The Saxons walked towards them, favouring the direct approach, and relying on sheer volume of numbers to overwhelm their enemy.

Arthur stood on top of the wooden palisade, his white armour glowing in the early morning sun, acting as a beacon of hope to his men, and a focal point of animosity for the approaching Saxons.

"What the hell is the mad old fool doing now?" Mark muttered.

"I suspect he'll think of something useful," said Arthur. "You keep an eye on the Saxons: Merlin has been planning a few surprises."

"I'd put nothing past that old devil, "said Mark. "I'm just glad he's on our side."

"Aren't we all," said Arthur. "Now, watch and learn, old boy, I suspect Merlin is about to give us all a lesson in the psychology of war."

Merlin had stopped a few hundred yards in front of the defending forces. The Saxons were still some way off, but approaching steadily. As Arthur's forces watched, the old man started to caper madly, cavorting and shouting odd chants in a strange language. The wind was blowing from behind the defenders and so carried his words towards the attackers who stalled in their approach, reluctant to approach the magician who stood before them. Many cried out to their gods or made signs of protection, some being goaded onwards by the roaring orders of Hengist and Oeric, the shrill cry of Morgause screaming counter chants and insults.

As they watched, Merlin pulled a black cockerel from inside his robes and slashed through its throat with a golden sickle. The glint of gold and sudden spurt of blood was easily seen in the clear early light, and Merlin stood, his hands held aloft as blood flowed along his outstretched arms. He lowered his gory trophy to his lips, drinking from the blood, and threw the carcass to the floor as blood dribbled over his chin. He grinned bloodily at them and undid the ties to his robe, letting the long flowing cloth drop to the ground. Blue whorls and lines of tattoos covered his near-naked form as he danced gleefully around in the dry dusty grass in just a loincloth, spitting out blood from the cockerel to smear it over his pasty white and blue tattooed skin. The defenders watched, dismayed and frightened as the magician spat curses and epithets at them, the entire Saxon force now standing stock still as they watched the display of insanity unfolding in front of them.

Merlin screeched, an unholy, throat-ripping sound that grated its way down the spines of all who watched, raising goosebumps and neck hairs even among the defending allies. He spread his arms once again to the heavens as if beseeching any gods watching over them, shrieked, and collapsed next to his discarded robe, disappearing without a trace into the long dry grass.

"Grayle, are you ready?" Mark spoke quietly into the silence pervading the morning air.

His grandson peered over the wooden edge of the low tower to his right and waved a hand at him in acknowledgment.

"Morholt?" he looked left to the other low tower and received another wave.

"Ballistae fire on my mark please."

There was an answering screech from the throat of Morgause, and the Saxons were bullied back into action.

As the front rank of Saxons walked past a hawthorn bush Mark had memorised as a marker, he shouted his first command "loose", and the four ballistae mounted on the towers released the long steel-tipped bolts. As they did, Merlin rose from the long grass like a phoenix from the flames, his hands pointed dramatically at the approaching men.

A shudder hit the front ranks of the Saxon war party as four men were punched off their feet, the bolts passing through them to lodge in the bodies of men immediately behind them.

Those manning the ballistae frantically worked the machines to rewind and re-arm them, Merlin capering gleefully and howling in maniacal fury at the Saxons. As four points of the front line advance dipped in response to the men taken down by the ballistae, Gawain and his party suddenly appeared to the west, raking down the flanks of the Saxon forces, light horse bows sending a wave of arrows into the soldiers who hastily raised shields in defence as the horsemen galloped away, wary of the few mounted Saxon warriors who immediately chased after them.

Another arcing wave of destruction punched through the front rank as the ballistae strings released the second round of pent-up tension, flinging steel-tipped death at the enemy. A roar of rage and defiance came from the opposing forces.

"Death!" came the distant cry, and the Saxons moved forwards at a fast walk, shields held high as they closed on the fort, hoping to reduce the numbers of the fallen by speeding up the attack and keeping their defences high.

Merlin stopped capering and sank to his haunches in the dry grass.

"Grayle, Morholt!" shouted Mark. "Fire at will, keep those ballistae crews working. My Queen!" Guinevere poked her head over the turret wall and nodded. She looked back into the courtyard at the main group of archers, who stood with their bows ready.

"Are you ready?" As one, the group nodded and raised their bows, aiming up and over the walls. They had been practising for weeks and, after realising their Queen was an archer of some skill, had happily accepted her as their commander. "Aim for maximum distance," she shouted.

"What the hell is Merlin doing?" questioned Mark.

Arthur grinned at him, replying with relish. "Things are about to get a little hot for Hengist."

Merlin abruptly straightened up and ran as fast as his skinny legs would carry him towards the fort, a small tendril of smoke marking the place where he had stood.

"The old devil," smiled Mark.

"Luck was on our side this morning when the wind changed, Merlin prepared a line of dry grass and tinder materials before the Saxons arrived." They watched the old man moving with a speed that belied his age towards the fortifications.

"Joss! Get a rope over the wall for Merlin please," ordered Mark.

The defenders watched as the near smokeless fire took instantly in the tinder-dry grass, the line of prepared dry materials catching quickly and spreading the fire at a ferocious speed, driven by the wind towards the Saxon forces.

Guinevere, with Iseult next to her, watched the approaching men, her smaller bow useless until the Saxons came closer, the mass of longbows behind her more suited to the task at hand.

