The decapitated head bounced once and rolled to settle in the corner of the tent.

Nothing ever quite gets the attention of a room as effectively as a summary execution. All arguing ceased as eyes quickly turned to the giant figure brandishing a battleaxe.

"I have had a belly full of your bickering. I have listened - by Þunor have I listened! - to your petty squabbles, but my patience is now at an end. The sun has risen and fallen thrice since our army came to a halt, and none in this coven of complaining women seem ready to call an advance."

The headless corpse, which had managed to stay upright during that little speech, fell forward and splattered messily on the ground.

"Did anyone see who that was?" one chieftain asked another in the hushed silence

"No idea. Better hope it was no one important. Things are tense enough around here as it is."

"Fuck," another said, peering at the head that had come to rest near his foot. "That's Oeric. That mad bastard just offed Oeric!"

There was a quiet collective groan. Oeric the Smooth had spent the last few days ingratiating himself with just enough of the other war parties as to be the only thing close to a 'compromise' leadership candidate the Saxons possessed. No one liked the patronising snake, but everyone disliked him just the right amount to grudgingly follow his lead.

In the land of the febrile psychopaths, the half-bloodthirsty madman could be king.

After all, everyone within the pavilion knew and understood the High King's plan. That wasn't the issue. They were to split their forces and squeeze Uther's army in a pincer movement. Half the war bands would march to Topsham, lay waste to the port, and take to the sea on the vessels their wizards told them were already waiting offshore. The other half were to press inland towards Tintagel, enthusiastically undertaking the various and bloody pastimes favoured by invaders everywhere.

It may be thought a sensible invasion plan would already have decided who was going where, but mindful of the potential for casualties, it had been deemed prudent to await the achievement of the first objective - the destruction of Isca Dumnoniorum - before taking a view. That the only loss of substance was the one man everyone agreed was a shoo-in to lead their combined forces - Ealhhere - was proving somewhat of a stumbling block to collective unity.

Over the last few days, therefore, into that vacuum had oozed Oeric, and this night, the Saxons were finally within touching distance of starting the next stage of the invasion.

But then Hengist had - not for the first time, it must be said - shat the bed.

"So I say," bellowed the huge man, "that we march for the sea tomorrow. And if Merlin wants to make an issue of it, I say we spit in his eye and welcome it. No more cowering in our tents when there is fighting to be had. You are either with me or against me."

If Hengist had expected a cry of acclamation, he was to be disappointed. Too many of his fellow war chiefs had just seen carefully balanced schemes go up in flames. Or, they supposed, down in a puddle of rapidly cooling blood.

"And if we are against you?" One of the younger chieftains pushed forward. "You have had your time, old man. If any here wished to follow you, they already would have joined your camp. I hear, rather, your men flee to the hearths of greater men."

Older, more experienced heads started to pull back from the area around the speaker. Everyone knew how you handled Hengist. You agreed with him, promised to see him in the morning, and then just let him charge off alone after whatever goal had interested his berzerker rage. He never held your non-appearance against you. It was simple, really.

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What you didn't do, crucially, was get him all riled up.

"Eberhard, I'm surprised you pulled your mother's tit out of your mouth long enough to speak in this company of men.'

"Did you not hear, Hengist? I left my mother's tit behind long ago. It's your mother's breast on which I've been sucking of late."

There was a pause. Eberhard was from the north, where it appeared there was a far richer culture of 'yo mamma' jokes than was to be found amongst more traditional Saxons.

"Hengist's mother is older than my sword. Did he just say he was fucking her?"

"I think so."

"That's pretty weird, ain't it?"

"He's northern. Maybe they go for the older woman there?"

"There's 'older', and then there's ... I think I'm going to be sick."

"Does she even still have her teeth?"

"Maybe that's the attraction?"

Hengist blinked back at the younger chieftain as if unsure how to respond. The circle of men backing away from Eberhard grew even more expansive. "Did you just say you are in a sexual relationship with my mother?"

The younger man sensed something had gone wrong in this confrontation. "Well, no. Of course not. It was an insult."

"It would be an insult to be in a sexual relationship with my mother?" The red spots on Hengist's face were now glowing like a forge.

"Well, no, obviously not. I was just saying .."

Two figures slipped away and out of the tent just as things became interesting.

The first, a tall, thin man with long dark hair, kicked out in frustration at a passing camp dog. It instinctively snarled and snapped back, but then, seeing who had struck it, it cowered and slunk out of range. "That'll add another day to our wait. By the time tempers cool, we'll be five more war bands without leaders and no closer to pressing forward. I swear, nothing has gone right since Isca. It's like the gods have turned their backs on us."

Pæga licked his lips nervously and said nothing. He was scared of this man, Cedric of the West Saxons. All right-thinking folk were.

Since his ignoble retreat after his run-in with that cultivator, Pæga had known he'd need to shelter under another's reputation for a time. There had been some mutterings that others deserved their chance to lead his war band. He'd purged those with such views in his own spears ruthlessly enough, but there were others in the wider host from whom he needed protection. As his sister had married a cousin of Cedric's, he'd made his introduction the moment he'd caught up with the main Saxon force.

As soon as he spoke to the man, though, he knew he'd made a mistake. There was something about Cedric that exuded menace. He spoke of people as things, as obstacles to be removed, as tools to be used. Nothing ever seemed to bring him joy, and there was a flatness to his eyes that disconcerted all who met him.

Pæga had thought he would be gaining a measure of protection by demonstrating his links to such a feared chieftain, but by the time he'd realised he was trading one form of weakness for another, it was too late.

"The High King does not seem unhappy with our pause. My wizard tells me ..." Pæga began.

Cedric's eyes flashed. "Do not speak to me of wizards. I'll hear none of them."

Pæga's head dipped in instant supplication. Stupid. He knew not to speak of cultivators in this man's presence. The remains of the wizard assigned to Cedric's war band still hung from a tree at the edge of the camp. The chieftain had taken exception to what had been done at Isca. That poor woman had not had an easy death.

In many ways, the savagery of what had been done that night had greatly enhanced Cedric's reputation in the army. No one was comfortable with how the siege of Isca had been resolved, and much anger was felt towards the wizards who had perpetrated it.

"My apologies. I merely meant to say that from what we know, there is no urgency on behalf of the High King for us to begin the second half of the invasion. We know he is content for us to wait for a time. There is no remaining force between our lands and here. Uther has not left Tintagel, nothing has been seen of Prince Arthur, and there is no word of ... their most powerful ally. Our victory is thus inevitable - it is merely the moment the end begins that is to be decided."

Pæga shivvered under Cedric's cold regard. "So speaks the leader of the only war band to have been defeated in the field. A wise man may question from where you get that confidence. Are there not ten powerful cultivators somewhere at our backs?"

"Well, yes. But nothing we will not be able to handle now we are all together. My sole wizard was not enough in the face of such power. Bringing any of my men out of the battle was an achievement. If only Ealhhere had managed the same."

There was a silence as Cedric stared at Pæga. Then, after what felt like an age, the tall man smiled. Somehow, Pæga thought, the smile was more terrible than the silence.

"I like you, Pæga. Clever enough to be useful, but not clever enough to be dangerous. Yes, I like you."

And with that, Cedric turned and returned to the command tent, leaving a disconcerted Pæga alone.

He licked his lips thoughtfully. That hardly sounded like a ringing endorsement from a long-term ally. With a sigh and nimbly stepping aside to avoid a young chieftain missing an arm that ran screaming from the tent, he followed behind Cedric.