Racing for the door, Grayle grabbed his bow and sword, slinging a full quiver of arrows over his shoulder as he ran. Banging on doors as he sped through the castle, his cries of "Raiders!" echoed through the halls.

Grayle reached the door in the outer wall of the isthmus keep just as Percival strode into view, his long dark hair in disarray. Bare-chested in the cool morning air, he held his sword ready, fire in his eyes.

"Where?" He demanded.

"Landing area, I saw one, but there are probably more."

A castle guard appeared behind them and Percival issued terse orders. "As soon as we are outside, bar this door and guard it. When someone else turns up, send them with a message to King Mark and tell him what's going on. You will not leave this position, and you will not let anyone in or out without permission from King Mark. Do you understand?"

The guard nodded in acknowledgment and stationed himself by the heavily built oak door.

"Ready Grayle?" The boy nodded, his bow strung and ready in his hand, scabbard belted to his waist.

The guard opened the door, and Percival and Grayle moved out into the pale dawn.

The heavy oak door thudded closed behind them, and they were alone. Percival was dressed only in breeches, barefoot and armed with his hand-and-a-half length sword. Grayle wore breeches and a shirt but carried a short sword and bow. Percival led the way, Grayle behind him with an arrow nocked to the string. They could hear a faint commotion behind them as Mark readied the defences of the castle, but expected no back-up as yet.

"We need to get down to the gate, quickly," whispered Percival.

Grayle nodded and they increased their pace to a lope, their steps muffled by the soft grass at the edges of the path.

Percival slowed as they approached the landing area, appearing to sense something. As he turned to speak to Grayle, a burly form barrelled into him from behind a large rock, smacking him into the perimeter wall running along the cliff edge. As Percival gasped in pain, two more figures emerged from the open gate of the landing platform, and the discordant clash of swords sounded to Grayle's right as Percival engaged the man in combat, blood streaming from a gash in his upper arm.

Grayle loosed an arrow to take one of the approaching men in the chest, and readied another as the second man charged at him. The Frankish warrior held his short stabbing spear to the fore. More warriors appeared from the gateway as the Frankish raiders ran in to make the most of their beach-head position, angons held ready, axes, swords and shields swinging from their belts.

Time seemed to slow as Grayle breathed out, and before he drew breath again he released the arrow which took the man at short range through the eye. Grayle skipped out of the way and the dying man's charge carried him into the warrior attacking Percival.

There was a gurgling death rattle as Percival dispatched his opponent, and Grayle passed his bow to his left hand and drew his sword from its scabbard. There was a brief second of quiet, and then a group of five raiders charged at them.

Percival glanced at Grayle, both of them horribly aware of their unarmoured state, and a moment of understanding passed between them. They would make a stand here, in the defensive position between a low cliff and the wall, where the path narrowed. The only way for the raiding party to attack the castle was here at the beach or through the mainland section of the castle. This place had to be defended at all costs.

There was a whisper of movement high and to their left, and a small group of Tintagel liveried archers rose from concealment. Three of the Frankish invaders hit the ground, groaning and swearing, but before Percival or Grayle could move to the attack, they heard someone running.

"Moooooooooove!" thundered Mark as he pelted between them, his massive bulk moving at downhill assisted speed. The fully armoured and angry King of Cornwall slammed into the two remaining Franks with bone-crushing impact, one man barged to the ground, the remaining warrior cut down with a massive sweep of the king's two-handed sword. Two of the castle guard followed on behind him and dropped chainmail and armour at Percival and Grayle's feet.

Stabbing his sword through the neck of the first of the downed men, Mark ordered the guards to finish securing the area and maintain a guard on the Lower Gate where the Frankish raiders had mounted their incursion.

He turned to his son and grandson, who were quickly getting into their chainmail. "They're on the beach as well," he said tersely. "This area is secure. We need to protect the town. Are you ready?"

Both men nodded and they set off back through the Inner Keep towards the main beach area that fed the town's centre.

