There are various ways in which I am very comfortable bringing a confrontation to a messy, violent conclusion. If my encounter with the Kraken had taught me nothing else, throwing every possible explosive technique at the problem was, sometimes, the only way forward.

Hang on, my dear. I'm sure one of the key learning points of the last few weeks has been learning the 'less is more' approach in the way in which you use your Qi . . .

Can't talk, Big M. Being the GOD OF HELLFIRE!

With little fanfare, we'd popped back into the human realm in the general vicinity of Tintagel. By which, I mean the four of us - well, five if you count a dead King of Gwent - landed in the middle of a hail of crossbow bolts. This was disconcerting. However, a cultivator of my quality and experience had no issue activating < I.E.D.> and quickly sucking in all the projectiles to stick to the outer shell of Qi.

Just so we are clear, you are aware that I activated that technique, aren't you?

"Not now, Big M. Too busy being an absolute legend."

"Arthur?" a nicely familiar voice boomed out behind us.

I held on to < I.E.D.> for a few more moments to get the lay of the land.

We appeared surrounded by a large warband of somewhat surprised men with unloaded crossbows. Lying all around us were groaning and moaning bodies, which bore all the hallmarks of a particularly big and belligerent friend of mine going loco down in Acapulco.

"Bors, my old mucker! Surrounded by overwhelming numbers again?"

"Morgan! Nice to see you. Still a manic pixie bitch?"

"You betcha!"

I'd have hugged him, but felt like skewering him with all the crossbow bolts I was currently bristling with would have been counterproductive to the accidental rescue I seemed to have just pulled off. And Bors was already not at his best. He had about twenty guys at this back who likewise looked like the 'after' video of a particularly brutal cage fight. He and Arthur had an emotional reunion—you know, in that manly way whereby guys give each other a little nod that carries the weight of years and years of pent-up, repressed love—and I got a better look at what was occurring.

The guys attacking Bors hadn't wasted much time reloading their crossbows, which suggested they weren't easily spooked by magically manifesting warriors in the mix. I reckoned I could probably catch another volley in < I.E.D.> before needing to unload, but maybe there was another way forward.

"By what right do you fire on my men whilst standing on my land." Arthur's voice was at its most, 'Don't fuck with me.' His hand was resting on Caeldfwch's hilt, which gave me pause.

"If he draws that, Big M, which way are these arrows going when my Qi vanishes? Will they release outward? Because my hold on them is removed, or do they continue towards us because I'm not controlling them anymore?" There was the sort of confused silence you were not really looking for when the distribution of several hundred crossbow bolts was concerned. Just to be safe, my dear, I might suggest letting go of them. Gently.

I didn't need to be told twice. Using all of my expertise and hard-earned experience—once again, my dear, let's be clear, I am in control of this technique—I released the bolts over the heads of the men surrounding us. As much as Arthur's stern expression, I like to think this sharpened the men of Gwent's attention.

An attractive twenty-something pushed himself forward. He spared me a somewhat concerned glance - that's right, dude, Big Dog in the house - and then fixed his eyes on Arthur. I mentally added thirty years and seven stone to him and realised we were probably looking at Owain's son.

"Arthur. We did not expect to see you here."

"I bet you didn't, Maelgwn. Give me one reason I don't have my wizard vapourise you where you stand."

I'm not going to lie, I quite liked how everyone looked at me when he said that. I may or may not have let a little ripple of electricity shimmer across my body.

You are such a fucking drama queen.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"Was your quest successful?"

I had to admire this man's chutzpah. He must know he was in all sorts of shit and was still managing to keep his voice pretty matter-of-fact. An older guy giving off distinct Grand Vizier vibes was suddenly stood at his shoulder, looking like he was about to have a coronary.

Arthur nodded. "I am now the bearer of Caeldfwch, and Mark of Gwynedd has acknowledged me as the Pendragon."

Lancelot shoved the fat man forward. He didn't look up, merely nodded his head.

Maelgwyn's face remained still. "And the other kings? Did they follow suit?"

"Beric was eaten by goblins, and Corys is probably still doing his own eating out about now." I might be wrong, but I sensed my contribution was not universally welcomed.

"And my father?"

Lancelot threw the corpse of Owain at Maelgwyn's feet.

