The Saxons had quietly withdrawn after the death of Oeric, the fight seeming to drain from them with the death of the fearsome prince. As they went, they removed as many of the defensive stakes and caltrops as they could find on their way down the hill to prevent the defenders re-occupying a defensive position on the side of the hill.

As the swollen and blood red sun dropped below the horizon, the shadows deepened to night. Fires were lit in the fort at the base of the hill, others dotting the grassy plains beyond.

The defenders had watched in silence as the Saxon war party had withdrawn. As the bier carrying the body of Oeric had entered the lower fort, a roar of rage and bitter grief had sent crows into the air in fright. Hengist had stormed from the fortified area and raged at Arthur from the base of the hill. The bitter stream of invective and vitriol was met with stony silence from the High King. Arthur had stood facing Hengist, glowering at him from the top of the hill with his arms crossed, impassive and unmoving in his white enamelled armour. As he'd stood there, the setting sun had coloured his attire a bloody red in the waning light.

Hengist had made to storm up the hill, only to be stopped by the same veteran warrior who had interceded in the earlier altercation following the death of Oeric. Eventually, with much persuasion from the other man, Hengist had retreated to the safety of the fort, and Arthur had made his way over the wall to join his men inside the upper fort.

As dusk set in, the majority of the remaining defenders withdrew inside the walls of the fort. Sentries were set, and men huddled together for warmth in the cooling evening air.

The leaders and a few others sat talking quietly, resting against the solidly constructed stone walls raised by the miners, who had used the materials from the shaft to produce a six-foot high ring around the top of the hill, a three foot high step built on the inside to give the defenders a height advantage. A raised platform had also been constructed to allow a view down over the wall. This currently held four sentries, but would be employed on the morrow for the archers and ballistae crews, the ballistae already fixed in place and ready for action.

Percival stumped over to the group and sat down next to Grayle, who was sitting holding Iseult's hand in the near darkness. All light had been forbidden to allow the sharp-eyed sentries to pick out any movement in the clear moonlight.

"I can't find Morholt anywhere," Percival said grumpily.

"That's because I've sent him on a scouting mission," said Mark quietly. "He's out looking around to see what he can see of the Saxon defences. He should be back by dawn."

"Arthur?"

"He's moving around the camp with Guinevere, talking to the men." Mark shook his head in wonder. "Utterly unstoppable that man. If you want a lesson in leadership Grayle, just do what Arthur does. The man's a born commander."

"How did he get out alive?" whispered Grayle. "I left him, and he should've died."

"Are you still beating yourself up over that son?" said Percival.

"Of course he is," said Isuelt tetchily. "He's an idiot like that." She kissed him on the cheek as he made to protest, Percival and Mark chuckling at his discomfort.

"Your commander ordered you to do something, you did it," said Mark. "I would have done the same."

"Really?"

"Really," replied Mark.

"And if you hadn't, I'd've clattered you myself, nephew," said Arthur appearing from the darkness and sitting down next to him. "You did the right thing, we survived."

"Yes, but I don't know how," muttered Grayle.

"As Merlin says, sometimes you just have to do what feels right," said Arthur.

Guinevere joined her husband, holding his hand in the darkness, leaning into him to rest her head on his shoulder.

"Did someone mention my name?" said Merlin, ghosting into the group and leaning against the wall. "I'm too damn old to be sleeping in the open," he muttered grumpily.

"Ah, but then you would miss the glory of God's heavens, and all his multitude of stars," noted David from the other side of the group.

"I would prefer if your God had provided me with a feather pillow for the night, but I take your point David: at least the moon is bright. The Saxons should remain in their stolen fort for the night. So I suggest you all shut up and let an old man get some sleep."

"Merlin, if you start snoring, none of us will get any sleep," said Guinevere softly, prompting a snort of poorly suppressed laughter from Arthur, and a glare from Merlin.

