The wind struck back against the tent. The harsh battering of the air flapped above as it pushed against the fabric. Mordred lifted his head to the sound as a breath of warm air left his lips with a cloud of fog. The weather was acting strange today. Cold and chilly in places where the sun broke upon the land in yellow rays the dark and damp areas filled with heat. He shook his mind of the thought and discarded them as he turned his attention back to his camp. The clustered tents and hundreds of men stacked together in close ranks. The sound of distant chatter and shuffling amongst armour and weapons filled the camp. Mordered leaned back in his chair and let out a sigh as he looked to the guard at his side. He turned his head to look at the other and narrowed his eyes for a moment.

He looked into his tent and found his sword resting against the table on its side. The broadsword he claimed from his father by right of force. A decorated image of slaughter it was. The sword. Nothing seemed more immediate, more direct, more obvious. He stood from his chair and walked over to the weapon before he attached it back to his hip.

“Father!” a familiar voice called to him.

Mordred turned and saw Rhodri approach him. His son stood as tall as himself with the same black hair he styled when his youth still held him. Many would even mistake them for twins if not for Mordred’s aged face.

“Yes, Rhodri?” Mordred spoke firmly. “Did the scouts find something?”

“Baron Carlow has returned. His forces were routed but he still retains his numbers.”

“Routed? By whom?” Mordred frowned.

“He has not explained yet. He is seeing to his men first,” Rhodri replied.

“Bring him here,” Mordred growled. “Reports are to be given first before anything, Rhodri.”

“Y-Yes, father,” he replied.

Mordred dismissed him and returned to his seat. A sigh left his lips as he watched his son depart in a jog. The king processed the situation at hand and reworked his plan. Traveling this far to put down the Kingdom of Verrex was a chore that he expected to conclude by the end of the month. A rabid land of warmongering kings.

Baron Carlow soon arrived at the tent with a distressed face dampened by sweat and dirt. Mordred nearly scoffed aloud in retort. The Baron straightened himself and held his breath before his king.

“Lord Carlow,” he began.

“Your Grace.”

“You were routed.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Explain,” Mordred sighed. He noticed his son awaiting the meeting with an eager look behind the Baron.

“We faced off against the Prince of Verrex by Serrin. It seemed like we would capture him, but a second army ambushed our own. A few hundred from what I could tell. They attacked our flanks. I attempted to stave them off by having our cavalry meet them in battle, but their men were stern. A lone soldier seemed to single-handedly hold off all the knights. He cut through their armour as they were crops. The men were losing heart, so I wished not to sacrifice too many to capture the Prince. We damaged their forces enough and took much of the land already. Serrin has burned down, but their capital is in sight,” Carlow held his breath once again as he lifted his gaze to avoid Mordred’s words.

“Hmm … Disappointing, but not disgraceful. A single man slaughtered all your knights? Is that right?” Mordred asked.

“Not all, but a good many. M-Much like your own exploits, Your Grace,” Carlow replied with a gulp.

“Much like my own? I have slain the great Arthur, conquered the Mountain Kings, beheaded the Eagle of the great Dystarius Dunes. No army has failed in battle with me as its commander nor have any defeated me in combat. This lone warrior has done nothing like my own. I have achieved things none can ever do again. There will never be an Arthur, nor a Rykar, nor a Faur Maaridth. Foreign names that will forever stay foreign. This warrior is the subject of mad barbarians. The ones who fill these lands. That is what you will tell your men. That is what you will tell everyone,” Mordred sighed.

“Y-Yes, Your Grace,” Carlow said with a shaky voice. Rhodri tensed with every word his father spoke and waited.

Mordred pinched the bridge of his nose and spent a moment in thought. He was proud. Too proud, but he understood the matter of kingship and conflict. This was an odd tale to flood his camp, an odd warrior to break his men.

“Split off your men. Join your army with mine. Rhodri,” Mordred called to the Prince.

“Y-Yes, father?” Rhodri replied in surprise as he stepped forward.

