“And so Arthur agreed, and he ruled long and wise, but he feared that his immortality would not last forever. And so twenty-one after his ascent, having scarcely aged, Arthur split his conquests between his sons and vanished from history.”

Bran the Wise, The Conquest of Anwwn.

She remembered nothing between Traharn raising the pistol and being on the ground, Traharn looming over her, tucking his pistol through his belt and drawing another.

No, no, this isn’t ending like last time.

She looked around, fumbling for her sword in the darkness, her ears ringing.

Pistol. I’ve got a loaded pistol.

Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest with relief when her fingers tightened around its grip, lying in the dirt.

“Bloody persistent bitch.” Traharn muttered as took three quick strides towards her, raising his second pistol. She aimed at him, little more than a silhouette against the faint light from the hole in the sky.

They fired at the same time.

The ball slammed into her chest, adding yet another dent to her cuirass, and then Traharn rushed her. It was a fight in darkness. He almost tripped over her, stunned on the ground; she caught his boots in a gauntleted fist and he went down, splashing into groundwater, flailing at her. She couldn’t see, and half-deafened and in armour, even really hear or feel. She had his boot, but then it collapsed under her hands as he slid his leg out. A blow hit her helmet as she slithered forwards after him, going for her dagger, then another blow and a third, a kick, not a sabre cut, that smashed into her vambrace just as she grabbed something that had to be Traharn’s leg.

She let go, snarling in pain, then rolled back, fumbling back towards her sword. She finally found the weapon, her fingers closing around the blade then feeling up to the basket-hilt. She slipped her hand through the wrist-loop and then hefted it, pulling herself to her feet. Traharn was on her before she could get her guard up, flying out of the shadows like a bat out of hell, ignoring her sword punching through his thigh as one hand closed around the bars of her lobster-pot helmet and wrenched up.

The other hand sawed his sabre across her face in a vicious pull-cut, then just as she tried to rip her sword point out of his leg, smashed his pommel into her helmet. She fell back to the ground, before another blow slammed into her helmet. She managed to get her backsword up to stop his third stroke, before he dropped down and punched her in the leg, hard, except he had a dagger in that hand…

Her sword jabbed into his left shoulder, crunching against mail, sending the dagger tumbling to the ground. Traharn pomelled her in the head yet again, stepped back, and kicked her in the head hard enough to knock her flat onto her back. He loomed over her, sabre dripping with her own blood.

Hot liquid was running down her face, and she barely seemed able to breath.

“Stay the fuck down if you know what’s good for you” Traharn growled, backing away from her. “Don’t have time to finish you, so bleeding will have to do.”

He vanished into the darkness, leaving her lying there, stunned and beaten. Every second she waited, victory seemed further and further away, fleeing from her grasp.

No. Not beaten. Not this time. We didn’t come this bloody far to give up now.

She staggered to her feet, groaning in frustration. She didn’t dare touch her face. The best way to deal with wounds in the short term was to ignore them.

She began to push forwards through the tunnel, pitch black, probing ahead of herself with her sword, keeping one hand on the wall to avoid getting turned around. She fumbled for her torch, but reconsidered lighting it when she saw the glow of a lantern spring to life ahead of her, surrounding a black blotch up ahead. The tunnel got lower and narrower, closing in around her until she had to crawl.

She knew what her chances, wounded and exhausted, were against an immortal. It didn’t matter. Dying with honour was better than living as a coward. And slowing him down by even a minute could save hundreds of her comrades.

Thousands, if he wants to start a war.

Traharn’s lantern vanished from sight, and for two agonizing minutes, she thought she’d lost him. Then she burst out of the approach tunnel, and into something much wider. Traharn’s torch was crackling off in the distance, lighting up the rough, glistening rock of a mineshaft.

Efflyn wasn’t lying about that part of the plan.

He was walking with a lurch. Despite her ragged breathing, she almost smiled at that. He’s not getting away.

The tunnel went on and on, down through the earth. She slowed herself down, trying to match Traharns pace and reduce the clack of her armour. Her buff coat and shirt felt soaking wet, sticky against her sweaty skin, and something wet was running down her breeches. She felt more exhausted than she ever had in her life. Whether it was blood loss, her dented breastplate restricting her breathing, not having slept in well over eighteen hours, or all three she didn’t know. What she did know was that she couldn’t give up now.

Up ahead of her, he kneeled down, holding his torch to something.

Fuse.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She began to pace up towards Traharn. As good a plan as letting him move on before putting out the fuse was, she couldn’t risk him deciding to guard the site, or it burning faster than expected.

And besides, if her armour didn’t give her away, she’d have the drop on Traharn. She drew her dagger in her off-hand, shifting to a left-leg leading stance.

Fifty yards or so till I’m on him. Christ.

Ahead of her, Traharn stood up and began to walk away, and she began to move forwards, slow but not too slow.

Get the ignition sausage, cut it, he’ll have to double back.

She kept stalking forwards, watching Traharns torch drift further and further away through the black.

Ten yards. She could see the glow of matchcord, a few pinpricks of light, it’s smell faint against the tang of her own blood flowing down her face. She knew it would have already hit the ignition sausage, and that would trail away to the mine chamber, already blocked up to direct the pressure upwards. By the looks of things, Traharn had an escape tunnel cut out as well.

She began to move faster, almost slithering through the rock, her armour clanking and ringing. She didn’t give a damn. She’d reach the fuse before he did, and that was all that mattered.

“I know you’re down here!” he called out.

He has to stand and fight, otherwise this is for nothing.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“I have grenadiers coming right after me!” Tane yelled.

