Shadow and Flame #3
Mordred closed their eyes, and while Lancelot had no idea how they communicated with their flames, it probably wasn't all that different from how Lancelot reached out to water.
After several minutes, right as Merlin alerted them they'd secured the master copies of Kay and the other fallen, Mordred opened their eyes. "Ready, Captain."
"Good, because I hear the whine of citijets.
" Tristan said. "Like Mordred, his element was fire, but nobody was like Mordred, really.
Tristan's skills had always lain elsewhere, and his flames were supplements to them—protecting, defending, covering retreats.
Before he'd joined up with Camelot, he'd often been accused of cowardice because he preferred to avoid fighting, preferred to keep people alive and safe.
It had been one of the biggest reasons Arthur had taken him on, and why he'd swiftly joined the inner circle.
A pair of citijets came into view, barely discernable in the dark. Once upon a time, helicopters had been used for such things, but they'd been replaced by smaller, safer, and vastly more efficient citijets decades ago. Helicopters were the stuff of museums and gaming now.
Citijets could be remote or manned. They were some bastard child combination of helicopter and jet in design, could get up to truly ridiculous speeds they seldom needed in city space, were used by military and police alike. And every rich family had a few for personal use, of course.
They had shields to help with flying in storms, were protected against lightning strikes and electronic attack, and even resistant to fire. But only resistant, and they weren't specced to face the Black Gryphon.
"Everything burns," Mordred said with vicious glee, calling up their flames and lobbing enormous fireballs that scorched right through shields and plating and sent the citijets spiraling away to crash and burn.
Almost done, came an alert from Merlin.
"Get ready," Lancelot said, right as more citijets showed up, and soldiers came pouring up from the trapdoor and over the edges of the building.
He threw out his arms, calling up his powers, and leaks that had been mere trickles before suddenly turned into massive problems. In the reservoir, he guided the water to snap safeties and destroy overrides in ways it could not have on its own.
Down below, people rushed from buildings to escape a flood that followed on their heels.
On our way.
Lancelot dragged the water up up up, knocking over soldiers even as Tristan started slicing and burning.
Soon the entire roof was a mess of blood and steam, and boiling blood was still such a foul fucking smell.
He called up Arondight but continued to focus on the water, driving back vehicles, soldiers, using Tristan's fire to turn everything to steam.
Alerts flashed across his vision as Arthur and the others came up through the trapdoor. Searing golden light filled the space, and they were all on the move, save Lancelot's team. Because this was the moment that mattered most.
Pouring everything he had out, he broke through the reservoir once and for all, sending so much water gushing out that the city would spend years recovering.
He held it back from their relevant buildings, dizzy from the effort and getting dizzier.
He'd never controlled so much at once, not like this.
Mordred stepped up to the trap door and poured out fire, then slammed it shut and melted it closed. "There. I also rigged it in other places I was able to feel out. They can put out some of them, but they won't be able to put out all of them. This building is toast."
Lancelot tried not to think about all the people their actions would hurt, all the people that might die because they didn't get out of the way in time.
War always brought unfair casualties, and water took more all the time, and fire still more, but that didn't mean he liked it or enjoyed being party to it.
Clear, Arthur said. You three get out of there. Run like hell. Meet back at the house.
Hit the water, Lancelot said. Mordred and Tristan didn't hesitate, simply ran to the street-side of the building and dove.
Lancelot sent a last torrent of water after the latest wave of soldiers to come after them, then dove into the water, discarding most of his clothes and shifting, swimming easily in the dark, calling up his bioluminescence as he sought out the other two.
When he found them, clinging to a floating panel of wood in a narrow alleyway, they immediately took hold of his arms. Lancelot swam off, slower with the weight and impeded arms, but still plenty strong and fast enough to manage for a bit.
By the time the boats reached them, it was too late. They surged out of the water and straight to their bikes. As soon as they were well away, Lancelot let his control of the water go, and they were chased all the way out of the dome by a roaring tide.