“You are to take command of the rest of our forces. The army that nests here will be yours to command. Is that clear?” he said.

Rhodri blinked for a moment in surprise. “W-What? Why, father?”

“Do not question your King … My Prince. I have campaigned for two years. You have travelled with me for six months. You are of age now. Sixteen and strong. It is time to prove your name and birth. You are my heir. The men must see that you will be a strong ruler. You are to take these men here and lead them to the capital of Verrex. Besiege it and kill everyone. I want the crown of the King and his son’s head. Is that clear?” Mordred glared.

“I- But …” Rhodri stuttered for a moment as he seemed to doubt himself. “Would that not stir resistance against you, fa- Your Grace …”

“Is it not obvious? Kill the lion and kill his pride. Once the land is rid of its barbarians, I will appoint Arcanians to rule over it. That is the way of a monarch. Blood and steel. If this King of Verrex is of any worth to his crown, he will face you in the field and die honourably. If he does not, then he will starve his people until they are all dead or they kill him with their own hands,” Mordred said with a strict tone.

Rhodri bit his lip and nodded lightly. “And … what of you, Your Grace?”

“I will gather … a few hundred knights. We will travel light. Your defeat, Lord Carlow, has given our enemy a chance to catch our forces on the move before we attack the capital. While I see your rationale for withdrawing, and I respect the decision, the enemy will not take the chance to face us all as a single army. They will attack my son as he marches to the capital. I will ride to meet them before they do so and kill whoever I find. Let them see that a king is a Lord whose throne styles a saddle instead,” Mordred spat onto the floor before he rose from his seat. “If I am wrong and they have not laid a trap, then it appears that my concern over their intelligence was naught but ignorance and tawdry platitudes. False and cheap. Either way, you will be the one to end the kingdom, Rhodri.”

“Your Grace!” another voice broke from camp and a messenger was seen running to the King.

Rhodri and Carlow turned to face the man who was panting on his knees. “I … I bring news from Count Frederick! His forces were defeated, but the losses were not too great. His men are withdrawing back to the border.”

The Prince and the Baron were taken aback by the words, but Mordred held firm.

“It appears that these barbarians were not as cowardly as I have been led to believe. Lord Carlow. Gather two thousand men from the camp and go to cover our rear and ensure that the border is secure. We will proceed as planned, but I will act as reserve,” he ordered.

“Yes, Your Grace,” a united response ended the meeting and Mordred dismissed them.

He sent for a squire or two as he ordered the preparation of his armour and equipment. He worried for his son, but not as much for his care. The boy was a fool and weak in comparison to how he behaved at sixteen. No, Mordred was ambitious, firm, and determined to make life as he wished it. He became king, claimed the sword of his father, and carved an empire. Rhodri was by extension a comfortable and slow boy. Regardless, his son would fulfil his duty or die for the sake of it. Mordred still had Nia and Gwyn to assure his throne, but they would face more challenges if that were the case.

His armour was strapped sternly through its belts and knots as it set upon his chest and limbs. The cold steel that shadowed black in the sun from the ashen paint that it was dipped in. He made sure his blade was strapped to his waist before he left his tent. Mordred shouted a few more orders and called his captains to his side. Four hundred knights gathered at his side with lightly armoured horses. Mail covered their bodies with brigandines and war helms. Disciplined and strong. The men of Arcania were great, powerful. His father made sure of it.

Mordred mounted his steed and armed himself with spear and shield. They soon departed from the camp with a thunderous race as they took to the forests. He knew these lands well enough to impose a strong sense of where possible attacks could be placed to ambush his army. All he had to do was wait.

***

The riders had split off from the main group as per Mordred’s commands. They moved through the forests atop their horses and covered as much ground as they could, and yet, they did not find anyone. The King was growing impatient, but he understood the demands of his post. The night sky soon blanketed the world, and the moon showed its pale face to the rich lands of Verrex. Mordred let out a sigh as he called his men back to a few rally points. He split them into four groups and had them cover parts of the forest they were in.

