Chapter 26: Onslaught

Chapter 26 - Onslaught 2The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 26 – Onslaught
By Rock Kitaro

“RAAAAAAAAAAAARRGHH!!!”

Tristan’s roar reverberated louder than a chorus of angry trumpets. The Lion of Dumnonia was still leaning over the chopping block when he saw his beloved collapse to her knees. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and with brute force, Tristan curled his biceps and snapped the thick ropes binding his wrists.

The soldiers near the scaffold advanced to restrain him but Tristan was out of his mind. All he saw was red and there was no difference between friend or foe. He picked up a bench and crashed it against the four men sending them sprawling.

Another knight and old hunting buddy stood in his way with open palms trying to reason with him. Tristan slung the buddy by his breastplate as if he was nothing but a pillow. Trepidation kept other knights at bay as Tristan shouldered through the mass of hysteria. After shouldering through the crowd, Tristan slid to his knees and scooped up the wounded Isolde.

Panic struck like a stomped ant pile. Over 2,000 civilians rushed for the exits. Clanging steel and forceful grunts picked up as the battle began. Swords were drawn. Bows were pulled. The shimmer from raised shields flashed from every corner. Orders were drowned out by screams and crashes. Soon, the exits became clogged as soldiers struggled to enter and join the fray. It was chaos.

“NO!!! Don’t touch her! You’re not fit to touch my daughter!” Queen Iseult screamed as Sir Maven damn-near had to drag the queen to safety.

Like a guardian angel, Tristan wept and held Isolde close to his chest. Such sadness. Intense grief and an abandon of all ambition beset Tristan and Isolde as they pressed their faces together, blending their sweat and tears. The queen called for his head over and over again. Sir Maven and five guards had no choice but to physically lift her off the ground and carry her out of an exit.

“Fire the cannons!” Algayre shouted.

At once, a Hibernian archer hidden on the roof took up his long bow and set an arrow ablaze. Arching back, he aimed high and released. The flaming arrow sailed out of the abbey, southbound towards the edge of a precipice where five barrels of oil were stacked in a triangle. The thunderous explosion blasted fleeing citizens into the air and ignited a fire that spread from a pair of oak trees.

It was a signal to the Hibernian battleships at sea. Within seconds, a volley of cannonballs was unleashed but their aimed wasn’t to hit the castle. The booming cannons could be heard throughout the entire city. Morholt’s 260 warriors who had secretly come ashore were alerted. This was their cue to rise up and annihilate.

Horror and dread spread like a fast virus as slaughter screeched from every corridor, stairway, and plaza. But help was on the way.

King Lot heeded the earlier warning brought forth by Gawain and Constantine. Gawain predicted the ambush would begin at the wedding, but the prudent King Lot wasn’t the type to procrastinate. He ordered his Lothian knights to remain diligent, alert and ready, especially when the royal household was all gathered in one place.

When Morholt’s warriors attacked, the Lothians emerged in full battle armor. They combed through the waves of fleeing citizens and engaged the enemy Hibernians, crossing blades in the corridors, the stairways, and the plazas.

By the time Queen Iseult was carried to her ship at the Port of Talons, intense fighting had spilled out of Angel’s Square and into the streets. The monstrous Morholt had already chopped down nine men and he was just getting warmed up.

In Angel’s Square, Gawain, Gaheris, and Agravain were taking on all comers. It wasn’t long before Agravain began to splinter off on his own but Gawain wasn’t worried. Constantine joined Gawain and Gaheris with a sword and shield. He wasn’t as skilled as the brothers, but his bravery was up to par.

Gawain’s feet never stayed in one place for less than a second. He moved from side-to-side in a crescent sweep to protect his sharpshooting little brother. With nerves of steel, Gaheris’s arrows sniped off rival archers who were hiding on the roof and within the cloisters. His accuracy was ridiculous. Out of the sixteen arrows he let sail, he only missed once.

“HO!”

A loud crash of exploding bricks and mortar got everyone’s attention. Morholt had just rammed his way into Angel’s Square. Two knights challenged with a loud battle cry. Morholt swept them away with a single swing from his mighty ax. Then, his beer-stained eyes turned and settled on the back of the lion.

“Tristan…” Morholt grumbled.

