Fate-in time

53

By the time the Archers started firing, Mordred already knew that the engagement with the Saxons had begun according to Palamid's instructions. The Archers placed on the far Western wall were beginning their assault against the encroaching Saxons in their direction. Many of them fired in groups, the twang of bowstrings reverberating across the air accompanied by sharpened steel-arrowheads that clanged against the oval shields held above the Saxons heads.

The shields were of little effect. The area in which they covered was too small and wasn't good enough to ward away a significant number of arrows that found their way through the openings to meet flesh. Blood spilled and formed pools that festered into quagmires of dead and groaning bodies within the trampled dirt of the ground. Broken bones, hollow eyes, and punctured leathers decorated the landscape of the Western wall, ravens and crows flocking within the air.
Archers. It was a military occupation that could literally overturn a battlefield if not dealt with accordingly.
In a defensive battle, they were the first that had to be eliminated.
"Raise the siege ladders, hurry!"
"Use the bodies as shields!"
Command after command echoed throughout the air. The more Saxons that perished, the more difficult it became to advance forward, many unable to find stable footing within a meshwork of battered limbs no longer recognizable after being trampled on.
The situation was deteriorating at the Western Wall, but the same could not be said for the other walls. Archers in the army were limited, and almost all had been necessary to set up the formation Palamid and the Son of Wolfred had organized. To maintain rapid fire, there always had to be a group of Archers with their bows notched while the others reloaded.
The Three Line Formation Palamid was using was originally designed to be used by musketmen. The fact that they were using arrows instead meant that instead of three groups maintaining the position, almost four or five were necessary.
Subsequently, the Eastern and Northern Walls were all without Archers. The South didn't have to be protected as it was flanked by a turbulent river. As much as the Saxons wanted to abandon the Western Wall, without constant pressure on the Western front, there was nothing to stop the Archers from just shifting their positions. As such, Eadwald had no choice but to persist in the attack of the Western Wall with the sole purpose of preventing the Archers from focusing elsewhere.
The tactic itself was double-edged. Although Eadwald was suffering through casualty after casualty, the Saxons had finally decided to break down their supply carriages and use them as protective covers, vastly undermining the effectiveness of the arrows. For every ten arrows shot, only three were able to kill or injure.
Mordred didn't pay much attention to what was happening at the Western Wall as it was Tristan's problem to handle. Instead, she had her own duties to fulfill.
She and Lancelot were stationed at the Eastern Wall and had set up barricades to prevent the enemy from entering the castle. With the lack of Archers available, many Saxons that weren't part of Eadwald's main army attacking the West were able to mount their siege ladders and begin climbing.
It was her and Lancelot's job to prevent a breach at the Eastern Wall.
Without another thought, she directly shoved away a siege ladder that many Saxons were climbing on, watching as the Saxons fell all at once.
Sweat was pooling beneath her helmet, making the interior stuffy and matting her hair to her forehead. She could no longer determine the number of Siege ladders she'd forced off the wall, but she'd stopped counting when she reached thirty. There were simply too many.
Eventually, the Saxons were soon beginning to outnumber her and Lancelot as they made their way onto the top of the wall with their ladders.
"Sir Mordred, leave this area to us," William Orwel saluted by Mordred's side, cleaning the blood off the edge of his blade with a clean swing. "None of us will let these bastards through."
Mordred hesitated, glancing at William and her Knights who stared back at her in earnest. The Section of the wall she was guarding was on the opposite side of the portion Lancelot was guarding with his own platoon of Knights. The difference however was that more and more Saxons were choosing to focus their attacks on Lancelot's end due to the fear and apprehension they felt towards Mordred. Many Saxons were informed or could remember that the Knight beside the fake wielder of the Mjolnir was considerably strong. Therefore, it was ordered that only War-Chief class Saxons should engage her in battle.
They avoided her at any possibility and only engaged when necessary. Of course, this translated to Lancelot's side being overwhelmed.
Lancelot was one thing, but the Knights under him were another. No matter how strong Lancelot was, if he was surrounded by too many enemies, only death would await after exhaustion.
She and Lancelot were both assigned to the area, so she had an obligation to aid him that she couldn't ignore on her personal feelings alone.
