"Are you sure this is the only way?"

Bors tightened the strap on his breastplate. He knew - intellectually - they'd only run out of food the day before, but he was certain his armour was feeling a little loose. "What?"

Guinevere sighed and shook her head. "I was just asking, for the hundredth time, whether there was truly no other option than to leave our impregnable fortress and engage an enemy in possession of overwhelming numbers."

"I'm hungry." And, as if that was all that needed to be said, Bors pushed forward through the small group of men who, likewise, had decided that there was no state of being more horrific than feeling a touch peckish.

"You are being rather unfair," Blæk whispered at her side as the assault team approached the gate.

"No. No, I am not. This is dick-measuring, pure and simple. There's no need for him to lead an attack on them."

"Your Highness, we have run out of food. It is not going to be too many days before the warriors are not going to be in a position to fight. If we knew that relief was on the way, I am sure the last thing Sir Bors would risk would be a doomed sally beyond the walls to break the siege. However, as we are currently under assault by our single strongest ally, we must assume that if anyone is likely to receive extra troops soon, it will not be us."

"They're all going to be killed!"

"I don't think that is his plan, Your Majesty. I do not know Sir Bors well, but all of the Grey's reports suggest he is far more tactically astute than his public persona suggests. I am sure this is more than a forlorn hope to certain doom."

*

"And once we've killed as many as we can, we stop for a quick nap, then go again. All happy?"

"You're not being serious, are you?" Galahad said from Bors' side.

He looked down at the . . . he didn't want to call him a 'small boy' because that felt disrespectful to a warrior that had absolutely brought the thunder to the defence of the bridge for the last few days. There was something extraordinary fluent about the way Galahad moved in a fight - as if the air itself thought there was something forbidden about providing wind resistance. The lad favoured sword and shield, which made sense. Considering his small stature, it allowed him far more freedom in the press than lugging a massive spear about. Bors had been impressed with how the shield was used more as an offensive weapon than to receive blows. He'd never tell a soul, but he's been practising something similar in his downtime.

"Of course not. But you don't tell the men that. I have an image to maintain!" Bors flashed a big, toothy grin.

"So, we have a better plan than fight until either we or they are dead?"

"Of course we do."

Galahad nodded and fell back beside Parsifal and Archon. The three of them had formed an absolutely deadly trio that ensured the bridge's defence was far less spicey than it should have been. If Arthur ever made it back, the Marghekyon had its new core.

Palemedias cleared his throat and spat a bloody mouthful of spit to the ground. In common with most of the few men of Dumnonia, the siege had taken a toll. "There's no plan, is there?"

Bors winked at the last of his surviving childhood friends. "Of course not. You want to go out as you've lived, don't you? OPEN THE GATE!"

*

It took Maelgwn a moment to realise what was going on.

"The mad fucker!"

Unfortunately, it turned out that 'moment' was something he would regret.

The archers on Tintagel's walls, led - apparently - by Guinevere, launched a furious bombardment that carried far further than arrows had any right to travel. If he hadn't known for certain that the wizard had accompanied Arthur and his father on the quest for Caeldfwch, he would have assumed some cultivator shenanigans. But it just had to be luck, didn't it?

He was forced to reconsider that viewpoint when the rain arrows didn't stop. Or he would have done, if he wasn't immediately occupied with pulling his men assaulting the bridge out of the way of the most lunatic-inspired charge he'd ever seen.

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Bors bounded forward through Tintagel's gates, carrying a battering ram single-handedly. He struck the hastily assembled shield wall of the men of Gwent with all the inevitability of the setting sun. But he didn't stop to admire his handy work, pushing on through, punching a massive hole in the assembled force, allowing his own men to swarm through - was that a child with a sword and shield!!! - and continued onwards towards Maelgwn himself.

In normal circumstances, being outnumbered ten to one was a pretty straightforward calculation. And if anyone on the Gwent side had kept their heads, that would have been that. But due to the spookily accurate, long-ranged arrows, a giant swinging a tree trunk to crush skulls left and right, and the fevered intensity of spearmen who didn't know where their next meal was coming from, things rapidly spun out of control.

Bors and company were clear of the bridge and halfway into the Gwent camp before Maelgwyn was able to pull things back in order. Then things got just that bit tougher for the Dumnonians.

