"Oh, come on! You cannot be serious!"

Call me cynical, but I was beginning to think the all-powerful, disembodied voice of a monster from the Enchanted Forest might not be seeking to wholly embody the British sense of fair play.

*

In preparation for the first challenge, a giant warrior in plate mail had manifested out of nowhere and clanked forward to stand in the middle of a softly glowing circle.

The three of us exchanged confident nods, and I fist-bumped Bors. "Trial of Strength. You're up, big guy." As I immediately needed to cycle some Qi to heal three broken fingers, I felt we'd probably picked the right horse for this particular challenge.

Bors yawned and stepped forward into what was clearly a fighting ring, swinging his arms forward and back and cracking his neck from side to side.

Stood opposite the giant mailed knight, Bors was perhaps a head smaller and a touch less wide. However, what he may be giving away in size, Arthur and I were confident he would make up for in unbridled, batshit crazy aggression. When in his battle fury, Bors made a dog-less John Wick seem positively chill.

"Who have you selected for the first trial?" The booming voice felt like it was coming from all around. I was beginning to suspect we might be talking to the Enchanted Forest rather than to someone within it . . .

"Me. Sir Bors the Younger."

"So be it."

At those words, the ring of light around Bors glowed brighter, rose upwards, and then went over the top of the two opponents to form a sealed dome.

"Although your champion can no longer hear you, you can listen to how he fairs in the Trial of Thought."

"Hang on," Arthur stepped forward, then realised he didn't know where the voice was. "The Trial of Thought? We want Bors to do the Trial of Strength."

"I imagine you did." And the voice did its creepy laugh again.

I did warn you, my dear. Do not make deals with the fae.

As helpful as yet another 'I told you so' from Merlin was in this situation, there was nothing more for us to do than settle down and watch Bors compete in a mental challenge. Having repeatedly seen him put his jerkin on the wrong way around, it would be fair to say my hopes weren't high.

*

Bors knew people thought he was stupid.

And he didn't mind. To be honest, he's encouraged the perception.

His size and reputation for brutal insanity made most people he met feel highly uncomfortable around him. So, if it helped smooth things over for him to play at being a bit thick sometimes, that was a price worth paying.

In his heart, Bors liked people and liked people liking him. If they needed to feel superior to him for that to happen, he was okay with it.

So, he felt less immediate concern than Arthur and Morgan when the words "Welcome to the Trial of Thought" boomed out across the glowing cage that had appeared around him and the big streak of piss opposite.

"This trial is a test of your mental acuity. Your opponent will ask you a riddle. If you can solve it, you will be allowed an undefended strike upon him. Should you be unable to answer it, he will be allowed the same. Should the competitor who is struck survive, they will have an opportunity to ask their own riddle, and the pattern will continue. This trial will only complete when one of you is dead."

Bors raised his hand. "I have a few questions."

He was sure he heard the voice sigh. "Ask your questions, little mortal."

"You say 'strike'. Are we talking a bitch-slap, or can I use my axe?"

"You can interpret the instruction in any way you wish. You will, however, note that your opponent, whilst mailed, carries no weapon."

"Fair enough. And, just to check, what are we talking about going on under the armour? Is it mortal? Not that I'm calling you out or anything here, but my boy Gawyne will tell you that just because you cut someone's head off, there's no guarantee it will stay off. If you know what I mean?"

In response, his opponent flicked up the visor of his helm. His voice was deep and raspy. "While I have lived for many centuries, Sir Bors, I am as susceptible to violence as any mortal. Be warned, though. I have undertaken the Trial of Thought countless times over the years. That I stand before you should be all the warning you require. It is not too late to concede and go on your way."

Bors smiled and shook his head. "Nah. Let's play this out."

The knight sighed ruefully and dropped his visor. "As you wish."

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The dome's glow changed to a vivid green, and it looked as if a spotlight focused upon the mailed knight.

"Hear my first riddle:

On grēne mǣdum ond wudu swāðe,

Ic licge stille, sumes gest.

Ic blǣse nāt, hwæðre ic geseo līf,

On fugol ond blōstma, on lēaf ond trēow.

Menn tredað ofer mē, hwæðre hīe mē ne fielað,

Þurh winteres cyle ond sumeres hātu.

Ic bewege nāt, hwæðre fare ic feorr,

Under sunnan, beneoþan steorra."

*

"What the fuck?"

Hang on. It's a weird, old-fashioned form of Saxon. I felt Merlin move some of my Qi to my ears and shivered. The more control I gained over my own powers, the more his doing this sort of thing creeped me out.

Okay. You should be able to understand that going forward.

"What did it mean?"

I jumped as Arthur spoke from behind me.

"In meadows green and forests vast,

I lay in wait, a silent guest.