Staring at her current area which was still filled with a substantial number of Saxons, she pursed her lips and gritted her teeth hard. It wasn't that she didn't want to help Lancelot, but for the first time in her life, she was feeling selfish.
She looked at William Orwel and the Knights who had sworn fealty to her, and inwardly grew anxious. All of them had one of their eyes blacked out, and not one of them complained to her about it despite her guilt on the matter. They…they were hers. She could already see form their expression that they wouldn't hesitate if she ordered them to their deaths. Hell, she could picture them smiling on her behalf which made it all the more difficult.
She balled her hands into fists, the whites of her knuckled showing beneath her gauntlets.
"If any of you die," She furrowed her brows, unable to express herself the way she wanted to. "I'll haunt you," she threatened, only understanding how dumb she sounded afterwards. The only way she could haunt someone was to be a ghost first, and that meant dying. Of all the things that she could have had said, it just had to be something so nonsensical. Yet, William and the others didn't care. They could understand her sentiments and this resulted in them hardening their resolve further.
William patted Mordred on the shoulder, causing her to stiffen. "It'd be an honour to have you haunt us Captain, but we'd rather you curse us than curse yourself to an early death. So listen to me when I say this Captain, just like your blacksmith and shield, between you or us, we'd rather we die first rather than you, so hurry up and get going. Don't take light of our determination."
William and the other Knights left with a chortle, Mordred left standing in a daze that was only broken when William and the other Knights engaged the enemy and began pushing them back with fervor.
Her shoulders trembled before she turned her back away. Her lips were quivering, her eyes downcast. It was the first time that she felt that maybe the satisfaction she wanted in life wasn't just to have the King's recognition.
Mordred started running before her resolve wavered. William and the others were strong. Her Knights were strong.
If any of you die, I'll get revenge. I promise.
She reached Lancelot's side in a matter of seconds, charging into the Saxons with such fury that she attracted the attention of all.
She clearly wasn't thinking. The only thing on her mind was that if she could cull the number of Saxons attacking Lancelot's side, then she could return back to William and the others sooner.
Her sword sailed through the air, showers of sparks illuminating her armoured visage while she contested for dominance amidst the pool of enemies around her. She kicked, slashed, and parried, nearly gagging when she was struck in the stomach, but nonetheless, she refused to relent. A trail of saliva dripped down from her mouth, as she breathed in deeply, dry heaving from her exertion, but to her, it didn't matter.
Her tenacity was utterly alarming to the Saxons.
No matter how many times they hit her or tried to cut her, her counters refused to slacken. It was like she didn't have stamina, but used her feeling to push her forward instead. In actuality, her latent magic power was being tapped into in her blind assault. As long as it was an enemy in front of her, she resolved to cut him down with whatever it took.
Compared to Lancelot who was gracefully swinging his sword and eliminating his opponents, Mordred's approach was both bloodier and far more brutal. Her sword had chipped and shattered from the moment she'd used it to block a Saxon's war-axe, but rather than retreat, she tore the war-axe from the Saxon's arms and began swinging it violently. When the wooden shaft of the axe itself eventually shattered from her reckless use of the weapon, she struck out with her fists and arms. She straddled a Saxon whom she pinned to the ground with her knees before beating his face in and dodging to the left when a sword attempted to behead her.
"Come at me, you bastards!" She was thoroughly incensed, using whatever she could get her hands on as a weapon.
Just one more.
Just one more.
The phrase repeated itself inside her mind. The more she defeated, the greater her odds of returning to back up William and the others.
With a glare in her eyes, and a dented metal helmet she was using to bludgeon others, no Saxon dared approach her lightly.
She spat out a gob of blood, placing a hand on her temple to stop the dizziness that was assailing her.
She blinked. Was it just her, or were the Saxons numbers suddenly far fewer than there were before? Her gaze shifted left and right. Clearly she wasn't the only one to notice as to her relief, no more Saxons were attacking William and the others. All the Saxons that were left on the castle wall were stragglers.
On one hand, she breathed out a sigh of relief, but on the other, she couldn't help but feel apprehensive. Based on the number of times she had fought against the Saxons, she knew that none of them truly feared death. Death to them was a means to reach some sort of salvation found within some Great Hall she could hardly care less about.
