'So that is how it is between you.'

'That is how it is.'

'Then perhaps on our return to Maridunum we should do some talking.'

That was all he said and, indeed, it was all he needed to say. We arrived shortly at the next, and last, settlement: Caer Nead, a cluster of wattle huts and briar-fenced cattle yards within sight of a small hillfort.

Maelwys was anxious to get back to Maridunum before nightfall and so we did not tarry in Caer Nead, but conducted our business quickly. By midday we were ready and left as soon as decorum allowed. There was nD great hurry; the distance was not far. Yet I noticed that, the closer to home, the more anxious Maelwys became. I did not say anything, and I do not think anyone else would have noticed in any case. But I watched his jaw set firm and his mouth turn down in a hard, straight line. The words he spoke grew more terse and the silence between them longer.

So I tried to discover what it might be that was troubling him, and could come to no conclusion… until I saw the smoke.

We saw it together. I gave a shout just as Maelwys reined up. 'Fire!'

He took one look at the hill-line before us. 'Maridunum!' he cried, and put leather to his mount.

We all followed him in his breakneck flight. The smoke, at first a thin, shadowy wisp in the air, blackened and thickened into a huge dark column. Closer, we could smell the stench of burning and hear the screams of the townsfolk.

The raiders had held off until they could be certain of their reception. I imagine they thanked their heathen gods with every breath in their bodies upon learning that the king was away and the town virtually unprotected.

But they were overcautious. Or perhaps they had lingered too long with their boats before coming inland. However it was, we caught them in midst of their destruction, our horses hurtling down on them without warning. We took them on the points of our swords as we charged through their scattering ranks in the old market square.

Though they fought with some courage when cornered, they were no match for mounted warriors seeking blood vengeance. In a matter of a few moments the corpses of a score of Irish raiders lay sprawled in the stone-flagged square.

We dismounted and began pulling down the burning straw of the roofs so that the fire did not spread, then turned to the bodies of the dead raiders to retrieve what they had stolen. The town was quiet, and except for the crackle of flames and the grating cry of the carrion birds already gathering for then-feast, the air was dead still.

That should have been a warning, I suppose. But the fight was over and we were already starting to cool down. No one expected an ambush.

We did not even realize what was happening until the first spears were already whistling through the air. Someone screamed and two of our party fell with spears in their stomachs. The Irish were on us instantly.

We learned later that there were three big warboats in the Towy – each carrying thirty warriors. All of these, save the twenty whose blood stained the stones at our feet, came on us at once with a tremendous roar. Seventy against seven.

The next moments were a terror of confusion as we ran to the horses and leaped to our saddles. But the raiders were streaming into the square from all directions and we were too close bound to make a charge. In any event, the square was soon so crowded we could hardly swing our swords. I saw one of our men hauled from the saddle and his brains dashed out beneath his own horse's hooves.

I saw Maelwys struggling to rally us to his side, his arm rising and falling again and again as he struck out at those surrounding him. Spears splintered before his blade and more than one man went down screaming.

I took up the call and drove towards him., Into my path leaped two spearmen. The horse shied and dodged, nearly pitching me from his back. The animal's hooves slipped against the smooth stone and it fell, rolling onto its side, pinning my leg.

One spear thrust past my ear, anotfier jabbed towards my chest. I swung with my sword and knocked it aside, kicking myself free of my mount as it thrashed to its feet.

I rolled up to face two more raiders, making four together, all with iron-tipped spears levelled on me. One of them gave a shout and they rushed me.

I saw the enemy move towards me, saw their faces dark and grim, saw their eyes gleaming hard like sharp iron. Their hands were tight on the shafts of their spears, their knuckles white. Sweat misted on their faces and the cords tightened on their necks…

I saw it all and more – ah" with dreadful, heart-stopping clarity as the speeding flow of time dwindled to a bare trickle. Every action slowed – as if all around me was suddenly overcome with an impossible lethargy.

I saw the spearheads edging towards me, swinging lazily through the air. My own blade came up sharp and smart, biting through the wooden shafts, slicing the spearpoints from the hafts as easily as striking the heads of thistles from their stems. I let the force of the blow spin me away so that, as my attackers fell forward behind their blunted spears, I was gone.

I scanned the melee. The square churned and writhed with the fight. The sound was a booming, featureless roar – like that of blood racing through the ears. Our warriors, horribly outmanned, strove valiantly, fighting for their lives.

Maelwys held his own across the square, leaning low in the saddle, hewing mightily. His arm flailed with a fierce and violent rhythm. His blade streamed scarlet ribbons.

He had been identified, however, and more and more of the enemy lumbered towards him in that strange, languid motion brought on by my heightened awareness.

I put out my hand and caught up the reins of my mount, swinging up into the saddle. I turned the horse's head and urged it forth towards Maelwys.

Moving with the easy roll of the horse beneath me, I swung the sword in my hand first on the left and then on the right, slashing, slashing, striking again and again, my blade a shining circle of light around me. Men toppled like cordwood in my wake as I forced my way to the king's side.

My sword sang, ringing clear and true as it struck, relentless as the sea swell driven before the storm. We fought together, Maelwys and I, and soon the stone under our horses' hooves was slick with blood.

But still the enemy swarmed around us in fighting frenzy, slashing with the knives in their hands and jabbing with then-spears. None dared come within the arc of my blade, however, for that was certain death. Instead, they tried for my horse, stabbing at its legs and belly.

One howling fool leaped at my bridle strap, hoping to drag the horse's head down; I gave him something to howl about as his ear left his face. Another lost a hand when he made a clumsy thrust at the animal's flanks. Yet another collapsed in a quivering heap when the flat of my blade came down hard on the crown of his leather war helm, as he made to leap for me.

These things happened leisurely, almost laughably so, each action deliberate and slow. Thus, I had time not only to react, but to plan my next move and my next, before the first had been completed. Once I fell into the uncanny rhythm of this strange way of fighting, I found that I could move with impunity among the absurdly lethargic enemy.

So, striking again and again, striking and whirling away, while my hapless opponents floundered and lurched around me, flailing uselessly, with sluggish, inept movements, I joined a bizarre and terrible dance.

The bards speak with reverence of Oran Mor, the Great Music – elusive source of all melody and song. Very few have the gift to hear it. Taliesin had the gift – or something more than that. But I heard it then: my limbs throbbed with it, my swinging arm told out its unearthly rhythm, my sword sang with its brilliant melody. I was part of Oran Mor, and it was part of me.