Verrex was a strange place. Thick trees that reached as high as mountains with barks as wide as ten men put together. The further in he travels, the stranger the land became. Arcania was nothing like this. No dark groves and rough mountains and lush woodlands. Stranger still was the animals. He had heard of the wild beasts of Verrex, particularly of its wolves, and yet, there were none.

The hours drifted by, and he felt his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. A calm embrace wrapped around his body while his mind seemed to float over the lunar embrace. The silence was intoxicating and terrifying. A lifetime of noise seemed to strip away the animalistic nature of stillness, of the world breathing without any distress from people. Then it seemed too fortunate.

“Your Grace,” one of the captains called out with a soft whisper.

“Yes?”

“We’ve spotted a few men.”

Mordred hummed in thought for a moment. “Follow their steps. Do not attack yet. We must act when we know where their main force is. Get Sir Garlin, Sir Tarrow, Sir Orrin, and Sir Darlyn to prepare.”

The men followed along as they trailed through the forest. A few dismounted as they attempted to follow silently on foot until they arrived at what looked to be a small village with two or three houses. The men sighed in frustration as they turned back to the others. The message followed up until they reached the King. A misunderstanding.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” the captain answered.

“No matter. We still have-”

His words were cut short as he jerked forward. A sharp pain filled his shoulder as Mordred found an arrow sticking out from the gaps in his armour. He had been shot.

“Your Grace! Ambush!” The guard yelled out as voices broke from the trees and a few dozen men came charging down from behind.

Mordred gritted his teeth and slapped down the visor of his helm to cover his face. He turned his horse around and charged right into the men as quickly as he could. A horn echoed behind him as his captains were called to his defence.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Your Grace! Don’t-” the men cried out, but Mordred would have none of it.

If they were cunning enough to ambush him, they should be prepared to kill him.

Mordred smashed into the first few men with his spear but released the weapon just as it pierced the flesh of a man. Mordred lifted his shield to block any attack, but the men instead attacked his horse. The creature neighed as it was slashed at its side. A painful cry left the animal as it threw Mordred back.

The other knights then came forth from the forest and charged into the attackers like daggers in the night. The heavy roars of their voices filled the forest as they burst into the chaos. Dozens more poured out of the trees as what seemed to be a hundred men clashed with the knights. The heated mess of screams and shouts and cries as steel struck steel and blood ran through the earth.

Mordred pulled himself off the ground as his armour had protected him from the impact. The arrow that had struck the gap in his plates had cracked and broke upon the fall, but the arrowhead may have dug further into his flesh. No matter. He drew his sword, the blade of the great Arthur and swung it at the man closest to his side.

The steel sung into the air with a vicious song that hummed like a viper’s hiss. It struck the breadth of another’s sword and shattered the steel like glass. The shock that filled the man’s eyes broke his resolve, and Mordred gave him not a second to breathe. He swung his sword again with a clean slice that slipped through his skull and chopped his head in half. Mordred raised his shield and held it close as he stuck to his training. His body moved by itself as the experience of a hundred battles carried his arm like a paintbrush. He let the blood rage carry him, the instinct to survive.

The knights struggled to take advantage of their horses in such tight quarters. A number of them dismounted and resorted to a mess of a fight while the captains pulled their guard to circle around the fighting. They smashed into the rear of the enemy and denied them a retreat. Mordred pressed against the side of his fellow men and thrust his blade forward at every enemy he could see. The blade moved with its divine touch, the magical craft that had made his father the High King. He thrusted and hacked at those in front of him before he heard the voice of another man from within the crowd shout a name.

“Edgar!” the voice yelled.

It was from there that Mordred saw it. A young man burst from the fray in wild rage. A splash of blood sprayed forth as the rest of the enemy pulled back from his front. The unnamed warrior lunged forward with his sword lifted above his head. He swung with perfect form as the blade cut through the armour of the knights. Mordred felt his eyes widened in shock as he saw the man perform a feat that he had only been capable of. The strike hacked a man in two only to be followed with a counter to the man next to him. The blade spun in quick slices and tore through the neck and torso of the second man. He followed it with the third and then the fourth. Mordred had to do something. At this rate, his own men would falter.