The door to the island section of the castle closed solidly behind them as they made their way down the steep steps of the isthmus. Mark and Percival moved along in front, Grayle one step behind, with some of the castle archers bringing up the rear. The sounds of fighting could be heard as they descended, and Mark updated them as they walked.

"I sent the main body of the guard down this way when I came to find you two.

"The Sheriff is leading them, and from what we can see from the island battlements, he has most of them penned in on the beach, although there is a small band roaming around creating mayhem on the mainland. There appear to be only three ships here, but we have lookouts stationed on the coast to warn of us more."

Saving any more breath, the small group made its way down the steep steps to the beach as quickly as they could, but as they rounded the last corner, they ran headlong into the rogue group of Frankish raiders.

Battle training coming to the fore, Mark and Percival immediately swung into action, meeting the rush head-on. The Frankish warriors, confined by the narrowness of the cliff path, could only attack two or three at a time, risking injuring each other if more became involved in the brawl.

Grayle, confident that Mark and Percival could hold the small band, retreated back up the steps and held a quick meeting with the three archers who'd come with them. Lining them up in two ranks of two, including himself, he knelt in the front row and called out in Cornish to Mark and Percival.

"Archers to the rear, ready. On my command, create some space, and duck."

Grayle waited for a few seconds, biding his time, and watching the flow of the battle as Mark and Percival defended against the attack. Then his moment came: as one of the warriors over-extended, momentarily losing his balance, Mark deftly dispatched him and Grayle shouted.

"Now!"

Mark stepped back and dropped into a defensive crouch; Percival smashed his opponent with his shield as hard as he could and, as the man staggered backwards into his colleagues, dropped to one knee.

"Loose!" came the command behind them, and the rear pair of Mark's well practised archers punched two of the attackers to the slate rocks, writhing in agony and scrabbling at the fletched wood that stuck from their bodies. As the two bowmen reached into their quivers for another arrow, Grayle and the man next to him chose two more targets.

"Loose," he said quietly, releasing a breath.

One of the remaining attackers dropped his shield as he clutched at the arrow now sticking from his thigh, and another fell screaming from the cliff path as Grayle's white fletched shaft took him in the shoulder, spinning him off the edge to the rocks below.

"Wait!" he commanded his archers, as Mark and Percival swiftly rose from their crouched position, running headlong at the remaining men.

"Cornwall!" roared Mark, battle fury taking him deep into the leather-clad attackers, Percival hacking his way through at his shoulder.

Percival skewered his opponent, smashed his shield into the warrior fighting Mark, and moved forward to take on the next warrior who waited with his hand axe held high, his short sword still scabbarded at his waist.

Smashing his already dazed opponent with his own shield, Mark slashed his sword through the man's neck and moved forwards with Percival, an arrow flashing past his shoulder to take another Frank in the chest, the white feathers a focal point for the dying warrior's gaze.

"Down!" cried Grayle again, and Mark and Percival quickly ducked into a niche in the cliff that the sentries used during stormy weather.

"Loose!" commanded Grayle again, another flight of death winging its way skyward; three more arrows flew to their targets, making the now wary raiders cower behind their shields.

There were four left.

Both Mark and Percival were panting and out of breath now, several opponents either dead or incapacitated behind them. Reaching for another arrow, Grayle realised his quiver was empty. Telling the archers with him to hold position, he placed his bow on the path, unslung his shield, drew his sword and made to join the fray. He waited, letting Mark and Percival batter their way forward, the massive bulk of Mark powering the attack, the sheer skill and fury of Percival protecting his flank. In a brief lull, Mark glanced over his shoulder and saw him. Chest heaving and gasping for breath, he grinned fiercely at him and deliberately stepped back, allowing Grayle to step into the fight.