The Saxons would not retreat without a reason, and this was what concerned her.
She shook her head to clear her mind. At the very least, she and the others had earned a short reprieve from the battle, the only thing left to do was to deal with the stragglers. Lancelot's Knights were already making quick work of them alongside her own, therefore, there was no rush.
She collapsed on her butt, breathing hoarsely while trying to regain her strength. Her legs were sprawled in front of her, bent at the knees, while her hands were pressed to her thighs. The position made it easier to recover.
With her eyes, she could see that the Saxon's retreat wasn't just on the Eastern Wall. Something was happening. The situation was the same for the Son of Wolfred and Palamid who were defending the North.
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't know what to make of the situation and just figured that Palamid and the others would have a plan.
Meanwhile, it was time to focus on something else that had been bothering her.
She'd wanted to address a certain issue ever since she was stationed to guard the Eastern wall with Lancelot, but didn't know exactly how she should begin.
She stood up when a straggling Saxon charged directly at her.
Her brows furrowed, the corners of her lips curving downwards into a scowl as she parried the Saxon's sword and promptly sent the man flying with a drop kick down the wall. Thereafter, she turned her gaze on Lancelot.
As she expected, he was staring at her.
He'd been scrutinizing her ever since the beginning, but hadn't called her out on anything. It was confusing her greatly. She didn't know Lancelot to be a person who actively involved himself in another person's business and most certainly not hers. Therefore, did she do something wrong by mistake? It was the only logical explanation that she could come up with as Lancelot was the definition of an unparalleled Knight. He would not look at her in such a way without a reason.
The more she thought about the matter, the more convinced she became that she didn't have an answer. Then again, she wasn't a person to think too deeply before she spoke anyway and there was no use changing that aspect of herself now.
"The hell you starin at?" She said bluntly, walking towards Lancelot who'd made quick work of the stragglers on his side.
He seemed startled at her question at first, before he hummed lightly and stared down at her.
The gaze of a first-class Knight suddenly made Mordred feel self-conscious. Subconsciously she began rubbing at her arms nervously, her back straightening.
Lancelot cleared his throat, and after assessing that the danger had temporarily subsided, he decided that now was as good as a time as any. "Your 'Knight' that's resting inside the castle," Lancelot's words gave Mordred pause. "What does he mean to you?"
It was like a hammer had just struck the inside of Mordred's mind, causing it to become utterly blank before filling with worry and apprehensions.
"Lay off, he's just a blacksmith I picked up." She suddenly became exceedingly defensive. "Stop asking about him," she quickly added on.
Mordred's face was the very picture of a startled cat, her lips thinning and eyes dilated with narrowed brows. It really wouldn't take much at all to set her off at this point, but Lancelot was never one adept in reading the mood.
He took Mordred's initial words as they were and even smiled lightly in relief. "If he's only worth that much in your eyes, then why don't you consider allowing me to take him under my custody?" He asked.
Lancelot was already aware of Shirou's situation and as such wished to do his part.
Knowing how agitated Arturia already was in regards to this matter, there was a possibility that she would forgo Knightly etiquette and do something that would greatly ruin her image as King. Rather than deal with the fall out of such an event, Lancelot, after much consideration decided to take matters into his own hands.
He waited for Mordred's reply with anticipation. As soon as Mordred approved of his request, he'd take Shirou and directly assign him to serve by Arturia's side after the battle, solving everything.
Yet, what was wrong with Mordred?
She just stood there shell-shocked.
Take Shirou away?
"…" her countenance darkened. "No."
The answer came out coldly, the warning in her tone evident, yet Lancelot seemed to be unaware of any of it.
"I thought he was just a blacksmith to you," Lancelot began listing with his fingers. "Are you worried that you'd be without a blacksmith? With my influence, I can find you three or four others that could substitute for him."
"I said NO!"
Lancelot finally blinked, startled by the intensity of Mordred's outburst. When he looked at her next, there was such anger in her eyes that it took Lancelot completely off guard. He really couldn't understand it. It simply didn't make sense. Why say that someone wasn't valued in one breath and then refuse to part with said individual in the next?
He tried to persuade her, but the more he spoke, the colder the air seemed to become until Lancelot could only sigh. "What if it was for the King?" He finally asked.