The King dropped his shield and gripped his sword with two hands. The shield would be useless against him. He charged in from the side and swung his blade for the man’s head only for the warrior to swing his weapon back at the King. The two swords banged against each other with a loud clang that echoed a strange vibration through the air. The sound was loud enough to cause a man’s ears to ring as the blades touched. The two opponents drew their blades back and fell into their stances. Mordred stood with his sword raised overhead with the blade pointed down towards the warrior while the stranger held his blade close to his chest with the steel pointed back over his shoulder in wrath.

The fighting came to a halt around them as the two forces looked to the two fighters. The sound had pulled their minds away from each other and towards the both of them. The Black Knight and the unknown butcher.

“Who are you?” Mordred asked.

“How did you do that?” the man countered.

“I asked you a question.”

The man remained silent for a moment more before speaking. “Harkon.”

Mordred held his voice for a moment longer as he considered the situation. “I am King Mordred of Arcania.”

“The Black Knight. We know. We spotted you several hours ago,” Harkon replied.

Mordred bit his lip. “Then you know that none of you will leave alive.”

“Not unless I kill you.”

“My death will mean nothing to you. My men will kill you regardless.”

Harkon scoffed. “Then I will die knowing that I killed the Black Knight.”

“Do not style your words in blood so quick. You know as well as I do that we are nothing without these swords,” Mordred replied.

“Our swords? Then …” Harkon said. “You know what this is? Our … Are we the same?”

Mordred considered his next words carefully before he looked to his men. Then he turned back to Harkon.

“Let me strike you a deal then. We fight. If you kill me, you and your men go free. If I win, I take that blade,” he proposed.

Mordred understood his father’s magical blade, its gifts, its power, but if he understood Harkon’s sword to be the same, then Harkon would lose. Mordred kept his blade for many years and killed hundreds with it. The bloodshed is what gave him his strength. Harkon seemed to have only gotten his sword recently. Inherited? Did Harkon kill the previous owner like he did? Was the sword different? Mordred was unsure, but he needed to assert as much control over the situation. He needed to manipulate the battle in his father.

“No,” Harkon spoke suddenly.

Mordred hesitated for a second, and Harkon swung the first blow only for Mordred to quickly deflect it. The voices of the army cracked into a bloody roar as they clashed once again.

Mordred blocked another attack and let the sword slide against his own as he tried to use Harkon’s force against him. He slid the blade out and swung down for Harkon’s neck. The warrior quickly pulled his blade back to swung at Mordred’s sword and knocked it back, but the Black Knight would not let a second pass for him to even blink. He swung back and sliced again at his head. Harkon countered each with a narrow block and short counter which only met with Mordred’s reflective strikes as he used his experience and aggression against Harkon. Strike after strike, attack after attack, the two seemed locked in trading blows forever, until fortune struck a place in the fight.

Harkon’s foot hit against the shield of a dead knight and nearly lost his footing, but Mordred pushed further in and thrust his sword at the man’s helm. Harkon just barely swung at the sword just before it could tear through the steel, but the momentary distraction was enough to create an opening. Two knights charged in from the side as the thrust their blades at Harkon’s hip. The first blade missed and slid across the breastplate, but the second knight stabbed his sword into the gap of his leg and thrusted the sword into his thigh. Harkon fell to the ground in agony as he screamed. The magical blade fell from his hand and Mordred yelled.

“Stop! Hold him! Hold him down! Quick!” the Black Knight then rushed to the side and kicked the sword away as he pointed his own weapon down to his neck.

“E-Edgar! Edgar, run!” Harkon yelled.

Mordred looked around to the men who ambushed him and quickly scanned for a reaction. He spotted a few men break from the fighting as they attempted to run away. The King of Arcania would have none of it.

