Grass and dirt flew as the two Knights charged each other down. The very air seemed to split before their raw momentum, and Void Shields shimmered in front of them, ready to deflect. Ammo for ranged weapons was rare on Avalon, and so the usual rules for Jousts restricted their use. Such things were saved for true war.
Pellinore's lance gave him an advantage in terms of reach, so the point of it was the first thing to make contact. It drove into Gruffydd's shield with a sound much like thunder. The Ion Shield crackled but held.
In response to holding back the strike, Gruffydd forced himself forward. His Chainaxe screamed as it was lofted into the air for a massive swing. At the same instant, he drove forward into a thrust with his cannon, tipped with a slashing blade.
Pellinore shifted his mount expertly. Shifting the leg, Pellinore forced
Perfect Sinew to take a firm step forward. The Ion Shield screamed and was forced slowly but surely backward. At the same instant, he swung his own Ion Shield upward, parrying the upper swing. His more corporeal shield dealt with the thrust of the cannon. There was a much louder shriek of metal on metal. Paint flew, but the metal of the shield held.
Gruffydd swore loudly, and shifted back. His mount staggered backward, trying to regain its footing.
Pellinore pressed the advantage, lunging the lance forward. It skimmed off the edge of the Ion Shield and slammed into Gruffydd's side with a scream of metal.
Haptic feedback caused Gruffydd to experience a surge of agony, and the warrior snarled out a pained growl.
The two Knights returned to something close to their original position. The warriors glared each other down, measure now gained.
"Not bad," Gruffydd grunted. "Those two shields of yours are a difficult combination."
"Yes," Pellinore agreed calmly, "but it does make it difficult to score blows, seeing as I only have one weapon to work with."
"Hardly matters, when your shield placement is perfection incarnate," Gruffydd said. He shifted a little, Knight moving to a supposed better position for the next charge. "I never fought you all those years ago, but your skills were legendary, and now I understand why. Your technique is breathtaking."
"Thank you."
"Nonetheless, this will be the end. Technique will fall before strength."
Pellinore set his lance once again. "Don't be so sure. I've bested many warriors like you."
Gruffydd laughed coldly. "Alright. No more holding back." He set his axe roaring. "Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the Skull Throne! No quarter! No surrender!"
The two Knights charged once again.
*******************
The cauldron loomed in front of Bedwyr, giving of its menacing stench. He made another forced step, and the thing grew closer.
The Priest slid to his side, gently stroking his shoulders. "Yes. Yes. Face the truth, face your destiny. Power awaits you."
The part of Bedwyr's mind that remained free wondered if power really was living alone in a swamp, allowing the miasma of Chaos to rot away your humanity until you were little more than a vaguely humanoid lizard. But that part was reduced to screaming at a body that no longer followed his commands.
Another hobbling step, and the cauldron loomed larger and larger. His heart pounded and anticipation grew.
The Priest started to push him forward, speeding the process along. "Get in. Get in." He was nearly at the edge.
Suddenly, there was a boyish war scream. "Bedwyr!" Lucen's voice rose as he dived at the Priest, dagger leading. Sure enough, he went right for the monster's throat, as Pellinore advised.
The dagger slammed into the mutant's exposed throat, punching through scale and into the soft flesh beneath. Vile blood spilled onto the ground and gushed on Lucen's hands. The Priest shrieked in mad agony.
The wound was not lethal. It was, to the creature's strange and twisted biology, little more than a rather painful annoyance. Lashing out with his monstrous strength, the Priest struck Lucen such a blow that the boy went flying back, letting go of the dagger.
"Lucen!" Bedwyr yelled. His mouth at least was free. Nothing else was. He kept walking, almost touching the cauldron. "God-Emperor help me!" Bedwyr sobbed. "Nimue save me! Myrddin! Anyone!"
"There is no one!" The Priest sneered. "No one but you! The God-Emperor is gone, Nimue is a worthless Tuatha bitch, and Myrddin is a fraud and charlatan! All you are is one human, and humans aren't worth spit before the power of the God of Change!"
It was true. Bedwyr realized it suddenly. The God-Emperor was gone. He had been split from the world of Avalon a long time ago, along with his Imperium. Nimue's seat of power was a long way away, in the lake known as Camelot. And Myrddin was, ultimately, just a human like him, and was probably not even aware of what happened here at this moment.
But something stirred inside Bedwyr. His hand stopped reaching for the cauldron's rim with a force of will he never expected. Slowly, painfully, he forced it back. "You're right." The words came out through gritted teeth. "I am just a human. And that is it."
"What?" The Priest squawked in confusion.
Everything Pellinore had told him. Everything about hope and freedom. What else was it but a promise to hold to oneself? A promise to hold to an ideal? Something beyond magic.
Bedwyr turned, every movement igniting a burst of agony through his body and soul. But his blood was up and his mind and heart were firm. He would not touch the cauldron. He would not look inside it. He would not enter it. He would not be corrupted.
The Priest screamed in hate and rage. It grabbed the dagger in its throat and wrenched it out with a painful sounding squelch. "If you won't be an acolyte, you will be a sacrifice!" The mutant screamed as it lunged at the boy.
Something lept from the shadows and slammed smack into the Priest. Both fell to the ground with a thud. The dagger clattered away.
Killomer slammed a massive fist into the Priest's face. "Like hell! This boy is too good for your miserable God! And I'll be damned before I let such a good future foe be food for Tzeentch's witchfyres!" The war-devoted mutant slammed his fist into the other mutant's face again. He looked up at Bedwyr and shot him a bloody grin. "Best for you to run boy. I'll see you on the battlefield one day. I'll kill you then! I swear on the Blood God! Run and get stronger! So I can take your skull later!"
Bedwyr didn't run away, however, he ran toward the downed Priest and passed him to Lucen. Lucen wasn't dead or severely injured, only stunned. Bedwyr steadied his brother on his shoulder, lifting him upright.
"Leave me," Lucen croaked. "Run." He slumped after that, energy gone.
"No." Bedwyr started to move, slowed by both his peg leg and Lucen's dead weight. "I'm not leaving anyone behind."
"Fool!" Killomer called after him. "I won't be seeing you on the battlefield after all, boy! Weakness isn't tolerated in this universe!"
Bedwyr ignored the man. Damned worshippers of Khorne and all the rest of the Dark Gods. They had no power over him. Not anymore.
Suddenly they emerged from the shadows. Lean, indistinct forms, armed with sharp swords and axes. They were the crude militia of the Priest of the Bog. Cruel, deadly mutants all, possessed of hideous strength and fierce cold determination.
Bedwyr stopped short. The force drew closer, blades gleaming. He'd won the battle but lost the war.