No breath I take, yet life I see,

In bird and bloom, in leaf and tree.

Men tread on me, yet feel me not,

Through winter's chill and summer's hot.

I do not move, yet travel far,

Under the sun, beneath the star."

By the look on Bor's face, he had as little idea what it meant as I did.

"Any ideas?"

"The answer is a shadow," Arthur said, his eyes glued on his friend in the glowing dome. Bors was shaking his head.

*

"No idea. Go on then, clanky. Give it your best shot."

The mailed knight stepped out of the spotlight and quickly closed the distance between them. His fist blurred, and Bors flew backwards to crash into the magical walls around them. He lay still for a moment, then slowly clambered to his feet, spitting a bloody mouthful of teeth out as he did so.

"Okay. Nice one. Is it my turn now?"

The mailed knight had returned to his spot and raised his visor again. "Sir Bors, you have shown great courage in this endeavour and exemplary resilience in seeking to carry on after my initial strike. Few survive, and fewer still seek to invite a second blow. Please, let us end this now.

"But I want to ask my riddle."

Shaking his head, the knight replaced his visor. "So be it. Should I solve it, I will strike again. I fear you will no longer be alive following that."

"I better make it a good one then.

In the hall, I sit in silence,

Guarding treasures without violence."

"A key," the knight answered immediately and closed the gap. The blow he struck Bors lifted him a foot off his feet.

*

The mailed knight asked four more riddles without answer and immediately solved the three Bors had asked back.

Arthur's fists clenched and reclenched. Neither of us had any idea how the big man was still alive. His face was a ruin. Most of his teeth had been knocked out, and both his cheekbones were shattered. By his stumbling about, it was apparent he could not easily see out of either of his swollen eyes. Having once endured an evening's company of a big fan of all things boxing, I felt I had the mansplained knowledge to state Bors was 'fucked'.

After each blow, the mailed knight had tried to persuade Bors to quit, but the big man simply shook his head and pressed onwards.

It was now Bor's turn to ask the riddle.

"I've been saving this one until I needed it." His head lolled forward, and I think he briefly lost consciousness. But then he stood upright again and swayed back and forth. There was no doubt this was pretty much over.

Bors licked his bruised lips, and a smile formed on his face. As blood leaked down his chin, he forced out the words.

"I am a wonderful help to women,

The hope of something to come.

I harm no one except my slayer.

I stand rooted on a high bed.

I am shaggy below.

I remember a peasant's daughter grabbing my body,

Brushing my red skin, holding me hard,

And claiming my head.

Last night, Mrs Bors caught me fast.

She felt our meeting. Her eye was wet."

For the first time, the mailed knight paused. Just as I hoped there might be some respite to the one-way battering, he nodded and said, "An onion. I am sorry, Sir Bors. You have been a worthy opponent."

He moved forward to deliver what would clearly be a lethal strike when Bors' voice croaked out. "No. That's wrong."

The knight stopped and tilted his head in question. "The answer is clearly 'an onion.' Helpful to women in cookery, gives hope of a coming meal. Harms its slayer by causing tears when cut. Has a rooted top and shaggy roots below. Peasants' daughters dig it up, remove the skin and chop them up. Your wife used one in your meal last night, and her eyes streamed."

"Not the answer I wanted."

"What other possible answer is there?"

Bors cleared his throat and hawked another bloody globful to the ground. "My dick."

The knight did not say anything for a moment. Then, he quickly returned to his place. "In recognition of your sacrifice this day, I will allow your answer fits your riddle more completely than my response. You will be allowed to strike me. You should know, Sir Bors, that I have not been struck in nearly three hundred years. You have truly shown yourself to be amongst the greatest of men in this Trial of Thought. I am sorry that you will die on my next question."

All things being equal, we might have hoped that a single punch from Bors would have a decent chance of ringing this dude's bell. However, looking at the swaying, stumbling figure of what was left of our friend, it was obvious he had nothing left. He wasn't so much punchdrunk as punchparalytic. I doubted the mailed knight would even feel the contact through his armour.

"Cheers, mate."

Bors stumbled towards the knight and lifted both arms above his head as if preparing to try a double-fist downward blow onto his opponent's helm.

I don't think any of us expected him to pull his Great Axe from behind his back to chop downwards with all the momentum of a meteorite with a grudge against the dinosaurs.

The mailed knight was split entirely in two, both sides vanishing in a puff of light as they hit the ground.

There was a moment of silence, and then the unseen voice boomed out in outrage. "Sir Bors! Your opponent merely struck you with their hand. You should have replied in kind."

Clearly, the only thing keeping Bors upright now was that he was pressing all his weight down upon the axe. He looked up to the sky in his reply. "Weren't the fucking Trial of Honour, was it?"