We set up camp to lick our wounds.

Lancelot's Rangers - yeah, they had a name now. Go them! - were hidden in the woods around our position, which at least gave us some sense we'd have a heads-up before getting mobbed again. I'm not sure Arthur was delighted to lose half of his men to this new unit, but I imagine he had wider issues with which to concern himself.

Two hundred and fifty men had left Tintagel on this quest, but wyverns, Shriket, goblins, Fae, goblins again, and friendly assassination efforts had taken their toll. Every last man of Powys was gone. I wasn't all over this diplomacy thing, but I sensed that was going to cause comment. Especially as Beric had, very loudly, been anti this expedition.

We'd also misplaced the King of Dehuebarch and lost half of his men in our latest goblin entanglement. Owain was down to the last four of his own countrymen. Worryingly, the amalgamated spears of Dehuebarch and Gwent were our single biggest contingent fighting under one flag.

To be fair, that little squad had held up pretty well during the latest dust-up, so it didn't seem right to cast aspersions, but I knew Owain was worried now he had so few of his own guys to watch his back. On that note, I was pleased to see Burford's gaunt figure still in one piece.

Which left the issue of Mark.

"I mean, if we look on the bright side, what he did could represent the final Step for the sword?"

Arthur shook his head at Owain's suggestion.

Merlin agreed. Attacking Lancelot was - and please beg my pardon - a dick move. However, it could hardly be described as a 'betrayal of all that is good.'

"No cool choral music, either," I added.

Whether it had been the last Step or not, though, Mark's brainfart had brought our numbers down to the tragic range. "We haven't got the spears to keep him and his remaining men under guard," Arthur said aloud as if inviting comment, but I worried he had already made up his mind. "Anyone have any ideas?"

"Kill them," Lancelot said, not even looking up from sharpening his blade. "Dishonourable, they were."

"To be fair - " how on earth was I being the voice of reason here? - "his men would just have been following orders. I'm all for some brief and violent retribution against Mark, but are we really up for executing a bunch of men who did what their king asked? That's kind of a precedent to set . . ."

Owain nodded thoughtfully and stroked his Father Christmas beard. "We are looking very threadbare. I would worry how the men of Dehuebarch would react if we slay Mark's men. There are rumbles enough about keeping them captive."

"Kill them, too." Lancelot was nothing if not single-minded.

"I think if we're discussing executing over half of our remaining forces, we need to take a bit of a sense check."

Silence greeted my words, and I looked around our tight little camp. We hadn't really been on the road all that long, and we'd experienced some pretty shitty luck. At every turn, we'd been mobbed by creatures we were ill-equipped to defeat, regardless of our numbers. In fact, I wondered whether - even if we had another two hundred spears - we'd have been much better off right now.

Now, there was a thought.

"Big M, you know the whole 'Step of Blood, Step of Faith, Step of Betrayal of all that is Good schtick, where does it come from?"

There are many songs about the search for Caeldfwch. From my consideration of them all, those are the consistent features: Whoever wishes to gain the blade must walk those three steps.

"Does any of the source material deal with how many people are supposed to undertake the quest?"

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

There was a long pause. I was dimly aware that Lancelot was holding forth at length on the various morale benefits of a good butchering. I suppose, as he had personally been the focus of Mark's betrayal, he was entitled.

Without spending too long parsing thousands of years of oral tradition, I think I know what you're getting at. Our current expedition could be seen following the course of a poem called Preiddeu Anwyn, in which a king enters a beautiful world filled with fantastical creatures. In many ways, this journey is echoed in the tale of Bronwen from Celtic mythology and . . .

"Dude!"

Sorry, this is actually quite interesting when you get into it. Most of the existing texts do make reference to the sort of travails that have met us thus far. In fact -"

"How many people make the quest, Big M?"

It may be best if I quote the relevant section, my dear.

I don't speak of men of feeble intent

Who do not know the Step of Blood

Nor of the press of the green horde

Nor what it is to show faith to those of the woods

When we went with the man who would be the dragon

An encounter of betrayal

Save seven, none reached the sword

I let that sink in for a while. Owain seemed to be quieting down Lancelot's blood lust somewhat, or at the very least, was getting Arthur on side.

"You know, mate, it might have been useful to quote that before, you know, we set out with over two hundred guys."

I am, of course, a huge fan of hindsight, my dear. However, I would note that Preiddeu Anwyn is just one small example of a massive collection of songs and poems.

But I wasn't too bothered. The poem wouldn't have made much sense until we'd actually reached this point anyway. Never had my new life felt more like a videogame than it did right now. We'd completed the various Steps of the quest and were now gearing up for - I presume - the Big Bad encounter.

And only seven of us were going to make it.

I cleared my throat, and all eyes around the fire turned to me. "If I may, I have a suggestion."

*

And that was how Arthur, Lancelot, me, Owain and Burford, Mark and his nominated guard - a massive bald fucker called Volka - found ourselves dismissing the rest of the army. Obviously, absolutely no one was happy with this, and I doubted any of them were going to do anything other than follow us at a discrete distance.

"You're leading us to our deaths!" Mark spat, stumbling over a root that a wag of wizard might have made engorge at just the right moment. The poor guy wasn't too steady on his feet, was he? Bless him.

As everyone else appeared to be ignoring him, it kind of fell on me to reply. "Look, if only seven of us are prophesied to make it to the sword, then we might as well cut the others loose and let them head for home."

"And, of course, the men of Dumnonia are in the majority of the seven!"

"Mate, there's one king here whose shown he cannot be trusted, and it sure as fuck ain't Arthur. If I were you, I'd be thanking your good fortune you're even being allowed to come with us."

We'd disagreed over that. I might not have been entirely on board with Operation Kill Mark, but neither was I sure that cutting him loose and letting him bring a bodyguard was the smart play. Arthur, though, had held firm.

"This was a group quest to secure my claim as the Pendragon. We cannot do anything about the loss of Beric, and Corys made his own decision. But I will not further reduce our royal contingent unless I have no choice."

"He tried to kill Lancelot!" Owain was as uncomfortable with it all as I was.

"And failed. Spectacularly. There is to be no more to be said. Mark will come with us."

As far as starting the final step of a quest went, there was precious little fanfare. We simply gathered up our stuff and told the remaining men to retrace their steps back to Tresaith—who hopefully still held the crossroad—and take the other path to our realm.

It was manifestly clear Arthur's men were not going home - and I assumed Lancelot's Rangers would be hanging around unseen. I was sure Mark's remaining men might feel similar, but Corys's were basically legging it before we'd even finished speaking.

"You're sure that Mark's little backstab isn't going to count as the Step of Betrayal?"

My dear, the only thing to be sure of on this quest is to expect the unexpected. However, no. I do not feel that was the final Step. No one was surprised when Mark proved to play us fault.

The quiet of the woods swallowed us up, and soon, we left any visible sign of the army behind us. If Lancelot's Rangers were out there, I couldn't easily track them: the strength of the Wood Qi emanating from the trees was too overwhelming. The path we followed, though, was neatly cut through the forest. Indeed, the longer we rode down it, the greater the quality of the material beneath our horse's feet.

We'd been going for a few hours when each of us felt a change of atmosphere around us. It wasn't that the silence of the woods changed; it was more that it became epically expectant.

As if the leaves themselves had taken an inward breath.

My dear, Merlin whispered in my mind, as if he too was intimidated by the perfection of the quiet. I think it would be wise to get ready.

"For what?"

Anything.

Awesome. I love a good cliffhanger.