A Soul for a Kingdom

A Soul for a Kingdom

PROLOGUE – The King’s Last Days

Watching over his throne room in delight, the great black centaur that terrorized all of Equis waited for his guest: Faust, one of the many Alicorns who would soon be one of his slaves. Prior to sending her an invitation, the dark lord placed clues all over his castle in order to guide her inside the maze. He silently rejoiced at the idea of letting her see his minions crawling in the dark, as well as the few reanimated corpses of her friends that he placed there.

Thinking of what might go through the mind of his future maid, Tirek laughed softly. She certainly was convinced that there still was hope for her pitiful race of pedantic flying horses. The tall centaur may have been an abomination to them, but he also was far superior to any of them, even though he couldn't fly. His human side, practically made of pure cunning and vice, allowed him to be the greatest master of dark arts to ever be. This magic granted him powers that the Alicorns didn’t even imagine, and Tirek knew that these powers would grant him victory in the game that was about to start.

When he finally heard hooves clacking on the ground not too far from the door, he casted a few spells to create an atmosphere that Faust wouldn't forget, covering the ground in smoke and blocking most of the light coming from the windows. Then, he opened the door with telekinesis and waited for her.

Finally, when his guest walked far enough to close the door, the centaur declared: “Halt.”

The puny Alicorn’s trembling voice answered: “You know what brings me here.”

“Glad to see you’ve come around,” he said, grinning enough to let Faust see his teeth glowing in the dark.

His guest almost looked like she was courageous. “As though I had a choice, Tirek! Let us hear your proposal then.”

“You already know it. You’ve heard of the ‘Games Gods Play.’ I propose that we engage in this - but with a few... tweaks.” Tirek's voice echoed in the absence of light, doubling as though he spoke twice at once.

“Such as?”

“First: You and I will not be the only players. Anyone with enough power to summon a being from the elsewhere can play and reap the rewards. Second: No player can summon a champion that could defeat mine the moment they are brought to our world. Third: Your champion must be either a human or a native of our world. Fourth: This game will take place on the floating island, Atlantis. If your champion leaves the continent you are disqualified.”

The Alicorn’s eyes seemed to search for seriousness in her interlocutor’s eyes. “Do I have to change the one I bring into something else like the players of old?”

“Why wouldn’t you? Humans are weak, fragile. We make them better when we change them. Stronger, faster. Crueler.”

Pondering for a few seconds, the Alicorn finally declared: “Very well then. I agree to your terms. Let this game take place.”

The centaur finally stated: “You have sealed your land’s fate, miserable equine. Now, begone!”

A few seconds later, she disappeared after he teleported her out of his domain.

“You cursed Alicorns are all doomed... I will be a god, and you will worship me forever,” Tirek thought to himself while laughing softly.

Long ago in a kingdom far, far away, the same way as it did on Equis, a message of hell and damnation was coming.

In the great stone halls of Camlann’s castle, not a single air molecule was moving. The ancient tapestries lay there, on the walls, tatty but still magnificent; some weapon racks were disposed haphazardly in the corridors; and the few guards standing here and there didn’t even dare to breathe.

That is, until the colossal oaken door that led outside slowly opened itself, creaking and whining. A slender boy, wearing clothes that almost made him invisible in front of the door, entered as soon as the gap was wide enough and closed behind him. When the door’s last “click” was heard, he rushed to the bottom of the large corridor with a piece of scroll in his hands, and opened another door. In front of him, the king sat on his throne, surrounded by his mother and a large group of counselors who were discussing loudly with him.

Notwithstanding the other people’s presence, the messenger yelled: “My liege! My liege! Terrible news await!”

The king lifted his eyes and looked at the boy with great concern. Silencing everyone around with a single hand gesture, he calmly asked: “Tell me, herald. Who dares trouble my kingdom?”

Kneeling, the youngster brandished the scroll while looking at the ground, silent.

Harrumphing, his king walked down the steps in front of his throne and grabbed the paper. “Thou may go. Here is something for thy deed, boy,” he said while throwing a silver coin to his subject.

Sitting back on his throne, the monarch opened the scroll, only to crumple it in anger a few seconds later. “Arthur!”

While the room became even quieter and unmoving, he kept on talking to himself aloud, his arms slowly rising in the air. “Once anew, this fool feigns to be the rightful king, and he even dares to tell me to step away from the throne! Why did the Gods ever let him withdraw that sword of his? Why! Isn’t there any justice in this world of ours? In a month, all that I did will be undone when he comes back!”