By now, Isolde was no longer blinking. The trails of tears had crusted over her face and she could no longer feel Tristan’s warmth. With her last bit of strength, Princess Isolde caressed Tristan’s cheek and whispered, “Don’t lose.”

Tristan’s stone cold eyes slowly elevated to the massive obstruction that was blocking the sun from view. With his sights locked on the beast, Tristan carefully lowered the beauty to the grass. His cheeks convulsed as a tremendous roar of absolutely nothing to lose came blaring from his throat.

The entire courtyard seemed to tremor as Tristan and Morholt charged for each other. When he was close enough, Morholt raised his ax for a downward swing but Tristan flew at him like a missile, ramming his rock hard shoulders into Morholt’s gut and causing the giant to drop his blade. Tristan tackled Morholt into the now vacant royal platform and completely obliterated the structure on impact. Splinters of wood chips flew everywhere.

It was a brawl unlike any other, like two grizzly bears mindlessly swinging their fists, relying on nothing other than maximum power and true grit. Each blow sounded like thick slapping steaks. Morholt would grab Tristan and hurl him against a wall. Tristan would bounce back with a two-handed clubbing attack to send Morholt skidding in the grass.

Soldiers on both sides did their best to stand clear. It was terrifying. They had to fight in the midst of a destructive tornado that wreaked havoc in an unpredictable warpath. Anyone caught in their way were crushed, bludgeoned, or used as weapons.

In the market plaza just two blocks north of the St. Gabriel’s Abbey, the red-scarfed Pellinore was running across a breezeway when he caught sight of Hibernian warriors racing for the back entrance of the royal palace. With a hungry grin, Pellinore ignored Kanish’s advice to take the stairs. He leaped over a railing and dropped two tiers to land in an open yard where mothers where herding their children indoors.

Clutching his serrated sword with both hands, Pellinore unleashed a ravenous roar and sprinted towards a wall of twenty warriors all by himself. The children cried and screamed for someone to help him.

Pellinore didn’t need any help.

As he came within twenty feet of the closest halberd, he launched into the air and flung his long sword like a dagger to impale the closest man. He landed and snatched the shaft of two spears before the tips could scratch his armor, redirecting their momentum to stab each other. He yanked his sword out of the dead man and began cutting down warriors left and right like a scout hacking through vegetation in the jungle. He was so fast, his swings, so powerful that confusion spread. And when his eager Black Bloods joined the fray, the Hibernians didn’t stand a chance.

After the fighting began, King Lot and his personal guard had escorted the women to the main keep just above the citadel. Once they were safely out of earshot from the sounds of battle, King Lot kissed Queen Morgaus goodbye and took a handful of knights to join King Mark in the middle of the Peridot Oasis.

Determined not to be outdone by the youngsters. King Mark shouted a declaration that emboldened his men to remember just whose castle this belonged to. King Mark and King Lot exchanged a glance of mutual respect as they stood side-by-side behind a wall of valiant guards. It was time to drive out their intruders.

The ladies continued on after King Lot departed. They were escorted by four knights and three guards on the 4th floor. Their destination was the Onyx Tower, a fortified sanctuary protected by magical seals, heavy padlock doors, and five sacred guardians whose sole occupation was to protect the occupants.

The Duchess Igraine was the oldest and most experienced. To her, the retreat to the tower was routine. She was confident that none in her company would die so long as they made it to Onyx Tower in a timely fashion.

However, when they turned a corner in the northwest corridor, they encountered a large force of armed Hibernians. Sixteen scary men were waiting with nasty snarls, salivating to sink their teeth in for the kill. This handpicked unit was called the “Banshee Banes.” They were ordered specifically by Queen Iseult days in advance to hunt down the royal ladies and put them down for good.

Heavily outnumbered, the brave escorts engaged the Banes while two knights stood guard as a last defense. The Banes dispensed of the Cornish efficiently without losing a single man. Then they continued on their approach, taking up the entire breadth of the hallway.

One of the two remaining knights charged, but the closest Bane caught him and ripped out his entrails while staring the Duchess in the face. The ladies screamed and begged for mercy. They were cornered with their backs against the wall. Their last remaining knight was trembling, so frightened that he soiled himself.

Suddenly, a burst of red light coming from behind the Banes. Three men were immediately engulfed in flames, thrashing erratically as the crimson blaze cooked them in their armor. Morgan dashed between the three fires and blew a white dust from her hand. This dust jutted out like thick strands of silk to enter the nostrils of three men. As soon as they inhaled, they became possessed and flung themselves out of the nearest window, plummeting four stories.

