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Mordred stopped, placing his vambrace down on the bench, his heart sinking. For a moment he concentrates completely on his armour, how could he answer such a question? Telling her would mean her life and the lives of those whom called Camelot home. An impossible predicament.
The young knight turns to face her, his fingers brushing lightly against the metal of his armour. “I’m not hiding anything” he tells her simply.
Summer struggles to her knees, trying anyhow to crawl to Mordred, and casually Morgana fists a hand in her bright hair and jerks her down. Her throat is so scraped she can’t even make a sound at the tug, just falls back with her mouth gaping.
‘Mordred,’ her lips shape, soundlessly.
Morgana’s gaze flicks back to the map. “I want to use this path to come in on Arthur from the flank.”
Mordred rises to his feet, hesitating before he turns his attention to the maps, his chest burning with pain. “If his camp resides there it would indeed be useful, we can cut down some of their army before the battle even begins,” he tells her simply, dragging his finger over the map. “Rumour has it Arthur is getting Gwaine and Percival to lead a score around here — we can cut them off.”
“I will handle that. You will lead the main army on the field. Be sure you seek out Arthur; it is not his men we need to remove but the head of the dragon itself.” Morgana looks up at him, eyes burning with hate. “Do not fail me in this.”