ã€ŠWelcome to the Dark Agesã€‹


 In which Merlin ups and dies

    It had been too long since Merlin had focused on his own cultivation.

    He saw that now.

    Not that he had been lazy during the preceding centuries. Far from it. There had, quite simply, been too much to be done. Too many wars that needed his presence to tip the scales. Too many apprentices requiring personal guidance. Too many demons to be dispatched back to whence they came.

    Amongst all that hurly-burly, when was the last time he had genuinely focused on cultivating his Qi?

    Well, it was now far too late for ¡®what ifs.¡¯

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    Time was an unforgiving mistress whose forbearance with his frivolity had run out.

    Even so close to the end, he still had thought he could force the necessary breakthrough. Sensing the stalking approach of his death, he had withdrawn from Court life and dedicated his focus to cultivation. Closeted up in his tower for these last few months, he had thought he was close enough to the threshold to make up for the centuries of neglect.

    But, alas, no inspiration had arrived. So here he was, seconds from death.

    Strangely, the fear he had anticipated would arrive at this moment was not there. Yes, there were things he had left undone: intricate plans would now crumble; allies would fall; foes would rise.

    But, he left this realm a better place than it would otherwise have been. And that would need to be enough.

    He just wished ¨C

 Chapter 1 - In which a legendary wizard fails to find my arse interesting.

    ¡°There¡¯s still time to run, you know?¡±

    Wulfnoe glanced up at his father and mutely shook his head. The older man had been towards the centre of the shield wall for much of the day, and his exhaustion showed. Three times the blue-painted warriors from over the river had charged down at them. On each occasion, their line had held and they¡¯d forced the attackers back up the hill.

    No one thought it would happen again.

    ¡°Someone needs to let the village know we¡¯ve fallen. You could buy your mother half a day¡¯s head start if you were quick . . .¡±

    He knew his father, ?bbe, did not mean anything by it, but his words cut Wulfnoe to the quick. As the youngest member of the fyrd that had been raised in response to talk of raids across the border, he had been kept in reserve during the battle thus far. Only the day¡¯s heavy losses had brought him so close to the front of the line. With the end in sight, his father had sought him out.

    In frustration, Wulfnoe crashed his borrowed sword against his too-large shield, startling the older man. ¡°Stop treating me like a child! You were years younger than me when you first stood in a wall.¡±

    ?bbe smiled sadly. He¡¯d been barely into his teens when his own father had dragged him along on raids. There had been little of glory in what had been done in those days, and he had wanted something so much more than dark slaughter under a moonless sky for his boy.

    But, as in all things, there was no second-guessing fate.

    There had seemed little danger in the boy tagging along with the fyrd to repel an opportunistic raid. It had been years since those from across the river had done anything more than indulge in mild banditry. When they set out the week before, ?bbe had expected nothing more than a chance to give his son a taste of the boredom that came with warfare. To dispel any romantic notions he had of the heroism of the warriors he so looked up to. Few such starry-eyed ideals survived days of marching, sleeping countless nights in the mud and rain, before returning home without seeing hide or hair of the enemy.

    The tales of a minor incursion, however, had somewhat underestimated the scale of the force arrayed against them.

    ?bbe was not a stupid man, but he could not count high enough to describe the numbers of the invaders that had swarmed down the hill that morning. That their line had held at all through the day¡¯s clashes spoke less to the stoutness of the fyrd, and more as to their recognition that to break was to ensure death reached them even faster.

    He considered his boy; big for his age, but with no beard yet showing on his chin. His hair had the dusty brown blonde that spoke of the years of intermarriage between his people and those they now fought. Although, he supposed ¡®marriage¡¯ did not accurately describe the regular stealing of young women in which the various tribes engaged. He hoped his wife had her wits about her to ensure their family¡¯s safety when these invaders swept outwards towards their village.

    Wulfnoe clearly thought he had been kept from the front lines due to some misguided wish to protect him. The truth was more mundane. No one wanted a child at their shoulder in the shield wall if there were any other options. Brave he may be, but bravery only goes so far when your survival depends on the strength of the man beside you.

    Now the final battle was upon them, there was no longer that luxury. ?bbe had not sought him out because he wanted to encourage him to run; rather, it was so that no one else had to have a weak shield-mate when that last clash came. He was comfortable, as far as anyone could be, with their impending deaths. That was the way of fate, after all. But he did not want any of his friends to fall because his son could not hold the line.

    He did not want that to be his last sight in this world.

    ¡°I meant no disrespect, Wulf.¡± He held his son¡¯s eyes and smiled broadly. ¡°You are certainly no child, and I am proud to share this day with you.¡± In his peripheral vision, he could see the force at the top of the hill begin to form up.

    Whoever was in charge up there seemed to know their business. For as long as ?bbe could remember, clashes with those from across the river had been chaotic affairs. The ones painted in blue would charge, madly, towards them, and should their shield wall hold, they would push the attackers backwards until they broke. Or, much more rarely, the frenzied attack would breach their line, and things would descend into a melee.

    Today had not worked out like that.

    For a start, whoever was leading this invasion had somehow persuaded enough horses to cross the river to field a significant cavalry force. That accounted for the fyrd finding itself trapped within a tight square at the base of the hill. Although no horse would charge into a forest of shields and spears, no running man could hope to outpace pursuit on flat ground. So, they had been forced to cluster up into a tight group.

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    It was the worst possible formation for when the opposing force had archers. Oh, and a wizard.

    ?bbe could not remember the last time he had faced a wizard on the field of battle. Thirty? Forty years? He had assumed the people from across the river had lost the knowledge to produce them. That or they were all too afraid of Merlin to risk making themselves known.

    But, there he was, throwing balls of flame into what remained of the fyrd. Wooden shields could keep a man safe from inexpertly launched arrows. Fireballs, not so much.

    He pressed his hand down on his son¡¯s shoulder and turned to face the attackers. ?bbe knew how this would go. There would be a final volley from the archers, a last ball of flame from the wizard, and this would make the fyrd take refuge behind their shields. As that was launched, a mass of warriors would hurtle down the hill to crash against their front row.

    If they were lucky, the shield wall would hold, as it had three times already today. But if, as ?bbe knew it would, the line buckled, then those horsemen would immediately sweep down upon them and into the gap. He mentally rehearsed the movement of his shield arm to protect his boy from a downward swing from a mounted foe.

    He might be able to buy him the time to retreat and -

    But, no. The commander of that force would not want any word of quite how extensive was this raid to leak out. So, there would be no surrender; not that ?bbe felt anyone would wish to seek it. Tales of the grisly fate of those captured by the blue-painted ones were used to keep children up at night. ?bbe was fairly sure similar stories were probably told on the other side too, but no one was going to risk that theory.

    ¡°Arrows!¡± The shout went up, and Wulfnoe, as he had been taught, raised his shield to slot it in against his father¡¯s and the man to his other side. Seconds later, they felt repeated impacts and searing heat as a fireball followed the arrows.

    There was just a moment for Wulfnoe and ?bbe to meet each other¡¯s eyes for a final time before a horde of blue-painted warriors surged into their shields, and their line, inevitably, broke.

    ***

    I don¡¯t know if you¡¯ve ever had your soul forced inside the dead body of a dark-age warrior?

    I¡¯m going to assume not because, if you had, I would like to think you might have left the rest of us some tips. Because, as an experience, it is a lot.

    One minute, I am looking onrushing death straight in the face, and the next, I¡¯m lying on a battlefield, surrounded by mangled corpses ¨C are some of them on fire? - and a crow is trying to peck out my eye.

    Don¡¯t move.

    ¡°Sure, disembodied voice. Now is just the time for a game of musical statues. I have another eye, after all. I wouldn¡¯t want to spoil the fun.¡±

    If you move, they will see you still live, and then they will kill you.

    ¡°If I don¡¯t move, I¡¯m going to lose an eye and scream like a banshee. I imagine that will also let them see I am alive, and then they will kill me. I just will see it coming fifty per cent less well.¡±

    I am beginning to regret my choice¡ªone moment.

    I hear a caw of pain ¨C when did I get so good at interpreting the vocal stylings of birds? ¨C and then there was the unmistakable smell of roast chicken. In which I guess I was mistaken as, presumably, my unseen friend had just flash-fried the crow.

    As someone who has spent most of their . . . I guess my previous ¡®life¡¯ in a state of crippling anxiety, I was enjoying how chilled I seemed to be in my new body. Reincarnated? No problem. Unseen voices flinging magic spells at birds? Bring it on. Apparently, all those years of SSRIs could have been avoided by simply moving my soul into somewhere else¡¯s noggin. Who knew?

    Speaking of which, as I fumbled around inside my new skull for a moment, I stumbled upon the memories of the body I was now inhabiting. I seemed to be called Wulfnoe. Well, that was a hard ¡®no¡¯. I have this thing about my name being composed of letters I can pronounce. Picky, I know.

    I also seemed to be a boy.

    I turn my head and feel a little burst of sorrow at seeing the man lying next to me. That was a bit unnerving. Did that mean Wulfnoe was still in here somewhere with me? That would be weird. Weirder. Actually, that aspect of weirdness could take a ticket and get in line. Of all the weird things about today, a bit of Wulfnoe¡¯s soul still being in this body was not going to feature in the top ten.

    Anyway, the memories I had access to told me that the body I was looking at was Wulfnoe¡¯s father, ?bbe. This dude was extremely dead. From how his shield was lying partly over my body, it did not take a huge leap of deductive reasoning to recognise he had sacrificed his life to protect his son.

    He was a good man. Even at the end, he chose his son rather than his own life.

    ¡°I¡¯m sure Wulfnoe was very touched for the few more seconds of life that bought him.¡±

    It did not buy the boy any more time at all. Instead, ?bbe¡¯s sacrifice allowed me to pluck you from your own impending death and move your soul here to replace his just as it fled.

    I did not immediately have anything to say about that.

    Wulfnoe¡¯s memories overwhelm me for a moment. He seems to have had a pretty good life, as far as my understanding of sixth-century England went. Was this even England? The people in Wulfnoe¡¯s memory all looked pretty Anglo-Saxon, and there were all those weird letters too. There was a mother who seemed to care quite a lot about me. Wulfnoe. I need to keep that clear in my head, or that way madness lay. He had a bunch of siblings that hated each other with exactly the right amount of red-hot heat to suggest they were extremely close.

    And then there was ?bbe, who he adored.

    Yeah, mooching about in these memories is going to make me sad. The last thing I need right now, on top of everything else, is to realise I have possessed the body of an illiterate barbarian from the beginning of history who had a deeper emotional bond with his family than I did with my own.

    That was the sort of wound that could fester.

    A group of faces from my own life seek to swim upwards in my memory. I drown them with the ruthless efficiency of the owner of a cattery two months after a feral tom got loose.

    Goodness. That was a bleak metaphor. Moving swiftly on. ¡°I¡¯m going to need a bit of a catch-up here on what¡¯s going on, oh voice with the skill to cremate crows with the power of thought. Who are you, and what do you want with my dead arse?¡±

    I am more than happy to enlighten you, my dear. But, to reassure you, there is absolutely nothing about your arse that interests me. My name is Merlin, and I am going to need you to help me save the world.

 Chapter 2 - In which a lecture on cultivation is given

    It¡¯s much harder to commune surreptitiously with the spirit of a legendary mage than you might think. Especially when you¡¯re lying in the middle of a muddy field surrounded by the slowly decomposing bodies of what used to be your friends and family.

    Of course, I didn¡¯t personally know these guys from Adam, but it was hardly the lack of familiarity which made all this feel a bit awkward.

    ¡°Merlin? As in Arthur¡¯s Merlin?¡±

    I prefer to think of it more like he is Merlin¡¯s Arthur, but I guess that¡¯s by the by. At the very least, you¡¯ve heard of me and understand who I am. That will save us lots of time.

    ¡°Sure. For clarity, are you the kindly old duffer, like in the Disney cartoon version, or the hot, young dude from the BBC show?¡±

    I understand all the words you have just used in that sentence, my dear, but appear to be missing some vital context. For the sake of argument, let me just say that I am the recently deceased Merlin, worried he has passed from the world at a critical juncture.

    ¡°And you decided that the first move in your afterlife should be to portal the soul of a dying woman into the body of a Conan the Barbarian lookalike and ¡ª what? ¡ª see where that leads? Different strokes for different folks, I guess.¡±

    If I could have a moment to explain the highly delicate nature of what is occurring across the realms -

    ¡°I think my still-breathing corpse is about to be looted, by the way.¡±

    For goodness sake ¡ª hang on. I should be able to . . . Yes. Okay. That should stop time long enough for us to talk properly.

    At his words, the Smurf-looking dude bending over me stopped moving. But, he didn¡¯t just stop moving like he was startled that the body beneath him was still alive. It was more like he suddenly became an image on a bad VHS tape and someone had pressed ¡®pause¡¯. Even down to him flickering like he was stuck between frames.

    I reached up and touched the hand he had been using to take the pouch on my belt. Even though it was blipping in and out, it was still completely solid and real. I scrabbled to my feet from under him and looked around the rest of the battlefield.

    Everything, the other soldiers, the horses, even the birds in the sky, looked as if they had been turned into a slightly blurry two-dimensional picture.

    It was too good an opportunity to miss.

    What are you doing?

    I carried on repositioning my prospective looter¡¯s hand on the crotch of one of the other guys ransacking corpses. I had already moved the lip of a broken shield underneath the descending foot of another soldier so that, when time restarted, it would ping upwards in the best tradition of rakes and Wily-E-Coyote.

    ¡°Are you kidding me? This is like one of those superpowers you fantasise about having as a kid. You know, so you can stop time and then mess with everyone so they totally freak out when time restarts. Don¡¯t tell me you haven¡¯t pulled something like this around the Round Table: I¡¯m sure Lancelot would be an absolute monster for it. Now, where¡¯s a bucket of water when you need one?¡±

    If I can just draw us back to the issue of the end of the world for a moment . . .

    I sighed, empathising with how Bilbo felt when Gandalf wouldn¡¯t just let him get on enjoying reading his books and eating his breakfast. ¡°What you need to understand here, Merlin, is that I¡¯m dead. I died. It¡¯s over. Croaked it. Kaput. My watch is ended. Sure, I probably would have liked a few more decades to really try to nail down adulting, but I can make my peace with this being all she wrote. Now, here you are trying to get me back on the whole ¡®life¡¯ merry-go-round, and I¡¯m not seeing it as the wonderful opportunity you clearly do.¡±

    I looked around, trying to find a focus for my monologue, but the wizard remained resolutely incorporeal. ¡°Out of the two of us, I think I¡¯m the one having the more mature response to the whole ¡®end-of-life¡¯, thing. Here I am, just rolling with the whole isekai vibe you¡¯re pulling on me. Whereas you¡¯re mithering about how important you were and wondering if the world can cope without you in it. It sounds like Merlin might have quite the high opinion of himself . . . Mate, look at it this way. We¡¯re both in the same dead boat. And that particular nautical vessel doesn¡¯t have any skin in the game over the ending of the world.¡±

    You can pretend you feel no sorrow for your passing, but we both know your heart is not as callous as you seek to suggest. I could feel your ambivalence at your moment of death. Yes, there was considerable relief for the cessation of considerable pain, but there was regret and sorrow intertwined with that too.

    ¡°Maybe. But saving the world? It¡¯s not like I was a ¡®do-the-right-thing¡¯ girl in my own timeline. On my best day, I¡¯d not have been your go-to person for a quest more significant than a hunt for a properly brewed cup of tea. And that was when I was me! The heart that I¡¯ve got right now is from some dude called Wulfnoe, who has just seen his dad killed, and his friends hacked down around him. I¡¯m not sure his blood-pumper is filled with sunshine and rainbows for the continuing existence of the universe either.¡±

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    Wulfnoe was an honourable boy. Just as you are an honourable woman. You both had great potential as cultivators. Indeed, you may have made the very heavens tremble in other worlds and at different times. I say to you that had he not fallen this day, I would have sought to use him in the way I now appeal to you.

    ¡°Merlin, mate. You¡¯re not hearing me. The boy¡¯s dead. I¡¯m dead. You¡¯re dead. There¡¯s a theme here. What does it matter to us if the world ends? We¡¯re dead already!¡±

    Because if you do not help me avoid the upcoming cataclysm, your whole timeline will be wiped out.

    ¡°That¡¯s not the dealbreaker you seem to think it is. I¡¯m dead. What do I care if people are robbed of Dave Filoni¡¯s next outrage? In fact, if you¡¯d offered me the end-of-the-world or another seven hours of Ashoka, I¡¯d need to take a moment. We could be doing people a favour.¡±

    You might profess not to care ¡ª I do not believe you by the way. The occupational hazard of being, well, me, is that I can see the truth in most things ¡ª but even if you do not care about the world in general, I think you¡¯d hesitate to condemn your sister to never coming into existence.

    Man, wizards. They sure know which buttons to press.

    ***

    We¡¯d walked a distance away from the battlefield. I say ¡®we¡¯, but I guess I mean that I walked, and the disembodied voice of Merlin continued to lecture me from inside my head. Fortunately, years of conversations with my mother prepared me well for such a situation.

    I should say it was quite a thing to walk through a time-frozen landscape. You take so many things for granted when walking in the ¡®real¡¯ world that suddenly do not happen when time stops.

    For example, let me talk to you about blades of grass.

    In a timeless universe, these bloody lethal spikes of death do not gently collapse under your feet. No sir. They stay perfectly solid and rigid and shred the seemingly solid leather boots your new body is wearing. I wondered if people who put up the ¡®Do not walk on the grass¡¯ signs are time-travelling altruists anxious to save humanity.

    When Merlin judged we were far enough from the army, he released his hold on time, and I felt the world flow back into existence. I cocked an ear, hopefully, to see if the sound of shield-hitting-nose could be heard, but ¡ª as with so many things lately ¡ª I was to be disappointed.

    In the end, I just couldn¡¯t take it anymore. ¡°Okay. I get it. No need to keep belabouring the point. You believe you¡¯ve died at the wrong moment in time, and because of this the whole world will turn out differently. Let¡¯s take that and bank it. Merlin is gone, the world is screwed. We¡¯re on the same page.¡±

    A thought occurred to me. ¡°Aren¡¯t you supposed to be walled up for all time by the Lady in the Lake? I mean, that¡¯s not much better than death, I get it, but I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever read that you just straight up died?¡±

    There was what I assume to have been an awkward silence. Not having had much experience with legendary wizards, it was difficult to judge the etiquette.

    What do you know about cultivation?

    The non-segue took me by surprise. That, and the fact that word took me back fifteen years to an ex-boyfriend¡¯s flat, and a pile of comics that he would defend to the death, were highbrow art and not low-key porn. ¡°Some. I¡¯ve read a few of the more well-known titles. The idea is that you get stronger by improving yourself. Like, inside and out? So, to mix genres, it¡¯s not just hacking down orcs for XP like in Warcraft. It¡¯s about understanding yourself better and meditating on your experiences. So, quality, not quantity. Oh. And there¡¯s pills. Lots and lots of pills.¡±

    That explanation is . . . not totally without merit.

    ¡°Don¡¯t burst a blood vessel with all the praise, mate. You know, I had teachers like you, Merlin. You should try turning that frown upside down once in a while.¡±

    What I mean is you appear to grasp something of the essence of what I wish to explain which pleases me greatly. I was a cultivator for many centuries ¨C making myself ¡®better¡¯ in your words. By improving myself, I significantly improved my lifespan and hence was able to increase my impact on the world.

    There was a pause, and I worried we¡¯d somehow been cut off. Was bad phone signal a thing in the sixth century?

    I am sorry to say I became a touch blas¨¦ about my progress. It had all come so easily to me that I did not, for a moment, think that I would fail to keep moving through the realms. After all, I had opened my meridians before I lost my first milk tooth. My dantian was full, and I had forced open my eight further meridians, before my twentieth birthday. I mastered all elemental affinities before my thirtieth year ¡­

    I going to be honest, I started to tune out a little here. I kind of felt like Merlin had invited me around for dinner and was now showing me all his holiday photographs. Whilst these accomplishments obviously meant an awful lot to him, it was just a lot of words I did not really understand. Like waxing lyrical about how beautifully the light hit the Acropolis at sunset. Sure, sounds great, but can I get another beer?

    ¡­ and so I never truly focused on forming my Qi core.

    The pause in his lecture sounded like a response was required. ¡°I feel you, mate. The number of times I found myself at McDonald¡¯s rather than at spin class. Focusing on that core is hard when life gets in the way.¡±

    I don¡¯t know if it should be possible for a disembodied voice to express quite so much frustration, but the Big M gave it a good go. What I am trying to explain is that I became too focused on what I could achieve in the material world and neglected my spiritual journey. I thought I was doing the right thing, but now I sense the world will not progress as intended because of my failure.

    ¡°So where do I come in?¡±

    If, through my own selfishness, I have allowed a hole to appear in the fabric of the world, it is surely my final duty to ensure it is repaired. Thus, at the moment of my death, I sought to leave a part of myself behind to begin that work. Across time, I have searched for anyone with the potential to replace me and perform my role in this realm.

    ¡°And the best you could come up with was me? Dude, that¡¯s a crushingly low bar.¡±

    Far from it, my dear. I have been searching across time for millennia. However, each and every time I identified a potential successor, something ¨C or more likely someone ¨C has ensured the focus of my search became unavailable to me.

    ¡°By double booking them to play the Roxy?¡±

    By murdering them. In all the realms to which I have access, across all of time, thousands upon thousands of potentials have been snuffed out at the moment I sought to approach them. Imagine my despair when I found myself down to the last two possible beings in all of creation with the potential to take up my mantle. And then, just as I reached out to them both, at the same moment, they were wiped out. One in a battle where the odds, surprisingly, turned against him. And the other ¨C

    ¡°Let me guess. Did she fall in front of an articulated lorry?¡±

 Chapter 3 - In which I commit an act of wanton animal cruelty

    ¡°That¡¯s some serious Jessica Fletcher energy you¡¯ve got going on there, Merlin. Ever thought that, maybe, if you left these people alone, they wouldn¡¯t all end up horribly murdered?¡±

    Silence.

    Was it possible I had finally exhausted Merlin¡¯s last nerve? It said nothing good about my personality that spending such a short time with a mythical being capable of travelling across the aeons of space and time, I had already managed to bludgeon them into speechlessness. Maybe every single one of my exes was right after all?

    I was just packing that wonderful thought away into the mental box marked ¡®not enough therapy in the world¡¯ when a low growl caught my attention. I spun around to see a disconcertingly large wolf enter the clearing. Not, I should be clear, that there would be a size of wolf that I would find concerting. Concerting: was that even a word? What was the opposite of disconcerting?

    As with most moments of stress in my life, the verbal diarrhoea had begun.

    ¡°Any chance you have another one of the crow-cooking firebolts handy, Big M?¡±

    Silence.

    The wolf stalked towards me. Despite a number of relationships that had ended in a less-than-amicable way, I had never truly appreciated the majesty of being genuinely ¡®stalked¡¯. I can absolutely confirm this wolf did it with style. With each step, sway and undulation of its body, it well and truly stalked the shit out of me.

    Backing away as fast as my legs could carry me, I searched Wulfnoe¡¯s memories to see if there were any gems of wisdom to be gleaned there. It seemed the key to survival in such a situation as this was . . . to never be alone in the woods with a wolf of this size. In his extensive experience of such things, having at least six or seven warriors, each armed with a stone-tipped spear, was pretty much the minimum expectation for making it out of this situation alive.

    Cheers for that, Wulfnoe. Never let it be said you don¡¯t have my back.

    I felt myself press against a tree. I was right at the edge of the clearing. I briefly considered running, but I didn¡¯t think there were all those fairy stories about deep forests, young women and wolves because that was a viable survival scenario. ¡°Good wolf. Nice wolf. Tell you what, there¡¯s a whole battlefield of dead bodies over there. Give it a few hours, and it¡¯ll be a veritable smorgasbord for a growing wolf. You don¡¯t want to fill yourself up on this stringy body. I barely want to bother with it, truth be told. But it¡¯s the only one I¡¯ve got at the moment.¡±

    If my words had any impact on the Big Bad Wolf, it didn¡¯t stop it from getting closer.

    There was a moment ¡ª a decent one, to be honest ¡ª where I basically just shrugged. I wasn¡¯t sold on being reincarnated or iskeid or portalled or whatever the fuck you want to call this. I didn¡¯t wake up this morning and have ¡®get eaten by a wolf¡¯ on my dance card, but I¡¯m a broadminded girl and I¡¯ve always been open to new experiences. I meant what I¡¯d said to Merlin about being pretty much done with it all.

    But then there had been the whole condemn your sister to never coming into existence plot twist and I needed some time to properly digest that. I¡¯d run my race and had few regrets at punching my ticket out. Well, to be fair, I¡¯d started running my race, got distracted by all the fun things there were to do rather than running and ended up in a blissful heap on the side of the road. But Zizzie? Nope. I wasn¡¯t ready to call time for her. Yet.

    Punch it on the nose.

    All my life, I¡¯ve suffered from intrusive thoughts. You know, the little voice in your head that tells you to do things you really shouldn¡¯t: push your boss down the stairs, tell her she looks fat in that dress, step into the middle of the road.

    For the most part, until recently, I¡¯ve kept them at bay. But now, as I circled around, trying to keep a safe distance from the last sight Red Riding Hood¡¯s grandma ever saw, I was wondering how often that little voice was, in reality, an ancient wizard seeking to teach me some sort of lesson about life, the universe and Qi.

    Fill your fist with energy and punch it on the nose.

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    ¡°You know you sound like an absolute mentalist when you say things like that. No sane person punches a wolf on the nose. That¡¯s very close to the bit with all the teeth.¡±

    It¡¯s going to leap . . .

    I threw myself to the left as the wolf suddenly bounded forward. Its jaws snapped inches from where my head had been, and I crashed with no elegance whatsoever to the ground. Hurriedly, I dragged myself back to my feet, just as the wolf turned to follow me, snuffling as it did so. I may have been anthropomorphising the whole thing a little, but I couldn¡¯t help but imagine it grinning at my pathetic show of defiance.

    This is an entirely mundane animal. If it had the faintest idea of your cultivation potential it would not dare to be within a hundred miles. Direct some Qi into your hands and kill it, we have more important things to discuss.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about!¡±

    There are several different schools of thought about how best to impart knowledge. Socrates, of course, pioneered the question-and-answer system. On the other hand, many favour the more direct, didactic approach. I, it will not surprise you to learn, subscribe to my own individual method.

    ¡°Which is?¡± The wolf and I had completed one entire circuit of the clearing and I sensed it was about to attack again.

    What doesn¡¯t kill the apprentice makes them stronger. I have given you the solution to your problem. It is now up to you.

    With a sudden burst of speed, the wolf lunged towards me. Instinctively, I raised my arms, attempting to shield my face, and its teeth sliced into my forearm. I kick out, desperately trying to push it away. As the wolf was clearly still in ¡®playing with its food¡¯ mode, it backed away from my kick and looked at me, tilting its head as if to say, ¡°is that the best you got?¡±

    I scanned my surroundings frantically. There was literally nowhere for me to go, other than back towards the army. Proper frying pan and fire stuff. Cursing Merlin with every word I knew, I kept moving, trying not to turn my back to the wolf. It snarled and leaped again, with me diving to the right this time ¡ª got to keep things fresh¡ª my heart racing. I could feel pain throbbing through my arm, but fear and adrenaline kept me moving.

    I knew I couldn''t outlast it. Wolves are built for sustained effort, and I''m ¡ª basically ¡ª built for eating cake and judging the sex lives of celebrities. I was already feeling the strain of the fight and the blood loss was a bitch. I need to end this quickly. I stooped and picked up a sizable rock. As the wolf approached for another pass, I swung with all my might, aiming for its head.

    The impact barely registered ¡ª seriously, it''s not even stunned ¡ª and it snaps and growls back at me. As it did so, I felt drool spatter my face. I recognise that was not the worst thing I had experienced in the last day or so, but this was my final straw for some reason.

    My hands were suddenly hot. Not ¡®tried-to-pull-the-baking-tray-straight-from-the-oven¡¯ hot, more like they had suddenly filled with magic and turned into two orbs of pulsing light. Which was a pretty good description of what was at the end of my arms. Although, right now, it helped a bit to think of them as Wulfnoe¡¯s arms.

    The wolf bowled back into me and pinned me to the ground under its weight. In a panic, I grabbed its head to keep its teeth away from snapping around my head like a bear trap. The snarling was utterly disconcerting, quite apart from the approaching likelihood of being devoured.

    In desperation, I slipped my glowing hands between its jaws to prevent them from chomping down on me. Blood flowed from bites there, as well as from my earlier arm wound. And with that, I was absolutely done with all this. I hadn¡¯t been able to do much about a truck mowing me down on the main road, but I was not having ¡®eaten by a wolf¡¯ on my tombstone.

    Without really knowing what I was doing, it occurred to me to try to pull the wolf¡¯s jaws apart. I could hear it yelp in pain as its mouth was forced wide open. And then a bit more open. And then a bit more. And then I ripped the animal entirely in two with a final heave.

    If I had found getting some of the animal¡¯s drool on my arm to be pretty offensive, it was as to nothing to my response to the tsunami of blood, bodily fluids and crap that covered me from the dismembered carcass. I quickly added my own pool of vomit to the wonderful fragrance that now infected the air around me.

    That was . . . quite something.

    ¡°Can¡¯t talk, Merlin, being sick.¡±

    Yes, that can often be a side-effect of a cultivator¡¯s first use of their Qi.

    ¡°I think it¡¯s more the smell of everything that should be inside a wolf suddenly being on the outside of me, to be honest. But sure, if you want. The Qi thing too.¡±

    You should see if you can gather the essence from that beast. It will make you feel better.

    ¡°And after I do that, I¡¯ll percolate the doodad on the thingymajib.¡±

    Sorry, my language skill must have failed for a moment. That sounded like gibberish. Can you repeat it?

    ¡°Mate, I really don¡¯t have a clue what I¡¯m doing here. It¡¯s been no time at all since I died, I¡¯m suddenly in the body of a young boy, talking to Merlin, having just ripped a sodding wolf into two pieces. And I have no one around who will appreciate the joke I want to make.¡±

    You can tell me the joke.

    ¡°Don¡¯t patronise me, Big M. I know your deal is all about the Qi and the essence and the saving the world from shadowy forces that are killing potentials.¡±

    I can do all that and still appreciate a good joke.

    ¡°Really?¡±

    Really.

    ¡°Okay. Well, you see that wolf?¡±

    I do.

    ¡°He tried to bite off more than he could chew.¡±

    I¡¯m ready for you to tell me the joke now.

    ¡°Fuck you, Merlin.¡±

 Chapter 3.5 - In which the act of absorbing essence is made unnecessarily sexual

    It took quite some time, but I eventually grasped what Merlin meant about gathering the essence from the body of the wolf. If I did something funny with my eyes ¨C like doing one of the Magic Eye books that were popular when I was a kid ¨C I could see these ugly red glowing blobs floating above both halves of the animal.

    The effect was creepy as all hell, especially with the sun starting to fall. Apparently, what I needed to do, according to Merlin, was pull that red light into my body and then . . . well, the way he put it, I needed to think about it for a bit.

    ¡°Mate, I¡¯ve spent many a long hour pondering my choice to put things in my body that were probably a bad idea. Like Tom Barnes, the first year of uni.¡±

    I sense there is some sort of underlying sexual innuendo here rather than it being a statement of fact. Should I be laughing?

    If I was going to remain sane in this new world, Merlin would have to develop a sense of humour, or I would need some new friends. Speaking of which . . .

    ¡°Should we be worried about the army coming this way? Do you know which way they will be heading?¡±

    I would rather you focus on gathering this essence rather than worrying about the world¡¯s trials. Remember, the reason why I am in this predicament is ignoring opportunities like these in order to run off and save people.

    I sensed Merlin had issues about our situation that he probably needed to work through himself. I tried to move the conversation back to safer ground.

    ¡°What happened with my hands back there? You said I should push my Qi into them?¡±

    Cultivators, even ones as newly awakened to the path as you, can have a significant level of control over their Qi. Moving energy to your fists to temporarily increase your strength is one of the earliest usages most talented children learn.

    Ignoring what I sensed was a touch of passive-aggression there, I pressed onwards. ¡°But I didn¡¯t move it on purpose. My hands suddenly were hot and I was strong enough to rip it in half.¡±

    I may have . . . given things a bit of a nudge.

    ¡°How?¡±

    When I pulled you into this realm, I needed to anchor this fragment of my spirit to yours. That gives me some ¡ª limited ¡ª access to your Qi. Not enough to do anything impressive, but I can certainly, for example, manifest a small fireball, or briefly pause time, or guide a small amount of energy to where it is needed in your body.

    ¡°Apropos of nothing, I have always thought ¡®The Host¡¯ was a far better novel than ¡®Twilight¡¯.¡±

    Ah. I do recognise that reference, my dear. No. Nothing like that, I assure you. On the three occasions, I have used your Qi thus far, it has been for an outcome you desired. I merely facilitated your wish. And even doing that has left me significantly exhausted. Please, believe me, I will not be taking control of your Qi against your will.

    I was pretty sure Eddie Brock may have had similar conversations. But that was a problem for another day.

    ¡°So, what¡¯s the deal with¡± ¡ª I gestured towards the two red spheres still floating in the air above the pieces of the wolf ¡ª ¡°absorbing this stuff?¡±

    Cultivators can increase their amount of available Qi by, over many years, meditating and reflecting upon the nature of life and existence. Slowly, but surely, each cycle accumulates more and more energy, and those that choose that path can progress in that way. On the other hand . . .¡±

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    ¡°Oh, let me guess, you can kill loads of things and drain the Qi out of them until you¡¯re King of Qi hill. I¡¯m going to call that The Highlander approach.¡±

    It is an awful lot more complicated than that, and it is important to combine both approaches to cultivation. But yes, one of the quickest ways for you to . . . the only words I can find in your vocabulary to adequately explain the process are ¡®level up¡¯. Does that make sense?

    ¡°Mate, ask the continent of Tamriel if that makes sense. I¡¯m all about the level up.¡±

    I didn¡¯t think the silence that followed was one of awe.

    ***

    Merlin had said I needed to ¡°breathe the essence in¡±. Which sounded gross when he put it like that, but then again, I was covered in crusted wolf guts, so who was I to judge?

    We¡¯d been trying for hours ¡ª and I was getting dangerously close to hyperventilation ¡ª when the sphere on the right-hand side twitched and then flew straight into my mouth. I gagged and then swallowed the unexpected red energy down. ¡°Yep,¡± I thought. ¡°Exactly like Tom Barnes.¡±

    You need to visualise what happens next.

    I closed my eyes and mentally tracked the journey of the wolf¡¯s Qi into my body. The only way I could make sense of it was that it was like a blob of red paint being poured onto a pristine blank canvas. I knew ¡ª I have no idea how, but I did ¡ª that this sheet of white represented my spirit. The red paint, the absorbed wolf¡¯s Qi I presumed, had simply plonked itself down in the middle of my canvas.

    I wasn¡¯t quite sure what I was supposed to be doing next.

    Then, as if out of nowhere, the redness was surrounded by a small pool of liquid that I instinctively knew was my Qi. It was purple, which had always been my favourite colour in my paintings, and within a few seconds, it had completely overwhelmed and mixed in with the redness, seemingly absorbing it into a slightly bigger blob.

    Then I was back in the real world, looking at a second orb of red floating above a wolf¡¯s carcass. I sucked that one down much easier this time. It hit the blank canvas with a Pollockseque splat, and was assimilated much quicker in the same way. To my untutored eye, my pool of purple liquid felt more substantial than it had before pulling in the wolf¡¯s red light.

    Interesting. How did your mind make sense of that process?

    I explained the painting metaphor: that the red colour was absorbed into the purple liquid.

    Well, isn¡¯t that quaint, my dear? For me, it was like adding tiny drops of water to a giant ocean. As the end approached, I just couldn¡¯t find enough water to pour into it to make it overflow. Without that breakthrough, I died.

    I didn¡¯t know what to say to that.

    Although I think we are going to need to seek to progress more from violence than prayer, it would help if you spent time meditating on what you did to the wolf. Think about the sensation of Qi being channelled into your hands and how you then pulled the wolf¡¯s essence inside you. Take your time. You¡¯ve accomplished more in an afternoon than most people achieve in their lifetime ¨C if that doesn¡¯t prove you were the right person to put my faith in, nothing will.

    But I wasn¡¯t really listening. A voice, not Merlin¡¯s, was whispering in my mind. It was getting quite crowded in here.

    ¡°That army. Where will they be heading next?¡±

    It¡¯s an invasion force. They¡¯ll follow the route of the fyrd back to the various villages. Why?

    I was suddenly overcome with images of a woman with kind eyes stroking my hair. Brothers and sisters playing with me in the fields. A house. Friends. A lost father whose last action was to keep me alive.

    ¡°They¡¯re heading to Wulfnoe¡¯s village. We have to stop them.¡±

    Stop them? It¡¯s an army, my dear. You may have a newfound talent for disposing of wildlife, but don¡¯t think for one moment you are ready to confront even a small group of people, let alone armed ones. Please don¡¯t fall into my trap. If we¡¯re going to achieve anything, we cannot be distracted by minutiae.

    An image of my sister¡¯s face suddenly replaced those of Wulfnoe¡¯s family. I¡¯d never had much truck with having a conscience during my life, but there had been moments when the horror of explaining my actions to Zizzie had stopped me from straying too far off reservation. If the whole point of staying alive was in order to keep her existing, I was damned if I was going to do things I¡¯d be embarrassed to tell her.

    ¡°If you want me to ever speak to you again, do not describe people in danger as ¡®minutiae¡¯. We don¡¯t have to fight the army, but we need to warn Wulfnoe¡¯s family what¡¯s coming.¡±

    I started to run before realising I had no idea where I was going. ¡®Merlin, which way?¡¯

    There was a pause before the wizard replied. So be it.

    And we blinked out of existence.

 Chapter 4 - In which I glow up

    ¡°We¡¯ll need a signal if you plan to do that again. I¡¯m thinking something like ¡°Mr Scott, beam us up¡± What do you think?¡±

    Noted. Can we make this as quick as possible, please? The outriders from the invasion force will be here shortly.

    ¡°Dude, you can stop time. Do we need to be worried about hurrying up?¡±

    My dear, I don¡¯t really know how else to put this in ways you will understand. I am not what I was before. At the moment of my death, most of what constituted ¡®me¡¯ - the ¡®me¡¯ with almost limitless power and capacity for such shenanigans - moved onwards to whatever lies beyond. What has been left behind has much of my wisdom, to be sure, but my ability to influence this world is finite and undoubtedly limited in scope. As we discussed, I can make use of your Qi to a certain extent, but I have already, in our short acquaintance, done more at your request than I had ever planned for. You need to understand there will soon come a time when I have nothing left to give.

    ¡°You can just ask me to stop bugging you, you know. No need to go all Mufasa on me.¡±

    I had reappeared on the outskirts of what probably was a fairly impressive dark-age village. I mean, Fred Flintstone would probably have looked askance at the plumbing, but the huts had roofs on them, so score one for fledgling architecture.

    I started to walk towards the biggest of the buildings and paused. ¡°Any advice on how I play this? The benefit of all that collected wisdom would be much appreciated.¡±

    You can either pretend to be Wulfnoe to deliver the news of the impending assault or change your shape to something you are more comfortable in and spread the word that way.

    ¡°I can do that?¡±

    If you pay heed to my advice, you will soon learn there is very little in this world that you are not able to achieve. A true cultivator has no limits to their power and ambition within this world. Indeed, the gods themselves will tremble should you reach the potential I feel exists inside you.

    ¡°When you were alive, Merlin, did people tend to glaze over when you said things like that?¡±

    Initially. But I had them flayed alive, and their children fed to my dogs. Attention spans seemed to improve after that. There was a pause. That was a joke.

    ¡°Right. For future reference, shall we try to keep the humour a bit lighter? You know, let¡¯s function at the level of friendly banter rather than focusing on the hypothetical murdering of children?¡±

    Everyone¡¯s a critic.

    ¡°Okay, so shapeshifting is a thing. That¡¯s a trip. So, am I able to make it so I look like my old self? I¡¯m not sure I have it in me for some Freaky Friday shit with Wulfnoe¡¯s mum.¡±

    If you have a strong impression of how you would like to look, you can channel your Qi in such a way as to make alterations to your physical form.

    ¡°You keep saying ¡®channel your Qi¡¯ as if I¡¯m supposed to understand what you mean.¡±

    I know. If only I had been able to spend some time with you dedicated to helping you train, rather than teleporting you around the countryside on urgent missions. It is almost like you might start to get the answers for which you are looking if you¡¯d take even a smidgen of advice. Some may say that shutting up and hanging on the every word a legendary expert in magic would probably be a sensible course of action if you ever want to master the art yourself . . .

    ¡°Been holding that in for a while, big fella?¡±

    Indeed. In the spirit of moving things along, on this occasion, I will have to provide significant guidance and support to the way your Qi goes about the reshaping. This will, as I have mentioned, reduce my long-term viability in this realm. However, I can see the merit in advancing your practice in this area, and I am willing to do it.

    I sensed a ¡®thank you¡¯ was being fished for here. I wasn¡¯t biting. ¡°And if, just hypothetically, I wanted to make improvements to the original me, would that be possible?¡±

    All things are possible to a cultivator of sufficient capabilities. Hold an image in your head of how you would like to look, and I will do the rest. Please understand that we are going to need to spend considerable timing learning what ¡®the rest¡¯ entails. I do not want you relying on me as a . . . I think you would term it ¡®cheat code¡¯ over and over again. You need to learn these techniques yourself.

    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    With that, I felt a warmth wash over me like my whole body had become wax. There was probably a more technical way to describe it, but it was like Merlin had basically turned me into human playdough. Hurriedly, I considered the image of ¡®me¡¯ I had in my head and, just as quickly, discarded it.

    Don¡¯t judge, but having spent most of my life wishing that I looked differently than the face that peered back at me from the mirror, I suddenly was a touch leery about going back to that. Tell me someone who wouldn¡¯t want to make a few improvements if the most powerful wizard in the world offered them a makeover . . .

    It would help if you had a clear conception of how you wish to look in your head. I cannot work with vague thoughts of ¡®me only better.¡¯ It would be best if you hurried up and settled on an image; this is a highly intensive use of your limited Qi .whilst you prevaricate.

    Various celebrities ran through my head. After all, who would know? It was not like I was going to bump into Anne Hathaway in downtown Camelot.

    My dear, if you want me to do this, it has to be now.

    But then I remembered one of my favourite paintings: Dicksee¡¯s ¡®La Belle Dame sans Merci. I loved that picture: a print of it had hung in every place I had lived since I was sixteen. You¡¯d know it if you saw it, it¡¯s the one with the woman on horseback leaning over to ensorcel a knight in armour that is walking at her side. Although Dicksee was not a pre-Raphaelite, he absolutely channels their vibe, so his Belle Dame has a flower crown atop her mass of cascading red hair, has porcelain skin that never saw a moment outside in its life and is wearing a floaty pink dress that I searched every charity shop up and down the county to try to re-enact.

    Are you sure that¡¯s what you looked like? My memory suggests different.

    ¡°You¡¯re an old, dead wizard. Who cares what you think you remember? I know what I want to look like.¡±

    So be it. And my body shifted.

    Have you ever had a massage from someone who took your knots as a personal insult? That is what Merlin¡¯s reshaping of Wulfnoe¡¯s body felt like. Everywhere. All over. All at once. I would have screamed long and hard if my lungs were not being squished around within a new ribcage and my neck was not being stretched like a chicken being prepared for the Sunday table.

    I¡¯m sure it only took a moment, but I genuinely had never felt agony like it. When the shaping was over, I dropped to the floor, panting.

    ¡°Did it work?¡±

    Of course. I did mention I was the most powerful wizard in the world. Even this reduced echo can do a fundamental physical reshaping without ¨C oh. Bugger.

    I waited for a moment to catch my breath. But Merlin¡¯s voice did not return. ¡®Big M? You still there?¡¯

    Nothing.

    Considering the last time my disembodied companion had vanished, a wolf attacked me; this did not feel like a good development. I went to stand and then noticed a further new and disturbing development.

    My new body was not at all like Wulfnoe. And, whilst that had been kind of the point of the torture I had encouraged Merlin to put me through, neither of us had foreseen that this might lead to ¡­ sartorial challenges.

    ¡°Who in the heavens are you?¡±

    I turned, naked as the day I was born, to see two women standing near me. They were carrying buckets filled with water, having clearly just returned from a nearby spring.

    I immediately took advantage of hair that now tumbled down to my knees to cover up what remained of my modesty. These people had never heard of Cousin Itt, and thus an opportunity for some Addams Family based humour was missed.

    Maybe there would be time later.

    ¡°Hi¡±¡¯ I waved awkwardly, noting my new, extremely thin arms were the colour of milk. I was surprised the moon wasn¡¯t burning me. Damn you, Frank Dicksee. There isn¡¯t going to be enough aloe vera in the world.

    ¡°What¡¯s a Celt doing here?¡±

    Ah. The red hair. That could be a problem ...

    I rallied magnificently. ¡°Take me to your leader; I come with an urgent warning.¡±

    The two women looked at each other and then back at me. The older of them scratched her nose in contemplation. ¡°I don¡¯t know about any ¡®leader¡¯, but Old Dudda would probably like to talk to a naked Celt. What do you think?¡±

    The other shook her head. ¡°He¡¯d like to gawp, don¡¯t know if he¡¯ll be interested in talking. Mind you, he ain¡¯t been able to do anything with it for years, so she¡¯d be safe with him. You speak true about a warning?¡±

    I nodded, a deep red blush spreading across my face. You¡¯d think you¡¯d be less shy when it wasn¡¯t your own body on display. Turns out that¡¯s not true.

    The women looked at each other and seemed to come to a decision. ¡®Better wake up Ealdgye, then.¡¯ They started to walk away from me, then stopped to indicate for me to follow. ¡°Come on, she¡¯ll be pissed enough as it is, might as well get it over with. Do you have a name, Celt?¡±

    And that was an interesting question. Did I have a name? I wasn¡¯t Wulfnoe any longer, that was clear. But was a part of him still here? Something in me smiled in recognition of the two women guiding me through the wooden huts. There were visions of a beating from the younger one, Hild, for stealing food and of the other one laughing as I ¨C as Wulfnoe ¨C played at her feet. She was called Leoffl?d.

    She was my mother. Wulfnoe¡¯s mother.

    I shook my head to clear it. This would be a good time for Merlin to explain exactly what relationship I had with the boy whose body I had possessed. Especially as it was not even his body anymore. But, no, that voice remained steadfastly silenced.

    ¡°Did you hear me, Celt? What should we call you?¡±

    A plethora of names ran through my head. New body. New me. But I needed something that would help me fit in. I could use the title of the poem my body was based on. Belle? But that seemed to invite a future where I¡¯d need to break an enchantment on a tea set, and there was already enough weirdness in my life.

    Anglo-Saxon names wouldn¡¯t work ¨C not with all the hair and the skin. They¡¯d penned me as a Celt, so I needed to lean into that. What did I know about Arthurian legend that would help me blend in somewhat? Well, there was one name. And Merlin had suggested I was going to be his apprentice, hadn¡¯t he?

    ¡°Morgan. You can call me Morgan. Morgan Le Fay.¡±

 Chapter 4.5 - In which I meet a strong, independent woman

    Ealdgye was undoubtedly not amused to be woken up.

    She likewise took exception to my nakedness, my Celtishness, my name, and to ¡­ well, pretty much every single thing about me.

    My only crumb of comfort was that, as the women accompanying me were not spared the whip of her tongue, this seemed to be her usual state of being rather than anything particularly personal.

    I eventually managed to quell the flow of invective coming my way long enough to mention the rapidly approaching army. Ealdgye paused shouting for long enough to blink at me for a few seconds in silence.

    ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid, girl. The fyrd will meet with them long before they reach us.¡±

    ¡°The fyrd has been defeated.¡± I felt the older woman behind me sag a little at the knees at that. I half turned so that I could look at her. ¡°I¡¯m afraid there were no survivors.¡± Considering I¡¯ve been known to fall into a puddle of tears when I¡¯d run out of cookies, I felt Leoffl?d took that double body blow like a champ.

    Ealdgye was shouting at me again, so I turned back. ¡°A cow raid defeats two hundred spearmen? I see tales of Celtish naivety are well made.¡±

    ¡°I can only tell you what I saw. I come from a field of battle on which men painted blue were looting hundreds of corpses.¡±

    ¡°Did truly no one escape? My son and husband ¨C¡±

    I did not turn around this time. I could hear the tears in her voice. I drew on Wulfnoe¡¯s memories to try to explain what had occurred as fully as possible. The woman deserved that. ¡°The enemy forces were present in far greater numbers than a mere cow raid. As well as spearmen, I saw archers, horsemen, and even signs of a wizard. It looked to me that the presence of the horsemen pinned down your men, and despite holding bravely throughout the day, the shield wall eventually broke under the pressure.¡±

    ¡°You watched them clash throughout the day?¡±

    Shit. Ealdgye was a sharp one. ¡°I am adept at reading the signs of war.¡± Bloody hell, I was properly embracing my role as a mysterious stranger. I¡¯d be offering prophecies next.

    The angry woman stared at me for a long moment as if deciding whether to believe me or have me drowned as a witch. It was not clear she cared much either way. Eventually, she broke the silence, her voice heavy with exhaustion. ¡°An invasion. From those who have not crossed the river in such numbers for decades. For them to have driven horses across the water stands not within the prospect of belief¡ªno more than they would have access to a wizard. And, on top of that, you speak of the slaughter of all our men. That¡¯s four times our doom you pronounce, fire hair.¡±

    ¡°She says her name¡¯s Morgan.¡± Hild¡¯s voice came from the back of the hut; she had moved to comfort the older woman.

    ¡°You came to us to spin your tale, Morgan. What would you have from us? What boon do you seek from a people to whom you bring such news?¡±

    I feared a drowning was looming increasingly prominent in my future. ¡°I followed the path of the fyrd back to you. The invaders will soon be doing the same. I came with a warning. I would have you run.¡±

    Her eyes flashed, and she glanced around at Hild and Leoffl?d. ¡°Thoughts?¡±

    ¡°I see no benefit for her in treachery. If the fyrd still lives, they will return soon. Our men are not so hopeless as to fall apart because the village is temporarily empty. We can soon return if all she says is a fantasy. But, if what the Celt says is true, she gives us a chance to escape capture or worse.¡± Leoffl?d spoke softly. Something in me urged me to turn and hug her tightly.

    ¡°I see no downside in taking to the hills.¡± Hild chimed in.

    Ealdgye came to a decision. ¡°We leave. Spread the word of what this one has shared. Put out the fires, gather up the children, take what provisions can be carried, and everyone is to head for the Dark Stone.¡± She turned to glare at me. ¡°And get the Celt some clothes. All that white skin will be like a beacon to our position. You do realise you are coming with us?¡±

    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t want to be a burden. It seems like you have a lot to organise. I¡¯m happy to slip off on my merry way.¡± I started to back away until I hit the solid body of Hild.

    Ealdgye¡¯s eyes were hard. ¡°No burden. I want you close to hand in case this turns out to be a trick. It¡¯s been a while since there was a blood sacrifice at the Dark Stone. Might be the time for us to renew the tradition.¡±

    Awesome.

    ***

    I might be being sexist here, but I couldn¡¯t help but feel a touch of feminist pride at the efficiency with which the village emptied into the surrounding hills and woods.

    Having seen how my father coped with the challenges of taking us camping every summer, I could not help but draw some fairly uncharitable comparisons.

    Ealdgye, it turned out, was the wife of the village¡¯s headman, Hrothgar, and therefore had quite some pull. If I¡¯d had my wits about me when we spoke, I¡¯d have realised she¡¯d likely lost someone close in the battle.

    Wulfnoe¡¯s memories had Hrothgar fall in the first of the charges of the shield wall. He¡¯d seemed a decent enough leader, but once it became clear how many men they were facing, there was not much to do but hunker down and pray for a miracle. The gods did not seem to be listening. All of Ealdgye¡¯s sons had been with the fyrd, too. In one day, her entire family had been killed.

    And yet, here she was, forcing slow-moving oxen into the trees whilst castigating scurrying women who ¡®need to set a fire up their arse.¡¯ The remaining people in the village needed her to lead them to safety, and she would carry that burden with her head held high.

    This was a tough woman.

    Of course, my appreciation for her strength would have been even more profound should she not be dragging me behind her, hands tied roughly together by a coil of rope.

    On the plus side, though, they had found me some sort of rough tunic, so I was no longer flashing all and sundry. You win some; you lose some.

    Basically, what I¡¯m saying is that the evacuation was a bit more ¡®The Great Escape¡¯ than ¡®Dunkirk¡¯.

    In no time, the majority of the village had vanished into the woods on their way to the not-in-any-manner-ominously-named Dark Stone. Ealdgye and I were the last two left at the tree line, looking down at now deserted huts.

    We''d been doing that for some time - I kind of felt she was dragging out the tableaux a little - when she finally spoke. ¡°If this was all a tale, you¡¯ll live to regret it.¡± Even though we weren¡¯t moving, Ealdgye tugged on the rope, and I stumbled forward. She kept doing that. I was beginning to suspect she didn¡¯t like me.

    ¡°If it helps, I¡¯m pretty much regretting it already. Don¡¯t you people have some sort of code about how you treat visitors to your hearth? Like, you¡¯re not allowed to hurt them once they¡¯ve eaten your food or something like that?¡±

    Ealdgye just carried on staring below.

    Never knowingly turning down the opportunity to start a fight, I tried again. ¡°I mean, my learning point from all this is basically that I should have carried on my merry way and let you be slaughtered. Are you sure that¡¯s what you want me to tell people on my travels? Did you know people share bad experiences with four or five others? Once this gets out, it could really hit your tourism numbers.¡±

    ¡°You sure there were no survivors?¡± Ealdgye¡¯s voice was steady, but I could sense its sorrow, locked down tight.

    Okay. So, it was probably time to dial down the banter. ¡°No, I''m afraid not. They killed all of them.¡±

    She nodded softly, then turned to look me in the eyes. I was utterly flummoxed to see that her own were filled with tears. ¡°You ever lost anyone, Celt?¡±

    I nodded back, suddenly not trusting myself to speak. It was one thing to chatter on to fill an awkward silence; it was quite another to intrude on such overwhelming grief. Ealdgye regarded me steadily for a few moments as if sizing me up.

    ¡°Aye, you have done, haven¡¯t you? It''s writ all over you. You¡¯re all bent out of shape around the pain. That doesn¡¯t help, does it?¡±

    I shook my head.

    Ealdgye sighed and turned back to the empty village. ¡°No. It certainly does not.¡± We were silent for a good few minutes before she started to speak again. ¡°There¡¯s five of my babies buried down there. Not one of them lasted that first night. I¡¯d given up thinking I¡¯d ever see one grow up to hold a spear. Then we had Stilwell, then Sinley and finally Brecc. One a year, each after another. It was a miracle. And they just flourished. Each the spit of their father, but with my fire. You should have seen them. Glorious they were. Thought they would be running the world in a few more seasons." She rubbed a hand across her face, displacing the tears. "Ah, well. No more of that."

    More silence.

    Then a voice. I was astonished to realise it was mine. "My sister''s not dead. Not like that. At least not yet. But I haven''t seen her in years. Growing up, she was really the only one that ever got ''me'', or at least the ''me'' I thought I was. But as we got older, I felt her step away. Not that I blamed her. You don''t hug a skip-fire closer to yourself, do you? We didn''t exactly drift apart, but it gets to be that there''s so much water under the bridge you drown if you think on it. But it doesn''t stop the space she used to fill from feeling empty."

    "But she''s still alive, you say?"

    I nodded.

    "Then I think we''re talking about two different types of grief. You can still fix yours."

    I had a pithy answer to that when a bunch of horns sounded, and a group of blue-painted spearmen appeared on the road beneath us.

 Chapter 5 - In which heads roll

    ¡°Alright.¡± Ealdgye drew a knife and cut the rope around my hands. ¡°I¡¯m going to go down there to see what this is all about. See if I can buy everyone a bit more time to get clear. The Dark Stone, you hear me? That¡¯s where everyone needs to get to. There are enough old timers who¡¯ll know what to do from there.¡±

    I was a bit taken aback by this. There was absolutely no need for her to show herself to these raiders. The people in the village were free and away from the threat they posed. I couldn''t see many circumstances where an army would bother scouring the forest for a few women and children. Particularly if all they found was an abandoned village. ¡°There¡¯s no need to go back. We can still slip away.¡±

    For the first time in our short acquaintance, Ealdgye smiled at me. I didn''t like the sadness behind it. I much preferred her scowling. ¡°That''s not my path, Celt. Life is for living, not mourning." She tapped my hand, and it was like I was transported back to my grandmother''s house. Me, sitting on her knee. Her smoking her fiftieth fag of the day and dispensing life advice. Although, I imagine Ealdgye might be less casually racist about her next-door neighbours.

    "Hrothgar always made a point of greeting visitors to the village personally. Kind of feels like the best way I can honour him is to do that in his stead. This isn''t on you. You¡¯ve given us more of a chance than we would have had otherwise. There¡¯s those that will be waking up tomorrow that have you to thank for it. That¡¯s not a small thing, and we haven''t rightly given you thanks for it."

    I waved her words away. "It''s fine. But you''re not making any sense. There''s no point in going down there! Your people are going to need you after this. Especially with all the men wiped out. You can''t just give up on them now."

    Ealdgye''s smile didn''t budge. "Don''t think I don''t recognise a kindred spirit when I see one, Celt. You understand me when I say my tale''s all told. I haven''t got any more verses in me after today. And that''s okay. There''s nothing left for me now. But at least I get to go out on my own terms." The smile vanished. "But that''s where we''re different, you hear me? You still have something to live for. You make amends with your sister. Your story has yet more in it."

    Memories shuffled, and I was thrown from my grandmother''s knee to shouting terrible things outside a window at 3am in the rain.

    I heard what Ealdgye was saying, but she was just the latest in a long line of people giving the same advice. But that was the problem, wasn''t it? I was always more comfortable with burning bridges than building them.

    And now I wasn''t even in the same timeline.

    I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. I don''t really think there was anything more for us to say to each other.

    Ealdgye gave me a wink, turned and walked back towards the village.

    I stood, frozen, on the dirt track leading into the trees. Every instinct told me to run as fast as possible into the trees and ensure I was well out of sight before anyone noticed me. But another part, and I¡¯d like to think it was me, rather than any residual Wulfnoe or pressure from Merlin, needed to witness the woman¡¯s end.

    Because I was sure that was what was going to happen. I watched as she Butch Cassidy''d her way down the hill.

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    And then the Sundance in me won out, and I crept downwards towards the village.

    It took me longer than I''d have liked to get there. It sounds silly, but I still wasn''t quite at home in my new body. Trying to achieve a degree of stealth with legs that are slightly longer than your brain remembers is harder than you''d think. More than once I nearly went arse over tit as I crept towards the huts.

    By the time I got there, the scene that greeted me was pretty much as I had feared. Three horsemen, their mounts exhausted by the hard riding, were towering over the small woman. Two of them were in heavy armour, and one, well, let us say if he wasn¡¯t a wizard, I wanted my geek membership revoked. He had a long beard, was wearing flowing grey robes and gave off every impression that if I yelled ''oy, Gandalf,'' he''d turn around. There were three or four blue-painted spearmen around them ¨C scouts, I presume, as there was no sight or sound of the rest of the force.

    From the expression on the invaders¡¯ faces, I did not think Ealdgye was winning them over with her light and breezy personality.

    ¡°I''m rapidly losing patience with this conversation. I will ask you one final time. Where are the rest of the women, bitch?¡± The first of the horsemen growled out, his voice gravelly. I chose to designate him Dick #1.

    ¡°Bless your heart," Ealdgye replied. "I''m sure I will be more than enough for the likes of you. From what I hear, those of you from over the river have cocks so small your women choose to lie with goats.¡± She gestured towards one of the spearmen. ¡°You have the look of someone whose mum liked a good goating. Bet you have to shave thrice a day.¡±

    The second horseman, Dick #2, snorted at that, earning himself a withering look from the wizard. I did not feel pseudo-Gandalf was particularly comfortable in this company.

    ¡°My army will be here before sun-up, and they have been promised a reward for their recent victory. Your menfolk lie rotting in a field, and we would not be human should we not want to bring comfort to the widows they have left behind. So, I ask you again. Where are the rest of the women?¡± Dick #1 was really leaning into his role of Lord High Wanker.

    Ealdgye stuck her chin up and did not answer.

    ¡°Why are we wasting our time?¡± Dick #2 chimed up. ¡°The village is empty; they¡¯ve obviously fled. Let¡¯s move on. These people breed like cockroaches; we can stop at the next village to ¡­ release some pressure.¡±

    Dick #1 was holding Ealdgye¡¯s eyes. He kept licking his lips in a way that I''m sure he felt was intimidating. For me, it just looked like he lacked good chapstick.

    After a few moments of silence, he shrugged. ¡°If we must. But I don¡¯t want us getting too far away from the others. Make sure you share news of our disposition with your fellows.¡± The last was directed to the wizard, who paused, then nodded his agreement.

    The horsemen wheeled their mounts around to leave. ¡°Oh, and Melehan, kill the bitch.¡±

    The wizard sighed as Dicks #1 and #2 rode away and then looked at Ealdgye with pity. ¡°I''m sorry. These are very petty men. You must have expected this would be the outcome once you put yourself in their way.¡±

    Ealdgye lifted her chin and shrugged right back. The woman had balls the size of watermelons.

    "If it helps to know, it was a much harder battle than they''d anticipated. Your men fought well. They''re so jumpy because we''ve fallen behind the rest of the invasion."

    Ealdgye didn''t answer.

    "It will be quick. You may want to close your eyes?"

    In response, Ealdgye smiled and made a hand gesture that I was interested to note appears to be pretty universal across timelines.

    Melehan¡¯s hand glowed momentarily, the way mine had when I fought the wolf. However, rather than stay within his body, the light suddenly lashed out in a beam of energy. It crossed the gap between the two and, quite simply, blew Ealdgye¡¯s head clear from her body.

    The wizard waited for a moment until the headless corpse hit the ground. He appeared to say a few words under his breath, and then he turned his own horse around to follow the Dicks.

    However, he then paused and turned in his saddle to look straight back at my hiding place. ¡°I have no orders concerning you, so you get to walk away. A word of advice, though, a child could hide their Qi better. If you want to skulk around in the dark, get that bloody light under control.¡±

    And he kicked his horse to ride out of the village.

 Chapter 1 - In which John McTiernan pretty much gets a writing credit

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 Chapter 2 - In which do I hear the words redemption arc ...

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 Chapter 3 - In which my unbroken streak of heterosexuality is challenged

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 Chapter 4 - In which I give a speech of such class and sophistication it would make Jane Austen weep

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 Chapter 5 - In which a terrible, terrible plan is unveiled

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 Chapter 6 - In which I receive the spanking I so richly deserved

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 Chapter 7 - In which an arguably unnecessarily amount of prose concerns horse dick

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 Chapter 8 - In which there is nothing close to an apology offered

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 Chapter 9 - In which we do a little gardening

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 Chapter 10 - In which I had to google the meaning of hentai to check this gag worked

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 Chapter 11 - In which whatever you think happened between chapters says more about you than me

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 Chapter 12 - In which Guinevere gets to work out some of her frustrations

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 Chapter 13 - In which we hear a riddle you will all be asking around the dinner table tonight

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 Chapter 14 - In which those quibbling with the physics need to remember all the fucking magic about

    As soon as I''d reached Bors, I''d passed him ''Melehan''s Rock of Continous Curing''. Within minutes, the worst of the obvious damage was starting to fade away. Watching facial bones shift and reconnect together is quite a trip - kind of like a week-old helium balloon suddenly reinflating.

    "Should I be worried about internal damage?" I asked Merlin. "That artefact seems pretty nifty in repairing bones and skin, but I don''t know if it addresses brain trauma."

    I looked over to where Bors was re-enacting the whole fight for Arthur with two dead squirrels.

    "I mean, the riddle was about my dick. How did he not expect to get fucked?"

    I feel great affection for Sir Bors, so it pains me to note I am unsure how we would be able to tell if he was cognitively impaired.

    "Meow, Big M."

    There was a flash, and then the glowing trial circle on the ground reappeared. However, this time, there was not an opponent within it, but three stones of granite about the size of Bors and what looked like another one in a deep pool of water.

    Interesting.

    "There''s a lot of different interpretations of that word, mate. Is that ''interesting'' like you''re going to really enjoy this Trial. It''s a fascinating way to spend a few hours. Or ''interesting'' as in fuck me, I didn''t see this particular nightmare coming. We''re screwed."

    Little from Column A. Little from B, to be honest.

    Before I could process that bit of deep and meaningful advice, Arthur stood and strode into the circle.

    "Dude! Aren''t we even going to talk about which of us does this one?"

    He looked my way, and I was struck by how dark his eyes had become. "Do you think it matters? The force that challenges us has proven itself to be capricious in the extreme. Should we decide I should do the Trial of Honour, and you should do the one of Strength, I am sure a way will be found to frustrate that choice. Sir Bors has set us on the path to victory, and I will look to continue that tradition." At that, he turned his back on me and faced the centre of the ring.

    In case you missed it, the unsubtle undertone there was that if he let you go next, he thinks you''d fuck it up.

    Cheers, Drynwyn.

    No worries. Happy to help.

    I was saved from further ''help'' by the disembodied voice swanning back into town. "I see the Lord has chosen to undertake The Trial of Strength. A brave decision. In my long experience, whilst a Lord is used to achieving their desires, they rarely do so through the power of their own arm. Let us see if you are any different, little mortal. To complete this Trial, you simply must move each of the stones outside of the challenge circle."

    Arthur showed no response to the goading. He simply stood and looked at each of the objects before him.

    The first stone was embedded in the ground. On it was carved a triple spiral pattern that I was pretty sure I had on a bunch of jewellery.

    It''s a triskelion, my dear. It can be thought to symbolise many things, but in the context of this challenge, I imagine it means Earth.

    A second stone floated about ten feet above the others, and in its centre, it had a stick with a snake wrapped around it - a Cadeceus. The symbol of Hermes. This probably is intended to suggest Air.

    The rock hovering in the sky has a symbol meaning ''Air'' carved on it? Fuck me, it''s a good job you''re here, Merlin. Not sure any of the rest of us could manage that level of advanced cryptology.

    I''d always liked Drynwyn.

    The third rock was lying on the ground but was surrounded by a ring of white-hot magical flames. On it was a triangular symbol, which, and I know I''m going out on a limb here, but I''m going to hazard that might mean ''Fire''.

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    Are you really siding with the sword against me, my dear?

    There was no sign of the final rock, presumably because it was at the bottom of the pool of water. "Can I just check, Big M. Do all your years of cultivation experience give you any clue what the symbol on the final rock may be?"

    You jest, my dear. But it is clear that this Trial would have been wholly facile for you, with your growing connection to the elements. Who - or what - is running these challenges deliberately seeks to ensure you fail.

    "Awesome. And Arthur''s chances?"

    There was a pause. It is unlikely that anyone who is not a cultivator will be able to move even one, let alone all four of those stones.

    "So we''re fucked?"

    Perhaps. However, Prince Arthur is not just ''anyone''.

    *

    "Do you understand the challenge?" The disembodied voice boomed out.

    "Pick up a rock and move it outside the circle. Is there a particular order I need to do them in?"

    "No."

    "Is there a time limit?"

    "Not really. However, should I become bored, I may review that. You must give it your best endeavours. Be entertaining, and I will allow it to play out."

    "Generous of you. Any other rules?"

    The voice did not answer for a moment. "I can sense that one of your companions has significant power at their disposal. Should I sense any external magical interference in your Trial, I will treat that as a failure with all the attendant consequences for you and your party. You can, however, use any non-magical equipment you may possess."

    Arthur nodded. "Fair enough. Your arrival scared away my horse earlier. Can you bring her back? There are some things in her saddlebags I think I will need."

    Arthur had barely finished speaking when Llameri appeared beside him in the circle.

    "You have everything you requested. The Trial begins . . . now."

    *

    I watched as Arthur rested a hand on his horse''s neck and whispered softly to her. She quickly calmed and allowed Arthur to retrieve a thick coil of rope from a pack on her back. Still speaking quietly to the horse, he crossed to the Earth stone and tied one end of the rope around it. He gave it a few experimental tugs, but there was no discernable movement.

    The voice laughed its creepy laugh. "If you think it will be that easy, little mortal, you are sadly mistaken."

    "Big M, I can''t help but think whatever is running this Trial is a bit of a twat."

    Indeed.

    Arthur had moved over to the Air stone and was stood looking up at it.

    "Can I leave the circle for a moment?"

    "You can. If you look to escape, though, I will immediately kill you and the rest of your party."

    "Understood."

    Still carrying the rope, Arthur stepped outside the circle and made directly for a giant tree at the edge of the clearing that was halfway between the two stones. He scaled it with some hitherto unremarked ninja skills and looped the rope around an especially thick branch. Then, sitting on that branch, he looped the end of the roop into a lasso and tossed it over the Air stone.

    I say he ''tossed it over the Air stone.''

    To be clear, he missed the first forty-nine times. After each failure, Arthur needed to climb down from the tree, retrieve the rope, climb back up, loop it over the branch and throw it again.

    Ultimately, I''m not convinced the disembodied voice didn''t cheat a little just to move the whole thing along.

    "My patience is growing thin, little mortal."

    "Okay. I think I''m set."

    Having achieved his aim, Arthur had returned to the circle, braced himself next to the Earth stone, and began to try to pull the Air stone out of the sky.

    He obviously got nowhere.

    Even using the rudimentary pulley system he had set up, with the Earth stone as an anchor, he simply didn''t have the raw strength.

    "A good try, little mortal. However . . ."

    Then Llameri grabbed the rope between her teeth, and things got a bit more interesting.

    *

    Fundamentally, no matter how pretty is the symbol carved upon them, giant rocks do not especially enjoy being suspended in the air.

    While the full might of the Prince of the Britons leveraging every rule of mechanical physics available in the sixth century was not enough to get things moving, two and half thousand pounds of prime, motivated warhorse was a different matter.

    The Air stone fell from the sky.

    As it swooped downwards, its newly freed weight pulled on its end of the rope, ripping the Earth stone from the ground, finishing its swing by crashing into the Fire stone, knocking it out of its flaming circle.

    All three rocks were thus in motion.

    In a moment of barely believable coincidence, each crashed into the pool containing the Water stone, and then the world''s biggest game of marbles began. The combined weight of all three stones and the momentum of the swing were enough to cause a significant splash, emptying the pool, and dousing the flames that had been around the Fire stone. Each of the stones ended up rolling towards the edge of its pool.

    There was a chilly silence, broken only by Arthur whistling a jaunty little number as he lassoed the rope around each stone (again, I''m skirting over the hours this took. Arthur did not have a future as a cowboy ahead of him). He eventually had Llameri drag them outside the circle.

    The light on the challenge circle faded.

    "You know, Big M, it''d be cool if Arthur made some sort of Roger Mooresque 007 quip right about now."

    Something like "Well, that¡¯s not the first time I have done four at once and ended up utterly soaked. Though never before with a horse."

    "Fucking hell, mate. Where did that come from? No. Nothing like that at all."

 Chapter 15 - In which I, unforgivably, miss the opportunity to include Muppets

    "Welcome, little mortal, to the Trial of Honour, a challenge as ancient as the cosmos and as revered as the virtues it seeks to unearth within you.

    I, who have watched the rise and fall of civilizations and witnessed the turning of the ages and the dance of destiny, stand before you not just as your judge but as the custodian of a tradition that has tested the mettle of heroes since time immemorial."

    "Dude, no one else had to put up with a massive cut-scene intro. Can''t we move things along?"

    Can I just point out it might be best not to antagonise the all-powerful disembodied voice?

    "You, who stand on the precipice of this hallowed rite, bear more than just your hopes and dreams. You carry the legacy of those who walked this path before you, the aspirations of those who will follow, and the expectations of the very essence of Honour itself."

    "I really don''t. I''m just a girl standing in front of - well, nothing. There''s literally nothing here, and I''m talking to thin air. But, basically, I''m just a girl, standing in front of an immortal being asking for directions to a fucking bridge. You''re the one who conjured up all this Trial bullshit for us. I can''t help but feel you''re making more of this than it needs to be. Can we just spool on through to the bit where I improbably blag my way through whatever overelaborate game you have set up, and then we get what we need?"

    "This Trial is not merely an assessment of strength . . .

    "Nope, because Arthur physiced the shit out of that one."

    "Or a measure of thought . . ."

    "Bors'' dick sorted that."

    "Little mortal!" Ah, there it is. That particular tone of frustrated impatience I can bring out in the best of them. Even Enchanted Forests, apparently. "Can you please let me finish without the commentary? I do not get to deliver this speech very often, and I''d appreciate not being interrupted."

    Seriously, my dear. There''s a bigger picture here we need to remember.

    "Sorry. That''s my bad. That''s on me. Please continue."

    "Thank you. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. This Trial delves deeper into the very core of your being. It seeks the truth of your character, your spirit''s resilience, and your heart''s integrity. Only those who embody the most authentic ideals of Honour, who can rise above the baser temptations of their mortal coil, shall find glory here.

    So, let your heart be steadfast, your mind clear, and your spirit unyielding. For the Trial of Honour begins now, and with it, the chance to etch your name into the annals of eternity. May your actions reflect the nobility of your purpose, and may your journey through this Trial reveal the brilliance of the Honour that lies within each of you."

    There was a long silence.

    "Do you not have anything to say in response, little mortal?"

    "Sorry. I zoned out there for a moment. I was thinking about the end of The Shawshank Redemption. Have you seen it? No? You absolutely should. Banging movie. Right at the end, Tim Robbins secretly tunnels out of prison, and he''s hid his escape hole with a poster of some long-limbed bimbo. But, when you think about it, how did he manage to reattach the poster to the outside of the escape tunnel after leaving through it? I mean, how did he do it? How?"

    Sigh.

    There was more than just a slight peeved tone when the disembodied voice boomed back. "The Trial of Honour starts now."

    It would appear I had once again misread the mood of a social situation.

    *

    When I woke up, it was so dark that, looking out of bed, I could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of my chamber until suddenly, the church clock tolled a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy ONE.

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    Hang on a minute . . .

    Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of my bed were drawn aside by a strange figure, - like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave him the appearance of having receded from the view, and being diminished to a child''s proportions. Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white as if with age, and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin.

    "Oh, for fuck''s sake."

    The little old man stared at me, as if he were paused waiting for me to say something else.

    Well, he could bloody well wait.

    "A Christmas Carol? Seriously? This is the best you can do? The Trial of Honour is ''A Christmas Carol?'' Look, spoiler alert, but I''m perfectly happy to fork out for the Cratchitts to have a big fucking turkey without needing any further ado. Boom. Job done. Honour satisfied all round."

    There was no reply.

    The creepy little old child-man stayed frozen at the end of my - well, Scrooge''s - bed. I was starting to regret not treating the disembodied voice with the respect he clearly felt he deserved.

    If only someone could have warned you, my dear . . .

    Fuck off, Merlin.

    I stayed where I was for a while, but nothing else happened. Apparently, I was going to have to play this one out. Fortunately, I''d been in a God-awful am-dram version of Dickens'' book a few years back. It wasn''t really my scene, but, you know, I rock a corset and bustle, so it seemed rude not to. From the dark of the wings, I ended up doing a lot of prompting - and a bunch of the cast - so I had most of the words down pat.

    The next line was: "Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?"

    The Ghost suddenly sprang back into life. "I am!"

    "Who and what are you?"

    "I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

    Awesome. Such happy times.

    *

    From what I could tell, the Trial of Honour was about showing me things that had happened in my life and highlighting occasions where my choices were aligned with or deviated from the path of ''Honour.'' Apparently, I was expected to acknowledge my past mistakes and vow to learn from them, demonstrating humility and the willingness to grow. Oh, and buy everyone a fucking big Christmas turkey at the end of it all.

    The problem was, after a while, my past mistakes seemed to have seriously bummed out the Ghost of Christmas Past.

    In fact, he''d got so upset we needed to have a break from popping in on a succession of moments that I freely admit were not my finest hour. We seemed to be running through things chronologically - by my reckoning, we''d only got up to the mid-nineties so far - and my next ''memory'' should be me about to make a series of poor decisions in a graveyard with several people who did not have my personal wellbeing at the heart of their thinking. From what I could remember, that night was somewhere in between stealing Nan''s just ''in-case'' money tin and planting a bag of . . . herbs on Zizzie rather than owning up to the cops about them being mine.

    That had been a busy weekend.

    The Ghost, however, was currently sitting on the edge of Scrooge''s bed, rocking himself backwards and forwards. "These are shadows of the things that have been," he said. "That they are what they are, do not blame me!"

    "I don''t blame you, mate. Sometimes, bad things happen to bad people. That''s just the way it is. Some things''ll never change. That''s just the way it is." I may have started humming at this stage.

    "Enough!"

    At that booming shout, the Victorian bedroom vanished and I was back stood in the Trial Circle.

    "You are making a mockery of the Trial of Honour."

    "Mate, it''s not my fault your Ghost has a queasy stomach. I wish my past was all dances at the Fezziwigs and choosing focusing on work rather than pursuing love, but it wasn''t. Did I do my share of fucked up things? Damn straight. Probably did the share of most of my street, too. Some of it I wished I hadn''t, and I''d like to think I''ve learned from them. But I''m not saying if you put me back there right now, I''d be Little Miss Perfect and choose the road less travelled. Life doesn''t work like that. I''m me because of those fucked up things, not despite them. There. What more do you need from me?

    There was a noise like the whole forest breathing in, and then a chalice appeared on the ground in front of me.

    Shit. Don''t go near that.

    I, of course, walked forward and picked up the cup. It was filled with a deep purple liquid - looking not unlike my Qi.

    "You speak of Honour as if it is a thing you can choose or deny. Well, then, let us test your commitment to that. The chalice you hold contains the purest essence of sacrifice. Drinking it will induce a vision of a significant personal sacrifice that you will need to make in the future for the good of others. It could be a foregone personal desire, a relinquishment of a cherished dream, or accepting a deep personal loss that will ultimately benefit those around you. The nature of the sacrifice required is such that it does not demand immediate action but requires a commitment to a future choice, a constant reminder of your duty and the price of Honour."

    "I''m going to be honest, as slogans go, that''s no ''Red Bull gives you Wings''. You could do on working on your marketing patter."

    My dear, you do not need to drink this potion. By any measure, in confronting and accepting your past choices, you have passed the Trial of Honour. The quest setter cannot simply add another stage because he does not like how you achieved that.

    I looked down at the purple liquid and swirled it around the cup. I guess Merlin was right. But who wouldn''t want a vision of the future? It wasn''t like it locked me into anything.

    I knocked that drink back like Tommy just burst in the door whippin'' Pam''s ass worse than before.

    Fuck. I really am a shitty person, aren''t I?

    And the vision began.

 Chapter 16 - In which there is a vision of Camlann

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 Chapter 17 - In which, yay, guess which tortured and mutilated wizard makes a comeback!

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

 Chapter 18 - In which there is a U2 joke of which I am so proud, I phoned a friend to share it.

    "I don''t want to talk about it."

    I did not say anything, my dear.

    "I know. And your ability not to say anything is louder and more expressive than most rock concerts. I''m just saying you can be as passive-aggressive as you like, but I''m still not going to talk about the end of the Trial."

    And that is entirely your choice. Which I absolutely respect.

    "Good. I''ll hold you to that. We do not need to talk about Camlann. Ever."

    Good.

    "Good."

    If it helps, I''ve got no fucking idea what either of you are talking about.

    Despite the disembodied voice clearly being pissed off I''d passed the ''A Christmas Carol'' test, it had been true(ish) to its word.

    "That which you seek cannot be found within this Forest. Nor, I will tell you, was your wife ever to be found beneath our canopy. Retrace your steps and leave we dwellers in the woods in peace."

    "Is there no more you can tell us?" If Arthur had questions about how we''d managed to track Guinevere into these woods if she''d never actually been there, he decided not to air them. I wondered how long that was likely to be the case. "We were expecting directions to the Perilous Bridge of Reflections."

    "There is no such place."

    Probably not that much longer, if I was being honest.

    Arthur turned to stare at me and then cast a significant look at Bors. "No such place?"

    "Forgive me; your language is hard for me to parse. I mean, that is not the name of your intended destination as you know it. In order to recover your wife, you should head to Slaughterbridge. In the spirit of the vow I made and in recognition that each of you passed your respective Trials - albeit each in a somewhat unusual manner - I will note that the Princess Guinevere is in grave danger."

    *

    Our horses were waiting for us at the edge of the Forest.

    Forca seemed absolutely delighted to see me still alive and affectionately took a chunk out of my forearm when I went to stroke him. Nothing like the bond between a warrior and her noble steed.

    Apparently, everyone else knew exactly where we were heading. And at quite some speed. On the other hand, whilst hanging on to the neck of my fucking demon animal, I was having local geography wizardsplained to me.

    It turns out that Slaughterbridge isn''t as much fun as it sounds. It''s as simple as ''slohtre'' meaning ''marsh'' and there also being a few piled-together stones over it. So, the upshot was we were heading for a bridge in a marsh that - according to Merlin - crossed the River Camel.

    "Camel?"

    Camel.

    "Don''t you think that''s an unusual name for a river in this part of the world?"

    How so?

    "Maybe I''m being unfair. Because I, for one, cannot move for all the large, spitting hairy beasts I keep falling over in this famously hot and desert-like area of South West of England?"

    I have no idea what you are talking about. Kammel means ''crooked''.

    That was much less fun.

    I was still reeling from having those dreams dashed when Bors drew up next to me and tossed me back the Curing Rock. "This is all so fucked. Arthur''s not an idiot. He has to know we''ve been playing him."

    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    "I know. But I don''t think it makes much difference right now. The plan was to help him get his groove back by swooping in and saving Guinevere. Obviously, something''s gone wrong if she actually needs our help, but Stella still gets to dance."

    "I don''t understand what you''ve just said."

    I don''t think she does most of the fucking time.

    "Look, what I''m saying is that it doesn''t matter how we get there if we end up at the place we need to be."

    Not to be all judgey, but I distinctly remember we had a significant falling out about the ends justifying the means. It resulted in me being banished to the netherworld.

    "Totally different situation. We told Arthur a few little white lies. No harm, no foul. You fed me to a dragon."

    Ask Arthur how ''little'' some of those tendrils were . . .

    "Not helping, Drynwyn."

    "I just want to say, in case you''re wondering, it really doesn''t do much for your reputation for being fucking insane that you keep having conversations the rest of us can''t hear. With that noted, the point I''m making is at some stage, we''re going to need to explain the circumstances surrounding Guinevere leaving Tintagel, and that''s going to be a shit show."

    "Don''t worry, I''ll be right there behind you when you have that chat, mate."

    "Fuck you, Celt."

    "Not my type, dude. Besides, what would Mrs Bors say?"

    *

    "Remind me again about how the Saxons are in full retreat?"

    I could be wrong, but I sensed Arthur was ticking a little bit.

    He obviously knew there was more to the ''quest for Guinevere'' story than we''d let on. But I wasn''t too worried about that right now. I wasn''t even too bothered that the atmosphere between us was about as chilly as anything I had experienced with someone I hadn''t screwed - either literally or metaphorically.

    Haters can hate. I have enough friends.

    You really don''t, my dear.

    No, what I was worried about was that we were looking down at the make-shift camp of a lot of Saxon spears - somewhere within which was apparently the Princess Guinevere - and her husband was seeming a bit . . . fighty.

    Bors crawled to our position, moving with all the stealth and grace of sandpaper over an eyeball. "I thought I recognised their standard. It''s those wolfy fuckers again. Maybe two hundred of them."

    This was not exactly great news. We''d tangled with this particular warband before, and the result had not been great. And by that, I mean that scrap wiped out most of the Knights of the Round Table you will never now get to hear of.

    On the other hand, we knew that their warleader - Cedric - really hated wizards. So, there was a chance I was the only spellflinger around.

    "Any ideas why they''re still this side of the border? Weren''t the two of you supposed to mopping up anyone who hadn''t crossed back over the Tamar?"

    Bors and I looked at each other and silently agreed there was no way I was answering. "Sure, we''ve been on clean-up duty. But that was just wiping out the ones who had panicked and broken away from the main body of the retreat. That''s not what this is. This is the main event."

    "Are you saying you missed two hundred fucking Saxons a couple of day''s ride from Tintagel?"

    An edge crept into Bors'' voice. "It''s entirely possible, my Lord. You see, for some reason, our most capable commander couldn''t be persuaded to suit up for the job, so it was left to me and the ginger to take care of business. Now, we both have our various skills - I''m good at the killing and she''s . . . I''m not really sure what she''s good at, but the Saxons are fucking terrified of her. But, anyway, tactical planning and strategy isn''t really either our wheelhouses. No offence." He nodded towards me.

    "None taken. Although, maybe we find a different nickname than ''the ginger''."

    "Understood. I guess what I''m saying, sir'' - there was now more than an edge to his voice. There was an entire Irish rock band tuning up for ''Where The Streets Have No Name'' - ''is that some of us have been knee-deep in Saxon viscera for the last few weeks, and some of us have been wandering the corridors of Tintagel and sighing a lot. Within that context, I''m not sure the latter should be casting aspersions as to the competence of the former."

    I suddenly understood what kept Mrs Bors barefoot and pregnant.

    Arthur and Bors locked gazes for quite some time.

    "Not that I''m not loving all the homoerotic posturing going on here, but can I suggest we focus more on the problem at hand? Lots of Saxons. Not so many of us. And somewhere down there is Guinevere."

    Look at you and your growing diplomacy skills.

    "Cheers, Big M. Whilst I''ve got you, I know I can track other cultivators, but I don''t suppose there''s anything I can do to, I don''t know, Cerebo onto the Princess?"

    No.

    "Really? Not even a little bit? It kind of feels like the plot needs me to be able to find her right about now."

    There is no power of which I know that would allow you to zero in on the location of a non-cultivator. Think of the implications! With sufficient power, a cultivator would be able to eliminate almost anyone without ever needing to leave their tower. Now, I''m not saying that doesn''t sound lovely, but it simply isn''t the case . . .

    I zoned out a little from this monologue. Firstly, because it was boring me. But also because my spidey senses had picked up a cultivator amongst those Saxons.

    Now, knowing Cerdic, that was odd but not exceptionally so. However, it was strange that it was a cultivator with a power signature I recognised.

    It was Melehan.

 Chapter 19 - In which Guinevere does not have time for anyones bullshit

    "I imagine you''re the ''fucking bitch'' they''re all so riled up about."

    Guinevere didn''t say anything - although she thought she could get on board with that being her epitaph.

    "If you''re remotely interested, Tidhelm is still hanging on. But gut wounds are nasty. I''d give him a day at best. Hildred, well, not so much."

    She was not sure she really needed the names of the men she''d fought in her head right now. Especially as the only thought she could summon was ''still hanging on? Fucking hell. Do it properly, or not at all. How many times? Twist the blade when it goes in. Rupture those intestines.''

    The horribly mutilated man rolled over to face her, and she could see - as well as everything else that had been done to him - someone had put out his eyes. And done . . . other things to his face. This did little to dissuade her from her point of view that being captured by these guys would probably not be a relaxing experience.

    He spoke again. "There''s something not quite right with your aura. Are you injured?"

    Guinevere tried to stretch out her leg and winced. She either had the most epic pins and needles known to man or . . . yeah, she wasn''t going near the alternative when looking at what happened to those these Saxons captured.

    Then what the man - she guessed it was a man. There wasn''t any awful lot left that wasn''t scar tissue to make that distinction matter - had said about her ''aura'' hit home.

    Dropping her voice as low as she could, she whispered, "Are you a wizard?"

    "Ah, I was starting to worry I was talking to myself. That''s happening more than I''d like of late. Glad you are really there. It''s been a while since I had a proper conversation. Yes. I am a wizard. Or, at least, I used to be."

    For the first time since receiving her wound, Guinevere felt the stirring of a little bit of hope.

    Growing up over the sea in Cornouaille, she was much more used to being around wizards than anyone on this forsaken island. The way her father had explained it, when outlining the various woes of the British, Merlin took up so much of the available Qi that it was almost impossible for any others to flourish in his vicinity. Even on their side of the sea, the impact of Merlin''s thirst for power was felt, with their cultivators being weak things in comparison. However, there had been five or six wizards of various quality at court at any one time.

    Leodegrance had sent one of their most powerful with her when she had married Arthur. The plan was that Nimue would be able to determine when she became pregnant, open the portal for the ten thousand spears Leodegrance had promised as her dowry and then return to her father''s side.

    And hadn''t that plan worked out just wonderfully ...

    No. Now was not the time.

    Dragging herself back to the present, Guinevere took a careful look at the wizard. Surely, if he had any power at all, he wouldn''t have let the Saxons so abuse him. Even the weakest of cultivators should have been able to escape.

    As if he was reading her mind, the wizard spoke again. "To escape, you need two things. The means to achieve it and the will to want to do so. I find myself somewhat lacking in the latter right now. How about you?"

    They''d broken each and every one of his teeth . . .

    "I think my issue is probably the other way around. The will is there, but I fear the means may well be beyond me." Blood was leaking through the leaves she had bundled over her legs. She didn''t think she could possibly have much more of it to spare.

    "And where does that will come from?"

    Guinevere snorted. "Living is better than dying. Fighting is better than giving up. What more is there to it than that? Not being tortured is better than . . ." She stopped herself there. She probably didn''t need to tell him that.

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    "I admire your clarity of thought. However, believe me when I say that it is not always so simple. What if you had done something that was unforgivable? Is it better to live then?"

    It might have been the blood loss, it might have been the stress of being hunted, it might even have been the weight of several years of crushing disappointment in a marriage for which she had had such hopes.

    It might even have been a bit of all three.

    But, whatever, Guinevere found that she really did not have any time for this torn-up man''s bullshit. "Look, not that I''m not loving the opportunity to debate the meaning of life, but there''s a time and a place for everything. And I''m fairly confident right here, and right now, is neither of those. You''re a wizard. And I''m hurt. Is there anything you can do anything to help me get out of here?"

    There was a beat. Then, the ruined face gave a little nod.

    "Time''s up. Cedric will be wanting his favourite plaything back, especially if we still don''t have a fucking bitch to substitute in for some variety."

    A scrawny-looking Saxon had appeared, bending down to pick the wizard up. With the ease he managed it, throwing him over his shoulder with a casual effort, it was clear that being overfed was probably not one of the tortures the Saxons were trying.

    Guinevere froze as, in the act of turning around, the Saxon''s eyes rested upon her. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest and was sure he''d be able to hear it, too. But, no, his glance slid off her, and he started to walk away, carrying the wizard over his back.

    She was just starting to relax when the Saxon suddenly threw the wizard to the ground, looked back her way and reached for a hand axe hanging from his belt.

    "I see you, my lovely. Heardweald is going to get some love from Cedric for this. "

    Guinevere realised three things as he swaggered towards her, no doubt pleased to note the volume of blood the Princess was lying in. First, she did not want to die right now.

    Second, knowing the names of random Saxons she was going to kill felt entirely unnecessary. And, third, her leg was feeling an awful lot better.

    She stood up, which surprised her attacker. But he rallied quickly, arcing his axe down in a quick swing aimed at Guinevere''s head. Instinctively, she stepped back, just out of his reach, and the blade whistled past her nose.

    This did not improve his demeanour. He attacked again, sweeping a horizontal slash at her midsection. Guinevere jumped, turning sideways and feeling the air shift above her as the axe cut through it. She was feeling nimbler than she had in years. Whatever the wizard had done to her leg put quite the spring in her step.

    The scrawny Saxon was turning red in a fury. He began to swing the hand-axe wildly, and each miss markedly increased his frustration. Guinevere kept jinking aside, backing away and circling around him. His pattern of attack was clear ¨C repeated heavy, committed strikes followed by brief moments of vulnerability after missing.

    He was adequate with his axe, at best. It made sense he would be on cripple-carrying duty. She let him keep swinging wildly, waiting for . . .

    Yep. Here we go.

    Guinevere ducked and let him bury his axe into a tree. He swore as she struck his wrist but managed to hold on to the handle of his weapon. She hit it again. And then again.

    Lacing her fingers together for a double-handed, downward blow. Three of those and his grip faltered, and the axe clattered to the ground.

    She drew up a leg and kicked the Saxon in the chest, pushing him back for space more than trying to hurt him. Then she dipped down to collect the axe. Its weight was unfamiliar, unbalanced, in her hand, but she adjusted quickly. She''d trained with worse.

    He didn''t waste any time and just charged straight at her. Guinevere sidestepped and dropped to her knees, using his momentum against him. She swung the axe for the back of his legs as he stumbled past.

    It wasn''t a deep cut. But every little helped.

    They circled each other; Guinevere''s breaths came steadily, whereas the Saxon''s were increasingly laboured. She feigned a high strike; he flinched, and she crashed the axe down on his shoulder.

    After that, he did his best to keep it going, but the end was a foregone conclusion. She hid the body under her pile of leaves and went to where the wizard was lying.

    "Thank you. For the healing."

    "No thanks needed. I have debts to pay."

    She didn''t know what to say to that. "Can you walk?"

    "No."

    She tried to pick him up, but as scrawny as the now-slain Saxon had been, he had about fifty pounds of muscle on her. "I can''t carry you."

    "No."

    "What do you want me to do?"

    He turned his face so that his ruined eyesockets seemed to look at her. "Living is better than dying. Fighting is better than giving up."

    She could hear voices closing in on their position. They weren''t sounding too urgent at the moment, but she imagined that would come.

    "Wizard, what do you want me to do?"

    "Run."

    She stood, looking down at him and then around. "I can''t. They''ll kill you."

    "They haven''t done so yet."

    She started to back away from the direction of the voices. "I''ll come back for you. I''ll bring men."

    "No rush. As I said, I have debts to pay."

    She just made out the first shout of alarm as she crashed through the undergrowth.

 Chapter 20 - In which the pursuit of good manners inexplicably becomes the centre of my universe

    ¡°Melehan saved my life. If he¡¯s still alive, and we know where he is, we are absolutely going to go in there and get him out.¡±

    I mean, I don¡¯t want to cast aspersions here, but Arthur seems to have strapped on his big-boy-quest-pants for a Saxon wizard he barely knows with a bit more alacrity than he summoned for his wife.

    Also, for the record, I fucking saved Arthur¡¯s life. Melehan helped. A bit.

    Don¡¯t get me wrong, no one is happier than me that the wizard is still alive - dude came through for us in a tight spot. I even named a bloody unique healing artefact after him - but it wasn¡¯t so long ago Arthur had me up against a wall and was choking me out. Don¡¯t remember bathing in the warm glow of any ¡®Morgan saved my life¡¯ chat back then.

    Did someone take an overdose of her whiny bitch pills this morning?

    I fear this one of those occasions where I am with the sword, my dear.

    There is literally no one in my head that I do not hate right now.

    Whilst quietly seethed, I took in the sights and smells of Slaughterbridge. Forsaken marshland? Tick. Dodgy-looking rock structure that undoubtedly had a troll living under it? Tick. Picturesque crooked stream running under it in no manner named after an even-toed ungulate in the genus Camelus that bears distinctive fatty deposits? Tick.

    It was a lovely spot for a rescue mission.

    The Saxons had set up a makeshift camp on the other side of what we shall call a ''bridge'' because ''pile of stones'' takes too long to keep saying, meaning we would have to go over it and through the sentries on that side if we were going to retrieve our missing wizard and princess.

    If we wanted to have any chance of getting in and out alive, we needed to be able to drop the guards at just the right moment, or we were going to find ourselves taking on a couple of hundred spearmen who had already kicked our arses once.

    ¡°If we¡¯re doing something, it needs to be now,¡± Bors¡¯ voice was a low, menacing rumble. I think he still had some tension to work out from getting his arse handed to him during the game of riddles. And the handsy Forest Guardian. Oh, and he probably still had some unresolved issue about this war party killing a bunch of his friends.

    Man, these Saxons were fuuuuuuucked.

    ¡°They¡¯re getting ready for a change of sentries. If we let them have the chance to reestablish their lines, it will be hard to slip through unnoticed. I¡¯m up for some mayhem, but we need to be realistic. Uther would have my arse for even thinking about this.¡±

    They both looked at me. Oh, so my opinion matters now?

    Whiny. Bitch.

    I drew Drynwyn with a flourish and nodded. ¡°I can lead us straight to the wizard, but this needs to be an in and out job. No grandstanding. No famous doomed last stands. Do we agree?¡±

    Arthur had unslung Rhongomynyad and was already scrabbling his way down towards the first sentry.

    Sure, don¡¯t worry, mate. I¡¯m only the one with the map to the destination in my head. You go right ahead and lead.

    Twat.

    Bors shrugged apologetically to me, then made to quickly follow his friend, his axe held low to his side in two hands.

    They both started crossing, in a crouch, over the bridge towards the unsuspecting sentry.

    Apparently, we were really going to do this.

    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    I tell you what, if Melehan doesn¡¯t give me the full ¡°aren¡¯t you a little short for a stormtrooper¡± when we find him, I¡¯m going on strike.

    *

    We were helped that what was on their side of the bridge wasn¡¯t really a proper camp. This was an army in retreat rather than a proper military set-up, so things were a bit loose at the edges. So much so that I reckon that the first bridge sentry was looking straight at us for a good thirty seconds as we ran towards him without raising the alarm.

    And then his window of opportunity to cry for help vanished as Arthur drove a spear through his throat.

    He¡¯s fucking wasted carrying that spear. Man¡¯s a work of death art.

    Bors darted to the left and took out the second lookout. Unlike Arthur¡¯s measured strike, Bors¡¯ axe arced through the air with raw power, removing a big, shaggy-haired head from its broad shoulders.

    Then they dropped back down into crouches, as the three of us hid ourselves from any passing archers who might take offence at us straight-up murdering two of their mates.

    But no flurry of arrows came our way. So far, so good.

    I checked my Qi-gps, and we appeared to be much closer to Melehan¡¯s location than I had expected. He must have moved towards us. Well, that was handy.

    Something¡¯s coming.

    ¡°What? What do you mean?¡± I looked around and couldn¡¯t see any other Saxons between us and the woods.

    I don¡¯t know how to describe it, my dear. It¡¯s as if . . . you know how I visualise Qi as water?

    ¡°Dude, is this really the time? We¡¯re Magnificent Sevening a rescue operation here.¡±

    It¡¯s like we¡¯re standing on the beach, and the tide has vanished. As if all the Qi has suddenly been sucked out and away. I imagine this is how it felt to be around me.

    That gave me pause. I¡¯d doom-scrolled through many a video of approaching tsunamis, and they all started with just that phenomenon on idyllic beaches. I dropped into my Artist¡¯s Studio and could tell something was up. Although my internal reserves looked sound, I wasn¡¯t pulling in as much Qi from the wider world as I was used to. I tried to cycle things around a little faster, with little positive results. It was like trying to suck in a particularly thick milkshake.

    ¡°Any ideas what is causing it?¡±

    Power.

    ¡°Awesome. Can you maybe work on an answer that¡¯s not wholly fucking useless and come back to me?¡±

    Of course. I would recommend not using up any Qi right now. Keep your reserves as high as possible until I figure this out.

    ¡°Sure. It¡¯s not like we¡¯re about to do something incredibly dangerous that might need me to pull our arses out of the fire. Great timing.¡±

    ¡°Wizard, let¡¯s go.¡± Arthur gave me a come hither gesture to which I was absolutely not going to respond. I tell you what, if he clicked his fingers, I was going to snap them off.

    On the count of three, we cut across the open land on their side of the bridge and dashed into the woods, where we paused so I could orientate myself back to Melehan¡¯s location.

    Things then started to get a little bit more difficult.

    For whatever reason, whichever way we went, we kept running into little groups of Saxons who were most displeased to make our acquaintance. From their demeanour, they were obviously hunting for someone, and whoever that was, it clearly wasn¡¯t us.

    Had Melehan escaped them? Guinevere?

    Whatever, we were fucking these guys up and good. I don¡¯t like to brag, but it seemed like the three of us together were a brutal team. With Rhongomynyad, Arthur kept these little pockets of twos and threes easily at bay, the spear¡¯s reach keeping them from closing in with their shorter weapons. He was a spikey line of defence that no one could cross. In the meantime, Bors acted as our battering ram. He ploughed through them, his axe smashing down any semblance of order in their defences. If Arthur was the wall, Bors was the sledgehammer.

    And then there was me. Or, I guess, Drynwyn.

    As you¡¯d expect, most of the Saxons - given a choice between a giant nightmare with an axe, a whirling dervish of spear death and a twiglet with nice tits - decided I was the one they wanted to engage. So, the sword was being kept quite busy.

    At some stage, I would need to take some fencing lessons. It was embarrassing to do nothing more in a fight than cling to its handle.

    We¡¯d left a trail of about fifteen corpses around us by the time horns of alarm started to be heard. At this point, I think we could safely conclude that any element of surprise we might have had was pretty much over.

    ¡°How much further, wizard?¡±

    ¡°Arthur, have you forgotten my name?¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°I think you mean ¡®pardon,¡¯ not ¡®what¡¯. After all, I¡¯m sure we all agree it¡¯s important for the Prince of the realm to set an example regarding politeness and etiquette.¡±

    ¡°What are you talking about? Where¡¯s the wizard?¡±

    ¡°Morgan . . .¡° Bors shook his head in my direction. ¡°Not the time.¡±

    I don¡¯t know why I decided this was a hill I wanted to die on. ¡°No. He knows my name. He uses it, or this quest is over.¡±

    Arthur sighed with his whole body. ¡°Fine. Morgan, if you would be so kind? Where do we find the wizard?¡±

    ¡°You see, politeness costs nothing. Melehan''s Qi signature is coming from just beyond the trees that smell like piss.¡±

    Arthur had taken a quarter of a step forward before I added. ¡°Was there a ¡®thank you¡¯? I¡¯m sure there will be a ¡®thank you¡¯. . .¡±

    I¡¯m actually embarrassed to be associated with you right now.

 Chapter 21 - In which Morgan gets snatched and Melehan body-snatched

    ¡°Fuck me, dude. What happened?¡±

    I think Melehan smiled back at me. But it¡¯s hard to tell when someone has no lips. ¡°Ah, the Celt. It¡¯s good to hear your voice again. In answer to your question, though, unfortunately, quite a lot happened.¡±

    ¡°Fucking hell. You¡¯re an absolute wreck. How come they didn¡¯t just kill you?¡± Bors there, showcasing the empathy for which he is so well known.

    The wizard shrugged, and tears came to my eyes at the uneven way his shoulders moved. Melehen was in unbelievably lousy shape. This wasn¡¯t just the sort of thing that happened when you pissed the wrong person off. That got you dead. This was what happened you pissed off a complete an utter Hannibal Lector of a psychopath.

    I doubt there was an inch of him that didn¡¯t carry a scar.

    There was a pause as we all took in the sheer volume of suffering the man in front of us represented. Bors was the first to rally. ¡°Well, let¡¯s not worry about that for now. Let¡¯s get you out of here.¡± He picked Melehan up with comical ease and slung him over one shoulder.

    Morgan ...

    ¡°Not right now, Big M.¡± Judging by the lack of screams of alarm coming from the direction in which we¡¯d come if we carefully retraced our steps, we had every chance of getting out of this alive. ¡°Let¡¯s get Melehan somewhere safe and then review the next steps.¡±

    My dear ...

    ¡°Dude, give it a rest for a second, will you? Are we all agreed? Back the way we came, stash the wizard and then see where we are at?¡±

    Arthur - who, like a child, was not speaking to me - turned to lead the way, followed by Bors carrying the wizard, with me covering the rear.

    We¡¯d made it about halfway back to the bridge - or nine dead Saxons if that was how you preferred to count things - when I felt the world . . . I think the only way to put it is that everything blurred.

    One moment, we were moving reasonably stealthily through the woods, and the next, it was as if we were leaving vivid after-images all around us. Time had not slowed down - we were still travelling as quickly as we were before - but we were leaving a smeared trail of colour behind us as we went. As I watched, that light became transparent and faded after a few seconds.

    ¡°Merlin? What the fuck?¡±

    I have been trying to warn you, my dear.

    ¡°Well, less of the ¡®I told you so¡¯ and more of the exposition, please.¡±

    Someone is pushing on the fabric of reality around us. I do not know how better to explain it, but whatever they are doing is stretching things on this side to breaking point.

    I watched, with horrified fascination, as Bors-carrying-Melehan squashed up, then stretched out to about the length of a double-decker bus until finally resolving back to something approaching normal scale.

    It was like the world had become a House of Mirrors. ¡°Okay. So this is creepy as fuck. What can we do about it?¡±

    I don¡¯t even know what is causing it. I have never seen anything like that before. Someone is using colossal amounts of Qi to rupture reality, and I imagine this visual phenomenon is a side-effect of that outpouring of energy rather than the actual purpose.

    Sensing I was falling behind, Bors stopped and looked around. ¡°What¡¯s wrong, Celt?¡±

    I nearly lost my lunch at how his face bubbled and writhed as he turned around. ¡°Does everything look alright to you?¡±

    He glanced around and shrugged, and if I thought the way Melehan¡¯s tortured frame moved was grotesque, then I found myself needing a whole vocabulary for body horror to describe what I was now looking at adequately. Basically, the world was increasingly looking like Dali had painted it. While drugged. And half blind. With no fingers.

    The disturbance is taking place at a spiritual level. For those not sensitive to such things, I doubt they will notice anything amiss.

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    ¡°Bors, mate. I¡¯m really struggling. Merlin thinks something is going on with Qi in this area.¡±

    ¡°People, we need to hurry up!¡± Arthur had returned, and fuck me if he didn¡¯t look like Francis Bacon had painted him. Trust me. The ¡®Study of Isabel Rawsthorn¡¯. It¡¯s worth a quick google so you understand how very close I was to losing all of my shit.

    ¡°Big M, what¡¯s my play here? Close my eyes and hope it all goes away?¡±

    I think it might be too late for that, my dear. Oh, my word! It¡¯s coming through!

    ¡°What is? What¡¯s coming thr -¡±

    *

    Merlin felt his connection to Morgan torn away as a . . . hand reached through the boundaries of reality and snatched her away.

    It was such a brutally unexpected moment that he wasted valuable seconds in outraged shock before recognising he had started to fade away. In a panic, he cast around for a Qi anchor to keep his essence from drifting into the afterlife.

    There were not that many games in town.

    With a grimace, he coiled himself around the shattered remains of Melehan¡¯s spirit and clung on.

    These fragments I have shored against my ruins.

    The wizard¡¯s body shrieked and lashed out at the unexpected invasion of his soul, causing Bors to swear, drop him, and stumble. ¡°Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on!¡±

    Angry Saxon shouts could be heard in the near distance, and Arthur forced the big man to his knees in silence. When they recovered their composure, the Prince hissed, ¡°Where¡¯s the Celt gone?¡±

    ¡°What? What do you mean?¡± Bors whispered back, resettling a wriggling Melehan under his arm and peering around them. ¡°She was just here!¡±

    Wizard, listen to me. You need to tell them she¡¯s been taken. Someone with an insane level of cultivation has just reached through the fabric of reality and plucked her from her place in the world.

    Melehan shook his head rapidly from side to side, clearly in distress. ¡°No. No. No. Not in my head. You can do whatever you want to my body, but you cannot have my mind. No! No! No!¡±

    If Merlin had still had teeth, he would have ground them in intense frustration. Why could someone stolid and sensible like Bors not have just a drop of Qi? That would have made all this much easier. However, they were where they were. And he needed to get his message through. Needs must, and all that. Wizard, I am very sorry indeed for what I am about to do. It is hugely unethical, and if the need were not quite so dire, I would not have considered it. However, it is, so I have.

    Merlin pushed Melehan¡¯s mind to one side with a shove and took the reins. Had the Saxon wizard not spent much of the last few weeks being brutally tortured, his grip on reality would never have been loose enough for Merlin to have even conceived of attempting such a thing. As it was, Melehan was just the right amount of bat-shit crazy for what Merlin attempted to come off.

    So, for the first time since his death, the greatest wizard in British history opened real, physical eyes.

    Well, no.

    Of course, he didn¡¯t. Because someone had recently pressed the tip of a red-hot poker into both eyeballs. He/Melehan could still hear the hiss and smell the evaporating goo. But no matter.

    A quick cycle of Qi - did the Saxon conceive of his Qi in terms of sand blowing on a beach? That was very strange - and the eyeballs reinflated.

    In fact, while he was here, he might as well do the Saxon a few more good deeds to make up for this horrible liberty.

    In a few heartbeats, Merlin had reversed all of the damage inflicted, regrowing multiple things lopped off and realigning bones.

    Really, with all of this damage, it was quite a miracle the man had retained any sanity whatsoever.

    Looking around the sandy beach where Melehan visualised his Qi, Merlin found the Saxon wizard sitting on the shore, staring out at the sea. Without knowing why, the sight seemed to inspire a few words of forgotten poetry¡ªHieronymo¡¯s mad againe.

    Merlin moved to sit next to the hunched figure. Look, I¡¯m sorry about all this. I imagine it feels like an appalling violation. Especially after everything you¡¯ve been through. I just need to let Bors and Arthur know what has happened to Morgan. And I don¡¯t think you are quite in the right mind to pass on the message. As soon as that¡¯s done, I¡¯ll pass the body back.

    Melehan¡¯s soul - if that¡¯s what this figure was - did not respond, pulling his knees even tighter under his arms.

    Okay. Well, you should know I have fixed most of the damage, so it will be as good as new when you return it. Better, probably. But, for now, I will just take it out for a brief spin. Back before you know it.

    Merlin returned to reality in Bors¡¯ arms.

    Arthur and the big man were shouting at each other. And quite a number of Saxons were closing in on their position.

    ¡°We¡¯re not going anywhere until we figure out where Morgan went!¡±

    ¡°And I¡¯m telling you, as your Prince, that unless we get out of here right now, it won¡¯t matter. Because we will be dead!¡±

    Merlin put a hand - it was good to have one of those again - on Bors¡¯ chest and tapped urgently. ¡°I can explain everything that has happened, but you need to get to safety as soon as possible. If you can follow the Prince back over the bridge, I promise I will help you locate Morgan.¡± A familiar face swam into Melehan¡¯s mind. That was a bit surprising. ¡°And apparently the Princess Guinevere, too. But you must run now!¡±

    Bors looked around wildly but, seeing no alternative, he reluctantly followed Arthur back towards the bridge and then over to the other side and cover.

    He laid Merlin down and fixed him with a ferocious expression. ¡°Now, wizard, tell me what happened!¡±

    Merlin took a deep breath - he enjoyed being able to do that - and stood up. ¡°I am afraid Morgan has been taken. Someone with astonishing power locked upon her position and tore a hole in reality to pull her through to their side.¡±

    ¡°Who?¡± Arthur thrust his spear into the ground with frustration. ¡°Beyond Merlin, who would have the strength to do that?¡±

    Merlin shook Melehan''s head. ¡°That is what most troubles me, my Prince. I have no idea.¡±

 Chapter 22 - In which I find myself in my own little version of Shawshank

    If I had a penny for every time I was torn from reality by a powerful cultivator and dragged through space and time I''d have . . . well, I''d have two pennies.

    But it''s weird that it''s happened twice.

