In a culture where tales of incredible feats of arms and scarcely believable deeds of courage are the currency of existence, it is, indeed, the innumerable stories of Arthur's Marghekyon that stand out.

Throughout his childhood, the young Prince's capacity to seek out all the most exciting forms of trouble attracted a score of like-minded friends to his side. Bors, Owain, Balin, dark-skinned Palemedes and Arthur's younger cousins, Gawayne and Cador, were the first to see the potential in following the lead of the boy with whom no one could ever stay angry. But, as he grew, others of a similar mindset quickly joined what everyone for leagues around called "Arthur's unruly pack."

By his sixteenth birthday, the bonds between these boys were forged stronger than iron, and as those friends rose to star in their own stories, they brought their followers into the Prince's orbit.

Thus, at its height, Arthur's Marghekyon numbered close to three hundred warriors, and if he did not quite know the names of everyone who rode with him to battle, no one thought any less of him for that. He was, after all, Prince Arthur, and where he led, his pack would follow.

"Are you writing a book, Big M? Because I kind of think there's other things to focus on right now."

I'm just providing you with some crucial context, my dear. You have, thus far, had limited experience of professional warfare. Wulfnoð's memories of the fyrd - primarily farmers and hunters, remember - and your own highly fortunate interactions with roaming Saxon warbands may lead you to underestimate that of which these men are capable. The elite warriors of Britain surround you. And they have a wounded prince to defend.

As far as I could tell, 'the elite warriors of Britain' were currently running around in a panic, shouting at each other, but my military experience was somewhat limited, as Merlin had noted. Maybe this was how it was done in the pro leagues.

The big man - Bors, I was to understand - raised his eyebrows at me, and I realised I hadn't answered him. "Sorry, Merlin was filling me in on what an elite fighting force you are."

"Merlin? But he's dead!"

As soon as he said those words, he snapped his mouth shut, and his eyes grew round. Interesting, I thought, so it's not quite the taboo secret the Big M figured it might be. There are at least some people who know he's passed on.

"Dead but not quite gone, I'm afraid. He's got somewhat of a Patrick Swayze 'unfinished business' situation. But no potter's wheel-related shenanigans. Not yet, anyway."

"I do not know what any words you've just said mean." Bors grabbed the shoulder of a man running past him and span him around. "Not that way, you fucking idiot. Form up against that line of trees. There! No, over there!" He propelled the man in the other direction with a bootkick.

"Basically, he's dead, but he's still talking to me. He says 'hello'."

Our eyes met momentarily, and I could see Bors trying to figure out how much of his available brain space he was willing to put into understanding me. It was a look with which I was intimately familiar.

As was the outcome.

He shook his head as if to clear his vision and returned to his original question. "What can we expect from you here?"

"Good looks, charm and witty banter."

I sensed from his blank look this was not an acceptable response. "I have no available Qi left if that is what you are asking." My artist's studio and my mana stone batteries were utterly exhausted. Keeping this particular English Patient alive had cleaned me out.

"Depending on how long the fight lasts, I might get enough back to be useful down the line. Maybe."

Bors cursed and immediately re-evaluated his planning.

He'd hoped the Celt would add some firepower to the left flank, but it just wasn't his day for being lucky. Studiously ignoring the melted thing that was all that remained of his best friend, he continued to seek to pull his small force into battle order.

On the plus side, he thought, the Saxons must be underestimating what they were coming up against. You didn't announce your impending strike by howling like lunatics unless you thought your opponent had poor discipline and poorer morale.

Sure, a descending horde of howling Saxon spearmen would be enough to rout a fyrd, but all they'd achieved so far was give Arthur's men time to form up.

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That point was made, quite literally, when the first of the Saxons burst from the trees, to each be impaled by a flurry of arrows and javelins.

"Who fucking told you to shoot!" Bors bellowed, striding forward to leave the cultivators to tend to Arthur. "The first person I see without a drawn bow or a shield ready for contact will be running home to his mummy with my spear so far up his arse he can use it to pick his nose."

I thought I could grow to like this man. If we survived what was coming.

The pincushioned, blue-painted Saxons each had worn a wolfskin around their shoulders. With the howling, that suggested we were up against a war leader who had a firm grasp of branding and a decent marketing strategy. I asked Merlin about it.

I rather fear we may have drawn the attention of Cedric of the West Saxons. I know of few others that favour such theatrics.

The Saxon cultivator, Melehan, quickly filled me into a lot of colourful backstory as to why it would be a spiffy idea, as both a woman and a cultivator, for me not to fall into this Cedric's hands.

