It was true; even in a small skirmish the sound is a very din, and in most battles it is a deafening roar. The shouting of combatants, the clash of weapons, the screams of the wounded and dying – it all melds together to produce a distinctive clamour which can be heard from far away, and which, once heard, is never forgotten.

But these foemen stood to their grim work in utter silence -no shouted commands, not even a curse or cry of pain when a blow landed. Whether they were attacking or dying, the only sounds to be heard were the swishing rustle of their feet through the long grass and the dull clanking of their shields where our swords struck.

Moreover, the enemy was curiously lethargic. Their actions were the lumpen, clumsy gestures of bodies with no force behind their movements. Their faces – when I glimpsed them from behind their shields – were grim and grey, but expressionless, betraying neither rage nor hate. Tight-lipped and dull-eyed, they seemed to be performing a laborious and tiresome chore, and nothing so dangerous or desperate as battle. Indeed, they lurched and lumbered like men asleep, heavy on their feet and slow to react.

Even as I turned to offer this observation to my companions, Bors muttered, 'I do not believe it.'

He was looking at the place where the first combatants had fallen. I turned, too, and saw the slain warriors rising from the ground. Like men throwing off sleep, they simply arose with a start, climbed to their feet, and joined their mute companions.

The weird, silent foe shuffled forth once more. Despair, black and bleak, yawned before me like an open grave as the realization broke over me: we could cut them down, but we could not kill them.

'God help us,' was Bors' terse reply. He had no time to say more, for the foemen renewed the attack, and we were quickly engaged in trying to regain the small space we had carved for ourselves.

In the confusion of the next attack, Gereint succeeded in getting hold of one of the enemy shields. This he used to guard his left, affording both of us better protection on that side, for he made it a virtue to stay close to me. We fought side by side, and it put me in mind of the times my brother, Gwalcmai, and I had laboured together in all those battles against the Saecsen host.

The attack – as poorly conceived as the others – soon foundered and the battle settled into a sluggish, lumpen rhythm. Thrust and chop, thrust, thrust and chop… I found it absurdly easy to strike them down, for the slowness of the foe and their dull reactions quickly told against them. They fell as they fought, without a sound, readily collapsing and expiring without a murmur – only to rise again after a small space, and join in the fight as if nothing had happened.

This made Bors frustrated and angry. He railed at the enemy, filling the dull, dreadful silence with taunts and challenges which went unanswered. He hewed at them mightily, slashing with powerful strokes. Once, he lopped the arm off one hapless foeman – the limb spun from the wretch's shoulder in a bloodless arc, still gripping the spear shaft in its dead hand.

The enemy fell and Bors let out a whoop of triumph. But the unfeeling creature merely picked itself off the ground and came on again – even though it could not longer wield a weapon.

This provoked the big warrior so much that he beheaded the creature next. 'Shake that off, hellspawn!' shouted Bors, thinking he had at last succeeded in removing at least one combatant from the fight.

Alas, he was wrong. The headless torso lay still for a time, only to rise and resume the attack, a gaping wound on its shoulders where its head had been. As before, no blood spewed from the wound, and it brought no diminution of persistence; the corpse stumbled forth, reaching with empty, clutching hands.

Unfortunately, we had not the stamina of the undead, for though they could fall and rise and fall, only to rise again -though we hacked the weapons from their hands, or severed the hands themselves, or heads! – we could not. Our hands and arms were growing weary, and our wounds bled.

'They do not mind dying,' Bors observed, deftly striking the fingers from a hand stretching too close, 'because they are dead already. But when I lie down, I will not get up again so easily, I think. What are we to do, brother?'

There was no stopping them. Despite the practised efficiency with which we dispatched the foe, we received only the smallest respite before they awakened and rose to fight again.

I could feel the strain in my shoulder and arm. My fingers were cramped from gripping the hilt, and the blade seemed to have doubled its weight. Bors, too, was labouring; I could hear his breath coming in grunting gasps as he lunged and thrust time after time after time. Gereint's blade struck again and again from under the near edge of the shield, but even his youthful strength could not last forever. No doubt that was their sole tactic: to wear us down until we could no longer lift a blade to defend ourselves, whereupon they would simply overwhelm us and tear us limb from limb.

We had no other choice, however, but to stand our ground and fight. Thus, I raised the sword again, and again, and again, slashing and slashing while the undead warriors stumbled ever and again into our blades. Sweat ran freely down my neck and chest and back, mingling with the tears of exhaustion welling from my eyes and spilling down my face. Jesu, help us! I prayed as I cut the arm from the wretch before me. The warrior shambled ahead, pushing his shield into my face. Sidestepping the clumsy lunge, I brought the sword blade down sharply on the back of his neck and he sank like an anvil, falling against my legs and throwing me off-balance. I tried to kick the body aside, but could not shift the dead weight and fell.

Two enemy warriors bore down upon me. Squirming on my back, I kept my sword in their faces and tried to regain my feet as they woodenly jabbed at me with their spears. I shouted to Bors for help, but could not see him. I shouted again, and dodged a spear thrust; the stroke missed my chest, but I got a nasty gash in the side. Seizing the spear shaft with my free hand, I flailed with my sword and succeeded in getting to my knees.

Clutching the hilt in both hands, I whipped the blade back and forth, desperate to gain a space in which I might climb to my feet. But the blade struck the iron rim of a foeman's shield.

My fingers, long since numb from the relentless toil, could no longer hold the hilt and the sword spun from my grasp.

The long spears drove down upon me. I threw myself to one side, rolling in a desperate effort to escape. One spear jabbed at my head and grazed my cheek. Seizing the spear shaft, I tried to wrest the weapon from my foe, but his grasp was like stone. As I struggled, another spear thrust at my side, and I felt my siarc rip as the blade sliced through the fabric, narrowly missing my ribs.

Lashing out with both feet, I kicked the nearest in the leg and he staggered back. I jumped up quickly, and was just as quickly surrounded once more. Three more warriors had joined the first two, and all pressed in on me, spears level, aiming to take me in the chest and stomach.

Just as they prepared to make their final lunge, I glimpsed what I thought to be a flash of light out of the corner of my eye, and heard Gereint cry out in a loud voice. Taking the shield by the rim, he spun around and flung it into the foremost of my attackers. The iron rim caught the luckless wretch as he turned; his face crumpled and he collapsed, taking two others down with him.

Before I could struggle to my feet, Gereint was over me, half lifting, half dragging me from danger. Bors cleaved the skull of another in two, and the enemy, beaten back for the moment, retreated to regroup and attack again.

'You are hurt, Lord Gwalchavad,' Gereint said, seeing the blood flowing freely down my side.