    The experience of being ripped out of reality and pushed into another was not unlike being rudely ejected from a club by an overly handsy bouncer. One minute, I was in the woods with my crew and the next moment, I was . . . well, I have absolutely no idea.

    "Big M, what the hell just happened?"

    It was then that I became aware of the legendary wizard-sized space in my consciousness.

    This did very little for my mental equilibrium. Since he had returned from his banishment, I had become quite reliant on the old duffer. Sure, we had our moments, but there was something comforting in having him in my corner.

    Seeking to quell my growing sense of panic, I peered around, trying to get a sense of my new surroundings. It was hard to see too clearly in the dim light, but it was pretty obvious I was in a prison cell of some kind.

    Now, in the grand scheme of celestial adventures, suddenly finding oneself transported to a dark and dingy cell that could generously be described as "intimate" was not quite how I saw my day developing.

    The place was a kaleidoscope of dank charm and rustic despair, with the walls channelling their "indoor rainforest" vibe. It was like they couldn''t quite decide if they wanted to be solid or a liquid but were willing to give both a good old-fashioned try. It was all very avant-garde.

    I don''t want to give you the impression it was all doom and gloom, though. Not at all. I had a window. Right up there, just higher than I could reach, was a lofty little thing that offered a tiny, tantalising glimpse of freedom and, presumably, the sky.

    I had a mate who did quite well in the marriage stakes and netted herself an architect. He''d designed and built his own house, and seeing that window up there reminded me of all the skylights he''d dotted around the place. It was like the dude had something personal against windows. And - if memory serves - the whole ''forsaking all others'' thing. When push came to shove, she got the house, and he shuffled away back to his parents in Pontypridd with chlamydia. I mean, he had chlamydia. Not his parents. From all the dicking around, you get me? Now, I''m not saying being anti-window and having the clap are related, but . . . I''m rambling, aren''t I?

    Yes.

    Never have I been happier to hear from a psychotic sword.

    "Drynwyn! Good to know you''re here. Do you know what''s happening?"

    No idea. Is this a fucking prison?

    "I think so."

    Well, there''s no sense getting all hyped up about it. Someone put you here. Someone will come and let you out. We''ll fucking kill them when they do and take it from there. No bother.

    I don''t want to overstress how discombobulated I was feeling, but that plan actually made me feel quite a bit better.

    I took a deep breath to try to get my levels of zen rising.

    This turned out to be a mistake.

    The air in my cell had a particular... character. Something like a blend of eau de dungeon with a hint of mossy overtones. It was the sort of scent that you''d expect to find bottled and sold in the backstreets of Brownhills, labelled "Essence of Ancient Enigma".

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    Not having anything better to do with my time, I sat myself down on the stone floor. Now, the straw down here is a nice touch. It added a certain rustic panache to the place. As I shuffled my arse around to try and get comfy, the movement was accompanied by a symphony of crunches, like I was laying an egg on a carpet of autumn leaves.

    I can''t hear Merlin. What the fuck happened to him?

    "He was telling me that someone was channelling shedloads of Qi to try to break through to our side of reality and then . . . well, I guess that happened."

    I don''t want to be rude, but life was much fucking simpler with Rhyddrech Hael.

    "I can imagine."

    None of this Qi fuckery with him. Nope. The worst thing that was likely to happen with him was getting a spot of baby oil on my blade. No one ever ripped a hole in reality to drag him into a dingy prison cell. No sir. Although to be fair, we tended to visit Monsieur Whip''s Dungeon a few times a month . . .

    "And to think I was glad to hear from you."

    What?

    "Doesn''t matter."

    My eyes had adjusted to the gloom now, and I could see that the iron door in the centre of the wall opposite was the true pi¨¨ce de r¨¦sistance of the cell. It looked like it had seen better days, and in that, I felt we shared the beginning of a close bond. The door had character etched into every rusty groove and dent.

    I could have done without the bloody handprints, though, to be honest.

    The interior designer of the whole cell was clearly a fan of the "less is more" philosophy and had decided that anything more than four walls, a window, and a door was extravagant. Perhaps they were making a bold statement about the futility of material possessions. I could dig that.

    Or maybe they just ran out of budget.

    Although, tell a lie, there was a bucket in the corner to my left. It was a classic piece that highlighted the room''s aesthetic. I named it Bob. Bob the Bucket. He didn''t say much, but I could tell he had a certain depth to him. I felt we were going to be great friends.

    Are you okay? Your breathing has gone all funny.

    Surprisingly, someone pointing out you are hyperventilating does little to calm you down. The problem was I didn''t like enclosed spaces. I didn''t have claustrophobia or anything like that. It was just being locked in here, all alone, reminded me of some really bad times.

    "I''m okay, Drynwyn. Just get yourself ready for some fiery death when we get the chance."

    I don''t know how long I sat there.

    It''s funny how easy it is to lose track of time in a dark room with just your thoughts and a mad sword for company. At some point, I became aware of the distant sounds of dripping water. It was oddly rhythmic, a sort of plip-plop symphony that provided a soothing backdrop to my less-than-ideal situation.

    It was either that or the world''s saddest water feature.

    After a while of no one coming to let me out, I dropped into my Artist''s Studio to try to meditate. I hoped that if I could reach out with my senses beyond the confining walls, I''d start to feel a little better. But it''s hard to achieve enlightenment when you''re constantly being distracted by the artistic splattering of greenish mould on the wall that looked suspiciously like your father''s disapproving face.

    Seriously, you keep fucking breathing like that, and we''re going to run out of oxygen.

    Time rolled by with all the grace of a one-legged turtle. I tried to amuse myself by counting the drips from the ceiling, imagining them as a sort of watery metronome ticking away the seconds of my captivity. It was like nature''s own version of water torture, except less torture and more just really, really annoying.

    Then, as night fell, the cell took on a whole new persona. The sunlight from my skylight began to fade, and shadows danced along the walls, thrown by the flickering torchlight from somewhere outside my little abode. It was like being in a low-budget production of "Hyperventaliting Cultivator in a Cell: The Musical," except there was no music, no chorus line, and definitely no fucking applause.

    I wondered what Bors and Arthur were doing at that moment. Probably something heroic and awe-inspiring, like running away from Saxons in the woods and bitching about it. Meanwhile, here I was, engaging in a staring contest with ''I''m not mad, just disappointed'' mould daddy.

    Sleep was elusive, like a shy nymph in a forest of dreams.

    Where the fuck did that simile come from?

    "What can I say, Drynwyn? Incarceration brings out my poetic side." Especially as the straw was less "bed of comfort" and more "bed of ''why is this poking me in the ribs like it wants to get intimate?''"

    However, as hours drifted by, eventually, emotional exhaustion took over, and I felt myself drift off into a fitful sleep filled with dreams of white coats and pills that made me feel dead inside.

    When I woke, Bob the Bucket and Mould Father were still both there, silently judging me.

    But there was still no sight or sound of my captors.

 Chapter 23 - In which I start to go out of my tiny little mind

    "Is this a fucking prison?"

    "Seriously, dude, on top of everything else, I can''t be doing with deja vu today. Just can it for a little while, please."

    By my reckoning, I''d been awake for a few hours of Day Two of my captivity. It was becoming quite concerning that there was still no sight nor sound of whoever had used so much Qi to grab me that fucking Merlin had fangirled over it.

    As a cultivator, I knew I was unlikely to need food or drink in the near future, but the very idea that might become a factor was disturbing.

    It wasn''t helping me stay calm that I kept remembering a school trip to Warwick Castle when Mr Haines spent quite some time explaining the whys and the wherefores of oubliettes.

    To quote the Bearded Wonder - to be fair, I quite enjoyed his lessons. And he never set homework - the name comes from the French, oublier, meaning ''to forget.'' We were touring Caesar''s Tower, and he''d pointed out a grill on the ground, which covered a hole into which prisoners were apparently thrown and forgotten about.

    I could really do without that memory right now.

    Look, there''s no sense getting all hyped up about it. Someone put you here. Someone will come and let you out. We''ll fucking kill them when they do and take it from there. No bother.

    "Mate, and I say this with all love, if you''ve got some sort of sword-dementia thing going on, can we deal with it another day?"

    What the fuck are talking about?

    I ignored him.

    I needed a plan. I didn''t know where I was. I didn''t know who had taken me. I didn''t know what they wanted with me.

    By my reckoning, I''d been in here for a whole day, and no one had bothered to check on me, so I had to assume whoever had me knew I wasn''t going to die of thirst in the near future. Maybe the rules over the captivity of cultivators were different? Like, no rush. We''ll get to her in a few weeks.

    Fuck. That would be brutal.

    I can''t hear Merlin. What the fuck happened to him?

    "Fucking hell, Drynwyn. I can''t be doing with this right now. We talked about this yesterday."

    No, we fucking didn''t. Why would we? He was in here yesterday. Remember, the whole Trial of Honour, Strength and Thought?

    "Mate, I''m sorry to break it to you, but we''ve been in here for at least a day."

    Have you had a blow to the head? We were just in the forest, then something grabbed you, and now we''re here. I don''t want to be rude, but life was much fucking simpler with Rhyddrech Hael.

    "If you''re about to reminisce about your time in Monsieur Whip''s Dungeon, I will absolutely lose my shit."

    There was a pause. How do you know about that?

    "Because you told me. Yesterday. When we woke up here."

    And I told you we''ve only just fucking got here!

    And that was when the penny that had been falling for the last few minutes finally dropped.

    "Oh, fucking hell."

    And an evil cackle boomed through the cell.

    *

    I don''t know how often the day was reset before my contact with my captor was upgraded from an occasional evil cackle to an actual conversation.

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    Once I realised what was going on, I''d got my short-hand explanation for Drynwyn down to a solid few words - "Stuck in a time loop. Losing my goddam mind. Don''t be a dick" - and, to be fair, he was more or less rolling with it.

    But then again, why wouldn''t he? He couldn''t remember the eight million times we''d had the same conversation. I saw a play once by some French dude or another, and the key line was that ''hell is other people."

    I''m happy to confirm.

    Although, the only thing that would have been worse than an eternity stuck with Drynwyn was the prospect of the same amount of time on my own.

    So, it was swings and roundabouts.

    "Look, this isn''t the first time you''ve been through this. Don''t be such a wetwipe. It''s no different from when Merlin shut you away in a cave. Just do what you did then."

    But even as I said it - yes, I''ve started talking to myself - I knew I was lying. This was nowhere close to what I''d been through before. Back then, I had Merlin talking me through what was going on and a proper training regime. Here, I was basically rotting away in a void.

    By far, the biggest problem was that I was in such a state I couldn''t settle down to do any proper meditation. Every time I tried to clear my mind, the crushing weight of being stuck in this cell settled upon me, and I was kicked straight out of my Artist''s Studio.

    Have I told you the story of Rhydrech Hael against the cannibals?

    "Yes. You have literally told me every single story about Rhydrech Hael in existence."

    Well, sorry, I''m sure. Some of us have only been here a few hours.

    "And some of us have been here for what feels like most of our adult life. So, I''m sorry if I''m a touch grouchy."

    You should try cultivating. I''m sure that would pass the time.

    "Really? You think so, do you? Why hadn''t I thought of that?"

    I''m just trying to help.

    *

    Eeons past.

    Stars formed and fell apart.

    Keith Richards started to feel he was a bit past it all.

    Drynwyn carried on telling me the same stories.

    Eventually, though, it reached the stage that his voice became just so much background noise - like having the washing machine on when you were trying to get to sleep - and I was able to start to find some chill.

    I inhaled deeply and tried to let my panic wash away. Drynwyn''s voice was there, a steady drone that let other intrusive thoughts fade into the backwards if I focused on it.

    Just when the story of Rhydrech Hael and the busty washerwoman, her husband and their four donkeys reached its climax - a real romantic tale, this one - I dropped inward to my Artist''s Studio. For the first time in forever, I wasn''t immediately kicked out. However, my Qi was a sorry sight. It lay dormant, thick and unyielding, all my purple paint long dried up upon an abandoned palette.

    I focused, trying to get some life into this stagnant energy. To start with, though, it was akin to pushing against a stone wall. My Qi was immovable and, and this was the scariest thing, completely cold. Each effort completely drained me, and every attempt to get it moving left me more and more weary.

    Oddly, though, the more exhausted I was, the easier I could let go of my terror. Basically, it seemed like I had only so much mental energy available at any one time. I could be tired, I could be horny, or I could be scared. But I couldn''t manage all three.

    And then, after an especially strong push, I felt the faintest quiver, a teasing promise of movement that vanished as quickly as it came. That livened me up, and I redoubled my efforts over the next few days.

    It was hard work, this struggle to awaken something that seemed determined to remain asleep. My Qi was essentially me as a teenager.

    I could almost hear the echo of Merlin in my head, mocking my frailty.

    I wish.

    I don''t know how many days reset while I struggled with something that had come to me so easily before. However, I persisted - what else was I going to do? - driven by a flicker of hope that just refused to be extinguished. I''d been able to do this. I would again. And then I would free myself.

    Then, during the preamble of how Rhyddrech Hael found himself naked in a bed with a Duke, a Baron, a Princess and a strategically shaved bear, I felt a subtle shift, and then, just like that, I was able to push my Qi around my channels again.

    I don''t mind telling you that I wept tears of relief. I''d been worried that I had not done so for so long, the paint would have permanently dried out. Things were sludgy, for sure, but slowly but surely, I could push things around again.

    I was just starting to get excited about the giant fireball I would be putting through that fucking iron door when ...

    "Well, well, well. I was not sure you were ever going to crack that. What on earth is Merlin teaching his apprentices nowadays? So, let''s have a look at what you''ve got going on."

    I felt my eyes roll back in my head as something sharp and icy started rummaging around in my brain.

    "What a bizarre collection of talents. No. We can''t be having this. Some sort of weird version of the Dark Kestrel Strike? Useless." I gagged in pain as something was ripped out of my soul. Then vomited when the same thing happened again and then again. "I''ll leave you

    as that has some merit. But the rest of your foundation is simply trashy, unearned silliness. Really, I am so disappointed in this. I expected to see so much better. Perhaps it would be best to leave you a bit more time to reflect on some of your choices."

    The voice retreated, leaving me in a pool of sick - that was surely biologically impossible considering the lack of food and drink - and several yawning open wounds in my spirit where skills used to reside.

    "Is this a fucking prison?"

 Chapter 24 - In which Merlin gets his groove back

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 Chapter 25 - In which Uther overplays his hand

    Uther pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath.

    "And at what stage did you begin to recognise that none of this had ever really been a good idea?"

    Igraine began to shrug, then sensing that was not entirely appropriate to the fairly dire atmosphere in the throne room, dipped further into her deep curtsey. "It would be fair to say, Your Highness, that in retrospect, more detailed planning would have been sensible."

    "In retrospect?"

    Igraine nodded, frowning at Uther''s tone. She accepted that there was probably a certain amount of humble pie that would need to be consumed here. She had, after all, managed to lose track of both the Prince and Princess, as well as their sole remaining wizard and their most competent warrior.

    For a realm teetering somewhat on the precipe, she understood that the plan she had endorsed to help bring Arthur back to himself could be considered a little injudicious.

    Thus, she could accept that Uther had the right to be a little pissy in public about it.

    However, a big fat black line would need to be drawn at extensive humiliation. There were far too many members of the minor nobility in the room for her liking. Speaking of which . . .

    "Your Highness, on behalf of the men of Gwent, I offer my sincere condolences for the challenges that once again beset the British people. It would be an immense honour should you allow me to lead my brave countrymen on an immediate rescue mission. No mere Saxon will prevent me from delivering Prince Arthur and Princess Guinevere safely back to you." Gwynllyw''s men roared their approval at his words.

    Uther studiously ignored the man.

    He had been doing a lot of that ever since the arrival of that long streak of piss at Tintagel a few days earlier. News of the near-total annihilation of Arthur''s Marghekyon had brought every lunatic with a sword to court to try to get in on the action, and it was becoming a touch wearing.

    Despite his irritation, though, Uther understood the impulse. Saxon incursions the length and breadth of the country were increasingly putting pressure on the native, petty kingdoms. Alongside Gwynllyw of Gwent, he also was having to put up with various princelings and would-be warlords from Dyfed, Powys and Gwynned.

    It was encouraging that there seemed to be an impulse to throw their lot in with the Britons to meet the growing threat. He just would have preferred to have their support in the form of spears on the battlefield, rather than loud, virile young men hanging around his throne room and propositioning his servants.

    He already had a son who fulfilled that criteria nicely.

    The tall, earnest-looking man from Gwent might not be the most annoying of those seeking to join Arthur''s band, but he seemed the least responsive to rejection.

    However, Uther was far more focused on his wife for the moment. It was a rare day indeed that he could actually have something tangible to hold over her, and he intended to exploit this for its maximum enjoyment value.

    Truth be told, he was not too concerned about Arthur and the rest.

    For all his son''s many faults, there were very few scrapes into which the lad could get himself that he could not find a way to escape: that had been true his whole life. He had been - by all accounts - burned to death not that long ago, and he''d walked away from it largely unscathed.

    When you threw Bors, Morgan and Guinevere into the mix, he rather pitied whoever had waylaid them. It was likely to be a choice they would come to regret most sincerely.

    Nevertheless, he did not need to tell Igraine that. At least not right now. She was looking somewhat flustered. "Retrospect, my dear? We need retrospect to identify that, having encouraged the Prince and Princess of Britain to wander alone around the Saxon-infested countryside, tighter security arrangements would be sensible. It needs hindsight, does it? That seems rather interesting."

    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    "Allow the brave men of Gwent the opportunity to cleanse your land, Your Highness! No Saxon shall stand against the might of our blades!"

    Uther fixed his eyes on his increasingly red-faced wife, ignoring the loud chorus of cheers from around the room.

    Igraine cleared her throat. There would be a reckoning for this little mummer''s show. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon. And Uther would sincerely regret the smug smirk on his face. With great difficulty, she kept her voice neutral. "The Princess Guinevere believed she had a solution to her marital difficulties. We have discussed the importance of assisting Arthur and his wife to reach a more . . . stable relationship. I thought it apt to support her in this. Morgan agreed, and - following discussion - we put in place what I considered to be fairly robust safeguards to avoid any issues. I do not believe it could have been foreseen that the men following Guinevere would be slain nor that those tracking the prince would be accosted by a purple stallion."

    "Perhaps. But, of course, we will never know what might have been achieved had the circle of those planning such things been a touch wider. The product of the collective brainpower of three women does not seem to have worked out too well for us, does it?"

    There was a sharp intake of breath from those in earshot, and Igraine immediately straightened up. "I do beg your pardon?"

    Uther was a veteran of countless battles. He had brought the various warring tribes of Dumnonia under his rule by strength, might and a bloodymindedness that would put a charging boar to shame. He had personally slain ten Champions - including his own brother - in violent duels and had never backed down from any challenge. Few things in this world, or indeed the next, could cause a moment of fear to flutter in his heart.

    But he was also not an idiot.

    He knew that glint in his wife''s eye and recognised that boded ill for his immediate well-being. "What I mean, of course, my dear, is that it may have been sensible to include a wider range of advisors in planning how to ensure this unfortunate outcome was avoided."

    "I speak for the men of Gwent when I say we would be honoured to be so included in any such discussions. We have experience in strategic, long-term thinking."

    "And, just so I am clear, my lord, is your opinion that those advisors should have been men? To, I don''t know, dilute the volume of silly, feminine thinking that has occurred? Was that your point? I''m sorry, I may have misunderstood. Sometimes, my fragile women''s ears get quite overwhelmed by all the long words."

    "No, what I''m saying is . . . Hang on. Let me gather my thoughts. What I am trying to outline is that, perhaps, you, Guinevere and Morgan might not have been the ideal people to plan out a complex military operation with any number of variables."

    "Because we''re women?"

    "No, it''s not that -"

    "Because you are worried our periods may all have synched, leading to vapidity and emotional instability?

    "Dear gods. No. What I mean is that because you''re not, and never have been soldiers, you may have underestimated the challenges."

    "The men - and women - of Gwent have a long and proud history of soldiery and would be pleased to offer our expertise in the upcoming rescue mission."

    "Will you shut the fuck up!" Both Uther and Igraine bellowed at the tall man at the same time.

    Grasping at the distraction to escape his wife''s ire, Uther quickly sought to press onwards. "Prince Gwynllyw, my apologies. The stress of the situation, after all."

    The tall man smiled back. If he had been offended by the raised voices, he did not show it. "Not at all, my lord."

    "My son and his wife are beyond these walls. I would be grateful for your help in bringing them back home."

    Gwynllyw''s eyes shone with barely restrained fervour. He had a quest! And a quest from King Uther Pendragon, no less! This was a moment for which he had waited his entire life.

    The other nobles in the throne room barely got out of his men''s way as they stormed through the doors, running to the stables.

    Uther shook his head. The fool. If those missing truly needed help, it would take much more than Gwynllyw and his band of merry men to make a difference. Indeed, he doubted he''d see that man alive again. He had better send to King Glwys to let him know the imminent fate of his middle son.

    However, if it worked for the men of Gwent . . .

    Ignoring the continued frosty glare of his wife, Uther stood and addressed the rest of the court. "Let Prince Gwynllyw be your example. You wish to attach yourself to the court of Tintagel? Well, I shall not be ungrateful to whoever ensures Arthur and Guinevere return to us safely. Our success against the Saxons depends on them being brought home unharmed."

    There was a murmur of approval in the room. Uther''s generosity concerning his son was legendary. Did not most households in the room care for at least one of Arthur''s bastards?

    With a little more circumspection than Prince Gwynllyw managed, the room slowly began to empty of people eager to take to the countryside and locate the missing royalty.

    Uther moved to follow to see them on their way when a bony finger pocked the middle of his back. "Not so fast, my dear. I do not believe we quite finished our discussion."

    Uther Pendragon, the man who single-handedly broke the Saxon shield-wall at Mount Damen, took one look at his wife''s face and hurried for the door.

 Chapter 26 - In which it is Big Girl Pants time

    "You''re better than this."

    I tried my hardest to ignore the soft voice from down by my feet. I was feeling like absolute shit and honestly wasn''t in the mood for company.

    The small room was filled with the smell of vomit and . . . other liquid things. While that wasn''t exactly ideal in terms of my personal living situation, the bonus was that, in my vast experience, most people didn''t tend to want to hang around too long if I simply denied their existence for long enough.

    "No matter how bad things feel right now, tomorrow can be better."

    Well, I apparently had the Spirit of Fortune Cookie Wisdom visiting with me today. Wasn''t that a delight? I turned my head to spit out some sort of accumulated fluid from my mouth. Then, reconsidering, I swallowed it down. Saved me having to get up to find a glass of water.

    The body was efficient like that.

    I felt movement, and then whoever was with me was sitting by my side, and a cool hand rested on my forehead.

    I''m not going to lie. It felt nice.

    "Why do you do this to yourself, lovely?"

    Now, that felt kind of a low blow. At worst, I could be considered tangentially responsible for my current plight.

    "When I called yesterday afternoon, you promised you weren''t going out."

    Hang on a minute.

    I half-cracked an eye open. The sun shone through my bedroom curtains, perfectly illuminating the complete chaos of my life. Cups, plates and piles of clothes were stacked on every available - and those manifestly unavailable - surface. The smell of rotting food and spoilt milk added beautifully to the aroma.

    I seemed to be only half-dressed, which was momentarily a worry. Bad things happened to shitty people, after all. But then I remembered this was actually the outfit I had gone out in. So, that was kind of a good news, bad news thing. Presumably, I had been in such a state even the most predatory of souls had not been able to bring themself to do any more than stick me in a taxi.

    "Are you listening, lovely?"

    "Fuck off, Zizzie. I''m not in the mood."

    In my memory, it was at this point my sister sighed, slipped ten quid into my hand and let herself out.

    "No, not this time. We need to talk."

    In surprise, I opened my eyes and looked up at her. There was a firm note to the voice that was quite alien. Elizabeth - my four-year-old self had been unable to pronounce the name when she was born, and the nickname had stuck - looked as she always did, like a photo of me under the ministrations of intensive Instagram filters.

    Funnily enough, I''d never been able to bring myself to be jealous of her. She was just too nice. If there had been just one moment when we were growing up where she''d acted superior - a single example of screwing me over so she could get ahead - I''d have been all over that as an excuse for some epic sibling chicanery.

    But no. There''d been nothing. Zizzie had shared. She''d included. She''d rejected every opportunity my parents gave her to leave me floundering in her wake. And that attitude had carried on when she''d joined me at school. If you wanted to be her friend - and, my word, didn''t everyone? - then they needed to be mine, too.

    I''d fucking hated it.

    I remember feeling such an extraordinary kinship with Elizabeth Bennett when I first read ''Pride and Prejudice''. How could you ever find a space to function when you had a kind, friendly, optimistic, and beautiful Jane living in the same house? Well, preach, sister. I feel you. But you still could have done better than Darcy.

    I''d developed a whole stream of coping strategies for all the dicks and bitches in the world. I could give as good as I got in any situation, except when someone took me as they found me.

    A therapist had said they felt the root of my problems was that I had never felt unconditional positive regard from anyone in my life.

    I''d nodded fiercely - yeah, fuck all those guys who let me down! - whilst all the time trying to keep Zizzie''s open, calm, understanding face out of my mind.

    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    "This isn''t how it happened."

    "No," Zizzie took one of my hands in hers, "it isn''t."

    "So, you''re not really here?"

    "No, I''m afraid not."

    The image of my bedroom shifted, and I was back in my prison cell.

    There was simply no way to judge how long it had been since my techniques had been ripped out of my mind. I figured at least a few weeks had passed with me being in too much pain to do anything else but whimper and scream, but since coming out the other side of that, I had utterly lost track of the days.

    I''d thought of keeping an old-fashioned tally chart scratched into the wall to keep some measure of time, but when the day restarted, it was wiped away. Of course, it was.

    Cycling my Qi was absolute agony with the enormous gaps that had been torn in my foundation, but I''d done my best to stick at it.

    What else was there to do?

    I''d even tried to put in place some of the lessons Merlin had nagged and nagged at me to try out to maximise my efficiency, but I''d never had the time to roll out. Now I had nothing but.

    Don''t get me wrong, the isolation had driven me absolutely out of my gourd - witness the manifestation of my darling sister - but I''d spent most of my adult life in various addled states, so I imagine the impact of all this was significantly less than on someone who started off in a better mental state.

    Who knew being batshit crazy would turn out to be my superpower?

    "You need to stop thinking about yourself in such a negative way."

    "Sure, Ghost Zizzie. Lay your wisdom on me. I''m down for it."

    It was a bit of a surprise when she slapped me.

    "Stop it," she hissed.

    The physical impact of the blow was pretty insignificant. Regardless of what had been done to my techniques, I still had the body of a cultivator of no little power. Zizzie''d have needed a sledgehammer to have as much as make me blink.

    My shock was more that my sister had never so much as said ''boo'' to a goose in her whole life. She''d once cried for an entire morning after realising she''d shut a fly in her doll''s house overnight, and it had been away from its family until she released it. She''d been thirteen.

    Thus, the idea she''d just straight up clocked me one - all the time gritting her teeth in a rictus of fury - was a bit beyond my lived experience.

    "No one is coming to save you."

    I shrugged at that. "Sorry to break it to you, Z, but that''s been the story of my whole life."

    Zizzie shook her head, her face returning to its standard overflowing compassion mask. "No, it isn''t. No matter what you did, what you took or what you needed, there was always someone in the wings waiting to sort it out for you. Did you know Dad paid your rent for years?"

    "Did he fuck!"

    "He did. Why else do you think you were never evicted?"

    I knew exactly what Bryan, my previous landlord, had been getting in lieu of his monthly rent. So, Zizzie''s news came as a bit of a blow. In more than one way, if you get what I''m saying.

    "Jace watched out for you, even after you broke up with him. He went as far as to open an account with the local cab firm to ensure you got home from whatever place you passed out in."

    The image of a kind, bearded face behind the wheel of a car swam into my vision. "Mr Khan?"

    "You think it was a coincidence the same guy picked you up, night after night. And he never wanted paying?"

    To be honest, I''d never really thought about it. That was the beautiful thing about being solipsistic. You didn''t need to worry about others.

    "And how do you think you kept getting all those job offers? You must have known someone was pulling strings. How many times do you reckon someone can be fired before they get blacklisted!"

    Zizzie worked in recruitment. I''d guessed she must have had the odd word, but the way she was saying it was like she was my own personal employment consultant.

    "Just fuck off, Z. Being on my own is how I like it. I can take care of myself."

    The second slap had more welly in it, and I saw stars. Good for you, Zizzie.

    "No, you can''t. You''ve never been able to. You make this big song and dance about being independent and not wanting anything to do with anyone, but you''ve never been able to achieve anything off your own back. Even here, where the whole world is literally set up to allow you to work and graft and to grow into something extraordinary, you still have needed it all put on a plate for you."

    "Don''t hold back, Zizzie; say what you really think."

    And then my sister''s face blurred just slightly, and I realised I was talking to a simulacrum of myself.

    "You need to understand unless you get up off your arse, this is it," said Tough Love Me. "This is where you will stay until you go completely off your rocker." It was obviously disconcerting to hear that advice from yourself. "No one is coming to save you. No one even is really missing you yet. For them, you''ve barely been missing a few hours. You can''t just do as you always do: wallow in your own shit and wait for someone to come along and clean it up. That''s not going to happen this time."

    "Good talk. Cheery. Proper Invictus stuff."

    "You''re smart. You''re capable. You''re tougher than you know. And the world needs you to step up." The face blurred again, and it was back to Zizzie. "If you don''t get out of here, my timeline doesn''t exist. I need your help, lovely. It''s Big Girl Pants time."

    My eyes filled with tears.

    That was what we used to say to each other when something truly shitty had happened, but we needed to step up. It was the phrase we used every time Mum went awol for weeks on end. It was what I told her when that massive cock, David Johnson, broke her heart. And it was what she said to me after I lost the baby.

    Is this a fucking prison?

    I blinked, clearing my eyes of tears, and as quickly as she had appeared, Zizzie was gone.

    With a pulse, I blasted Qi around my channels and pulled it to the surface of my skin, burning off what felt like decades of grime instantly.

    Fucking hell, love. Calm down. There''s no sense getting all hyped up about it. Someone put you here. Someone will come and . . .

    "Nope. Not this time."

    What the fuck are you talking about?

    "I''ll explain as we go. But we''re not hanging around here for a minute longer than we need to. Now, just how hot can your flame become?"

    Oh, baby. Thought you''d never ask.

 Chapter 27 - In which I make a surprising new acquaintance

    You know right at the start of The Phantom Menace when Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon are kicking ass and taking names on the droid ship? Cool scene, right?

    Well, there''s this really weird bit when they suddenly move really, really quickly. Like, they become The Flash for a couple of seconds.

    There''s no real plot reason for it - it''s not like it''s a life-or-death situation or anything like that - and they never actually do it again. It bugs the hell out of me when, at the end of the movie, they''re chasing Darth Maul and the two of them manage to get separated. And, lo and behold, Obi-Wan never tries to use this fantastic capacity for superspeed to catch up with his mate.

    Ultimately, Liam Neeson gets shish kebabed because his Padawan appears to forget he has this massively helpful and extremely handy situational skill. I always thought his final words should have been something a touch more aggrieved than ''train him ...'' More like, ''What happened, dude? You stopped for a snack or something?"

    Why on earth am I telling you this . . .

    Honestly, I have no idea.

    I guess other than the sight of Drynwyn carving through my cell door like an oxyacetylene torch through ice cream, reminded me of earlier in that opening scene when Qui-Gon used his lightsabre to slice through the blast doors.

    I guess, if we''re really lucky, uninvited monologues on the vagaries of popular culture will be the only consequence of my isolated imprisonment.

    I fear there might be a bit more to it than that, though . . .

    Anyhow . . .

    So, it turns out ''Drynwyn versus Cell-Door'' is somewhat of a one-sided deal. In about three minutes, he''s through, and I''m out into a dark corridor that stretches left and right in an unbroken straight line without apparent end. I can make out similar doors to mine on both walls where, presumably, a bunch of people are also experiencing their own private time loop hell.

    "Good job," I said, reslinging the sword into its scabbard on my back.

    Cheers. You feeling up for some bad news?

    Whilst it was cutting, I''d filled the sword in on the little time-loop-Morgan-going-crazy-Big-Bad-ripping-out-all-my-techniques thing that had been going on.

    It had proved to be a surprisingly good listener.

    I imagine Rhydrech Hael had probably needed to unburden himself reasonably regularly.

    "How bad?"

    I mean, it''s not ''that succubus has poisoned you, and there''s no antidote '' bad. But neither is it ''there''s too many cocks in this room to adequately give them all equal attention'' bad either.

    "Those are two strangely specific examples."

    Long and traumatic history, my friend. Long and fucking traumatic history.

    I tried to take the temperature of my internal resources. I''m not going to lie, I was in quite a state. If I kept everything tightly buttoned up, I hoped I had a decent chance of getting out of here before crumbling into tiny little pieces. But I wasn''t sure I had much more ''bounce back'' left to take on board any bad news.

    "Can you try to sugarcoat it?"

    Sure. There was a pause. You know the time loop?

    "Pretty intimately at this stage."

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    There''s a chance - and probably not a big one. In fact, it is so unlikely I don''t know why I''m fucking mentioning it. But, you know, I''m a full-service sword, and I like to explore all possibilities - so there''s a tiny, slight, little chance that . . .

    "For the love of God, spit it out!"

    As the succubus said to Rhyddrech Hael. Sorry, that was inappropriate. What I''m getting at is what do you think the chances are the time-loop might not have just been localised within the cell . . .

    "Fuck''s sake, Drynwyn."

    Sorry.

    I was letting the weight of that wonderful bit of news settle on me when something shook me right back to the present.

    "Is there someone out there?"

    I pressed myself against the wall. The voice - a husky female one. Think Stifler''s Mum after more fags - had come from behind one of the cell doors a little way down on my left.

    "What do you think?" I asked Drynwyn. "Do I answer?"

    "Because if there is, dearie, and you''ve managed to get yourself free, I would be ever so grateful if you could see your way clear to getting me out, too!"

    I don''t know. A problem shared is a problem fucking cut in half and all that? Anyway, if you let her out - and you are still in the time loop - and it all goes to shit, you''ll know not to do it next time.

    Sound as that advice was, I didn''t want to deal with a reality in which there was a chance the day was going to reset again. I wasn''t sure I could cope with that right now.

    "Hello? Look, I don''t want to sound clingy," the voice pressed on, "not on such a short acquaintance, but it''s been quite some time since I heard another human, and I would like to make the most of this opportunity. Even if you''re planning on leaving me to rot in here, I''d appreciate a few words?"

    You know, there''s something about that voice that sounds familiar.

    "Good familiar or Rhddrech Hael''s archnemesis familiar?"

    No idea.

    "I sense your level of ''help'' might have peaked earlier today, right?"

    I cautiously walked toward the cell from which the voice was coming. "Hello! Sorry, just trying to weigh up the pros and cons of letting you out. Look, I recognise the hypocrisy in me asking you this, but was there a good reason you were locked up?"

    "Oh, undoubtedly. I pretty much left the High King with no choice at all. That is not to say I don''t wish to bring my incarceration to an end. But, in the spirit of building trust, I freely admit I was bang to rights."

    I knew there was an obvious follow-up question here, but for my life, I suddenly couldn''t figure out what it was. It was like there was an itch in the back of my brain exactly where what I should say next existed.

    I have definitely heard that voice before . . .

    "And are you stuck in a time loop, too?"

    "A time loop? Goodness me, no. That would be insanel cruelty. I''m just your common-or-garden ''stick them in a cell and throw away the key'' type. Time is passing entirely normally for me in here."

    I drew Drynwyn and pressed it against the door. "Look, I have no idea whether this is a good idea or not. But, you''ve asked nicely, and I could do with someone to talk to who doesn''t want to kill everything we come across."

    "Much obliged; I am sure this will be the start of a beautiful friendship."

    There was still that strange itch in my head distracting me away from . . . something. What was it?

    Drynwyn caught fire and began carving its way through. Where do I know this voice from? It''s on the tip of my blade.

    As it cut, I tried to fill the silence. I wasn''t sure about jailbreak small-talk etiquette, but it seemed sensible to keep the chat going. "So, how long have you been locked up?"

    "Best part of ten years, as well as I can figure it, dearie."

    That little itch flared up again; for some reason, there were questions I knew existed that did not seem to want to come forward. "And you say you''ve not spoken to anyone else in all that time?"

    "No. Not a soul. Not seen sight nor sound of anyone. I don''t mind telling you, dearie, that sort of isolation can really get to a person. Not wholly sure I''m quite in my right mind if truth be told."

    Drynwyn was done on one side, and I moved it to start cutting through to the other. It was still mumbling away about how familiar the voice was.

    "I hear you on that. But you''re exaggerating slightly, right? Because if you''re not being kept in the same type of time loop prison as me, someone must have been popping in to feed and water you."

    "No," the voice sounded bemused. "Why would they need to do something like that? I doubt the High King would want anyone dropping by to see me. Chance would be a fine thing. I''d have been out of here like a shot."

    That itch was getting bigger.

    "Well, to keep you alive. Surely, someone''s been bringing you things to eat and drink over the last ten years!"

    Drynwyn completed that extended cut and started to sweep across the final line to join everything up.

    "Ha. It''s been a long time since I''ve needed food or drink. What self-respecting cultivator needs such things? Especially at my time of life."

    That gave me pause, and I tried - at the last minute - to pull Drynwyn free from its cut, but it was too late. The door crashed inwards, narrowly missing hitting a short, plump-looking woman in the face.

    Ah, I knew it! Could recognise those dulcet tones anywhere. Morgan, nice to see you again!

    Because, of course, the cultivator I''d just free from her prison was the original Morgan Le Fay.

 Chapter 28 - In which you will see Drynwyns Pandoras Box gag coming from a mile off

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

 Chapter 29 - In which a narrative roadblock requires the composition of a fucking poem to unclog.

    "First things first," Morgan said, the air positively crackling with her power, "can someone explain to me where all this lovely, lovely Qi has suddenly come from?"

    She inhaled several times as if that could speed up her rate of Qi absorption. "It was never like this before. Like drinking a wyvern through a straw, it used to be."

    I engaged my Magic Eyes and was startled to see what looked like a tornado emanating from the woman''s chest. It was a sickly green and appeared to be . . . I think ''slurping'' is the only appropriate word in this situation.

    Merlin only went and fucking died, didn''t he!

    The tornado abruptly stopped, and the woman turned to stare at Drynwyn, mouth wide open. "Merlin''s dead?"

    I sensed Drynwyn was likely to be about to go off on a monologue of metaphors that was destined to cause a copyright infringement claim from purveyors of deceased parrots.

    I chose to intercede.

    It took a disappointingly brief amount of time to fill Morgan in on the series of events that had brought me to the Dark Ages, my adventures thus far and how we now all found ourselves in a drafty prison corridor. I mean, I wasn''t hoping for Don Quixote or anything like that, but when you said it out loud, it seemed less . . . significant than it had all felt at the time.

    Actually, that''s kind of the point of Don Quixote, isn''t it?

    I''m getting distracted again, aren''t I?.

    "So, what you are telling me, dearie, is that there have been months and months of all this wonderful Qi swirling around just waiting to be gobbled up, and I missed it?!"

    I couldn''t help but feel that Morgan had slightly missed the point of my narrative. "Well, I guess, tangentially, that has been the case. But did you miss the bit about the Saxon invasion and . . . "

    Morgan waved a hand dismissively. "Saxons being Saxons is hardly news. You know as well as I do," her eyes were suddenly fixed on mine, "how all of these little genocides shake out. Merlin is not the only one to get visions of the future, don''t you know?"

    With that, her eyes unfocused, and her voice took on an odd, declaiming tone.

    In the realm of mist and stone, where ancient Britons thrived,

    By sacred hill and henge, their earthen homes derived.

    Their chants, like wind through druid oaks, in mystic harmony,

    In lands of myth and ancient lore, their spirits roamed free.

    Then came the Angles, Saxon kin, with iron, flame, and sail,

    Their longships parted morning mist, a stark, foreboding gale.

    They carved their runes, imposed their will on British shores so fair,

    In mead halls filled with warrior songs, they spoke of conquests rare.

    The Jutes joined in, from distant lands, a lesser-known but fierce band,

    Together with the Angles and the Saxons, they reshaped the British land.

    A trinity of Northern might, they forged a new domain,

    Their legacies intertwined in history''s grand refrain.

    Vikings next, with dragon prows, from icy fjords they came,

    With axe and shield, in longboats fierce, they sought to claim their fame.

    They stormed the isles with ruthless will, their sagas sung with pride,

    In halls of mead, their stories told, of seas they''d conquered wide.

    At last, the Normans, regal, stern, across the Channel''s broad expanse,

    With cavaliers in gleaming mail, they sought to enhance.

    Their castles rose, a symbol strong, of a new era''s birth,

    Their legacy in stone and song, a testament to their worth.

    Through time''s grand march, these cultures merged, a tapestry so vast,

    Briton, Angle, Saxon, Jute, Viking, Norman, cast.

    In every stone, in every stream, these stories are enshrined,

    A chronicle of many races, in England''s heart entwined.

    I mean, apart from the shitty rhyme scheme - expanse/enhance, really? - I did rather have to take issue with Morgan''s ''vision'' suggesting the make-up of ''England'' ended in 1066.

    She''d be advocating for Brexit next.

    "So you can see," her voice returned to his normal, "why I never had any truck with Merlin and his ''Once and Future King bullshit."

    Her tornado sucking in Qi started up again, and I switched off my Magic Eyes. The image of the bottomless green vortex sucking in energy was starting to disturb me. A thought struck me, did Morgan conceptualise her Qi as wind?

    "The old fool can go on as much as he likes about a "golden age of Britain" and "peace in our time", but that isn''t going to stop the Saxons stomping all over Tintangel when the time comes round. Nor the Normans - whatever the fuck they are - sticking it in and breaking it off to those smug blonde bastards when it is their turn. Where are the Normans from anyway?"

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    "Erm," I cast my mind back to try to remember what the French were called around this time. "Frankia, I think?"

    Fucking hell. Melt me down for slag and pour me in the lake. The Franks end up top dogs on this island? Bloody fucking bollocking hell.

    I couldn''t help but feel I''d lost control of the general thrust of this conversation.

    "So, what''s the plan?" I asked, gamely trying to wrestle the conversation back into some sort of order. "Can you get us out of here?"

    Morgan didn''t seem to hear me, so I tried again. After she ignored my question for the third time, I was starting to get peeved.

    "Morgan," I reached out to put my hand on her wrist, "I asked. ''Can you get us out of her?''"

    The second I made contact with her, I felt myself being pulled down into a raging storm.

    I found myself in what was apparently Morgan''s equivalent of my Artist''s Studio. However, to try to draw comparisons would have been facile. Whereas I had a blank canvas on which to paint my Qi, Morgan seemed to have a craggy rock around which roared a hurricane.

    I don''t know if this was reflective of how much more power she had than me or whether it was the difference in our temperaments, but as I clung desperately to the rough rock to keep from being buffeted out into oblivion, it was clear that OG Morgan and I were not especially alike.

    "How did you find your way in here, dearie?"

    A hand reached out towards me, and I grabbed it gratefully. I was hauled like a sack of potatoes upwards and deposited on a flat stone surface, making it slightly easier to cope with the ongoing buffeting torrent.

    I glanced over to say ''thank you'' to Morgan and was somewhat astonished to see the change in her physical being. Gone was the endearing, slightly grouchy grandmother figure, to be replaced by someone who would have made Maleficient and Hela look at each other and say, ''Nah, I think that''s pushed the S&M-Bitch-Queen-from-Hell thing a little far. Let''s dial it back. Smaller horns. Go easier on the leather.''

    She absolutely towered above me, with eyes the colour of the sickly green tornado I had seen earlier.

    "I don''t know. Happy to be sent back, if you know how?"

    "Of course I do. But let''s chat for a moment. So, with Merlin gone, you''re the head cultivator honcho in Tintagel?"

    "Well, I wouldn''t quite put it like that . . ."

    "How would you put it? There''s no other cultivator of substance in the court of Uther, is there?"

    "No. Well, then, yes. If you express it in those terms, I probably am Top Dog cultivator."

    Funnily enough, barely able to stand in the middle of a colossal maelstrom, at the mercy of a legendarily capricious Witch and still reeling from the effects of the time loop on my fragile mental state, I wasn''t sure this was much of a recommendation.

    Morgan made a gesture, and the swirling winds subsided significantly. I realised I had been shouting. She looked at me silently for a few moments, her head cocked to the side. It felt scarily like she was an enormous bird, considering whether it was worth her while consuming a particularly unappetising-looking worm.

    "You have extremely deep wounds," Morgan said, her demeanour not changing.

    "I know. The dickhead who brought me here tore out all my techniques -" but Morgan was shaking her head as I spoke - "What?"

    "Those are not the wounds of which I speak. Techniques come and go. What you had once, you can have again, should you think those skills were valuable." She frowned for a moment as if reading something. "I would, for example, suggest there are better uses of your time than giving tree spirits little blue pills." I may have blushed. "No, not the gaps where your techniques were. I allude to different wounds."

    Images from the time loop flashed through my mind, and I felt the blood run from my face. "Morgan, to be honest, I think I''ve spent long enough wrestling with my demons. If it''s all the same to you, I''m trying to put it all behind me."

    The wind shifted in direction and began swirling the other way as she smiled a somewhat rueful grin. "But that is not what being a cultivator means, dearie. It''s not all about power, saving the world and -" that frown had returned, "did you use a Dark Kelstrel''s Strike to rip the head off Voltigern''s Dragon?"

    "Kind of. But only once. And I also inhaled."

    "You are a funny little thing. I am not quite sure what Merlin thinks he was playing at trying to turn you into another version of him. You simply do not have the foundation for it."

    I opened my mouth to protest, but a gentle tap of wind closed it, clattering my teeth together.

    "I do not say this is a bad thing. Merlin was . . . unusual. Those who see their journey to the heavens in terms of water are often single-minded. Relentless. And yet also prone to predictability. Merlin, though? He did something unexpected. He stole a march on the rest of us, and by the time we even realised we were in a race, he had won, and his great need for Qi left us all fighting for scraps."

    Morgan flexed her arms, and the wind picked up, the hurricane around us lifting her into the air. "But it seems that time is over. With the old goat gone, there is, for the first time in generations, Qi to spare on this island for the rest of us. That puts me in an uncommonly good mood. And that is before remembering the gratitude I should feel towards you for freeing me, dearie."

    "If this is the moment when you give me all manner of powers, weapons and supernatural goodies, I am absolutely here for it."

    Morgan looked down at me and smiled. The bird/worm analogy suddenly upgraded to a sabretooth tiger and a very small rodent.

    "Cultivators should never be ''given'' anything, dearie. You take what you can through the strength of your own power. You never surrender. You never accept defeat. And you never, ever say sorry for tearing your due out of the flesh of the world."

    Well, that didn''t sound remotely sinister at all. It struck me that if Merlin was a crotchety old Jedi Master, Morgan was a hot Sith Edge-Lord.

    "However," she continued, "I will choose to reward you with several things."

    I kind of think we were playing a bit with semantics here - Gifts. Rewards. You know what I''m saying?

    "Firstly, I will break the time loop around your mind."

    A weight I did not know was still settled upon my chest suddenly lifted. From the moment Drynwyn mentioned it, I knew it could not be as simple as breaking free from the cell. To have that appalling horror behind me felt wonderful.

    "This is not a wholly altruistic act. Should your loop remain unbroken, I fear I will find myself back in my cell tomorrow morning, and we will have to go through all this again."

    "I don''t care whether what scratches my back also tickles your fancy. That''s the best news I''ve ever had. Thank you!" The rushing air pulled the streaming tears off my face.

    "Secondly, I will allow you to continue to use my name."

    I''m not going to lie, that felt like a bit of an anti-climax. "Thanks, I guess?"

    "Again, this is not an entirely selfless gift. If what you say is true, then there are those of us who have had some time to plan their next steps once Merlin was removed. It serves my purpose for my re-emergence in the world to remain obscured. Word of Tintagel''s new Cultivator will doubtless already have spread. Should people come looking for me but find you . . . well, there are benefits to me in that."

    This second gift felt like less of a reward than becoming the goat at the start of Jurassic Park. "You know, I''m quite happy with picking another name. I''ve always thought that ?thelfl?d was pretty kick-ass, I don''t mind -."

    The wind picked up again. "I have spoken!" Fuck me, this broad was touchy. Then she continued as if she hadn''t just channelled every ineffective Supply Teacher trying to bring order to 3:00pm on a Friday afternoon. "When our business here is done, I will retreat from the world for a time to attempt to catch up with the power of the others. My name is yours until my return."

    It seemed unwise to press the issue. "Peachy."

    "Two more rewards. The first, I hope, will be helpful to you in healing your wounds. You already bear one of the thirteen treasures of Britain: Drynwyn, the sword of Rhydderch Hael. I shall gift you a second, the Cauldron of Dyrnwch the Giant."

    A bronze pot about the size of a bucket appeared in my hand. It smelt distinctly of sulfur.

    "This Cauldron increases the potency of anything created within it. Food will be more nourishing, drink will be more refreshing, and -" I think her eyebrows waggled here - "the quality of elixirs, pills and potions brewed within will be improved immeasurably. I am sure Merlin has the necessary scrolls squirrelled away someone to explain further."

    Okay, so that was actually reasonably useful. But only if, you know, I could actually get back home to use it.

    "And for my final reward -"

    "You''ll teleport me back to my friends?"

    A sad smile crossed Morgan''s face, and I began to feel her pushing me out of her internal realm. "You must start thinking more like a cultivator, dearie. To get home, you must develop the power to do it under your own steam. No, what I will give you is far more valuable. I will tell you the name of which of us imprisoned you."

    "Bit of a shit sandwich situation there, but if a portal home wasn''t on offer, I''d take a bead on whose arse I''d be ripping a new hole into.

    I could barely hear her now as the wind noise raised, and I became increasingly insubstantial. "Who, who did it?"

    "Why, the same man who captured me. The man who, after torturing me to share all my secrets, threw me in a dungeon and left me to rot for ten years. I understand he now calls himself the Bretwalda, but I know him by another name."

    This felt like an unnecessarily pantomime-esque build-up to the big reveal, but I guessed she was owed a little drama.

    "Which is?"

    There was a pause where I am sure, in her own mind, there were three chords of organ music.

    "Aurelius Ambrosius."

 Chapter 30 - In which we meet a good old-fashioned revenge driven villain

    Aurelius closed the door behind him and made his way over to his favourite chair.

    On some level, he recognised that having such things as a ''favourite chair'' was beneath a man of his age and station in life. But on another, more profound level, he understood that when you were as powerful as he was, you could indulge pretty much whatever whim you fucking wanted.

    As he sat, he selected a glass vial - one of the blue ones this time - from a leather pouch on the chair''s armrest and popped its cork.

    As it always did with the blue ones, his nose wrinkled in distaste at the acrid, metallic smell, but he tossed it down his throat anyway.

    ''No pain, no gain,'' as he always said.

    Actually, thinking on it, he had never verbalised those words before in his life. However, as it felt like an appropriately sage piece of advice, he resolved to use it more in conversation.

    Cricking his neck and wincing at the resulting sound, Aurelius Ambrosius - brother to Uther Pendragon, uncle to Prince Arthur, and long, long presumed dead and gone - closed his eyes and settled into his daily ritual of cycling poison through his veins.

    *

    "Give it up, Lis!" the younger man called over the rim of his shield, shuffling a little to the right to prepare a new point of attack.

    Aurelius rolled his shoulders and stayed silent, circling to mirror his brother''s steps. Sweat streaked down his face in a river, and he shook his head to disperse the droplets.

    He was getting tired. He knew it. And Uther knew it.

    He couldn''t keep this intensity up much longer.

    Then, without warning, Aurelis let loose a series of swift spear thrusts, each aimed to strike the centre of Uther''s shield. The expected counter came swiftly, the clash of metal drowning out the shouts and jeers from those surrounding them in a tight circle.

    "Brother, we don''t need to do this!" Uther''s voice, so annoyingly filled with confidence, rang out towards him again.

    Aurelius did not answer. Of course, they needed to do this. Uther had been sniping at him for weeks, and everyone knew this was a boil which needed to be lanced once and for all. If the Saxons'' advance was to be halted and then pushed back, then that could only be achieved under the arm of a single Pendragon.

    While both brothers agreed with that assessment, there was undoubtedly some sibling disagreement over which of them it should be.

    With a sudden surge of energy, Aurelius sought to overpower Uther with a barrage of strikes - high, low, then high again. Uther''s shield absorbed each blow as if nothing more substantial than a straw was assailing him, then responded with a flurry of short jabs with his own spear that forced Aurelius to retreat in an ungainly manner.

    He did not miss the laughter in the crowd at his missteps and felt his heart sink. A leader could survive many slips on the road to victory. But mockery was not one of them.

    Shaking his long hair again to clear the sweat, Aurelius resettled himself behind his shield, needing to regain his wind. The two now moved in a tense rhythm, each step measured, each attack deliberate.

    Sensing the tiredness creeping into his elder brother''s legs, Uther suddenly leapt forward, his spear darting towards Aurelius''s head, but the thrust was deflected onto his shield, with a swift counterthrust snaking towards Uther''s midsection. The latter was quick to react, sidestepping and bringing his shield across in a firm block.

    This caused a few shouts of derision as the watching thegns grew restless. If there was one thing you were not looking for in a duel for leadership on the eve of a battle, it was a long, drawn-out bloodbath that left both participants good for nothing.

    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    To tell the truth, not one of them really cared whether it was Uther or Aurelius who sat on an imaginary throne and called themselves the Pendragon. The Saxon invasion was a blight on the land of the Britons, and they were all - well, most of them - reconciled to the need to band together to meet that threat.

    It had seemed like Aurelius would be the man to play the unifier role, but a year of reversals and losses in the north had led to Uther''s name being very loudly championed as an alternative. During the latest retreat, it had become plain the brothers could no longer work with each other, and therefore, in time-honoured tradition, a circle had been formed under the evening sun to decide the matter.

    Growing more desperate, Aurelius feigned a retreat, luring Uther forward, only to pivot and launch a sudden attack. Sparks flew as the shields crashed together, and Uther narrowly avoided a spearhead to the throat. Her retaliated with a powerful sweep of his own, aimed at Aurelius''s legs, which forced him to jump back for a moment. However, he was soon back on the offensive, cutting at Uther''s arms and legs as he scurried backwards.

    Aurelius intensified his attacks, his spear a whirlwind. He pressed Uther, aiming a rapid succession of thrusts, each one parried but inching closer to their mark. Uther''s shield work was impeccable, yet the relentless assault from Aurelius was starting to wear him down.

    Indeed, for the first time in the confrontation, Uther felt himself needing to concentrate. He was bigger than his brother. Stronger. Whereas Aurelius was more comfortable addressing a crowd, Uther was at home in the shield wall. He loved the press, the push, the feeling of matching your raw power against an enemy.

    He knew the longer this bout went on, the more certainty there was for his victory. And that was without his trump card needing to become involved. Uther adopted a more defensive stance - absorbing a flurry of impacts on his shield - and took the opportunity to glance at the tall, gaunt figure that stood a little way back from the ring of thegns.

    Uther wasn''t sure what to make of that man - cultivator is what he called himself, wasn''t it? However, if a quarter of what Merlin had promised him came true, he would indeed be a very happy man indeed. After all, was he not to be the father of the greatest of all British Kings?!

    And that, he supposed, was where he was so different from his big brother.

    He watched Aurelius over the rim of his shield, sensing his efforts to sneak any advantage. He watched as his brother made a number of feints to the left, followed by a forceful jab rattling Uther''s shield. Seizing the moment, Aurelius aimed for Uther''s exposed side, but with a grunt of effort, he managed a last-second parry.

    No, Aurelius would not be satisfied in preparing the way for his son to be king. He would need to be the one to do it himself.

    Merlin had explained that unless Uther was the one to lead the assault on Salisbury on the morrow, the future he had prophesied would never come into being. He had gone to his brother, asking for the command, but he had been refused.

    And now, here they were, locked in a fight to the death. Worryingly, Uther thought that their parents would be very proud.

    The sun was falling low, and they both knew the duel was nearing its climax. Seeing Aurelius'' shield droop slightly, Uther found a reserve of strength and surged forward, his spear leading in a series of unpredictable thrusts. Aurelius, caught off-guard, scrambled to defend and nearly disengaged effectively. Uther, however, feigned a strike to Aurelius''s head, then, in a swift change of direction, aimed a low thrust towards Aurelius''s legs, momentarily throwing him off balance.

    Aurelius struggled to keep up with the attacks and parried a high strike but missed the follow-up at his midsection.

    Uther''s spear found its way past Aurelius''s guard, and the final blow was delivered.

    Uther would have liked to have felt more sorrow. However, in the end, it was mostly a sort of hollow triumph.

    As Aurelius fell to his knees, blood gushing from the wound, the thing he thought hurt the most was the cheers from those he had sought to lead.

    *

    "Bastards. Fucking ungrateful bastards." Aurelius'' eyes snapped open, and the memory faded away.

    After all he had done for them they''d left him there to bleed out.

    If the retreating Saxons hadn''t stumbled upon him the following morning - because, of course, Uther led the Britons to victory, didn''t he! - he''d have died of that wound.

    But no.

    He wasn''t destined to be that lucky.

    Years of torture and imprisonment followed. Aurelius''s eyes flashed as those memories flared to life. But he''d shown them, in the end. Hadn''t he? My word, he had.

    Aurelius selected another vial from the leather pouch and - without bothering to check the colour - uncorked it and drank it down.

    It hadn''t been easy, but thirty-five years - almost exactly to the day, now he thought about it - later, and he was poised to complete his revenge on his brother,

    He''d taken Merlin from him. He''d destroyed the mind of his latest wizard. And now - and was this not the cherry on the cake? - he was going to kill his precious son.

    The acid - it must have been a green vial - burned through Aurelius'' cheek and dribbled through the hole to fall down his neck. He dabbed at it ineffectively, burning his fingers as he did so.

    Uther may have become the Pendragon.

    But the Bretwalda would soon have Arthur''s head.

    And then there would be a reckoning.

 Chapter 31 - In which Escher would be proud

    Where the fuck did she go?

    Opening my eyes, I was suddenly very aware I was on my lonesome in the prison corridor. It seemed OG Morgan had been as good as her word and had fucked off to spend some quality time with her Qi.

    While I was happy for her - and pleased not to need to come up with a new name. Think of my monogrammed night linen! - I couldn''t help but feel she could have waited until I''d escaped.

    Even apart from having her as backup - after what felt like aeons in the time loop with Drynwyn - I''d quite enjoyed having someone to talk to who had access to a greater range of verbs and adjectives.

    She was standing here one moment, and the next . . . poof. Fuck me, why can''t you do actually useful cultivation shit like that?

    Ignoring the sword, I instead took a good look left and right. The corridor of cells continued to stretch out in an endless line, but it didn''t fill me with such a sense of despair as it did previously. Now that I was sure the day wouldn''t reset again, I could feel my naturally sunny and optimistic personality return.

    Are you fucking high or something? You''re giving off the weirdest aura.

    Gritting my teeth, I repeated to Drynwyn what Morgan had told me about who was responsible for our transportation to this little bit of paradise.

    "Fucking hell. Aurelius Ambrosius?! What''s with all the old crew coming out of the woodwork? Next thing you''ll be telling me is that you have Constantine the Great tucked under your left tit."

    I was happy to clarify I wasn''t breast-smuggling Roman Emperors.

    So, this was all well and good, but stood around gossiping like a couple of fishwives wasn''t going to get us out of here.

    That was an odd simile. It''s one my mum said all the time about me and my sister. I used to think there were women whose role in life was to seek out and marry cod.

    Fuck me, where did that come from . . .

    I need to get a grip. I vigorously shook my head back and forth as if that could shake some of the loose screws out. Not sure it helped over much.

    So, left or right?

    Instinctively, I felt myself turning towards the right as the most likely way out. Even without most of my techniques, I was still a cultivator, and thus, my initial gut instinct must count for something. Right? But then I remembered reading something somewhere that because we have better control of our dominant hands, we unconsciously associate good things with our "fluent side of space." So, it might not be so much that I was experiencing a Qi-informed instinct here, but that it was more likely just because my right hand got more of the action.

    Although not recently.

    Perhaps I could equate some of my woolly-headedness to an unprecedentedly epic dry spell.

    Goodness, I couldn''t keep myself focused.

    "Left or right, Drynwyn?"

    What?

    "We need to get out of here before someone realises I''m no longer stuck in a time loop. Both ways look the same to me and, I''m not going to lie, I''m starting to worry I''m not quite all here. Left or right?"

    Rhyddrech Hael always used to say that if you worry, even for a moment, that you might be mad, then you definitely aren''t. Of course, he also practised his deep-throating technique with frozen weasels, so take that fucking advice as you find it. Come on then, let''s have a look at the options.

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    Feeling oddly self-conscious, I held Drynwyn at full-length, pointing down towards the left-hand side of the corridor, whilst it ''hemmed'' and ''huhhed'' and made various cryptic comments for a bit. Then I did the same for it on the right-hand side, and he went through the same rigmarole.

    After a good few minutes of earnest muttering, I couldn''t take it anymore. "Well? Which way do you think we go?"

    No fucking clue.

    Fucking A.

    Okay, let''s think about this logically. I have a lifetime of experience making truly bad decisions based on my gut. Or at least an organ in the general vicinity of my gut. Therefore, it stood to reason that if I was slightly inclined to take the right-hand corridor, it was just good sense to play the odds and stride confidently to the left.

    If all else fails, do the absolute opposite of your instincts. Job done.

    As we walked past rows and rows of identical-looking cell doors, I was happy to let Drynwyn regal me with story after story of the legend of Aurelius Ambrosius.

    I had a very - very - vague memory of his appearance in the books about Camelot I loved when I was younger. If he ever made an appearance in my favourites - ''The Mists of Avalon'' and ''The Once and Future King'' - then I couldn''t remember much about him. He was, now I think on it, a pretty important warlord in a book I enjoyed called ''The Crystal Cave'' - but that was more about the life of Merlin than anything else.

    And I genuinely didn''t think either of the big beasts - Malory or De Troyes - mentioned him at all. Or at least, much more than just one of Arthur''s ancestors.

    Drynwyn, though, in its own unique way, was filling in the gap in my education.

    The way the sword told it, Aurelius and Uther were very much the Cain and Abel of the Dark Ages. The Thor and Loki. Maybe even the Beyonc¨¦ and the Solange. Although that last might be overstating the levels of duplicity, violence and general skulduggery.

    From all the tales, I was developing a very clear picture in my head of a giant slab of muscle with exceptionally thin skin who just couldn''t get enough of showing the world how big his cock was and - in particular - how much bigger it was than his younger brother''s.

    By the fiftieth time I heard about a raid, or a shield wall, or a siege where Aurelius went out of his way to rub his little bro''s face in just how awesome the big dog was, I felt I knew him pretty well.

    Basically, as far as I could tell, Aurelius Ambrosius was a dick who should count himself very lucky it took Uther so long to decide to drive a spear through his heart.

    The more I heard about some of the things Aurelius got up to in his youth, the more I felt myself re-evaluating my feelings about the Pendragon.

    With such a colossal douche as a brother, he must have had an absolute clusterfuck of an upbringing. If the only model of affection he had was someone who seemed to delight in demonstrating how much weaker and more pathetic he was, it was hardly surprising he wasn''t exactly Mr Available Dad to Arthur.

    When I got back, I was giving Uther the number for my therapist.

    However - and this felt pretty important considering the whole ''ripped me out of reality and stuck me in a time loop'' thing - at no stage, in any of the stories, did Drynwyn mention Aurelius was a cultivator.

    Nah, that sort of shit was all Merlin. I felt Drynwyn shudder a little in its scabbard as if reliving a bad memory. It wasn''t until a bit after Uther shish kabobed Aurelius that any of that cultivating bollocks began. Merlin was absolutely the first of them I heard about. But OG Morgan, Nimue, Mim the Bitch Witch and Taliesin all rocked up in short order after that. Aurelius was dead and gone by then.

    "Apparently not."

    I couldn''t help but notice we didn''t seem to be getting anywhere during our Great Escape. We''d been walking for a good ten minutes, and as far ahead as I looked, the corridor stretched on and on.

    Although . . .

    I squinted and peered forward. It looked like one of the cell doors was open a little way ahead.

    Drawing Drynwyn, I quickened my pace into a run, closing the gap much quicker than expected. I still sometimes forgot that, since getting more serious about my cultivating, I was a fucking ripped athlete. This was a whole new world for someone who had gotten out of breath looking for the remote.

    I drew up a little short of the door and began approaching it cautiously. Oddly, after rows and rows of locked doors, it appeared that a second door hung open not that much further up the corridor.

    It was all very strange.

    It wasn''t until I dipped my head into the first of the rooms that I realised what was going on. I confirmed it by looking into the second, where a broken set of chains lay on the floor.

    Fuck me, we''ve walked around in a circle!

    I stood back and looked left and right again. This wasn''t just a really long corridor. It was presumably one long corridor in a fucking massive circular tower. It must be big enough that it looked like we were walking in a straight line when, in fact, we were - ever so slightly - curving around.

    But if this was a tower, we''d walked the entire circumference without seeing a way up or down to other floors.

    And that was fucking worrying.

 Chapter 32 - In which Guinevere reflects on a mans love for his thick wooden shaft

    "Just like choking a chicken," Guinevere reminded herself, stepping up behind the oblivious Saxon.

    In one fluid motion, she was into his blind spot, reaching around to cover his mouth. At the same time, her right arm snaked over the Saxon''s right shoulder, her right hand grasping her left wrist to secure a firm hold.

    As he began to react, Guinevere squashed her chest against his back - right arm braced across his throat - and shifted her weight to her right leg, preparing to apply the necessary force. With a vicious jerk, she pulled her right arm back while pushing forward with her left.

    She could hear her old trainer''s words as she did so, his soft lisp oddly emphasising his words.

    "If completed correctly, this movement will target the cervical vertebrae, where the spinal cord connects to the brain. The correct application of sudden torque, combined with the forward pressure, will thus disrupt the spinal cord''s function. It''s a manoeuvre which requires both strength - hence your morning press-ups - and precision and will dislocate the cervical vertebrae, resulting in immediate cessation of neurological functions and collapse. Now, select your chicken."

    As she knew it would, there was a loud crack, the Saxon''s body went limp, and Guinevere gently lowered him to the ground.

    Checking his body, she once again cursed at the complete lack of any helpful gear these odd wolf-clad spearmen carried. Just on the law of averages, she''d have assumed she would have come across at least one with a bow and arrow.

    But, no. It was all spears, spears, spears. Men and their enduring relationship with big pointy sticks.

    Following her encounter with the maimed wizard, Guinevere had largely stayed ahead of a rather haphazard hunt for her. Something seemed to be up in the Saxon camp as - on more occasions than she''d have liked to think - a bit more thoroughness would have completely closed down her avenues for escape.

    It was all the more odd as these Saxons in wolf furs were handy. Certainly, leagues more capable than those waifs and strays whose pursuit of her had been the initial cause of her quest plan for Arthur to unwind. That made their suddenly chaotic behaviour all the more noteworthy.

    At the sound of horns blowing - and the responding howls of wolf calls - Guinevere pressed herself low over the body of her latest victim. Had they seen her?

    But no. The sudden crashing noise of lots of running feet was going in the opposite direction.

    However, it was more than just her relief at remaining unspotted that caused a smile to spread on Guinevere''s face. A little band of three spearmen had just run past her hiding place, and she was sure she heard one of them say the words ''Bryttisc w¨©gend''. While Saxon might not be one of her stronger languages, she knew enough to make out these men were hurrying to face "warriors from Britain."

    Slipping into their wake, Guinevere hurried towards what she hoped would be a sizeable British warband with whom she could link up.

    *

    "For fuck''s sake! Where are they all coming from!"

    Bors, Arthur and Merlin''s-spirit-in-Melehan''s-body had fallen back from Slaughterbridge to a small copse of trees. The Saxons had swarmed over the river to follow them and, annoyingly, had done so in such numbers that their intended routes for further retreat were largely cut off.

    Arthur reversed his spear and smashed it into the forehead of a Saxon who''d misjudged how much cover his mates were willing to offer with Bors kicking ass and taking names on their other flank.

    "Just keep pulling back!" Bors bellowed in reply, picking up the man opposite him and hurling him at the next approaching group.

    "Wizard?!" Arthur shouted, "We could do with some help here!"

    Merlin obliged with a fireball that initially burned a hole through the shield of an onrushing Saxon and then carried on straight through that somewhat surprised - if only briefly - man and then into and through his two fellows behind.

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    "Thank you!" Arthur spun Rhongomyniad in a wide arc and continued to step backwards slowly. He had no real sense of the end goal here, but - for the first time in a while - he was comfortable with that.

    For now, there was just the pure joy of the battle.

    He had forgotten what this felt like. Ever since his injury, he had been unable to reach this state - neither with weapons nor a pair of tits in his hands - and it was astonishing to him how he had survived so long without it.

    With a foe in front of him and Bors to his side, both under the watchful eye of a capable wizard, what more could he look for in life?

    "Do not mention it, my dear, erm, my Lord," Merlin replied, sweat running down his face in rivers.

    To his chagrin, the wizard was rapidly discovering the considerable difference between having a bottomless supply of Qi and being an ordinary cultivator. It had been so long since he had needed to ration his use of power that he had entirely forgotten that it was a thing.

    When piggybacking on Morgan''s supply, he had been limited to a minimal range of actions. The nature of his connection to her had been fragile and largely internal. However, since seizing control of Melehan''s body, he had access to lots more goodies.

    It turned out, though, that it might have been wise to have gone a bit easier on sampling from the candy store. He wasn''t quite completely out of Qi - even habits long forgotten died hard - but he was starting to scrape the bottom of the barrel. As Melehan visualised his Qi as sand, this was a particularly uncomfortable experience.

    And then they were out of the trees and in the open. Which meant the arrows started falling again.

    "You see that?" Bors was pointing to something on their left.

    Arthur quickly glanced that way, receiving a stinging blow that removed his helm for his moment''s inattention. He drove his spear through the chest of the offender and flung him aside. "Fuck off, you twat! What is it, Bors?"

    The big man had more immediate space than Arthur, all of the pursuing Saxons having decided that someone else could have the honour of engaging that particular deathtrap. "Looks like an old stone cottage."

    Merlin shook his head, droplets of sweat going flying. "Dead end. We''d just get surrounded and trapped in there."

    Bors took an arrow to the shoulder, swore, tore it out and impaled it in the face of a braver-than-average spearman who''d made a dash for him. This object lesson did little to encourage anyone else to try the same. "Better in there than out here."

    Arthur nodded his agreement. He didn''t miss that the magical shield protecting them from projectiles looked decidedly patchwork. The wizard was getting tired. "Look, let''s not borrow trouble from the future. We can''t keep this up much longer. We need somewhere to take a breather, and that place looks as good as any. On my mark, we leg it. Wizard, once we run, put everything you''ve got to buy us some space."

    Although Merlin nodded Melehan''s head enthusiastically, his stomach churned. There was barely enough sand on the beach to keep his weak barrier up, let alone anything else. But then he rallied. He was Merlin. He lived to do the impossible.

    As Bors and Arthur broke into a run towards the cottage, he filled his hands with what little Qi he had left and brought them together in an almighty ''bang''. The explosion caused a blast of air to surge out, knocking all the Saxons who had emerged from the copse flat on their backs and flinging the others who had moved around to encircle them up and away.

    Not stopping to watch the aftermath of the spell further, Merlin turned and ran after the rest of the group.

    Although nowhere near having the athletic capabilities of a cultivator, Arthur and Bors had really shifted, and it took the wizard longer than he would have expected to catch up. They were just beginning to barricade the solitary window of the cottage when he arrived.

    The tiny building''s stone walls were weathered, colours blending with the earth. Its sod roof had seen better days but looked like it might keep the rain in a pinch. Besides the window, the heavy timber door was the only way in or out. Bors had put his foot through it to get in but had propped it back in the gap. As he moved past, Merlin pushed the last drop of his available Qi to the door, wedging it in place.

    Inside, the single room was almost entirely bare, with any hints of its past life fading. Merlin assumed it had once been a shepherd''s hut, but any sign of occupancy was long gone. The fireplace, stone like the walls, was cold and clearly unused for some time.

    There was not much spare room with the three of them inside, but it would serve as a last-stand foxhole.

    "Not sure I''m seeing this as an upgrade on our situation," the wizard said through pain-gritted teeth. Sand as Qi. What sort of masochist did that?

    "Look, we''re in here, and they''re out there," Bors said. "It''ll take more than just a few arrows to get through the walls, and if the door is secure," he raised his eyes at Merlin, who paused and then nodded, "then we''ve bought ourselves some time. Just need to tighten up on the window."

    Arthur was trying to squeeze the remains of a broken cot bed into the small gap when a long-haired figure came crashing through, diving full length through with a spear in hand.

    That form of suicidal attack took them so by surprise that none of them immediately reacted. Bors was the first, reaching down and pulling the figure to their feet. His fist had pulled back to launch a brutal punch when he stopped, his mouth falling open.

    "Gwin?"

    Guinevere smiled sheepishly and blew her hair out of her face. She nodded to each of the group in turn. "Bors. Improbably healed wizard. " - there was a moment''s pause and a change of tone - "Husband."

 Chapter 33 - In which Bors and Cedric renew their acquaintance.

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 Chapter 34 - In which Cedric gets his hands dirty

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 Chapter 35 - In which Guinevere steps up

    ¡°You know, a lesser man would feel emasculated by his wife stepping up like that. He would think that it said something negative about his manhood.¡± Bors side-eyed Arthur as they watched Guinevere walk through a host of spitting, shouting Saxon warriors towards Cedric. ¡°It takes a big man to let his little woman do his work for him. That is all I am saying. A big man, secure in his masculinity, not worried about how others . . .¡±

    ¡°Why don¡¯t we all just shut the fuck up for a minute?¡± Arthur nudged Melehan¡¯s body with his foot. ¡°Any second now, right?¡±

    Merlin grimaced internally but kept Melehan¡¯s face still. ¡°Certainly, especially when you consider the reality that a ¡®second¡¯ is an indefinite unit of time. I mean, what is a ¡®second¡¯ when you get right down to it?¡± He caught Arthur¡¯s expression. ¡°Apologies. I promise I will definitely be able to teleport us away momentarily.¡±

    Merlin had identified three fast-travel options, and he didn¡¯t like any of them. As far as he could tell, Melehan had only developed this most basic cultivation ability since joining the Saxon army. This meant that he had linked all his destinations to various military installations. The easiest option ¨C Qi-wise ¨C was to get them to a small fort that he recalled sat just on the edge of Uther¡¯s territory. If he spirited them there, he would still have plenty of Qi left for some destructive spell-slinging.

    However, he had to be realistic. Even as a generally competent cultivator, Melehan did not have access to the required range of techniques. If Merlin could have called on even a fraction of his original resources, he wouldn¡¯t think twice about dropping them into the fort and ¡°bringing the thunder, ¡°as Uther was wont to call it.

    But now?

    This was not the first occasion he had to bemoan the loss of the ¡®good old days¡¯.

    The second option, though, wasn¡¯t much better. From the impression Merlin could get of the place, it was over the sea in Frankia¡ªpresumably in the middle of some Saxon outpost? That hardly seemed like a sensible place to portal the Prince and the Princesses of the Britons.

    That left the third option, and even that had its drawbacks. It was a massive dark tower - so much so that Merlin felt he should view it as ¡®The Dark Tower¡¯ - which seemed to have some sort of tricky defences around it. While Merlin knew how to overcome them, it would leave him very short of Qi to be able to help his fellow travellers out on arrival.

    However, more than that, he had absolutely no idea where he would be taking them.

    ¡°Does anybody know anything about a giant Dark Tower in the middle of nowhere?¡±

    Bors shrugged¡± Only if you are asking what Mrs Bors calls my . . .¡±

    ¡°Wizard, in a few seconds, my wife will be fighting, one-on-one, against Cedric of the West Saxons. Right now, I¡¯d take a fucking Dark Tower.¡±

    ¡°Funnily enough, that¡¯s what Mrs Bors said last night . . .¡±

    Merlin quested out to the third destination once more. How had something like that structure been built without him knowing? It was a proper, old-fashioned Wizard''s Tower. Even looking at it through Melehan¡¯s memories, he could feel the pull of Qi being sucked into the place.

    But there was something else there, wasn¡¯t there? A Presence he recognised¡­

    Merlin¡¯s excitement made Melehan almost jump to his feet.

    "Morgan. I found her!"

    *

    Looking at her opponent, Guinevere regretted her bravado in accepting the duel.

    The West Saxon was tall and wiry and had utterly the wrong amount of bellicose intensity in his eyes. A touch more, and she knew she¡¯d be able to inflame it into cockiness. A drop less, and she¡¯d be able to overwhelm him through her own aggression.

    But as it was? She knew this guy was going to be a handful.

    ¡°Is this the best the British can offer? A whore to the slaughter?¡±

    Cedric¡¯s men roared in coordinated approval of this insult. Guinevere chose to remain silent.

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    ¡°What, too afraid to answer? Or is your mouth only good for one thing?¡±

    Guinevere rolled her eyes and planted her spearhead down in the dirt. ¡°Look, mate. How much humiliation can you really take here? I¡¯m all up for a bit of banter, but if you¡¯re already at the stage of killing your own men when they give you bad news, me ripping you a new one before literally ripping you a new one will hardly improve your reputation. You¡¯ve trapped two warriors, a mouthy whore, and a crippled wizard, and we¡¯ve been able to beast you around for the best part of the afternoon. Our Commander is so sure you are a limp dick that he¡¯s sent me out to deal with you because he can¡¯t be bothered to do it himself. If I were in your shoes, I¡¯d call it quits before I bend you over my knee to deliver the spanking you so richly deserve.¡±

    Guinevere watched Cedric¡¯s eyes as she spoke, hoping to see the flame of anger ignite and roar within him. Unfortunately, she was to be disappointed. He merely grinned back wolfishly.

    ¡°I think we would all like to see that, whore.¡±

    Without any further words, Cedric attacked.

    *

    ¡°Wizard!¡± Bors and Arthur shouted in alarm at that exact moment.

    "I know, I know. I am working as fast as I can." A glimmering light was now surrounding the seated men.

    ¡°Work faster!¡± Arthur¡¯s voice was grim, his eyes locked on the battle unfolding before him.

    *

    Guinevere had instinctively settled into a defensive pattern. She was light on her feet and found it easy enough to dance around the early exchanges. She didn¡¯t dare make any attacks of her own yet; she couldn¡¯t risk a clash of spears that would leave her unarmed.

    She had fought against men her whole life.

    Her father was anxious enough about the likelihood of her getting married due to the forthrightness of her personality that he had allowed her to be trained as if she were the much-desired son with whom he had not been blessed.

    Guinevere had always found that the trick was to weather the early storm of a much stronger opponent. Men wanted to dominate her. To humiliate the weaker figure in front of them. In her experience, it made them cocky. Literally. Her well-trodden path to victory was to be submissively on the back foot and seek to strike when Cedric got sloppy.

    But it did not seem that Cedric was interested in playing that game.

    His eyes never left hers as he stalked her, his spear snaking out in a blur to test her footwork, but with no real commitment behind it. His movement was economy of movement, and carrying Arthur¡¯s heavier spear, Guinevere was worried if anyone was going to be tired, it would be her.

    As if her body was listening to her train of thought, she lost concentration momentarily, and the tip of Cedric¡¯s spear drew a thin line down her forearm. She spun away out of range, cursing.

    It wasn¡¯t a nasty wound, but she suspected he hadn¡¯t intended it to be. The bastard was taunting her.

    *

    Arthur swore, seeing his wife falter. He turned to Melehan and saw the projection of a giant, imposing monolith of stone appearing, like a ghost, on the wall of the small cottage. The wizard was whispering over and over to himself, "Almost there. Almost there."

    *

    She had no choice but to change it up.

    Guinevere closed the gap by spinning her borrowed spear in an expansive arc, moving from constant, cautious retreat into reckless assault. She was rewarded with a momentary flash of concern in Cedric¡¯s eyes, and it was now his turn to fall back.

    Years of sparing with the household jarls blossomed in her mind as she drew in close and threw every dirty trick they had taught her at Cedric.

    Now she was inside the range of his spear, she sought to stamp down on his feet. She aimed a knee at his crotch and whipped her long hair into his face.

    Guinevere could not hope to seriously hurt him¡ªhe was at least twice her weight¡ªbut she needed the confusion this line of attack would cause to buy her a few extra seconds of respite.

    But it was to no avail.

    She couldn¡¯t create a wide enough opening to slip her spear through his defences. And what was worse, she was passing the point of ¡®tired¡¯ and into ''complete exhaustion.''

    And Cedric knew it.

    The butt of his spear connected with her knee, causing her to stumble. Switching off the numbing pain, she barrelled forward to press her attack, but, like a moved by a gust of air, he slipped to the side, slashing carelessly as he drove past her, opening another wound on her back. There was a hushed pause ¨C it probably was barely a heartbeat, but to Guinevere, it stretched out for hours.

    She was outmatched here, and as every man in her life had always told her, her arrogance got her into trouble she could not escape.

    With a yell ¨C visualising a host of condescending, paternalistic faces as she did so - she sighted on the middle of Cedric¡¯s body and threw her spear with as much venom as she possessed.

    Almost lazily, he knocked it aside.

    *

    ¡°Fuck!¡±

    Bors had ripped open the door and was running towards the duellers as Guinevere threw her spear. Arthur was on his shoulder, and they crashed into the Saxons separating them from the princess.

    They took countless injuries as they sought to force their way through, but they were never going to close the distance in time.

    *

    Cedric glanced over at the cottage.

    His men would soon subdue the two warriors. It had all worked out precisely as he had expected. The now unarmed woman opposite was trying to settle into a defensive crouch, offering the smallest possible target. She was a feisty one; he would give her that. It seemed a shame to kill her.

    But not that much of one.

    He didn¡¯t even look her way as he thrust, keeping his eyes locked on the two men being dragged down by his war band. They seemed oddly distraught about the death of a whore.

    His spear took Guinevere in the chest.

    *

    "And we are a go!" Merlin grabbed Melehan¡¯s hands together and finally triggered the technique. He vanished instantly. At the same time, the men restraining Bors and Arthur were left groping on to thin air.

    A heartbeat later, Princess Guinevere likewise dissolved into the ether.

    As did Cedric¡¯s Spear.

 Chapter 36 â€“ In which I break bad

    I¡¯d done the circuit of the tower at least three more times. On each occasion, I hope to have spotted a hitherto unnoticed way up or down.

    No dice.

    I was trapped within a perfect circle dotted with hundreds of closed cell doors. The only markers I had to stop the whole thing from turning into some kind of evil infinity loop were the open doors of my cell and the one the OG Morgan had been trapped in.

    Idly, I knocked on a few of the other cells as I went by. It would be fair to say the quality of the results was not high. Most of the doors elicited no response at all. The occupiers, presumably dead or trapped in their own private hell, and thus not having the wit to respond.

    All things being equal, though, I think I preferred the silent ones.

    On the rare occasion my knock received a response, it was of a type I had long since categorised as ¡®junkie in the underpass keen to drink your blood to soothe their thirst.¡¯ I¡¯d come across that particular band of psychotic malingering far too often in my life, and well, let¡¯s say I was grateful for the doors separating us.

    I eventually gave up trying. In the back of my mind, I fantasised about, maybe, uncovering a crack team of cultivators, sentenced to crimes they didn¡¯t commit, that I could buddy up with, break free due to the combined might of our oddly specific skill sets, and then survive as soldiers of fortune. Maybe you should hire us if you could find us and no one else could help . . .

    I¡¯m drifting again, aren¡¯t I?

    You know how the real Morgan cultivated her arse out of here in about a minute? It would be really fucking great if you could do that.

    I ignored it.

    I always admired how cultivators could just pop in and out of existence. Like, sure, you are mostly bloodthirsty megalomaniacs seeking power at all costs. But the fast-travelling thing was a fucking riot at parties.

    I ignored it.

    We''d probably be home right now if you paid more attention to Merlin''s lessons.

    I threw the sword as far as I could down to the far end of the corridor and set off in the other direction.

    Time to count my blessings.

    It took me a while to come up with some.

    I guess the fact that I was no stronger stuck in a time- loop counted as a big one. Although, I was struggling to see where I was now as all upside. This might not be a temporal loop, but it was a pretty fucking physical one.

    And that seems to be it. My sole blessing right now is that I am not trapped in a dimensional time prison.

    My life has really gone through some wild changes recently.

    Having no other ideas, I plopped down in the middle of the corridor and pulled my knees to my chest. It seemed that I had traded one prison for a slightly larger one. Sure, I can get a bit more exercise out here, but at best, it was a marginal improvement, if not an active demerit.

    In the distance, I could hear Drynwyn shouting for me, but it could wait. I didn¡¯t think my mood could take many more snide remarks along the lines of ''why you are such a shitty cultivator?¡¯

    I dropped into my Artist¡¯s Studio and spent some time enjoying the feeling of pushing my paint around my channels. There was something soothing about the ebb and flow of Qi, which took the edge off my anxiety. There were quite a few dealers in and around my local area who would have been much poorer had I known Qi cycling was an option a couple of years back.

    I took stock of my techniques.

    On the plus side, whoever had ripped them out had left me with

    . Sure, there was nothing else, but at least I still had that. OG Morgan seemed to think that was not the worst thing in the world, and I knew Merlin had lamented the frivolous way in which I¡¯d gone about building up my skills.

    Maybe this forced reset wasn¡¯t the absolute worst thing that could have happened to me. Perhaps this was the chance to build up those foundations Merlin kept going about?

    I hated saying it, but I missed Merlin.

    Sure, he had a wholly different repertoire of you''re ¡®terrible at cultivating,¡¯ but at least at the end of it, he usually had some advice to offer.

    Having spent at least a millennium listening to Drynwyn¡¯s anecdotes of Rhyddrech Hael, I was all for a bit of patient, constructive ¨C none hypersexualised - advice.

    Having nothing else to do, I flicked over the page of my Artist''s Studio and took a gander at my inventory.

    While back in Tintagel, Merlin had insisted on loading me up with several million scrolls and ancient tomes about the art of cultivation. I¡¯d flicked through some of them, but considering the last time I tried to follow an instruction manual, I¡¯d nearly blown myself up trying to absorb mana stones, I was a bit wary of following them.

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    However, even someone as bullheaded as me recognised that I would be wandering these halls for a long time unless I found a way to change things up.

    Besides, what else was there to do?

    *

    I''m going to level with you, the difference between being stuck in an endless time loop and blitzing your way through the wisdom of hundreds of learned cultivators is not as different as you may think.

    I¡¯m not saying this stuff is dull . . .

    No, I am.

    It¡¯s fucking dull. Deadly dull. Watching-paint-dry-in-front-of-a-boiling-kettle-while-waiting-for-the-cows-to-come-home dull.

    No matter which of the scrolls I tried, I just didn¡¯t have enough of a foundation in theory to make heads or tails of the instructions. Even the ones I managed to follow in broad terms referenced techniques and steps of which I had no conception.

    Not for the first time, I reflected that I really should have paid more attention to Merlin when I had him.

    I dropped one called ¡®Fire Dynamics in Stone Welding¡¯ (honestly, I had no idea whatsoever. I¡¯d hoped this might explain how to rip the floor open so I could drop through to the level below, but no. At least not without decades of careful and considerate study.) and picked up the next one in the row. ¡®Apprentice Alchemy.¡¯

    My hopes were not precisely soaring as I turned to its first page. And they hardly improved when the entirely patronising author outlined the various bits of kit required before even starting ¡°on the hallowed and mystical journey towards the most blessed of crafts.¡±

    Not possessing anything that could be considered a mixing bowl, I was about to put it back in my inventory and move on to ¡°Ellian¡¯s Third Law of Ice Flow¡± when a little itch nudged the back of my head.

    OG Morgan hadn¡¯t just given me a pat on the arse and wished me well when she escaped. She gave me a cauldron.

    I pulled it out of my inventory and sat on the corridor floor.

    To be clear, if you are visualising a massive black iron pot when I say ¡°cauldron," you need to rationalise your expectations. What Morgan had given me was, at best, a small bowl that I could comfortably fit both of my hands around.

    Neither was it metal, but rather some form of heavy stone material. I¡¯ve never had that particular middle-class joy at having a kitchen with actual, you know, surfaces, but I screwed enough guys that did to recognise the material this cauldron was made out of. Granite.

    It came with the lid and either a pestle or a mortar; I wasn¡¯t sure which. What it was, though, was a heavy granite stick with a phallic bulge at the end.

    I watched the cauldron for a few minutes, wondering if it might be sentient. Hey, don¡¯t just judge. I didn¡¯t know that swords could talk until recently. Hating myself ever so slightly, I tapped it with my finger and said, ¡°Hello? Can you talk?¡±

    Nothing.

    So, either it couldn¡¯t talk, or it was a dick. I was willing to accept it could be both.

    After giving it a few minutes to chat, I returned to the scroll. So, I have a cauldron. What¡¯s next?

    I perused the following three pages of info, which I could comfortably summarise as follows: ¡°Gather some heart moss and grind it.¡± There were a lot of flowery phrases about doing the latter under the light of a Hunter¡¯s Moon. Also the importance of doing so whilst clear of mind and spirit.

    But fuck it.

    I looked around the corridor and saw a dark green material glowing between the stones. I didn¡¯t know if this was heart moss, but as soon as I saw it, I suddenly did.

    Merlin would have been able to explain what had happened.

    Drynwyn would be able to tell me an epic fucking story about Rhyddrech Hael knowing the properties of any herb he touched, which would make him precisely the sort of guy I needed around me in my previous life in Birmingham.

    However, would that help me in my current predicament? It would not.

    Anyway, I apparently had become some sort of herb-whisperer. I grabbed a handful of the moss and dropped it into the cauldron and, using the pestle/mortar ¨C still no fucking idea ¨C ground it into a thick green paste.

    Next, I needed to create a ¡®suspension.¡¯

    Having had more than my fair share of ¡®enforced, fixed-term absences from school, '' I recognised the word but sensed it probably meant something else in this context.

    So, I would have to ask Drynwyn, wasn¡¯t I?

    I¡¯m not talking to you.

    ¡°Oh, come on. Don''t you remember when we met? I threw you away then within minutes. You can¡¯t take this shit personally.¡±

    You threw me away that time to take out the commander of a fucking army. I can get on board with that. This time, you just lobbed me away. As if I was just a common-or-garden sword. Takes the piss.

    Oh my God. I¡¯d hurt the sword''s feelings. ¡°Look, I was getting frustrated. You¡¯ve got to remember I¡¯ve just escaped from a time loop. I was not quite myself. I didn¡¯t mean anything by it."

    So, are you saying you are sorry? You''re not just cosying up to me because you need my help?

    ¡°Look, obviously, I need your help, but I¡¯m sorry about throwing you away, too.¡±

    I think you''re just saying that.

    Fuck me, I appeared to be in a dysfunctional relationship with my own weapon. I¡¯d had this conversation with every boyfriend I¡¯d ever had in various guises: ¡°Why don¡¯t we celebrate drawing a nice thick line under all of this nastiness by, I don''t know, singing a good suspension?¡±

    What the fuck are you talking about?

    ¡°A Suspension. That¡¯s like a song or something, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    A suspension isn''t a song. It''s, like, water. A liquid, you know? Honestly, I sometimes think that you are the most stupid creature in the whole of fucking creation.

    I chucked Drynwyn down the length of the corridor again. I was getting a nice, tight spiral on it now.

    I dropped into my inventory, chose one bottle of spring water, and poured it into the cauldron on top of my heart moss paste.

    Nothing happened.

    I picked up the scroll again. This was starting to feel like it was too much like cooking. Another essential life skill I had singularly failed to develop.

    I scanned through the instructions to see what I was trying to make and ignored all sides of unnecessary self¨Csatisfied prose.

    I was able to assert that this was an ¡®Elixir of Wellness. Apparently, it was the single most basic concoction a cultivator could produce and would generally improve my overwhelming well-being.

    Given a choice, there are any number of other things I¡¯d rather be able to be brewing up, but I guessed beggars can¡¯t be chosen.

    It looked like I''d need this Elixir as a base for anything else that appeared later on in the scroll.

    Flicking to the back, I liked the look of ¡®Water of Life,¡¯ seemingly the equivalent of Adam waving his sword about and yelling about the powers of Grey Skull.

    So why was I seeingbupkiss?

    ¡°Add a handful of heart moss to boiling water. Cover and reduce.¡±

    That was it.

    Fuck, I was going to need Drynwyn¡¯s help again, wasn¡¯t I?

 Chapter 37 - In which I am reminded of the importance of just saying no

    So¡ªand who would have believed it¡ªit turns out I am not a natural alchemist.

    I¡¯d hoped that¡ªhaving made it up with my sword for what felt like the millionth time¡ªit would henceforth be a pleasant, smooth journey to the brewing of a mixture that would somehow get me out of my predicament. Imagine my shock that it turned out to be much more difficult than that.

    Plus ca change.

    This is getting quite embarrassing now.

    For what felt like the nine-zillionth time, my cauldron boiled dry, and the promise of an ¡®Elixir of Wellness¡¯ once more failed to appear.

    ¡°Maybe this isn''t actually my fault. Maybe your flame is too hot?¡± I asked snarkily.

    My flame is never anything less than completely fucking perfect, I will have you know. A poor workwoman blames her . . . you know . . . her fucking things.

    ¡°Look," I was becoming increasingly exasperated by my failure, "there are no other instructions. I grind up the moss.¡± I picked another handful between the flagstones beneath me and threw it in the cauldron. I then picked up the pestle (or maybe the mortar) and ended up with the same green goo I¡¯d spent most of the afternoon producing.

    I don''t want to be that sword, but how the fuck is playing Little Miss Alchemist helping with our current predicament.

    I Ignored it.

    Sitting here fiddling with my cauldron¡ªthat sounds much dirtier than it was meant to¡ªwasn¡¯t exactly on page one of ¡®How to achieve a great escape,¡¯ but truth be told, I wasn¡¯t overburdened with other ideas. I could run up and down the hall screaming and wailing, but I doubted that would be helpful.

    Plus, I wouldn''t say I especially enjoyed cardio.

    So, trying to become Heisenberg might not be the most effective use of my time. However, in lieu of literally any other ideas, I was happy to give it a whirl.

    "Come on, big man. Light it up once more."

    Drynwyn dutifully caught fire, and the water was bubbling away in no time. So far, so good. So what was I missing? I scoured the instructions for more ideas. Moss. Water. Boil.

    Genuinely, it wasn¡¯t any more complex than that. I couldn''t help but feel I was struggling with the City and Guild''s Level 1 version of Alchemy.

    Just checking to see if you are using your Qi in the right fucking way. I mean, there are only so many variables here, right?

    "Of course I am."

    How long a pause can I leave before asking a follow-up question?

    ¡°When you say ''using your Qi'' . . .

    Tell me we''re not trying out Alchemy without putting Qi in the fucking mix . . .

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t say anything using Qi anywhere in the instructions.¡±

    Fuck Me! This is a handbook for cultivators. It doesn''t tell you to make sure you are breathing or to wipe your arse after you shit, either. I imagine it''s crediting you with a modicum of fucking common sense. Fuck me!

    I dropped into my Artist''s Studio and looked at the cauldron from that perspective.

    Damn it, the fucking sword was right.

    Just like little lines spread out from my channels and off into my armour and mana stone earrings, I sensed I could make the same sort of constant Qi connection to Morgan''s gift.

    I pushed out a thin line, and then a thicker one, towards the cauldron and - finally! - felt something shift. The pot stopped being something I possessed and transformed into actually being part of me.

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    Fucking thing still didn''t talk to me, though.

    Prick.

    I returned to reality and studiously ignored making eye contact with Drynwyn. Considering I had no idea where its eyes were, this was quite an achievement.

    Well, if we''ve all picked our bollocks up from the floor, why don''t we try this again and aim to be less utterly pathetic?

    The temptation to see how far I could javelin this fucking thing down and into the distance was quite overwhelming.

    I see it as a profound sign of my remarkable personal growth that I merely swore under my breath.

    I dumped the half-completed Elixir out on the floor ¨C if I ever lost my way inside this place, I''d just need to follow the long line of abandoned excrement back to base camp. It looked not unlike a horse with epic diarrhoea had shat its way down several hundred metres of corridor.

    The moment I started to grind the next handful of heart moss within the now Qi-linked cauldron, I could tell the difference immediately.

    It wasn''t quite like a host of heavenly angels started singing as I mashed the damm stuff up, but it wasn''t too far away.

    Fucking hell, that''s all a bit over the top, isn''t it? And I speak as the sword that accompanied Rhyddrech Hael when he went undercover in a Gwent brothel. Two years it took him to work his way from the bottom all the way to . . . well, the bottom. There was a pause. Come to think of it, not sure there was any quest involved there. Not wholly clear what the end goal was, really . . .

    I let Drynwyn burble away as I finished mashing up with the heart moss. It was now glowing beautifully and warm to the touch¡ªlike an avocado prepared by some celebrity well-being freak. I popped another bottle of spring water into the mix¡ªthere was that unnecessarily backing music again¡ªand Drynwyn geared up to do its fiery thing.

    Immediately, the cauldron lid tugged on my Qi channels, so I popped it on top and sealed the whole thing up tight.

    I then sat back while the most glorious smell in the world emanated from the little bowl.

    After all the disappointing failures, there was something immensely liberating about success. I couldn''t easily remember my last one purely due to my own, personal efforts. Including both of my lifetimes.

    How do you think we know when it is ready? I could do with some fiery flame of death downtime.

    Almost the moment the sword spoke, I felt something change in the cauldron. I dropped into my Artist''s Studio to better see the process from there.

    The cauldron was . . . radiant. Like seriously. It was easily the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life. It was gulping down my Qi like a drain - so much so I had to tap my earrings to even myself off - but when something looked so good-looking, it could pretty much do what it liked. Incidentally, that sort of clear-sighted decision-making accounted for a significant period of my teenage years spent in bed.

    OG Morgan had said that the cauldron was one of Britain''s thirteen treasures, and I could absolutely believe it.

    I popped back out again to reality and lifted off the lid. The aroma of every home-cooked meal that had ever persuaded me I''d finally found Mr Right greeted me. My mouth watered just at the thought of tasting what waited within.

    I dipped my finger and brought it to my mouth when Drynwyn made an odd noise. It sounded like it was clearing its non-existent throat.

    Look, not for nothing, but I know a little something about Elixirs of Wellness. I''m not saying you shouldn''t try it¡ªI''m just saying YOU absolutely shouldn''t.

    I paused and lowered my hand. ¡°Why? It smells amazing.¡±

    I''m sure it does. I can read your emotions, and you''re basically falling in love with the fucking stuff before you''ve even tried it. I''m just saying, from what I know about you, I''m not wholly convinced introducing a ''happy-joy-fun'' substance right now is likely to speed up our escape plan. Like, at all.

    "You''re talking to me like I''m some sort of out-of-control, drug-dependent street person."

    I didn''t really need a pregnant-pause-just-ready-to-pop to engulf the conversation.

    "Is it that potent?

    It''s a fucking Elixir of Wellness. Even a basic, shitty, half-arsed one - and I''m sure, at best, that is what you''ve produced there, even using a fucking Legendary cauldron - will cure you of everything, strengthen your body and basically bliss you out until the effect wears off. Call me selfish, but I''d instead concentrate on getting out of here rather than you getting off your tits.

    The rare valid point.

    I flicked through the scroll. There were many things later on that could help me, most of which seemed to have an Elixir of Wellness as a critical ingredient. They needed all sorts of other ingredients, and I only had the contents of one very long corridor.

    Oh, and the inventory of Vortigon''s Dragon''s Horde ...

    However, before I could start thinking about skilling myself up, I needed to improve the quality of this elixir to something called ¡®Flawless.¡¯

    "How can I work out how good an elixir I''ve made?"

    Stick it in a bottle and store it in your inventory. That should tell you what quality you have.

    I did so and was rewarded with a little tag next to it that said "Inferior Elixir of Wellness [1]

    That seemed more than a little harsh for something that the thought of tasting made me all weak at the knees.

    Self-control was not my defining characteristic, so I was very proud to have it in my inventory without sipping.

    I don''t think a bottle of wine ever made it through the night in my flat.

    Right. So, I had an unlimited amount of moss. More water bottles than I could count. And an enchanted cauldron.

    Let''s get cooking.

 Chapter 38 - In which we uncover the third corner of the love triangle

    Two hundred and thirty.

    It took two fucking hundred and thirty Inferior ''Elixirs of Wellness'' before I managed to produce one that was labelled ''Common'' when it was dropped into my inventory.

    That''s a lot of heart moss.

    It''s also an awful lot of Qi. Over the course of this little experiment, I''d tapped out most of my mana stones and was dangerously close to completely emptying my Artist''s Studio of paint.

    However, rather than feeling that empty, sickening feeling I¡¯d come to associate with running on Qi fumes, I felt . . . satisfied.

    It was like - and forgive me here, I''ve never actually done it, so I''m extrapolating from all available evidence - I''d run a marathon for which I¡¯d been training really, really hard.

    We''re going to stop now, aren''t we? I need a fucking break. I only have so much rage to keep the fire burning.

    ¡°Yep. Let''s pause there." I stood, wincing, lifted the cauldron off Drynwyn and slotted it back in my inventory.

    Interestingly, passing the ''Inferior'' threshold meant I now had a whole new page in my Artist''s Studio dedicated to my alchemical efforts. The Cauldron and two hundred and thirty ''Inferior Elixirs of Wellness'' were in there alongside one very smug-looking ''Common'' one.

    The scroll I was currently following was there, but¡ªand this was a particularly nice touch¡ªa whole row of other scrolls and tomes (presumably sorted from my wider inventory) concerning alchemy had arranged themselves there too.

    Even better, I found I could read through them while cycling - as long as I didn''t take them out of that page. This meant I was capable of genuine multitasking for the first time in my life. Of course, that is, if you don''t count snorting a line of something that was possibly washing powder whilst blowing my dealer and downing a bottle of Jack Daniels. Are we counting on that? Now, I didn''t think so, either.

    The first thing I realised, browsing through the material, is that ancient alchemists thought a lot of themselves. You''d have assumed they''d found a cure for cancer the way they spoke about their "wondrous and prodigious art."

    Okay. That''s a bad example.

    There is a potion for the ¡°dissolving of unwanted growths and lesions¡± - but that could be aimed at targeting ex-boyfriends for all I knew.

    The list of ingredients for that one was so long and comprehensive that I doubted I''d be troubling the good people in Copenhagen for one of their prizes any time soon.

    To be honest, I could probably have coped with all the self-congratulation these alchemists were getting up to if their prose had been better. At the very least, they could have done more to make it easier to identify actual advice and recipes from the more verbose reflections.

    Take this as an example. "I was walking through a dappled wood and spied upon the perfect babbling brook in all creation." At art school, I spent much time around boys of a certain age who fancied themselves quite the Romantic wordsmiths. I thus felt I had a reasonably high tolerance for flowery bullshit.

    Some of this stuff, though, was off the charts.

    Nevertheless, between the "dazzling luminance of the night sky" and the "sweet aroma of freshly tilled earth"¡ªthese guys had definitely partaken of Elixirs of Wellness if you know what I''m saying¡ªthere were more than a few valuable hints.

    For example, the quality of your cauldron was directly linked to the quality and quantity of substances you could produce. If I had any doubts whether Morgan''s gift was decent, they were dispelled by the reading of a particular alchemist who called himself Elgicaramus the Magnificent - I assume the name was made up; his writing reeked of being an Eric.

    This dude had spent eight years researching and perfecting the art of making a Common Elixir of Wellness.

    Suddenly, two hundred and thirty goes didn''t seem quite so shabby.

    To be fair to him, Eric appeared to have spent most of his time trying to locate a cauldron that he could force enough of his Qi into to raise the quality of the secret sauce above ¡®Inferior.¡¯ The day he found one to which he could add "the merest splash of my potent juice" - I really hope he¡¯s talking about his Qi, or I''ve been reading a very different sort of book - he was so happy he nearly forgot to add unnecessary adjectives to his descriptions.

    Neary, but not quite.

    I studied my cauldron again. Even with me full-on concentrating on cycling, it was still sucking on down more Qi than I could comfortably produce. I remembered that both my armour and the mana stone earrings eventually reached the point where I couldn''t add any more Qi to them. But this cauldron was drinking it in like a bottomless well, which, incidentally, was my nickname at my second job.

    People can be cruel.

    Putting the scrolls to the side, I concentrated on my cycling¡ªnot just letting my paint poodle around in the background but properly pushing and pulling it with my breathing¡ªthe way Merlin had kept moaning at me to try.

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    It was weird to think how difficult I''d found this to be not that long ago. Perhaps the time loop had been good for something other than causing the complete collapse of my mental well-being?

    In any event, my Qi was absolutely flying around my channels. I still had that slightly sticky spot near my liver, but with each pass, even that felt easier and easier. Moreover, that odd water feature at the centre of my core was noticeably fuller than before my kidnapping.

    It wasn''t quite to the brim yet, but I didn''t think it would take much more Qi to go in there for it to get that way.

    I needed someone to ask what would happen when it was complete.

    I missed Merlin.

    That thought pulled me out of my sense of calm and back into reality.

    You''re leaking.

    Wiping my eyes, I stood up and stretched my back. "How long have I been cycling?"

    Did you misunderstand my fucking job description? I''m a sword, not a fucking personal organiser. I measure time by the distance between kills.

    Yep, I missed Merlin.

    I left my cauldron to keep guzzling down all the excess Qi I was generating, hoping that at some stage enough would be enough, and I could test out what a fully kitted-out and Qi''d up Treasure of Britain could really do with some heart moss and spring water.

    I suspected I wouldn''t be producing ¡®Common¡¯ elixirs for long.

    Poor. Inferior. Common. Uncommon. Rare. Epic. Flawless.

    It seemed to me that it would be quite a journey before I could make something that would help me escape¡ªor, at least, the ingredient I needed to make that happen.

    Presumably, it would also be a similarly long journey to perfect that portion.

    Anxiety bloomed in my stomach, but I pushed it down.

    My entire first life had been one frantic search for the quick fix¡ªfor the thing¡ªanimal, mineral, or vegetable¡ªthat would make everything okay. That would soothe the pain¡ªeven for a minute. And a minute would be charitable for some of the lads from art school.

    But that was the old me.

    Sure, ¡®new'' me was basically the same fucked up person, but with magic. But I was beginning to realise that a whole new range of options were open to me that didn''t involve the quickest possible solution.

    I remembered one of my first conversations with Merlin about cultivating and how it was all about the quality, not the quality. He''d been so worried about how quickly I was burning through techniques and progression markers. He''d obviously sensed that, given a choice, I was all about the cheat code and not the journey.

    The funny thing was that that wasn''t me when I was painting. No matter what else was going down, I never rushed my art.

    The last time I was evicted, I''d found myself carting around pictures and portraits I''d begun four or five years earlier. I¡¯d not abandoned them- I kept going back to them again and again - but I recognised they deserved care and attention I didn''t seem to afford much else.

    Fuck me. I''d been some level of screwed up, hadn''t I?

    You''re leaking again.

    Smiling, I picked up the sword. "Yeah, don''t worry about it."

    I didn''t say I was worrying about it, did I? I don''t know how you fucking things work. Rhyddrech Hael actively seemed to seek out every opportunity he could to leak. But I''m coming to recognise that might not have been the most healthy approach in the world. I assume you have a finite amount of moisture you can expel. From memory, it was usually the fourth or fifth time that he''d just be firing air.

    ¡°Mate, can we make that the last Rhyddrech Harl anecdote for a bit? Not that I don''t love them, but they leave me needing to take a bath, and if you haven''t noticed, they''re in short supply around here.¡±

    "There''s a shower in my cell.¡±

    I froze and then slowly turned towards the door from which the voice had emanated.

    "Hello? Is out there anyone? I was noting there''s a shower in my cell. Well, not a shower. More leak in roof with water through it flowing it is. But happy to share if interested you are being."

    The voice was unmistakably Scandinavian. It was like someone had taken the essence of all things from that part of the world, mashed them together with added herring, meatballs and difficult-to-assemble flat-pack furniture, and released the ensuing accent on the wild.

    But deep and manly.

    It was like having Barry White to speak Elvish.

    "It''s not a bath, I''m afraid. But needs must, as my dear mother always says."

    I wasn''t really sure how to react.

    Other than Morgan, there''d been no sign that anyone was alive - or, more crucially, sane - in these cells.

    But I hadn''t tried them all. That would have taken forever. So, surely the law of averages had to dictate that someone else would be behind one of these doors, capable of aiding in an escape attempt.

    "Also whatever cooking you are smells delicious. Not that I''m not grateful for all the mushrooms growing on my walls I have, but variety is good. Hello? Still there are you?¡±

    "Yes, I''m here.¡±

    "Glad to hear it. I was worried frightened you off I had with my silliness about mushrooms and baths and such like. Mother always says: "Shordigjordsson, you speak too much." But how else can you get to know new friends without all the talking?"

    He rambled on for quite some time. There was something incredibly soothing about the musical rumble of his voice.

    "Why are you in the cell?" After about half an hour, I realised if I didn''t interrupt him, there would be no halt to the flow of his words.

    "Ah, now there is a saga. It began..."

    Fucking give us a precis. I''m rusting out here.

    If the man was offended, it didn''t show in his voice. "Certainly, brusque one. I landed with my crew after storm. There was . . . Sorry, my language skills are not what I would they were. Would you call it raping and pillaging? Good times. But more of the Saes - the Saxons - than we''d thought there were. I fought leader, but play fair he wouldn''t. All the magic, you understand? Next thing I know, here I am. And - time passes - here you are."

    "And your name''s", I thought back, "Shordigjordsson?¡±

    A laugh came from behind the door. "No, that''s what my mother calls me. It means ''Loveable half-wit''. My actual name is -'', and then he made a noise that was not unlike the ice falling from a faulty fridge ice dispenser.

    "Okay, I have absolutely no chance of saying that. What did your shipmates call you?"

    We then played a complicated game called "let''s find ways to describe me that you can understand.¡±

    I had just the best time.

    Fuck''s sake. Why can''t we just call him ''annoying twat behind the door''. I could get behind that.

    ¡°Right. One last try. Can you translate any of those nicknames for me?"

    There was silence. "Thin stick with spike on the end?" he asked hesitantly. Now we were getting somewhere. "Spear? Your mates call you spear?¡±

    "No. Not really - It''s the ones you use when on a horse. It is a joke, you see? Because too big I am to sit on a horse. They were a funny crew. Lots of japes. Always with the jokes."

    My mind whirled momentarily, already seeing where this particular impending trainwreck was leading.

    "A Lance? They called you Lance?"

    "Yes. That''s it. I was called Lance a lot."

 Chapter 39 - In which it all starts to spice up a little

    It took Drynwyn far less time to cut through . . . look, I¡¯m just going to call him Lancelot because anything else sounds stupid, okay?

    Anyway, Drynwyn did its thing, and there was soon a large hole in the cell door.

    However, as it turned out, it was not Lancelot size.

    Even seated and in chains, I could tell this was a big man¡ªmaybe not Bors big - but there were not enough of those genes to go around.

