The Darkest Knight (Guardians of Camelot #3) - Victoria Sue Page 0,45

was the fastest way to get Kay to fall.

He spun as he leaped, and the Saxon collapsed dead before he hit the ground, but Kay still had two more and no longer the height advantage. He ignored the first cut to his thigh, knowing it would heal, but this opponent had skill, and soon the air rang with the metallic clang of steel against steel as all around him the scent of blood and sweat mingled with the cries of the triumphant, the injured, and the dying.

Another Saxon joined his comrade, and Kay started tiring. One was certainly taller than Kay, and the second rivaled Lance’s size. His arm strained as the sword grew heavier in his sweat-slicked palm, and Kay stumbled blindly backward as sensing a victory, they doubled their efforts. Kay risked a glance to his side and knew he was being backed to the marshlands. The ground was deadly, and he had no wish to test their immortality against mud that sucked you in whole. He heard a cry at the same time as the larger of the two men and spied Davidas careering toward him on a large gray horse. The Saxon ran to meet him, only to be struck down with one slash of Davidas’s sword, but the armored knight attracted too much attention, and he soon had another two Saxons hoping for the kill.

Kay had to get free and find Charles, get to Uther and the sword, and whether it had been his distracted thoughts or a lucky blow he couldn’t say, but his opponent’s sword slashed his arm and his sword went spinning as Kay stumbled backward. Kay saw the Saxon raise his arm, thinking he could kill Kay, and then with a mighty roar, Davidas charged right into him on foot and sent the man flying four or five feet away. Davidas turned and reached a hand out to pull Kay to his feet, but their fingers never met.

Davidas froze, shock and bewilderment chasing his face as he glanced down to see the pike that had speared through the lamellar plate he wore. Kay caught him even as Davidas’s legs buckled.

A servant. Davidas had died saving a servant’s life. Not just a servant—his page. Davidas choked, blood bubbling from his throat, his fingers scrabbling for his sword. Kay reached and pulled it over, curling Davidas’s fingers around the grip. There were many old religions that believed a warrior needed his sword to enter the afterlife, and Kay would not have denied the man a second of ease before he walked on his final journey.

Short gasps tore out of Davidas’s lungs as Kay gathered him into his arms and prayed to a god he wasn’t sure he believed in and whispered the druid rite of passing, committing Davidas to the earth to be reborn.

Davidas didn’t convulse or cry. His death wasn’t torturous or loud. He looked at Kay in complete acceptance, and Kay just caught his whispered “Yn fyw gwella mebynfor.”

It was a garbled mix of Cornish and Brittonic, and Kay had to guess a couple of the words, but mebynfor he knew. Davidas had just called him son.

Yn fyw gwella mebynfor. Live your best life, my son.

Davidas gazed at him for an endless second, watching the tears roll down Kay’s cheeks that Kay didn’t seem able to stop, before his eyes clouded over and he slipped from this life with the same quiet dignity he had lived it.

Charles was wet and cold, and so damn relieved when he’d heard the alarm sound. He clutched a sword he’d stolen and ran after the men on the ground. Most were on horseback, but there was a good number of foot soldiers, and he joined the throng, desperately hoping Kay was safe somewhere but in reality knowing he would be in the fight. The difficulty was getting close enough to Uther to stop the sword being taken. The Saxons were more distinctive than Arthur’s troops. Fur-lined capes and boots on the obviously wealthier ones, but many of the foot soldiers had fur pelts slung around their shoulders while clutching long vicious pikes. Arthur’s men were best at the bow and arrow, but that didn’t help at close quarters, and the Saxons had gotten too close for Arthur’s men to use them. At this range they would hit as many of their own.

The trouble was the Saxons had fought the Romans a hundred years previously and held off the Picts. Fresh with recent victories and full