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Lancelot rode onto the field, his sword drawn, his drake circling overhead. He had fifty elementals at his back. Nearly half of those who still lived, he expected. Less than his target, but more than he had expected. It gave him hope. It gave him certainty in his mission. He was not the only one who knew that Mordred needed to fall.
He only prayed to God that it was enough to see him through.
Fifty elementals, himself, and his dragon. Versus Mordred, his iron guards, six knights, and six dragons. Though he had the greater power on his side, he did not discount the Prince in Iron. He had the defensible position.
But wherewashe? There was no sign of Mordred’s soldiers as Lancelot marched his meager regiment onto the field. The rumble of the earth beneath him was a strange comfort, reminding him he was not alone.
The doors to the keep swung open, and from it rode one man, unmistakable even from a distance. A monster of a man atop an equally nightmarish steed—rusted and jagged, and holding an enormous blade in one hand as though it weighed nothing to him.
Mordred.
But he was alone. No soldiers fell in file behind him. Mordred rode thirty yards from the front gate of his keep and then stopped, his stallion angrily digging its hoof into the ground. Lancelot frowned behind his helm but continued his march along the path. There was no sign of an army. No sign of a counter-offensive.
It made him nervous. Extremely nervous. But perhaps Mordred was surrendering—or attempting to broker peace. Cautiously, waiting for any sudden movement from the Prince in Iron, Lancelot approached and came to a stop some ten yards away.
“Surrender.” Lancelot gripped his sword tight in his hand.
Mordred ignored him. “Return to your homes and dwellings, elementals. Begone from here. I have no quarrel with you.”
Isha laughed from atop a molten lava steed—something that resembled a giant hellhound far more than a horse. “And yet we have a quarrel with you,warden.Did you think we would so easily forget what you have done to us? Forgive you, for all those years you left us imprisoned?”
“No. I did not.” Mordred’s voice was as cold as the metal he wielded. “But an opportunity lies before us to start anew. To seek peace.”
“Nowyou wish for peace?” Lady Thorn snorted from where she stood at Lancelot’s side. “Do not insult us. You only seek peace because the Crystal is gone, and you are without any allies that you do not force to stand at your side.”
“I never wished to imprison the magic of Avalon. I only sought to protect this place from complete destruction. I am hoping a lesson was learned.” Mordred’s tone was even, flat, and emotionless. His steed, meanwhile, seemed ready for battle. It snorted and shook its head, desperately wanting to wreak havoc. “I entreat you all—begone from here. Seek not to end your lives so soon after they have been restored.”
“And how do we know you will not simply seek to imprison us again?” a wind elemental asked.
“I do not act without reason. And if I am given none to seek your incarceration, then why would I?”
“Because you wish only for power! This noble act of yours is a farce—it has always and only ever been about seizing the crown you feel was denied you,” Thorn said through a grimace, her teeth bared like a wild animal’s. “You will die here, usurper.”
None of the elementals seemed swayed by Mordred’s request. And the Prince in Iron did not seem surprised. “Very well. If it is war you want, it is war that you shall have.”
“I see no army, Mordred. I have more than fifty elementals with me.” Lancelot sneered beneath his helm. “Each one capable of destroying a legion of your soldiers. You stand no chance against us with only your guards and your remaining knights.”
Mordred was silent for a long moment before he laughed quietly. “Your idiocy will never cease to amaze me, Lancelot.”
“I admit that six dragons will—”
Mordred interrupted him. “Do you not remember the army I commanded three hundred years ago, when we captured the magic of the isle? Do you not recall where it was they went, when their work was done?”
Lancelot furrowed his brow. “It has been three hundred years. They must be nothing but rusted—”
“Perhaps if I had not been using my strength to keep them maintained. Do you not think that I realized this day would come? That it was only inevitable that the Crystal would break and you would all come for your petty revenge?” He shook his head. “Truly, Lancelot, you are a fool.”
Mordred reached out a hand in front of him, fingers jagged, rusted knives, and clenched it into a fist. “Rise.”
No. No, it wasn’t possible.
Lancelot yanked on the reins of his horse as the ground rumbled around them, and not because of Olgon the rock elemental’s lumbering form. “Retreat! Retr—”
It was too late.
Twisted soldiers of rusted iron began to climb from the dirt like corpses from their graves. Dirt and mud, blood, and muck, fell from their forms as they pulled themselves free and up to their feet.
They pushed up, limbs jerking back into place as they were commanded to life once more by their master, dormant opalescent glowing eyes flickering as they straightened themselves up from their shallow graves and lifted their weapons.