    Lancelot had long, dark hair that reached well past his shoulders yet was wholly clean-shaven. He could have been anywhere from twenty to forty, but the glint in his mischievous blue eyes suggested he could be even younger.

    Trust me, if there''s one thing I know, it''s when I''m in the presence of trouble. And this dude was TROUBLE. I¡¯ve had my fair share - and probably several other people¡¯s - of tall, dark, and handsome fellas. Most of these turned out to be mad, bad, and catastrophically dangerous to know. So, I think I¡¯m speaking from a position of knowledge when I say nothing good would come from letting this guy out of his cell.

    And that was before fifteen hundred years of Arthurian lore hit me square in the head.

    Lancelot.

    Fucking Lancelot. The greatest of all Arthur¡¯s knights. The embodiment of the verray parfait gentle knyght.

    Lancelot, whose failure to keep it in his pants, led to Camelot falling.

    I remembered my vision of Camlyn from the Enchanted Forest. Could I avoid all that pain and heartache if I just shuffled down the corridor and pretended I had never heard of him?

    ¡°Good to see you, it is being. I have alone for a long time been. Please to try out my shower.¡± He nodded towards a stream of water pouring from a hole in the roof of his cell.

    Two things struck me: firstly, I think Lancelot may be a touch slow. Not like a complete full-on moron or anything. But I¡¯d be thinking twice about letting him stroke my hair in a barn, if you know what I¡¯m saying.

    Secondly, though¡ªand this was a bit more critical¡ªI could see the sky through the gap in the roof through which water was pouring.

    *

    ¡°Look, as massive, traumatic chest wounds go, I¡¯ve seen worse.¡± Bors''s voice was trying to project as much confidence as possible; it was failing.

    Arthur kneeled by the unconscious form of his wife. They¡¯d done what they could to stem the bleeding, and - in relative terms - she seemed stable. There just wasn¡¯t a long way to go from stable to very terminal. ¡°There¡¯s got to be something you can do, wizard?¡± the Prince asked desperately.

    Merlin shook Melehan¡¯s head. "I''m afraid the fast travelling has completely drained my Qi. In enough time, I should be able to do something, but . . ."

    The three of them looked down at the blood-soaked grass beneath Guinevere. They all knew they didn¡¯t have that sort of time.

    The Dark Tower loomed above them. They''d teleported to a tiny copse of wood just to the right of its heavily guarded entrance.

    ¡°My Lord,¡± Bors said, gasping his axe, ¡°if there is one thing I know about a building like that, it is that it has to be crammed with healers. Just packed with them.¡±

    Arthur raised his eyes to his friend. ¡°Along with the hundreds of warriors, they are there to heal.¡±

    ¡°Maybe. But do you have a better plan?¡±

    ¡°So what? March down there, grab someone and ask them to take you to their healer?¡± He looked down at his wife. She was paler now than when they¡¯d arrived. If that was possible. ¡°To the Enchanted Forest, to the Bridge of Dreams, and finally to the Castle Perilous."

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°This quest turns out to be more accurate than we thought.¡± Arthur shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t even have a weapon.¡±

    Bors nodded at the guards at the entrance to the Dark Tower. "While we''re enquiring about the whereabouts of their healers, we can ask the way to the armoury. Or we can just fuck them up as we go. You know, old school.¡±

    ¡°Old school." Arthur''s eyes searched those of his friend. "You sure you want to do this?¡±

    Bors shrugged back. ¡°You want to sit here and watch her die?¡±

    Arthur covered one of Guinevere¡¯s hands with his own and squeezed it. ¡°No, I cannot do that,¡± he said, standing and pointing at Melehan. ¡°Every pinch of Qi you generate is directed at her. You keep her alive, you understand me? I don¡¯t need her healed¡ªwe¡¯ll get somebody else to do that¡ªbut you don¡¯t let her die. Do you hear me?¡±

    Merlin nodded Melehan¡¯s head. "I do, my dear ¨C my Lord, I will do my best, but her wound¡­"

    Arthur reached forward and picked the Saxon Wizard up with one hand, raising him to within inches of his face. ¡°Let me speak plain. Sir Bors and I are going into that fucking tower and will be coming out with a healer. We¡¯re going to kill anybody that stands in our way, and chances are, this will get us a bit riled up. If, healer in tow, I find my way back here, and my wife is no longer with us, the trauma you received at the hands of Cedric of the West Saxons will feel like the genuine and kindest of ministrations at the hand of a lust-filled virgin compared to what I¡¯ll visit on you. And when I¡¯m done, which will take a very long time, Sir Bors will ¡­

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    Arthur looked at the big man, who added, "Fuck you up the arse with my axe.¡±

    There was a pause, and then the Prince continued, ¡°Do we have an understanding, wizard?¡±

    Melehan¡¯s head nodded. "I will do everything I can, my Lord."

    ¡°You better.¡± Arthur let their wizard fall back to the floor and turned to Bors. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±

    As the two stalked into the shadows to approach the Dark Tower, Merlin could just make out the last bits of their conversation. ¡°Fuck him up the arse with your axe? That was the best you could do?¡±

    ¡°I panicked. You were all over this vengeance nightmare vibe, and I didn¡¯t expect you to throw it at me. I wasn¡¯t prepared,¡± and then they were swallowed up in the darkness.

    *

    Aurelius Ambrosius was not having a perfect day.

    Of course, these things were relative. When you were the Bretwalda of all Saxon territories in Britain, even your bad days were better than most. He was well-fed, well-fucked and had access to any number of minor quality-of-life benefits.

    Hot running water and the like.

    Moreover, he sat in a giant Qi-purifying tower, which ensured that even as he slept, the roaring fire of his need for Qi was kept well-fuelled.

    He was, by any measure, winning.

    And that mattered more to him than anything else in the world.

    So, this afternoon''s little reversals were not all that significant in the grand scheme of things.

    Nevertheless, Merlin¡¯s apprentice wriggling free from the time-loop pit he had thrown her into was annoying. He had any number of games planned there, and it was irritating that they would go unfulfilled. He knew such things as that should have been beneath him - he should have crushed the life from her the moment he had her in his powers ¨C but there are so few true pleasures left for him in life that he simply couldn''t resist.

    By necessity, he wasn¡¯t present for Merlin¡¯s last moments, so he had been looking forward to grinding his nemesis'' apprentice down to the dust ¨C in proxy, as it were.

    And now she was out and about on the top floor and had already freed that bitch Morgon Le Fay.

    Mind you, by his reckoning, that girl apprentice had been in his time-loop for just shy of a hundred years. He doubted she¡¯d have much sanity left to do more than wander the corridors and gibber.

    And Morgan Le Fray being freed? Well, he had caught her before and doubted the old witch would risk tangling with him again.

    So, his day had two minor blemishes.

    Neither was ideal, but he shouldn''t really be losing any sleep of them.

    The third issue was a bit vexatious.

    Cedric had managed to lose Arthur.

    Of course, the West Saxon had not known who he had captured. Aurelius knew enough about the extent of that man''s ambitions never to let him know the full extent of what he had in his hands.

    But captured him, he had. And somehow, he¡¯d let him slip away.

    Aurelius reached for his leather pouch and took out three vials, downing them all in one go.

    This was inadvisable.

    Even with his myriad of resistance and healing capabilities, he knew better than to do this.

    But, after all, what was life without risk?

    The combination of acid, poison and the dragon¡¯s blood burned down his throat, destroying flesh and tissue, blistering as it went.

    Aurelius pushed the merest spark of his Qi towards it, not wanting to dull its effects, but neither was he so blas¨¦ about his life that he¡¯d risk actual harm.

    It was just at that moment that he felt the whisper - the merest hint - of a presence that made his eyes open wide, and he sprayed the remaining half mouthful against the wall.

    Where it quickly burned a massive hole in the stone.

    *

    ¡°You have beautiful hair,¡±

    ¡°Cheers.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s red like the sun.¡±

    ¡°Yep.¡±

    ¡°Mother said women who look like you are snares for the pure of heart and must be butchered why they stand.¡±

    ¡°Thanks - hang on, what?¡±

    We are trying, unsuccessfully, I might add, to force the hole in the roof of Lancelot¡¯s cell to increase in size.

    Drynwyn is no fucking use. Apparently, something as facile as pouring rainwater has the equivalent impact of an ice bath on a horny teenager.

    His flame simply would not flicker.

    The cell roof was about ten feet above the ground, so the only way we could reach it, if my hydrophobic sword wasn¡¯t an option, was for one of us to sit on the other''s shoulders while the other tried to break the ceiling down.

    Fun fact: Being a cultivator did something crazy for my mass. In addition to being faster, stronger, and fitter than I¡¯ve ever been, I am also¡ªin the words of a recently released prisoner¡ª" weigh as much as a whole whale of sperm.¡±

    Excellent.

    So, I have insane weight gain to add to my list of anxieties.

    This is why Lancelot is sitting on my shoulders, petting me like a dog.

    ¡°Snares for the pure of heart. That is why killed she did Brunhilde, Sigurd, and Valeson. She said they were trying to take me away from her. I don¡¯t think she¡¯ll like you.¡±

    ¡°Well, she can go and join the club. We''ve got jackets and a theme song and everything. Are you having any luck?¡±

    ¡°At what?¡±

    This dude had to have, at best, a room-temperature IQ. "You''re pulling me down the ceiling, remember?¡±

    ¡°Oh, I did that a while back. Sorry. What''s next? Fun that was.¡±

    With as much delicacy as I could summon, I shrugged him off and looked upwards.

    To be fair to the big lug, he¡¯d done quite a good job. The roof of his cell was now fully opened to the sky; I was confident we could both fit through the gap he had created.

    I was just starting to work out the mechanics of achieving that when I heard a sound I¡¯d never have thought would bring me so much pleasure.

    Bor¡¯s swearing a blue streak.

    *

    ¡°Fuck you, and you and you can for fuck off in particular! ¡°

    Operation Find-Guinevere-A-Healer wasn¡¯t going as well as it could have been hoped. For a start, every Saxon encountered appeared to be suddenly committed to the idea of murdering Arthur and Bors the moment they saw them.

    Then, there was the strange configuration inside the tower itself.

    They¡¯d been expecting some form of spiral staircase opening upwards onto chambers and rooms¡ªpreferably one that said, ¡°Here be healers¡± or something similar.

    But no.

    Instead of any staircase, there were glowing orbs around the walls, which, presumably, portalled you to the floor you wanted.

    Or, as Bor¡¯s put it, ¡±Fucking cultivator bullshit."

    ¡°Any ideas?¡± Arthur yelled, turning a sword aside with the shaft of his third ¡®borrowed¡¯ spear, pivoting to drive his shoulder into his opponent''s face.

    ¡°Why¡¯ve I always got to be the one with the plans? You¡¯re the socialite military genius. It was my idea to storm this place armed with nothing more than our swinging cocks. It¡¯s got to be your turn!¡±

    Arthur scanned the space around the tower''s entrance. Unless they saw somebody cast a healing spell, they could not identify who they were supposed to be dragging back to Guinevere.

    They needed some form of sign there was a Cultivator about . . .

    The moment he thought that one of the glowing orbs suddenly increased in size, and his father walked through it.

    But no, it wasn¡¯t father.

    This man was a taller, older, and grimmer¡ªif possible¡ªversion of the man he knew. He was carrying a spear and walked with a swagger that both Bors and he instantly recognised. This was the walk of someone who had stood many a shield wall and had ever walked away on top.

    ¡°Who the fuck''s this baller" Bors whispered, withdrawing with Arthur away from the new threat.

    ¡°Fuck knows!¡±

    ¡°Now, now, nephew. Is there any way to greet me after all this time? Never mind, we¡¯ll have plenty of opportunities to reacquaint ourselves. But first, my most pressing question. Where is Merlin?¡±

 Chapter 40 - In which the bough breaks and the cradle falls. A fucking long way.

    "Quick you need to be, or my back breaking will."

    ¡°Oh, do fuck off, you fat-shaming twat."

    With as little grace as I could summon, I pressed down on Lancelot''s back and enacted some sort of ungainly jump, grabbing the exposed brick of the cell ceiling with my right hand.

    For a horrible moment, I thought the whole thing wasn''t going to hold - PTSD-style flashbacks of a particular level of the original ''Prince of Persia'' came flooding back - but then I tightened my grip and was able to swing myself upwards and through the gap we had created in the cell roof in a manner wholly defying the laws of physics.

    Up yours, Newton. Equal and opposite reaction, my arse.

    I was free.

    Well, I was standing on the top of a Dark Tower, hundreds of feet in the air, with no idea where in the world I was. Oh, and a psychotic, vengeful cultivator miles above my level was hanging around somewhere. And my only companion was so lacking in wit and intelligence, whilst also being unnaturally buff, that he was a shoo-in for the next series of Love Island.

    What I''m getting at is that I wasn''t exactly home and hosed, but after what I''d been through, I was feeling pretty damn chipper.

    I peered down through the hole at Lancelot, reaching his arms up at me and jumping up and down with a stupid grin on his beautiful face. His whole demeanour resembled nothing so much as a really good-natured puppy wanting to play.

    Not for the first time in the last few minutes, I found myself a touch baffled to reconcile my reading about Lancelot and the reality of this slab of muscle. Was this guy really going to be the catalyst for Camelot''s downfall?

    "Helping me up, you will? The sky I want to be seeing, pretty hair!"

    Mind you, it wasn''t even like the age of Arthur had even properly started yet. If it ever would.

    We had no Merlin. Arthur and Guinevere hated each other''s guts, and Uther was still king. This wasn''t like any version of Camelot I knew. But, then again, I was still in existence, so I could presume the timeline hadn''t altered significantly from what was supposed to happen.

    Zizzie was still alive out there somewhere.

    So, say I left Lancelot down there in his prison. Would that make things more or less likely to work out well? This lump would lay the pipe to Guinevere at some point in the not-too-distant future. As sure as eggs are eggs, it would be this which would bring about the whole ''end of the world'' vibe I saw in my vision of Camlyn.

    On the other hand, I knew of many stories where, without Lancelot, the whole Kingdom would fall into ruin anyway. And it couldn''t possibly be a coincidence that I ran into him here, could it?

    I remember what my dad used to say. "There are no coincidences. Only secret plots you haven''t uncovered yet."

    Yeah, cheers, Dad. I always wondered where I got my raging paranoia from.

    Decisions. Decisions.

    I don''t know what you''re against the big guy, but if you want, I''ll fucking fry him for you.

    "Cheers, D. It''s not that I don''t appreciate your psychotic instincts, but I''m not sure that''s how I want to handle this right now. If I decide a fiery demise is the only way forward, you''ll be the first person I call."

    I looked down again. Lancelot was still doing the odd jumping and hopping thing. Staring at him, I couldn''t quite see what would appeal to Guinevere about this man.

    I mean, obviously, I did.

    He was the closest thing to physical perfection I''d seen outside the Elgin Marbles. And I''m including my late, lamented woodcutter in this, too.

    But the Princess I''d met seemed to have a bit more about her than just swooning for all the muscles.

    But then again, who was I to chat shit? If I were stuck with Arthur, I''d probably take the opportunity for an angst-free shag too.

    Whichever way I looked at it, I didn''t think the smart play was to leave him locked up. I leaned down through the hole, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him up with a quick jerk.

    "You''re crazy strong, pretty red-haired lady. Mother would cheerfully carve you up with her favourite axe.¡±

    ¡°Thanks. Glad to be of help. Tell your friends."

    Now free, we both explored the top of the Tower, seeking an appropriate way down.

    Well, to be strictly accurate, I looked around, and Lancelot followed me about like a lost puppy¡ªa big, hauntingly attractive puppy with giant muscles and eyes you could get lost in.

    To be honest, I could get used to this.

    My good mood lasted until I realised quite how stuck we actually were.

    The Dark Tower''s roof was perhaps twenty feet square and¡ªapart from the hole we''d battered in Lancelot''s cell ceiling¡ªwas utterly devoid of any way to get down.

    After jogging around it a few times, I found myself peering over the edge, trying to calculate precisely how wide my exploded corpse would spread if I jumped.

    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    I was pretty confident it would be a job beyond all the king''s horses and all the king''s men.

    Basically, it was a very, very long way down.

    However, even from this great distance, I could make out Bors''s battle cries when the wind gusted in the right way, and that got me right in the feels.

    They''d come to rescue me.

    I couldn''t help it - call it the residue trauma of the time loop, if you like - but a lump formed in my throat, and tears streamed down my face.

    Many so-called white knights had tried to swoop into my life over the years. Most wanted something- obviously- but I think a few genuinely saw what a fucking wreck I was and were motivated to do something about it.

    Of course, regardless of motivation, I''d told them all to fuck off to whence they''d came. And the horse they''d rode in on.

    But that was the old me.

    This new girl? Well, let''s just say that when a literal white knight rode into town to save her, she wouldn''t be turning them away.

    What are you thinking? I recognise that fucking mental glint in your eye. Not saying I don''t approve - your side of this partnership could use a bit more oomph - but your plans of late have lacked a certain . . . logical coherence.

    "Fuck off. At least my plans are more evolved than setting everything on fire. No, listen. I''m wondering t exactly how much healing an Inferior Elixir of Wellness is capable of. Oh, and whether you''d bounce.¡±

    *

    "Merlin''s dead." Arthur''s voice was flat, and he circled around the Tower, trying to develop an angle of attack.

    Aurelius Ambrosius. Who would have thought it?

    He''d heard stories of his uncle, of course. But the vast majority of them were pretty consistent with the fact that - you know- Uther killed him.

    ¡°That''s what I thought," Aurelius gestured for his men surrounding Bors and Arthur to fall back slightly, "and yet what can feel in the air?¡±

    Bors and Arthur exchanged glances, and the big man moved forward to a defensive position. ¡°Well, unless you think I''ve him rammed up my arse, I''m not sure what more we can tell you. But while we''re in a questioning mood, what the fuck''s a Briton doing palling up with the Saxon?!"

    Aurelius'' eyes slipped to Bors, and he clenched his fist together. In moments, the big man grunted in surprise and collapsed, clutching his chest. "I''ve heard people live just fine with only partial heart function. Apparently, those stories are exaggerated.¡± He turned his gaze back to Arthur. "Where is Merlin?"

    Arthur licked his lips, trying hard not to panic as Bors'' skin took on the colour of slightly off milk. "I''m going to guess the offer is that if I tell you, you''ll let us live?"

    Aurelius smiled, and Arthur noticed several of his teeth were... were they melted?

    "Of course not. But if you spin me an entertaining tale, I might just kill you a hair quicker.¡±

    Arthur was about to come back with a witty, cutting remark - any second. Any second now - when he was interrupted by two loud - yet oddly soft, squelching noises from beyond the entrance.

    And then a loud clang.

    *

    If you''re interested, the sweet spot to surviving this death dive seemed to be downing ten Elixirs each¡ªto get a good buzz on¡ªand then cramming as many vials in our mouths as we could hold on to the way down.

    The plan¡ªand I admit, this was not one of my better ones¡ªwas that the bottles would break when we hit, and maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªenough liquid would get down our throats to get another round of healing rolling before we died.

    Oh, and I also had my Healing Rock wedged firmly in my hand.

    It would be fair to say that I still had a long way down to go before I began reconsidering the advisability of this plan.

    It would have helped if I''d had anyone with a functioning brain cell to help talk me out of doing it in the first place. Lancelot, though, had been absolutely on board with Operation Jump-from-twenty-thousand-feet-without-a-parachute.

    "Is that what you think is best, pretty hair? Let''s do it."

    Seriously, Guinevere, this guy better be dynamite in bed.

    As the ground rushed up to meet me, I turned on my back, indicating to Lancelot to do the same. The last thing we needed was to spill the elixir outwards when we hit.

    Fucking hell. We were going to hit . . .

    Then we clamped our teeth shut and hoped for the best.

    We''d been falling for longer than I would have thought possible when . . .

    *

    Merlin couldn''t keep this up.

    He pumped every grain of Melehan''s Qi he generated straight into Guinevere, and it was not going to be enough.

    He knew there was only so long a cultivator could operate at absolute zero, and he had already crossed that line a while back.

    If Arthur didn''t appear soon with a fucking amazing healer, there would be two more corpses waiting for him when he returned.

    He was just giving in to the blackest pit of despair when Merlin was suddenly amazed by the appearance of not one but two rather unexpected presences.

    The surge of adrenaline increased his cultivation by the slightest amount, But it was enough.

    A few extra grains of sand were shot over to the Princess.

    Merlin forced open Melehan''s eyes, hoping to catch sight of what had grabbed his attention.

    One was a welcome if rather quickly moving blur outside the Dark Tower. The other, which he could see just inside the building''s entrance, was a much less pleasant acquaintance.

    Especially as, the moment they made eye contact, Aurelius Ambrosius began striding towards him.

    *

    Arthur was thrown bodily out of the way as Aurelius stormed past him and made his way quickly outside his Tower.

    It had been an awful long time since he had been so summarily dismissed, and the injury to his pride hurt almost as much as the wall he smashed into by his uncle''s shove.

    Almost.

    Fortunately, the rest of the Saxons who''d surrounded them had followed their master outside, so he was able to run to Bors''s side quickly.

    "Can you stand?"

    "I doubt I could even fuck, but I never let that stop me before. Help me up." Arthur tried to ignore the paleness of his friend¡¯s skin and how heavily he appeared to need to lean on him. "It''s like someone hit me in the chest with a hammer. Only not as much fun. Where did that smug bastard go?¡±

    They slowly reached the entrance just in time to see Aurelius backhand Melehan against a tree.

    *

    The funny thing is, there wasn''t much pain.

    I doubt there was enough time.

    I was me. Then, I was roadkill. And then I was me again.

    I sat up, and - oh, excellent! There''s all that pain I was missing- and quickly downed a bunch more Elixirs, crawling over the ground to pour some more down into what I thought was Lancelot''s mouth. It could have been his ear, I guess.

    It was hard to tell.

    Say what you like about Inferior Elixirs, but they didn''t fuck about. In seconds, Lancelot started reinflating. Yep, that''s the best verb I have for what was occurring. Like a burst balloon, lying in a pool of its viscera, blowing itself back up.

    If it weren''t so sickeningly appalling, I''d have been looking for this year''s Academy Awards for Special Effects.

    Then something moved to my left, and I spun, seeing Bors and Arthur emerge from the entrance to the Dark Tower.

    They looked like absolute shit.

    "You get an Elixir of Wellness! You get an Elixir of Wellness! We ALL get an Elixir of Wellness!¡± I shouted, slinging little bottles everywhere.

    There''s a chance I may have become a little hysterical.

    As the potions took effect, I quickly recovered Drynwyn, who seemed none the worse for his mid-evening flight and tried to calm myself.

    ¡°Dudes, so good to see you! You didn''t need to come all this way.¡± I went for an awkward hug, but Arthur pushed past me. Bors followed him at a run.

    I turned to see what all the non-Morgan-related fuss was about and saw a wonderful visual of a slightly less attractive Uther pulling Melehan¡¯s arm free from its socket.

    I winced. "Not sure an Inferior Elixir is really going to cut it there".

    And l ran to join the fray.

 Chapter 41 - In which we explore who has the most enormous cock in town.

    It appeared the world had gone to hell in a handcart.

    Just ahead of me, Arthur and Bors were struggling with a group of Saxons, trying to get through to the newly unarmed - sorry, I couldn''t resist - Melehan, and . . . fuck me, was that Guinevere at his feet? The Princess had a horrible-looking wound to her chest and was lying in a slowly widening pool of blood.

    What the fuck had these guys been up to?

    That felt like a question for another day - if we made it through this one alive. I targeted a line of Saxons who were trying to hold Arthur and Bors back from reaching Guinevere and triggered

    , throwing as much Qi at it as I could.

    The effect was pretty damn satisfying.

    The moment the technique was activated, it was like a deep trench ran itself down the middle of the pack of defenders. Blue-painted men were thrown every which way as if hit by a particularly spiteful hurricane.

    Arthur and Bors burst through the middle of them, and I followed in my friend''s wake, pulling an Elixir out of my inventory, ready to pour it on Guinevere the moment I was close enough.

    That plan became slightly derailed when the Uther lookalike suddenly let go of Melehan and pointed directed at me.

    That he did so with a hand still holding the wizard''s arm gave me somewhat of a vibe. Who the fuck was this guy?

    "Apprentice! You will rue the day you left your cell. You will look back on your time within as a golden age.¡±

    I''d like to think I had a plan. I''d like to think that my countless hours stuck in a time loop gave me the opportunity to come up with an excellent range of solutions and plays for just this sort of situation.

    I''d like to think a lot of things.

    However, this felt like one of those situations where an ''old-faithful approach would be best.

    I threw Drynwyn at him.

    Dropping Melehan''s dripping arm, whoever the fuck this was caught my sword and - as expected - went up in a very satisfying column of flame.

    Ignoring the conflagration, I took the opportunity to skid to Guinevere''s side and pour an Elixir down her throat, dimly aware that Arthur and Bors were doing their best to hold off a sizeable number of Saxons who had - due to the frying of their boss - become pretty damn motivated all of a sudden.

    By a strange yodelling battle cry from back towards the Dark Tower, it sounded like Lancelot was also about to add considerable belligerence to proceedings.

    But I didn''t have time for that. I was watching for any sign the Princess was healing.

    No dice. After a moment, I added a second and then a third Elixir down her throat and, this time, started to see some progress. It took two more of them before I was happy that the massive injury - had someone stabbed her with a spear? - was closing, and some colour was starting to return to her cheeks.

    It was at that stage, I turned my attention to Melehan.

    In many ways, he looked a million times better than the last time I saw him. In fact, I''d say he looked positively glowing if he weren''t missing an arm.

    I shuffled over to him, pressed my healing stone into his remaining hand, and went to give him an Elixir.

    The wizard shook his head. No point, my dear. This body is much too far gone.

    "Dude, a bunch of these just helped me shake off being absolutely marmalised from a great, great height. Not to brag, but I don''t think a missing arm will trouble it much."

    And then my brain caught up with my ears.

    "Hang on...¡±

    Yes, it''s me. It''s good to see you, my dear. I hope you''ve been using your time away profitably?"

    I made a noise that suggested we could talk about that another time and that he should very quickly explain what the fuck was going on. It was quite an expressive sound¡ªone of my best.

    Let me explain: I was forced to hitch a ride in this poor, unfortunate cultivator when you were ripped from the world. However, even ignoring this latest injury, I rather fear my host had entirely given up on the ghost, as it were. He''s . . . well, we''re in terminal Qi exhaustion, even ignoring the wound. Elixirs need the recipient to want to live, and I''m afraid he just doesn''t have the will to heal. There was a brief pause, and then he asked How''s the Princess?

    My head swan, trying to make sense of his words. "Guinevere''s getting there. But, how . . . I mean, can you get back into my head?"

    That should not be an issue, my dear. However, my presence in this body is the only thing keeping this particular wizard in one piece. The second I leave, he will undoubtedly pass, and I think we''ll need the extra pair of hands shortly. Well, hand, at least.

    ¡°Why?¡±

    Drynwyn thudded to the ground beside me. Erm, we may have a fucking massive problem here . . .

    I looked up at a blackened, ruined skeleton of a man grinning at me. "Thank you," it said, face exploding where incinerated muscles moved. It''s been a while since I was tested in that way. Now, do remind me, where were we?¡±

    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    *

    Bors and Arthur were doing their best to keep the Saxons that continued to pour out of the Dark Tower from reaching the small group behind them. Morgan had helpfully cleared a path through the press, and they''d made their way through, then swung around to take up a decent defensive position.

    Well, as decent a position as two guys could have against a horde.

    The trees on either side of them offered just enough of a barrier that - for now - it made more sense for the attackers to go through them than waste time flanking them in the woods. The gods knew how long that situation would last, but no one ever grew poor, betting on the single-mindedness of Saxons.

    A roar of boiling air and burning heat hit their backs, suggesting Morgan had gone with Plan A when dealing with his uncle. Arthur shuddered under the force of a very repressed memory of his own encounter with catching Drynwyn and concentrated on killing Saxons.

    "Just like old times," Bors grunted, grabbing a fallen foe and throwing his corpse into the crowd before them.

    "True. I do kind of miss the hundred elite warriors that would usually have our backs in these sorts of situations, though."

    "Nah, they were just window dressing. Me and you, Arthur. We were the main event."

    However, despite Bors''s bravado - and their years of experience and undoubted prowess - both knew that, short of a miracle, they would soon be overwhelmed.

    Numbers always would tell.

    And then, just as things were looking pretty bleak, a vast, shirtless man with long dark locks was beside them, belting out the strangest war cry either of them had ever heard.

    The newcomer reached out to the nearest Saxon, disarmed him with a slap and then set about the attackers with his looted sword.

    "Who ordered the barbarian?"

    Arthur ignored Bor''s question as he tried to comprehend the . . . beauty of this man''s swordplay. Although he preferred the spear himself, he had no little training with the sword, but he had nothing - literally - on this guy.

    It was like their saviour was moving through an entirely different plain of existence than any of the Saxons in front of him. They may as well just have stood still and surrendered for all the good their efforts to engage him did.

    The man danced through them, hacking, slashing, and cutting as he went like death made corporeal. It was an astonishingly brutal sight.

    "Don''t know about you, my lord, but I''m feeling pretty fucking redundant right now." Bors was, likewise, struck by the sheer inevitability of destruction being meted out to the Saxons.

    Suddenly, with time and space to share, Arthur glanced behind him and gasped at seeing the blackened form of his uncle.

    Was this truly Aurelius Ambrosius looming over Morgan and his wife?

    "Help him... whoever he is.¡± And Arthur turned to run to protect the figures behind them.

    "Help him? Fuck me. I guess I can hold a towel for him or something". Bors stepped to the shirtless man''s flank, trying to keep out of the way of the spinning, flashing blade.

    *

    I froze, staring helplessly up at the sight looming above me.

    As I watched, the terrible injuries from his cooking healed like they had never been there, and soon, I was again in the presence of Uther''s scarier-looking double.

    "Who are you?" I whispered.

    "It doesn''t matter. All you need to do is answer one important question, and then I''ll probably just kill you. That sounds fair, doesn''t it?"

    "Depends on the question." I was feeling distinctly more terrified than my voice betrayed. This guy had just tanked Drynwyn. I didn''t know what to do with that. Arthur and the combined might of every protection Merlin could load upon him hadn''t been able to do that.

    What the fuck was I supposed to do about him?

    My head rocked back as he slapped me. A bunch of teeth flew from my mouth and instantly regrew. Hey, on the upside, this Elixir was the bomb.

    "Do not be impertinent. I can always restart your time loop. Where. Is. Merlin?"

    Look, I don''t have much of a poker face. I''d generally found losing at strip poker tended to open more doors for me than it didn''t. So, I don''t think I''m entirely to blame for my eyes slipping towards the crumbled form of Melehan.

    "So, it is what I thought", the scary dude turned away, seemingly dismissing me from his existence. I don''t know why, but this pissed me off, but I was smart enough to know there was not a thing in the world I was going to be able to do about it.

    Then Arthur was there.

    I''m sure I''ve mentioned it before, but it is worth repeating that this guy can handle his spear.

    He arrived like a giant bird of prey swooping down onto the back of the other man, spear poised to eviscerate him. I thought for sure we were in game-over territory for a moment, but then Uther''s double turned and deflected the strike away with his own spear.

    Arthur landed, rolled and was back on the offensive in moments, doing everything he could to turn the dude into a pincushion.

    We''ve all seen the Viper versus the Mountain scene, right? Google it and have it playing in the background for a bit. This was just like that.

    Hopefully, though, we''re going to get a slightly different outcome . . .

    "I need a weapon," Guinevere''s voice startled me from my Season 4 reverie. I turned to see the Princess rising to stand. Her clothes made a sickening, squelching noise as she did so, the litres upon litres of blood adding quite a visual impact to her appearance.

    Even then, though, she was still managing to be the most luminous woman I''ve ever seen. The bitch.

    Ignoring me- I was beginning to get a bit miffed about that. What sort of rescue attempt was this? - she ran down towards the Dark Tower and liberated a spear from the cold-dead hands of one of the dozens of Saxons littering the ground.

    Looking that way, I could see Lancelot and, to a lesser extent, Bors going absolutely to town on the remaining blue-painted figures. I mean, like full-on Darth Vader coming down that corridor at the end of Rogue One. These guys were going hard.

    I could be wrong, but I was sure Guinevere missed a step when she glanced at Lancelot. But if she did, it was only briefly and then she was running back to help Arthur.

    I watched them two-on-one the big guy for a moment, before hurrying back to Melehan''s side.

    Uther''s double was clearly toying with them, and we needed a better plan. Don''t get me wrong, they were, in this instant, the very definition of a power couple. I doubt many opponents could have stood in the way of their graceful, synchronised movements. Each seemed to know exactly where the other was, their attacks and defences in perfect unison.

    I bet their sex life was amazing . . .

    I shook that thought from my mind. Regardless of how utterly awesome these two were, they made no impression on the big guy whatsoever. He was barely even defending, letting both their spears trace red streaks over his body, injuries that healed immediately.

    "Who the fuck is this?"

    Melehan''s . . . Merlin''s? Who the fuck knows at this stage? voice was faint. Aurelius Ambrosius. He''s Arthur''s Uncle.

    "I think he''s a bit more than that! That dude tanked Drynwyn, and he''s making Guinevere and Arthur look like irritating gnats at a picnic." I paused for a second. "He''s the guy who tore me out of time, isn''t he? He ripped out my techniques. Big M, I was in a time loop forever." I could feel tears streaming down my face again. "What do I do?"

    I can get you to my tower.

    There was a curse behind me, and I risked a glance back. Arthur was on one knee, his arm broken. Then it reknit with a click - damn, it really was the little Elixir that could - and he was back in the fray.

    "How? You can''t fast-travel when another cultivator is about."

    Melehan ... Merlin smiled. You can if you don''t care about making it out in one piece. He passed me back my Curing Rock. I need a mana store. The well is dry- Or I guess the beach is empty.

    I grabbed one from my inventory and pressed it into his hand.

    "Now what?"

    Now we see if I was as good as everyone said.

 Chapter 42 - In which all is fun and games. Until someone drops a nuke.

    Merlin dropped onto the desolate beach where he knew he would find Melehan.

    The Saxon wizard was still in the same position, knees drawn up, staring out into the distance. The sea did not seem to have either come in or gone out since the last time Merlin had visited his host - the waves still lapping just short of Melehan''s feet. The same hazy mist hovered just above the horizon, hiding anything that may be visible.

    Merlin quickly crossed over the grey sand - it would be fair to say the overall atmosphere of Depression Cove hadn''t perked up much in the last few days - and sat beside him. Hello, Melehan. How are things?

    As he''d pretty much expected, there was no response. If the Saxon even realised someone had joined him, he gave no sign.

    Look, obviously, I''ve not really done the right thing by you since my arrival. It would be fair to say that I got a little caught up with being alive again and haven''t given you as much thought as I should have done. I''ve been taking advantage of you being all . . . if there was a word other than ''broken'' that Merlin could use in this circumstance, it eluded him for the moment. Honestly, it was hard to look at the desiccated shell that was Melehan right now and have any other word leap to mind. That doesn''t matter. What I''m trying to say is that what I have been doing was very wrong, and I''m extremely sorry.

    There was no response.

    A frown creased Merlin''s brow, and he felt a spike of irritation. Not for nothing, my dear, but I can probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of people I have sincerely apologised to. I know you are not in a tremendous place - mental health-wise - but politeness costs nothing.

    "What do you want, Merlin?" Melehan''s voice was soft and indistinct, the gentle sound of the waves sliding up the beach almost drowning them out.

    Merlin''s frown vanished. Just for a moment there, he''d been worried he''d left it too late. There were countless stories of cultivators who''d slipped inside their cores when the going got tough and simply never came out again. The way time dilation worked here might have made it feel to Melehan that it was only moments since Merlin was last beside him.

    Equally, though, it might have seemed like centuries.

    All things being equal, then, the fact that the wizard was able to talk to him was a pretty good sign.

    Ah, hello there. You are compos mentis, after all. Excellent. Look, I''m going to level with you, things are looking pretty bad out in the real world at the moment.

    Melehan carried on staring out across the sea. He did not appear to have blinked since Merlin had sat down. ¡°I''m sorry to hear it. If you were wondering, things are looking pretty grim in here, too."

    Merlin did his best not to look too carefully around the desolate beach. He did not have time to get too bummed out right now. Yes. Yes, I can see that. Far be it from me to offer someone interior design tips on their own soul space, but you''d be amazed what a few well-chosen statement pieces can do. If you want, I could whip up a couple of nice cliff faces to jazz the landscape up a little. I don''t know, but maybe an ice cream van or two? I could even encourage a few nymphs from my own internal space to pop in to keep you entertained."

    "Tell me what you want or get out."

    Look, I''m trying to make amends here, Melehan. I have wronged you and want to make it up to you. Are you sure there''s not anything I can offer?

    "The only thing I want, wizard, is to die."

    Merlin did his absolute best to keep a grin from widening on his face. Well, do you know what? It''s funny you should say that . . .

    *

    Aurelius was becoming bored.

    The unexpected heat that had occurred when he caught Drynwyn had been mildly diverting. It had been an extremely long time since he''d held a Treasure of Britain in his hand - his Saxon hordes placed much less interest in collecting them than he could have hoped - and the remembrance of things past had put him in an uncharacteristic, good mood.

    And then his nephew and - he presumed - the boy''s wife had turned up to show no little skill with the spear, which also had the effect of reminding him of simpler days.

    He and Uther had sparred in this way throughout their youth, and there was a pleasure in relieving, however, briefly, a period of his life where the most pressing issue of his existence was deciding which serving girl he would be fucking that evening.

    But, as seemed to happen too regularly nowadays, there was no challenge to be found here, and ennui was settling in.

    It was hard to take a fight seriously when, no matter how often they wounded him - and to be fair, they overcame his defences more often than he would have expected - he was never really in danger. After all, at his level of cultivation, no weapon forged by a human would ever bring him low.

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    Stifling a yawn, he decided to bring this diversion to a close.

    With a lazy flick of his hand, he released a gust of wind - <Wind Surge> being one of his standby techniques for dismissing irritants - and slung his two attackers towards his men for them to finish off.

    Hmmm.

    What remained of his men.

    What had happened there?

    Aurelius''s eyes quickly focused on a tall, beefy - why was he shirtless? - man putting the last of the Dark Tower''s garrison to the sword. How had that godless barbarian got loose again? He''d been running merry hell through the town of Wansdyke when the panicked request for help had reached the Bretwalda. It had, of course, been the work of moments to transport him to one of the cells in the building above.

    You didn''t kill someone that good with a blade. Not if you might be able to make use of them in the future.

    However, it looked like he was up to his same old tricks again. What good was it having Saxon minions when they could not subdue one lone barbarian? No matter how glossy his hair.

    Aurelius''s decent mood was quickly vanishing. He would need to deal with that one personally. Again. He did so hate repeating himself.

    He spared the scene of casual destruction a few more heartbeats until his nephew and his woman crashed into a pile of corpses.

    Without waiting to see if they''d survived their impromptu flight, he returned his attention to Merlin''s apprentice and the Saxon wizard he now suspected was hosting some remnant of his old foe''s spirit.

    The apprentice was crying, which he didn''t much care for.

    His captors hadn''t cared when he cried, had they? How could she not have learned that most basic of lessons yet? When you were a cultivator, no one cared how you felt. Tears did not mean anything. You took what you needed because there was no one to save you.

    Cultivating 101.

    What did she possibly have to weep about? After everything he''d done for her? Did she not understand the honour he had done her! A spark of fury ignited in his Qi, and the air around him shrieked as it evaporated in the heat of his anger.

    This apprentice had been given an infinite amount of time to cultivate. He''d removed all the frivolous techniques she''d been allowed to pick up. And she''d had all the distracting demands of life withdrawn from her. She had no need to eat, to drink, to sleep. What better situation could she possibly have found herself in to grow strong?

    He''d had to do it the hard way. Day by day, year by year, beating by beating. She''d had decades to develop her craft and had barely been out of the world a day!

    And how was she thanking him? By sobbing like a baby.

    He strode forward and grabbed her by the scruff of the neck. Merlin''s apprentice hung limply in his grasp, not even bothering to fight back, which irritated him even more.

    He shook her to try to get some sort of reaction. You didn''t give up like this. You didn''t surrender. You fought with tooth and claw. And when they ripped those out, you grew new ones and kept fighting some more.

    With the girl seemingly unconscious in his hand, he looked down at - presumably - the cause of her woe. The Saxon with the missing arm was pretty much dead. Which meant if, as he suspected, this wizard was a repository for the last bit of Merlin''s soul, it was just a few more moments before that wanker was finally purged from this world.

    It made sense, he supposed. For the last six months, Aurelius had always had that nagging feeling that this particular door was not quite closed. This was why he had wasted so much time and energy removing any potential from the timeline that could offer that old goat something to hold on to.

    It was unpleasant work¡ªand Aurelius was not proud of the innocent blood he bathed his hands in¡ªbut if you wanted a job done, it was better to do it once. Do it thoroughly. And salt the earth behind you.

    He gave the girl a shake.

    And yet, this pathetic specimen had slipped through. Looking at her, though, he could understand how he may have missed her during the slaughter. If this was all she the fight of which she was capable, it was no wonder.

    He kicked the broken figure at his feet. "You have Merlin inside you, don''t you?" Maybe he shouldn''t have pulled off his arm. But it was easy to forget how fragile people were sometimes.

    To his surprise, the eyes of the wizard flicked open slowly. "Aurelius?"

    "Ah! So you do recognise me. I''m glad. It has been a matter of profound sorrow that you died without knowing who was responsible. I''m glad to be here at the end to witness your final passing from the world. It does me good to feel your despair."

    ¡°You . . . always . . . were . . .¡± Melehan''s voice was barely a whisper.

    Aureus leant down towards him. The girl dangling in his grip: ¡°What? Clever? Devious? Inevitable?¡±

    Melehan wet his lips with a grey tongue. He clearly only had seconds to live.

    "No." Another deep breath. Then, the Saxon''s eyes suddenly became extraordinarily focused and filled with awareness. "A needy cunt."

    And then, a series of unfortunate events took place.

    *

    Melehen had been sure that his weeks of torture at the hands of Cedric would have done something to cleanse his soul. To bring the scales back into balance after what he had done.

    But no. He was too much in the red for that.

    As soon as he had looked at his soul space, he knew there would be no way to make amends for the lives he had taken at Isca.

    That awareness had broken his mind.

    It had taken Merlin to show him a way to finally bring it all to an end.

    His eyes narrowed on the High King. The man who had forced him onto the path his life had taken. He had never wanted to be a battle wizard. He had found such joy in his small acts of cultivation.

    Well, no more of that.

    He felt the Qi block fall over him, indicating he was within another wizard''s aura. Fighting his every instinct, he braced himself and pressed through it.

    But try as he might, he couldn''t quite force the fast travel destination to connect.

    "Merlin?" he shouted into the void.

    *

    He''s too close, my dear.

    "I don''t know what that means!" My head was feeling crushed by a build-up of Qi in the atmosphere

    "It''s so nearly there. We just need a bit of distance from Aureluis. Can you push him?"

    "I''m dangling a foot from the ground by the neck. I''m strong, but I don''t think I can do much. I can try to stagger him with my wit?"

    My dear, I''d forgotten what a hoot you could be. Perhaps, I don''t know, use your Qi?

    I fired up

    and gave it everything I''d got. I moved Aurelus, maybe three feet back. So, there was that.

    Hey, on the plus side, he dropped me.

    "Far enough?"

    The Uther lookalike was already walking back towards us, a grim expression on his gloomy face.

    I wish there were another adjective, but I was shitting myself.

    ¡°Far enough,¡± I heard Melehan murmur. "For Isca"

    And everything went white. And very loud.

 Chapter 43 - In which someone needs to pick up the pieces of a very pissed off Big Bad

    He did not know how long he had been unconscious.

    But, then again, did it count as being ''unconscious'' when your very soul had been sheared away from your body and left to find its own way home? Aurelius did not know.

    He was pretty sure that, at least for a moment back there, he had actually died. He had felt everything that was ''Aurelius Ambrosius'' cease to be and merge with the story of the universe. In many ways, this had not been an entirely unpleasant experience. After nurturing so much hate and anger for so long, there was the ecstasy of release to be found in suddenly not needing to be that person any longer.

    But then, of course, the inevitability of death came up against the force of his implacable will, and the Grim Reaper decided he had easier targets to visit that day.

    With a sharp intake of breath, therefore, consciousness returned to the Bretwalda. What had been dead was now alive. However, whether that would turn out to be any sort of blessing remained to be seen.

    His eyes started to pull the world around him into focus, and he recognised that there was a human-shaped form peering over him.

    Well, his right eye did, anyway.

    He did not appear to possess a left one anymore.

    That was an unwelcome, if not wholly surprising, development.

    The intensity of the torches in the tent he found himself in caused him to wince in agony, and he raised a hand to shield his face. Well, he would have done if he''d had a hand to raise. Or an arm.

    Or a . . .

    To be fair, he''d had less traumatic wake-ups in his time.

    He could not seem to remember what had caused this level of catastrophic damage. Had he been training his resistances and, somehow, completely underestimated the dosages of his potions? That seemed spectacularly unlikely, but then again, so did his finding himself in such an appalling state. All things needed to be considered. Even his own fallibility.

    Memories slowly began filtering back to the forefront of his mind, jostling the overwhelming pain out of the way as he sought to make sense of what had occurred.

    Something had exploded. He could remember that vividly. And, unusually enough, he did not feel that he had been the one to cause it.

    Which was odd because if there had been an explosion strong enough to put him flat on his back, with body parts missing, he would have expected he must have been the one to cause it.

    No. Not something had exploded. Someone.

    He had been moving towards a figure. Whoever it had been had seemed very important at the time. He could still taste the residue of his rage towards that person at the back of what remained of his throat.

    He had been seconds from killing them, and then . . . this had happened.

    Whatever ''this'' was.

    Knowing that the quickest journey towards answers was going to be getting some healing on board, Aurelius tried to move himself into his soul space. However, in a further unwelcome development, he found he did not have enough Qi to perform even that most basic of cultivation techniques.

    He couldn''t remember the last time such a thing had happened. He always had enough Qi. That was kind of his thing.

    The whole situation was baffling him and, what is more, he was feeling desperately dehydrated,

    As he no longer appeared to have a tongue, it took him longer than he would have liked to be able to croak out, "Water!"

    The terrified-looking Saxon in his eye-line, looked down when Aurelius made this request with an expression that was one-part relieved, two-parts disappointed, and - he was glad to see - all parts terrified.

    The man withdrew and reappeared with a cup he pressed to the High King''s lips. Or where his lips would have been in a less brutally judgmental universe. As it was, the cup''s rim rested against the exposed bone of Aurelius'' lower skull.

    "Are . . . quite well, my lord?"

    "Perfectly fine, you fucking moron. I find I am always at my best when the skin has been flayed from my bones . . ." was what he would have liked to have said. But you needed more vocal apparatus than the explosion seemed to have left him right now for that sort of snark.

    He settled for making some sort of non-descript groaning noise instead. Fortunately, though, the water that was being poured down into his gullet had just enough residue Qi for the most minor of repairs to begin.

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    It was true what they said. Every little helps. Although he assumed that the purveyors of that little aphorism didn''t have this sort of situation in mind. He still couldn''t prise open his soul space, though.

    Aurelius'' attention returned to the man above him, who was still wittering on. "We were initially concerned that you had passed. However, after careful examination, it seemed that there was still a spark of life within you. I do not mind sharing, my lord, that we feared . . ."

    "Yes, I can smell it."

    Aurelius''s mind tried to access the fragments of memories he still possessed. He found that if he moved backwards away from the moment of the devastating conflagration, things were a little clearer. "The captives? What had become of the Britons?"

    There was a longer pause than suggested he was about to be presented with good news. ¡°The explosion, my lord, it was utterly overwhelming. Indeed, we witnessed it all the way from Halwell Fort, where we were stationed. It was like the world was ending - the noise and brightness dwarfed even the sun. As soon as we saw it coming from the direction of the Dark Tower, I knew it was crucial to investigate. We made good time - it was only a week to get here - our wizard said there was something preventing her from fast-travelling. When we arrived . . . well, we found you and nothing else.¡±

    Aurelius ground his teeth, or he would have done if he had any left. He crunched bone together in a significant show of irritation. "No bodies?"

    "No anything, my lord. I should be clear, our scouts have reported that there is not anything for about three miles in every direction. Even the soil has been reduced to a colourless nothingness. It is as if the landscape has been wholly scrubbed of life."

    Aurelius let that news settle for a moment. Whatever had occurred was unlike any offensive Qi technique he had ever encountered. That sort of leaching of life was almost counter to the very nature of Qi. What on earth had happened. "And my tower?"

    "We have summoned slaves to begin the process of rebuilding."

    Well, that was the final turd on a monumentally appalling morning. Quite apart from losing the perfect place to cycle Qi - and all the advantages that had given him - there was the loss of all those prisoners for whom had such exotic plans. That hurt almost as much as the actual exquisite agony his wounds were causing him.

    "Bring me your company''s wizard. Immediately."

    The anxious face above him became even more concerned. If that was possible. "That . . . I mean to say, I cannot, my lord. We were still a day away when she suddenly cried out in agony, holding her heart, and then dissolved into ash."

    Aurelius cursed, but he supposed that made a sort of perverted sense. Whatever had happened had drained all the Qi in the surrounding area - which explained why he was still in such a state a week after the event. Even debilitated, he should have been able to regen enough Qi to rebuild his ruined body. However, if this part of the world had been transformed in a Qi vortex - which he feared it might - then things began to make a bit more sense. Anyone unfortunate enough to wander into such a dead zone would suffer a catastrophic loss of atomic cohesion pretty damn quickly. Those with Qi would succumb first - it was a testament to his epic levels of resilience that he was still in one piece - but normal humans would not be far behind on the death train.

    "I would guess you war band are all becoming sick?" Aurelius hazarded.

    The man nodded, brightening now the Bretwalda had given voice to their plight. Half of the spears under his command had already taken to their beds - from how they looked, he did not think they had long left before they went the way of the unfortunate wizard. "Yes, my lord. It would be excellent if you were able to -"

    Aurelius ignored him and tried to roll his torso to the side to sit up. He had minimal success in this endeavour. As he was missing all his arms and legs and, thus, lacked some fairly significant appendages for such a movement, this was not much of a surprise.

    Merlin had paid him back, after all.

    That thought, appearing unbidden in his mind, dragged him back to what had happened in those last few moments he could remember. However, no matter how he thought about it, his brain rebelled at the very concept of another cultivator having access to that sort of ability.

    The power it must have taken . . .

    "I''m sorry, my lord. I missed that?" The anxious man was not especially keen to get too close to the ruined remains of the High King. You never knew when dead could be catching.

    "I said, ''Merlin''s back.'' And we will need to address that."

    Aurelius closed his eye. Nope. Needed an eyelid for that. This whole situation was becoming quite unbearable.

    "Pluck out my eye."

    "My lord?"

    "I don''t have any eyelids. So I can''t blink. So, my eyeball is tinder dry, and it hurts. Pluck it out. Now."

    "I don''t think that is a good idea, my lord."

    "You truly do not wish to know all the things that are good ideas to me right now. If you do not wish my next mission in this world to be removing you and your entire bloodline from existence, you will do exactly as I say. Remove my fucking eye."

    In the darkness that enveloped him, Aurelius found himself - bizarrely - realising he was not too displeased by things.

    It felt pretty counterintuitive, but it was just possible this was not the terrible event he had initially thought. After all, in the six months since the ''death'' of Merlin, it had been challenging to find things to motivate him.

    It was true that Uther''s surprising success in repelling the Saxon invasion had been mildly diverting. But now it seemed that Merlin was not quite so dead as had been advertised, and juices were flowing anew¡ªor they would have been if he still retained any juices. That would come with time and distance from ground zero¡ªthat he had not realised he had missed.

    He had killed the old goat once before, and he could absolutely do it again. Whenever he wanted.

    The pleasure, after all, was in the expectation.

    But first, he needed to get out of this Qi dead zone before this sorry little warband turned to dust and left him all alone again.

    He gave orders for a litter to be constructed, for messengers to be sent far and wide to alert the rest of his people to his plight, and for him to be carried as fast as possible, towards home.

    He assumed this first group¡ªand potentially even a second¡ªwould perish before he was far enough out of the toxic air where his Dark Tower had stood to heal himself. However, provided the willing sacrifices kept on coming, things would work out okay.

    And once he was back to normal?

    Well, then there would be quite a reckoning for Uther, for Arthur, for Merlin and for his blasted apprentice.

 Chapter 44 - In which there is much effort to find the upside

    We tumbled out onto the ground floor of Merlin''s tower.

    Once I had my bearings, I performed a quick head count, and - somewhat shockingly - we all seemed to be there.

    Minus Melehan, anyway.

    That ''all'' was a bit insensitive, wasn''t it?

    That was the second time the Saxon wizard had saved my life. I didn''t think there would be a third.

    It turns out that the whole ''cultivators cannot fast travel within the aura of other cultivators'' was less an immutable law of the universe and more like some pretty helpful health and safety advice.

    Kind of like not allowing a toddler under the influence of top-quality LSD to drive a tank through a tea shop during a Women''s Institute bakesale. I mean, sure, you can do it if you want, but the outcome is likely to be reasonably sub-optimal for all concerned.

    Unlike when he''d saved Arthur and me from Cedric at the end of that disastrous battle, the act of pushing a bit of group fast travelling through Aurelius''s aura had caused some spectacular - if brief - consequences for everyone left behind.

    He had a choice to make, my dear, and he made it without fear. Without pain. He only was holding on to a great determination to make amends as he passed. He was relieved, if anything.

    "Yeah, I''m afraid that doesn''t help at all, Big M. But thanks for making the effort."

    "Everyone okay?" Bors was the first of us up on his feet. "Arthur? Gwin? Strange man I never, ever, ever want to face in a duel?" Various groans indicated the little party was, if not positively chipper, then alive and kicking.

    "I''m fine too, by the way!"

    Bois looked at me and grinned massively. "Of course you are, you little chaos monkey. You don''t think I missed you jumping off a tower five hundred feet in the air, shaking that off, bulldozing your way through a war band, and then going mano a mano with Aurelius fucking Ambrosius." He clapped me on my back, fracturing at least three of my ribs. "If I had a hat - which I don¡¯t as they make my ears look too big according to Mrs Bors - but if I did, I''d tip it to you. That shit was tight."

    He appeared to be holding on to a very different memory of recent events than I did, but as I opened my mouth to disagree, he''d already moved on to grab Lancelot in a big bear hug. "And you, you big loveable ball of certain death? You are my new best friend in the whole world."

    Lancelot laughed and hugged him back. "Ah, thanking you, l am!"

    But I couldn''t help but notice that the barbarian''s attention wasn''t on the hairy colossus squeezing his life out like the last smidgen of toothpaste.

    It was on the woman slowly getting to her feet, helped by her husband.

    "She has pretty hair,¡± I heard him murmur.

    Fuck. What had I done?

    *

    After tanking my way through insane amounts of damage in and around the Dark Tower, it was thus a bit humiliating to spend the next four weeks in bed.

    Whilst my alchemy scrolls were long on that science''s wonders, they were a touch shorter on the epic side aspects.

    Apparently, one Elixir of Wellness would land you on your arse for a few hours when its effects wore off. In the volumes I had downed them . . . well, as the Big M put it, this was one of those very limited set of circumstances where a decade-plus of massive substance misuse stood me in good stead.

    Actually, what I said was that all the parts of you the toxic build-up should have scoured away were already gone. Basically, the only way I can make sense of you still being alive following such frivolous use of massively powerful chemicals is that you should already be dead.

    Potato, potahto.

    I still felt like absolute shit, though.

    If you''re worried about Lancelot? Don''t be. From what I am told, he woke up the next day with a "pain in my belly", drank a few gallons of mead, and the wanker was out bear hunting with Arthur and Bors in the afternoon.

    I don''t want to give you the impression I was feeling a little pushed out by that ungodly sausage fest, but I was. I absolutely was.

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    And I wasn''t the only one feeling down about recent events.

    I''m sorry I let you down, Morgan.

    "I''ve told you repeatedly, mate, that you didn''t. If you couldn''t turn that guy into charcoal, then no sword in the world could."

    You needed me to come through for you, and I didn''t. I''m not sure I can ever forgive myself. You might as well melt me down and start again.

    I don''t know what was worse: having Drynwyn with performance anxiety or that he had stopped swearing.

    Both were pretty weird.

    I''d spent most of my convalescence trying to make up for lost learning time with Merlin.

    If my interminable span in the Dark Tower''s time loop had taught me anything, it was that I simply did not know enough about what I was doing. Although Merlin had been going on and on about my lack of proper foundations, I hadn''t come across a problem in the Dark Ages I hadn''t been able to blag my way through.

    My encounter with the Bretwalda changed that, and I had promised myself that I would never be in that situation again. If the Big M was impressed by my newfound determination to be top of the cultivation class, he was good enough not to make too much about it.

    It turned out I could do an awful lot of remedial cultivation during a month of bed rest.

    My alchemy improved a fair bit during this time, too. As I''d thought, brewing up in a Treasure of Britain significantly upped my game, and I was starting to learn some pretty interesting things.

    I never really saw the point in alchemy, Merlin said sniffily. There are natural treasures in the world that do everything you can dream of. It has always been my opinion that spending your time looking for them is better than trying to make inferior versions of your own.

    "You''re just bitter because no one liked you enough to give you a magic Cauldron as a ¡®thank you¡®, aren''t you?"

    Am I jealous that Morgan Le Fey - the original Morgan Le Fey. That wild cat from the nether pit of hell that once tried to raise the seas to swallow the world - never felt the need to show me some gratitude? No. No, I am not.

    "You know, in most of the stories I''ve read, you are quite the hot and heavy couple over the years?"

    Don''t believe everything you read.

    "What, so you never were tempted to dip your wick? Play Find the Wand? Delve the Qi? Butter some parsnips. Plunge the-"

    I think I preferred it when I was in Melehen''s head. He had a nice line in moody silences that you could learn quite a lot from. Are you ever planning on stopping?

    "Probably. I wasn''t sure where that one was going, to be honest. But seriously, did you know her way back when?"

    There was a pause.

    I wasn''t always the most powerful cultivator in the land.

    ¡°Stop!"

    Do you want the story, or do you want to be . . . you?

    ¡°You know, I''d love it if I could do both."

    Well, tough. It is not a long story, but it is probably instructive for you to know it. There were a number of us who all came into our power at the same time. Morgana was one; I was another. It was long ago and a very different time. I may not have been the righteous man who - well, not stands before you today, but you know what I''m getting at. Essentially, my dear, if you think I am difficult now, you should have seen what I was like end before a millennia or so smoothed out my edges.

    There was a tone to his voice that encouraged me not to interrupt.

    Cultivators are encouraged to fight to test themselves against others. Mostly, this can be done in a spirit of learning. However, occasionally, accidents happen. And when they do, the spoils go to the victor.

    I took a moment to think through his words. "I envisage a Highlander, ''There Can Be Only One'' situation here."

    Then you wouldn''t be too far from the truth.

    "So, you became the biggest, baddest spellcaster by, what, murdering all your friends?"

    There was another long pause.

    There are certainly some versions of what happened back then that would not argue against that being the truth.

    "What about your version?"

    Merlin sighed with lungs he no longer had.

    I was young and powerful, and I did not trust anyone. Least of all, Morgana. I don''t think either of us would come out too well from a detailed examination of our actions back then. But, my dear, it is not ancient history that needs to concern us.

    I sat up a little in my bed, knocking alchemy scrolls to the floor. "Aurelius?"

    Indeed. He was no cultivator when I knew him. It is not unheard of for traumatic events to unlock latent potential, but there is no way he could have reached - he paused - I''m going to say the words ''Bellatrix Lestrange'' for the sake of speeding things up, and I hope we all understand what I mean and that no more needs to be said about it."

    "My lips are sealed, Big M."

    Good. Well, there is simply no version of linear progression by which he could have reached the level of cultivation required to challenge me.

    "Dude, he didn''t challenge you. He killed you. Without you knowing. My man got himself some skills."

    The point still holds, my dear. The man has clearly used every trick in the cultivating handbook to reach his current cultivation level. And he has had years and years to do so.

    I let that thought percolate through my mind for a moment. "So, what do we do?"

    As recent events have made abundantly clear, you cannot hope to challenge him yet. But, and this is where we have some good news, he will be experiencing the same issue that plagued me in my later years¡ªprogression at the higher levels is complex. He is probably as strong as he will be for hundreds of years. You''ve got a wide-open future of development ahead of you.

    "Am I understanding that the ''good news'' take here is that our opponent is so far advanced compared to us that he can''t actually get all that much stronger?

    If you put it like that, it sounds so much bleaker, right? But for clarity, he absolutely can get stronger. Insanely so. But the more important question is whether he will do so in our timespan to do something about him before he kills us all? No, probably not.

    "Can''t imagine why I thought things were bleak. I am going to need to put in insane amounts of hard work here, aren''t I, Big M?"

    You absolutely are, Little M.

    "Nah, I don''t think that''s going to stick."

    I''ll see how it goes.

    I missed the opportunity to argue because a servant had appeared at my door.

    I had an audience with King Uther ahead of me.

 Chapter 45 - In which Arthur and I bury the hatchet

    King Uther looked like he''d aged about fifty years.

    I guess finding out the brother you had killed during a duel decades ago was not only not dead, but an insanely powerful cultivator in charge of the Saxon population of the British Isles will do that to you.

    To be fair, Queen Igraine didn''t look much better, but I think that had more to do with her worry about her husband. Considering the generally antagonistic nature of their relationship - at least as far as I had witnessed it - it was really disconcerting to see the depth of the concern on her face when she looked at him.

    "And you''re sure it was Aurelius?" Uther asked me for the hundredth time.

    "Your majesty, I can only tell you what Merlin said. To me, he was just this big, powerful wizard who looked spookily like you."

    Although I reflected, not so much at the moment. Even coming out from under a Drynwyn special, Aurelius still had a bit more about him than the Pendragon. Uther looked awful . . . "However, the Big M had no doubt. The dude with the scary Dark Tower was Aurelius Ambrosius.¡±

    Uther shook his head and gazed down at his hands. Which he was wringing. Like a bearded Lady Macbeth without access to some really decent Lush consumables. "To think he was alive all this time! The years that he has been lost to me.¡±

    I exchanged a furtive glance with Bors, who had the same look of deep disconcertion on his face as I presumably did.

    I was definitely missing good old kill-them-all-and-burn-their-corpses Uther. This sad sack with the worried eyes was not inspiring me with confidence that we would come out swinging at the Saxons. I decided to try some of my legendary wit and charm charm. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, I don''t really think the issue here is him being lost to you. There''s not a tearful sibling reunion coming in your near future. The guy''s Dr. Doorn, mixed with the Emperor, with extra sprinklings of Sauron on top. Merlin is pretty sure he would have been able to tank the explosion we left behind, so we really do need to, you know, start suiting up before he kicks off Round Three.¡±

    "Perhaps," the King sighed, "but we must not give up hope.¡±

    Fuck me.

    The last thing I expected from him was to deflate this badly. We had a serious issue here. Apparently, the Prince of the Britons was feeling the same concern.

    Arthur, standing at the back of the chamber, cleared his throat. "Hope, father? Have you entirely taken leave of your senses? We have a Saxon warband camped on the banks of the Camel. Their Bretwalda is a cultivator of which we have no match, and our greatest fortress is no more. I think we are beyond the stage where we ''hope''. You need to call the witan, gather the kingdoms to your banner and put together a plan that puts us on the offensive."

    I braced myself for another explosive chorus of ''Go fuck your wife,'' but Uther merely nodded and sighed. "Perhaps you are right. I just am not sure whether this would not be too aggressive a move."

    Seriously, we were in trouble here.

    Arthur must have sensed the same, and he pushed off the wall to stride forward. Obviously, there were more significant problems right now, but I still couldn''t help but wonder what Guinevere and Lancelot were up to at this moment. "Father, we cannot just sit here and hope the Saxons will leave us alone. You are the Pendragon. With the combined might of the kingdoms, we can put enough men in the field to push them all the way over the river and some distance back beside. But we must do it soon. I beg you to give me leave to . . .¡±

    ¡°Granted." Uther''s voice was soft. "Prince Arthur, you have my complete confidence in this matter." And with that, he gathered up his furs and made his way, tottering much more than I remembered, from the room. Fucking hell, he''d lost a lot of weight since I¡¯d last seen him.

    Igraine looked at him, appalled, and then hurried after him, shaking her head toward her son.

    That left just the two of us in the throne room. We were silent for a minute, and Arthur turned to face me, scratching his beard thoughtfully. He remained as bald as a coot. ¡°Did that sound to you like I''ve just been put in charge of leading a counter-offensive?"

    ¡°Dude, that sounded like an abdication."

    ¡°None of that,¡± he snapped, his face suddenly grim. "I don''t have the support amongst the other kingdoms. Sure, they''ll stand for me leading their armies. But won''t accept me as the Pendragon. Not yet. That will all change if I can throw the Saxons back onto their own territories.

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    Arthur was talking a good game, but I couldn''t shake the image of Uther stumbling from the throne room, a broken version of the imposing figure I had met with before the wholly disastrous "Quest for Guinevere." I mean, I had gone through some spectacular shit in the last month or so - including the fact that the month had lasted centuries. And I''d spent most of that time being tortured - and of the two of us, I was the one in the better shape. It kind of looked to me that Uther might be done.

    I decided Arthur needed a bit of tough love. "Look, mate, I don''t want to piss on anyone''s chips, but you''re going to need to get those other kings on board pretty quickly with you being the way forward. Your dad looks like he is one disappointing pudding away from a full-blown breakdown. We''re talking King Theoden at the start of the Two Towers here. And I''m not sure he''s pulling out of his funk."

    Arthur''s hand clanked against my breastplate. "You will speak of my father with respect!"

    "And. lest we forget, you absolutely do not put your fucking hands on me."

    To his credit, he apologised immediately. Of course, that might have had something to do with Drynwyn growling softly at my side, but I''m going to choose to believe he simply remembered his manners.

    Nevertheless, it was a good reminder that our relationship wasn''t as stable as we might have hoped, especially given what was probably coming our way.

    Arthur moved to sit on Uther''s throne. I''d seen him do this countless times before - the action didn''t seem to have any metaphorical importance to the Britons - but it still made me realise how close we were to Camelot becoming a thing.

    And how far away we were from how it all felt in the Lore.

    "Does Merlin have any words of advice?" Arthur asked.

    Oh, boy, did he. Most of what the Big M seemed to want to do next involved me brewing up some sort of epic-tier poison and then dumping it in every water source in Saxon-held lands. I''d tried to explain the concepts of collateral damage, war crimes and unacceptable civilian losses, but these seemed quite alien to him. In fact, he appeared to have priced them into his great strategic plan.

    Eventually, though, he did have a couple of suggestions that didn¡¯t promote genocide.

    "He says you need some big victories. It would be best if you won and were seen to win. Nothing builds on alliance faster than a big swinging cock to get behind."

    "Merlin said that?"

    "I extrapolated from, you know, the general gist."

    There was a pause, and then, "What do you think of Lancelot?"

    What did I think of him? No way was I walking into that bear trap. "What do you think of him, my lord?"

    Arthur''s face lit up like a child who''d been told not only was school closed for a snow day, but most of her teachers had been trapped inside and would likely freeze to death in the coming days.

    My word, that was a dark simile. I really need to find a way to chill out.

    "I like him. I think he''ll be a massive boon for our chances of turning the tide. Did you see the man fight?"

    "I imagine he is quite the swordsman. Experienced. Thorough. Probably gets the job done and more."

    My dear . . . Merlin said warningly

    "Yes, he is very impressive, isn''t he! He''s already defeated everyone in the castle. I can just about beat him with a spear or a quarterstaff, but with a sword in his hand, there is simply no one to touch him."

    The sheer joy on the man''s face when he said this nearly made me weep.

    The eventual betrayal will not define their relationship. Arthur and Lancelot are destined to be the closest friends before that turns to dust. Even then, at the very end, there will be forgiveness.

    Somehow, that didn''t quite settle the issue for me. I wondered how much strife I could help avoid now if I said the right words.

    And how many years of laughter and joy would you forestall, too? Life is not about the avoidance of all pain. I would have thought you, of everyone, would understand that.

    Hmmm. The rare valid point. While wondering how best to demolish that line of argument, I realised Arthur had spoken again. "Sorry, my Lord. Irritating wizard buzzing in my ear."

    Arthur looked both slightly put out and also somewhat cowed. "You can hear him now?"

    "Mate, he never shuts up."

    "Okay." I thought he wanted to say something else but stopped himself. "Have you seen much of Guinevere?"

    I hadn''t. Like me, she''d had to deal with the after-effects of an overdose of Elixirs of Wellness and had been confined to her rooms.

    ¡°Not much. How is she since her injury?"

    "She''s well, thank you. Down to you, of course. I never really had the chance to thank you for everything you''ve done for us."

    I opened my mouth to speak, but he pressed on. "Seeing my father... like that has brought home the precarious nature of the situation. I need to grow up, don''t I?"

    "No arguments from me on that score, mate.¡±

    My dear, he''s trying to build bridges with you. Have a care. You don''t need to burn them all down on the principal.

    If Arther had noted my tone, he didn''t say anything. "I''ve asked her if we can try to start over. To put our recent past behind us."

    "You mean all the epic fuckwittery?"

    Arthur winced. "Yes. Although I did not put it like that, of course. I have promised to close that chapter of my life."

    I was not able to restrain myself from shrugging. "What do you want, a round of applause?"

    My dear . . .

    Arthur slipped from the throne to stand directly in front of me. "I would like to try to make the same offer to you. There have been . . . incidents in our history that I regret. It had seemed to me that you were a poor version of someone I had cared a great deal for. But I now recognise that it is not your fault, and I should have treated you more respectfully. Can we wipe the slate clean and start again?

    He held out his hand for me to shake.

    Stability.

    That seemed more important right now than holding on to grudges. He''d said all the right words, and if I wanted Camelot to actually become a thing, I needed to give peace a chance.

    I took his hand - but squeezed it a little harder than I needed to. "I can get on board with that, my prince. But it needs to be all of it, you understand me. No fucking around on Guinevere, and you need to lean into the whole Once and Future King thing.¡±

    His nose screwed up at that. "You know. I fucking hate that title."

    "Hey, I was voted ''Most Likely to be an Easy Lay'' at secondary school. You got off easy."

 Epilogue

    Tintagel.

    Where the Atlantic''s finest attempts at erosion meet architectural optimism.

    Where those who live within dare the elements to do their worst, while quietly acknowledging that they probably will.

    Where history hangs as heavily as the fog, and the line between legend and reality is as blurry as the view on a typical Cornish day.

    The fortress itself is perched atop a cliff that seems to sulk into the ocean and is a testament to what humans can achieve if they take in the weather, transport links, and essential comfort, then just go, ''fuck it, we''re here now. Start building.''

    Even by the mid-fifth century, Tintatgel''s stone walls were already heavily streaked with the residue of countless salty onslaughts, looking like they''d been doused in giant tears.

    That''s pathetic fallacy, that is.

    As the Saxons became the most recent invaders to discover, the only way to reach the castle''s entrance is a masterclass in the traditionally warm, friendly British welcome: a narrow, dangerous path above the sea that dares any visitor to slip and add their bones to the surf below. Then, at the end of this cheerful route stands the main gate, an intimidating mix of iron and oak that suggests a greeting more akin to ¡°get the fuck out of here¡± than ¡°please come on in, weary traveller. Would you like a cup of mead?¡±

    Tintagel''s towers rise above the walls, their tops shrouded in mist, of which Merlin''s tower gives the best impression of disappearing off into another dimension¡ªa dimension where upkeep isn''t a priority.

    Meanwhile, ravens, those cheerful symbols of impending doom, nest in the eaves, their caws blending with the wind¡¯s lament to create a soundtrack of perpetual melancholy.

    Seriously, is it any wonder Uther was feeling a touch down about things?

    Beyond the walls, the landscape continues with the theme. Windswept moors stretch out in all directions, dotted with shrubs that look like they''ve seen better days and trees that have lost the will to stand straight. And that ignored the destruction wrought by the Saxon army that had so recently squatted out there, like a malevolent toad, ''living off the land'' as the popular euphemism for rape and pillage would have it.

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    So had it been, and so, for just a little longer would it have been.

    For, just off the edge of the coast on which Tintagel stood, there was a ripple on the still surface of the ocean.

    An observer may have thought a seal was just about to pop up for air, but only briefly as a mass of blonde hair breached the surface.

    It was a woman, and she was strangely beautiful. As in, she had all the features that popular consciousness would recognise as attractive - giant, blue eyes, generous lips, a perfectly proportioned nose - but there was something ethereally odd about how they all sat together on her face.

    Whilst she may have, superficially, looked human, the overall impression was more like she''d killed and skinned the most perfect woman in the world and was now wearing her like a slightly ill-fitting costume.

    Let that description settle in for a moment.

    Treading water, the woman looked around in confusion and the rising and falling surf for a few minutes, before blowing strands of hair from her face.

    "Fucking hell. How many times? I told them that any old body of water won''t do. This is the middle of the bloody ocean.¡±

    With a reasonably spectacular show of petulance, she started skulling towards the shore, hampered somewhat by only having one hand available to swim. In the other, she trailed a long, black blade behind her, which left sparks in the water its wake.

    Before long - she swam with the speed of a cresting shark (a simile that has an awful lot more that is accurate about it, rather than just being a clever arrangement of words) - she reached a depth where she could walk and lifted the sword out of the water.

    It was then that an interested observer would realise that the strange bubbling sound that had accompanied this woman''s appearance was, in fact, the sound of the sword talking. Now free of the sea, it was possible to make out what it was saying.

    Shambles. That''s what this is¡ªa shambles. I''m surprised they didn''t just plop me in the middle of a massive rock and get done with it. Seriously, I don''t know why I bother.

    The woman reached the shore and shook herself, the water evaporating off her clothes. She was tall and dressed in glowing blue robes. Her entire look was so fragile that the massive, black iron broadsword she was carrying was somewhat incongruous. However, it was as if it were nothing but a feather in her grip.

    She paused, looking up at Tintagel''s looming, boxy shape for a moment, then pressed on up the beach and towards the woods, following the mouth of the river.

    There had to be a decent body of water she could find somewhere nearby.

    And from there, she could finally be rid of this damned prima donna of a sword and get back home.

    For the Lady in the ¡­.to be confirmed span of water had arrived in the world of Tintagel.

    And she was bearing Excalibur.

 Chapter 1 - In which there is a changing of the guard

    King Uther had been dead a month.

    Sadly, his passing had come as no surprise. From the moment he heard his brother ¨C Aurelius Ambrosius - still lived, he had seemingly wasted away with every passing hour. Nothing anyone could do was able to make a difference.

    I''d tried to force a few of my better-quality Elixirs down his throat ¨C I became pretty good at spiking his food ¨C but you can''t heal someone who simply has lost the will to live.

    I''d spent quite some time with him near the end. He wanted to hear as many stories as I could remember about his son''s exploits in the world of Camelot ¨C which he had dedicated his life to bringing into being. He also wanted to talk to Merlin and reminisce about the old days, and I was happy to play Whoopi Goldberg to that particular unchained melody.

    Even right at the end, I couldn''t find it in me to like him.

    He was a brutal pragmatist with enough blood on his hands to have drowned a decent-sized continent, but everything he had done had been in the service of a big dream. As someone who had never done anything for a better reason than "it feels good", I had to respect that level of dedication.

    Nor did, I am afraid to say, feel any tremendous paternal bond with him. I''d had my own challenges with my Daddest dearest, and if I couldn''t unravel them through therapy, fucking every proxy I could find and self-medicating with epic doses of recreational drugs, I wasn''t going to find enlightenment at Uther Pendragon''s deathbed.

    The end, when it came, was pretty bland.

    He was holding forth about a particularly fruitful boar hunt when his eyes just slipped close, and he stopped breathing.

    The King is dead, long live the . . .

    Well, now there¡¯s a story. And that is kind of where things seemed to have become a bit more complicated.

    Arthur had not been idle since we''d returned from the Dark Tower. Alongside Bors and Lancelot, he¡¯d pushed every Saxon still lingering around back over the border. I¡¯m not sure ¡®pushed¡¯ entirely does justice to the epic levels of dark age violence that had been visited upon the blue-painted men from across the border of Dumnonia. There had been some highly hairy battles - particularly against the West Saxons led by Cedric ¨C but when the chips were down, the bodies were counted, and the victor was dancing around cheering; it was the Britons who had prevailed.

    So, when Uther stepped beyond the veil, there was no doubt that Prince Arthur was right at the forefront of those to succeed him. However, it was turning out not to be quite the slam dunk that might have been hoped.

    Firstly, despite the thawing of the relationship between him and Guinevere, there was still no little bouncing baby Pendragon on the horizon. I''d heard more than enough rumours that the Princess was barren to begin to get distinct Henry VIII vibes about the whole court. Fortunately, It didn''t take me too many ''accidentally¡¯ dropped fireballs to persuade those peddling that viewpoint to keep it away from my ears.

    Secondly, and this one hurt, I think some of the reluctance about a wider acclamation for the new King might have had something to do with the efficacy of the Court Mage.

    It''s not that I hadn''t been trying to progress.

    Even Merlin, at his most pernickety, would admit I was making impressive gains in shoring up my foundations. Compared to the big, explosive techniques people were used to seeing from me, I was trying to do things right and put in place building blocks for the future. It''s just that when you used to be able to summon the very trees to grab and shag your enemies, the ability to create softly glowing fairy orbs of light lacked a little something.

    <Fairy Orbs> are an entirely classic cultivating waypoint. You should, my dear, be very proud indeed to have unlocked that technique yourself. It speaks of subtlety with Air and Fire Qi that you have not been able to master. And what is more, you did not cheat.

    ¡°I hear what you''re saying, Big M; it''s just I don''t think my newfound talent to provide mood lighting is exactly overcoming Arthur''s detractors with the power of my magic.¡°

    And, my word, were there some detractors. Almost from the moment Uther had breathed his last, the voices raised against him were many and various.

    "Serious times call for serious leadership,¡± one particular grey face had spewed all over the throne room.

    "Quite," Queen Igraine has said, her face a mask of icy politeness, "which is why anyone so profoundly ridiculous to ask for my hand in marriage during the lighting of my husband''s funeral pyre must be considered at the height of pomposity."

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    If looks could kill . . .

    Well, actually, I had it on excellent authority - Lancelot loved gossip more than a teenage girl - that particular northern lord and his entire war band barely made it out of sight of Tintagel before falling into a series of unlikely accidents. At night. At the end of spears.

    But it was the internal wrangling, more than the unsubtle machinations of the outlanders, that was trying our patience. It felt that every noble family with even the smallest claim to the throne was jockeying for position. It was getting very, very wearing.

    ¡°We could kill them," Bors downed his mug of mead and gestured for another.

    "Kill who exactly?" Guinevere was lying with her head in Arthur''s lap and her feet were precisely two and half-feet away from where Lancelot sat, sprawled with a customary dopey look on his filmstar face.

    If he so much as moved an inch closer to her . . . well, he was getting a <Fairy Light> up the nose.

    ¡°Oh, I don''t know,¡± he waved his newly filled mug around airily, ¡°start with anyone we don''t like and work our way downwards. It would certainly make it a bit fucking quieter around here.¡±

    ¡°And it is your considered opinion that will bring unity to the kingdom, is it?" Igraine was standing uneasily in the corner of the room. She was the one that had called for this little get-together, but it was clear she would rather be anywhere else right now.

    "Fuck unity! If you ask me, a few heads on pikes would encourage a bit more loyalty from people who should know better. And, what is more, it''d show that Arthur''s not to be messed with."

    "No," Guinevere said, ¡°it''ll show that Arthur is a tyrant. We want him to be acclaimed the Pendragon, not feared the length and breadth of the realm."

    "Sir Rickon called me ''Any-hole-is-a-goal Arthur'' to his knights yesterday. If I''m honest, I could stand a bit of fear from that direction.¡±

    ¡°Sir Rickon is a noisy windbag. He never speaks, but bile spills out. Also," Guinevere added, "it''s hardly like he''s entirely out of line.¡±

    ¡°Not recently,¡± Arthur flicked wine from his cup at her face.

    Honestly, I''m amazed I kept the vomit restrained at such an unnecessary display of matrimonial banter.

    "So, that leads us to the most important of questions. What are we going to do? I haven''t called you here this evening because I wanted your company,¡± Igraine¡¯s voice was steady but with all the chillines of a good white wine. "My husband is dead, and my son is yet to be crowned king. That is unacceptable to me. It would have been unacceptable to Uther, too. I want that situation resolved.¡±

    Lancelot chimed up. ¡°Back home, those wanting be chief being strip naked, paint themselves in their death masks and enter the golden circle. Whoever standing left is chief. Until next challenge.¡±

    "If I thought that would work, I''d do it tomorrow." Arthur was shaking his head. "But this isn¡¯t just about fighting. It¡¯s politics, too. Everyone says they support my claim, but no one will be the first to call the Witan to acclaim me as such. I''d call the damn thing myself, but if I do, and no one shows up . . .¡±

    A quest? Merlin popped in my head.

    ¡°Yeah, we fucking tried that with the whole ''chase me, chase me¡¯ thing with Guinevere. Didn¡¯t work out too well for us, did it?¡±

    I was aware of several pairs of eyes suddenly looking my way. Sometimes, I forget that not everyone else can hear the voice in my head. "Sorry, Merlin was suggesting we needed a quest."

    "What sort of quest?" Guinevere sat up. She remained two and a half feet away from Lancelot.

    "Yeah, Big M. What sort of quest?".

    The other British Kings are never going to acclaim Arthur to the throne. They don''t trust him, do not fear you, my dear, and each fancy themselves as the next Pendragon. They will be happy to allow Arthur to lead the charge against the Saxons whilst ever praying he will catch an arrow in the throat. I fear the longer success continues, the likelihood of one in the back grows.

    "Let them fucking try, " Bors growled after I''d shared the wizard''s words.

    ¡°They have been trying, Sir Bors." Igraine¡¯s voice was grim. "I haven''t been so busy foiling assassination plots since the first few weeks of Uther''s realm. Please, and as much as it pains me to say it, let''s hear Merlin out."

    They may not be willing to acclaim you as Pendragon, but not one of them will be able to resist joining you on a quest. You just need something suitably epic to grab their fancy.

    ¡°Does the old goat have a suggestion?" Igraine ¨C ever since the wizard had helped Uther carry out the Dark Age version of catfishing, she had not been Merlin''s biggest fan. "Or is he just speaking for the sake of being heard? Not that we can hear him, of course. Which is a profound quality of life improvement for me."

    You know, my dear, I once spent a very profitable weekend enchanting every single reflective surface in this castle so that Queen Igraine looked fifty pounds heavier whenever she looked into it and with a complexion an Italian pizzeria would market as extra pepperoni. I call them the good old days.

    ¡°And you moan at me for frivolous uses of my Qi!"

    Yes, but back then, I was at the peak of my power. You''re barely in the foothills.

    ¡°And at your most potent, you decided to spend the time not creating world peace or ending all hunger but making a middle-aged woman feel fat and ugly. I must tell you, mate, we''re perfectly capable of doing that all on our own.

    "The quest ?" Arthur pressed. "What could unite the other kings to follow me?".

    I relayed Merlin''s suggestions as they came in. The Holy Grail, of course. But we''re about twenty years early for that, and - honestly - I worry about the Pythonesque quality Morgan would bring to proceedings. (Hey - that''s unnecessary and also ¡®Ni!''¡¯) We''re lacking in a Gawaine to go after the Green Man. We could seek to retrieve various Treasures of Britain, but I think the most obvious quest would be for Caeldfwlch.

    By the shocked expressions of those around me, you''d have thought I''d suggested fucking a giraffe in the throne room.

    ¡°Caeldfwlch. That''s real?" Asked Guinevere. Lancelot and she were about a foot apart. I had a <Fairy Orb> ready.

    "I don''t even know what that is. Big M?"

    Apologies, my dear. I thought you''d recognise its real name. You know it by its more familiar title. Excalibur.

 Chapter 2 - In which I sing of arms and men

    A short while later, the little gathering broke up, and I returned to my room.

    When I say ¡®room,¡¯ I mean massive fuck-off suite of rooms which I now occupy in Merlin''s Tower.

    The Big M had been a little bit leery in letting me move in here when I first settled into life at Tintagel. Apparently, he was worried that my tendency to "touch everything without thinking " might cause a timeline-concluding event or some such silliness. As I¡¯d once had a T-shirt printed with those very words emblazoned across my chest, I didn''t think I was in too much of a position to argue.

    However, since the rather epic confrontation with Aurelius and, more importantly, the mammoth amount of time I had spent locked in a time loop, Merlin seemed to think I may be a little less trigger-happy.

    To be clear, I wasn''t necessarily sure that was the case, but I appreciated the vote of confidence.

    Merlin''s Tower - well, I guess my tower now - stood at the far corner of the castle overlooking the sea. Compared to Aurelius'' Dark Tower, it was pretty average in height - it''s not the size, my dear - but had far greater girth. The inside was divided up into three floors, up through which a stone spiral staircase reached towards the roof, which was open - via a wooden shutter - to the elements.

    I thought of Floor One as ¡°random shit which a hoarder would baulk at". It seemed Merlin had never seen an unusual-looking rock or piece of weirdly shaped wood without scooping it up and then putting it on a shelf. At first, I''d assumed everything must have some sort of special Qi-related significance, but as far as I could tell, it was all just, as my grandmother would have said, "fucking tut". Even Merlin was a little hazy about the details when I tried to pinpoint why he kept some of this stuff.

    Life is long, my dear, he said airily, and you never know when¡ª he considered the bunch of twigs I was brandishing¡ª the hair of a giant lamprey may be useful.

    The Second Floor was much more pleasant - in that every available surface was not cluttered with millennia of piles of crud. Here was what I charitably referred to as my ¡®living quarters.¡¯ As I did not really require food, drink, or even sleep much anymore, it was all still fairly spartan.

    However, there was a comfortable chair that I''d learned was the focal point for all the Qi the tower channelled from the atmosphere, and that was a pretty decent spot to while away the evenings undertaking some cycling.

    You know I died in that chair?

    "Yes, Big M, I do."

    Don''t you feel awkward? Sitting in it?

    Not especially

    That''s where I died, my dear. Surely you have some sort of... what do you people call it? an ick about taking up the same space as a dead body

    I opened my mouth to explain that - when you¡¯d spent a fair bit of time eating out of bins, sharing needles and always sleeping on the wet patch - the idea of sitting on a chair someone died in a few months ago really didn¡¯t register on the old gross-out-metre. In fact, I''d be amazed if l¡¯d owned a single item of furniture someone hadn''t died in, on or under before I... acquired it.

    Also, you know, I was literally squatting in the hollowed-out body of a British spearman that had passed away just before I took possession. I don¡¯t know. Maybe it was just me, but it would have felt a touch arch to feel icky about a fucking chair when I was happily rocking this skinsuit.

    However, with the power of my newfound cultivator maturity, I was learning quite how fucked up was my previous view of the world. So, I settled on, "it makes me feel close to you, Big M," and left it to that.

    By the warm glow I felt down our connection, I sensed this was the right answer.

    Personal growth, motherfuckers.

    The Third Floor, could be opened to the sky if I so wished. Now, I know that sounds lovely, and if this were California, I''d be sunbathing topless with the best of them. Sixth-century Cornwall? Not so much. I''d opened it once, and it was like enacting a scene from the Titanic. It was also wall-to-wall books and scrolls which seemed to be treated with some sort of water repellent.

    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    If I thought my inventory could hold some shit, if it was nothing compared to these bookshelves,

    Spacial storage, my dear. Each shelf cannot quite hold an infinite amount of material, but it''s not too far off from that.

    ¡°Cool. So where do you keep your porn stash?"

    My dear, I am a legendary cultivator. I do not need such things such as a ''porn stash''. I am shocked you even suggested it.

    "So, there''s no reason at all while you''re trying to pull my attention away from the top right shelf in that corner?"

    There was a pause. Would you like more information about Caeldfwich?

    ¡°Sure, why not horn-dog?"

    Caeldfwich was another of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain. It was also the one most associated with the legend of King Arthur and - in many ways ¨C could be seen as the embodiment of his rise to power

    In my own timeline, there were various ways in which Excalibur was supposed to finally end up in Arthur''s possession, but I was a particular sucker for the tale of The Sword in the Stone.

    It was quite a downer when Merlin poopooed that.

    And it was just lying around waiting for someone to pull it out?

    ¡°Well, no. Only the ¡®true¡¯ King of England could free it, so when he could, it was a key sign that Arthur was the right guy.¡±

    So, did it flame-fry anyone who pulled it and failed to release it?

    I looked down at the quiet form of my own sword. Since failing to destroy Aurelius, it had been extremely reticent of late. Even lending it to Lancelot for his daily sparring seemed to do little to get Drynwyn¡¯s heart racing. I was worried I might have broken it.

    ¡°No, Excalibur didn¡¯t hurt anyone who tried to draw it from the stone. It just wouldn''t be pulled out.¡±

    What''s the point of that?

    I sensed I wasn''t going to be able to get Merlin on board with the mystical joy of the tale of the Sword in the Stone. "What about Caeldfwich? How is it supposed to be recovered?".

    Ah, just a standard Neriad-gifting ceremony. You find her, ask for it, and providing she doesn¡¯t take against you, you are suddenly the proud owner of a Treasure of Britain. But what''s interesting about Caeldfwich isn''t how you get it. It''s what it can do once you own it.

    "Which is what?"

    Caeldfwich destroys Qi.

    *

    In the dim and distant past, when the world was still young - or my early twenties, as Merlin put it - a tribe of giants became fed up with the way in which cultivators were throwing their weight around.

    I chose not to ask Merlin to fill in the blanks around exactly what he meant here. We had an understanding that the adventures of "young Merlin¡± were not going to be made into a heartwarming CBBC special anytime soon.

    So, in order to buy themselves a bit of room to - you know - not be slaughtered, these giants sought to forge a weapon that would even-up the score somewhat. They took the metal from a meteorite, quenched it in the blood of as many cultivators as they could round up, and crafted a sword.

    They called it Caeldfwich - Mage Killer - which when drawn from its scabbard - which they imbued with significant healing properties - it would create a void around its bearer that no Qi or Qi-empowered technique could breach.

    Now, when I was the only cultivator of substance around, it was obviously not an ideal implement to have floating around.

    "But with Aurelius Ambrosius kicking ass and taking names, it suddenly seems a more attractive option?"

    I see we are on the same page

    ¡°So how do we find it?"

    Caeldfwich has a bearer. She''ll be a water-based nymph, a Neriad, and if I know anything about that particular Sword, she''ll be desperate to hand the snotty cow over to the most righteous man she comes across.

    "And we want that to be Arthur, I guess?"

    We do. But it needs to be more than just Arthur riding into Tintagel swinging around around a nice, shiny new toy. If that was all it took, we''d have given him Drynwyn, my dear, and called the Witan a month or so back. No, we need the other British kings to go on this quest with him, so when Arthur obtains Caeldfwich, we can show he has been chosen above all of them. That''s how he becomes the Pendragon.

    "And how do we ensure the . . . the Neriad gives the sword to Arthur and not one of the other Kings? Assuming they ever agree to join the quest."

    That''s easy, my dear; we cheat.

    And so, the call went out to the other British Kingdoms that still resisted the Saxons. To Gwent. To Powys. To Deheubarth. To Gwynedd. The message went out far and wide, but it was to those four that Merlin insisted on the most persuasive messages of missions.

    We get those four Kingdoms behind Arthur, and it won''t matter what anyone else thinks.

    "And they''re not behind him already?"

    In theory, sure. All pledged fealty to Uther, which included that they would honour him as the Pendragon and accepted Arthur as his heir. However, my dear, since the Saxons destroyed Isca and reached Tintagel''s gates, there is disquiet. I may be a spectre of what l once was, but even I can sense the ambition of the rest of those sworn to follow Arthur. They will not be able to resist a chance to unseat him. And a quest for Treasure of Britain? That is a very good chance indeed.

    It was three weeks before messengers returned and another month on from that before we saw clouds of dust in the distance that spoke of the arrivals of entourages.

    For a Witan had been called. And it looked like we had visitors.

 Chapter 3 - In which the core cast grows

    So, I liked King Owain of Gwent.

    He was this big Santa Claus-looking dude with a dirty laugh and a twinkle in his eye. He was old enough to be my grandfather, but that didn''t stop him from leaving his hands where they had no place to be when we hugged.

    "So, you''re the new Merlin?," he boomed, "Far easier on the eye than the old one! Softer arse, too!¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯re from Gwent?" I replied, moving his hands above the water line. "I heard you had a bad harvest. What happened? You ate it all, you fat fuck?¡±

    There was an awkward pause while all his bannermen drew swords and pointed them at me. Arthur¡¯s'' men did the same, and, for a few moments, we had quite the Mexican stand-off. Nope. That doesn''t quite work. Cornish face-off? Until Owain''s belly laugh - and my, what a belly. It shook like a bowlful of jelly ¨C decreased the tension.

    "Ha. l like her. She is, what, what do you call it?¡±

    "Suicidal?¡± Arthur glowered.

    "Moronic?" Igraine chimed in.

    ¡°Foolish?" Added Guinevere.

    "A bitch!" Owain finished. "A bitchy cultivator. I like her." He turned to me." "And if you ever need a roll in the hay with a big man, you let me know. Once you go fat, you don''t ever go back . . .¡±

    As I said, I liked Owain.

    King Beric of Powys, on the other hand . . .

    There''s a type of man that you just know hates women. Like, hates them. Sure, he''ll fuck us, but it will be through gritted teeth and only to show he has the most enormous, hardest cock in the room. His wife had a look about her I''d seen far too many times in the various shared accommodations I''d spent time in. There were no marks on her face - because even in this culture, it wasn''t seen as the done thing to beat the shit out of your women - but the way she held herself, and the way she moved, told me everything I needed to know. He was very lucky <We want our Entwives back> had been torn out by Aurelius Ambrosius.

    I shook his hand when we were introduced, and it took every ounce of self-restraint I had not to crush his fingers to mush. "Morgan Le Fey, I understand? I was expecting someone... more powerful."

    "Beric of Powys. I''d heard you were -"

    My dear, let us not try the patience of another Monarch this morning. There are bigger needs in play than your desire to be a smart-arse.

    "Here," I finished lamely.

    His cold eyes fixed on mine momentarily, and then the bastard winked. As if he knew exactly what was going through my mind.¡± So, is it true?"

    "Is what true, your majesty?" I hissed the honorific through gritted teeth. "That you''ve studied hard and can make pretty lights appear? Truly, the enemies of Arthur have much to fear from such mighty a cultivator."

    ¡°Well, you know what they say. From small acorns, mighty things grow." I glanced downwards and his trousers. "Although, apparently, I hear that is not always the case." I might, or might now, have wiggled my little finger at this stage.

    "Beric, you fucker!" Bors pushed past me and wrapped the King in a headlock, leading him away. ¡°How''s life in the valleys?"

    My dear, unless you can keep your temper, it may be wise for you to steer clear of the King of Powys. He is famously thin-skinned, and you, apparently, have no ability to control yourself.

    I bit back a reply and took in the last two major players that had been invited to Tintagel, Mark of Gwynedd and Corys of Dehuebarth. Their Kingdoms were far smaller than Gwent or Powys, but they continued to successfully hold the Saxons at bay, which was no mean feat.

    Mark was grossly fat, so much so that he was carried everywhere on a litter. It took absolutely everything I had not to call him Jabba the Hutt, at least not to his face. However, I was with Winston Smith that nothing was your own except the few cubic centimetres inside your skull. And inside my head, this dude was Jabba Desilijic Tiure.

    On the other hand, Corys was the life and soul of the party. He was tall, powerfully muscled and had the knack of making everyone he looked at feel like they were the centre of the universe. When we were introduced, Guinevere gave him an appraising look, which really had no place on a married woman''s face.

    Awesome, so I was going to need to be cock blocking with him and Lancelot.

    A woman''s work was never done.

    Each of the Kings had brought a decent entourage with them, so the castle¡¯s banqueting hall was pretty packed when it was time to eat. I''d not really experienced a full-on feast at Tintagel since I''d arrived and it was an awesome experience.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    Look, give me a McDonalds and a large drink, and I''m anyone''s. So, the idea of hundreds of courses that just kept on coming - plus every version of drink known to man - was something else.

    With just a little injection of Qi, I''d found that I could pretty much keep eating as much as I wanted. As long as I burned it away, it never seemed to touch the sides.

    Fourteen-year-old me hovering over the toilet bowl with her fingers down her throat approved.

    "I love a woman who enjoys her food", Owain banged the table beside me approvingly.

    "Just trying to keep up with you, big man " The King of Gwent patted his belly contentedly. "All bought and paid for, love. Sign of strength, you see? My people look at me and go, ¡®Look at that fat bastard. He must be really rich to get that big. Probably can afford some serious men-at-arms. Better do what he says.¡±

    He sat back and gazed around the room and I took the opportunity to follow his gaze.

    We''d been seated at the far right of the royal table, with Owain wedged next to me. Presumably because he was immune to my insults.

    Or maybe he just liked me. It was sometimes hard to tell.

    "What do you think of all this?" he asked, his voice nothing like the jovial tone I''d become used to.

    ¡°All this?¡±

    He gestured to encompass the banquetting hall. "I don''t know what Arthur thinks he''s playing at. He''s a nice enough lad, deadly on the battlefield, but he''s no Uther. He nodded over towards Guinevere. "And she''s no Igraine."

    ¡°And you are, I suppose?¡±

    Owain''s laugh was genuine and heartfelt. "Of course not, love. It''s all I can do to keep my table full and the damned Saxons out of my land. I don''t want the responsibility of leading the charge against them. Never have. Uther was the man for that. Besides, I wouldn''t have the votes. No more than Arthur will.¡±

    "So, why did you come?"

    "I hear there¡¯s going to be a quest for Caeldfwich. Fat as I may be, but you can be damned sure I will be at the forefront of that.¡± He looked at me, and I understood just how much of his former behaviour had been a front. I could see how this man commanded the loyalty of his people. ¡°We all lived under the fear of Merlin razing our cities to the ground. If there''s a way out there to stop that ever being a factor again, you can bet I''ll seek it out. My people would expect nothing less from me. You seem like a nice enough girl, but I don''t trust cultivators. None of us does. You tell me there¡¯s a sword out there I can kill you with? I¡¯m after it.¡±

    ¡°And if Arthur finds the sword first?".

    "Well then, love. He will have the most powerful Cultivator in the British lands and the only way to protect himself from the magic you wield. I''d think that will be enough to get the man my vote at the Witan."

    Something about the way Owain said that did not sit well with me.

    Arthur had envisaged this quest as a way to build bonds with these Kings. To hear Owain speak, it was less about that and more about doing whatever was possible to stop Arthur from finding it first.

    "Do the rest of the Kings feel the same?¡±

    "Who knows? We don''t have any sort of secret communication system. But Uther was the Pendragon because we knew he''d kill us if we didn''t acclaim him. Either with spears through the door, a thunderbolt from the sky or,¡¯ and Owain glanced towards Igraine, ¡°a Knife in the back in the dark." He refilled his glass with a nod to a serving girl. His hands were pretty free with her, too. "But then Isca happened, and none of us are too sure anymore that Dumnonia is the power it once was. Not with Uther gone..¡±

    "For someone without a secret communication system, you seem pretty well informed about how everyone else is thinking. Arthur couldn''t have done anything about what happened at Isca."

    "Then what''s the point of us having a Pendragon? If the Saxons can rampage with impunity across your lands, what help can we expect from you when they attack our holdfasts? More than one of us wonders if we would do better to treat with the Saxons for peace than rely on Arthur¡¯s strength to keep us safe.¡±

    "I thought the British didn¡¯t deal with Saxons . . ." My voice was tight

    "And I thought all you could do was cast pretty lights?"

    I looked down at my left hand and was surprised to see a little ball of lightning crackling and arcing in the palm of my hand. At the same time, I became aware that all the talking in the hall had stopped, with everyone''s eyes on me.

    "Big M, what''s going on? "

    I could be mistaken¡­ sorry, that''s just me being self-effacing. I am never mistaken. I know exactly what has just happened. You have finally raised your various resistances to such a level that you have been able to unlock one of my favourite techniques.

    "Which is?"

    Well, I call it <Ball Lightning>, but I''m sure you will come up with some different, pithy title that will make me wince every time you say it. Essentially, if all aspects of your Qi are perfectly aligned - and you have the right emotional impetus - then lightning is literally at your fingertips. Just a couple of things I probably should make clear.

    ¡°Okay . . .¡±

    Firstly, the last time I checked your Metal Qi was significantly behind your other aspects, so it is a touch surprising you have closed that gap this evening. If I did not know better, I would assume that someone has slipped something fairly viciously nasty into your wine.

    My eyes searched out a serving girl who seemed to have slipped away. ¡°I¡¯ve been poisoned!¡±

    Relax, my dear. There¡¯s nothing of it left in your system ¨C it has all been burned away in the formation of that little lightning ball. Think of it as a mark of respect. We¡¯d have known they were not taking you seriously unless at least one of them had tried to kill you.

    ¡°You said there were ¡®a couple of things¡¯?¡± I couldn¡¯t help but feel Merlin was being a touch blas¨¦ about ¨C you know ¨C my attempted murder, but I sensed there was not going to be much more sympathy coming my way on that front.

    Yes. Maybe I should have led with this. Unless you make use of <Ball Lightning> in a very short period of time, it has a tendency to explode.

    I raised a hand to the ceiling and let a stream of energy lance out to strike the ceiling. It blew a hole straight through the stonework.

    A second ball of lightning appeared in my second hand and I emptied that one closer to Beric than I truly needed to. To be fair, I barely singed him, and I was fairly sure that wanker was the one who¡¯d tried to kill me..

    "Sorry, guys. Apparently, l just levelled up. Talk amongst yourselves.¡±

    Hundreds of eyes stared, appalled at the smoking holes I''d blown in the walls and ceiling; Owain leant over and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear. "If everyone in the room didn''t want a Qi-deadening sword before, I can guarantee they do now. Arthur will quite certainly have his quest.¡±

    Arthur raised his cup and saluted me. Looking at the expressions of people who I sensed were suddenly very motivated to kill me, I wasn''t sure, though, whether I''d truly helped or hindered.

 Chapter 4 - In which Lancelot gets to show off his moves

    ¡°Thank you all for agreeing to join us here this evening.¡±

    Arthur moved to the front of the royal table and addressed the largely silent room. My eyes scanned over the little pockets of inattention distracting from the stillness.

    Mark and his ¡­ the only word I could find was ''handmaidens" feeding him tidbits (I wanted to say ¡®titbits¡¯ but then I realised I wasn¡¯t a thirteen year old boy) from the table were being unnecessarily rude. And there were a few other minor chieftains and warlords who hadn''t quite sensed the mood. Most, when I caught their eye, shut the fuckup. The King of Gwynedd, however, met my eyes and bit down on the grape that had just been placed in his mouth. Juice went everywhere

    Not for nothing, but I absolutely rock a gold bikini. The dude needed to watch out.

    "This is the first time a Witan has been called since the death of my father. I thank you all for the tributes sent in Uther''s name.¡±

    A general rumble of approval for Uther went out around the Hall. Igraine¡¯s face momentarily crumbled, and then her flat mask came back.

    "I had, however, expected that my fist Witan would acknowledge me as Pendragon."

    Well, that was a mood killer

    If I listened hard enough, I was sure I could make out a tumbleweed roll through the hall. "But I acknowledge that some of you have enough concerns that you would withhold your vote if it were called. "

    "Ballsy," Owain murmured next to me. "However, I am not wholly sure it is wise to announce this to a massive hall of warriors. You know, that they all think you''re too weak to lead them . . ."

    I agreed. In fact, I''d argued long and hard against this course of action. I was more in favour of a ¡°King Kong got nothing on me" approach, but I''d been hushed. Sometimes, being the only person with pop culture literacy is a burden.

    "And that is a hesitation I acknowledge I have earned. For too many years, I have not taken the responsibility of being Uther''s heir seriously.¡± He paused, perhaps hoping for denial from the floor.

    An awkward silence greeted him.

    "And yet," a hard tone entered his voice, ¡°for all those justifiable fears about the maturity of my behaviour, I doubt anyone here would deny my successes in the field. The Saxons have been thrown back, time and time again. I have sent them running the length and breadth of my lands and have, at the same time, eased the pressure on each of you.¡±

    ¡°I do not deny you have been active of late, Prince Arthur.¡± Beric of Powys was on his feet. I went to stand to take issue at the ¡®Prince¡¯ title, but Owain stilled me with a heavy hand on my shoulder. ¡°Your king needs to stand on his own two feet here, lass. Beric is a pain in the arse, but Arthur will need his vote. He won¡¯t win that respect hidden behind his pet wizard¡¯s skirts. No disrespect.¡±

    ¡°None taken, lard arse.¡±

    Beric was enjoying holding the floor."After all, it was not so long ago there was a Saxon warband at these very gates. I hear Isca still burns to this day. Would you had been able to arrive in time to save all those British lives, I doubt any here would hesitate to name you Pendragon right now.¡±

    Prick.

    Arthur observed him for a long moment. "That is true, your majesty. However, whereas I hear Powys buys peace from the Bretwalda with grain, livestock, and gold, I slew those on Dumnonia land and avenged Isca a hundred times over. In fact, now I think of it, I may well have looted some of your craven protection money from the corpses of their spearmen. Would you like some of it back?"

    Beric coloured, even as the rest of the room started to show signs of warming up. "We fight the Saxon as much as any kingdom.¡±

    ¡°Come off it, Beric. Everyone here knows you haven''t called your banners in the last year. ¡°It was Jabba that added these thoughts, much to my surprise. From what Merlin had told me, he and Beric were tight. "Not that I blame you," he added. "I have often argued we need to find a way of living with these invaders. They¡¯ve been here, what, twenty, thirty years? Maybe there is a accomodation we should be seeking, not finding yet more spears to throw at them. Who needs constant warfare?¡± Ah, there it is.

    "They''re Saxons!" Owain bellowed, standing and hitting both fists down on the table. ¡°We don¡¯t make ¡®accomodation¡¯ with them! We kill the fuckers!¡±

    Beric waved his hand, dismissing the Gwent king, "My people deserve a little peace.¡±

    Arthur raised his voice above both of them. "And here I thought the hesitation about naming a Pendragon was due to uncertainty about me! I never dreamt that a Witan would be called and there would be talk of appeasement. There will be no peace with the Saxons in my lifetime!"

    I noted that, of the kings present, only Owain and Corys joined in the roar of approval that echoed around the room.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    Arthur stilled the crowd. I have to admit, I was impressed at his showmanship. This shit might just work . . . "But we are not here to acclaim a Pendragon this day. I am instead asking for those of courage and resolve to join me in the search for something which will ensure the Saxons will no longer pose a threat to our lands. We all hear that their Bretwalda is a cultivator of extraordinary power - maybe even one to equal Merlin. Having faced him in his own fortress, I can tell you that is true."

    The silence was of different type now. He had them.

    ¡°However, through the combined efforts of those in this room,¡± all eyes flicked to Lancelot, Bors, Guinevere, and finally, to me, ¡°we overcame that threat. However,¡± and now his voice was as loud as I had ever heard it, "even now, the Bretwalda is recovering his position. We have retaken land that has not been in British hands since before my father''s time. But we are at a critical point. Unless we come together and devise a way to destroy this cultivator¡¯s might, all we have achieved will be lost.¡±

    "My spies tell me the Bretwalda is your uncle! How do we know you are not planning to throw in your lot with him?"

    Oh, had I mentioned Beric was a colossal prick?

    But it was Lancelot, not Arthur, who answered. "I from long from here. But if you accuse my chieftain of two-faced double-dealing again, there will be blood."

    Beric sneered back. "Prince Arthur, control your barbarian".

    Lancelot was up on his feet. "And now you are rude being. If you would be so kind, your arse I will be kicking."

    Boom. It was on.

    Beric''s eyes flicked to his champion, ?olgef, who grinned confidently back and nodded his head. "In the civilised world, barbarian, kings do not condescend to brawl with the help. Although, I will acknowledge that considering the conduct of your master in recent years, I can understand your confusion. I will accept your apology gracefully, at which stage we can go back to listening to our host''s dreary monologue, or I''m willing for my champion to bring you to heel."

    The hall rowed its approval. Speeches were all well and good, but after a good meal, what you really wanted was a bit of blood-letting.

    Owain leaned over to me, confusion on his jolly face. "Why''s Arthur allowing this? We''re all on board with the quest. He doesn''t need to alienate the men of Powys like this. Or is he sacrificing this barbarian to build bridges?"

    I didn''t answer the King of Gwent, giving him instead my best Mona Lisa smile.

    Because this was exactly as we had planned . . . no, let¡¯s be honest, this was all about lgraine. I''m not going to lie, while all of our little leadership group had their own skills to bring to the party, the Queen Mother was the only truly devious mind amongst us. This little bit of tonight¡¯s entertainment against the gathering storm was all her.

    It wasn''t enough for this Wittan to agree on the quest for Caeldfwich. The only chance we had of defeating the Saxons was for all the kingdoms to unite, and as the Big M had advised, nothing brings unity as quickly as power.

    My display of <Unnecessary Sequel Trilogy> had helped concentrate minds that I wasn''t just a table decoration. Arthur had reminded them of what he could do at the head of an army, and now we needed something a little more visceral as to what was in the near future of anyone who didn¡¯t want to get on board the Pendragon train.

    "In the interests of fairness, I should probably say my champion will only fight three", Lancelot coughed, "four on one.¡±

    "Not worth my shirt taking off for less," Lancelot said, ripping his shit open in an entirely unnecessary but aesthetically appealing way. I think even his pecs had pecs. I sharply looked towards Guinevere, but her eyes were fixed on Arthur.

    Beric laughed humorously. "Well, if you''re anxious to be rid of your mad dog, the men of Powys will oblige.¡± He waggled his fingers towards ?olgef, who instantly picked three mean-looking motherfuckers to move to the centre of the room alongside him.

    Tables were cleared, benches moved, and, by the time Lancelot jumped to the floor - I could swear it looked like he''d covered himself in baby oil in the hiatus - a serviceable fighting ring was set up.

    The warriors from Powys arranged themselves in a wide-semi circle. Each of them was easily the same size as Lancelot and carried themselves with all the confidence of veterans. I felt a momentary pang of worry - if our dude was stomped to the floor here, that could well be it. The end of Camelot before it even began. There''s no way Arthur could come back from having his champion slain in his own feasting hall.

    Then I remembered seeing Lancelot wade through rank after rank of Saxons in the battle before the Dark Tower. He was going to be okay.

    "This is not a fist fight, dog" ?olgef drew his bastard sword, and his men did likewise. "We fight to the death in the civilised world.¡± I wanted to make a gag about no fighting in the war room, but realised there wasn¡¯t anyone about to enjoy some Strangelove related humour.

    Lancelot cocked his head. "Understanding, I am. But I like to be fair. And he wouldn''t let me try ten at once. So barehand I be.¡±

    And, with no further ado, he attacked.

