It's difficult to know the etiquette when seeking to introduce yourself to a mythical warlord. Particularly, when you have the voice of someone who knows them really well in your head, whispering pointers. And especially when his men have just caught you sneaking up on him.

*

We'd arrived at the spot where we'd assumed a cultivator had been killed a few hours earlier, and, as anticipated, we found one very dead wizard. This was not a nice place to be. The whole area was drenched with a smell of sour Qi, little improved by the horde of flies feeding on the bloated corpse with the giant chest wound.

As the extent of my forensic knowledge was limited to an entirely normal, and not at all unhealthily sexual, obsession with Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock, I was somewhat at the mercy of Merlin and Drynwyn's expertise in the matter.

She's dead.

Well, that cleared it all up nicely. Glad to have that expertise on hand.

I wasn't wild that she'd just been left lying here like that. Speaking as someone who'd created their fair share of dead Saxons in the last few hours, I knew it was a touch hypocritical to worry about a dead body. But there seemed something wantonly cruel about killing this woman - girl, really - and then leaving her where she fell.

It was the work of seconds to open the earth and inter the body. I'd have liked to have added a cairn, but without a name, I left it be.

A few words from Poe came to mind, and with no one to take the piss out of me for being mawkish, I spoke them softly over her grave in the gathering dark.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand —

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep — while I weep!

We need to get you laid.

I didn't have a lot to say to that. I hoped I wouldn't ever get to the stage where death did not bother me. I worried I might.

Fortunately, the tracks left behind by the men as they cut away from the scene were easy enough to follow, and, in no time, I was peering at a pretty grim group of armed men who were setting up camp for the night.

Well done, my dear, you've hit the jackpot. Do you know who these are?

"I'm kind of hoping they're a collection of men that have worked 'killing female cultivators' out of their system."

Indeed. But these are not just any collection of men -

"Are they M&S men?"

I fear I lack the context for what I'm sure was a witty rejoinder there, my dear. Please, imagine I laughed heartily.

"Tough crowd. So, you recognise these guys?"

Indeed, I do. These are Arthur's Marghekyon.

"Yay! I love a Marghekyon. And Arthur's Marghekyon? They're by far my favourite of all the Marghekyons."

Sometimes, I fucking hate being your sword.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"As if you know what a Marghekyon is!"

Of course I fucking do. Anyone who is anyone wants an 'in' to Arthur's Marghekyon. Rhyddrech tried to join once, but after a night of carousing and the three Virgin Knights becoming the two Virgin Knights and the one Sexually Awakened Horndog, they turned him down.

The camp was being set up with startling efficiency, the tents being established around a large circular tree stump in the middle of the clearing.

A Marghekyon is, I'm sorry, I'm trying to find a modern-day equivalent, I think 'crew' is probably not too far from the truth.

"So, this is Arthur's 'crew'? All heavily armoured, storied warriors, I presume? And they are currently laying out their evening meal on a big tree stump?"

Yes.

"One may almost say they are treating that large round object as a table, right?"

Are you okay, my dear?

"Oh, come on. Are you telling me you're not seeing this? Arthur. Group of warriors. Big circular dining surface?"

A shadow fell over me, and strong hands pulled me to my feet, whilst spinning me around.

"I don't know who you are speaking to, Celt, but I have a friend who will be very interested in making the acquaintance of all that red hair."

A hood was dropped over my head.

*

Arthur was studying a map of the countryside that he feared was, at best, startlingly inaccurate. Cartography was quite a skill, and it did not appear Uther had managed to recruit the peak of the profession. Where they were currently stood, for example, was apparently the middle of the sea.

He rolled up the scroll and was replacing it in Llameri's saddlebags, when Bors emerged through the trees carrying a bound figure.

"Really, Sir Bors. Whilst I appreciate your commitment to bringing back every waif and stray you come across, there must be a limit." He indicated the haggard figure of Melehan sitting, slumped, to his right. "I thought we decided that one Saxon wizard was enough?"

"Ah, but this is no Saxon, my Lord." He removed the hood with a flourish, and a cascade of red hair fell down to frame a heart-shaped face.

At that sight, Arthur let out an audible gasp. Bors elbowed the warrior at his side. "I told you, didn't I? Knew there was a way to get him out of his funk."

*

I'm not going to lie, it's quite nice having a figure from legend sigh when they look at you for the first time. I mean, I know this body isn't strictly speaking 'me', but I bet porn stars with fake boobs don't angst over whether people are lusting over the real 'them'.

So, yeah, I could totally get used to being a thirst trap for a mythical king.

You know I can hear you, right?

What do you want me to say, Big M? A girl's got to eat.

I feel I should be clear that our aim here is to provide support to Arthur as he rises to become king. Not ...

Jump him?

Yes. I think that would be an excellent first order of business. You are to do everything you can not to ... erm ... 'jump' the Once and Future King.

I don't know, Merlin. He looks like a man who could do with a good jumping.

My eyes were adjusting to the camp now, and I took in the men that made up Arthur's Marghekyon. As unfamiliar as I was with military structure, even I could tell there were two different sorts of soldiers here. On the one hand, there were the basic warriors. Don't get me wrong, they were still fucking terrifying men that could bench press me with one hand, but they were all, I don't know, pretty nondescript. Some carried bows, some swords and shields and others spears, but all of them were wearing metaphorical red shirts. I didn't think there was going to be much point learning their names: they had big NPC energy if you know what I mean.

On the other hand, there was a small group - probably not quite twenty - that were absolutely the business. If you had asked me to paint an Arthurian version of the Dirty Dozen, I - well, I would have told you to 'fuck off' and find someone else to fulfil your cosplay fantasy - but if you, by luck, caught me on a good day, these guys were exactly what I'd have doodled for you.

The guy who had grabbed me from the woods, for example, was a massive, strategically shaved gorilla that was carrying more weapons than seemed practical without having eight arms. And he wasn't the most intimidating of them. I'd not seen so much leather armour, giant biceps and waist-length beards since an ill-fated career as a waitress for 'Bear Night' at The Nightingale.

And amongst them all was Arthur.

He was tall, though not built on anything like the same scale as some of his Marghekyon. He wore his dark beard closely cropped, which made his severe features appear even less friendly. I'd always had somewhat of a thing for Roger Delgado's Master, and if you lopped twenty years off him in 'Terror of the Autons', you'd have the face of the Prince of the Britons.

I wasn't quite swooning, but if he wanted to buy me a vodka and coke, I would probably make a show of myself.

I still can hear you, my dear.

"What do they call you, Celt?" I even liked his voice. I could show that voice a good time.

Before I could answer, Bors dragged Drynwyn from the scabbard on my back and threw it to Arthur. I barely had time to register the impending firestorm this was likely to cause when the Prince plucked the blade from the air.

Showtime.