“They stink, don’t they?”

Anlaf looked at his brother and frowned. “They what?”

“The Saxons. They stink.” Aldwine leant over the top of the stone walls and spat towards the gathering enemy.

“Can’t say I’ve ever noticed. I mean, if you’re looking for things to hate on them for, I’d probably go with all the raping and the pillaging. Bit weird to bring their smell into it, isn't it?”

“I said what I said, and I means what I means.”

It wasn’t the first time Anlaf had cause to curse his mother’s last words: ‘take care of your brother.’ It wasn’t always easy looking out for a half-wit.

The morning mist outside Isca Dumnoniorum clung to the ground like a shroud, obscuring much of the impending carnage that lurked beyond. It had been the worst kept secret in the land that the Saxon invasion would pass beneath what remained of these Roman walls. Anlaf and Aldwine were just two of the spearmen who had been funnelled into bolstering the settlement’s defences.

But, thought Anlaf, there were worse places to be in the world than behind stone walls.

Like being the ones preparing to attack it.

The Saxons stood in grim silence on the plain before the town. Their war parties had started to arrive a few days earlier, and now, with them all apparently here, and arranged in one massive group, they made for a pretty intimidating sight. Their eyes gleamed with a ferocity that matched the iron of their weapons, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat and anticipation.

It had been generations since anyone had seen the Saxons gather in anything like these numbers. Putting this many bodies in the field with Merlin around was a fool’s errand. The defenders were looking forward to seeing the legendary wizard in action.

Of course, they’d heard that the Saxons had their own practitioners in the lines arranged before them, but hey, they had Merlin. You didn't worry about fighting a guy packing a butter knife when you had a broadsword, a mace, eight crossbows and twelve cave bears.

Such was the upbeat mood amongst the defenders, that bets were running on what he would turn them into when he arrived: ‘puddles of white-hot goo’ was currently the odds-on favourite. But ‘turtles’ was running a close second. No one could quite explain why.

With no apparent reason behind it, across the whole army, there were versions of the following conversation taking place: “It’s not like he has a history of reptile-based transformations, is it? Why would anyone bet on that? It sounds like someone might be in the know; maybe one of Arthur’s boys has had a chat and is trying to pull a fast one. So, I stuck everything I own it.” Either way, there was a lot of money on the line when he finally showed up.

Anlaf watched the Saxons’ preparations with a critical eye.

‘Fair play to them,’ he thought, ‘they were fronting up as if this wasn’t a foregone conclusion.’

He turned back to his brother, who had returned to mining for gold with a finger embedded up his nose. “You remember the plan?”

Aldwine paused his prospecting and consumed what he had found with relish. “Sure. I stick anyone who tries to climb over this bit of wall with my spear.”

“And?”

“And I don’t fall down, or the stinking Saxons will kill me.”

“Again with the stinking?”

“I saids what I said.”

Anlaf shrugged and went back to watching the Saxon preparations. He figured when they got enough of a head of steam up, they would charge and try to climb the section a little way down from their bit. The stone was pretty patchy down there, and anyone determined enough, and with a long enough ladder, would have a good chance of finding a way up it.

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The section the brothers were defending would make a pretty uninspiring focal point for an attack but offered a good view of the assault for the moment Merlin showed up and unleashed hell. Or created an impromptu aquarium. One of the two.

Having sensibly spread his bets across all options, all in all, Anlaf felt today would be a good day.

He noticed movement and nudged his brother to draw Aldwine’s attention. “Oh, here we go. They’re going to try the walls.”

One of the Saxon war parties had split away from the others and were obviously getting themselves psyched up for a charge. Their chieftain, a massive bearded figure, raised his sword high and shouted something fairly uncomplimentary about Arthur’s parentage.

Aldwine shuffled uncomfortably. “No need for that. Don’t need to bring the Queen Igraine into it. Bit classless that.”

“Seriously?”

“What? I always liked Queen Igraine. She gave me a biscuit once.”

“What are you talking about? You’ve never met any royalty.”

“I did, too! The Queen was there, and Prince Arthur and she gave me a biscuit and told me I was the bestest boy in the whole world. And then they flew away on a unicorn.”