“Knights! Chase them down! I want no survivors! Capture whoever submits and kill the rest!” Mordred ordered to whoever was nearest.

A few riders broke away as they chased down the runners. He looked down to Harkon who was breathing heavily under his helm. They had failed and Harkon knew it. He should have accepted his deal, but Mordred would not grant such demands either way. Perhaps Harkon knew he would lie and kill them all either way. Regardless, Mordred had confirmed what he suspected of the sword. It was similar to his father’s blade, yet it was still different. No matter. He would just wait out the slaughter and then make an example of the arrogant barbarians.

***

The dead were dragged from their self-made graves and laid to fill the sides of the road. Their armour was stripped, and their weapons repurposed. The dead Arcanians were buried where was needed while the Verrexians were abandoned in the open. The knights replaced what equipment they needed before they scattered the bodies. Those who surrendered were dragged forth into a clearing with Mordred.

The King lifted the sword that Harkon used and examined its craft. It seemed as normal as he would expect of a longsword. The weight and balance seemed to hold average as did the edge. He walked up to a tree and swung the blade with as much force as he could. However, the blade dug into the bark with a firm hack, but it did not rip through. No great tear nor did the tree rip in two. The blade simple cut it slightly as did every other blade. He pulled it out with some struggle and examined the edge once more. The force of the attack in the tree had blunted it a bit. Odd. The sword showed no difference from any other and yet, Harkon was able to perform such great feats with it. He even seemed to understand that it was the sword that gave him the power.

Mordred sighed and walked over to the captives. Harkon was stripped of his armour and bound by rope as he was forced onto his knees. The King stepped in front of him and looked to the other captives.

“Did any of you capture the man named Edgar?” he asked his knights.

The pain of the arrow still lodged in his back hurt with every movement. He would not be able to remove it here. They had no equipment to heal him. He would need to head back to his son and seek treatment there.

“Here, Your Grace,” one of the knights answered and dragged forth one of the captives, a tired man who looked as though he had aged a century in battle.

Harkon shifted in his place before Mordred looked to him. “Is he a dear friend to you?”

Harkon bit his lip. “He’s a good man, but we had only met recently.”

“Are you lying?” Mordred asked.

“Why would I lie?”

“To avoid me manipulating you? To spare his life? To save him?” Mordred suggested.

Harkon merely glared back. “Would that matter? You’ll kill him. You’ll kill me. You’re a conqueror, a king. I am nothing. I own no land, belong to no home, no family. A grain of dust that you have no reason to even think of.”

Mordred blinked for a moment in thought. “Then you know your place.”

“Of course I do. Even if was not before you in bounds, I would be before my own king. I’d just be fighting in some other war, hungry for power,” Haron’s eyes then shifted to his sword that Mordred still held. “Power that has been taken from me. That which is mine. My blood, my hunger, my ambition. Mine.”

“Yours,” the Black Knight muttered. “Would you serve any king?”

Harkon narrowed his eyes and looked up to him. “Why would I serve? You hold power in your hands as well. Do you think you would be content with juts serving?”

Mordred chuckled. “No. I would want to be king. I did want to be king, and I became king. I killed my father, took his sword, and carved myself an empire.”

Harkon then looked to his friend opposite him and frowned. “Edgar.”

“Don’t …” the wounded man began. “Harkon. Don’t fight against this. Verrex is lost. I have slaved away for my whole life in this war. I lost my home thanks to this monster, and I failed to avenge it. You … You are not me. You were knighted by the Prince, but you are not of noble birth. You-”

“The Prince knighted him?” Mordred asked.

“Yes,” Edgar growled at the interruption.

“And what if I spared you both? All of you? Would you join me? Serve me? Betray your kingdom?” Mordred asked.

“You destroyed my home already, Black Knight. I have nothing left, and I will do everything I can to kill you for that, but …” Edgar then looked to Harkon. “He is young. Skilled, gifted. Don’t … Don’t let him die as I will, as so many have. There is nothing in this land.”