Enraged, the remaining ten Banes all charged at Morgan at once. She swooped her hand and stopped them with a crescent wave of flames. None of them caught fire but it scorched, halted, and hindered their advance if just for five seconds.

In those five seconds, a white milky glaze coated over Morgan’s purple eyes. She spread her hands out towards the four buckets of dirty old mop water. Curling her fingers in a beckoning motion, the mop water swirled, gelled, and ascended as if gravity was pulling them up. When she raised her arms, the big globs of water streamed up and pooled on the ceiling. Then, she flung her hands down as if she was shaking out a rug. In unison, the water solidified and came raining down on the Banes like thousands of razor sharp shards of glass, lodging in their faces, their hands, and shoulders.

“Come! Hurry!” Morgan shouted.

Mustering her courage, Morgaus took Igraine and Elaine by the wrist and led them through the midst of Banes who were all screaming and writhing in pain. The other ladies followed, closing their eyes and narrowing their shoulders as they followed the path.

Morgan led her family through the dark winding halls, throwing fireballs at anyone who dared to attack until finally they reached the first padlock door that would lead to the Onyx Tower. The Duchess Igraine was the only one with the key. As the mother worked on the lock, the sisters embraced one another. It was a tender moment. Morgan couldn’t remember the last time her older sisters ever showed such pride for her or her abilities.

Then, a gripping fear sank in. A deep haunting laughter seemed to emanate from the halls. Morgan was the only one who could hear it. She released her sisters and took a few steps away from the door, staring down the dim corridor where the sounds of battle echoed like faint calls from a hollow cave.

“Morgana! What is it?” Morgaus asked.

Morgan shuddered at the thought. The Duchess Igraine finally unlocked the door and the ladies came pouring in. When it was just Morgaus and Morgan left to enter, Morgan pushed the elder sister in and closed the door with herself on the outside. The door’s mechanism locked automatically.

“Wait! Morgan! What are you doing?” Morgaus screamed.

Morgan shook her head with a tearful pout, “I can’t come with you.”

Duchess Igraine was about to slip the key in between the bars of the visor before Morgan palmed the key back in and said, “You have to go, mother! Don’t worry about me! I’ll be alright.”

“No! We’re not leaving without you!” Elaine shouted.

“You’ll be killed!” Igraine added.

“PLEASE!” Morgan screamed. “For once in your lives have faith in me! Trust that everything I’ve been through, the pain, the trials and tribulations, it’s prepared me for this moment. I beg of thee, go! I will not fall. Trust me, I’m much too arrogant to die.”

With that, Morgan wiped her eyes and balled her fists. The women watched as Morgan took off running down the corridor. The tormenting laughter got louder and louder and soon, she recognized it. Algayre was coming.

In the stone-paved yard in front of St. Gabriel’s Abbey, Tristan and Morholt were still exchanging blows like a couple bullies blessed with more strength than they know what to do with. Tristan shirt was ripped off and his right eye was swollen shut. Morholt was missing several teeth and there was a constant gush of blood and mucus stemming from his broken nose. Still, these gladiators continued to dish it out until Tristan slipped beneath a right hook and reached for Morholt’s ankles.

Yanking his feet out from under him, Tristan held on to his ankles and swung the massive behemoth across the yard. Morholt rolled to his chest, grunting with agitation when he spotted an idle sword within reach. Just as Morholt popped up to his knees and reached for the sword, Tristan’s shoulders came battering into Morholt’s ribs.

Morholt went crashing through three walls like an explosive avalanche. He and a cloud of debris spilled three floors down into the plaza at the rear of the palace.

Pellinore heard the boom and turned to see Morholt’s plummet. Barxy, Jeremy, and Dantry recognized the destroyer and looked to capitalize on the kill. Pellinore was surrounded by five lancers but held up his sword to block three attacks at once. Morholt was raising his arm to push up off the ground.

“Boys! Wait!” Pellinore shouted before two swords blocked his path.

