his feet dizzily, Percival could only barely parry the next blow, before his opponent kicked him again, this time with enough force to send him hurtling across the battlefield once more.

The brave warrior finally came to a stop near the broken cannon he and his friends had clustered around. He looked up, to see the dark figure striding across the battlefield, stepping over bodies, sword still held lazily.

“Brave,” the dark figure commented. “They were all brave. But they still fell.” He paused, before pointing his sword at Percival. “You must have known how this would end.”

“Yes,” Percival said, coughing blood. “But I’m the knight of courage, not brains, after all. Nobody said I had to be smart.”

He brought himself to a sitting position, leaning his back against the cannon, and glanced sideways, his eyes alighting upon something. Suddenly, he grinned, and with a tremendous effort pushed himself to his feet, one hand clutching at his broken ribs.

May doubt never cloud my thought.

“But maybe,” he continued, as the dark figure approached, “I’m smarter than you think I am.” He brought his sword up in a high guard as the dark figure got closer, flicking a switch and making sure the coruscating energy of his blade was still working. Only going to get one shot. “You’ve killed a lot of my friends. Do you know that?”

“I remember every one,” the dark figure said, his voice tinged with something unreadable. He had nearly reached Percival, and he brought his sword up in a guard stance.

“So do I,” Percival said, grinning. He brought one hand to the symbol on his chest.

May despair never dull my senses.

And then, in a single stroke, he brought his sword down hard on the broken cannon – and the unignited ammunition within. The energy from his sword flashed as it carved through the metal and connected with the ammunition, igniting the enhanced gunpowder and cracking the mana-bound shell.

The dark knight raised his sword in a futile warning gesture. There was a roar like thunder, a flash of light, and then silence.

***

The explosion could be seen from where Tristram, Tiberius and Bors were standing, along with Nimue and Myrlin. Tiberius’ eyes widened in horror, and Bors looked away, eyes closed. The explosion was the first of a dozen more, unexploded ammunition setting off in a cascade of fire and noise across the broken battlefield, stretching along the valley all the way to the edges of the mountains.

Nimue’s hands had gone to her mouth, but as the explosion died down, she lowered them, approaching Myrlin.

“Does… does that mean…?” she asked.

Myrlin said nothing. He turned away from where he stood, and faced Tristram.

“Evelyn?” he asked quietly.

“Safe,” Tristram said hollowly. “And her child.”

“Good,” Myrlin said. “Then this was worth it.”

“Was it?” Tristram asked as the old man passed him, but Myrlin said nothing more, simply walking away.

“How many, do you think?” Tiberius asked as he stared down at the broken battlefield.

Bors clasped his hand on Tiberius’ shoulder. “Enough. Enough that we made the right choice.”

“Did we, Bors?” Tiberius asked, meeting Bors’ eyes. “Did we really?”

Bors said nothing, and silence fell, as eight pairs of eyes watched the valley below burn.

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