    The first thing to note was that Lancelot was fast. Not ''fast for a big guy'', but genuinely, scarily, ¡®did I miss something?¡¯ quick. He moved with such casual grace most of the time that it was easy to overlook his capacity for explosive momentum.

    Like a tiger made human.

    ?olgef barely began his downstroke before Lancelot''s hand was on his throat, sweeping his leg away to crash Powy¡¯s champion to the ground. It all happened so quickly that Lancelot had given him three massive, clubbing blows to the head before the other three even reacted. By the time they did, ?olgef was no longer of this world, and Lancelot had a weapon.

    And that leads to the second important thing to know about Lancelot. You really, really, really did not want him to get his hand on a sword.

    "Fucking hell, where did you find this guy!" Owain breathed as Lancelot blocked a wild swing from the first henchman and disarmed him with a flick of his wrist, pulling him close and dropping him with a headbutt.

    At this stage, the remaining two put some distance between them, seeking to attack from the sides simultaneously.

    This did not help.

    The fight was over in a few more seconds, during which time I''m sure I saw Lancelot yawn. He¡¯d managed to avoid killing any of them - we''d thought slaughtering Beric''s bannerman might be making the point too forcefully - but he was barely out of breath. And they were fucked.

    Arthur cleared his throat. "Well, that was instructive, I think? After that little diversion, shall we return to my . . . what did you call it, dreary monologue?"

    The room was wholly with him now. Men moved to remove Beric''s fallen champions and, cautiously, clapped Lancelot on the back.

    All eyes were locked on Arthur as he spoke. All, that is, apart from, those of Guinevere, whose were resting on the glistering muscles below her. I could be wrong, but there was some colour to her cheeks

    Shit.

 Chapter 5 - In which I am not a wizard, Harry

    Funnily enough, it all went quite smoothly after that.

    Of course, Beric and Mark moaned and whinged a bit, but Owain, and to a lesser extent, Corys agreed with the course of action Arthur outlined. So, in pretty short order, the four Kings - along with enough men to make each feel comfortable - would set off in pursuit of Caeldfwich and the first amongst them to claim it would have the right to return with it to their home kingdom

    You don''t have to go, you know, my dear. With the number of swords and spears on this little jaunt, I can''t imagine they''ll be in much need of you.

    To be honest, I didn''t disagree. It was clearly going to be of far greater benefit for me to crack on with my studies. I was finding <Unnecessary Sequel Trilogy > to have all sorts of cool applications ¨C I could literally channel the lightning energy through Drynwyn to produce an epic fire/lightning combination that fulfilled all my Thundercat¡¯s fantasies - which I needed to play with to get best value from.

    Also, my Qi Core water feature was now filled to the very top, and I was sure just one more big push would tip me over the edge. "When it does, it¡¯ll move me into Harry, right? That''s what the whole thing represents, doesn''t it? It tracks my progress to the next level of cultivation?"

    This silliness isn¡¯t going to go away, is it? Hey ho. A small price to pay, I suppose. As I am sure you are aware, it''s not quite as simple as that, my dear. But, once your . . . water feature overflows it will begin the process of remaking your body into that of a... Harry. Just to check, you¡¯re sure we must use these infantile names for rather complex notions?"

    "Look, I''ve told you before, if we''re going to play this game, then I''m not going to do it with a straight face.¡±

    And describing yourself and your ungodly powers in terms of hormonal teenagers helps you maintain your sense of poise and dignity, does it?"

    "Fucking A. So, what do I need to do to tip the water feature over the edge?"

    There was a pause, and then I was pulled into my Artist''s Studio. The Vitruvian-Man-As-Me filled my vision, and I could see my Qi paint moving around my channels in a smooth flow with my every breath; little tributaries branching off to my various mana stores, my armour, Drynwyn and the recent addition, to my cauldron

    What do you see, my dear?

    ¡°Oh, you know. Just me being awesome. Crushing the Qi cycling thing like a legend.¡±

    Quite. As we''ve discussed - many times - you have had some experiences that have leapt your level of cultivation significantly further forward than would be expected when your actual knowledge is considered. Your channels - following the incident with Vortigern¡¯s Dragon and your subsequent . . . enthusiasm with the mana stone - are capable of moving vastly more Qi than they are currently doing.

    I wrinkled my nose at that. After months of relative calm, I felt I was probably as full of Qi as I could possibly be. My newest addition - the cauldron - had never stopped slurping my Qi down like a teenager with a lifetime''s supply of Prime.

    "I''m not sure I have all that much more room in here, Big M."

    No, of course not. Your Qi levels are about as high as they are ever going to be. I''m talking about concentration.

    I sensed there was a lecture coming on. "I mean, I¡¯m happy to ask the question, or you can just go off on one.¡±

    For form''s sake, I quite like it when you ask.

    "Fuck''s sake. Tell me, oh great Merlin, what is it you mean by ¡®Qi concentration?¡¯"

    Are you sure you are interested? I cannot help but notice a certain amount of - shall we say - shortness in your tone.

    "Dude...¡±

    Fine. It would be best if you thought about progression in quite a linear way.

    First, you''re a Neville (I''m hating myself.) You had significant potential, but no workable channels and relatively little Qi to move around them in the event. Secondly, with luck, you move into Ron territory. This is a substantially large category which will probably cover most cultivators alive at any one time. At this stage, most Rons will have techniques that can move Qi around the body and, perhaps, expel it in specific quantities. A Ron¡¯s body will have enhanced mental and physical properties and the cultivator will generally be a menace to regular society.

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    Now, this is where it gets Interesting.

    "Oh, good. I was hoping for an interesting bit . . ."

    As you reach the threshold of ... Harry, you will begin to form your Qi core.

    "That''s my water feature, right? It appeared when I learned

    .

    My dear, I cannot tell you how reductive it is to describe a Qi core as a ''water feature.¡¯ If you seek immortality, this feature will carry you there. It needs more respect.

    "I''m barely capable of seeking tomorrow''s breakfast, let alone eternal life. You''re telling me it does something more than just spin around when my paint sloshes through it?"

    Yes.

    I sensed I was getting on his nerves more than usual. I did my best to dial down my ¡®me-ness¡¯.

    As your capacity to cycle increases, more of your Qi will be stored in the core until it is complete.

    "Which is where I''m at now. So, are you telling me I''m a wizard, Harry?"

    No. And I can promise you, I will never use those words. This is where your swift progression bites you, as it were, on your arse, my dear. Because most cultivators at the Ron stage have very limited channels through which to cycle, the concentration of their Qi naturally increases. Over the ten to fifteen years most will spend at this stage, they will need to focus on improving the potency of their Qi.

    You, on the other hand, have twice blazed hugely unlikely volumes of high intensity Qi through your channels, resulting in the sort of cycling capacity that would not be out of line was someone three, maybe even four, levels of advancement higher. And, of course, you''ve had me reordering and reconnecting things, which an ordinary Ron would never do. So, you''re now at the point of the threshold, but¡­.

    "You''re Saying I''m a Lager Shandy when I should be Jack Daniels. ¡°

    Merlin paused. Whilst that is not a wholly inappropriate metaphor, can l again stress the deeply complex nature of cultivation, which should not be reduced to . . .

    "Yes, yes, yes. So how do I increase the potency. Is there an Elixir I can brew?".

    There are any number of alchemical products that can increase your Qi concentration. I am sure you will eventually be able to reproduce it then. Particularly as you have a Treasure of Britain. However, with things being as they are and your oft-repeated desire to reach for the quickest solution, I am not against allowing you to consume a natural treasure.

    "You¡¯re sounding all a bit White Witch with Turkish delight here, mate."

    Do you want my advice or wish to be delightfully irreverent?

    "To be honest, I''d quite like to get laid, but considering my options, appear to be limited to Father Christmas or Jabba the Hutt, I''m willing to give a . . . what did you call it? A natural treasure, a whirl.¡±

    Merlin guided me down to the lowest floor of his tower and over to a row of shelves packed with various odds and ends. He''d explained the nature of the unique storage that operated on these shelves, which did sound like colossal bullshit.

    Apparently, all I needed to do was put my hand on the shelf and bring what I wanted into being.

    "Earl Grey. Hot."

    What are you doing, my dear?

    "Just trying something out. You can''t tell me you''ve got a replicator in here and not expect me to at least give it a go."

    It is not a replicator. It is a storage device for everything of use I have collected over the years. If I had put a cup of hot tea in there, it would have been produced. However, as I tended to take my responsibilities as the land''s foremost cultivator a little more seriously than that, all you will find here will be historic and deeply significant magical items."

    "So, just checking, no chance of a bag of coke?" I sensed I was probably starting quite close to the edge. "Just joshing with you. So, what am I looking for?¡±

    The most effective natural treasure of which I am aware - and, as you can imagine, I am aware of quite a lot - would be the root of the Erobes plant.

    "You clearly just made that up."

    Merlin ignored me. Put your hand on the shelf and imagine a brown root about four inches long. It has rough skin, not unlike ginger.

    "Dude, tell me this game of ¡®What''s in the Box¡¯ isn''t going to be your cock, because I tell you, I''ve had this done to me before, and the description is easily similar."

    I managed to banish the image of dicks of Christmas past from my head and tried to visualise what Merlin was describing. After a few heartbeats, something popped into my hand, and I removed it from the shelf.

    It was pretty much. as Merlin had described - and if I didn¡¯t know differently, I would have thought it would have been nothing more exotic than a really dried-up knob of ginger. Maybe something more like cinnamon bark.

    "So, what do I do with it now?"

    Erobes root is deeply, deeply toxic.

    "Awesome."

    So, we need to prepare it with care. Even the slightest sliver can purge you of your Qi in the most dramatic of ways.

    "Explosive diarrhoea?"

    Explosive, certainly. We have to reduce its effectiveness to just the right level so it will distil and filter your Qi but not wholly expel it.

    "Okay. And how do we do that?"

    Well, you have a cauldron of unusual power, so that will help. Most of the other ingredients to boil it up will be here somewhere. Oh, but the last ingredient may be a touch tough to come by.

    "What? I''m going to need the blood of a virgin?" I joked.

    Silence.

    ¡°Big M. Tell me I don''t need the blood of a virgin for this concoction?"

    Okay.

    "Okay, what?¡±

    Okay, I won''t tell you.

 Chapter 6 - In which the status of my virginity appears to be a significant plot point

    "Dude, this sounds like some pretty dark shit.¡±

    Look, even in your own time, my dear, you have examples of bodily fluids being collected to create health products: blood drives, plasma banks, even the essence of reproduction . . .

    "You can''t ever say the word ''sperm'' can you?¡±

    My dear, that''s not really the point right now...

    "Spermy, Spermy, Spermy, Sperm. Go on, say it."

    What I am trying to say is that whilst, on the face of it, you may be right to note that there is something superficially distasteful about the idea of including a virgin''s blood in an Elixir, it is not something that is as entirely insane as you are suggesting.

    ¡°Okay, so I''m not going to argue that with you, but . . . you know, virgin''s blood?

    Look, my dear, I''m not suggesting we snatch a baby from its mother''s breast and slit its throat over the cauldron.

    ''Well, clearly!"

    I''m sure a peasant woman will be too happy to sell us one. The first thing to learn in the alchemical trade is that children are a growth industry.

    There was a significant pause.

    Obviously, I¡¯m joking.

    ¡°Really?¡±

    Unless you¡¯re up for it, of course.

    ¡°Merlin!"

    So, we''re drawing a line on infanticide. Good to know. It¡¯s important that we establish where we all stand with such things. However, this does not solve the problem for us. It is vitally important that we can raise the concentration of you Qi, therefore we are going to have to plow onward. The recipe calls for about half a pint, which isn''t so much in the grand scheme of things. There''s no easy way to ask this politely, but are you still a virgin my dear?

    If the power of laughter could have been harnessed into some sort of superweapon, I¡¯m pretty confident we could have wiped the Saxons off the map during my response to that question.

    "Mate, that horse has not only bolted; it''s started its own little stables down the road and accessed funding to open a little chain of wayside cafes. It''s not much, but it''s keeping the foals well-fed and he¡¯s happy he will have something to leave to his growing horsey family."

    Quite. Sorry, I don''t think I''m being clear. Since your resurrection, my dear, have you lain with a man. Or a woman? After all, it is not for me to judge.

    The face of the most beautiful woodcutter in the world swan into my mind. There had been potential there, certainly. Of course. Drynwyn beheaded him rather smartly after we made eye-contact, so that limited things a touch. There¡¯d been a couple of others who had aroused my interest since then, including, interestingly, Corys of Dehuebarch. I''d have to consider that later.

    Always fancied being a princess.

    "No, Big M. Since returning to this veil of tears, I have found myself in a somewhat colossal dry spell."

    Okay. Well then, I think we have found our virgin.

    *

    It is surprisingly hard to gather half a pint of cultivator''s blood.

    For a start, my skin is mainly impervious to a little prick - oh the jokes, I am sparing you right now - so I had to spend a fairly traumatic ten minutes with a dagger slashing away at my wrists and squeezing.

    Yes, in case you are wondering, this triggered any number of flashbacks. Let¡¯s move right along.

    Eventually, I had to go and find Lancelot to help me out.

    "You want me to stab you?" If he found anything remotely troubling about the request, it didn''t show.

    "Yes, please," as he drew his sword with rather more of a flourish than I thought truly necessary, I backed away, "but just a little bit, mate. I just need to collect some of my blood for a spell."

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    ¡°Blood sacrifice,¡± he nodded approvingly. "My people big on this are they being. Most usual for prisoners to use? But, pretty-hair, your ways are strange and mysterious."

    And with literally no further to-do at all, he stabbed me in the thigh.

    "Fuck. Hang on! I don''t have ... Fuck!" My femoral artery sprayed blood into the air for a good few seconds, before abruptly stopping and the wound healed up. I sighed, glared at the new Pollock-inspired artwork around my Tower and went to collect my cauldron and sat back down.

    "Right, mate. I appreciate the enthusiasm, but that was a touch of premature exsanguination there. Let''s take a breath. Maybe have a drink. There¡¯s absolutely no rush. We''ve got all night."

    It took four more efforts to collect enough blood for Merlin to be happy we could make the spell work. To be honest, after the second time, I began to suspect he was just enjoying me being stabbed.

    "So, we have the blood. So what¡¯s next, Big M?" I tried to keep the wince out of my voice. No matter how quickly you heal, it doesn''t remove the pain of the injury.

    Now, we start gently boiling your blood and adding those other materials you¡¯ve gathered, finishing with half-an-inch of Erobes root.

    I''d collected eight or nine other ridiculous things from the spacial storage on his shelves. It wasn''t quite the whole ¡®eye of newt¡¯ and ¡®toe of a frog¡¯, but it certainly wasn''t a million miles away from it.

    When all this was added, I managed to coax Drynwyn to ratchet up the level¡ªI¡¯ll do my best, but my heart¡¯s not really in it. I¡¯m so sorry, I don¡¯t know what¡¯s wrong with me¡ªand in no time, the dark red liquid changed it to a somewhat frothy, luminous pinky/purple foam.

    It smelt and looked like nothing less than Calpol¡ªeight years out-of-date Calpol.

    "How much of this crap do I really need to drink, Big M¡±?

    All of it, my dear.

    Lancelot hung around after the stabbings¡ªhe really did not take social cues. Or even outright ''do you not have anywhere else to be?''¡ªand looked down into the cauldron with interest. "And this will make you all berserk, yes?"

    "No, mate. It''s not that sort of potion. I need to . . ." I wasn''t sure I could explain what I was doing in a way the barbarian could understand. He wasn''t stupid but had an incredibly simple way of looking at the world that could be mistaken for it. "It''s a training aid. It will make me stronger. In my magic."

    He nodded affably. "Ah. Mother gave me such. When baby being. Make me strong."

    That interested me. "Your mother was an alchemist?"

    He laughed. "My mother is mad witch. Every day with the ¡®drink this man''s blood, make you tall¡¯, ¡®eat this one''s liver, he has strong hands¡¯ ¡®swallow these eyes, see in the dark¡¯." He thumped his hand to his chest. "Mother helped me be leader of our tribe. Even day since born with the potions. And the elixirs. And the body parts.¡±

    Fuck me. I guess we were lucky the dude had turned out reasonably sane. Whenever he talked about his childhood. he sounded like he was one motel purchase away from being a full-on shower killer.

    Tearing my mind away from the image of Lancelot in a wig and his mother¡¯s dress, I looked down at the bubbling mixture in the cauldron. And, well, it wasn''t going to get more appetising by looking at it.

    I downed it in one.

    Merlin had talked me through what to expect once the Erobus root got into my system, so I dropped Into my Artist''s Studio to witness the effect. However, except for a growing feeling of intense nausea, I didn''t see any notable changes to either my Qi or the way it moved around my channels.

    From what I understood, this concoction was supposed to act like a giant diuretic, essentially sucking out at least two-thirds of the amount of Qi I had available whilst exponentially increasing the power in the amount that was left.

    I had been looking forward to the show.

    But no. Nothing

    "Big M, this is all a bit anti-climatic. What''s going on?"

    I''m not sure, my dear. The effects of Erobus root should be almost instantaneous. Indeed, we''ve had to boil it down entirely due to its overwhelming potency. Bear with me for just a few moments.

    I felt Merlin take hold of my Qi and direct it towards the ingredients around the cauldron. Although I was happy to have him back in my head, I found the moments when he took control of my Qi¡ªeven in the extremely limited way his spirit could access it ¡ªrather distasteful. It wasn''t exactly painful, but neither was it entirely unlike being roofied and steered upstairs with a guiding hand.

    Ah, I think I see the problem.

    I snapped out of some pretty bleak memories and refocused on the current issue at hand.

    "So, what do we do? More blood is it?"

    Lancelot¡¯s sword was in his hand in an admirable display of readiness that, in other circumstances, I felt I would be able to put to more fruitful use.

    No. Well, at least not yours.

    "How do you mean?"

    My dear, there''s no particularly delicate way to say this, so please do not take offence. It would be seen that your essential . . . non-virginess has managed to transmit across the barrier between the eras.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡±

    You may have abstained in this world thus far, but it seems a quality of your being that simply defies resetting has led to your lack of . . . purity being somewhat deeply imprinted on your soul.

    There was a silence.

    "Dude, that is some next-level Scarlet-Letter-Handmaid¡¯s-Tale, slut shaming. You''re saying I''m too much of used goods to get a do-over in my second life?"

    To be clear, my dear, it''s not me saying that. It''s ...

    "What, the gods of body count? The special shag investigation squad?"

    No. Regardless of what the religious will have us believe, there is only one person who has the right to define the nature of our souls, and that''s each of us. If anyone has decided you are not to be allowed to start afresh, as it were, I am afraid it''s you.

    ¡°Well, fuck me.¡± Or don''t. I think that¡¯s kind of the issue here.

    There really was not enough therapy in the world, was there? I was pondering this latest example of how truly screwed up I was when the big dude piped up again.

    "You need the blood of a virgin, yes?"

    I nodded at him mutely; I''d thought I was doing much better of late. It was somewhat disconcerting to find out my soul still found me deeply distasteful.

    "Well, easy, that is¡±

    And, with a swish, he opened the veins of his forearm

 Chapter 7 - In which I have the facts of reproduction explained to me by a legendary cultivator

    Say what you like about Lancelot, but he''s a gusher.

    Once I''d gathered enough blood for another whirl at making the potion, I forced him to have my last Inferior Elixir of Wellness before we spoke further. It was quite frightening how quickly people without access to Qi bled everywhere. Like, seriously, how are these guys even staying alive?

    "Dude, how is it possible you are still a virgin? I mean, have you seen you?"

    "My mother," he said as if that explained everything.

    I remembered some things he''d said about his mum when we were locked together in the Dark Tower. ¡°She made it difficult for you to have girlfriends?"

    His ridiculously handsome face opened into a guileless smile. "No girlfriends for me. Too important. After mother killed a few, rest stayed away did."

    ¡°¡¯Too important?¡¯ What does that mean?"

    ¡°Mother said needed to save my essence."

    See, it''s not just me, Merlin chimed in. I think you''ll find most of us prefer a less crude expression for the male part of the cycle of life.

    "What had your mum got you saving your spunk for?" I was rewarded by Lancelot''s horrified expression and a somewhat tired ¡®tut¡¯ from Merlin.

    ¡°I have to give it all to a great Queen." Lancelot''s face took on a dream-like property. "There will be a time of great warfare, and I must put it right."

    ¡°To be fair, mate, if you''ve been saving it up for the best part of thirty years, that will probably do it. Nothing puts the dampner on a battle than a water cannon."

    He ignored me. "Mother had vision. After the great ends, when peace it is, I must give Queen the gift of my essence. Mother foretold it. And what she sees, is.¡±

    Awesome. No prizes for guessing who the Queen is going to be. But, looking on the bright side, at least it sounded like I didn''t need to keep such a close eye on them right now. End of a great war? At the very least, I had to have after Arthur¡¯s coronation before they¡¯d be getting it on. Assuming that we could get things that far, of course.

    And speaking of which, my Qi wasn¡¯t going to increase its concentration all on its own.

    I mean, it will, my dear. That is kind of the point. However, what we are seeking to do here is . . .

    I switched off the sound of the Big M wittering, and turned to watch the cauldron bubbling away. The colour was definitely a bit more vibrant this time, and the smell was actually quite attractive. It was smoky, like something with paprika on the hob.

    Then something occurred to me. ¡°Merlin, If he''s got that much ¡­ essence backed up, there''s no chance any of it will have leaked out into his blood, is there?¡±

    My dear, we occasionally have days when you do nothing but impress me with your work ethic, intelligence, and impressive behaviour. Then we have these little moments when you ask me a question like that, and it reminds me that you really were quite a spectacular mess.

    ¡°So, I¡¯m assuming not?¡±

    I can absolutely reassure you that there is no possible way that any little Lancelot¡¯s have entered his bloodstream due to a . . . ¡®backing up¡¯ of his essence. Moreover, before you ask a further question that is likely to embarrass us both, I can also guarantee that drinking this potion will, in no way, risk you carrying his child.

    ¡°From your tone, I am assuming this was a really stupid question?¡±

    Drink the damn elixir, my dear.

    *

    So, when Merlin had said it was going to be a bit like a diuretic, he''d not been kidding. I¡¯d barely finished slurping this stuff down and switched to my Artist¡¯s Studio to watch the concoction drop into my Vitruvian Man before it sucked all of my available Qi up like the driest sponge in existence.

    This was a bit freaky.

    I was used to seeing my Qi represented as paint. From the very first steps I had taken as a cultivator, that is how it had manifested itself to me. I understood from talking to Merlin that each cultivator visualised their Qi in an entirely personal way. For me, it had been like watercolour paint, moving around my channels in a fluid, clear manner.

    Ingesting the Erobus root, though, did something fairly spectacular.

    From the second I swallowed it, my Qi thickened up, taking on the consistency of the most viscous of oil paint. It was still a liquid, of course, but now it was much more happy just staying in place rather than running free. Whereas I had become used to it whizzing around my channels with barely a thought, it took a considerable effort to get it moving, and what is more, it now did not seem to have any momentum behind it whenever I actually did get it moving.

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    If I stopped concentrating for a heartbeat, the whole slow ground to a halt.

    "Fucking hell, Big M. Cycling has become a struggle . . .

    As it should be, my dear. The whole point of being a cultivator is that you are supposed to struggle. Without all your various shenanigans, this is what it was supposed to feel like right from the start of your journey as a cultivator. Think of it like ¡®desirable difficulty.¡¯

    But the thicker Qi wasn''t the only change caused by drinking down a few pints of Lancelot¡¯s finest plus random herbs. My water feature, which had been so close to overflowing, had emptied to about a third full, with the Qi within it now of the same sticky consistency as elsewhere in my channels.

    "So, I guess I¡¯m not nearly a ¡®wizard, Harry¡¯ anymore?"

    You are exactly where you were before drinking the potion, my dear, but now your potential is exponentially richer. As I tried to explain, you could have pressed forward into ... Harry if you''d wished, but the Iimits you would have put upon yourself would have been significant. Our original plan, when you first reincarnated into this world, was simply to put on a good show and make it seem like you were an epic cultivator. Therefore, it did not matter that your Qi was reasonably thin gruel. But now we know just how strong Aurelius is, you are literally the only game in town we have that could possibly compete.

    "But Caeldfwch . . .¡±

    Sure, that will help Arthur and anyone in his immediate vicinity. And maybe even a good portion of his army, should it come down to that, and he learns how to control the power of the sword. But the only way to truly combat the growing threat of the Saxons having an epically powerful mage is for you to become the biggest, baddest cultivator you can. This is a significant step to that.

    I could hear what the Big N was saying, but it did feel like I had taken somewhat of a backward step in my own journey. Cycling was such a struggle now, I was feeling out of breath just being in here. So, I popped out of my Artist''s Studio and found Lancelot standing about an inch from my nose.

    I wasn''t quite sure how the time duration worked when I was inside my Studio, but I''d never come back out before and had the situation in reality change before.

    Lancelot was fast . . .

    "Dude, unless you''re tweezering my eyebrows, step the fuck back."

    ¡°Peaceful you were looking; I was just making sure you were okay.¡±

    He was so close I could just lean forward and kiss him. Who knows, for the first time in my life, an impulsive snog might end up saving the fabric of a nation?

    But no.

    The moment quickly passed, and he was stepping back and looking at the various paraphernalia on Merlin''s shelves. ¡°Lots of stuff you be having, no?¡±

    I packed my libido away for another day - and I still needed to think more about why on earth my psyche wanted to cling on to being a good-time girl (and, when it came down to it, were the times ever really any good?) - and stepped forward to join him.

    Or I would have done if the moment I tried to walk, my legs didn''t crumple up beneath me.

    Oh, yes, my dear. A slight after-effect of Erobus root is that you''re likely to be flat on your back for the next few days. And not, apparently, in a way you deem such an essential aspect of your personality.

    "Oh, fuck off, Big M."

    *

    Igraine had returned to her room long before the feast had ended.

    When she was Queen, such a thing would have been unthinkable. Uther would have insisted she stayed until the last guest was dragged from the drinking benches.

    But now, she was little more than an ornamentation.

    She sat at the royal table because -other than a grave - there was nowhere else for her to be.

    Uther.

    Who would have thought his loss would make her feel this way? When he was alive, she would have acknowledged that she was, at times, less than affectionate towards him.

    Passion - neither love nor hate ¨C could not stay at that white-hot Intercity for thirty years of marriage. It was understandable that they had both drifted apart as the years went by. So why this wound in her chest? Why did her eyes keep cascading torrents of water down her face?

    Igraine walked backwards and forward across the cold flagstones of her bed-chamber, trying to push down a pain that threatened to overwhelm her. Wildly, she tried to think about something else and cast her mind to the kings who had arrived at the castle that day.

    She knew then all of old. With them, she had played the role Uther needed - even if he remained naively unaware of her part in it all.

    For example, she had directed men to ¡®visit¡¯ Owain''s son when word returned to her of brewing discontent in Gwent. The boy - ha, he was twenty if he was a day - had his eyes on his father''s throne and was making moves to displace him. Uther needed a strong arm to his north, and every indication was that Gryff ap Owain was not likely to be that. The boy¡¯s allies were too close to the Saxons for comfort.

    Officially, it was a hunting accident - weren''t they all? - but she had always suspected the King of Gwent knew the truth. After all, he had allied himself even tighter to Uther after that - either in gratitude or fear, Igraine did not know.

    To be fair, she did not think it much mattered which it was.

    King Mark was different, she reflected, as she paced. His power over his small kingdom was absolute, and so manifest that there was little for her spies to report on that wasn''t already common knowledge. There had been rumours of some strife with one of his boys - he had so many, and by so many different women - it was never easy to keep track. Igraine frowned and pressed the issue in her mind for a moment, the fog of grief receding momentarily.

    Tristian.

    That was what the boy had been called. He''d fallen in love with one of his father''s . . . Igraine assumed ¡®slave girls'' was the only appropriate term. It was something Celtic she was called ...

    Isolde. That was it. Who knew what became of them?

    Ingrain made a mental note to find out - and then stopped, her knees sagging. Why That was not her role anymore. Arthur had not once spoken to her about her network nor asked for her input on how to handle each of these very different men. She was, for the first time in her life since arriving at Tintagel, redundant.

    That thought pushed her to the last of the two kings ¨C Beric and Corys. On the face of it, those two could not have been more different. Powys, one of the remaining great kingdoms, easily capable of its King pushing to be considered for the position of the Pendragon should Beric have the drive. And then little Dehuebarch, still holding out despite being almost wholly surrounded by Saxon forces. But the two men themselves?

    They didn''t associate together. Their temperaments were wildly disparate - Beric was all spice and vinegar, whereas Coms was affable and had a mouth filled with honey. And yet, and yet and yet ¡­

    Igraine stopped her pacing. She didn''t know what role she played in this kingdom, but she was damned if she would let her son go on a quest with these men without being in possession of all the facts.

    She turned to her door. There was a figure there, observing her.

    "How did you get up here? What do you want?"

    The hooded shadow shut the door behind him as he entered the room.

 Chapter 8 - In which we learn there are, apparently, tits and then there are TITS

    Arthur, Bors and Guinevere remained behind after all the guests had left. The detritus of the feast lay around the hall, and various servants bustled hither and tither to prepare the space for the morning.

    Two of Bors''s giant wolfhounds lounged by the fire, both too old to be used in a hunt anymore, but, he thought, both deserving of a good night out.

    "It went well, I thought?¡±Guinevere said, stretching upwards to release the kinks in her back. Although she had entirely healed from the wound inflicted on her by Cedic - thanks to Morgan and her Elixiers - she was pushing her training hard. Her body constantly felt like the ocean had tossed her around for a week. And that was without the . . . intense exercise of the evenings.

    That thought brought colour to her cheeks, and she glanced over towards Arthur. Intellectually, she understood that his newfound ardour was not just because he was suddenly back in the grip of the flush of their first weeks together. He had, after all, sworn off from making use of the brothels and the serving girls and, for now, seemed to be sticking to it.

    Likewise, since his father''s unexpected death, the need for an heir had increased tenfold - a hundredfold, really. As much as a mythical quest for a magic sword and continued success on the battlefield against the Saxons, it would be the announcement of her pregnancy that would most securely lead him to the Pendragon¡¯s throne.

    Sadly, Nimue had confirmed she remained without a child just this morning.

    Bors rumbled a response to her words, dragging her from her sad thoughts. "The other kings haven''t made up their minds about how to jump yet. None of them really wants the throne for themselves. There¡¯s too much fighting with Saxons in our future, and no one wants an enemy army arriving on their lands. But not one of them wants to be the first to back him. Having the Qi-killing sword will be the key."

    "Morgan scared the life out of them with her new skill." Arthur smiled grimly. Having experienced Drynwyn''s fiery embrace firsthand, he did not need to imagine what it would feel like to be hit by that lightning. He rubbed his bald head and stopped once he realised what he was doing.

    "Frightened men don''t always act the way you expect. Especially not when they are kings used to getting their own way," Guinevere warned. "We''d be wise to ensure she''s well protected while all these men are about.¡±

    Bors spat out his mead. "If there''s anyone with the wherewithal to put a dent in her day, then that guy should announce his candidacy as Pendragon right now. I''d fucking vote for him. The girl is a force of nature.¡±

    "True, but Aurelius was apparently able to bring down Merlin, and, for all her undoubted strengths, Morgan is certainly not anywhere near his capabilities yet. Guinevere is right; we should remember that she will be a target.¡±

    "Lancelot''s with her right now", Guinevere said, then blushed. She honestly did not know why.

    ¡°Then there''s no power in the world to hurt her." Arthur placed a comforting hand on his wife''s wrist.

    Bors picked up a half-eaten chicken carcass and threw it to his dogs. They snarled and yipped at each other, but it was mostly for show. They did a decent enough job of ripping it in half and shoving the good equally. "We need to discuss the Marghekyon," he said abruptly.

    Arthur nodded. "I know. It just seems disrespectful to those we lost to seek to rebuild so quickly.

    "Fuck that!" Bors was never one for sympathy. "We''re asking the other kings to put their faith in us, and we''ve got probably the smallest standing army of the lot and that is before you consider that ¨C even ignoring your Marghekyon ¨C we''d filled Isca with most of our Fyrd¡¯s competent spears. So far, between me, you, Lancelot, and Morgan . . .

    Guinevere cleared her throat meaningfully.

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    "Sorry, Gwin, everyone knows you''ve done more than your share. It''s the tits, you see, it blinds a man."

    "Morgan''s got tits, too.¡± Guinevere raised an eyebrow sceptically.

    "Well, kind of. But there''s tits,¡± Bors made a small hand gesture, "and then there''s tits,¡± a more expensive gesture. "And you, quite definitely, have TITS", a much bigger gesture. There appeared to be honking. ¡°With what you''re packing behind your breastplate, it''s easy to forget you''re handy with a spear. Although, as my room is just down the corridor from yours, I can attest that you sound like you know what you''re doing with all sorts of weapons and implements. If you know what I''m saying . . .¡± There was a pause. ¡°I''ve had far too much to drink, haven''t I?"

    Arthur took a breath. "You were talking about the army?"

    Bors gasped that conversational life-jacket like a drowning man. "Basically, we''re punching massively above our weight. And that¡¯s fine when we''re facing the odd war band here and there. But numbers will tell eventually. We need to be able to put three or four times the men in the field than we are at the moment to be comfortable with winning. At least without all of us lot being there and picking up the slack.¡±

    "What do you suggest?" "

    "A tournament¡±

    ¡°I''m about to go on a quest, I can''t hold a tournament at the same time!"

    "We divide our resources." Bors blushed as both Guinevere and Arthur looked his way. ¡°So, this is Mrs Bors''s idea, not mine." The big man rolled his shoulders. He hadn''t been looking forward to this discussion. It''s why he''d been drinking so much. "When you go off on your quest, I think you should leave me here to run a tourney. Nothing grand, Just a ''your country needs you'' sort of thing. I''ll grab the likeliest of the lads and then train them up. See if I can get us a reasonably solid shield wall for next time we need to kick some ass¡ªSaxon or otherwise.¡±

    Arthur was frowning. ¡°No. I need you on the quest for Caldefwich."

    ¡°Mate, you really don''t. Lancelot is a fucking menace. Most of the time, I can tell he''s holding back because he''s trying not to make me look bad. On my best day, I can''t carry that guy''s water." Bors stroked his beard, which Arthur was shocked to see had streaks of white in it. "If I thought you needed me, I''d be there instantly. But I fear we¡¯re not too far away from me starting to be an active hindrance."

    Arthur sat back and took a deep breath. After the disaster of the battle against Cedric - following the shambles at Isca - the last thing he could imagine was going into battle without his oldest friend. He would rather face down a Saxon host unarmed than do so without the big man at his shield arm.

    And yet . . .

    He looked at the two, old dogs in front of the fire.

    Both had years ahead of him, but perhaps the days of being at the forefront of the hunt were behind them. And the big man was right; Lancelot was the incarnation of death in a scrap.

    "You''ll never be a hindrance," Arthur''s voice, when it came, was soft. ¡°But I see the merit in what you say. If I can''t have you on my side, I can think of nothing better than for you to build up our forces. Lancelot, Morgan, and I will pursue Caldefwich."

    Guinevere¡¯s eyes widened. "You would leave me behind, my lord?"

    Arthur smiled back. ¡°I would have you assist Bors in the creation of his tournament. Without casting aspersions as to his motivational qualities, I cannot help but think we need some . . . some ¡®tits¡¯ to encourage people to give of their best." He made the same massive gesture Bors had earlier. "But seriously, it would do well for everyone to recognise you as a ruler in my stead when l am not here!."

    Guinevere scowled but could say little to disagree with his assessment. It would not be brilliant tactical planning for her to be gallivanting around the woods without the succession being assured. But, on the other hand, it would be pretty hard to change that situation without being in the same place at the same time . . .

    There was, though, a second bittersweet emotion about the quest: Lancelot would be going with Arthur. She was both sad not to have the company of that disarmingly honest man and yet . . . well, she was also a little relieved. A bit of space in that quarter would certainly not be amiss.

    "I hear what you are saying." She looked up at Bors and winked. "Me and you then, big boy. You think we can run a tournament to sort the men out from the boys?".

    "With your magnificent assets on display, Gwin, I am sure we will be able to make men out of the shyest boys." He licked his lips. "I really am very drunk, indeed. Mrs Bors is going to have my guts for garters. And not the sexy sort, either!¡±

    They laughed and prepared to go their separate ways when a messenger, face white, ran into the feasting hall.

    "Sirrah, what ails you?" Bors was quick to stand and intercept the man. None of his supposed infirmities of age showed in stopping the messenger before he got more than a few steps into the room.

    The two spoke for a few moments out of Arthur and Guinevere''s earshot. Then the big man reeled back, his face a mask of grief.

    "What is it? ¡°Arthur was on his feet.

    Bors shook his head, as is mute, and pushed the messenger forward. The young man''s eyes were wide.

    "The Queen, my Lord." The messenger paused, seeking to collect himself, then started again. "The Queen, my lord. She''s dead.¡±

 Chapter 9 - In which my Jedi mind tricks repertoire increases

    I missed lgraine funeral rites. Such as they were.

    From what I heard, there was not much appetite for another ¡®celebration¡¯ so close to Uther''s, so the tail-end of one was folded into the other. Like in ¡®Hamlet¡¯. And with almost exactly the same amount of the feeling that something rotten was in the state of Tintagel. I couldn''t help but feel he deserved much more. Of course, the uncertainty abound her passing did not help.

    ¡°My mother did not kill herself,¡± Arthur had told me, ¡°she didn''t have a sentimental bone in her body. She missed my father, of course, but we had plans . . . we had . . .¡± And he had abruptly left my bed chamber.

    Bors had visited later that day. He was taking it hard and was obviously worried about the impact on Arthur. As he said, to lose one parent was tough enough. ¡°To lose the second -¡±

    ¡°May be thought of as carelessness," I supplied. There was a pause during which I wasn¡¯t sure whether he was going to cry or punch me in the face. I did my best to forestall either. "Sorry, mate, the Big M has me on some very strong Elixirs.¡±

    After a moment, Bors blinked and then continued as if I had not spoken. "But I do agree with what he is saying. There''s absolutely no way in the world that Igraine killed herself. Just no way. If she was that way inclined, she¡¯d have done it years ago when things between them were grim. It makes no sense for her to have done it now.¡±

    ¡°Look, there¡¯s no argument from me here. But what''s the alternative?" From the bits and pieces of gossip that had reached me, I understood that the Queen had taken a long trip from a short tower without the benefit of loading up on several hundred Elixirs of Wellness. As someone who had done something similar recently, I was happy to testify you had a long time to regret the choice on the way down. "Had she drunk too much at the feast?¡±

    Bors wrinkled his nose.¡°Some. We all had, hadn¡¯t we? Only way to put up with some of those fucking kings. But was it enough to fall through an open window? Doubt it. The woman could hold her drink.¡±

    "Dude, she either jumped, fell or . . .¡±

    "Yeah. I know. It''s the ''or¡¯ that''s keeping us up at the moment.¡±

    ¡°I imagine there are guards to be questioned, Servants to - you know - torture horribly until they falsely confess to things they had never even dreamed of."

    The big man stood and began pacing around my room. The bits and bobs from off Merlin¡¯s shelves that were lying around didn''t quite wobble as he walked, but they weren''t a mile away from it. The dude had gravity. "I¡¯ve tried. No one knows anything." I opened my mouth to speak, but he met my eyes and shook his head. "I''m not good for much in this world, Morgan, but when l ask a question, I get an answer, Sooner or later.¡±

    He sat down again on the edge of the bed, and I momentarily took flight. "I miss her."

    I understood where he was coming from. Queen Igraine had not been especially kind to me during my short time in the Dark Ages. But she was clever, funny ¨C in a bitingly satirical way - and took absolutely no shit from anyone. Seeing the way she''d collapsed in on herself in the days following Uther''s death had been hard, but - as Arthur had said - she''d been central to the plans for the kingdom that we had discussed.

    It was inconceivable she''d have abandoned the vision for the British lands that she had been so instrumental in plotting. But, on the other hand, was it any more likely this icy, controlled woman would have stumbled drunkenly through her window and crashed to her death?

    Bors was wringing his hands again, his eyes downcast, shoulders slumped.

    This might be a good moment, my dear, to try what we''ve been practising.

    I should explain.

    Since taking the Erobus root, Merlin has been trying to broaden out my Qi sensitivity a touch. I was proving pretty adept at pulling it in - although, as you convalesce in my tower, it would take a cultivator of unusual incapacity not to be - but I was still a bit of a blunt instrument in pushing it outwards.

    Massive, sonic booms of Air Qi and arcing flames of lightning are not really the sign of a subtle and understated power, my dear.

    "Mate, ¡®subtle¡¯ and ''understated are not words that have been especially present in my life to date."

    Old life, my dear. The new you has the potential for far greater things.

    So, we''d been practising, during my enforced recovery from epic Erobus poisoning, on just trying to nudge people into taking actions I wanted. Now, I know that doesn¡¯t sound like the most altruistic of things for a cultivator to do, but Merlin had convinced me there was merit in developing the skill. And, to be honest, the process was quite simple.

    All I needed to do was take the thinnest threads of my newly super-concentrated Qi and load it up with a suggestion. Then, I simply pushed that little string of Qi into the other person''s brain, and my suggestion would flow into their mind.

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    But when I say simple . . .

    It''s a suggestion, my dear. Not an imperial command backed by twelve war bands, a company of elephants and a phalanx of ninja werewolves.

    I watched as the serving boy brought me my tenth tray filled with glasses of water, his panic-stricken face not unlike a horse being swallowed whole by a Komodo Dragon, and again reflected that subtlety was not a skill I seemed to possess.

    It''ll wear off shortly, but the art to this technique is to ensure the subject does not even realise they have been influenced. You will not be able to get much done if other people notice someone behaving bizarely.

    My serving boy bowed and scraped his head on the floor. ¡°I''ll be right back, oh enchanting mistress. I''m sorry for this one''s slow response to your command."

    "Too much?" l asked Merlin. His silence was the only required answer.

    The thing was, if I made the suggestion too subtle, it slipped of my questing thread of Qi before it even reached its target Likewise, if I made the thread too thick I was rewarded with a range of confused, angry and puzzled faces as they brushed my intrusive thought aside.

    The strength of mind of the person you are seeking to influence will also be a factor. It is very unlikely a cultivator, for example, will allow themselves to be influenced in this way. I should also mention, my dear, that it is seen as . . . uncouth to try to pressure a fellow Wizard in this way."

    "So I shouldn''t try it on another cultivator?"

    "That''s not what I said, my dear. Merely, that if you do, you should do everything you can not to get caught."

    Over the last few days, I¡¯d quickly realised who around the Court was open to this type of manipulation and who wasn''t. I could, for example, get Lancelot to remove his shirt with the merest hint of it being slightly warm.

    Whilst there is not a ¡®dark side¡¯ per se to Qi cultivation, my dear, I would merely note you would look askance if you caught me encouraging pretty young maidens to remove their clothes in my presence.

    "Which you obviously did, right?"

    Of course, and now you''re judging me for it, correct?"

    Arthur and Guinevere, on the other hand, were completely closed doors to me, no matter what I tried or however subtle my suggestions.

    Some people just know their own minds, my dear. I doubt either of them has ever done something they didn''t wish to in their whole lives.

    However, having Bors in front of me, clearly filled with guilt and grief, I felt this was actually a moment where I could use this technique for good. So, I pulled out the thinnest strand of my Qi as I could and gave a slight flick of my thick, glossy paint between the two of us.

    To begin with, it didn''t look like the connection would hold. However, after a few heartbeats, it stabilized. I let the link sit between us for a moment, just to make sure it wouldn¡¯t immediately fray. When it didn¡¯t, I was able to push the suggestion I had especially prepared just for him.

    "It wasn''t your fault."

    Pleasingly, the effect was almost immediate. Bors sat up a little straighter, and the deep frown eased somewhat on his forehead. Don¡¯t get me wrong, he still looked utterly downcast, but I was pleased to see that the burden had lessened somewhat. I held the thread for just a beat longer and then pushed out a follow-up thought to follow it.

    "There was nothing you could have done." Again, the tension eased somewhat around his shoulders, and I received the notification that I had developed a new technique.

    There was dearly only one appropriate name for this one.

    You know, my dear, there Is no need for the hand gesture when you channel this skill. Qi manipulation is an entirely internal process.

    ¡°True, Big M. But when <These aren''t the droids you''re looking for>, it just feels right, you know?

    *

    It was the sixth day before I was able to put weight on my legs and walk about.

    Merlin thought that said more about my levels of physical fitness prior to becoming a cultivator rather than any miscalculation in the formula he used to calculate the volume of the Elixir.

    You have to remember, my dear, most cultivators will have spent years, if not decades, seeking to increase the physical limits of their bodies- I had hoped by putting you in Wulfnod¡¯s body, you would be able to inherit his foundations. However, as with you clinging on to your pre-reincarnation view of your sexual history, It does seem, somewhat, that your previous physicality has ¨C infected is too strong a word, but you take my meaning - your current form.

    ¡°So, not only is the core of my being a slut, you''re saying it¡¯s a lazy one at that?"

    To be clear, my dear, I am not saying that at all. You, however, seem determined to hold on to aspects of your previous personality that you yourself found distasteful. Your core, your soul, is as beautiful and inviolate as anyone else¡¯s. I would hazard I have had a hundred, two hundred times the sexual encounters you have, and they do not weigh on me one bit. You seem determined to cast yourself in a dim light. In the same way, there''s no reason you have needed those extra three days in bed other than the fact you believe you did.

    "Should I <These aren''t the droids you''re looking for> myself? Maybe with a motivational slogan to be less of a sad sack?¡±

    You joke, my dear, but I have heard worse suggestions. There are few great cultivators who are wracked with self-loathing.

    "To be fair, mate, I think I''ve made some pretty decent progress on that store. Sometime hours go by and I barely hate myself at all." I thought back to my conversation with Zizzie in Aurelius¡¯ prison. I was doing my absolutely best to let the past be the past. The fact it was, in reality, the future somewhat fried my noodle, but there was nothing to be done for that. Apparently.

    I don''t disagree, my dear, and the fact we have largely been able to keep the timeline secure despite the appearance of a legendary cultivator who appears in no version of Arthurian legend of which I am aware speaks volumes for your success. But this is now the critical moment.

    "With Uther dead, you mean?¡±

    Indeed. If we can get Caldefwch into Arthur''s hand, if Bors can reinstitute the Marghekyon, if we can keep increasing your power and, if we can get the remaining kingdoms to acclaim Arthur as the Pendragon, we will have - in the vernacular of your time - a ballgame ....

    "There''s an awful lot of ¡®if''s¡¯ there.¡±

    My dear, my vision still stands. I can see it as clearly now as I did on the night I received it. King Arthur, in his throne room, overseeing a land of peace and prosperity. He has the sword at his side, a happy wife and a united kingdom behind him. Whilst that vision holds, your timeline is secure.

    We were interrupted by the sound of trumpets. I cursed and threw the last few of the things I thought I might need during the expedition into my inventory.

    Arthur¡¯s quest was about to get underway. And to listen to Merlin, the stakes could not possibly have been higher.

 Chapter 10 - In which I get a kings juices flowing

    This was not going to be a lowkey quest.

    It turned out that when you put five kings on the road, a certain degree of pomp and circumstance came with it, which was targeted at generating attention. If we had any hopes of starting this journey on the down low, the number of trumpets, banners, musicians and general hangers would thwart that.

    I couldn''t help but feel this would be less of a road trip and more of a very slow-moving rolling invasion.

    By agreement, each king was allowed to bring fifty troops with them to ensure their safety ¨C but it seemed that this didn¡¯t cover anyone whose purpose was ¡®miscellaneous.¡¯ There were several suspiciously buff and attentive ¡®servants¡¯ in each king¡¯s retinue as to make me think not everyone was studiously following the agreement

    That made it pretty hard to swallow when there had been a little light to and fro about me joining Arthur''s contingent. But Lancelot had lazily drawn his sword and yawned, and those worries appeared to evaporate. Although, that decision did seem to encourage a growth in tall, bearded cooks and cleaners with poorly hidden swords, so it wasn¡¯t all gravy.

    "Besides," as Beric had added charmlessly, "as soon as one of us has the sword, she''ll be as useless as a newborn kitten."

    "There is a lot of water to flow under the bridge before then, girlfriend. Might be wise to make sure you don''t drown yourself in it."

    "My lord! " Beric turned to Arthur, appealing, "Can you not control your tame magician? I will not continue to suffer her threats and slanders."

    Arthur stared at him blankly. If possible, the grimness of his expression had increased since the loss of his parents. The silence stretched out until the King of Powys took a hesitant step back, running into the rather solid chest of Lancelot, who had come up behind him.

    "To clarify, happy l am. Pretty hair did not threaten you.¡± He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I, however, will chop you up into teeny tiny pieces if you ever speak unrespectfully to her again." He turned his head to eyeball the men whose arses he had whipped in the duel back in Tintagel. "Fifty men, the stretch may well be. But this barbarian could never count too well."

    "Prince Arthur!" Beric''s tone was scandalised.

    " King." If Lancelot was going to play this game, I was damned if I wasn''t going all in. I let a little flicker of lightning play at my fingers.

    "What?" he snapped back at me.

    ¡°Pardon," Lancelot said, drawing his sword a few inches more.

    I always loved that guy." You will address my lord as ¡®King¡¯. While he may yet to be acclaimed as the Pendragon for reasons only panty-wetters like you can understand, he is still King of Dumnonia and will be treated as such by you. I can tattoo that on your forehead if you like?" For shits and giggles, I tried to hit him up with a suggestion that he really, really needed the toilet. Other than a brief frown, nothing really changed in Beric''s demeanour.

    "My apologies, King Arthur. It will take some getting used to. Your father was a great man who was much respected across the land. Whereas you are . . .¡±

    I hit him with everything <These are not the droids you are looking for> had and was delighted to see a small puddle begin to form at his feet.

    Arthur looked down and then up to the shocked-looking man. "Panty-wetter indeed," he said, just loud enough for everyone in the area to hear. Beric was bundled away by his men.

    I was aware of eyes fixed on me and turned to see Mark and Corys whispering towards the back of the group. That felt less than ideal.

    I''m not sure how helpful making one of the key allies we need against the Saxons urinate himself in public truly was.

    "He won''t know it was me. He''s an older guy; these things must happen all the time."

    The different factions had, finally, drawn themselves together outside Tintagel''s walls. On the other side of the bridge, which had been recently so vigorously defended against the Saxons, Bors and Guinevere rode hallway across to see us go.

    "Surprised to see you staying behind, old man!" Owain called back good-naturedly.

    "Ah, you know how it is. You''ve been on one quest for a legendary blade; you''ve been on them all. Besides, think there are enough swinging dicks on this expedition without needing me around to make you feel all inadequate!¡±

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    Guinevere''s horse trotted forward a few more steps. "We wish you well in your quest. Our gates stand open to welcome you on your triumphant return."

    "From what I hear, getting her gate open is a task beyond Uther¡¯s boy.¡±

    There was an outraged hum as all in Arthur''s party sought out the speaker. But other than smirks and disguised laughter, we didn''t catch who was now living on borrowed time.

    Guinevere sat taller, ignoring the noises off. ¡°We wish you good hunting, and may the bearer of Caeldfwch rise on to rule these lands."

    The gathered host drew their blades and signalled back at her. There were no further comments about the cheap seats.

    And then they were returning to the castle, and we were underway.

    *

    Guinevere returned to her room before letting the humiliation of the shout from the gate reach her face. She knew this was how she was perceived, as an icy maiden who had driven her husband to find his relief elsewhere.

    The impression was not eased when so many of Arthur''s bastards kept showing up. It hardly took complex, deductive reasoning to suggest the reason why the succession remained unsettled rested on her shoulders.

    Or between her legs, she assumed.

    Nimue, the minor cultivator her father had dispatched with her when her wedding was agreed, smiled at her from above her knitting. She had known this wrinkled old woman for as long as she¡¯d been alive, and she had been tasked with identifying the moment Guinevere fell pregnant.

    Leodegrance, her father, had promised Uther ten thousand spears the second the news that his daughter was pregnant was confirmed, and¡ªto a certain extent¡ªthat expectation had kept the Saxons from pressing the issue against Dunmonia too closely.

    But the years had rolled by, and Nimue¡¯s sad little shake of the head had become as much part of her morning routine as washing her face. After so much time and with such little success, she and Arthur stopped trying ¨C the Prince moving into his own bed chamber in recent years ¨C and then, soon after, they were not even speaking.

    Much less . . .

    Guinevere had hoped that the thawing of their relationship might bring about a change of luck, but thus far, despite some rigorous and thorough assaults on her gates, it did seem somewhat that the fortress remained resolutely unbreached.

    A noise from behind her spun her around, twin daggers already drawn from their holsters at her wrists.

    ¡°My lady!¡± a nondescript man in grey stood there, arms raised in surrender. ¡°My apologies; I did not mean to startle you.¡±

    ¡°How did you get in here?¡±

    The man looked around him as if unsure how to answer. ¡°You are the queen!¡±

    She restored one of the daggers to its hiding place and crossed the room to slam into the man, pinning his back to the wall. Her forearm rested against his throat, and the dagger pressed into his side. ¡°If my question had been ¡®who am I?¡¯ then that would have been an acceptable answer. However,¡± she roughly pulled him off the wall and then slammed him back against it, "as I wanted to know how you entered my room, your response leaves me unsatisfied.¡±

    The bland man was reddening under the pressure of her grip around his throat. He tried and failed to croak out an answer.

    Nimue made a soft tsk noise from her corner of the room. The sort of noise she had made countless other times over the years. Such as when Guinevere refused to tidy her room or perhaps was caught sneaking out of a window at night. The queen instinctively released her hold.

    The man sucked in air, the colour fading from his cheeks to leave him ¨C what appeared to be ¨C his natural pale, off-milk complexion. ¡°My apologies, my lady. We have clearly got off on the wrong foot. I should have presented myself to you in a more formal way, but the late queen had ever a preference for quiet solitude when we spoke. It was my foolish assessment that you would seek to continue that tradition. May this be my solitary misstep in your service.¡±

    ¡°That was a lot of words.¡± Guinevere released the man and pointed at an empty chair. ¡°Why don¡¯t we try this again? Who are you?

    The man sat, casually crossing his legs. She realised he wasn¡¯t quite wearing grey: it was a patterned material that helped him blend into the background. The deconstructed shapes helped him vanish into the dark wood, much as he had in the shadows in the corner of the room.

    ¡°My name is really of no consequence, my lady.¡±

    ¡°Humour me.¡±

    ¡°The late queen was never much concerned with such things. She was happy ¨C¡°

    ¡°Well, she¡¯s not too happy anymore, is she? She¡¯s fucking dead, and I don¡¯t have conversations with strange men that break into my chamber without knowing their names.¡± Guinevere did not shout, but her voice had a tightness that brooked no dissent.

    ¡°Bl?k, my lady. I am known as Bl?k.¡±

    ¡°Well then, Sir Bl?k,¡± his eyes popped for a second at the uncalled-for honorific, but he was wise enough not to interrupt, ¡°am I to assume you served my late mother-in-law?¡±

    The unassuming man ¨C she kept having to glance at his face to remind herself what he looked like ¨C nodded. ¡°Indeed. We of the Grey have forever served the Queen of Dumnonia. My own father was honoured to have acted for King Uther¡¯s mother on more than one occasion. He was very proud when I went into the family business, as it were.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m still a little unclear. What was it you did for Queen Igraine? Or, perhaps more pertinently, what are the ¡®Grey¡¯?¡±

    ¡°Everything, my lady.¡±

    Guinevere growled in frustration and tapped the dagger against her thighs. ¡°Bl?k, it has been a long and tiring day. My parents-in-law are both dead. My husband has left on a damned fool idealistic crusade for a magic sword. Four kings ¨C and who knows how many men ¨C have had a good laugh at my fertility issues. No matter how often and in what position I fuck my husband, that particular issue doesn¡¯t seem to be going away. And now I am having the most frustrating conversation I have ever had since trying to engage Nimue in a talk about the birds and the bees. Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are the Grey?¡±

    Bl?k cocked his head, not unlike a bird, and then his eyes twinkled. ¡°We are spies, my lady. We are assassins. We are the hidden dagger behind the curtain. The king may have his knights, but the queen has her rogues. We are yours to command and will die in your service.¡±

    Guinevere paused for a moment, then sat back, a wide grin spreading on her face.

    ¡°Interesting, Sir Bl?k. I find my day is improving.¡±

 Chapter 11 - In which there is a deep dark wood

    When I was on my last quest¡ªalbeit the pretend one for Guinevere¡ªI couldn¡¯t help but think we¡¯d made more initial progress than was the case at the moment. If I squinted quite hard, even after two full days of travel, I reckoned I could still make out the top of Tintagel Castle in the distance.

    Part of the problem, of course, was the group''s size and its disparate makeup. All in, we were probably the size of a big warband but without the clarity of purpose of such a unit. For a start, Beric remained a monumental dickhead and refused to ever be at the back of the formation. He appeared to have it in his head that the other kings would screw him out of his chance at Caeldfwch unless he were with them at all times. Obviously, the fact that he was probably correct in this assessment did nothing to lessen the low esteem in which he was held.

    Then there was the issue that Mark¡¯s retinue moved slowly. Like, fuck me, ¡®there speeds by a passing snail¡¯ slowly. His insistence on being carried in his ridiculous carriage ¨C with a man at each corner ¨C meant we were only ever a few minutes from a call to halt and swap over litter bearers. Like Beric, he was jealously concerned about the quest finding success with him left behind, so anytime it looked like the rest of the group was pulling ahead, we had ten rounds of ¡®I¡¯m a very fat and important king and I will be respected.¡¯ Which, let me tell you, was a real treat.

    In fact, the only remotely reasonably behaved of the kings was Corys, who seemed perfectly content to go with the flow and wait and see what happened next. I still haven¡¯t gotten a handle on the guy from Dehuebarch. Whilst he¡¯d done nothing to make me suspicious of him, neither had he endeared himself to me the way Owain had. Speaking of which . . .

    ¡°Where the fuck has he gone now?¡± Arthur yelled, standing high in Llameri¡¯s stirrups.

    Owain of Gwent was being a pain. He had no interest in being part of a stately column, riding slowly through the countryside, and instead had volunteered for him and his men to undertake ¡®scouting¡¯.

    While, in theory, this might have been reasonably helpful in the circumstances, in reality, it meant that Arthur had a fifty-strong war party roaming around his land with very little oversight. No one was saying Owain was up to anything nefarious, but neither were we comfortable with his regular disappearing trick.

    ¡°Morgan, can you get a sense of his position at all?¡±

    Before we had set off, I¡¯d had a play with my map and been able to get a lock on the four kings. This meant I had a little aubergine showing for wherever Beric was, a slug for Mark, a question mark for Corys and a jolly little reindeer for Owain. They¡¯d each had to agree for this to work ¨C we¡¯d explained it in case of an ambush, and I needed to be able to offer the fiery death sort of support ¨C and right now, the reindeer was indicating that Owain was showing to the extreme left of our slow-moving column.

    ¡°He¡¯s just there,¡± I pointed towards a thickly wooded area. ¡°Probably after deer again.¡± It had not gone unnoticed that the men of Gwent were eating significantly better than the rest of us.

    Arthur blew out his cheeks. ¡°This is not how I imagined this going.¡±

    Having been on a fair few school trips in my time, this was pretty much exactly how I had expected this thing to shake out. The journey was basically like herding cats through a maze. When some of them were dogs. And at least one was a shark.

    Arthur continued, ¡°Does Merlin have any sense of how much further we may have to go? At this pace, I cannot see us getting anywhere for weeks.¡±

    And this brought us to the final ¨C and to my mind, probably the most significant ¨C of our problems. We didn¡¯t really know where we were going. Of course, Arthur hadn¡¯t told any of the other kings this nugget of information. He hadn¡¯t outright lied, but he¡¯d definitely leaned heavily on the ¡®strange and mysterious are the ways of cultivators¡¯ card.

    ¡°Merlin is clear he can find the sword?¡¯ Arthur had asked when we were putting the plans for the quest into place. ¡°Because if I invite these very powerful men to my land and then have to shrug and say I have no earthly idea what I¡¯m doing, there¡¯s a chance that this might make me seem less than ideal Pendragon material.¡±

    You can reassure him, my dear, that I will have no difficulty locating Caeldfwch. The sword projects such a strong negation field that I will not need to be too close to it in order to pinpoint its position accurately.¡±

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    At the time, neither of us asked the critical question ¨C which now tumbled from Arthur¡¯s mouth. ¡°He¡¯s not intending for us just to stumble around in the woods for as long as it takes to get a sniff of it, is he?¡±

    ¡°Sounds like a decent question, Big M¡­¡±

    There was a long silence. A much longer silence than I really wanted to experience, with Arthur glaring at me. Finally, his answer came.

    I wouldn¡¯t want to quantify what we are doing as ¡®stumbling¡¯, my dear. In many ways, this is a reasonably professional grid search we are currently conducting.

    Arthur could obviously read my expression. ¡°Fuck¡¯s sake. This is a shambles. How have I allowed myself to hazard my throne on such a ridiculous endeavour.¡±

    ¡°Is there anything for us to go on other than blink luck?¡± I asked the wizard.

    Again, I take issue with that being a fair or accurate characterisation of what we are doing. However, moving past that, I am working on the principle that there are a few precedents, scrolls, and examples I am using to guide us in the right direction.

    So, that seemed a little more promising. ¡°And they are?¡±

    Firstly, Caeldfwch never appears in the same place twice. So, we are not heading towards any area where it has already manifested itself. Secondly, we know the bearer will be a neriad, so we are trying to locate an appropriate water source. Thirdly, it would appear that being unrelentingly lost is a crucial aspect of the starting moments of the search.

    Once we do not know where we are, other signs will appear. Merlin¡¯s voice changed as if he were now quoting from something before him. There are three steps to finding the lake. The first is of blood, the second is of faith, and the third is a betrayal of all that is good.

    I relayed all of this to Arthur. ¡°And he didn¡¯t think it would have been wise to share some of this before we set off? Call me cynical, but ¡®a betrayal of all that is good¡¯ sounds like something it would have been wise for all of us to talk over before setting off on a fucking quest in the woods!¡±

    Tell him to stop his whining. There was a time when he would have lived for a mysterious quest. I miss ¡®fun¡¯ Arthur.

    I sensibly declined to tell King Arthur that Merlin considered him to have become somewhat of a mood hoover.

    We were ¨C finally ¨C on the move again. Mark¡¯s latest litter-bearer seemed to have a bit more oomph about them, and the break had been much less than had been the case recently. As we turned a bend in the path, there was a palpable change in the density and height of the trees. It would be fair to say that, before long, it felt like we were comfortably in Hansel and Gretel territory.

    Although it must still have been mid-afternoon, the reach of the forest blocked out the sun, and we were moving in almost total darkness. If it wasn¡¯t for the torches that had been hastily lit, I doubted we¡¯d have been able to keep moving too freely.

    My dear, Merlin began and then stopped.

    ¡°What?¡± I don¡¯t know what instinct was speaking to me, but I¡¯d drawn Drynwyn.

    I¡¯m reflecting on the wording of ¡®if you do not know where you are¡¯. It¡¯s pretty interesting, really.

    My heart was suddenly racing and a sense of overpowering wrongness was filling my every sense. It was like I was under assault from all sides. ¡°Is now the time for a semantics lesson?¡±

    I fear it might be. You see, in reviewing the information I have gathered from various sources, several essential things come to light. Although most largely agree that the way to find Caeldfwch is first to ¡®get lost,¡¯ it occurs to me that this may have been a lazy shortcut of a translation.

    Something flew above my head, wings flapping in the dark. ¡°Dude, if you¡¯ve something to say . . .¡±

    It¡¯s just that the rune for ¡®lost¡¯ is actually pretty distinctive. And, now I look at it, that¡¯s not actually what is written in the original. However, when you think about it, what is ¡®original¡¯? It could be seen that what is there is just as wrong as in later sources. We should not become hung up on the veracity of primary sources. Indeed, at times, those who have come after have a great context and understanding of . . .

    ¡°Mate, I¡¯m this close to exorcising you again.¡±

    How rude. Look, my dear, what I¡¯m saying is that ¡°do not know where¡± has a number of different interpretations. And I¡¯m no longer confident that ¡®lost¡¯ is the most accurate. Indeed, in other circumstances, the rune would mean ¡®foreign¡¯, ¡®alien¡¯ or even, and I¡¯m sure this will turn out not to be the case, ¡®fae¡¯.

    I was all ready to give him a mouthful and probably would have held forth at length over not recognising the possibility that our first step towards recovering Caeldfwch was to journey into the realm of the fae. It was one thing to embark on a quest around Cornwall for a wet fairy carrying Excalibur. It was quite another for us to deliberately seek to enter a different  ¨C and from everything I had read ¨C malign plane of existence.

    Arthur, Bors, and I had spent a very uncomfortable time in the Enchanted Forest when seeking to recover Guinevere, and I don¡¯t think any of us would have been especially gung-ho about this quest had we known that we might encounter the supernatural again.

    Arthur, in particular, had been rather ¨C shall I say ¡®intimately¡¯ ¨C disturbed by the experience.

    Merlin would have heard all about this ¨C and more ¨C if I had not become rather caught up in events.

    Namely, being knocked from my horse by a dragon attack.

 Chapter 12 - In which I learn the difference between a dragon and a wyvern

    Don¡¯t be so dramatic, my dear. That wasn¡¯t a dragon.

    Clutching my mauled shoulder, I rolled as I fell from my horse and came up in a low crouch. All around me was chaos; the beating of leathery wings almost drowning out the shouts and screams of men and the terrified whinnying of the horses.

    I couldn¡¯t make out anyone I recognised around me ¨C where the fuck had Arthur gone? ¨C but I figured that could be a problem for a me who survived the next few minutes. I flattened myself even lower as a massive fuck-off green reptile with wings flew overhead, an unfortunate spearman shrieking in its jaws. Although, on the plus side, not for very long.

    ¡°You¡¯re telling me that¡¯s not a bloody dragon!¡±

    Hardly. You see how the wings are attached to the front talons? You won¡¯t see a dragon with that sort of body shape. Four legs and two wings all day long. And, my dear, whoever heard of dragons attacking in such numbers? Honestly, I have been quite remiss in your education.

    One of these giant monsters swooped down to land on my horse, slicing its head off with one claw and opening its belly with the other. It was dark green and at least twice the size of my unfortunate animal. I¡¯m not going to lie; it looked pretty damned draconic to me.

    ¡°So, what are they?¡± I could barely hear my own voice over the tumult of battle.

    Wyverns, my dear. No fire and very little intelligence. I imagine they live on the border between our world and the land of the fae in order to feast upon unwary travellers. In fact, that¡¯s probably why we do not have better records, especially since the dividing line is so thin here.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    He means they¡¯d eat anyone that came this way.

    It took me for a moment to realise Drynwyn had spoken. I don¡¯t think I¡¯d heard more than a few sentences from it in weeks. By the fire glowing around its blade, it seemed it may have got a bit of its groove back.

    Fucking hate wyverns. The intensity of the flame increased.

    Good, good, let the hate flow through you. The wyvern in front of me had almost finished eating my horse ¨C it had swallowed it whole, and there was just a leg remaining sticking out of its mouth ¨C and was clearly casting around for its next meal.

    By the bellows and shouts of orders, it sounded like some form of organised defence was being restored ¨C now the initial shock had worn off. I probably wanted to start being part of that. I tried to send a Qi suggestion to the monster.

    Sorry, my dear. There is not enough intelligence to push in this way. You¡¯re trying to influence something without any conscious thoughts, just instincts.

    So no <Those aren¡¯t the droids you¡¯re looking for> then. No worries. I still had plenty of tools in the old Qi shed. <Unnecessary Sequel Trilogy> channelled through a pissed-off Drynwyn, for example. A beam of fire lightning shot from the tip of my blade to completely engulf the creature. It screamed in a rather disturbing manner as its flesh went first red with the heat of the strike and then black as the monster was reduced to ash.

    The whole immolation took barely a few seconds.

    I was aware that, with the shrieking and the fire and the lightning etc, I¡¯d gathered quite a bit of attention from the other combatants. At this juncture, a quip seemed appropriate.

    ¡°Yippiekayyay, motherfuckers!¡±

    Not your best, my dear. Perhaps something more contextually amusing? ¡°Now we¡¯re cooking with gas¡±, for example, might have been better.

    ¡°Fuck off, Merlin,¡± and I moved to help the rest of the beleaguered defenders.

    *

    Guinevere had spent the last couple of days having an awful lot of fun with the Grey and Bl?k in particular.

    There had always been rumours of shadowy figures operating around the throne, and it was quite a thrill to realise that not only did these people exist but that she was now very much in charge of them.

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    The amount of information she had at her disposal was colossal. If she was interested in how much tribute a certain lord had paid in the last year, she could access that. If she wanted to know how much that lord should have paid and where he had hidden the excess in order to avoid detection, she could see that too.

    There seemed to be no limit to the range of gossip, scuttlebutt and rumour that the Grey had collected, catalogued and prepared for her inspection. It was all quite overwhelming after a bit. And then there was the temptation to look into things that, just plain good sense, suggested she¡¯d be wise to keep away from.

    ¡°And what do you know about my husband?¡± she asked lightly.

    Bl?k simply cocked his head in that strange, bird-like way he had. ¡°Queen Igraine was most clear that every care should be taken to keep abreast of his movements. Especially around breasts. That was her joke, by the way, not me trying to be flippant.¡±

    ¡°Please take it as read that I will assume any attempt at humour is you quoting someone else. What does it mean, though? That the queen wanted Arthur watched?¡±

    ¡°Everything, my lady. We know everything about King Arthur.¡±

    The destructive desire to reopen old wounds was overwhelming. She knew he had been spectacularly unfaithful over the years¡ªit was an open secret across the court¡ªbut she was comforted by not knowing the precise details. Did she really want to know more now that they were trying to turn over a new leaf?

    ¡°You will know,¡± she began carefully, ¡°that my husband has not always been true throughout our marriage.¡±

    ¡°I have the details of every brothel he has ever visited. We also track each of his bastards and have substantial records around each woman ¨C peasant or noble ¨C that we can confirm he had lain with.¡±

    Guinevere felt the colour come to her cheeks. ¡°Goodness. Okay. Well, let¡¯s ignore all of that for now. Tell me, since our return from the Dark Tower . . .¡± She hesitated. Did she really want to know this? Things were so much better between them. Was it worth sabotaging that?

    Bl?k regarded her with his bland eyes. ¡°My lady?¡±

    Oh, well. Fuck it. Might as well know everything. ¡°Has my husband been unfaithful since we returned from the tower of Aurelius Ambrosius?¡±

    Bl?k blinked once, then twice and cocked his head the other way. ¡°We have no examples of the king conducting any such activities in that time frame.¡±

    ¡°And you would know?¡±

    Bl?k smiled humourlessly. ¡°We would know, yes.¡±

    A weight she did not know she was carrying lifted off Guinevere¡¯s chest.

    ¡°Right. Excellent. Well, now that¡¯s done with; let¡¯s focus on which thegns are not quite being full-throated in their support for the king.¡±

    *

    Turns out, Drynwyn really hates wyverns.

    By the time I joined the fray, though, things appeared well in hand. After the initial shock of the ambush, the various different sections of our group coalesced into the sort of professional, dogged defence you would expect from elite warriors.

    Without panic blinding our eyes, it became clear there were only about ten wyverns, minus the one I had incinerated and a combination of sheer numbers and some well-aimed arrows and javelins were keeping things on an even keel.

    Enter Morgan. Or, to be fair, Drynwyn and my current coolest technique.

    It took a few minutes, but in no time, I¡¯d napalm-deathed six of the buggers, and a combination of Lancelot and, annoyingly, Beric¡¯s men, finished off the last few.

    ¡°How are you feeling, big man?¡±

    Fucking hate wyverns.

    ¡°Glad you¡¯re feeling a little more like yourself.¡±

    Wasn¡¯t going to let you down again. Especially around fucking wyverns.

    ¡°Good timing,¡± I said, ramming it back into its scabbard.

    Arthur appeared, slapping me on my back in a very manly way that, in a different context, would have been tantamount to assault. ¡°That was all very dramatic!¡± His face was a mess of cuts and scrapes, and I was alarmed to see his left arm was hanging uselessly by his side.

    I tossed him one of the rare Elixirs of Wellness I¡¯d started to be able to produce. He took a sip and quickly looked as good as new. Although still with no hair.

    ¡°Do you have any idea what happened? Or where they came from?¡±

    I decided now wasn¡¯t the moment to share Big M¡¯s sudden realisation about alternative rune translations. It didn¡¯t really feel like the time. Instead, I looked at the chaos caused to our convoy. ¡°Many casualties?¡±

    Arthur shrugged. ¡°Some. Not as many as it would have been without your intervention. I think we will have made a good impression on the others with your little display.¡±

    I mean, sure. In a leading-you-into-danger-and-then-saving-you kind of way.

    Lancelot joined us, inexplicably shirtless. I swear, this dude went full Hulk Hogan at the slightest hint of trouble. His muscles glinted in the firelight. ¡°Of this place, my people speak.¡±

    Arthur and I turned to him. ¡°Mate, we¡¯ll take all the info you¡¯ve got at this stage. The Big M is basically making up as he goes along.¡±

    I resent that, my dear. This is a quest. It is not supposed to have a step-by-step how-to guide. There will always be an element of risk.

    ¡°Tell that to the guys who just got eaten,¡± I called over the quartermaster, a heavily tattoed man called Karl. ¡°I¡¯m going to need a bigger horse.¡±

    We indulged in a few minutes of quality Jaws-related banter. This was only slightly ruined by the fact only one of us had seen the movie. Or was even aware of the existence of sharks.

    ¡°So, what do your people say about this place?¡± I asked Lancelot, who had fallen to the floor and was pumping out press-ups.

    ¡°We call it Niefeheim ¨C the place beyond the pines.¡±

    ¡°And what can we expect here, beyond wyverns?¡±

    ¡°Death. Death and pain.¡± There was no glimmer of humour in his eyes.

    Which wasn¡¯t exactly a great introduction to us realising we¡¯d lost Owain and all his men.

 Chapter 13 - In which Bl?k is fleshed in somewhat

    Bors stroked his beard thoughtfully.

    There was apparently much more to organising a tournament than pulling a bunch of guys together, giving them a pep talk and letting them get on with it. Whilst he was not, by any means, a stupid man - he passed the fucking Trial of Thought in the Enchanted Forest, didn''t he? - he could not help but think that this sort of organisational competence was somewhat beyond his skill set.

    He looked at the list of suggestions prepared for him by Tasko, the man Pallemedias had recommended handing the whole business to. Like that dark-skinned swordsman, Tasko was from somewhere far away from Tintagel and seemed to possess all the various bits of knowledge of which the big man felt himself so short. He also talked¡ªa lot.

    After what felt like most of his adult life, Bors raised his hand to stem the tide of words. "So, to summarise, what you''re saying is that this thing should - ideally - run over three days?"

    "Not at all, my lord. I am just suggesting that, in order to maximise the profits from the various stalls and concession outlets you will doubtless be commissioning, my research and experience would suggest that three days is well positioned in the sweet spot between novelty and consumer fatigue."

    Bors blinked. "I didn''t understand most of that."

    Tasko smiled back. "I know, my lord. And that''s why my second recommendation would be to hire me to take care of the minor details for you. That way, you can be reassured that all of the complicated, insignificant details are handled, and you can concentrate on the fighting and suchlike."

    "He''s a crook," Pallemedias had told him the night before. "An absolute, stone-cold-robber-Baron of the highest order. But, as far as these things go, he''s an honest one. He''s been connected to my family for years, and my father has yet to lop off any of his limbs, so I guess that probably tells you everything you need to know. My advice would be to let him scam you for an amount you can live with, and he''ll solve more headaches than he''ll cause."

    Bors pushed the scroll back towards Tasko and glowered at him. Tall, lean, and with thick, black hair that he kept in a tight braid, the man certainly looked like a wealthy merchant. If Pallemedias had not given him the head''s up, Bors would have been none the wiser to his . . . less salubrious habits. Fake it until you make it, he guessed.

    "Here''s the deal. For me, this ain''t about the money."

    Tasko opened his mouth, gold teeth flashing in the light, but Bors pressed on before he could speak. "We need men. Good men. Men who''ll stand a shield wall, day in, day out. We need men that bards will sing about and who live for nothing more than sticking the spear in the guts of Saxons. So I need something that''ll attract every swinging dick in the land. And possibly across the sea, too. I want this to be the greatest tournament in these Isles. But I need it to happen quickly.

    "I understand," the wheels behind Tasko''s eyes were already whirling. The abacus too . . .

    Bors pressed on. "I can sort the categories for the bouts and everything like that - the gods know I''ve fought in enough of them over the years - but for everything else, I''m looking for a likely lad to hand it all over to. I ain''t got a head for numbers so I won''t be looking too closely at that side of things." If possible, the merchant''s smile grew even wider. "But I''m going to be all about the results."

    Bors stood and rested his hands on the wooden table that separated the two. "I believe I have a reputation for a certain single-mindedness. My men will tell you that when I am happy, there''s no one better to share a mug of ale with. On the other hand, it''s been mentioned that my displeasure can be - " the table groaned as he pressed down on it -"intense. My best mate has asked for a tournament to swell our army. I''ve never let him down in my life. If you tell me you can make this happen, and you do," Bors opened his arms and beamed, "then we''re all good¡ªfriends for life. I''ll name my next kid after you. But if you overpromise and underdeliver . . ." He brought both hands down on the table, reducing it to kindling.

    Tasko jumped backwards and pressed himself against the stone wall, eyes suddenly huge.

    "So, what do you think? Do we have a deal?"

    *

    "I hear you have been giving the ''I''m either your best friend or your worst enemy'' talk again."

    Bors turned at the sound of the familiar voice. He was standing on Tintagel''s battlements, staring out over the narrow stone bridge that connected the island on which the castle stood with the mainland. He knew it was insanely early to hope to see the procession of kings return - it wasn''t like Caeldfwch would be a week''s ride from these gates, but he lived in hope.

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    "You''re hearing an awful lot of late, my lady." Guinevere stood at his shoulder, that mischievous glint in her eye once again. It had been one of the real sorrows of his life to see that glimmer gutter and die over the last few years.

    "Hard not to when you need the Royal Carpenter every few days. Other intimidation tactics are available that do not require the demolishment of furniture."

    "True, but it''s so damn satisfying."

    Guinevere laughed and brushed her hair away from her face. She, too, gazed out into the distance as if wishing she could make the quest be completed faster just by sincerely hoping for it.

    "I have a considerable volume of available information on this Tasko, if you are interested?"

    "Unless any of it suggests he has a habit of risking his life when threatened in the most explicit of terms?" Guinevere shook her head in response. "In that case, I will rely on the old faithful of blind terror to get the job done. I hear he''s already dispatched couriers?"

    "Indeed. He appears to be working every hour the gods send to ensure this will be a tournament to remember. A fortnight, his missives say."

    Bors'' eyebrows shot up. "So soon?"

    "Did I not mention he''s running around like his arse is on fire? It would be tomorrow if he could portal everyone here. He is giving every impression of being very motivated indeed."

    "Maybe I did lay it on a bit thick . . ."

    They stood in a companionable silence for a while.

    "My lady, do I need to be concerned about how you have access to so much information of late? For example, I hear it is not uncommon recently for cultivators to come late into their powers - particularly since the death of Merlin - but likewise, there are dangers there which make Morgan''s absence a worry. If you think I''m scary, you should see what Arthur looked like when he told me to ensure no harm befell you. You going ''boom'' would be pretty life-limiting for me."

    Guinevere laughed. He was glad she was able to make that noise again. "No, Sir Bors, it''s nothing like that." Then she paused, weighing him up. She liked Bors. She liked him even more after reviewing the information the Grey held on him. He was that rare thing - exactly what he appeared to be: a big, belligerent psychopath who was loyal to his wife, rabidly so to his friends and with absolutely no hidden depths, secrets or shadowy alliances. If she couldn''t share her recent experiences with him, she doubted there would be anyone else she could talk with.

    Certainly not Arthur. Bl?k had been clear about that.

    "Sir Bors, can I trust you?"

    Bors shrugged his massive shoulders. "Depends. Can you trust me to royally fuck up anyone who crossed you? Absolutely. Can you trust me not to take the piss if you''re going to reveal something kinky about your sex life? Probably not."

    "I guess that''s a pretty clear demarcation line. Okay, so here''s the deal."

    *

    Bl?k moved silently through the corridors of Tintagel Castle.

    It was no exaggeration to say that he had spent his whole life in the shadows of these buildings. Should anyone have marked his passage, and he was quite sure that he was not seen, they would have dimly recognised him, just enough to accept his presence but not sufficient to note him.

    It was a useful skill.

    As he moved, he ran his hands into the various nooks and crannies in the stonework and the hidden recesses of doors and windows where those of the Grey left their messages. In a society where literacy was an exceptionally rare talent, it was not an inconsiderable matter of pride to Bl?k that each and every one of his informants was capable of reading and writing in a variety of languages.

    Had Merline been aware of Bl?k, he would have recognised him to be a cultivator of exceptional subtlety. Of course, that he - and others like him - had lived unknown under the very nose of that legendary wizard was a testimony to the potency of their abilities. Bl?k would not have understood what was meant by Qi but would have been able to explain the process of wrapping his darkness around himself like a cloak and passing unseen through crowds of men.

    What is more, Bl?k, like his father before him, had a special connection with Metal Qi, which, although again, he would not have seen it in those terms, made him a frighteningly efficient assassin. His principal technique, <Wire in the Blood>, allowed him to coalesce all the iron in a target''s body into one tiny sliver of metal, which, when it found its way to the heart, was inevitably fatal.

    More than one visitor to Tintagel had failed to wake in the morning when the Queen deemed that their time on this earth was over.

    Bl?k had made quite a collection of slips of vellum when his hand reached for an alcove that had remained empty for many months. It was habit that made him check, rather than any expectation, so he was momentarily gratified that his fingers brushed parchment. As with all such unnecessary emotions, he squashed it down.

    Retrieving the message, he slipped it into one of his many pockets and moved, with more alacrity than usual, to the dark space beneath Merlin''s tower that he called ''home''. Although the entrance to his little room was wholly unhidden, anyone looking straight at it would find their eyes being tugged to the side and their thoughts elsewhere.

    It was pitch black within Bl?k''s space, but that was no difficulty for him. He pulled the darkness around the letter inside himself, feeling refreshed by the action - he hadn''t needed to sleep more than a few hours a week since childhood.

    The message had only three words, but they made him snarl in an entirely uncharacteristic show of anger. How long had that message sat there? Had he neglected to check in on previous days?

    He thought not.

    But that was no matter. He needed to speak to his new mistress. In the swirl of darkness that marked his abrupt departure, the small message fluttered to the floor. A tiny flicker of light from a torch outside fell upon it so the words could be discerned just for a moment.

    "Igraine was pushed."

 Chapter 14 - In which Beric is, once more, a colossal prick

    So, misplacing one of the kings we were seeking to impress on this quest wasn''t exactly Plan A.

    Especially as we couldn''t tell if Owain and his men were ''lost'' lost or ''didn''t cross over into the strange fae land with the rest of us'' lost. Or ''eaten by wyverns'' lost. Basically, that''s quite a lot of variations on ''no one has a fucking clue where they have gone.''

    "I thought you had some sort of . . . I don''t know, magical tracking system set up?" Arthur''s voice was a little too accusatory for my liking.

    "Yeah, sorry about that, Your Majesty. In between saving everyone''s arses from the massive flying reptiles and liaising with the legendary cultivator who forgot to mention that we''d be SWAPPING REALMS on this quest, I took my eye off the King of Gwent and his fifty bodyguards. My bad!"

    Just putting this out there, my dear, but maybe don''t point your finger, with electricity cracking around it, at the chest of the King of the Britons whilst shouting at him. It''s creating a mood.

    I looked around to see lots of open mouths, big eyes and hurriedly drawn swords. "Guys, relax. This is kind of our deal. I turned him into a flame-grilled Whopper one time. And that was a complete ballache to heal, so I''m not putting myself through that sort of pain again. At least, not this early in the quest. I''ll give it at least a few more days before going down that road."

    My charm and witty banter did not appear to ease tensions.

    Then, Lancelot appeared, clapped his muscular arm around my shoulder, and led me away from the growing lynch mob. "Such a funny joker you are being. With the lightning. And the pointing. And the inappropriate shouting at our liege lord." His arm tightened, and I was suddenly very aware of how powerful this man was. "Probably best you laugh. Like great hoot, we are sharing."

    I did so, trying to pull enough Qi into my hands to have a chance of doing . . . something should this all spiral out of control. In theory, I should be able to take Lancelot, no worries. But I was starting to worry that theory and practice would be very different where the barbarian was concerned.

    "Remembering you will, that we need to show respect to Arthur. Like you, I do. Cut off pieces I wouldn''t, pretty hair." With a final squeeze - which I''m sure cracked several ribs - he swung me around so we were walking back to the king.

    I mouthed a ''sorry''. He just glared back. It was probably a fair cop.

    "I don''t know, my lord. When we crossed into this realm, Owain and his war band were scouting a little ahead of us. I don''t believe I''ve seen him or any of his men since then, though. As tricky as the wyverns were to handle, it hardly seems credible he would have taken one hundred per cent casualties when the rest of us -" I looked at the crew currently digging a pit for the bodies - "got off reasonably lightly."

    Arthur looked around at the defensive position we had taken up. We had enough archers between those of the groups that remained to be able to put a dent in the day of anything else that attacked from the sky. Now that everyone was deployed in a deep square, there would be no further sniping off an individual from a long column.

    The king raised his voice above the background hum of men at work. "We need to give King Owain and his retinue time to catch back up with us. This seems a secure enough position for the night to wait, but we can reassess in the morning. Sleep in shifts, quadruple watch. Flaming death first, ask questions later. All agreed?"

    "Who the fuck put you in charge?"

    Beric - of course, it was Beric - pushed himself forward. I''d seen his men in the thick of the fighting but didn''t remember seeing him anywhere: his sword looked suspiciously clean, and his armour was undamaged.

    Arthur turned to him; the contrast between his worn clothing and the gleaming appearance of the King of Powys could not have been starker. "I don''t need to be ''put'' in charge, my lord. Those are simply sensible instructions anyone could have issued. Anyone who had been in the fighting, at any rate. If you have alternative suggestions you would like to offer, perhaps drawing on your long and illustrious history of successful command in the field, I would be glad to hear them?"

    Corys appears through the gloom, his gear battle-stained. "No need to be a prick about it, Ber. Let''s take a breath, give the fat man a chance to get back to us and see where we are in this morning."

    Beric retreated away back towards his men without saying another word. Corys winked at Arthur - or was it at me? Was he flirting with me - and followed him.

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    "Kil him I can," Lancelot murmured. "In Niefelheim, all things are possible. His soul stolen in his dreams, maybe? Wouldn''t come back to you."

    Arthur turned and pushed the barbarian in the chest, snarling as he spoke. "He''s a King! I need these men on my side. I have to unite our lands, and I won''t do that over a pile of corpses." He turned to me, his temper not especially under control. I wondered if he would be interested in some meditation tips. Or a fireball to the face. "Find Owain. Stop antagonising this alliance. And work out where we need to go next."

    I held my curtsey until he and Lancelot were out of earshot. "Why don''t you stick a broom up my arse while you''re at it, and I''ll sweep the fucking camp?"

    *

    The first thing you need to know about the fae realm is that there are no rules.

    "Like the enchanted forest?"

    No, my dear, nothing like that. Within the enchanted forest, you are bound by a myriad of rules, precedents and contracts. Sure, you will most likely be horribly murdered, but there would have been some element of framework around your death. Once you passed your Trial, it would have been the height of bad manners for the forest not to honour the deal that had been made.

    "And it''s not going to be like that in here?"

    I was sat, cross-legged, in front of a lowly burning fire. Drynwyn was laid across a bunch of wyvern bones and seemed to be enjoying the experience of gently roasting them. When asked for an explanation, he merely repeated: I fucking hate wyverns.

    I was gently pushing my Qi hither and tither, trying to get used to its thicker consistency. As much as I hated the phrase ''desirable difficulty'', I was actually enjoying the experience.

    It felt like I had spent a lifetime trying to find something to do in the quiet moments of the night. A drink. A cigarette. A spliff. A line. A cock. Anything to fill the deep, dark void within me.

    And now I had a process which needed all my attention. And it felt great to do.

    The fae realm, Merlin continued, is not like that. No, my dear. In some ways, it is closer to our own in its sense of chaos and unrestricted tyranny. There is only one rule here. The mighty take, and the weak are taken from.

    "And we''re going to take Caeldfwch?"

    Merlin paused. That is a little more complicated. We are planning to take it, to be sure. But it is awaiting us. Should we be able to find it, it will be ours to take away.

    "After the steps of Blood, Faith and Betrayal?"

    Indeed.

    I thought back to the fight with the wyverns. "I don''t suppose we''ve already achieved the step of blood, have we?"

    There was a grim chortle from inside my head. Not by any means, no. That was a very minor skirmish against a massively underpowered foe. Such things do not the stuff of quests make. No, the step of Blood will be soon, and we will need to be prepared.

    "And for that, it would help to know where King Owain and his fifty spears have gone."

    I have an idea for that.

    "A good idea, Big M? Or one of those ideas that inevitably leads to me in a battle for my life and racking up the PTSD points like a Vietnam vet?"

    Life of a cultivator, my dear. Life of a cultivator.

    *

    I pushed outwards, trying to feel for a presence I would recognise as King Owain.

    No, not like that.

    Sighing, I opened my eyes in frustration. "Dude, are you planning on being any help here at all?"

    I am helping. I told you what to do, you did it wrong, and I told you. That''s pretty much the definition of being helpful.

    "HOW am I doing it wrong?"

    Oh, I see what you mean. Subtlety. Softness. Caressing.

    "Mate, am I carrying out a search and rescue operation or am I in a bad soft-core porn film?"

    Quite. You don''t need to do everything at a million miles an hour. Especially so, now your Qi is so much more concentrated. Not every problem requires you to blow the bloody doors off, as it were.

    I pulled back on what I was doing - the Big M may have a point. I might have been going full beans at it - and let a single drop of my Qi hit the parchment. I visualised a palette of water and began to thin out that purple drop, spreading it in a smooth circle that would cover my internal map.

    Better. You can obviously see the advantages of having chosen water as your Qi medium. No need to dilute that down, but I guess you are making the best you can from an inferior lot.

    "Fuck off, Big M."

    I worked the paint even thinner until I felt it could not have been reduced any further.

    "Okay, now what?"

    Use that as your model for seeking out King Owain and his men.

    I did so and immediately felt the difference. Whereas, before, I had been inundated by sensory overload when questing out¡ªI literally had been able to hear the grass grow¡ªnow it was much easier to see the wood for the trees, as it were. I retraced our steps to this point with my mind, trying to locate Owain. My hope was that they had done the same as us and held up for the night, hoping to follow our tracks in the morning.

    But no. Nothing.

    "Fuck''s sake," I grimaced. "It''s fifty men, twenty-odd horses and a lardarse of a king. They don''t just vanish."

    One second, my dear.

    I waited. Then, I realised I had no idea what I was waiting for. "What is it?"

    I appear to have stumbled across a strange overlap between the realms. It''s not quite our world, and it''s not the world of the fae.

    I felt my attention being brought to a nondescript woodland area and could see what Merlin was getting at. On one side of the trees, it was definitely the mortal world, and on the other, it was Wyvern City. But at the place where the two intersected, there was a thin strip of land that was both.

    And it smelt wrong.

    I don''t wish to raise undue alarm here, my dear

    I turned to the small group of spears that had accompanied me on this Owain-hunt and waved for attention, drawing Drynwyn and kicking Lancelot as the Big M was talking.

    Because that strange patch of land didn''t just smell bad, it reeked.

    It reeked of blood.

 Chapter 15 â€“ The Step of Blood (or, â€˜itâ€™s bigger than it looks on the outsideâ€™)

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 Chapter 16 - In which a giant chicken continues to kick my arse

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    <u></u>

 Chapter 17 - In which Bors goes out of his gourd

    Tasko paused as he transferred one sum of money from a long column into a second, his quill hovering above the latter figure. He''d make a subtle change here in the usual run of things. Nothing massive. Certainly not noticeable to anyone without a significant grounding in finance. But a little difference here and elsewhere to the figures would equal a tidy profit for him when it was all added up.

    He''d done it so often, was so accomplished at this sort of deceit, that he had to stop himself from doing it automatically during his calculations. However, mindful of his various conversations with Sir Bors, he''d never been quite so certain about the imminence of violent retribution.

    "He doesn''t expect you to be honest; he just wants the job to get done."

    The merchant looked up at the speaker. His bodyguard, P?ps, had been with him as long as he could remember. He, too, came from a land far across the oceans and was a squat, strong block of a man with a shining black head above his thickly muscled shoulders. More than once over the years, his tactically cleared throat and shift of position had saved Tasko from a beating. Or worse.

    "And just how sure about that are you? You weren''t there when he crushed the table."

    "Sure enough to offer the advice. Not sure enough to hang around if I''m wrong. I might not have been there for the exemplar, but I''ve asked around."

    "And?"

    P?ps wrinkled his nose. "Maybe keep the skimming to the minimum, now I think about it."

    "That bad?"

    "Worse."

    Tasko carefully blotted out the number he had written and replaced it with a replica of the first. "This goes against my code."

    "Fits perfectly well with mine. End the day with more money than you started. But end it alive."

    "You speak the truth."

    Tasko closed the ledger and stood, crossing to look out of the window. Queen Guinevere had insisted that he took a room within Tintagel itself while he planned the Grand Tournament. At the time, he had thought this was a tremendous honour. Now, he couldn''t help but feel the pressure of the situation.

    Two weeks was no time at all to plan an event of the size required. Fortunately, with money as no object, he''d managed to rope in a couple of minor cultivators he knew from the old lands to help with the transportation challenges. And, with various portals springing up across the country, he was now reasonably confident the bare bones of the plan were in motion. All things being equal, across the next few days, some flesh would start appearing and - please, by all the gods that kept him safe - this time next week, everything would be in place.

    At least from the administration side.

    Tasko looked down on the training yard, where Bors was trying to finish his fight categories. Groups of spearmen stood around him awkwardly as he divided them into different groups. Surprisingly, it was not difficult to eavesdrop on his frustrations.

    *

    "So, we''ve got the Heavy Spearmen category. The Lights. The Mediums with the potential to be Heavies. And the Lights who might be better as Archers." Bors ushered a few men around into different sections with a light tap. "Stop your blubbering; I barely broke anything. Next, we''ve got the Pugilists, the Royal Rumble, the Armed Melee and the Hunger Games . . ."

    Over the next twenty minutes, Bors crafted a series of bouts, rounds and round robins so intricate and complex that anyone still alive at the end of them was surely destined to be one of the greatest warriors of the age.

    It was also fated to be one of the bloodiest tournaments in history.

    He was pinning the ranking points per limb chopped off to the barracks wall when the Queen arrived to conduct a much-needed intervention.

    She knocked gently on the open door.

    Bors''s face locked into a snarl as he turned. "I told you, no one was to¡ª" the anger vanished as he saw who was waiting. "I am sorry, my lady. I did not know it was you."

    Guinevere had taken a step back at the intensity of the man''s rage, hands going to a sword her ridiculously elaborate dress did not allow her to wear any longer. Trying to slow her rapidly beating heart, she fixed a smile on her face. "Sir Bors, how goes the planning?"

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    Bors'' own smile was a rictus grin. "Not bad, Your Majesty. Not bad. I was worried I was leaving some bases uncovered, but I think I''m getting there now. I''d made the mistake of treating th quarterstaff and the pike as the same weight class, but I''ve subdivided them now and I think I''m getting somewhere." He pointed towards the back wall of the barracks that, at first sight, Guinevere had taken to have been painted black. With a start, she realised it was covered with hundreds upon hundred of tightly written lines of text.

    "Are . . . are those the rounds for the tournament?"

    Guinevere walked towards the writing, with Bors following close behind, anxious as a man at the birth of his first child. "Yes, my lady. I think I''ve managed to account for every eventuality and possibility. When all this is finished, and the dust settles, whoever is still standing will truly deserveto serve alongside your husband''s Marghekyon."

    "Right." Guinevere tried to follow the spiralling lines of intersecting text. "And how long do you envisage this process taking?"

    A manic glint crept into Bors'' eyes. When his wife had begged a moment with the Queen, she''d said that the big man had not been home for two days. "That''s the beauty of it. In less than a month of constant fighting - providing we have enough of Morgan''s healing elixirs, of course - we should be in a position to move into the second round."

    "The second round?"

    Bors turned and pointed to the opposite wall. Guinevere spun to look at the way she had come in to see an equally complex plan sketeched on that surface too. "Fuck me," she whispered under her breath.

    "Sir Bors, why don''t we take a breath of fresh air?"

    *

    It had taken every persuasive skill the Queen possessed to drag Bors out of the barracks and up to what she was beginning to think of as her ''office'' on the battlements. Up high, and with the wind running through her hair, she felt like she could think much clearer. She hoped the bracing air would have the same impact on her big companion.

    How should she play it? Softly softly? Try to slowly bring him to his senses. Or . . .

    "What the fuck''s going on with you? You have the whole castle convinced you''ve gone batshit crazy. You''ve put a quarter of our remaining spears in the infirmary during ''practice ''bouts'' and, what is worse, you''re making your wife worry. Explain. Now."

    Guinevere watched Bors sag under the impact of her words, as if he were a bag of grain emptying from myriad cuts. He didn''t answer long enough to open her mouth to speak again, and then she realised he had murmurred a quiet reply.

    "I don''t want to let him down."

    A thousand answers ran through her head, none of which seemed appropriate for the moment. Guinevere was an astonishing accomplished woman in most respects, but she''d never quite developed the skill of offering a soft shoulder to cry on. She was not too proud to admit his had played, at least a small part, in her marital difficulties. Thus, she went for a neutral: "How do you mean?"

    "I was in charge when they all died. The Marghekyon. He''d trusted me to lead when he was hurt and I failed him."

    From what Guinevere had heard of the battle with Cedric''s West Saxons, the only reason anyone - including Arthur - had made it out of that clusterfuck was due to the extraordinary bravery and balls to the wall belligerance of Bors. He''d almost single-handedly kept the defeated forces together and led them back home.

    But Bors was speaking again before she could set him right.

    "And now I have a chance to redeem myself and I need to get it right. I can''t trust myself to be at his side anymore, but I can make sure he has the very best men to protect him. I''m not letting anyone but a certified monster have his back."

    Guinevere thought back to the infinitely complex arrangements of bouts she had seen on the walls of the barracks. "And if no one reaches the necessary standard . . ." she asked, gently.

    Bors went to answer, then paused. His eyes focused on the path from which he hoped, any moment now, to see his friend return. "Then I''ll just have to work harder until they do."

    The Queen put some iron into her voice. "This is a lovely self-indulgent little fantasy you are particpating in here. It would be wonderful if I had the lucary of humouring you. Really, it would. However, you have a job to do. Your King asked you to identify and train up an elite force, not play out some sort of sad sack redemption story arc. There will be three brackets. Sword, Spear and Bow. We will pair up competitors and the losers of each bout will be knocked out until we have ten left of each. These will be the new Marghekyon. And it will be done in three days."

    Bors spluttered. "But what about . . ."

    "Am I understood?"

    For a heartbeat, she thought he was going to argue. Bors'' face went dark red, and his hands clenched and unclenched. Guinevere was not exactly afraid, but she was glad she had positioned herself so that, should he attack, the sun would be in his eyes, and she would be in a position to release a kick to send him over the top of the low wall and off the roof.

    Then, Bors took a deep breath and all the angst vanished. He rolled his shoulders and the pained expression that clouded his face cleared. "I''ve been a bit of a twat, haven''t I?"

    "Nothing wrong with taking a command to heart, but if I hear you cause Mrs Bors another night of no sleep, I will be kicking your arse myself."

    "Deal."

    Then, he suddenly spun around, plunging his hands into the shadow of the doorway. His fists reappeared, dragging a very startled, non-descript-looking man into the light. "Fucking eavesdropping wanker!"

    "My lady!" Bl?k shrieked as Bors carried him to the tower''s edge and prepared to drop him into the open sky.

    "A moment, Sir Bors." Bl?k dangled precariously over the battlements, Bors holding him by the throat. Guinevere frowned at the spy. "I asked to be left alone. I hoped you would honour my wishes!" Explain yourself."

    Bl?k struggled momentarily and then, realised the hopelessness of his position, relented. In his dry, monotone voice he said, "I have taken a few days to confirm information recieved and to cross reference reports. However, I am now able to deliver news around the untimely death of Queen Igraine. And, what is more, I believe I know who killed her."

 Chapter 18 - In which secrets are revealed

    They retired to a more private part of the castle.

    "No one will stumble across us here," Bl?k murmured, slipping a key into the lock of a dark wooden door. Bors blinked at it. He was absolutely sure he had never seen this entrance before in his life. And he had grown up in and around this castle.

    "My lady, I don''t think you should . . . "

    "If not her, then no one, Sir Bors. You are only here because she suffers you."

    Bors reached out to bang the odd little fellow against the wall - nothing fatal, just a little light concussion to remind him of his manners - but he was astonished to see his hand pass straight through. Or, rather, his target wasn''t there any more but stood a few feet further back.

    "Bors! Stop it. I trust Bl?k."

    Seemingly emboldened by the Queen''s words, Bl?k stepped back to the door, within range of Bors should he wish to repeat the manoeuvre and pushed open the unlocked door.

    "Please. The sooner I can share my news, the quicker we can begin to plan . . . retribution."

    They followed him into a small room. It was sparsely decorated, with just a few wooden chairs around a table. The edges of the space were clouded in darkness, and it seemed to Bors that if he gazed too long into that void, the blackness looked back at him. It was all very disorienting.

    Bl?k sat and indicated to Guinevere and Bors to do the same. They did not take him up on his offer.

    "Queen Igraine. Speak." Guinevere''s voice was level, hiding the emotions that roiled through her mind. There was a pause as the spy ordered his thoughts. When he spoke, his tone was utterly devoid of emotion, as if he was reporting the weather. "It is settled understanding that, following the feast at which King Arthur announced the quest for Caeldfwch, Queen Igraine retired to her room, at which time, either by accident or by design, she fell through her tower window. There has been speculation that the Queen was either in her cups or, perhaps, that the deep trauma following the death of her husband had damaged the balance of her mind."

    He stopped speaking and looked at Guinevere expectantly. She was unsure how she was supposed to reply. Bors saved her the trouble. "And what of it? This is hardly news."

    Bl?k did his odd head cock, so reminiscent of an inquisitive bird, and began again. "Indeed. However, I recently received information that cast doubt on that story and set out to prove or disprove its veracity."

    "What information? You mean one of the Grey thinks differently?"

    "All in good time, my lady. Firstly, I sought to interrogate the initial assumptions. That the late Queen was inebriated and thus stumbled through her window. The serving girl who waited on the royal table that evening is unusually acute about such things and has a clear memory of how much each member of the royal party at and drank that evening. Incidentally, Sir Bors, for a man of your age and temper, I feel I should recommend you be a touch more circumspect about your consumption of red meat and mead. It would go ill for the realm should you suffer the fate of the last three patriarchs of your household. Vegetables are food, too."

    "The Queen, Bl?k," Guinevere said, avoiding eye contact with a suddenly very self-conscious Bors who was trying to suck in his considerable gut.

    "Of course, my lady. The Queen drank her usual water all night. Not a drop of alcohol past her lips. So much for that aspect of the theory. But, of course, you do not need to be drunk in order to give into despair."

    "And you have looked into that?"

    "Indeed. I have it on good authority - and have interrogated numerous incidental sources - which are clear that although manifestly in mourning, the Quee was wholly engaged in plotting out the realm''s future. Her detailed correspondence makes it clear that she sees herself as having a role to play in the new world order that you and King Arthur were seeking to establish. Just the very morning of her death, she issued a series of instructions for information to be gathered for a number of long-term goals. I submit that these are not the actions of a woman who feels she has nothing left for which to live."

    "So she wasn''t pissed, and she wasn''t suicidal." Bors was finding the atmosphere in the room oppressive and was anxious to get out into the fresh air. He was also smarting from being called fat and wanted to go and hit some recruits until he felt better. "But that doesn''t mean she didn''t just fall. Look, I liked Igraine, but when you hear hoofbeats, it''s usually going to be horses, not men banging the shells of giant nuts together."

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    "To be sure, Sir Bors. And that is the final possibility that I have needed to explore most thoroughly. Do you know the last time anyone - let alone a member of the royal family - fell, and by this, I mean without question ''fell'' to their death within Tintagel?"

    "It must happen all the time. I mean, no, not all the time, but I''m sure it is not that unusual. There was a Saxon captive a few years back. Hansa, I think he was called?" Bors suggested.

    "Jumped. Three eyewitnesses." Bl?k''s answer was instant.

    "Lady Morraine?" Bors met Guinevere''s confused expression. "Before your time. Long legs, but no tits."

    "Helped on her way. She was becoming too friendly with the Queen. Igraine was most displeased."

    "Fuck''s sake, just tell us what you''re hinting at." Bors was sweating now, and it wasn''t just the rising heat.

    "There have been thirteen defenestrations in the last one hundred years. My records go back further, but I thought this period was instructive. Three confirmed suicides. Two drunken mishaps. And eight . . . let us call them ''happy accidents''. There is not a single example of a sober, sane person falling to their death without aid."

    "So the odds are against it. That does not make it impossible." Guinevere was not sure where Bl?k was going with this.

    "Indeed, but we must all agree it makes it an unlikely scenario. And now to the true meat of my report. There is incontrovertible evidence that a hooded figure entered Igraine''s chamber around the time of her fall. I have been able to account for the whereabouts of every member of our own staff and the vast majority of the visiting retinues. I am confident that whoever entered the Queen''s room did so for the purpose of killing her. However, I cannot narrow down the suspect list any further than that."

    Bors was about to explode. "Who are the options? I''ll get it from them!"

    Bl?k shook his head sadly. "I wish it were as simple as that, Sir Bors. The four suspects whose whereabouts I am unable to confirm are the Kings of Gwent, Powys, Dehuebarch and Gwynedd. They were reportedly meeting together to discuss their reaction to Arthur''s announcement. However, none of the Grey can find out where, for how long, or when they separated. So, to conclude. Queen Igraine was undoubtedly murdered - why I am as yet unaware - and it was by one of the four kings now on a quest with Queen Guinvere''s husband,"

    *

    Beric of Powys stared into the fire.

    He was unaccustomed to life on the road - it had been many years since he had needed to lead his own warband - and was finding it as unappealing as he remembered. The food was execrable, the company worse, and despite his vociferous argument, no whores had been allowed with his party. If he were not wholly committed to keeping Caeldfwch out of that young twat''s hand, he would have refused to step outside of his lands.

    "My lord wants to speak to you."

    Beric''s eyes snapped up into the face of one of Mark''s litter bearers. She was young, comely and bore all the hallmarks of having just a few more months of . . . service ahead of her. As eager for action as Beric was, even he wouldn''t dare dip it in that particular well. Who knew what he would catch?

    Biting back his distaste at being summoned by a peer, Beric stood and followed the girl away from his own men and into Mark''s enclosure. It irritated him how better prepared for this quest the other kings appeared to be. Mark, in particular, seemed to be especially well-provisioned for taking part in an extended road trip. Beric ran his hand down the canvas of Mark''s pavilion - expertly put up by a team of spears the moment they made camp - and shook his head ruefully. Those of Powys had forgotten what it meant to be in the field during the years of tribute flowing into Saxon purses to keep the peace.

    Leaving the girl at the entrance, he stepped inside and was surprised to see Corys sprawled on a chair next to Mark. This gave Beric a moment''s pause.

    "Mark. Corys," he nodded uneasily. He was all for shadowy alliances as long as he was included.

    "Beric, thank you for coming." Mark''s grossly fat face split into a smile. "And then there were three."

    "You''re sure of Owain?" Beric said, taking a seat opposite them.

    "He''s either dead or nearly so. The fact fuck always did like his scouting more than was good for him."

    If either Corys or Beric felt it was somewhat hypocritical for Mark to comment on the weight of anyone else - at least Owain could walk under his own steam - now did not seem like the time to share.

    "I''m less worried about Owain than I am about Arthur and his pet wizard," Corys added.

    "It''s the barbarian I am most concerned about." Beric could not lose the image of his men being humbled by that big man from his head.

    "It would be fair to say our lives would be an awful lot easier without any of Uther''s court in our lives. And that goes for double if the welp gets his hands on Caeldfwch." Mark tried to sit up straighter, and both Corys and Beric worked hard to keep their faces still during that little performance. "I will not accept Arthur as the Pendragon. So I swear."

    The other two mouthed the same oath - a mirror of the one they had given a few days earlier in Tintagel. At the time, it had been a booze-soaked boast amongst old acquaintances. But now, in the fae realm and beset at all sides by challenges, the words were taking on a new weight.

    "I worry," Corys began, "if we can prevent that from occurring, should Arthur claim the sword?"

    "Well," answered Mark, "that would seem to be the crux of the matter." He waved to one of his servants, who slipped outside the tent. "I hope no one would think me presumptuous, but when I heard that dear old Owain had gone missing, I reached out to a few in my party with special skills."

    Three hooded men entered the tent and stood before the kings.

    Beric did not know why, but something about each of them both chilled and thrilled him at the same time. "What are you suggesting, my lord?"

    Mark smiled again, and Corys joined him in that. "I''m not suggesting anything. I am being very clear about what is going to happen. Arthur will fall. His bitch of a wizard will die. And we will put down that mad dog of a bodyguard. After that, we can discuss who we choose as Pendragon amongst ourselves." Mark''s grin suggested he had a pretty good idea of how that conversation would go. "But that can come after we bury the upstart."

    Beric found himself nodding along. Perhaps expeditions in the woods were not so terrible after all.

 Chapter 19 - In which it turns out levelling up is quite a vibe

    I''m not wholly sure I have the right vocabulary to explain the differences that came over me when I changed from being a Ron to a Harry.

    In many ways, and from a certain point of view, there were very few changes indeed. I still had the same channels, my more tightly concentrated Qi flowed around them in the same pattern, and there were still a whole host of things that I could do that would make the average human''s eyes pop out. I did not grow six feet tall, I did not develop the ability to fly, nor did my intelligence skyrocket. Neither did a shaggy, friendly giant turn up and give me my own wand.

    So, yeah. All hail the new boss. Same as the old boss.

    On the other hand, though, the change was so deep and so profound that it was like trying to compare Roger Moore to Timothy Dalton. Sure, they were both technically James Bond, but then so was Woody Allen and that way, insanity lies.

    In every way - and I mean in every way - I was . . . just better.

    Right at the end of The Matrix - and such is the colossal deluge of shite that is all of its sequels that I will fight to death for it to be known as the only Matrix movie - Neo stands in front of various Agents and is just the man. It''s where he sees everything in code, and you know the smackdown is coming.

    That''s how I felt at this moment.

    My dear, what is really important right now is that you recognise you are experiencing a post-threshold high. You will feel like there is nothing you cannot accomplish and that all of humanity is beneath you.

    "Dude, I know Kung Fu," was about the most lucid thing I could say.

