It took a lot to surprise Lancelot.

His training, from the earliest days of his youth, was intense. The bloody battles he had been thrown into as soon as he could walk had seasoned him in ways few could understand. There were thus few gambits he had not experienced before.

Yet, even for him, the situation was rare. A goblin ambush with his 'allies' rushing him was not a scenario he had encountered often. But then again, life always had a way of presenting new, violently intense experiences.

"Spear pairs. Now!"

There were different approaches to take against overwhelming odds. Most people would opt for Choice A - run for the high ground and signal for help. Arthur had gone all in for Choice B - turtle up and encourage them to hunt elsewhere. On the other hand, Beric had chosen the ever popular Choice C - be slaughtered to a man.

Lancelot, though, was built a little different.

He only had fourteen men available to him at the rear of the column. He'd spent a little time with each of them, explaining his philosophy of war and suchlike, and there'd been a chance to take them through a few manoeuvres that he liked to think of as 'old faithfuls.'

'Spear pairs' was one of the more accessible formations his people used and, he thought, the one that was likely to pay dividends in his adopted home. He knew the Saxons favoured overwhelming charges and frenzied hand-to-hand combat - in that way, not dissimilar to the goblins, now he thought of it - and the Britsh mode of fighting behind a spear wall was a pretty solid response: tight formation, well drilled and heavy cavalry lurking around to mop up was spot on.

However, there was always going to be a place for warriors who tried something a bit different. His people called them hǫggsveit, but the best translation in this language was 'spear pairs'. Basically, you and your mate were an army unit on your own. When shit went down, you found cover; you located an appropriate target, and you fucking acted on your own initiative. Nothing else mattered but your pair. You had his back, he had yours, and fuck the rest of them.

As soon as Lancelot called for 'spear pairs', the entire rear of the column scattered for the trees, flowing past the startled goblins coming the other way and leaving Mark's men momentarily wrong-footed as the targets for their treachery vanished.

Lancelot stayed where he was.

There was a legend told around his people's campfire about a warrior who would hold a position single-handedly. Sometimes, it was a bridge. Others, the end of a valley. But the location really didn't matter. Everyone understood that the saga was a metaphor for their tribe's bloody-minded belligerence—everyone, that is, apart from his mother, who considered it more of a training suggestion.

He slowly drew his sword and tried to calculate whether it would be Mark's men or the lead group of goblins that reached him first. It was going to be close.

Or what his mother would call "a chance to be a man."

*

Mark swore as Arthur's men scattered like rabbits. He had gladly accepted the challenge of taking these men off the field. No matter how noble or how well Arthur was leading, without enough spears to press his claim, it would all come to nought. He had just been waiting for the right moment to dispose of the pathetic remnant behind him, and a goblin assault was as good as any.

Thus, as soon as he heard the beginning shriek of the ambush, he had thrown his men at the Dumnonian spears behind them, gambling they could wipe them out. Or at least fatally maul them and allow the goblins to mop up.

However, it turned out Lancelot was just a hair quicker.

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Saying that there was still just one irritating figure left on the dirt track. Maybe this wouldn't be a lost cause after all.

"What are you fucking waiting for? Kill him!"

*

The first spearman was dead before he even realised whom he was attacking. Lancelot had closed the gap between them and had thrust his sword through the man's throat in the blink of an eye.

The barbarian pulled his long blade clear and slashed to the right, low, severing the leg at the knee of the next closest attacker. He then pivoted, using the weight of his swing to twist in a wide circle, mowing down three goblins that were nearly on him.

He was back facing Mark's men just in time to block a downward axe blow on the cross blade of his sword. He smiled up at the attacker and winked. "Nearly got me, you did!"

Lancelot pushed upwards, far quicker than the axeman could respond, and ran him through. It was at this stage he stopped consciously thinking. He knew he wasn't the cleverest of men in the world - his mother told him that often enough - so he was much better at allowing his instincts to take over.

And what instincts . . .

The world shifted to that delicious, slow motion that made him feel invincible.

*

"Hold! Hold!" Arthur dragged a man back into line. The boy had wanted to chase after the goblin he was fighting, little caring about the hole he'd leave in their formation. "We do not pursue."

The man - blood lust on him - growled his assent, but Arthur appreciated the frustration.

Sitting behind a shield wall and watching your fellows be slaughtered was hard. Beric's men were gone. For whatever reason, they hadn't tried to form up, and the sheer number of goblins overwhelmed them.

Arthur had little time for the King of Powys, but over a quarter of their force was wiped away simply through incompetent leadership. And if what he could make out further down the line was accurate, it was probably a bit worse than that.

"Anyone have eyes on the wizard?" He asked. The lack of ostentatious fireballs of death was noticeable.

"Last I saw, she was making her way to Owain," one of his veterans replied.

"Fuck!" Arthur cast about, wishing he hadn't dismissed Llameri to the woods. He needed the height. He looked around at the men holding the tight circle. They were stuck. He didn't have enough to move safely, and breaking the formation would be irresponsible.

The dragon on his back let loose a low rumble. "I don't like it either," he thought back, "but we're going to have to wait this one out."

*

Mark's men were done.

There was no way they were advancing towards the maniac surrounded by bodies any longer. They were being battered by kamikaze goblins from each side, and Lancelot's men in the woods were being a colossal pain in the arse sniping from the trees.

They gave a collective 'fuck this!' and turned and ran towards the seemingly safe refuge of the sizeable shield wall behind them.

"What the fuck are you doing!" From his admittedly well-defended litter, Mark was watching in horror as his scheme failed. Lancelot stood - in fact, was standing much closer to their position than he was before - and his men were in full rout.

"Your majesty, we need to retreat!" The Captain of his guards was looking nervously at the approaching Lancelot. There really were not that many men separating them any longer.

"Fuck that. Help me up!"

His guard looked doubtfully at Mark's handmaids. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen his king standing on a battlefield. "I'm not sure this is the time, my lord. There are hundreds of goblins, let alone . . ." he stopped, not sure how to phrase 'let alone the man you tried to fuck up the arse who has now turned around and is looking pretty displeased at the attempt.'

"I didn't ask you to think. I asked you to help me up!"

Mark leaned heavily on the man, pulling himself to his feet. The men around his litter were somehow keeping the goblins off him, but it wouldn't last much longer. The chittering and screaming was getting closer and closer.

Seeming oblivious to the destruction around him, Mark pointed a chubby finger at the advancing Lancelot. "Fuck you. Do you hear? Fuck you! I know your sort. Just like my fucking son, aren't you? All honour and duty and brotherhood of the sword until it suits you. And then you'll fuck anything you want with pretty enough eyes! You're just like him, aren't you? You and my fucking son," Mark spat the word out like it was poison in his mouth, "are two of a kind. Chivalry personified until you're not."

The guard captain went down, three goblin spears driven into his gut. Another stood to take his place, but the line was thinning. Lancelot kept closing in, chopping through goblins like he was scything wheat.

Mark stood there, continuing to shout insults. They were no more than thirty yards apart and closing. "And all anyone has to say is how honourable you are. How much integrity you have. Well, fuck him and his integrity. He stole my fucking wife! I'll be doing Arthur a favour by killing you off. You'll be up his bitch wife's skirts as soon as his back is turned!"

Another couple of Mark's men fell, and then Lancelot was in striking distance.

It wasn't clear what the barbarian had planned for the confrontation, and there wasn't a chance to find out.

Because some mentalist let off a giant bomb in the middle of the forest.