A woman wearing a black robe carefully approached the King and put a hand on his shoulder. “Mordred, my son, you shouldn’t worry so much. Arthur hath been in Armorica for years now. Your people had time to understand you are a better king. They will help you. And Arthur’s army is feeble and weary after fighting for so long. He will not win if he chooses to fight.”

After looking in her eyes for a couple of seconds, Mordred sighed. “Mother, it is not I who decides which army is better… And I believe that Arthur’s legion is far bigger than my own army.” Walking back to his throne, he sat and pondered for a while, resting his head on his hand. Finally, he turned his head towards another man nearby. “Tell me, Sir Caradoc, what dost thou think? Shall I yield?”

The husky vassal immediately answered, bringing his hand on his heart. “My liege, you ought to forestall Arthur’s plot, without a doubt! He led our land to ruin before you were crowned! The people hate him, and so do the Gallic lords! He will only bring sorrow and make our land become hell if you let him come back… And our army is enough to win! I am sure we could stand up and fight.”

The king nodded. “And you, Sir Maleagant, dost thou deem this answer to be the best one?”

Another man stepped forward, his sturdy leather armor being almost entirely covered by a black cape. “King Mordred, there is not a day that I do not spend thanking the Gods for your crowning. I wish for this time to never end… But Merlin helps Arthur. We know that this accursed enchanter only works for himself and I do not trust those of his kind, but he may turn the tides of battle. I, for one, think we need an enchanter on our side. Only witchcraft can undo what was made by witchcraft,” said Maleagant before bowing slightly and stepping back.

Acquiescing with a smile, Mordred straightened his back and cambered his torso. “Good idea, Sir Maleagant. I do not like leaning onto such a man either, but it might be a way to win.  If Merlin ever was to do anything, another enchanter could undo his evil deeds.” Scratching his neatly trimmed beard, the king pondered for a while before finally declaring: “Maleagant, thou will find an enchanter for me in less than a fortnight. We need one before Arthur comes.”

Beating his torso with his fist, Maleagant nodded. “Yes, my liege! It shall be done!”

Right after Mordred nodded in approval, Maleagant stormed out of the room and slammed the door shut.

The silence came back slowly, while everyone was pondering on the implications of a magician’s presence. After a minute, Morgause, the king’s mother, finally asked: “My son, I do not think that any enchanter can beat Merlin… You must ready your wards; give weapons to your men! It is not because an enchanter may come that you will not fight for your throne.”

Scratching his head in unease, the king conceded: “Thou art right, mother. I shall take care of this now. Sir Elyan?”

At his request, a knight in a shiny armor painted in white stepped up.

“Tell the people of all the land that I will speak to them all in a week. They must know their lives are at stake.”

“Right away, my lord,” declared the knight before exiting the room.

Addressing the last few knights, Mordred said: “All of you must bring your armies together as soon as you can. Leave at once, my friends. We have no time to lose.”

The group of knights and monks promptly bowed down and exited the room, chattering noisily along the way to the door. His mother, after looking at him with a tear in the eye, didn’t dare to disturb him and silently walked away to her room.

When the door was closed, Mordred sighed lowly and whispered to himself, unheard by the few soldiers standing nearby.  “It all was going so well… And here I was thinking that gods liked me. Ah, woe… Peace will come to an end, after all the good I have done… My land will burn once again, and I cannot do anything.” Slowly lowering his heads into his hands, the king let everything loose and cried for the inevitable suffering that was to come. As a leader, he did not fear suffering for his people if it was necessary; but seeing them suffer while under his reign was unbearable. And he knew that all his partisans would be tortured by Arthur’s forces. It was inevitable.

During all the years he’d known Arthur, Mordred, as a simple knight, could only stand back, feign approval and watch while every single person who ever did something Arthur did not like first got tortured, sometimes raped, and then thrown into jail or executed straight away. Merlin’s protégé even liked some particularly sophisticated forms of execution. Occasionally, he liked to order his executioners to dip people’s heads in a cauldron full of boiling water several times, until they died; and some other times, he simply tied their legs and arms to several horses and startled the horses in order to have all the offender’s limbs torn off simultaneously.

In fact, Arthur’s philosophy was all about two things: ruling by fear, and using his “divine right” as a pretext to reduce the people into submission. Mordred, as a much younger knight, did not know how Arthur reigned before he was old enough to worry about that; but his mother told him that Arthur never really changed. In fact, Arthur had been convinced since his early childhood that he had the right to do everything he wanted, because he was chosen by the gods. To Mordred, it only seemed like he was a bastard child manipulated by a magician who orchestrated the entire sword withdrawing ceremony. In fact, the rock into which the Holy Sword was stuck never had been known for expressing the will of gods, and even the sword itself never had been known as holy before that episode. It seemed like everything was imagined by Merlin, who, once his weak-minded pawn was in place, could secretly govern the land at his advantage; but once the rumors were spread through the land and became facts rather than stories in the minds of people, it was too late. Arthur suddenly became the only person who had the right to reign.

