It took Drynwyn far less time to cut through . . . look, I’m just going to call him Lancelot because anything else sounds stupid, okay?

Anyway, Drynwyn did its thing, and there was soon a large hole in the cell door.

However, as it turned out, it was not Lancelot size.

Even seated and in chains, I could tell this was a big man—maybe not Bors big - but there were not enough of those genes to go around.

Lancelot had long, dark hair that reached well past his shoulders yet was wholly clean-shaven. He could have been anywhere from twenty to forty, but the glint in his mischievous blue eyes suggested he could be even younger.

Trust me, if there's one thing I know, it's when I'm in the presence of trouble. And this dude was TROUBLE. I’ve had my fair share - and probably several other people’s - of tall, dark, and handsome fellas. Most of these turned out to be mad, bad, and catastrophically dangerous to know. So, I think I’m speaking from a position of knowledge when I say nothing good would come from letting this guy out of his cell.

And that was before fifteen hundred years of Arthurian lore hit me square in the head.

Lancelot.

Fucking Lancelot. The greatest of all Arthur’s knights. The embodiment of the verray parfait gentle knyght.

Lancelot, whose failure to keep it in his pants, led to Camelot falling.

I remembered my vision of Camlyn from the Enchanted Forest. Could I avoid all that pain and heartache if I just shuffled down the corridor and pretended I had never heard of him?

“Good to see you, it is being. I have alone for a long time been. Please to try out my shower.” He nodded towards a stream of water pouring from a hole in the roof of his cell.

Two things struck me: firstly, I think Lancelot may be a touch slow. Not like a complete full-on moron or anything. But I’d be thinking twice about letting him stroke my hair in a barn, if you know what I’m saying.

Secondly, though—and this was a bit more critical—I could see the sky through the gap in the roof through which water was pouring.

*

“Look, as massive, traumatic chest wounds go, I’ve seen worse.” Bors's voice was trying to project as much confidence as possible; it was failing.

Arthur kneeled by the unconscious form of his wife. They’d done what they could to stem the bleeding, and - in relative terms - she seemed stable. There just wasn’t a long way to go from stable to very terminal. “There’s got to be something you can do, wizard?” the Prince asked desperately.

Merlin shook Melehan’s head. "I'm afraid the fast travelling has completely drained my Qi. In enough time, I should be able to do something, but . . ."

The three of them looked down at the blood-soaked grass beneath Guinevere. They all knew they didn’t have that sort of time.

The Dark Tower loomed above them. They'd teleported to a tiny copse of wood just to the right of its heavily guarded entrance.

“My Lord,” Bors said, gasping his axe, “if there is one thing I know about a building like that, it is that it has to be crammed with healers. Just packed with them.”

Arthur raised his eyes to his friend. “Along with the hundreds of warriors, they are there to heal.”

“Maybe. But do you have a better plan?”

“So what? March down there, grab someone and ask them to take you to their healer?” He looked down at his wife. She was paler now than when they’d arrived. If that was possible. “To the Enchanted Forest, to the Bridge of Dreams, and finally to the Castle Perilous."

“What?”

“This quest turns out to be more accurate than we thought.” Arthur shook his head. “I don’t even have a weapon.”

Bors nodded at the guards at the entrance to the Dark Tower. "While we're enquiring about the whereabouts of their healers, we can ask the way to the armoury. Or we can just fuck them up as we go. You know, old school.”

“Old school." Arthur's eyes searched those of his friend. "You sure you want to do this?”

Bors shrugged back. “You want to sit here and watch her die?”

Arthur covered one of Guinevere’s hands with his own and squeezed it. “No, I cannot do that,” he said, standing and pointing at Melehan. “Every pinch of Qi you generate is directed at her. You keep her alive, you understand me? I don’t need her healed—we’ll get somebody else to do that—but you don’t let her die. Do you hear me?”

Merlin nodded Melehan’s head. "I do, my dear – my Lord, I will do my best, but her wound…"

Arthur reached forward and picked the Saxon Wizard up with one hand, raising him to within inches of his face. “Let me speak plain. Sir Bors and I are going into that fucking tower and will be coming out with a healer. We’re going to kill anybody that stands in our way, and chances are, this will get us a bit riled up. If, healer in tow, I find my way back here, and my wife is no longer with us, the trauma you received at the hands of Cedric of the West Saxons will feel like the genuine and kindest of ministrations at the hand of a lust-filled virgin compared to what I’ll visit on you. And when I’m done, which will take a very long time, Sir Bors will …

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

Arthur looked at the big man, who added, "Fuck you up the arse with my axe.”

There was a pause, and then the Prince continued, “Do we have an understanding, wizard?”

Melehan’s head nodded. "I will do everything I can, my Lord."

“You better.” Arthur let their wizard fall back to the floor and turned to Bors. “Let’s go.”

As the two stalked into the shadows to approach the Dark Tower, Merlin could just make out the last bits of their conversation. “Fuck him up the arse with your axe? That was the best you could do?”

“I panicked. You were all over this vengeance nightmare vibe, and I didn’t expect you to throw it at me. I wasn’t prepared,” and then they were swallowed up in the darkness.

*

Aurelius Ambrosius was not having a perfect day.

Of course, these things were relative. When you were the Bretwalda of all Saxon territories in Britain, even your bad days were better than most. He was well-fed, well-fucked and had access to any number of minor quality-of-life benefits.

Hot running water and the like.

Moreover, he sat in a giant Qi-purifying tower, which ensured that even as he slept, the roaring fire of his need for Qi was kept well-fuelled.

He was, by any measure, winning.