Barxy came bearing down on Morholt for a downward vertical cut when Morholt raised his bare forearm to block the sword, letting the blade sink into flesh. With his free hand, Morholt picked up a large rock and bashed it against Barxy’s head, shattering his skull in an instance. As Dantry and Jeremy charged forth, Morholt removed the sword from his forearm and flung it into Dantry’s chest. Jeremy gasped in shock, and in that split second of hesitation, Morholt threw his entire girth on Jeremy to pin him down and slam his head back into the pavement.

Filled with urgency to protect his men, Pellinore dispensed with the lancers as quickly as possible, grinding his teeth with each swing and keeping his eyes open even as blood sprayed from their bodies.

When the five lancers were slain, Pellinore turned and ran to the other end of the plaza. Dantry and Barxy were dead. Jeremy wasn’t far behind as he convulsed with a violent seizure in Kanish’s arms. Pellinore was joined by Balto as the two men looked up and saw Morholt slowly scaling the wall like an ape. Arrows sailed and a few lodged in his back, but Morholt barely reacted to the pain.

Pellinore’s eyes widened as he yanked off the red scarf from around his neck. “Take their bodies and get out of here. That’s an order,” Pellinore said with a calm unblinking rage.

Then, Pellinore started to chuckle, as if the voices in his head were whispering some sick twisted joke. Balto wanted to stay but he’s known Pellinore since they were fifteen. When Pellinore removed the red scarf it was a sign that lines were crossed. Pellinore chuckled his way through the halls heading for the nearest stairwell, calmly using the scarf to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

In Angels Square, Gawain, Constantine, and Gaheris were finishing off the enemy in the vicinity. Gawain had already defeated seven and aided Constantine in beating three more.

Gaheris spotted more soldiers running into the church. Before he could warn the others, two more sprung from the bushes behind him. Gaheris fell one man with an arrow to the face, but with the other, Gaheris had to use his bow to defend against a barrage of spear strikes.

Tristan returned to Angel’s Square. The grass was mucked up and there were bodies strewn about. Isolde was right were he left her. No one was protecting her. No one had come to collect her. She just lay there on her side with an arrow sticking out of her ribs.

Tristan trudged over and dropped to his knees. Her blue eyes were still open, her face still bearing the confusion of one asking why such cruelty was dealt. But she was gone. Tristan rubbed his forehead against hers when, at that moment, he heard the distinct voice of a fifteen-year-old calling for help.

Tristan’s furious eyes darted to his left. Isolde’s killer. The spearman had grabbed a handful Gaheris’s hair. In retaliation, Gaheris drew the soldier’s own dagger and plunged it into his sternum.

In a fit of madness Tristan whipped up a bloody sword and raced for Gaheris. Just as Gaheris turned around to see a fully extended sword aimed for the bridge of his nose, Gawain dashed in and slapped the blade down with a lightning fast chop. Before Tristan could sink in his heels and back away, Gawain had already dropped to one knee for a sweeping backhanded strike that sliced at Tristan’s chest. It was a shallow cut but enough to carve a thin red line that dripped across his broad pectorals.

Tristan and Gawain squared off, silent and focused. Tristan’s sword was raised in a high guard while Gawain was still on one knee, the tip of the slender katana aimed up at Tristan’s throat. No one blinked. In their minds, all noises faded and everything on the battlefield disappeared leaving only the two skilled swordsmen locked in mortal combat.

Never before had Tristan and Gawain crossed blades. Gawain was well aware of Tristan’s supernatural strength. On the same token, Tristan acknowledged Gawain’s viper like speed. He didn’t want to kill Gawain but his soul hungered for Gaheris’s blood. The internal conflict put him at a severe disadvantage whereas Gawain’s resolve to protect his little brother was absolute.

“Get out.” Gawain’s eerily calm voice broke Tristan’s concentration and caused him to tremble for an instant.

“Take her and leave Dumnonia forever.”

Tristan fumed at the thought of obeying his junior but the look in Gawain’s fearsome eyes made him think twice about testing the age-old question of strength versus speed. That, and the fact that Gaheris now had an arrow trained on him. Tristan threw down his sword and collected Isolde’s body. The aim of Gaheris’s arrow followed Tristan through the yard until at last Tristan and Isolde were gone.

Gaheris relaxed his draw and gasped for air. Gawain and Constantine were both exhausted and panting heavily but Gaheris’s chest was fluctuating like crazy. He knew how close he was to death. He was grateful. Gawain was relieved. As much as they wanted to relax and get a drink of water, they heard fighting coming from inside the church. Fearing Agravain was in the thick of it, Gawain rallied the boys to come with.