The country stayed that way for a while. When, a decade later, the people understood that Arthur was all but fit for kingship, of course, some of them tried to change the situation, but not much could be done: firstly, because Arthur had the entire army behind him; and secondly, because the quest for the Holy Grail prevented the clergy from questioning his methods. Every man of god who tried to rise against him was met with sanctions coming from both his superiors and Arthur himself. Some people simply disappeared and were never heard of, while others were publicly executed.

All of this lasted until Guinevere, Arthur’s indoctrinated wife, who served as a means of maintaining his authority when he was questing for the Grail, decided to flee with Sir Lancelot, whom she had an affair with. This happened three years ago. Arthur, seeing that he had been betrayed, decided to hunt Lancelot, his former best friend, until he’d find him and skin him alive. For that, he took his entire army and left the country hurriedly, decided to catch up on the fleeing lovers who went to Armorica.

At that moment, Mordred was left alone in a kingdom without a king; and, most importantly, it was a kingdom where he was the rightful heir to the throne, as opposed to Arthur, who had no right at all.

Indeed, Morgause, Mordred’s mother, was the daughter of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, and Lady Igraine, the king and queen who ruled before Uther Pendragon. Moreover, Morgause was married to King Loth, who ruled over Scotland. Thus, Mordred was the only legitimate heir to both the English throne and the Scottish throne. He should have been able to unite the whole island under a single ruler, peacefully, for the greater good.

But this did not initially happen, because before Mordred was born, the dreaded Uther Pendragon, Gorlois’ main rival, used Merlin’s magic to pass for Gorlois during a night. The next morning, Lady Igraine was impregnated with his seed, and the downfall of the whole land was set in stone. Nine months later, Arthur was born. Of course, he was cast away by Gorlois, who knew he was not with his wife when the child had been conceived; but Merlin prevented Arthur from dying. Ever since that moment, the magician took care of the child as well as he could, from the shadows; up to the moment when he staged a whole slew of events destined to legitimate Arthur’s crowning, despite the bastard child statute he had.

Even though he had the innate right to govern the land, Mordred was conceived too late, and he still was a child when Merlin managed to trick the whole country into believing that Arthur was the king they deserved. Afterwards, it was too late.

Or at least it was, until the current situation presented itself, and Arthur left the country without a ruler. This allowed Mordred to peacefully take over the kingdom and assert his rights, leading the kingdom to prosperity in only a few months. His fame rose as fast as the national treasure, and the people loved him unconditionally as soon as they saw what a wonderful king he was. There was food aplenty; people stopped disappearing or getting tortured for no reason; the Gallic lords ceased to wage war on the kingdom’s coastal cities; and the official abandon of the quest for the Holy Grail allowed the new army and the remaining Round Table’s knights to focus on restoring order in the land. During Arthur’s reign, several groups of bandits roamed the country and pillaged every town as they passed by, but all of this came to an end when Mordred’s army crushed these despicable lowlifes.

In short, after more than a decade of unending war, tyranny and poverty, Mordred’s people finally knew peace and happiness. It was the golden era of their short lives… Yet, it was threatened by Arthur, who, when coming back, certainly would not allow Mordred to keep being the king without a fight. The man was much too obsessed with his pseudo-divine rights to understand that he only was a tool used -and even created- by Merlin as a means of personal enrichment. There was no use in reasoning with him.

Now, a choice had to be made: would Mordred stand up and fight, or would he abdicate pacifically?

The tight-packed crowd waited in the morning fog, unsure of what to do. Soldiers spent the previous week placarding announcements for an important speech, everywhere in the country. Their signs said that it was due for that day, in the morning, in front of the royal castle, and that everyone was to come if possible.

And, the next week, here they were, forming the biggest crowd ever seen in Camlann; although there weren’t only the people of Camlann, but also many of those who lived far away from the capital. Some saw the king often, while for others, it was the first time they laid eyes on him. Nonetheless, each one of them was concerned about their futures and their kingdom.

Knowing each other or not, the men and women in the crowd couldn’t refrain themselves from discussing noisily, fearing that the news they were about to hear wouldn’t be pleasant. Rumors said that the former king was to come back, and it worried them.

