To call the dirt track we were progressing down a 'road' would be stretching it somewhat. I'm sure after a hundred and fifty-odd heavily armoured men had lolloped their way down it, there was a little more to it, but for those of us near the front, we felt like we were navigating a little by gut instinct and guesswork.

The makeup of our column would be pretty interesting to a student of Machiavelli. Arthur's forces - which had only lost a handful in the battles with the goblins - topped and tailed the formation. Lancelot had argued against splitting our forces, but I could see the sense in what was intended. When the chips were down, it was only those who had the red dragon on their shields that we truly felt we could rely on. Basically, Arthur figured the others would be less likely to run if they had to do so past his men.

To be honest, I think the King would have liked to have added the double buffer of doing the same with Owain's men, but there just not enough of them left. In lieu of their own leader, the King of Gwent had taken control of Corys’s abandoned spears and had integrated his men into those. Owain held the middle of the column, and we had high hopes that this might actually work to install a bit of order.

"I've probably fucked enough women from Dehuebarch to be most of these guy's daddy," he had said with a giant, shit-eating grin on his face. But I could sense his worry. The single best service Corys's men could do him now - behind simply leaving him to fuck himself senseless in a Fae glade - would be to ensure that the King of Gwent had a mishap.

I wasn't wild about leaving one of the few men on this quest that I liked in the middle of - at best - an ambivalent force, but Arthur was right. What choice did we really have? "He's not got enough men, wizard. I could hide him under my skirt tails, but he wouldn't thank me for it. You're only a king for as long as people feel you are strong enough to hold that title. Owain either earns the respect of the men of Dehuebarch, or there's nothing to be done for him. He wouldn't want it any other way. Ask him if you think I'm wrong."

I was pretty sure there were other options available other than crossing our fingers and hoping our staunchest ally wasn't merked by the men he commanded, but I was a humble twenty-first century wizard. What did I know about military strategy? The only time I ever played Total War, I used the cheat code to have twenty-thousand prime horse archers covered by several million cannons on turn 2.

However, the issues around Owain were minor compared to the headaches of Beric and Mark.

We'd spent some time determining how best to neutralise their threat. Having them next to each other in the column was a non-starter. Together, they had the single biggest number of spears. Even if Corys's men stayed out of any confrontation, it would still be ninety-odd against a little more than fifty. I was starting to have enough self-esteem to recognise I tipped the scales the other way reasonably effectively, and Lancelot was worth at least ten on his own. Still, if ninety men in the middle of the line acted up, there would be momentum behind that, which would get gnarly.

I don't care how good you are; an arrow through the throat was pretty compelling in any argument, and we couldn't be everywhere.

So, Arthur had popped Owain in the middle of them, splitting his two biggest detractors with the firebreak of the remainder of the spears of Gwent and Corys's abandoned men.

All that had been left to decide was who to put at Arthur's back and who to have a little too far out of observable range to keep honest. Neither was an attractive option, but it was Lancelot who decided it—or, rather, Lancelot's enmity with Beric.

Ever since the duel in Tintagel on the eve of the quest, Lancelot and the men of Powys had been niggling at each other. There's been nothing overt - you didn't prod a bear that could comfortably eat you whole without trying - but even I was aware of the tension. And I was about as oblivious to social cues and atmospheric undercurrents as it was possible to be.

As tempers were getting a little short post-captivity with the Fae and the whole 'not being a tongued one', Arthur had put Lancelot in charge of the men at the rear, bookending Mark's forces with Owain, and had Beric between the middle and the remaining Dunmonians at the front.

"Like it, I do not," Lancelot had said, flexing his pecs. "I can reach you in a crisis, but quick it won't be."

Arthur bristled at that. He liked the barbarian - hell, he liked him so much I felt like an absolute card not sharing more about what I knew was coming down the road - but he didn't want to give anyone the impression he needed babysitting. “In a 'crisis', Lancelot, you will stay in position and lead your men. You are not my spaniel to come running at the first sign of trouble. I was carrying my own water long before you arrived at Tintagel's gate."

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They hadn't spoken much after that.

We'd been travelling in a column for the best part of the day without seeing or hearing another sound. There wasn't even the sort of noise I might have expected in a deep forest like this: the sounds of small children murdering old women in confectionary-based houses and suchlike. You know, just the classics.

