"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."

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

"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.