And that mattered more to him than anything else in the world.

So, this afternoon's little reversals were not all that significant in the grand scheme of things.

Nevertheless, Merlin’s apprentice wriggling free from the time-loop pit he had thrown her into was annoying. He had any number of games planned there, and it was irritating that they would go unfulfilled. He knew such things as that should have been beneath him - he should have crushed the life from her the moment he had her in his powers – but there are so few true pleasures left for him in life that he simply couldn't resist.

By necessity, he wasn’t present for Merlin’s last moments, so he had been looking forward to grinding his nemesis' apprentice down to the dust – in proxy, as it were.

And now she was out and about on the top floor and had already freed that bitch Morgon Le Fay.

Mind you, by his reckoning, that girl apprentice had been in his time-loop for just shy of a hundred years. He doubted she’d have much sanity left to do more than wander the corridors and gibber.

And Morgan Le Fray being freed? Well, he had caught her before and doubted the old witch would risk tangling with him again.

So, his day had two minor blemishes.

Neither was ideal, but he shouldn't really be losing any sleep of them.

The third issue was a bit vexatious.

Cedric had managed to lose Arthur.

Of course, the West Saxon had not known who he had captured. Aurelius knew enough about the extent of that man's ambitions never to let him know the full extent of what he had in his hands.

But captured him, he had. And somehow, he’d let him slip away.

Aurelius reached for his leather pouch and took out three vials, downing them all in one go.

This was inadvisable.

Even with his myriad of resistance and healing capabilities, he knew better than to do this.

But, after all, what was life without risk?

The combination of acid, poison and the dragon’s blood burned down his throat, destroying flesh and tissue, blistering as it went.

Aurelius pushed the merest spark of his Qi towards it, not wanting to dull its effects, but neither was he so blasé about his life that he’d risk actual harm.

It was just at that moment that he felt the whisper - the merest hint - of a presence that made his eyes open wide, and he sprayed the remaining half mouthful against the wall.

Where it quickly burned a massive hole in the stone.

*

“You have beautiful hair,”

“Cheers.”

“It’s red like the sun.”

“Yep.”

“Mother said women who look like you are snares for the pure of heart and must be butchered why they stand.”

“Thanks - hang on, what?”

We are trying, unsuccessfully, I might add, to force the hole in the roof of Lancelot’s cell to increase in size.

Drynwyn is no fucking use. Apparently, something as facile as pouring rainwater has the equivalent impact of an ice bath on a horny teenager.

His flame simply would not flicker.

The cell roof was about ten feet above the ground, so the only way we could reach it, if my hydrophobic sword wasn’t an option, was for one of us to sit on the other's shoulders while the other tried to break the ceiling down.

Fun fact: Being a cultivator did something crazy for my mass. In addition to being faster, stronger, and fitter than I’ve ever been, I am also—in the words of a recently released prisoner—" weigh as much as a whole whale of sperm.”

Excellent.

So, I have insane weight gain to add to my list of anxieties.

This is why Lancelot is sitting on my shoulders, petting me like a dog.

“Snares for the pure of heart. That is why killed she did Brunhilde, Sigurd, and Valeson. She said they were trying to take me away from her. I don’t think she’ll like you.”

“Well, she can go and join the club. We've got jackets and a theme song and everything. Are you having any luck?”

“At what?”

This dude had to have, at best, a room-temperature IQ. "You're pulling me down the ceiling, remember?”

“Oh, I did that a while back. Sorry. What's next? Fun that was.”

With as much delicacy as I could summon, I shrugged him off and looked upwards.

To be fair to the big lug, he’d done quite a good job. The roof of his cell was now fully opened to the sky; I was confident we could both fit through the gap he had created.

I was just starting to work out the mechanics of achieving that when I heard a sound I’d never have thought would bring me so much pleasure.

Bor’s swearing a blue streak.

*

“Fuck you, and you and you can for fuck off in particular! “

Operation Find-Guinevere-A-Healer wasn’t going as well as it could have been hoped. For a start, every Saxon encountered appeared to be suddenly committed to the idea of murdering Arthur and Bors the moment they saw them.

Then, there was the strange configuration inside the tower itself.

They’d been expecting some form of spiral staircase opening upwards onto chambers and rooms—preferably one that said, “Here be healers” or something similar.

But no.

Instead of any staircase, there were glowing orbs around the walls, which, presumably, portalled you to the floor you wanted.

Or, as Bor’s put it, ”Fucking cultivator bullshit."

“Any ideas?” Arthur yelled, turning a sword aside with the shaft of his third ‘borrowed’ spear, pivoting to drive his shoulder into his opponent's face.

“Why’ve I always got to be the one with the plans? You’re the socialite military genius. It was my idea to storm this place armed with nothing more than our swinging cocks. It’s got to be your turn!”

Arthur scanned the space around the tower's entrance. Unless they saw somebody cast a healing spell, they could not identify who they were supposed to be dragging back to Guinevere.

They needed some form of sign there was a Cultivator about . . .

The moment he thought that one of the glowing orbs suddenly increased in size, and his father walked through it.

But no, it wasn’t father.

This man was a taller, older, and grimmer—if possible—version of the man he knew. He was carrying a spear and walked with a swagger that both Bors and he instantly recognised. This was the walk of someone who had stood many a shield wall and had ever walked away on top.

“Who the fuck's this baller" Bors whispered, withdrawing with Arthur away from the new threat.

“Fuck knows!”

“Now, now, nephew. Is there any way to greet me after all this time? Never mind, we’ll have plenty of opportunities to reacquaint ourselves. But first, my most pressing question. Where is Merlin?”