As the sun lifted over the cliff, Percival joined Grayle by the side of the shale mound. The dead raiders had been unceremoniously dumped into a mass grave outside the boundary of Tintagel, and anything of value stripped from them prior to burial. As Percival drew level with him, he heard the last whispers of prayer, and Grayle muttered "Amen".

"Good morning father," he said quietly, lifting his head to look Percival in the eye.

As if saying farewell to the souls of the recently departed, a gentle breeze bullied the grass into movement on either side of the grave. Percival smiled at him, his unbound hair dancing lightly around his face.

"You were up early again."

"I wanted to pray for the recently deceased."

"You deceased some of them yourself," said Percival with a wry smile.

"Aye, but although they deserved death, they also deserve forgiveness."

Percival linked arms with his son, and the two walked back towards Tintagel. "Father Tristan had quite an effect on you didn't he son. I'm glad to see you at peace, and although you know I don't share your beliefs, I am happy that you have found something that gives you such strength."

"He was a good man," stated Grayle simply.

"Aye, he was; damn good with a quarterstaff too if I remember rightly."

Grayle chuckled, his mood lightening. "He certainly dumped the both of us on our backsides often enough." He paused and looked at Percival. "So what do we do now? Arthur has told us to come here and have a rest, but for how long?"

"Son, relax. We have been granted some time to build our strength, practice our skills, and forget about the horrors of war for a while. Enjoy yourself, find a nice cuddly girl, and have some fun."

Percival grinned as Grayle flushed red with embarrassment. "Come on lad, your grandfather will be having breakfast, let's go and steal some bacon from him."

Grayle nodded and changed the subject. "Did Captain Morholt find anything of interest on any of the bodies?" asked Grayle as they moved on together.

Percival nodded. "The warrior you took out with an arrow was carrying an unusual coin. It was solid gold and had a lion and a bull engraved on one side. I have absolutely no idea if it's important or not, but we'll see Arthur at Camelot. He'll know more, and will have access to all the intelligence coming in from the various parts of the country."

The two men waved at Morholt as they passed the main gate into the castle, and a few seconds later, a robed figure stepped out from behind a tree where he'd been eavesdropping and followed them through the archway.

~

"So boy, are you going to show your old grandfather what you've learnt?"

Mark stood in his chain mail, grinning at him from under a plain pot helm, a training sword held in one hand, wooden shield in the other. Grandfather was a bit of an odd term for him thought Grayle as he stood facing the powerfully built king. Mark had inherited his throne early, and had been married and widowed by the time he was twenty-two. At just thirty-eight summers, he was greying and developing a bit of a paunch, but the power was still there, and even when not dressed in chainmail, the king was still a formidable opponent.

Grayle stood similarly clad in the great hall of Tintagel castle. All the tables and chairs had been moved aside, leaving Grayle and Mark in the centre. Percival and Camlan, Mark's Man at Arms, stood off to one side. Percival leant nonchalantly against the wall with his arms folded, a faint smile on his face as he watched the two armed men slowly circling each other. Camlan leaned forwards slightly, his dark eyes intent on the mock battle. He had missed the fight with the Franks, being on an errand for Mark, and had not seen Grayle fight before. But now, he seemed to miss nothing, watching intently as the men sparred.

Mark feinted, changing his incoming blow from a massive overhand swipe to a diagonal attack which glanced harmlessly off Grayle's raised shield.

Grayle said nothing and hefted the wooden blade again, trying to gauge the balance. The wooden blades were cheap and splintered easily, but were far cheaper and easier to manufacture than the more expensive metal blades. The sword was bulky and cumbersome, and lead weights had been carefully inserted into the back to give the blade some weight, whilst allegedly rendering it less deadly. It still hurt though, and a couple of blows from Mark early on in their sparring had made Grayle decide he really didn't want to get hit again.

"Come on boy, where's your spark," goaded Mark, grinning at the trainee knight. He flashed a quick look over at Percival, not wanting to get caught off guard and carried on with the mild baiting. "What've you taught this boy son? He fights like a milkmaid."

Percival coughed, trying to hide a laugh, and then replied, still grinning from ear to ear. "I didn't teach him everything he knows Father, you may want to watch yourself."

