The Saxons came at them again as the sun began to lose its heat. The defenders had had a couple of hours to doze, talk, plan, and aid the injured among them who had made it out from the lower fort.

All of the injured too badly wounded to fight had been taken up to the top of the hill where Merlin had used his skills to bind wounds, staunch blood and splint bones. Both he and David had been called on several times to say prayers for the departed, and in order to reduce the potential for the spread of disease, a small number of hastily dug grave mounds dotted the hillside to the west of the defensive line.

Shortly after the retreat of the Saxons, one of Gawain's men had made it to the hill on foot. He reported few losses in the independent horse command, but noted several supply trains had been raided and severely damaged, further demoralising the Saxons. After reporting, he left to rejoin Gawain's mounted troop with fresh orders from Mark and Arthur.

Percival, squinting into the late afternoon sun, was the first to notice movement. He stood abruptly, loosening his sword in its scabbard, and prompting the ever watchful Morholt to call out across the line. "Be ready!"

Men roused from slumber: Arthur, Mark and Guinevere almost instantly appearing at Percival's side, Grayle and Iseult moments later.

The Saxons came silently, hoping perhaps to take the defenders by surprise. As they came close and realised the defenders were moving to intercept them, they gave up the pretence of stealth, and the roar of "Death" rolled across the fields ahead of the Saxons. They charged along the eastern side of the now abandoned palisade, a small group splitting off to make their way into the breached fort, presumably meaning to occupy it as a defensive move, the remainder making their way up the hillside to attack Arthur's forces.

"That's a shame," said Mark, "Hengist has finally started thinking about things a little. I think we should expect a flanking manoeuvre around the east side of the mound. That's what I'd do."

"Aye, I agree," said Arthur. "Grayle and I will handle that. Mark, the hill is yours."

He inclined his head at Mark and called fifty men to him, outlining what was going on and putting them on standby, ready to move should the anticipated flanking move begin. Several scouts were also placed around the circumference of the hill as a precaution against other outflanking manoeuvres.

"Archers ready! Long range, and don't forget you're aiming downhill!" Percival called, preparing his men.

Grayle had strung his bow, and stood waiting for the command as the Saxons streamed towards them. As they hit the slope, their pace reduced and, with the targets moving more slowly and bunching together, Percival gave the order.

Tri-flighted death sped down the hill, the archers on the western side of the hill joining in with a second volley on Morholt's command, peppering the men in the fort, and those making their way up the hill towards the combined forces facing them.

The screams of the injured and dying rose clearly in the stillness of the late afternoon, but the Saxons continued to advance, despite the arrows raining down on them. Occasional howls of pain punctuated the advance as a warrior trod on one of the viciously barbed caltrops the retreating forces had dropped in the grass. They advanced slowly, shields raised, scanning the ground, the archers raining arrows on them as they advanced.

Abruptly, half of the attacking group split off to the east and Arthur shouted into the afternoon air. "Second group, to me, let's take out that flanking manoeuvre before it gets anywhere."

Arthur, Grayle, and a group of soldiers moved to the east, skirting around the hill above the row of defensive stakes, as some of the archers directed their fire into the men who were moving away from them.

Mark and Percival remained in place, directing the pikemen to make their way to the area immediately behind the stakes in order to add their long pointed weapons to the bristling defences across the southern side of the hill. As they watched, Gawain and his troop suddenly appeared on the western flank, whooping in wicked glee as they sent arrow after arrow into the troops who stood idly to the rear of the fort, darting away across the grassy plain leaving a few twitching bodies behind them.

"Remind me to buy that boy an ale when we finish this," muttered Mark to Percival.

"If we get out of this one father, I think you need to buy all of us an ale."

"If we get out of this son, I think Arthur's buying the drinks," said Mark, Percival nodding his agreement with a grim smile.

They watched as the Saxons drove forwards, crouching behind their shields. Now they had drawn closer, the arrows were brutally effective when they managed to bypass the locked shields of the approaching Saxons, but as they closed, the time was fast approaching when the archers would have to stand down, and let the pikemen and soldiers take the front line proper.

"Archers, on my mark, stand down, move back and allow soldiers forward. Switch your attack to the men behind the Saxon front line." Mark paused until the Saxons were a mere twenty feet away, then shouted the order.

The soldiers moved quickly through the retreating archers, who set up behind them, sending arrows over the top of their own lines.