Traharn laughed. In the cave, the echoes made him sound like a madman.

“And they’ll have to come at me one at a time. Pity, that.”

“Enjoy leaving your followers to die?” Tane asked as she reached the matchcord. Traharn had turned back towards her, sabre in one hand and torch in the other, and was limping forwards through the earth.

“How well do you think following Arthur turned out for his three-hundred?” he asked. “If a hunters dogs die in the chase, so be it if it means the hunter gets to eat and live.”

God, he really is mad.

She stomped on the matchcord, hard, until the flames vanished, then probed at the ground with her sword. The blade hit wood, and she kicked at the boxes that had been laid down to protect the sausage. One of them was knocked astray, and she chopped down with her sword then kicked it again to disperse the gunpowder.

“We got your fairy. You can’t complete that ritual without a wi-“

“Don’t need him. Demon’s already bound.” Traharn shrugged. “Besides, that’s not my only route to immortality.”

“What?”

He shrugged. “If I don’t have time to blow the charge, the Fey will still give me a second draught from the fountain. They’ve got their war by now.”

Traharn was coming towards her as fast as he could, dodging between outcroppings of rock. Half of her wanted to lie down and go to sleep. The other half wanted to charge him down, hack him to ribbons, use the weight of her armour to pin him down and cut his throat. She could do neither. Instead, she forced herself to wait, probing at the rocks around her with her sword to see how much room she had to fight.

“You fucking scared?” Tane asked.

He was barely five yards away, his feet splashing through a pool of water.

“You are, aren’t you? Of death.” She continued.

He didn’t answer. His voice was in his sword.

Traharn flung his torch at her, sending it pinwheeling off a crag of rock then thrust at her face with his sabre. With the curved blade, his wounded leg and the confined space, it was awkward at best, and she easily parried it with her dagger, pinning it against the wall, and thrust back with her backsword, aiming to get the point under his mail. He jerked aside, the point scraping off his haubergeon, and then he slammed into her for the third time. He got inside her guard, shoving her up against the stone wall. Something slammed into her groin, hard, as he kneed her, before grabbing her helmet by the bars and smashing her head back against the wall.

Her vision spun, but she kept enough presence of mind to headbutt him him as he let go of her helmet. The brim of her helmet ripped his nose open and he screamed, falling back against the opposite wall. She flew straight at him, punching him in the face with her basket-hilt and jamming her dagger up into his armpit with all the strength she could muster. She felt mail links burst under the impact, but he punched his sabre hilt into the side of her head. She hit the ground and rolled, letting go of her dagger.

Fuck-

Traharn leapt down on top of her, little more than a silhouette, and then they were rolling on the ground, struggling. He was stronger than her, and heavier; but she was fighting for her life, the mixture of fear and fury giving her a last desperate burst of strength. She sawed at him with her backsword blade, the edge sliding off mail again and again or turning when she could only bring the blunt back edge to bear. He tried to pin her sword arm; she grabbed at his head, seizing him by the side of his helmet, and bounced his head off the wall, only for him to knee her in the thigh. She snarled in shock at pain lanced through her leg, and then he drove his hand into her face, forcing her head back to avoid getting her eyes gouged. She fell back, and then he was over her again, one hand pinning her face, almost crushing her nose, the other reaching behind him for his dagger.

I’m going to die shit shit shit-

For a moment, she thought of surrendering, hoping against hope that it would slow him down enough for the Grenadiers to catch up.

He hesitated as his hand closed on nothing.

That was all she needed. Her free hand shot out, wedging a thumb into what she hoped was his eye then stabbing at his face with her backsword after she wrenched her right arm free from the knee pinning it. He fell back, hands shooting up to protect his face, and then he was falling, and her with him, debris tumbling around them before the world righted itself.

Witch. That was a witch. Mene's here, or Morgan, or the whole fucking army...

She managed to catch herself, swearing under her breath, using the momentum to roll to her knees, glancing about in the gloom for Traharn. He was on his face, next to his guttering torch, slowly beginning to get up.

The only way to win is to sieze the initiative and not let go.

She dropped down on top of him, pinned his head with one hand, and drove her sword down into the base of his skull, beneath his helmet and above the mail, then ripped it clear and repeated it twice more.

He was still twitching and struggling, trying to throw her off. She slammed her pommel into the back of his head, got her fingers under the back brim of his helmet-and wrenched it off, exposing the back of his head.

Crouching down, hunched over, there was enough room to swing. She put every ounce of her remaining strength into it, chopping until his brains spilled out and her face was covered in red mist.

“It’s Tane and Traharn!” someone shouted, echoing down the tunnel, then "Get ready, they're up ahead!"

Mene and Sace.

She turned around, and saw the lanterns coming up through the tunnel, the familiar silhouette of lobster-pot helmets, the dull glint of blackened pistol barrels.

“Traharns down!” Tane yelled. “I got the fuse!”

“Are you hurt!” Sace shouted back.

“I think so.”

The exhaustion suddenly hit her as she tried to pull herself up to her feet. Her armour felt like it was made of lead, her buff coat like waterlogged wool. A figure burst out from the grenadiers, dodging and twisting forwards through the tunnel.

“Tane? Tane!” Mene called.

She slumped against the wall, blood dripping down into her armor.

“I’m alive. Traharn isn’t.”

She glanced at Mene, face full of concern then suddenly wide.

“We need a surgeon!” Mene yelled back at Sace.

What is it-

Oh. My face.

She raised a hand to feel her face, and nearly fainted as the pain hit her.