“Edgar!” Harkon called back.

“Just! Harkon! Don’t chase war as I have, as we all have. Verrex is already lost. If you can live, then live,” Edgar spoke with a shaky tone. He seemed to have accepted his fate.

Harkon remained silent for a moment longer as the other captives stared in horror at the King. Mordred awaited the man’s answer but was fixed in his duty.

“Kill them all, but leave this one, this Harkon,” Mordred ordered.

“Wait!” one of the other captives tried to argue back. “Y-Your Grace! Please! I can serve! I can-”

Their cries were cut short as the knights dragged them away. They forced them to the side as a few of the men raised their weapons and killed them. Harkon lowered his head to avoid the sight of Edgar’s death, but Mordred kept his gaze fixed. Edgar was pulled away on his knees before a knight swung his sword at his head. The blade hacked into his skull clumsily as the blade was dulled from the fight. Edgar screamed as the sword had not cut all the way into his head. The knight pulled the blade out before he kicked Edgar to the floor. He raised his sword once again and swung it back down and beheaded the man. The cries eventually came to a halt as the men were slain in a mess of a slaughter. Mordred stared at the dead with cold eyes that scanned over the corpses before he looked back to Harkon.

“I will keep you bound, for now. You are a skilled fighter, far greater than you should be for your age, but … It seems that it was not the case before,” Mordred said.

“Before what?” Harkon asked.

“Before you got this sword. Am I right? Your body moved with the grace of a thousand men, but you seemed to struggle to read my own movements. Could you fight before like this?” the Black Knight asked.

Harkon shook his head.

Mordred hummed in thought. “Then your sword is different. It seems that its strength and power only belong to you as I am unable to use it.”

As the words left his lips, the King noticed something strange about the man. Harkon’s eyes, a cold and greyish steel colour, seemed to never leave the blade in his hand. He stared it intensely with a stiff and hard glare. It was only when he ended his response that Harkon looked up to the King. A bloody pair of eyes looked back at him, but he saw not the gaze of hate, nor sadness. It was as Harkon said before. Hunger. He wanted to be great, powerful. That much Mordred could see. A mirror of his own life.

“If I free you, and give you this sword, would you join me?” Mordred asked.

“And why would I do that?”

“You want to be a king, yes?” Mordred’s words sparked the gaze of the young man. “I will make you a king, or at least I will try. In return, I want your loyalty to me. Trust in me. I am King. My men, my knights have trusted me thus far and followed my orders without complaint. They believe in me because I am strong and true to my people. If you join me, I will share that same care to you. You will be my knight and, if I judge you worthy, an equal.”

Harkon looked up at the King and sighed. He closed his eyes for a moment and lowered his head in thought. After what seemed like a few minutes, he looked back up.

“Very well then. I will join you,” Harkon replied.

Mordred then smiled. He then lifted Harkon’s blade and lightly touched the shoulders of the man with the sword.

“You will serve Arcania as a loyal man of the arms, of steel and blood. You will protect your fellow knights, obey your king, and walk as that of a dragon. Unlike the others, you, Harkon, are to follow your life with utter determination. Never bow to any who you do not deem worthy of your respect,” Mordred then swung his hand across Harkon’s face and slapped him with his gauntlet. “And may that be the last blow you ever receive willingly. Rise anew, Sir Harkon, Knight of Arcania.”

Harkon spat out blood from the slap before he rose to his feet. The knight behind him then freed him of his bonds and the man rubbed his wrists. Mordred then handed over his sword to Harkon and returned the magical weapon.

“Now then. Let us ready the horses. I will have to return to Arcania soon, but I may need to do so now rather than later,” Mordred grunted as he rubbed his shoulder.

“What of Prince Rhodri?” a knight asked.

“Send a rider to relay the news. Tell him of our success, my injuries,” he then looked to Harkon. “And tell him that the warrior who killed Lord Carlow’s men has been slain.”

The knights shuddered in suspicion for a moment before they nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”