Melehan did not know how long they were carried into the woods. In the darkness of the hood, it was impossible to keep track of time in any meaningful way.

This was not helped by, as they moved, the fact that the Britons were not especially kind in their treatment of the captured wizards. Heads crashed into trunks and branches. There were multiple sudden drops as though falling, and then explosive surges upwards as their limp bodies were thrown from one carrier to another carrier.

It was a terrifying, exhausting experience, but, he supposed, the Saxon wizards had done precious little to deserve anything better from their captors.

As they travelled, he kept trying to take an opportunity to reach for his Qi, but the disorientation of the journey was simply too great. He was sure there were calm, centred cultivators that might still have been able to cycle effectively in such circumstances, but he doubted any were still with the invading army. The events of Isca had done more than exhaust their stores of essence; it had shattered the foundation of their spirits.

Just when he feared he could not exist within the churning darkness any longer, they came to a sudden halt.

As abruptly as the black had descended, the hood was whipped off, and he found himself blinking into the eyes of an austere, bearded stranger.

"You've bought two of them, I see. I could have sworn I asked for one," the figure said, his voice oddly flat.

A huge man appeared from behind them to push the wizards to their knees. With a gesture, he indicated for figures to slink from the trees and to come forward with their knives. "You get a sense of anything tricky, you stab first and ask questions later, you hear?" He turned to face the bearded man. "Apologies, my Lord. We sort of figured two was better than one. You know, it's always good to have a spare. I can remedy that for you if you'd rather just keep the one with the legs?"

He placed a hand around Melehan's neck and lifted him to the sky. Ula shrieked and tried to stand but was forced back to her knees.

Even as his face darkened and his vision blurred, Melehan kept eye contact with the bearded man. He wanted this Briton to know he understood why this was necessary. That he was sorry. That he accepted this as a just punishment for what they had done. That, more than anything else, he was ready to die.

After a few moments, he felt blood vessels pop, and the final darkness began to descend. In welcome, he opened his mind for the coming peace.

"Wait. Let him go."

Air returned to his lungs in an explosive gush as he hit the ground. Almost unwillingly, he sucked a breath inwards, aware of a figure standing over him.

"What is your name, wizard?"

Holding his damaged throat, he tried to speak, but couldn't force out an intelligible answer. Ula answered for him. "Melehan. His name is Melehan. He's a good man."

"A good man?" The bearded man's face held an unreadable expression. "Then he'll be in rare company hereabouts. Are you a good man, Sir Bors?"

"Well, yesterday I strangled a Saxon with his own intestines whilst he cried out for his mother. I forced his own shit into his mouth as he died."

"So, would that be a 'no'?"

"Probably not, no. I mean, not classically 'good', anyway. I'm sure, in some cultures, I'd be looked on as quite the entertainer."

The man scratched his beard. "So, that's Bors at. Me? Well, I've been spending the last few weeks orchestrating the kidnap, murder and torture of around fifty Saxons. I've quite enjoyed it, too. So, with regret, I don't think anyone will be stroking me with the 'good boy' stick any time soon either."

He swept his arms around the clearing. "Bors and I are well out. But you never know, we might have some takers. Is anyone around here still calling themselves a 'good man'?"

There were uneasy glances around the thicket. The brutal execution of enemy combatants was not traditionally an opportunity for some light call-and-response banter. Most of them felt it was a touch crass, to tell the truth.

Thus, silence was his only reply.

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The bearded man knelt in front of Melehan, who was still struggling to catch his breath. "It appears, if your glamourous assistant is correct, that you might be the only good man for quite some distance. Well done you. How did you manage it? Is there a cream to draw out all of the impurities? Maybe a mantra you say to yourself to stop the filth of this world from sticking to you. Although, and forgive me if I'm speaking out of turn here, but I kind of think burning a settlement of men, women and children to the ground might just disqualify you from the running, too."

He cuffed Melehan around the ears, sending him back sprawling to the floor.

"What do you reckon? Maybe, just maybe, that might give the judges of 'Good Saxon Men' a moment's pause?" He pulled Melehan upright and held their foreheads together, their eyes almost touching. "What gives you the right, boy, to look at me like that? Where do you get the balls to look at me whilst you die, and .... and you were fucking forgiving me for killing you, weren't you? For fuck's sake. You still fucking are." He struck Melehan, sending him flying back against strong arms that held him.