"I'm not sure I'll sleep tonight," he said, his tone somber and dark. "Something of great import is about to happen, I can feel it in my bones. And yes, I know we're in the middle of a battlefield, but something is going to happen, and I cannot sleep until I know what it is."

"I'm not sure any of us will get much sleep old friend." Arthur sighed and looked at his wife. "I'm sorry Guinevere, I should not have brought you to this."

Guinevere placed her finger gently on his lips, stilling any further comment, and leaned in to kiss him lingeringly. "You did the right thing, Arthur. The people have to see us fight. I would not want to be anywhere else but by your side. I refuse to embroider tapestry while you do battle. I am your wife, and I will fight with you, and for you, as you do for me. Whatever happens, Anna is safe, and I am with you. It was my choice too."

All thought of talking was interrupted by an unearthly sound from the plains below.

"Ah," said Mark, "I wondered if they'd try something like that. Sleep will definitely not be an option tonight ladies and gentlemen if they continue to play their battle horns all night. Sadly they seem unable to carry a tune."

"It's still better than Merlin's snoring though," said Guinevere.

~

They awoke gritty-eyed in the morning pre-dawn, the sentries walking round and waking everyone in turn, the remaining cooks and pot boys moving through the groups of men with rations and water.

Elyan, the recent recipient of the king's coin, joined Grayle and Iseult with a smile and a bucket of water, offering them a drink. "Sir Knight, may I ask you a question?"

"I'm not a knight yet Elyan," said Grayle smiling. "Grayle will do, and yes you may ask me a question."

"What do I do later when they attack?"

"You carry on doing what you have been so far. Keep offering water to people, stay out of trouble, help the archers with spare arrows..."

"Yes," interrupted Elyan, "I know to do all that, but what is my role?"

Iseult interrupted smoothly and reached into her pocket, removing a clean kerchief that she tied around the boy's upper arm.

"Every woman needs a champion," she said warmly. "I hereby name you mine, should Grayle be indisposed, or incompetent of course."

"Thank you," muttered Grayle.

"As I was saying Elyan, should I have the need, you shall be my knight in shining armour."

"In which case, I suggest you get yourself a helmet," said Grayle. "See if you can find some armour. It won't do any harm, although you might need to ask Joss to modify a mail shirt to fit you."

"Yes, sir!" said Elyan scampering away. "Oh, and thank you, my Lady," he said, turning and sketching a rough approximation of a courtly bow.

Iseult laughed gaily at the boy as he made his way to Joss, and turned back to Grayle. "Chainmail?"

"It won't hurt him if he can find a shirt small enough; it might just stop him getting hurt. Percival made me a mail shirt when I first joined him as his page, and it stopped a couple of knife wounds. Come on; let's see what the morning has brought us."

Grayle poked his head over the wall and drew in a surprised breath as Iseult joined him on the wall.

"It's beautiful," she breathed. A low-lying mist had cloaked the grassy plains below, leaving Silbury Hill a green island floating majestically in a bejeweled sea of sunlit moisture, muffling all sound from below them. Small cobwebs strewn with dew hung in the grass of the hillside, little sails attempting to propel the hill away from their troubles. They were alone, utterly adrift from the land and left hanging in the sky with the birds. A light wind ruffled Iseult's hair, and she turned to find Grayle looking at her with a smile. She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow questioningly, smiling in return.

"I was just thinking that despite the beauty of the morning, it still doesn't compare to yours, my lady," he said gallantly.

She leaned in and kissed him gently, smiling into the kiss and lifting a hand to his cheek. "You'll do," she said quietly. "Flatterer," she added a second later, still smiling.

They stood for several minutes in silence, Iseult enveloped in Grayle's arms as they stood and looked out over the sea of unbroken white. After a few moments, Mark joined them, looking worried as he peered into the white shroud that hid the plain below.

"Grandfather, are you alright?" Grayle asked, concern in his voice.

