Getting a reasonable-size warband all the way to Salisbury Plain unseen was actually pretty straightforward.
Remarkably so, considering this whole area lay a significant distance behind Saxon lines. Thinking about all the problems we'd had getting anywhere of late without some sort of epic scrap, I’d worried that even rocking up here was going to be a mission.
And that was even before we started rocking up here . . .
You've been holding that gag in for a while, have you not, my dear?
Everyone is a fucking critic.
However, despite my initial misgivings about the whole thing, it turned out I’d been able to 'fast-travel' the lot of us out here fairly easily. And, from that point, it should have been all gravy.
Find the big, fuck-off stones.
Rearrange them in an appropriately concentric manner, and boom.
Power ritual.
No more Saxon cultivators, Aurelius Ambrosius weeping in the corner, and me raised into the air, with everyone chanting my name and a certain shepherd full-on swooning.
Lovely.
If all went well, I might even get a day named after me.
It was, though, at precisely the moment that we had ‘boots on the ground’ as it were that our real problems began. Mainly because of exactly who made up that 'we.’
Obviously, considering the wider context, I hadn't expected to have the cream of Arthur’s Marchegyon put at my disposal for this little sortie. There was a war on, after all, and I wasn't quite so narcissistic as to think everyone would just drop everything to follow along in my kooky wake.
Well, actually, maybe I was. But that delusion didn’t last my audience with the King.
“No.”
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“I said ‘no’,” Arthur said, hand resting quite ostentatiously on Caeldfwch’s hilt. “You absolutely cannot have two dozen of my knights to, sorry, how did you put it? ‘To wander around Māgen looking for some big rocks.’ I understand you believe this to be important, but I have responsibilities now. The kingdom cannot afford to simply bend itself to your whims.”
I gawped at him for a moment. “My whims?” There’s a chance a bit of lightning might have rippled across my body at that moment. “Dude, you do get our whole dynamic here, right? I’m 3/3 on the ‘pulling Dumnonia’s arse out of the fire’ thing, and I’m not saying I need you need to be genuflecting at my feet, but a little less ‘condescending wanker patting me on the head’ when I come to you with a suggestion would be appreciated.”
Bors, sat at the back of the room, cleared his throat. “We’re all taking the ‘your majesty’ as read at the end of that little speech, I’m sure.”
“And you can fuck yourself with a rusty pike too.”
There had then be a full and frank exchange of views which, depending on how you looked at things, either ended up with me being granted the twenty-four spearmen I had initially asked to accompany me or with the Pendragon dumping a bunch of utter washouts on me.
Having got used to having the likes of Bors, Lancelot and Arthur himself having my back during my most recent exploits in and around Tintagel, it kind of felt like there'd been a heck of a drop-off in quality when I was told my ‘honour guard’ for this mission was going to be Sir Ector and his band of less than merry men.
"He's a fucking idiot!"
"True."
“An absolute A-grade wanker of the first order.”
“He is,” Arthur agreed, smiling broadly. “The man’s a total and utter irredeemable shit stain of the soul of the castle.”
“Bit harsh,” Bors said. “I quite like him. It’s really useful to have someone you can threaten the new recruits with. In a ‘If you don’t shape up, you’ll be posted to Sir Ector’s squad, and then you’ll truly know what it means to be screwed’ kind of way. Cautionary tales are also useful.”
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I turned my head back and forth from the two of them, trying to work out how I got myself out of this one.
"Look, I get it. War on. Lots to do. Moving stones doesn’t feel like a top priority. I get it. But Sir Ector? He doesn't even know how much of a tosser he is!"
"Do idiots ever?"
"Maybe not. But that particular cretin genuinely thinks he's the second coming of Napoleon, Thrawn, and Genghis Khan all rolled into one!"
Strictly speaking, my dear, ‘the first coming’ would make more chronological sense.
"And you can fuck off too!"
"Look, I understand the point you are making, mage." Arthur had said, using a tone of voice that had me itching to set him on fire again. "However, I simply do not have better men to spare. If you do not want to undertake this mission alone - and my wife forbids me letting you leave without at least this many men – then it's Sir Ector and his warband or it will be no one. I simply do not have the resources to spare."
