Lila supposed that, from the proper angle, it would’ve looked like a scene from a film, swords flashing, armor glittering, men dancing with the savage grace of battle. To her it was chaos, terrified eyes and blood-slick hands. The stench of burning flesh made bile rise in her throat, but she drove back foot soldiers while Emrys picked off Mordred’s sorcerers with blasts of lightning. High on the ridge above Orkney’s forces, Lila thought she glimpsed, through a tangle of flailing archers, two women, hands outstretched, building darkness in the sky above.

Guinevere’s scream rent the air. Heads turned. Guinevere screamed again, and another woman screamed, then another.

Arthur and Mordred were locked in combat. Excalibur lay, shattered, at Arthur’s feet. Mordred had driven Clarent through Arthur’s side, but he was clutching the shaft of Rhon where it pierced his chest.

Emrys turned, and his eyes blazed silver.

Arthur said, almost too softly to hear, “It is done,” and collapsed. He took Mordred with him.