Mist was rising off Dozmary Pool as Arfa waited at the duelling ground.
Morgan and Mark, Lord of the Sea, stood with her. Both had brought spears, their guards standing in a growing crowd of people.
“Keep moving,” Mark said. “If you’re lucky you’ll wear him out before he cuts you up too much.”
“No armour, my King?” Morgan asked.
“Not against that sword.”
A gleaming figure strode through the crowd. The early sun radiated from the Bronze Knight’s armour, as if he was a vengeful god.
Morgan returned to Mordred’s side. “An interesting fight,” he said. “Kill the winner.”
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