"I can do this all fucking day," Bors yelled into the face of the Saxon he had lifted a foot in the air by his throat. Terrified eyes stared back, and he casually tossed him off the narrow bridge that led to Tintagel's gatehouse. There was a short scream, then a loud splash and Bors turned to face the mass of Saxons pressing to line up to charge towards him.

"I mean, it's not like you weren't warned. Tintagel. Din Tagell. "The fort with the constricted entrance." Did you think you could slip in as easily as I did with your mother last night? Now, let me tell you that was an open entrance. A thoroughly well-trodden path, if you know what I mean? Could even make out some footprints."

"Why does everyone keep going on about fucking my mother!" A giant Saxon, easily the size of Bors, pushed through the crowd and dashed across the bridge in great strides. Of all the ways to attempt this perilous crossing, in a blind fury, running and swinging a huge battleaxe was pretty suboptimal.

Bors watched him come and stepped nimbly inside the arc of the swinging axe, landing a ferocious headbutt right on the sweet spot.

The Saxon's eyes rolled back in his head, and Bors heaved the big man into the sea. "And that's still not as wet as I made your mother!"

Seeing another contingent of Saxon archers form up, he returned to the rest of the small force holding the bridge and accepted his shield from Peredur.

"Having fun?"

Bors snorted, slotting his shield into its place with the others above their heads. The pitter-patter of arrows striking leather and wood was oddly soothing, considering the context. "They're either being led by idiots, or this is just a distraction."

"With the numbers they've got, I'm not sure it matters either way."

Bors didn't disagree. There were more than he could count already on their side of the bridge, and more seemed to be arriving every day.

And that was without wondering what the wizards were up to.

There was no non-magical way to attack the castle but through Bors and the twenty men he had with him. However, the Saxons had the men to keep up an almost constant press on the beleaguered defenders whilst their cultivators plotted away.

The big Briton had been true to his boast and had been throwing Saxons to their death 'all day'. But they only had to get lucky once. It looked like his luck would need to hold several thousand times.

"My turn."

As the archers had fallen back, Peredur slipped forward, all grace where Bors was all strength. As he ran, his leather-clad hand tightened around the hilt of his thin sword, his shield braced in front of him.

The rhythmic thud of his footsteps was overshadowed by the thunder of arriving Saxons. They hadn't yet devised a better strategy than 'fucking charge', so their iron-clad boots clanked angrily against the ancient stone of the bridge.

Peredur met the rush calmly, his blade flicking out and back like a lizard's tongue. One was down in a moment, pierced through, and their collapse fouled the footing for the one following behind. That warrior tried to jump the body, but Peredur's sinewy frame moved with a practised fluidity, and he shield bashed him over the edge of the bridge and into the water below.

"This is getting fucking embarrassing," yelled Bors. "What's the plan? To fill the ocean with bodies and walk over that?"

"Stop. Giving. Them. Ideas." Peredur was a blur of parrying, sidestepping, counterattacking motion. The clash of iron rang out like a haunting melody in the mist-laden silence.

But such fighting was hard work. His breath grew ragged, his muscles protested under the unceasing exertion and, like Bors before him, he realised that his position was becoming untenable. Glancing over his shoulder at the dwindling stretch of the narrow bridge behind him, Peredur knew he had to pull back.

Stolen novel; please report.

Summoning the last reserves of his strength, he slowly began to retreat, drawing the growing tide of Saxons with him. Step by measured step, he gave ground, each withdrawal a calculated manoeuvre to ensure the safety of those relying on him for protection.

Then, without them noticing, the Saxons had come too far to retreat safely. They were well over halfway across the bridge when those still on the mainland shouted a warning.

Suddenly, Peredur retreated in a run and dived to the side and there, facing them, had been positioned a massive, mobile crossbow.

"Ballista to the face, bitches!"

*

Igraine raised her eyebrows as Uther entered the throne room.

"Well?"