After letting them stand for a while on the crude plaza near the castle’s entrance, Mordred made his appearance on the large stone balcony above the main door, draped with his most formal attire. His golden crown complemented the crimson cape he wore, while his legendary black armor and sword reminded the people of his feats in battle.

Waiting a few seconds for the crowd to go silent, the king’s first action was to remove the crown from his head and put it on the edge of the balcony. Before his audience’s outraged sighs became too loud, he declared loudly: “People of England!”

The crowd went silent again before he resumed his speech. “There is gossip going on about Arthur, and, well, it is true. A week ago, one of my heralds brought me the word of Arthur Pendragon. He wants the throne back!” Not waiting for the crowd to react, Mordred yelled even stronger: “Now, the choice is yours! I will ask you one thing: who do you want for king? The son of lies and witchcraft, or the son of the true king! Say it now, and I shall either step down from the throne or fight for your freedom as your king!”

The answer didn’t take long to come. Cheering, the crowd yelled “Mordred” rhythmically while occasionally, groups of people screamed against Arthur and proposed various methods of execution to apply to their former king.

Motioning them to calm down, Mordred waited until everyone was silent again. Finally, he took the crown in his hand and put it back on his head. “Then, I will stay king and fight!”

The crowd’s approval was deafening. From his balcony, the king looked at his subjects fondly. They were simple people, but they loved him, and he loved them too. Each of them was ready to do anything for the other, and it was time to prove it…

“Your freedom comes at a price, people of England! I need your help! Every man who can fight Arthur will be given weapons and armor! Join my army if you want to be free from him! Come and steel yourselves, for war is coming!”

Finally, the reinvigorated monarch unsheathed his sword, brandished it towards the sky and declared: “May the Gods be with us, and may Arthur fall in hell! Thank you all, forever and ever! I shall not let you down!”

While the ecstatic crowd screamed and jumped around, the monarch calmly sheathed his sword and stepped back into his fortress. Even though he was gone, most of the crowd stayed there for a while and cheered. The only people who didn’t lose any time were those who lived far away. They had to go back to their villages immediately and warn everyone.

Winter was coming, and the flames of war came with it.

It had been three weeks and a half since Sir Maleagant started his quest for a mage powerful enough to defeat Merlin. Yet, no one knew there he was.

As for Arthur, he was close to Camlann, his army having been seen by some of the royal scouts who immediately reported their position to Mordred. It seemed that the battle would have to happen without an enchanter to back them up. However, Mordred’s army was as prepared as it could be. New weapons and armors had been forged, people had been recruited, soldiers had been trained, and the people’s morale was at an all-time high.

Nothing could go wrong, save for another one of Merlin’s dirty tricks. However, in the war council room, no one cared about the old devil and his spells. Whether it was the king or his knights, everyone was concentrated on the elaboration of the best battle plan there could be. According to the first draft, Elyan the White was to lead the cavalry, Sir Caradoc would direct two battalions of archers, Gawain and Agravaine would lead the infantry side to side with Mordred, and other knights would be in charge of various hybrid legions, which goal was to divert and ambush Arthur’s forces.

That was, until the door got slammed open by a sweating Maleagant who immediately kneeled in front of Mordred. “Please forgive me, my lord. I am late.”

Harrumphing, the king answered, while turning on himself slowly to face his vassal: “No need for excuses, Maleagant. You did your best. I was not expecting for any enchanter to come. They are all weak and-“

His sentence was cut short when he realized that a man stood behind Maleagant. His bulky fur cape made him look bigger than he really was, but what really captivated Mordred was the tiny leather crown he wore. On it, a tiny moon pendant was attached, and it glowed in a way that appeared to be entirely magical. The king, fascinated, asked after a few seconds: “Wait. Are you, by any chance, the enchanter I requested?”

While Maleagant still was kneeling, the man introduced himself after hitting the ground with his wooden staff a few times. “Greetings, Mordred, son of King Lot and descendant of Gorlois. I am Elias of Kelliwic’h, Great Enchanter of the North, Leader of the Wolves of Caledonia, Slayer of the Snow Dragon, Creator of the Potion of Omnipotence, Prophet of the Stars and greatest foe of Merlin.”

The last title grabbed Mordred’s attention. “Greatest foe of Merlin? Tell me about you and him, enchanter.”

Puckering his mouth for a second, the enchanter replied defensively. “I will not say much about him. Merlin embodies everything I despise. He and I have fought many times, and I will do anything to bring this bastard down. I almost managed to kill him several times, but he always found a way to escape death. However, if you kill his protégé on this planet, it will compel him to show himself, and at that moment, I will be able to strike him down. Understand this, Mordred: I am not here for your country, nor am I here for the gold. I want to kill Merlin.”

