Mark Chadbourn - Destroyer of Worlds

Raising his sword high, he shouted, 'We are Brothers and Sisters of Dragons! Though we die, we live on in the Pendragon Spirit. What we fight for can never be destroyed. This day… this battle… is the reason for our existence. Two thousand years of history leading to this point. Our Brothers and Sisters who are not here are counting on us to drive the Enemy back, to buy them time to save all Existence. We shall not fail. Do you hear me? We shall not fail!'

His voice became a roar that soared up to the heavens, and it was joined by all the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, one voice of defiance carrying out across the plain. As he turned, they strode out from the tents behind him, those who had taken the role of cavalry to the horses, the others forming ranks for the ground battle. The fear was gone as if it had been washed away by the rain. There was only determination, come what may.

Decebalus summoned one of the Brothers of Dragons, Andy Cairns, a Scottish archer with black wavy hair and a sword scar on his right cheek. 'Andrew, prepare your archers.'

A moment later a hail of flaming arrows soared across the plain, igniting a liquid that Math had prepared in his tower and which Decebalus had spread in a huge defensive arc around their forces. A wall of fire rose up twenty feet into the air; Math had told him it would burn for at least an hour.

Within fifteen minutes the first lines of the Enemy attempted to break through the fire. Some continued aflame for several paces before they collapsed. Others fell in the midst of the inferno. But wave after wave followed, reminding Decebalus of the red ants he had seen in the forests of Dacia when he was boy; nothing would deter them. Soon the bodies had piled so high they covered the fire-liquid, and the ranks behind rolled over the top of them.

With a roar, Decebalus signalled the attack. To his left, the Tuatha De Danaan washed out in a golden wave, silent, focused, frightening in their intensity. The Brothers and Sisters of Dragons were only a step behind. At the heart of them, Decebalus swelled with pride, swinging his axe with abandon as he forced his way to the front.

Within moments they crashed against the rocks of the Enemy, and Decebalus was hurled into such a frenzy of flashing weapons and flailing bodies that it was impossible to see anything beyond a zone of a few square inches. Noise filled his world, the endless shriek of metal on metal, the grunts of exertion, battle cries and the screams of the wounded and dying. Tossed around by a heavy swell, he never rested for a second, swinging his axe into heads, shoulder-blades, arms. Bodies crushed tight on all sides. No thoughts came; there was only time for instinct.

The ranks of the Enemy in front of him comprised the Lament-Brood, dead beings from numerous races with swords, axes and spears rammed into their limbs so that they themselves became weapons that could not be killed, for whom wounds meant nothing; the only way to stop them was to dismember them.

Gradually, his thought process adjusted to the blistering pace of battle, a sublime state where everything slowed and he floated amidst the chaos, able to examine the rich detail, and reflect. Blood sprayed in beautiful arcs. Raindrops on armour glittered like diamonds. Blades caught the torchlight as they whirled, trailing gold. Underfoot, the ground churned, became liquid, a swamp of gore and mud sucking at his legs.

His axe removed the top of a skull, then spun and came down to split the face below. As the Lament-Brood warrior dropped to his knees another was already taking his place.

To his left, Decebalus saw a Sister of Dragons battling furiously, glistening black hair slick from the rain. As she was dragged away by the flow of battle, he tried to remember her name. An unusual name. It was important that everyone was remembered, and seen as individuals sacrificing all, not as a resource to be used up to win.

Demelza, he recalled. Monfries.

He nodded, happy that he had marked her place in his mind. To his right, three Lament-Brood warriors surrounded a Brother of Dragons, his ringletted hair and beard plastered with blood. He had no chance, but he kept fighting to the last.

Decebalus struggled to recall the name, cursing himself furiously until it came. 'Stephen,' he said aloud. 'Harding.'

And then Aula was at his side in the white and silver armour of one of the Tuatha De Danaan courts, her blond hair darkened by the rain.

'Here?' he bellowed. 'You are no warrior!'

With her short sword, she hacked off the arm of one of the Lament-Brood as it attempted to drive a spear into Decebalus's chest. 'Answer enough?' she said.

'Not quite, but it will do, for now.'

'Even an uneducated barbarian like yourself deserves someone at your back.'

They exchanged a brief look that said more than they ever had, or ever would, and then the battle sucked them in once more.

For fifteen minutes of furious exchanges, it appeared as if the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons and the Tuatha De Danaan were making no headway against the constant stream of the Enemy; for every one that fell two more took their place. Decebalus saw Redcaps with their clothes of human skin, unrelenting machines of muscle, gristle and bone that exhibited tremendous power and endurance. There were the Baobhan Sith, shrieking spectral figures that shifted shape before attempting to tear out the throats of those nearby; and the Gehennis, shades flapping like sheets in the wind but with more devastating substance than they presented to the world. Towering giants swung clubs that reduced a man to a red mist, while other grotesqueries that he did not recognise ripped apart with claws and teeth.

The explosive bolt of lightning crashed into the Enemy ranks at the point he had planned, when overconfidence had taken the edge off their fighting skills. Body parts rained down from a blackened circle inside which everything had been incinerated. More bolts blasted down at random, bringing fear to the disrupted Enemy ranks.

Decebalus caught the briefest glimpse of Mjolnir smashing through bodies before returning to the hand of its owner, who brought down another lightning bolt before directing the storm towards the Enemy.

Decebalus grinned: the gods had arrived.

Laughing like a madman, his scarred, hairy body completely naked, Tyr waded through the ranks chopping down the Lament-Brood like saplings. Beside him, the Slavic god Perkunas wielded a throwing axe that sent heads flying in unison, while Ares, lost to his bloodlust, had to be continually redirected towards the Enemy so that he did not attack his own side. On a murderous rampage, the Aztecs' Huitzilopochtli tore out the hearts of the living Enemy by plunging his hands into their chests, and the Caribbean war god Ogoun concentrated on the Lament-Brood with his machete, reducing them to quivering chunks of decomposing flesh.

The gods were a whirlwind of fury and righteous vengeance, and every time Decebalus thought he had seen the last descend into the fray another dropped from the skies or drove a wide, bloody path through the ground troops.

Hundreds of the Enemy were falling by the minute, and despite their numbers they were in disarray and being driven back step by step. Lugh was at the forefront of the Tuatha De Danaan, serious and dedicated, and though covered in gore he still glowed like the sun. Behind him, the Army of all the Courts fought on, shoulder to shoulder, for the first time since they had left their four fabled homes.

About a third of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons had fallen, but the rest drove on with renewed energy, faces alight with the Pendragon Spirit.

For the next half-hour, as the Enemy was decimated, Decebalus finally began to believe that despite the odds they could win.

The first sign that events had begun to change was a sudden retreat by the Enemy that left aV of unoccupied ground. Decebalus signalled for the Army of Dragons to proceed with caution; it looked to him as if the Enemy was encouraging them to pursue with abandon, and he never did anything any enemy wanted.