She didn't answer.
She'd already left back to William and the others, not showing any indication that she'd heard Lancelot or not.
At the Western Wall, Tristan surveyed the odd movements of the Saxon army before shifting his gaze to Emily in the distance. He was waiting for orders in regards to what they should do. Palamid and the Son of Wolfred were the ones offering instruction on how to proceed in the defensive battle, but the messenger between the three was Emily.
She stood watching grimly at the Saxons from her location above a watch tower, but Tristan temporarily paid her no mind.
Although the Saxons were retreating, many still lingered and wished to overtake the Western Wall. Those remnants had long since given up on the concept of siege ladders and were instead busy digging away at the wall's foundation under the cover of their tattered supply wagons.
In a bid to further protect themselves, the wagons were flipped upside down and pushed from the interior at a steady pace. The Saxons resembled snails as they proceeded onward, but really, to Tristan it just looked as if the castle was being stormed by an army of upturned wooden crates.
He clicked his tongue, Failnaught readied in his hands.
"Ready," Tristan called the order to the Archers he was leading. "Aim for the one's digging below. I'll remove their cover."
He crouched low, his knees bending as his fingers began to play in an intricate pattern of notes and melodies.
The sonic sound waves of death.
The first folio of a written masterpiece transcribed through song.
He'd let them hear it, the beginning of a tragedy, and the ending of an insurmountable ambition.
There was no longer any turning back from the moment the attack began, therefore, you have only yourselves to blame.
Tristan closed his eyes, listening with his ears to the melody of the wind.
"Failnaught," he invoked the name, the strings of his harp vibrating to the tune of an assault that would not miss- That would not fail.
Distortions appeared in the air, followed by the sound of splintering wood. Wagon after wagon acting as shields to the Saxons digging beneath, all crumbled one by one. The arrows of the Archers then promptly met their marks.
Tristan didn't smile at the accomplishment. He only nodded his head in a quick gesture of safe passing for those recently departed. Enemy or not, Tristan was never one to revel in the death of others.
No Saxon digging at the wall had been able to prepare themselves for the onslaught and were swiftly disposed of, giving time for Tristan to once again scrutinize the rest of the Saxons movements. They'd fallen back by at least two-hundred meters and were now maintaining their positions.
He raised a hand, signalling the Archers to lower their bows. Many collapsed from the exhaustion of firing constantly, but Tristan had no time for such luxury. Despite not many Saxons making it up onto the Western Wall, a few still did, and therefore, it was imperative that he dispose of them before they reached the Archers.
Archers were strong at range, but relatively weak in a melee. If even one or two Saxons assaulted the unit of Archers, it would turn into a catastrophe.
The size of the Western Wall was relatively large, making it difficult for Tristan alone to combat the Saxons near him, but fortunately he wasn't alone.
He turned to his fellow Knight of the Round and suddenly paused.
"Your form seems a bit off, Sir Bedivere," the words left his mouth before he even knew it.
Bedivere instantly flinched, not knowing how to reply. He was standing awkwardly with an odd hobble to his gait as he strafed around his enemies, confusing them at his odd posturing.
"C-Careful, that Knight seems to practice some new kind of swordsmanship! His sword comes form the weirdest angles!" The Saxons nearby all stared wearily at Bedivere due to the oddness of his attacks. With the Saxon's shout, Bedivere became the center of attention with even Tristan assessing him with all seriousness.
Bedivere's expression reddened in embarrassment.
What the hell do you mean a 'new kind of swordsmanship?!'
Fuck you bastards.
Fuck you all.
Bedivere was always a man of a gentle nature and a calm composure, but even he had his limits. He was inwardly fuming. The reason his body was so hunched over was because it simply hurt him too much to stand straight or swing properly. Instead, he had to opt into a style of fighting that pained him less.
Realizing that Tristan was still looking at him, Bedivere immediately became flustered.
"Please don't pay attention to such things, Sir Tristan. I'm fine," Bedivere refused to admit that he was not, in fact, fine due to personal reasons. Besides, he felt that his standing in the Knights of the Round would fall further if he complained. "Can you just hurry up and deal with the enemies on your side though?"