The howling of the pseudo-wolves had stopped, leaving just the sound of Bors issuing orders in a somewhat eerie silence.

The Britons had formed a large hollow square, four or five people deep, around their unconscious Prince. Several terrifying-looking men were with us in the middle of the square. I thought of them as 'troubleshooters' or, more accurately, 'trouble-slaughterers-with-giant-axes' who would move to where they were needed.

Looking around at the determined faces of the warriors, I had an inkling as to what Merlin had meant earlier. These men did this sort of thing for a living. "I'm feeling pretty confident right now, Big M. Should I be?"

Perhaps. They can hold this position until doomsday against a single warband. Maybe even should two or three come against them. But Bors knows the rest of the Saxon army is just a small march away. They won't bother stirring for two hundred Britains, but -

"If they know Arthur is here, all bets are off?"

Indeed.

As if listening to our conversation, a voice spat incomprehensible syllables at us from the woods. Bors replied in the same language, and a few of his men grinned.

"Why can't I understand what they're saying? I've heard Saxon before."

Whoever is out there is speaking in a somewhat unusual dialect. I presume Cedric is addressing us in Kentish because -

"He's a cunt?"

I was going to say he's from Kent, but we can agree with your general sentiment. One moment, I should be able to help you translate what is going on.

In no time,

the back and forth between the two commanders became comprehensible. "And what do you know, we came across a bunch of Saxons in a place no one expected you to be. Things were said, javelins were thrown, and here we are."

"And you want us to believe that you are a - sorry, what did you call yourselves?"

"A scroll club. We like gathering together in the woods, having drinks, and discussing the latest kennings. What was the one you shared the other day, Gawayne, heaven something?"

"Heofon-candel." A surprisingly high voice came from the press of warriors. "Means the sun. A heaven candle."

"See? We're always doing things like this. Just marching out into the wilderness and composing poetry and the like. A scroll club."

"And you would like us to believe your ... scroll club of two hundred warriors has found itself loitering on the edge of our entire army."

"I couldn't give a toss what you believe." I definitely liked Bor's 'fuck around and find out' energy. "Way I see it, we're going to get moving soon, and you can either try and stop us, and we'll kill you, or you can fuck off back to your mummy and daddy in the army and tell them the big boy is being mean to you and you need them to step in."

There was a tense pause. I'm not sure the sniggering in the British ranks did much to lower temperatures.

"I am fond of kennings myself, Briton. I have, for example, heard my war band described, by friends and foes alike, in the old tongue as the 'hrynsævar hræva hund'. Can you translate it?"

Bors voice was tight. "The hounds of the roaring sea of corpses."

And with that, the Saxons attacked.

*

I didn't really have the best view of the opening exchanges, huddled as I was in the middle of the formation and shielded from projectiles from above by several guards.

It would be hard to miss the noise, though. The Saxons hit us from all sides, and the square noticeably shuddered with the intensity of the crash of metal on wood.

This merged with the howling of the attackers, the shouting of orders, and the screams of the fallen to provide quite the unsettling soundscape.

Through it all, Arthur remained unconscious, his blistered body contorted in a boxing pose. As far as I could tell, the mana stone I had wedged between his grasp was still working fine; Merlin had said it should continue to self-sustain through its connection to me and from ambient Qi.

I was trying to encourage some paint to cycle, when I realised Bors was next to me again. "Don't you have a battle to command?"

"Nah. Shields have locked together, so it's all pushing and shoving for a bit now. They'll get tired before us and fall back to have a think about what to do next. They don't seem to have a wizard, so we'll do this the old-fashioned way." He grimaced. "Until, that is, Cedric decides to swallow his pride and send a message back to the rest of the army for help."

"What will we do then?"

A panicked shout from the far edge of the square grabbed Bors' attention for a second, but one of the 'troubleshooters' pushed their way forward into and through the press and, a few rises and falls of his giant axe later, he was making his way back to the middle.

"Fucking sneaky blue-skinned twat felt like making a name for himself." He answered Bor's questioning glance.

"And did he?"

"Dunno. Does anyone write songs about people who piss themselves when they get their arm cut off?"

"Probably not."

"Well then. Was hardly worth the effort."

The big man turned back to me and rubbed a hand over his face. "In this formation, we can effect a decent fighting withdrawal if we need to. It won't be pretty, but neither am I, and it never did me any harm. Cedric will have a choice to either let us go, or double down. We're good, but not that good. If the whole army comes calling, you're going to have to do us all a favour."

"What?"

"You're going to need to pull some wizardy-shit and get Arthur out of here."