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He groaned.
Whatever had grabbed him was now pulling him backwards. Scrambling for his sword, he slashed at whatever it was. His blade cleaved through it without much trouble. It took a moment for him to realize what it was.
A branch, about as thick around as his thumb, and covered in jagged, horrid thorns that were now stained with his blood. One would not think that a vine would stand much of a chance against his armor—but it had woven its way in between the plates.
The moment it took him to register what had attacked him was all the time his assailant needed to make another attempt. A second vine slashed around Lancelot’s throat, squeezing hard enough to restrict his air, several of the thorns piercing through the gaps in his chainmail.
Grabbing the vine with one hand, he slashed at it with his sword, chopping himself loose. Staggering to his feet, he yanked the thorny branch away from him and quickly worked to regain his footing.
Though he suspected that if his attacker wanted him dead…he would be so already.
For he knew the woman standing some twenty feet away from him, her hands tight into fists. She looked like a street urchin—her clothing was ragged and torn; her skin was smudged with dirt. A tangled mess of dark hair shrouded her features. She might have been as tall as a pony on a good day, and easy to mistake for just some abandoned young woman.
But he knew better.
He coughed and wiped at the blood that was oozing down his chainmail. “Lady Thorn. How nice to see you.” Unlike many others, this elemental chose to keep her original name to herself. Or, perhaps, she did not recall it. She was simply Thorn.
She spat on the ground in front of her. “Scum. I want you to bring a message to your master.”
“He is no longer my master.” Lancelot kept his sword at the ready.
Thorn tilted her head to the side. “Liar.”
“I will prove it to you, if you promise not to strike when I am vulnerable.” He slowly, carefully, sheathed his sword.
“I could have ripped you apart before you even felt the first sting, lapdog.” Thorn sneered.
“Trust me. I know.” Lancelot vanished his armor, deciding that a show of trust here might earn him a powerful, if unpredictable, ally. Or at least let him escape with his life. Thorn kept her dark eyes locked on him the whole time as he pulled aside the fabric of his shirt, revealing the spot on his chest where the shard of magic had kept him enslaved for so many years.
The scar was there from its presence—but the magic itself was gone. “I was put into the Crystal for scheming against him. When it shattered, I was freed of his influence.”
Thorn watched him curiously in silence for a moment. “What is your mission now, then, knight?”
“To kill the rusted bastard and throw his fetid corpse over the cliff into the ocean.” Lancelot did not bother to try to hide his hatred. He knew he would not be able to—and in this instance, it might prove useful.
“Then we have the same goal.” Thorn looked off into the woods thoughtfully. “I am planning on marching on the keep and killing him myself. Perhaps two of us would fare better.”
“We will need many more than two to succeed, Lady Thorn.” He let his shoulders loosen and relaxed his posture just a bit. He did not trust her—he never would—but he would not question any allies he could garner. The adage was as old as he was, but an enemy of an enemy was indeed a friend.
She swore, and spat on the ground. “I can handle him.”
“I…do not wish to discount your penchant for violence, nor your skill, my lady—but this is Mordred. We cannot let our mutual anger get the best of us. We must raise a larger force of elementals.”
“I have no patience for this. I want him deadnow.”She stomped her foot like a child.
Amongst her many traits, Thorn was also a tiny bit insane.
“And I sympathize, believe me I do. I was that man’s slave for over a millennium and a half. Do you not think I wish to see him suffer?” Lancelot grimaced. “But I also wish to survive this fight.”
Thorn sighed. “Very well. You have seven days. I will meet you at the keep.”
“I—”
Thorn turned and walked into the underbrush, cutting him off. She becamepartof the tangled thicket and disappeared.
Lancelot rubbed a hand over his face.Elementals.
But at least he had the start of his army.
