Two archers were watching the lone, red-headed warrior run towards them. She'd been charging for some time. The only thing that made sense about what she was doing was that they figured she'd misjudged the distance somewhat.

That could happen on a battlefield. You saw a big group ahead of you and instinctively thought it was much closer than it was. It was just a basic survival instinct. Both of them had known others in their war party do the same; they'd panic and let loose shots when the enemy was still several miles away.

The taller of the two bent, picked up some grass and tossed it into the air to check the wind. "What do you reckon? Right tit?"

Dæglaf glanced at his friend and then back at the running woman. Not only had she spectacularly misjudged the distance to them, but she'd delivered her battle cry far too early in the piece. All credit to her, she was trying her hardest to keep it going, but you don't pick a battle cry that ended in 'O'. That was just common sense. For the last ten seconds, the charging warrior had sounded like she was doing an impression of a rather camp ghost.

"From this distance, a tit? Even for you, that's too easy."

"What do you reckon then?" Ingwald had drawn an arrow and was in the process of notching it.

"She's got a mole above her right eye. You hit that, today's mead ration is yours."

"Fuck off. A mole? I can't even see it."

Dæglaf shrugged. "That's the bet. You hit that mole, and the mead's yours. Or we can just agree I'm the superior shot."

"Fine. The mole." Ingwald tracked the running warrior for a few seconds down the arrow shaft. Then, as was his custom, he took and held a breath for a few beats. He led her slightly, and as he breathed out, he took the shot.

The two watched the arrow streak towards the warrior and then ... impact.

After a few seconds, Dæglaf was the first to speak. "Well, that was unexpected."

*

I'd given up on my 'Frodo' battle cry.

Instead, as I plodded onwards towards the encircling army, I was going for the much less Tolkienesque - or, I guess, Jacksonesque - "Fucking. Enhanced. Eyesight. Making. Everything. Look. Very. Close."

If I had imagined a glorious arrow-filled Leonidas-inspired death, I sensed I was going to be disappointed. As far as I could tell, most of the army was just ignoring me; I was still a few minutes out, but that felt pretty disrespectful.

Although, saying that, there were a couple of archers that finally seemed to be taking an interest. I saw one of them pull an arrow from his quiver, and I changed course to run towards them. The second he released the arrow - after what I considered to be quite an elaborate set-up. I mean, come on, mate, it's a bow and arrow, not a religious experience - I realised something pretty important.

I absolutely didn't want to die.

Almost in instinct, I filled my hands with Qi and 'wax-on-wax-offed' the area in front of me, creating a shield of purple that, a second later, the arrow smashed into. I say 'smashed into', but the arrow was utterly obliterated just before it hit.

There was a beat, and then it would be fair to say I was suddenly very much more of interest to the rest of the army.

*

Melehan's eyebrows rose so quickly it was amazing they stayed attached to his forehead.

"What the fuck was that?" Pæga shrieked.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

"It was just a standard shield spell. It's just ..."

"A shield spell? The arrow exploded!"

"Cultivators usually carefully calibrate the power they give to their shields to deflect projectiles away, rather than destroy them. To waste so much Qi on a single arrow. Well..."

"Will you fucking complete your sentences! It doesn't make you seem mysterious, wizard. It just makes you annoying."

Melehan, once more, cycled his Qi away from his hands. He was envisaging ripping out Pæga's tongue, and it would be best if he didn't have the strength to do it. "My apologies, my Lord. I was just a little startled. I was going to say that for a cultivator to waste so much Qi in such a careless manner, they must be a significant powerhouse."

"It's not Merlin in disguise, is it?" Pæga was peering into the distance where the cultivator was hidden behind the barrier she'd erected.

"I doubt it. But I will tell you one thing, I think we've found who killed the dragon. The reserves of power she must have to use so much like that..."

*

So, it was another good news, bad news situation.