Tristan nodded once before resuming battle.
Bedivere was thankful in regards to Tristan's quick actions, and resolved to defeat the Saxons in front of him before anyone else took note of his new fighting style. He was mortified, finally feeling for the first-time what Sir Kay must have felt like to be called the 'Foul End.'
Bedivere felt like crying, but had no tears to shed.
"His form, doesn't it resemble a crab?"
"The crab-style sword! I've heard of it from a fisherman. Look it even looks like he's squatting while in battle."
"F-Formidable."
Bedivere's mouth twitched. He was going to kill them all. All of them. If he allowed such rumors to proliferate than his reputation was going to be ruined.
At the very least, he hoped the King was having a better time than him.
He glanced to the inner most part of the Castle. It was where the King had gone after their impromptu discussion. The King was not part of the planned defensive of the castle. The King need only remain inside and allow her vassals to deal with the situation. If the King went out to fight and was killed, then what was the point in defending the castle in the first place?
Bedivere tightened the grip on his sword and attacked without mercy. Aided by the cover fire of the Archers and Tristan's assistance, the situation at the walls stabilized. There were no more Saxons fighting nearby, but as if in exchange, a new danger emerged.
Tristan's eyes widened noticeably; his countenance no longer tranquil.
Similar expressions were occurring everywhere around Castle Mordred, and Bedivere was no exception.
"Impossible," Palamid muttered under his breath. "We destroyed them all."
There in the Northern Horizon was an entire row of Catapults.
The words that were once said, and the feelings that were once directed towards her, everything that she had had and suddenly lost was all captured within a sentence that pained her directly.
He doesn't remember me.
Arturia schooled her features, but even then, it did nothing to stop her quivering or the bitterness that swelled from within her. The experiences that they shared, the joy he brought to her, everything came crashing back in a storm that battered her heavily.
Standing atop the highest roof of the castle, she rubbed a thumb over the jeweled necklace that she kept hidden around her neck. It was the very same necklace Shirou had given to her in their youth, and she'd never gone one day without it.
It was pendant-like in shape, the main design entwined within the golden lace, a figure of a sword and sheath forged by Shirou himself.
'One who endlessly searches, and one who endlessly waits.'
'To you I give my all.'
These were words branded in the metal. A declaration. A Vow that she had not understood in her youth, but now cherished more than anything. The necklace was her source of comfort, something she always held onto when in times of insecurity and doubt.
Love wasn't something that she thought that someone like her with the responsibility of the country deserved. It was why she was never able to speak such words even when she had needed to the most, and she regretted it deeply.
The thought that Mordred was somehow replacing her image in Shirou's mind caused her such unease that it was stifling. More so when she recalled how Palamid recounted the way Shirou had been acting in regards to Mordred. She couldn't help but think that the pure emotions that he had for her in their adolescence was being both tainted and unjustly misdirected.
The fact that she was called 'Mordred' right to her face was the final nail to a balloon on the verge of popping.
It was this thought alone that had caused her to explode with such anxiety, bitterness, and envy, that she lost control of herself and shouted at Shirou's face that she was the real one. Worse, he couldn't even answer back to her before falling unconscious.
Her lips pursed together subconsciously.
She was becoming muddle-headed in a time of battle, yet Bedivere's words continued to play in her mind.
What could she do to get him to remember?
'Trust him,' Bedivere had told her, and of course she trusted Shirou. There was probably no one else that she trusted more, and therefore, it was all the more reason to be anxious.
He was being taken away right before her eyes and a part of her was already convinced that it was a ploy that Morgan had set up for her. Worse. It was working.
What price would she be willing to pay?
What lengths would she be willing to go?
Anything.
It was crazy, she realized; that she had no reservations when the answer came to her mind. She too was human and could be entirely selfish, and Shirou was partly to blame. If he hadn't encouraged her to express her emotions when she was younger, then perhaps she could remain pragmatic and think of the greater good, but right now, she really couldn't.
She loved him.
So much so that it physically hurt.
The pain that she felt when she thought that he was dead was indescribable.
It was a love that she was willing to sacrifice everything for.
She clenched her hands into fists and steadied her thoughts.