"You don't get to say 'sorry' and just die and take your penance. I don't want your apologies, and I fucking don't want you to make it up to me. What do I want, boys?"

"Dead fucking Saxons, sir?"

"And when do I want them?"

There was a pause. "To be fair, sir, I was just killing him," Bors noted reproachfully. "Had him going purple and everything. You interrupted me to deliver that somewhat disconcerting speech that's done very little for the boys' morale. Make up your mind." He drew his sword and held it above the wizard. "You sure, this time? It's kind of a no-take-backs thing."

All eyes were on Prince Arthur, who continued to stare at Melehan.

He knew what was the responsible thing to do. He had captured two enemy wizards - doubtless a treasure trove of useful information - and he should gather them up and return to Uther for questioning at all speed. He'd get a nice pat on the head, probably gifted another castle or two, and maybe be hailed as the hero who, once again, saved the day for the people of Britain.

But for that, he needed to return home.

Needed to leave all of this wildness and go back to a world that measured his worth by the product, or lack of it, of his cock.

He wasn't sure he could face it.

It was all so different when he was in the field. Here, when eyes looked at him, it was for orders. For reassurance. For praise. That felt a world away from the snide judgements and political manoeuvrings of court.

The retreat from Isca has been, in many ways, devastating for his war band, but it had undoubtedly honed these warriors into a lethal edge. The fact they'd just managed to capture two enemy cultivators without alarm or casualties was evidence of that. It was the places of mud and blood where he found his true worth. Try as he might, he simply could conjure up no interest in taking these wizards and striking for home, a hot bath and more questions about how often he had his wife's legs in the air.

Part of him, a significant part, wanted Bors to sweep the head off this wizard and then do the same to the one with the legs. (although that could potentially wait a few hours as she had a certain something about her, and it had been a dry few weeks.)

Then, they could steal and kill a few more. And a few more after that.

But no.

He knew which way that path lay. He'd been right when he'd said that there was a day, at best, left of this style of hit-and-run warfare. Soon, the invading army would realise it was being preyed upon - especially now wizards were vanishing - and it would raise itself from its internal arguments to seek to kill them all.

A force that could blast a town out of existence would not trouble itself in seeking a proportional response to their presence.

He looked at Bors, and then the others that had fought with him these last few weeks. They'd been formidable before Isca. They were a holy terror now. If Britain was to survive, Uther needed all of these fighters back home, not stalking the enemy in the woods. His heart sinking at the realisation, he decided to do the right thing. He looked down at the wizards and opened his mouth to order them to be trussed up and stowed on the horses.

Ula had been tracking the careful consideration in Arthur's eyes and, on seeing it sharpen to a decision, jumped to the wrong conclusion. She saw that cold regard rest on them and panicked: visions of rape and murder flooded her mind and broke her free from her paralysis.

Before the man holding her could open her throat, she cycled bright green Qi into her hands and used the intensity of her fear to push herself free. Bodies crashed against trees, and blades sliced up her arms but failed to make a fatal wound.

Bors, seeing the girl wrench herself free, swore and chopped down towards her with his blade. She caught the descending sword with one hand, firing beams of energy to scatter the rest of the warriors. In an instant, she twisted the blade free from Bors' grasp, bending the metal in half the struggle for dominance before twisting and sending him to his knees with a punch, two, then three to his forehead.

With a cry, she raised the mangled sword into the air to prepare to drive it downwards into his skull when she was distracted by Melehan staring at her.

Sitting there, he looked so pathetic. He was making no effort to join her frenzied escape, slowly shaking his head at her. She dropped the sword and reached out for him, shouting for him, but he smiled sadly in response. "I don't have it in me, I'm afraid."

And she suddenly knew what he meant. Knew that she was not fighting out of a desire to live but rather from ingrained habit. But Isca has scoured that primal instinct from her soul, leaving ... nothing.

The two wizards smiled at each other one last time, and then Arthur's great spear, Rhongomyniad, pierced her from the back and through her breastbone, driving her to the ground, blood and Qi leaking into the soil.

There was a moment of silence before Bors rumbled "Told you it was good we got two of them. Well, what are you waiting for? Some fucker help me up, and let's get going back to Tintagel."

Arthur stared down at the body of the young wizard. "Yes," he said without emotion. "Let's go home."