Mordred’s crippled leg gave out not far from the lake, and the ghostly horses passed him in a rush of light and wind. “King Arthur’s dead,” he yelled. “I killed him, remember? Those knights are not real – it’s just more fairy magic!” The noise of his bloodbeards fleeing through the undergrowth faded into the distance. The last of the leaves settled, and silence fell. He leaned against a trunk and frowned at the trees. Every way looked the same. He whistled hopefully for his horse. But the animal was long gone. He scowled at his empty right gauntlet. If he still had both his hands, he would never have lost the duel or the lance. It had been that useless squire’s fault, getting in the way when he’d been just about to skewer Lancelot! And then the boy had thrown the magic lance into the lake right under the nose of his horse, spooking the stupid animal. What an idiot. But at least his cousin didn’t have the lance, either.
