They'd lost Cutha this morning. And Fordræd the night before.

Well, not 'lost' exactly. They knew precisely where those two were. Or where their bodies were, anyway.

Most of the bits, certainly.

But Hroðulf was not going to panic. If there was one thing he'd learned over the last few days, it was that the ones who lost their heads in this sort of situation were those who ... lost their heads.

He raised a fist, and the remaining members of the war party took a weary knee. They'd been running flat out for some time now, and the woods were starting to take on a certain lovely, dark and deep quality. Discovering that Cutha had become the latest of them to fall prey to the demonic hunter they were all calling the ‘hidden decapitator’ had made them all lose their minds a touch.

It was time, Hroðulf thought, to bring back an element of decorum to proceedings.

"That must be far enough. Let's take a beat. Keep an eye on the trees, but get some water down you. Wemba, my old friend, it's time to make yourself useful. Do you have any idea where we are?"

The slow, fat man stared blankly back at him before shaking his shaggy head. There was a time when they all joked about their rotund tracker's complete and utter uselessness, but somehow, those jokes didn't quite seem so funny anymore. “This ain’t a part of the world I’ve been to before, boss. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Hroðulf privately suspected he had a far better notion of where they were than Wemba, but – in the interests of the war band's morale – chose not to share that view. Instead, he blew out his cheeks and tried his hardest to devise a plan, any plan, that ended with them getting back, preferably alive, to Saxon territory.

He wasn't entirely sure when he'd assumed command of this little band of miscreants who had been left behind after the debacle at the walls of Tintagel. Needs must and all that. Although was it truly ‘command’ when all that meant was you were the one who got to yell 'run!' each time something grim happened to one or other of them?

"Okay, mate. No drama. Don’t worry about it. We’ve been turned around a few times, so it's not your fault.” Several of the others grumbled that a tracker who couldn’t track probably shouldn’t have his full ration of ale that night, but Hroðulf hushed that sort of talk down fast. The only way out of this mess was to ensure they sang from the same scroll. Besides, the fat man provided substantial cover should the situation demand it. “Look, this fucking country isn't that big, guys. We should easily be able to figure out the way home from here.”

Several pairs of sceptical eyes regarded him. He guessed all the violent deaths of their fellows were putting a few doubts in the men’s minds. “Look, if no one has any better ideas,” there was an echoing silence, “well, then I say we just keep following the river northward and see where that takes us.”

“That’s the best you got? Follow the fucking river?”

Hroðulf was not interested in any of Carlet's backchat. “Look, fuck-face, Tintagel was by the sea, wasn’t it? So, stands to reason for us to go upstream and this little beauty will take us all the way back home. Basic geography, innit? And, if we're lucky, we might link up with some of the others on the way. And Belion is your mother's brother."

Ten pairs of eyes stared deadly back at him. He was finding it all a touch dispiriting. "Come on, guys. We've been in tighter spots than this and come out the other side!"

His words sounded hollow even to himself.

He understood it wasn't just the fear of impending death that was grinding them down. It wasn't even the constant running battles with an unseen foe. And, surprising as it might seem, it wasn't even the succession of headless corpses that awaited them each morning.

No, it was the unnecessarily flippant commentary about their impending, bloody demises from the woods, which was getting so deeply under their skins.

As if on cue, there was a low rumble from their extreme left, and that fucking voice that had been tormenting them for five days was heard again. "There's something out here waiting for you, and it ain't no man. You're all gonna die."

At that sound, Hroðulf's men threw their javelins wildly into the undergrowth. He did his best to bring them back under control, but it was already too late. "Stop it, you morons! We're nearly out of those. Hold on to them until you actually see something worth attacking!"

There was a pause, and then one of the javelins was returned to them. With some significant interest. It took Beorhtric in the pit of his stomach and rocketed him backwards, pinning him to a tree like the world's ugliest butterfly exhibit.

Hroðulf didn't know what caused him the most despair—the loss of yet another of his men or the certainty of the subsequent quip from the woods.