Uther shook his head. "Nothing to report. We're holding the bridge with few challenges. Their losses would be catastrophic if they didn't have more spears than Bors has cuss words. I'd worried there was something more to their battle plan, but for now, I think this is it. They're going to keep charging the bridge until they get through. What's really pissing me off, though, is if they keep at it long enough, it will probably work."

"I wasn't asking about that, as you well know."

Uther ran a hand through his hair. "It's complicated."

His wife's eyes were cold. "It really, really is not. Of the many things about Kingship, which I would agree are desperately complex, the mystic art of this particular battlefield should not be beyond you."

"I'm not raping my son's wife."

There was no sound save the faint noise of battle wafting through the windows. The splash of Saxons hitting the ocean had become little more than background noise throughout the day.

"Can we win without Leodegrance's ten thousand spears?"

Uther shook his head.

"Is there a way to fool that damned fertility witch that's supposed to send the confirmation?"

Again, Uther shook his head.

"She's not been near the Princess since before Arthur took to the field, but we're surely running out of time. If they cross paths and she senses there's no little prince growing, this plan will be at an end. Do you have any better ideas?"

Silence.

"So why are you stood here like a fucking spare cock at an orgy!"

That almost brought a smile to the King's face. "You've been spending too much time around Bors."

"And you, my love, have clearly not. Do you think for one moment that if you ordered him to impregnate Guinevere, he'd mope around angsting about it? He hasn't got eight kids because of his winning smile. That is a man who knows what goes where, when and how far."

"And what do I say when Arthur comes home? How do I look him in the eye after doing what you propose?"

Igraine felt her resolve waver and took a deep breath to steady her nerves. "Uther, I have done many things over the years to ease your burden. I would not be so cruel as to speak of them now, as I know you have a good heart, and I would not have it break. I merely mention it to stress that if I could do this for you, I would. If the only thing holding you back is what Arthur will say, then I say to you he is dead. We both know he is dead, and should that fact be wider known, this castle would already have fallen."

Uther opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.

"You know I was not an enthusiastic participant in Arthur's conception; that did not seem to bother you half as much."

"That's different."

"It really is not, Uther. What do you need to make you do your duty to your people?"

He was spared answering by the sound of running feet and then booming knocks against the door. "Enter!"

An armed man fell to his knees. "Your majesty, Sir Bors requests your presence at the bridge."

"Why?"

The messenger's eyes flicked to Igraine. She smiled. "Assume I will not be offended by Sir Bors' earthy vernacular."

"He says, 'you won't believe what these sneaky fuckers are trying. Get your bony arse down here and tell me what to do."

*

"I have never seen anything like that before in my life."

"In all honesty, my Lord, I was hoping for something a little more inspiring than 'fuck knows'. Did you want another go?"

The two men were staring at a giant structure of wood that was slowly growing on the Saxon side of the bridge.

"What do you want from me, Sir Bors? They're building a massive magical bridge that, I presume, will let their full force cross straight over our battlements in one go. How was that?"

"Do you have any orders?"

"What would it take to stop it?"

Bors shrugged his massive shoulders. "Once it's ready, nothing. We can't let them finish building it. I need to get over there with a few of the boys and kill all their fucking wizards."

"How many boys do you think it will take?"

"I could probably do it with ten thousand prime Cornouaillen spearmen. But you know, time is ticking."

Uther glared at him. "You need to hang around with my wife less, people will talk."

"Let them. It's not like I'd be doing something useful, like fucking my son's wife."

"Sir Bors, I need that bridge destroyed."

"My Lord, I need the men to do it," there was a pause. "Do you want me to do it? I've done worse."

Uther let the pause stretch out as he considered it. But no. It was the first, and only rule, of Kingship. You never asked for something to be done you wouldn't do yourself. Even this.

"I'm told Leodegrance has a portal ready to send the troops the second he has confirmation. Get what you need ready to go."