Shadow and Flame #4
Mordred reached up to wipe it away—and despite Tristan's warning, didn't dodge before Kinborough drove the sword into their shoulder.
Instead of screaming, even though the pain must have been agonizing, Mordred slammed a knee into her groin, grabbed her hair, and then drove the same knee up into her face before shoving her away.
They bent to retrieve Caliburn, then rose and surged forward, fire flashing along the length of the blade as Mordred swung—and though Kinborough moved out of the way of a killing blow, she didn't move fast enough.
She screamed as her sword arm was sliced off, the additional heat of Mordred's flames adding agony on top of agony, even as it also cauterized the wound.
Before Mordred could move away, Kinborough slammed her remaining hand over their face, and Mordred screamed as agonizing shadow magic ripped through them, stumbling back and collapsing to the ground.
"Stupid fucking thug," Kinborough hissed.
She stooped, pried the sword from her own fingers, then turned it around and thrust the blade into her stomach.
She choked, coughed blood, collapsed to all fours—well, threes—on the ground. Purple-hued shadows consumed her, turning red along the edges, and she collapsed into an indistinct mass.
"I didn't know the sword could do that," Tristan said shakily. "What the fuck is going on."
"Get back," Mordred said grimly. "Take Caliburn."
Tristan caught it deftly, slung the sword on his back with his own, then dutifully backed away with Lancelot.
The shadowy, indistinct mass that had been Kinborough rose up into a long, sinuous shape reminiscent of Lancelot's serpent form—then solidified into something very like that, but with four short limbs and fins that seemed like the dregs of wings.
She had black scales that gleamed purple and red like oil, and her eyes were brilliant purple with glowing red pupils.
Her long fangs dripped venom, and her hiss cut through Lancelot's head like knives.
A lindworm. Of fucking course she'd turned herself into a lindworm.
Transformation was one of the great magics and came in three types: natural, bestowed, cursed.
A natural ability to transform was exceedingly rare, belonging to beings of immense power not often found.
Bestowed was the most common way, like Arthur and Dred.
Arthur's ability to transform had been granted by a sorceress after he'd saved the lives of her and her children, kept her home and land from being burned to nothing.
He'd always possessed powerful earth magic, but the sorceress had unlocked it further, granting him the power of sunlight and transformative capabilities.
Arthur's own nature, his inherently good and noble heart, had been what shaped that power into a dragon.
Mordred had always burned hotter than their siblings, and when they'd broken a terrible curse, the princess they'd saved had rewarded him by increasing his power still further, bestowing the prized transformative ability.
Stubborn, tenacious, and loyal unto death, that ability had taken the form of a black gryphon with fiery wings.
Transformed, Mordred screamed in challenge at Kinborough, and the two threw themselves into their second round of battle.
Tristan whistled. "How much fucking water did you call up, Captain? Seriously impressive work."
"Just the reservoir, but clearly something else broke free in the fallout. There must have been a river or lake beneath the city that I didn't feel, since I never had cause to reach that deep. Too late now. I hope everyone outside the city is doing all right."
"I mean, most of the bottom floors account for floods these days, sadly," Tristan. "Ouch, fuck, that's got to hurt."
Lancelot's mouth pinched tight as he watched the fight. Mordred had torn off both of the fins and raked a long, bloody gouge on her side. But she'd ripped off one of Mordred's wings and broken one of their front legs.
Despite that, Mordred still dodged as she lunged at them, then darted forward and ripped another long chunk out of her. Her tail smacked, sent them rolling and tumbling, but when Lancelot made to join the battle, Mordred snarled angrily.
Picking themself up, Mordred screamed again, the piercing cry of a hawk and the snarl of an angry lioness all at once, reverberating in Lancelot's bones and making his whole body ache.
As Kinborough lunged again, fangs flinging venom, Mordred braced themself—and just as she would have snapped her jaws over their head, Mordred dropped and pushed forward, sharp beak latching onto and ripping through her soft underbelly right as they brought up their flames, filling her body with fire, cooking her from the inside out.
Kinborough wailed and shrieked, thrashed wildly as fire consumed her. Mordred withdrew hastily, running-limping toward them and collapsing at their feet. As they shifted back, Tristan heaved them up and over his shoulders just like he had Lancelot earlier.
"Back into the water," Lancelot said. "It's our only chance." Instead of heading to the water, though, he ran to where Kinborough had collapsed and turned human once more. Lying awkwardly beside her, as though it had been yanked out and dropped, was her sword.
Lancelot grabbed it up, then brought it down in a swift, sure motion, removing her head in a single, clean move. He grabbed the head and threw it as far as he could, pleased when it reached the ever-rising water and was carried away by the current.
"W-wait," Mordred said, voice ragged and weak. "Put me down."
"Are you serious right now?" Lancelot demanded.
