“Right, lads!” Sir Ector was bellowing. “We’re looking for big stones. Big stones to put into a big circle in this big field. Eyes sharp, arms ready! Let’s go.”
Brilliant strategy, mate. Absolutely top drawer.
No notes.
I crossed my arms, watching Sir Ector oversee his warband bumble around Salisbury Plain like they were on a drunken Easter egg hunt. He stood at the centre of the chaos, a wizened knight with a face like weathered oak and sharp, beady eyes. His armour had seen better decades—dented, patched, and tarnished to a dull grey—but it stuck to him like it was a second skin, and he moved with the ease of a man who’d long since stopped noticing its weight.
My mind conjured an unbidden image of him astride a stubborn donkey, tilting at windmills with an air of grim determination.
His warband was a motley assortment—barely-trained boys, washed-out veterans, and the sort of misfits who’d make a village priest pray for an early harvest just to get them out of town.
He caught me watching and raised a hand in a laconic wave, his lined face splitting into something like a smile. I couldn’t help but return it, though I suspected he was well aware of what I was thinking.
Does . . . does he think we’re going to find the Meridian Stones lying around on the ground, my dear?
“Looks that way, Big M. Looks that way.”
It was at this moment I was tempted to downgrade Sir Ector from common-or-garden stupid to the Arthurian equivalent of Keith, the supervisor of a call centre in which I'd spent a glorious summer. I mean, it was probably supposed to be a call centre, but I'd found it was a touch more lucrative to chat, breathily, about . . . you know, other things.
What I was - or might not be - wearing, for example.
Look, I'm not saying the dude wasn't justified in firing my arse, but that doesn't stop him being a twat. A stopped clock and all that. That I got away with running a pretty blatant 'pay to play' chat line for a fortnight on company time should tell you everything you need to know about the quality of Keith’s managerial skills.
However, he looked like Steve Jobs’ genius levels compared to Sir Ector.
I’d sought out the skinny about this guy from Sir Bors once it became clear Arthur was going to be farming off his thickest and dimmest on me for this mission.
Cold wind had been screaming through the cracks in Tintagel’s walls, rattling wooden shutters like they were trying to escape. I’d found Bors sat at the edge of a long wooden table, hunched and shivering, mounds of furs clearly doing very little to fend off the chill.
Looking at him lately was making me very, very sad. Somehow, even his shoulders were looking small. His hands trembled when he reached for the cup of wine in front of him, and I had to stop myself from helping. I didn’t feel pity for him. Not exactly—Bors would have hated that—but there was a tight, gnawing ache of something in my chest.
“You look like a man who could do with a nice summer holiday,” I said.
Bors grunted, lifting the cup to his lips. “Colder than a Frost Neriad’s tit in here. You just don’t feel it because you’re too bloody stubborn.”
“True. Or because I’ve somehow managed to keep most of my blood inside my body to actually have something resembling circulation. Here.” I flicked open my inventory and a thick woollen blanket appeared in my hands. I stepped forward and draped it over his shoulders.
“What’s this? You going soft on me, Morgan?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said. “You’re looking more than usually pathetic right now. I can’t have people thinking I keep such frail company. Court Wizard reputation and all that. People look up to me.”
I infused the blanket with the faintest trace of Fire Qi, and a faint warmth spread through it, chasing the chill away. Bors stiffened at first, then relaxed, letting the heat seep into his aching muscles.
“You wizards are all bloody cheats,” he muttered.
“You’re welcome.”
For a moment, the room was silent save for the wind and I felt the old urge rising. The one that told me I needed to fix things. To pull threads of Qi and force the broken to be whole again.
Don’t, my dear. He needs to heal naturally. If you interfere, you’ll only make it worse.
I bit the inside of her cheek, forcing myself to look away. The Big M was right, of course, but that didn’t mean I had to like it.
“So,” I said, breaking the silence. “Tell me more about the guys Arthur’s lumbering me with. I assume you know all about them.”
Bors snorted, a dry laugh that turned into a rasping cough. He reached for his cup, steadying his hand against the table as he brought it to his lips. I’m sure the wine was desperately cold and tasted of the cask it had been poured from, but he drank it anyway, leaning back in his chair with a groan.
“Ector. Now there’s a man,” he said. “If there’s one thing you need to remember, don’t let his appalling win-loss percentage in the field fool you. He’s actually much more effective than all the disasters would make you think. Don’t get me wrong—if you want a battle won, a stronghold held, or a lord brought into line, you absolutely don’t call for Sir Ector. Nope. Not at all”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“Awesome,” I deadpanned.
Bors grinned, a crack in his weathered scowl. “No, seriously. Ector’s a bloody enigma. Man’s got this incredible knack for staying alive, even if the poor bastards under his command tend not to. It’s uncanny. You’ll find him in the aftermath of a rout, covered in blood and gods-know-what, standing alone while the rest of his warband are either dead or scattered to the winds.”
“And this is the guy Arthur’s sending along with me? Do I look like I need more liability in my life?”
“Liability?” Bors said. “No, now that’s the thing. Sir Ector might not the man you call when you want to win. But he’s the man you call when you want someone to walk away. He survives, Morgan. Every bloody time. When things go to hell, Ector’s the last man standing. Every time and without fail. And not because he’s the kind to run, either. He fights like a devil, but it’s like the gods have decided it’s too much trouble to kill him. No. If you ask me, your issue isn’t going to be Ector. It’s going to be the rest of the washouts.”
