Darlington pulled his hair.
His fingers dug into his scalp, twisting, yanking. The pain was distant a ghost of sensation in his formless state but the frustration was real. Burning. Consuming.
He had to think. Had to find a way. Lancelot was trapped in the sinkhole, and every second that passed, the trap tightened. Titus was not just fighting he was constricting. Coiling around his prey like a serpent, squeezing the life from it.
Dammit.
Dammit!
"DAMMIT, YOU ROMANS!"
The shout tore from him, empty of any audience. He looked at the battlefield below at the locked figures of Lancelot and Titus, at the other knights frozen by the killing intent, at the chaos that had become his chessboard.
And then his mind clicked.
His eyes snapped to Sir Galahad.
The pure knight stood at the edge of the battlefield, the Sword of David still in his hand, his body still struggling against the weight of Titus's killing intent. But he was there. He was capable.
And Darlington remembered.
The cut in the sky. The space between spaces. The gate that Galahad had opened to bring the knights to this battlefield.
Yes.
Yes, that's right.
His mind raced, the pieces falling into place.
All I need to do is get him out of this sinkhole. If someone else attacks if there is a distraction, an opening there is a strong chance for a gate to form. A possibility for him to be free.
He paused.
But it might be paid in blood.
He looked at Tristan at the knight who had recovered from his throat injury, who was watching the battle with calculating eyes, who was waiting for an opportunity.
If General Titus is fast enough, he might kill whoever intervenes. A blade through the heart. A punch through the skull. Something final.
His jaw tightened.
But that's not the problem.
He looked back at Lancelot at his only piece, his only hope.
The problem is that I can't pass information to the battlefield. I can only talk to Lancelot.
His mind worked through the implications.
If I pass the message to Lancelot, he might not be able to pass it to Sir Galahad easily. Not in the middle of this chaos. Not while Titus is pressing him.
He watched Lancelot dodge another punch, counter with another stab, the rhythm of their battle unchanged.
Okay.
He took a breath unnecessary, but grounding.
That's what I need. He's making his move now. Right now.
Darlington became like a man who had placed a bet a desperate, foolish bet that a sports team would snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. His eyes fixed on Tristan.
The hunter was moving.
Tristan had been watching.
From the moment he had recovered his breath from the moment he had vomited water and gasped air back into his lungs he had been waiting. Not frozen. Not paralyzed. Waiting.
The killing intent that had frozen the others had not touched him. Not because he was immune but because he had adapted. His body had learned to move within the pressure, to breathe despite the weight.
He saw Lancelot and Titus locked together. Saw the sinkhole closing. Saw the desperation in Lancelot's movements.
And he moved.
He jumped not at Titus, not at Lancelot, but between them. His body interposed itself in the space between a simultaneous stab that Lancelot was about to deliver and a heavy-duty barrage of punches that Titus was about to unleash.
His hand scooped.
Sand.
A handful of it dry, coarse, perfect.
He splattered it.
The grains exploded outward, catching both combatants in the face. In the eyes. In the mouth. It was the oldest book in all battle tacticsa trick older than Rome, older than Camelot, older than war itself.
Dirty.
Effective.
Beautiful.
ONE SECOND.
The battlefield was in disarray. Lancelot blinked, his vision obscured. Titus snarled, spitting sand from his mouth. Their rhythm broke.
The old book said: Only the one with a calm mind will be able to take victory from a battlefield in disarray.
Tristan had the calmest mind among them.
TWO SECONDS.
He did not attack. Did not press his advantage. He bought time.
Not one second. Not two.
Systematically deliberatelyhe bought fifteen seconds.
FIFTEEN SECONDS for any plan to occur. For any miracle to happen.
Darlington shouted.
His mental voice cracked like thunder, slamming into Lancelot's consciousness with all the force he could muster.
"LANCELOT! AT THE TOP OF YOUR VOICE YELL!"
He didn't explain. Didn't have time.
"GALAHAD! NOW OPEN IT!"
Lancelot did not hesitate.
His throat his transformed, reborn throat opened. His voice erupted from him, raw and commanding, cutting through the chaos of the battlefield like a blade.
"GALAHAD! NOW OPEN IT!"
Galahad heard.
The pure knight's head snapped toward the sound. His eyes sharp, calculating found Lancelot in an instant. Saw the sand still falling. Saw Tristan standing between the combatants. Saw the desperation in their stances.
He did not ask questions.
Did not hesitate.
He understood.
Lancelot was in a precarious situation. So was Tristan. After fifteen seconds after the sand settled, after Titus recovered, after the window closed both of them might die.
Galahad raised the Sword of David.
"Cut."
The blade sliced through the air not at an enemy, not at a weapon, but at space itself. A vertical line opened in the fabric of reality, its edges shimmering with pale light.
Then another cut.
And another.
Two cuts formed not beside Galahad, but in front of Lancelot and Tristan. Two gates, hanging in the air, waiting.
Galahad lunged.
His hands shot forward through the first gate, through the space between spaces, through the impossible distance that separated him from his comrades. His fingers closed on Lancelot's armor. His other hand found Tristan's wrist.
And he pulled.
SHIIIIING!
The gates closed behind them as they emerged beside Galahad Lancelot stumbling, Tristan gasping, both of them free.
The sinkhole was broken.
The trap was escaped.
General Titus stood alone in the space where the battle had been.
Sand still clung to his face. His wound the vertical cut from eye to thigh still bled. His broken sword lay in pieces at his feet.
He looked at the knights who had been in his graspnow standing across the battlefield, saved and his smile did not waver.
"Clever," he said. His voice was calm, almost approving. "Very clever."
He brushed the sand from his face.
"But the game is not over."
Above them, Darlington sighed.
The tension that had been coiled in his chestthe desperate, clawing fear that he might lose his only piece began to unwind.
His shoulders relaxed. His hands released his hair. His breathing slowed.
"Well." His voice was quiet. "That was a victory."
He looked at the battlefield below at Lancelot standing with the others, at Galahad lowering his sword, at Tristan catching his breath, at Titus watching them all with that unsettling smile.
"But we still haven't won yet."
The fifteen seconds had been used.
But the war continued.