"I know you didn't teach him everything Val, he can shoot a bow, which you certainly can't, and he seems to dance well judging by the way he moves."

"Don't say I didn't warn you, your Majesty," he said, with a mocking little bow.

"Shall we dance grandson? Would you prefer a reel or perhaps some courtly dancing? I believe one of the stable hands can play the flute."

Mark grinned at the solemn-looking youth in front of him, and abruptly launched a blistering series of attacks.

Grayle moved quietly and efficiently, countering each of Mark's attacks, and adroitly stepped aside as the King rushed in trying to batter him with his shield. Mark roared in frustration and moved more cautiously, snaking in a couple of short stabs which were either batted aside or simply avoided. He grinned again.

"He's not too bad is he?" he said.

Before Percival could answer, Grayle moved quickly, slicing in an attack which Mark countered with his shield, followed by another quick succession of blows which drove the king backwards. Grayle whipped round in a tight circle, the added momentum and speed driving the backhand blow hard into the hastily raised shield. A quick overhand blow followed, forcing the king to raise his sword to block the blow, and then in a move which utterly surprised Mark, Grayle let his shield drop to the ground, held his wooden sword like a short practice staff and drove the blunt end into the king's midriff, knocking all the wind out of the King, who hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Resting his sword against the neck of the kneeling and gasping king, Grayle smiled down at him and spoke quietly into the empty hall. "Do you yield, my King?"

"I'd prefer to be knighted again," muttered Mark, pulling himself wheezily to his feet as Mark and Camlan laughed at him.

"I did warn you father," said Percival grinning broadly. "Sometimes he fights even more dirtily than I do."

"And that's saying something," muttered Mark.

He stood and looked down at his grandson, pride in his eyes. "I'm impressed Grayle. I watched you fight that seawolf the other day, and I've seen few people so fast."

"You do overextend yourself on your thrusts slightly though," said Camlan moving alongside Mark.

Taking the King's sword he moved opposite Grayle and demonstrated the move.

"If you come across someone faster than you, it'll give them an opening when you've left yourself hanging there at the end of the thrust." He smiled. "Luckily your grandfather is getting older, or he'd have shown you himself."

"Old? I'll give you old, you beggar."

Mark lifted Camlam in a massive bear hug, roaring at him from short range. He then put the gasping man back on the floor, as Percival propped himself against a table laughing weakly.

Grayle smiled with the men, feeling suddenly at home at last, and finally beginning to relax.

"None of you are old."

Grayle spun around at the voice, instantly alert and balanced on the balls of his feet, dagger in his hand as he faced the shadowed corner of the hall from where the voice had come.

A tall, shrouded figure moved into the light of the main hall and drew back his hood, exposing a gaunt and wintry face, and a long flowing white beard.

"You all make me feel older than time, dancing around with your swords and daggers. Put that away boy, you couldn't hurt me if you tried."

"Merlin!" roared Mark, enveloping the old man in another massive bear hug.

"Put me down you buffoon," grumbled the old man, ineffectually swatting at the massively built king, who put him gently back on the floor with a huge smile on his face.

Percival moved forward and knelt before the man, Grayle and Camlan moving to do the same.

"My Lord Merlin," said Percival. "It is a pleasure to see you after all this time."

"Now that is how to greet people, you idiot," said Merlin pointedly, glaring at Mark with his intense grey eyes.

"You're not people!" said Mark. "You're Merlin the Magician, most feared and influential advisor to King Arthur."

"All the more reason to kneel," he noted pointedly to the still grinning monarch.

The old man moved forwards and placed his hands on Percival's shoulders. "Arise Sir Knight, you do not need to kneel to me," he said gently. Percival rose and embraced the man as Grayle and Camlan stood up.

"It is good to see you Val, and you too Grayle."

Camlan nodded at him and turned to Mark. "May I withdraw sire, I suspect you may have things to discuss?"

Mark nodded and Camlan left the hall, Mark suggesting the others join him in another room.

The four men gathered around a plain wooden table, in a smaller room just off Mark's quarters. Morholt guarded the door on Mark's request, and the servants had withdrawn, leaving Grayle to serve lunch, and a pitcher of weak ale.

"So Merlin, what brings you this far southwest?" said Mark, tearing off a huge chunk of bread and chewing happily, his eyes fixed on the old man.