Just like Palamid and the others, she could see the Catapults being wheeled in by the Saxons in the distance. Should the walls break, then there was no longer a chance at a prolonged defensive. The castle would be swarmed and Shirou harmed.
That one fact alone sobered her up immediately.
Bedivere said to do something that would shock him, but she could only do so without the imminent threat of enemies around. The Saxons were impeding her in a time where she neededto be by Shirou's side the most, and therefore, she would show no mercy.
Her expression became increasingly cold, looming shadows of boulders filling the air from the attack of the loaded catapults.
She unsheathed Excalibur from its sheath, a sheen of golden brilliance exuding from its blade.
She closed her eyes, focusing the od within her into an explosion of magical energy.
O Holy Sword, show me the path to Victory.
Her legs drifted around her, falling into a half-stance, winds buffeting the area around her in a growing cyclone that stemmed from the base of her sword.
She could not release the full extent of Excalibur's power due to her current low reserves, but it didn't matter.
This sword was a pillar of the Earth. One that she had once wielded before.
Its glory knowing no bounds. It's light, a light that brings about the sanctity of a utopia.
'Strike forth, and shed all hesitation.' It was like she had returned to her youth, an image of an auburn-haired boy urging her on, his hands clasping over her own. 'You are strong Arturia, stronger than anyone. I believe in you.'
The magical energy within her ignited into a storm of power; power that she released in full, the floodgates shattering open to the raging tempest within that suffused her body and weapon before expelling out like a jet.
Mana Burst.
The air distorted, a torrent of blue energy striking outwards and cutting apart the boulders in the air one at a time in the trajectory of a slash. No matter how large or small the boulder, her sword cut it apart.
She would protect him, no matter what, just as he had protected her, the love that had blossomed in her youth, driving her on. Her Love.
Mana Burst!
Mana Burst!
MANA BURST!
One that she had no intention of ever losing again.
The entire defending army watched on in muted shock as the sky continuously shot out with arcs of blue that destroyed the attacks of the catapults at the North. Trails of dust and debris fell from the sky like rain, yet not a single person took notice, captivated by the King who stood strong at the top the castle.
She did not falter.
Her resolve was unwavering.
It was a sight and determination that Emily had not seen in Arturia in many years, which was all the more reason for her frustration to well up inside her.
As much as Emily wished to actively participate in the battle, her options were limited. At the eve of the gathering of Magi to discuss the future of magic, although it was voted that Magi would keep up to date with human innovation as suggested by the Wizard of Swords, it was still voted that magic be kept under heavy secrecy by the Witch Morgan. Magi that weren't already renowned as Wizards and Witches by the common people were banned from actively revealing themselves. Of course, this included Emily as the young heiress of the lineage of Barthomeloi
She couldn't be certain that members of her family weren't monitoring her movements through familiars so she really was tied down in what little aid she could provide.
Yet even so, it wouldn't matter if no one found out, right? She'd just have to be extra careful, and even then, the only matter of concern was if the common people witnessed her using magic.
She'd just have to be subtle.
Looking at Arturia, Emily knew that Arturia's stamina was depleting. She was informed by Lancelot and Bedivere that in the last battle, Arturia had released Excalibur a total of four times. How much mana did a Noble Phantasm use?
Although Emily had no true answer to the question, she could well imagine the strain of utilizing a crystalized legend let alone both Excalibur and Avalon.
The pallor of Arturia's skin was visibly paling by the minute.
With a single thought, Emily sent a message to Palamid and the Son of Wolfred.
Under the constant barrage of the enemy catapults, they had no choice but to forego their defensive strategy in favour of taking the offensive.
The Catapults needed to be destroyed before the King tires.
This was the decisive moment, and Emily would not sit it out. Leaving her post atop the watchtower of the castle, she began her preparations. Stopping the boulders on Arturia's behalf would be too obvious, therefore, she had to think of something else that she could do before time ran out.
Mordred was distracted.
She had been selected to lead the charge towards the northern catapults together with Palamid and the Son of Wolfred as neither Tristan or Lancelot could leave their posts. Both of them were essential to guarding their part of the wall, Lancelot because of the admiration that the other Knights had for him, and Tristan to oversee the Archers.