I was alive—big tick. But I seemed to have used up all of my Qi- not ideal, just one arrow into the battle. A quick glance in my artist's studio showed that the cupboard was absolutely bare: there was barely a drop of purple paint to be found anywhere.

Then, I was dragged back to the real world as the sky darkened, and seemingly every arrow in the universe was launched towards me.

*

"Cease fire. Cease fire!" Beornulf, Pæga's second-in-command, arrived running. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Melehan had even less time for Beornulf than he did for Pæga. Whereas the force commander was a petty, vicious tyrant, there was nothing 'petty' about Beornulf. The only true 'veteran' in the force, the big man had reportedly fought successful engagements across the world. When in his cups, he would admit to having been somewhat of a 'naughty pirate' in his youth, which most considered to mean 'brutal slaver'. Nothing Melehan had seen in the man's behaviour would have argued against that.

"That's a fucking cultivator!"

"Yes. We'd noticed, Beornulf. Thank you", Pæga sneered. "We're dealing with the situation."

"You don't fire arrows at someone that strong. You fucking run! Or," he said, turning to Melehan, "you point your own cultivator their way, and you charge with everything you've got!"

Melehan felt his throat go dry. He knew he would have to try to deal with this threat, but ... well, the profligacy with which the Celt had used her Qi stunned him. If he'd poured that much into a simple shield spell, he'd have nothing left for the rest of the day.

The idea of, casually, throwing that much out there just to catch an arrow ... Well, he figured he'd be lucky to make it down the hill before she flayed the flesh from his bones.

"Don't be a dick, Beornulf. We need Melehan more than we need a dead enemy wizard. I'm not wasting him in our first proper enemy action. And I'm certainly not 'charging' in these circumstances. We will withdraw if we cannot destroy this threat by conventional means." Pæga turned to look at his wizard. "Unless you feel up to it, of course?"

Melehan tried to keep his voice level as relief flooded through him. "I regret to say I may well be overmatched one-on-one here, my Lord."

Beornulf went bright red. "He doesn't get to choose whether to engage an enemy cultivator! You know our orders. We exterminate any wizards we come across with extreme prejudice. Get your arse down there or, by the heavens, I will -"

It was unclear what Beornulf was planning to do as a bouncing, cartwheeling, flaming sword scythed straight through him on its way back towards the enemy cultivator.

Melehan and Pæga watched the two burning halves of the body fall to the floor and then raised their eyes to follow the sword as it flew to nestle in the hand of the Celt.

"Fuck. Me. Sound the retreat!" Pæga shouted, scrambling back on his horse. "Wizard, get the word out. We have been engaged by enemy practitioners and are retreating, with some losses, back to the muster point."

Melehan nodded dumbly, staring down at the two halves of Beornulf's body. He hadn't even seen her throw the sword ...

*

My purple shield slowly failed under the hail of arrows. By the time I heard someone shout 'cease-fire!' there was nothing more than a thin purple mist in front of me.

One more volley, and that would be that.

I looked back in my artist's studio to see if, by some miracle, my channels happened to be flowing with paint again, but no. Utterly dry.

I shook my head to try to clear an odd buzzing sound in my ear, something like a slightly disgruntled bee.

I wondered if that was a side-effect of complete Qi exhaustion? But then, the longer I listened, the more it sounded like ...

FUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKKKKKIIIINNNNNGGGGG HAAAAAAAAAAAAVVVVVVVEEEE IIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTT

With a start, I peered through the rapidly discharging mist and saw a bouncing, spinning, flaming sword crashing across the ground back towards me.

It passed through the little group of Dick #1, Dick #2 and the wizard (I think it literally passed through Dick #2) before smacking, hilt first, into my outstretched hand.

Boomerang attack, baby. Fucking A.

I looked up to see the army that had me utterly and entirely at its mercy retreat faster than ... no, on reflection, that sort of bellicose xenophobia about another country's armed forces should be beneath me.

They can't help being cheese-eating surrender monkeys.