Instantly, an axe head buried itself into Grayle's raised shield, the blade biting deep into the wood despite the metal rim protecting it. Twisting his arm and dropping his shield, Grayle dislodged the axe, kicked out at the warrior's knee, and rammed his sword into the unprotected neck of the disarmed and groaning warrior. Stepping over the dying man, Grayle took on the next warrior, a massively built and bearded warrior, who, unusually for a Frankish warrior held a two-handed axe. Percival blocked a sword thrust and smashed his shield into his attacker making him stagger backward, the remaining raider stepping in to take on the Knight.

Grayle's opponent swung an immense blow at his now shieldless foe who ducked, stepped in close, and rammed his sword two-handed into the warrior's groin. Narrowly avoiding the falling giant who was mewling in pain and horror from his life draining wound, Grayle slashed his blade across his opponent's throat and, seeming hardly to pause, backhanded his sword across the neck of Percival's opponent, stopping as the remaining warrior hit the ground in a spreading pool of blood.

Mark stepped forwards, clapped the out of breath Percival on the shoulder and beamed at Grayle.

"Not bad, not bad at all. Right, come on the both of you, there's more yet."

Grayle picked up an undamaged, plain white shield from one of the fallen men, and moved onwards with Percival and Mark. As they reached the level area by the beach, they passed through the small group of guards who had been left by the Sheriff to defend the steps against further incursions and moved towards the main beach area. Three ships were drawn up on the shingle, and a knot of men were trying to fight their way up the main steps to the castle. The Franks had no choice but to attack now, the element of surprise had been lost and they had used their angons in the initial attack. The short throwing spears had killed several defenders, but now they were reliant on the traditional short sword and axes, and couldn't withdraw from the town without sustaining massive losses.

"Wodan!"

The raiders surged forwards at the battle cry, threatening to breach the small guard formed at the top of the steps.

Mark's archers had joined them now, one mutely passing Grayle his bow and a fresh quiver. He nodded his thanks and slung his shield, selecting a fresh arrow.

Another massively built warrior with a wooden handled war axe and shield moved to the front of the war party, his braids swinging in the early morning breeze.

"Wodan!" he cried again and swung his battle axe into the shield of a cowering guard in front of him.

"Woda......" the battle cry stopped as a white-fletched arrow took him in the throat. Grayle lowered his bow and smiled in grim satisfaction, lifting another arrow from his freshly stocked quiver.

As the warrior fell, sprawling his fellows to the ground behind him, Mark turned to look at his grandson, a look of pure mischief etched on his face.

"Nicely done lad," he noted happily. "Are we ready gentlemen?"

Percival smiled, his feral grin mirroring that of his father's as the battle hunger took hold of him anew. Grayle nodded briefly, pale in the morning light, a fresh arrow ready on the string.

Mark, Percival, Grayle and the small group of archers behind them moved into position alongside the small group guarding the top of the beach steps. The Franks below them had moved into defensive position now, dismayed at the fall of one of their best warriors.

Mark looked at his guard, satisfied that they were in place and gave the command in a loud clear voice.

"Loose!"

A volley of arrows sliced through the air and the Franks crouched behind their shields. There were a series of thuds as the arrows hit the wooden bosses and one man keeled over clutching his stomach. Another white-fletched arrow sped from the steps and took the fallen warrior in the eye, King Mark roaring in triumph.

A group of twenty or so raiders faced them, kneeling under their shields in case of renewed bow attack.

Mark moved in front of his guards, flanked by Percival and Grayle, and stood on top of the wall facing the group of cowed invaders on the beach.

"Surrender or die!" he bellowed.

A warrior stood from his kneeling position and moved forward a few paces.

"Fight me, for my men's lives," he said in halting English, the heavy Germanic accent making his words sound harsh and angry.

"No. You are at the disadvantage. You attacked me. Why should I jeopardise my people for you?"

"For your honour," stated the warrior.

"My honour is intact. You have attacked under cover of dawn, sneaking into my stronghold. You are the dishonourable one. You all deserve death."

"I will fight him."

Grayle's quiet words cast across the small bay, penetrating the hubbub of the warriors and the mournful crying of the gulls, the subdued tide moving the beach pebbles in rustling susurration, as if in quiet sympathy with the young man who stood at the top of the steps.