    Ah, you see! That''s exactly what I mean. You most certainly do not ''know'' Kung Fu. You are, however, entirely secure in your confidence that - should you wish to attempt to - you could know everything about Kung Fu. And, to a certain extent, my dear, you are right to think so.

    I looked around at the Shriket''s pocket dimension. With its death and my claiming all its Qi, the world was already collapsing down into itself. I couldn''t see Owain, but those of his entourage who still lived had been freed from their spikes.

    "Mate, get those out to who needs them," I said, shooting a couple of handfuls of Rare quality Elixirs of Wellness to Lancelot. I paused and added in an Epic one. "That''s for Owain."

    "Sure," Lancelot was looking at me with concern in his eyes. "Okay, are you? Maggot food for sure, I thought."

    I put my hand on my chest where the giant claws had pierced straight through me. There was no hint of soreness. My rebuilt armour had taken on a deep red colour where it covered the wound.

    On top of all that Qi, you have also assimilated a considerable volume of blood, my dear. As well as more mundane liquid, I note the presence of some reasonably exotic creatures in that . . . larder. I would expect that to awaken any number of unusual abilities. I am actually quite jealous!

    As I turned my head, I became aware of little spindly lines that reached out from me to the other people, the ground, the trees . . . basically, to everything. "What''s with all the strings, Big M?"

    Ah, excellent. I was hoping that would fire for you reasonably quickly. As a . . . as a Harry, you are now more profoundly connected to the world than you were previously. What you can see are the threads of fate that bind you to all things.

    "There''s a thread of fate that binds me to that snail, is there?"

    Induitably. Should you decide to crush it, you will gather up not just its Qi, but you will now have access to all the impact it would have had on the world. All the lettuce it would chew, all the slime trails, all of it will become part of your story.

    "That''s epically sinister, mate. You''re saying if I were to kill everyone in this clearing, I would gain not just their Qi but also suck down the power from all their future actions?"

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    Absolutely. Tasty stuff. You should, however, avoid saying such things out loud. It tends to make allies a touch nervous.

    Everyone was staring at me with abject terror on their faces.

    I imagined how I must look to them¡ªa blood-soaked, resurrected wizard discussing murdering them with her imaginary friend. I wish I could say this was the worst first impression I''d made on new people.

    "Don''t mind me. You keep drinking the very rare and expensive health potions I''m dolling out like candy."

    The spearmen returned to work helping the rest of Owain''s men off their trees and calming the surviving horses.

    A word from the wise, my dear. Try not to get a name for yourself as a Lich¡ªthe decades I spent trying to live that down.

    "Noted."

    To avoid any further misunderstandings, I dropped into my Artist''s Studio, which I could tell had received a subtle yet significant upgrade. I was used to encountering a blank page when I first manifested here, which I could flick to check on the Vitruvian version of me - with all my channels on display - and then a second page for my inventory, with the new one that had recently appeared for all my alchemy.

    Now, however, the first thing I entered was a genuine Artist''s Studio, like the one I always assumed I''d one day own. Or, more realistically, the one I''d break into when its owners were abroad and act like it was actually mine.

    It was perfect in every detail to the place of my dreams. From the massive French windows looking out over the sea to the rows of easels waiting to be selected and used. Blank canvases were stacked against the one wall, with a host of unfinished and ''in progress'' images mixed in with them. They were all by me, I was shocked to see.

    On the opposite corner was a single sofa bed with a duvet carelessly thrown over it. It was the comfiest-looking thing I''d ever seen in either of my lives. Everywhere I looked was example after example of something I''d ever owned - or, more truthfully, coveted - arranged to create my perfect living space.

    "What is this place?" I whispered.

    The answer is both complexly psychological and reasonably straightforward. This is your¡ªin the crudest of vernacular¡ª'' happy place''. Other religions may speak of Heaven, Nirvana, or the like, but this is your own personal version. What does it look like?

    "Can''t you see it?"

    I''m afraid not, my dear. I am seeing my own, much missed, version. It is my dearest hope that . . . that when I died, my spirit - the rest of it anyway - simply slipped into a permanent residence here. I wonder if I even know I am dead?

    We spent a few moments in silence before Merlin spoke again.

    All the functions you are used to accessing will be available here. I cannot be too specific, but you should find it to be fairly intuitive.

    "Like Apple products?"

    Don''t ruin the moment, my dear.

    It took me no time to realise that the exposed copper piping running around the room were not just a charmingly rustic heating system but also accurately reflected the current state of my channels. Don''t ask me how I knew that; I just did.

    Likewise, on the shelf amongst a fairly definitive version of the collected works of Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, and Tom Holt was a giant, leatherbound book called ''Inventory'', another called ''Alchemy'' and a new one called ''Techniques''.

    I found I didn''t need to do anything so mundane as actually go across the floor to collect one; just thinking about it was enough for it to be in my hand and open. The ''Techniques'' book was a little short on info at the moment . . .

    Not for much longer, my dear. My techniques were so numerous that I had to open a separate wing of my Mental Palace just to store the tomes.

    "Mental Palace, Big M?" I smirked, looking around this perfect single room. "I doubt I''ll ever need anything bigger than this."

    You say that now, my dear. But Harry is the first proper step on a long journey. Should you progress as I would anticipate, you will be surprised at the changes you will need to make to your perspective.

    That suddenly brought my mood down. "As soon as we stabilise the timeline, mate, I''m out of here. Zizzie and I have a lot of making up to do."

    As you say, my dear. As you say.

    There was a pause, and then he spoke in a more business-like voice. There are a few last things that I should point out. Firstly, time dilation here is pretty spectacular. It''s not quite ''drop-in, spend a year working out how to solve a problem, and then pop out, and it is the same moment,'' but it is not too far away from that. You''ll be able to get out of most problems if you keep your wits about you. Secondly, cycling here is much more efficient than doing it anywhere else. I''d recommend spending at least a few hours a day here - which will, in reality, be more like mere seconds.

    "That seems a bit cheat-codey, Big M."

    Cultivation, my dear. The strong get stronger.

    "Cool beans. And what about a visitor''s policy? I''m assuming this is strictly a ''no boys allowed'' kind of thing?"

    My dear, if you can work out how to get someone here and make them stay sane, you''re welcome to it. I wouldn''t recommend it, though. It''s taken you a considerable amount of work to get this far. Think how alien it would be to the unwary.

    I popped out into real-time.

    No one was paying much attention to me anymore. Or at least they were all so terrified I was going to kill them that they didn''t want to make eye contact and volunteer to be first. So I bent down and picked up Drynwyn.

    You fucking made it through then?

    "Just about. Thanks to you, I think."

    I then did something I never thought I would ever do in my life. I hugged a sword.

 Chapter 20 - In which I am a motivational speaker

    It took another ten minutes for the Shriket''s pocket dimension to close. Merlin recommended not being inside when it did so, and judging by the fact that all the dead bodies vanished with a wet pop as it closed, he was bang on the money with that assessment.

    But just by escaping, we weren''t home and hosed.

    Even with sinking down all my elixirs, Owain and his men were in a bad way. Although all their physical injuries had been repaired, there''s something about being hung from a tree by spikes, slowly bled out and having to watch your comrades be eaten by a giant, monstrous perversion of a bord which leaves something of a mark.

    I mean, I don''t know that for certain. I''m just extrapolating from the available evidence.

    I''d not yet had a chance to speak to the king since the rescue¡ªhis guards were more than usually clingy¡ªso I took the opportunity of the journey back to our main camp to get next to him. I received a few glares in response, but a couple of ''you suddenly want to jump off your horse'' suggestions demonstrated who was top dog.

    Yes. Yes. Let the hate flow through you. There was a pause. Sorry, my dear. I do not know what made me say that.

    "I''m happy that this isn''t me slipping to the dark side, but stay on it, dude."

    I was pleased to see that Owain was well enough to be riding his horse, but there were a couple of men in close proximity on either side, which suggested he was a bit wobblier than he looked. He looked at me for a few moments as if struggling to place me. Then his eyes swam into focus,

    and he grinned at me, some of his old humour returning. "Wizard, I owe you a great debt."

    "Not at all, my lord. I''m just glad we arrived in time."

    I walked next to him for a time, trying to hit him with a few probing strings of Qi. However, from everything I could tell, there wasn''t really very much left wrong with him. I knew that my Elixirs of Wellness did more than just improve physical health, so if he still looked like shit with an Epic one on board, I was worried about how he was going to feel when the buzz ran out.

    "I''ve lost half of my men," he whispered, his voice haunted.

    "True. But there''s still half of them needing you. I think they could do with seeing you''re okay." I couldn''t miss the nervous glances towards us. "They''re probably thinking less about you letting them down and more about how they failed to protect their king from a monster. A bit of the old ''hail fellow, well met'' would probably go down a treat."

    "I''m not sure I have it in me right now."

    I took a beat to wonder when I became the Agony Aunt for Dark Age monarchs who were having a crisis of confidence. I mean, you''d expect dudes at the beginning of history to have a bit more about them than crumbling into puddles at the first sign of trouble.

    I dived once again into the well-plumbed depths of my empathy. "My lord, I think this is probably one of those occasions where you need to fake it until you make it. Did you lose some men in a horribly brutal way? Sure. Does that mean that it''s time for you to pack up and go home? Well, only you can decide that. But, I''ll be honest, there ain''t many sagas written about kings who come, see, take a pasting and go home.

    "Is this supposed to be a pep talk?" I was pleased to see a smile creasing the corner of Sad Santa''s mouth.

    "Dunno, mate. But if you still fancy still taking part in a quest for Caeldfwch, you probably need to give the whole ''king'' thing a little more beans."

    Owain straightened a little in his saddle at that and forced out a simulacrum of a belly laugh. "Thank you, wizard. You are quite right. Where''s Burford? Burford!"

    A tall, thin man with an extraordinarily long beard and bald head jogged up beside the king. He was in dark leathers, with a bow in his hand and a quiver on his back. `He wasn''t quite the definition of a poacher, but that was only because the dictionary hadn''t been written yet.

    "Your Majesty?"

    "Good to see you made it through staking and eating thing!"

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    "Not sure there''s enough of me to be worth the eating, my lord." Interestingly, the man had a soft burr to his voice that I associated with cider and combined harvester.

    "Whereas I was clearly being saved for a special occasion," Owain slapped his belly and laughed again. It was a pretty decent facsimile of bonhomie, but I could see the lines of tension around his eyes. I doubted Burford was fooled, either. "I find myself somewhat peckish after our executions. How about you scare us up a few dear? Would be good to return to camp with more than just a story of woe and our tails between our legs."

    The poacher nodded and peeled a few likely lads away from the main party to vanish into the woods.

    "How was that?" Owain asked me softly.

    "Spot on, my lord." I sent a few subtle suggestions of support his way. "You''re the man," and such like.

    "That pulling me more into the light side, Big M?"

    Getting there, Paduan. Getting there.

    *

    We were carrying two deer and a giant wild boar when we reunited with the rest of the quest group. I was reassured that we were challenged by a bunch of sentries well before we were in sight of the camp itself. Regardless of the personal enmity between the parties, they could put self-preservation above petty grievances.

    I left Owain and his men to reestablish their camp and made my way to find Arthur.

    "Where the fuck have you two been?" I''d had warmer welcomes.

    "We monster hunted," said Lancelot, throwing the decapitated head of the Shriket at Arthur''s feet. "Was good. Saved Owain. She died."

    Arthur turned to me. "You died!"

    "Only a little. And it didn''t stick. I might have tried to bite off more than I could chew. But it worked out okay in the end."

    I quickly talked him through our little run-in with the monster. When I got to the bit about absorbing a pocket dimension full of blood, I saw something in his face change. "What did I say?"

    "Sounds to me like you might have taken the Step of Blood, Morgan."

    I paused, then nodded. "I think we can safely say that if that wasn''t the Step of Blood, I will have to ensure I take a change of clothes when we finally meet it. What do you think, Big M?"

    Arthur probably hits the nail on the head, my dear. I would be surprised if we have not completed the first of the Steps on the journey towards Caeldfwch. We, though, will only really know when - and if - we identify the Step of Faith."

    "Any thoughts about that?"

    I sat down heavily next to the king, unstrapping Drynwyn and respectfully passing it to the Quartermaster. The tattoed man went white as he received it and then ran to take it to our armourer sharpish.

    Arthur glanced sourly over my shoulder to the tent where Mark had based himself. "The three of them have been conspiring in there all night. I''d say me being willing to have any of them anywhere near me was probably a major fucking Step of Faith."

    Lancelot bristled at that. "They''ll not harm you. Promise, I do."

    "They significantly outnumber us if they band together. I doubt there would be much we could do - even with you two in full flow - if they decide betrayal is the only way forward.

    I wasn''t so sure about that.

    Sure, there was a time - and not that long ago - that I would have agreed with Arthur. Lancelot was a nightmare with a sword in his hand, and I had no little game, but there were a hundred and fifty men under the command of those three kings - not counting Owain, who I kind of hoped would be at worst neutral in any confrontation.

    That was a lot of arrows, spears and javelins that did not need to get lucky too often to take out the king. I was pretty sure I could bring anyone back from anything short of actual death. But three-on-one odds weren''t ideal. Even then, Arthur being alive at the end of this quest was not the whole ball game. He needed these guys on his side too.

    That gave me a good idea.

    "My lord, can I grab your cloak for a moment?"

    Arthur gave me a puzzled expression, unhooked it, and passed it over.

    What are you thinking, my dear?

    I held the cloak between my hands, examining it. It was soft, some sort of luxury material - who am I, a fucking weaver? -and was emblazoned with the symbol of the Pendragon¡ªa giant, red dragon on a white background.

    There was a faint, very faint line of Qi connecting me to the cloak, so I pushed some energy down it, but it disappeared into the air before connecting.

    I pushed a bit harder, and the same thing happened again. It felt like there was some sort of block in the way.

    It''s not typical for objects not crafted with the intention of holding Qi to be retrofitted, as it were. It could well be that such a working is a touch beyond you at the moment.

    You see, I''ve never really responded all that well to being told ''no''.

    I gathered a huge dollop of Qi and shoved it along the thread of fate, not taking ''no'' for an answer. Even with me giving it my full attention, I didn''t immediately notice any difference.

    But then . . .

    There was a loud tearing noise, and I was through. My Qi flooded into the cloak, which promptly caught fire.

    As it burned, I tried to make the idea in my head take shape. I took the dragon and gave it the firmest suggestions I could. Again, initially, I had no joy, but I had Qi to burn, and this would happen. With all the recklessness of a teenage boy beating one out to a poorly pixellated magazine he found in the woods, I forced the dragon to accept the suggestion.

    With a nicely dramatic chorus of angelic voices, the cloak stopped burning, and light shot upwards. Morgan had done good.

    I crossed to Arthur and fastened it around his shoulders. His eyes regarded me with a damn sight more respect than had been the way he''d traditionally looked at me. "What did you do?" he asked, with just enough reverential awe in his voice to make me feel pretty fine.

    "Let''s just say that if you think you need eyes in the back of your head to stay safe, I''ve been more than happy to oblige."

    From behind him came a low growl and a "What the fuck are you looking at!" and a small ball of flame incinerated an unfortunate fly that wandered too close.

 Chapter 21 - In which I bring the concept of M.A.D to the dark ages

    The rest of the evening passed without incident, and when the kings came together in the light of the morning, there were quite clearly some alliances that had been formed.

    Beric, Mark and Corys had decided that the only way forward was to pool resources and be massive pains in the arse. On the plus side, Owain, since I had - you know - saved not only his life but the lives of all of his men, was Team Arthur. However, as he was down to twenty spears and a handful of camp followers, if push came to shove, the chances were this would get bloody.

    With that in mind, I''d been to see Arthur first thing with a plan. I thought we were on the right track with his new battle cloak, but I wanted to push things a bit further. "In my own time," I explained, "there were these two . . . kingdoms who hated each other. It constantly felt that they would go to war, and the outcome of that for everyone else would have been catastrophic. So, to ensure the prospect of that fight was so awful, neither would contemplate starting it, they both tooled themselves up with the most insane weapons they could think of. It was called Mutually Assured Destruction - M.A.D for short. Basically, fuck with us, and we will fuck you up in return.

    Arthur looked at me for a moment. "That is the most insane policy I have ever heard. You''re telling me in over a thousand years the best diplomatic solution anyone could come up with was ''Don''t try it, pal''?"

    I shrugged. "At the time of my . . . death, it had worked for about fifty years."

    Lancelot had joined us, squatting down to perform a complicated exercise routine. "On board with this plan, I can get."

    "How do you see it working?"

    I could tell Arthur was still not convinced, which was disappointing. "Look, I''m not saying we do anything overly aggressive. There''s a line between ''don''t fuck with us'' and ''fucking want some?!'' The trick is to be belligerent without inviting confrontation.

    A servant approached with mugs of hot water, the movement causing Arthur''s cloak to roar to life¡ªliterally. Then, a red claw extended to smash the tray to the floor., followed by a fireball burning it to cinders.

    The king closed his eyes for a moment. "Somehow, I don''t think we''ll be lacking in belligerence."

    *

    "It therefore seems sensible for us to, cautiously, proceed into the lands of the Fae. If the prophecy is correct, we have already taken the Step of Blood and are now seeking the Step of Faith. I can think of few more demonstrations of ''faith'' than to continue on our current path without a clear direction . . ."

    "My lady wizard. Do you think you can stop that for a moment?"

    "Oh, sorry. Is it bothering you?"

    Scared, baffled eyes continued to regard me with horror.

    "Too much, Big M?"

    I pulled my Qi back inside and let the swirling vortex I''d conjured above our heads collapse down. I''d loaded it up with a touch of my aura and just let it flicker out little suggestions of "be afraid, be very afraid" to the rest of the audience. The little sparks of lightning it kept emitting, along with the rolling thunder, were creating a big mood.

    I think if the idea was to cement in the minds of these kings that you are a terrifying presence, then job done, my dear. I am not sure, however, you have done a lot to convince them to trust you.

    "Counterpoint. Do they trust that I will fuck them up?"

    I realised everyone was still holding their breath. They certainly understand the threat, my dear.

    Arthur''s voice shook everyone out of the silent terror. "I must say I agree with you, King Corys. It seems that the best way for us to take the Step of Faith will be to continue onwards and trust the alliance we have forged."

    There were mutters of assent.

    Then Owain piped up. "Do we have any sense of what manner of beasts we may be encountering? I understand you were all best by Wyverns while I had . . . my own challenges. Can we anticipate similar monsters of power?"

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    Merlin had prepped me on how to answer this question. "We are in the borderlands of the Fae Kingdom, my lord. On the very edge of the territory, we can expect to come across all manner of renegade and exiled creatures. Scavengers, mostly, like the Wyverns, with the possibility of more powerful foes - such as you were unfortunate to confront."

    "And as we go further in?" Mark''s voice slimed its way into the discussion.

    As he appeared constitutionally unable to address me with any sort of honorific, I just looked at him. We had quite the eye-fucking going on before Corys came to his rescue.

    "My lady, do you have any thoughts about what awaits us as we leave the borderlands?"

    I tried to size up the King of Dehuebarch again. I couldn''t help but feel he was being the acceptable face of fuckwittery. He''d never been anything other than polite to me - a bit flirty even - but he was hanging around with two very unpleasant men. Dogs and fleas and all that.

    But he''d been courteous, so I was happy to answer him. "Our chief concern will be stumbling across any of the Fae themselves. I doubt our expedition will be viewed as anything less than a hostile endeavour. We may find ourselves in conflict with them before we can explain our quest. This would be less than ideal. Beyond that, I would anticipate we will likely encounter goblins and orcs, especially around the edges of the territory. We may be able to earn ourselves some credit with the Fae if we exterminate any and all of these we come across."

    "It would seem to me," Beric''s expression was neutral, "we may be wise to stumble across some goblins and orcs, then, as a show of our good faith."

    As he said that word, a little choral music sprung into life.

    "Well, that sounds like we may have stumbled across our second Step, my lords,"

    "Let''s fuck up some Goblins," Lancelot added helpfully.

    *

    So, Goblins are precisely what you would expect.

    If you are expecting something small, green and smelling of shit and blood. Oh, and there are fucking millions of them.

    We''d decided to keep the integrity of the camp for the time being, with each of the kings organising a little scouting just to get the lay of the land. I''d accompanied Owain''s troops whilst Lancelot had stuck with Arthur''s. It seemed a touch like overkill for the two of us to stick together, and - privately - we were worried about any further reduction in the numbers of the men of Gwent. It was great to have his support, but that only mattered if he had the spears to back up the words.

    We were being led by his poacher-in-chief, Burford, who - during the course of the careful hours we explored - I was coming to like. The search was so methodical I couldn''t help but question how they''d fallen victim to the Shriket.

    "The king thought we could take it," was the only response I could get from him on that topic. If he had any words of criticism to add there, he kept them to himself. Having gotten used to the non-stop torrent of moaning from my own side, I quite liked his taciturnity.

    "Something - lots of somethings - up ahead." Burford suddenly appeared next to me. I hadn''t heard him approach at all.

    I followed the direction he was pointing and pushed out with my Qi, trying to sense what might be hidden in the woods. That''s when the smell first hit me.

    "Fuck me, there are a lot of them!"

    We had pulled back to the main camp, and I tried to think of a sensible approach to deal with what I''d seen. If any of the other scouting parties had encountered a smaller group, then it seemed sensible to focus there. Annihilating an isolated warband or a largely empty village would be a much easier show of ''faith'' towards the Fae than tangling with what seemed to be an entire clan on the move.

    But then . . .

    Indeed, my dear. A show of faith needs to have significant weight behind it. If we are looking to earn respect from the Fae, then we are likely to need to do something that will cost us.

    "Dude, that was a lot of green-skinned short arses with axes and spears!"

    And we are asking for a lot of faith.

    *

    And that''s how, the following evening, I found myself standing amongst a shield wall, pushing out every suggestion of calm and confidence I could spare the Qi for.

    We''d spent a long time trying to devise a better plan than ''charge in line¡ªhold position¡ªslaughter,'' but, as Owain finally noted, "the classics are always the best."

    The biggest worry was that the sheer numbers we''d spotted would flank us long before we killed enough to make a difference. That was when Beric and Mark ''volunteered'' to act as flying sentries on the flanks with their heavy horse to keep any attempts to surround us unsuccessful.

    "We all know that they''re totally going to let us die, right?" I asked Arthur. "This is almost exactly the ideal double-cross scenario. They don''t even have to do too much, either. Just be a little slow on the charge, and we''ll be yesterday''s toast."

    "You need to have faith, Morgan." There was that choral music again. "Beric and Mark would have us dead in a heartbeat, but now is not the moment of betrayal. They need to pass this step first. They''ll hold the flank."

    Privately, I thought that was wishful bollocks. But I didn''t want to create even more stress than we were currently experiencing. If Arthur wanted to trust to luck, that was fine. I just ensured I loaded up each of those kings with the heaviest of suggestions <These aren''t the droids you''re looking for> could manage: "You do not betray King Arthur."

    A soft whistle signalled for us to step out from cover.

    "Well, here goes fucking nothing."

    And we crossed from the treeline to appear next to what I''m going to describe as five thousand goblin warriors conservatively.

    It was on.

 Chapter 22 - In which the arses of Goblins are handed to them

    As I quickly realised, the thing about Goblins is that they''re stupid.

    This had advantages but also some pretty significant demerits.

    On the plus side, it wasn''t like we would be up against any military geniuses. And, to be fair, for all his personality defects, Arthur lived for this shit.

    The Britons had long learned their lesson from the Romans. The days of gearing up for individual duels during a battle, undisciplined hordes running pell-mell at each other, had long since been beaten out of them. Too many warriors - and too many war chiefs - had found themselves being cut to pieces by carefully arranged, solid lines of shields and swords to ignore the example.

    Thus, the shield wall.

    Britons were a bit more attached to their spears to abandon them for short swords, but - in some ways - this actually made the British shield wall more lethal than the lines of Roman Legionnaires slowly grinding undisciplined rabbles to dust.

    And, of course, every last man who accompanied their king on this quest was a veteran of countless encounters against the Saxons. In that crucible, you got very good at this form of warfare, or you got very dead, very quickly.

    The Goblins were no Saxons.

    I was about three lines back from the front row, with the strictest of instructions not to work my forward with the rotations. I''d argued, initially - I was stronger and faster than anyone else on the field (with the possible exception of Lancelot) - but I was left in no doubt that when it came to this sort of disciplined warfare, experience trumped anything else.

    I was to watch, learn, and throw as much "devastating magic shit as you''ve got."

    In an ideal world, my dear, you''d be hovering - beyond arrow range - above the conflict and just raining merry hell down on the little green buggers.

    I added ''learn to fly'' to my ''to do'' list, all the time marvelling that I even possessed a list that didn''t just say ''get fucked'' on it. Personal growth.

    So, when our small force stepped out from the cover of the trees and the back rows opened up with arrows and javelins - modesty forbids the mention of the strong blasts of <Unnecessary Sequel Trilogy> - the Goblins predictably lost their minds and charged right at us.

    Even as far away from the action as I was, I felt the impact of their attack hit our shields. Then the screaming started.

    *

    Arthur was on the back of Llameri with ten of Beric''s heavy horses.

    He''d wanted to be in the middle of the shield wall where his expertise with the spear would give the most value, but wiser heads had prevailed. It would have been too easy for a stray knife to find itself in his side - not even ordered by one of the other kings, but their men would understand what Arthur''s death would mean to their master.

    Here, instead, he found himself. On the extreme left side of their formation, charged with killing any Goblins that got it into their heads to try to slip past and around the British shield wall.

    Arthur winced at the impact of - literally - hundreds of green creatures flinging themselves on the spears in the line. He knew that the most significant danger right now was his men becoming overwhelmed by targets. That the sheer volume of attacks was too many for the barricade of wood, leather and iron to hold.

    But then he saw the first of the attackers fall, the shield wall hold and pressure break away like a tide hitting a wave break.

    By the gods, he loved these men. Even those from the other kingdoms. They were lost in an alien world; they were beset by creatures out of mythology; their leaders were in open conflict with each other. And none of it mattered. Nothing other than the shield, the spear and the warrior at their side.

    His cloak hissed and snarled as someone rode up to join him. He wasn''t quite used to Morgan''s gift yet, but he could not deny it was proving to be useful. Certainly, no one was approaching him unseen while the dragon had his back.

    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    He turned, it was ?olgef, Beric''s champion. "They''re spilling around the edge a little. Might be worth encouraging them away from that course of action."

    Arthur nodded, ignoring the lack of a ''sir'' or a ''your majesty''. That would come, or it wouldn''t. Reaching up, he dropped the plate of his dragon helm closed over his face. "Nothing clever, boys. A quick in and out. Let''s just let them know that we are."

    He kicked softly at Llameri''s side, and the eleven giant warhorses were on the move.

    *

    I''d lost count of the streams of lightning and flame I''d launched into the press of Goblins. They were like ants boiling from their nest to assault our line, and nothing seemed to be bringing their attack to an end.

    Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw Arthur''s charge on the far side of the horde. I don''t know about the little green fuckers, but the sight scared the shit out of me. Then Lancelot and the riders from the other side performed a mirror of the manoeuvre, crashing into the side of the column, such as it was, pinning us down.

    The assault was perfectly executed, with all the mounted warriors bringing utter ruin to the Goblins and, at the sound of a horn, being able to pivot around and then back up the hill.

    It was fucking glorious.

    It was at this point, Merlin told me, that a human army would rout.

    They were crashing against an unmoveable object; the death toll on Yoda''s inbred cousins was catastrophic, and now they were facing heavy horses they were ill-equipped to combat. And that went without mentioning the wall of Qi-death I was flinging out any which way I could.

    And that''s where the downside of fighting Goblins came into its own.

    They had no concept of self-preservation.

    We were kicking their arses every way until Sunday, and in any standard confrontation, they''d break and retreat, leaving us to open the victory mead and let the backslapping commence.

    However, despite their losses and despite them being outgunned in any way that usually mattered, these dudes were simply going to keep coming.

    And the men around me were getting tired.

    I switched from blasting off beams of destructive lightning and concentrated on refreshing the stamina of those holding the line.

    Be careful, my dear. Using your Qi in this manner substantially drains your resources.

    "You know, there''s something really fucked up about a process that makes it easier to kill people than it is to keep than alive. I feel I should write to someone about it."

    Maybe another time, my dear.

    "Look, I''m not sure how long they will be able to keep this up unless I help them out."

    And how long will you survive if you drop out of Qi-exhaustion before this is all over?

    I growled in frustration and halved the amount of energy I was directing into the men around me. It wouldn''t be enough to restore them completely, but it was better than nothing.

    And then - and I am not wholly sure how it happened - the man in front of me stumbled just as the guy in the front row looked to switch out for a break.

    I''d watched these veterans perform this shuffle countless times during the fight and had been impressed by the smooth economy with which they achieved the swap during a pitched battle.

    So, seeing it go tits up was a surprise. That''s my excuse as to why, without thinking, I stepped forward to fill the gap, hauling the guy who was retreating backwards.

    It was then I realised I''d made a couple of fairly significant errors.

    The first was that I was at the front of a shield wall and had no shield. This is what was known in the trade as a ''schoolboy error''.

    Fortunately, Drynwyn was drawn and was perfectly capable of fucking up anything that thought it was a good idea to come too close.

    However, I sensed the second error was likely to prove a touch more costly. You see, the man in front of me had been one of Mark''s retinue. And judging by the knife he had just slipped between my shoulder blades, his little ''fall'' had less to do with unstable footing and more of, you know, a full-on assassination plot.

    If that were the extent of the problem, we''d have been in gravy. Without wishing to brag, we''d long moved past the point where a little casual backstabbing was going to put me off my game. However, those men of Arthur''s who were in the line alongside me were somewhat protective of their resident nuclear bomb.

    They completely lost their shit and chopped the assassin to pieces.

    This was, understandably, poorly received by everyone else in the shield wall who, not being privy to the half-arsed attempt on my life, could only see the men of Dumnonia going to town on someone under a different flag.

    As you can imagine, this did little for unit cohesion.

    The shield wall bent, bowed and then snapped - hundreds of green bastards flooding into the gaps. This gave me a terrible vision of the last time I''d witnessed a shield wall break - when Cedric had finally overcome Bors'' defence on the retreat from Isca.

    Men were fighting men. Men were fighting Goblins. Goblins - I swear - were fighting Goblins. As I might have mentioned, they weren''t the smartest tools in the box.

    And then a horn blew, and Arthur was with us, his horse rearing on its back legs and crushing Goblin skulls left and right. Trust me, it was a full-on ''Aslan off the Stone Table'' moment.

    Someone was shouting orders, and the melee was slowly pulling itself into order. Amongst the shambles and just on the edge of chaos, our formation shuddered, and a circle formed. Only two deep, but, fuck me, these guys had balls.

    I''d have been feeling pretty good about things, knife still sticking out of my back aside, had not, at that precise moment, a second - equally as big - Goblin army not appeared.

    Ah. Well, that''s not ideal.

 Chapter 23 - In which the dangers of profiteering are explored

    The first of the competitors were starting to arrive at Tintagel.

    With just under a week to go before Guinevere opened proceedings, Tasko was faced with a dilemma. He had to introduce the newcomers to life in the castle and outline the various events that would be taking place, all while navigating the potential for profit and peril.

    Fortunately, a number of the merchants and a decent cross-section of the entertainers had also arrived early, their excited chatter and laughter filling the air. The dark-skinned man reflected that maybe his announcement of the event may have been a touch more hysterical than intended - so there was plenty to do. And, more importantly, plenty to spend money on.

    Tasko had tried to negotiate a cut of this action with Bors, but he found the big man extremely distracted. "Do what you think is best" was the only answer he got to his representations.

    That is why he and P?ps were sitting looking at columns of numbers, trying to second-guess at what stage of skimming off the top they would start to lose limbs.

    "It''s a trick," P?ps said for the umpteenth time. "He''s warned you to run a tight ship. ''Do what you think is best'' sounds like a dare to see if you''ll take the bait."

    Tasko grimaced. The potential money on the table here was eye-watering. He didn''t need to take too much of a percentage here to be set for the rest of his life. Providing, of course, he didn''t take so much that it was the cause of his brutal and violent demise. The smart play was to lowball it and let the coins trickle in over the next few weeks. Sure, he wouldn''t be coming out of things that far ahead, but at least he would still have a head.

    On the other hand, neither he nor P?ps was constitutionally prepared to leave so much profit hanging there without at least trying to get some of it to drop into their pockets . . .

    "Philosophically," Tasko began, "what I think is best is to maximise my cut. It could well be that Sir Bors is so impressed with our work that he is encouraging me to take my due."

    P?ps let that idea flat in the air for a moment before shaking his head, snorting and directing attention back to the ledger.

    The Grand Tournament was shaping up to be spectacular. Several of the petty kingdoms of the north had clubbed together to organise their own portal, and a steady drip of fur-clad Celts from the hills, valleys, and glens was appearing at Tintagel''s gates. As many were the size of Bors himself, this was starting to cause comment. Indeed, such was the buzz around the forthcoming event that had been generated, there were even Saxons appearing under a flag of truce.

    If either Tasko or P?ps could have cleared these minds of their fear of Bors, they would have recognised they were achieving something quite unusual: a gathering of race, religion and creed rarely seen across the island. As it was, at a moment when they should have been basking in their triumph, they were scrabbling around in a fog of paranoia and second-guessing.

    Tasko took a deep drag from a bottle of his finest wine. "So, what do you reckon? 20%"

    P?ps head wobbled from side to side. "I don''t know. Seems high . . ."

    And so they went back to going around and around - trying to parse Bors'' words.

    *

    If the big man had any memory of speaking to the merchant recently, he honestly would not have been able to recall it. He was, of course, dimly aware that there was quite a lot of activity around him, but if you asked him precisely what was occurring, he would have had to beg forgiveness. The Tournament was coming along¡ªanything else was noise.

    If he had any impression of Tasko or P?ps at all, it was of two very useful mice that seemed oddly determined to avoid eating any cheese without checking with him first.

    He hadn''t given a fuck before he heard the news about Igraine. And he gave even less of one now.

    It had been all Guinevere could do to keep him from suiting up and tracking down the quest party.

    "What do you think you will be able to do?" she asked him.

    "Arthur needs to be warned!"

    "Warned as to what?" The queen dug her fingers into his arm as she was dragged along behind him. It was quite an unedifying sight, she was sure. "Do you think he trusts these men a jot anyway? He will be taking every possible precaution as it is. If you somehow manage to catch up with them - and how likely do you really think that will be? - what will you tell him? ''Hi mate, one of these kings murdered your mother.'' How do you see Arthur reacting to that news?"

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    "He''ll make sure he finds out which of them killed her. By any means necessary."

    "Exactly. There''s a bigger picture here, Sir Bors." Guinevere dragged herself past him and put both hands on his chest. "Will you stop!" He tried to take another step forward. "As your queen, I order you to stop!"

    Bors finally caught up with her tone and came to a halt. "What bigger picture?"

    "Arthur needs these men to support him; they don''t have to do it with happiness in their hearts. They don''t even need to do it willingly. But the outcome of this quest has to be that they support him as the Pendragon of the British. If you blunder in there, throwing around accusations, he will absolutely lose his shit and start taking heads. Any chance of building an alliance will be gone because he will fuck everyone up to get at the truth as to who killed Igraine. We need to be smarter than that."

    Now the intensity of his white-hot anger had faded, Bors found himself looking at the queen with frustration. "They killed her, Gwin. One of those bastards came into the castle, her home, and threw her out of a fucking window. And they got away with it. That is not acceptable!"

    "No. Not it is not. And we will make them pay for it. But not in a way that destroys everything for which she worked so hard. She wanted Arthur as the Pendragon more than anything."

    "So what do you suggest that we do?"

    And wasn''t that the problem? Because she had no idea how to make this right.

    *

    Tasko had a plan.

    Between him and P?ps, they had settled on a sum that they felt was small enough to be acceptable payment for their services but large enough to have made all the stress worthwhile.

    After they''d helped the latest arrivals settle in - three insanely buff Northmen that spoke no version of any language Tasko had ever heard of but had chests of gold to pay their entry fee to the Tournament - the merchant and his bodyguard had decided to lurk near Bors'' accommodation to see if they were able to get a formal - or even an informal - nod on their calculations.

    "What''s the worst that can happen?" P?ps kept saying. "It''s not like he''s going to do anything more than tell us we are out of line and to rein it in a little. Then we negotiate. And, for what it is worth, I think we''re offering a good deal."

    Tasko was about to reply when he caught sight of Bors stalking their way. They hurried to his side and followed him as he walked. "Sir Bors, if we could have but a minute of your time. We want to clarify some things about the ancillary costs around the Tournament."

    If Bors heard them, he gave no sign of it and continued to walk, muttering under his breath.

    P?ps took up the conversational mantle. "We appreciate you are busy, sir, but if we can just get some clarity over percentages¡ªnothing complicated, I assure you¡ªit would be helpful for us to know where we stand before the Tournament kicks off proper."

    Bors continued to stride forward, seemingly not hearing a word that was being said.

    Puffing out his cheeks, Tasko made one last effort. "If you are too busy, my lord, we are happy to direct our proposal to the queen if that would help. After all, we do not wish to unnecessarily take up any of your valuable time."

    At the word ''queen'', the big man suddenly stopped and twisted to seize Tasko by the throat, lifting him and then driving him backwards to crash into a wall. P?ps grabbed hold of Bors'' arm to try to break the grip, but it was like trying to dislodge a castle.

    "It is not acceptable!" Bors bellowed into Tasko''s face. "I tell you! The queen! Not. Fucking. Acceptable. There will be hell to pay!" And with that, he dropped the spluttering merchant to the floor and went through the door to his quarters, slamming it behind him with such force that the hinges snapped.

    P?ps rushed to his master''s side, pulling out one of the remarkably expensive elixirs he''d been able to procure since arriving at Tintagel. They were in a surprisingly plentiful supply in Dumnonia, and despite the eye-watering price, he knew that such things were vanishingly rare across the rest of their trade route. He figured he would be able to get four or five times what the crate of these things had cost him when they finally got back on the road.

    It was, therefore, to the man''s immense credit that he only paused for several heartbeats before pouring it down Tasko''s throat. The choking man immediately stopped gasping for air like a captured fish, and a more normal colour returned to his face. His crushed trachea rebuilt itself in seconds- a not exceptionally comfortable feeling for someone used to physical brutality.

    They sat together for a few moments whilst the adrenaline of the moment washed away. Then Tasko raised the scroll on which they had finalised their figures.

    "Well, I guess he was clear enough there."

    P?ps nodded, trying not to look at the door through which Bors had passed. To think, before he had met the man, he had heard that the giant warrior had a reputation for being somewhat naive in the course of business.

    "Indeed. I suggest we revisit all of our numbers and ensure we are being as transparent as possible. If that were his reaction to proposing a little light profiteering, I would worry as to how he may view some of the other contracts which we have put in place."

    The two had only just hobbled out of sight before there was a burst of raised voices from behind the door with the broken hinges¡ªalthough it was mostly the female voice that was raised¡ªand then Bors reappeared, red-faced, eyes cast down at the floor.

    He cleared his throat. "I''m told that was rude. My apologies. My wife asks if you would like to come in for some supper, and you can explain what you wanted."

    He looked up at the empty space in front of him

    "Fuck''s sake!"

    Grimacing - Mrs Bors could be tricky when things she asked for did not come to pass - the big man gingerly rehung his front door on its hinges and returned inside.

 Chapter 24 - In which we learn of the ball-ache that are Hobgoblins

    The funny thing was, our casualties were not actually that high¡ªand those that were had largely been caused by our little internal security snafu.

    "You holding up, pretty hair?" Lancelot removed the knife from my back and hurled it at an approaching goblin. The creature, with the blade embedded in its eye, was flung back into the advancing horde.

    "Sure!" As soon as the blade was gone, my skin reknit as good as new. "This doesn''t feel like it''s going as well as could be hoped?"

    Arthur jumped down from Llameri and slapped Lancelot on the back. "Outstanding. The way you turned that group was a thing of beauty!" Lancelot grinned and offered his own congratulations for Arthur''s own death-dealing. I felt quite left out of the sausage-fest.

    Nevertheless, I took the opportunity of them tugging each other off to take in more about our current situation. We''d lost, perhaps, five or six spearmen, with another ten to fifteen in various states of mangled. The goblins were as focused on biting and scratching as using the makeshift weapons they held.

    I made sure anyone from Dumnonia who needed an elixir got a sip or two, and then was also pretty free with the liquid with anyone who I felt had a positive rating on my internal ''dickometre.''

    Our losses looked pretty rosey compared to the goblins, whose fallen carpeted the field like the aftermath of a frog genocide. Like, they''d been properly done over. There had to be at least half of the original army lying dead and dying around us, the vast majority of whom had just ground themselves to mincemeat against our shield wall. Arthur and Lancelot''s devastating charges had accounted for several hundred more squashed corpses. In any normal situation, these guys would be fleeing for some significant wound licking.

    And yet . . .

    The arrival of the same sort of numbers again in the second goblin army was a bugger. The sheer volume of shrieking creatures we were now looking at was pushing things beyond Zulu territory and into the realms of 300. Don''t get me wrong, I was all for the men oiling up and going full Leonidas here - Lancelot wasn''t the only one who would really sparkle being filmed by Zack Snyder - but I''d rather hoped not to end my time in the dark ages being filled full of holes by goblin arrows.

    Arthur brought me back into the real world with a slap on my back that I couldn''t help but think was a little less fulsome than the one he gave Lancelot. "And I hear you caused no little damage yourself, wizard? The bards will sing of your deeds this day!"

    "Sounds lovely. Of course, some of us need to survive in order to tell any stories."

    Arthur laughed at that. I''m glad one of us was in a good mood. "We''re fine. Our biggest challenge was going to be the flanking of the ends of the shield wall. And that nearly happened more times than we might have hoped. Fortunately, we had Lancelot to take care of that!"

    "And you, my king."

    "Not as impressively as you!"

    "Too kind, sir."

    The noise of my dry retching ended the collective love-in. Arthur appeared to sense my lack of being remotely impressed. "What I mean is that if I thought we could have established a ring formation in the middle of the field, this would have been my absolute first choice. We''re golden here."

    "Dude, we''re surrounded. By thousands of goblins. And we just killed a significant number of their mates."

    "Precisely, we''ve got them exactly where we want them."

    I was about to reply to that little dose of wishful thinking when I realised there was a complete lack of panic in the men. Even the other kings, who could reasonably be assumed to be giving Arthur hell for the failure of his battle plan, were calmly going amongst their men.

    Well, apart from Mark, who was leaning over his litter''s edge, trying to grab the arse of his servant. I idly wondered if he had been responsible for the little assassination attempt against me. I assumed not. There was a lot of water still to flow under the bridge on this quest, and it struck me he was the type to want to be around for the final moment.

    For what it is worth, I think you are right, my dear. I see little benefit for any of the kings in your death before the completion of the three Steps. That you were responsible for passing the Step of Blood should give anyone plotting your demise pause.

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    "Mind you, the fact that Caeldfwch''s key purpose is to negate my power, it may be felt any opportunity to take me out would more than compensate for not getting hold of the sword . . . "

    Good point, my dear.

    I waited for Merlin to say more. Perhaps a few words of encouragement or solace. Nothing appeared. "Is that it, Big M?"

    Sorry? Did you want more? I agree with you. It will probably be worth them killing you - by any means necessary - even at the loss of the sword.

    "Fuck''s sake, mate. Never take up a position with the Samaritans."

    I was distracted from consideration of my impending death at the hands of three kings of England by Owain pushing his way through to me. "What do you think they''re waiting for?"

    The King of Gwent had clearly been in the thick of things, covered as he was in blood. I was assuming at least most of it was goblins. He saw me looking and grinned. "Had some tensions to work out."

    I could dig that.

    Lancelot pointed to a commotion at the back of the second goblin army. "Taking charge is someone."

    I looked at where he was indicating and made out a goblin built on a slightly different scale than the others we''d been slaughtering. It shared the same general characteristics - green, hunched shoulders, spikey ears and sharp teeth - but it was the size of Bors.

    "Oh, fuck," Arthur sword. "It''s a hobgoblin!"

    *

    There is a long and undistinguished history to the race of goblins. Although they are primarily confined to the realm of the fae, they can be found in enclaves across the real world.

    "Like Knockers?" I added helpfully.

    Yes, thank you. I don''t really need the colour commentary, to be honest.

    "No worries, dude. I just realised I hadn''t said that word lately. And I like it. Knockers."

    Moving back to your imminent life and death struggle . . . Goblins are pretty much exactly as they say on the tin. Small, aggressive, and they tend to attack from large groups. They are not too dangerous to armed men unless they arrive in overwhelming numbers. Or - and this is where it becomes significant to your current situation, my dear - a Hobgoblin organises them.

    "And that''s what''s about to happen here?"

    Well, my dear, it does explain why the fae would view us removing this army as an act of good ''faith''. An undisciplined horde - no matter how big - would cause the fae as much challenge as a cloud of flies. Irritating, but entirely removeable. However, if they are led by a Hobgoblin . . .

    "What? What change does a Hobgoblin cause?"

    Arthur obviously thought the question was for him. "It makes me wish I had three times as many men."

    I''d like to think that the affection Arthur had shown Lancelot earlier did not have too much to do with my following actions. But I think I''d be lying.

    I drew Drynwyn and sighted down its length. "Say no more, blud."

    And I let the Hobgoblin have it with <Unnecessary Sequel Trilogy> combined with added flame of pissed-off sword.

    There was just enough time for Merlin to shout No! as the stream of arcing flame lightning leapt out to flash across the distance between the two armies. It struck the Hobgoblin in the centre of its chest and . . . did absolutely nothing at all.

    My dear, goblins are eminently susceptible to Qi manipulation. Hobgoblins, however, by their very nature as mutated beings, have developed through an intuitive ability to harness ambient Qi. They feed on such attacks! And, at their worst, they are actually able to harness a Qi technique and . . . shield up, my dear.

    I was just able to raise a thin dome of Earth Qi in time to deflect at least some of the energy of the returning strike away from me. The rest, unfortunately, I ended up tanking.

    This was not a whole lot of fun.

    It took a few minutes for me to regain control of my muscles - my first course of action was to swap in a pair of clean underclothes - but I felt this was an instructive lesson. "Okay. So, no flinging Qi at a Hobgoblin. Message heard and understood."

    Arthur and Lancelot were looking at me with expressions of alarm. "What happened?!"

    I retook my feet and subtly used a little flare of Drynwyn''s fire to burn away the little puddle I was lying in. "No worries at all. Just a little light cultivator back and forth."

    "Your arse he kicked," Lancelot said, grinning.

    "Lulling it into a false sense of security, I promise you."

    Trumpets blew behind me, and I was aware of a ramp-up in the general tension. Arthur began issuing a stream of orders I couldn''t quite follow, but it seemed like his men were all over it.

    The ring we were in seemed to contract as the press of bodies all moved in unison and then pushed outwards as the spearmen re-established themselves in a slightly different formation.

    The little cavalry we possessed had spaced themselves around the ring, with little units of men - some with spears, others with bows and javelins - clustered around them. By the taut faces and white knuckles, it seemed to me that no one was any longer feeling cocky about how this was going to go.

    And then Arthur''s voice was in my ear. "Wizard, I need height. If we''re stood here when the armies met, we''ll be crushed flat. The Hobgoblin will ensure a much more disciplined attack pattern, and we will just be ground down to dust. I need to have higher ground."

    "I can''t portal this many people, my lord. Even at full power, that would be beyond me. And I''m nowhere near that!"

    Arthur shook his head, but it was Merlin who answered.

    Interesting. Arthur has formed up as if you were to receive an attack from below. It strikes me, my dear, he does not need you to transport the army out of here. He needs you to create a slope.

    I looked at the flat plain that divided our small circle of humans from a large - fucking massive - mob of bellowing, green monsters.

    "And I can do that?"

    No idea, my dear. In theory, sure. You have the Qi sensitivity to achieve it. I think it would be sensible for us to find out.

    Awesome. Because I''m always at my best under pressure.

 Chapter 25 - In which I get my horticulture on

    What we think of as ''the ground'' is actually an extremely complex endeavour. We can get a bit obsessed about the pretty bits we see¡ªthe flowers, the grass, the trees, and suchlike¡ªbut if we scrape the surface, as it were, there''s a pretty convoluted arrangement going on down there.

    I dare say I would have found it all fascinating if I wasn''t trying to make the whole FUCKING THING MOVE!

    Are you open to a bit of advice, my dear?

    "No, not at all, Big M. I think it''s much better I blunder around like a lost soul, twiddling at knobs and fiddling with dials, whilst a massive goblin army runs straight at me. Nothing like discovery learning, is there?"

    You only need to ask, my dear.

    I dropped into my Artist''s Studio, hoping the time dilation would give me enough time to figure out, literally, how to make a mountain out of a molehill.

    "So, spill," I asked, a touch ungraciously.

    If Merlin took offence, he hid it well. Probably until the next time he planned to punish me in a strange and esoteric way. You are trying to achieve your goal through brute strength. There will be a time - probably not too far in the future - when you can point at a patch of earth and tell it to rise into a column, and it will simply obey the force of your will.

    "I''m sensing you''re about to say today is not that day."

    I am afraid not, my dear. However, he had obviously seen my face drop, we do tend to achieve more with honey than the stick, if I can mix my metaphor.

    Having had one rather . . . creative partner who very much enjoyed the use of both, I was unsure of the validity of this argument. Nevertheless, I was open to seeing how this would play out. "Go on."

    Arthur does not need a massive column to rise. All that is required is a relatively small area of this plan to raise by perhaps five feet. It''s the sort of weft and wain that would probably happen over the course of centuries. So, you''re not trying to force the land into doing something it does not already wish to do, provided you can supply the energy it needs to do this.

    "So, I should just ask nicely?"

    Of course not. That would be ridiculous. You ask nicely, give as much Wood Qi as you have into the area you are interested in, and probably add in a nice blast of warmth - via your helpful sword - to really get the juices flowing. Then, when it is all good and loosened up, shape it into what you want: preferably a reasonably sharp incline that a professional army can use to keep an onrushing foe at arm''s length.

    I took a deep breath, refreshed every bit of Qi by draining one of my smaller mana stones, took an Epic-tier Elixir of Wellness for luck and popped back to the battlefield.

    First things first, I knelt down and placed the palms of my hands in the wet mud, reaching downwards in the earth, ignoring the rocks and dead vegetable matter I''d been trying to yank upwards. This time, instead, I found a bunch of root networks that seemed open to the suggestion of rapid and unrestrained growth. The idea was to go for some sizeable displacement upwards, which would lift the ring of soldiers straight up and give them Obi-Wan''s favoured tactical position.

    Next, I injected my Wood Qi. There''s a chance I was a bit heavy-handed with it. I''m the girl who sees two teaspoons of garlic in the recipe and gets out the ladle.

    Goodness me, my dear. Are we aiming for a hill or a new mountain range?

    Under pressure from my Wood Qi, the roots I had identified swelled to twenty times their original size. God knows what trees they were attached to, but those motherfuckers had suddenly developed some hench foundations.

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    I felt the ground beneath my feet begin to shake and tried to calm the whole thing down. I was planning on smooth, gentle growth that would leave Artur''s spears still standing, not lying flat on their backs.

    Little bit of heat now. No, not too much. Just give the roots something to grow towards.

    "You heard him, Drynwyn. Just a touch, though. We''re literally dead if you scorch earth this field."

    Your lack of fucking faith disturbs me, and the sword let out a soft, billowing heat that swam out over the plain.

    The roots reacted immediately. Already swollen to a ridiculous degree, they now used all of that stored-up energy to grow towards the heat source, pushing dirt and rock upwards as they came.

    Initially, this was all gravy. Through my connection to the source of their rapid growth, I could direct what was going on. It was not unlike an organic game of Tetris whereby I slotted in different growths to create the edifice we needed to make it through this engagement alive.

    Slowly, we began to rise in the air. Various spears from each of the gathered armies cried out in alarm as they felt the push on their feet, but I was glad to see no one was dumped on their arse.

    But it was taking everything I had to keep this as steady as possible. I caught Arthur''s eye, and he nodded appreciatively at me.

    I fucking hated that a little ball of pride flipped in my stomach. So, I was a poodle now, was I? I was just happy for a pat on the head? This flare of irritation caused a momentary lapse of concentration, which made us jerk upwards a bit too quickly, so I had to damp down on my emotions.

    We were on a growing mound already six feet in the air, and the goblins were still not quite in javelin range. If they were surprised to see their target on a hill blowing up like a balloon, it didn''t seem to cause them to pause. I wondered what the Hobgoblin was making of my success at geographical engineering.

    We were ten feet up and looking down the sort of steep incline that would make a skier orgasm when Merlin started to fuss.

    Cut off the heat now, my dear. It''s all getting a little out of hand.

    Drynwyn stopped as soon as Merlin spoke, but the roots did not take the hint, contriving to reach upwards. I was now at that stage of Tetris where you''re just flinging blocks around in gay abandon, hoping something sticks.

    "Big M! Ideas?!" I yelled, pushing down with everything I had, trying to keep the roots now seeking to break free from the bulging earth beneath the ground.

    There was the most extended silence I have ever experienced, and then the wizard finally spoke.

    Okay. Here''s what we''re going to do. In a not-unexpected turn of events, you''ve taken a subtle and intricate bit of cultivation and jumped on it with both feet. Far too much pressure is developing beneath our feet, so we will need to let it out or risk a cataclysmic explosion.

    "Dude, if I let these roots burst from the ground, we''re going to be seeing the sort of uncontrolled eruption that occurs when an incel finally tricks a girl with low, low standards into bed."

    Thank you for that image, my dear. I would, in answer, direct your attention to thousands of goblins closing on our position and suggest that said eruption in their lives would be pretty detrimental to their goal of killing and eating us.

    Sweat pouring from my face, I looked around at the goblins swarming up and around the base of my newly created hillock. It was what I was confident the American military would describe as a ''target-rich environment''.

    I pressed down as hard as I could on the roots seeking to pop out under the feet of those on the hill, simultaneously releasing any control on the roots elsewhere around me.

    To describe what happened next, I''m going to need to rely on the medium of YouTube. I need you to recall a video that I am sure you have seen. We''re in a massive splash park, and a little kid is sitting on a giant inflatable in the middle of a pool. Their massive, cheeseburger-munching parent is at the top of a water slide. As the video progresses, they throw their lard-filled body down the slide, careening downwards with all the grace and elegance of a falling meteorite. They reach the end of the slide and are propelled upwards, dropping to fall onto the inflatable.

    Tiny little kid is then catapulted into the stratosphere. Much hilarity ensues.

    The roots that exploded from the crowd amongst the charging goblins sent the little green things reaching for the sky like they were moonbound. Likewise, the level of impaling mayhem that took place would have made the Shriket''s day.

    In moments, the area around our hill had transformed into a Vlad-the-Impaler''s-nightmare of thick, gore-encrusted roots that thrust to the sky like angry fingers. Some of the roots had four or five of the things spiked through.

    "Fucking hell," Lancelot whispered from my side. "Piss you off, I would not like."

    It seemed the wrong time to tell him that this little slaughter was basically a hotfix on top of a fucked-up plan. Especially as the rest of the spearmen were staring at me with a look of terrified awe.

    I could see how Merlin might have got addicted to this feeling.

    I''d moved the earth to save their lives and then obliterated a large section of an attacking army. Even I was pretty impressed with myself.

    But then the drums restarted, the Hobgoblin shrieked orders, and the remaining goblins were climbing the newly-established hill to where our spears awaited them.

    This is not over yet, my dear.

 Chapter 26 - In which we are ALL out of gum

    Given a choice, fighting downhill is megatons easier than fighting uphill.

    And it''s not just the fatigue of trying to work your way up the slope, although that, of course, is a major factor. If you''re a skinny little green turd carrying weapons on your back, and you''ve been fast marching across the countryside to even get to the fucking battle, running up a steep incline is a bit of a stretch.

    So, yeah. Knackered warriors are rarely the most effective.

    But the key advantage is reach.

    What had, a few moments before, been the reasonably inevitable slaughter of a plucky circle of spears just waiting for a goblin wave to wash over them was now something quite different.

    At Arthur''s command, the front row of spearmen planted their shields into the ground and braced behind them. In doing so, they abandoned their other weapons; their sole role in the battle to come was to hold the line. Whereas in a usual shield wall, they could expect to cycle in and out of position when exhaustion told, Arthur''s plan for defending this hill was a bit different.

    All of the fighting was going to take place above them.

    I''d carefully positioned myself as far away from the Hobgoblin as possible. I''d be launched

    and <Unnecessary Sequel Trilogy> down the slope for as long as my Qi held out, and I didn''t want to accidentally supercharge that fucker.

    "Hold!" Arthur shouted, circling Llameri behind the firm row of shields separating him from the goblins. They were finding running up the hill a bit of a ballache. And things would not become sunshine and rainbows when they finally reached us.

    The rest of our mounted men were positioned at key positions, ready to stop any attempts to climb over the shield wall. Lancelot, for reasons that passeth understanding, stood five feet in front of the rest of us.

    Then I saw the bobbing head of the Hobgoblin opposite him. Ah, he was a barbarian with a plan.

    "Men of Briton!" Arthur''s voice carried easily across my newly constructed hilltop. "I feel it is time for these creatures to find out what it means to oppose us. What you say you?"

    There was a satisfyingly unified roar of ascent.

    "For Briton!" he yelled, lowering his helm and raising his spear.

    I''m sure I was not the only one who heard the reply, ''For Arthur!'' from a large majority of the troops. I had a second to wonder what the other kings would make of that, but then the green tide hit our shields, and I was suddenly pretty busy.

    *

    Lancelot had long understood that he didn''t see the world in the same way as others.

    He''d realised, whilst barely out of his crib, that he was different. But it wasn''t until he had his first sword in his hand - a wooden toy made for him by an uncle - that he made that difference count.

    Apparently, the rest of the world didn''t perceive others in terms of how quickly you could kill them. When he''d mentioned to his mother that there were areas of people that seemed to call to him when armed, she had cackled madly.

    Now he was thinking about it, he realised she did that disturbingly often.

    After years and years of fighting, his ability to see to the heart of the matter - as it were - had been honed to such an extent that it often seemed that only he was moving in real-time. His opponents had long become all these flashing points of weakness, slowly arranging themselves into an easy-cutting position.

    It had turned him into the terror of the group of islands around where they had lived. By his fifteenth birthday, his mother was the de facto leader of a whole heap of subjugated people, and he needed to explore the mainland for new challenges. The only time his extraordinary precognition in battle had failed him was in his fight against the cultivator in charge of the Saxons. He didn''t know how that man had defeated him, but he was committing everything to ensure the rematch went another way.

    It turned out Lancelot had quite a lot to commit to.

    He didn''t much care for fighting goblins, though. They were too fragile for proper training, and their bodies were essentially one big weak spot. It felt like he only had to look at them for them to fall down dead.

    He''d positioned himself in front of the shield wall because he didn''t believe there''d be anything left for him to do otherwise. His mother had explained to him that not everyone was as capable as he, but he simply could not believe anyone would have a problem slaughtering these squishy things.

    He was, though, much more interested in the Hobgoblin.

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    That the creature had taken a full-on blast from pretty hair and returned it with interest was a very good sign. That suggested he might get a decent workout from fighting it. Maybe nothing to match the Shriket - that had been a good fight! He planned to have its head mounted and given to the other pretty hair back at Tintagel - but better than wasting energy scrapping with these other pathetic things.

    Lancelot glanced back at Arthur, waiting for the signal he could attack. His greatest fear was that something would happen to the Hobgoblin before he had a chance to get at it . . .

    *

    It was going to be tight, Arthur knew.

    Thanks to the wizard, they had a chance, which certainly had not been the case before the hill appeared. The roots exploding from the ground had further closed the equation, but it was all still on a knife-edge. Despite the confidence he was projecting to the men, it would not take much for the thin circle they''d salvaged to be overwhelmed.

    It was his experience that quality often could overcome quantity. But there were limits. When you were this outmanned - or outgoblined, he guessed - it did not need too many things to go wrong for that to be that.

    Looking down the hill, Arthur met Lancelot''s beseeching expression and - with a sigh - nodded his ascent. The barbarian careened down the slope like a released arrow, aiming directly at the Hobgoblin.

    They needed that commander down if they were to have any chance at all. Merlin had made clear, via the wizard, that the goblins would not rout while that mutant spawn still lived. Arthur sent a little prayer to gods he was not sure he believed in to speed Lancelot on his mission.

    And then the two forces met.

    *

    I''d blown a couple of waves of goblins away fairly easily before I realised I was making things harder for the rest of the formation.

    With so few battle Kermits willing to step into my cone of fiery death - even under the mental pressure of their Hobgoblin commander - it was adding pressure to those holding the line in the rest of the circle.

    Puffing out my cheeks, I pulled back towards the middle of the circle to see if there was a different way I could support. It looked to me that Mark''s men just to my left were struggling a little, so I joined their ranks.

    The press of goblins here was so tight that the little buggers were able to climb over each other to get above the men holding the shields. As I watched, more than a few men were hauled bodily out of the line and back into the horde to be ripped apart.

    I didn''t think there was much even my strongest elixir could do in that situation.

    To be honest, I wasn''t feeling being in the middle of Mark''s men - considering all the stabby action that happened last time - but if that portion of the circle gave way, we''d all be up shit creek in a chocolate teapot.

    There''s a chance the stress of battle is affecting my metaphor game.

    Bracing myself for imminent betrayal, I muscled my way to the very front of the defenders.

    What confronted me was an acrobat''s wet dream. There was a leaning tower of goblins, six green bodies high, letting a constant stream of goblins clamber up and leap over the top of the shields. As I watched, more and more of them were avoiding being skewered by the defenders, jumping on top of the men, savaging anything they could get their teeth and claws into.

    Little known fact about goblins, Merlin muttered as I slashed one through with Drynwyn, pivoting to boot one back over the shield wall and down the hill, they are absolutely terrified of snakes. I believe it is some sort of primaeval, evolutionary thing.

    "Awesome." I ripped one of them off my forearm - on to which it had clamped down its gnashers whilst simultaneously jamming its sword into my guts - and used it to beat a few of its fellows to death before it fell apart in my hand. "Was that just some general trivia? Or was it the start of a plan?"

    It just occurs to me that, when in a battle frenzy, I imagine you may be able to slip in a suggestion or two.

    I stepped back through the thin line, allowing one of Mark''s men to take over my position, and concentrated on the whispy strings - millions upon millions of them - that connected me to the goblin horde.

    I decided subtlety would not be the order of the day here. Visualising that scene from the opening of the Last Crusade where Indy falls into the circus wagon, I pushed out the biggest ''Hiss!'' I could make.

    The impact was fairly immediate.

    If you''ve never seen several hundred goblins shit themselves and run for it at the same time, it''s going to be difficult to describe. But let''s give it a go. Try imagining a mass of writhing squid blasting out ink in order to escape, and you still wouldn''t come close.

    The entire section of the battlefield I was facing cleared like someone had announced a sale at Primark.

    I took the reprieve to check out how Lancelot was doing.

    *

    Lancelot was bored.

    The Hobgoblin was built for absorbing punishment and had some decent mental attacks - it was how it kept the army in line, after all - but there was nothing of interest here.

    He was pleased to see the rest of the defenders were getting a decent workout, though. How else could you hone the edge of a weapon without thinning it a little? Anyone who died fighting goblins was not someone he wanted around his king. Arthur deserved only the best. He was just toying with the Hobgoblin until he judged the war band had taken as much experience from the exercise as they could.

    Lancelot focused on one of the glowing weak spots in the creature''s leg and stomped his foot down on it. As expected, this caused the Hobgoblin to lose its footing, Lancelot spinning his blade to lop off its left hand.

    That gave him plenty of time to spot the mass of green pressing upon the pretty hair''s position to suddenly lose their shit and run away.

    He laughed at the joke - they''d shit themselves. He was a pretty funny guy.

    This was over.

    He let his blade complete its outswing and leaned into its weight, spinning around in a circle and coming back with interest to chop the Hobgoblin in two. He thought about taking its head as a trophy for a moment, but the other pretty hair wouldn''t like this one. It didn''t have lovely feathers.

    As soon as the creature fell into two separate piles of viscera, the spell it had over the other goblins broke. With a unified shriek, the little green monsters went into full retreat.

    *

    Llameri reared upwards and whinnied.

    Arthur raised his sword to the sky, conscious that the sun was bound to flash off both his horse''s armour and his own. It didn''t hurt to take such moments to reinforce his image. One of the things he loved about his horses was her understanding of the importance of visual branding.

    "Britain!" he bellowed.

    He was pretty damned gratified to hear "Arthur!" came as a response.

    Only Morgan took the time to glance at the expressions on the rest of the kings'' faces as their own men acclaimed the leadership of the man who would be Pendragon.

    They did not look especially pleased.

 Chapter 27 - In which I get a lesson in realpolitik

    We stayed on the hill for a couple of days.

    Merlin had explained that the world of the Fae had a time-dilation effect that meant we''d not been away from home as long as it felt like we had. It wasn''t as strong as my Artist''s Studio, but it still meant there was not really as much impetus to rush onward as might have been thought.

    This was pretty good news, as our small force had taken quite a mauling.

    I''d got a bit blase about taking fairly catastrophic wounds - I mean, I reckon I''d died at least once on this journey already - so I needed to remind myself that this was the Dark Ages and anything more serious than a splinter had the potential to be life-threatening.

    Arthur had forbidden me from sharing out any more of my elixirs to the men of the other kingdoms - to be fair, my dear, they are one of the great treasures of the kingdom - and short of me giving every wounded spearman a turn with Melehan''s Curing Rock, I needed to leave everyone to heal up from the battle as best as they could.

    The only time I stepped in - Arthur could go fuck himself - was when I caught that look on a cutter''s face that said, ''Not worth the effort.''

    It was Owain''s men I worried most about. They''d been beasted by the Shriket and had been in the heart of the worst of the Hobgoblin''s attacks. I was pleased to see the old poacher, Burford, still numbered amongst the living, but from the fifty elite warriors the King of Gwent had brought with him on this quest, only eight still remained.

    "My son is going to be so pissed," Owain told me cheerfully, taking a massive bite out of a deer leg.

    "How so?" I was doing my best to bind a massive cut in his leg to hide the fact I''d given him another one of my Rare elixirs.

    "He told me this would be a fool''s errand. I agreed, but as I''m not dead yet, I''m the one who decides what Gwent does, not him. If he''d not been so against it, I''d probably have stayed warm and safe in my castle. Fuck, that hurts."

    "Sorry." It had been a long time since I''d taken a first aid course at school. "But he''ll be pleased you''re still alive, surely?"

    "Not a bit of it. Cheeky sod packed my retinue with his own bastards." Owain drew his Santa Claus face closer to mine. "Not a one of them still with us, I''d have you know. Some loud voices often raised in support of his fucking ideas, all silent now. Poor him."

    It was not the first time I realised that he might look like a jolly grandfather, but Owain of Gwent had quite the Machiavellian core running through him.

    "So, what''s the next disaster Arthur has planned for us?" Beric, on the other hand, was happy to wear his inner wanker on his face.

    "I don''t know, mate. From where I''m standing, I''m on the side of the king uniting the kingdoms by taking the fight to the goblins. I''m sure you could view that as a ''disaster'', but only if you wanted the Saxons to win."

    "Please tell me you just accused me of treason."

    "I think I was focusing more on my king''s awesome performance in the field of battle, which, from memory, everyone hailed as ''game-changing'' leadership. I don''t think I mentioned you at all."

    We stared at each other for a moment. "You think you''re clever, don''t you?"

    "Mate, if you knew anything about me, you''d know ''clever'' is the last thing I think I am. What I do think is that you''re looking suspiciously pristine considering the life-or-death struggle we''ve just been through, and I''m sure as fuck I''ve not been slipping you any elixirs. You know, if you want your men not to chant another king''s name, you might want to draw that sword once in a while. The boys don''t tend to go all doe-eyed over panty-wetters."

    My dear . . .

    I knew I''d gone too far. There was just something about his face that made me want to spit venom at him. That, and I couldn''t help but feel indignant that the vast majority of his men still seemed to be fighting fit. Owain was down to a handful - even if he seemed pretty pleased with that outcome. Our numbers were in the low thirties, and even Mark and Corys had taken some fairly brutal losses. In the spirit of openness, I should note that the reduction in Mark''s forces was due to the whole ''knife in the back'' thing that, curiously, no one seemed interested in talking about.

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    On the other hand, Beric was now in possession of the single biggest force in our alliance.

    The silence was quite awkward. All around us, men had fallen quiet as we snarled at each other, waiting to see what the king would do.

    Will you just get on with it and fuck him or fry him. I''m bored of all the foreplay.

    Beric''s eyes widened at the voice that boomed from behind my back. I''d taken to wearing Drynwyn Witcher-style again, conscious that I probably needed its eyes - or what passed for its eyes, I could never work that out - watching my back. I reached behind me and drew the sword with a flourish.

    "What do you say, big boy? It''s been so long that my standards are almost subterranean. I''m easy to go, either way."

    ?olgef was suddenly at his king''s side and leading him away with talk of urgent business. I held the pose momentarily - because I am all about the drama - before resheathing the blade.

    I think you may well have just put the final nail in the coffin of British unity there, my dear.

    "Call me cynical, Big M, but I don''t feel that me being a gobby twat is going to make much difference to that equation. If Arthur gets the anti-wizard sword, I don''t see anyone doing anything other than bending the knee faster than a nymphomaniac in a brothel."

    Tasteless simile, my dear.

    "That depends on what the dude''s been eating, Big M."

    I turned to see if I could spot Mark or Corys anywhere, but, as usual, if they were out and about, they were avoiding me. I briefly wondered if I was worried about that but then filed the concern away. If Arthur got the sword, we were golden. If anyone else got their hands on it, we were fucked.

    It was good to have such clarity in my life.

    "Why didn''t we just do this quest ourselves?"

    Sorry, my dear?

    "For Caeldfwch. The stakes here are fucking ridiculous. If any one of these guys can negate me, Arthur''s fucked. He just becomes a guy with slightly fewer men than any of his allies."

    It took me a moment to realise the noise in my head was Merlin laughing.

    You''ve developed quite the healthy ego in the short time I have known you, my dear. It was not so long ago I found you wrestling with a wolf and being fifty-fifty about whether you could be bothered to live much longer. Now, you are apparently the whole ball game as to whether King Arthur keeps his throne. Should I be genuflecting?

    I think even my ears blushed. "You know what I mean. Without cultivator support, Arthur cannot hold a British alliance together."

    My dear, do not get me wrong. You are critical - in my stead - to the rise of Camelot. However, do not forget that I was at Uther''s side when he first achieved the unification of these kingdoms and was pronounced Pendragon. Did I help? Absolutely. But there is no doubt that the kings would have rejected him if they did not think he had the power - on his own terms - to rule. I could have raised each and every one of their lands to the ground without thinking twice, but that was still not the reason they fell into line.

    "No?" I couldn''t help but think Merlin was soft-selling the terror in which he had been held a little.

    No. And this time, the voice was firm. Rulers do not need to be loved, but neither do they need to be feared outrageously. When Uther was acclaimed as the Pendragon, for sure there was one eye on me, but it was on his own merits that they cheered his name. This quest will have been worth it, even if Arthur cannot claim Caeldfwch. You heard the men during our battle with the goblins. He is proving, in a way none of the other kings can, that he is the true leader of the British. The fact he has a cultivator at his side that can change the very landscape of a battle and a champion who has single-handedly slain two mythical monsters . . .

    "I mean, I definitely loosened the lid on the Shriket."

    Of course you did, my dear, he continued smoothly, but the point still holds. You and Lancelot are terrifying, and you choose to serve Arthur. You would be surprised by how persuasive that will be in encouraging others to use our banner.

    "So, we''d still see this as a win if Beric claims Caeldfwch?"

    Of course not. We''d have Lancelot chop him into kindling and take the sword from his cold, dead hands.

    "But . . ."

    Because that is what you do when you are the one in charge. We would not do it because we do not think we can carry water without you and your somewhat limited range of Qi techniques - as impressive as your impression of a snake was - but because Arthur is, unquestionably, The Man. And no one gets to mess with that.

    "The Once and Future King."

    There we go. I knew we''d get on the same page. If you want to keep your timeline intact and your sister well, we ensure that the Pendragon flag flies above Tintagel. Sure, for that, it''ll help a lot for Arthur to have a mighty wizard by his side and Caeldfwch in his grip, but those are secondary considerations. I know that man can pull all of this together. You must have felt the same during the battle?

    I thought back to when Arthur''s charge broke the first goblin army. There was something about that moment that made even me forget my issues with the bald adulterer. I could even see what people meant when they said things like, "I''d do anything for that man."

    I opened my mouth to say something pithy about how I wouldn''t do that, which doubtless would be wasted on a Meatloaf ignorant audience when I was rather rudely interrupted.

    By the arrival of the Fae.

 Chapter 28 - In which we meet the Fae

    As with all women of a certain age, there''s a place in my . . . heart for Legolas. Don''t get me wrong, I wouldn''t do Orlando Bloom in any other guise or shape, but give me tall, blonde and pointy ears, and I will make any number of questionable life choices.

    Every time Merlin had mentioned ''the Fae'', that was the image I had in mind. At a pinch - hey, it''s been a dry spell - I was even willing to climb aboard Noddy with enough sympathetic back-lightning and assuming Big Ears was around to finish me off.

    My dear, some things do not need to be verbalised.

    Thus, when our scouts reported the approach of a small delegation of Fae, my hopes were pretty high. If I tell you I went so far as to change into my cleanest set of undergarments and run my hands through my hair once or twice, you will appreciate the lengthy self-care routine I went through in order to make a good impression.

    And first impressions were good.

    I mean, seriously good. There were five of these impossibly beautiful things waiting for us when we reached the bottom of my hill. All the kings were there - Mark had even been bothered to walk, that''s how important it was - and although there''d been an initial ''hurrumph'' at me accompanying them, they''d seen sense.

    Or I threw a massive tantrum and threatened to burn them all where they stood.

    It was one of the two.

    It was impossible to tell the Fae apart at first glance. Each was just over six feet tall and channelling some significant Scandinavian chic. Lots of white skin, lots of blue eyes and blonde hair, and lots of cheek and jaw bones that would have been effective offensive weapons.

    After a few moments of ogling, though, I could tell there were some differences between them.

    For a start, there were two men and three women. The latter wore a subtly different clothing style, with their overshifts a good half-foot longer, extending below the waist and belted in a thick leather cord. Likewise, the ladies seemed to favour bows, whereas the men appeared to be unarmed.

    I focused on the men - of course you did, my dear - and had a brief moment of fantasy fulfilment. This continued all the way until the first of them stepped forward and made it clear he fucking hated us.

    "You have profaned this sacred field with poisonous magic. Your filthy blood stains our precious earth, and your very presence throws the land into chaos. We wish nothing more than your immediate death!"

    As opening go, it was a vibe.

    We''d briefly discussed how to play this, but no one had expected the Fae equivalent of ''my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die.''

    As if sensing our confusion, one of the women stepped forward. "Not that we are not grateful for your actions against the goblins. However, we had gathered our own forces to scourge them from our territory, and there are some of us -" she glanced at the first speaker - "who would advocate that we now fall upon you."

    Her voice was high and musical, quite different from the first Fae''s dark rumble and, oddly, she had a slight Irish accent. I was basically talking to Enya.

    We all exchanged glances. We''d taken it as read that the Fae would be pleased we''d wiped out the goblins. It was our act of ''good faith'' after all, and we were banking on it being the next Step on the quest for Caeldfwch. That our gift was being regarded in the saw way as if we were puppies proudly shitting in the middle of an expensive rug did not feel ideal.

    A second of the female Fae added her voice. "We have been sent to discover your intentions and determine whether action is required."

    The first Fae - who I was going to go out on a limb and say was not a fan of humans - immediately spoke up. "The Council has made clear their feelings. We are to destroy these vermin - "

    "Maewyn," the third female raised a hand and placed it on the angry Fae''s shoulder, "things are not always so black and white. We have been given discretion here, my son. Do not let your previous experiences cloud your judgement."

    Son? The Fae who had spoken looked the same age as the man she sought to calm. It appeared Fae don''t crack. Yeah, that was funnier before I said it.

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    Maewyn shrugged her hand off his shoulder and pointed an angry finger at me. "That was before they corrupted the land and twisted it for their own purposes. The only possible response is to cleanse them from the world."

    I felt him channel a massive wodge of Wood Qi. He pulled it - not, that wasn''t quite right. What he did was nothing as crude as ''pull''. It was like he simply asked the world around him to give him enough energy to nuke us back to kingdom come, and the land presented it to him in a nice shiny bow. It was the most beautifully elegant bit of cultivation I had ever seen, and I almost forgot to wade in with some countermeasures.

    Almost. But not quite.

    I felt his Wood Qi coalesce around him. I knew that if I let him do anything with it, we''d be history. Even if the other Fae were pissed off with him for jumping the gun, I doubted we''d rank too highly in the scheme of things for them to do much more than shake their beautiful, porcelain face in regret.

    So, rather than become a sad little anecdote about the time Maewyn shat the bed at the next Fae dinner party, I did something about it.

    I took the Qi off him.

    Well, that''s a ballsy move, my dear.

    "Ballsy as in, ''well played Morgan. Another of your classic clutch moves, which once again saved the day.'' Or ballsy as in ''fuck me, man the lifeboats.''"

    A little early to tell. But good luck.

    And I needed the wellwishing. This Wood Qi was weird. It tasted of newly mown grass and spring water when I dragged it into my Artist''s Studio. It slotted nicely into my channels and cycled as smoothly as you like. But that''s where the good news stopped. I was used to Qi acting like liquid paint, but Maewyn''s stuff was hard. Like ''ice water from the top of a mountain peak'', hard. There was no soft woodiness to it. It was like the thickest of thick peat bog and it was now completely blocking me up. There was literally nothing I could do with it. I had thought my Qi concentration had thickened up nicely, but this was evidence of how very far a Harry was from being a deal in the world of cultivation.

    Even holding it in my Artist''s Studio was painful. I could feel my body start to shake worse than my nastiest-ever detox.

    Surprisingly, Maewyn did not react well to me interfering with his attempted death spell. This was odd, as he appeared so chill in all other ways. He was giving off the energy of someone who had never had anything taken off him in his life. His pale blue eyes opened in shock at the audacity of a lower form of life interfering with him and then narrowed in hate as I actually pulled it off.

    Something told me I wouldn''t be getting the Fae fucking I had hoped for in the near future. At least, not the enjoyable sort.

    While I wrestled with what the hell to do with this massive block of ancient Qi sitting in the middle of my core going nowhere - I''d managed to absorb fucking dragon Qi! What on earth was this stuff! - a sword appeared in his hand and thrust straight at me.

    It was at this stage that I''m willing to admit things went a touch awry.

    Arthur whipped his spear around to deflect the blow, shouting in outrage at the unexpected assault. He obviously didn''t know what had happened with my preemptive Qi gobbling, and it just seemed like this guy was whaling on me for no reason.

    The spear was effortlessly chopped in two, but it bought me a second to whip out Drynwyn and bring it to guard position.

    "This is going to need to be all you, mate," I said. I was concentrating too hard on figuring out what to do with Maewyn''s Qi to fight as well.

    Makes a fucking change, don''t it? All our other duels have just been me sitting back and you showing off your hundreds of years of experienced swordsmanship. It''s going to be nice to fucking do something rather than be a passenger in this relationship.

    You know what? I think I preferred it when Drynwyn felt a bit down about things and wanted to make amends. Nevertheless, I was glad to hand over the reins, especially as I couldn''t even follow the clash of blades that followed.

    I knew I was fighting because both my arms were moving in a blur, but that was all I could see. I decided to concentrate on something I could affect.

    "Big M, I''m looking for options."

    Previous few I can think of, my dear. You will not be able to cultivate from this Qi. I doubt even I would have been able to. It''s simply too dense.

    "Can we focus on what I can do, rather than what I can''t!" My arms were getting tired. If I was hoping for someone to step in and call a halt, I was destined to be pretty fucking disappointed. The other kings - other than Arthur - would be delighted for me to be chopped to pieces, and Arthur was now disarmed. I risked a glance at the other Fae, hoping for some help there. However, although they were watching with looks of disappointment on their faces, there was clearly going to be no interference from that quarter.

    Two choices. You slowly let the Fae Qi diffuse out from your core, a little at a time until it is all gone.

    "How does the longest far in history help me right now?" I was drenched in sweat and couldn''t physically keep the defence up much longer.

    Fucking wuss.

    Or you give it him back.

    "How is letting this bastard have a massive amount of Qi going to help keep us all alive?!"

    I did not say give it back to him gently.

    Sold. I gathered up the alien Wood Qi in my metaphorical arms - it weighed a megatonne - lifted it free from my core, and threw it back with everything I had.

    It would be fair to note this gambit took him by surprise. His head snapped up at suddenly having full channels, and his immaculate footwork missed a step under the unexpected weight of Qi.

    It wasn''t much, but Drynwyn was a fucking Treasure of Britain. It twisted in my hands and sent the Fae''s sword swinging away. As it then snaked upwards for his throat, I used the last ounce of my physical energy to turn the blade flat so that it blooted him on the side of the head rather than do something even I could tell would have diplomatic repercussions.

    Maewyn fell bonelessly to the ground.

    There was an awkward silence until the fifth Fae spoke up, his voice a pleasing middle ground between the women''s alto and Maewyn''s bass.

    "Well, now that is over, why don''t we talk properly?"

 Chapter 29 - In which there is good news and bad

    The second male Fae was called Tresaith and, all things considered, was a decent lad.

    That is, when you realised that all of the things that you were going to be considering were that he was older than most mountains, could bench press our entire army for fun and was so many leagues above me in cultivation that Merlin suggested I thought of him as a Rowling.

    Tresaith explained that his younger brother - the unconscious wanker at my feet - was ever the hothead amongst his people. He introduced the three women, Allavan and Bessen, and -as I had thought - Orwyn, the two males'' mother.

    "However, do not think that what Maewyn desires is not likely to be the will of the Council. We have long learned to mistrust those from your realm."

    Probably a good time, my dear, to note I may have had dealings with Tresaith before. It would be diplomatic not to mention I''m still - you know - here.

    "Dealings?"

    As I have alluded to before, I have a long history of, shall we say, undistinguished conduct mixed in with my acts of undoubted heroism. The curse of a long life where not enough people are strong enough to me ''no''. Safe to say, I imagine my name would do little to smooth relations right now.

    Arthur was speaking. "We mean to cause you no trouble, Lord Tresaith. My fellow kings and I are on a quest for Caeldfwch."

    If those words meant anything to the four conscious Fae, they did not show it. Undeterred, Arthur pressed onwards. "We have completed the Step of Blood, and we believe that by eradicating the goblin army, we will have taken the Step of Faith. Our show of good faith to you and your people."

    Bessen was shaking her head. "Which leaves only the Step of Betrayal of all that is good." Her face was grim. "Maewyn was right. We should kill you where you stand."

    I was feeling pretty punchy after dropping the first Fae, so I took a step forward to cover Arthur. He put a restraining hand on my arm and was about to speak when Corys - surprisingly - took over.

    "We understand your hesitation, my lady. However, the people of Dehuebarch have enjoyed a positive relationship with the Fae for generations. Whilst we know of the deplorable actions of the men of the South -" the dick''s eyes flicked towards Arthur - "you must acknowledge that not all from the realm of men have been so disrespectful."

    Allavan was smiling. "I recognise the set of your eyes, child. I spent an enjoyable afternoon with a Leofed of Dehuebarch. Do you know the name?"

    Corys blushed under the Fae''s rapacious regard. "My great-grandfather, my lady. He spoke often of the beauty and the grace of the Fae lady he once met."

    "We did more than meet," the Fae gave a very unladylike snort and turned her head this way and that as if she were a snake hypnotising her prey. "I wonder whether the grandson would be as diverting as the ancestor?"

    "Enough," Tresaith''s voice was firm. "On behalf of the Moonpool Clan, I grant you guest privileges."

    Bessen hissed - again with the snakes? - but he glared her into submission. "You will accompany us back to the Council, and we will follow their lead regarding what happens next."

    Beric chimed up. "You cannot believe we will simply put ourselves in the hands of creatures who have already attacked us without provocation?"

    Tresaith stared at him for an unbelievably long time before replying. I''ve heard of a withering stare before, but it was a real fill-up to watch the venomous pile of shit be brought down to size.

    When Tresaith finally spoke again, his voice lacked any of the warmth that had been there before. "Beric ap Cronan ap Dresil. We honour the men of Powys and bemoan the stain that currently sits on their throne. You inherited a distinguished history which you betray with your avarice. Your presence is suffered but not welcomed. You are not a tongued one."

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    Mic drop, Merline whispered in my head.

    "What does that mean?"

    Tresaith''s basically said none of the Moonpool will recognise his right to speak. That''s pretty funny. Especially as Corys appears to be a tongued one because his ancestor . . .

    "Tongued one?"

    I left the opening for that one, didn''t I?

    "Not as much as Allavan has."

    Tresaith was looking at Mark now. "Our people know of your son."

    Mark''s face collapsed into a ferocious frown. "I have no son."

    The Fae opened his mouth to speak, but his mother took over. "Our children are reflections of our better selves, Mark of Gwynedd. Their actions are shadows of the sun we have cast over them. Just as we should feel pride for good," Orwyn smiled at Tresaith, "we must take ownership of their mistakes." She didn''t exactly look down at Maewyn and roll her eyes, but we could all get on board with that being what she meant. "Tristian should shine in your eyes."

    "I have no son!"

    I''m pretty new at this whole diplomacy thing, but I reckon shouting at the mother of the most powerful being you''ve ever met shortly after his brother has just had the shit kicked out of him is probably not on page one of ''How to win friends and influence people.''

    Tresaith, though, barely reacted, turning next to Owain. "We recognise your right to speak for the men of Gwent." Owain obviously did not trust himself to speak and just nodded nervously back.

    Then Tresaith turned to Arthur. "Arthur ap Uther ap Constantine. You seek to be the Pendragon of your people?"

    Arthur nodded. Beric and Mark visibly bristled while Corys was too busy trying to avoid Allavan''s lustful stare. "Your father came to us regularly."

    Uh oh, Merline whispered.

    "Uh oh? What do you mean by ''uh oh''?"

    "Uther made many promises and received many gifts. Some of those oaths were held, but many were not. We do not hold your father - nor his counsellor - in esteem."

    "My father was a good man!" Arthur replied hotly.

    "He was a man," Bessen spat. "And not to be trusted. The Council will have your head."

    I drew Drynwyn casually and whistled a little tune. It might have been the theme song from Jaws. "I''m happy to go again if anyone is feeling up for it? Maybe I didn''t make the lesson clear enough the first time?"

    "You dare!" Bessen turned on me, fingers turning to talons.

    "Listen up, buttercup. We''re on a quest. As far as I can tell, the second part of that was to show you Fae fuckers we were on the level. To do that, we needed to take on an army of green shits many times outnumbering us. Lots of us died to make that show of faith. The first thing you guys did when you turned up was not to say ''thank you'' but to throw hands. That''s fine. I''m a big girl and I took care of business. But now we''re in this ritual ''guest right'' bullshit, and you''re still acting like we''re the bad guys. I''ve sat one of you on your arse so far, and I''m more than happy to keep going until we all start acting friendly like. So, I guess what I''m saying is: are you next, bitch?"

    Well . . . let''s see how that goes down, shall we?

    There was a significant pause, followed by an extraordinary sound. The Fae were laughing.

    Tresaith wiped tears from his eyes and held out his hand to me. It took me a beat to realise he wanted me to shake it. Once I did, he turned back to Arthur.

    "You seem blessed with a more straightforward advisor than your father. I like her. I may decide to keep her -" Excuse me! - "For her sake, the sins of the father will not be retained by the son. You will be a tongued one." But then, all levity dropped from his expression. "But you will have no latitude. Do not play us false."

    Arthur nodded back gravely. "On my word, I will not."

    Tresaith turned to his mother and held her eyes. She nodded. He did the same with Allavan and Bessen. Both nodded, Bessen noticeably more reluctant than the others.

    "It is decided then. We will recommend to the Council that the Moonpool Clan will not seek to impede you on your quest. We will report that you have done us service and will suggest past crimes," Tresaith''s eyes flicked to Beric and Arthur, "should not inhibit current relationships."

    With that, he bent down and lifted Maewyn effortlessly onto his shoulder. It was like he''d slung an empty backpack up there. This dude had game.

    "I cannot promise the Council will accept what we say, but we will speak for you."

    "And what happens if your Council decide we are more trouble than we are worth?"

    Tresaith had already turned away and walked to the trees as Arthur spoke. Bessen replied for him. "Gather your men. We will not wait on you."

    She followed Tresaith, as did Allavan - who took Corys by the hand, dragging him effortlessly behind her. I sensed he might be in for a tiring evening.

    Orwyn had held back. Arthur, Owain and Mark were already issuing orders and men were hurrying back up the hill. I was sad to see quite how many still bodies were being left behind. I asked Arthur''s question again to her.

    "The ways of the Council can be mysterious. It may well be they rescind your guest right."

    "And if they do?"

    Orwyn looked at me, her face completely flawless. Seren blue eyes glinted in the daylight. "You will all be executed. But fear not."

    "Hard not to let imminent death play on my mind! Why shouldn''t we fear?"

    "Because my son and I will die alongside you."

    I took a moment, then asked the obvious, selfish question. "And how does you also dying stop me from being afraid?"

    "The Council would think it gauche to torture us to death. So, if it does come to that, the deaths will be quick."

    And with that, the queen of glass half-full thinking followed her fellows into the woods.

 Chapter 30 - In which hands are thrown

    The first day of the tournament had not passed without incident.

    To be fair, it had all started pretty much as expected. Guinevere had welcomed the three hundred and fifty competitors and encouraged them to make themselves at home amongst the host of entertainments, stalls, and merchants who had sprung up in and around the castle.

    There was so much of this, in fact, that the road leading into Tintagel had transformed into a bustling market town, filled with the vibrant colours of merchant stalls and the lively chatter of visitors.

    "How exactly are we paying for all this?" Guinevere had whispered to Bors as she had toured the various buildings that had, apparently, shot up overnight.

    "No fucking idea. Last time I looked at the numbers, it was like they were paying us to be here. But that can''t be right, can it?"

    Bors had met with Tasko a couple more times since their last, rather fiery conversation. He''d done his best to put the merchant at his ease, but it felt like every time he thought he was making progress, it ended up with the royal treasury being enriched even further.

    He eventually resolved to leave the man to his business and hope for the best.

    Every type of service was available for those taking part in the Grand Tournament. Just as every decent warrior - or, more importantly, those that considered themselves as such - had scrounged up the money to get themselves portalled to the castle. And anyone who made their living selling wares to men - and women - with swords and spears had followed them.

    "Do you not think that this might be getting a little out of hand," asked Guinevere the fifth time she had been offered a dress fitting using a material she''d never heard of. "Not that I''m saying you haven''t done an amazing job," she added hastily. "Just that the point was to scare up a new Marghekyon, not create an entire feudal economy on our doorstep."

    Bors shrugged. "Gwin, I''m as in the dark as you. But it can''t hurt, can it? The lads are saying it''s the greatest spectacle the land has ever seen." He paused. "You don''t think Arthur will be pissed he missed it, do you?" he asked anxiously.

    Guinevere patted his huge forearm reassuringly. "He''ll be so proud of you. You''ve outperformed his wildest expectations."

    But even as she said it, Guinevere''s mind was whirling. Bl?k''s information about some of these people currently within shooting distance was not comforting. As soon as it got around that Tasko had spent the coin to have portals opened to Tintagel, the range and variety of possible competitors had gone through the roof. What had been conceived as a way of gathering together all the local British talent still resisting the Saxons seemed to have become a way for anyone with enough ambition and coin to show their prowess.

    That was all well and good, but for each competitor, there were usually a few hangers-on. One guy, a Prince from some sundrenched land in the East had even brough his whole retinue.

    "You cannot allow that many mailed horsemen within the walls!" Bl?k was almost crying when he delivered this update to the queen. "I have nothing whatsoever on them. You must give the Grey time to gather sufficient material!"

    "And how would you suggest I do that?" She had snapped, just about remembering that the more harshly she spoke to the man, the harder it was to see him or even recall he was there. More than once in their arguments about the seemingly never-ending flow of strangers through the gatehouse, she had found herself blinking into the dark, wondering what she was doing in the cellars of Tintagel.

    "I do not know, my lady. But I cannot promise to keep you safe if you continue to so recklessly allow such freedoms around your person!"

    "Queen Igraine was murdered in her bed chamber with you at full alert. Pardon me if I am not agog at your abilities." She''d barely said those words before she was wandering back to Tintagel''s courtyard, feeling guilty but not absolutely sure why.

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    *

    The first event, following Guinevere''s welcome, was not of the official ranking bouts. Bors had been clear that they needed to demonstrate the strength of Arthur''s kingdom so that they could attract the winners to join them.

    "We might need them more than they need us, but we don''t need to let them know that. We''re riding high on the tales of Uther and Merlin. Arthur''s got a decent rep, but we need to burnish that. Especially as he is not here."

    Guinevere was not so sure but had gone along with it.

    And, thus, the Grand Melee was born.

    "Each man can choose to compete, or not, as he wished. There is no prize. There is no gold for the winner. There will be only the satisfaction of being the last man standing. No bladed weapons are allowed. And there are to be no killing blows. The goal is to be on your feet when the rest of the group is sitting on their arses. Nice and simple." Bors boomed out across the crowded field.

    Silence greeted the announcement. There were lots of furtive glances as over three hundred warriors tried to work out whether it would be to their advantage or not to take part or if it would be more politic to wait for their own specialism.

    Grand Melees were tricky. You could be an absolute legend and be tripped up by a farmboy with a stave - your reputation dented forever. Likewise, there was no better way to get your name known than to be amongst the last few standing.

    "Are you taking part?" a voice shouted from the throng.

    Bors had smiled. "I might. Arthur charged me with keeping you all honest. I''m forbidden from taking part in the other events," Guinevere had put her foot down there, "so I figured this was a good way of seeing who''s the real deal."

    And that sealed it. There weren''t many in the crowd who didn''t dream of joining the Marghekyon of King Arthur - and those who didn''t had a very different reason for their presence at Tintagel. To help with that, Bors had come up with the best way of identifying those who would be open for recruitment and those who had the sort of purpose that a certain non-descript man would be wise to keep an eye on.

    "Make a note of who withdraws," he had said to Guinevere, slipping out of his best tunic and walking down from the speaking platform Tasko had arranged to be built.

    Most of those below him began doing the same, divesting themselves of any swords or knives and passing off their various finery to servants. In no more than a few minutes, around two hundred men and not a few women stood in the centre of the courtyard, looking nervous.

    Guinevere stood aloft, waiting for those who did not seek an opportunity for hand-to-hand combat to withdraw. Then she dropped the white handkerchief she was holding high, and the Grand Tournament of King Arthur began.

    With a full-on, drag-out brawl.

    *

    It felt good to be actually doing something, Bors thought, throwing a small man with extremely ginger hair into a group of fighters. He wasn''t cut out for administration. And he certainly did not have the talent for the kind of espionage Guinevere indulged in. What he was good at, though, was punching people in the face until they passed out.

    The melee had been going for a good few minutes, and there was already a decent amount of space building up around him, which made sense. No one really wanted to test themselves against the big man, especially while there were still too many bodies about for people to notice.

    Fighting Sir Bors was the sort of thing you wanted an audience for.

    There were a few people he''d noted himself already. A tall, thin, wiry guy was holding his own over in the far corner. Parsifal, he thought he remembered the man introducing himself as. He didn''t have Bors'' brute strength, but by the gods, was he fast.

    Bors nodded appreciatively as he caught a haymaker from a big Germanic-looking motherfucker, twisted it away from his body and kicked the guy in the head. Yep. That''ll get the job done.

    There were similar little pockets of studied belligerence that caught his attention. A squat, ugly man from the mountains of Gwent - Acanor, he thought - was just soaking up punishment as if he were being tickled.

    Three guys were whaling on him, and it didn''t seem to be making an ounce of an impression. His kind of dude.

    And there was almost the complete opposite - a pale, slight lad who couldn''t be more than sixteen. The boy seemed almost impossible to pin down. As Bors watched, idly backhanding a charging Frank away, the boy repeatedly dodged any and all attempts to grapple with him. He was jabbing out quick little punches and kicks, which seemed to cause far more damage to their recipients than was credible. Galahad, Bors thought he was called.

    The numbers still stood in the middle of the Melee were drastically reduced. The rules were quite simple. You were still in until you were dropped to the floor, and large numbers of crawling men were getting away as fast as they could.

    When there were just twenty of them left - all of those he had noted as likely lads were still yp and kicking, he was pleased to see - they took a pause to allow the fallen time and space to withdraw. They also had a chance to get some mead on board.

    "Well then. Here''s a group of arse kickers and name takers," he grinned at a series of blooded faces and bruised bodies. "Whose up for the next go?"

    He cracked his knuckles and headed straight for Acanor - he was interested to see whether he could do anything to the resilient fucker - when something else took his attention.

    A flurry of crossbow bolts from the window of one of the towers hit his square in the chest.

    He barely heard Guinevere''s screams before the blackness claimed him.

 Chapter 31 - In which the best laid plans of mice and men get fucked

    It takes a particular type of person to be a successful assassin.

    Anyone can be a murderer. You just need enough white-hot fury - or booze - on board, and, well, people are squishy.

    The thing is, and most people overlook this, is that murderers are stupid. The sort of choices you need to make that lead to hitting someone over the head with a log in a crowded place is not consistent with a sparkling intellect.

    A murderer might not be caught today, maybe not even tomorrow. But, soon, thick as mince will out.

    Unlike murderers, assassins face a constant threat, not just from the law but also from the families of their victims. Their success hinges on their ability to not only escape immediate capture but also to evade the wrath of those left behind.

    This tends to mean that the careers of assassins are either extraordinarily short or worryingly successful. That Tenejalan and his little band of miscreants had been in the business for over ten years pretty much tells you everything you need to know.

    That Bl?k had witnessed Tenejalan and his crew infiltrate Tintagel without the observation triggering his usual warning tingles tells you even more. And the audacity of this group in managing to strike Bors with three crossbow bolts just as Tenejalan himself appeared behind Guinevere, slashing with a knife, really took the biscuit.

    Unfortunately - well, unfortunate, where Tenejalan and his crew were concerned - that was pretty much where their good fortune started to hit the buffers. There are times when a decade of experience gets you out of trouble and others when it leads you to make a series of false assumptions.

    For example, as a veteran of many a queen-stabbing, Tenejalan expected Guinevere to scream when he appeared. So, when she did so, it fitted well into the narrative of the events he had constructed in his mind and would recount to his employer. If he had been a touch more on his game - the quality of the refreshments available had been extraordinary - he may have recognised that the broad-shouldered woman he was attacking was not so much screaming in terror, as bellowing in rage.

    Likewise, for his three fellows manning the tower with their crossbows, three direct hits were the best that could have been hoped for in the circumstances. Distance, angle, moving target - three from three was a job well done. Years of putting down recalcitrant knights for lords with money to burn on such things told them it was time to pack up and head for the rendevous point where the last two of their gang would be waiting with the horses. So, it was probably understandable why they were hightailing it down the tower steps rather than putting a dozen more shots into the man they''d been paid a large fortune to kill.

    And finally, the whole gang probably overlooked the presence of a shadowy cultivator who was suddenly very motivated to use his considerable resources to bring immediate retribution for the castle''s violation.

    So, all in all, what looked like a pretty straightforward¡ªif very lucrative¡ªcontract on paper was about to take a somewhat unconventional turn.

    *

    Guinevere put the sight of Bors collapsing to the floor of the courtyard out of her mind as the man in black thrust a dagger at her. She had no idea how he''d arrived on the wooden platform overseeing the Grand Melee, but that was a recrimination for another day.

    She screamed her anger at him and flapped the heavy sleeves of her dress at the knife. The blade caught in the material rather than hitting her in the mid-drift, and she quickly yanked her arm back to try to disarm their attacker.

    Tenejalan''s eyes widened in momentary surprise, but then he ripped the knife in his right hand free from its entanglement in Guinevere''s dress and added a second blade to his left. Not ideal, but none of the guards were reacting yet - they''d all run to the big man his crew had put down - so he still had time.

    He prepared to run after the queen who would doubtless turn her back and flee at any moment . . .

    His head snapped back as the woman before him stepped forward and punched him in the face.

    It had taken Guinevere longer than she would have liked to get over her fight with Cedric. On an intellectual level, she knew he had been bigger, stronger and more experienced. There was simply no way she would have been able to defeat him. That didn''t mean her chest wound - and more importantly, the wound to her pride - didn''t burn.

    From the moment they''d returned from the Dark Tower, she''d thrown herself into her training with a somewhat excessive abandon.

    The outcome was that Tenejalan had probably picked a bad day to try it on.

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    Guinevere followed up her jab to his face - the assassin''s nose made a satisfying crunch at the contact - by reaching forward, putting both hands behind his head, and driving it downwards to meet her rising knee. His nose spread even further around his face. A thrust kick to his chest followed to push him - staggering - backwards. That gave her enough time to draw her daggers, tastefully strapped to her thighs, and settle into a fighting crouch.

    Eyes streaming, blood pouring onto his chest from his broken nose, Tenejalan did the only obvious ploy left open to him.

    He ran.

    *

    The three men from the tower didn''t see their leader shit himself. They had encountered their own problems. The difficulty with fleeing down a tower was that it allowed defenders to come up at you.

    They''d discussed each taking up a different position around Tintagel, but having seen the sheer number of people and the various entertainment and food stalls, they''d figured it was just more straightforward to stick together.

    The quality of guard they''d observed was execrable at best - Arthur had taken his best men with him - and there was no way any of them could stand up to the three of them together.

    The truth of that was seen in vivid technicolour by the number of bodies that lined their descent from their vantage point. None of Tintagel''s guards had made much impression on them as they sped past. They were just at the bottom and preparing to fall back to the stables and their escape route when three bruised and bloodied figures approached them.

    They dimly recognised them as brawlers from the Grand Melee - none of them was affiliated with Arthur''s castle - so they''d paid them no mind.

    "Get the fuck out of the way," the first of the assassin barked at a spectacularly ugly man - more toad than human that was swinging his arms in an approximation of a warm-up routine. If he heard the order, it made no difference and continued to block their path to the stables.

    The second assassin looked at the tallest of their three roadblocks. "You''ve got no weapons. What do you really think is going to happen here?"

    Parsifal smiled back and then looked down at the slender boy who - bizarrely - seemed to be their leader. He raised an eyebrow, and Galahad nodded serenely back.

    The final assassin, who had reloaded his crossbow during these social niceties, points at Acanor - the squat man looked the more dangerous of the three - "Back the fuck off, or you''re dead!"

    Things got a little intense after that.

    *

    The last two members of the the death squad, the ones waiting in the stables, were dead before they even realised they were in danger.

    It was rare for Bl?k to feel such anger, but it had been decades since there had been any unsanctioned killings within these walls. The Queen Igraine and now the attempts on Guinevere and Bors. No. This was not acceptable. His father would have been devastated if he had lived to see what was occurring on Bl?k''s watch.

    As the shadows receded to the walls, leaving two somewhat surprised skeletons collapsing into piles on the floor, he recognised that he had been a touch injudicious. Desiccated corpses did not tell any tales about who had hired them.

    Likewise, it was unseemly that he had let his irritation at missing these snakes in the den - five amongst so many hundreds? There were limits even to his and the Grey''s perspicuity - overcome his rational side.

    Bl?k took a breath, closed the stable door behind him - the Grey would deal with the bones - and stepped into the light of the courtyard.

    He could make out a one-sided scuffle at the bottom of one of the castle''s towers. Three men - well, one man, one hideously deformed man-troll and a young boy - he recognised from the Grand Melee were kicking merry hell out of three strangers. He assumed these were the assassins who had shot Sir Bors and that they were now having the error of their ways explained to them.

    His expert eye suggested that no questions would be asked of these assassins either. So, that just left . . .

    *

    Guinevere tackled the fleeing man from behind. As she achieved this by diving off the wooden platform to do so, she struck him in the back with quite some vim and vigour.

    Tenejalan crashed into the ground in the middle of the courtyard, kicking his legs to get free. He caught the queen on the side of the head and bought himself a few more seconds. Not that it mattered. He could tell he was fucked.

    You got in, you did the work, and you got out. The game was over the minute you found yourself in a fistfight with your mark. He spared the men he''d put in the tower a quick, final glance as they were stomped to the floor. He assumed his men in the stables were similarly off the board.

    Fuck it.

    He turned to face Guinevere. What sort of fucking queen attacked the guy coming to kill her! She was up on her feet, and he was pleased to see his flailing leg had closed her eye somewhat. That would leave a nice legacy bruise.

    "Who sent you?" Guinevere''s voice was low and controlled.

    Tenejalan attacked. Better to go down fighting than in a torturer''s embrace. But it was like he was moving through sand. The bloody woman blocked and parried his every attack, returning blows with interest.

    After a few heartbeats, they separated, and he was astonished to realise he was done.

    "Perhaps you didn''t hear," the queen said, barely breathless. "Who sent you?"

    "What?" he spat, a stream of blood from his mouth. "I tell you, and I get to live?"

    "Of course not. But you tell me, and I''ll make sure they''re dead soon after you."

    That gave Tenejalan pause. He was a petty man and liked the idea of his revenge living long after he passed. "There''s no way out for me?"

    Guinevere looked down¡ªthey were almost standing over Bors'' body¡ª"No," she said harshly.

    "Fair enough. Can''t blame a man for trying. We were paid to eliminate you and - " he looked down - "Sir Bors. A thousand gold pieces a head."

    An insane sum. Ludicrous. Who would have that sort of money? Well, she certainly knew of one person.

    "Your client was Aurelius Ambrosius?"

    Tenejalan''s face crumpled into a frown. "The old Pendragon''s brother? He''s been dead for years. No, we were hired by King - "

    And then a good thing and an unfortunate thing took place. First, Bors suddenly took a deep breath and sat up, regaining consciousness. He looked around wildly and, seeing Guinevere standing blooded above him, reacted in the only way that made sense to him.

    He reached up and grabbed the man with whom she was obviously scrapping and, with a squeeze of his massive hand, crushed the man''s throat flat.

    "Oh, Sir Bors," Guinevere said after a slight pause, "your timing is not impeccable."

 Chapter 32 - In which I get my poisoning on

    It took us two days of leisurely travel to reach our destination.

    I say ''leisurely'', but this was far from a leisurely stroll. It was a relentless battle for survival, where every hundred feet, we were bombarded by kamikaze attacks from the trees, each one more ferocious than the last.

    Our path was littered with threats. Wolves, goblins, wyverns, and giant big cats lurked in the shadows, ready to pounce. Even the occasional Troll, with its massive frame and menacing growl, showed up to try and tear us a new one.

    The relentless assaults forced us to move at a painstakingly slow pace in a perpetual battle formation. What should have been a three or four hour stroll became a gruelling march, with men carrying heavy shields that were constantly under attack.

    As we made camp on the first night, all of us thoroughly knackered from the 24/7 slogathon, Tresaith suddenly appeared beside me. He seemed to have a habit of doing that.

    "I have come to apologise."

    Considering he and his fellow Fae had been doing far more than their fair share of ambush slaughtering, I wasn''t sure exactly what he was getting at. I tried telling him so, but he shook his perfect head regretfully.

    "You do not understand. Our presence is drawing so much of the forest filth towards you. Your men are taking wounds meant for us."

    That gave me a bit of a pause.

    I had wondered what was causing the sudden upsurge in attacks, but figured it was something to do with moving towards the final Step of the quest for Caeldfwch. I hadn''t thought the issue might have been that the Fae were shit-magnets.

    Eventually, though, I shrugged my shoulders. "It''s not like you''re cowering behind our shields. You guys are more than pulling your weight."

    I was probably doing him a disservice. Each and every one of the Fae was a moving death machine that made Lancelot look pacifistic. They were a massacre-on-legs, whether with bow, sword, spear, or just plain piling out Qi like it was on sale. Sure, the Britons were doing their bit, but I felt like he was wearing the hairshirt a little tight.

    "Even so. We have discussed staying behind you and letting you reach the Glade without us drawing every dark soul in the vicinity upon you."

    "Dude, as far as I understand it, without you guys there to smooth our entrance, we''re going to be as unwelcome at the glade a s siphilitic stripper at a Women''s Institute meeting."

    Tresaith smitled. "Orwyn said the same. Without the incomprehensible simile, of course."

    "Your mum speaks sense. Look, we''re all shattered, but we''re not taking terrible losses. And part of the deal with this quest was to bind the kings together. Nothing does that better than fire and blood." Even as I said it, though, the words felt pretty hollow. No matter how well disposed the average spearman in the column may feel towards Arthur, relations with their leaders - Owain aside - were pretty shit.

    As might be expected, Beric had taken being denied being heard by the Fae really well. It was pretty funny to see him try to engage them in conversation. But not quite as funny as seeing these ancient, beautiful beings play an elaborate game of ''Can you hear something?'' each time he tried it on. If a wolf didn''t pick him off, the dude was a few more little chats away from stroking out, judging by his purple face each time it happened.

    Corys was . . . occupied. In fact, if I had a complaint about the Fae, it would be that a) Allavan was not quite as present in the front line as her mates, and b) this was because she was having very loud sex with the King of Dehuebarch. I had the sense his retinue was feeling a bit put out as they were fighting for their lives while the king they were defending was being repeatedly, enthusiastically, screwed.

    Of our detractors, that left Mark. I hadn''t seen the fat slob since the whole ''I have no son'' debacle, but Arthur reported the King of Gwynedd was in a particularly foul mood. He had forbidden his spearmen from working under Arthur''s direction, which was nice, and any orders which impacted on his men needed to be approved by him before they were put into action. This was, as I''m sure the bastard expected, causing as many problems as any number of goblin strikes.

    Tresaith cocked his head to one side. "Well, you know your people better than I. The apology has been made." He stood to make his leave, picking up a dark green leaf from the forest floor as he did so and popping it into his mouth as if that were the most normal thing in the world.

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    "What''s that?" I asked, noting it was lit up by my alchemy skill as soon as I asked the question. Tresaith paused and then swallowed it down. "It''s called Widow Weed. My people use it as a way of increasing our resistances."

    I plucked a leaf myself and rubbed it between my fingers. The dark green surface released a pungent clear liquid when squeezed. "And eating it does something for your . . . motherfucker!"

    My fingers suddenly felt like they were on dire. I looked down and could see bone.

    Tresaith watched me dance around my campfire with a neutral expression. "You may want to be careful with the liquid the leaves contain."

    "You think!" I pulled a bottle of spring water from my inventory and doused my hand in it, trying to ignore the fact my fingers were vanishing. Which is, surprisingly, pretty hard to do. When the water did nothing for me, I ordered Drynwyn to napalm the stuff off me.

    It was disappointingly okay with that. I don''t know; I''d have appreciated just a few follow-up questions before flame-throwing my hand. However, considering that this seemed to do the trick, I decided to let it go as I flooded the damaged area with Qi to grow it back.

    I turned to the Fae. "You eat that shit?"

    "Of course," Tresaith said, picking up another lead, squashing it and releasing what I was now going to think of as battery acid. "As your level of cultivation increases, you will find it increasingly challenging to progress. At the higher levels, you will need to actively seek out things outside your capabilities."

