The frantic eyes, sullen countenance and wan complexion are Mordred’s windows into the desperate soul of Sir Bors. He recognizes the yearning, the helplessness, the obsession. For months the lust and mania of the Grail and Cerridwen consumed Mordred to the point of not knowing the difference between the two. His visions toed the line between ecstasy and nightmare, distracting his waking hours. Discovering the same affliction in the eyes of his fellow knight is like finding the only other living person on Earth, and it prompts him to act.

Falling to his knees, Mordred grips his swordbrother’s shoulders and shakes him. “You’ve seen the Grail! You’ve put it to your lips, you’ve tasted its draught and you’ve been intoxicated by its embrace!” Bors is broken from his trance and pulls away from Mordred’s grip, cursing at him as though wakened from sweet reverie. He is quickly on his feet, stumbling away from the Pictish knight’s mumbling. “Damn you, Bors!” Mordred follows after, spinning the Gaul around. “Am I right? Does she not deceive you? Does she not lie alongside you and share a taste of her glory only to leave you in despair? You need my help, Knight of Benoic! We need each other!”

By this point, the noise that Modred and Bors have made have attracted the attention of the rest of the camp. Lancelot and those closest to the King dismiss the raised voices as another of Mordred’s blow-ups, usually put to rest by none other than Bors himself. But Hector is new to this land and the Celtic temper. What’s more, he’s no great admirer of Mordred. The Mediterranean soldier stands and makes his way toward the two warriors, in spite of Arthur’s and Lancelot’s dismissive comments.

“Be at peace, brothers of Pendragon,” Hector begins. No sooner does he speak than Mordred’s sword is drawn and aimed at Hector’s throat.

“This is not your affair, Arab!” Mordred spits back with rage.

“It is tradition in my land that a sword cannot be drawn without drawing blood," Hector answers. "And I am no Arab!” In a flash, Hector’s blade is out, clashing against the metal of the Pict’s broadsword. Hector pushes it away with great force, and it grazes across Bors’ tunic. The Gaul unsheaths his weapon and tries to disarm Mordred, but the Pict’s senses are too alert, and his eyes are wide with anger. Disturbed by paranoia, lust and anxiety, the heir of Lothian cries out wildly, swinging madly at both Bors and Hector. Sebile’s captain matches every stroke with the skill of a war-hardened swordsman.

Sebile the Enchantress, aware of what haunts Mordred, deftly weaves a charm of slumber upon the fireside knights, preventing them from interfering with the clash. She strolls calmly toward the three duelists, slowly raising a hand up. The Pict’s will is strong, and the Riastarthae too hot within him to be cooled by enchantment.

“No!” the daughter of Brighid screams suddenly, prophetically. An instant later, Mordred’s sword impales the brave Hector. Bors drops his weapon, his mouth agape with horror. Never before had a Round Table Knight – sworn to the service of Excalibur and the Pendragon – struck down an honorable man, and a guest from a foreign land no less. Confused, guilty, and disturbed, the Pictish murderer falls to his knees before Sebile. He looks up at her, shaking with terror, and utters quietly, “Help me…”