Nodding, the king declared: “Some words you use I do not know, but I am sure that if you need to kill Merlin, then you can and will help us. Welcome in my castle.”

After the mage took a seat nearby without asking to anyone, he declared: “I will not cast any spell on your army, and I won’t use potions of omnipotence. They’re too time-consuming to make. Rather, I have an offer for you and you alone, Mordred.”

Dubious, the king retorted: “If you can’t make my men stronger, what use are you?”

Smiling, the mage buried his hand under his cape. It emerged a few seconds later, holding a golden pendant supported by a large black metallic chain. “This, Mordred, is your guarantee to win.” Immediately, the wizard threw the heavy pendant at the suspicious king.

When Mordred grabbed it, he could admire the ornaments engraved on the golden part. For some reason, most of them represented horses, except a few ones that looked like dragons or other creatures the king didn’t know of. “Tell me, magician, what are these things?”

Smirking, Elias replied: “Nothing you should care about. The only rule you have to know is that if you feel you are losing the battle, open it, and it will make you immortal and all-powerful. Arthur will lose everything, from his men to his mentor. Even his life. My power is limitless, and it will destroy them all if you use this medallion. But in exchange for my help, your soul will be mine for a small time. You will do everything I say and everything I want. It will only last a second, yet it will last more than a month. You will understand soon enough… Ha ha!”

Before Mordred or anyone else could react to this, smoke rose up from the ground and filled the room. A few seconds later, when it finally dissipated, Elias of Kelliwic’h was gone.

Holding the medallion and looking at the empty chair, Mordred wondered about what kind of deal he just passed.

Two days after Elias’ visit, Arthur reached the bank of the frozen river Camlann. His men, looming in the horizon, formed a dark line standing over the hills. They could be seen honing their weapons, making large campfires, building tents, and even sparring from time to time. It did not seem like they cared about the situation they were in.

On the other side of the river, Mordred’s whole army was standing, well prepared, but stressed. Many men never had been in a war before, even though they all received at least a basic training and decent weapons. They all were ready to defend their land, but they feared Merlin’s spells. Who had not heard of tales where fireballs rained from the skies or darkness fell on the battlefield in the middle of the day? In these tales, Merlin was always involved, one way or another. And, while these people wanted to be free, they feared death as much as any man out there.

This is why most of the former civilians stayed in the back, in the fortress. The true soldiers were in front of it, and some of the most discrete groups of rangers had been sent in the nearby woods in order to ambush Arthur’s soldiers.

Messengers traveled constantly between the two armies during hours, and, while the men started to get impatient, it seemed that there would be no concession from Arthur’s part. He did not only desire to be king again, but also to have Mordred executed for treason. Obviously, he refused to let the people’s choice matter, and kept using his “divine rights” as an argument to close every conversation Mordred tried to start.

At the end of the day, it was decided that if Mordred didn’t surrender before noon, the castle would be seized by force.

Alone in his bed, protected from Arthur by several hundreds of tons of stone, Mordred contemplated the medallion that was illuminated by the candles nearby. The light danced eerily on the engravings, which seemed to have been crafted so finely that even England’s best goldsmiths couldn’t make anything close to it. And yet, here they were, in front of his eyes.

Depicting various creatures that he knew were not real, the medallion fascinated Mordred. It was real, palpable, shiny, but it also felt out of place in his world, as if it came from another land and time. It trembled slightly from time to time, as if there was something alive inside; and it felt warmer than most jewels do. The item exuded magic so much that Mordred felt his hairs straightening themselves.

Sometimes, if he put it near his ear, he could hear noises. Most of it was gibberish, but he was sure to have heard voices speaking in a language akin to that of the enchanter. Although it was very similar to the one Mordred himself spoke, this language was much more fluid and contained words he did not know.

His mother warned him many times against the trickery of wizards and witches, and he agreed with her on that matter. But this time, the entire country was going to fall if he didn’t do anything. Even though letting someone else have his soul was a terrible idea, the king was ready to do it if it was necessary.

Keeping all the deal’s implications in mind, Mordred was laying there in his bed, clutching the medallion against his chest and trying to sleep. But Morpheus apparently did not want him to do so. The young monarch didn’t manage to close his eyes even once, and stayed awake the whole night. He saw the moon rise and fall over the magical medallion, which could have been the instrument of his victory as well as that of his doom.

