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“White Dragon is losing form!” Aella shouted to be heard over the whistling wind.
“He is trying to get us close enough to the peak. Prepare yourselves!”
They all rose into crouching positions from their seats upon White Dragon’s back, bracing for the inevitable moment when there would be nothing beneath them but air.
With one last push, White Dragon gained a burst of speed and bucked its back, hurling the four riders forward and off, toward the edge of the mountain peak.
Arthur felt the moment that the carrier dragon changed back into a dragonfly. When the wind from its gigantic wings ceased to push them forward.
He was flung the farthest because he sat at the end, toward the dragon’s tail. As such, he vaulted over the very edge of the plateau, somersaulted to gain more momentum, then rolled onto solid ground.
The others weren’t far behind him, but they had to use their weapons to gain purchase against the mountainside—Aella with her three chakrams that linked together to form a blade that was three-quarters the length of her body; Dalair with his half-moon crescent blades; and Tristan with Exclaibur.
Arthur sensed rather than saw them land without harm, but they still had to scale the side of the mountain to reach the top. He was the closest. He would reach Lancelot first.
“Arthur!” Tristan’s shout came from somewhere below.
Arthur looked down from the edge of the mountain just as Excalibur came spinning up at him. He caught the sword in one hand by the hilt, and without missing a beat, charged toward the mass of shadows that had now completely engulfed Lancelot.
Excalibur sang in his hand as he cut a path through his enemies, as if the sword had a life of its own. As if it was guiding him, rather than be wielded by him.
Nay, it was both. Just as Lancelot partnered him flawlessly, Excalibur seemed to anticipate Arthur’s moves, reinforced them, made them more powerful and deadly. As if Lancelot was right there with him.
Always protecting him.
He felt invincible with the sword in his hands. He cut through the shadows like they were smoke. Yet, when the enemies’ hits and slashes landed, the impact and damage were substantial.
Arthur felt a deep wound open across his right thigh. A streak of fiery pain down his back. His arms bloomed with bloody gashes. While the shadows he cut down seemed to gather with more force, even though he knew he’d “killed” countless of them already.
He was almost there now—he could see Lancelot’s silvery hair amidst a mass of black and gray.
At least it didn’t seem as if the shadow assassins were trying to inflict mortal wounds upon the knight. Only Arthur felt the sharpness of blades upon his person. Lancelot seemed to be fighting off his attackers bare-handed.
Arthur glanced behind him to see that Tristan, Dalair and Aella had finally arrived on top of the plateau. They, too, were met with weapons against their own weapons.
Except for Tristan, who had thrown Excalibur to Arthur and was now unarmed. The assassins that swarmed him were weaponless too.
Was it true then? Did the Celestial Realm react to force with equal force?
Arthur tested this theory by tossing Excalibur back to Tristan, who caught it in one hand. Immediately, the shadows around him became armed as well, while the enemies that surrounded Arthur attacked with fists and feet.
Because the greatest threat was behind him, where the three Elite warriors cut the shadows down like weeds that kept resprouting, the mass of shadows shifted away from Arthur.
But quite a few still surrounded Lancelot. They weren’t merely trying to subdue him, they were dragging him toward the edge of the cliff, like militant ants carrying off a grasshopper.
Desperate and wild, Arthur roared and made a flying leap at the mass of shadows. He got close enough to touch Lancelot’s outstretched hand with the tips of his own fingers.
But the swarm of shadows heaved them apart, half of them carrying Lancelot right off the cliff, the other half piling on top of Arthur until they blocked out all light
Arthur fought like a man possessed, even though it seemed like countless bodies pressed him down. He clawed and kicked, managed to twist his head above the fray before someone shoved him back down again.
Somehow, he and the mass of shadows that surrounded him made it to the mountain’s edge as well, right behind the dark cloud that was presently carrying Lancelot away.
Arthur pushed and shoved his way out of the shadows that clung to him, reaching for his Mate.
“Arthur, no!”
He didn’t know who shouted the warning. Probably Tristan. Maybe Lancelot himself. He didn’t care.
