Artorius tightened his grip on the sword. Embedded in the stone, it was an ornate blade, undeniably made of gold.
Merlin watched him from behind, saying nothing.
Before him lay a mountain of corpses and bones. The stench of blood filled his lungs. Severed limbs littered the battlefield. He had only to take one step forward, and his boots would surely turn blood-red. He lowered his head and saw a knight's horrified gaze. The face was impossible to make out: the head had been severed from the body, and by the time it rolled to his feet, it had already been fouled by the river of blood.
"Even so, you're going to draw the sword?"
"If I don't, what will become of my kingdom?"
There was no answer. The wind surged toward him, and his golden hair streamed back in a frantic rush, as if trying to flee from the sword.
If only I had a cape right now. I'd look even cooler. He smiled, thinking about something so out of place even with a scene like Hell before him.
"After all, I am King Arthur."