Mark and Percival looked at him, and Percival put one hand on his shoulder.

"You don't need to do this lad, they are beaten."

"They killed my family," he said quietly.

Percival looked at Mark helplessly. Both knew the tragedy of Grayle's past, and both knew the effect it had had on the boy's early life.

Mark turned to him and looked into his eyes. "It's up to you boy, but I don't want to lose you purely for revenge."

Grayle looked up at him steadily, his brown eyes dark and unreadable. "I need to do this."

Mark nodded and moved aside.

Grayle passed his bow to Mark, took off his quiver, and readied his sword and shield. As he moved down the steps, the morning sun came out from the thin clouds and shone crisply on the beach, the clear radiance making the white of his borrowed wooden shield stand out starkly against the grey slate of the surrounding rocks and walls.

For a race ruled by fickle gods and obsessed with omens, the portent was not lost on the Franks, who murmured worriedly amongst themselves. The group of men moved away from the warrior who had challenged Grayle, muttering and pointing, occasional whispers of "Donar" from among them, hinting at their disquiet.

Grayle moved to a clear patch of shingly sand and waited impassively for his foe to make his move. A hush descended, broken only by the occasional shriek of a gull, and the small waves that moved the bickering shingle on the beach.

With a sudden roar, the warrior lifted his axe and charged at Grayle, swiping his weapon viciously at his face. Blocking with his shield, Grayle batted the blow away, and stepped aside, letting his foe drift past him. The man moved in again, swearing harshly in the guttural dialect of his homeland, trying to provoke Grayle to the attack. Grayle stood ready, his breathing controlled, stance catlike and balanced, eyes fixed intently on his foe. Blow after blow came in from the braided warrior; each was blocked in silence, only the discordant clash of weapons and the heavy breathing of the Frankish raider despoiling the still morning air.

Red in the face and thwarted, the warrior stood facing the young man, who had yet to attack.

"Coward!" he shouted, spitting at Grayle, who stared back with a neutral expression, waiting for the next attack and saying nothing.

Axe raised, the Frank roared his defiance at the crowd of armed men on the high ground and moved to the attack once more. His hand axe chopped down towards Grayle's head, was blocked by his shield, and then for the first time Grayle went on the offensive.

Grayle battered his opponent with a flurry of blows from his short sword, the blade dancing around the clumsy parries and shield blocks of his opponent. After the last of the staccato blows, he stepped in and smashed his shield into his opponent's chest, knocking him briefly off balance and prompting an "oof" of expelled air as he winded him.

Grayle stepped back, his face still impassive.

The warrior regained his breath and looked at the young man who stood in front of him, straight-backed and balanced on the balls of his feet, sword held almost casually in his right hand as his chest rose and fell easily.

As the warrior lifted his axe in preparation, Grayle moved. He seemed to dance across the sand, his feet leaving barely a print as he closed with liquid speed on his foe. The man had just enough time to block the first blow, and then Grayle was on him. The sheer controlled ferocity of the attack took the onlookers by surprise; the passionless accuracy of the fight chilling many of the veterans, who recognised they were in the presence of a highly skilled young warrior.

Within seconds, the raider's shield was a tattered mess, and he blocked one last blow before raising his chin to look the boy in the face, seeming to know what was coming, as Grayle's final blow took his eyes, and his life.

As the corpse hit the sand, blood and brains spilling among the shells and pebbles, a great moan went up from the surviving Franks, and a roar from the people of Tintagel. Many of the cowed called on their gods, while others stood open-mouthed and stunned at what they had seen.

Blood spattering his face and shield, Grayle wiped his sword clean on the clothes of the fallen warrior and stood on his own at the foot of the stone steps.

"Drop your weapons, or face me," he called to the group of men.

There was a momentary pause, and then the various weapons carried by the group hit the sand at Grayle's feet with a metallic clatter.

Grayle jumped as a large hand came to rest gently on his shoulder.

"Well done lad," said Mark. "Sheriff, take them."