Mordred was the only other Knight of the Round available, and of course she didn't refuse. Yet regardless of how dire the situation was, a part of her was still mulling over Lancelot's words from earlier.
Fuck Lancelot. What did he know about anything?
She was mad, almost fuming.
So, what if he was a peerless Knight, what did she care? It was all the same if her fist met his face. Besides, why the hell was he even trying to meddle with her business?
The fact that she had no answer to her question irritated her.
Palamid and the Son of Wolfred were running by her side, hundreds of other Knights joining them as they ran a straight path towards the catapults Eadwald was heavily guarding.
Glancing back at the King striking down boulder after boulder from atop the castle, she inadvertently pursed her lips and looked away.
She had heard Lancelot's final question, and yet even if it was for the King, she truly found herself unable to reply. Would her thoughts be considered treason? She didn't know, but a part of her instantly became guarded at the prospect.
It was all Lancelot's fault for making her think of such things anyway. Why would the King ever take an interest in Shirou anyway?
The King wouldn't.
Mordred consoled herself with this assumption. If the King wasn't interested in Shirou in the first place, then there was no need to consider Lancelot's ridiculous question. Her mood visibly brightened before her brows creased in worry.
The King was still fighting and Shirou was still resting in the castle.
Only now did the direness of the situation strike her in full.
Looking at the Saxons guarding the catapults in front of her, she charged forward at a faster speed. Palamid nodded his head in approval behind her. He had gotten used to her personality and knew that Mordred was fighting in earnest.
He would do the same.
Quickly following after Mordred, he unsheathed the two swords at his side, nostalgia assailing him as the Son of Wolfred pulled up the rear, the other Knights trailing behind.
The King and Shirou at the front, Palamid and the Son of Wolfred at the sides. In this case, the King was Mordred and Shirou was missing, but nonetheless, the feeling was invigorating to both Palamid and the Son of Wolfred.
Although older now, it was like old times when everyone had set out on an adventure together.
"Don't forget about me," Emily's voice whispered faintly in the wind, the arrows and spears thrown over head suddenly changing trajectory. "This time I can fight too."
Eadwald and the other Saxons were stupefied. None of them could believe that a freak gust of air could have warded away their attacks, but by the time that they reacted, Mordred and the others had already slammed head-first into the line of defence set around the catapults.
Palamid was the first to strike out, his two swords clanging as they forcibly pried a path open for Mordred and the others to jump through.
"I'll see you all ahead," Palamid whispered as the Son of Wolfred passed, nodding his head.
The Saxons tried to collapse in on Palamid, but the nearest individuals suddenly found themselves tripping on thick roots that sprung from the ground.
"The hell?" The Saxons cursed at their luck before Palamid began his assault.
In the many years since he'd last seen Shirou in the town of Roan, he'd honed his swordsmanship by a large degree. He wasn't as skilled as Lancelot, but he could damn well hold his own.
His new style took from a trick Shirou had once told him. 'If you can't predict where your opponent will strike, then make them strike where you want.'
He left many of his vitals open, and as expected, the Saxons wasted no time attacking them. Swords, spears, and axes chopped down towards him, but he was always a step ahead, parrying and countering.
Breathing heavily, he resolved himself to secure the path of retreat.
Up ahead, only Mordred and the Son of Wolfred were making their way to the catapults before the Son of Wolfred suddenly paused. He stared at Mordred and came to a decision. "Pull back a bit. I'll draw them away so you can destroy the catapults."
Mordred creased her forehead at the Son of Woflred's words.
There were simply too many Saxons standing guard in front of the catapults for the Son of Wolfred to even hope of doing anything alone. The Saxons were garrisoned in groups of one-hundred per catapult, all of them wielding reinforced oval shields.
"Just leave it to me," the Son of Wolfred spoke with all seriousness.
Ever since he was young, he understood that he was nothing more than a snobbish brat living off the reputation and standing of his father. It was when this reality was shoved into his face by Shirou, Palamid, and the others, that he resolved himself to change for the better. He studied in earnest, worked hard in his father's territory, both as a Knight and as an aristocrat to become a person he could be proud of as the Son of Wolfred.
Growing up, the one aspect he always took for granted was his strength. Having been raised on hearty food and a balanced diet his constitution was naturally strong. It was with this aspect that he styled his current path with the sword.
