Sharp the battle clash that filled the air, a deafening din: shouting, screaming, shrieking, all dreadful to hear. The first frenzy passed and the combatants settled into the inexorable rhythm of the fight. Everywhere I looked, the enemy surged, struggling to join their ranks. Keldrych stood in the centre of the field, attempting to calm his frantic troops.

The Picti, however, dashed here and there to little purpose, striking out wildly and then running away. The Britons exploited this weakness and I marvelled at their dire efficiency. Fully half of Keldrych's warband lay dead on the ground before he succeeded in uniting his troops.

But once united, the rout slowed. The slaughter began to go the other way. The Picti advanced, stumbling over the bodies of their companions, forcing the Flight of Dragons back across the red-foaming stream.

God in heaven! Gwenhwyvar fell! Four big barbarians drove her down with spears… I could not look.

But the queen's fall did not go unnoticed. From out of nowhere faithful Llenlleawg appeared. He heaved his spear through the stomach of the largest Pict. The others fell back momentarily and the fearless Irishman threw himself from the saddle, snatched up Gwenhwyvar and lifted her to his horse.

The queen, the bloody shaft of a broken spear in her hand, threw the useless weapon aside and her champion pressed his sword into her hand. The enemy rushed in again. Llenlleawg turned to face them. He leapt onto the back of the foremost Pict, hacking with his knife and was carried down as the body fell. That was the last I saw of him.

Gwenhwyvar, saved from one death, now faced another. Three more Picti flew at her, even as she wheeled to Llenlleawg's aid. Two thrust at her with spears whuj; the other jabbed at the legs of her mount. With one cho^pf her sword she neatly lopped the spearhead from the sha|t, at the same time lifting the reins and bringing the horse\ forelegs off the ground. One swift hoof caught the attacked just behind the ear. His skull cracked like an egg and he fell dead to the ground.

The two remaining Picti lunged desperately. The queen knocked their spears aside with the rim of Arthur's shield, and drew her sword across their throats in a single sweeping stroke. They dropped their spears and clutched at their bubbling wounds.

Gwenhwyvar rode over them as she flew to Arthur's side once more. Bors and Rhys had joined them and together the four pushed deeper into the tumult, where Gwalcmai and Gwalchavad had become surrounded. Those two fought like giants! But spears thrust and hands reached up and I saw Gwalcmai hauled from the saddle and overwhelmed.

Gwalchavad fought on alone. Could no one save him?

I scanned the battlefield and suddenly saw the Emrys leading the remaining hostages into position behind Keldrych. The Picti, so eager to attack Arthur, had left them on the hillside. They had swiftly succeeded in freeing themselves from their bonds and were now entering the fight at the enemy's back, using weapons retrieved from the dead on the ground.

Surely now, I thought, the Picti war host will attack. But they stayed on the hilltop, never moving forward so much as a step.

The hostages joined the battle with a shout. Keldrych turned to meet them, and this was his undoing. There were fewer than ten hostages and they were on foot. More dangerous by far were the Flight of Dragons still driving into the Picti ranks. But the barbarian warband was in disarray, lurching about in confusion, flailing uselessly with their weapons.

Perhaps he thought that subduing the Britons on foot would hearten his remaining warband – numbering less than twenty now. Or perhaps he hoped to take the Emrys hostage once more and force Arthur to grant him quarter. I cannot say, but turning away from the Pendragon was a deadly mistake. Keldrych did not live to make another.

For the Pendragon saw the Pict chieftain turn and in the sajne instant struck. Caliburnus cut a terrible swath. No one cpuld stand against that invincible blade in Arthur's hands. Too late Keldrych learned of Arthur's progress. He swung round, his sword sweeping in a deadly arc. Arthur deflected the blow with his shield and drove in with the point of his sword as Keldrych's arm swung wide.

The Pied chieftain gaped in astonishment as Caliburnus pierced him through the heart. Keldrych toppled backward to the ground; both heels drummed on the earth.

The battle is won!' I cried. 'Did you see it? Arthur has won!'

The cheer died on my lips as Cador drew his sword and pointed to the hilltops across the glen: the great Pied war host was forming the battle line on the hilltop and the foremost ranks were already moving slowly down into Camlan to attack.

'Cymbrogi!' called Cador, drawing his sword. His call was relayed and I heard the ring of steel all down the line, as the Britons readied themselves to meet the foe. On the hilltop to our left, Ban's forces rose up in battle array, sunlight gleaming on their bright-burnished helms, spears clustered thick like a forest of young trees.

Fifteen thousand British stood to meet the foemen. Someone in one of the ranks somewhere began beating on his shield with the haft of his spear – the age-old challenge to combat. Another joined his sword brother, and another, and more and more, until the entire British war host was beating on their shields. The sound rolled across the narrow valley like thunder and echoed in the hills round about.

I felt the drumming pulse in my stomach and brain, and rise up through the soles of my feet. My heart beat wildly in my chest. I opened my mouth and combined my howl of jubilation with the din. It seemed to me that the sound poured up from my throat and spread out across the hills like the great and terrible voice of doom.

Though the Picti host greatly outnumbered the Pendragon's forces, we had six thousand horses with us. This, I think, and not our war cry – terrifying though it was – is what decided the Picti in the end. Nor do I fault them. Indeed, it would have been the height of folly lightly to disregard the horse-mounted warriors of the Pendragon's a/a. It has been said that a warrior on horseback is worth ten men on foot, and there is wisdom in the saying.

Besides, it had been Medraut and Keldrych's rebellion, and both those traitors were dead. Any allegiance owed died with them. Even for the Picti, it took more than the lure of plunder to make death appealing.

So, as the battle of Camlan ground to its bloody end, the entire army of the rebel Picti simply turned and melted away, fading once more into the northern hills. When Arthur was at last able to raise his eyes from the slaughter before him, the enemy had vanished. The rebellion was over.

NINE

Rhys raised the victory call, and we answered it with the cry of triumph which shook the very hills. Clattering spear and sword on shield rims, and thrusting weapons in the air, we shouted for joy. Then all at once we were flying down the steep slope to join the Pendragon in the valley below. Men racing, horses galloping, the war host sweeping down to embrace the victors.

I shouted myself hoarse, running and running, relief and joy lifting me up. I cried my joy to the dazzling sky above, to the Great Giver, the All-Wise Redeemer who had not abandoned us to our enemies. I raced down the rocky slope, the tears flowing from my eyes.

All around me were glad Britons raising the victory cry. The rebellion had been crushed. Medraut was dead. The Picti had fled and would trouble us no more.

Breathless, I reached the glen and splashed across the stream where I immediately came upon a group of Britons gathered tight around someone lying on the ground. A horse stood by, the saddle empty. I wormed into the crowd, now grown suddenly silent, and heard a familiar voice complaining.