"I'm on a mission for Arthur," said the old man, taking a small swallow of ale. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the three of them. "What I'm about to say goes no further than this room.

"You all know the political situation, although you may not know the finer details. I'm not sure how much news you get filtering through, but the way things are at the moment, Arthur thought it best to send me to fully apprise you of the situation.

"We are in trouble. Thanks to your recent efforts Percival, Arthur has finally secured the north through alliances with Lot and Cadwyr. The incessant fighting over the last ten years with the tribes has ceased, and he finally has them cowed.

"But armies cost money, and we have spent a lot. The tin and silver levy from Cornwall and gold levy from the Welsh helps our cause, but we are in dire need of funds and perhaps, more importantly, something to buoy morale.

"Unfortunately the Saxon Shore is proving problematic. Our spies in the camps there suggest that after many years of peace, the Saxon chiefs under Hengist are growing restless, and there have been skirmishes along the borders. Minor, but probing. It looks like they are ready to try and take more territory, and want to expand once more."

"There is something else though isn't there Merlin, something that you need our specific help for," stated Mark, reaching for a drink.

Merlin nodded and continued. "Have you heard of Silbury Hill?"

"The huge mound over by the borders?" asked Percival.

Merlin nodded again, and then for the benefit of a puzzled-looking Grayle, continued the explanation.

"Silbury Hill is a massive cone of earth rising out of the otherwise flat land around it. It is immensely significant to the lore of this land and is considered a Holy site by the druids. But, more than that, it is rumoured there is a vast treasure buried underneath it. We need to get that treasure in order to be able to equip our men fully in the oncoming fight against Hengist and his Saxons."

"Underneath?" said Percival. "But that thing is huge!"

"Yes, and this is where your Cornishmen come in. You have taken mines deeper than anyone else in the known world. I need your miners to get into the mound. I need you, Mark, to lead a small force of men to secure the mound and get the treasure out safely. I need you, Percival, to act as Captain patrolling the area, and I suspect you may come in handy too lad," he said, looking at Grayle with a faint smile.

"Where did you hear of this treasure Merlin?" questioned Percival.

"It's an ancient legend. I know the hill folk who inhabit the high moors and forest: they are older even than the Picts. They are seldom seen, but have a comprehensive oral history, including various myths and legends. Not much goes on in this land without them seeing or hearing it. As a younger man I spent several years with them and learned much of their lore.

"One of their legends is that of The Red-Gold Dragon.

"As with many things, it took me time to decipher the true meaning of the legend, and the location and nature of the treasure. It is said to be a vast hoard of gold and silver, with many jewels and ancient weapons, including the ancient mace of the summer county, now called Somerset, which lies in Wessex. The mace and the treasure are said to be guarded by the red-gold dragon, the old heraldic symbol of the county. It could make the expedition interesting."

Mark choked on his ale. "Interesting? You have a curious take on what people might find interesting old man."

Mark paused and looked at the Magician with a calculating expression. "There's something else you're not telling us, isn't there?" he said eventually. "What else is going on?"

"Morgause," stated the old man bitterly. "The witch is back. She has seduced one of the Saxon kings and seems to be goading him to attack her half-brother. Arthur is aware of his sister's plotting, but cannot move openly against her, protected as she is by Hengist and the fact that she is still technically married to Lot, who protects the border to the north."

"Witch?" said Grayle joining the conversation for the first time.

Merlin sighed, and then carried on in a quiet voice. "She was my student for many years but tricked me. She knows a huge amount of lore and garners knowledge from sources even I fear to engage. She is dangerous, clever, manipulative, and beautiful. Worst of all, she has several kings wrapped around her finger, as she once had me." He lowered his head. "She is my greatest shame."

Mark threw a half-finished chicken back onto his plate and slapped the old man on the shoulder heartily. "Don't worry old man, women make fools of us all," he said, and then roared with laughter at the outraged look on the old man's face. He raised a hand in a placatory manner, quietening his voice.

"We will help you Merlin; we will kill some Saxons, we get to dig a nice big hole, and we will garner some treasure. What more could a man want?"

He raised his goblet. "To Arthur," he said. "May we fill his pockets with gold."

"And provide him with Morgause's head in a sack," muttered Merlin.