At dawn, he stood up and staggered towards his armor, which was resting on a wooden mannequin nearby. Polishing and oiling it one last time, he sighed, as he knew that this day might very well be the last one he lived. After this was done, he asked for servants who helped him put the armor on, and, fifteen minutes later, he was ready to fight. His black armor, famous for its draconic ornaments, black paint and overall solidity, did shine a little when in front of the sun. But the medallion sitting on it reflected every single beam of light there was, slightly blinding everyone who looked at Mordred. It seemed to be a pure droplet of hope, shining through dark times and making the future look brighter. The king did not know precisely why, but although it had been given to him by a despicable and untrustworthy wizard, this medallion made him feel happy, strong and confident. He felt his heart beating in his chest, and wanted to stand proudly in front of Arthur’s army because finally, the situation wasn’t that bad. After all, even if he were to lose, the medallion would make him the winner. No matter what happened, the battle of Camlann would be known by all of his descendants, during millennia, as the battle that allowed the rightful king of England and Scotland to definitely sit on the throne and lead his land to prosperity.

With these thoughts in mind, Mordred walked to the castle’s yard and walked through the ranks of his new soldiers, each one apparently well-prepared, although some of them seemed to have slept about as well as himself. He made sure they were ready and moved on to the forces stationed outside the castle, where the other knights were waiting for him. The soldiers standing there, outside of the walls, were far more trained than the civilians they just recruited, but not all of them were as experienced as most of Arthur’s soldiers. Hoping for the best, the monarch tried to comfort them and bolster their courage, battalion by battalion, until a battle horn rang from the other side of the bank. Quickly, Mordred’s soldiers assembled into structured legions, the knights in charge of them took the lead, and Mordred waited in front of his castle for the single man who ran towards him. On the other side of the river bank, about a kilometer away, Arthur’s soldiers were ready.

The man who came to him was a messenger. He was young, visibly afraid, and barely managed to ask his question to Mordred. Less than a minute later, he started to run back to Arthur with a negative answer: there would be no surrender.

Watching the man getting further from him, Mordred clutched his medallion one last time and unsheathed his sword. Adrenalin seeped from his loins and invaded all of his muscles slowly, while the sun kept rising towards its zenith. And, when the tiny messenger reached the shiny speck in front of the black mass of soldiers, the battle horn rang once more. Arthur’s army started to move, walking at an ever so slow pace, mercilessly trampling grass that would later be drenched in blood.

The battle of Camlann was about to start.

By the end of the day, the situation was dire. Although Mordred’s soldiers often switched and took pauses if they were too tired, every blow that Arthur’s army dealt was critical and several men died. Of course, there were an equivalent number of victims in Arthur’s army too, but these few casualties were far from enough to compensate for their immensely superior training. Furthermore, most of the enemy soldiers who died had been killed earlier, when ambushed in the forests on each side of the plain. And, before noon, Arthur decided to burn these forests down in order to prevent the rangers from ambushing anyone else. Thus, the number of casualties in Arthur’s army remained mostly stable while that of Mordred’s army kept growing.

As far as the morale and fatigue went, Arthur’s always were fresh, as if they were magically healed between each assault; while Mordred’s soldiers were increasingly tired and depressed. They thought it would be an easy battle, and here they were, still fighting at the end of the day, walking in blood-drenched mud and smelling death everywhere.

After the fire took off, the battlefield was surrounded in smoke, and many of Mordred’s soldiers had trouble breathing. But those of Arthur seemed to be fine even when very close to the fire. At that point, it was obvious that magic was involved, but not much could be done. Battalions kept smashing and crossing each other, running, turning, splitting and reuniting, in a cruel and unending dance of death that left armored corpses in its wake.

When the sky became red with the setting sun, Mordred decided to put an end to this madness. After he saw not only hundreds of his people, but also his friends Maleagant and Elyan the White fall to Arthur’s soldiers; it was obvious that victory would only come if he used the medallion. In fact, Maleagant had been the first to fall. After nearly cutting an enemy soldier's arm in a single blow, he turned his back to the injured soldier and faced another opponent; but the fallen soldier, whose arm was only attached to his torso by a thin thread of skin, managed to stand up again and stab Maleagant in the neck with a dagger. Such resilience seemed superhuman, but it wasn't the best that Arthur's soldiers could do... Indeed, Elyan the White fell to another soldier who had his neck sliced more than a minute ago. He should have been dead already, but it seemed that Merlin's magic flowed through his veins... And so, to avoid any further useless bloodshed, this had to end; or else, everyone in Mordred's army would die.