"How many arrows do we have left?" Mark said to Percival, his tone terse.

"Not many, although we have some stocks up at the top fort. I've told the archers to move up to the top fort when they've exhausted their quivers, and those who are trained as soldiers should re-weapon, armour up and re-join the front line here."

"Mark nodded as turned back to the line as the Saxons roared "Death" anew, trying to bypass the thickly planted stakes in the hillside.

"The main problem we're going to have is the flank," noted Mark. "I'm pretty sure we can hold this lot for a while, but Arthur has his work cut out."

~

Arthur and Grayle had reached the end of the heavily staked out area. The men had had little time to push the pointed stakes into the mound, and the dry conditions had made fortification difficult. So, as they moved to the eastern quarter side of the hill, they noticed significantly less in the way of defences.

Arthur began to organise his troops efficiently. "I want a thin line to join up with Mark's forces, then a bigger group here where the stakes run out. Archers, move up the hill a little and prevent the outflanking moving any further around the hill. Conserve your arrows, let them come to us here, and we'll deal with them. Pikemen, give some cover to the archers and help reinforce the line."

Arthur looked over at Grayle who was marshalling some of the men into position and loosened Excalibur in its scabbard. He watched as the Saxons approached, listening to the puffing men as they made their way up the hill towards them. He rolled his shoulders to loosen the muscles, lifted his sword, and then roared defiance at the Saxons as they came towards him, his armour, as usual, acting as a beacon to those who came at him. As Grayle joined him, they shared a mutual nod and launched themselves into battle.

The sun was taking on the colour of the blood splashing on the grass around them, the battle raging at all points along the line, the fiercest fighting taking place to the east as Arthur and Grayle fought to stop their position from being overrun. Mark and Percival had directed the battle on the southern flanks, the stakes providing a momentary barrier until the Saxons had cautiously managed to pull a few out and start to unravel the defences. Men from both sides leaned on their shields, watching out for the low blade or the overhand stroke from a sword, both sides desperately trying to force a way through the line to despatch another warrior. Although the defenders had the upper hand due to the hill advantage, Mark was getting worried. The longer they faced the Saxons head-on, the more likely they were to be overrun by the superior force. Each of them had to kill at least five warriors to beat them, but the defenders were steadily losing men, and those who remained were tiring.

There was a roar from the east flank and Mark watched helplessly as the hulking form of Oeric broke through the line near Arthur.

Arthur whirled around at the roar, instinctively lifting his sword to block as the man swung another immense blow at the shorter king. Grayle and the other remaining men battled on, but the line was beginning to buckle and, blood oozing from a gash on his arm, Grayle was beginning to tire. The sudden impetus given by Oeric's attack changed the flow of the battle, and the men around him began falling back inexorably against the overwhelming tide of the Saxon incursion.

The high king batted aside another massive blow from Oeric and shoulder charged the man, knocking him from his feet to skid across the grass, rolling through a group of the attackers, and sending them falling in disarray.

"Retreat!" called Arthur, hearing the cry echoed by Mark behind him.

"My King!" shouted Grayle, being pushed away from him.

"Go! Now!"

Oeric was getting slowly to his feet, his face dark with hate as his men made space for him to engage Arthur personally.

"Take the men and go. Now!" Arthur met Grayle's gaze. "Now Grayle. As your king, I command you to go." He switched to the Cornish tongue, surprising Grayle. "I will be fine lad, worry ye not." He grinned fiercely at him, and then lifted Excalibur high above his head, roaring in challenge as the insane joy of battle swept through him.

Arthur stood alone in a ring of Saxons, Oeric facing him across the grass. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Grayle, Mark and the men retreated to form a line a hundred yards or so further up the hill, allowing the defenders to filter past them in an orderly fashion into the upper fort. He placed the point of Excalibur into the soil between his feet, and rested his hands on the pommel, smiling at the still glaring Oeric.

"May I?" he said pointing at his helmet.

Oeric nodded, and Arthur, resting the pommel of his sword on his belly, lifted his helmet from his head, allowing the slight breeze to cool his sweaty brow. His hair hung lank from his head, a cut on his cheek oozing blood, and a bruise purpled on his brow where a shield had smashed into his head. He raised his face to the darkening sun, closing his eyes momentarily.

"Your time has come Arthur," said Oeric, taciturn as he too removed his helmet.