"He betrayed us," he said Arthur. "He took an oath to join us in a quest for Caeldfwch whilst all the time plotting to steal my throne. He murdered my mother, sent assassins to kill my wife and clearly charged you to steal in under cover of that chaos to claim my castle. And he has paid for his presumption. The question is, does anyone else need to die this day?"

Both men looked at each other.

I didn't think Maelgwyn looked hugely devastated, considering the still oozing body of his father was at his feet.

"I guess," continued Arthur, "the only question is whether you wish to re-establish relationships with Dumnonia or if avenging your father's death is foremost in your mind."

I couldn't get a read on the new King of Gwent. He certainly had the numbers to be a pain in the arse, particularly if Arthur forgot himself and drew Caeldfwch. No matter how impressed these dudes had been with my little game of catch and throw, it would go very differently if I didn't have any Qi at my disposal. I really hoped Arthur's brain had considered that before upping the ante.

The red-faced older man stepped forward. "Murderer!"

We all turned to look at him.

"Twice you have bathed your hands in the blood of the royal line of Gwent. First, your bitch of a mother ordered the murder of Prince Kael to bring us to heel, and now you seek to intimidate King Maelgwyn in the same way! The men of Gwent will not bow their heads to tyranny!"

I'm not sure who was more surprised when the dude's head hit the ground—him or Maelgwyn, who had decapitated him.

Nah. It was definitely the dead guy.

Maelgwyn resheated his sword and took a knee. I giggled at the thought that two entirely shit series of my favourite T.V. shows would probably have been avoided if another twenty-something with curly black hair had done something similar.

"King Arthur, the men of Gwent reconfirm our long alliance with the men of Dumnonia and acknowledge your right to hold the title of Pendragon."

His men followed his lead, and the tension noticeably dropped.

With them all now on their knees, I could make out the towers of Tintagel reaching up into the sky.

Weirdly, I felt like I'd come home.

*

"And we are sure he now possesses the sword?"

Several pairs of eyes did their best not to meet the gaze of the Bretwalda. If any of them had any qualms about a Briton being their supreme leader, they had long since learned to keep such thoughts to themselves. There used to be an awful lot more senior Chieftains of the Saxons. Those left were canny enough to see which way the wind was blowing.

And Aurelius Ambrosius was a veritable hurricane.

Cedric of the West Saxons was the first to speak. "Our spies were clear that, on his return, both Gwent and Gwynedd acknowledged Arthur as the Pendragon. I cannot see any other circumstances where that would have occurred unless he held the sword."

Aurelius took another of his little vials from a satchel and crunched down on it. The men who stood before him did their best to ignore the smell as the flesh of his face was eaten away - and then rebuilt - by the vitriolic poison.

"And Powys and Dehuebarch?"

"Unclear," Hansad, a newly arrived warlord from the east, was a bit trigger-happy when offering Aurelius bad news. The others shuffled away from him surreptitiously. "Neither Corys nor Beric appear to have returned from the quest."

Aurelius stood, causing the others to immediately take a knee. He did not acknowledge this and walked to the window of his newly reconstructed tower. When he spoke, none of them were clear about whether it was to them or to himself. "Arthur Pendragon will be feeling invulnerable. He has pushed us from his lands, his wizard is growing in power, and he now possesses an ancient artefact capable of negating my magic. He has reconfirmed his alliances and, if we understand true, has even managed to rebuild his relationship with his wife. I imagine he is feeling pretty damn smug at this moment."

From his high vantage point, he could see the teeming mass of Saxons beneath him. Boats had been arriving steadily since the turn of the year, and, if possible, there was an even greater mass of men at the Bretwalda's disposal than before the fall of Isca.

"What would you have us do, High King?" Hansad really wasn't going to be long for this world.

Aurelius turned around, eyes blazing with power. All heads dropped to the floor, the leaders of the Saxon race on the island of Britain full-on genuflecting.

"But a Pendragon cannot squat behind his walls, weathering our storm. We may not be able to prise him free from Tintagel, but let us see how firmly his allies stand with him when we slay their people and sow their fields with salt. This will be a summer of slaughter, the like of which the land has never seen before. By the time we are finished, Arthur will be alone. Let us see how much a pretty sword and pair of shapely tits help him when Britain is on fire around him."