His sword dirty with the blood of dozens of Arthur’s soldiers and generals, the king blew into his own battle horn, telling all of his soldiers to retreat. Most of them were happy to do so, but a few were reluctant to flee when they saw Mordred walking alone towards the middle of the battlefield. Confident, the king dismissed any person who would try to prevent him from doing so. Even his brothers tried to talk to him along the way, but he did not answer and only showed them the medallion, as if it was the answer to everything.

Amidst the dead bodies of hundreds of soldiers, Mordred stood alone in his black armor, and he wondered about what would happen if he failed. What would Arthur do to his mother and brothers? What would he do to the people who agreed to fight for him today? What would he do to all of those who may refuse to be his vassals afterwards? The implications were terrifying. The issue of this single fight would change the futures of millions of lives. He had no right to lose. He did not have the right to do a single little mistake.

This train of thought was interrupted by Arthur, who, after a few minutes, came to the middle of the battlefield as well. While Mordred’s armor was scratched and jagged, most of its decorations being torn off; Arthur looked like he didn’t even fight once. His shiny armor and shield remained untainted and pristine, and so did the sword he brandished towards Mordred before speaking. “Son of Lot and Morgause, thou will die for what thou hast done. This is thy end.”

Unsheathing his bloodied sword, Mordred stepped forward, put his blade against Arthur’s own sword and flatly stated: “Merlin will not help thou today, Pendragon.”

Immediately after finishing his sentence, he slid towards Arthur while maintaining their swords out of the way and used his shoulder to hit Arthur in the chest before the latter could block with his shield. The armor emitted a satisfying crack and Arthur walked back slightly, destabilized by the hit.

“Thou hast grown stronger while I was in Armorica, Mordred,” said Arthur. “But I have grown stronger as well, boy!” he yelled, charging with his shield raised towards Mordred’s sword.

The classical move didn’t surprise Mordred, who instantly stepped backwards and moved his two-handed sword on a side to parry his opponent’s shield and sword at the same time. Unfortunately for Arthur, two objects in space can only be standing on the same line, and that line was Mordred’s sword, which easily blocked both of these objects.

Then, Mordred had the occasion to kick his foe in a knee and make him walk backwards, before striking again with all his might, his large sword falling on the shield with a bang. The wood was shattered by the sword, while Arthur had trouble pushing it back with both his arms. Finally, he managed to stand back up and walk back for a few seconds.

For a few seconds, both of them felt the other’s army watching over them in contempt, saw the sky darkening with the last fleeting remains of burning wood and corpses, and smelled all the death that this battle brought. It reminded them of the costs of this war, but none of them believed they could be wrong on even the smallest thing they did or said, and they soon resumed the fight. Each of them lunged at the other, swords in the air; and, once again, the iron struck the wood, and the wood pushed the iron back in an unending loop.

Armor parts flew off as the fight went on; Mordred’s boot fell off and Arthur’s shoulder pad got shattered, both of their chest plates got hammered down… During half an hour, they constantly attacked each other, from every angle imaginable. Every single technique they learned was put to use. Bold charges, lateral slices, low kicks, hidden daggers, not a single thing was forgotten.

When the sun almost disappeared behind the hills where Arthur’s army was standing, both of the fighters were exhausted. Mordred was drenched in sweat, and Arthur’s shield had fist-sized holes in some places. Their armors were damaged beyond repairs, to the point that Arthur’s gauntlet was reduced to a few pieces of metal around his fingers, leaving his hand and forearm exposed to the air, while Mordred’s helmet was entirely destroyed and had been cast aside.

In a last effort to win the fight, Mordred, a few feet away from Arthur, brandished his sword and charged. Arthur was there, immobilized, his shield down, trying to get up after the previous assault. He was vulnerable and positioned ideally for a swift decapitation. Victory was close; so, so very close...

But Merlin was there, somewhere, and he helped one of Arthur’s best archers to fire an enchanted arrow that found its way to Mordred’s leg. Suddenly unable to keep on walking, he fell on Arthur, who coincidentally lifted his sword and walked forward a little. In less than a second, Excalibur pierced through Mordred’s armor and sliced the surprised monarch’s heart. The fight was over, and the valiant king lost his life for his country after being cheated upon by a vicious magician and a skilled archer.

Crying with the pain, Mordred did not forget what he had to do. He looked straight in the eyes of Arthur and tried to say one last sentence. “This… Is… Not over… You…”

But it was too much for him. With a rale of agony, the pained king opened the medallion, and an unending rainbow of light submerged the battlefield as he passed out.

