Carne came to with bright sunlight spearing into his brain. He rolled over, groaned and lifted himself to his feet, staggering as a wave of nausea overcame him. He sank back to his knees and paused to gather his breath. As his vision swam back into focus, he swore and forced himself back to his feet. Looking at the sun, he got his bearings, and moved slowly and painfully to the north, blood still oozing from the gash in his head.

After a few miles, he heard hooves and stopped, squinting into the sun. Recognising the stark white shield of Grayle, he waved his arms, fighting against a new wave of nausea, and sank to his knees again, passing out in the dusty grass.

"Here, drink a little of this." The calm tones of a recognised voice brought him back from the darkness, and he opened his mouth. Carne spluttered but managed to swallow a small mouthful of water, opening his eyes to see the concerned face of Gawain above him.

"Are you able to tell us what happened?" asked Percival, concern etching his features as he appeared from over Gawain's shoulder.

"Traitors, my Lord. They've taken Mark. I'm sorry, Sir Knight, we tried but we were outnumbered."

Carne clenched his teeth and forced himself to his feet. Looking at the group of men he nodded at them in greeting. Battle ready men nodded back at him. Merlin, Percival, Gawain and Grayle, with a dozen strong group of soldiers from Tintagel, Exeter and Camelot, one of the many mixed patrol groups Morholt had instigated to build trust amongst the men. He looked back at Percival. "Jowan betrayed us. He was riding to the rear of the group. We'd spotted a small Saxon raiding party and were readying our weapons when Jowan took out the two soldiers who had ridden along with us and turned on me. He clattered me across the back of the head, and that's the last thing I really recall. He knocked me off my horse and all I remember is a lot of shouting, the Saxons coming up to us, and I passed out.

"When I came to, I was alone with two dead bodies. Mark and Camlan were missing. May I have permission to come along, Sir Percival? I have a score to settle."

Percival looked at the grim-faced and bloody man and nodded. "Ride with Grayle. Which way do we need to go?"

The man pointed to the south, and soon they were retracing his footsteps, tracking the raiding party southwards.

~

Mark opened his eye, his vision restricted not only by losing the sight on his left-hand side but by the tears of pain and humiliation blurring his view. This was not the way he wanted to die, mewling and screaming and unable to fight. This was not how a king should face the enemy. The pain of his wounds reminded him yet again of where he was. Morgause had left him tied to the tree in silence, presumably letting him suffer to build the suspense of what she would do to him next. He could still feel the fingers in his left hand, even though he knew it was gone: knew because she had triumphantly waved it in front of his eyes, allowing one of her men to undo his left forearm so he could see the tarred stump. She had shown him the burnt and sorry remnants of his eye too, capering madly around him with it held to her forehead, making jokes about having a third eye, while the laughter of her sycophants echoed around the copse. The jeering laughter of her men had been constant throughout his ordeal. Her small band of men of course now included Jowan. And one more.

Camlan.

What a fool he'd been. He'd trusted so easily, blinded by the man's skill and prowess as a warrior and teacher. This time he had fallen hard for giving that trust. Seeing Jowan betray him had been bad enough, but to see Camlan leaning over him, obviously enjoying his misery, had brought a fresh howl of misery to his lips. No wonder they had been taken so easily if Camlan had refused to fight.

Morgause was skilled. He had lost little blood, despite losing the hand. She had swiftly cauterised the wound and capped it in tar, her knowledge of medicine giving her the twisted talent of accurate, prolonged, and excruciating torture. Merlin had taught her well. He groaned in fresh agony, mourning his losses; a hand, an eye, an ear, all on his left side. That combined with numerous small cuts, burns, and bruises, alternately inflicted with painful delicacy by Morgause, or with brutal efficiency by one of her men. He was miles from Silbury, with little or no hope.

Mark twitched, straining against his bonds as he heard them coming, but he was well restrained, and although the leather straps creaked in protest, there was little give in them.

"And still he fights," Morgause said softly. "Why do you refuse to help me, my King?"

"I am not your king Morgause, nor do I wish to be. You are the unwanted byblow of Uther, and Merlin's cast off, just be a good girl and kill me. I bore of this conversation."

Mark took small consolation in the brief look of incandescent anger that flickered across her perfect face. Composing herself, she smiled prettily at him, knowing there was little he could do.

"And yet, here you lie great King of Cornwall, at the mercy of a mere woman."

"You have never been a mere woman Morgause. You are a witch and one day you will get your comeuppance. While that may not be by my hand, I will die happy knowing your soul will one day burn in the lower reaches of hell."

