Arthurian Cultivation

Book 2 Chapter 75 - Broken Steel

Rensleigh could turn things around. Her presence filled Maeve with hope and dread in equal measure. Hope, because they now had a chance to survive the monstrous Saint. Dread, because she knew what was at risk.This was not a safe place for Steels.

The two titans tore across the gallery like opposing storms. Maeve crouched low on the cracked marble steps, one hand braced against the railing that had once guarded the drop into the pit. The ironwork had been twisted away by the earlier blasts, leaving jagged edges and empty air where safety had once been.

She could barely follow the duel.

One moment the Saint stood twenty paces away, spear blazing with power. The next she was gone, and Rensleigh’s dark blades filled the space she had occupied. Each impact rang through the ruins like a hammer striking an anvil. The ancient hall endured the punishment, but only barely. Cracks spread through the carved floor. Dust drifted down from the vaulted ceiling. Fragments of stone railing clattered into the pit far below.

The aura alone was suffocating.

She saw Taliesin’s smoke being twisted wildly around her, shredded by the violent currents of power rolling through the hall. Each clash sent fresh shockwaves racing across the landing, forcing the knights to brace themselves or be thrown from their feet.

The Saint gave ground again, sliding back across shattered marble. Rensleigh pressed forward relentlessly, her shadow blades cutting in arcs that swallowed the light of Ginevra’s spear. The darkness clung to the Saint’s armour like oil, gnawing at the gold-edged brilliance.

Rensleigh could handle this, she could win. She would carve a hole through this stuck-up cultist’s skull.

A flash of silver cut towards her.

Maeve’s instincts screamed. She threw herself sideways down the step as a spear thrust roared overhead, right through where she had just been. The stone where she had been standing exploded into gravel, shards skittering across the landing and bouncing into the darkness of the pit.

“Stay alive!” Rensleigh’s voice thundered across the chamber without turning.

Maeve scrambled back towards the others clustered higher on the stairs. It had all gone sideways so quickly. She hunted around for her allies. Bors was holding the landing. Percy was battling the death paladin. Where was Tristan? She looked to the priests.

There was an empty spot on the floor where there was no blood.

She hunted about, pausing a moment to send a knife at the fast Paladin, to make sure he did not get any ideas, which he easily dodged. Where was Arthur?

“Help.” A desperate voice called.

The words dispelled whatever shadow glamour technique had kept them hidden, and Tristan popped into existence, rising on the stairs. Over his shoulder was a red-cloaked form that hung awkwardly as he ran up the banisters to avoid the killing pit that had already claimed Taliesin.

He had Arthur. The man was groggily stirring. He looked brutal, soaked through with more blood than she had ever seen outside of Percy’s training.

The prince mumbled something about a “bath” as he hung over the abyss of the trap. Maeve sprinted towards them. She could see the other Paladin moving closer. Tristan staggered off the banisters onto the steps towards Bors, who had pulled up great shields of marble, where he crouched with Nermil, setting up a fortress against the chaos.

“Get down.” Bors’ shout came out, and Maeve saw Tristan throw himself forward just in time as a javelin smashed into where his head had just been. The weapon moved so fast there was a clap of thunder in its wake.

Right behind it, moving so fast he was a blur, was Fallowmere.

Maeve barely saw the strike. Still, she could feel his sword, could sense its path. Her blade hummed out. A blade in the right place at the right time will strike success.

She was not as fast as he was, but her blade was guided by glamour, glamour she could control, glamour she pushed before it, dragging the blade in its wake.

Tristan screamed as the Paladin’s sword carved into the back of his knee, only for Maeve’s blade to slam into it, stopping the attack from carving deeper. The Paladin bounced away as Maeve tried to slide her knife after him.

She stood over Tristan and Arthur. The cut was savage and deep, blood spraying across the marble steps as he collapsed to one knee.

Even crippled, he dragged the prince into Bors’ fortress, where they both collapsed beside Nermil.

Maeve did not relent in her attacks on Fallowmere. He was faster, but her blade was more than just steel.

She let her blade dance around, leaving momentary glamour copies to linger. The ghostly blades lasted only a moment but long enough to deflect a strike or carve into unsuspecting flesh. Her faster opponent was driven back. His speed allowed him a chance to hurt her, but at the risk of impaling himself with a single wrong move.

Each ghost took a chunk of glamour, but it was worth it. With a curse about “spoilt heathens” he retreated.

It proved lucky, as they both then had to throw themselves to one side as another clash from the Steels came close. It was not just the sound but the deluge of glamour that Maeve felt in the back of her teeth and skull, leaving her head pounding.

Ginevra looked worse now. Blood streaked her brow where a shadow blade had cut through her guard, and fresh gouges scarred the polished plates of her armour.

But every exchange was costing something.

And the Saint was watching them.