    Tresaith held up his hand where the juice from the Widow Weed sat on his skin without burning holes straight through. "It has been several hundred years since I could coax a reaction on my skin. Hence why I must consume it."

    I looked at him with undisguised horror. I couldn''t even imagine what it would feel like to have that stuff go down my throat. And it goes without saying this was an area where I had some expertise.

    He is speaking a lot of sense, my dear.

    I didn''t reply. We''d agreed Merlin would keep his head down as low as possible around the Fae. That he had whispered those words at all suggested he thought this was important to learn.

    I - carefully - picked another lead. "So, I should find a way to torture myself with something like this?"

    Tresaith shrugged. "I am not of your race, little one. I would not like to offer advice on your own cultivation journey. However, if you seek to move things forward, I am not against stressing the importance of challenge to you."

    I dropped into my Artist''s Studio and grabbed a bunch of my alchemy books. I didn''t recognise the words ''Widow Weed'', but I thought I''d come across a picture of the leaf on one of the pages about poisons. "Any advice, Big M?"

    Keep flicking. I''m unfamiliar with this particular plant, but the more toxic poisons will be towards the back.

    I moved toward the end of a red book with a skull and crossbones on the front. After a few minutes of skimming, I saw the leaf I was looking for. "That looks right to you, Big M?"

    My word, he said after a few moments. It is, but I have to caution you about that potion. It is rather an advanced one.

    I scanned through the recipe. Along with the crushed outcomes of several bunches of Widow Weed, there were a couple of other unusual materials I had never heard of. "Any of the rest of this something you know about?"

    The book containing my inventory started glowing, which I took as a good sign. I reached up, took it off its shelf, and let it open to the appropriate page. Did I mention my new ''happy space'' is incredible? From what I could see, I already had several thousand of each ingredient in there. Voltigern''s Dragon was quite the hoarder.

    "So, I guess I have the stuff I need to make - " I squinted at the title of the recipe - "Potion of Agonishing Death. Catchy. These ancient alchemists really do know the secret of a powerful brand."

    It is not a pleasant potion at all, my dear. There are really only two uses for something such as this brutal.

    "Assassinations and skill-ups?"

    You have the right of it. If you are wholly committed to this path - and I will grudgingly admit there is merit in what you suggest- you must progress very carefully.

    I popped back into the real world - noting Tresaith was gone. The Fae did not seem to be affected by the time dilation within my Artist''s Studio, which was weird - and swiped a bunch of Widow Weed, dropping it straight into my cauldron.

    Grinding the leaves up, I had a moment of worry that the acid would eat out the bottom of the pot, but I guess Treasures of Britain are just built a bit different.

    In no more than a few moments, I had a small depth of clear, thick liquid, which I was absolutely sure would chew through anything I put in there.

    I took a couple of hours, and the sun was just starting to rise before I got to the end of the recipe. The liquid had turned a deep, disturbing red and smelt like the most overspiced curry I had ever encountered in the Balti Triangle.

    I tried to dip one of my empty beakers in, but it obviously melted before it even broke the surface of the potion. This stuff was not here to play.

    Encouraged by Merlin, I tried surrounding a drop of it with Earth Qi - stable, solid, unreactive, my dear - and managed to lift a small blob of it out of the cauldron and deposit it in a beaker.

    The little sphere of brown Qi surrounding a malevolent red centre rattled around like a marble straight from hell. I gave it an experimental shake, but when it didn''t do anything immediately traumatic, I felt safe spending the day''s journey to the Glade carefully encasing little drops of the poison in Earth Qi and stowing them away.

    By the time the cauldron was empty, I had over two hundred. According to my inventory, they were called ''Pills of Agonising Death''. However, despite that snazzy bit of PR, I hadn''t yet been able to bring myself to swallow one of them.

    Then Maewyn was suddenly breaking formation, calling ahead of him down the track.

    "We return. And we bring guests!"

    It appeared we had reached the Glade.

 Self-indulgent non-chapter

    Sorry, this is an utterly self-indulgent post. Feel free to ignore. Normal chapter will be out tomorrow ;)

    However, I''ve just received the Royal Road achievement for being on this site for one year and it made me smile. And England are doing well at the cricket, so I figure a touch of reflection was allowed.

    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    It has been exactly a year since I published the prologue to ''Welcome to the Dark Age''. So, that''s:

    * One year

    * Three books

    * 340k words

    * 350k views

    * And all three ''Dark Age'' books have been signed to an extremely cool publisher.

    Not too shabby at all

    Have a lovely Thursday all ;)

 Chapter 33 - In which I get rooted

    The Glade was . . . exactly what is says in the tin.

    As we passed through a tight circle of trees, my senses went through the roof at the number of eyes on us from high up amongst their branches. Then we came out into a wide clearing, probably the size of two or three football fields.

    At the very centre was a massive pool with tributaries running off it to disappear into the trees. There were about ten of these, which gave the impression of the Glade being a gigantic wheel with liquid spokes running off it.

    I couldn''t see anything resembling houses in the clearing, but this wasn''t surprising: Orwyn had explained that the Fae lived above the ground in the forest canopy. By the radiating hostility I was feeling from all the hidden eyes, I wasn''t sure I would be invited to a play date any time soon.

    The same could not be said for Corys, who was unceremoniously slung over Allavan''s shoulder and spirited away into the woods. His men made some half-hearted argument, but he sheepishly waved them off. I couldn''t blame him, to be honest. He appeared to have become the sex slave of 90s vintage Cindy Crawford. Sucked to be him.

    A small group of manifestly older Fae were stood by the edge of the pool, glaring at us with barely restrained disgust. If Tresaith and the others who had come to see were ancient, then it beggared belief the age these guys must have been to look like this. I was not getting the impression we were a welcome addition to the community''s social calendar.

    "Tresaith Morningshot, explain yourself!" I wondered if that was the Fae equivalent of your mum using your full name when you were in some serious shit.

    The speaker looked like one of those people who spent the whole of their retirement in Florida ''for the sun''. Its skin had turned to leather, and I could imagine, in another setting, proudly wearing all manner of ''Make American Great Again'' merchandise.

    I''m not saying that this group looked like they''d be at home at a Trump convention, but neither did they give the appearance that wearing a white sheet would be wholly beneath them. Even the voice of this first speaker gave the impression of a bag of piss and vinegar.

    Tresaith stepped forward. "As requested by the Council, we made contact with those from the mortal realm . . . "

    "You were told to exterminate them, not bring them to tea!" A second desiccated Fae crouched out their displeasure. I made a guess this one was female, purely on the boob tube she was rocking. My word, she was old. Her eyes had sunken so far into her weathered face that I was amazed she could still see. I mentally flagged her as the Ur-Karen.

    "That is not so, Bresith, and well you know it!" Orwyn''s voice was firm. "We were instructed to make contact and then use our best judgment on how to proceed."

    The withered face turned to her. "You were given latitude on the assumption you had finally grown into good sense. We expected better."

    Tresaith came to his mother''s defence. "These mortals had dispatched the goblins marshalling to attack this place."

    All of the Fae elders spat on the floor in an impressive display of phlegm synchronicity. "Trash that would not have lasted two minutes in our woods." The first speaker was back, spreading joy and sunshine.

    "They then destroyed a second, newly arrived force led by a Hobgoblin."

    Orwyn''s words caused a little ripple of discussion. Then, a slightly less ramshackle elder pushed his way forward. He reminded me of nothing so much as Gandalf - right down to the flowing beard and giant staff. "You would have the Council believe that these mortals vanquished not just one goblin army but a second? And one under Hobgoblin command! You mock us."

    "Their wizard bested Maewyn in one-to-one combat," Bessen said, having been suspiciously quiet thus far. She appeared to see humiliating her friend a notch above hoping for our imminent execution.

    All eyes were suddenly on the Fae whose arse I had kicked - recollections may vary, my dear - who nodded solemnly. To be fair to him, since he''d woken up, he''d not been a drop of trouble. So much so, I had idly wondered whether - due to some ancient Fae tradition -whether he owed me some sort of life debt. I could do with my own Fae bodyguard.

    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    I''d asked Tresaith about it, and he found it so hilarious that he couldn''t breathe for several minutes.

    "Not at all," he said when he regained control of himself. "He''s just now understandably cautious around someone of your power. It has been centuries since he was bested in sword combat - much less via whatever dark art you used to appropriate his Qi."

    This did not seem to be an auspicious moment to reveal that Drynwyn did all the fighting, and I had no idea how I''d nicked Maewyn''s Qi. ''Fake it until you make it'', and all that.

    "It is true," Maewyn said. "The wizard showed unusual martial promise."

    Everyone turned to stare at me, including a bunch of kings who really, really gave the impression that they''d had enough of my shit. I did wish I''d stop giving them reasons to get hold of Caeldfwch and then use it to cut off my head. This quest was turning out to be less about keeping Arthur as Pendragon and more about ensuring my own survival.

    "I have offered them guest protection," Tresaith boomed out.

    "You had no right," Gandalf replied, his voice louder than the younger Fae''s. "We have had no mortal in our Glade for an age. What you propose is the most egregious insult."

    "My lords and ladies," Arthur pressed forward. "I am Arthur ap Uther ap Constantine. I have been granted the status of tongued one, and I would speak."

    The response to this was silence. I didn''t know whether this was a good sign or not. Neither did Arthur, who took a breath and then pressed on. "We are on a quest for Caeldfwch. We have completed the Step of Blood, and believe - in our destruction of the goblin armies - we have moved past the Step of Faith. However, I realise now that this cannot be the case.

    Interesting, Merlin breathed in my mind. He''s playing for keeps here.

    "Our people have been close before, and I understand that, on occasion, my father may have played you false. I would ask for the opportunity to make amends. We have dispatched a threat to your lands, but I recognise that this has merely allowed us an opportunity to truly show you our good faith. What can we now do to show we are worthy allies? That we mean you and yours no harm."

    "Hang on," Beric began, "we''re not here for you to purge whatever sin your father inflicted on these fucking things. This is a quest for - "

    "You are not a tongued one!" Tresaith stepped forward and punched Beric in the mouth. I could have kissed him. The King of Powy''s eyes rolled to the back of his head and dropped like the veritable sack of shit.

    The members of the Council completely ignored the show, eyes focused on Arthur. The Ur-Karen was the first to speak. "Harm? What possible harm could you short-lived things cause us? You are gnats around a stag. Irritating, but we will put up with your brief annoyance as we make our way through our lives. You ask the sun to make a pact with the clouds."

    "The first metaphor was just about workable. The second . . . not so much. I expected better."

    Everyone turned to look at the speaker. Who I realised was me.

    Well, in for a penny . . .

    "Dudes, look, let''s not make this any more than it needs to be. At best, this is going to be a side quest, isn''t it? We''ve got to raise our reputation with you guys far enough to unlock the final stage of the main quest line. Don''t get me wrong, I''m not anxious to begin the Step of Betrayal, but we''ve been on the road for a while, and I need to sleep in a proper bed and change my pants. Why don''t you crack on and tell us what we need to do to make up for whatever grudge you''re holding - it''s kind of surprising slaughtering two goblin armies didn''t make us quits, but, you know, whatever - and we''ll get right down to it. I''m not feeling the whole vibe here."

    "Fuck''s sake," Arthur swore under his breath. "Don''t you ever shut up?"

    Mark was glowering at me, but at least Owain gave me a cheeky wink and a thumbs up.

    The MAGA Fae was staring at me like I was a dog that had just shown him a card trick.

    "You dare . . . "

    "I''m a tongued one. Pretty sure that means I''m allowed to speak."

    Gandalf banged his staff on the floor. "Enough. This is unseemly. Tresaith, you have granted these things guest privileges. However unwise this may have been, we will not profane that rite. These men and women - and their followers - will be kept safe for three days."

    I did not like the implications that lurked, unspoken, in his words. Tresaith was likewise alert to the subtext. "Murrayin, what do you intend?"

    "Just as I say!" He banged his staff on the ground once again, and roots exploded upwards, forming neat little cells around us. In an instant, we were all contained in little six-feet by six-feet lattice cages made of tree roots. If I hadn''t been so pissed off, I''d have appreciated the smoothness of his cultivation work.

    I went to draw Drynwyn to bring the fire when Merlin whispered caution.

    Not yet. There will be time enough for escape. Let''s not give them more reason not to trust us than they already have.

    I looked through the gap in the roots and could see Tresaith and Orwyn - and even Maewyn - arguing with the departing Council. Only Bressen stayed behind, and the look on her face was the cat that had got the cream.

    She sashayed close to me and gloated, "Three days. Then we''ll see."

    Oddly, that didn''t seem like a promise to make daisy chains and swap make-up tips.

 Chapter 34 - In which my pill-popping days are apparently not over

    I didn''t take to captivity well.

    It wasn''t all that long ago that I''d spent an unspecified amount of looping time in a cell not that much bigger than I was currently in. That had not exactly been a high point of my life, and I could feel the rising panic the moment the roots closed over my head.

    Of course, there were several differences this time compared to my experience at Aurelius'' pleasure. For a start, I wasn''t on my own with Drynwyn. Arthur, Owain, Beric and Mark were all similarly imprisoned, and I would be lying if the sight of the corpulently fat King of Gwynedd wedged into a cell barely wide enough for him to scratch his fat arse didn''t ease my own suffering.

    However, this enjoyment was undercut somewhat by the constant irritation of Beric''s bitching.

    "Just walked us straight here. Talk about naive."

    Arthur just stared straight ahead, ignoring the King of Powys. Every time I felt the need to bite back on his behalf, Merlin nudged me as a reminder that our silence was probably pissing him off more than any bon mots I could come up with.

    And that was the second major plus point about this lockup. I had Merlin this time. Obviously, I would pour boiling water on my tits and roll around in salt and lemon juice more readily than ever admit that to him, but something was reassuring about his presence.

    When we were left to it, the first thing I did was drop into my Artist''s Studio, but the Big M quickly persuaded me that this wasn''t sensible.

    You''re going to be here for three days, my dear. You don''t want to be dilating time.

    So I popped back out again and did my best to tune out the whinging.

    "Do you have any ideas?"

    My experience of the Fae is that they are scrupulously fair. Nothing terrible will happen to you until the time of your guest right runs out.

    "And then?"

    They''ll either be on board, or they''ll kill you all. You were able to get lucky around a young, inexperienced warrior, but even he - without Drynwyn''s assistance - would have wiped you out; there''s nothing to be done worryingly about the outcome of their deliberations.

    "Easy to say when you''re already dead, Big M."

    Technically, so are you, my dear.

    "Good point. Well made."

    Beric and Mark were whispering together between their root cages, which didn''t bode anything good for my future. But, on the other hand, Arthur and Owain were swapping legends about the Fae, which showed that - at least for one of the British Kings - the whole point behind this quest had been worth it.

    Gwent was, strategically, pretty much the whole ballgame when it came to keeping Cornwall and the Welsh tribes connected. If Owain closed his borders to us, Arthur would need to cross the Seven to have any credible wiggle room to launch an attack to push back the Saxons. And that would be, psychologically, a big deal. Sure, the other kings were important, but Gwent was pretty much the lynchpin to coherent British resistance to the Saxon invasion.

    "So, what do you expect me to do for three days?"

    Funny you should mention that, my dear. I happen to have a couple of ideas.

    *

    There''s an art to poisoning yourself.

    If I weren''t stuck in the middle of the Fae realm, trapped in a cell made of roots and contemplating taking a pull that was pretty much guaranteed to burn a hole through my guts, I''d probably be reaching for a Sylvia Plath quotation right now.

    But, hey, you''ll have to do the work. ''Lady Lazarus''. Google it.

    I was holding the pill in my hand, rolling it between my fingers. The dark red dot in the centre was encased in a ball of Earth Qi which, by itself, I think I should have been getting more credit for pulling out of my arse. I wasn''t especially talented with that stuff: it was only when I started to think of it as clay to be modelled that I began to get anywhere with it.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    I''d taken a few pottery classes in my time - diversification, don''t you know? - and could run off a couple of phallic pots with the best of them. In case any of you are harbouring fantasies about re-enacting Swayze and Moore around a wheel, let me do my bit for public service broadcasting. If you get clay anywhere . . . sensitive, you need to make sure you get that off before it starts drying. That was one visit to the waxing salon, and I''m not keen to relive it in the near future.

    Back to the pills, my dear.

    "Yep, I''m displacing, aren''t I?"

    So, the Pill of Agonishing Death. Absolutely guaranteed to positively fuck-up your day.

    "Why am I contemplating swallowing this again, Big M? Surely it would be a net benefit for me to slip it to Beric as a smartie?"

    Now you are a wizard, Harry - goodness, I hate myself for humouring you with this - you need to take any opportunity to push beyond your limits. It''s a very long journey to Hermione, and whereas at the lower levels, it''s possible to progress by sheer, cussed determination, the improvements needed from now on are humongous. You will need to consume any number of natural treasures and absorb the Qi of countless spirit beasts to notice any improvement in your current situation.

    "Dude, if you want to give me a magic mushroom, I''m absolutely here for it. I''m just a little leery about eating something that is specifically created to kill me."

    First up, all cultivation is about risk. If you''re not pushing the envelope, you''re falling behind. Secondly, the whole point is to do something that <u>nearly</u> kills you. Then, when you come out the other side, you''re that much more prepared against it. You have one hundred of these pills. Should you survive them all, you can pretty much guarantee you will make some sort of helpful advance in your skill set.

    "Or I''ll be dead . . . "

    I refer you to my original point. Faint heart never won fair lady.

    "I''m not wooing a damsel, Big M. I''m Socrates with a glass of hemlock."

    There was a pause.

    "Yeah, that''s a pretty big reach, wasn''t it?"

    Just a bit,

    "Fine."

    And I downed the pill.

    *

    The second I swallowed it, the Earth Qi pulled into my channels. This gave me a nice little boost of chill - Earth Qi is nothing if not solid, good sense - which was swiftly overcome by the awareness of the drop of deadly poison burning its way down my throat.

    I realise this might be a sensation you think you''ve experienced before - maybe you''ve sipped coffee that was a bit hot. Or took a bite of stew that was a touch warm as it went down.

    Well, boo fucking hoo.

    This was nothing like that. This stuff fucking seared my windpipe like it was a piece of burning sandpaper. I panicked as my airway closed up and reached for an Elixir of Wellness.

    No, my dear. You must not mix the two. There''s no knowing the interaction. It could well be catastrophic.

    As I appeared to be having the mother of all anaphylactic shocks, I found that to be a touch fucking catastrophic, but I replaced the elixir in my inventory and took out a stiletto and a thin glass tube.

    Trachyotemies are difficult in the best of circumstances, my dear . . .

    I didn''t give a fuck. I drove the knife into my neck, whipped it out and shoved the tube in the hole before my healing kicked in and sealed it. I could breathe again.

    That was kind of where the good news came to an end.

    The drop of poison - free from its Earth Qi case - was continuing its merry journey of destruction through my body, burning through my stomach wall, allowing all sorts of pleasant liquids to slosh about. I knew I had some decent health recovery since levelling up, but I doubted I was up to surviving something this spectacular.

    I clung to Melehan''s Rock of Curing and - mentally, at least - looked piteously at Merlin.

    You need to cultivate that drop, my dear. If you leave it in your physical system, it will destroy you.

    I didn''t need telling twice. A small part of me, though - the part currently not screaming in agony - wished the Big M had pre-taught that slice of crucial information.

    I pulled the poison into my core.

    To begin with, my paint tried to treat it like any other drop of Qi. It wandered over to it and, with a gulp, consumed it. However, the moment this happened, my poor paint blob turned an alarming colour that I can only describe as ''gangrene''.

    More paint hurried over, trying to overwhelm the rot, but no matter how much arrived or how big the blob became, it continued to go that terrible colour.

    Okay. I was hoping that would do it. Hmmmmm. Bit of a pickle.

    Awesome. The words you always dream you will hear from your legendary mentor whilst you are melting from the inside out are uncertain musings.

    As Hamlet vacillated, my blob of paint collapsed. I sensed that if I left it in my core, the whole thing would be infected by this stuff. So, with an almighty effort, I began to cycle it around my channels.

    I''d say this hurt, but I''m worried I''d undersell it.

    Take the most unbearable physical and psychological torment you''ve ever experienced. Imagine that being ramped up a hundredfold and then narrated to you by Tom Hiddleston.

    It was that bad.

    Just as it had crucified my physical tubes and pipes, this stuff burned around my channels like a uranium enema. I kept pumping out my Qi in the hope it would dilute the fucking stuff, and then the store was empty, and I was emptying out my earrings. When they were done, I pulled on a bunch of my rings and drained their mana stones, too.

    I was pulling everything I''d put into my cauldron out when I felt the destruction lessen. Not much, don''t get me wrong. I was screaming my heart out, but the pain wasn''t increasing anymore.

    There we go, my dear. That''s the sweet spot. That''s the apex. All downhill from here.

    The sun was just going down on that first day of captivity when I was finally able to open my eyes. My entire cultivation setup was fucked. My channels were burned, I was out of Qi, and I was a physical wreck.

    And that was from one drop of the stuff.

    I was aware of several pairs of eyes fixed on me. Arthur cleared his throat.

    "Erm, you''ve been screaming for half the day, Morgan. Is everything okay?"

    With some effort, I managed to flip him the bird before I lost consciousness, my hand still wrapped around the healing rock.

 Chapter 35 - In which there is a Great(ish) Escape

    Arthur was unsure what to do. Morgan had been asleep¡ªif that is what it was¡ªfor the whole second day of their imprisonment.

    A number of the Fae had come to check on her during that time, and each had refused to answer any of his questions about her well-being. Neither would they tell him how the rest of the men were nor what was planned for them at the end of the third day.

    He was not taking this as an especially good sign.

    Corys had made a few appearances, usually led around by Allavan. When he''d first seen the smug, satisfied look on the King of Dehuebarch''s face, he''d wanted to reach through the roots of his cage and choke the man to death. But then, he reflected, was the man acting all that much different from how he had for the last ten years?

    Have cock, will fuck.

    "She''s alright," Owain said for what felt like the hundredth time.

    "Unless we''ve got fortunate," added Beric.

    Arthur ignored them both. He needed a plan. He had been so sure that the destruction of the goblin armies would have been the Step of Faith. Everything he knew about the Fae was that they felt a powerful sense of honour over such things. He could not believe they would not acknowledge they now had a debt over removing that threat to their land.

    What had his father done to piss them off so much?

    But then he was shaken out of his reverie by Tresaith''s approach.

    "My Lord Arthur," the Fae said in his musical voice.

    Arthur just glared back at him. Deep down, he knew Tresaith was not responsible for their current plight - indeed, he had argued vociferously against it - but he was not feeling especially charitable this day.

    "I understand your anger. Once again, I apologise on behalf of my people who find this action to be distasteful. We have no history of misusing the guest privilege in this way."

    "So glad that we can give such ancient beings an opportunity to experience something new." Mark''s voice was harsh. Of all of them, with his excessive girth, he was suffering the most in the tiny cage; Arthur was almost - very almost - feeling sorry for him.

    Tresaith''s extraordinary eyes flashed Mark''s way. "Should you not so fully reject your son, you would not be in this position. Unless you wish to offer apologies for your words and make amends?"

    Mark, slowly and painfully, shuffled around so that he faced away from the Fae.

    The story of Tristian - Mark''s son - and Isolde was one Arthur was reasonably familiar with. If only because he had tried to bed that exquisitely beautiful woman himself and been shot down. With the intensity of a fiery meteor shower. Then, of course, Tristian had shown up and tactfully made it clear that if Arthur looked at Isolde twice again, there would be repercussions. Arthur had looked into that young man''s eyes and knew there was no fighting with the scorching intensity of true love.

    He''d heard a rumour that the two had killed themselves in the sort of self-indulgent act of childish monomania that he did not think suited either of the people he knew. If you loved someone as much as those two did each other, you didn''t take your own life. And the way the Fae were talking about Tristian was very much in the present tense . . .

    "How are the men?" Arthur dragged his thinking away from beautiful women with green eyes and intense young men in shining mail. He had an army to think about.

    Tresaith''s face went through a range of complex emotions before settling on something that was an approximation of rueful. "That''s what I''m coming to you about. We may need a little help on that front . . . "

    *

    Lancelot stood amongst the shattered remains of his cage and ripped the bars off the one next to him. He''d been doing this constantly for the last forty-eight hours, and he could sense the Fae were beginning to get a touch pissed off with him.

    At the very least, he knew he was taking a toll on their Qi reserves because a different old, old Fae had been repairing the damage he had been causing since the sun came up. It was the smallest of victories, but - as his dear mother always said - no one ever fucked a walrus by fiddling with its whiskers.

    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    That had felt more relevant in his head. He was really quite tired.

    Arthur''s men had caught on to what he was doing almost immediately. If there was one thing spearmen understood, it was the value of being irritating. Led by the tall, tattooed quartermaster - Karl - they had begun systematically destroying their root cages in shifts.

    Lancelot, though, was not interested in any downtime.

    "For fuck''s sake! Will you guys quit it? You''re going to get us all killed!" One of Cory''s men - the only group who hadn''t bought into making constant escape attempts - hissed at him.

    Lancelot walked over to that man''s cell and ripped the door off. "Well done," he shouted so that the exasperated Fae running to - once again - rebuild the prison could hear. "Your plan is perfect being. Keep it up I will. Thanks to you for the sharing." He freed another few men of Dehuebarch and turned to confront the approaching Fae.

    He had observed that it was only the really old ones that could create the root cells. The Fae who came charging each time he broke free were much younger - it was all relative, of course - and had obviously been told to restrain the prisoners as peacefully as possible until the slower-moving big guns arrived.

    It turned out there was quite a lot of chaos he could wreak in that time gap, especially against opponents who weren''t allowed to cause him any significant damage.

    He''d freed enough of the men now and knew they would concentrate on freeing their fellows. There was no point in them trying to take on the Fae; regardless of how gently these beings were taking it, no normal mortal could hope to hold their own.

    Lancelot, on the other hand, was treating the whole thing as an exciting training opportunity.

    He ran straight at the nearest Fae and made to punch her in the face. She jerked backwards in shock and surprise at his uncanny speed, but not as much as the male Fae next to her, who was the one Lancelot actually clocked.

    In a blink of an eye, he''d taken the unusually thin blade from that falling sack of perfectly proportioned bones before any of the others could react. And he was sweeping upwards to eviscerate the Fae arriving on his left a heartbeat later. It was only the superhuman grace of the thing that let it pivot on one foot and avoid the flashing sword.

    Lancelot winked in appreciation of the move and headbutted him instead. Good in all realms, a classic nutting was.

    There were four of five rather concerned-looking Fae left. None of them were old enough to bother him. Wasn''t this going to be fun?

    *

    "You''re complaining my men are not acting fair?"

    Tresaith grimaced. It was humbling enough that he was needing to ask the question, let alone explain why. The only reason he''d agreed to make the request was that he thought it might be more readily accepted coming from him. It turned out to have been a miscalculation.

    "We are not allowed to hurt you while you have guest rights. Your men are taking advantage of that." Even to his own ears, those words sounded hollow.

    "You''ve locked us up, lad," Owain said, the tone of his voice disbelieving. "You can''t expect us to sit calmly and wait for the clock to rundown until you''re allowed to hurt us!"

    "But it''s dishonourable!" Tresaith tried again. "We expected more . . . "

    Arthur''s laugh was bitter. "You speak to us of dishonour! Five Kings of the Britons are on a holy quest. Your reaction to this is to prostitute one of us, place the rest of us in cages and then complain when we do not meekly accept this treatment. The legends of the Fae are many and various in our lands. Some are good, and some are dark, but none of them are of you proving so false."

    Tresaith bared his teeth in an entirely alien expression. "So, you will not help to restrain your men?"

    Arthur spat at the Fae''s feet. "You present to give us guest rights whilst imprisoning us, waiting for the moment you can slaughter us with a clean conscience. Fuck you and your request for calm. In fact -" Arthur knelt next to the sleeping form of Morgan and drew Drynwyn from its sheath- "I''m ashamed at not following their lead. Sword, light it up!"

    With fucking pleasure.

    *

    It took the arrival of every member of the Council to restore a semblance of order. They were significantly less concerned with not hurting the Britons than the young Fae, and it was a relatively short amount of time before the root cages were restored.

    Orwyn and Tresaith stood at the edge of the treeline, watching the finishing touches be added to the prison. Despite the cost in Qi, the Council had ordered a substantial increase in the density of the enclosing roots: there would be no further breakouts until the clock ran down on the third day.

    "You know what will happen," Orwyn said to her son. "Murrayin will announce their death."

    "If the Council wills it, who are we to question?"

    Orwyn shook her head. "I raised you better than that."

    "We can''t trust them! You''ve seen the chaos they''ve wrought this day. And they knew we could not fight back. That was not the act of those I would consider as allies."

    "You''re looking for an excuse to do nothing. Two roads lie before you - one an easy stroll through light and fields and the other filled with orcs and thorns. There is no shame in wishing for the easy path, but there is in following it."

    Tresaith watched as the man who would be the Pendragon hit the bars of his cage impotently. He knew his mother was right. He knew others amongst the Moonglade Clan were likely uncomfortable about this abuse of the guest privilege¡ªlet alone what all assumed would happen when the sun set on the third day.

    "What would you have me do, mother?"

    "Show a little faith, my son."

    Although, alone in his cage, Arthur could not hear the Fae''s conversation, he certainly made out the swelling choral music that suddenly announced itself in the grove.

 Chapter 36 - In which Bl?k finds a solid lead

    It was the start of the Grand Tournament proper, and there was a certain . . . tension in the air.

    Of course, that was mainly because of the assassination attempts the day before. Security had been beefed up, which meant Bors had taken to wandering around with his arms wide open, asking loudly for anyone to "come and have a go if you think you''re hard enough." As blood was leaking through a poorly tied bandage around his chest, his hair and beard were matted with sweat, and he had a somewhat wild gleam in his eye, this was proving to be a surprisingly robust measure.

    Furthermore, most competitors found themselves in a state of unease, reporting a disturbed night''s sleep as the shadows within their rooms seemed to roil and move. Had anyone harboured nefarious intent this morning, summoning the energy would have been hard.

    Indeed, there was such a lack of festivity and general raucousness for the opening morning of the heats that Guinevere found herself summoning the merchants Bors had charged with organising things to see if anything could be done.

    Guinevere noted that neither of the merchants looked well, and she didn''t think that was just from one night''s poor kip. Their clothes hung off them as if they had not been eating, and when Bors'' voice drifted into the throne room from the courtyard below, they visibly flinched.

    "Sirs, I thank you for the pains you have taken thus far with the preparations for this tournament. I have rarely seen the castle environs so vibrant and alive."

    "Thank you," the smaller of the two men whispered. "Your Majesty," he added hurriedly at a nudge from his partner.

    "Sir Bors assures me that this has all been achieved well within budget¡ª" Did the bigger man start at that? "¡ªand for that, you have my profound thanks."

    There was a pause as the smaller merchant - Tasko, was it? - licked his lips and searched for the words he wanted. "If we could just return to the matter of the budget for a moment . . . "

    "And if you want some, I promise I have it for you!" Bors'' booming voice made the door tremble.

    "Please, don''t mind Sir Bors," Guinevere said, hoping to soothe these oddly anxious men. They had both cringed at the sound of Bors'' voice. "He has some frustrations to work out after the events of yesterday. You were saying something about your budget?"

    "No. Nothing at all, Your Majesty. All within budget. All exactly as agreed." Both men were alternatively nodding and shaking their heads. It was all very strange.

    "Excellent. I am so glad to hear it because I have an unexpected request to make."

    Was it her imagination, or did these men go somewhat weak at the knees? "I''m sorry, sirs. Are you both quite well?"

    "Perfectly, Your Majesty. What request would you have of us?"

    "I find the mood around Tintagel to be somewhat underwhelming this morning. It would seem sensible if we could get a little good humour going. How about we give mead away for free today? Just to get things going?" No, it definitely wasn''t her imagination; these guys were flopping about all over the place.

    "Free mead, Your Majesty? For everyone attending the first day of the tournament? That would be . . . wonderfully generous." Tasko said with all the enthusiasm of a man to whom it was suggested he set his testicles on fire.

    "Can we achieve that and stay within our budget."

    Both men laughed hysterically for a moment, then abruptly stopped as another incoherent threat from Bors was bellowed through the window.

    "We can do that," the larger man hurriedly answered. His partner squeaked, then nodded.

    "Excellent. Please let Sir Bors know if we need to increase the budget. I''m sure he will be willing to negotiate."

    *

    Sir Bors was currently negotiating quite loudly with no one in particular.

    He''d been advised to spend a few days in bed following his wounds, but he was damned if a few little pinpricks were going to get in his way. He needed everyone to understand he was not going to put up with any more shenanigans and was doing that the best way he knew - by lots of shouting and offering to take it outside.

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    So far, no one was taking him up on it.

    Thus, it was hardly surprising that Tasko and P?ps approached him cautiously. "Sir Bors, could we have a moment of your time?"

    "Go for it," he said, looming over them, spittle on the corner of his mouth and blood running in rivers down his chest to drip to the floor.

    "The Queen has asked for all mead on the first day of the festival to be free. We have agreed."

    "Excellent!" Bors turned to the stallholder behind him and gestured. "Gimmie!" Once his mug was filled, he downed it and then held it out for another. Once that was replaced, he held it up and shouted, "The booze is on these guys! One day only! Get pissed while stocks last!"

    The entire courtyard came alive. Everyone who had been nervously staying in their rooms whilst Bors rampaged around was now slightly more motivated to have a good time. Violent death was one thing, but a free drink? That was quite another.

    "Very generous of you, boys. Very generous." Bors slapped Tasko and P?ps on their backs. "I know what people say about you merchants, but you both are stand-up guys."

    "Thanks," Tasko said weakly, watching the queues line up at the concession stalls. "We aim to please."

    *

    After a morning''s uninhibited drinking, it was perhaps not ideal that the first heats were archery.

    A rather tipsy group of men and women congregated at the lists. Amongst them was Queen Guinevere, who had chosen not to partake in the free-flowing booze this morning.

    "You know," Bors said as they watched a series of attempts fall well short of their targets, "a more cynical man than me would suggest you may have got everyone else pissed so you can win this bracket."

    "Don''t know what you''re talking about," Guinevere said, abruptly loosing her arrow where it flew to sit dead centre of the first butt. "Just sorting the wheat from the chaff."

    There was certainly a lot of chaff.

    After just a few rounds, only ten competitors were left¡ªincluding the Queen¡ªwho had been capable of hitting the first row of targets.

    As the bullseyes were set backwards fifty more yards, Bors glanced at the large number of men who had been eliminated. "You know, your little ego cheat has probably knocked out any number of archers we would have been able to use."

    Guinevere handed her bow to a lady-in-waiting and stretched. "And tell me, how much use are archers that are more interested in filling their skins when they should be shooting?" she nodded at the small group that remained in the competition. "These are your archers."

    Bors looked uncertainly at them. "If you say so, Gwin."

    Guinevere took back her bow and went to join those in the second round. "If they''re going to have my husband''s back, you better believe I want them more interested in their craft than beer. Now run along. Mama has a competition to win."

    *

    Bl?k kept one eye on Guinevere, cheerfully showing up some of the craftiest and wiliest poachers across the land and the other on the crowds around the mead tents.

    As the archery competition¡ªor, more accurately, the lack of it¡ªshowed, the lure of free alcohol was rather overwhelming, and there were only a few sober souls around Tintagel by the time the sun was at its zenith.

    Of those still upright, most were either castle guards¡ªwho had been expressly forbidden to imbibe¡ªor those trying, ever so politely, to stop the Queen from running away with the shooting competition.

    Bl?k had his other eye on the handful of other teetotallers.

    He discounted three of them as threats immediately. Parsifal, Acanor and Galahad had not gone near the flowing stream of liquor and were keeping themselves largely to themselves. The Grey had been clear they had equipped themselves admirably during the last assassination attempt, and all the reports suggest they had dedicated themselves to joining the new Marghekyon.

    So, he only had a couple of dozen of his shadows watching them. You could never be too careful.

    No, it was the other non-drinkers that were getting his personal attention.

    His instinct was to kill them all. Better safe than sorry, and after what had happened the day before, he was rather keen to follow that path.

    At the back of his mind, however, he knew that more subtlety was required if he wanted answers about who was behind these attempts.

    So here he was, watching anyone who seemed to be still sober enough to be a danger.

    These two men, in particular, had attracted his notice.

    They were doing their best to pretend not to know each other, but their indifference was too studied to Bl?k''s expert eye. Both were expensively dressed but not ostentatiously so. And they were armed.

    Of course, most of those within the castle carried any number of weapons. But few had knives hidden beneath their cloaks, strapped beneath long sleeves and against their thighs.

    These weren''t here for any of the competitions. These were assassins.

    Bl?k reached out with his Qi - not that he would have understood it in such terms - and took hold of the hidden metal. Blades of any type had always spoken to him, perhaps even more so than the shadows did.

    He knew from where the original ore had been extracted, which had been used to forge them. He could feel the blows of the blacksmith that had shaped it into its current shape. And he could feel the echoes of the uses to which these knives had been put.

    All this meant he had a reasonable sense of where the knives had come from.

    Bl?k''s eyes widened - even as he pressed down on the metal to open up the veins and arteries of those that carried them. It was always handy when men kept their sharp things so near particularly gushing spots.

    No one remarked on the two men who suddenly dropped to the floor - it had been that kind of day so far - and it was several hours before the pools of blood beneath their bodies were felt worthy of notice. Again, it had been that sort of day.

    Forgetting their bodies immediately, though, Bl?k made his way to the archery lists. Finally, he had some concrete news to share.

 Chapter 37 - In which I test my tolerance for pain

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 Chapter 38 - In which we get out of Dodge

    I awoke to the sound of hurriedly whispered voices.

    "The man''s got no face!"

    Don''t be ridiculous; he''s just facing away from you."

    "I tell you, there''s no other side. You can''t get around him!"

    "Just pick her up! We need to get out of here."

    I vaguely recognised most of the speakers, and if - as it sounded like - there was an escape, I was up for it. Provided, of course, I could move without my whole world falling apart.

    Tentatively, I opened both of my eyes and was pleased to be rewarded with no white-hot burn of agony. I wriggled my fingers and toes and was likewise satisfied that my torture appeared to be over.

    For now, my dear.

    Cheers, mate. What would I do without your help and counsel? Glancing inside my Artist''s Studio, I could see there was a decent stock of high-density Qi hanging around, so I - slowly - started cycling around my channels again. Everything was a bit sore - think more ''enthusiastic'' new partner than epic cystitis - but nothing like I remembered the aftermath of absorbing Voltigern''s Dragon. Nor my error with the mana stones. Or when Aurelius took me out to the woodshed.

    Fuck me, I get battered on a regular basis, don''t I? I might want to do something like that.

    Interestingly, I thought the damage caused by that latest escapade was probably greater than any of those other events. I was just a tougher gal now. And that thought made me feel pretty decent.

    I sat up and noticed three major things all at once.

    First, I stank. Like proper reeked. I was rocking a lovely mix of a couple of days of total body sweat, vomit, blood and . . . various other things I appeared to have excreted from my body when trying to deal with the poison. I had just gone through a pretty seismic detox procedure.

    This led to the second important thing. I felt pretty amazing. I mean, I was already feeling chipper since crossing the boundary into Harry, but this was how I imagine it felt for all those glamorous women on TV when they step out of a costly spa. Although I was willing to concede, they probably did so without being caked in all their own fluids.

    I imagined Gwyneth Paltrow would probably market the shit - literally - out of my pills.

    Everything felt better. I''d once sat through a PE lesson where the idea of ''fast-twitch fibres'' had been explained. I felt like everything I had was now built like that. At first, I thought it was just the difference from feeling so terrible, but no. It was like I''d taken another leap forward.

    It almost made me want to take another pill.

    Almost.

    How are you feeling, my dear?

    "Dude, I feel amazing. Will something like that happen each time?"

    I am afraid not. As with all things, the law of diminishing returns applies. You have gone through a significant trauma, and your physical capabilities have improved commensurately.

    Your next pill will have to fight against that improvement to cause damage, meaning the opportunity to develop will be much reduced. I imagine you will need to consume three or four next time to have anything like the same effect. After that, you''ll need a couple of handfuls and then . . . Well, we''ll need to find something else to temper you. A cultivator''s search for ways to cause themselves infinite pain is never at an end. However, can I draw your attention to a slightly more pressing issue . . .

    That leads to the third important thing I realised when I woke up: I wasn''t in my cell anymore.

    *

    It had been reasonably easy to achieve the first stage of the escape.

    Of course, Tresaith recognised this was because none of the Council had anticipated one of their own freeing the humans. All of the previous escape attempts had involved lots of noise, fire, and general hubbub, which alerted the nearest Fae that something was up.

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    So, his simply and quietly encouraging the roots to retract into the ground was not the sort of thing that was likely to draw attention. He''d managed to gather the entire human army into decent order, ready to flee before it became clear nobody could wake their wizard.

    Or, more accurately, no one could get close enough to their wizard to move her.

    "Interesting," he said as the mist rolled towards him, seemingly coming from the human figure looking in the opposite direction. "And he moves to intercept any attempt to approach her?"

    Arthur grimaced. Now hardly seemed like the time for a lengthy discussion about the oddities connected to his wizard. He realised it took a lot to get a Fae''s blood pressure raised, but he couldn''t easily relax when so close to powerful people who''d encaged them and were obviously planning to do away with them. "It''s some shield spell, I think. She did something similar to my cloak."

    Tresaith walked cautiously towards the wizard, and the man with the stick somehow moved between them. The Fae backed up and then darted to the left, and the faceless man was there again. "This is a quite lovely piece of Water Qi working."

    "Glad you''re impressed. Can''t you just pick the bitch up and get us out of here?"

    Tresaith carried out the odd pantomime all the Fae did whenever Beric spoke: frowning and looking around as if he''s heard someone fart in church, but couldn''t quite pinpoint who.

    Arthur pressed the issue. "It''s only a matter of time before one of your people''s guards realises we''re free. Is there nothing you can do to break the spell so we can leave?"

    The Fae was looking at Morgan with an odd, faraway expression. "Of course. I said it was lovely work, not that it was resilient. It is such as one of our young children would cast to entertain its grandmother." Mark snorted at that, and Tresaith turned to him. "Which is to say it is a demonstration of power I have not seen from one of your people for many a long year. She is quite the find, your wizard."

    "Ah, stop it. You''ll make me blush."

    And the wizard sat up, dismissing her shield spell.

    *

    I couldn''t help but feel that escapes should have a touch more jeopardy about them. As far as I could tell, Tresaith had decided to save us, dissolved our cages and was walking the whole army out of the glade with literally no fanfare. I''d been on school trips that needed more detailed risk assessments.

    We''d met up with the rest of those who had been trapped and were following a dirt path down and away from the centre of the Fae land. Corys''s men had kicked up a bit of a fuss about leaving their king behind, but considering he''d fucked off to - well, yes. Literally - there was a general sense he could find his own way home.

    "He will not be harmed. He has the favour of Allavan, and when she tires of him, she will not allow the Council to harm him. I imagine she will return him somewhere safe in your own realm."

    "And I awoke, and found me here

    On the cold hill side.

    And this is why I sojourn here

    Alone and palely loitering,

    Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

    And no birds sing." I said, quoting a nice little bit of Keats.

    Tresaith looked at me and winked. "Something like that."

    Arthur swung himself onto Llameri''s back, his dragon cloak billowing in the air. Lancelot was at his side, and I noticed the other kings had fallen behind him. It was a subtle but important moment no one was talking about.

    They''re nearly there, my dear. They see him as their leader. Apart from the Big M, of course.

    The king looked down at Tresaith, who seemed far happier being on foot. "What now? I thank you for freeing us, but what does that mean for you? Will there be repercussions for what you have done today?"

    Tresaith shrugged. "A central tenet of my people is that we must always be true to what we think is right in the moment. Most of us felt Murrayin''s decision was an error and that breaking our guest rite was unacceptable. However, she is head of the Council and made the decision honestly. I can disagree with her, but I do not blame her for her judgment. The seers have foretold great turbulence caused by allowing you to go free."

    "So there will be no danger to you, lad?" Owain had ridden forward to listen.

    Tresaith smiled. "I think most will be relieved. The Fae do not wantonly slaughter humans. We can barely raise ourselves to combat goblins. There will be some gnashing of teeth at my presumption. A war party may even be sent after you. But for me? No. Nothing."

    "A war party?" I didn''t like the sound of that.

    "Do not worry, little wizard. I will deal with that. In fact," Tresaith said, looking at where the track we were on split in two, I think we''re at the end of our shared journey."

    "What do you mean?" I said, a touch disappointed. I was still thinking about that wink . . .

    Tresaith pointed down one path. "If you follow that way, you will quickly return to your human realm. I am not that familiar with your geography, but there is a large river with settlements along it."

    "Saxon or British settlements?" I could tell Arthur was tempted. The quest had taken its toll on our numbers. There would be attraction in reequipping and refreshing in safety.

    Tresaith shrugged. "You all look the same to me."

    "And in the other direction?" Lancelot had already started walking down that way.

    "Well, there is a legend in my people that if a trustworthy man takes that road, he will find exactly what he deserves in the pool at the end of the track."

    Now we were talking. Although thinking about it, I wasn''t wild about the semantics there. "And should an untrustworthy man walk that path?"

    "Ah," Tresaith''s teeth flashed very white. "That man will get what he deserves, too."

    Arthur leant down to clasp Tresaith''s forearm in the manly way men do when they''re saying thanks for manly things. "What has made you help us, Lord Fae?"

    "Let us just say, human, that I appear to have found faith that this is the right decision."

    And there was more of that bloody choral music.

    Our army set off down the road less travelled.

 Chapter 39 - In which I am relied upon for some sage advice. Were doomed.

    To call the dirt track we were progressing down a ''road'' would be stretching it somewhat. I''m sure after a hundred and fifty-odd heavily armoured men had lolloped their way down it, there was a little more to it, but for those of us near the front, we felt like we were navigating a little by gut instinct and guesswork.

    The makeup of our column would be pretty interesting to a student of Machiavelli. Arthur''s forces - which had only lost a handful in the battles with the goblins - topped and tailed the formation. Lancelot had argued against splitting our forces, but I could see the sense in what was intended. When the chips were down, it was only those who had the red dragon on their shields that we truly felt we could rely on. Basically, Arthur figured the others would be less likely to run if they had to do so past his men.

    To be honest, I think the King would have liked to have added the double buffer of doing the same with Owain''s men, but there just not enough of them left. In lieu of their own leader, the King of Gwent had taken control of Corys¡¯s abandoned spears and had integrated his men into those. Owain held the middle of the column, and we had high hopes that this might actually work to install a bit of order.

    "I''ve probably fucked enough women from Dehuebarch to be most of these guy''s daddy," he had said with a giant, shit-eating grin on his face. But I could sense his worry. The single best service Corys''s men could do him now - behind simply leaving him to fuck himself senseless in a Fae glade - would be to ensure that the King of Gwent had a mishap.

    I wasn''t wild about leaving one of the few men on this quest that I liked in the middle of - at best - an ambivalent force, but Arthur was right. What choice did we really have? "He''s not got enough men, wizard. I could hide him under my skirt tails, but he wouldn''t thank me for it. You''re only a king for as long as people feel you are strong enough to hold that title. Owain either earns the respect of the men of Dehuebarch, or there''s nothing to be done for him. He wouldn''t want it any other way. Ask him if you think I''m wrong."

    I was pretty sure there were other options available other than crossing our fingers and hoping our staunchest ally wasn''t merked by the men he commanded, but I was a humble twenty-first century wizard. What did I know about military strategy? The only time I ever played Total War, I used the cheat code to have twenty-thousand prime horse archers covered by several million cannons on turn 2.

    However, the issues around Owain were minor compared to the headaches of Beric and Mark.

    We''d spent some time determining how best to neutralise their threat. Having them next to each other in the column was a non-starter. Together, they had the single biggest number of spears. Even if Corys''s men stayed out of any confrontation, it would still be ninety-odd against a little more than fifty. I was starting to have enough self-esteem to recognise I tipped the scales the other way reasonably effectively, and Lancelot was worth at least ten on his own. Still, if ninety men in the middle of the line acted up, there would be momentum behind that, which would get gnarly.

    I don''t care how good you are; an arrow through the throat was pretty compelling in any argument, and we couldn''t be everywhere.

    So, Arthur had popped Owain in the middle of them, splitting his two biggest detractors with the firebreak of the remainder of the spears of Gwent and Corys''s abandoned men.

    All that had been left to decide was who to put at Arthur''s back and who to have a little too far out of observable range to keep honest. Neither was an attractive option, but it was Lancelot who decided it¡ªor, rather, Lancelot''s enmity with Beric.

    Ever since the duel in Tintagel on the eve of the quest, Lancelot and the men of Powys had been niggling at each other. There''s been nothing overt - you didn''t prod a bear that could comfortably eat you whole without trying - but even I was aware of the tension. And I was about as oblivious to social cues and atmospheric undercurrents as it was possible to be.

    As tempers were getting a little short post-captivity with the Fae and the whole ''not being a tongued one'', Arthur had put Lancelot in charge of the men at the rear, bookending Mark''s forces with Owain, and had Beric between the middle and the remaining Dunmonians at the front.

    "Like it, I do not," Lancelot had said, flexing his pecs. "I can reach you in a crisis, but quick it won''t be."

    Arthur bristled at that. He liked the barbarian - hell, he liked him so much I felt like an absolute card not sharing more about what I knew was coming down the road - but he didn''t want to give anyone the impression he needed babysitting. ¡°In a ''crisis'', Lancelot, you will stay in position and lead your men. You are not my spaniel to come running at the first sign of trouble. I was carrying my own water long before you arrived at Tintagel''s gate."

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    They hadn''t spoken much after that.

    We''d been travelling in a column for the best part of the day without seeing or hearing another sound. There wasn''t even the sort of noise I might have expected in a deep forest like this: the sounds of small children murdering old women in confectionary-based houses and suchlike. You know, just the classics.

    I kept questing out with my Qi, but the sheer intensity of the Wood Qi around us overwhelmed my senses. Thanks to a few pointers from Merlin, I was just about able to keep my eye on the column, but it was like having to squint for the blobs of darkness in the middle of a neon rave.

    "Do you think the Fae will follow us?"

    Arthur''s voice shook me out of my latest search for dangers. I sped up my horse and drew next to him. It might have been my imagination, but he looked . . . bigger, somehow. Not like he was physically growing, of course, But rather, he was more substantially filling his space.

    I had a pretty complex history with Arthur - and, even as I say this, I know this is a crazy thing to even consider. I mean, me! A fuck-up from the mean streets of Brum having any sort of history with the Once and Future King was mental. But I did, and it involved a lot of fire, a fair bit of mental anguish and lashings of arse-kickings. It was, thus, a bit odd that I was feeling something like . . . was that respect?

    I did say, my dear, when you get to know him, he is pretty impressive.

    He did have a point, though. Ever since he''d crashed through those goblins, rearing high on Llameri''s saddle, I was having this uncomfortable feeling in my chest. I kind of think I wanted to have his back.

    Fuck me, I was getting sentimental in my old age.

    I realised I was staring at him without giving any answer. "From what I understand of Fae culture," I said, "they won''t be too motivated to pursue us. Merlin reckons anyone up for hunting us won''t push it beyond where Tresaith is waiting."

    Arthur nodded slowly. "Do you think we should have struck for home?"

    I laughed at that. "Shit. I don''t know. You''re the boss."

    My dear, he needs more from you than that. Part of the deal that comes with being a counsellor to a king, is that you need to - you know - actually counsel him. "Shit. I don''t know," is not quite good enough.

    "What do I say? I have no idea. We''re still a fighting force, but I don''t know how wise it is for us to keep pushing on."

    So tell him that. He does not need you to agree with him, my dear. He needs to talk aloud with someone he trusts. Lancelot is all the way at the back of this disparate pack, and Owain is needed to hold the middle. I''m pretty sure if Llameri could talk, he would rather chat it through with her, but without that option, it is down to you.

    "By which, I mean, of course," I added, silently cursing Merlin, "is that I''m not sure. My lord, we haven''t achieved what we set out to do yet, and good people have died. I don''t think there''s going to be many spearmen back there damning your name because we''re still on the hunt for the sword."

    Arthur grunted, and we rode in silence for a little while. Then he said, "I''m worried about the Fae."

    I waited for him to say more. Just when I thought that was going to be it, he continued. "They''re too strong. If it had not been for Tresaith, I do not doubt they would have executed us all on the morrow. And there would have been nothing we could have done about it. Even their children had powers that dwarfed those of our mightiest warriors."

    I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. That was what counsellors did, wasn''t it?

    "It''s a bit like worrying about the tide, isn''t it?"

    He turned to me, eyes like still ponds. "Explain."

    "Long ago - although, saying that, I''m probably talking about your great-great-great grandson or some time-whimey bullshit like that - there was (or will be) a king called Canute. He decided that the best way to prove his power was to test himself against the sea. So he wandered his royal arse down to the coast, sat down in the sand and told the tide not to come in."

    "And what happened?"

    "What the fuck do you think happened? Motherfucker got wet."

    "I''m struggling to follow your point, wizard."

    I flicked my hair back in what I hoped looked like a careless manner. "There are powers in the world we cannot do much about. I''d suggest that the Fae are one of them. Worrying about them won''t do us any good. Just as ordering the tide not to come in didn''t bother it any. As you say, they''re too strong. If they want to wipe us out, the best we can do is choose the cloth they use. Worry about things you can affect; don''t waste time on things you cannot."

    I felt I''d just bastardised something my sponsor at AA had once said to me, but it seemed to do the trick. Some of the tension slipped away from the king''s shoulders.

    Well done, my dear. However, in the interests of fairness, I should note that Canute took to the beach to demonstrate to his court the limits of his power. He was seeking to make the very point you did and it''s a travesty he''s remembered as some sort of unstoppable moron when he was - in truth - a very wise and decent king.

    "Yeah, my heart bleeds for him."

    But then we all had much more to worry about than long dead - or long before being alive¡ªone of the two - British monarchs.

    Because the woods were suddenly filled with a familiar chittering and screeching.

    The goblins were back for round three.

    And this is time, it seemed like they meant for it to stick.

 Chapter 40 - In which we take something of an arse kicking

    Now, you may thinking, "for fuck''s sake, Morgan. You''ve kicked goblin-arse twice already; what is going to be different this time?"

    And that would be a fair argument, well made.

    As a counterpoint, I should note a few differences between meeting an army head-on when you have a plan and shield wall set-up and being ambushed from all sides when you are in a long, thin column through twisty forest paths.

    I''d also highlight that these guys were gearing up to take on the fucking Fae. So, whilst they may not have exactly been Genghis'' hordes sweeping majestically across the plains of Asia, neither were they a drone army of robots being wiped out by a bunch of frogs with magic, exploding rocks.

    Even then, I agree we''d still be the hot favourites if everyone had acted in anything approaching a concerted manner. However, there was just too much suspicion going on now. In the few seconds before I got very busy indeed, I heard Arthur order one thing, Beric another, Owain''s spears try something whilst Corys''s men under his command did something different. Oh, and I''m pretty sure I saw Mark''s forces turn on Lancelot.

    But then I was involved in a scene that was not dissimilar to the climax of Gremlins.

    I may suggest a shield would be useful in these circumstances, my dear. You are increasingly hardy, but it only takes one stray arrow . . .

    I snapped out of watching four small figures streak towards me with ''lunch'' in their minds. As a decent complement of ordinance came out of the woods behind them, I took the Big M''s point and activated <Zizzie''s Gift>.

    And not a moment too soon.

    The projected image of the painting whipped out in front of me, the figure''s walking stick flashing left and right to smack the projectiles out of the air. Others followed, though, and the dude was quickly turned into a pincushion.

    As he seemed fairly undisturbed by this development, I left him to it and turned my attention to the four little murder-kermits who were now on top of me.

    I drew Drynwyn and thrust it at the lead attacker, three feet of ugly green knobliness carrying its own sword. Surprisingly, it did a decent job of parrying, which just made my sword angry. You won''t like it when it''s angry. A pulse of flame ended that little dust-up. I would have made a suitable comment - "a bit hot for you?" perhaps - if I hadn''t found my hands a little full with the assault of the others.

    They each attacked with some degree of coordination, taking advantage of my sword temporarily being engaged. Three spears reached for me. I

    their arses but only succeeded in blasting one of them backwards, where it hit a tree with the sort of sickening crunch that suggested it would take more than a skilled chiropractor with a ''can do'' attitude to sort it out.

    The other two, though, recovered and got all up in my business. I was just pulling Drynwyn back towards a decent guard position when a bone-tipped spear took me in the shoulder. Don''t get me wrong, I could probably have shrugged this off even before I was a cultivator. We were basically getting mobbed by off-brand Smurfs, and provided I kept my wits about me, there really should be little that could be done to cause me massive damage.

    However, what the injury did do was numb my arm for just long enough for the sword to drop from my fingers.

    For fuck''s sake!

    I pulsed Qi to the wound, and it healed instantly. I followed up by throwing out a nice couple of arcs of <Unnecessary Sequel Trilogy> at the goblins before me. I may even have cackled a touch as I did so.

    I then took a step forward to retrieve my sword but then staggered to the side as a spearman I didn''t think I recognised - I mean, something had bitten away half his face, so I wasn''t sure that was fully competent identification check - crashed into me and, in the midst of the chaos, kicked Drynwyn away and into the melee.

    Fuck.

    I wasn''t quite the helpless wee fawn I''d been before I found the sword, but neither was I going to be especially helpful to Arthur unarmed. I turned to follow the direction the blade had gone and grimaced at what I was looking at.

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    We were taking a doing.

    I could see where little islands of resistance had sprung up the length of the column where someone had kept their heads long enough to pull men back into the formations that had served us well before. The thing is, there were thousands of years of ''mano a mano'' juices swimming through each man''s mind over which a thin layer of Roman discipline had been painted.

    Arthur was golden. I mean, he''d clearly lost a few men we couldn''t afford to in the chaos of the initial ambush, but there were still at least ten of his spears in a ring around him. I couldn''t see Llameri, but I doubted Arthur had let anything happen to her. Goblins were still pouring from the woods, but they were breaking on that bulwark like a tide against a pier and then flowing further down the column.

    And that was where the issues were coming.

    I couldn''t see Beric''s men at all. I mean, I''m sure they were there. It was just that they were buried under a sea of green. It would be just my luck if that was where Drynwyn had ended up, too. I quested out down our connection with my Qi which confirmed it. Yep. Of course, that was where it was.

    I covered my hands with the thickest of paint I could and checked my shield was still functioning - fuck, it had actually taken a shit-tonne of damage. The poor dude had lost an arm and a leg, and the mountain behind him was on fire. But hey, tis but a scratch. I refreshed him with a significant amount of my remaining Qi - and waded into the battle to reclaim my sword.

    Now, the thing about goblins is not that they are hard to kill. It''s more that both of you seem to be equally committed to their death being the outcome. They''re like all those bugs that throw themselves at a speeding car''s windscreen. One or two of them will have a negligible impact, but if enough block your vision, it will be a wipe-out city.

    I was alternating between

    to try to clear a path, and there were hundreds of the little buggers going flying. I still wasn''t seeing much in the way of Beric''s men - or, at least, not in an uneaten state - but I was finding it tricky to give too much of a damn.

    I was much more worried about the disaster happening around Owain.

    I smashed two goblins foaming at the mouth at the prospect of my sweet, sweet cheeks on toast, shattering their skulls and using them as makeshift hammers to clear a bit more space to try to catch sight of the King of Gwent.

    Compared to the mincemeat being made of Beric''s men, there was at least some sign of life around Owain''s position. I imagine too many seasons of peace with the Saxons had led to the men of Powys being a touch soft around the edges. On the other hand, you could say what you liked about their king - and Cory''s men had been saying plenty - but the men of Dehuebarch were showing some heart. The problem, though, was that the remnants of Mark''s men - had they really tried to jump Lancelot? - were trying to force their way inside the defensive circle they''d established in the middle of our line.

    That will get them all killed, my dear, Merlin whispered. If Owain opens the circle to let Mark in, the goblins will pour in, too.

    "What do I do?" I opened the cone of

    to become a wide circle around me and activated it. This was a much more diffuse blast of energy, but it cleared me a few moments to think before the wave of green would wash over me again.

    Me personally? I would slaughter Mark''s men. This is a salvage mission now, my dear, and they are expendable. From what I can tell, they are running because they tried to attack Lancelot''s men, which is a poor evolutionary choice.

    "Okay. Well, I''ll take that under advisement. Do I have any non-genicidal options? Just so I can say I''ve considered all sides, you fucking lunatic."

    If you find that unpalatable, then you must find a way to significantly reduce the pressure on Owain''s formation so that they can open their defences and let Mark''s refugees in.

    "And how do I do that?"

    No idea, my dear. You will be wanting to refresh your shield, by the way.

    I was being absolutely fucked up by arrows. I refreshed my poor Wanderer, who was just a pair of feet doing its best to intercept all the shit coming my way, and had a thought.

    Merlin obviously had the same idea. That would probably do it, my dear.

    I dragged all the arrows away from the Wanderer and, for good measure, gave a quick tug of Wood Qi to grab hold of any that were lying around on the floor. This turned out to be a lot.

    "Just how many of these fucking things are attacking us?!"

    You do realise what you are about to do is going to do a fair amount of harm to our own side . . .

    "Dude, not two seconds ago, you were advocating for me wiping out an entire king''s retinue. Now you are being squeamish?"

    I am just here to offer advice.

    "Well, be quiet for a minute. I''m concentrating."

    I felt the shape of

    in my head. When Aurelius had torn out my other techniques, I realised they each had a particular position in my core. This was interesting as it suggested they had a physical presence within my soul. It would, therefore, seem to me that I could make some alterations with a bit of tweakng.

    Holding on to all the arrows with the lightest of feathers of Qi, I brushed them against my

    technique and tried to subtly suggest it could do something else as well.

    I scrabbled about for a bit and then felt Merlin take charge. I recognised the slightly frustrated noise he made before placing some guiding hands upon mine from a million . . . intimate encounters.

    Then we were in business.

    I triggered

    . . . or rather I didn''t. This variety of the technique that clicked into being was called <I.E.D>.

    All of the wood I''d packed against myself suddenly exploded outwards in a wide arc, turning a significant proportion of the goblins into snot.

    It would be accurate to say this turned the tide of battle.

 Chapter 41 - In which Mark gets some things off his chest

    It took a lot to surprise Lancelot.

    His training, from the earliest days of his youth, was intense. The bloody battles he had been thrown into as soon as he could walk had seasoned him in ways few could understand. There were thus few gambits he had not experienced before.

    Yet, even for him, the situation was rare. A goblin ambush with his ''allies'' rushing him was not a scenario he had encountered often. But then again, life always had a way of presenting new, violently intense experiences.

    "Spear pairs. Now!"

    There were different approaches to take against overwhelming odds. Most people would opt for Choice A - run for the high ground and signal for help. Arthur had gone all in for Choice B - turtle up and encourage them to hunt elsewhere. On the other hand, Beric had chosen the ever popular Choice C - be slaughtered to a man.

    Lancelot, though, was built a little different.

    He only had fourteen men available to him at the rear of the column. He''d spent a little time with each of them, explaining his philosophy of war and suchlike, and there''d been a chance to take them through a few manoeuvres that he liked to think of as ''old faithfuls.''

    ''Spear pairs'' was one of the more accessible formations his people used and, he thought, the one that was likely to pay dividends in his adopted home. He knew the Saxons favoured overwhelming charges and frenzied hand-to-hand combat - in that way, not dissimilar to the goblins, now he thought of it - and the Britsh mode of fighting behind a spear wall was a pretty solid response: tight formation, well drilled and heavy cavalry lurking around to mop up was spot on.

    However, there was always going to be a place for warriors who tried something a bit different. His people called them h?ggsveit, but the best translation in this language was ''spear pairs''. Basically, you and your mate were an army unit on your own. When shit went down, you found cover; you located an appropriate target, and you fucking acted on your own initiative. Nothing else mattered but your pair. You had his back, he had yours, and fuck the rest of them.

    As soon as Lancelot called for ''spear pairs'', the entire rear of the column scattered for the trees, flowing past the startled goblins coming the other way and leaving Mark''s men momentarily wrong-footed as the targets for their treachery vanished.

    Lancelot stayed where he was.

    There was a legend told around his people''s campfire about a warrior who would hold a position single-handedly. Sometimes, it was a bridge. Others, the end of a valley. But the location really didn''t matter. Everyone understood that the saga was a metaphor for their tribe''s bloody-minded belligerence¡ªeveryone, that is, apart from his mother, who considered it more of a training suggestion.

    He slowly drew his sword and tried to calculate whether it would be Mark''s men or the lead group of goblins that reached him first. It was going to be close.

    Or what his mother would call "a chance to be a man."

    *

    Mark swore as Arthur''s men scattered like rabbits. He had gladly accepted the challenge of taking these men off the field. No matter how noble or how well Arthur was leading, without enough spears to press his claim, it would all come to nought. He had just been waiting for the right moment to dispose of the pathetic remnant behind him, and a goblin assault was as good as any.

    Thus, as soon as he heard the beginning shriek of the ambush, he had thrown his men at the Dumnonian spears behind them, gambling they could wipe them out. Or at least fatally maul them and allow the goblins to mop up.

    However, it turned out Lancelot was just a hair quicker.

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    Saying that there was still just one irritating figure left on the dirt track. Maybe this wouldn''t be a lost cause after all.

    "What are you fucking waiting for? Kill him!"

    *

    The first spearman was dead before he even realised whom he was attacking. Lancelot had closed the gap between them and had thrust his sword through the man''s throat in the blink of an eye.

    The barbarian pulled his long blade clear and slashed to the right, low, severing the leg at the knee of the next closest attacker. He then pivoted, using the weight of his swing to twist in a wide circle, mowing down three goblins that were nearly on him.

    He was back facing Mark''s men just in time to block a downward axe blow on the cross blade of his sword. He smiled up at the attacker and winked. "Nearly got me, you did!"

    Lancelot pushed upwards, far quicker than the axeman could respond, and ran him through. It was at this stage he stopped consciously thinking. He knew he wasn''t the cleverest of men in the world - his mother told him that often enough - so he was much better at allowing his instincts to take over.

    And what instincts . . .

    The world shifted to that delicious, slow motion that made him feel invincible.

    *

    "Hold! Hold!" Arthur dragged a man back into line. The boy had wanted to chase after the goblin he was fighting, little caring about the hole he''d leave in their formation. "We do not pursue."

    The man - blood lust on him - growled his assent, but Arthur appreciated the frustration.

    Sitting behind a shield wall and watching your fellows be slaughtered was hard. Beric''s men were gone. For whatever reason, they hadn''t tried to form up, and the sheer number of goblins overwhelmed them.

    Arthur had little time for the King of Powys, but over a quarter of their force was wiped away simply through incompetent leadership. And if what he could make out further down the line was accurate, it was probably a bit worse than that.

    "Anyone have eyes on the wizard?" He asked. The lack of ostentatious fireballs of death was noticeable.

    "Last I saw, she was making her way to Owain," one of his veterans replied.

    "Fuck!" Arthur cast about, wishing he hadn''t dismissed Llameri to the woods. He needed the height. He looked around at the men holding the tight circle. They were stuck. He didn''t have enough to move safely, and breaking the formation would be irresponsible.

    The dragon on his back let loose a low rumble. "I don''t like it either," he thought back, "but we''re going to have to wait this one out."

    *

    Mark''s men were done.

    There was no way they were advancing towards the maniac surrounded by bodies any longer. They were being battered by kamikaze goblins from each side, and Lancelot''s men in the woods were being a colossal pain in the arse sniping from the trees.

    They gave a collective ''fuck this!'' and turned and ran towards the seemingly safe refuge of the sizeable shield wall behind them.

    "What the fuck are you doing!" From his admittedly well-defended litter, Mark was watching in horror as his scheme failed. Lancelot stood - in fact, was standing much closer to their position than he was before - and his men were in full rout.

    "Your majesty, we need to retreat!" The Captain of his guards was looking nervously at the approaching Lancelot. There really were not that many men separating them any longer.

    "Fuck that. Help me up!"

    His guard looked doubtfully at Mark''s handmaids. He couldn''t remember the last time he had seen his king standing on a battlefield. "I''m not sure this is the time, my lord. There are hundreds of goblins, let alone . . ." he stopped, not sure how to phrase ''let alone the man you tried to fuck up the arse who has now turned around and is looking pretty displeased at the attempt.''

    "I didn''t ask you to think. I asked you to help me up!"

    Mark leaned heavily on the man, pulling himself to his feet. The men around his litter were somehow keeping the goblins off him, but it wouldn''t last much longer. The chittering and screaming was getting closer and closer.

    Seeming oblivious to the destruction around him, Mark pointed a chubby finger at the advancing Lancelot. "Fuck you. Do you hear? Fuck you! I know your sort. Just like my fucking son, aren''t you? All honour and duty and brotherhood of the sword until it suits you. And then you''ll fuck anything you want with pretty enough eyes! You''re just like him, aren''t you? You and my fucking son," Mark spat the word out like it was poison in his mouth, "are two of a kind. Chivalry personified until you''re not."

    The guard captain went down, three goblin spears driven into his gut. Another stood to take his place, but the line was thinning. Lancelot kept closing in, chopping through goblins like he was scything wheat.

    Mark stood there, continuing to shout insults. They were no more than thirty yards apart and closing. "And all anyone has to say is how honourable you are. How much integrity you have. Well, fuck him and his integrity. He stole my fucking wife! I''ll be doing Arthur a favour by killing you off. You''ll be up his bitch wife''s skirts as soon as his back is turned!"

    Another couple of Mark''s men fell, and then Lancelot was in striking distance.

    It wasn''t clear what the barbarian had planned for the confrontation, and there wasn''t a chance to find out.

    Because some mentalist let off a giant bomb in the middle of the forest.

 Chapter 42 - In which Qi usage is explained through the medium of premature ejaculation

    There''s something fairly liberating about being a suicide bomber.

    I mean, I''m not advocating for it or anything. It''s definitely a bad life choice, and trust me, the whole ''forty virgins thing'', don''t bother. If you''re going to spend the rest of eternity fucking, make sure it''s with people who know what they''re doing. Now I think about it, I wonder if the call to jihad had promised ''forty slappers from Newcastle who know their way around a cock'' as an incitement, the whole Middle East thing might have been resolved much quicker.

    Was there a point you were seeking to make here, my dear?

    Not sure. I think I might have a concussion . . .

    That seems pretty likely.

    What I was trying to say was that I could imagine being a suicide bomber, when the ''suicide'' bit was not a firm requirement, might be a touch addictive.

    One moment, I was in the middle of a decently spicy situation, and the next . . . silence.

    Well, not ''silence''. What I really mean is that the noise of battle was replaced by a sort of high-pitched whining noise, which suggested I may have blown out my eardrums. I pushed a lot of Qi that way - I really did not have very much left over at all.

    I suppose being the centre of a Super Bomber Man-style explosion was pretty energy-expensive.

    At an opportune moment, it might be worth discussing the ''less is more'' approach to using your techniques. You do not always need to . . . I believe the correct pop culture reference would be ''turn it up to eleven''.

    "I get the job done, don''t I?" I muttered, looking around at the aftermath of the explosion. I''d certainly got something done, anyway.

    Due to their lesser mass, I''d rocketed the majority of the goblins over the hills and far away. Those that had been hit by the fragments of the wood that had flown off me like shrapnel had been . . . shredded.

    The silence sat like a malignant toad for a bit longer, and then spearmen started to drag themselves to their feet. There were some pretty crap injuries there too, but most of them seemed to have been caused by teeth, claws and spears rather than shards of flying, supersonic wood. I guess the sheer overwhelming mass of goblins had been a valuable bit of padding.

    Before long, we had reestablished some sort of order and were able to work out where things stood. Good news: Lancelot and Arthur had salvaged most of their men, and the spears of Dumnonia numbered twenty-eight, counting the three of us.

    That was pretty much where the upside ended.

    The men of Powys were gone. Like, totally wiped out. Where they had stood in the column was just a mass of pink paste and bones with scraps of meat hanging off them. It was like they had been a field of corn, and the locusts had eaten their full.

    "Anything you can do?" Arthur asked me.

    "Think they''re a touch beyond healing, mate. I''m good, but if you''re looking for anything other than some serious necromancy, you''re going to be disappointed."

    He looked at me blankly for a moment. "I meant, can you not cremate them or something? We can''t leave them like this."

    Ah. Yes. That would make a bit more sense. I reached out for the long, thin line of Qi that connected me to Drynwyn. He was, of course, right in the middle of the goo. I pulsed a thought down our connected and was rewarded with a Fucking remembered I was here, did you?

    "Dude, it''s not my fault. I was stabbed. With a spear."

    Do you have any fucking idea how bad it smells down here?

    "It''s not exactly the Garden of Earthly Delights this end either. You up for doing what you do best?"

    There was a pause. I''m a little short of the good stuff right now. Don''t suppose you could do a sword a fucking solid, could you?

    I switched out my earrings, which were wholly drained and slipped on a couple of rings, which seemed to be about half-full. Maybe the Big M had a point. I did seem to be burning through my Qi at quite a rate since levelling up.

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    I dropped into my Artist''s Studio, enjoying the neutral fragrance of the sea after the epic aromatic experience of the battlefield.

    "I''m running through Qi pretty quick. Shouldn''t the whole-increasing-the-concentration thing and then moving into Harry have given me more to call on?"

    Did you notice, my dear, how much devastation that last technique you used caused?

    "Sure, I mean, that was the point, wasn''t it?"

    It was indeed, my dear. But . . . let me explain it to you this way. Not that long ago, your cultivation power was the equivalent of a newborn kitten. Thanks to some spectacular mentoring and no little luck, you grew up to be a common or garden pussy . . .

    "Dude!"

    Don''t worry, I heard it as soon as I said it. Let''s switch metaphors. You were a puppy, and then you grew up to be a nice, yappy terrier. Pretty destructive to small rats and generally an irritating presence, nipping at ankles and suchlike."

    "Is there a point to this?"

    There is, indeed, my dear. In the blink of an eye, you grew from a terrier to a dire wolf, and you''re still eating and drinking as a little rat muncher. You have all this extra power and capability, but you''re pretty much constantly running on empty."

    "I didn''t think cultivators needed food?"

    Metaphor, my dear. You need to dedicate some significant time to cycling. Because of . . . incidents, you were able to fill up your Ron tanks with fairly cursory meditation. But Harry is a whole different board game. You will still need to spend much less time cultivating each day than anyone else of your level, but it is now the time for you to take this seriously. You cannot keep relying on having a piece of mana stone jewellery to hand every time you bottom out.

    That made sense. "So, I''m going to need to carve out some time to ''Om'' on every day."

    Something like that, my dear. You could also, as I mentioned, dial back a little on giving every technique a hundred per cent. You should be able to have enough subtle control by now to have far greater sensitivity."

    "I just hit the technique as hard I can. It''s not like I ever reach for them in none life-or-death situations, is it?"

    There was a silence. Sorry, my dear. I''m just trying to overcome my pain at one of my apprentices describing ''hitting a technique'' as if they are playing some sort of arcade game."

    I wisely decided not to point out that was precisely what it felt like.

    Since we''ve concentrated your Qi, it should feel much more solid in your perception. There was something of an excuse to spurt it all out at once at the lower levels, but now that you have more experience, I hope you have developed more control."

    "You know, one of my first boyfriends had just that problem."

    For the sake of my sanity, can we please not complete that line of thought?"

    "No worries. But you''re saying I should be less ''letting it all out'' and more ''thinking about my grandmother on the toilet''?"

    I think Merlin might have gone for a walk at that stage.

    I dropped back to reality and connected back up with Drynwyn.

    "Okay, mate. Do you mind if I try just dribbling some energy into you? Merlin thinks I''m being a bit gung ho with it."

    Couldn''t fucking care less as long as I get out of here sharpish.

    I wasn''t wholly sure how to do what the sword had asked. I was getting reasonably good at pushing and pulling Qi around, but it was something of an all-or-nothing thing. I had a sense of how much Drynwyn needed to be . . . I don''t want to say ''full'' because that''s not quite the right word, but to have as much of my Qi as it could hold.

    I remembered that, when fighting the Shriket, the sword had poured stuff back the other way, so I figured I owed it.

    But I didn''t want to just spaff it down the connection - that''s a fucking horrible way to describe it - and wanted to show the Big M that I was progressing.

    I held a - metaphorical - handful of my Qi. It was undoubtedly thicker than the liquid I had started with when Merlin brought me back. I tried to drip a tiny quantity of it into my link with Drynwyn but quickly found it all being sucked up.

    "Whoa, cool your jets there, D. I''m trying something here."

    Sure. Take your fucking time. Did you know the stomach acid of a goblin has enzymes within it that, given enough time, will melt through anything? Absolutely no fucking rush at all. I always wanted to be a dagger.

    Ignoring the snark, I gathered another handful and slowly began dribbling it down our connection. The experience was agonisingly frustrating. My instinct was just to let it go, but I understood Big M''s point.

    I have every advantage in the world right now. My channels were pristine, and after the generosity of the village above the Knockers¡ªI do like that word¡ªI was able to call on reserves of Qi many levels above me.

    But I wasn''t making the most of these benefits. They were just filling in gaps caused by my not seeking to do things properly. Sooner or later, that was going to catch up with me. What I needed to do was get used to doing things properly so that when I did need to call on the big guns, they would push me over the line.

    The face of Aurelius Ambrosius swam into my mind.

    I was never going to be able to take on that dude without some serious effort.

    Gradually, painfully slowly, I got more of a sense for what I was doing and the urgent pressure to get it done as fast as possible receded.

    To be scrupulously fair to you, my dear, that''s actually not too bad.

    My word. High praise, indeed.

    Not being funny here or anything. But it might be working fine your end, but you''re being a fucking Qi tease from where I''m at. Just finish me off, for the love of the gods.

    I felt like we''d explored about as much sexual innuendo as could be extended from this particular situation, so I dropped in the rest of my Qi.

    In seconds, Drynwyn burst into flames, vapourising the remains of Beric''s men.

    "Thank you," Arthur said. "At least that''s one problem dealt with."

    I turned to look where he was staring and swore.

    To have lost Corys was bad. For Beric to be dead was less than ideal. But to see Lancelot stand over the bloodied body of Mark felt like a step too far.

    We were running out of kings.

 Chapter 43 â€“ In which we move towards endgame

    We set up camp to lick our wounds.

    Lancelot''s Rangers - yeah, they had a name now. Go them! - were hidden in the woods around our position, which at least gave us some sense we''d have a heads-up before getting mobbed again. I''m not sure Arthur was delighted to lose half of his men to this new unit, but I imagine he had wider issues with which to concern himself.

    Two hundred and fifty men had left Tintagel on this quest, but wyverns, Shriket, goblins, Fae, goblins again, and friendly assassination efforts had taken their toll. Every last man of Powys was gone. I wasn''t all over this diplomacy thing, but I sensed that was going to cause comment. Especially as Beric had, very loudly, been anti this expedition.

    We''d also misplaced the King of Dehuebarch and lost half of his men in our latest goblin entanglement. Owain was down to the last four of his own countrymen. Worryingly, the amalgamated spears of Dehuebarch and Gwent were our single biggest contingent fighting under one flag.

    To be fair, that little squad had held up pretty well during the latest dust-up, so it didn''t seem right to cast aspersions, but I knew Owain was worried now he had so few of his own guys to watch his back. On that note, I was pleased to see Burford''s gaunt figure still in one piece.

    Which left the issue of Mark.

    "I mean, if we look on the bright side, what he did could represent the final Step for the sword?"

    Arthur shook his head at Owain''s suggestion.

    Merlin agreed. Attacking Lancelot was - and please beg my pardon - a dick move. However, it could hardly be described as a ''betrayal of all that is good.''

    "No cool choral music, either," I added.

    Whether it had been the last Step or not, though, Mark''s brainfart had brought our numbers down to the tragic range. "We haven''t got the spears to keep him and his remaining men under guard," Arthur said aloud as if inviting comment, but I worried he had already made up his mind. "Anyone have any ideas?"

    "Kill them," Lancelot said, not even looking up from sharpening his blade. "Dishonourable, they were."

    "To be fair - " how on earth was I being the voice of reason here? - "his men would just have been following orders. I''m all for some brief and violent retribution against Mark, but are we really up for executing a bunch of men who did what their king asked? That''s kind of a precedent to set . . ."

    Owain nodded thoughtfully and stroked his Father Christmas beard. "We are looking very threadbare. I would worry how the men of Dehuebarch would react if we slay Mark''s men. There are rumbles enough about keeping them captive."

    "Kill them, too." Lancelot was nothing if not single-minded.

    "I think if we''re discussing executing over half of our remaining forces, we need to take a bit of a sense check."

    Silence greeted my words, and I looked around our tight little camp. We hadn''t really been on the road all that long, and we''d experienced some pretty shitty luck. At every turn, we''d been mobbed by creatures we were ill-equipped to defeat, regardless of our numbers. In fact, I wondered whether - even if we had another two hundred spears - we''d have been much better off right now.

    Now, there was a thought.

    "Big M, you know the whole ''Step of Blood, Step of Faith, Step of Betrayal of all that is Good schtick, where does it come from?"

    There are many songs about the search for Caeldfwch. From my consideration of them all, those are the consistent features: Whoever wishes to gain the blade must walk those three steps.

    "Does any of the source material deal with how many people are supposed to undertake the quest?"

    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    There was a long pause. I was dimly aware that Lancelot was holding forth at length on the various morale benefits of a good butchering. I suppose, as he had personally been the focus of Mark''s betrayal, he was entitled.

    Without spending too long parsing thousands of years of oral tradition, I think I know what you''re getting at. Our current expedition could be seen following the course of a poem called Preiddeu Anwyn, in which a king enters a beautiful world filled with fantastical creatures. In many ways, this journey is echoed in the tale of Bronwen from Celtic mythology and . . .

    "Dude!"

    Sorry, this is actually quite interesting when you get into it. Most of the existing texts do make reference to the sort of travails that have met us thus far. In fact -"

    "How many people make the quest, Big M?"

    It may be best if I quote the relevant section, my dear.

    I don''t speak of men of feeble intent

    Who do not know the Step of Blood

    Nor of the press of the green horde

    Nor what it is to show faith to those of the woods

    When we went with the man who would be the dragon

    An encounter of betrayal

    Save seven, none reached the sword

    I let that sink in for a while. Owain seemed to be quieting down Lancelot''s blood lust somewhat, or at the very least, was getting Arthur on side.

    "You know, mate, it might have been useful to quote that before, you know, we set out with over two hundred guys."

    I am, of course, a huge fan of hindsight, my dear. However, I would note that Preiddeu Anwyn is just one small example of a massive collection of songs and poems.

    But I wasn''t too bothered. The poem wouldn''t have made much sense until we''d actually reached this point anyway. Never had my new life felt more like a videogame than it did right now. We''d completed the various Steps of the quest and were now gearing up for - I presume - the Big Bad encounter.

    And only seven of us were going to make it.

    I cleared my throat, and all eyes around the fire turned to me. "If I may, I have a suggestion."

    *

    And that was how Arthur, Lancelot, me, Owain and Burford, Mark and his nominated guard - a massive bald fucker called Volka - found ourselves dismissing the rest of the army. Obviously, absolutely no one was happy with this, and I doubted any of them were going to do anything other than follow us at a discrete distance.

    "You''re leading us to our deaths!" Mark spat, stumbling over a root that a wag of wizard might have made engorge at just the right moment. The poor guy wasn''t too steady on his feet, was he? Bless him.

    As everyone else appeared to be ignoring him, it kind of fell on me to reply. "Look, if only seven of us are prophesied to make it to the sword, then we might as well cut the others loose and let them head for home."

    "And, of course, the men of Dumnonia are in the majority of the seven!"

    "Mate, there''s one king here whose shown he cannot be trusted, and it sure as fuck ain''t Arthur. If I were you, I''d be thanking your good fortune you''re even being allowed to come with us."

    We''d disagreed over that. I might not have been entirely on board with Operation Kill Mark, but neither was I sure that cutting him loose and letting him bring a bodyguard was the smart play. Arthur, though, had held firm.

    "This was a group quest to secure my claim as the Pendragon. We cannot do anything about the loss of Beric, and Corys made his own decision. But I will not further reduce our royal contingent unless I have no choice."

    "He tried to kill Lancelot!" Owain was as uncomfortable with it all as I was.

    "And failed. Spectacularly. There is to be no more to be said. Mark will come with us."

    As far as starting the final step of a quest went, there was precious little fanfare. We simply gathered up our stuff and told the remaining men to retrace their steps back to Tresaith¡ªwho hopefully still held the crossroad¡ªand take the other path to our realm.

    It was manifestly clear Arthur''s men were not going home - and I assumed Lancelot''s Rangers would be hanging around unseen. I was sure Mark''s remaining men might feel similar, but Corys''s were basically legging it before we''d even finished speaking.

    "You''re sure that Mark''s little backstab isn''t going to count as the Step of Betrayal?"

    My dear, the only thing to be sure of on this quest is to expect the unexpected. However, no. I do not feel that was the final Step. No one was surprised when Mark proved to play us fault.

    The quiet of the woods swallowed us up, and soon, we left any visible sign of the army behind us. If Lancelot''s Rangers were out there, I couldn''t easily track them: the strength of the Wood Qi emanating from the trees was too overwhelming. The path we followed, though, was neatly cut through the forest. Indeed, the longer we rode down it, the greater the quality of the material beneath our horse''s feet.

    We''d been going for a few hours when each of us felt a change of atmosphere around us. It wasn''t that the silence of the woods changed; it was more that it became epically expectant.

    As if the leaves themselves had taken an inward breath.

    My dear, Merlin whispered in my mind, as if he too was intimidated by the perfection of the quiet. I think it would be wise to get ready.

    "For what?"

    Anything.

    Awesome. I love a good cliffhanger.

 Chapter 44 - In which it all goes a bit Cthulu

    We carried on in absolute quiet for a good hour. I say ¡®hour¡¯, but I don¡¯t think I was the only one of us who realised the sun hadn¡¯t moved for quite some time. If I was going to put money on it, I think we¡¯d dropped into the Fae realm equivalent of my Artist¡¯s Studio.

    Eventually, the track¡ªwhich had now become a pretty robust Roman Road¡ªbroadened out, and we came out of the trees to find ourselves facing a giant lake with a small island in the middle of it.

    Ah, this could be a touch tricky.

    "Tricky as in ''funny bit of high jinx, all home in time for lashings of ginger beer'' or tricky as in ''the wording of the prophecy saying seven reach the sword made no promises how many will live to find it''."

    More leaning towards the latter, I''m afraid.

    I jumped off my horse and strode forward to have a look around.

    The lake was big. Like, if I couldn''t see that it was totally circumscribed by woodland, I''d assume I was looking at a sea. This was a lot of water. I needed to sharpen my eyesight to make out the little island in the middle. It was impossible to judge its size - the scale was all off because of the water - but I could make out a cairn in the dead centre and what looked like a sword handle sticking out of the top of it.

    "Fucking hell, we''re really committing to all the mysths here, aren''t we?"

    I walked to the very edge of the lake and squatted down to dip my hand into it. It was ice cold. Seriously, it was colder than anything I''d ever touched in my life. I had to hurriedly pull Qi into my fingers to stop them from developing frostbite.

    "What are you thinking?" Arthur had moved up to stand just behind me.

    "Well, unless this is an elaborate hoax, I''m guessing that''s Caeldfwch just there. So, we''ve made it thus far. But I left my bathing suit back at Tintagel, so I''m going to stand right here while someone else swims over and claims it."

    I would not advise anyone to get into that water, my dear. Merlin''s voice lacked any humour whatsoever.

    "The fuck are they being?" Lancelot pointed at some dark shapes moving at the very bottom of the lake. At first, I thought they were akin to dolphins as they moved so quickly and with such purpose. But, then again, I was being fooled by the lack of perspective to judge scale.

    As they swam closer to the surface, I didn''t need Merlin''s shout of alarm to realise my mistake. These things were fucking massive.

    "How about we all retreat to the woods?" I said, Merlin pretty much pulling on my soul to drag me away from the water line.

    Mark was already backing off, covered by Volka and Lancelot, and I hastily shepherded Owain and Arthur that way before whatever the fuck it was in the lake broke the surface.

    It seemed like the safest place in the world to be was wherever they were not.

    We''d barely made it into the woods when I heard a water spout blast upwards and felt the icy bite of the spray stab into my back. Even Lancelot winced when it hit him, which scared the beejus out of me.

    By the time we thought we were far enough into the woods to look back, there was no sign of whatever was in the lake.

    "What the fuck were they?" Volka asked. And I realised everyone turned to look my way.

    I didn''t think a shrug would increase my standing in this little party. I dropped into my Artist''s Studio, feeling much calmer once I was out of the creepy, silent forest.

    "Okay, mate, what do we know?"

    I''ve only heard of what I think they are; I''ve never encountered them myself.

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    "Which are?"

    Kraken.

    I sensed he was hoping for more of a reaction than the non-plussed expression on my face. "Oh no!" I moaned half-heartedly. "Not Kraken. Whatever will we do?"

    You have no idea what I''m talking about, do you?

    "To be fair, mate, that''s pretty much a given 90% of the time. But, sure, I''ve heard something about Krakens. I remember a terrible Jonny Depp movie with a giant fuck-off Octopus in it. If you''re telling me I will need to wrestle Jonny, I''m very much here for it."

    A bok started to glow and shake on the shelf in the corner of the studio. It was probably the most obvious contextual clues I''d had in my life. And I once had a member of a fairly well-known rock band look me up and down and then nod his head towards the door of a club''s toilet.

    I crossed the room and took ''Fantastic Beasts and How to Kill Them'' by Rhyddrech Hael off the shelf.

    It was a big book¡ªbiblically big¡ªand the illustrations were like something out of Lovecraft''s worst cheese-filled nightmare.

    "Is there a particular page I should be looking for, Big M? Because flicking through this is giving me the willies." Seriously. If I had thought goblins were ugly fuckers, there was every type of mutated, horribly deformed shape I had never imagined on these pages/ And more than a few of them bore passing resemblances to a couple of exes.

    The book shifted in my hand and fell open to a page near the back.

    I tried to look at the illustration, but my mind rebelled, flicking my eyes away to stare at the comforting landscape outside my window. I tried again, feeling vomit rise in my throat, and again, my eyes wouldn''t take in the drawing.

    "Big M, I cannot look at this thing."

    No. I imagine not, my dear. I think, around your own time, a man named Nietzche described if you spend too long gazing into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

    "Meaning?"

    Meaning there was a reason Rhyddrech Hael was a lunatic. You, however, seem to have a decent sense of self-preservation.

    "Well, it''s not much use if I can''t even look at a drawing of the fucking thing! Is there anything on these pages that suggests how to kill it?"

    I don''t really want to look, my dear.

    "Mate, you''re dead. What''s the worst that could happen?"

    There are far more appalling things in the world than being dead.

    "Look, if you''re telling me we can''t cut it and that we might as well pack up and head for home, I ain''t arguing. I''m only here because you''ve made a big song and dance over getting Excalibur - sorry, Caeldfwch - for Arthur. If you want the story to be about Arthur coming, seeing the sword in the stone from a distance, but being spooked by overly rare calamari and fucking right off, I''m down with that. Just say the word."

    There was a pause and then a sigh. Fine. Hold the book open.

    There was another silence, and then a strained, Turn the page. I did so, and then there was another long gap.

    "Seriously, mate, are there some words you need me to explain?"

    When the Big M finally came back to me, he had the voice of a Primary School teacher after a day that contained both wet play and an unexpected wasp in the classroom. This dude had seen some shit and wasn''t able to let it go just yet.

    I think, my dear, if we ever had doubts about the insanity of Rhyddrech Hael, then that little entry puts them to bed. He did not just draw that but fought against them on multiple occasions. I would never have believed such a thing possible.

    "Well, that''s good news, isn''t it? He obviously found a way to fight them. We copy that, get to the middle of the lake, Arthur grabs the sword, and we''re home in time for the medal ceremony."

    A plan with no flaws.

    "Okay, come on then. Piss on my parade."

    For a start, Rhyddrech Hael fought one of these things. I made out three within the lake.

    "Okay, well, that mentalist was killed by a dragon I beheaded on my second day here. I''m not hating our chances right now."

    I think we''ve discussed how spectacularly fortunate you were, plus the deviousness of my plan that led to that outcome. We probably should not view that as a standard approach. Three Krakens are going to be beyond us.

    "Not sure I agree, but keep going. What kills them?"

    Rhyddrech slew a Kraken by luring it out of its watery home, setting it on fire and hitting it with as many arrows as he could.

    "Sold."

    He had with him an army of three thousand bowmen who had spent six months specifically training themselves to pierce the hide of a giant monster.

    I waved my hand carelessly. "So, it''s just a question of scale. The theory holds, though."

    They fired upon it for four days straight before it eventually died. He calculated that the number of arrows launched was . . . '' a lot''.

    "Real details guy, Rhyddrech, eh?"

    And even then, when burned to a crisp and without an inch unpierced, it still required Rhyddrech to cut out its heart to kill it.

    "Okay, that''s not so bad . . . "

    From the inside. He had to cover himself in chicken blood and act as bait to get the thing to swallow him.

    "Right." I gave that image a moment. "I sense what you''re hinting at is that it''s going to be a bit of a stretch for the seven of us to take down three of these fuckers."

    I think we will probably need a different plan if we''re going to get across the lake and get Arthur that sword. Your usual cavalier belligerence will not cut it on this occasion.

    I dropped back into reality. "Okay, guys, here''s the plan. We''re going to need lots and lots of wood."

 Chapter 45 - In which Lancelot and I go balls to the wall

    My brilliant plan landed like a giant wet shit at a baby shower.

    "Can I take it," Owain asked tactfully, "you have never constructed a bridge before?"

    I shrugged. "How hard could it be?"

    "Well, without wanting to pour unnecessarily cold water on your enthusiasm," he continued, "a little more difficult than ''let''s chop down lots of trees, pile them on the lake and walk across''."

    "But in theory, it could work?"

    "In theory, you could stick a rod up my arse and use me as a punt to get across, but that doesn''t make it a good idea." Mark seemed to have decided this conversation needed his input.

    "Well, at least we wouldn''t have to worry about buoyancy, would we, you fat fuck?"

    "You will not speak to my king in that manner!" Volka pushed forward.

    "Dude, the only way you could be more of a Red Shirt in this situation would be if I didn''t know your name and was referring you to Vin Diesel''s less attractive brother. Settle down. Mummy and Daddy are talking."

    "Will you all be quiet!" Arthur didn''t shout, which I think was a sign of his growing authority over the small group. That we all did shut up, more so.

    He turned to me, eyes flashing. "Morgan, you''re sure there''s nothing we can do to take on these Kraken?"

    I had given them all the skinny on the beasts at the bottom of the lake. It would be fair to say this hadn''t done much for morale.

    "Merlin''s pretty concerned about them. I''m largely up for anything - I think my record''s pretty clear on that front - but I can''t even look at pictures of these things without going slightly out of mind; I''m not sure we''ve got much mileage in a straight-up battle."

    Arthur stood on the treeline''s edge, looking at the island in the middle of the lake. "I don''t suppose you could, I don''t know, just fly me over there?"

    Owain and Mark shouted their disapproval of that plan. It was clear anything that didn''t have them arriving simultaneously would be out. Not that my acting as some sort of flying delivery girl had much mileage, anyway.

    "It won''t work, boss. The sword''s giving off an anti-Qi all around it." Merlin had just kept the good news rolling. "It''s not too wide while it is in the stone, apparently, but it''d drop me and any passenger straight into the drink. Not that I''ve mastered flight anyway. From what the Big M tells me, it would be like hitting a brick wall, even if I was to take a big run-up."

    "Could you throw me?"

    That was not a terrible idea, actually. Since moving to Harry, I certainly had the strength to do it. But I was worried about the fairly high bar of consequences should I get it wrong. I didn''t have a good track record for my aim. And playing Qi Coconut Shy with the Once and Future King over the top of ravenous sea monsters from the nether-most depths of Hell would be a vibe. "I''m not feeling that as a great idea, your majesty."

    Arthur sucked air through his teeth in frustration. "We can, literally, see the object of our quest just there. I''m not turning around because we fear what''s in the water."

    "I''ll take one," Lancelot had, hitherto, been silent during our discussion so far.

    I turned to him, shaking my head. "You don''t understand. These things are . . . "

    "Matters not. In the way they are. Kill one, I will."

    And with no further ado whatsofuckingever, he ran towards the lake.

    *

    Although he hid it well, Lancelot was excited.

    He loved being part of Arthur''s inner circle and had really enjoyed his time at Tintagel. However, the fight with the Shriket aside, he had not done anything recently to raise his heart rate.

    Coming from a culture that measured its heroes'' worth by great deeds, he was worried he was losing his edge. Even his skirmishes with the Fae lacked a certain something, as he could tell they were holding back.

    But an . . . what did pretty hair call it? A Kraken? Well, that sounded like it would be something worth his time.

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    Lancelot had nearly reached the edge of the lake when he realised the wizard had jogged to follow him. Her lips were tight with fear, and her skin had gone even paler than usual, but he liked the firm resolve in her eyes. His mother would have torn the heart from this one and served it to him in a stew.

    "You help?" he asked levelly/

    "In lieu of a better plan, I''m your huckleberry. Still think a massive fuck off bridge would be a better solution."

    He smiled and shook his head. He never understood much of what she said, but she was nice to look at. He sniffed, enjoying the odd spicey smell he had learned meant she was channelling her magic.

    He was unusual amongst his tribe that he had not a a trace of . . . what did pretty hair call it? Chi? Qi? Something like that. Well, he did not have any of it within his spirit. His mother had explained that she had beaten the spark out of him to make him into a better warrior. He had no idea whether that was true, but he was certainly faster and stronger than any of his people who could make pretty lights or make it rain. In fact, until that big man who looked like Arthur''s father, he had not come across anyone who could keep up with him.

    That defeat still burned within him. He ached for another opportunity to attack that cheater. But until that happened, he could make do with one of these things.

    "Look," pretty hair tugged at his sleeve, pulling him back from the edge of the lake. "We can''t possibly take out three of these at once. We need to lure one out of the water but leave the other two behind."

    Lancelot nodded understandingly. "Good plan," he said and then dived into the lake.

    *

    "Oh, for fuck''s sake!"

    I liked Lancelot. I liked his smile. I liked his muscles. And I liked the way his shirt fell off at a moment''s notice. I liked him much more when he was nowhere near Guinevere, and I didn''t have to worry about cockblocking him. I tink I recognised we both had a similar sense of ''fuck it''s running through our soul, and I certainly respected his fighting ability.

    But, man. The motherfucker was stupid.

    The second he dropped below the surface of the lake, I closed my eyes and reached out for him, seeking any connection I could try to mitigate the massive damage I knew he would be receiving from the freezing water.

    But I couldn''t get a hold of him. It was like the water itself, having been around Caeldfwch, had taken on some of its Qi rejection properties. Not entirely; I could just about track Lancelot''s progress down towards one of the . . . nope, don''t look, need to stay sane right now. However, I couldn''t connect any of my Qi to him.

    , my dear, and quickly.

    I wasted a few seconds trying to work out what the Big M meant, but then I was on it, aiming a thin tunnel of concentrated air down into the water and around Lancelot. I hadn''t tried to hold this technique for any length of time, usually using it as a quick blast of ''get the fuck away'', but I could tell what was needed here.

    The cone of air reached Lancelot, and then he was upright and walking forward, not swimming. If he thought anything odd about the transformation of his travelling medium, he didn''t spare so much a backward glance. His skin, though . . .

    Careful, my dear, Merlin cautioned as I tried to do something about the insane chilblains that covered the man''s body. You must maintain

    while healing his wounds. We have not experimented with holding multiple techniques at once before. If you are too heavy-handed, you could - at best - burn out all of your Qi and - at worse - burn your core entirely away.

    Awesome.

    I did my best to reduce the amount of my paint flowing towards the pocket of air around Lancelot. This was easier than I had expected. I guess Merlin was right when he said I tended to waste colossal amounts of energy when I used techniques. It was like turning down a tap until just the right amount of water flowed out.

    Very nice, my dear. Now, can you remember what Melehan did to heal Arthur''s burns?

    My mind flashed back to the Saxon wizard who had saved me on more than one occasion. He had been there when I accidentally cooked Arthur during our first meeting. I mean, I say ''I'' as if I don''t obviously mean Drynwyn. Melehan had used his Wood Qi in an interesting way to stabilise and then begin to heal the burning king.

    I fumbled in my inventory for Melehan''s Curing Rock, which I had created using the Saxon''s Qi technique, and prepared to throw it to Lancelot.

    No, my dear. Trust me when I say he will need both of his hands.

    I glanced up and saw Lancelot was nearing one of the . . . things. I quickly looked away as the tunnel of air shook as I momentarily lost control of my technique.

    You need to act quickly, my dear. That young man is astonishingly pig-headed, but even he cannot ignore the pain much longer.

    I gripped the Rock and tried to feel how its power worked. The smells that I associated with Melehan came rushing back. Lavender, predominantly, and then the other herbs as secondary notes. I had bunches of all of them in my inventory. If there was one thing Alchemy levelling needed, it was millions of herbs. I grabbed hold of a massive bunch of them with my Qi.

    Okay, my dear. Listen carefully. You have the shape of it, but you need to base it in a liquid. I know we''ve not had much luck with Water Qi, but this is . . . as you would say . . . my wheelhouse. Can you let me take charge for a moment?"

    I paused. It had been some time since I''d fully let the Big M take the reins. Although we hadn''t really explored it, I knew he''d been up to something naughty with Melehan when I''d been stuck in the time loop in Aurelius'' Dark Tower.

    I think he was ashamed enough of what happened there not to try to elbow my consciousness aside and take permanent control but . . . fucking hell. It felt like a risk. But then I saw Lancelot stumble for a second; his skin blackened and peeling off. And I got over myself.

    <Healing Wave> snapped into being the moment Merlin was in charge.

    A beautiful, twisted coil of water - Wood Qi running through it - flowed down the centre of the air tunnel to strike Lancelot, driving him forward. My Qi levels dropped to the floor with the effort of maintaining two techniques at once, but the barbarian was looking pretty chipper in no time.

    And not a moment too soon because, as I watched, he walked straight into a Kraken.

 Chapter 46 - In which we realise we were going to need a much bigger boat

    I found that as long as I kept my eyes fixed on Lancelot - and just let the Kraken exist in my peripheral vision - the sight of the thing only drove me partially out of my mind. Thus, what with with concentrating on maintaining the corridor of air for the barbarian to stand on, that was pretty much taking up all my mental space.

    "Big M?" I gasped, feeling a wash of vertigo. "You''re going to need to keep track of the other Krakens for me."

    On it.

    I remembered what Merlin had said about the necessity to focus on my cycling, and although this didn''t necessarily feel like the most appropriate time - the other two are on the opposite side of the lake. No sign they''re bothered about Lancelot yet - I would need to tap a mana stone if I planned to keep this up much longer.

    Fixing the position of the Kraken in my mind - it blazed a horrible, pulsing blackness to my senses - I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the weft and wane of my Qi. Oddly, my sense of the monster''s wrongness was helpful as it gave me something to push against. With each breath in, it was like my body pulled in little strands of ambient Qi, quickly converted them into paint and then pressed against the presence of the Kraken on my breath out.

    To be honest, I felt like a bit of fraud standing on the edge of the lake meditating whilst Lancelot was in a fight to the death, but then if I ran out of Qi and dropped the tunnel of air he was fighting in, he''d be dead in seconds.

    I was doing my bit.

    "Any movement yet, Big M?"

    Nothing. If you are interested, Lancelot is currently earning the title of ''Ballsiest Underwater Battle'' since I accidentally sank Atlantis. I am rarely impressed with swordplay, but this young man is quite something. He is, nevertheless, being sliced into tiny little pieces.

    I sent another wash of <Healing Wave> down the tunnel, hoping that would be enough to keep the barbarian in the game. That pretty much wiped out any Qi I''d been able to gather since the fight had started.

    It kind of felt like we were just marking time until one of the other great beasts noticed us, and then the jig would be up.

    "Dude, if you can hear me," I called out to Lancelot, "now would be the time to pull out any special moves you have."

    "Your suggestion noted is!" Lancelot''s voice sounded no different than if he were engaged in a little light warm-up. "Up your arse, you can stick it. Busy."

    I guess that was fair enough.

    I half-opened one eye and watched Lancelot move in a blur at the midpoint of the tunnel of air. He seemed to be fighting a spirited retreat, leading the creature back towards me. I somehow managed not to immediately run screaming, shortening the air tunnel to match his progress. At least that went some way to stop all my Qi flowing away.

    "Is there a plan here?" There was probably more of a quaver to my voice here than I wanted, but - you know - I was the girl who hid behind the sofa when the Daleks appeared on the screen, so I think I was doing pretty damned well to be a going concern against this thing still.

    "I''m killing it," he shouted back.

    "Is he, Big M?"

    There was a brief silence. Hard to tell. Lancelot is still alive which is causing the creature some significant surprise but . . . it is something like witnesseing a battle between a mouse and tiger. I cannot help but think that the second the latter gets bored, it will be all over and done with.

    Almost at that very moment, there was an ear-piercing, stomach-churning shriek. Good news and bad news, my dear.

    "Spill."

    The tiger had lost one of its paws, if you will allow me to strain that metaphor a touch further. On the other hand, the largest of the other two Krakens is coming to find out what all the fuss is about.

    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    "Shit! Lancelot, we got company!"

    *

    Arthur ground his teeth in frustration. There was little he could do to help either the wizard or his finest warrior. Watching Lancelot twist, turn, slice, and roll, the king was not too proud to recognise that he would just be in the way if he sought to join him at the bottom of the lake.

    He wasn''t even sure what it was that Lancelot was fighting.

    As he watched, the colossal thing undulated and shivered like a giant leech, but one with a full complement of tentacles, teeth and claws. Arthur did not scare easily, but he was unsure he could stand, much less fight against such a thing.

    And yet there was Lancelot, step-by-step kiting the monster to the surface. He felt such a wave of affection for the barbarian. He hadn''t known him long but already counted him - alongside Bors - as his closest friend. If anyone was going to be able to defeat a nightmare monster single-handedly, he did not doubt it would be Lancelot.

    Then the wizard called out and pointed towards the far side of the lake, where a massive fin was moving towards the battle. Due to the size of the body of water, it was easy to think the movement was slow, but after a moment, Arthur realised how quickly the distance was being eaten up.

    An unfortunate turn of phrase.

    Arthur needed to buy Lancelot some more time. He picked up his spear and began running around the lake''s edge, away from the initial struggle and towards the approaching creature. The others in the party paused for a moment, then gathered up their own gear to follow him.

    "Is this wise?" Owain had a surprisingly decent burst of speed for a big man.

    "Compared to letting that thing double-team them?"

    "Good point."

    *

    Lancelot wasn''t exactly living his best life, but it sure wasn''t a million away.

    There was an art to fighting something where it would only take one substantial hit to wipe you out. It was all a matter of degrees. You accepted the lesser injuries to keep the catastrophic ones at bay. That''s where most people got it wrong.

    They thought fighting was about not getting hit.

    Lancelot had discovered, when he was barely old enough to talk, that this was not the case. It was all about knowing hard you could be hit and still be able to the fuck the other guy - or girl - up. Warriors who were scared of a little pain didn''t take chances. They didn''t put themselves in a position to do damage.

    You didn''t have to not care if you died to win. But it certainly helped.

    He let a flailing tentacle catch him on his chest, his skin bubbling at the contact, and chopped down, severing it with a spray of purple goo. But the shrieking from the monster, it had not enjoyed that exchange as much as he had.

    Lancelot grinned and took another step backwards, leading the creature towards the shore. He didn''t really have a plan beyond the next step, the next slice, the next blur of movement, but sometimes that''s all you needed.

    That, after all, was what life - and death - were about.

    *

    I felt Lancelot''s presence vibrate in my mind - fuck, he''s taken another massive injury - and let loose another <Healing Wave>. I wasn''t sure how many more of those I had up my sleeve, especially if Lancelot wanted anything from me when he finally got this thing to the surface.

    And particularly if the second Kraken reached us.

    Running feet grabbed my attention, and I opened my eyes to see the rest of our little group quickstepping it around the lake. Fuck me. They were going to try to intercept the second creature.

    "Big M, in the most charitable of terms, what chance do they have of being able to do what they''re planning?"

    Well, they seem to be aiming to grab the attention of the second beast. I am happy to confirm that they will likely be one hundred per cent successful in that endeavour.

    "And then survive that success?"

    Not so much, my dear.

    "Fuckadoodledo."

    I dropped into my Artist''s Studio and took a deep, cleansing breath.

    "I have absolutely no idea how we get out of this." At this stage, I hoped the Big M would have some thoughts for me. But, no. He was worryingly quiet. "I don''t have enough Qi to keep the air tunnel open, the healing going, and to try something against the second creature. I can pull Lancelot out, I guess, but that''s not going to help over much. Especially if Arthur and company get wiped. The water''s stupidly cold, so I guess dropping Drynwyn in there on full blast will - eventually - piss them off. But it''s a fucking huge pool of water, and we don''t have the time. Feel free to chime in anytime you want, mate?"

    I''m thinking, my dear. I just cannot figure out a course of action that leaves enough of you alive to be worth the effort. If you are looking for an upside, in most scenarios I envisage, you come out of them alive.

    I licked my lips and reran the options.

    "Fuck it," I popped back into real-time and yanked on my connection to Lancelot. As he was tethered in a

    , he flew backwards out of the water to land behind the treeline. A slightly disconcerting side-effect was that as he had a tentacle wrapped around his leg, he dragged the Kraken with him.

    The weight of the pull, as I feared it would - even without the fucking monster on the other end of the line - sent me sprawling into the water.

    As I hit the freezing liquid, I reached out to the bigger, uglier presence swimming towards Arthur and hit it with <Unnecessary Sequel Trilogy>, draining everything I had to give it the full beans.

    You ever seen a toaster drop in a bathtub? It was a tiny, tiny bit like that.

    I wasn''t sure which caught up with me first: the Qi exhaustion or the devastating electric shock.

    It was one of them.

 Chapter 47 - In which Nessie gets fucked up

    Arthur skidded to a halt, narrowly avoiding being trampled by his pursuers. He had grown accustomed to Morgan''s frequent displays of elemental power, but the sudden burst of light and energy that struck the figure in the water left him momentarily stunned.

    "What was that?" Mark reached the rest of them, a little behind the others. "It was like a lightning storm, but the air is clear."

    Arthur ignored him. If the King of Gwynedd still didn''t understand the power of a cultivator, he wasn''t going to waste his breath right now trying to re-educate him. The second monster he''d been running to distract had vanished towards the bottom of the lake. It was too much to hope his wizard had permanently put it out of action, but it had certainly dropped down the priority order right now.

    He now just had two pressing problems.

    Firstly, Morgan was adrift in that lake. He''d caught sight of her sling-shotting in the opposite direction to Lancelot and a terrifying being the size of one of Tintagel''s towers.

    Oh, and that led nicely into the second issue. Lancelot was one-on-oneing a Kraken on the land.

    Arthur turned on a sixpence and started to run back to where he could see Morgan slowly sinking into the depths of the water. There was nothing he could do. Even reaching towards the water caused him to experience overwhelming pain. There was no way he could dive in there after her.

