"You've got to admire their pluck," Bors huffed, pressing his back to the door.

"Is that what we have to do? "Arthur grabbed hold of one of the spears pressing through the window, yanked it, and pulled its owner into range for Guinevere to run them through. "Can we not just tell them to fuck off and be done with it?"

"I mean, if you think it would do some good . . ." Bors stuck his head through the now largely totalled cot bed, which was stuck in the window gap. "Oi, you lot. Fuck Off!" He jerked back in time to avoid a flurry of arrows. "Nope. It appears that they're still pretty motivated to get in here."

Guinevere finished with the spearman Arthur had tugged towards her and stepped back, running a hand through her hair. This was not quite the most desperate situation she'd ever been in, but it was still pretty hot work. Her arms ached with the spear's weight and the effort of keeping so many frenzied souls at bay.

"Wizard, how long?" Arthur shouted, half dragging a Saxon into the window space whilst simultaneously beating at them with the butt of his spear.

"Honestly, every time you disturb me by asking that same question, our escape time edges slightly further away. In years to come, I can imagine your descendants will be sitting behind their parents in a motorised conveyance chiming, 'Are we nearly there yet?' and there will be a wailing and gnashing of teeth. Someone will threaten to 'turn this car around, right now,' while the other will offer the ultimate threat, 'Don't make me come back there!' Trust me when I say we will get there when we get there!"

Merlin let Melehan's voice trail off as he realised everybody in the cottage had stopped fighting and was staring at him. "By which, I mean, it's nearly done."

There was a loud, wooden crash, and Bors was shaken momentarily away from the door. "I'm not going to lie, lady and gentlemen, they're giving a pretty decent account of themselves," he said, forcing it back closed with a considerable effort.

"Can we stop complimenting the people trying to kill us!" Guinevere yelled as she stabbed through the window at two very enthusiastic Saxons who seemed inordinately keen to make her acquaintance.

"I call it as I see it. The easiest thing in the world is to go half-arsed at this. You know, let someone else take the lead and hang back until the defenders are worn down. But, no. Not a bit of it. These guys are juiced for it—big thumbs up from me on that score. Oh, shit. Hang on a minute."

For a moment, it seemed Bors was about to be pushed from the door. But then he yanked it open and let five or six Saxons come tumbling in and collapse into a pile.

In seconds, Bors was stepping over them, grabbing his axe and freeing his arms to lay about him into the press beyond the door. It was left to Arthur and Guinevere to make short work of the heaps of arms and legs trying, unsuccessfully, to untangle themselves at his feet.

Once they were no longer of this world, Arthur stepped behind Bors and tapped him on the shoulder. "Switch!"

With a smoothness born of years of practice, Bors—sporting hundreds of minor wounds drenched in blood—moved to the side to let Arthur pass and then retreated back into the relative safety of the cottage.

The Prince of the Britons did not leap into the middle of the fray like his friend. Instead, using the far greater reach of his weapon, he stayed halfway protected in the doorway, thrusting outwards towards anyone that came too close.

"Fuck me, that was glorious!" Bors picked up a dead Saxon off the floor in each hand and posted them out through the window, knocking down those on the other side trying to clamber in. "We need to do this more often."

"Sure," Guinevere said, hoisting a third body onto her shoulder and throwing it out to follow the ones Bors had deposited. "Let's make it an annual thing. We find an isolated spot with no hope of rescue and invite the natives to a picnic."

Bors grinned massively and removed the final bodies, lobbing them through the door and over Arthur's head to relieve the intense pressure on him. "That's what I like about you, Gwin—you're never afraid to get your hands dirty."

There was a pause as each of them watched Arthur defend the doorway.

"You know I may be out of line here," the big man rumbled, "but if seeing that man fight doesn't make you hot, I don't know what will."

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

Guinevere did not answer for a few heartbeats as her husband spun, whirled, and danced to keep at bay the collective efforts of an elite warband to get beyond him. "I guess that's the problem. Sometimes, a woman needs something more than a man handy with his spear."

"Actually, Mrs Bors is quite clear that . . ."

"I beg you not to complete that sentence."

"Fair enough." With that, Bors stepped forward and bodily yanked Arthur back inside the door, slamming it shut and bracing himself once again against it. "Round eight to us, I think?"

Merlin cracked open Melehan's eye, taking in one blood-soaked Bors and the strain on Arthur and Guinevere's faces. He then redoubled his efforts to cycle his Qi.

