Kiroto landed toward them about the length of a long rope from where the knights stood. Her head was bowed low so low that her chin nearly touched her chest, so low that her dark hair fell forward like a curtain, hiding her face from their view.
Every muscle in her body screamed for her to run.
It was not cowardice. It was instinct the ancient, primal part of the brain that recognized danger and demanded flight. Her heart pounded. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her legs trembled with the effort of staying still.
They knew who she was.
She was Kiroto the closest comrade of Mordred, the woman who had stood beside the traitor through battle after battle, who had fought for him, who had killed for him. There was no hiding that. No pretending.
And she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she would die.
It was certain.
The moment she had decided to come here to beg for help, to betray her lord for his own good she had accepted that certainty. Her life was forfeit. Her blood would stain the sand.
But she restrained that instinct of deep fear within her mind.
She locked it away pushed it down, buried it, refused to let it slip outside. Her face remained calm. Her voice remained steady.
She started crying.
Her head was still down as she spoke.
"Please." The word came out choked, broken, barely audible. "Please, help me."
But her instincts were right.
They truly wanted to kill her. She could feel the killing intent coming from them so dense, so heavy, so absolute that it pressed against her skin like a physical weight.
This is so dense, she thought, her inner voice straining. It's too much.
She kept her head bowed. Kept her body still. Kept her will locked tight around her fear.
If I hadn't any will... I would have been dead by now.
The killing intent grew thicker.
It's suffocating.
She raised her head a little bit just enough to see.
And she saw Tristan.
In the air. Right above her. A sword in his hand blade gleaming, edge singing, death descending.
He was about to lay the sword against her neck.
It would have been a clean cut. Quick. Final. So dangerous that she got a premonition of it a flash of knowing that pierced through her mind like a needle.
He's going to kill me.
Now.
Here.
Her will failed her.
She could not hold out any longer. The fear that she had locked away the terror, the desperation, the primal need to survive erupted from her chest like a flood.
She rose.
Her body moved not by thought, not by strategy, but by pure, animal instinct. Her hand shot up. Her fingers closed around Tristan's blade.
SHLIK!
The edge bit into her palm cutting flesh, splitting skin, drawing blood. But she held it. Stopped the strike cold.
Tristan's eyes narrowed.
"So." His voice was cold. "It was a lie."
He pressed down testing her grip, testing her will.
"I wouldn't have killed you." His voice hardened. "Because of the sign that Gareth gave. But no..."
He pushed harder.
"...you went against it."
The blade sank deeper into her palm.
"Now I shall kill you."
Gareth shouted.
"NO! "
But he was not loud enough.
Or perhaps he was loud enough perhaps the word carried across the distance, reached their ears, registered in their minds. But the rage in everyone's hearts was too great.
They could not hear him.
They could not stop.
Tristan. Galahad. Even Lamorak.
The three of them moved as one their bodies blurring, their blades rising, their intent absolute. They brought their swords to her neck in such speed that she could not react.
Three edges.
Pressed against her throat.
One wrong move one twitch, one breath, one heartbeat too loud and her head would fall.
Kiroto stood there, her hand still bleeding, her body still trembling, her eyes wide with the certainty of death.
And she spoke.
"Please."
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Please... save him."
Her tears fell faster.
"Save my lord... Mordred."
She took a shuddering breath.
"I know he has caused Camelot a lot of pain." Her voice cracked. "But don't use that as a reason. Please."
She looked at them at the knights who had every right to kill her, who had every reason to watch her bleed.
"It won't go well." Her words tumbled out, desperate, urgent. "If they both fight... not one both of them will die."
Her eyes found each of theirs in turn.
"It doesn't matter how strong your lord is." She shook her head. "His power... can kill him."
She had so much to say.
So many words explanations, pleas, promises piled up in her throat, choking her, begging to be released. But she could only say little.
Her eyes were filled with tears. Mucus poured from her nose, mixing with the blood on her lips, dripping from her chin.
She was a mess.
Broken.
Desperate.
Alive.
Gareth stepped forward.
His body was still damaged his forehead still bleeding, his fingers still missing, his strength still drained. But his voice was firm.
"Fine."
He looked at Kiroto at the woman who had come to beg, who had betrayed her lord, who was weeping in front of his comrades.
"We will save Mordred."
Her eyes widened.
"But you." He pointed at her his finger steady, accusing, absolute. "Kiroto."
She flinched at the sound of her name.
"You will now owe Camelot this debt." His voice hardened. "And you will pay in full."
She nodded.
There were no words.
Just the movement of her head up, down, once sealing a promise that she did not fully understand.
Gareth turned to Lamorak.
"Lord of the storms..." His voice was quiet. "Begin."
Lamorak smiled.
It was not a warm smile. Not a cruel smile. Something in between the smile of a man who had been waiting for this moment, who had been holding back for too long, who was finally free to unleash his power.
"With pleasure."
He raised his silver blade Storm Cutter and the winds began to gather.
Lamorak's blade glowed.
The grey sky darkened.
And something terrible was about to be born.