    Get on with it, you fucking wet wipe.

    Arthur looked down at the sword left on the water''s edge as Morgan had been pinged into the lake. With only a minor hesitation, he bent down to pick it up. He was pleased not to be turned into a pillar of flame on this occasion.

    Owain was at his side. "Figure out how to get her onto dry land, and we''ll help your man with that one." With a roar, the King of Gwent raised his battle axe above his head and charged towards the Kraken, who was obviously disorientated by being out of the water so suddenly. He was followed - with various degrees of enthusiasm and brio - by Burford, Volka and Mark.

    "Any ideas?" Another man might have felt embarrassed to seek advice from a sword. Another time, he might.

    Give that fucker on land a nice quick fry, and then toss me at the wizard.

    Arthur paused. "Wouldn''t you be more use against the monster?"

    The sword swivelled in his hand. I''m her sword. I''ll give you guys a leg up against that bastard, for old time''s sake, but I''m not letting her freeze to death. Not on my watch.

    "Fair enough. How do I -" he raised the sword towards the creature that had righted itself and was finally fighting back against Lancelot. The barbarian had wasted no time of his advantage and had been slicing swathes off the beast. Worryingly, it didn''t seem to be making as much impact on it as might have been hoped.

    A blast of white-hot energy burst from the Drynwyn''s tip to envelop the Kraken. Lancelot leapt backwards and out of the way of the fire and landed gracefully on his feet, sword raised to resume his attack.

    Few more seconds, then yeet me at her. Make sure you get me close; I need to warm her up.

    The flame''s intensity increased even higher, with the monster shrieking outrageously as its skin crusted, burst and shrivelled. Three. Two. One. And toss me.

    Arthur took careful aim and threw Drynwyn down into the water and towards Morgan''s sinking body. He watched it for a moment and then went to join the attack on the Kraken.

    "I hope you know what you''re doing," he thought to the sword. "We need her back."

    *

    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    I''m so fucking over losing consciousness.

    During my life, I''ve spent more time waking up in unfamiliar places with questionable liquids around me than I''d like to think. However, since my rebirth, my passing-out quotient seems to have gone through the roof.

    Are you back in the land of the living, my dear?

    I wasn''t sure. From my memory, I''d gone all Qi-exhaustion (again) and fell into something like liquid nitrogen while simultaneously acting as some sort of lightning conductor.

    My skin burned, my insides throbbed, and my head was splitting. It was Tuesday on the beach at Ayia Napa all over again.

    "Mate, if you could scare up some S Club Seven, I''d be living my best life."

    Excuse me, my dear?

    "Don''t worry about it. I assume I''m moments from death?"

    To be honest, my dear, I have no idea how you are still alive. I''m theorising that your tempering with the Widow Weed has done something appalling to your constitution. You''re really becoming quite a remarkable specimen.

    Sure, I''m doing fuck-all here, I guess.

    Considering the substance I was suspended in, I realised I was in an unusually warm bubble.

    "That you, Drynwyn?

    Who else do you think it would fucking be? Ain''t like Merlin was going to piss on you to keep you warm.

    I opened my eyes and then closed them again quickly. It hurt. "I''m in the lake?"

    Indeed. Someone appears to have neglected their reading on equal and opposite reactions. If you pull something that heavy out of the water, you better believe you will be dragged back the other way.

    "Awesome. Is there any chance we can spare the lesson on Newtonian physics until I''m back on dry land? Just so I can pay proper attention, you understand." A thought hit me. "Where''s the Kraken?"

    I think you have put it into a nice little slumber. Well, the one that was about to attack Arthur, at any rate. However, I would recommend that we quickly introduce ourselves to Lancelot''s confrontation.

    I reached out with the pathetic amount of Qi that I''d recovered whilst unconscious and was alarmed at what a crappy state Lancelot''s lifeforce seemed to be in.

    "Fucking hell, this is a shit show. Which was is up?"

    I groped around, grabbing hold of Drynwyn''s handle as I tried to orientate myself. I kicked my legs - despite the bubble of warm air, the cold bit into me like acid - and started to move toward the surface. Then, having an idea, I pointed the sword downwards. "Give me what you''ve got, big guy."

    An explosion of heat beneath me blasted me upwards. In seconds, I was breaching the waves.

    *

    Lancelot spat a mouthful of blood out and jumped back into the fray.

    He knew he only had a few more seconds before the damage his body had taken caught up with his brain. His arms were moving in pure instinct, and his footwork was just a stumbling disaster.

    His mother would not be pleased. He guessed he''d be seeing her soon.

    On the plus side, since a stray tentacle had taken out his eyes, he wasn''t finding looking at the thing that much hassle anymore. It wasn''t like he needed to see to hit the fucking thing.

    He buried his sword up to the hilt and was gratified by the bloodcurdling scream that it caused. Since pretty hair''s sword had bathed the monster in flame, its skin was much more responsive to damage.

    And then he was back in the air again, a looping tentacle battering him away from his weapon. That was probably it, he thought. He''d given it a good go and was pleased with how he had conducted himself. He hoped his people would have a suitable song to commemorate his fall.

    Then, a warm bath of healing hit, and everything reset.

    Lancelot spared a moment to look towards the lake to witness the unusual sight of Morgan flying ten feet into the air, her sword spewing out fire beneath her. She was pointing towards him and yelling something. Lancelot did not always understand the words pretty hair used, but he was on board with the general gist of her sentiment on this occasion. He would indeed ''kill that motherfucker."

    *

    It took all of our combined efforts the rest of the afternoon to finally drop the beached Kraken. As I had suspected, Volka was the first of us to be dropped. One of the monster''s mouths bit him in two when I concentrated elsewhere. I hadn''t really got enough headspace to care either way.

    I was a bit more sad when Burford lost first an arm and then a leg. I''d manage to cauterise the first, but I just didn''t have enough Qi to address the second. He''d bled out before Owain had been able to pull him clear.

    Arthur probably got the official ''kill'' listing.

    We''d basically chopped, burned and speared the thing into so much sashimi, but it was still capable of sending Mark flying into a tree with a crunch. In response, Arthur took a running jump and piled his spear through its last remaining eye. I shoved on the end of it with the thinnest fucking whisp of

    I could squeeze out and drove it further into what counted as its brain.

    It dropped to the ground, and we followed it, gasping and groaning. I didn''t think anyone still alive was carrying an injury that needed my urgent attention, but there wouldn''t have been much I could have done about it anyway.

    I half-heartedly threw out a couple of Elixirs of Wellness just in case.

    We''d lost two of our warriors, the rest of us were, if not circling the drain, then at the very least squaring the sewer.

    And we were still on the wrong fucking side of the lake.

    Well done, my dear. Great effort. One down, two to go!

    Fuck off, Big M.

 Chapter 48 â€“ In which we have a slight change of plan

    "I''m going to raise the prospect of a bridge again."

    We were sitting under the shadow of a very dead Kraken. Drynwyn had done the honours on the remains of Burford and Volka, but no matter what we tried, it didn''t appear a cremation was on the cards for the giant . . . whatever the fuck this thing was.

    At least now that it was dead, I didn''t feel like I was going to go mad every time I looked at it.

    "Will you shut up about a fucking bridge!" Mark''s temper had not improved since losing his bodyguard.

    "Give me a better idea," I spat back. "We can''t fight another two of these things!"

    And that was true. We were a mess. For whatever reason, the wounds these fucking things inflicted didn''t heal in the usual way. I was used to almost wiping the slate clean with my elixirs, so their inability to make it all okay was irritating. Worse than that, it seemed <Healing Wave> wasn''t a free do-over.

    What were you expecting, my dear? There''s no such thing as a free lunch.

    Honestly, that was almost exactly what I thought being a cultivator was. Seeing a cost to my new healing spell was a bit of a disappointment. The upshot was that Lancelot had lost a shedload of weight and looked like absolute shit.

    Your spell is the catalyst for the subject''s own resources to come into play. You speed up the process, for sure. However, the cost of healing must be paid. And Lancelot was wholly battered during that battle.

    He hadn''t been the only one.

    Arthur stood and winced as he put the weight on a knee twice the size it should have been. "There is no conceivable way the five of us can survive anything like that again."

    "So, the bridge?" I asked, hopefully.

    The chorus of disapproval was unnecessarily loud and long, considering I was basically the human equivalent of an ICU unit at this point. I felt they could have let me down a little more gently.

    Owain was nursing a deep gash that ran the length of his chest that, no matter what I tried, was proving resistant to healing. I''d had to stitch it up the old-fashioned way, and mamma did not raise no seamstress. "Do we need to discuss whether our quest has foundered?" he asked quietly.

    "No," Arthur''s voice was firm. "Should Gwent of Gwynedd withdraw, there will be no hard feelings. My party will remain to claim Caeldfwch."

    "Then you will die," Mark had no bothered standing. I couldn''t help but notice he was in the best shape of any of us. All that padding, I assumed.

    Lancelot cleared his throat. Man, he looked awful. His hair was lank and greasy, his cheeks were hollow and that indefatigable glow that surrounded him had vanished. He looked like nothing more than a smack addict who was in terminal decline. "My people," his chest was racked with coughs. I''d given him Melehan''s Curing Rock to hold, but it didn''t seem to be helping. That stone had helped bring Arthur back from Crispy City, what the fuck could be going on here for Lancelot to have it and still be in such a state?

    The Kraken, my dear. As I said, I would have hesitated fighting one in my prime. Their attacks are not just physical. They inflict wounds on the soul.

    Fuck me. And there were still two of them between us and the sword.

    Lancelot had got his breath back. "My people raiders are. We know about boats. Canoes especially." He looked at me. "With help, I could guide making."

    There was a general murmur of approval.

    "Oh, sure. A bridge would be beyond our engineering capabilities. But a few boats, no worries. I think you guys just don''t like it when a girl takes the initiative."

    "Morgan?"

    "Yes, my king?"

    "Shut the fuck up."

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    *

    It turned out that boat building wasn''t an absolutely terrible idea. We were able to make use of the Kraken''s rotting carcass to supplement any number of materials that Lancelot needed to direct the mocking up of a three-person canoe.

    Of course, Muggins here was needed to do most of the work, which, suffering as I was from fairly substantial Qi exhaustion, was hardly a bowl of cherries and a slap on the arse from Di Caprio.

    I basically poured out anything I had in the way of Qi to bring down the trees, turning them into serviceable shapes for Lancelot, Arthur and Owain to undertake some manual carpentry. Mark, noticeably, seemed to be doing much less.

    I balanced out forestry with meditation, but I wasn''t moving things on with anything like the sort of pace I wanted to. It was two full days before two serviceable-looking crafts were made. I mean, we only had Lancelot''s word for it that he knew what he was talking about, but as my bridge remained off the table and there wasn''t any of us up for a scrap, I wasn''t against giving this a shot.

    We then started to play a game called ''Who doesn''t want to share a boat with Mark?''"

    "Look," Owain said, "me and him are the heaviest. You''ve got to have us in different boats."

    This was a fair comment. It would have been an awful lot of work to simply send one of our ships to the bottom of the lake.

    "That is fine, being. Arthur and I will go with Mark; Owain will go with Morgan."

    "I''m not having that fucking lunatic anywhere near me. He killed a bunch of my men."

    Arthur glanced at Mark. "Oh, come on! You attacked him first. In the middle of a battle!"

    "I have spoken." And the fat fuck crossed his arms and closed his eyes.

    "Okay. How about Lancelot, Morgan and Owain? And I''ll share with Mark?"

    "No," it was Lancelot''s turn to be belligerent. "He''s not trustworthy. Alone with him, I will not leave you." Over the last day, the barbarian had begun to recover some of his vigour. He was still a long way from his Thor-best, but it was reassuring he was looking less like a walking skeleton.

    "Boys, this is pathetic. Look, I''ll go with Mark." Nothing like taking one for the team, was there?

    "Can you tell where the Kraken are, Morgan?"

    I shook my head at Arthur. "If you''re wanting to use me as mobile radar, you''ll need to give me at least another day. I''m fucking wrung out."

    And that wasn''t the half of it.

    This was the longest I''d tried to operate in the Dark Ages without a fairly decent amount of Qi swishing through my channels. The lines connecting up all my hot spots - meridians, my dear. You''re not a baby cultivator anymore - were looking pretty red and crusted again.

    The last time something like this had happened, I''d been able to smooth them out again with a few hours of focused cycling. I worried that now I''d advanced, this level of damage would need a lot more effort to return things to normal.

    "How long do you think you''ll need?" Arthur''s voice was just impatient enough to rub me up the wrong way.

    "I don''t know, mate. I''m not asking for a few minutes so I can reapply my fucking make-up. I''ve been doing the job of DPS, Healer and crafter for this party for the last few days and I''m fucking at the limit. If you want to kick off cruising over the Lake of Unspeakable Horror, feel free. But I won''t have any goodies to bring to the party, and, as far as I can tell, I''m the only thing separating us from certain death. So, do the fuck what you want, but a ''thank you'' every now and again would be nice!"

    There was an awkward pause.

    You know, sometimes, you sound like a very whiny bitch, my dear.

    *

    By general consent, we took the night off.

    I found that mixing cycling from within my Artist''s Studio with real-time exercise was the most efficient way to get myself fighting fit. There seemed to be a hard limit to how much Qi I could regenerate when time was paused, but if I came out and spent a good hour or so in the real world, I was able to click back in and start again.

    It''s only because you are not entirely operating at peak efficiency, Merlin explained. You should not be able to cycle for anything more than mindfulness when you are here: you are still not automatically absorbing the ambient Qi when you drop in. But that will come in time.

    I''d been focusing on using my purple paint to repair the damage my overuse of Qi had caused. As long as I kept my mind entirely clear, each cycle of paint around my body reduced the inflammation by a tiny amount. It was like rubbing the thinnest layer of balm over sunburned skin.

    By the time the rest of the party awoke in the morning, I was feeling less like a bear with a sore head and more up for another go at crossing the lake. Interestingly, the others seemed to be avoiding me.

    It was Lancelot who girded his loins to risk my further displeasure.

    "Feeling well, pretty hair?" He tossed me back Melehan''s rock.

    "Getting there, thank you. So, what''s the plan?"

    "We want to try crossing the lake," Arthur - now Lancelot had tested the water, was walking over to me. "But we need you to track the Krakens for us."

    "And was there a magic word?"

    Arthur started back at me. "I don''t know. You''re the wizard. Shouldn''t you know the word to use?"

    "I mean, did you want to say ''please''?"

    "I''m not sure you quite understand the King/Wizard dynamic at play here." Nevertheless, at Owain''s discrete cough, he took a deep breath and plastered on a smile. "Morgan, I would be very grateful if you could, please, feel up to keeping an eye on the devastatingly destructive monsters that are likely to come and try to eat us the moment we step onto the lake. Such a huge favour would be peachy. Please."

    "You only had to ask, boss. Let''s rock and roll."

 Chapter 49 - In Which There is a Betrayal Of All That is Good

    "They''re getting too far away from us!"

    There were many things I did not like about King Mark. His whole aesthetic didn''t help. Considering the paucity of junk food options in Dark Age South West Britain, it took a real commitment to gluttony to reach his level of corpulency. I mean, I don''t want to fat shame, but I''d had to pack Earth Qi at my end of our canoe in order not to spend most of the early moments on the lake playing a game of seesaw.

    However, my irritation with him went a bit further than just not wanting to spend much time with someone who was one wafer-thin mint away from explosion.

    For a start, there was the whole issue with his son. Merlin had filled me in on the Tristain-Isolde-Mark love triangle. I had a dim memory that the whole Romeo and Juliet story had been based on those two kids, and it turned out that I wasn''t too far away from the truth. I mean, I didn''t remember the bit where Romeo''s dad decided he fancied a bit of Juliet himself, arranged for his son to have a little ''accident'' and then tried to turn into his own personal sex slave. That Tristian slaughtered the guys sent to kill him, beat seven bells out of his dad and then vanished into the land of the Fae - having faked both of their suicides - gave somewhat of a feel-good end to the whole thing.

    If you ignored Mark ordering the immediate execution of Isolde''s entire family line down to the dogs in the yard.

    Dude had some issues with being told ''no''.

    So, he was repellently fat, was clearly psychotic and also a shit dad. Nevertheless, my most pressing issue right now was that the man wouldn''t fucking row.

    "Mate, you do get that I have a few more important things to do right now that ferry your fat arse across this lake, don''t you? Remember those monsters I''m on the lookout for?" He just stared back at me.

    "It is vital we reach the island at the same time as Arthur and Owain."

    I looked significantly down at the oars lying in the water - trying to ignore that they were covered in frost and bits of wood were flaking away. Fuck knows what was happening to the bottom of the canoe. "Then. Start. Rowing."

    To be honest, I wasn''t delighted at how far Arthur, Owain and Lancelot were getting away from us. I was supposed to be our Early Kraken Detection System, but there was going to be little point if they couldn''t hear me screaming ''We''re fucking doomed!" Now I thought about it, I wondered if I should have come up with a more subtle signal.

    I sent a light buzz of Qi across the water''s surface. The smaller of the two remaining monsters was well over the far left of the lake. It hadn''t moved in the time we''d been faffing around getting into the canoes, so I was assuming it was in the land of nod.

    I was more worried about the bigger ball of malevolent energy that was cutting a wide circle around the perimeter of the lake. We''d watched it do this pass three times, carefully measuring how long it took to complete an entire circuit. As far as we could tell - okay, Merlin did the sums - we should be able to reach the middle of the lake before it noticed us.

    I was worried about the amount of heavy lifting ''should'' was doing in that sentence.

    No matter how hard I tried, I couldn''t get the fight with the first Kraken out of my head. It wasn''t just that we''d been absolutely battered; it was that it was the first confrontation I''d had here that had properly left its mark on me. Even being tortured by Aurelius Ambrosius didn''t feel as permanently debilitating as that terrifying mound of tentacles, claws and teeth.

    It was all very well for me to ''keep an eye'' on the two creatures, but fuck knows what we were planning to do if they came for us.

    Tell you what, though, I''d be using Mark as a human shield.

    I glanced ahead and agreed with the King of Gwynedd that the gap between us and the cool people boar was getting too big. "Dude, let''s just work together and see if we can get out of this in one piece."

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    Mark looked at me, then the oar, and then back at me. "I''m not rowing. It''s beneath me."

    I may or may not have let a little spark of <Unnecessary Sequel Trilogy> drift across the canoe to singe his beard. "If we''re stuck in the middle of the water when that big dude comes back round, you better believe I''m out of here faster than light. The only way you''re making it to that island is if we work together."

    We had a bit of stand-off before he took his oar in hand and, with a colossal amount of distaste, began to row.

    We''d been going for a decent amount of time but were still nowhere near the first boar when I sent out another pulse of monster-searching-Qi. The big guy was still on track, lazily drifting around the outside of the lake, about a quarter of the way through his latest circuit. So far, so good.

    And the little guy was . . . nowhere to be seen.

    "Oh, shit!" I increased the power to the searching pulse and eventually found the missing Kraken. It had sunk to the very bottom of the lake and was now moving upwards towards Arthur''s boat at a pace I would describe as "ramming speed."

    *

    Owain was the first to notice Morgan''s panicked signalling. "I think we''ve got a problem."

    Arthur paused his long, powerful strokes and looked at where the King of Gwent was pointing.

    "Okay," he kept his voice calm¡ªno point letting terror take over. "We knew this might happen. Let''s push it.!

    Lancelot began pulling his oar at a blinding speed. It took everything Owain and Arthur could do to keep up with him. They were not too far away from the island now. Arthur concentrated on his strokes - he would not let Lancelot outperform him. Not if this were the last thing he would do in this world.

    Arthur fixed his eyes on the cairn rising in the middle of the island. They were close enough that he could see the handle of the blade sticking out from the top of it very clearly now. And, was that a woman sitting at the base of the stone? She was tall, as far as he could tell from her position, and had long, blonde hair cascading down her front and to the floor. She also appeared to be naked.

    Any increase in Arthur''s rowing output was obviously entirely coincidental.

    Then, a dark shape breached the water ahead of them, and he had his mind very much on other things.

    *

    I watched, in horror, as the Kraken reared up in the water ahead of Arthur''s boat.

    It was directly between them and the island. My mind rebelled at the sight of the thing again, but I locked the madness down tight. Now was not the time. Funnily enough, I imagined years and years of pretending I wasn''t about to have a horrible experience at the hands of one dealer or another made me pretty good at this sort of compartmentalisation.

    "Hurry up," Mark hissed, "we can slip past while it is bust with them."

    Surprisingly, he did not seem to be too worried about our companions.

    I, on the other hand, was wrestling with a dilemma. Arthur becoming the Pendragon was the ball game. I''d only got into this to keep the timeline intact, so Zizzie wasn''t wiped out of existence. Sure, I''d like to think I''d moved a bit past being Riggs in the first Lethal Weapon movie, but my personal survival remained far behind that key aim.

    So, Arthur needed to get his Excalibur. That was a non-negotiable outcome of this quest. Me still being alive at the end? Well, that would be a bonus.

    "What are you doing?"

    I''d dropped my oar and stood unsteadily in the canoe, facing the monster towering over the other boat. We were probably four or five football fields away, but I could make out Lancelot pushing his way in front of the king, moving with far more poise and grace than I was managing. Did that dude do anything badly?"

    Mark, surprisingly, did not seem to be on board with Operation Noble Sacrifice.

    To be honest, my dear, I''m not sure I''m over-delighted either.

    "You have a better plan?" I''d filled my hands with Qi and gathered every joule of lightning I could hold at my fingertips. I had no illusions of taking this thing out at this range, but I figured I could piss it off.

    Sadly not. Try not to hit Arthur when you attack. That would seem a touch counterproductive.

    "Oh ye of little faith."

    *

    The sparkling, flashing lightning stream arced over Arthur''s head, striking the creature with a sizzling hiss. It roared - the pressure of the sound dropping each man in the canoe beneath it to their knees - and dove back under the water, surging towards Morgan''s boat.

    "Fucking row!" Arthur grabbed his oar and began pulling against the water. The canoe lurched to the right. "What the fuck are you doing?"

    Arthur turned to see why Lancelot was not doing his bit and was astonished to see Owain crash his own oar into the side of the barbarian''s head and knock him into the water.

    It was such an unexpected moment, Arthur''s usual razor sharp reactions did not have chance to kick into action before the King of Gwent whipped out a dagger and plunged it straight into his stomach. He looked down uncomprehendingly at the hilt before toppling into the water after Lancelot.

    Owain watched the surface of the water impassively for a few seconds until he was sure neither man was going to resurface. Then, grabbing an oar in each of his hands, he moved with smooth pulls towards Caeldfwch.

 Chapter 50 - In which an entirely obvious farting joke is made

    ¡°Owain killed Igraine?¡±

    Guinevere¡¯s voice was shocked. She did not doubt Bl?k¡¯s word ¨C he had provided more than enough evidence of the King of Gwent¡¯s culpability in the crime for it to be incontrovertible. But she had liked the kindly old man. Thought he had liked her. She could not imagine the circumstances in which he had casually tossed Igraine through her window.

    Bl?k cocked his head as if trying to decide whether an answer was required. He appeared to determine it was not just a rhetorical question and that further commentary was needed. "Indeed, Your Majesty. It appears that the removal of his heir at the start of Uther''s reign was a wound that has long festered in Owain''s heart. Furthermore, I have reports of significant gold leaving to various guilds from which our most recent . . . incidents can be seen to originate. There can be no doubt that he himself tossed Queen Igraine from her tower."

    "Motherfucker," Bors breathed. He had liked the Queen. And he liked Owain. He was finding the news challenging to process. "He just threw her out of the window after all these years? Why?"

    Guinevere answered for Bl?k. "Uther''s death. Arthur seeking to become the Pendragon. Isca. Increased pressure from Aurelius. I guess we have never looked weaker. More ripe for assault." She put a hand to her mouth as the logical extension of this thought was reached. "And if he gets his hands on Caeldfwch, we won''t even have the advantage of wizardry."

    "Arthur won''t let that happen," Bors answered confidently. "And he had Lancelot and Morgan with him. Owain won''t be able to do anything about them."

    Guienevre was not that sure. She thought back to the ease with which Morgan had spoken to the King of Gwent at the feast. The wizard had found him pleasant company, she thought. She wouldn''t have any concerns about turning her back on him.

    In a den of vipers that contained Beric and Mark, she doubted there would be a moment''s suspicion wasted on the kindly grandfather with the twinkle in his eyes and the laugh in his voice.

    "A cut is often more dangerous when it comes from a hidden place. Look at Igraine. Decades protecting the realm from the shadows and the moment her defences are down, Owain struck."

    There was an uneasy silence.

    Bl?k had more pressing news, but he was unsure whether it was a polite moment to speak. He was much more comfortable giving his reports in writing¡ªthe way Igraine had preferred¡ªthan in these in-person meetings.

    Paper was much more reliable than people. Easier to read too.

    Bors had been watching him. "You have something more on your mind, little man?"

    Guinevere turned her bright eyes towards him. "Sir Bl?k?"

    He swallowed. "Yes, indeed. Whilst I am confident we have now removed all traces of Owain''s assassins from within our walls -" there had been five others that he had personally attended to since calling Bors and Guinevere to this meeting -"it strikes me that there is probably more to this. King Owain is aware Arthur and fifty of our men are not standing in defence of Tintagel. He likewise knows both our wizard and," Bl?k¡¯s colourless eyes flicked to Bors. "arguably, our greatest warrior are also absent."

    "No, that''s a fair comment," Bors''s face was entirely untroubled. "Lancelot can kick my arse from here to Frankia and back again. I''m not precious about that."

    Bl?k pressed on as if Bors had not spoken. "He can thus be reasonably confident - unaware of my existence nor that of the Grey - that his very expensive assassins will remove both the Queen and the remaining King''s champion."

    "All pretty sound assumptions. But what of it? Owain is away on the quest with Arthur."

    Bl?k blinked as if he was surprised he needed to continue. After a moment of consideration, he realised he was required to. "Why, I merely note that Gwent is in possession of extremely useful information should it be minded to test the walls of Tintagel. And, I am sure I do not need to remind anyone, the largest standing army of any of the British tribes."

    Guinevere cursed. "Shit on a brick! Order the gates closed. How many men can we put on the walls?"

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    They were all standing now and moving with purpose into the courtyard. Bors was shaking his head. "A handful? More if you let me use competitors." He suddenly grinned. "You know, a proper war game could be just the ticket. Knocks all of this tournament bollocks into a cocked hat. We''ll be able to see how much use each of them is in real time!"

    Guinevere was not convinced that all the competitors who had turned up for a little light drinking, gambling and some friendly one-on-one fisticuffs would be quite so keen on defending Tintagel against the might of Gwent''s spears.

    But then there was a blasting of trumpets, and it seemed that theory was about to be tested.

    Because the Prince of Gwent had arrived.

    *

    Just over a mile north of Tintagel is a small but perfectly formed valley into which the waterfall of Saint Nectan''s Glen spills. The very high stone walls here have given it the name of Rocky Valley to those who knew where to find it, which not many people did.

    Ever since the feast on the eve of the quest for Caeldfwch, several hundred men of Gwent had found - as Cedric''s Saxons had a few months earlier - that Rocky Valley was a pretty decent place for a hidden force to hide in easy marching distance from Tintagel.

    Each man who lay in wait for the orders to attack felt pretty good about their chances of success in taking the castle. Although they had heard what Arthur and Morgan had done to the besieging Saxons - and none of them was too anxious to repeat the experience - the certain absence of these two from the forthcoming conflict was very much welcomed.

    Concerns had been raised about trying to take the gates from Sir Bors, who¡ªif rumour was to be believed¡ªhad pretty much single-handedly held the narrow strip of land that joined the island on which the castle stood with the mainland. However, their orders also made clear that both Bors and the new Queen would be well in their graves by then.

    All things being equal, therefore, there was every prospect that one of the last great strongholds of the Britons would soon be flying the flag of Gwent.

    Maelgwn ap Owain, the youngest son of the King of Gwent, strapped and restrapped his gauntlets nervously. "And we''re confident the gates will be open when we arrive?"

    The cold, dead eyes of Iorwerth, his father''s chief advisor, rolled once again. "I said so, didn''t I? There are more assassins at that damned tournament than there can be competitors. Your father has left nothing to chance. It is the fourteenth day since they rode out on that damned quest. It''s time for the attack."

    Maelgwyn was not sure. He didn''t like this plan. He didn''t like the idea of sneaking into another man''s castle when he was off on a holy quest. He didn''t like the use of assassins to kill that man''s wife. And he didn''t like skulking here with an army hoping to conquer a country by stealth.

    He thought it was the kind of underhand deception that was likely to catch on.

    "Your brother would have had any qualms about his orders," Iorwerth added as if reading Maelgwyn''s mind. "He could be relied upon to get his hands appropriately dirty."

    Maelgwyn was too young to remember Kael properly. What he had heard about his brother in the intervening years since his . . . accident made him think whoever had brought that short, vicious life to an end via violent means had probably done the world a favour. "I do not have any ''qualms'', Iorwerth. I just wonder about the advisability of publicly stabbing an ally in the back. It is the sort of thing that may make our other friends feel a touch less staunch in our support of us."

    "Your father has long been clear that Dumnonia is an ally in name only. They murdered our country''s heir, and this reckoning has been a long time coming. You are required to do your duty."

    Maelgwyn ignored the older man. He had always been thus, so anxious to get redress for all manner of slights. Iorwerth may have his father''s ear, but he had few other friends at court.

    The prince drew his sword and looked over the rows of men who had formed up. Gwent was the workhorse of the remaining British kingdoms. Dumnonia might have the cultivator and the military geniuses, Powys had the mineral wealth, Gwynedd had the tactical position, and Dehuebarch had the links overseas, but Gwent had a big population. This meant lots and lots of raids for supplies by spearmen who quickly became veterans or became dead.

    It made what they were about to do feel so distasteful to Maelgwyn.

    He should make a speech. The prince knew he should. If he had been preparing for an assault that was this important anywhere else in Britain, he would have spoken of the joy of battle. In trusting to your shield mate. Of honouring the name of your father.

    But none of that felt appropriate today. Instead, he signalled the men to begin their approach up the hill towards Tintagel.

    *

    The first thing that suggested to Maelgwyn that his father''s plan may have come undone was when he saw the gates of Tintagel barred to his approach.

    Actually, that was the second thing.

    The first thing was the sight of Bors'' giant arse mooning him from the battlements. "This is the closest you are going to get to breaching these walls, you fuckers. Enjoy the smell!"

    Iorwerth was beside him, wafting away the terrible stench that appeared to have enveloped the army. "What on earth is that?"

    Maelgwyn redid the strap of his gauntlet. "I believe he has just farted in our general direction. Tell me, Iorwerth, is not that man supposed to be dead?"

    "From the smell of that, he just might be."

    "The best-laid plans, eh? Order the men to set up camp. We won''t be sleeping behind those walls today."

    As he stalked away, Maelfwyn offered up a little prayer. "Father, I hope you know what you are doing."

 Chapter 51 - In which Bors starts to feel his age

    "I''m no famed military strategist, but I have to wonder at the advisability of seeking to besiege a castle that has made significant preparations for a massive tournament. I mean, I''m probably eating as well as I have ever done." Bors stood on the narrow walkway that connected Tintagel to the mainland, ostentatiously eating a leg of pork.

    A hail of arrows was launched towards him, which Bl?k, hidden in the shadows of the gates, effortlessly batted aside by pushing on the metal at their tips.

    "Again, just spitballing here, but isn''t it seen as bad form to try to assassinate the commander of the opposing army when he is trying to discuss surrender? I''m sure I read that somewhere. Mind you, you guys are all about the fucking knives in the back, aren''t you? Thrown any old women from windows recently?"

    Maelgwn pressed his knuckles to his eyes in despair. Bors had been monologuing at his men for over an hour now, and there didn''t seem to be anything he could do to stop it. He''d lost several elite units trying to storm the bridge to take the big man down before settling on trying to fill him full of holes. That wasn''t being too successful, either.

    If the men of Gwent had been feeling a touch uncertain about the honourability of the assault, Bors'' lampooning was not doing much for morale. Although, if he was truly interested in surrender . . .

    Maelgwn raised his hand to pause the pointless bombardment. "You wish to discuss terms?"

    "Sure," Bors made a careless wave of the bones he was now pretty much gnawing.

    "I presume you wish for safe passage?"

    Bors frowned in faux confusion. "Sorry, why would I want safe passage?"

    "For you and the Queen Guinevere. When you hand over the castle."

    "Ah, with you. Sorry, I think what we''re having here is a failure to communicate." Bors gesticulated towards the men of Gwent. "I was giving you a chance to call it quits. I mean, obviously, someone is going to need to be ritually fucked to death with a spikey stick for murdering Queen Igraine, but I''m not about visiting the sins of the father on his son. You''re just being a good little prince, and it''s not your fault your dad''s a duplicitous shit. That everything is getting a tad humiliating is a bit more down to you, so I figure your best play is to surrender now - no harm, no foul - and fuck off back to Gwent to await your coronation on the news I''ve ripped Owain''s head off and used it to fellate my horse."

    "I don''t think that will work," Guinevere appeared at Bors'' side. The Gwent archers reloaded, waiting for the order to let loose.

    "Sorry, your majesty?"

    "From what I hear, Owain enjoyed sucking off the odd stallion. So, I doubt that would be as humiliating an end as could be hoped. I think it might just be better if we go old school and lop off his limbs and use his torso as a doorstop. You know, stick to the classics.

    "Good point," Bors turned back to face Maelgwn. "So, what do we say? We''ll even overlook all the assassination attempts. You good to fuck off now?"

    The prince shook his head and retreated behind the front row of his shield wall. As he went, he swore under his breath. This was a disaster.

    Iorwerth was immediately at his side. "They''re both there. Give the order to attack now."

    Maelgwyn lifted the man into the air by grabbing the front of his tunic. "What do you think we''ve been trying to do? There''s a reason this castle is seen as fucking impregnable. They can hold that bridge until the end of the world. Our only chance of winning this was for the gatehouse to be open! And, guess what, that didn''t fucking happen! Cheers, Dad!"

    "So, you are just going to let them stand there and defame your father''s name?" The advisor''s face was turning purple.

    "I can''t take the gate, Iorwerth. The only option is to starve them out. And you heard him, they''ve got stores aplenty. We''ve got enough for a few more days before needing to resupply. This is a disaster!" The prince dropped the spluttering man to the floor.

    "So what are we going to do?" Iorwerth rasped.

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    Maelgwyn shook his head. His father''s command had been clear. When he returned from the quest for Caeldfwch, Owain wanted his men to be in control of Tintagel. There were to be no excuses. Maelgwyn was well aware of the many and various ways in which he regularly disappointed his father. He was not his brother, as Owain never tired of telling him.

    But maybe it was time to channel a little bit of Kael. "Gather my guard; I will lead the next charge myself."

    *

    "You may want to consider getting up on the battlements," Bors growled, watching the troop movements across the bridge. "Find any archers you think will cut the mustard and see what cover you can provide. Did you speak to the merchants?"

    Guinevere grimaced. "It seems they were running something called a ''confidence and supply'' approach to provisions."

    "What the fuck does that mean?"

    "Basically, the cupboard is bare. They were waiting to make some more money to refresh our stores. They seemed to think you wanted them to pull out all the stops. This was how they were managing it."

    "Fuck."

    "Indeed. We''d normally evacuate the civilians in advance of a siege, but the castle is bursting with visitors. We''re likely to be out of food this time next week - and that''s if we start rationing now."

    "We ration, and that dozy fucker out there will know he has us. We need to make him think we''re set for the long term. Organise a feast or something."

    "Even if that means we run out in days?"

    "We can''t just sit here and wait for Arthur to come back and pull our arses out of the fire. I need them to keep attacking."

    Guinevere nodded towards an approaching group of spears led by the Prince of Gwent. "Say this for him, he''s not slow coming forward."

    "Nope. Go on, get up top. And if anyone in there fancies a heroic, suicidal last stand, let them know now would be a great time to find their balls."

    *

    Bors was good.

    He knew that. The men watching from the walls knew that. The twenty-odd men of Gwent he had variously battered, smacked and launched off the bridge also knew that. However, their knowledge was a more temporary sort of thing.

    However, for all his strength, power and belligerence, he was still human. It had been said that three men could hold the bridge of Tintagel against ten thousand. But that assumed those three would occasionally get a break.

    Sucking in huge gasps of air, Bors rested on his spear and did his best to plaster on a smile. Owain''s kid - was it Maelgwyn? - was opposite him, flanked by some seriously solemn-looking motherfuckers.

    "Enjoying yourself yet?"

    The young man shook his head, and oddly, Bors believed him. He didn''t know much about the heir to the kingdom of Gwent, but what he did know was decent. He couldn''t imagine he was finding this any more of an edifying spectacle than Bors was. "Just let us pass, Sir Bors. You cannot possibly think you can hold out much longer."

    "My king asked me to keep his castle safe. Until that moody twat stands where you are and tells me I should give it up, I''m going to do right by him. Now, where were we?"

    Bors widened his stance, using the butt of his spear to take some of the weight off his sore knee. Mrs Bors was going to be pissed if he got himself killed today.

    Two of Maelgwyn''s men pushed forward, each on the edge of the bridge. Bors cursed. It was much easier when they came straight down the middle. These fuckers knew what they were about. Arrows streaked down from above, striking the men''s shields. Irritatingly, that didn''t seem to make much difference to them.

    Veterans, then. Wonderful.

    And then they were on him. It wasn''t easy to engage two spearmen at once - especially ones not rushing at you in a fury - and Bors found himself shuffling backwards, trying to keep them both occupied.

    He was used to his aggression spooking opponents, but these men weren''t for turning. They were willing to accept his hay-maker blows, using an attack on one of them as the chance for the other to press for advantage. Bors cursed. He couldn''t over-commit against one and risk being brought down by the other.

    He felt the temptation to go all out, to let the red mist descend and fuck the consequences.

    But no.

    He had a job to do here.

    The arrows continued falling, but the angle was becoming too acute. Soon, it was clear only one archer was still able to shoot. Guinevere, he assumed. She wasn''t the type to accept that a shot couldn''t be made.

    He smiled and dropped a shoulder into the shield of the man to his left, pushing off the collision to pinball into the other one. He staggered them back a few steps but was unable to dislodge either from the bridge.

    Unfortunately, that manoeuvre left him open to their counterattack. Oh well, it had been worth a try.

    Bors braced himself for the return blow, hoping it''d be something non-essential that got skewered.

    "Coming through, old man." Two figures ran past Bors, crashing into the men of Gwent and driving them backwards. It was two of the men from the melee - Galahad and Parsifal -, and they made short work of the attackers, both moving with the arrogance of youth. Bors remembered when his joints had been that flexible.

    Thick, muscular arms pulled him back. "Don''t worry about it, big guy. We''ve got this. Go put your feet up." He looked around into the ugliest face he had ever seen.

    For once in his life, Bors didn''t have it in him to argue, and he allowed himself to be guided back behind the gates.

    Legend said three men could hold the bridge of Tintagel against three thousand. It was time to put the theory into practice.

 Chapter 52 - In Which Operation Noble Sacrifice is a Go (Again)

    I will go out on a limb here and suggest that might just be the Betrayal of all that is Good, my dear.

    I love a good understatement. Sadly, I was not in a position to fully appreciate it right now: my to-do list was suddenly a little busy. Kraken streaking towards me? Tick. Important mythical figures injured and sinking in below-freezing toxic sludge? Tick. Useless fat fucker crying in the boat behind me? Double tick.

    But let''s try to grab a few crumbs of comfort. The bigger of the two Krakens was not taking too much interest in us yet. I mean, that could change at any second, but it still seemed happy skirting around the edge of the lake like some sort of weird squid/Roomba hybrid.

    Oh, and the fact that the smaller one was getting closer meant I was probably going to be able to hit it with my next blast of <Unnecessary Sequel Trilogy>. Of course, I''d probably be looking into the middle of its mind-bendingly ugly face at that stage. But I''m all about the upside right now.

    Otherwise, I might just cry.

    I lunged to the opposite side of the boat - fortunately, Mark''s bulk kept it dead level - and dipped my hand into the water.

    What are you doing, my dear? The Kraken is coming the other way.

    "Yep. That''s why we''re out of here." I fired off a quick burst of

    and anchored myself to the boat by encasing my foot in a block of Earth Qi.

    With a lurch, we shot forward as if I''d just switched on an outboard motor. "Where''s the Kraken?" I yelled at Mark as we started cresting waves in a somewhat uncontrolled manner.

    This was proving to be all a bit much for the King of Gwynedd, who vomited most of last week''s supper up as we blasted along. "What the fuck is happening!!!"

    "Can''t talk right now, mate. Doing my best to defy the laws of physics. Where''s the Kraken gone?"

    "It was right ahead of us, but it dove under the . . . Oh shit!!!"

    It didn''t seem like Mark had good news for me. Without looking, I pointed my hand the opposite way and dramatically changed our direction, nearly throwing us both out of the canoe. There was a concerning creaking noise from the craft beneath, but, you know what, there is only so much worry I can hold in my heart at any one time. We were either going to be dead soon, or we weren''t. There wasn''t much more I could do than I was already trying.

    A tentacle shot out just to my side, nearly knocking me into the water. "Mate, don''t just sit there. Fucking hit it with something."

    I changed direction again, lurching us to the opposite side. As Mark nearly toppled out, I locked his feet to the base of the canoe, too. Losing the last king on the quest who wasn''t a)dead, b)being fucked raw, or c) a fucking backstabbing bastard would just be plain poor personnel management. More water crashed over the top of us, suggesting Nessie Mk II was still doing its best to ruin my day.

    "Big M! Can you lock on to Lancelot and Arthur''s position?"

    Not a problem, my dear. Without wishing to add to the pressure, it appears Owain is about to reach the island. I am not sure you have time to both save your fellows and also intercept him from gaining Caeldfwch."

    "Are they still alive?"

    I performed another hairpin turn. It was difficult to tell whether all the accompanying noise was the Kraken''s screaming, the canoe''s seams about to give up the ghost, or Mark losing his shit. My money was on all three.

    They are. For now. Arthur had a significant chest wound, but the cold of the water is actually keeping him from bleeding out. Lancelot . . .

    "Nah, mate. I can''t cope with ominous pauses right now.

    Lancelot is still struggling with the aftereffects of his previous battle. I can sense he still lives, but . . .

    "Dude!"

    He is in a bad way.

    "Drynwyn?"

    What the fuck do you want now?

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    "I need you to let Mark hold you."

    No fucking chance.

    "Mate," another right-degree turn and more screaming, creaking and blubbering. A tentacle whipped across the side of the boat, catching me on the shoulder. "I''m so not up for this right now! Merlin, can you put some sort of waypoint up for me?"

    He touches me, and it''s Wicker Man time. That fucker is toxic.

    A giant green triangle appeared on the lake about a couple of hundred feet from our current position. I swung the canoe around, narrowly missing driving straight through Kraken, which had suddenly crested the water and emerged in all its nightmare glory.

    "FUUUUUCCKKKK!" screamed Mark, swinging his oar at it. One of the creature''s jaws snapped down, splintering it in two.

    "Drynwyn! Wind your fucking neck in. I need him if we''re going to survive this. I can''t be an outboard motor, a Qi cannon, a lifeboat operator and provide adequate calamari protection. It would help if you stepped up."

    Not a fucking chance.

    In Drynwyn''s defence, I don''t think it was being deliberately difficult. Although it may have some discretion about its definition of a ''good man'' who can safely hold it, I think the ship of Mark''s goodness may have long since sailed.

    To your left!

    I turned the boat instinctively, missing a forest of tentacles by millimetres. "What the fuck, mate! You nearly sent me straight into it!"

    I warned you it was on the left!

    "I thought you meant to turn left! Oh, fuck this/"

    I dropped into my Artist''s Studio.

    "Okay. Okay. Let''s take a beat here." If I thought it was a bit of a cheat code that I could essentially stop time and plan my next move, then that intrusive idea could bite me. The odds were more stacked against me than Pamela Anderson in her heyday. I''d be taking every advantage I could get my hands on, fuck you very much.

    "Let''s think through the next few seconds." I closed my eyes and tried to recapture the scene before me. I could feel my Qi refilling from soaking up the ambient essence in the air. It seemed to hit the hard limit much faster than it had been doing recently.

    It might not be the appropriate moment, my dear, but this is significant progress. Suppose you can avoid being ripped apart by this first Kraken, somehow escape the notice of the second, reach Arthur and Lancelot before they expire and then prevent Owain from drawing Caeldfwch before he projects an aura of anti-Qi at you. In that case, you will be looking in pretty good shape.

    "Well, thanks for the pep talk."

    There were too many things to get done at once. I couldn''t plot out a series of events that would continue to keep all the balls in the air. If I stopped using

    to drive the canoe, I could probably blast Arthur and Lancelot out of the water and onto the island. Maybe. It wasn''t like I had much experience directing giant air jets. Knowing my luck, I''d overshoot and catapult them straight into the bigger Kraken.

    On the other hand, I could ignore the men in the water and reach the island and royally fuck up Owain before he had a shot at the sword. I''d enjoy that, but I''m not sure the timeline would be so appreciative.

    And then there was the Kraken hunting us down . . .

    No. The only game in town was saving the two people whose existence kept Zizzie alive. That was the whole point of my resurrection.

    "Big M, can you help me direct a blast of

    at Arthur and Lancelot? I need to get it just right to blow them out of the water and land them as close to Owain as possible."

    I can, my dear, but if you stop using your Qi to drive the boat, you will immediately become Kraken food.

    "Yep. Heard and understood. And if you have any solution to avoid that, which will also keep the Once and Future King alive, I''m all ears. But the timeline needs Arthur."

    What does the future look like if Arthur has no cultivator by his side once he becomes the Pendragon, my dear? And that''s assuming either of them will actually be in any shape to fight Owain when they land.

    "It''s a shitty situation. Give me another hand to play, and I''ll run with it!"

    The silence was the only answer I needed.

    *

    Things moved almost as if they were in slow motion when I popped back out into real-time.

    I pulled my hand out of the water, immediately stopping our momentum. This was actually a net benefit as it momentarily wrong-footed - well, wrong-tentacled - the Kraken, which had incorrectly anticipated our course of direction.

    "Why have we stopped!"

    I was not at home to King Mark right now. I took aim at the green arrow Merlin had helpfully placed above my targets. I reached out with a gentle pulse and found them both, just barely alive. I pushed as much <Healing Wave> as I thought I could possibly spare their way. I was worried about the side effects, though. I needed them both to be able to function to take out Owain, or this wasn''t going to be worth it.

    "It''s coming!"

    Mark''s voice was seriously getting on my tits.

    "You''re up, Big M."

    My dear, are you sure? You could still get out of this. The Kraken will be upon you if you''re stationary for much longer.

    "Take the shot, mate."

    I felt Merlin take control of my Qi. That feeling still made me retch, but it was hardly like it mattered any longer. It was, briefly, interesting to watch how he shaped, controlled and executed the blast of

    . In my last moment, I recognised how far I still had to go before I was a millionth of the cultivator this man had been.

    The stream of air shot out of me, plunging through the water and launching Arthur and Lancelot into the air. I didn''t need to watch their progress to know they would hit dry ground.

    A shadow fell over me. I turned to face a sight which, oddly, didn''t seem so scary anymore.

    "Big M? It''s been emotional."

    And my canoe was swallowed up.

 Chapter 53 - In which we do the Time Warp again

    With one last surge, Owain pulled himself onto the shore of the island.

    He collapsed, his chest heaving with the effort, his arms aching from the unaccustomed rowing, his hands tingling with pins and needles.

    A lesser man would have leapt from the canoe and run towards the cairn where the sword, the key to his revenge, rested. But you did not plan and execute a twenty-year delayed act of brutal revenge if you were a man given to hasty actions.

    From the moment he had taken hold of Igraine and tossed her through her window, he had known he was living on borrowed time. His mind wandered - briefly - back to Tintagel. Did his son, even now, sit on Uther''s throne? That would be sweet.

    Owain sniffed and then spat a globule of green onto the shore. He was sorry for the deaths required to make that happen. He would find time to mourn Guinevere and, of course, Bors. But you didn''t make an omelette without murdering your nemesis'' friends and family in a bloody coup.

    Or something like that.

    And now Arthur . . .

    The aching in his arms was increasing, but he pushed it down. He had needed to distract the wizard long enough to get his hands on the sword. What better way than to land her master in the drink?

    This had been a difficult few weeks. Whilst not regretting the course of action he had put in place for a moment - the Dumnonians had killed his fucking son! - he recognised the fallout was going to be seismic. Owain knew his son had concerns about the plan and had subsequently packed his own men into the Gwent retinue to seek to influence the course of events. For that reason, he had no choice but to have led them into the Shrieket''s lair. After everything, he wasn''t going to allow Maelgwyn to perform his own act of political decapitation.

    Of course, getting himself trapped had not been part of the plan, but that had not worked out too badly after all.

    Owain took a deep breath. He needed to get moving. The sooner he had the sword in his hand, the sooner he could get out of this place. And the sooner the men of Gwent - without fear of Aurelius Ambrosius - could take the attack to the Saxons.

    "Are you the one who was promised?"

    His head jerked to the side at the unexpected voice, and his eyes opened wide at the tall, willowy and entirely naked woman before him. Her blonde hair spilt down her front to below her knees, covering her modesty, and her startling green eyes were almost wholly serene.

    He gawped at her for long enough that she took another step forward, smiling broadly. "Are you? Are you the one that was promised?"

    Owain stood and stepped out of his canoe. He steeled himself not to look back at the lake. The wizard would save Arthur, or she wouldn''t. It would not matter once he had the sword. "I am," he said, voice steady.

    The Lady of the Lake held out her hand, which he took without hesitation. "About time. Come with me."

    *

    Funnily enough, the inside of a Kraken looks suspiciously like my Artist''s Studio.

    "Big M? What''s going on?"

    Ah, excellent. I assumed I''d get the split-second timing just right, but it is always nice to have the reality of my excellence reconfirmed.

    "Happy for you. So, I''m not dead yet? Or am I?"

    Not quite, my dear. However, I would encourage you not to return to reality until we have developed a pretty solid plan that can instantaneously be put into action.

    "How instantaneously?"

    Let''s just say our margin for error will be rather slim.

    "Did Arthur and Lancelot make it?"

    They''re in the air, my dear. My calculations - which I flatter myself are likely to be correct to the millimetre - will have them hitting the island''s edge eight seconds after you restart time.

    "Are they okay?"

    The Big M was a little slower responding this time. You hit them with <Healing Wave> before I blasted them out of the water, so they have every chance.

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    I chose not to parse those words too carefully. To be honest, it was taking me a beat to get used to still being alive. It felt a bit different than when I first woke up on the battlefield: then, I was more irritated than anything else. It had taken quite a bit of mental torment to move past that. But I had managed it, so I was sure I could do it again.

    "What''s our plan then, mate?"

    No idea, my dear. I was working on the principle that being alive in here was a net benefit compared to being eaten by a Kraken.

    "Good shout."

    I thought so.

    I stood up - I seemed to be lying on a chaise longue like some sort of Roman Princess - and stretched out. "How long can I stay in here?"

    In theory, indefinitely, my dear. However, in my long experience, the quality of your internal landscape will start to degrade without any refreshing burst of Qi from the real world. This is, in and of itself, not a deal breaker, of course, but there are stories of cultivators going quietly - and not so quietly - insane when their soul space reduced down to nothingness.

    "Got it. So, probably best to begin planning how to turn this frown upside down?"

    The last picture I had in my head was of the maw of the Kraken expanding to encompass the entire span of the canoe. I had been able to see pretty much the whole way down its nightmarish throat: it hadn''t looked like a good place to go. Although, saying that . . .

    "Rhyddrech Hael was swallowed by one of these things, and he got out okay . . . "

    I would redirect your attention to some of Drynwyn''s stories of its previous owner. Under very few circumstances would I suggest Rhyddrech Hael was ''okay.''

    "Fair point. So being swallowed and getting out a la Pinnochio is not an option?"

    I would have that as an emergency backup plan.

    I cast my eyes around the space. It was quite beautiful here: I could spend some happy hours just chilling. But, then, the fundamental problem wouldn''t go away, would it?

    I mentally cracked my knuckles. "Right. Let''s A Team the shit out of this."

    I have absolutely no idea what that means.

    *

    The Lady of the Lake was not living her best life.

    As a neriad, she had not enjoyed being stuck on an island in the middle of a span of pseudo-water. What had seemed like a perfect place to set up and wait for the One Who Was Promised had rapidly turned into a nightmare. She couldn''t set fin in the water without one of those bloody ugly things fawning all over her like a puppy. Their excretions had rapidly turned her lake into a morass of toxic sludge that brought her out in hives.

    And now the man she had been waiting for turned out to be less than her expected aesthetic. But, she supposed, if she dropped her glamour for a moment, he probably wouldn''t be too pleased to see the real ''her'' either.

    On the plus side, as soon as she could get rid of this bloody sword, she''d be free to fast-travel back home. Just the thought of having access to her power again made her beam with pleasure. Sure, it was nice to be entrusted with an important mission, but sometimes, you just wanted the familiarity of your own pod back.

    With an act of conscious concentration, she kept putting one foot in front of the other - how did these bipedal things manage this for their whole lives? - leading the One Who Was Promised up the stone steps carved into the cairn where she had embedded Caeldfwch.

    And then the old, fat man suddenly stopped, almost pulling her off her feet. She turned, ready to give him a piece of her mind - or turn him into a frog. Definitely one of those - and was surprised to see he was frozen in time.

    Interesting. That suggested there was a cultivator in the near vicinity.

    The Lady of the Lake looked back towards the water from which the human had emerged. She could see Kenneth frozen in the act of crashing down on another of those strange floating shapes in which the One Who Was Promised had arrived at her island. Two other humans were captured in time in the act of flying - did they fly? She hadn''t realised that - towards her island. Neither of them was a cultivator, but each looked far more palatable than the big man who she was leading to the sword.

    Interesting. Perhaps this wasn''t going to be such a terrible assignment after all.

    *

    Tresaith continued to stare down the Fae war party that was trying to dislodge him from the crossroads to follow the fleeing humans.

    Everyone involved knew this was all just for show and that, in an hour or so, honour would have been satisfied and they''d all make their way back to Moonglade, no more to be said. However, for now, both parties were giving it the full ''You Shall Not Pass / Yes, We Bloody Well Will''.

    So, it was quite disconcerting to feel time lurch to a stop with such an overwhelming sense of panic.

    Tresaith glanced down the road where the humans had disappeared. What was going on with that quest? The Fae had become used to Morgan dipping in and out of her soul space. The brief moments of time dilation were irritating, but that was simply the price of doing business with cultivators. It wasn''t like it significantly inconvenienced the Fae, but it did miss up the thrill of the hunt when lesser beings became frozen in time.

    This, however, felt different. The wizard had been dragged out of time and appeared to be staying there.

    Maewyn appeared at his side. "Did you feel that?"

    "I did." Tresaith''s eyes flicked to the war party, which looked like it was gearing itself up for another faux charge. "I need to go and see what is occurring."

    "You like these people, don''t you?" His brother''s face was flat, betraying no emotion.

    Tresaith shrugged. "They''re different. Short-lived beings who spend their time in high passion. What''s not to like?"

    Maewyn stared at him and then nodded slowly. "I''ll stand your place, brother. Go and see what ails your pets."

    Tresaith gripped Maewyn''s shoulder. "Appreciated." He nodded towards the group of Fae. "You sure you can handle them?"

    Maewyn drew his sword and planted his feet. "Let us say that I have a significant amount of respect to earn back."

 Chapter 54 â€“ In which I give it everything Iâ€™ve got in the tank

    It turns out that given enough time, motivation, resources and ''what''s the worst that can happen'' energy, I am quite the McGuyver. Of course, it doesn''t hurt having the combined might of a dragon hoard and a legendary wizard to suggest various tweaks and optimisations, but I was still feeling pretty damn good about myself.

    I had no idea how long I spent pulling the plan together, but by the time I was ready, I had developed quite a collection of options.

    "I''m feeling all Wile-E-Coyote here, mate!"

    There was a pause. From context, this suggests we''re about to undertake a series of increasingly comedic challenges during which you will repeatedly fall off a cliff. And is the Kraken the very fast bird in this scenario?"

    "You know what, Merlin?"

    Fuck off?

    "No, I was going to say you are making a really good point, and I really appreciate the feedback on my silly and irreverent commentary. I don''t say it enough, but I''m so glad you are here to keep my feet on the ground.

    Honestly, my dear? I am touched!

    "No, of course not, you fucking helmet. Let''s get on with it."

    *

    We''d decided to undertake a ten-second countdown before letting the chips fall where they may.

    There was really not going to be much margin for error here, and if these were going to be my final moments on earth - again - I was damned if I was going out without a "Thunderbirds are go!"

    Merlin had reached ''five'' when I began to have second thoughts. I wasn''t exactly someone you''d bet the rest of your continued existence on her ability to execute a complex plan with split-second timing. I wasn''t even someone you would entrust with two quid to pop down the shops and buy a pint of milk.

    However, I reflected as the Big M intoned ''three'', you couldn''t spend your life bemoaning the Damsel in Distress trope and then hope for a big strong guy to come and sweep you off your feet. Well, you could, but considering I''d just saved the arses of the two prime heroic beefcakes, I was going to need to take care of myself here.

    And then it was launch time . . .

    The millisecond I popped back into reality, I projected the most oversized version of <Zizzie''s Gift> I could produce. Neither Merlin nor I thought the Wanderer would likely last more than a few seconds against being eaten by a Kraken, but those earned moments would be the be-all and end-all.

    As the painting swirled into being, I shoved out all the concoctions I''d spent my time in my Artist''s Studio developing: for shits and giggles, I''d encased it all in a lovely big ACME crate. If I were going to die, I''d do so with whimsy in my heart and a smile on my face.

    At the same time, I triggered the adapted version of

    , which pulled a bunch of little surprises to stick all over me. I held fire momentarily on triggering <I.E.D>; this would be the last of my cards to play.

    My final bit of plotting was actually the most conceptually difficult. <Zizzie''s Gift> was 99.9% formed when I made the critical change. With a delicate flick of my wrist, I smudged out the walking stick and gave my man something more useful to hold.

    I''m not wild about this development, I hope you realise.

    "You''ll be swell, D. Just go to town. And remember, the more fire, the better."

    Well, if you fucking insist . . .

    *

    You know the end of every Michael Bay movie you have ever seen?

    This was now my life.

    <Zizzie''s Gift> formed fully, and I was sure the dude stood a little taller when he realised he was holding a sword of flaming death rather than facing a monster from nightmare armed with nothing more substantial than a stiff upper lip and an unearned sense of manifest destiny.

    Drynwyn wasted no time and whipped upwards, firing a nice thick line of flame down the Kraken''s throat.

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    And then shit got real.

    It turned out that if you mixed together a few choice articles that a hoarding dragon had held on to, added in a couple of Pills of Agonishing Death, suspended the whole thing in a pretty coating of Wood Qi (all stamped with the ACME seal of quality), and THEN hit it all with some legendary flame which despised the unrighteous, you had quite a party.

    <Zizzie''s Gift> had already been reduced by something approximating a quarter of its initial size - fuck me, Kraken''s did not mess about - in the time it took for all this to go ''boom''.

    The explosion vapourised my shield, dropping Drynwyn to the deck of the boat near my feet.

    It would, however, be accurate to say the ensuing conflagration did little for the Kraken''s health and temper.

    Rather than swallowing the canoe¡ªand Mark and I with it¡ªthe monster was rocked backwards, several massive, gushing wounds blown clear through it. This did not make it any prettier.

    "What the fuck!" Obviously, as far as Mark was concerned, that had been a fairly incomprehensible series of events. I didn''t really have the urge to fill him in right now.

    "Just get behind me. This is going to get messy!"

    The explosion, as well as royally fucking up the Kraken, had removed the front half of the canoe, so I was going the best I could to keep us afloat with a thick wodge of Wood Qi. This was burning through my reserves like you wouldn''t believe and wouldn''t be anything like a long-term solution. However, considering the Kraken appeared to be preparing its ugly self for Round 2, I doubted neither drowning nor Qi exhaustion would be a central issue in my immediate future.

    It screamed at us, opening its disgusting mouth wide. If you need a visual, think of Arnie standing above a de-helmed Predator. And times that by the Queen going in for a lick of Sigourney. Throw in a nice handful of Slimer flying down the corridor at Bill Murray and finish it off with lashings of every John Carpenter film you''ve ever seen.

    You are aware, my dear, there have been films made outside of the 80s and early 90s?

    I ignored him and reconstituted <Zizzie''s Gift>. I didn''t hold many hopes it would last any longer than it did last time, but it certainly couldn''t hurt. I held <I.E.D> tight to my body, ready for the final play. What with my impromptu pseudo-canoe and that I was bleeding off all my spare Qi with bolt after bolt of <Unneccessary Sequel Trilogy>, I couldn''t help but think I was multi-tasking like a fucking legend.

    Then the Kraken reared up and launched itself at me, and I pushed out everything I was holding back in a concentrated direct blast of <I.E.D>.

    The outcome was, I am afraid, rather underwhelming.

    I''d geared up every piece of armour, weapon and general sharp implement I still possessed in my inventory. This was quite a lot. The gamble had been that, having weakened the monster through Drynwyn and all the other shit I''d thrown at it, this final explosion might just encourage it to fuck off and go away.

    Unfortunately, all I seemed to have achieved was turning it into a massive, furious porcupine. Sure, it looked fucking ridiculous, but I didn''t think I would be taking it down by crushing its sense of self-esteem.

    That was my lot.

    "Hey, it was worth a shot, mate. We gave it our best - "

    And then Tresaith came.

    *

    There''s a fun game you can play by adding the words "And then the Dragons came" after the first line of any famous novel to completely change its vibe. You should try it.

    "It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. And then the dragons came." "In the beginning was the word. And then the dragons came." "Marley was dead, to begin with. And then the dragons came."

    Trust me, there''s not a work of literature that the timely appearance of giant, winged lizards in the second sentence cannot improve.

    Tresaith appearing next to me with all the righteous, vengeful fury of a dad whose daughter''s date just made her cry was of the same intensity.

    The only way the moment could have been even more perfect was if he had whispered ''on your left'' to me before stepping through a giant, yellow circle.

    I won''t be able to do the next few moments justice, so let''s just say the boy had game. He literally walked on water to plunge both his hands straight through the Kraken''s carapace, ripping vast chunks of plating away, to thrust back in and start evacuating organs.

    Tentacles whipped down on him, but he casually wrapped them around his arms and tugged, tearing them clear and then using their wet ends to beat the creature to death.

    I felt his Qi move, and he did something pretty awesome with gravity. He literally squashed the thing flat and, in the next moment, stretched it out. Seriously, it was as if he had turned the thing into an accordion and was playing "How do you like me know?" At some stage, he even reconstituted the canoe and found time to push us out of what was increasingly becoming a Kraken splash zone.

    I tried to follow the trail of destruction as we drifted away from the battle, but it was impossible. I''d have believed you if you''d told me five Tresaiths were stomping this thing into its constituent atoms. What was most impressive was the speed in which the Fae was linking and compounding techniques with just blasting out solid chunks of Qi straight through the monster.

    "Fuck me!"

    I know, my dear. This is why I tended to travel incognito through the Fae realm. I am not saying I could not compete with this - Tresaith lifted the Kraken out of the water with one hand and took off for the sky like it was a nuclear bomb, and he needed to ram it through a portal to another universe - okay, maybe I am.

    Several thoughts were competing in my rather exhausted brain. Firstly, if Tresaith fancied ramming his nuclear bomb in my - my dear! - sorry. Well, that was my first thought. Secondly, I was definitely going to be upping my studying. The dude was doing things with Qi I did not even know were possible.

    But thirdly, and perhaps most pressingly, I needed to get to the island in the middle of the lake ASAP. Arthur and Lancelot had just crash landed on the shore, and Owain was doing his best to yank the sword free from its stone, cheered on by . . . I''m going to say Ariel without the strategically placed shells.

    My life has got weird.

 Chapter 55 - In which Hell hath no fury like a Dark Age Monarch scorned

    Arthur and Lancelot hit the beach, rolled and came up running.

    Both had become used to healing from Morgan, in various forms, so neither was questioning still being in one piece despite Owain''s attentions and a quick dip in the freezing, toxic water.

    "He''s up there!" Lancelot urgently pointed to the cairn and dashed towards it. However, as soon as his feet touched the bottom step, he was thrown backwards with a resounding ''boom'' to land on his back. Arthur shot past him and took the stairs two at a time.

    "Sorry! Must be a king thing. If he makes it past me, make sure he doesn''t leave the island with the sword!"

    Lancelot backflipped to his feet and kicked the sand in frustration.

    *

    The Lady in the Lake was starting to think she''d made a mistake.

    Of all her various roles, transferring Caeldfwch to the One Who Was Promised should have been a cakewalk. I mean, how hard should it be to find a guy to give a magic sword to?

    Apparently, more difficult than you''d think.

    She raised an eyebrow at the fat man''s effort to pull the sword from the stone. Contrary to popular opinion, pretty much anyone could bear Caeldfwch. Of course, whether they could control it once they had it was another matter entirely.

    Or, indeed, draw it.

    Who the fuck is this joker?

    Oh, good. Now the fucking thing had woken up.

    "The One Who Was Promised. Apparently," she sent silently to the sword.

    You''re fucking kidding me! This guy''s one spoon of butter from stroking out. What is he? The One Who Was Promised A Massive Fucking Fried Breakfast?

    "What can I tell you? He''s here, and he wants you. It''s not like this ritual is any more complicated than that."

    I don''t like him. He''s sweating down my handle. Tell him to go away.

    The Lady in the Lake took a controlling breath. My word, she''d be glad to bet this bitchy, whiney, self-obsessed blade off her hands. But for that, the One Who Was Promised needed to fucking do his bit.

    "Are you making yourself deliberately too heavy so he cannot pull you out of the stone?"

    . . .

    "Caeldfwch? I''m talking to you."

    I might be.

    "Look, I know he might not be the most classically attractive man in the world, but he''s here, you''re here, and I want to get out of here. Can''t you just play nice?

    It''s not fair. You know I don''t like to . . . hello, sailor!

    The Lady in the Lake turned to see a second man reaching the top of the stone staircase. Well, that was new. The new arrival was definitely easier on the eye than the first, even if he seemed to have no hair. Still, you couldn''t have everything.

    "Owain!" the bald man roared. Then he tackled the fat one, still wrestling with Caeldfwch, away from the stone and rolled with him on the floor.

    "Well," thought the Lady in the Lake, "my day has just got more interesting." And with a wave of her hand, she turned the ground to mud.

    *

    I skidded to a halt on the island''s shore, <Zizzie''s Gift> melting into nothingness under my feet. Who knew a summer sleeping my through a group of surfers would be helpful? "Whose the nasty skank that will never amount to anything now, Shelia?"

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    Who are you talking to, my dear?

    "Just my youth, Big M. Where''s Caeldfwch?"

    Lancelot ran to meet me.

    "Up there he''s being. I can''t follow!

    I bounded forward but had the same issue. It was like there was a forcefield at the bottom of the cairn. "Big M? Any thoughts?"

    I think, my dear, we will have to leave this one to Arthur.

    *

    The Once and Future King was embracing his central role in proceedings. "I. Thought. You. Were. My. Friend," he shouted, each word punctuated by a thudding blow to Owain''s head.

    However, bloodied, the King of Gwent had spent longer on the battlefield than Arthur had been alive. He took the punches, letting Arthur burn out his rage, then rolled, trapping the smaller man beneath him.

    Owain would never be able to compete with sword or spear, but in an ugly grappling match in the mud, things were much more even.

    The two wrestled for supremacy for a few moments before Owain grabbed a piece of driftwood and pressed it down on Arthur''s neck, letting his whole weight fall on it.

    Arthur''s eyes bulged at the restriction, his biceps bunching as he tried to leaver Owain off him. It was like trying to lift a mountain.

    "I killed your mother. Did you know that?"

    Now he had the upper hand - literally - Owain seemed to feel now was appropriate for some good old-fashioned villain monologuing. "And, by now, your wife will have joined her. My flag will be flying about Tintagel."

    Arthur kicked and bucked, but he could feel darkness hovering at the edge of his vision. The debt from Morgan''s healing was sucking at his strength, let alone being crushed by the king above him. In response, Owain just redoubled his efforts, feeling the body beneath him beginning to tire.

    A few more moments were all it would take, and his long-cherished revenge would be complete¡ªUther''s son for his son. And no trace of Uther''s line would be left in this world.

    *

    Is this really the best you can do?

    Arthur thought the lack of oxygen had moved into the terminal stage. He was hearing things.

    Are you still with me? It is polite to answer.

    Arthur grunted a response. Twisting violently to the left earned him a quick breath, but then the crushing restriction was back on his throat. Fucking Owain. He''d been like family. He''d sat on the man''s fucking knee. He''d marched at his side. He''d fucked the man''s serving girls!

    Seriously, what is wrong with men? Moments from death, and all you want to think about is getting squelchy. I have a good mind to leave you to it.

    That grabbed Arthur''s attention. "Help?"

    If you ask me very nicely.

    For a terrifying moment, Arthur thought he had no air left, but with a colossal effort, he forced out a ''Please?''

    Since you have been so polite, listen carefully. I will say this only once. The fat man who sweated all over me has a slightly loose grip on that piece of wood. He''s readjusted it several times. I would calculate he will need to do it once before you die. If I were you, I''d get ready to give it all you''ve got at that moment¡ªleft hand.

    It might have been uncharitable in the circumstances, but Arthur couldn''t but compare that ''help'' with Drynwyn''s steaming, flaming death beams. Still, beggars could not be choosers.

    He played dead, letting the wood crush down even further. The voice better be right about this. And then, when there was precious little ''playing'' about it, he felt Owain readjust his left hand.

    With every last bit of energy he possessed, Arthur exploded upwards, surprising the King of Gwent, throwing him off, and letting him suck in big lungfuls of air.

    Excellent. I assume you can take it from here?

    Wasting no time, Arthur got to his feet and then stamped down on Owain''s knee, shattering it and - in the same movement - sweeping the piece of wood into his own hands. "Please let me know this gives me no joy," he said to the screaming man.

    And then he went to town.

    *

    Lancelot and I were feeling a little bit like spare cocks at an orgy.

    After everything we''d been through to get here, I think we were both a touch underwhelmed by our roles in the grand finale.

    Get used to it, my dear. Merlin had said. You are not the lead character in the tales of King Arthur. Indeed, nothing says you are fulfilling your role more successfully than having done all you can to get the protagonist to the right place at the right time and then standing back with -

    And then a couple of things happened.

    First, a pulped body of what may well have used to be Owain of Gwent hit the beach next to us. Some of his wounds may well have been caused by the fall from atop the cairn, but most looked like the king had been on the business end of a shellacking with a two-by-four. Owain may have had unbroken bones, but that would have needed a more thorough forensic examination than I was prepared to give.

    Second, I realised all the little strings of Qi that I had got used to connecting me to everything around me had vanished. It was like suddenly going blind. Oh, and Merlin had gone.

    Third - and I should probably have led with this, but the falling body was pretty damn visceral - a choir of angels was giving it some welly and a massive column of light had descended from the heavens to light on the figure of Arthur, stood atop the cairn, an enormous broadsword in his hand, stretching to the sky.

    Apparently, someone had found Caeldfwch.

 Chapter 56 â€“ In which the siege of Tintagel begins to bite

    "Are you sure this is the only way?"

    Bors tightened the strap on his breastplate. He knew - intellectually - they''d only run out of food the day before, but he was certain his armour was feeling a little loose. "What?"

    Guinevere sighed and shook her head. "I was just asking, for the hundredth time, whether there was truly no other option than to leave our impregnable fortress and engage an enemy in possession of overwhelming numbers."

    "I''m hungry." And, as if that was all that needed to be said, Bors pushed forward through the small group of men who, likewise, had decided that there was no state of being more horrific than feeling a touch peckish.

    "You are being rather unfair," Bl?k whispered at her side as the assault team approached the gate.

    "No. No, I am not. This is dick-measuring, pure and simple. There''s no need for him to lead an attack on them."

    "Your Highness, we have run out of food. It is not going to be too many days before the warriors are not going to be in a position to fight. If we knew that relief was on the way, I am sure the last thing Sir Bors would risk would be a doomed sally beyond the walls to break the siege. However, as we are currently under assault by our single strongest ally, we must assume that if anyone is likely to receive extra troops soon, it will not be us."

    "They''re all going to be killed!"

    "I don''t think that is his plan, Your Majesty. I do not know Sir Bors well, but all of the Grey''s reports suggest he is far more tactically astute than his public persona suggests. I am sure this is more than a forlorn hope to certain doom."

    *

    "And once we''ve killed as many as we can, we stop for a quick nap, then go again. All happy?"

    "You''re not being serious, are you?" Galahad said from Bors'' side.

    He looked down at the . . . he didn''t want to call him a ''small boy'' because that felt disrespectful to a warrior that had absolutely brought the thunder to the defence of the bridge for the last few days. There was something extraordinary fluent about the way Galahad moved in a fight - as if the air itself thought there was something forbidden about providing wind resistance. The lad favoured sword and shield, which made sense. Considering his small stature, it allowed him far more freedom in the press than lugging a massive spear about. Bors had been impressed with how the shield was used more as an offensive weapon than to receive blows. He''d never tell a soul, but he''s been practising something similar in his downtime.

    "Of course not. But you don''t tell the men that. I have an image to maintain!" Bors flashed a big, toothy grin.

    "So, we have a better plan than fight until either we or they are dead?"

    "Of course we do."

    Galahad nodded and fell back beside Parsifal and Archon. The three of them had formed an absolutely deadly trio that ensured the bridge''s defence was far less spicey than it should have been. If Arthur ever made it back, the Marghekyon had its new core.

    Palemedias cleared his throat and spat a bloody mouthful of spit to the ground. In common with most of the few men of Dumnonia, the siege had taken a toll. "There''s no plan, is there?"

    Bors winked at the last of his surviving childhood friends. "Of course not. You want to go out as you''ve lived, don''t you? OPEN THE GATE!"

    *

    It took Maelgwn a moment to realise what was going on.

    "The mad fucker!"

    Unfortunately, it turned out that ''moment'' was something he would regret.

    The archers on Tintagel''s walls, led - apparently - by Guinevere, launched a furious bombardment that carried far further than arrows had any right to travel. If he hadn''t known for certain that the wizard had accompanied Arthur and his father on the quest for Caeldfwch, he would have assumed some cultivator shenanigans. But it just had to be luck, didn''t it?

    He was forced to reconsider that viewpoint when the rain arrows didn''t stop. Or he would have done, if he wasn''t immediately occupied with pulling his men assaulting the bridge out of the way of the most lunatic-inspired charge he''d ever seen.

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    Bors bounded forward through Tintagel''s gates, carrying a battering ram single-handedly. He struck the hastily assembled shield wall of the men of Gwent with all the inevitability of the setting sun. But he didn''t stop to admire his handy work, pushing on through, punching a massive hole in the assembled force, allowing his own men to swarm through - was that a child with a sword and shield!!! - and continued onwards towards Maelgwn himself.

    In normal circumstances, being outnumbered ten to one was a pretty straightforward calculation. And if anyone on the Gwent side had kept their heads, that would have been that. But due to the spookily accurate, long-ranged arrows, a giant swinging a tree trunk to crush skulls left and right, and the fevered intensity of spearmen who didn''t know where their next meal was coming from, things rapidly spun out of control.

    Bors and company were clear of the bridge and halfway into the Gwent camp before Maelgwyn was able to pull things back in order. Then things got just that bit tougher for the Dumnonians.

    *

    ''Ah."

    Guinevere launched another arrow, which, empowered by Bl?k, surged forward to take a Gwent spear about to skewer Parsifal in the throat. There was no real power at such a distance, but it knocked the attacker off his stride, and the tall man could slip away from danger.

    The queen rolled her aching shoulders and turned to the quiet man. "Is that a good ''ah'' as in ''ah, now our problems are over!''"

    "I''m afraid not, your highness. What Bors was attempting required significant momentum. They''ve done far better than I had possibly expected, but they are now getting bogged down. He would be wise to . . . Oh dear."

    "I swear, Sir Bl?k." Guinevere shot a further arrow at a spear flanking Bors'' position, but the distance was too far, and it dropped short, even with Bl?k giving it significant welly. "If you keep making slightly panicked little noises without explaining yourself, I am going to be very unhappy indeed."

    "Understood, Your Highness. At the risk of making you even more unhappy, I am afraid to say I rather think our men are getting cut off."

    *

    "Right. On to Plan B."

    "We have a Plan B? Did we have a Plan A?" Pallemedias was nursing a nasty cut to his arm that had Bors hoping Tasko had squirrelled away some of Morgan''s elixirs. That, or he rather feared the Marghekyon would have its first-ever one-armed warrior.

    "Of course we had a Plan A, Pally! And it went like an absolute dream, I will have you know. Textbook execution."

    Bors stepped backwards from a determined surge from a heavily armoured Gwent spearman and clanked into the back of Archon, retreating the other way. Cursing, the big man looked around and saw his small expeditionary force was down to fifty - which sucked - and was also completely surrounded - which sucked that bit harder.

    Bors glanced hopefully back towards Tintagel. Maybe in an act of astonishing perspicacity, he had drawn the attack to a halt just inside Qi-empowered archery range? But no. They were too far out for support now. Either that or Gwin was saving her ammunition to cover the glorious and triumphant retreat he was doubtless about the lead, carrying those wagons of supplies that had been his principal target.

    Yeah, he decided. It must be that.

    Maelgwyn appeared opposite Bors, face like he''d been slapped with a wet fish whilst sucking a lemon. By the look of him, the Prince of Gwent hadn''t been hiding at the back of the skirmish. His armour was fucked.

    "Tell your men to lower their arms, Sir Bors. It''s over."

    "Counterpoint. Go fuck yourself."

    Maelgwyn looked over at Iorwerth, who had made his position very clear on what needed to be the outcome of this tussle. He was already winching his crossbow.

    "Sir Bors, you have done all that could have been asked of you. You held the bridge against appalling odds, and your sally against our forces will live long in song. But we have you surrounded, you are cut off from any line of retreat and my men wish to revenge the hundreds that have fallen to you during the siege."

    Bors looked around at some very grim faces. "Well, you shouldn''t have been such pussies, should you?"

    Maegywn shrugged and indicated for more men with crossbows to push their way forward. They lowered them to take aim at the small circle of spears that did its best to contract even tighter behind broken and damaged shields.

    "Surrender, my lord. We have foes aplenty on this island. The British will be all the weaker should you force me to kill you."

    "I mean, that sounds all very reasonably and grown up. However, your king murdered our queen, you tried to have Guinevere assassinated, and you have invaded us. If there''s a moral high ground of ''let us all unite against the Saxons,'' you could probably make it more powerful if you weren''t full of shit. Worst-case scenario for me here is you kill us all - "

    Bors heard Pallemedias whisper, "I mean, that''s a pretty bad downside . . . "

    "- and you STILL will not be able to take Tintagel. However, with us dead, Arthur will be even more pissed with you all than he''s already going to be. Angry Pendragons are rarely especially forgiving."

    Maelgwyn shook his head. Damn his father for forcing him into this position. "Sir Bors, King Arthur will not return to avenge your deaths. As we speak, Owain of Gwent will have claimed Caeldfwch, dispatched your wizard and removed the heads of your warriors. Believe me when I say nothing can be achieved by further bloodshed. For the final time, lower your arms."

    Bors glanced at his small ring of men just for forms''s sake. All of them had set, resolute expressions. He fucking loved these guys.

    "Sir Bors? Your answer, please." Maelgwyn''s tone was grim.

    "On behalf of the men of Dumnonia, go fuck - "

    The men of Gwent fired.

 Chapter 57 â€“ In which Arthur keeps it in his pants

    The Lady of the Lake looked at the saturnine face of the new bearer of Caeldfwch. He certainly had more the bearing of the One Who Was Promised. And the sword had just slid out of the stone for him, whereas the fat man had been huffing and puffing like a giant hog at a trough.

    I am content. You may leave, the sword said imperiously.

    Yeah, sure. Because a crucial aspect of this ceremony is whether you are happy about the whole thing. The Lady of the Lake was not going to miss her latest burden. Instead, she addressed her attention to the swordsman. "I now transfer ownership of Caeldfwch to you, my lord. Is there anything you would like to ask before I bid you farewell?"

    Arthur turned his intense eyes on the beautiful, naked woman before him. She felt herself, well not exactly blush - this wasn''t her first rodeo - but she certainly was not used to quite such an appraising glance. "How strong is the blade''s Qi-disruption field?"

    "It is total. Caeldfwch was forged to directly counter Cultivators. When drawn, all of the Qi within its range will be annulled." From thin air, the neriad produced a scabbard and handed it to Arthur. "When sheathed in this, the effect is deadened. It is only when it is drawn that you will be protected."

    I am right here. It is the height of rudeness to speak about a lady and not to her.

    "My apologies, my lady. I did not want to waste your time with trivialities." Arthur winked at the Lady of the Lake. "I will finish with your guardian and then be with you shortly."

    That is fine, the sword giggled, I appreciate your consideration.

    The Lady of the Lake decided she needed to be somewhere else. It was one thing to be stuck on an island with this bloody thing; it was quite another to have to watch it play the coquette.

    "When worn, my lord, the scabbard will provide you with significant healing properties, with none of the after-effects which I sense you are currently labouring under. I would suggest wearing it as soon as possible."

    Arthur strapped the scabbard around his waist and, after a moment, sheathed the sword. "One final question, if I may. How wide a shadow does she cast?"

    The Lady of the Lake was already beginning to go transparent. "It is something you will learn to control. Initially, it will simply provide you with a small personal shield, but as your mastery of Caeldfwch increases, you will find that aura grows. It has been rumoured that the sword has an unlimited reach. Of course, no one has ever survived its curse long enough to discover its true range.

    The smile on Arthur''s face vanished as his brain caught up with his ears. "Its what now?!"

    The Lady of the Lake was entirely see-through now. "Ensure you return her to me when you fall. She will be your ticket to Avalon."

    And with that, the neriad vanished, leaving Arthur standing on top of the cairn with more questions than he would like.

    Where to now, big boy?

    Where to, indeed . . .

    *

    "What the fuck was that, Big M?"

    I think you''ve just experienced your first Qi-disruption field, my dear. Caeldfwch completely blocks all capacity for cultivators to reach their techniques. When Arthur has her drawn, until he learns to direct the sword''s annulment field, you will - effectively - be entirely normal.

    "Well, I''m not too wild about that, to be honest."

    No, I can understand that. But imagine how much less Aurelius is going to enjoy the experience.

    That put a smile on my face. "Okay. So that would be pretty sweet."

    Tresaith sauntered onto the shore, dragging a very sorry for himself Mark behind him. I tossed out a quick <Healing Wave> as it kind of seemed that four kings going into the woods and only one returning might cause questions.

    "There is a larger Kraken circling this position," Tresaith said in his lovely musical voice. "I''d rather not kill another one of these beautiful creatures if I can avoid it."

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    "Beautfiul creatures? Mate!"

    Tresaith shrugged. "They are exactly as they were created to be. It is not their fault they have been set to guard this artefact. In the normal run of things, they would not be within a thousand leagues of humans."

    I tried. I really did. I gave all my considerable empathy over to the task of giving two fucks about the poor monster from the deep that had been shanghaied to swim around a massive lake, eating anything that came across. Sad to say, I just didn''t have it in me. Fuck em.

    Mark stirred and sat up. "I need to get to the sword!"

    "Dude, that ship has sailed. Arthur''s claimed it, and Owain . . . " We all looked at the battered corpse lying near us. "Well, Owain no longer has a vote on the next Pendragon." I squatted down next to him. "You may want to consider your own position on that. I''m not against leaving you here to find your own way back."

    I wasn''t sure whether I really had that in me. It felt a little different to abandon someone to starvation and worse on a desert island than to just blast them out of existence - but the fat twat didn''t know that. He noticeably quailed. I could get used to that reaction.

    Arthur was coming down the last few steps of the cairn to join us on the beach. He had a very snazzy red scabbard around his waist from which emerged a long, jewelled-encrusted handle.

    "Why don''t you have some pretty decoration like that?"

    Why don''t you go fuck yourself with that piece of driftwood? I sensed I may have touched a bit of a nerve there.

    "What''s up, D? Bit of hilt envy?" It didn''t reply. I switched my attention to the scabbard itself. A gentle push towards it with my Qi was slapped back pretty hard. I''d utilised that particular slap when waitressing around the handsy.

    "Big M?"

    Hardly surprising, my dear. The scabbard covers a blade whose sole purpose is the negation of Qi. I would not expect you to be able to determine its makeup. From my reading, it is theorised it possesses significant healing properties.

    I kept a nervous eye on the sword as Arthur drew near me. I hadn''t enjoyed the experience of being ''normal'' again. "All okay, mate?"

    Arthur ignored me, kicking Owain''s body as if to reassure himself the man was dead and then turned his attention to Mark, his face even grimmer than usual. "King Mark, are you hale?"

    The King of Gwynedd struggled his way to his feet - I quite enjoyed that - and squared up to Arthur. "No thanks to you. You abandoned me to die, just as you did with Beric. Now you have killed Owain. What is it? You wish to gather all of our kingdoms under your thumb?"

    Arthur simply stared back. This did little to calm Mark who took another step forward, finger pointing. "The men of Gwynedd will never follow you. Neither will anyone else. Sure, you have your pretty sword, but that won''t wash. You won''t even have a castle by the time we get back. Let''s see if anyone supports a homeless Pendragon."

    Then, he made the mistake of prodding Arthur in the chest.

    Lancelot moved faster than could have been perceived outside of a slow-motion reply. His fist closed around Mark''s stubby finger and dragged it downwards with an audible snap. Mark was on his knees, face white, Lancelot holding the finger aloft. I heard Tresaith give a soft murmur of approval at the speed of the takedown.

    "King Mark, I offer you a choice. I began this quest with four British kings and in the spirit of mutual agreement. We all swore oaths to recover Caeldfwch and to do so under the banner of brotherhood. At every turn, I have been undermined and betrayed by those who once swore fealty to my father. And I am sick of it."

    He whipped out the sword and held it to Mark''s neck. I was once again changed back into an entirely normal person, standing on a beach with a bunch of superhuman beings. I hadn''t felt that vulnerable since my first night at a young offender''s institute. The raised voices, sense of imminent violence and, oddly, giant threatening octopus (probably another story) completed my deja vu.

    "I will give you one chance and one chance alone. You swear fealty and recognise me as the Pendragon, or you lose your head, and I renew negotiations with one of your sons. I am sure, eventually, I will find one willing to make that deal."

    Oh, isn''t he masterful?

    We all ignored the breathy voice coming from the sword.

    "You would not dare. You are not your father; we all know that."

    Arthur''s eyes darkened. I have heard people say that before, but never seen it happen before. It was like a different Arthur suddenly peaked out from behind a mask. I was reminded what Bors had said had taken place in the weeks following the destruction of Iscoa: Arthur going all Heart of Darkness. Suddenly, I could believe it.

    "King Mark. I think you should consider your next words very carefully. I am currently in possession of not only the only cultivator of real quality amongst our allies but also the only tool capable of mitigating her power. I am perfectly capable of - as I am sure you will agree - causing any amount of chaos and destruction to your lands simply by invading using conventional forces. Along with Morgan, well, it hardly bears thinking about, does it? Particularly if she actually does what I ask her to. You can choose to pledge your fealty, or I will make it my life''s work, once I have removed your head, to put Tristian on your throne."

    Mark went to stand, and in a flash, Lancelot broke another of his fingers. "No more words other than ''Hail the Pendragon.''"

    For a moment, I didn''t think he would fold, which was interesting. I was idly wondering how many hacks it would actually take to get through his walrus-like neck, but then he muttered something under his breath, and Arthur hauled him back to his feet.

    "Serve me as honourably as you did my father and I will have no complaints. And now, wizard," he resheathed Caeldfwch and my powers pinged back on. I was absolutely not wild about this change in our dynamic, "you need to fast-travel us home. Owain revealed that great danger was approaching Tintagel."

    Dude didn''t need to ask me twice.

    With what I hoped was a ''see you soon, big boy'' smile to Tresaith, I grabbed Arthur, Lancelot, Mark - and Owain''s body - and triggered for the return journey.

    We popped back into existence into quite a shit show.

 Chapter 58 â€“ In which allâ€™s well that ends well

    There are various ways in which I am very comfortable bringing a confrontation to a messy, violent conclusion. If my encounter with the Kraken had taught me nothing else, throwing every possible explosive technique at the problem was, sometimes, the only way forward.

    Hang on, my dear. I''m sure one of the key learning points of the last few weeks has been learning the ''less is more'' approach in the way in which you use your Qi . . .

    Can''t talk, Big M. Being the GOD OF HELLFIRE!

    With little fanfare, we''d popped back into the human realm in the general vicinity of Tintagel. By which, I mean the four of us - well, five if you count a dead King of Gwent - landed in the middle of a hail of crossbow bolts. This was disconcerting. However, a cultivator of my quality and experience had no issue activating < I.E.D.> and quickly sucking in all the projectiles to stick to the outer shell of Qi.

    Just so we are clear, you are aware that I activated that technique, aren''t you?

    "Not now, Big M. Too busy being an absolute legend."

    "Arthur?" a nicely familiar voice boomed out behind us.

    I held on to < I.E.D.> for a few more moments to get the lay of the land.

    We appeared surrounded by a large warband of somewhat surprised men with unloaded crossbows. Lying all around us were groaning and moaning bodies, which bore all the hallmarks of a particularly big and belligerent friend of mine going loco down in Acapulco.

    "Bors, my old mucker! Surrounded by overwhelming numbers again?"

    "Morgan! Nice to see you. Still a manic pixie bitch?"

    "You betcha!"

    I''d have hugged him, but felt like skewering him with all the crossbow bolts I was currently bristling with would have been counterproductive to the accidental rescue I seemed to have just pulled off. And Bors was already not at his best. He had about twenty guys at this back who likewise looked like the ''after'' video of a particularly brutal cage fight. He and Arthur had an emotional reunion¡ªyou know, in that manly way whereby guys give each other a little nod that carries the weight of years and years of pent-up, repressed love¡ªand I got a better look at what was occurring.

    The guys attacking Bors hadn''t wasted much time reloading their crossbows, which suggested they weren''t easily spooked by magically manifesting warriors in the mix. I reckoned I could probably catch another volley in < I.E.D.> before needing to unload, but maybe there was another way forward.

    "By what right do you fire on my men whilst standing on my land." Arthur''s voice was at its most, ''Don''t fuck with me.'' His hand was resting on Caeldfwch''s hilt, which gave me pause.

    "If he draws that, Big M, which way are these arrows going when my Qi vanishes? Will they release outward? Because my hold on them is removed, or do they continue towards us because I''m not controlling them anymore?" There was the sort of confused silence you were not really looking for when the distribution of several hundred crossbow bolts was concerned. Just to be safe, my dear, I might suggest letting go of them. Gently.

    I didn''t need to be told twice. Using all of my expertise and hard-earned experience¡ªonce again, my dear, let''s be clear, I am in control of this technique¡ªI released the bolts over the heads of the men surrounding us. As much as Arthur''s stern expression, I like to think this sharpened the men of Gwent''s attention.

    An attractive twenty-something pushed himself forward. He spared me a somewhat concerned glance - that''s right, dude, Big Dog in the house - and then fixed his eyes on Arthur. I mentally added thirty years and seven stone to him and realised we were probably looking at Owain''s son.

    "Arthur. We did not expect to see you here."

    "I bet you didn''t, Maelgwn. Give me one reason I don''t have my wizard vapourise you where you stand."

    I''m not going to lie, I quite liked how everyone looked at me when he said that. I may or may not have let a little ripple of electricity shimmer across my body.

    You are such a fucking drama queen.

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    "Was your quest successful?"

    I had to admire this man''s chutzpah. He must know he was in all sorts of shit and was still managing to keep his voice pretty matter-of-fact. An older guy giving off distinct Grand Vizier vibes was suddenly stood at his shoulder, looking like he was about to have a coronary.

    Arthur nodded. "I am now the bearer of Caeldfwch, and Mark of Gwynedd has acknowledged me as the Pendragon."

    Lancelot shoved the fat man forward. He didn''t look up, merely nodded his head.

    Maelgwyn''s face remained still. "And the other kings? Did they follow suit?"

    "Beric was eaten by goblins, and Corys is probably still doing his own eating out about now." I might be wrong, but I sensed my contribution was not universally welcomed.

    "And my father?"

    Lancelot threw the corpse of Owain at Maelgwyn''s feet.

    "He betrayed us," he said Arthur. "He took an oath to join us in a quest for Caeldfwch whilst all the time plotting to steal my throne. He murdered my mother, sent assassins to kill my wife and clearly charged you to steal in under cover of that chaos to claim my castle. And he has paid for his presumption. The question is, does anyone else need to die this day?"

    Both men looked at each other.

    I didn''t think Maelgwyn looked hugely devastated, considering the still oozing body of his father was at his feet.

    "I guess," continued Arthur, "the only question is whether you wish to re-establish relationships with Dumnonia or if avenging your father''s death is foremost in your mind."

    I couldn''t get a read on the new King of Gwent. He certainly had the numbers to be a pain in the arse, particularly if Arthur forgot himself and drew Caeldfwch. No matter how impressed these dudes had been with my little game of catch and throw, it would go very differently if I didn''t have any Qi at my disposal. I really hoped Arthur''s brain had considered that before upping the ante.

    The red-faced older man stepped forward. "Murderer!"

    We all turned to look at him.

    "Twice you have bathed your hands in the blood of the royal line of Gwent. First, your bitch of a mother ordered the murder of Prince Kael to bring us to heel, and now you seek to intimidate King Maelgwyn in the same way! The men of Gwent will not bow their heads to tyranny!"

    I''m not sure who was more surprised when the dude''s head hit the ground¡ªhim or Maelgwyn, who had decapitated him.

    Nah. It was definitely the dead guy.

    Maelgwyn resheated his sword and took a knee. I giggled at the thought that two entirely shit series of my favourite T.V. shows would probably have been avoided if another twenty-something with curly black hair had done something similar.

    "King Arthur, the men of Gwent reconfirm our long alliance with the men of Dumnonia and acknowledge your right to hold the title of Pendragon."

    His men followed his lead, and the tension noticeably dropped.

    With them all now on their knees, I could make out the towers of Tintagel reaching up into the sky.

    Weirdly, I felt like I''d come home.

    *

    "And we are sure he now possesses the sword?"

    Several pairs of eyes did their best not to meet the gaze of the Bretwalda. If any of them had any qualms about a Briton being their supreme leader, they had long since learned to keep such thoughts to themselves. There used to be an awful lot more senior Chieftains of the Saxons. Those left were canny enough to see which way the wind was blowing.

    And Aurelius Ambrosius was a veritable hurricane.

    Cedric of the West Saxons was the first to speak. "Our spies were clear that, on his return, both Gwent and Gwynedd acknowledged Arthur as the Pendragon. I cannot see any other circumstances where that would have occurred unless he held the sword."

    Aurelius took another of his little vials from a satchel and crunched down on it. The men who stood before him did their best to ignore the smell as the flesh of his face was eaten away - and then rebuilt - by the vitriolic poison.

    "And Powys and Dehuebarch?"

    "Unclear," Hansad, a newly arrived warlord from the east, was a bit trigger-happy when offering Aurelius bad news. The others shuffled away from him surreptitiously. "Neither Corys nor Beric appear to have returned from the quest."

    Aurelius stood, causing the others to immediately take a knee. He did not acknowledge this and walked to the window of his newly reconstructed tower. When he spoke, none of them were clear about whether it was to them or to himself. "Arthur Pendragon will be feeling invulnerable. He has pushed us from his lands, his wizard is growing in power, and he now possesses an ancient artefact capable of negating my magic. He has reconfirmed his alliances and, if we understand true, has even managed to rebuild his relationship with his wife. I imagine he is feeling pretty damn smug at this moment."

    From his high vantage point, he could see the teeming mass of Saxons beneath him. Boats had been arriving steadily since the turn of the year, and, if possible, there was an even greater mass of men at the Bretwalda''s disposal than before the fall of Isca.

    "What would you have us do, High King?" Hansad really wasn''t going to be long for this world.

    Aurelius turned around, eyes blazing with power. All heads dropped to the floor, the leaders of the Saxon race on the island of Britain full-on genuflecting.

    "But a Pendragon cannot squat behind his walls, weathering our storm. We may not be able to prise him free from Tintagel, but let us see how firmly his allies stand with him when we slay their people and sow their fields with salt. This will be a summer of slaughter, the like of which the land has never seen before. By the time we are finished, Arthur will be alone. Let us see how much a pretty sword and pair of shapely tits help him when Britain is on fire around him."

 Epilogue

    Life has been - relatively - peaceful since our return from the quest.

    Surprisingly so, as, by hook or by crook, the events of our journey led to a number of succession crises amongst the remaining British kingdoms that winter.

    Gwent had transitioned to King Maelgwyn in a reasonably smooth manner. Who knew, but it seemed that when you dedicated yourself to plotting revenge for twenty years, there were aspects of governmental administration that fell by the wayside. That the new king was interested in actually ruling rather than secret blood-feuding made things a bit easier for him. Most importantly, as far as we were concerned, Dumnonia''s connection to the kingdoms across the Severn was secure. At least for the time being.

    Unfortunately, that was pretty much where the good news about the other kingdoms dried up. Mark fucked off the second the last of his men found their way back to Tintagel. We weren''t left quite in ''executing all our messengers'' incommunicado, but neither were Arthur and he regularly swapping baking tips. Mind you, at least he''d reconfirmed his support for Arthur in front of witnesses, and with Maelgwyn on board - and no one else alive to dissent - there was now a very snazzy red dragon flying above Tintagel again.

    The news from Powys and Dehuebarch, though, was less than ideal. Corys was still not back from his shagathon, and his kingdom had descended into a very uncivil civil war. Arthur had expressed no preference as to which of his sons we wanted to come out on top but earnestly wished they would get themselves sorted out before the campaign season against the Saxons opened in earnest. As far as I could tell, though, I doubted there were likely to be many able-bodied spearmen up for what was coming.

    Of Powys we heard nothing, and our messengers were returned without their heads. Lancelot had offered to attend to the matter ''personally'', but we''d all agreed that it might be wise to let some time pass before renewing diplomatic relations. After all, "Sorry we let goblins eat your king" was not the strongest of opening gambits . . .

    Winter had come, buying us all some much-needed respite from the incessant fighting that had marked my time thus far in the Dark Ages. I enjoyed taking the opportunity to round out some of my skills and to spend much longer in meditation. Which was why I was standing on the roof of my tower, freezing my tits off. Merlin had said it was good for my resilience or something. I think he just liked seeing my nipples turn into bullets.

    My dear!

    Given the weather, it was somewhat surprising to hear the noise of training coming from the courtyard below. But, then again, considering who was doubtless down there, it probably shouldn''t. Lancelot''s Rangers had become a ''thing'' with all of the original survivors signing up, alongside a fair number of those who attended the Grand Tournament. If Arthur was concerned about the commitment a large section of his elite warriors were showing to someone who wasn''t him, he didn''t mention it.

    At least not to me.

    Mind you, Arthur Pendragon was not exactly lacking in men flocking to his banner. I was secretly pleased to hear a few names I recognised from stories. There''s no easy way to tell someone you''ve just met that you''ve heard all about them and they''re ballers in the future, but I''ve done my best to pull it off with subtlety and flair.

    You spectacularly embarrassed them, my dear. Especially Galahad. No one needs to know they are one of the most famous virgins in history.

    I ignored him

    Due to the success of the tournament, the coffers of Tintagel were now overflowing, and a fuckton of money was sunk into gearing Arthur''s men up for the spring. I tried to find out from Bors the secret to making quite so much cash out of what I assumed would have been a money pit, but he''d just shrugged. From Guinevere, I''d heard that the two weeping merchants I''d seen leave the castle had been responsible for the epic financial success of the venture. From what we could ascertain, they''d taken no payment for their hard work and - bizarrely - seemed to have self-funded a considerable amount of the event at their loss. They''d oddly fled in terror from Bors when he''d been to see them to ''discuss their bill''¡ªstrange pair.

    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    Speaking of Guinevere . . .

    Finally, some good news. One of the little-known side-effects of wearing Caeldfwch''s scabbard at his waist was to repair whatever damage Drynwyn had caused Arthur''s love juice. It''s been mentioned I have somewhat of a hard heart, but even I felt a little flutter of happiness at a very undignified "I''M PREGNANT!" coming from the Queen''s chamber shortly after the old witch, Nimue, made her customary post-coital examination.

    Unfortunately, that led to a slightly awkward few days after it became clear that King Leodegrance''s dowry of ''ten thousand spears'' might have been a touch hyperbolic. When three hundred horsemen of dubious quality showed up, it was hard not to feel a bit disappointed. I mean, everyone was welcome to the anti-Saxon party, but it put an ever-so-slight black cloud over what should have been a time of joy.

    "We don''t have enough men."

    Bors had taken to joining me in mediation on the roof of Merlin''s tower. He was slowly recovering from his injuries but was walking far more stiffly than I remembered. Guinevere thought he wanted to work on his recovery away from Lancelot and Arthur, but I was fairly sure he was on Team Merlin when it came to gawping at my frost-enhanced ladies.

    Honestly, my dear . . .

    "You say that every day, mate," I answered Bors. "And I still say you are being pessimistic."

    "We''ve narrowly fought back armies at our gates twice in the last six months. I don''t think it happened once in the last century. Do you think we''ve got a third siege in us?"

    "I think we''ve fought off Saxons, wyverns, goblins, demonic cultivators, magical forests and giant fucking sea monsters. The smart money is on us in any confrontation."

    Bors sat up a bit straighter and winced at the pain in his back. "He''s talking about going on the offensive in the spring. Of taking the fight to the Saxons. He wants to cross the Tamar."

    I didn''t need to ask who ''he'' was.

    "I''ve heard worse ideas. Get us out into Saxon territories. Kick ass and take names. Do what we do best. Could be interesting."

    "I worry it''s all too fragile. We were in the best shape we''d ever been before Isca fell. Merlin, armies, allies, strongholds. We had it all, and it felt like there was a sense of destiny behind what we were about to achieve. I look at us now, and it feels like we''re always one battle away from a wipeout. It scares me that it will only take one bad call, one strategic error, and that could be it. I can''t comprehend stakes like that. I worry that we''ll oversee the genocide of the British from these islands."

    I worried that the big lug had learned the concept of ''genocide.'' But I decided not to take offence at the unflattering comparison. Everyone knew I was doing my best, but clearly I wouldn''t be Merlin anytime soon.

    "This isn''t like you, mate. You okay?"

    Bors puffed out his cheeks. "Mrs Bors is pregnant again."

    I high-fived him. "You and Arthur are both going to be daddies at the same time! That''s so cool!"

    "It just makes you think . . ." I thought that was it, but - after a few moments - he continued. "I never knew my own dad, you know? He died fighting the Saxons before I was born. I always promised myself that my kids wouldn''t grow up like that."

    A billion jokes lined up in my head to break the dark mood that was settling on us. But I couldn''t make any of them come out.

    Because, in a month or so, the Saxons would be coming.

    And we weren''t ready.

    I stared out over the mist, letting my Qi run up and down my body. Despite everything, it seemed that we''d managed to keep the timeline intact. By hook or by crook, Arthur Pendragon sat on the throne of Tintagel, Guinevere at his side and with his Knights of the Round Table close at hand. It wasn''t exactly all over bar the shouting, but I could feel the pull of the vision I had experienced in the Enchanted Forest.

    Arthur, mortally wounded, on the field of Carleon. As goals went, it hardly felt like I was shooting for a happy ending.

    What will be, must be, my dear. Should we live to witness the fall of Arthur to Mordred''s blade, you will have done everything that could possibly be asked of you. What you do at that stage is entirely down to you.

    I didn''t answer him. The second part of that vision had me choose whether to take Arthur to Avalon or abandon him and return to my own world. Or, at least, a version of that where I was a functioning, happy person.

    Fuck.

    "Don''t borrow trouble, lovely" my sister''s voice echoed in my head. "You can only do one thing at a time. Cross that bridge when you get there, and don''t burn it down on your way there!" Well, if that was true, then there were a fuckton of Saxons standing in the middle of that bridge.

    "You okay?" Bors asked, concern in his voice.

    I shook my head, tears spilling from my eyes. "No. Not at all. But you know what''s going to be just the ticket for that?"

    "Killing Saxons?"

    "Fucking A."

    It was going to be a bloody Spring.

 Chapter 1 - In which it is good to be back!

    "Motherfucker. I swear, if there¡¯s a wrong way to fuck something up, this wanker will find it, then fuck it harder just to make a fucking point. It''s like his whole existence is a goddamn art form of fuckery, and I¡¯m stuck on the front row, watching an orgiastic masterpiece unfold in all its fucking glory. And then, just as I''m knee-deep in the fucked-up aftermath of all his fuckery, he¡¯ll stroll in with a like, ''Oops, my bad. Can you sort this all out for me? Pretty please?'' This muppet couldn¡¯t unfuck a situation himself if his life fucking depended on it, but somehow, I¡¯m the one left duct-taping the universe back together while he¡¯s off somewhere, fucking it all up again. For sport. Twat."

    I am so glad you are taking this little reversal so well, my dear. Indeed, it is good to see that all those discussions we have had about meditation, calmness, and centring ourselves within the flow of your Qi have really paid off.

    "Merlin?"

    Yes, my dear?

    "Behold the field of my fucks to give. And lo, see how it is barren."

    That''s the fourth time you have used that form of words in the last couple of days. I assume you have heard someone say that ¨C my gold is on Sir Bors - liked it and have resolved to use it more in conversation? However, without wishing to belabour the repeated message of our training of late, ''less is more,'' my dear. Less is very much more.

    "Fuck off, Big M."

    You first, my dear.

    Touch¨¦.

    Welcome back, by the way.

    I¡¯m afraid quite a bit has happened since you''ve been gone. And not much of it good. Not least, it appears Drynwyn''s signature conversational style might have rubbed off on me a bit.

    Oh, sure. Knew all this fuckwittery would somehow be my fault.

    I was about to answer, but then I became acutely aware that there were several, extremely worried, faces turned my way.

    Sure, they¡¯re all just Sir Ector¡¯s fucking uselessly Unmerry Men, but as they¡¯re clearly very concerned that the all-powerful Court Wizard of King Arthur Pendragon appears to be talking to herself again, I figure now might be an appropriate moment to leave the ramshackle shambles of our camp on Salisbury Plain behind and drop into my Artist''s Studio.

    I know there¡¯s a lot to unpack in that sentence. Trust me, I¡¯ll get to it.

    The world faded away, to be replaced by my beachfront studio and then . . . blessed silence.

    The first thing I noticed as I opened my eyes in my happy place was that I was almost immediately unable to absorb any of my internal space''s ambient Qi.

    This was cool because, not too long ago, I was so inefficient at gathering the essence of this place to me that meditating in here was almost like cycling in the real world. However, as Merlin had kept going on and on and on about how important it was to resolve this, I¡¯d been putting in plenty of hard yards during the winter and it was nice to actually see all that finally paying dividends.

    In fact, the moment I popped into being here, all the built-up Qi was slurped straight down into my core. My channels appeared before me, perfectly drawn, a latticework of where every line, every angle, spoke of balance and possibility.

    As I watched, my purple Qi moved¡ªnot the cheap neon of a gaudy festival lantern, but deep and luminous, the shade of twilight skies just before they surrender to stars. It swept through me, filling every line, pooling briefly in a few areas before flowing onward, as though reluctant to leave but trusting the path.

    The whole experience was a stillness that wasn¡¯t empty but full. My channels shining with an unbroken brilliance, clear as polished glass, so perfect they might not have been real if I couldn¡¯t feel their quiet hum.

    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    It was beautiful, yes, but more than that¡ªit was mine.

    My body, my will, my Qi.

    And in this moment, it felt as though nothing else mattered.

    Momentarily free from the stresses of ¡®real¡¯ life ¨C don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll catch you up on all the new and exciting clusterfuckery in a minute - I took a nice, deep breath and went searching for where I might have left the remnants of my chill.

    Gazing through the windows of my studio, I could see sand, waves, and a sky so blue it clearly was enjoying an advertising relationship with a bottled water company. The miles and miles of beach were littered with all the usual suspects: smug seagulls, clusters of seashells plotting something shady, and a lone flip-flop which I sensed was trying very hard to be metamorphical for something.

    Inside, my studio was a pleasing mess of unfinished projects, a testament to my long held belief that incomplete canvasses were a legitimate artistic process. The coffee mug on the table was on its third round of pretending to be fresh, and the only sound in the room was that of the wind rattling against shutters.

    Paradise.

    I freely admit I could¡¯ve been more productive in here, but that felt a bit much considering my soul had already gifted me this view.

    And this quiet.

    I leaned against the window, letting the glass leave faint smudges on my forehead, and idly wondered which aspect of my psyche had left that flip-flop.

    Was it supposed to remind me of a torrid, beach affair? Nah. I¡¯m not sure I had too many of them in my mental locker. I¡¯d discovered at a relatively early age that sand plus . . . spontaneous adventures was a wildly uncomfortable experience.

    Was it, rather, pointing towards an aquatic encounter gone wrong? Sure, that felt more on brand. Any number of sun-bleached mops of hair volunteered for potential tribute there. But I¡¯m not sure any were memorable enough to have imprinted themselves on my soul space . . .

    Or was that single piece of abandoned plastic supposed to represent someone who I didn¡¯t notice until it was too late?

    Hmmm, I¡¯m tending towards to morbid there. And that¡¯s not what I came here for. I¡¯m supposed to be finding my chill, not having a moment of personal growth . . .

    I stood and turned away from the window, picking up a few books and replacing them on shelves. When the Big M had talked me into this whole cultivation gig, I¡¯d vaguely thought I''d end up spending most of my second life sitting in a cave or meditating under a waterfall, contemplating my mystical navel or some shit like that.

    And yeah, I¡¯ve done my fair share of that.

    Usually in some sort of fucking epic timeloop.

    But it turns out, when you actually get a bit better at all of this stuff, you can manifest yourself up somewhere pretty cool to spend your downtime. And I don''t think I''d be blowing my own trumpet too much to say I¡¯ve made some pretty decent progress since we last caught up.

    You see, after many, many hours of meditation, I¡¯ve discovered that my Qi wants to flow¡ªdelicately, like painting a watery seascape, not slapping paint on a canvas like a toddler with too much sugar. Channelling it? Pfft, child¡¯s play now. All I have to do now is just . . . gently suggest it goes where I want, like coaxing a stubborn wave into breaking right where it should.

    Easy.

    And cultivation?

    Nailed it, bro.

    I¡¯ve learned that it¡¯s basically all about crafting yourself into the masterpiece you want to be. Layer by layer. Brushstroke by brushstroke. Until¡ªoh look, there I am. Uber Wizard. I have to say, the smug realisation that I¡¯m getting really, really good at all this shit has been one of the better realisations of the last few months.

    Honestly, who¡¯d have thought that ¨C when things calmed down a bit ¨C  I¡¯d be a natural at all this?

    Apparently, when I''m not spending my life keeping the kingdom in one piece, Qi just bends to my will like that seagull out there to a plate of chips.

