The Darkest Knight (Guardians of Camelot #3) - Victoria Sue Page 0,85
bang, and Charles felt the sword shift in his hand and knew, absolutely knew, that somehow he held Excalibur again, and at the same time Mel seemed to shimmer and almost become invisible. He used the split second Mordred had been distracted to step forward instead of stepping back. He thrust the sword with all his might, felt it puncture skin and tear muscle, praying Mel had got to Galahad. Mordred looked surprised, and Charles’s lungs heaved for oxygen as he raised his weapon a second time to finish Mordred. He’d done it. The only way he could be killed was by Charles with the sword.
Time seemed to stand still, and then Charles thrust a second time, but instead of dodging the blade, Mordred caught it. Charles looked down, expecting to see blood gushing from an open wound, but Mordred smiled and yanked the sword into himself. For a second Charles was flush with Mordred’s chest, and then Mordred laughed once more, stepped back, and slowly drew the sword from his chest as if it were an illusion and not solid steel.
Charles watched in horror as Mordred let the sword clatter to the floor. “I can’t be killed. You, however, are not so fortunate.” And with a twist of his wrist, Charles felt unseen hands lifting him upward, pulling his arms apart. Muscles screamed in agony as he felt skin rip, but he was too stunned to even react. He had failed. He had failed to kill Mordred, to stop him. Nothing he had tried had been good enough. Kay would die, and the queen would win.
Kay clattered down the steps, following Lance after Lucan had nearly ripped the door off its hinges. He ran down to the same platform that Galahad had sent them from before, heart pumping, his skin crawling with a thousand images of what could go badly wrong. But as they ran out onto the platform, nothing could have prepared him for this.
Gawain, Tom, Roxy, and Charles were all suspended as if they were each fastened to unseen crosses. Ali gasped as Roxy let out a gurgled scream, blood dripping from her mouth and trailing down each arm. Tom was unconscious and in the same position, but Charles…his darling man was grotesquely pinned, blood running from what looked like a million cuts all over his body.
And in the middle of everything, Mel was desperately trying to loosen Mordred’s fist which was tightening around his throat.
Lance let out a strangled cry when he saw Mel and ran at Mordred, raising his sword. With a tiresome, almost careless flick of his fingers, Lance was lifted off his feet and flung back at least eight feet. Ali shot a look at Kay, and Kay nodded. Ali cried and ran at him, hoping to give Kay the chance to come from the side. But whatever force or magic Mordred was wielding, he flicked their best efforts off as if they were nothing. Lucan was treated the same just as Mordred turned to Kay. Whatever Mel thought he could do, it had obviously failed.
“Kay of Isca,” Mordred crowed and shot him a beaming smile, putting a hand across his heart. “You missed me.”
“You’re mad,” Kay ground out.
Mordred waved at where Charles was suspended. “No. Foolish men who think for some reason they can kill me are mad.”
Kay swallowed down his bile as more blood dripped from Charles fingers and splashed onto the stone floor. Why hadn’t it worked? Had Mel been wrong? Mel met his gaze, and his eyes slid to the sword—Excalibur—that Charles had dropped.
“And Lancelot,” Mordred continued, taking a step and dragging Mel with him. “What a shame that finally you will fail your king. All these years and it comes down to this.” He leaned forward as Lance struggled to move, but Lance was as trapped as everyone else. “It wouldn’t be very fair of me to deny you your last look, would it? Someone’s been so looking forward to seeing you.” And right by his feet, the ground shimmered once and Galahad appeared, hands and feet chained and kneeling.
Lance let out an articulate cry, but as much as he struggled, he couldn’t move. Mordred, dragging Mel with him, stepped up close. “How does it feel? How does it feel to fail? To battle for so long and everything to be a waste of time.”
“I don’t know,” Lance gritted out. “You tell me. You’re trapped in here. Fifteen hundred years waiting for a train?”