I kept questing out with my Qi, but the sheer intensity of the Wood Qi around us overwhelmed my senses. Thanks to a few pointers from Merlin, I was just about able to keep my eye on the column, but it was like having to squint for the blobs of darkness in the middle of a neon rave.

"Do you think the Fae will follow us?"

Arthur's voice shook me out of my latest search for dangers. I sped up my horse and drew next to him. It might have been my imagination, but he looked . . . bigger, somehow. Not like he was physically growing, of course, But rather, he was more substantially filling his space.

I had a pretty complex history with Arthur - and, even as I say this, I know this is a crazy thing to even consider. I mean, me! A fuck-up from the mean streets of Brum having any sort of history with the Once and Future King was mental. But I did, and it involved a lot of fire, a fair bit of mental anguish and lashings of arse-kickings. It was, thus, a bit odd that I was feeling something like . . . was that respect?

I did say, my dear, when you get to know him, he is pretty impressive.

He did have a point, though. Ever since he'd crashed through those goblins, rearing high on Llameri's saddle, I was having this uncomfortable feeling in my chest. I kind of think I wanted to have his back.

Fuck me, I was getting sentimental in my old age.

I realised I was staring at him without giving any answer. "From what I understand of Fae culture," I said, "they won't be too motivated to pursue us. Merlin reckons anyone up for hunting us won't push it beyond where Tresaith is waiting."

Arthur nodded slowly. "Do you think we should have struck for home?"

I laughed at that. "Shit. I don't know. You're the boss."

My dear, he needs more from you than that. Part of the deal that comes with being a counsellor to a king, is that you need to - you know - actually counsel him. "Shit. I don't know," is not quite good enough.

"What do I say? I have no idea. We're still a fighting force, but I don't know how wise it is for us to keep pushing on."

So tell him that. He does not need you to agree with him, my dear. He needs to talk aloud with someone he trusts. Lancelot is all the way at the back of this disparate pack, and Owain is needed to hold the middle. I'm pretty sure if Llameri could talk, he would rather chat it through with her, but without that option, it is down to you.

"By which, I mean, of course," I added, silently cursing Merlin, "is that I'm not sure. My lord, we haven't achieved what we set out to do yet, and good people have died. I don't think there's going to be many spearmen back there damning your name because we're still on the hunt for the sword."

Arthur grunted, and we rode in silence for a little while. Then he said, "I'm worried about the Fae."

I waited for him to say more. Just when I thought that was going to be it, he continued. "They're too strong. If it had not been for Tresaith, I do not doubt they would have executed us all on the morrow. And there would have been nothing we could have done about it. Even their children had powers that dwarfed those of our mightiest warriors."

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. That was what counsellors did, wasn't it?

"It's a bit like worrying about the tide, isn't it?"

He turned to me, eyes like still ponds. "Explain."

"Long ago - although, saying that, I'm probably talking about your great-great-great grandson or some time-whimey bullshit like that - there was (or will be) a king called Canute. He decided that the best way to prove his power was to test himself against the sea. So he wandered his royal arse down to the coast, sat down in the sand and told the tide not to come in."

"And what happened?"

"What the fuck do you think happened? Motherfucker got wet."

"I'm struggling to follow your point, wizard."

I flicked my hair back in what I hoped looked like a careless manner. "There are powers in the world we cannot do much about. I'd suggest that the Fae are one of them. Worrying about them won't do us any good. Just as ordering the tide not to come in didn't bother it any. As you say, they're too strong. If they want to wipe us out, the best we can do is choose the cloth they use. Worry about things you can affect; don't waste time on things you cannot."

I felt I'd just bastardised something my sponsor at AA had once said to me, but it seemed to do the trick. Some of the tension slipped away from the king's shoulders.

Well done, my dear. However, in the interests of fairness, I should note that Canute took to the beach to demonstrate to his court the limits of his power. He was seeking to make the very point you did and it's a travesty he's remembered as some sort of unstoppable moron when he was - in truth - a very wise and decent king.

"Yeah, my heart bleeds for him."

But then we all had much more to worry about than long dead - or long before being alive—one of the two - British monarchs.

Because the woods were suddenly filled with a familiar chittering and screeching.

The goblins were back for round three.

And this is time, it seemed like they meant for it to stick.