Mark spat in her face and gritted his teeth in fresh agony as she slammed her dagger into his leg in response, twisting the blade as she looked deep into his eyes, smiling as he groaned in pain through his teeth, hissing and moaning as she moved the knife.

"We need to go Morgause." A new voice halted Morgause in her tracks, and Mark looked up to see the blond braids of a Saxon warrior move into view.

"We go when I have finished here Octa," spat Morgause venomously.

"I see little point in this Morgause," continued the man. "He is a brave man who has resisted your attempts to coerce him into giving information. Kill him and be done with it." Octa looked into Mark's good eye and a brief moment of understanding passed between them.

"You do not command me, Octa," she warned, turning to face him as Jowan and Camlan stood alongside her. The remaining Saxon warriors drew up behind their Prince in a show of support.

"Maybe not, but the longer we stay in this area, the higher the chance we have of being discovered. We need to go now."

"Are you feeling scared, my Prince?" mocked Morgause.

Octa moved closer to the slender form in front of him, prompting Camlan to place a hand on the hilt of his sword.

"I am not scared of you, or your pets," he motioned angrily at Camlan and Jowan. "I am only here because Hengist ordered me to be. I suggest..."

The rest of his suggestion was lost as three of the men behind him were punched off their feet, fresh arrows sprouting from their bodies.

Percival charged out from the bushes surrounding the clearing, his sword held high, and an expression of utter rage painting his features. As the three men hit the grass behind him, Octa and his remaining nine men drew their blades, Camlan and Jowan doing the same.

"Go, my Lady, run," hissed Camlan urgently. Casting one look at him, Morgause ran from the meadow towards the surrounding trees, as the remaining men from Silbury charged into the grassy area. As Percival charged Octa, Camlan suddenly doubled over clutching his chest, a fowling blunt falling to the ground as he gasped for breath. Grayle swiftly drew another arrow and, along with the two other archers shot one last volley into the Saxons, dropping two more to the ground with shouts of pain as he dropped his bow and reached for his sword and shield.

Percival and Octa had instantly clashed, Gawain running towards Camlan and Jowan, the remaining soldiers heading towards the Saxon war band.

Gawain smashed his shield into Camlan as the man knelt winded on the grass and knocked him out. He turned and blocked a blow from Jowan, who snarled at him and drew a spare basilard from his hip. The two circled warily for a second, and Jowan launched himself at the younger man, both long knives whirling into action.

Morgause paused at the edge of the clearing, one hand resting on the trunk of an elm tree as she looked back at the fighting. Her eyes widened suddenly as Merlin stepped into view. She hissed at him as the old man's eyes locked on hers and he made a horn sign of protection over his heart as he walked towards her. Abruptly, Merlin jerked his hand forward and a small leaf-bladed throwing knife pinned her hand to the tree. She screamed in pain, yanked out the blade, and ran away into the woods, cradling her injured hand. The old man swore and then disappeared after her into the trees.

Morgause's scream from the other side of the clearing startled Jowan and, taking the advantage, Gawain stepped inside the man's guard and smashed his shield into Jowan's face. As Jowan dropped his weapons to clutch at his broken nose Gawain slashed his short sword across the man's neck. Jowan collapsed to the ground and Grayle sped past him to engage one of the Saxons who had just dispatched one of the Exeter guardsmen. As he did so, Gawain noticed Carne hobbling towards the action, sword held determinedly in one fist.

"Carne! You're not fit, see to King Mark!" Carne stopped and, seeing the sense in Gawain's suggestion, moved as quickly as he could to the struggling monarch on his oaken cross.

Taking quick stock of the situation, Gawain noticed Percival and Octa were still battling away, neither showing any sign of advantage or injury, Grayle had just dispatched his opponent, and there were now four other Saxons still fighting, with just four of the original Silbury guards still standing. He powered forward, joining up with Grayle, and the two of them assisted in the fight against the remaining Saxons.

Percival grunted as his shield took another immense blow from the braided warrior. Octa was young, powerful, and angry. Both men were sweating in the afternoon sun, their limbs beginning to tire, and breath shortening as they fought, both looking for the opening that would give the advantage.