Mordred, pale and trembling, only stumbled over to the corpse and fulfilled their promise to piss on Kinborough's severed neck.
"And you call me immature," Tristan said, rolling his eyes.
"Rest in hell, bitch," Mordred said. "Now you may carry me, faithful knight."
Tristan rolled his eyes again, picked Mordred up, and finally they all headed down into the water that was more than halfway up the incline they'd raced down before. "Next time we do this, I'm packing extra clothes for you two."
"Doesn't matter now," Lancelot said, stripping off what remained of his clothes, handing the pants to Mordred. They'd be too small, but they were better than nothing.
Once he'd transformed into his serpent form and was in the water, the other two climbed on his back. Then they were off, moving effortlessly down the river, the current doing most of the work.
Where it makes a sharp right turn, Merlin said. We're waiting with everything you need. Nicely done, Dred.
Arthur added, Even if it was stupid and arrogant to insist on fighting her by yourself.
We would have stepped in if necessary, Lancelot replied. It's over, and now only Maleagant is left.
Maleagant and their hostage friends. Galehaut. Bran. Bertilak. He had the sinking feeling that slaying Maleagant's rotten sisters had been the easy part.
The bend in the brand new river came up a few minutes later, and instead of following it, Lancelot kept swimming straight, then slithered right up the sharp bank until the land leveled out. Tristan and Mordred slid off his back, and he slowly, agonizingly, shifted back to his human form.
Guinevere was already hard at work helping Mordred, which was good, because they were looking far closer to death than they had just minutes ago. Venom must have gotten into his system after all.
Merlin offered a hand, and hugged him tightly as he stood. "Well done, Captain. The three of you were as perfect as we knew you would be."
"Perfect is overgenerous. So the mission was a success?"
"Except for Kinborough getting by our measures, but that worked out for us," Arthur said.
Lancelot nodded wearily, and gratefully accepted the clothes that Elaine brought to him. "Thank you. Sorry I'm flashing my bits at everyone."
"They're very nice bits, don't worry about it," Elaine said with exaggerated politeness, making all the others laugh.
"Shut up, you jackanapes," Lancelot groused as he dressed. He sat down to pull on socks and shoes. "What about the building?"
"Barely anything left of it, thanks to the firebug. There were so many anti-fire measures in that thing, it was genuinely absurd, but you couldn't tell it from the work Mordred did."
"Damn straight," Mordred said as Arthur helped them to their feet.
They piled into the waiting cars and returned to the house at injudicious speeds.
Once they were inside, safe as they could possibly be, Lancelot collapsed on the couch, Dred right beside him.
Elaine and Guinevere joined Iseult in the kitchen, and in short order they were bringing over food for everyone and tonics for Lancelot, Tristan, and Dred.
"I didn't do a damn thing," Tristan said.
"You did plenty," Arthur said sternly. "You have plenty of cuts, burns, and bruises of your own, in case you didn't notice, and you were the one who hauled these two around like they weighed nothing.
Drink, get your strength back. We can spend a few hours resting, but no later than dawn we need to get into the game and finish this once and for all. "
"Yes, Your Majesty," everyone chorused.
Arthur wrinkled his nose. "Knock it off. Especially since of all of us, I have done the least amount of work."
"You're the leader," Dred said. "Your job is to make the hard decisions and boss us around.
Lancelot and Merlin might have been the reason we all got to come back for round two, but you were the reason we all came together at all.
Our shiny golden king bathed in his own sunlight on coronation day.
If it was an interactive, we'd have called it stupid and overwrought. "
"I sincerely hate you," Arthur said with a sigh.
Lancelot smiled faintly, because gripe though Arthur might, he was the linchpin.
The king they believed in, the leader they trusted, the man who would never order someone to do something he wouldn't do himself—and in the fight to the throne, there was very little Arthur had not done, from emptying piss buckets all the way up to leading a battle.
When Lancelot had fallen sick, back when it had just been him, Arthur, and Merlin, it was Arthur who had brought him water by the bucket from the well, who had bathed him near-constantly with the coldest water he could manage, changed his bedsheets and helped him relieve himself, kept him alive until Merlin returned with the needed potion.
Arthur was a good leader because he did not fight to fight.
He fought with the hope that one day he could lay his sword down for good.
That Excalibur and the terrible might of the Knights of the Round Table and Camelot would never again be needed.
Excalibur would have spurned a heart of violence.
It had chosen Arthur because he had a heart of peace.
That was someone worth following.
"Everyone else get cleaned up, because after you're done, I'm filling that bathtub with water and going the fuck to sleep for as long as I can," Lancelot said.
"Seven hours," Arthur said. "In seven hours, we go to war for Camelot. We won't get a third chance. We will rise or we will fall. So enjoy this last breath of freedom, knights and ladies."
"Yes, Your Majesty," they chorused, and this time he did not protest the honorific.