Anlaf closed his eyes momentarily and undertook his customary five count before answering. “You’re absolutely right. I forgot about that that. Lovely woman, Queen Igraine.”

That seemed to satisfy Aldwine, and he went back to gazing absently at the Saxon horde.

In response to the Chieftan’s declaration, the war party shouted back, and, with a roar that echoed through the mist, they surged forward as a single entity, a living avalanche.

Anlaf could see the defenders perched atop the fragmented wall, watching as the enemy advanced. He could see their fingers tighten around spears and bows and knew that unease was sweeping through their ranks.

Given a choice, you always wanted the high ground, but no one liked to stand there and wait for the enemy to come into range.

At just the right moment, the first volley of arrows took flight, a lethal cloud that darkened the sky. At least, that’s how Anlaf assumed the chronicles would record it. To his eye, it was fired a touch early - nerves, he thought - and was a more gentle sprinkling than anything especially lethal. You didn’t dump your load too early in the piece, and, anyway, arrows were expensive. This wouldn’t be the only charge of the day, and you didn’t want an empty quiver when things really hotted up.

Nevertheless, the sound of wood striking wood was like a concussive drumbeat. Saxon warriors stumbled, their screams swallowed by the shouts and jeers from those above them. But the gaps in their ranks were swiftly filled by those who pressed forward, driven by a hunger for revenge.

“Right, now we’ll see how much they fancy it. What do you reckon, any of them reach the top?” The brothers watched as ladders were propped against the least well-maintained wall sections.

Aldwine considered. “Nah, not this time. Looks a bit half-hearted to me.”

To be fair, the clash near the top of the ladders was pretty brutal, a maelstrom of clashing steel, splintered wood, and anguished cries. Shields met shields, and the impact of men being thrown from the top of the wall was like a thunderclap reverberating through the bones of those below.

Spears rose and fell, driven by the primal instinct to survive and conquer. Blood mingled with the dust beneath boots, and flowed down the walls in long streaks.

“Yeah,” Anlaf nodded, “all a bit tentative, ain’t it? You can’t fanny about like that. Get to the top and fuck shit up.”

Aldwine gasped and covered his ears. “You said a naughty word. I’m telling.”

His brother sighed and restarted a five count.

Amidst the chaos, heroes amongst the Saxons emerged, their voices like beacons in the storm. Commands were shouted, strategies attempting to be carved from the chaos. But it wasn’t to be. The defenders fought with a clinical resolve, determined to hold the top of the wall and protect their homes from the encroaching tide of violence.

“Oh, hang on. He’s looking a bit lively.” Aldwine was pointing excitedly at the Saxon chieftan who, in the midst of the fray, had reached the top of a ladder and was carving a path of destruction amongst the British spears. He was a force of nature. With each swing of his blade, he carved through spearmen, his path marked by fallen bodies.

Anlaf nodded approvingly. “Yeah, got to hand it to him, he’s not fucking about.” He ignored his brother’s gasp of horror. “Mind you, unless he gets some back up soon he’s going to be - ah, that’s a shame. You hate to see it.”

Three defenders had isolated the chieftan and he fell from the wall, their spears thrust through him.

“Think that will be it for a bit?”

Anlaf nodded in agreement. “Yeah, they’ll need to rethink that attack formation a bit. You don’t want to leave the ones who can handle themselves exposed like that. Rookie error. Although -”

Both brothers glanced at each other as a single figure walked towards their part of the wall. He was wearing robes and a pointy hat.

“What’s this stinker doing?”

Anlaf shrugged. “No idea. But it looks like there’s a bunch of them doing the same thing.”

Across each length of the wall for as far as Anlaf could see, one of these oddly dresses figures was now standing. A few archers made half-hearted efforts to shoot towards them, but the range was too far.

They started to, for want of a better word, ‘wriggle’ their fingers towards the defences.

Anlaf suddenly had a terrible feeling. “Aldwine, mate, we just need to step back a bit”

“What? Why? I want to watch!”

“I just think we might -”

And then the fireballs struck