*

'Ah."

Guinevere launched another arrow, which, empowered by Blæk, surged forward to take a Gwent spear about to skewer Parsifal in the throat. There was no real power at such a distance, but it knocked the attacker off his stride, and the tall man could slip away from danger.

The queen rolled her aching shoulders and turned to the quiet man. "Is that a good 'ah' as in 'ah, now our problems are over!'"

"I'm afraid not, your highness. What Bors was attempting required significant momentum. They've done far better than I had possibly expected, but they are now getting bogged down. He would be wise to . . . Oh dear."

"I swear, Sir Blæk." Guinevere shot a further arrow at a spear flanking Bors' position, but the distance was too far, and it dropped short, even with Blæk giving it significant welly. "If you keep making slightly panicked little noises without explaining yourself, I am going to be very unhappy indeed."

"Understood, Your Highness. At the risk of making you even more unhappy, I am afraid to say I rather think our men are getting cut off."

*

"Right. On to Plan B."

"We have a Plan B? Did we have a Plan A?" Pallemedias was nursing a nasty cut to his arm that had Bors hoping Tasko had squirrelled away some of Morgan's elixirs. That, or he rather feared the Marghekyon would have its first-ever one-armed warrior.

"Of course we had a Plan A, Pally! And it went like an absolute dream, I will have you know. Textbook execution."

Bors stepped backwards from a determined surge from a heavily armoured Gwent spearman and clanked into the back of Archon, retreating the other way. Cursing, the big man looked around and saw his small expeditionary force was down to fifty - which sucked - and was also completely surrounded - which sucked that bit harder.

Bors glanced hopefully back towards Tintagel. Maybe in an act of astonishing perspicacity, he had drawn the attack to a halt just inside Qi-empowered archery range? But no. They were too far out for support now. Either that or Gwin was saving her ammunition to cover the glorious and triumphant retreat he was doubtless about the lead, carrying those wagons of supplies that had been his principal target.

Yeah, he decided. It must be that.

Maelgwyn appeared opposite Bors, face like he'd been slapped with a wet fish whilst sucking a lemon. By the look of him, the Prince of Gwent hadn't been hiding at the back of the skirmish. His armour was fucked.

"Tell your men to lower their arms, Sir Bors. It's over."

"Counterpoint. Go fuck yourself."

Maelgwyn looked over at Iorwerth, who had made his position very clear on what needed to be the outcome of this tussle. He was already winching his crossbow.

"Sir Bors, you have done all that could have been asked of you. You held the bridge against appalling odds, and your sally against our forces will live long in song. But we have you surrounded, you are cut off from any line of retreat and my men wish to revenge the hundreds that have fallen to you during the siege."

Bors looked around at some very grim faces. "Well, you shouldn't have been such pussies, should you?"

Maegywn shrugged and indicated for more men with crossbows to push their way forward. They lowered them to take aim at the small circle of spears that did its best to contract even tighter behind broken and damaged shields.

"Surrender, my lord. We have foes aplenty on this island. The British will be all the weaker should you force me to kill you."

"I mean, that sounds all very reasonably and grown up. However, your king murdered our queen, you tried to have Guinevere assassinated, and you have invaded us. If there's a moral high ground of 'let us all unite against the Saxons,' you could probably make it more powerful if you weren't full of shit. Worst-case scenario for me here is you kill us all - "

Bors heard Pallemedias whisper, "I mean, that's a pretty bad downside . . . "

"- and you STILL will not be able to take Tintagel. However, with us dead, Arthur will be even more pissed with you all than he's already going to be. Angry Pendragons are rarely especially forgiving."

Maelgwyn shook his head. Damn his father for forcing him into this position. "Sir Bors, King Arthur will not return to avenge your deaths. As we speak, Owain of Gwent will have claimed Caeldfwch, dispatched your wizard and removed the heads of your warriors. Believe me when I say nothing can be achieved by further bloodshed. For the final time, lower your arms."

Bors glanced at his small ring of men just for forms's sake. All of them had set, resolute expressions. He fucking loved these guys.

"Sir Bors? Your answer, please." Maelgwyn's tone was grim.

"On behalf of the men of Dumnonia, go fuck - "

The men of Gwent fired.