When it came, he wondered if the speaker was wholly insane or just profoundly sadistic.

"Stick around."

*

Bors pulled a stray javelin from my thigh and winced at the spurt of blood that shot into the air. "You're sure you can heal through that? It looks nasty."

"I ain't got time to bleed."

I sense you are doing a 'bit' here, my dear. Speaking for Sir Bors, I am happy to say we're both finding it extremely charming, especially all the accents. Well done on those, particularly. However, and I do hesitate to bring it up when we're all having such fun, do you think we could hurry things up a touch? This is not the only war band King Uther has charged us with putting down, and we need to move our way through the list with a touch more alacrity.

I quickly cycled some Qi to my wound and was pleased when my femoral artery reknitted in seconds. I wasn't going to let on in my present company, but I was a bit unnerved by how close that one random throw had been to doing me some severe damage.

After all, if it bleeds, they can kill it.

It had been over a month now since Uther reluctantly sanctioned some of us to take to the countryside and harry the remnants of the Saxon army who hadn't taken the hint from the debagging in front of Tintagel's walls to speedily run for home.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Initially, his instinct had been to keep what remained of Arthur's Marghekyon close to Tintagel. Still, there were increasing reports of some pretty gnarly shit going down with the local population, so he'd let some of us loose to reign it in.

We'd been tracking this particular group for just under a week since stumbling across the aftermath of their activities at a burning farmhouse.

It was fair to say that, having done my best to heal a couple of newly orphaned girls, I was not feeling especially charitable towards them. Indeed, if, after all they had done, the worst these men had to complain about was my attempt at an Austrian accent, I figured they were getting away pretty lightly.

But Merlin was right. The longer I indulged in Predator cosplay with this sorry group of Saxons, the more time the rest of the fuckers lingering around Dumnonia had to create yet more traumatised kids.

*

Seeing the grim expression cross Morgan's face, Bors hefted his giant axe onto his shoulder and nodded to Peredur to begin gearing up to move out. "Let's finish this."

*

The absurdity of just three attackers was the first thing to strike Hroðulf. Of course, as the next thing was a massive axe to the chest, he didn't have too long to mither about it.

Priorities, you see.

*

Bors tore through the lefthand side of the Saxons, each swing lopping off heads and limbs as he went. Peredur's sword work was far more elegant but no less deadly. In seconds, the war band was pretty much done.

That just left little old me.

The thing was, since Tintagel, I'd been feeling a little left out when it came to mixing it up in the melee. After much discussion, Drynwyn had agreed to stay back at Tintagel and keep trying to woo Arthur to pick him up again.

I make that sound less like I'd finally given up arguing with my enchanted sword and his obsession with fangirling over the Once and Future King than was the case. There was the slightest chance my epic bloodletting on these missions was more about me salving my wounded pride at feeling rejected by a piece of metal than anything the Saxons had gotten up to.

But that would be batshit crazy. Wouldn't it?

Anyhow . . .

As well as the sword clearly preferring Arthur's manly embrace, Merlin had pointed out that I'd become a little too reliant on the sword's ability to rain flaming napalm death on all and sundry. Apparently, I needed to work on developing my Qi offensive capabilities.

Also, despite the amusing linguistic flexibility of the word 'fuck', it does get a touch old.

Besides Drynwyn's backstabbing, I recognised that Merlin was making a valid, broader point. The techniques I'd picked up thus far had been a touch random, and whilst [Personal Space Invader] had come through in the clutch more than once, both [Can of Whoopass] and [We want our Ent-Wives back] were pretty situational.

And weird.

Creating those three skills had been easy, but conceptualising new ones was much more challenging.

I did explain, my dear. You were bound to hit a reasonably brutal progression wall at some stage. Your development towards Harry thus far has been astonishing.

"I know. I know. I just feel I've clicked up to Pro in Fifa and been slaughtered by Accrington Stanley." There was a pause. "Merlin, mate, I need you to say, 'Accrington Stanley, who are they?'"