"Take aim!" she shouted, still watching the fast approaching mass of men. As the lead warriors passed the mark she had memorised, she turned and shouted a command at the men. "Loose! Fire at will. Be ready to change distance."

Like a swarm of angry hornets, a flight of arrows flew high into the sky, arching over the front wall of the camp. Arthur and the other defenders watched in grim satisfaction as the front rank was mown down like wheat before a scythe, the attack stalling as warriors fell over the dying and wounded. The well-practiced archers soon got into their rhythm and sent wave after wave of arrows over the walls.

"Keep going!" shouted a Saxon commander, and men picked up fallen colleagues, or left them to be trampled underfoot.

Abruptly, roars of anger and rage from the Saxons turned to terror as the smokeless wall of heat moved inexorably towards the opposing forces. Chaos ensued as the front lines tried to withdraw, whilst those behind them were still being urged forwards by their leaders. Gawain's mounted archers raked repeatedly down the western side of the battle lines, and Guinevere's archers continued to pepper the now-stalled troops with arrows, the ballistae teams working in a frenzy on the towers.

A clarion call of defeat went up from the Saxon commanders, and they withdrew in disorder; burnt, bleeding, and demoralised as the defenders jeered derisively at their retreating forms.

Merlin, having realised his plan had worked, slowed to a walk and sauntered almost nonchalantly back towards the fort, his robe once again covering his skinny frame. He knocked on the gate.

"I'm too old to climb a rope, someone open this damn gate." He grumbled loudly, provoking a smattering of laughter from the men on the wall above.

Arthur himself opened the gate and enveloped Merlin in a massive bear hug. "Thank you," he said quietly. "You didn't have to do that."

"You know as well as I do Arthur that any battle is mind and body. It's over to you now boy, I've done the scary magician bit, all you have to do now is beat the hell of out them."

Arthur grinned at him fiercely. "We'll do our best, old man."

"Less of the old, I can still caper around like an idiot when I have to. First though I need to find some water to wash all this blood off. I've never understood people who glory in blood: horrible sticky stuff." The old man looked at Arthur seriously. "We've still got a few tricks left Arthur, but it's mainly fighting now, take care of yourself."

"I will Merlin. Besides, I have you watching my back." Arthur slapped him on the shoulder, grinned again, and walked back to join Mark on the wall as Joss and his comrades sealed the front gate with heavy timbers.

"Aye," said Merlin softly as he walked away, "but who watches mine."

~

They were left alone for several hours as the Saxons retreated to lick their wounds. Although the defences had been successful, the Saxon dead were limited in number. Arthur and Mark, however, were confident they had picked up many minor injuries in the initial skirmish that would slow them down as time went on.

Gawain had disappeared into the lands to the west of them, and Arthur was pleased with the young knight's initial attacks, as he seemed to instinctively know when and where to attack, and when to remain hidden.

He turned as a kitchen boy cleared his throat behind him. "Er, excuse me, my King, but would you care for a drink?" Arthur looked at the lad, recognising him as the boy who had stood up to the now dead Tomas. Arthur turned his back to the Saxons and sank gratefully to his haunches, propping his back against the timber wall behind him.

"Thanks, lad," he said, lifting the ladle from the bucket proffered by the boy. As he put the ladle back into the water, he noticed the boy staring over the wall at the body of Tomas, unable to look away from the fly-shrouded corpse.

"It's not your fault son," said Arthur. "He was a bully and a fool. He walked his own path, sadly it was one that ended in death."

"Thank you, my King," said the boy, his eyes now looking at the boards on which he stood, "but no one deserves to be tortured like that."

"You're right, which is why we fight people who would try to lower us to behaving like animals. Sadly though, sometimes we have to join them in the sty before we can wash ourselves off and behave in a civilised manner.

"Why are you still here lad? You were given permission to leave with the other local boys yesterday."

"I have nowhere to go sire. The army is my life, one day I hope to become a soldier like you."

"Well lad, from what I've heard, you certainly have the guts," the boy's head lifted as he looked at the monarch wide-eyed, Arthur continuing to talk. "Yes, I know about your little argument with the man out there. You're a brave lad and Percival was impressed with you. Are you sure you want to take service son, it's not an easy life?"

The boy nodded, his eyes alight with excitement, and Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gold coin, passing it to the boy. "What's your name?" he asked quietly.

"Elyan, my King."

Arthur reached out and shook the boy's hand. "Well met Elyan, and welcome to your new life. You will receive basic pay as squad boy and then, as time goes on, and should you prove yourself, you will rise through the ranks. You will be fed and clothed, but you will be expected to fight when your commanding officer, Knight, or superior tells you to. Do you accept these terms?"

"Yes, my King, and thank you." The boy made to walk away but was stopped as the king spoke again.

"Elyan. You are a soldier now, albeit a small one, 'yes sir' will be fine. At some point, we will have to retreat from this point, and I want you to stick close to Morholt, myself, or King Mark, I want you up at the top fort with us, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good lad, now report to Morholt and tell him what we've agreed."

"Yes, sir."

He rose to his feet as the lad moved away, to find Mark grinning at him. "Softy," he said, still smiling.

"Aye, maybe," said Arthur, "but you never know, he may come in handy one day. I just hope he survives long enough to spend that coin."

"You and me both," said Mark. There was a sudden roar from the Saxons and Mark looked to the south. "Right, here they come!

"Be ready!" Mark shouted to the men. "Let's see if we can give them a bloody nose again..."