"Morholt didn't come back last night," he whispered, pain in his eyes as he rubbed the stump of his left arm to try and reduce the early morning ache.

"I'm sure he'll be fine grandfather," reassured Grayle, frowning slightly. "Do we have any men stationed further down the hill?"

"Aye, a few of the scouts, Joss is moving the archers into position on the walls now, so within a couple of minutes we'll be ready for whatever they throw at us. We should be able to hold this place for at least a day with luck: at that point, Hengist will be in serious danger of being attacked from the west by Arthur's forces who march to join us following the battle with the Franks."

"Grayle!" The call came from the centre of the camp, Percival's voice carrying clearly through the morning air.

"Go on," said Iseult smiling, "I'll see you in a moment."

Grayle moved away to find Percival, leaving Mark and Iseult standing in silence on the ramparts. Hearing a faint noise, Iseult turned to look at Mark and found him looking at a small coin, tears in his eyes.

"King Mark, are you well?" Iseult said softly.

"I'm sorry my lady, you should not have to see me like this, but seeing you standing there brought all the memories of my wife flooding back. You remind me very much of her sometimes. She too was strong, proud, beautiful, and clever. She used to stand on the battlements of my castle and stare out to sea with the dawn. She used to love the morning light. The sun striking your face just then sent a whisper of memory through my mind that caught me utterly off guard."

Mark took a breath and stared out over the cloudy sea below them. "Some things such as taste and smell are incredibly evocative; it appears now light can be too, the way the light caught your face as you stood there sent me into memory; the tendrils of a brief hope she was here, dashed on the rocks of reality."

Mark passed her the small coin, and Iseult was struck by the beauty of the young queen, forever frozen in time in metal cast simplicity. She turned over the coin, and the strong broad face of Mark looked away to the right.

"She was very lovely," she said, handing the coin back to Mark.

"She was called Ysolde," whispered Mark into the crisp morning air. "I asked the others not to mention that to you, as even the name used to pain me. It's a Cornish form of your own name, and I miss her dearly.

"Meeting you and getting to know you has been a balm to my soul, and knowing another lady with a similar name also carries such traits as my wife has helped me enormously since I lost this," he waved his stump vaguely. "But now everything seems to be falling away from me, and now I've lost Morholt too. He was there for me when she died; he was there for me when I lost my hand and eye. He has always been there, and now I've sent him to his doom."

"You don't know that my King, I..." he interrupted her with a raised arm and sad smile.

"You will call me Mark please. I hope someday my grandson will have the sense to marry you, so I think we should drop the formalities in small company. I'm sorry Iseult, I should not burden you any more than you already are. You are young, and should not be exposed to the maudlin ramblings of an old fool, please accept my apologies."

"Your so-called maudlin ramblings have only proved to me you have a soul of a poet Mark," said Iseult smiling at him.

Mark looked her directly in the eye and spoke softly once more. "And once again you remind me of her with your gentleness." He took her hand, bowing his head to brush his lips to the back of it.

"Live each moment you have together to the full, and over the coming hours stay close to each other. Enjoy the sun, my lady," he said and walked away to join Percival.

Grayle joined her moments later, finding her in deep thought as she looked out at the sun, and once again wrapped his arms around her, breathing in the scent of her hair as she leaned back into him.

"He's still hurting isn't he?" said Grayle into her hair.

"Yes, the loss of Morholt seems almost too much to bear. He told me about his wife, Ysolde."

"I was wondering when he might broach that. Did he mention why he and Morholt were so close too?" asked Grayle.

"No, but I could tell by the emotion in his voice that they have some sort of history."

