Page 81 of To Bind a Dark Heart

More importantly, the vast army of Mordred’s soldiers was now standing in rowsbehindLancelot and his elementals.

He was pinned between the keep and Mordred’s forces.

Swearing loudly, Lancelot reeled his horse back toward Mordred, deciding to take the front assault of the keep. “Elementals, attack!”

Lancelot did not know how he would win the day.

He prayed that he could.

But it was in the hands of God now.

* * *

Mordred watched as his iron army climbed from the dirt where they had lain dormant for so very long. He had hoped—he had prayed—that the elementals would act wisely and turn to leave. That they would take his offer of peace. But they refused it. Their hate and anger ran too deep—and he supposed he could not blame them. If their places were reversed, if he had been placed inside the Crystal and did not understand why, Mordred could not say that he would not be fighting alongside them.

But such was the way of life.

And Lancelot—oh, that poor idiot—had played right into Mordred’s trap. The moment his army rose from the ground, the trebuchets began to fire, lobbing their spiked munitions high over the walls of the keep. They were aimed precisely where Mordred had put Lancelot and his elementals.

Trapped between Mordred and his army.

The elementals scattered—those who could flee quickly did so, leaving those who could not in a tightly packed circle as they were attacked from all sides. Mordred kicked the sides of his horse, and that was the signal to his knights to attack—most from the backs of their dragons. But joining him in the fray on horseback would be Galahad and Percival.

For a moment, Mordred hoped that his victory would be quick and relatively painless—for him at least.

But elementals were an unpredictable bunch. Despite his hopes that the trebuchets would make quick work of his opponents, it seemed to be only mostly the case. The enormous stone elemental knocked one of the projectiles from his trebuchet away as though it were nothing more than a fly, sending it rolling through rows of his soldiers, destroying them in the process.

Shadows fell over the landscape as the dragons circled overhead. Lancelot’s great silver steed was attempting to distract the other dragons from the fight, to keep them occupied while avoiding a direct conflict. And it seemed to be working.

Damn.

He had surprised Lancelot. But the Knight in Silver had the more powerful soldiers—even if they were disorganized and chaotic.

One of the other earth elementals came for him, sending vines and tangling weeds that overtook him and his steed. Mordred’s horse ripped at the vines, but they were growing faster than he could slice them away. He had to jump from the animal to fight on foot, swiping and ripping through the growth with his claws and Caliburn in equal measure.

It was Enin the Green.

Mordred sighed. “I have no quarrel with you, old one.” The vines could not hurt him. Such was the way of iron. “Begone.”

“No.” The man with the green skin lifted his head in defiance. “I stood and watched last time. I will not make that mistake again.”

“So be it.” Mordred sliced through more of the greenery, fighting his way toward Enin. It was slowing him down, but it would not stop him. He swung Caliburn at Enin when he was in range, only to have the elemental dodge and summon swords of his own.

This was the life that Mordred knew. This was all he had known as a mortal man—fighting, and war, and death. As an elemental, it was the same—centuries of incessant violence. It was familiar to him, both abhorrent and strangely comfortable.

This was his world.

The sound of screams. The smell of blood and fire.

The chaos.

Enin fought well. He was as old as the isle itself, by Mordred’s measure. When his swords shattered with one hard swipe of Caliburn, Enin summoned himself a spear instead. It snapped within moments.

Mordred knocked Enin to the ground with a sweep of his foot, sending the old warrior to the dirt.

“Will you imprison us again, Mordred?” Enin’s breaths were coming heavy and hard, exhausted from the fight. “Am I doomed to return to that place?”

Mordred turned his blade over. “No.”

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