Mordred laughed wildly, and Tristan cheered—
And then red lightning came down, shattering the road and sending their bikes tailspinning. Still lacking most of his clothes, Lancelot screamed as he was cut and shredded, his arm snapped.
Tristan hastened over to him, calling up fire to staunch all the bleeding he could.
On the road was Kinborough in all her terrible glory.
Like Maleagant, she had winter-pale skin and midnight-dark hair, brown eyes that flared red when she used the terrible shadow magic that made their family so dangerous.
That long hair was pulled back in a braid, but long tresses had escaped to ripple around her.
Most would consider her beautiful, breathtakingly so.
But the cruel smile and hard eyes ruined it.
I thought you drove them into the game.
We did! Merlin replied. Hang on, we're—
Get to the house, you know that's the right call, Lancelot replied. Arthur, go. Now! We can handle this stupid bitch.
Kinborough held Amphelise's terrible sword, and she was dressed to fight. The sword was already bathed in blood and glowing.
Pain was making Lancelot nauseous and his vision murky, but he ignored Tristan's protests and pushed to his feet.
Several paces away, helmet and jacket discarded, Caliburn in hand, Mordred faced her. "I was hoping I'd get to see you again."
Kinborough smirked. "Arthur's bastard son with the anger issues. How delightful."
Mordred didn't rise to the tiresome bait.
Lancelot had never understood those rumors, as Mordred was barely three years younger than Arthur, the same age, give or take a few months, as Lancelot and Merlin.
The four of them, Galehaut, and Elaine were the oldest of the group, had been in their early forties when they'd fallen at Camlann.
And yet stories had spun out as time passed of Mordred being Arthur's son, the result of incest, a vile betrayer, on and on.
Mordred was just a dutiful child who'd been fighting a battle they hated out of loyalty to their father, a tale familiar to far too many knights of Camelot.
They'd joined up with Arthur, compelled by him like so many others, and their siblings had followed.
Mordred's loyalty had never once been called into question, and was in fact so great that upon reclaiming Caliburn, Arthur had gifted it to Mordred.
Get to water, stupid, Mordred said. I said this bitch was mine, and I meant it. The bikes are trashed. We'll need you to get us back to base, so go heal. Tristan, now.
Tristan obeyed, despite Lancelot's protests, hauling Lancelot up and across his shoulders. "Tell me where to go, Captain."
"Down the embankment," Lancelot said.
He'd barely finished the words before Tristan was racing recklessly downhill, weaving around trees and jumping over detritus, like he wasn't carrying a wounded, bleeding man who weighed almost as much as him.
When they reached the small stream, he not quite threw Lancelot into it, then collapsed himself, gulping down water as quickly as he could without choking.
"Go help Mordred, I'll be fine now I'm here," Lancelot said. "I don't trust that bitch not to do something dirty."
"Mordred fights dirtier than anyone, especially when they're up against someone who hurt their siblings," Tristan said, but with a groan, heaved to his feet and raced off again.
Lancelot collapsed back into the water, let it cover him, aching for the deep, dark waters he loved best.
The water steadily rose, all the chaos he'd caused in the city finding the stream and rushing down, turning it into a small, but raging river in mere minutes. Lancelot remained at the bottom, anchoring himself, letting the water rush over him, restore him.
When he was feeling significantly improved, he returned to the field of battle. Behind him, the water continued to rise.
Mordred was locked in a bitter, ugly fight with Kinborough.
Tristan stood at the fringes, just out of direct sight, watching closely.
Every hit Mordred landed, they received one in return, until both of them were bloody, bruised, and filthy.
Kinborough's sword glowed with power, hungry for more and more and more.
Mordred was panting, and blood dripped from a gash on their cheek, another at their left collarbone, but they only shifted and braced for the next attack.
Kinborough screamed as she lunged forward, but Mordred parried the thrust at the last moment and slid out of the way, fire sliding down their blade to wash over her and burn away the blood soaking her sword.
They hastened back, sword and buckler up, barely in time for her next attack. They blocked the strike, but the force of it sent them slamming into the canyon wall behind, dirt and stone falling down around them, right into their eyes.