"Emily," he whispered out, unsheathing his blade. There was a magic sigil engraved at the hilt, and as soon as the Son of Wolfred gave his conformation, that sigil shone brightly.
The blade elongated in width and length until it reached a monstrous size of over two-and-a-half-meters. It was an oversized Bastard Sword.
The Son of Wolfred held it with one hand whose veins and muscles were popping from the exertion. "I once got my ass handed to me in a competition of sword skill, but this time it's not going to be about skill."
He swung the sword, its momentum unable to be blocked and sending all flying. The hundred Saxons guarding the catapults where eaten away one swing at a time. If they weren't killed by being severed in half, then the sheer blunt force that ruptured the organs within certainly did. Mordred was faintly reminded of a peculiar hammer, but chose not to comment in favour of hacking apart the first of five catapults in front of her.
Using the same strategy, she and the Son of Wolfred destroyed all the catapults, yet something was strange.
Eadwald and the other Saxons weren't panicking and in fact, Eadwald was grinning after Mordred and the Son of Wolfred rendezvoused with Palamid.
"Fools," Eadwald muttered. "Did you really think that was all the catapults we had? While you wasted your time here, the others have already been set up."
Eadwald's words were met with a heavy silence. There was no need to try to ascertain Eadwald's authenticity as more and more catapults appeared at the east and west.
At the top of Castle Mordred, Arturia's expression darkened while Mordred began trembling.
If the castle fell, then Shirou would die. The King would also be put in peril.
"Damn it," she cursed, sprinting towards the nearest catapults despite knowing the uselessness of it all. Not only were there too many enemies around her, but the catapults were also set too far away form each other to destroy in time.
There was nothing that she could do, but she didn't want to give up either.
There were too many things that she couldn't bare to lose.
"Then call upon it."
The crest on her hand shone, words flashing across her mind and stealing her conscience away.
The very world around her changed.
It was a world of flame, ashes in the air accompanied by the acrid scent of smoke.
It confused her, her body stiffening, yet it wasn't the time to think anymore.
A pair of hawk-like eyes was staring at her in confusion, as if unable to understand her presence in the area.
Her mouth suddenly dried, feeling as if she was being heavily scrutinized, yet she unable to do anything. It was if she was utterly defenceless, her arms crossing in front of her in apprehension.
In the next moment, the eyes widened in shock.
"W-Who are you?" The words seemed hopeful, almost pleading.
The eyes could sense it. A presence, a distinctness, an aura.
The Ashton Crest.
She didn't know what the hell this beast was talking about, but it didn't matter. "I-I'm Mordred." At the same time that she spoke, she could feel a certain connection between her and the beast. She understood its power, its capabilities. It could save Shirou, it could save everyone.
"Please," she got on her knees and bowed her head low. "I need your help."
The eyes stared in silence, and only after it got a good look at Mordred's face did it immediately come to a decision, its memories flashing across its mind.
Moments later, Mordred found herself back facing off against the Saxons, but something was clearly different from before.
The temperature was rising. It was practically sweltering even with the sun overhead.
From the south, a great blaze erupted; torrents of fire spurting out into branch like torches that revealed the form of a ginormous avian wreathed in crimson. It was hundreds of miles away, yet its image could still be seen bolting in the battle's direction.
A squall of fury echoed through the air accompanied by the cawing of a bird of prey that had not been seen in years.
On pinioned wings of crimson, a harbinger of Hell's inferno.
It was a beast that Palamid, Emily, and the others knew well.
It arrived in a heartbeat, the sheer heat of its body igniting the wooden catapults into massive bonfires, but it could hardly care less.
It moved passed Arturia, passed Palamid and the others, and stopped directly in front of Mordred whose breath hitched at the sudden pressure. Rather than attack like Mordred was expecting, Efret instead stood protectively in front of her, daring any Saxon to approach.
It was a sight that shocked all, Arturia more than anyone. She looked on from atop the castle roof and mouthed slowly in reminiscence, her eyes watering.
"Efret," the bird of her youth. The beast she called friend.
The Guardian Protector of House Ashton.
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Next update: The Magus Among Ninjas (It's really been a long time for this one so it's time to go over what I wrote before.)