Abruptly, the opening arrived in the form of a stumble on Octa's part. As his knee twisted awkwardly underneath him, Percival smashed the off-balance warrior with his shield and danced in to plunge his sword into the chest of the warrior. Blood bubbled from the man's mouth, and he sank to his knees. He looked up at Percival, nodded briefly, and pitched face first to the ground as a last bubbling sigh escaping his lips. Percival looked to see what he had stumbled on, startled to see a severed hand lying in the grass. A sense of dread gripped his heart and he looked over to see his father being helped to his feet by Carne. Shock gripped him at the sight, and his eyes blurred with tears at the sight of his father. Sudden shouts brought him to his senses as Grayle and Gawain warned him. Turning, he saw the last of the Saxons racing towards him, all his colleagues dispatched. The only thing standing between him and freedom was Percival. A shout of inchoate rage ripped from his throat, and Percival launched himself at the man who recoiled in shock at the onslaught, hastily raising his shield. All sense of mercy or discipline forgotten, and with the image of his mutilated father preying on his mind, Percival battered the man with a raging fury of blows, finishing with a massive swing that swept the man's head from his shoulders to roll to a halt by his father's feet.

Mark, supported by Carne, smiled grimly and pushed the grisly remnant of battle aside as he made his way over to his shaking son. In the background, Percival could hear Gawain giving orders to the remaining men of the party. Grayle was busily tying up the still unconscious Camlan and, as yet, there was no sign of Merlin.

Percival felt a light hand on his arm and turned to embrace his father, Carne moving away to help Grayle.

"I'm sorry father, I failed you. Gods, I'm so sorry."

"You didn't fail me, son, you arrived just in time to lend a hand, although it appears I leant you a hand as well." Mark pointed to his amputated hand which lay in the grass by the fallen Octa, smiling in grim humour.

"I thought I'd lost you for a moment there."

Mark looked into his son's eyes seeing the barely subdued panic beginning to subside.

"I am still here lad," he said softly, "I may not be quite the man I used to be, but I am still here. Now, can we get the hell out of here, I'm really not in the mood to lose any more limbs today, and we are a long way from home."

Percival nodded mutely, helping Mark to a horse, which he mounted clumsily.

As they readied themselves to leave, one of the soldiers supporting the still comatose Camlan on a spare mount, Merlin stomped back into the clearing swearing like a sailor, his face dark with anger.

"The witch escaped. The blasted woman is far younger than I am, these old legs couldn't keep up. I scared the bitch though, maybe she'll think twice about leaving her protective ring of Saxons for a while."

He looked at Mark, dipping his head briefly in greeting. "Your majesty, still alive then I see. Good. Let's get the hell out of here and I'll see to your wounds."

~

Grayle walked into the mess tent alone, and finally breathed a sigh of relief as he saw his father sitting in the shadows on his own. The flickering lantern light cast his face into angular shadows, making him seem more drawn than ever. They had made good time back to camp, and on arrival, Camlan had been thrown into the makeshift cell with the former patrol leader Tomas. Merlin had tended to Mark, had declared him strong as an ox and possibly as stupid, and stomped off to his own tent to mull over the missed opportunity of ridding himself of Morgause. Leaving Daniel to continue with Gawain's tutoring, Grayle had decided to seek out his father, who had disappeared once Mark had drifted off to sleep.

"How is he?" asked Percival as Grayle approached.

"Still asleep, Merlin reckons he'll be out for a while now, although I suspect he made sure with the concoction he poured down this throat earlier. He did note that the only bright side of Morgause torturing him was she had wanted to keep him alive, so the arm and ear should heal relatively quickly, and he doesn't appear to have lost a lot of blood. The dagger wound in his leg will be stiff for a while though. He's a tough man."

"I meant to say something earlier son. That was very quick thinking with the fowling blunt. I'm impressed you thought of that rather than just putting an arrow through his heart."

"I want to kill him properly, by the sword."

Percival's head jerked up, and he looked at his normally calm son in surprise, unaccustomed to the aggressive tone of his voice.

"He is a traitor. He maimed my grandfather and..."

"... and you want revenge because he was meant to be your friend?" finished Percival for him.

"He needs to die," hissed Grayle, "I've talked to him and he's agreed to fight me."

"You've talked to Camlan, he's awake?"

"He is. Bishop David is talking to him at the moment, as he requested a member of the church to visit him in private."

"Bloody hell," swore Percival. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"No one knew where you were."

"True." Percival subsided. "I've just been thinking."

"About Mark?"

"Aye, we nearly lost him today. Losing him in battle or of old age doesn't seem so bad somehow, but losing him to her." The last word of the sentence was spat out with venom, Grayle raising an eyebrow in surprise.

Percival stood abruptly. "Come on lad, we need to talk to Mark and Merlin about Camlan, but for now I suggest we hit the hay and get a good nights sleep. I get the feeling tomorrow is going to be a very busy day."