"I'm no famed military strategist, but I have to wonder at the advisability of seeking to besiege a castle that has made significant preparations for a massive tournament. I mean, I'm probably eating as well as I have ever done." Bors stood on the narrow walkway that connected Tintagel to the mainland, ostentatiously eating a leg of pork.

A hail of arrows was launched towards him, which Blæk, hidden in the shadows of the gates, effortlessly batted aside by pushing on the metal at their tips.

"Again, just spitballing here, but isn't it seen as bad form to try to assassinate the commander of the opposing army when he is trying to discuss surrender? I'm sure I read that somewhere. Mind you, you guys are all about the fucking knives in the back, aren't you? Thrown any old women from windows recently?"

Maelgwn pressed his knuckles to his eyes in despair. Bors had been monologuing at his men for over an hour now, and there didn't seem to be anything he could do to stop it. He'd lost several elite units trying to storm the bridge to take the big man down before settling on trying to fill him full of holes. That wasn't being too successful, either.

If the men of Gwent had been feeling a touch uncertain about the honourability of the assault, Bors' lampooning was not doing much for morale. Although, if he was truly interested in surrender . . .

Maelgwn raised his hand to pause the pointless bombardment. "You wish to discuss terms?"

"Sure," Bors made a careless wave of the bones he was now pretty much gnawing.

"I presume you wish for safe passage?"

Bors frowned in faux confusion. "Sorry, why would I want safe passage?"

"For you and the Queen Guinevere. When you hand over the castle."

"Ah, with you. Sorry, I think what we're having here is a failure to communicate." Bors gesticulated towards the men of Gwent. "I was giving you a chance to call it quits. I mean, obviously, someone is going to need to be ritually fucked to death with a spikey stick for murdering Queen Igraine, but I'm not about visiting the sins of the father on his son. You're just being a good little prince, and it's not your fault your dad's a duplicitous shit. That everything is getting a tad humiliating is a bit more down to you, so I figure your best play is to surrender now - no harm, no foul - and fuck off back to Gwent to await your coronation on the news I've ripped Owain's head off and used it to fellate my horse."

"I don't think that will work," Guinevere appeared at Bors' side. The Gwent archers reloaded, waiting for the order to let loose.

"Sorry, your majesty?"

"From what I hear, Owain enjoyed sucking off the odd stallion. So, I doubt that would be as humiliating an end as could be hoped. I think it might just be better if we go old school and lop off his limbs and use his torso as a doorstop. You know, stick to the classics.

"Good point," Bors turned back to face Maelgwn. "So, what do we say? We'll even overlook all the assassination attempts. You good to fuck off now?"

The prince shook his head and retreated behind the front row of his shield wall. As he went, he swore under his breath. This was a disaster.

Iorwerth was immediately at his side. "They're both there. Give the order to attack now."

Maelgwyn lifted the man into the air by grabbing the front of his tunic. "What do you think we've been trying to do? There's a reason this castle is seen as fucking impregnable. They can hold that bridge until the end of the world. Our only chance of winning this was for the gatehouse to be open! And, guess what, that didn't fucking happen! Cheers, Dad!"

"So, you are just going to let them stand there and defame your father's name?" The advisor's face was turning purple.

"I can't take the gate, Iorwerth. The only option is to starve them out. And you heard him, they've got stores aplenty. We've got enough for a few more days before needing to resupply. This is a disaster!" The prince dropped the spluttering man to the floor.

"So what are we going to do?" Iorwerth rasped.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Maelgwyn shook his head. His father's command had been clear. When he returned from the quest for Caeldfwch, Owain wanted his men to be in control of Tintagel. There were to be no excuses. Maelgwyn was well aware of the many and various ways in which he regularly disappointed his father. He was not his brother, as Owain never tired of telling him.

But maybe it was time to channel a little bit of Kael. "Gather my guard; I will lead the next charge myself."

*

"You may want to consider getting up on the battlements," Bors growled, watching the troop movements across the bridge. "Find any archers you think will cut the mustard and see what cover you can provide. Did you speak to the merchants?"