"Come on, mate! It's not like I'm asking for two squads of Lancelot's Rangers, is it? This fucking lot are only available because no one else wants them anywhere near them. We're going to be operating behind Saxon lines, for god's sake! You've got to give me someone who isn't going to piss themselves at the first sign of trouble. You can let me have Bors, surely? At least he knows which end of a spear is which. I mean, what possible fucking use can you have for that tragic lug around here?"
"Yeah, none taken," Bors growled from his chair by the fire.
I winked at him, trying to mask my dismay at his increasing frailty. The big man had picked up any number of injuries in his recent defence of Tintagel’s walls, but no matter how many Elixirs of Wellness I had poured down his throat, nor how long Arthur let him wear Caeldfwch's scabbard, he just didn't seem to be perking up.
Sir Bors is not a young man, Merlin had said, when I'd asked him about what was going on.
"So? Mate, I literally regrew a squire's foot yesterday. Are you saying it's beyond me to put a little more lead in Bors' pencil?"
I try not to spend any time thinking about Sir Bors's 'pencil' at all. However, I am afraid there is a limit to what the human body can endure, my dear. As you may expect, I had cause - many times over many years - to heal rather grievious wounds to that belligerent fellow, and you have needed to do the same during your short acquaintance. No matter what you may like to think, healing is not free. Cultivators may be able to use their Qi to speed up the body's process of repair, but each individual must pay the cost eventually.
I hadn't liked the sound of any of that. "So, what are you saying? This is as good as Bors will ever get?" The image of the slightly stooped giant with more than a sprinkling of grey in his beard was making me unaccountably sad.
What I am saying, my dear, is that Sir Bors has received countless appalling injuries on behalf of this kingdom. And any one of them would have killed a lesser man. I am sure our friend has many years ahead of him yet, but on this occasion, I think he has probably earned a rest from the fray.
Arthur had smiled and delivered much the same form of words, ending with, "And even if none of that was true, I have been told in no uncertain terms not to allow Sir Bors out of the castle gates with you. I am afraid, mage, there are some people's wrath I fear even more than yours."
"Mrs Bors," the big man said, shaking his head sadly. "She's got in your ear, hasn't she? Playing the 'oh, please don't send my husband out on a quest. Not with me being pregnant and all.'"
The act of defiance he showed in doing an impression of his formidable wife's voice might have been more meaningful if Bors hadn't whispered it with a guarded expression.
"The biggest favour I can do for you right now, my friend, is that I won't tell her you said that. However, either way," Arthur said, before directing his attention back towards me. "You will need to undertake this mission to . . . build a big stone decoration in a field without him."
Something about the King's tone really rubbed me up the wrong way. This whole audience had, to be honest. "You do understand I'm not just looking for a jolly here, right? Merlin's worried about all the Saxon cultivators we are going to have to take down in the Spring. If I pull this off, it'll make your victory much easier. I would have thought you'd be much more on board on with this."
But he's got me, hasn't he? There isn't a single Cultivator in the world my bearer needs fear.
Ah. I thought that might be the problem.
Fucking Caeldfwch.
I'm sure it doesn't come as much of a surprise that I wasn't a big fan of the sword. But it wasn't just that it projected an aura that turned me from Superman to Clerk Kent. And it wasn't just that it had a personality which made Drynwyn seem like the model of a well-balanced blade. And it wasn't even that Arthur was increasingly smug in his interactions with me, which made me want to remind him of the time I flash-fried his condescending arse . . . okay, so that last one is obviously playing on my mind more than a little.
Safe to say, though, one of the reasons I was looking forward to getting out and about from Tintagel was to get as far away from its area of effect as possible.
Merlin hadn't said anything, but I couldn't help but think the reason my progress over the winter had been less than stellar was due to the constant interruptions from Arthur's 'training' with that blade.
Hey ho.
I could tell I wasn't getting anywhere, so I’d decided to cut my losses. "Well, thank you so much for loaning me a simply wonderful group of complete misfits, Arthur," I had snapped before turning on my heel to leave. “I’ll be sure to remember your generosity when we’re all dead in a ditch.”
And, I think, that brings you all pretty much up to speed to where things are.
Here I am, stood in a literal ditch in the middle of Salisbury fucking Plain and let me tell you, if you think this place is dull in the twenty-first century, try imagining it without the fucking gift shop.