Amidst the clamour of the skirmish, Arthur reigned in his horse and removed his dragon helm. His sweat-slick hair fell forward to cover his eyes, and he swept it back with his forearm.

His gaze fixed upon the shield wall that had formed, almost out of nowhere, ahead of what remained of his spearmen. Each member of the first line wore intricately wrought mail, suggesting he was in the presence of someone’s elite bodyguard, but their shields were blank, with no symbols of their tribe. The sun’s golden rays kissed the steel of their spears and swords, casting a heavenly glow upon their tightly packed ranks.

“Fuck this.”

Arthur was thoroughly over being ambushed. It seemed he could not even travel a short distance to a neighbouring town now without one of his father’s thegns trying to have him assassinated. Even then, he would respect them a lot more if they would, you know, own the attempt.

This whole ‘anonymous strike team’ thing was getting old.

“I feel I should once again mention there is a perfectly serviceable brothel in the castle.” Bors drove his mailed fist through the face of a warrior that had strayed too close. With a flick of his wrist, he dislodged the teeth embedded into the metal.

“Been there. Done them.”

“It just seems like we’re pretty much asking for it at this stage. Anyone with a grudge can just park their húscarlas on any road leading to a big pair of tits, and sooner or later, we’ll walk right into them.”

“What can I say? New is always better.”

There was a disgusted whiny, and Arthur’s horse shook itself. He leaned forward and nuzzled against its neck. “Apart from you, obviously, Llamrei. There’s no horse better.”

“I’m no fertility witch, but maybe try doing that once in a while with the wife? A little Arthur would go a long way to cut back on the wear-and-tear on spearmen.”

Ignoring his friend, Arthur, unslung his own spear, Rhongomyniad and held it high into the air.

“Gather up,” he called out to the rest of his horsemen. With a smoothness born of years of practice, the figures around him quickly fell into a triangle formation with Arthur at the tip. “We all know the drill, quick charge, break the line, slaughter, slaughter, slaughter and back home to Tintagel for mead and muffins. Big stack of treasure for anyone who finds out who these guys serve.”

There was an approving roar and the remaining spears fell back to reinforce the sides of the horsemen. They’d have to sprint outrageously to keep up with the flying wedge formation, but, whatever made them happy, Arthur guessed.

“And charge!”

As the thunder of hooves began, the members of the shield wall started to rethink their career choices.

At no stage was the plan for them to hold against a bloody cavalry charge: they were simply here to block the escape by a broken force once the ambush had done its work and taken out the Prince.

They were a touch light on the details, but what had seemed like a reasonably straightforward hit-and-run job on a wastrel who dipped his wick in any passing puddle of wax seemed to have gone badly wrong.

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They’d seen their commander lead a quick charge against the convoy’s flank which, on a normal day, should have been that. But instead of causing panic and chaos, they’d been repelled by a ferocity that shocked them, and things had quickly descended to a rout as they saw their fellows cut to ribbons.

What was heading their way, very quickly, with the earth itself seeming to tremble, felt sub-optimal.

But it was probably a touch late for such regrets now. If you came for the Prince, you better not miss, and, for whatever reason, their gambit had failed.

The only thing all involved could be sure of was that if Arthur escaped to tell tales, Merlin would curse them to the twentieth generation. A resolve that came from certain and painful death strengthened their arms, and their shields snapped to overlap like scales. The rhythm of their breathing synchronized, a collective heartbeat that echoed the completeness of their purpose.

As they prepared themselves, the sound of thundering hooves grew deafening, the ground vibrating beneath Arthur’s charge. However, the shield wall remained still, awaiting the moment of impact.

What else could they do?

The clash was seismic, the collision of forces creating a shockwave that reverberated through the ground. The charge met the shield wall with a force that shattered bone and crushed people under hooves.

For a moment, it seemed like the forward momentum would stall, but the flying wedge’s true power emerged in the chaos that followed.

Arthur, at the tip of the thrust, broke through the line and created an opening in a fairly conclusive manner. His horse reared up, lashing out with its hooves, whilst he swung his spear in a wide arc. The defenders staggered as their cohesion began to shatter, and the rest of his forces surged into the gap he created.

Arthur dismounted, his feet hitting the uneven ground with a solid thud. The din of battle surrounded him - a symphony of clashing metal, cries of triumph, and anguished screams. This was one of the few times that he felt truly alive. The adrenaline surged through his veins as he engaged one of the bodyguards at close quarters. His spear became an extension of his arm, striking out in calculated arcs.

Every movement was a dance of survival and conquest. The clash of weapons sent sparks flying, and the acrid smell of sweat and blood filled the air. Arthur’s focus narrowed to the enemies before him - their eyes filled with desperation and defiance. He ignored Bors at his side, bellowing his strange battle cry, and drove forwards exploiting the openings in their defences his charge had caused.

He might have been unaware, but a small group of knights formed a protective circle around him that melded into a singular unit. Each relied on the other, their movements complementing and reinforcing one another. The rhythmic clash of weapons marked the ebb and flow of the battle as they pushed forward, and the enemy began to collapse under the pressure.

As the momentum of that initial charge began to fade, fatigue started to creep in. However, the flying wedge’s initial breach had created a domino effect, and the enemy shield wall was almost wholly disintegrated.

It was over.

Or, at least, that was what should have happened.

Instead, Arthur found himself facing one warrior that seemed to be holding the last vestiges of the line together on his own. At his feet were several of Arthur’s men. That in itself meant little to him, but he had an image to maintain.

He adjusted his grip on Rhongomyniad and and flung it straight at that final opponent. In his experience, that should have been that and certainly, things would have worked out poorly for that warrior had he not raised his hand and pushed the onrushing spear to one side.

It was such a surprise that, for a moment, nothing else happened. Arthur’s eyes met those of his opponent who, he was sure, seemed to wink at him.

“Wizard!”

The warning cry went up from those around Arthur. It may have been a generation since anyone had fielded magic against Uther’s forces, but they had trained extensively to counteract such a foe. You did not share a castle with Merlin and have any complacency around the power of magic and its potentially devastating impact on a battlefield.

When facing a cultivator in the open field, Merlin recommended there were only two courses of action that would keep you alive. For reasons only Bors and Arthur we’re aware, Option A - Run like bastards and get a message to me to come and pull you out of the fire - was not on the table.

Thus, it was time to give Option B a whirl. Merlin had codenamed this ‘Operation It’s-All-Fun-And-Games-Until-Someone-Loses-An-Eye.’

In seconds, Arthur’s men changed formation into two short lines: one kneeling in front of the other. “First row. Present. Loose. Reload.” Bors quickly led his men through a drill none of them had ever thought they would use. “Second row. Present. Loose. Reload. First row...”

You are missing out if you’ve never seen knights in full chainmail speed load and shoot crossbows before. You would think it would be an absolute carriage wreck, but give a people twenty-odd years of practice and some pretty clear motivation, and you’d be amazed what could be achieved.

The opposing wizard did a pretty decent job of deflecting most of the projectiles. The thing is, with crossbow bolts, ‘most’ didn’t really cut it.

After the tenth volley, there was not an awful lot left to provide opposition.

Bors threw the recovered Rhongomyniad back to Arthur, who caught it one-handed. “That was intense.”

Arthur nodded. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance the men will think that was a drill, is there?”

Bors looked around at a lot of confused people, all of whom were having some version of the conversation: “Holy shit! That was a wizard. How did they have a wizard? Do the bad guys have wizards now? Where was Merlin? Isn’t he supposed to deal with anything like that?”

“

I fear, my Lord, that the cat may be out of the bag.”