*

"Can somebody tell me what I'm missing?" Cedric's voice was icily calm.

Those around him instinctively stepped backwards. The heat of their master's rage was directly proportional to the steadiness of his tone.

"This is not a rhetorical question. Why am I not currently in possession of some new prisoners?"

When he received no answers, he pointed at Drynfol, one of his newer recruits. "You. Speak!"

Drynfol might be new, but legends of what occurred when Cedric was displeased were legendary. "We nearly there, sir. It can't be long before they are too exhausted to defend."

With that, everybody took a collective step away from Drynfol. No one needed to be inside this particular splash zone.

"I am sorry. We were waiting for them to give up, were we? I had not realised this was our strategy." Drynfol made to reply, but Cedric pressed on, reaching out and dragging the terrified man up close. "What is the delay? It is two spearmen, a bitch with claws, and a crippled wizard. I have heard that those of the wolf are to be feared! We are a terror to run from, and our shadows are long cast upon the land. We're not a season of rain to be endured. We do not wear down those who oppose us. We take!

And I want to take that fucking cottage!"

Of course, by then, Drynfol had very little opinion on the matter, having had Cedric's knife drawn repeatedly into his chest.

Dropping the corpse, Cedric grabbed the spear from his bodyguard and stalked me towards the cottage.

*

"Thin-looking motherfucker has just shanked one of his own men and is coming this way."

Arthur winced as his wife swore.

Guinevere turned on him with a snarl: "I'm sorry. Is there a list of words you would rather I did not use? Please furnish me with them, and I shall, of course, as a dutiful wife, comply. Or would you rather I simply remain silent?"

"If wishing made it so, "Arthur murmured.

"Fuck you, husband."

"If wishing, made it so."

Bors guffawed at that, breaking the growing tension. "Ah, young love. Nothing like it."

"Britons?" A voice calls from outside.

"Shitstains?" Bors replied in much the same tone.

There was a beat in which the whole of the Saxon army took a step backwards from their increasingly red-faced commander. "Where the famous honour of Uther's men to which I've heard so much? Squirrelling yourself away behind these pathetic walls. Do you not dare to face us?"

"Dude, there are about eighty of you—well, more like sixty since we're going through you like Arthur at a new brothel (sorry, Gwin). We'll stick to our current methodology unless you all fancy getting in line and taking a ticket?"

"Would you not fight me, then? One-on-one. Leader to leader. I promise my men will let you go if you prevail."

"Not seeing much of an incentive here, mate. As far as I can tell, you've given it a good go, we've dicked all over you, and now you're scrambling around trying to save face. I'm sure you're absolutely the man, but I'll wait behind my nice strong stone walls, thank you very much."

"Coward!"

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Trust me. I have the experimental data to back me up on that one."

"Don't you dare fight me?"

"Says the guy with sixty men - actually, it's fifty-nine, isn't it? You killed one of your own a little while back. Just to say - one leader to another - that does surprisingly little for morale, if you are wondering. I'm more the carrot-than-a-stick sort."

"When we pry you loose from your bolt hole, quivering and screaming at our victory, I will ask you again about 'morale'. We will see which of us is laughing then."

"I'll do it!" Bors turned to the speaker, "Seriously?"

Guinevere nodded. "We can't keep this up forever. He sounds like someone who loves the sound of his own voice. He's bound to do all sorts of soliloquising first. It easily buys us enough time for Melehan to do whatever he's up to. And if not," she gave a careless shrug, "then I'll kill him."

"I'm not letting you do that, Gwen."

"Bors, I outrank you in many ways, I'm surprised you can't see me coming up from below. I tell you, I'm doing it. And there's nothing you can do about it."

Bors shifted his eyes to Arthur, who remained silent, then on to Melehan. "Wizard? Any words of wisdom?

"Any time now, just lining up the right spot . . ." Although he kept his voice steady, Merlin was worried. Melehan had a minimal number of fast travel destinations available - he once again reminded himself that not everyone was a legendary cultivator - but none of them were familiar to him.

The last thing they needed was to leave one frying pan and enter a blazing fire. "Five more minutes. Ten Tops."

"Britons! Are you shitting yourself in fear in there?"

Guinevere grabbed Arthurs's spear and yanked the door open. "More like pissing ourselves in laughter. Come on, Cedric, let's have you".