However, Agravain wasn’t inside the church. The fourteen-year-old sword prodigy was in the garden near the dorms for the nuns. A group of enemy soldiers had chased the clergy into their tower and Agravain followed to engage. By himself, Agravain took on a group of seven. Sir Maven was one of them.

Maven tried to use his dazzling spinning style of swordplay on Agravain. He came close to slicing Agravain’s neck twice before Agravain was able to hack at his kneecap. As Maven hobbled in intense pain, the remaining six closed in. Agravain was having a ball.

His twin Roman broadswords whistled like fans in perpetual motion. They had a mind of their own the way they sought out flesh and weak spots in the armor. In less than two minutes, Agravain managed to lop off two hands, sever one neck, stab a man in the back, and slice the back of a man’s knees.

Suddenly, there was a hard wooden thud. An arrow had hit Agravain from behind, sticking into the round hidden shield he had strapped to his back. When he turned around, he saw Sir Maven aiming a crossbow at him. Just as Agravain’s eyebrows spiked with concern, a lance came soaring through the air and impaled Maven to the grass.

It was Toothless Kersey of all people who had saved his life. Kersey and his lads cheered.

“ARRAH!”

With a thunderous crash, two large wooden doors came ripping off their hinges. Morholt had just kicked them down in search for Tristan, thinking the cheers were for him. At once, Kersey and the lads tucked tail and took off running but Agravain stayed.

Morholt was battered, bruised, and bloodied but he stepped out onto the grass with two random swords in each hand. The giant stared down Agravain like Goliath to David. The sheer size and power emanating from the destroyer was awesome. It was terrifying. Agravain’s palms were sweaty and with bated breath, the eager lad smiled. Slowly, he crouched, ready to launch.

Then, there was another loud crash. Someone else kicked through a gate door to come trudging into the garden. An insane Pellinore was still chuckling to himself.

“NO! I saw him first, Pellinore!”

“Now, now. Run along before you get hurt, kid.”

“No! You go!”

“This isn’t a game, damn it!”

“Enough!” Morholt grunted. “Bring me the lion!”

“Fuck, Tristan. Look around, you giant roach! This is me. The name’s Agravain, Prince of Lothian and Orkney. And mark my words I’m about to chop you down, piece by piece.”

Pellinore had enough. He raced for Morholt’s right while Agravain launched from the front. A spectacular two-on-one battle ensued. Agravain and Pellinore swarmed him like a couple of angry crows pecking at a larger buzzard. For a big guy, Morholt was surprisingly quick on his feet. Agravain’s cuts were swift, but he lacked the power to really dig into Morholt’s thick hide. Thus, Morholt focused on parrying Pellinore’s destructive tree-chopping swings. That was, until Agravain started targeting the tender areas behind the knee and armpits.

Early into the fight, Morholt caught one of Agravain’s sword arms and swung the youngster through a glass window into the cafeteria. Morholt followed to finish the kill, but Agravain only got more fired up. He stood on the tables and threw all sorts of dishes and rock-hard bread at Morholt. Pellinore came in and slashed at Morholt’s thighs, drawing blood before Morholt turned and kicked Pellinore out another set of double doors.

Pellinore went sprawling down the stone steps of the cafeteria entrance. Outside, citizens were still fleeing. Pellinore rose to his feet and groaned in pain. Morholt’s horse-kick had caved in his breastplate, making it difficult to breathe.

“OWWWWW!” Morholt screamed.

As Pellinore removed his armor, he looked up and saw Agravain riding Morholt like a bull. Pellinore couldn’t help but laugh. Agravain had both swords plunged into the back of Morholt’s shoulders and was hanging on for dear life.

With two hands, Pellinore lunged at Morholt’s belly but Morholt caught the serrated blade with his bare hands. Pellinore wasn’t impressed. He simply yanked on his sword and sawed into Morholt’s thick pad-like grip.

“AHHHH!” Mortholt roared.

He back-fisted Pellinore before grabbing Agravain and slinging him at Pellinore like a boulder. Both youngsters hit the bottom of the steps with the wind knocked out of them as if they had just fallen from cliffs. Both were concussed but hurried to stand out of instinct.