Why? I know who they are.

"It's for a joke."

We're in the middle of a battle, my dear. Why don't we focus on the matter at hand?

So, ignoring the cries of the slaughter occurring all around me, I focused on one particularly fat Saxon and considered the possibilities I had to bring his life to a screaming halt.

To be honest, I was pretty happy with my options in close combat. It wasn't long ago that I'd ripped the head off a dragon with [Can of Whoopass], and I'd yet to come across a swordfight Drynwyn couldn't handle for me: when he wasn't trying to wheedle his way into the Pendragon's grip, anyway.

I felt, though, that I was obviously lacking a touch of oomph when the enemy was at a longer range. That javelin through the leg was still bothering me some. It'd be nice to have something to let them have back. "Any thoughts, Big M?"

Many. Would you like to be specific?

"I'm looking for a ranged attack that doesn't suck. Just once in a while, it would be nice to take care of business without needing a shower and a change of clothes afterwards."

Certainly.

My vision was suddenly overwhelmed by a flickering screen of ranged Qi techniques. They were blasting past so quickly that I could not understand what they did, much less how they worked.

"Mate, that's too many. You're going to need to thin things out for me a little. Can't you, I don't know, pre-select me some suitable options?"

I am unsure at what stage I became your personal shopper in our relationship.

"Ah, you love it."

I can assure you I do not. Not so long ago, I could command the heavens to obey my will. Now ...

"Now you're getting to play Yoda. So, please, do you think there should be less whining and more of a menu of cool ranged attack techniques? Chop, chop. There's a good force ghost mentor."

The flickering screen slowed down until there were just three options.

"That's more like it. So, what do we have here?"

Oh, so I have to explain them to you too, do I? Please let me know if breathing becomes too much of an imposition. I'll be sure to pick up the slack. The first of these choices relies on your connection to Drynwyn and familiarity with Fire Qi. It's a basic fireball casting that won't tax your channels too much but will -

"Nope. Not interested in anything basic. Next?"

Again, I should stress that there are noticeable gaps in your foundations, and your desire to constantly skip over the fundamentals because they're not 'fun' is likely to have significant long-term consequences for your development as a cultivator. I know of no cultivators who successfully achieved Harry who did not have at least one fireball spell.

"Sure, Jan. Next shiny, please."

There then followed a lot of sighing for someone with no body. The second option is more complex, but you have sufficient affinity to Earth Qi to use it. This technique allows you to open a giant fissure in the ground to ...

"Nope."

Nope?

"Nope."

Is there any particular reason, or are you being deliberately cussed now?

"It's hard enough being a girl in this cultivation business without inviting comment as to how many men my crack can swallow up."

I ... I don't know how to respond to that.

"Come on, third time's the charm."

Okay. Well, the third option is the most complex casting of the three. As of yet, you have not been able to make much connection with Metal Qi. However, I can see no reason you would eventually be unable to do so. Thus, should you master this technique, you will be able to use ambient iron as projectiles.

"Sold."

As I say, my dear, I cannot imagine you will easily be able to manifest this technique. Perhaps it would be better to . . .

His words were drowned out as the discarded swords and spears of the fallen Saxons rose into the air and spun themselves into a cyclone. The speed at which this technique burned through my Qi was quite astonishing, and I had to tap into the stored energy in my mana stone earrings to be able to maintain it. As soon as the hurricane of metal stabilised, I directed it towards the fat Saxon.

Well.

"Yes."

That was pretty conclusive.

"Indeed."

Apparently, you can access Metal Qi after all.

"Seems that way."

Subtle.

"That's my middle name."

"Fuck me, Celt. What did you do?" Bors had been standing too close to the impact zone of my technique and was now wiping pieces of diced Saxon off his face.

"Oh, you know. Just a cultivator doing cultivator things."

With a sense of crushing inevitability, can I please request you refrain from yet another pithy title for this spell?

"Too late."

[Get to da Choppa] technique named.

Sigh. Of course.