Mordred woke up to the sound of thunder and rain. While opening his eyes, he understood that he was lying naked on the ground, inside a peculiar stone castle. The ceiling was black and devoid of chandeliers, and the air felt moist.

Immediately, he brought a hand to his chest and tried to feel for a scar. But there was none to be found. It was as if everything had been a nightmare.

Trying to sit up was hard, but he managed to do it after a few seconds. Dizzy, the former monarch didn’t quite understand what happened.

A few seconds later, he heard a voice that wasn’t completely unknown to him. “Welcome to my own castle, son of Lot and descendant of Gorlois…”

Turning his head back immediately, the sitting man yelled: “Elias! Cursed be thou! Where are my castle and my people! Where is my sword! Where is Pendragon!”

Before Mordred could stand up, he was met with laughter. Elias pointed a finger at him and coldly declared: “Ha! A sword! You won’t need a sword when I’m done with you, you clueless fool. You used the medallion, now your soul is mine. And you will have to win a game for me before I allow you to come back to your world. But first, let’s do some presentations.”

Taken aback, Mordred could only watch in disbelief as Elias started bloating grotesquely, his arms and legs looking like giant tumors, growing faster than anything Mordred ever saw. The mage’s skin quickly turned red and his clothes got torn off one by one, except for the leather crown that stayed in place on his head. Hairs appeared everywhere on his lower body, hooves replaced his feet, and the most hideous transformation Mordred had ever seen took place: his two legs each got shattered into a pair of legs, before an entire horse’s body grew between them.

Less than a minute later, the transformation was complete, and an eight feet tall, red-skinned and terrifying centaur stood in front of Mordred, who felt tinier and more powerless than ever.

When Elias spoke again, he did not have the same voice. Instead of the sneering and cynical one he had earlier, this one was so grave that Mordred was shaken by the sheer sound of it. “As you may already have guessed, my name isn’t exactly Elias, although I truly am the Great Enchanter of the North, the Slayer of the Snow Dragon and the greatest foe of Merlin. You shall know me as Tirek. As for you, Mordred of England, you have agreed to let me dispose of your soul as I pleased for the time being. And this is what I am going to do, by using you as my champion in a game akin to the ones you hold in your royal castle every summer.”

The mere sounds produced by the creature’s vocal cords felt supernatural and full of power, as if a single word would be enough to kill him. It was so enthralling and frightening that the king could only stay there and listen, not even daring to move a single finger.

Tirek stepped forward and put his hand on the man’s chest. “This game will be one of strength and celerity, and I cannot afford to lose it because of the miserable weakness of this body of yours. Hold still.”

Two seconds later, Mordred was writhing in agony on the floor, as his whole body changed. He felt his jaw elongating itself, hair grew everywhere on his body, his scapulae felt impossibly painful, and his muscles seemed to expand themselves constantly. He felt his hands change, his nails coming back inside his fingers, and his feet cracking and snapping while their structure changed entirely.

Even more disturbing than these physical changes, Mordred felt his mind becoming different. He suddenly took conscience of strange flows of color moving everywhere around him, as if he had some sort of new sixth sense awakening in his mind. And then, there were the words; an immense amount of them, passing before his eyes faster than a flock of birds fleeing a predator, and of which he instantly knew the meanings. But the words weren’t everything; there were also pictures, sounds, knowledge. Suddenly, he understood everything about the Chess Game, its participants, and the world it happened on. He understood that he was so far away from his country that he could never go back there without Tirek’s consent, but also that time itself ceased to unravel in England and would only go back to normal once he won the Game and went back there.

Finally, Tirek looked at him sternly and stated: “You will now be known as Scorpan, herald of Tirek. Go forth and win this Game for me. When it is done, I will grant you all of my powers and send you back to England. You will kill Arthur and regain your throne, as if nothing ever happened, and both of us will have won something.”

Looking at his new body in disgust, the being now called Scorpan looked at Tirek with the most hateful glare he ever made. “I do not appreciate what you did to me, but I will win this competition as your herald, Tirek. However, I won’t do this for you. I will do it for my people. Then, you will give me my body back and send me to my world, so both of us can be kings… And I hope to never see you again afterwards.”

The centaur laughed heartily. “Trust me, with what I’m going to do to this place after you win for me, I’ll be too busy to worry about your puny kingdom… Scorpan,” he spat, knowing that the former king did not like that name. “I will have thousands of Alicorn slaves! I will rule over an entire world filled with equine servants,” the black centaur declared, his hands starting to glow with blackness. “And now, let the Game begin!”

When Tirek gestured towards Scorpan, the latter felt his body falling through the floor into a lifeless void, and everything faded to black.