For what felt like the hundredth time, Bors ran through how he thought this would play out.

The Saxons were gearing up to make another doomed attempt to cross the thin strip of stone that connected Tintagel to the mainland. Why they were bothering when their wizards were halfway through constructing a fucking giant bridge for their whole army to swarm over at once was anyone’s guess.

Maybe they were bored?

Anyhow. The plan. The Saxons would attack, he’d kill a bunch of them, gloat about it, and the blue-skinned bastards would retreat with the tails between their legs. But this time, the Britons would be doing something a bit different.

Rather than disengage and fall back, Bors - and every other suicidal lunatic who'd signed up for a chance at immortality – would charge after them.

The hope was that this was such a colossally stupid thing to do that the Saxons wouldn’t see it coming. Thus, their confusion at the manifestly ridiculous tactic would buy the plucky attackers just enough time to reach the bridge construction site, slaughter all the wizards – who he was sure would charitably not seek to defend themselves – and retreat back over to the British lines in time for tea and crumpets.

“To be fair, I’ve heard worse plans,” added Gawayne.

“Really?”

The fair-haired Knight took a moment. “Actually, probably not.”

“Then you’ve a short memory. I’m old enough to remember your efforts at bedding Lady Kendra. I rate our chances here far better than you ever had at riding her.” Bors easily dodged the good-natured attempt to behead him in response and, in doing so, bumped into a tall figure in full plate that had arrived to join them.

“How’s it looking?” Apparently, King Uther Pendragon had come down to see them off. Although, the way he was dressed …

“Your Highness, tell me you’re wearing all that gear because the Princess Guinevere has an armour fetish.”

The King tugged at a gauntlet self-consciously. “I’ll have you know it all still fits like a glove. Forty years old, some of this is.”

Using the laughter of the men as cover, Bors pulled him to one side. “I’m assuming you’re in all your martial finery because the deed is done, Guinevere is growing fat as we speak, and there’s a horde of battle-mad spearman portalling our way? You just want to make a striking impression when they arrive. Right? Right?”

Uther stared back in response.

“So, no reinforcements?”

“No.”

“Did you even …”

“No.”

“Couldn’t make it stand to attention or …”

“You know the line between King and subject you are never, ever supposed to cross?”

“I’m rapidly approaching it?”

“Look behind you.” There was a pause, and then, because he knew he owed an explanation to a man who was about to die because of his decision, he added, “I couldn’t do it. I explained to her what was going on, why we needed her with child, and all that. And she just looked at me with such …”

“Lust at your kingly forcefulness?”

“Disappointment. But, and this was what made it worse, not too much of it. As if me fucking her would just be the next in a very long line of let-downs. Like it was hardly worth getting worked up about anymore. I think she even sighed.”

“I can imagine that killed the moment.”

“Just a little. So, here I am.”

“I can’t help but feel the vibe is moving from ‘impossibly brave attack to relieve pressure on the castle” to ‘courageous final stand with us all being killed.’ Would I be reading that right?”

“I haven’t given up, Sir Bors. I’m just not going to let you have all the glory when this insane plan comes off without a hitch.”

Bors looked doubtfully at the task before them. Even with Leodegrance's ten thousand spears, it would not have been a walk in the park. Without them ... "Just checking, there’s absolutely no way the solution here could be to give me a few minutes to visualise my wife and then to lie back and think of Britain?”

Uther grimaced. “We need to leave that young woman alone. She’s had enough men in her life let her down without inflicting your unwelcome attentions on her.” The King scanned the milling Saxons on the mainland and raised his voice. “No, we will not let anyone else detract from our glory. Think of the stories they will tell of this charge! With no Merlin, no Arthur, and no support from our allies, the British forces sallied forth from Tintagel and drove the Saxons into the sea. When we pull this off, our fame will be secure throughout all of history.”

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Bors cheered with the others but couldn't help muttering under his breath. “This is certainly going to be memorable. One way or another.”

The Saxons had finally gathered the courage for another go at crossing and were edging their way onto the stone path leading to the castle. “Right, well, no point overplanning things.” He clapped Uther on the shoulder and moved about halfway across the bridge to meet the attack. “Glad to have you with us, Your Majesty. Leave some for the rest of us, eh? As soon as they start to run away, we go all in. And the first person back here gets the water boiling, eh?”

*

Life comes at you fast.

One minute, we were fleeing a handful of Scottish claymores, and the next, we were slap-bang in the middle of the Saxon encampment. Hundreds of pairs of eyes turned to us in astonishment as we manifested out of thin air.

“What the fuck, Merlin!”

I did explain, my dear, that I had all sorts of safeguards in place to stop cultivators appearing in the middle of the castle. What did you expect?

I hit as hard as I could and was gratified at the size of the wide circle free of spears that sprang up around us. I was certainly getting my Qi's worth from that skill.

“I don’t know, maybe a head’s up we were leaving a tiny Scottish frying pan for a much bigger, much more intensive Saxon volcano. That sort of thing?"