Flashing an intense grimace, Morholt plucked Agravain swords from his shoulders. He staggered over and bled against a white marble pillar. Fatigued as he was, the sight of his opponents ready for round two excited him. Such audacity! Pellinore and Agravain were standing with this brazen attitude as if they’ve been waiting for hours. Morholt grunted and nodded with respect. Then he flew at them with every intention of ripping them limb from limb.

Inside the church, four Hibernian knights were chasing Bishop Millitus down the nave towards the front of the altar. Gawain used that speed of his to leap over two pews and put himself in the knights’ path. The Hibernians were all big, strong, and scary but Gawain stood vigilant as Millitus herded the other friars into a chapel.

Gaheris sniped one of the Hibernians in the neck with an arrow. The remaining three turned to locate the archer while Gawain pounced forward for a vertical chop. If it were any other man, the katana would only put a ding in their thick armor. However, for Gawain with his muscular forearms and strong back, the razor sharp katana sliced through flesh and bone like a hot knife through butter.

His attacks were swift, deadly, and precise as if he had rehearsed the moves hours in advance. The katana was so slender and quick that the knights could only see a glimmer of light before the sword ran through.

After two knights had fallen, the third and final knight unleashed a powerful swing aimed at Gawain’s neck but Gawain ducked and kicked at the knee carrying the most weight. As the knight wobbled forward, his own fear and urgency to regain balance caused him to put too much pressure on the knee. It buckled and dislocated. The knight collapsed, screaming in agony.

There were four more Hibernian soldiers, all of them dumbstruck in awe. They witnessed what Gawain did in less than five seconds and quickly threw down their weapons to surrender. Gaheris jumped over a pew ready to shoot but Bishop Millitus emerged from a chapel and urged mercy, a word Gaheris wasn’t too fond of. Nevertheless, Gaheris heeded the cleric’s counsel.

The church doors burst open. It was Kersey and the lancers. They keeled over as if they had just finished running a marathon.

“I saved…We were…Agravain…So yeah.” Kersey said in exhausted fragments.

“What?!” Constantine shouted.

“Agravain’s fighting Morholt!” Kersey shouted.

“That idiot!” Gaheris groaned.

The boys took off running down the nave, following Kersey and the lancers out the doors. The fighting had finished in the church district. Nuns were out and praying for the departed. When the boys were halfway across the paved yard, Gawain stopped. Gaheris and Constantine noticed and stopped as well.

“Gawain, what are you doing? We need to hurry!” Gaheris shouted.

Gawain looked up to the nearest tree and saw a robin perched on a branch. To Gaheris and Constantine it was chirping high-pitched bird noises. To Gawain, it spoke in a faint whisper. It said, “Help me. Come to the cove.”

Gawain couldn’t believe it. He didn’t know if he was hearing things or not, but his gut told him it was Morgan. He’d never forgive himself if he ignored the possibility.

“Gawain! Agravain can’t defeat Morholt. You know this!” Constantine said.

“You guys go,” Gawain nodded.

“What!?” Gaheris shrieked with disbelief.

“Gaheris, Morgan’s in danger. I’m sorry. I can’t explain it,.”

“AGRAVAIN IS IN DANGER, YOU IDIOT!” Gaheris screamed.

Gawain shook his frustrated head with sweat flying from his salty bangs. It so was stupid. It enraged him to be constantly torn between the choice of Morgan or his brothers. Nevertheless, he had to make a choice and it was difficult.

Gaheris saw the conflict in his eyes and stressed, “Gawain. He’s our brother. I’m your brother.”

“I know! Trust me, if I didn’t believe in you, if I didn’t believe in Agravain, I’d come with. Gaheris, you’re amazing. Both of you. I have no doubt that you’ll rid us of that monster once and for all. And when this is said and done, I swear all of Britannia will know there are at least three brothers that you just don’t mess with.”

Gawain shined with a charismatic grin that exuded his confidence. An emotional Gaheris smirked through his agitation, speechless and spellbound by his brother’s charm.

“Brother mine, bring me Morholt’s head,” Gawain whispered.

“Consider it done!” Gaheris whispered with a soft pound to Gawain’s chest.

The brothers embraced for one last hug, then let go, each with his own cause. Gaheris led Constantine, Kersey, and the four lancers while Gawain sheathed his katana and took off running westbound for the main citadel.

The battle was almost over. And yet, it was about to begin.

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