Maeve and the group knew that if they stayed here they would simply become targets. Distractions the Saint could use.

They would be feeding her openings.

Another detonation rocked the gallery, strong enough to rattle the cracked columns that rose up to the scarred ceiling.

Then Percy screamed.

Maeve turned.

Mordred stood at the edge of the shattered stair.

And Taliesin was gone.

For a moment her mind refused to accept what she was seeing. Then she saw the broken railing and the empty drop where the bard had been standing only moments before.

The pit.

“You—”

Percy’s roar shook the chamber. Her eyes filled with fury. Maeve was right behind her.

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Both of them moved at once.

Mordred turned just in time to meet Percy’s charge, death glamour already flooding his blade. The two collided in a violent burst of steel and killing intent, their clash sending sparks and blackened aura across the cracked stone.

Maeve was closing the distance, fury burning in her chest. Taliesin was her friend. She knew he had his trick to survive, but could she trust that? Could she allow this monster to continue? Her anger demanded rage.

“STOP!”

Bors’ voice cracked like thunder.

Maeve halted mid-step.

Bors stood between the wounded and the attackers on the stair above them, shield raised as he guarded Arthur, Tristan, and their prisoner. His stance was immovable despite the tremors shaking the hall, a wall of battered steel and stubborn resolve.

“Don’t lose focus!” he barked.

Percy ignored him. Maeve wanted to join her, but her intent flared. A blade in the right place at the right time will strike success.

Maeve forced herself to breathe. Taliesin had survived worse than this.

She would only undermine Rensleigh by splitting up now. She looked to where Percy was clashing with Mordred, her heavy shield being used to batter her opponent along with her sword, as streamers of blood were pulled off Tristan and Arthur to fuel her attacks.

Sparks and death glamour burst between them as the zealot met her fury with cold fanaticism, his eyes wide with that same dreadful certainty.

Taliesin was gone, for now.

Killing Mordred would not count as a win. She needed to remain safe. Rensleigh was fighting for them. She could not risk that.

She moved to Bors’ side.

Across from them, Fallowmere launched himself over the pit with the last priest in his arms. He landed on the steps below the landing, where he dumped the priest, and with a grin stared them down. He was like the priest, soaked in the blood of his allies, but his grin spoke to a level of confidence, like this was all a game.

“Surrender, and you might still live as ransom,” the Paladin taunted, his voice carrying easily over the trembling stone and distant thunder of the Steel duel.

Behind them there was a crash. The blood she had collected fell from the air, the life ripped from it by the enemy’s glamour. Sephy fell down the stairs and crashed into Tristan, the pair of them sliding back across the stones.

Fallowmere used the distraction to launch a javelin at Bors’ head. He dodged, but not enough. His ear was ripped apart. Maeve tried to attack, but the Paladin had already grabbed the priest and jumped next to his ally.

The three cultists looked down on them from the ruined stairs.

Mordred looked crazed. His lips were twitching, death and blade glamour dancing on his sword. Fallowmere was cold and imperious. The priest just looked haggard.

Maeve wanted to attack, but her intent pulsed. They were at a disadvantage. None of the three were seriously injured, while only she and Bors were whole. Bors was shaky. His rapid shaping of the fortress to protect the wounded seemed to have taken it out of him.

Finally, there was something wrong about the Mercy Paladin. His eyes were wrong, his breath deep and shaking.

“Your Steel is occupied. Your bard is dead. Lay down your weapons and perhaps—”

Behind them something slammed into the far wall hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling.

Everyone looked over to the centre of the ruined hall.

The Saint had been driven deep into the masonry. Stone collapsed around her in a rolling cloud of dust that spilled across the floor and down the stairs, fragments of carved masonry bouncing and skittering towards the open pit below.

Rensleigh stood above the crater with her shadow blades circling slowly around her like hunting birds. Weapons she had never seen used in true anger pulsed at her sides.

The Saint was bleeding.

For the first time since the duel began, Ginevra seemed truly hurt, her armour twisted. The butt end of her spear was a splintered mess. Blood ran from a cut above her brow, tracing a dark line down her cheek before vanishing beneath the collar of her armour, and the polished plates of gold-edged steel were marred by fresh gouges where shadow blades had landed. Rensleigh pressed forward with steady, relentless steps, forcing the Saint back across shattered marble while the air trembled with the pressure of their clashing auras.

Hope stirred in Maeve’s chest.

“Hold fast.” Bors muttered beside her, shield raised over Tristan and Arthur. “We just have to hold out.”

Maybe they would survive this.

“Make an opening, my loyal hound. Let nothing hold you back,” the Saint called out.

Their group tensed, eyes running over the three opponents. What did that mean? Did they have some final recourse, some treasure or trump card?