Guinevere grimaced. "It seems they were running something called a 'confidence and supply' approach to provisions."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Basically, the cupboard is bare. They were waiting to make some more money to refresh our stores. They seemed to think you wanted them to pull out all the stops. This was how they were managing it."

"Fuck."

"Indeed. We'd normally evacuate the civilians in advance of a siege, but the castle is bursting with visitors. We're likely to be out of food this time next week - and that's if we start rationing now."

"We ration, and that dozy fucker out there will know he has us. We need to make him think we're set for the long term. Organise a feast or something."

"Even if that means we run out in days?"

"We can't just sit here and wait for Arthur to come back and pull our arses out of the fire. I need them to keep attacking."

Guinevere nodded towards an approaching group of spears led by the Prince of Gwent. "Say this for him, he's not slow coming forward."

"Nope. Go on, get up top. And if anyone in there fancies a heroic, suicidal last stand, let them know now would be a great time to find their balls."

*

Bors was good.

He knew that. The men watching from the walls knew that. The twenty-odd men of Gwent he had variously battered, smacked and launched off the bridge also knew that. However, their knowledge was a more temporary sort of thing.

However, for all his strength, power and belligerence, he was still human. It had been said that three men could hold the bridge of Tintagel against ten thousand. But that assumed those three would occasionally get a break.

Sucking in huge gasps of air, Bors rested on his spear and did his best to plaster on a smile. Owain's kid - was it Maelgwyn? - was opposite him, flanked by some seriously solemn-looking motherfuckers.

"Enjoying yourself yet?"

The young man shook his head, and oddly, Bors believed him. He didn't know much about the heir to the kingdom of Gwent, but what he did know was decent. He couldn't imagine he was finding this any more of an edifying spectacle than Bors was. "Just let us pass, Sir Bors. You cannot possibly think you can hold out much longer."

"My king asked me to keep his castle safe. Until that moody twat stands where you are and tells me I should give it up, I'm going to do right by him. Now, where were we?"

Bors widened his stance, using the butt of his spear to take some of the weight off his sore knee. Mrs Bors was going to be pissed if he got himself killed today.

Two of Maelgwyn's men pushed forward, each on the edge of the bridge. Bors cursed. It was much easier when they came straight down the middle. These fuckers knew what they were about. Arrows streaked down from above, striking the men's shields. Irritatingly, that didn't seem to make much difference to them.

Veterans, then. Wonderful.

And then they were on him. It wasn't easy to engage two spearmen at once - especially ones not rushing at you in a fury - and Bors found himself shuffling backwards, trying to keep them both occupied.

He was used to his aggression spooking opponents, but these men weren't for turning. They were willing to accept his hay-maker blows, using an attack on one of them as the chance for the other to press for advantage. Bors cursed. He couldn't over-commit against one and risk being brought down by the other.

He felt the temptation to go all out, to let the red mist descend and fuck the consequences.

But no.

He had a job to do here.

The arrows continued falling, but the angle was becoming too acute. Soon, it was clear only one archer was still able to shoot. Guinevere, he assumed. She wasn't the type to accept that a shot couldn't be made.

He smiled and dropped a shoulder into the shield of the man to his left, pushing off the collision to pinball into the other one. He staggered them back a few steps but was unable to dislodge either from the bridge.

Unfortunately, that manoeuvre left him open to their counterattack. Oh well, it had been worth a try.

Bors braced himself for the return blow, hoping it'd be something non-essential that got skewered.

"Coming through, old man." Two figures ran past Bors, crashing into the men of Gwent and driving them backwards. It was two of the men from the melee - Galahad and Parsifal -, and they made short work of the attackers, both moving with the arrogance of youth. Bors remembered when his joints had been that flexible.

Thick, muscular arms pulled him back. "Don't worry about it, big guy. We've got this. Go put your feet up." He looked around into the ugliest face he had ever seen.

For once in his life, Bors didn't have it in him to argue, and he allowed himself to be guided back behind the gates.

Legend said three men could hold the bridge of Tintagel against three thousand. It was time to put the theory into practice.