    All this talk about patience and humility? Meh. I¡¯m practically glowing over here.

    Aurelius Ambrosius is quaking in his boots.

    My dear, I do not think there are the words to adequately express you how far that little self-indulgent monologue is from the reality. Yes, you are continuing to show decent promise as a Cultivator, and I admit that you have worked very hard - particularly on your alchemy - but you are scarcely a more capable practitioner today than you were at the conclusion of the quest for Caeldfwch. We have discussed, at length, that self-knowledge is almost entirely the prerequisite for further growth, so I do worry that such flagrant puffery is not merely puerile but actively detrimental to your wider development.

    Yeah. Way to kill my buzz, Big M.

    I¡¯m sorry, my dear, I just think it is important not to mislead yourself as to the scale of challenges that are in front of us. Especially considering all the current difficulties you are having working alongside Sir Ector. And that, of course, is even without stressing the problems we are encountering around locating the Meridian Stones.

    Whoa. Chill your jets, Big M.

    You can''t just ladle the exposition out like that. What do you think is happening here? Let''s go for something a little more elegant than ''somehow Palpatine has returned,'' you know what I''m saying?

    As is becoming increasingly the case, no, not really, my dear.

    Okay, right. Let¡¯s put a pin in the ¡®here and now¡¯ for the moment. Here''s the skinny. Imagine all this in a ¡®previously on¡¯ voice . . .

 Chapter 2 - In which it is colder than a penguins ballsack

    It had been a long, long winter.

    Dark, cold and full of terrors, if you get me?

    To help you get on board with the vibe, let me confirm that Christmas in Dark Age Cornwall isn¡¯t so much festive as it is a long, damp reminder that life is mostly unremitting suffering with occasional sparks of insane violence.

    The headland around Tintagel jutted its arse into the sea, waves pounding against it inexhaustibly. And I think you should recognise how utterly shitty the last few months have been that I¡¯ve not got the wherewithal to do anymore with that innuendo than that.

    Life¡¯s been bleak.

    From the top of Merlin¡¯s tower, I¡¯ve watched, day after day, as smoke tried valiantly to rise from a few hearths in the castle, but the salt-streaked gusts dispersed it with ease. To be honest, I could barely tell where the freezing air ended, and the freezing people began; everyone seemed coated in a film of misery so thick it was practically ancestral.

    I¡¯d offered to lend a hand with some Qi-based assistance, but everyone looked at me like I¡¯d suggested we sacrifice a few virgins to the sea gods. Turns out, some people are married to their suffering and don¡¯t appreciate ¡®outsiders¡¯ interrupting the honeymoon.

    ¡°Merlin never did anything like that,¡± has become a phrase I¡¯d learned to hate.

    Beyond the castle, though, the cold shit got even realer.

    All of the fields I could see were completely bare, and the few farmers seeking to eke out a living moved through them like condemned men heading for the gallows, their cloaks heavy with frost and their faces heavier still. Joy to the world didn¡¯t appear to be just thin on the ground; it seemed to have buggered off entirely.

    Dumnonia might have a shiny new Pendragon, but that didn¡¯t seem to offer much in the way of yuletide cheer. The hills and moors stretched out like the world¡¯s most depressing quilt, patched with sparse woods clinging on like drunks who refused to leave the bar. Streams limped along, half-frozen, while gorse bushes stood defiantly, like tiny, thorny middle fingers to the universe.

    It was a Big Mood.

    And that¡¯s without thinking about the sea.

    Oh, the sea was the real bastard. It roared against the cliffs with righteous fury, like Tintagel had insulted its mother and refused to apologise. On the rare days when the clouds grudgingly parted, the sun showed up like the deadest of deadbeat fathers for its supervised contact, pale and half-hearted, muttering something about picking up some cigarettes before promptly disappearing again. Even then, the sea kept at it, determined to make us all as miserable as possible.

    The winter wasn¡¯t just long¡ªit was the seasonal equivalent of the bleep test. Done in your pants. Whilst pissed.

    Obviously, only a complete mentalist would attempt to put spears in the field with the weather this shitty. And, despite our suspicion that Aurelius Ambrosius had all sorts of bats loose in his belfry, he''d done nothing to break with conventional warfare wisdom on that front.

    So, we¡¯d had a bit of time to take stock of the situation.

    However, the pause in the almost constant fighting has been kind of a good news/ bad news situation as far as the Court of King Arthur is concerned.

    In the ¡®win¡¯ column, especially after some sizeable recent reverses on the battlefield, we¡¯d been able to replenish the forces of Tintagel somewhat. In fact, under the entirely fanatical tutelage of Lancelot and - to a lesser extent - Bors, the spears of Dumnonia were positively bristling with piss and vinegar for the coming campaign season.

    When there¡¯s nothing to do but train, it turns out you can become pretty fucking good at it with the right encouragement.

    However, it is important to remember that there are only so many British men of fighting age that we actually have to call on. Every last one of them might well have been crafted into a verifiable Chuck Norris, but when the rumours were of the Saxons out recruiting us ten to one, it was hard not to think we were spectacularly losing the arms race.

    I¡¯d joked that without the seemingly countless number of teenagers bearing more than a passing resemblance to our Beloved Lord and Monarch, we¡¯d already be dead and buried.

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    Oh, how we laughed and laughed.

    My memory is of Guinevere finding that little quip less than amusing . . .

    What can I say? Girlfriend¡¯s somewhat lost her sense of humour since ballooning to the size of a midrange SUV.

    Oh, and if the legions of hairy bastards massing on the border weren¡¯t enough, it seems that the High King had put out another call for every European cultivator to come to the ¡®fuck the British¡¯ party. The Queen¡¯s spies told us that the number of Qi flingers that Aurelius would have at his fingers in the Spring was even more than those he¡¯d managed to put in the field to blow up Isca.

    Considering all we had to offer in response was me and a very bitchy Qi-killing sword, I wasn¡¯t sure I loved those odds.

    Are you getting to the Meridian Stones now, my dear?

    Fucking hell! I told you it had been a long winter.

    Right. The bloody Meridian Stones.

    You''ll remember that one of the key reasons we were so keen to claim Caeldfwch was that we needed a way to be able to quench the superiority of the Saxon wizards and ¨C of course ¨C the power of Ambrosius himself. Well, now that Arthur possessed the Dark Blade, we were happy that - at least in direct combat - the British had an ace of our own to play.

    However, as our spies - well, Guinevere''s spies. Not totally sure what the fuck is going on there, to be honest, but the increasingly mahoosive Queen is spectacularly well-informed on all manner of things - reported that pretty much everyone from over the sea with any sort of talent with Qi had been dragooned into this latest invasion, it appeared that we would need a plan.

    Caeldfwch can only be in so many places at once, Merlin had said. Wherever Arthur will be, we will be able to fight on equal terms. And wherever you are, we will have more than a chance. But, as Pendragon, the King must protect all of the British lands.

    Arthur had agreed when I''d subsequently brought the problem to him.

    "So, what do you two propose I do? I will not be found hiding behind Tintagel''s walls when the fighting begins. However, neither can I lead every engagement, especially as we are planning a wholesale invasion of Saxon lands when the Spring comes. If the news my wife has brought us is true, we must have a way to attack their wizards."

    Are you at the bit about the Meridian Stones yet?

    Fucking hell, mate. Yes, I¡¯m finally up to the bit about the fucking Meridian Stones!

    Tugging on the air of calm in my Artist''s Studio, I let my mind float back to a heated discussion of a few weeks ago.

    Apparently, the problem¡ªhow Merlin put the problem, in any event¡ªwas that the strength of the Qi flowing through me wasn¡¯t yet anywhere near potent enough to realistically combat what was coming.

    I had some game, so ¨C barring Aurelius himself - I would be the strongest Cultivator in any fight I found myself. But ten, twenty, thirty to one was going to be a deal.

    As I was still having nightmares about having my arse handed to me by Aurelius Ambrosius, I couldn''t exactly disagree. Even if Arthur was able to pin that fucker down with Caeldfwch, someone else would be needed to deal with all his little Mini-Mes, and I just didn''t have that sort of oomph in me as of yet.

    But - what do you know? - Merlin had thought himself up a plan . . .

    Apparently, the smart solution for this little problem involved hooking me up to some sort of massive fuck-off Qi battery and going full-scale murder-Cerebo on their cultivating assess.

    That¡¯s truly a horrible way of putting it, my dear. What I proposed was a very specific ritual conducted within the heart of a group of Meridian Stones. Such a ritual will allow you to cut off access to the Qi of the land from any invader. In this way, you can perform much the same role as I did when I was alive and ensure no foreign Cultivators are able to channel. In this way, a Meridian Stone formation focused upon you will protect the kingdom, dragging the Qi of these shores away from the Saxons and neutralising their numerical advantages.

    "Yeah, I¡¯ve got that part, Big M. But you¡¯re not exactly explaining how all this is supposed to work. You¡¯re talking about arranging a bunch of giant rocks in the middle of a field and suggesting that will magically fix all our problems. It¡¯s all a bit... Wicker Man, don¡¯t you think? But with rocks."

    As I have kept saying, they¡¯re not just any old rocks, my dear. Each of the stones we need will be a carefully crafted anchor for the very flow of Qi. And once we have located appropriate stones, their placement will be critical¡ªeach stone must align with a specific Qi leyline, channelling the natural power of the land into a focal point that you will be able to access. Trust me, my dear, once they are raised and connected into the appropriate formation, they will amplify your strength and massively disrupt the power of our enemies.

    "Amplify my strength how?"

    Through forcing the convergence of native, ambient energy. Once the circle is complete, the Qi will flow like a river, gathering force as it goes. And you will be able to tap into all that power, just as you do with your own core. However, and this is where my plan is truly quite brilliant, even if I do say so myself,  the stones will provide you with the moxy to stand against the Saxon Cultivators and even outstrip the power Aurelius Ambrosius himself.

    I did fancy an opportunity to level the playing field for Round 2 . . .

    "Okay, so we set up this rock garden, switch it on and suddenly I¡¯m fully a supercharged Saxon killing machine?"

    In the simplest of all possible terms, yes.

    ¡°And let me guess, this little stone circle of yours is going to be so tastefully placed, subtle and oh so discreet that no Saxon will even notice we¡¯re pulling off a major magical coup right under their noses?¡±

    Subtlety is not the goal here. Effectiveness is.

    As you can see, this is a simply foolproof plan.

 Chapter 3 - In which my epic dry spell is explored

    The first problem we hit¡ªokay, not exactly the first problem, but I¡¯m keen for us actually to get this show on the road, and there¡¯s only so much tragic backstory about this debacle I figure you¡¯ll stick with¡ªwas where the hell we were going to construct a massive, magic stone formation.

    According to Merlin, establishing the Meridian Stones wasn¡¯t like slapping together a drystone wall for a sheep paddock. Look at me with all the relevant pastoral lingo!

    Full disclosure: this is probably because I¡¯ve spent a considerable amount of my winter downtime trying to lay a very good-looking shepherd.

    It hasn¡¯t gone well.

    The shepherd himself¡ªlet¡¯s call him Ewan, because that¡¯s his name¡ªseems to view me less as a potential squishy-times partner and more as a very dangerous, very talkative predator who won¡¯t leave him alone. I blame my reputation. And possibly the time I accidentally immolated a small thicket while practising fire Qi within a stone¡¯s throw of his grazing flock.

    In my defence, those sheep are surprisingly judgmental.

    Anyway, no matter what I¡¯ve tried, Ewan has continued to prove to be a touch skittish. Every time I approached him, his eyes widened like he was already mentally drafting his will, and I swear he calculated the exact distance to the nearest exit at all times.

    Having previously been a solid 6 ¨C a 7 with the right lighting ¨C I¡¯ve really never needed to do much more in the way of wooing than get riotously drunk and fall sidewise into the nearest cock-owner. Thus, in my new, certifiable hottie body, I have been finding his reluctance to roll in the very literal hay somewhat frustrating.

    It actually got so bad, that the last time I tried a direct approach, Merlin decided to pitch in and ¡°coach¡± me.

    Say something about the weather.

    Hating myself with every fibre of my being, I ventured, ¡°It¡¯s looking a bit grey.¡±

    Ewan nodded vigorously as though this was groundbreaking meteorological insight. He was visibly sweating, his thick forearms glistening as though carved from oak and dipped in honey. His jawline could have doubled as a whetstone, and his hair was a tousled mass of chestnut waves. Beneath the nervous twitch of his Adam''s apple, his chest rose and fell with the kind of heaving masculinity that was pretty much making my bodice spontaneously combust.

    Dude is a walking sculpture of rural virility.

    Now, pivot to a compliment. In my experience, mortals love those. Something simple but sincere. Try not to mention his genitalia unless strictly necessary.

    ¡°You¡¯ve got a steady hand with the flock,¡± I said, which I thought was both complimentary and relevant.

    ¡°Er¡­ thank you, my Lady.¡±

    Oh, excellent choice, my dear. A compliment for his manual dexterity. Very subtle. Now, casually introduce the idea of spending time together. Maybe suggest a shared activity. Herding, perhaps?

    ¡°Maybe I could help you with the sheep sometime?¡± At this point, for the sake of my self-worth, I think it is important to remind you exactly how long it has been . . .

    Ewan¡¯s expression, though, suggested less delight at the opportunity to spend more time with me, and more like I¡¯d just invited his grandmother to an orgy. ¡°Uh¡­ they¡¯re¡­ they¡¯re very¡­ independent sheep.¡±

    ¡°Of course they are.¡± I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks. ¡°Fiercely independent. That¡¯s good in a sheep. What you are looking for, I imagine.¡±

    Brilliant. You¡¯ve terrified him into extolling the virtues of self-reliant livestock. Romance is surely imminent, my dear.

    By the time Ewan stammered his way through an excuse to escape¡ªsomething about a fence in urgent need of mending¡ªI was pretty much out of farming-based small talk.

    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    This was about a month ago, and he¡¯s been avoiding me ever since.

    The driest of dry spells continues unchallenged.

    Anyway, back to the Meridian Stones. Why not. Apparently, you don¡¯t just pick a spot and start stacking. The leyline network is a finicky beast, and proximity to natural convergence points is non-negotiable, my dear.

    While Tintagel had its charms¡ªeven during this shitty winter¡ªit sat squarely in a leyline-free zone. Having Merlin hang around for too long like some magical bad tenant had royally messed all of that up. Too much Qi drawn for too long, too many rituals, too much enchantment¡ªbasically, Merlin¡¯s Tower was a battery that had drained the surrounding land dry. Merlin, predictably, saw no issue with this.

    I achieved great works here, my dear. Sacrifices had to be made.

    The kicker, of course, was that the best, most effective places to set up the Meridian Stone were all a considerable distance into Saxon territory. Because why wouldn¡¯t they be? It wasn¡¯t enough that we had to wrestle with constructing a monument to harness unfathomable power; we had to do it while dodging angry warbands and their pointy bits of steel.

    Powerful Qi convergences tend to attract conflict. And the strongest nodes? Always found in places of strife and bloodshed, my dear. It¡¯s simply how the energy collects and amplifies.

    ¡°Great. So, we¡¯re basically planning on setting up shop in the magical equivalent of a landmine field. Super.¡±

    The closest viable spot was nestled in a forest not far from the Saxon stronghold of Caer Sais. It was thick with ambient Qi¡ªMerlin had practically salivated at the description¡ªbut also thick with, you know, Saxons. The other option was a windswept plain near a fortress that looked like it was designed specifically to deter idiots like us.

    ¡°I¡¯m just saying, Big M, this whole thing would be a lot easier if we weren¡¯t risking imminent death.¡±

    If it were easy, any fool could do it. Be proud, my dear¡ªyou¡¯re not just any fool. You¡¯re my fool.

    ¡°Awesome. Thanks. Loving that for me.¡±

    The map is quite clear, he¡¯d said. The convergence points are fixed. Tintagel is convenient for us, I grant, but it is not convenient for magic. Qi is seldom considerate of human needs.

    ¡°Why can¡¯t we just tweak the leylines?¡±

    Ah yes, let¡¯s ¡®tweak¡¯ the ancient, mystical veins of the Earth, shall we, my dear? Perhaps we¡¯ll bend the tides while we¡¯re at it or realign the stars for better ambience. We go to the leylines; they do not come to us.

    But that wasn¡¯t the biggest problem I could foresee. Because, even if we zeroed in on the least objectionable spot for our little building project, how the fuck were we going to convince Arthur to lend us some of his knights ¨C in the middle of a massive arms race - to drag massive stones across the countryside?

    I¡¯d put that worry to a side for a moment.

    "Mate, where exactly are these stones supposed to be?" I asked. "Do we have to, I don¡¯t know, smash them out of a quarry or something?"

    Fortunately, they are already quarried. We merely need to find where they have been taken, liberate them from their current owners and then... rearrange them into the correct formation.

    ¡°Because nothing says heroic quest like debating topography and weatherproofing.¡±

    Precisely.

    I threw my hands up in frustration. "So let me get this straight. You¡¯re telling me that there¡¯s a bunch of magic rocks lying around, and we just have to find them and drag them into a neat little circle? And then I use their power to blast all the Saxon cultivators back to the stone age. And that''s it?"

    It is not quite so simple, but yes, in essence, that is correct. If my reading on this has been accurate, the majority of these stones are currently scattered across the land of M¨¡gen. We must gather and raise them in the proper alignment before completing the appropriate ritual."

    "M¨¡gen... right," I muttered. That was a windswept, desolate expanse of grass and stone a week or so''s ride to the northwest. Crucially, it was a fair way into Saxon territory. ¡°And you¡¯re telling me these stones are already waiting there? Well, I hope you¡¯ve got some other poor sods lined up to do the heavy lifting because I¡¯m not exactly built for hauling giant stones around the countryside."

    I think you will find that Sir Bors will have a few ideas around who we can make use of, my dear. What we need from you is going to be far more important. Once the Meridian Stones are raised, you must anchor the Qi flow, channelling it into the structure and then blast the Saxons off the face of the planet.

    "Well, that sounds much more my pace. So, while everyone else is off doing manual labour, I¡¯ll be sitting in the middle of the world¡¯s largest rock garden, meditating and signing kumbaya. Sounds lovely." This was starting to sound a lot more intense than I¡¯d realised. "How much power are we talking here?"

    More than enough, my dear, to turn the tide of the war.

    And that¡¯s when the obvious thing hit me.

    The stones, the placement, the sheer scale of what we were planning. We weren¡¯t just talking about a couple of rocks in a field, were we? This was something that was likely to be historically noteworthy. A structure like this.

    Something that it seemed to me would have been remembered . . .

    "Wait a second. You¡¯re not talking about us building Stonehenge, are you?"

    Yes, my dear. That is exactly what I am talking about

    Fuckadoodledo.

 Chapter 4 - In which my quest party is hit by a fucking recruitment crisis

    Getting a reasonable-size warband all the way to Salisbury Plain unseen was actually pretty straightforward.

    Remarkably so, considering this whole area lay a significant distance behind Saxon lines. Thinking about all the problems we''d had getting anywhere of late without some sort of epic scrap, I¡¯d worried that even rocking up here was going to be a mission.

    And that was even before we started rocking up here . . .

    You''ve been holding that gag in for a while, have you not, my dear?

    Everyone is a fucking critic.

    However, despite my initial misgivings about the whole thing, it turned out I¡¯d been able to ''fast-travel'' the lot of us out here fairly easily. And, from that point, it should have been all gravy.

    Find the big, fuck-off stones.

    Rearrange them in an appropriately concentric manner, and boom.

    Power ritual.

    No more Saxon cultivators, Aurelius Ambrosius weeping in the corner, and me raised into the air, with everyone chanting my name and a certain shepherd full-on swooning.

    Lovely.

    If all went well, I might even get a day named after me.

    It was, though, at precisely the moment that we had ¡®boots on the ground¡¯ as it were that our real problems began. Mainly because of exactly who made up that ''we.¡¯

    Obviously, considering the wider context, I hadn''t expected to have the cream of Arthur¡¯s Marchegyon put at my disposal for this little sortie. There was a war on, after all, and I wasn''t quite so narcissistic as to think everyone would just drop everything to follow along in my kooky wake.

    Well, actually, maybe I was. But that delusion didn¡¯t last my audience with the King.

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Sorry, what did you say?¡±

    ¡°I said ¡®no¡¯,¡± Arthur said, hand resting quite ostentatiously on Caeldfwch¡¯s hilt. ¡°You absolutely cannot have two dozen of my knights to, sorry, how did you put it? ¡®To wander around M¨¡gen looking for some big rocks.¡¯ I understand you believe this to be important, but I have responsibilities now. The kingdom cannot afford to simply bend itself to your whims.¡±

    I gawped at him for a moment. ¡°My whims?¡± There¡¯s a chance a bit of lightning might have rippled across my body at that moment. ¡°Dude, you do get our whole dynamic here, right? I¡¯m 3/3 on the ¡®pulling Dumnonia¡¯s arse out of the fire¡¯ thing, and I¡¯m not saying I need you need to be genuflecting at my feet, but a little less ¡®condescending wanker patting me on the head¡¯ when I come to you with a suggestion would be appreciated.¡±

    Bors, sat at the back of the room, cleared his throat. ¡°We¡¯re all taking the ¡®your majesty¡¯ as read at the end of that little speech, I¡¯m sure.¡±

    ¡°And you can fuck yourself with a rusty pike too.¡±

    There had then be a full and frank exchange of views which, depending on how you looked at things, either ended up with me being granted the twenty-four spearmen I had initially asked to accompany me or with the Pendragon dumping a bunch of utter washouts on me.

    Having got used to having the likes of Bors, Lancelot and Arthur himself having my back during my most recent exploits in and around Tintagel, it kind of felt like there''d been a heck of a drop-off in quality when I was told my ¡®honour guard¡¯ for this mission was going to be Sir Ector and his band of less than merry men.

    "He''s a fucking idiot!"

    "True."

    ¡°An absolute A-grade wanker of the first order.¡±

    ¡°He is,¡± Arthur agreed, smiling broadly. ¡°The man¡¯s a total and utter irredeemable shit stain of the soul of the castle.¡±

    ¡°Bit harsh,¡± Bors said. ¡°I quite like him. It¡¯s really useful to have someone you can threaten the new recruits with. In a ¡®If you don¡¯t shape up, you¡¯ll be posted to Sir Ector¡¯s squad, and then you¡¯ll truly know what it means to be screwed¡¯ kind of way. Cautionary tales are also useful.¡±

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    I turned my head back and forth from the two of them, trying to work out how I got myself out of this one.

    "Look, I get it. War on. Lots to do. Moving stones doesn¡¯t feel like a top priority. I get it. But Sir Ector? He doesn''t even know how much of a tosser he is!"

    "Do idiots ever?"

    "Maybe not. But that particular cretin genuinely thinks he''s the second coming of Napoleon, Thrawn, and Genghis Khan all rolled into one!"

    Strictly speaking, my dear, ¡®the first coming¡¯ would make more chronological sense.

    "And you can fuck off too!"

    "Look, I understand the point you are making, mage." Arthur had said, using a tone of voice that had me itching to set him on fire again. "However, I simply do not have better men to spare. If you do not want to undertake this mission alone - and my wife forbids me letting you leave without at least this many men ¨C then it''s Sir Ector and his warband or it will be no one. I simply do not have the resources to spare."

    "Come on, mate! It''s not like I''m asking for two squads of Lancelot''s Rangers, is it? This fucking lot are only available because no one else wants them anywhere near them. We''re going to be operating behind Saxon lines, for god''s sake! You''ve got to give me someone who isn''t going to piss themselves at the first sign of trouble. You can let me have Bors, surely? At least he knows which end of a spear is which. I mean, what possible fucking use can you have for that tragic lug around here?"

    "Yeah, none taken," Bors growled from his chair by the fire.

    I winked at him, trying to mask my dismay at his increasing frailty. The big man had picked up any number of injuries in his recent defence of Tintagel¡¯s walls, but no matter how many Elixirs of Wellness I had poured down his throat, nor how long Arthur let him wear Caeldfwch''s scabbard, he just didn''t seem to be perking up.

    Sir Bors is not a young man, Merlin had said, when I''d asked him about what was going on.

    "So? Mate, I literally regrew a squire''s foot yesterday. Are you saying it''s beyond me to put a little more lead in Bors'' pencil?"

    I try not to spend any time thinking about Sir Bors''s ''pencil'' at all. However, I am afraid there is a limit to what the human body can endure, my dear. As you may expect, I had cause - many times over many years - to heal rather grievious wounds to that belligerent fellow, and you have needed to do the same during your short acquaintance. No matter what you may like to think, healing is not free. Cultivators may be able to use their Qi to speed up the body''s process of repair, but each individual must pay the cost eventually.

    I hadn''t liked the sound of any of that. "So, what are you saying? This is as good as Bors will ever get?" The image of the slightly stooped giant with more than a sprinkling of grey in his beard was making me unaccountably sad.

    What I am saying, my dear, is that Sir Bors has received countless appalling injuries on behalf of this kingdom. And any one of them would have killed a lesser man. I am sure our friend has many years ahead of him yet, but on this occasion, I think he has probably earned a rest from the fray.

    Arthur had smiled and delivered much the same form of words, ending with, "And even if none of that was true, I have been told in no uncertain terms not to allow Sir Bors out of the castle gates with you. I am afraid, mage, there are some people''s wrath I fear even more than yours."

    "Mrs Bors," the big man said, shaking his head sadly. "She''s got in your ear, hasn''t she? Playing the ''oh, please don''t send my husband out on a quest. Not with me being pregnant and all.''"

    The act of defiance he showed in doing an impression of his formidable wife''s voice might have been more meaningful if Bors hadn''t whispered it with a guarded expression.

    "The biggest favour I can do for you right now, my friend, is that I won''t tell her you said that. However, either way," Arthur said, before directing his attention back towards me. "You will need to undertake this mission to . . . build a big stone decoration in a field without him."

    Something about the King''s tone really rubbed me up the wrong way. This whole audience had, to be honest. "You do understand I''m not just looking for a jolly here, right? Merlin''s worried about all the Saxon cultivators we are going to have to take down in the Spring. If I pull this off, it''ll make your victory much easier. I would have thought you''d be much more on board on with this."

    But he''s got me, hasn''t he? There isn''t a single Cultivator in the world my bearer needs fear.

    Ah. I thought that might be the problem.

    Fucking Caeldfwch.

    I''m sure it doesn''t come as much of a surprise that I wasn''t a big fan of the sword. But it wasn''t just that it projected an aura that turned me from Superman to Clerk Kent. And it wasn''t just that it had a personality which made Drynwyn seem like the model of a well-balanced blade. And it wasn''t even that Arthur was increasingly smug in his interactions with me, which made me want to remind him of the time I flash-fried his condescending arse . . . okay, so that last one is obviously playing on my mind more than a little.

    Safe to say, though, one of the reasons I was looking forward to getting out and about from Tintagel was to get as far away from its area of effect as possible.

    Merlin hadn''t said anything, but I couldn''t help but think the reason my progress over the winter had been less than stellar was due to the constant interruptions from Arthur''s ''training'' with that blade.

    Hey ho.

    I could tell I wasn''t getting anywhere, so I¡¯d decided to cut my losses. "Well, thank you so much for loaning me a simply wonderful group of complete misfits, Arthur," I had snapped before turning on my heel to leave. ¡°I¡¯ll be sure to remember your generosity when we¡¯re all dead in a ditch.¡±

    And, I think, that brings you all pretty much up to speed to where things are.

    Here I am, stood in a literal ditch in the middle of Salisbury fucking Plain and let me tell you, if you think this place is dull in the twenty-first century, try imagining it without the fucking gift shop.

 Chapter 5 - In which we meet a survivors survivor

    ¡°Right, lads!¡± Sir Ector was bellowing. ¡°We¡¯re looking for big stones. Big stones to put into a big circle in this big field. Eyes sharp, arms ready! Let¡¯s go.¡±

    Brilliant strategy, mate. Absolutely top drawer.

    No notes.

    I crossed my arms, watching Sir Ector oversee his warband bumble around Salisbury Plain like they were on a drunken Easter egg hunt. He stood at the centre of the chaos, a wizened knight with a face like weathered oak and sharp, beady eyes. His armour had seen better decades¡ªdented, patched, and tarnished to a dull grey¡ªbut it stuck to him like it was a second skin, and he moved with the ease of a man who¡¯d long since stopped noticing its weight.

    My mind conjured an unbidden image of him astride a stubborn donkey, tilting at windmills with an air of grim determination.

    His warband was a motley assortment¡ªbarely-trained boys, washed-out veterans, and the sort of misfits who¡¯d make a village priest pray for an early harvest just to get them out of town.

    He caught me watching and raised a hand in a laconic wave, his lined face splitting into something like a smile. I couldn¡¯t help but return it, though I suspected he was well aware of what I was thinking.

    Does . . . does he think we¡¯re going to find the Meridian Stones lying around on the ground, my dear?

    ¡°Looks that way, Big M. Looks that way.¡±

    It was at this moment I was tempted to downgrade Sir Ector from common-or-garden stupid to the Arthurian equivalent of Keith, the supervisor of a call centre in which I''d spent a glorious summer. I mean, it was probably supposed to be a call centre, but I''d found it was a touch more lucrative to chat, breathily, about . . . you know, other things.

    What I was - or might not be - wearing, for example.

    Look, I''m not saying the dude wasn''t justified in firing my arse, but that doesn''t stop him being a twat. A stopped clock and all that. That I got away with running a pretty blatant ''pay to play'' chat line for a fortnight on company time should tell you everything you need to know about the quality of Keith¡¯s managerial skills.

    However, he looked like Steve Jobs¡¯ genius levels compared to Sir Ector.

    I¡¯d sought out the skinny about this guy from Sir Bors once it became clear Arthur was going to be farming off his thickest and dimmest on me for this mission.

    Cold wind had been screaming through the cracks in Tintagel¡¯s walls, rattling wooden shutters like they were trying to escape. I¡¯d found Bors sat at the edge of a long wooden table, hunched and shivering, mounds of furs clearly doing very little to fend off the chill.

    Looking at him lately was making me very, very sad. Somehow, even his shoulders were looking small. His hands trembled when he reached for the cup of wine in front of him, and I had to stop myself from helping. I didn¡¯t feel pity for him. Not exactly¡ªBors would have hated that¡ªbut there was a tight, gnawing ache of something in my chest.

    ¡°You look like a man who could do with a nice summer holiday,¡± I said.

    Bors grunted, lifting the cup to his lips. ¡°Colder than a Frost Neriad¡¯s tit in here. You just don¡¯t feel it because you¡¯re too bloody stubborn.¡±

    ¡°True. Or because I¡¯ve somehow managed to keep most of my blood inside my body to actually have something resembling circulation. Here.¡± I flicked open my inventory and a thick woollen blanket appeared in my hands. I stepped forward and draped it over his shoulders.

    ¡°What¡¯s this? You going soft on me, Morgan?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t flatter yourself,¡± I said. ¡°You¡¯re looking more than usually pathetic right now. I can¡¯t have people thinking I keep such frail company. Court Wizard reputation and all that. People look up to me.¡±

    I infused the blanket with the faintest trace of Fire Qi, and a faint warmth spread through it, chasing the chill away. Bors stiffened at first, then relaxed, letting the heat seep into his aching muscles.

    ¡°You wizards are all bloody cheats,¡± he muttered.

    ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡±

    For a moment, the room was silent save for the wind and I felt the old urge rising. The one that told me I needed to fix things. To pull threads of Qi and force the broken to be whole again.

    Don¡¯t, my dear. He needs to heal naturally. If you interfere, you¡¯ll only make it worse.

    I bit the inside of her cheek, forcing myself to look away. The Big M was right, of course, but that didn¡¯t mean I had to like it.

    ¡°So,¡± I said, breaking the silence. ¡°Tell me more about the guys Arthur¡¯s lumbering me with. I assume you know all about them.¡±

    Bors snorted, a dry laugh that turned into a rasping cough. He reached for his cup, steadying his hand against the table as he brought it to his lips. I¡¯m sure the wine was desperately cold and tasted of the cask it had been poured from, but he drank it anyway, leaning back in his chair with a groan.

    ¡°Ector. Now there¡¯s a man,¡± he said. ¡°If there¡¯s one thing you need to remember, don¡¯t let his appalling win-loss percentage in the field fool you. He¡¯s actually much more effective than all the disasters would make you think. Don¡¯t get me wrong¡ªif you want a battle won, a stronghold held, or a lord brought into line, you absolutely don¡¯t call for Sir Ector. Nope. Not at all¡±

    Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!

    ¡°Awesome,¡± I deadpanned.

    Bors grinned, a crack in his weathered scowl. ¡°No, seriously. Ector¡¯s a bloody enigma. Man¡¯s got this incredible knack for staying alive, even if the poor bastards under his command tend not to. It¡¯s uncanny. You¡¯ll find him in the aftermath of a rout, covered in blood and gods-know-what, standing alone while the rest of his warband are either dead or scattered to the winds.¡±

    ¡°And this is the guy Arthur¡¯s sending along with me? Do I look like I need more liability in my life?¡±

    ¡°Liability?¡± Bors said. ¡°No, now that¡¯s the thing. Sir Ector might not the man you call when you want to win. But he¡¯s the man you call when you want someone to walk away. He survives, Morgan. Every bloody time. When things go to hell, Ector¡¯s the last man standing. Every time and without fail. And not because he¡¯s the kind to run, either. He fights like a devil, but it¡¯s like the gods have decided it¡¯s too much trouble to kill him. No. If you ask me, your issue isn¡¯t going to be Ector. It¡¯s going to be the rest of the washouts.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I saw some of them gathering in the courtyard. Inspiring sight. So, what you¡¯re telling me is that Arthur has put the survivors¡¯ survivor in charge of everyone no one else wants and lumbered me with them to save the kingdom? Again.¡±

    ¡°Exactly. There¡¯s a kind of cold genius in it, you know? All the misfits, all the rejects¡ªEctor¡¯s been them. He knows how to handle the kinds of men the rest of us wouldn¡¯t touch with a ten-foot spear. And, let¡¯s be honest, if he can keep himself alive with his track record, he might just do the same for them. Or not. But either way, Arthur doesn¡¯t have to worry about them anymore. To be honest, you should take it as a compliment. He obviously thinks you¡¯re hot shit. He doesn¡¯t need to wrap you in cotton wool.¡±

    I let the emphasis on ¡®you¡¯ slide a bit there.

    ¡°Look, Morgan, the King¡¯s a pragmatist,¡± Bors continued. ¡°Always has been. Always will be, He knows you¡¯re not pulling his chain when you tell him this mission is important, but he also has extremely limited resources to put your way. The way he figures it, like as not, you¡¯re going to get the job done regardless of how many spears he sends with you. Thus, he might as well clear the decks of the guys no one else wants around.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s fucking cold, mate.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s his way. Ector won¡¯t complain. He gets the jobs no one else wants and the men no one else will take. And somehow, he always manages to pull something out of it. Even if it¡¯s just himself.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re telling me he¡¯s not as much an idiot as he seems then?¡±

    ¡°Oh, no. He absolutely is. It¡¯s just . . . look, those men will fight for him.¡± Bors said, surprising me with the sudden conviction in his tone. ¡°He doesn¡¯t inspire loyalty in the way Arthur does, with all his golden speeches and shining promises. No, Ector gets the men¡¯s respect because he¡¯ll be in the thick of it with them. He doesn¡¯t stand behind them barking orders whilst they¡¯re all cut down¡ªhe¡¯ll be at the front, swinging his blade like his life depends on it. Which, to be fair, it usually does. The men will see him bleed, they¡¯ll see him fight, and for a while, they¡¯ll follow him anywhere. Until they don¡¯t. You could have far worse knights along with you on this one.¡±

    ¡°Until they don¡¯t?¡±

    Bors sighed, the dregs of humour fading from his face. ¡°He¡¯s a survivor, Morgan, not a miracle worker. When the odds are stacked against you, when you¡¯ve got nothing but green boys, broken men, and a prayer to hold the line, it doesn¡¯t matter how hard you fight. People die. But Ector? He keeps going. Because he¡¯s had to.¡±

    ¡°Sounds like a hard way to live.¡±

    ¡°It is,¡± Bors said. ¡°And Ector¡¯s a hard man. He¡¯s got to be to carry what he does. Sure, he¡¯s all bravado and sound and fury, but don¡¯t think for a second it doesn¡¯t weigh on him. He feels every one of those losses. But he doesn¡¯t let it stop him. He picks up the pieces and goes on to the next fight. And the one after that. Because someone has to.¡±

    The wind howled once again, making Bors shiver under the blanket I¡¯d given him.

    ¡°And you?¡± I asked. ¡°How many losses are you carrying, Bors?¡±

    He didn¡¯t answer right away, just stared into his cup like it might hold the words he couldn¡¯t find. Finally, he looked up. ¡°Not as many as Ector.¡±

    I didn¡¯t push.

    Instead, I reached for my own cup, letting the burn of the shitty wine chase away the chill in my hands. Outside, the wind screamed, but inside, the silence between us felt almost warm.

    ¡°Give him a chance, Morgan,¡± Bors had whispered when I went to leave. ¡°Beneath the bluster, and the noise and the . . . well, arseholeness, there¡¯s a decent guy. I think you¡¯ve both got more in common than you might like to think. You¡¯re both stubborn bastards who don¡¯t know when to quit. To survivors,¡± Bors said, lifting his cup.

    ¡°To survivors,¡± I¡¯d echoed, though I couldn¡¯t help my eyes flicked to his other hand, still trembling beneath the blanket.

    I was doing my very best to remind myself of Bors words as the headache to end all headaches brewed behind my eyes.

    A survivor, Bors had called this guy. All I could see right now was someone displaying Baldrick levels of stupid.

    I stood in the middle of the field, quietly seething, watching twenty-odd spearmen blunder about. Merlin¡¯s voice in my head kept telling me to be patient, to find some inner calm and focus my Qi. But patience appeared to be in short supply.

    "Hey, Ector!" I called out, unable to resist interfering any longer. "How about we try not looking for the Meridian Stones in the fucking mud? I know it might seem like a revolutionary idea, but these very big stones are probably going to be pretty noticeable. I''m thinking we might be looking for a village or something like that? You know, where they might be being worshipped?"

    Ector looked up at that, clearly not amused by my input. "We¡¯re securing the perimeter first, mage. From my understanding, these stones could be literally anywhere."

    "Anywhere? Really?" I said. "Because I was under the impression that giant, carefully shaped menhirs, generally speaking, don¡¯t rebury themselves underground. But hey, I¡¯m just the Qi master here, what do I know?"

    Ector shot me a look that would¡¯ve withered a lesser woman. ¡°Indeed.¡±

    Sighing, I turned my attention back to the vast, empty field.

    The wind whipped across the plain, cutting through my clothes and adding a delightful layer of physical discomfort to my already fraying mental state.

    According to Merlin, somewhere out there, these bloody stones were waiting to be recovered, but between the Saxons breathing down our necks and Ector¡¯s apparent complete lack of competence, I was no longer brimful of confidence that this was going to be the quick in and out for which I might have hoped.

    "Sir fucking Ector," I muttered to myself, shaking my head. "The arsehole¡¯s arsehole.¡±

    I sighed, folding my arms and staring out over the plains, wondering how in the name of all things holy I had ended up here¡ªstuck in the Dark Ages, babysitting a group of toddlers on a sugar high, and trying to build Stone-fucking-henge to stop a bunch of wizards from tearing the world apart.

    Just good luck, I guess, my dear.

 Chapter 6 - In which patience appears not to be one of my virtues

    Very quickly, I came to the recognition that the trouble with Sir Ector is that he thought he knew everything.

    Which is a special sort of ignorance, all on its own really.

    The kind that¡¯s so blissfully unaware of itself, you can¡¯t even enjoy watching them trip over their own stupidity¡ªbecause they don¡¯t. They just keep on barrelling forward, being loud, obnoxious, breaking things and calling it leadership.

    I¡¯m still not feeling this little expedition, if you¡¯re wondering.

    But what do I know? I¡¯m just the poor bastard following in the wake of a genius ¡®survivor¡¯, wondering how long it¡¯ll take before we¡¯re all up to our necks in Saxon piss because Sir Ector mistook his arse for a map.

    ¡°You there! Get that tent upright! We¡¯re not bloody sleeping under the stars like fucking savages,¡± bellowed the man himself, voice carrying over the din of the camp with the authority of someone used to being obeyed¡ªor at least loudly ignored. His target, two hapless men wrangling with the mess of canvas and poles, flinched but didn¡¯t dare look up, focusing instead on their Sisyphean task.

    I watched the grimly hypnotic scene from a safe distance. The tent, a standard issue A-frame meant to sleep four, was having none of it. One man crouched awkwardly by the groundsheet, hammering stakes, while the other tangled himself in guy lines that seemed to have developed a sentient resistance to knots.

    Every time they managed to secure one corner, another flapped free, catching the breeze and billowing outwards. The canvas buckled, twisted, and folded in on itself, mocking their efforts with the grace of a bowl of jelly resolutely refusing to be inserted into a condom. The wind didn¡¯t help either, catching under the fabric and turning it into an unwieldy, snapping sail.

    It had been nearly an hour of this theatre. I¡¯d had shorter relationships.

    ¡°The ridge pole goes through the sleeves, not around them, you fucking idiot!¡± Ector shouted again, face going red enough to suggest he was on the verge of a coronary.

    ¡°We¡¯re trying, sir. The wind keeps¡ª¡±

    ¡°Trying? If you tried any harder, you¡¯d fail backwards!¡± However, his tirade was cut short by a sharp gust that tore the entire assembly from the ground, sending it cartwheeling a few feet before collapsing into a crumpled heap.

    It was hard not to feel a bit sorry for them. Still, I stayed exactly where I was. There are moments when lending a hand feels heroic and moments when it feels like an open invitation to join the circus.

    This was firmly the latter.

    ¡°And you!¡± Ector jabbed a finger at me, his brow furrowing in what I could only assume was meant to be an expression of authority. ¡°Why are you standing there like a lump? Shouldn¡¯t you be off, I don¡¯t know, communing with spirits or whatever it is you Wizards do?¡±

    I considered my options.

    I could get Drynwyn to roast him alive, but that would probably result in more paperwork than I cared to deal with right now. Arthur had been clear that he had each and every one of these men out to me, and he¡¯d be pretty unhappy with my overall performance should he count any less in. He¡¯d smiled when he¡¯d said it, too.

    The bastard.

    So, instead, of relieving some tension by more fiery methods, I settled for a more oral incineration. ¡°Oh, fuck you, you colossal puffin-wanker.¡±

    Not funny, but fast, my dear.

    ¡°Such language is unbecoming of a woman,¡± Ector snapped back, turning on his heel to march toward the firepit, where I was sure another disaster was brewing. ¡°I must say, I fail to see what you are bringing to this particular expedition. The King has charged me to take command of this warband in order to collect these Meridian Stones. When that mission is complete then, and only then, will you have a role to play in proceedings. Until then, should I desire your opinion, I¡¯ll ask for it.¡±

    ¡°Surely I can just mildly toast him?¡±

    Be the bigger person, my dear.

    ¡°Dude, you forget I¡¯ve actually read some of the legends about you. Do I need to remind you of the Riddle of the Stones? Exactly how big a person were you there?¡±

    I have no idea of what you speak.

    ¡°Really, well join in when you know the words. So there¡¯s this wizard - let¡¯s call him Smerlin - who strolls into a village in the Brecon hills. To start with, it¡¯s all sunshine and rainbows, and he even helps them out with crops and livestock. When it¡¯s over, Smerlin asks for a small annual tribute in return. Because, even in the Dark Age, there¡¯s no such thing as a free lunch.¡±

    Nothing wrong with that, my dear. I often did such services for the smallfolk. And Qi doesn¡¯t grow on trees.

    ¡°Ah, but these villagers, being the forgetful lot they are, don''t pay up, do they? And then what does Smerlin do?

    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    Whatever it was, I¡¯m sure it was proportional and perfectly justifiable.

    ¡°Well, that rather depends on your view of things, doesn¡¯t it? You set them an impossible riddle: "What comes from the earth, cannot be held, but weighs more than treasure?" And when nobody gets it, you do what any reasonable wizard would in those circumstances¡ªyou turn them all into stone. And there they stand to this day, forever frozen mid-guess. But yeah. I¡¯m the girl who overreacts!¡±

    Shall we go back to hating on Sir Ector? I believe the colloquial expression is ¡®fuck that guy¡¯.

    I would have laughed if the sight of Ector blundering around the camp didn¡¯t get my goat again. Honestly, he reminded me of a chicken I¡¯d once seen on a farm. Why I was on a farm is a story for another day. But this chicken, right, it strutted about, pecking and squawking, utterly convinced it was in charge while the actual world went about its business, uncaring.

    Almost felt bad for choking it.

    I sense you crafted some complex innuendo there that I, for one, found simply delightful . . .

    I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m being the fucking voice of reason here, but this level of fucking whining and bitching is not what Arthur had in mind when he sent us out here.

    ¡°Yeah, well, Arthur can fuck off too.¡±

    From across the camp, I caught sight of one of Ector¡¯s men¡ªa skinny, bug-eyed lad whose armour had clearly been nicked from someone twice his size¡ªfumbling with a pot of what was supposed to be stew. Except, judging by the smell wafting over, he¡¯d burned it beyond recognition.

    ¡°Oi, what the bloody hell is this?¡± Ector demanded, striding over to the poor soul and lifting him off his feet by his throat. ¡°You¡¯re cooking for a Knight¡¯s fucking warband, not boiling rats!¡±

    ¡°And the difference would be . . .¡±

    Ah, more biting sarcasm. You truly are in fine form today, my dear.

    I ignored him, walking over to where the rest of the men were gathered. The atmosphere around the camp was truly shitty in that special way only a long day hunting giant stones under ill-tempered leaders could create.

    The men were exhausted, hunched over their makeshift meals, chewing through tough bread and watery gruel, eyes dulled by the monotonous shittiness of life. The daily grind of being in Ector¡¯s warband, I guessed. In no time at all, small irritations festered into large ones as the day dragged on without the relief of a good battle.

    One of the older knights, a grizzled man named Roderic, was rubbing his shoulder with a grimace, muttering about the damp settling into his bones. Across from him, another¡ªCai, I think his name was¡ªwas trying, and failing, to sew up a rip in his tunic. Every few moments, he pricked himself with the needle and cursed under his breath.

    I walked past them, glancing down at the stitching job. ¡°You know, if you¡¯re trying to sew a hem, it helps if you don¡¯t stab yourself every third stitch.¡±

    He blinked up at me, surprised, then grinned sheepishly. ¡°I¡¯m more used to swords than needles, to be fair, my lady.¡±

    ¡°Clearly.¡±

    Nearby, someone¡¯s horse let out a disgruntled snort, shaking its mane as if to protest the whole situation. The animal, like the men, was weary. I could feel it in the air, the way irritation clung to everything like a spurned ex.

    ¡°Sir Ector¡¯s got us searching for stones in the wrong bloody place,¡± Cai grumbled to no one in particular, his voice a whisper. ¡°We should be up in the hills, but no, he¡¯s convinced they¡¯re down by the river.¡±

    Roderick snorted. ¡°Stones near the river? What does he think, they¡¯ve just rolled down for a dip?¡±

    ¡°He thinks whatever suits him,¡± Cai said, grimacing as he finally succeeded in getting the needle through without stabbing himself. ¡°Man¡¯s got the brains of a turnip.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t insult the turnip. An extremely useful vegetable. I mean, it¡¯s no cucumber, but I¡¯ve had some good times with a turnip.¡±

    Careful, my dear. It is one thing for us to belittle the man in private. Undermining his authority with his men may be satisfying, but it won¡¯t make this camp any more bearable.

    ¡°No, but it¡¯ll make me feel better.¡±

    Short-term gain, my dear. You know better than this.

    ¡°Tale of the Riddle Stones, Big M. Tale of the Riddle Stones.¡±

    Ector¡¯s grating voice rang out again, continuing to berate the unfortunate lad who¡¯d charred the stew. ¡°If I wanted to eat something that tasted like ash, I¡¯d have thrown shit in the pot myself!¡±

    Not trusting myself to keep quiet, I rolled my eyes and wandered away from the fire.

    The first day of our hunt for the Meridian Stones was waning, and the horizon was beginning to glow with the burnt orange of an impending sunset. I stopped at the edge of the camp, looking out at the expanse of Salisbury Plain, the silence of the land stretching out before us. Sensing the eyes of most of the warband on my arse, I might have plumped things up with Qi a little down there.

    Fucking hell. If you were any thirstier, we could use you as sandpaper.

    Despite the tension and the petty frustrations, there was something oddly serene about the landscape in this fading light, like it had seen centuries of idiots like Ector come and go without so much as a blink.

    All joking aside, the fact Sir Ector is still relatively unharmed speaks volumes about your personal growth. You are handling things remarkably better than I might have expected would be the case.

    ¡°I¡¯m handling it because I don¡¯t have much choice.¡±

    True. But you¡¯ve avoided killing anyone yet. As far as Cultivators go, that actually counts for something.

    I snorted. ¡°Yeah. And look at my prize. Behind enemy lines, in a fucking valley, looking for magic rocks with a man who couldn¡¯t find his cock with a map, a willing prostitute and a copy of the Karma Sutra.¡±

    Such vivid imagery, my dear.

    The evening settled in, and with it, an odd, small sense of contentment arrived to our camp. The men had given up on the stew, most of them opting for the cold rations they¡¯d brought along. Ector was still grumbling, pacing around like a malign peacock, but even he seemed to be running out of things to yell about.

    As I sat down on a nearby boulder, I allowed myself to enjoy a small, rare moment of real-world quiet. In the stillness, I could feel the pulse of the land beneath me¡ªsubtle, but present.

    The leylines, my dear. They know we seek the Meridian Stones. They approve.

    ¡°Well, that¡¯s not fucking weird at all. You know, I¡¯m not sure I¡¯ve ever had lines in the ground have my back before. I mean, I¡¯ve certainly taken plenty of lines that got me on my back . . .¡±

    Do you think you may grow out of the crudeness as time goes on?

    ¡±Probably not.¡±

    No, well. I suppose we can only hope for one miracle at a time.

    With that, I let my mind drift¡ªif only for a moment¡ªto just exist in the pleasant lull.

    I feared that, with Sir Ector in charge, further chaos wasn¡¯t far off.

 Chapter 7 - In which it all goes Pete Tong

    It was on the afternoon of the second day of our little expedition that I stumbled across the first of our stones.

    Well, the first thirty of the fuckers, anyway. I don¡¯t know why, but the vision I had of Stonehenge in my mind was on a much less dramatic scale than the one Merlin was advocating for.

    ¡°Are you sure about this, mate? I¡¯m fairly certain I¡¯ve been fucked in this field, and there¡¯s no way there were as many stones in it as you describe. I¡¯d have remembered. There wasn¡¯t much else to occupy my attention . . .¡±

    Well, I cannot comment on your own personal experience, my dear. But, yes, we will need all thirty of the Sarsen stones down there. Over the millennia, I suspect what you think of as ¡®Stonehenge¡¯ has been reduced somewhat by the passage of time. However, to reconstruct the original Meridian Stone configuration, we will need all one hundred and sixty-three stones, I am afraid.

    ¡°Fuck. This is going to be even more of a mission than I¡¯d thought. Oh, and just to check, by Sarsen stones, I¡¯m presuming you''re meaning those giant fucking boulders? Not, by any chance, much smaller stones, pocket-sized that I¡¯m not seeing?¡±

    Indeed. We will need all of the ones you can see to begin rebuilding the Outer Circle.

    ¡°And you¡¯re talking about those four-metre-tall ones?¡±

    For the last time, my dear, yes! We will need to relocate them to the necessary position on Salisbury Plain as a starting point for our endeavour. And then, of course, we will need to locate the lintel stones that are to be laid across the top of them.

    ¡°Fucking hell. Playing an epic game of ¡®Find the Giant Rocks in the middle of Wiltshire¡¯ is not how I expected being a Wizard to shake out.¡±

    It is always best to prepare for the unexpected where matters of Qi are involved, my dear.

    ¡°So I¡¯m learning, Big M. So I¡¯m learning. Oh, and I do I take it that all those freaky-looking dudes in the bearskins, the woad and the skull necklaces dancing around them like they are at a rave are likely to have a problem with me popping down there to ask if I can borrow their stones for a bit?¡±

    I¡¯m afraid I would assume so.

    I rolled over onto my back and stared up at the clear blue sky above us. After some truly shitty weather, today really was a quite lovely March morning. I doubted it would be long before Arthur would want to get his spears out and about in Saxon territory.

    If I was going to do this, it needed to be soon. Regardless of everything else going on, I needed to get cracking on the whole ¡®wiping out the enemy cultivators¡¯ thing before shit got real.

    Sensing I was likely to make more progress on my own, I¡¯d left Sir Ector and his gang back at base camp and come scouting alone. Mostly because I needed a break from them, but also because I had not expected to need any backup.

    I was getting pretty good at using my Map function to identify cultivators and, in the absence of any colourful dots to worry me, I¡¯d figured there were going to be few problems Drynwyn and I wouldn¡¯t be able to handle alone.

    Don¡¯t flatter yourself. We all know who is going to be doing the fucking heavy lifting here.

    To be honest, I actually didn¡¯t think I¡¯d be needing it to bring the fiery death. As far as I figured things, even the thirty or forty dudes living their best lives down there weren¡¯t going to be enough to put a dent in my day.

    Mind you, life would go an awful lot easier if they didn¡¯t want to make an issue of me nicking their rocks. It really was a lovely morning, and I really didn¡¯t fancy getting blood in my hair.

    ¡°Any ideas, Big M? I¡¯m looking for something that doesn¡¯t involve genocide, if possible?¡±

    Ah, well. I¡¯m afraid Sir Ector might have jumped the gun on that one.

    ¡°What do you mean? Oh, fuck a duck!¡±

    I spun around to see Sir Ector appear on the opposite side of the ridge from me. He raised his spear in the air, whooped, and then led his ¨C for want of a better word ¨C ¡®warband¡¯ in an entirely resistible charge down the hill.

    Which is when things all started to go rather wrong.

    Firstly, the response of the dancing guys was not at all what I expected. I¡¯d assumed ¨C because of where we were in the world ¨C these were some sort of off-brand Saxons. And, in my increasingly encyclopaedic experience of Saxon warfare, their typical response to an oncoming assault would be to pick up the nearest axe, spear, or passing small child, scream out a belligerent challenge, and race forward to meet it.

    That was pretty much their signature style.

    Sure, Aurelius Ambrosius had enforced a thin veneer of tactical awareness on the top but, when the battlefield chips were down, CHARGE! was pretty much an instinctive, ingrained response.

    These dudes, though, played against type.

    As Sir Ector and his men approached them, these fuckers didn¡¯t as much as budge. They just stood there, swaying slightly in the breeze, as if hearing a rhythm only they could perceive.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think I like this, Big M . . .¡±

    Sir Ector, Cai, Roderic and all the rest tore down the hillside with all the raw energy of battle-hardened warriors certain of victory. I mean, these guys are absolutely the Clampits, but you couldn¡¯t hang around Lancelot and Bors without picking up at least some basic tips. They had the high ground, the element of surprise and their opposition hadn¡¯t even armed themselves yet.

    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

    This one was over.

    Surely?

    Their spears glinted in the morning air, their boots crunched on the dewy grass, and there was still no answering movement from the men they were descending upon in a fury.

    Just eerie silence.

    My dear, I¡¯m not sure what is happening, but I truly do not like what I¡¯m seeing.

    I stood, packing as much Qi into my hands as I could. I didn¡¯t want to start flinging the purple death if I didn¡¯t have to, but I was equally creeped out by the behaviour of the waiting Saxons.

    And then shit got real.

    In one terrible synchronised motion, the men in the fur pelts knelt. But no . . . It wasn¡¯t a gesture in order to meet the charge of Ector¡¯s men. They weren¡¯t bracing their shields for impact. They hadn¡¯t even picked any weapons up! The Saxons were pressing their hands deep into the wet earth, fingers splayed like roots digging into the soil.

    And then they started to sing.

    Okay, singing might be overselling it.

    They gave a low, guttural chant which hummed through the air, not loud enough for me to understand what they were saying but powerful enough for me to feel it in my bones.

    ¡°What are they doing!¡±

    I have no idea, my dear. But they are not touching Qi as far as I can tell . . .

    The ground beneath Sir Ector¡¯s spearmen suddenly shuddered, rippling as though something monstrous stirred beneath it.

    "What the¡ª?" Ector barely had time to curse before the land itself betrayed him.

    With a violent crack, the earth splintered apart. Black tendrils of what looked like roots, only thicker, more alive, shot upward from the ground, wrapping around legs and torsos with terrifying speed. Men were ripped from their feet, their battle cries turning into screams. Spears clattered to the ground as the roots dragged the soldiers down, snapping bones like dry twigs.

    Ector, his spear raised mid-strike, was yanked backward so fast it looked like the wind itself had decided to take him. The roots crushed him in midair with a sickening crunch, his body hitting the ground limp, his armour shattering around him like broken pottery.

    The other spearmen screamed defiance but not a single one made it to the bottom of the hill.

    Those who weren¡¯t torn apart by the roots were flung bodily into the air and then smashed down against the Sarsen stones as if by some invisible giant hand. Blood sprayed against the massive chunks of sandstone, painting them red.

    "Wizard! Help us!" I heard Ector¡¯s voice, ragged and broken, for one brief moment before a tendril wrapped around his throat. The life was choked out of him with a brutal finality.

    That chicken gag is looking in pretty fucking bad taste right now, right?

    I stood frozen, bile rising in my throat as the Saxons - no, you know what, I don¡¯t think these things are actually human - turned, as one, to look at me.

    Not a single one of them had moved to actually fight properly. No blades. No arrows. No weapons. They had called upon something . . . horrible. Something that defied what little I thought I understood about magic.

    Ah. Now, I don¡¯t want to alarm you, but you may want to consider falling back . . .

    No shit, Sherlock.

    I let the Qi bleed from my hands and pushed everything I had into my legs, starting to back away. But what I saw of their faces froze me anew.

    Through the blood, through the chaos, through the ominous fucking miasma of darkness that had fallen around the standing stones, I could see that their eyes were wholly pitch black. No whites, no irises. Just endless voids locked on me, empty and cold. There was no anger, no hatred, no satisfaction in their gaze. Only an unsettling, impassive calm.

    Yes. I do rather think that discretion would be the better part of valour here, my dear. Live to fight another day and all that . . .

    My legs refused to move at first, every inch of my body screaming in terror.

    I fumbled for my Qi, reaching for the power inside me, needing something to make sense of this madness. Something to fight back against whatever the hell these things were and the power they commanded. But before I could fully channel it, the ground shifted again, more violently this time. The tendrils that had erupted into the sky to massacre Sir Ector¡¯s men shifted direction, turning toward me like snakes slithering across the earth.

    Hunting.

    The figures began to hum louder, a haunting melody that brought the goosebumps out on my skin. This wasn¡¯t just an attack¡ªit was a curse, an invocation of something foul.

    I didn¡¯t wait to find out anymore about it than that.

    With a surge of exploded

    , I threw myself backwards, my power finally crackling through me. My feet had barely left the ground before the tendrils shot forward, snapping at my heels. I began to stumble, but the blast of my Qi carried me further, propelling me up the slope and away.

    As I moved, I felt the weight of their black eyes following me, unhurried, watching my escape with the patience of remorseless predators.

    Look, you¡¯ve all seen that racer snake and marine iguana video, right? Right now, I am one with the iguana and the iguana is one with me.

    I channelled everything I had, pulling every scrap of energy I could pull from my Artist¡¯s Studio. The world blurred as I ran¡ªno, fled¡ªup the hill, the screams of Sir Ector¡¯s men still echoing in my ears. I dared a glance behind me.

    The battlefield was a slaughterhouse, spears abandoned in the churned mud, bodies strewn like broken dolls. What remained of the warband was being pulled into the earth, buried alive by those cursed roots, swallowed by the land as though it had never known them.

    And still the fur-clad figures stood, unmoving, their chant rising, filling the air, more resonant now, as if ensuring I could hear every last syllable.

    I wasn¡¯t going to make it, was I?

    The realisation hit me like a certain truck that sent me back to the Dark Age. My Qi was fast burning out. I could feel exhaustion settling in, the edges of my vision was darkening. It was so long since I¡¯d had to burn myself out in this way. Fuck, I hadn¡¯t even brought any of my mana stone jewellery with me. Fucking overconfidence!

    Not for nothing, but the day Rhyddrech Hael died, he left most of his better charms at home. Properly really fucking missed them at the end.

    The ground trembled again, and I pushed even harder, ignoring the pain, ignoring the exhaustion. The world around me shrank to just my heartbeat and the desperate, uneven pounding of my feet.

    Just keep running, my dear. Just keep running. Not much further.

    Another ripple through the earth¡ªcloser this time. I swerved, instinct guiding me as a root erupted from the ground where I¡¯d been a second earlier. It missed by inches, but more were coming.

    The top of the ridge was in sight. If I could just reach it¡­

    With one last desperate surge of Qi-empowered legs, I launched myself forward, landing in a half-roll on the crest of the hill. I tumbled down the other side, sliding in the mud, until I finally crashed into the ground, breathless, shaking, and with more than a couple of broken bones.

    Silence.

    A stillness only broken by my ragged breaths and the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears.

    From where I lay, I could make out the top of the hill where, at the very summit, the fur-clad figures stood watching. How had they gotten there so fast? But they were not advancing. They were not chasing me. Just... watching.

    The realisation sank in: they were letting me go.

    A dull ache settled into my stomach. Whoever¡ªwhatever¡ªthey were, they¡¯d wiped out a British warband ¨C a shitty one, for sure, but still ¨C and didn¡¯t see any need to finish the job on the only British wizard.

    Who the fuck were these guys?

 Chapter 8 - In which we absolutely do not encounter the Morrigan. Nope. Not having it.

    I rather fear we have just encountered the Morrigan, my dear.

    ¡°Nope. Sorry. Hard ¡®no¡¯ on that name. Big M. We¡¯ve already got another Morgan kicking around somewhere in this version of reality. We¡¯re not going to be adding another antagonist with a similar name as me to the mix. There¡¯s far too much potential here for all this to become a Saruman/Sauron situation and I am very much not here for it.

    My dear . . .

    ¡°Honestly, was every other name in Middle-earth already taken? Did Tolkien have a naming shortage no one told him about? Try being the only girl in your clique who¡¯s actually read these books and having to explain the plot to everyone else. I had one mate convinced the guy with the flaming eye was the one breeding Uruk-hai, and another who thought Saruman was just the posh way of saying Sauron, like he was some kind of Dark Lord Emeritus. ¡®Oh, you mean the evil one?¡¯ Yeah, that narrows it down in this series.¡±

    I¡¯m not sure . . .

    ¡°And don¡¯t even get me started on Sarumanthiel¡ªyes, that was a thing too, and no, I¡¯m not making it up. At this point, I swear by the Valar, I¡¯m just going to start calling them all Steve. Steve with the tower, Steve with the eye, Steve with the questionable career in villainy. That clear enough for you, Marianne!¡±

    I¡¯m not sure what you want from me in response to this little hysterical monologue, my dear.

    ¡°Well, first of all, fuck you for the casual paternalistic misogyny there. And secondly, if you want me to respond at all here, I want a different name for those wankers.¡±

    You want a different name for . . . My dear, you do realise that¡¯s not how these things work, don¡¯t you? I cannot simply call them something else because their correct name gives you the ick . . .

    ¡°Before we go any further, Big M. Now!¡±

    There are times when I think we¡¯re making progress, my dear and others . . .

    ¡°If you make me ask again, I¡¯m going start calling these bad guys ¡®Elphaba¡¯ and singing show tunes.¡±

    Seriously, my dear. Have you forgotten we have just lost a number of colleagues . . .

    ¡°Something has changed within me. Something is not the same.¡±

    I suppose that in most British traditions, the Morrigan is considered to have a tripartite aspect. It probably would not be too egregious for me to describe those who have just accosted us as the Nemain.

    ¡°The Nemain. Cool. Sold. So, who the fuck are the Nemain?¡±

    It really would be easier for me to talk about the Morrigan as a whole . . . Are you sticking your fingers in your ears, my dear?

    Look, I absolutely get that of all the reactions to the slaughter that has just taken place before me, focusing on the name of the insanely OP bad guys is not the most grown-up of responses I could be rocking. However, I¡¯m having a serious freak-out moment here and picking something with nothing really to do with the situation in hand to have a blazing argument about is pretty much my standard go-to defence mechanism.

    For example, I was twelve the first time I was caught with a spliff. School called Mother Dearest, but instead of taking me home and kicking hell out of me, when we got back, she was all calm, like some middle-class Buddhist. Started waffling on about ¡®trust¡¯ and ¡®choices,¡¯ which obviously made me panic. ¡®Yeah, well, at least I¡¯m not shagging Dad¡¯s mate Dave like you!¡¯ She wasn¡¯t, by the way ¨C fun fact, give it three years and I would be ¨C But anyway, I got grounded for a month, not for the weed, but for ¡®emotional terrorism.¡¯

    Now sure why I felt the need to share that. Now, where was I?

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    ¡°Who the fuck are the Nemain, Big M?¡±

    Something I hoped never to encounter again, my dear. What you need to understand is what you have just witnessed isn¡¯t anything to do with cultivation, or even some rogue manipulation of leyline energy. No. The Nemain are something older. Primeval. They represent the power of a significantly potent Goddess.

    ¡°Okay . . .¡± I wasn¡¯t really sure what I thought about that. Dragons? Sure. Fae? No bother. But this was the first time Merlin had suggested any sort of supernatural Big Boys and Girls floating around in the ether. And I wasn¡¯t sure I liked it.

    The Big M obviously recognised I wasn¡¯t picking up what he was putting down. No. Not a goddess in the way you might think of such things¡ªthis is not a benevolent matron presiding over hearth and harvest. The Nemain do not nurture. They do not guide. They are frenzy incarnate. They are chaos with claws, the scream in the throat of a man who knows death has come but strikes anyway, because terror leaves no other choice.

    ¡°Don¡¯t hold back on the colour commentary, Big M. Feel free to let your inner Stephen King shine . . .¡±

    I apologise, my dear, but please do consider what happened to Sir Ector¡¯s warband. They weren¡¯t just killed. They were undone. Spirit, mind, body¡ªthey are all gone. Torn apart in a way that makes a blade¡¯s work look downright civilised. That was annihilation in its most pure form. And ¨C and this is crucial. Please mark this, my dear ¨C such an action is the antithesis of everything cultivation should be about. And yet¡­

    ¡°Nah, we¡¯re not doing significant silences right now, mate.¡±

    I stood up, broken bones snapping back into place as my Qi started to reassert itself. I was covered in blood, mud and enough leaves to be my very own shrubbery and feeling very, very sorry for myself. It¡¯d been a while since I¡¯d been schooled like that. And I didn¡¯t like it.

    My apologies, my dear. What I meant to say is that I don¡¯t think what the Nemain have just committed was meant to happen.

    ¡°Not meant to happen? You think those lunatics didn¡¯t intend to wipe out an entire warband and kick my arse back to the Stone Age?¡±

    No, my dear. What I sensed from them there wasn¡¯t outright aggression. At least not in the deliberate sense. The Nemain, after all, are aggression in its most pure form.

    I¡¯d hate to fucking see what those wankers could pull off if they meant it then!

    For once, I pretty much agreed with Drynwyn on that one.

    The power of Nemain doesn¡¯t work that way. It isn¡¯t able to be targeted in specific ways; it¡¯s a storm. Those druids didn¡¯t summon it in order to launch an attack. This¡ªwell, I believe that this was a defence. A reaction. I¡¯d wager that whatever magic those fur-wrapped figures used, it was meant to shield them, not strike outwards. However, when you draw on Nemain, you absolutely don¡¯t get to choose the outcome. It¡¯s like lighting a bonfire in a library and hoping only the damp books burn.

    ¡°So you¡¯re saying they accidentally ripped twenty-odd warriors apart, down to their bloody atoms, because they got a bit spooked?¡±

    Unfortunately so. Which would also explain why you are still alive. Nemain isn¡¯t a force you control. It¡¯s fury, chaos, and destruction. It doesn¡¯t serve those druids. They did not channel it in the way in which you move your Qi. They simply unleashed it¡ªwittingly or not¡ªand it did what it does. You don¡¯t summon a hurricane and expect it to respect your property lines.

    ¡°Fuck a duck, mate!¡±

    I don¡¯t know how to respond to that statement.

    ¡°Neither do I, Big M. Neither do I.¡± I took a breath, looking back up the hill. I couldn¡¯t see any of those guys anymore. Presumably, they¡¯d returned to their position amongst the Meridian Stones. ¡°I¡¯m assuming none of this is a coincidence?¡±

    That we encounter the Nemain in the middle of a stone formation we require for our own quest? No. I am afraid not, my dear. I assume they¡¯re tied together into it, somehow. Why else would they be here at the precise moment we need those stones? The Nemain are not conquerors. If they were, they¡¯d have come after us already. No, their behaviour suggests something else. They¡¯re standing vigil, not advancing. Watching. Perhaps even waiting.¡±

    ¡°Waiting for what?¡± As if I didn¡¯t know.

    To talk, perhaps. Or to warn. Nemain¡¯s fury has been spent, and they haven¡¯t moved on us yet. That matters, my dear. If they¡¯d wanted you dead, we¡¯d already be scattered like ash on the wind. But approach them unwisely, and we may yet see what happens when they decide you¡¯re a threat.

    ¡°So, what¡¯s the play here, Big M? We still need those stones, right?¡±

    We do, indeed. However, you cannot just charge them in what I am going to politely suggest is your signature style. Consider this carefully, my dear. These druids are more than they seem, and I fear their purpose here ¨C at this moment in time - is tied to something significant. And, beyond everything else, please remember: you are not Nemain¡¯s equal. On my best day, I would have thought twice about engaging with them. If you tread the wrong path here, this goddess will make certain you know it.

    Awesome. Looks like I¡¯m going to go and try not to piss off a deity then.

 Chapter 9 - In which ancient horrors prove to have a very specific shopping list

    With quite a lot of bad grace and a mood that could curdle milk, I trudged back up the hill, every step crunching against the frost-bitten grass of Salisbury Plain.

    My feet felt like lead, my joints ached in that special way that only Qi depletion and being repeatedly thrown into the dirt could manage. More than that, though, I was pretty sure I had twigs in my hair.

    Cresting the top of the hill, I was able to look back down to where the Meridian Stones pressed up against the bruised sky. This was where Sir Ector and his men had been senselessly slaughtered a few minutes before, and, right now, they were absolutely giving off the vibe that if I so much as breathed wrong, something equally unpleasant would happen to me.

    Typical. Even the landscape was fucking on my case now.

    And then, of course, there were the Nemain.

    They had returned to stand in a perfect, eerie semicircle, swathed in fur and silence.

    But mostly silence.

    Their expressions¡ªor rather, their complete lack of them¡ªlocked onto where I was stood with all the grave intensity of an archaeologist discovering a plague pit.

    But these dudes didn¡¯t shift at all. They didn¡¯t twitch. They didn¡¯t so much as shuffle their feet. It was like someone had pressed pause on the universe.

    It may be helpful, my dear, if you did not think of the Nemain as ¡®these dudes¡¯. They are only presenting in this form because it makes sense to you. They could quite as easily have chosen to be in the form of a dragon, a burning bush or ¨C

    ¡°You¡¯re telling me I could be looking at a naked Johnny Depp right now, and instead they went with for a bunch of hairy druids? The Nemain so do not get me.¡±

    Quite, my dear. You know what, in retrospect, perhaps we should begin this negotiations after a little more discussion of our plan of action. . .

    ¡°Fuck that,¡± I said. ¡°I didn¡¯t climb all the way up here to go back down again. The last thing I need right now is to be Grand Old Duke of Yorking. As my therapist will tell you, when I¡¯m up, I¡¯m up. Let¡¯s get this over with. Oi! You lot!¡±

    If the Nemain heard me, they didn¡¯t show any sign of it. Nothing. Not even a rustle of fur loincloth in the wind.

    ¡°My invisible wizard mentor thinks you guys want to have a chat. He reckons our recent . . . . tussle was more a case of cultural misunderstanding than a deliberate intention for a slaughter. I¡¯m not sure Sir Ector and his men would appreciate the difference, but ¨C you know ¨C I¡¯m told these things happen.¡±

    Still nothing. It was all becoming the sort of awkward you get when you accidentally like a crush¡¯s Instagram post from three years ago.

    But with a little more potential death.

    Fuck it. I was already up to my ears in eldritch nonsense¡ªwhat was a little more humiliation on top? ¡°Can any of you guys actually hear me?¡±

    As I have sought to stress, I do not recommend approaching this discussion with flippancy, my dear.

    ¡°Noted, Big M.¡± I raised my hands in what I hoped was the universal ¡®let¡¯s all be mates¡¯ gesture. ¡°Right. Please let it be noted that I am approaching you all slowly and respectfully. I am radiating all of the good vibes. Can¡¯t speak for my Qi, though. Right now, it¡¯s still pretty miffed about the whole attempted murder thing.¡±

    The druids still didn¡¯t react.

    This was beyond frustrating. I kept getting closer, step by step. Then the air around me suddenly thickened. It was like I was wading through honey that was actively trying to drown me. As I struggled, and without any warning at all, the world shifted.

    Not visually. Not physically. But deep in the bones of my reality.

    Mortal.

    Nah, that wasn¡¯t a voice. That was pressure. It was presence. It was a combination of James Earl Jones, Barry White, Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen all rolled into one.

    ¡°Oh, bloody hell,¡± I wheezed, clutching my head, which felt like it was about to explode from just that one word. ¡°A bit of warning next time, yeah?¡±

    The druids remained unmoving, but the force of the Nemain kept pressing against my skull, shoving into my mind like an unwelcome lodger. I did what I could to summon some strands of Air Qi to surround my head, and packed as much Earth Qi as I could into my legs and feet to anchor myself to the floor.

    My power thrummed under my skin, burning and bright, my one tangible certainty in this increasingly stupid world.

    You stand before us. You seek these stones.

    ¡°Well, that is the general idea,¡± I said. ¡°You see, I need them to kill me some Saxon cultivators. We¡¯ve got this plan to¡ª¡±

    You require what we guard. We require what is lost.

    ¡°Okay. And when you say ¡®lost,¡¯ do you mean ¡®misplaced,¡¯ or is this one of those lost to the mists of time kind of deals? Because there¡¯s obviously a bit of a difference.¡±

    The Spear.

    Yeah, that wasn¡¯t so much of an answer as a riddle wearing a trench coat. ¡°Which spear? I mean, there are a lot of spears floating around in myth and legend, and I¡¯d rather not be sent haring off after some rusty old stick that turns out to be ceremonial.¡±

    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    The Spear of the Morrigan. The Red Branch. The Soul-Piercer.

    ¡°Awesome. Cheers for clearing that right up and, crucially, that doesn¡¯t sound ominous at all. I don¡¯t suppose it¡¯s in a nice, accessible museum somewhere, is it? You know, next to a display of Celts in Popular Culture or something like that?¡±

    Lost. Bound. Sealed in the vault of the buried king.

    ¡°Right. Because it can¡¯t just be in a nearby cave, can it? Can¡¯t just be in a bloke¡¯s shed. So, which buried king are we talking about? Because, I could be wrong, but I think there¡¯ve been a few.¡±

    The Usurper. The One Who Bargained. The Broken Crown.

    ¡°Nope. No clearer. We¡¯ll circle back to that. And do I assume that if I find this spear for you, I¡¯ll be allowed access to the stones?¡±

    Silence.

    ¡°Look, can I just say, right now, that this whole thing is turning into an absolute faff? I need to kill the Saxons, but to do that, it turns out I need these stones. But now, in order to get the stones, I need to get you a spear. I don¡¯t know about anyone else, but I think this is starting to feel like one of those massive chain fetch quests where you just know the final boss is three favours away and taking the piss.¡±

    My dear, I would strongly suggest that you¡ª

    ¡°No, Merlin, I refuse to let this go. This is needlessly complex. This is side-quest nonsense.¡± I turned back to the Nemain, who were still, frustratingly, not reacting to my rant. ¡°You lot slaughtered Sir Ector and his men like they were gnats, and now you¡¯re asking for a game of hide and seek? Where¡¯s the apology? The ¡®oops, sorry about the bloodbath¡¯? A bit of humility wouldn¡¯t go amiss, you know.¡±

    Regret. Apology. These are human things. We are not human.

    Well, that¡¯s an answer that manages to be both infuriating and disturbingly reasonable.

    The warriors entered our path. They did not belong. They were undone. This is the way of Nemain.

    ¡°Yeah, well, the way of Nemain is a right pain in my arse.¡±

    The presence pressed against me, heavier now. Not angry¡ªNemains, apparently, didn¡¯t do anger¡ªbut relentless.

    You seek war. We are war. You seek death. We are death. Do not waste time with foolish human grievances. Retrieve the Spear, and the stones will be unbarred.

    I looked at the druids, utterly still in their terrible symmetry, and then up at the swirling sky. This was mad. This was absolute lunacy, wasn¡¯t it? But then, I¡¯d just Qi cultivated my way back from broken bones and near obliteration. So I was already knee-deep in batshit territory.

    What was one more step?

    ¡°Fine,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯ll get you your fucking spear. But let the record show that I am deeply unimpressed with this entire arrangement.¡±

    No reaction. No nods. No eerie glows of approval. The presence in my mind simply withdrew, like a great storm pulling back from the shore.

    I turned on my heel and stomped back up the hill, ignoring the chatter of a legendary wizard who apparently absolutely saw this coming and was not inclined to gloat about it, even though he desperately wanted to.

    It appears we have reached an accord, then, my dear?

    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said. ¡°An accord. An agreement. A brand new sodding detour on my already ridiculous to-do list.¡±

    And what did we learn, my dear?

    ¡°That I don¡¯t like the Nemain. They¡¯re pricks.¡±

    Indeed.

    I took a deep breath. ¡°So, what do you reckon. Where is this spear?¡±

    As they said, it is bound within the vault of the buried king.

    ¡°Right. Cheers. Because that narrows it right down,¡± I said.

    Ah, but It does, my dear. The buried king should be no mystery to you. You know him as¡­ Lot.

    ¡°Oh, you have got to be kidding me. King Lot? That one? We¡¯re actually doing this?¡±

    Then the Nemain¡¯s voice came back, twice as loud and deep as before. It absolutely paralysed my already fragile sense of self.

    Lot. He who waged war. He who stood against the wolf¡¯s child. The lost father. The broken oath.

    I couldn¡¯t speak. The sudden pain of the Nemain¡¯s presence pressed down on me like a handsy sumo wrestler, thick and cloying, pressing into the spaces between my thoughts.

    I knew, distantly, that I should be responding, arguing, and rolling my eyes at whatever cryptic nonsense was being shovelled my way, but my tongue wouldn¡¯t work, and my throat felt stuffed with silence.

    Instead, my mind reached backward, searching for something solid in the chaos. Memory surfaced unbidden.

    A painting.

    I saw it in my head as clearly as if I was standing before it again¡ªthe sweeping darkness of ¡®The Death of King Arthur¡¯ by James Archer in the Manchester Art Gallery. The figures draped in sorrow, Arthur lying pale and still on the boat, his knights in agony around him. But I wasn¡¯t looking at Arthur right now.

    I was looking at King Lot.

    The man who had fought him, stood against him, and then, in the inevitable, bloody churn of history, for him. A king of Orkney, his name tangled up in ruddy complicated stories where allegiances shifted like sand underfoot and loyalty meant something only until it didn¡¯t.

    I remembered standing in front of that painting ¨C I think it had been a date, hadn¡¯t it? - tilting my head at the scene. King Lot had been one of those men history couldn¡¯t quite decide on. Was he noble? A traitor? A pragmatist? Did it even matter? He¡¯d gone to war, had his share of victories, and then¡ªone way or another¡ªhe¡¯d ended up in a grave while someone else wrote his story.

    Someone else always wrote the story.

    And now I was being dragged into it.

    I forced herself back into the present, my body frozen in place beneath the awful regard of the Nemain.

    King Lot. That was where the spear was. That was where I¡¯d have to go.

    And judging by everything I knew of Arthurian history, this was going to be an absolute ballache.

    His crown lies broken. His grave sealed. His spear remains bound.

    ¡°Yeah, yeah, I get it. You need me to go rummaging around in some long-dead king¡¯s tomb because, what, the spear is trapped in there with him? That doesn¡¯t sound like a cursed nightmare at all,¡± I said, throwing up my hands, anger seemingly releasing me. ¡°Why is it always a vault? Why is it never just, ¡®Oh, the spear¡¯s in Dave¡¯s garage. Pop round, pick it up, mind the dog¡¯? No, it¡¯s always some ancient crypt where the dead king¡¯s probably in a mood about being woken up.¡±

    The cycle is war. The cycle is blood.

    ¡°Yeah, yeah, ¡®time is a flat circle.¡¯ All very deep. Look, do I at least get a map, or are we going full ¡®mystic vision quest¡¯ on this one?¡±

    Merlin, who had thus far been suspiciously quiet, finally spoke up. To my understanding, my dear, Lot was interred in the hills beyond the old kingdom¡¯s reach, in a resting place untouched by men. His grave was sealed by the first warlocks of Britain, not merely to keep intruders out¡ªbut to keep something in.

    ¡°Sure, why wouldn¡¯t it be? Let¡¯s keep ratchetting up the bullshit. Marvellous.¡±

    I felt the pressure of Nemain retreat.

    ¡°Well, at least it¡¯s not a fetch quest where I have to find five enchanted chicken feathers or something like that. Lot¡¯s tomb. Right. Great. Lead the way, Big M.¡±

    I took one last glance at the Meridian Stones, standing untouched, the druids still watching, unblinking and waiting.

    I had no idea what I was walking into. But if the Nemain wanted their spear, I¡¯d damn well get it. And then, Merlin help me, I was going to fire up Stonehenge and kill some bloody Saxons.

    Hmmm. My life has got weird.

 Chapter 10: In Which Ducks Are Anarchists, Geese Are Assassins, and Time Is Being a Right Bastard

    "Big M."

    Yes, my dear?

    "You''re being more than usually mumbly."

    Mumbly, my dear?

    "Yes. Mumbly. Muttering and whispering like you''re trying to solve a crossword under your breath. Which, considering you don¡¯t have breath anymore, makes it more like you''re holding a private conversation just a little too quietly for me to hear. And, as you are literally a voice in my head, that is uncomfortably close to experiencing a polite and well-mannered psychotic break. So if you have something to say, say it.¡±

    We¡¯d been hopping between available Fast Travel points for the last hour, draining what was left of my Qi reserves with each jump. After the Nemain had wrung me dry, we¡¯d been forced into a meditation break¡ªone which, in my case, involved less transcendental enlightenment and more sitting on a rock and trying to find my chill. Apparently, we weren¡¯t a million miles away from where Birmingham would be in a thousand years or so, which was a fun fact I was doing my best not to think about too hard as the sheer weirdness made my head swim.

    There''s just quite a lot of dangerous and quickly moving parts in play right now, my dear. I''m trying to¡ªwhat¡¯s the phrase?¡ªget my geese in a row before discussing it with you.

    "Ducks," I corrected. "You get ducks in a row. Geese are evil bastards that will slit your throat if you so much as look at them."

    Really? I had thought geese to be somewhat dignified creatures. Graceful, even.

    "Fuck no! Geese are the apex wankers of bird fuckery. You ever made the mistake of locking eyes with one? Pure evil. They¡¯re always just one moment away from a murder attempt. Could be immediate. Could be a year from now. But when they come for you, it''s swift, brutal, and deeply personal. Compared to that, ducks are a piece of piss."

    Really?

    "A duck will ruin your plans, steal your lunch, and then have the audacity to look at you like you¡¯re the problem. They¡¯re agents of anarchy, whereas geese are stone-cold assassins."

    It sounds like you¡¯ve put a rather unusual amount of time into considering this, my dear.

    ¡°Lot of time spent on park benches, Big M. You either get busy living or get busy dying.¡±

    So, if I wished to establish some sense of order, I would align myself with ducks. But if I wished to sow terror, I would deploy geese. That does seem like a significant distinction. Perhaps I should be getting my ducks in a row after all.

    "Probably for the best."

    A beat of silence. Then¡ª

    "So, what is it you''re really worried about, Big M?"

    There was a pause. Give me just another few moments, my dear.

    Fine. He¡¯d talk when he was ready.

    I went back to cycling my Qi. Since becoming a Harry, this was actually one of the nicer ways I could spend my time. Which is a weird thing to admit about a process that, when push comes to shove, basically involves me manually keeping my life force from stagnating, but here we are.

    As the Big M continued to ponder the organisation of his poultry, I settled into the rhythm of it, picturing my body the way I always did¡ªarms and legs outstretched like Da Vinci¡¯s Vitruvian Man, except mine was less Renaissance ideal and more ¡®police sketch of an unidentified corpse¡¯. My Qi, deep violet and thick as fresh paint, seeped through me in slow, deliberate strokes. The movement of all that energy was second nature now, as familiar as muscle memory.

    It was strange, really.

    In all my years of desperate, half-baked attempts at self-improvement, I¡¯d never imagined this sort of quiet contemplation was what I¡¯d needed. I¡¯d tried therapy, yoga, meditation, SSRIs, self-help books, dubious life-coach podcasts, and everything ¨C and I mean everything - various undesirables had smuggled away under their trenchcoats. Funnily enough, the answer to the meaning of life wasn¡¯t any of those.

    It was apparently ¡®move your soul into the body of a sixth-century warrior-child and learn to manually circulate mystical energy like you¡¯re your own human hamster wheel.¡¯

    Obvious, in hindsight. I kick myself for not realising earlier.

    I started at the crown of my head, letting the colour trickle down through my channels, spiralling through my spine, sinking into every muscle and joint. It was¡­ nice. It was soothing. A truly, objectively good sensation. Had there ever been a time in my real life where I¡¯d felt so at one in my own body?

    Doubt it.

    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    Before the whole head-plant-into-a-moving-lorry incident, my body had never really felt like a home. More like a battered rental you move into because it¡¯s the only thing you can afford, even though the last tenant clearly died in there and no one bothered to tell the landlord. The fridge never quite closes properly, the hot water runs brown for the first five minutes, and there''s a smell¡ªsomething between mildew and rotting corpse¡ªthat no amount of open windows or cheap scented candles can shift.

    And sure, you try to fix it up. You slap a fresh coat of paint on the walls, buy a plant that withers instantly from second-hand horror, maybe even get some throw pillows to make it look like someone who gives a shit lives there. But no matter what you do, no matter how hard you scrub, the place still reeks.

    There¡¯s a thing Mummy Dearest used to say when she, eventually, came back to us after her latest effort to ¡®find herself.¡¯

    ¡°My body is a temple.¡±

    Well, sure, mum. Your body was very much a temple where the holy wine flowed a little too freely, the priestesses were suspiciously friendly towards anyone with a dick, and there was a back room where things happened that would make even Dionysus go, ¡°Steady on, mate.¡±

    Me, on the other hand? Well, if my body was a temple then it was a place where you¡¯d probably catch something if you knelt to pray.

    Thus, being in this new body¡ªthis strange, fresh, functional body¡ªwas somewhat of a revelation. For the first time, it wasn¡¯t some rundown squat I was desperately trying to escape. My Qi moved through me, filling up every hollow space, every battered corner, smoothing over the cracks like warm resin, and for once, I fit.

    It was a deeply disconcerting experience.

    Because if my body wasn¡¯t a disaster zone anymore, if I didn¡¯t have the constant background radiation of misery humming through my bones, then what excuse did I have for still being me?

    The violet seeped through me, wrapping around every nerve, every bone, every cell, and I could feel myself becoming something denser, something more substantial.

    It was a comfort.

    Which meant something terrible was definitely about to happen.

    Okay, I think I have this sorted in my head now, my dear. If you have a moment to talk?

    Boom. Right on time.

    ¡°Lay it on me, Big M.¡±

    To prepare myself for whatever shitty nightmare was about to be unleashed, I leaned back, stretching out on the damp grass, and looked over the rolling hills that would become Birmingham. Proto-Birmingham. Pre-Birmingham. Back before the smog, the factories and the endless grey sprawl of warehouses and roads.

    Before traffic jams and roundabouts and Snobs.

    Right now, the land was wild, untouched, and obscenely green. A lush, sprawling stretch of hills that tumbled over each other like sleeping giants, all soft slopes and deep hollows. Everywhere I looked was a carpet of sixth-century wildflowers which would be, in short order, systematically murdered in the name of progress.

    Trees dotted the landscape, great hulking things with thick, gnarled roots gripping the soil like they knew what was coming. Enjoy it while you can, lads. In a few centuries, you¡¯ll be charcoal and kindling.

    Birds wheeled lazily overhead, utterly unbothered by my presence, because they had no generational memory of teenagers chucking chips at them outside a Greggs.

    It all felt weirdly personal, as if nature was going out of its way to rub my face in the fact that, at some point, humanity collectively looked at this and thought, You know what would improve this? A fuckload of concrete.

    ¡­ which greatly concerns me.

    ¡°Sorry, Big M. I was miles away. Lay it on me again.¡±

    I¡¯m not sure you are taking this as seriously as you should be, my dear.

    ¡°Oh, I am. I¡¯m all about the seriousness. Look, this is my serious face.¡± I frowned and placed my chin in my cupped hands.

    There was a silence.

    ¡°Seriously, are you sulking right now?¡±

    Not at all, my dear. I am merely girding my loins for another attempt at highlighting the very real problem that I have identified. It would be good if you tried to pay attention.

    Rhyddrech Hael girded his loins once. Didn¡¯t get a whole lot fucking done for the rest of the day.

    ***

    To spare you the next hour or so of question and answer, I¡¯m going to summarise.

    It turns out that in the time I¡¯d spent bouncing us hither and tither up the Qi equivalent of the M1, Merlin had been quietly losing his metaphysical shit over something I¡¯d seen. Specifically, the image that had flashed through my mind when I was talking to the Nemain¡ªthe sweeping, sorrow-drenched vision of The Death of King Arthur by James Archer.

    Apparently, Merlin disagreed that was what the picture should have looked like.

    The way you see it in your mind, my dear, is not how that painting looks.

    "Maybe we¡¯re thinking of different paintings?¡±

    That¡¯s just the key problem, my dear. I truly don''t think we are.

    There was something in his voice that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "Okay," I said, cautious now. "How do you remember it?"

    In my memory of the painting, Arthur is surrounded by women. Not knights. And I¡¯m there, standing on the shore as he awaits the boat to take him to Avalon.

    "Well, that¡¯s obviously not the same painting. It¡¯s not like there¡¯s a shortage of pictures about King Arthur¡¯s death, is there?¡±

    That is what concerns me, my dear. Because I have been trying to look forward into the future and, while I can only grab the smallest of peeks, it does look like the painting I remember is much more like the one you describe.

    ¡°This is a really long-winded way of you saying I¡¯m right, Big M. I know men have this fragile ego thing going on, but just a quick ¡®my bad¡¯ is really all this situation needs.¡±

    But you see, I do not think I am wrong. I believe something has happened to change it.

    "For fuck¡¯s sake!" I said. "So my two choices here are that you are either utterly incapable of conceiving of a world in which I am right and you are wrong, or you''re saying we''re in Marty McFly with a polaroid territory again? I fucking hate timey-wimey bullshit."

    And that is an attitude that does you credit, my dear. But I am afraid I can think of no other explanation. My memory of this painting is not wrong. Something has altered. Something fundamental.

    "Any ideas?"

    Merlin exhaled in that purely theatrical way he did when he wanted me to know he was thinking Very Serious Thoughts.

    Let¡¯s try out a theory I¡¯m having here, my dear. Tell me what you know about King Lot.

 Chapter 11 - In Which a Rant About Arthurian Lore Becomes a Side Quest, and Nobody Is Happy about it

    The funny thing is, when you''re talking about Arthurian lore, there¡¯s no one story that¡¯s central to the whole thing. There¡¯s no neat, universal canonical text that everyone who likes this sort of thing agrees is essential reading.

    To be honest, it¡¯s all basically a massive, tangled pile of half-remembered myths, propaganda, and medieval poetical fanfiction, where every storyteller over the past thousand years has taken a turn at throwing their own personal spin into the pot.

    I mean, even if you just want to focus on the Big Beasts¡ªyour Arthurs, your Merlins, and your Guineveres¡ªif you find one version where events play out one way, there will be another, equally famous one, that swears the exact opposite happened. And yet another where a key protagonist is a time travelling-alien in a blue box and Mordred is Dr Samuel Beckett.

    Most people agree, though, that if you want to get a handle on the broad strokes of all things Camelot¡ªthe names, the faces and most of the usual story beats¡ªyou can do worse than start with The Once and Future King by T.H. White. For those of you who are visual learners, this is basically just Disney¡¯s The Sword in the Stone but with extra existential crises.

    After that, if you¡¯re feeling intellectual, you can dive into Le Morte D''Arthur. Don¡¯t get fazed by all the fancy French, there are some really solid translations out there - especially if English with too many vowels and a pathological fear of punctuation makes your head hurt. Then, once you¡¯re fully Red Pilled, there¡¯s a bloke called Geoffrey of Monmouth who did a lot of heavy lifting back in the day, and weaved together some very creative liberties into his History of the Kings of Britain which he convinced pretty much everyone was cold, hard ¨C ever so well researched - facts.

    Now, all of that might make it sound like I know a little of what I¡¯m talking about here. Not a bit of it.  Don¡¯t get carried away on the tide of my erudite bullshit. Basically, I cribbed most of that from a battered copy of Rosemary Sutcliffe¡¯s King Arthur Trilogy that my dad gave me one Christmas¡ªmost likely a panicked charity shop purchase after he remembered he had two daughters and needed to even out the gift pile some.

    Well, that, and spending far too much quality time hanging around a bunch of No Day Passes Without Me Thinking About the Roman Empire types who would go absolutely feral at the slightest mention of the Saxons.

    In short, for those who skipped all of that, what I¡¯m saying is: anyone who tells you they definitively knowhow the stories of Arthur are supposed to go is chatting all the shit.

    Which segues nicely¡ªor at least, I think it does, I¡¯m quite drunk¡ªinto Merlin asking me what I know about King Lot.

    Or, more accurately, King Lots.

    I should note, my dear, that although you seem to be doing your best to convince yourself you are . . . is the term ¡®buzzed?¡¯, there is no alcohol in existence which can overcome your current level of cultivation.

    Merlin . . .

    Fucking off right now, my dear. Enjoy your monologue.

    Cheers. Now, where was I?

    Ah yes. King Lot.

    King Lots.

    Plural. Because, somewhat worringly, I have a number of very distinct, very different memories of the role that King Lot plays in Arthurian Lore in my head.

    There¡¯s, potentially, a couple of good reasons for this.

    The first is, as mentioned above, there¡¯s no really definitive version of the stories of Camelot and King Arthur. And, when it comes to King Lot, there¡¯s a whole lot of people who play a bit fast and loose with that particular name. You''d think someone would have sat down and gone, "Look, we''ve already got enough Lancelots, Gawains, and Mordreds running around stabbing each other in increasingly baroque family dramas. Maybe let¡¯s try to keep the actions of the back character reasonably settled. You know, just to create a sound frame narrative that doesn¡¯t piss people off. "

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    But no. Because medieval storytelling conventions apparently followed the logic of a pub argument that got wildly out of hand.

    Depending on which account you read, King Lot of Orkney is either a respectable warlord who marries Arthur¡¯s sister and fathers the entire Knights of Problematic Nepotism, including Sir Gawain. Or he¡¯s a petulant upstart who rebels against Arthur, gets trounced, and dies in a way that strongly suggests that particular author had some unresolved sexual tension around him. Or he¡¯s a weirdly passive figure who exists solely so more important people can use his name to justify their own melodrama. Or, and this I think is my favourite, ¡®King Lot¡¯ is not even a real character, but a convenient place-holder for "generic Northern King who gets involved when convenient."

    Kind of like Sean Bean, and with exactly the same long-term survival instincts.

    So, it¡¯s not all that surprising that there are an awful lot of versions of King Lot in my head and there doesn¡¯t seem to be much agreement in any of them whether he was a good guy, a bad guy, or just there to hold a place in the plot until something more interesting happened.

    I kind of know how he feels.

    However, that isn¡¯t the reason why I¡¯m halfway through a bottle of Celtic moonshine.

    No, the biggest problem me and the Big M are having right now isn¡¯t just contemplating whether I should just accept that Arthurian canon is a mythological house party where nobody¡¯s checking the guest list.

    Our biggest issue is that we¡¯re trying to decipher how much of this confusion is just some medieval monk shrugging and going ¡®fuck it, someone else in a few centuries can straighten all this out¡¯ and how much is the bloody timeline changing.

    And, let me tell you, that¡¯s a pretty big Either/Or for me right now.

    The whole reason I¡¯ve been playing along with Merlin¡¯s crapshoot thus far ¨C touch harsh, my dear ¨C is for the sole reason that my actions are maintaining the integrity of my own timeline and keeping my sister well and happy. Sure, there¡¯s been a few bumps and scrapes along the way ¨C sorry for the whole conflagration thing Exeter ¨C but, by and large, I think I¡¯ve been able to keep my part of the show on the road.

    ¡°What the fuck¡¯s going on, Big M? Arthur¡¯s on the throne, Guinevere¡¯s up the duff and Lancelot is training up a banger of a Knight of the Round Table crew. Things are about as consistent with the way I remember things as I think I could reasonably have been expected to keep them.¡±

    Oh, am I allowed to talk again?

    ¡°Fuck¡¯s sake! Stop being such a drama queen. If the timeline is intact, why have I got so many different versions of King Lot in my head? And why is he suddenly central to a quest to allow us access to Stonehenge.¡±

    Rhyddrech Hael met King Lot once.

    Both I and Merlin paused, giving Drynwyn the chance to expand. It felt like the silence stretched on for the length of an opera.

    ¡°Was there any more to that, Drynwyn?¡± I said, eventually.

    No. Not really. It just feels like we¡¯re doing an awful lot of chatting and not so much stabbing lately. I was feeling left out.

    I don¡¯t know what I found more alarming. Being in possession of a suddenly extremely needy magical sword, or that Drynyn had just delivered five sentences without swearing. I tried to summon the emotional reserves to deal with that, but came up wanting. Whatever was going on with it, would have to wait.

    ¡°Big M, back t you. Spill, what¡¯s occurring with King Lot?¡±

    Okay. Please bear in mind that this is just speculation ¨C albeit, as it is coming from me, likely to be extremely well-informed and accurate speculation.

    ¡°Yes, yes, yes. All hail Merlin the Great.¡±

    Quite. Well, it strikes me as somewhat interesting that you are on hand for the manifestation of the Nemain who, as they explain, are very interested in King Lot¡¯s spear. Both in terms of there being a prophecy I have never heard of being connected to him ¨C ¡°His crown lies broken. His grave sealed. His spear remains bound¡± ¨C and that it seems we cannot complete our own quest to make use of the Meridian Stones to destroy the Saxon cultivators without recovering Lot¡¯s spear for them.

    ¡°Is it just me, or are our quests getting much more complicated? I remember when the most I had to do was simply rock up at Camelot and cultivate a bit to get the job done.¡±

    Indeed. Well, we can spend some time discussing that or we can deal with the problem before us. Which would you prefer, my dear?

    ¡°You know, I¡¯d kind of love it if we could do both.¡±

    I wish we were fighting something right now.

    ¡°Fuck¡¯s sake. Okay. So, what are we saying here? That there¡¯s something timey-wimey around King Lot?¡±

    That¡¯s exactly what I¡¯m saying, my dear. But don¡¯t take my word for it. Because, if my calculations are correct, our next fast travel destination should be his throne room.

 Chapter 12 - In Which Arthur Learns That Being King Mostly Involves Not Dying and Filling Out Forms

    Arthur stared at the stack of scrolls before him as if they had personally insulted his mother. Which, considering the famously short temper of the late Queen Igraine, they mostly certain would not have dared.

    He picked up the latest one¡ªsomething about grain tariffs, he thought¡ªand flung it at the wall of his throne room with a growl of frustration. The scroll bounced off the stone and landed limply on the floor, making a sad little crumpling sound that he found, quite frankly, disappointing.

    "If you were seeking to propel that at me, my lord, you truly need to work on your aim," Bl?k said.

    "I need to work on a lot of things! Mostly, and this is crucial, I need to actually be doing some fighting. You know, against Saxons! The whole reason I am supposed to be here! But no, instead of helping to lead that charge, I¡¯m stuck in here for days arguing about what price we should be charging for the wheat we send to Gwent!"

    "Barley, actually," Bl?k said, bending down to pick the scroll up and quickly checking through it. "I believe you approved the wheat tariffs this morning. And may I say, that was a magnificent piece of legislation, my lord."

    ¡°Oh, do fuck off, Bl?k!¡± Arthur said, shuffling around uncomfortably on the throne.

    The seat of kingship in Tintagel was, in theory, an imposing sight. In reality, though, it was little more than a wooden chair with significant delusions of grandeur. Over centuries, people had added numerous extra carvings, presumably to make it look even more impressive, but they mostly served to dig uncomfortably into his back. And, if recent experience was any guide, there was at least a fifty percent chance of getting another splinter in his arse any second . . .

    Ah, and there it was. Perfect.

    Arthur let his head tip back, staring at the rafters far above him. As a boy, he''d spent countless hours sat here, just next to his father¡¯s knee, watching Uther seemingly command the world from this seat although he was personally chiselled from the bedrock of Britain. He had felt such awe for the power of the throne in those moments . . .

    Of course, that was before he¡¯d truly come to realise that kingship wasn¡¯t just about grand proclamations, screwing Princesses and looking ever-so stern. No, as he was finding out, being the Pendragon was less about all that and far more about listening to increasingly ridiculous disputes over sheep ownership. It involved paperwork, petty arguments, and people who somehow managed to have opinions on everything except what actually mattered.

    And ¨C and Arthur thought this was the key ¨C it was about him being responsible ¨C personally, individually responsible ¨C for keeping back the forthcoming Saxon tide.

    "I should be out there! With my men! Doing what I was born to do."

    "Oh yes, my lord, because nothing says great kingship like personally running into battle and hitting people with a sword. Very majestic. Very manly. The thunder of hooves. The ring of steel on steel. The heroic clash of nations. So stirring. So rousing. And, incidentally, I am afraid to say, so incredibly idiotic."

    "You just don¡¯t understand, Bl?k! I¡¯m not saying that just to boost my glory or ego or doing what I think a warrior should do. You¡¯ve read the same reports as I have. The Saxons are not coming to us as raiding skirmishers anymore; they¡¯re preparing to settle. They may be preparing to come in warbands, but behind them follow their families. And, when they finally arrive, they won¡¯t stop until every scrap of land is theirs. All of these old ways everyone keeps telling me to respect ¨C the king protected in the castle, forts on the hills, warbands riding out for a season before wintering at home¡ªthey just won¡¯t hold this time. Every scroll we receive tells us that our holdfasts¡¯ walls are crumbling, and we do not have the resources to keep building them back up. And even if we did, we don¡¯t have enough men to defend every town. Every hillfort we lose will stay lost. And the only chance Britain has of still standing at the end of this year is because men like me will ride out to meet those bastards before they get too dug in! So if I sit here, on my arse, waiting for messengers to tell me what¡¯s happening, then by the time I do act, it¡¯s going to be too late."

    "Which, as I said, is all very noble, my lord,¡± Bl?k said, ¡°but it does rather fall down on one crucial flaw. Namely, that you are not just one man with a spear. Sure, you are an extremely important man, but you are not an army. And certainly not an unkillable one."

    Arthur¡¯s fingers curled into a fist, causing Bl?k to take a step back and the shadows around the throne room to gather. "Do you have any idea how awful this is for me! My father was the warlord. The Pendragon. Sure, I trained and I fought and I stood in the shield wall to do my part to push the Saxons back. But the decisions, the weight of it¡ªthat was all his." He looked up, and Bl?k thought there was something raw in his expression. Something stripped of every last inch of royal arrogance. "But now it¡¯s mine.

    This is not a battle. This is not another meaningless skirmish. This is a war for the existence of Britain itself. And I don¡¯t have the luxury of standing behind my father¡¯s shield anymore!"

    Bl?k was silent for a moment as he tried to remember what Guinevere had said to him to prepare him for just this sort of conversation.

    ¡°There¡¯s going to come a time when it all gets too much for him,¡± she had said. ¡°He¡¯s going to get all introspective and ¡®am I the right man to do this¡¯ about everything. If we¡¯re lucky, it¡¯ll be me or Bors who are around when it happens. But, what with me being, you know¡ª¡± she gestured at her massive belly ¡°¡ªand Bors needing a couple of naps a day, it¡¯s most likely going to fall on you.¡±

    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    ¡°Fall on me to¡­ what?¡±

    ¡°To pick him up. To talk him around. To, and I cannot stress this enough, to NOT sympathise whatsoever with his whinging.¡±

    ¡°Right,¡± Bl?k had said slowly. ¡°And how exactly do I achieve that without getting, you know, horribly executed?¡±

    ¡°Look, trust me, you¡¯ll see him pacing around, brooding, carrying the weight of Britain on his shoulders, and, no matter how much you try not to, you¡¯ll feel this urge¡ªthis mad, noble, utterly doomed urge¡ªto try and be kind to him. But, and here¡¯s the thing, you absolutely must not do that. Do not ever show Arthur an inch of sympathy. Because, if you do, he¡¯ll mistake it for pity. And once he thinks you pity him,  he¡¯ll dig his heels in just to prove he¡¯s fine, even when he very obviously isn¡¯t. And then we¡¯ll all be royally fucked. Because what the British need right now is a very pissed of Arthur.¡±

    ¡°So what would you suggest I do then, my lady, to piss off the king?¡±

    ¡°You want him to listen to any advice you have for him? You tell him exactly what he doesn¡¯t want to hear. You remind him that he¡¯s got people relying on him and that charging off like a reckless wanker won¡¯t save a single one of us. And if that doesn¡¯t work?¡± Guinevere had smiled then and shrugged. ¡°Hit him with a blunt object. Not too hard, obviously. Just enough to bring him to his senses.¡±

    Bl?k had stared at her. ¡°That¡¯s not exactly standard courtly counsel.¡±

    ¡°No, but with Arthur it will work. Trust me on this.¡±

    Back in the present, Bl?k took a deep breath and summoned his reserves of ¡®tough love.¡¯ "Yes, well. That was all rather heartfelt and impassioned, my lord. Ten out of ten for sincerity. And I would be very moved, truly, if I wasn¡¯t also increasingly concerned that the moment I turn my back, you are going to climb out a window and leg it to the stables. Do I need to enumerate all the reasons why it is a terrible idea for you to take to the field? " Bl?k didn¡¯t dare wait to let the red-faced Arthur answer before pushing on.

    "First, there¡¯s the minor issue of assassins. As in, there¡¯s far too many of them for comfort wandering about right now. Honestly, my lord, they¡¯re like rats. My people wipe one, and two more pop up, and before you know it, we¡¯ve got a whole infestation lurking in the cellars, muttering darkly and oiling their knives. Then there¡¯s the problem of you¡ªnamely, that ¨C in case you have forgotten - you are the king, and if the king goes gallivanting off into battle and gets himself skewered, we are left with a corpse, a rather distressing succession crisis, and an alarming amount of very cross thegns."

    Arthur went to speak, but Bl?k held up a finger. "Oh, and let¡¯s not forget your men. The ones who are already out there, preparing to fight bravely in the knowledge that they are protecting you, their glorious, wise, and ¨C crucially -  living monarch. Imagine their faces when you show up in the thick of it, waving a sword and invalidating every single strategy designed to keep you alive. I am sure they will be very grateful."

    Bl?k raised a hand, and the shadows around the room suddenly drew in very quickly around Arthur, stunning him to silence. "No, no. I know that look. That¡¯s your patented ¡®I am about to make an impassioned speech about honour and duty¡¯ face. And I¡¯m telling you now¡ª I am sure it will be very inspiring, and I will be very moved, but I will still be tying you to that very ugly chair if I have to."

    There was a pause, during which time Bl?k considered that he may, possibly, have taken things a bit too far. Then Arthur sighed and sat back on the throne. ¡°I didn¡¯t know there¡¯d been that many attempts on my life. How many is it, really?¡±

    "Three."

    "Three? Well, that doesn¡¯t sound like¡ª"

    "Per hour. Every hour. For almost a fortnight."

    Arthur''s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. "Well, that is quite terrifying. Do we know where they are coming from?"

    Bl?k¡¯s eyes focused out for a moment as he communed with the Grey. "Everywhere, apparently. Mostly they are in the pay of the Saxons, of course. But the other kingdoms seem to be playing their part in the rollcall. Rival Kings, of course. Some jilted lovers. There was someone who lost a bet waiting outside your bedchamber last week. And that stable boy you made a joke about last Tuesday took things rather badly and put all sorts of prickly things under Llameri¡¯s saddle. Interestingly, there¡¯s been quite a lot of attempts originating from Ireland, actually. Must be something in the air."

    Arthur tried to take all of that in. He simply hated being stuck in this castle. Given a choice, what he really wanted to be doing was training with Lancelot. Lancelot would let him rant away about the unfairness of it all and then challenge him to an arm-wrestling match that would end with something on fire.

    Failing that, he wished he could find a way to spend an afternoon hunting with Bors. But with the old Bors, not the tired, fragile version of the man who Mrs Bors wouldn¡¯t let out of her sight. Hell, on occasion he even found himself missing Morgan. At least she was funny¡ªif in a way that often resulted in explosions or someone needing urgent medical attention.

    Bl?k, on the other hand, was like spending time with an unusually talkative shadow with opinions on trade policy. Arthur was finding it hard to warm to him. But, on this occasion, that didn¡¯t mean he was wrong.

    "Fine," Arthur said at last. "I won''t leave the castle. For now."

    "My lord is very wise," Bl?k said in a tone as if Arthur had just grasped the concept of fire being hot.

    "But I swear, if another tax proposal lands on my desk today, I will go outside, assassins or no assassins."

    "Then I shall instruct the Grey to set up additional patrols."

    Arthur blinked. "Wait, you mean you''d actually let me¡ª?"

    "Of course not," Bl?k said. "But I will at least prepare for the inevitable moment when you decide to ignore me." Guinevere had warned him about that eventuality too . . .

    Arthur picked up another scroll, glanced at it, sighed and threw it at the wall.

    "Truly, my liege, your aim is appalling." Bl?k clasped his hands behind his back. "Shall I have the scribes draft a response to today''s petitions, or would you prefer to tackle them yourself?"

    "Bl?k?"

    "Yes, my liege?"

    "Can you go and find Lancelot?"

    "I''m afraid he is out on patrol."

    "Bors, then."

    "His wife has left standing orders that you are to ¡®leave him alone,¡¯ my lord.¡± Bl?k said. ¡°And I must say that I am much more afraid of her than I am of you.¡±

    Which was fair comment. "What about my wife? She can¡¯t have gone far. She¡¯s the size of carriage."

    "My mistress is currently testing the efficacy of various alchemical compounds when attached to an arrowhead. Results so far: loud."

    Arthur closed his eyes. "Fine. Then you, Bl?k, are now officially my sparring partner."

    "With respect, my lord, you would kill me within minutes."

    Arthur cracked one eye open. "That''s what makes it appealing."

    "I shall fetch the practice swords, then."

    And that, at least, was something.