“Fall now or see what faith means.” Fallowmere sneered at them. Maeve had been around Taliesin long enough to recognise posturing when she saw it.

Maeve frowned. Her intent pulsed, telling her she was missing something.

The two sides slowly settled into a wary stillness on the broken stairs and landing. Bors stood at the centre of their small defensive knot, shield angled to cover the wounded, while Maeve held the lower step with her blade ready. Tristan was pouring a brew through Percy’s lips. The redhead was pale and her eyes were unfocused.

Across the cracked marble floor, Mordred moved a step towards Fallowmere.

Maeve felt her blade twitch. Was that what was wrong?

The duel between the Steels had resumed. She could not follow the battle, but she trusted her mentor. Rensleigh was one of her grandmother’s most trusted agents. She had come here to defend them even as the threat of the Green Knight loomed over them. Something was wrong. What was it? Then she saw it, a second too late.

The zealot was smiling.

Fallowmere moved towards them, levelling his blade, ready to offer up another threat.

Behind him a sword flashed.

The strike was so fast Maeve almost missed it. One moment the two paladins stood side by side, and the next Fallowmere’s head separated cleanly from his body. Blood erupted across the marble floor as the corpse toppled, armour crashing heavily against the stone.

She frantically threw a glamour knife at the paladin, hoping to interrupt what she was now certain was about to happen. Stupid, foolish. How could she forget? Taliesin had let her forget the fear, the threat of a death cultivator. Why everyone feared a Death Knight.

The priest stumbled backwards with a strangled cry.

Mordred’s eyes were completely black, his sword gathering the unfiltered death glamour of his dead ally. The blade grew before her eyes.

“FOR THE SAINT!” he roared.

The gathered power burst outward.

Not a technique.

A sacrifice. The power of a dead Iron-rank cultivator funnelled into a single attack. The glamour still entangled with the will of the departed soul. It would send him mad, but he was already a cultist.

The annihilating wave gathered into a spectral scythe blade that swept towards them, threatening to carve through stone and steel alike. The weight of it screamed at her spiritual senses. The rage of the betrayed soul pounded on her like a witch’s curse.

This was it. This was how they died.

Then, right before her, was Rensleigh. The Steel appeared, her blades of darkness slamming down on the spectral abomination.

The impact shattered the last remnants of the gallery railing and cracked the floor beneath their feet. Marble split apart and chunks bounced off her armour. Columns groaned under the strain, and the entire ruin trembled as though it might collapse into the pit below. Mordred and the priest were thrown backwards.

Then the spear came.

Ginevra burst through the collapsing dust like a falling star, her silver weapon driving forward in a single flawless thrust that punched clean through Rensleigh’s chest.

The shadow blades vanished.

Rensleigh staggered. A last dart of shadow, a final attack thwarted. And then the spear twisted and she shuddered to a stop.

Silence spread across the hall.

Ginevra stood there, a blood-soaked and terrible figure, the spear buried through the Steel’s heart. Any trace of feigned friendliness had vanished. She looked like death warmed over.

Then she tore the spear free.

Rensleigh collapsed.

Maeve could not remember moving, but she was now kneeling beside her mentor in the dust and broken stone.

Rensleigh’s armour was warm beneath her hands, the metal still humming faintly with fading glamour. Blood seeped slowly through the torn plates where the spear had pierced her chest, spreading across the engraved steel in dark, creeping lines.

Maeve stared at the wound.

Her mind refused to accept it.

Rensleigh had always held a serene majesty, like the clouds over the mountain, distant, untouchable, and yet casting a long shadow. She had been the steady presence behind her through the journey, the one who corrected her mistakes without humiliation, who explained cultivation with quiet patience, who watched over her like a hawk without ever making them feel small.

Maeve remembered long evenings of study and discussion. She remembered the quiet nod of approval the first time she had successfully stabilised her blade ghosts under pressure.

All of that strength and patience now lay motionless in her arms.

“No,” Maeve whispered hoarsely.

Her fingers tightened around the ruined armour as if sheer will might drag life back into the body beneath.

Nothing happened.

“Almost got me,” the Saint muttered.

Maeve jerked, noticing the woman was still standing close, checking a box of gold and silver on her hip. One of the chains that had secured it had been cut, so it now hung loose. An unpleasant power washed out of it.

Maeve barely noticed, felt her fingers try to find a blade. The Saint’s voice cracked out, with it her aura slammed into her.

“None of that, stay still. No need to damage the merchandise.”

Then the Saint moved again, darting past them towards the pit.

The Saint raised one hand slowly, her aura spreading outward across the chamber. Maeve’s limited sense for such things could feel it reaching down below.

A moment later something rose slowly from the pit.

Taliesin.

The bard hung limp in the air, barely conscious, one arm wrapped stubbornly around a familiar-looking steel box pressed to his chest.