"They fought together under Uther. Mark was a prince back then; Morholt a Sergeant in the Tintagel guard. They were fighting the Saxon tribes who were expanding their territory along the south coast and got cornered. The group they were in was attacked by a larger force and they fought back, but only Mark and Morholt survived. They were captured, fighting back to back until they were netted and tied up. Morholt was tortured until he passed out, and they were left locked up, presumably until the next morning when they could start on Mark. Mark managed to escape and carried Morholt away into the night. The two of them were on the run for almost three days until one of Uther's patrols found them; Morholt was delirious for most of it, unconscious for the rest. A few months later Morholt saved Mark's life in turn, charging into a group of four Saxons who had taken Mark off his feet. Morholt threw himself bodily at them, then proceeded to go a little berserk. Mark regained his footing just in time to prevent Morholt being stabbed in the back, and they've been there for each other ever since. Sword brothers if you like. They are very different, yet they are like brothers. The trust they have for, and in, each other is complete."

"Good morning children," said Merlin, interrupting their quiet moment by hauling himself up onto the step that ran behind the wall. "Nice view," he said looking out over the clouds below. He turned and looked at them quizzically for a second, his expression momentarily confused, and then his eyes widened suddenly.

"Stay there," he said urgently. "Stay right there, I need to find Arthur."

"What on earth is he going on about now?" said Iseult.

"I've no idea," said Grayle, still smiling, "but it usually involves something unusual."

They watched as Merlin walked to Arthur, waving his arms animatedly and gesticulating wildly at both Grayle and Iseult, and then at the wooden crane standing idle in the centre of the upper fort.

"Hmm, I have a horrible feeling I'm about to find out whether you're afraid of the dark," said Grayle.

"What?" began Iseult, but anything else she was about to say was lost in the shouts of the sentries as the Saxon forces appeared from the mists shrouding the hill below them.

As the alarm was raised, the Saxons broke into a shambling run, struggling up the hill, slipping and sliding on the wet grass below the fort.

"Ballistae!" shouted Mark, and the heavily tensioned war machines thrummed into action.

"Archers, be ready!" he roared. "Joss, get the winding gear!"

Joss grabbed an axe and pelted over to the wall, leaping over the top to hack at the massive hawsers running through the winch at the top of the hill. As the cable frayed, and then broke, under the repeated axe blows, the two wagons attached to the system lumbered slowly into action, gaining momentum as they rumbled down the hillside. Warning cries split the air as the laden carts smashed through the advancing ranks, causing havoc, and a cacophony of pain filled cries filled the clear air as Joss was pulled back over the walls to safety.

"Loose!" shouted Guinevere, re-assuming command of the archers as men streamed towards the walls to reinforce the existing soldiers. Grayle and Iseult moved away from the defences, Grayle heading to his weapons, but they were blocked by the robed form of Merlin who towed Cadan and Arthur behind him.

"I know what needs to be done Arthur," he said crossly, obviously continuing an argument from the minutes preceding.

"You," he said pointing at Grayle. "Get on that seat, Cadan is going to lower you back into the Pit."

"But I'm needed on the defences," protested Grayle.

"There are enough willing idiots with swords protecting the walls you dolt, I need your intelligence, not your sword arm."

"I'm going too," said Iseult quietly, looking somehow scared and defiant at the same time.

"Don't be daft girl, I..." Merlin stopped abruptly, seeming to almost go glassy-eyed for a few seconds and then resumed talking "... yes, yes. You're absolutely right, you go too. Cadan will look after you both."

"I'm needed on the walls Merlin," said Arthur donning his helmet.

"Yes, of course," he said to Arthur absently. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Yes mother," said Arthur grinning at him. "Although I think it might be a little late for that." Arthur drew Excalibur and ran to the southern side of the fort; Percival moving east, and David west.

Iseult and Grayle were left with Cadan, who sat them on the wide bosun's chair, handing Grayle a lantern.

"What are we meant to be doing?" Iseult asked the foreman.

"Oi've no idea m'lady," said Cadan, "Merlin said you'd know when you got there."

Grayle raised his eyes heavenwards and Cadan smiled at him. "Three pulls when you want to come back up lad," he reminded him, and the small group of miners swung the seat out and over the Pit, then began lowering them into the stygian gloom beneath.