"Follow me. We're not too far from the bridge!" Arthur, in a faintly masterful way that I did not find wholly unappealing, set off at a run. There was just enough residual confusion in the Saxon ranks that he appeared to have a fairly clear route through.

Having absolutely no better idea, I followed him.

*

Bors abandoned his spear in the guts of the man collapsed at his feet and drew his sword. Say what you like about Saxons, and he'd said plenty in his time, but they didn't break easy. The three left of the group that had dared the crossing still gave no sign of calling it a day.

He felt sure, though, that if he dropped one more, the others would retreat. There was something about two-on-one against a man his size that did not inspire confidence. Especially after eight-on-one (And seven. And six) hadn't worked out too happily.

He closed to the tallest of those remaining and, with no warning, stomped down on his foot. An outraged look, quickly replaced by agony, crossed the Saxon's tattooed face. Bors took advantage of the sudden loss of balance to cuff him roughly across the head, which tumbled him into the sea.

As the screams vanished below the bridge, the other two looked at each and, yes, he was right, turned and ran for home.

"And now it becomes interesting."

With a blood-curdling war cry, Bors - accompanied by thirty others, including Uther Pendragon, King of the Britons - followed in their wake.

*

I'd never enjoyed sport at school.

It had always struck me that any activity which formalised the role of a handsy sadist like Mr Gibbons would not be worth my time. Fortunately, by Year 8, we'd learned if you told him you were on your period, there'd be no follow-up questions as to why you were not taking part. I didn't get changed once in four years after discovering that. Even now, I still have moments when I wonder what on earth he thought was up with my reproductive system.

I mention this because the sort of helter-skelter, running gauntlet I was currently engaged in was somewhat beyond my day-to-day experience.

Nevertheless, between the two of us, me constantly triggering and Arthur being steel-death personified - Seriously, you need to talk to him for me. I want in. The things we could achieve together! - we'd not yet been cut into tiny pieces.

Obviously, surprise was the biggest factor in our survival, but I felt more than a little proud of how far I'd come since arriving in the Dark Ages. Not that long ago, I was rolling on the floor wrestling with a wolf, and now I was blasting enemies out of my way like Obi Wan on speed.

There are other spells available, you know? Whilst effective, there's a significant lack of nuance to your current actions."

"Fuck nuance. I'm not the wizard you're looking for, motherfucker. Move along!"

In the near distance, I could make out a thin stone bridge which seemed to be Arthur's destination. Oddly, it looked like there was a handful of people coming the other way. A welcome home party? Well, wasn't that lovely.

"Wizard, can you see that structure?"

Turning, I looked to where Arthur was pointing, noticing lots and lots of what I presumed were cultivators pouring Qi into a giant bridge. It was to scale as if Thor ordered his own, portable Bifrost.

"They're going to use that to breach the walls. Can you do anything about it?"

"No idea. Merlin?"

They appear to be crafting it in its entirety from Wood Qi. It's quite an impressive working, actually. Although, of course, I would have been able to complete such a task on my own, whereas they need an entire team.

"Yes. All hail you. Can I do anything to disrupt it?"

I doubt any of your current spells would make much impact, my dear. The best bet would be to introduce some Fire Qi to proceedings.

"Say no more. Drynwyn, you want a chance to suck up to Arthur?"

*

After some initial success, the British charge had become bogged down. True, they'd pushed the Saxons further back than Bors had expected, but they were still well short of reaching the wizards and their huge bridge.

"Will you fucking get behind me, Your Majesty?" Bors once again dragged Uther back into formation. "This is hard enough without me needing to keep an eye on you too!"

Although all those who had begun the charge were still standing - more or less - they were increasingly in a beleaguered state. Now that their forward momentum had stalled, it was only a matter of time before the bodies began falling.

"You know the one thing I'd kill for right about now, Your Majesty?"

Uther slammed his shield into the face of a Saxon, the wood shattering into pieces. "Ten thousand spearmen?"

Bors moved closer to cover the King's exposed side. "Okay. Two things. Ten thousand spearmen and," he cursed as his sword was wrenched from his hand by a collapsing corpse, "a chance to say a proper goodbye to Arthur."

Uther threw him a hand axe, the last of the spare weapons he'd brought with him. Things were starting to look grim. "I share that sentiment, Sir Bors. What do you think he'd say if he saw the mess we'd got ourselves into without him?"

A bald man carrying a shield that appeared to be loudly critiquing his fighting technique suddenly leapt over the top of the Saxon press. He landed in front of the astonished Britons and smiled broadly.

"He'd say 'run, you fools.' That fire's no joke. Trust me!" And with that, he took off across the bridge towards Tintagel.

Bors and Uther just had time to exchange bemused looks when the Saxon line was pushed to the side as if by a massive blow of wind. A red-haired woman streaked through the gap, following the bald man.

"He's not joking. Drynwyn's about to show the Saxons something really special. Get moving!"

Needing no further incentive, Bors forced his men around, roughly pushing Uther in front of him. All the way back, the big man felt the searing heat of a chasing wave of fire scorch the flesh from his back.

As he ran, ignoring the pain, there was but one thought in his head. "That's for Isca, you bastards. Payback's a bitch."