"I agree completely, old son," said Arthur urbanely. "This time is mine, this land is mine. I am the land, and I reject you utterly. I am the High King, and I really do not intend to let a bunch of ill-bred, hut dwelling, superstitious fools take what is mine."

"And yet you stand alone."

"I need no one else at this moment in time to deal with you. I am going to hand you your own head, and then walk back to my men. How does that sound to you?"

"I would like to see you try," snarled Oeric.

"Then you shall," grinned Arthur, madness touching his eyes. "Shall we dance? Would you care to lead?"

"You dare to mock me?"

"I would rather sit down for an ale and mock you, but that doesn't seem to be an option, now does it? Now then, have we sufficiently observed the niceties?"

Oeric glared at the shorter man and fastened his helmet, watching as Arthur did the same.

Arthur offered a short bow to his opponent who ignored him, and then their blades met, glinting in the bloody evening sunlight.

Grayle watched from his vantage point higher up the hill, the weight of the world landing on his shoulders as his father's hand did the same.

"I left him to die," he whispered.

"Arthur ordered you to leave," Percival noted. "Besides lad, he isn't dead yet. Arthur is a remarkable man. While he is still alive, there is hope."

Arthur dodged another wickedly fast blow from his opponent, the tip of the blade passing within a hair's breadth of his nose. Oeric was fast, powerful, and angry. And that was his weakness. Arthur feinted and, as the man came within range, he blocked with his sword, and lashed a slap across the man's cheek with his free hand, noting with satisfaction the glow of anger igniting in the man's eyes. A few seconds later he repeated the action.

The red sunlight reflected angrily in the blue eyes of the man who faced him. Oeric bellowed and swung a massive overhand blow, Arthur dodged, stepping in close to headbutt the bellowing warrior in the face, breaking his nose and bending the metal of his helmet into his cheek. Before Oeric could recover, he smashed the hilt of his sword into the temporarily blinded man's cheek and spun around in a tight circle, whipping Excalibur through the man's neck in a bloody spume as the Saxon prince staggered backward. The headless body stood upright for a few seconds and then fell like a tree, thudding to the earth.

There was silence.

Arthur, breathing heavily, walked over to the body and set the bloody Excalibur on the grass. Bending down, he arranged Oeric so he lay on his back, moving the legs straight, with arms along the side of the body, hands crossed over his stomach. He picked up the detached head by the chin strap on the helmet, placing it carefully at its more normal position atop the fallen body. Lifting the fallen man's sword, he placed it carefully so it lay along the body, the hilt on Oeric's stomach, blade running parallel to his legs, and closed the man's sword hand round the hilt. Removing a gold coin from his pocket, he placed it on the tongue of the dead man, gently closing the open mouth. Carefully, he closed the eyelids over the gimlet stare, removed his own ornately carved dagger from his belt, and placed it on the dead man's chest above the clasped hands. Apparently satisfied, he bowed his head for a few moments in respect.

The Saxon warriors around him stood in silence.

As Arthur lifted his head and leaned down to pick up his own sword from the grass where it rested, a warrior moved away from the silent crowd surrounding him, moving towards the king with a drawn weapon. Arthur stood stock still, eyes narrowed, blood still dripping from the end of Excalibur. The young warrior ran at him, but stopped, utterly motionless as he found his blade knocked from his hand, and the point of the still gory Excalibur resting in the pit of his throat. He gulped nervously, looking deep into dark angry eyes, until another man, an older warrior with a lined face, and grey peppering the braids of his long hair moved towards them, sheathing his sword as he went. He bowed deeply to Arthur, who inclined his head in return.

There was silence.

The older warrior lifted one hand to the naked blade, closing a hand around the steel, all the while looking deeply into Arthur's eyes. With his spare hand, he pushed the other warrior away, and then moved between them, placing the point of Excalibur at his own throat and let go of the blade. He looked to the ground and waited.

Arthur withdrew Excalibur and lowered the blade.

After a few long seconds, the older warrior lifted his gaze, looked Arthur in the eyes, and nodded at him in respect.

As the warrior stepped back, he barked an order into the silence in the guttural Saxon tongue. The men between Arthur and the fort moved aside to let the High King through, and after tilting his head in silent thanks to the Saxon veteran, he walked slowly up the hill where he joined Guinevere who enveloped him in a deep and heartfelt hug.