"Captain Morholt, Queen Guinevere, ready your men!" Mark roared.

The Saxons were running full pelt towards them across the blackened earth, the fires having died down sometime earlier, leaving the area to the south of the fort scorched and stinking of smoke. They ran in near silence, concentrating their energies on reaching the walls as quickly as possible to try and reduce casualties from the volley of death they knew was coming. They ran in a half crouch with shields held before them protectively, some carried ladders in pairs, the warriors desperate to make it to the top of the walls and nullify the enemy. Hengist had promised them treasure and riches, and all were eager to take their share: Arthur and Mark's heads also carried a special prize.

"Loose!" came Morholt's voice and bolts flew from the ballistae on the battlements. Saxon warriors crumpled to the ground and their comrades leapt over them. Seconds later Guinevere's voice added to the commands.

"Archers! Long range! Ready! Loose!" the first flight of black feathered death soared up and over the battlements, the first couple of ranks of the Saxons passing underneath them due to the speed with which they approached the fort.

"Rolling fire, at your own pace," Morholt shouted to the ballistae crews, allowing them to re-arm and fire without waiting for him to give the order to release the bolts, occasionally making them change aim to try and pick off a rider, or commander.

"Change to mid-range, loose!" called Guinevere to the archers, lifting her own bow in readiness. Iseult followed suit, her face pale. The ballistae continued powering bolts into the ranks of the advancing Saxons as fast as the teams could reset them, as arrows buzzed madly overhead.

Guinevere looked at Iseult. "We'll get through this, be ready."

Iseult nodded and looked over at Grayle who, between longbow shots, was helping aim the ballistae crews. He looked over at her and smiled, bowing his head in a parody of courtly etiquette. Everything seemed to slow for a second as their eyes locked, then Guinevere called another command at the men behind them, shattering the small moment of communion.

"Short range, loose!"

Her own shorter-range weapon coming into play, Iseult was drawn inexorably into the rhythm of battle, arrows rising almost vertically from behind them onto the attackers. Then the first Saxon hit the wall.

Bishop David, who had been standing by the palisade looking out through a knothole in the wooden palisade, flinched as the body thudded into place and adroitly moved backward to shout up at Arthur above him.

"Arthur, men at the wall!"

Arthur looked back at him and grinned fiercely. "Thank you, Bishop David, we will sort that out shortly. Would you care to join us?"

David looked around and spotted the supply tent. He shrugged to himself and wandered over to see what he could find of use.

Arthur braced himself as the first of the roughly hewn ladders hit the top of the wall. A soldier used a long forked branch to push a ladder away, tumbling several warriors to the grass below.

A ladder hit the wall in front of Mark. Arthur, who was standing next to him, glanced over at the Cornish King, startled to see the man shaking and whey-faced, his mace limply held in his good hand. He gently prodded the king with his sword who turned and looked at him, wild-eyed and pale, seemingly lost as to what to do next.

"Mace, right hand, kill them!" he roared, abruptly in command.

Mark reacted instantly to the order, unleashing a pent-up shout of rage, fear, and frustration that froze the men around him, his new mace smashing through the helmet of a Saxon warrior in a gory mess of brains and blood. As the man toppled from his ladder, Arthur laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Good man," said Arthur softly. "Are you going to be alright?"

Mark nodded, breathing heavily and still shaking, then grimaced, the colour returning to his face. "Sorry, I think I just needed to get started. Nice mace," he said, smiling faintly at Arthur.

"It looks like a fairly efficient sort of weapon," replied Arthur, returning the smile.

"I think I could get used to it." Mark took a deep, steadying breath and took control.

"Repel ladders!" he roared at the soldiers as another flight of arrows flew from the archers on the towers. Mark turned to look at the archers behind him and barked out a short series of commands, his brief moment of stasis passing as he found growing confidence in old skills.

"Rangers and scouts, join Percival on the hill or on the walls. You know where you need to be. Soldiers, assume your pre-arranged positions on the walls. Grayle!"

"Yes, sir!" came the shouted reply from his right.

"Get down into the courtyard, get your squad together, and make sure you're ready to re-enforce any areas of the wall that look like they're faltering."

"Yes, sir!" Grayle cast a last look at Iseult and flashed a smile at her. Touching her hand in passing, he made his way down the ladders to the courtyard, handing his bow to one of the soldiers.

"Relief squad to me!" he shouted and stood in the centre of the camp, waiting as the men designated to help seal any breaches joined him. Joss, second in command, stood next to him.

"Queen Guinevere!" shouted Mark.

"Yes!"

"You are in charge of the ballistae and archers on the front wall."

"Right!"

"Captain Morholt!"

"Sir!"

"Front wall, lead the left side, they seem to be concentrating there more than the right and I need a steady presence there."

"Yes, sir!"

"Ready men?" There was an answering roar from the men on the wall. "Repel, destroy, fight!"

Facing the enemy once more, Mark became aware of a new presence alongside him and turned to find Bishop David dressed for war, a rather comical-looking pot helm perched precariously on his head, and a mismatched collection of armour and weaponry decorating his stout form.

"Find everything you needed?" he asked.

Instead of answering, David powered forwards, smashing his shield into the face of a warrior who had appeared at the parapet, braining him neatly with his newly acquired war hammer.

"Yes, thank you," he said, hefting his weapon. "Bless you!" he shouted at the warrior who had fallen from the ladder. David turned to grin at the open-mouthed Mark.

"I was not always the sedate man of God I am now, dear boy. Besides, sometimes I grow tired of praying for people to save me when I can perhaps do it myself. Man to your left," he added, prompting Mark to dispose of another climbing Saxon.

"Er, good to have you on board, your Grace."

