Sir Gareth exchanged blows with Arthur's son.
The black blade sang as it cut through the air each strike faster than the last, each angle more impossible than the one before. Gareth's sword met it again and again, the clang of steel echoing across the battlefield.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
He was not given the chance to make a counterattack. Mordred's offense was relentless a storm of steel that left no room for anything but defense. Every time Gareth tried to shift his weight, to find an opening, to strike the black blade was already there.
Blocking.
Redirecting.
Keeping him pinned.
Above them, Darlington watched with narrowed eyes.
"Oh." His voice was quiet, analytical. "So that's his fighting style."
He leaned forward, studying Mordred's movements the way his feet shifted, the way his wrists flicked, the way his blade seemed to breathe.
"I've heard of it. Even studied it myself, though I was never truly interested in it."
He ticked off the characteristics on his fingers.
"Close-quarters combat. Both ranges close and long. He's similar to Tristan." A pause. "The only difference is that unlike Tristan who is not a master of either close-quarters combat or long-range combat Mordred is a master of both."
His eyes moved to Tristan's distant form.
"Tristan doesn't choose to master one because he wants to be a frog... that can jump in and out of the well freely."
He smiled.
"I wonder what a fight between them would look like, honestly."
The exchange continued.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
Gareth's arms were growing heavy. His breath was growing shallow. Mordred's attacks came faster and faster, each one a lesson, each one a reminder of how far the student had surpassed the teacher.
Sir Gareth gritted his teeth.
"Fuck it." His voice was low, frustrated. "Damn."
His left hand snapped to his side to the short sword sheathed at his hip. His fingers wrapped around the hilt, and he pulled.
Two blades now.
His long sword in his right hand. His short sword in his left.
He lunged.
A diagonal stab aimed at Mordred's head, at his eye, at his life. The short sword cut through the air with a speed that surprised even Gareth himself.
Mordred's reaction was slow.
His eyes widened. His body tensed. His black blade still mid-swing was too far to block. Too far to reach.
But before the short sword could impact
He withdrew.
His feet pushed off the ground, launching his body backward. He stepped away from the strike, creating distance, creating space. The short sword passed through empty air.
Then he bent.
His body folded low, deep, his chest almost touching his knees. He stretched his leg out to the side, widening his stance, increasing his area of attack.
His black blade moved.
Not in thrusts. Not in slashes. In rotations.
He performed a rotatory sword style one that he always used in battle, one that he had perfected over centuries of combat. The blade spun in his hand, tracing wide arcs that covered his entire body, that covered the space around him, that covered everything.
The blade swung toward Gareth's abdomen.
One inch.
Half an inch.
Closer.
Gareth could not dodge. Could not block. Could not move.
Then
Sir Bors grabbed Mordred's leg.
The knight had risen from the rocks bloody, broken, but not done. His hand hooked around Mordred's ankle, his fingers locking together, his arm pulling.
Mordred's balance shifted.
His foot lifted off the ground. His body twisted. The black blade mid-swing veered off course, cutting only air.
Gareth's eyes widened.
"What " He stared at Bors, at the intervention that had saved his life. "You "
Bors pulled harder.
Mordred fell.
His back slammed against the sand, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. His black blade clattered from his grip, spinning away across the battlefield.
Gareth did not hesitate.
He stepped forward his long sword in his right hand, his short sword in his left and stood over Mordred's fallen form.
Bors rose beside him.
Both swords pressed against Mordred's neck.
"Crazy brat." Gareth's voice was heavy, panting. "Have you perhaps forgotten the basics of every sword technique that we taught you?"
Bors's voice came from beside him, calm and cold.
"The basics of every sword technique is balance." He pressed his blade closer to Mordred's throat. "Once you have lost your balance against your enemy, you are as good as dead. No matter how strong you are."
Mordred lay on the sand, his arms spread, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on the grey sky.
Two swords at his neck.
Two uncles standing over him.
He smiled.
"Then, well, uncles..."
His voice was soft. Almost warm.
"I guess our classes have started over again."
Bors and Gareth stood above Mordred.
And Mordred smiled up at them.