“Yeah, I saw some of them gathering in the courtyard. Inspiring sight. So, what you’re telling me is that Arthur has put the survivors’ survivor in charge of everyone no one else wants and lumbered me with them to save the kingdom? Again.”
“Exactly. There’s a kind of cold genius in it, you know? All the misfits, all the rejects—Ector’s been them. He knows how to handle the kinds of men the rest of us wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot spear. And, let’s be honest, if he can keep himself alive with his track record, he might just do the same for them. Or not. But either way, Arthur doesn’t have to worry about them anymore. To be honest, you should take it as a compliment. He obviously thinks you’re hot shit. He doesn’t need to wrap you in cotton wool.”
I let the emphasis on ‘you’ slide a bit there.
“Look, Morgan, the King’s a pragmatist,” Bors continued. “Always has been. Always will be, He knows you’re not pulling his chain when you tell him this mission is important, but he also has extremely limited resources to put your way. The way he figures it, like as not, you’re going to get the job done regardless of how many spears he sends with you. Thus, he might as well clear the decks of the guys no one else wants around.”
“That’s fucking cold, mate.”
“It’s his way. Ector won’t complain. He gets the jobs no one else wants and the men no one else will take. And somehow, he always manages to pull something out of it. Even if it’s just himself.”
“You’re telling me he’s not as much an idiot as he seems then?”
“Oh, no. He absolutely is. It’s just . . . look, those men will fight for him.” Bors said, surprising me with the sudden conviction in his tone. “He doesn’t inspire loyalty in the way Arthur does, with all his golden speeches and shining promises. No, Ector gets the men’s respect because he’ll be in the thick of it with them. He doesn’t stand behind them barking orders whilst they’re all cut down—he’ll be at the front, swinging his blade like his life depends on it. Which, to be fair, it usually does. The men will see him bleed, they’ll see him fight, and for a while, they’ll follow him anywhere. Until they don’t. You could have far worse knights along with you on this one.”
“Until they don’t?”
Bors sighed, the dregs of humour fading from his face. “He’s a survivor, Morgan, not a miracle worker. When the odds are stacked against you, when you’ve got nothing but green boys, broken men, and a prayer to hold the line, it doesn’t matter how hard you fight. People die. But Ector? He keeps going. Because he’s had to.”
“Sounds like a hard way to live.”
“It is,” Bors said. “And Ector’s a hard man. He’s got to be to carry what he does. Sure, he’s all bravado and sound and fury, but don’t think for a second it doesn’t weigh on him. He feels every one of those losses. But he doesn’t let it stop him. He picks up the pieces and goes on to the next fight. And the one after that. Because someone has to.”
The wind howled once again, making Bors shiver under the blanket I’d given him.
“And you?” I asked. “How many losses are you carrying, Bors?”
He didn’t answer right away, just stared into his cup like it might hold the words he couldn’t find. Finally, he looked up. “Not as many as Ector.”
I didn’t push.
Instead, I reached for my own cup, letting the burn of the shitty wine chase away the chill in my hands. Outside, the wind screamed, but inside, the silence between us felt almost warm.
“Give him a chance, Morgan,” Bors had whispered when I went to leave. “Beneath the bluster, and the noise and the . . . well, arseholeness, there’s a decent guy. I think you’ve both got more in common than you might like to think. You’re both stubborn bastards who don’t know when to quit. To survivors,” Bors said, lifting his cup.
“To survivors,” I’d echoed, though I couldn’t help my eyes flicked to his other hand, still trembling beneath the blanket.
I was doing my very best to remind myself of Bors words as the headache to end all headaches brewed behind my eyes.
A survivor, Bors had called this guy. All I could see right now was someone displaying Baldrick levels of stupid.
I stood in the middle of the field, quietly seething, watching twenty-odd spearmen blunder about. Merlin’s voice in my head kept telling me to be patient, to find some inner calm and focus my Qi. But patience appeared to be in short supply.
"Hey, Ector!" I called out, unable to resist interfering any longer. "How about we try not looking for the Meridian Stones in the fucking mud? I know it might seem like a revolutionary idea, but these very big stones are probably going to be pretty noticeable. I'm thinking we might be looking for a village or something like that? You know, where they might be being worshipped?"
Ector looked up at that, clearly not amused by my input. "We’re securing the perimeter first, mage. From my understanding, these stones could be literally anywhere."
"Anywhere? Really?" I said. "Because I was under the impression that giant, carefully shaped menhirs, generally speaking, don’t rebury themselves underground. But hey, I’m just the Qi master here, what do I know?"
Ector shot me a look that would’ve withered a lesser woman. “Indeed.”
Sighing, I turned my attention back to the vast, empty field.
The wind whipped across the plain, cutting through my clothes and adding a delightful layer of physical discomfort to my already fraying mental state.
According to Merlin, somewhere out there, these bloody stones were waiting to be recovered, but between the Saxons breathing down our necks and Ector’s apparent complete lack of competence, I was no longer brimful of confidence that this was going to be the quick in and out for which I might have hoped.
"Sir fucking Ector," I muttered to myself, shaking my head. "The arsehole’s arsehole.”
I sighed, folding my arms and staring out over the plains, wondering how in the name of all things holy I had ended up here—stuck in the Dark Ages, babysitting a group of toddlers on a sugar high, and trying to build Stone-fucking-henge to stop a bunch of wizards from tearing the world apart.
Just good luck, I guess, my dear.