"I think perhaps just David is more suitable for a little while if you don't mind, there doesn't seem to be much in the way of grace up here today."

Grayle watched from the courtyard as Mark and David fought side by side with Arthur, more and more ladders thumping against the defences; some being pushed away, some not. A few Saxon warriors began to appear briefly at the wooden ramparts before being despatched by the defenders, but he knew it would only be a matter of time before the attackers managed to gain a foothold somewhere. He looked over at Joss who would command a subsection of the troops if required.

"Ready?"

Joss nodded and Grayle went back to watching the wall, as the fighting carried on, analysing the weak points as he'd been taught. The fort had been solidly constructed using green oak which, in case of an attack by fire, wouldn't burn easily. During the construction, a deep trench had been excavated to allow placement of the posts, all of which were firmly nailed and dowelled together. Immediately in front of the walls, a wide shallow ditch had been dug to increase the apparent wall height. This spare earth had been used inside the fort to raise banks up against the palisade, so the defenders could easily access the top of the wall at virtually all points. The only weak point was the gate which, following Merlin's escapades, had been barricaded by stout timbers, a nearby pile of stone hastily shoveled into the dip in the banks. No one would be able to use the gates again without some serious work. Only the higher areas near the front gate and the towers had required ladders, and even the towers were relatively short and wide out of necessity. The perimeter boards running behind the walls were crammed with men, all armed and waiting for the attackers to assault the walls. Morholt fought efficiently on the left, staying close to the southwest corner tower where another knot of Saxons tried to force a point of defence on the palisade.

He looked behind at the rear wall. That was their escape should the front or side walls breach, the narrower gate heavily guarded, and leading to the hill behind where Percival's men awaited anyone who tried to get around behind them. For now, Arthur and the south wall were the focal points. That was where the Saxons would probably try and breach. Grayle waited; watching as Arthur, David, Mark, and Morholt broke heads, encouraged the men, and roared their defiance at the swarming enemy.

Mark smashed his mace through the braided skull of yet another Saxon warrior. He was beginning to tire, the brief fervour of battle leaving him as his recent wounds left him wilting before the sustained onslaught. Arthur, a broad smile dancing maniacally on his face, had just skewered another Saxon neatly through the mouth, and he pushed hard with his sword, using the impaled blade to push the body and the ladder backward over the waiting Saxons below, twisting the blade expertly to haul it clear of the gaping corpse as it fell.

"Arthur," gasped Mark breathing heavily from his exertions, "we need to withdraw the ballistae and the archers."

Arthur looked over at him. "You need to withdraw yourself. I need you in overall charge, not becoming a casualty," he ordered. "Go, I will catch up with you shortly. When the time comes, order the retreat and control the fall back as we've discussed."

Arthur clasped hands briefly with Mark and turned back to the wall, Excalibur held high as he battered at the horde coming at him.

As Mark moved into the compound, he shouted orders. "Morholt, Guinevere! Pull your tower teams and equipment back to the rear wall. Morholt, make sure the ballistae are taken to the top fort and set up on the raised deck, check on Percival on the way through."

"Yes, sir!" came twin replies. Mark made his way down the slope to the rear of the defences, nodding to Grayle and Joss in passing, and made his way up onto the wall on the east side of the compound so he could assess the flanks.

The Saxons seemed intent on taking the south wall, drawn like moths to a flame to the shining white light that was Arthur in full battle dress. He shook his head ruefully, thankful the Saxon tactics, for now, seemed brutally simple. He waved at Percival who stood silently on the hill to the rear of the fort and, after receiving a wave in return, moved to the east wall, checking all was well. The entire Saxon campaign seemed geared to the idea of overwhelming them as quickly as possible as they had suspected.

Grayle was still waiting. The fight had been raging for well over an hour, only one brief incursion making the walls as a Saxon warrior powered over the palisade to roar his challenge at Arthur, who had immediately thrown himself at the tall blond warrior, dispatching him with a single massive blow to the head which had tumbled the man to the ramparts in a limp and bloody heap. In a show of utter defiance, he had placed Excalibur at his feet and lifted the man bodily above his head to throw him over the battlements at the men who had swarmed up the ladder, hoping to capitalise on the brief beachhead. The groaning pile of bodies lying sprawled at the base of the ladder following Arthur's show of strength had raised a cheer from the beleaguered men, and he had lifted Excalibur in triumph, shouting his encouragement to the men as Grayle had looked on in wonder at the powerfully built High King.

Suddenly the moment came, and at the juncture of the south and east wall, two braided men managed to attain a position on the walls, forcing their way apart to allow more men to climb up behind them.

"Joss, keep six here, the rest of you follow me." Grayle and his men charged toward the breach.

Percival still standing waiting on the hillside had been keeping a careful watch on the east wall, a senior ranger watching the west side of the hill and west wall of the fort. As he watched, there was a flurry of activity at the south-eastern corner and warning shouts were raised as men made it to the parapets. The sudden Saxon incursion onto the wall changed the focus of the battle instantly. Where before the Saxons had been throwing everything they had at the central point of the walls where Arthur stood, the cry of "Death!" suddenly boomed from hundreds of throats heading for the corner of the east and south walls.

"Ready archers!" shouted Percival, his mouth dry. "Aim to the left of the wall to pick off the men approaching, not at the wall itself where our forces are still fighting."

Gauging his moment, he waited until a group of fifty or so Saxons had gathered in a tight clump, then gave the order.

He watched in grim satisfaction as the wave of arrows flew from the bows of his archers, the group of Saxons hoping to press the advantage left in a heap of howling misery. As he watched, a white shield appeared on the wall and his son joined the fighting for the first time.