Grayle clambered to the top of the central platform and embraced his aunt as he reached the wooden deck, Iseult passing up the re-rolled standard to him.

Guinevere was watching her husband on the southern side of the wall. Arthur's formerly pristine armour was splattered in gore, scratched and dented, but still he shouted, still he fought on. Mark stood next to him swinging his mace in tireless counterpoint to the rhythm of the battle.

Many men on both sides had fallen, but Grayle, shorn of his armour, could only watch helplessly as the two sides battled on. Elyan appeared next to him, and handed Grayle his bow and a quiver of arrows, then hauled up a bundle which contained his chain mail, sword and armour.

"Good lad!" said Grayle. "Thank you."

Elyan nodded at him and, as Grayle fitted the string to his bow, he looked to the west where his father still fought, tiredness showing in every swing of his sword, his balance awry due to his bandaged arm. A stalwart voice behind him lifted his spirits, David still sang on in defiance of the Saxons coming at him, swinging his hammer at Saxon heads, hymns flowing richly from his throat, and inspiring all around him.

The northern segment of the circular defences had fewer men defending but was attracting less of the attack, the brunt being taken by Arthur and Mark to the south as the Saxons vied to see who would take down one or other of the two kings.

"Grayle!" The shout came from below, and Cadan lofted one end of a hastily trimmed pole up to him, allowing him to tie the new flag securely to the wood. He kept the flag tightly furled, holding the standard contained until given the order by Merlin. After struggling manfully into his own chainmail, greaves, and helm, he looked back at Cadan. The man had donned a pot helm and chain mail in preparation for any incursions from the Saxons, his men similarly attired. The group, unused to fighting, hefted a motley selection of weaponry lifted from the dead or dying inside the walls but looked grimly determined to join in if necessary. A sudden surge to the east prompted Joss and his small reserve team to move into action, helping to plug the defences, and Cadan motioned to one of his men to take the lower end of the pole, searching for a weapon, and moving toward Percival.

There was a sudden roar from the west and Grayle turned in time to see Percival fall backward off the step to land on his back, utterly winded and lying helpless on the ground. A massive Saxon warrior leapt up into the gap and stood on the top of the wall roaring his defiance at the defenders. Instantly, two arrows sprouted from his chest and he toppled back onto his fellows as Guinevere and Iseult lowered their bows, hastily nocking new arrows to their strings.

Two more men appeared in the gap left by the fallen warrior as the ladies readied themselves, one falling back with Grayle's white-fletched arrow embedded in his neck. The other jumped down into the compound to loom menacingly over the fallen Percival, his sword held high, but before he could swing the death blow, a massive wooden beam smashed the man off his feet. Cadan, swinging a huge baulk of timber in lieu of a proper weapon, strode into the fray and, as the Saxon warrior made to rise, Iseult calmly put an arrow into his chest. Cadan switched his hold on the lump of timber, grasping it in the middle. Running forwards he threw it side on at the next two Saxons to make it to the top of the wall, smashing them back into their fellows and tumbling them from the wall. An armed group of miners rushed forwards to plug the gap, one passing Cadan a shield and a mace as he passed: another breach in the defences had been narrowly avoided.

Percival struggled to his feet, saluting the archers on the platform with a tired arm and making his way back to the battlements, blood dripping from a fresh cut on his cheek, his face grey with exhaustion.

"We're starting to waver," said Guinevere in Grayle's ear.

He nodded, replying, "I only have a few arrows left. Once I've used them up, I'll join the wall with Percival."

Guinevere nodded, her face grim. Grayle watched as the slim form of Iseult, her face taut with concentration, drew her bow to send a shaft whistling past David's shoulder, taking down a Saxon who had managed to heave himself onto the top of the wall. David lifted his weapon in salute, and raised his voice still louder above the clamouring sounds of battle, threatening to blow the Saxons away through sheer power of oratory.

A few moments later, Grayle laid his empty quiver on the wooden deck, placed his bow next to it, and picked up his sword and shield. He cast a look of longing at the still intense Iseult who was nocking another arrow to her bowstring and climbed down the ladder to the ground.

He ran swiftly to Percival's side and, as a Saxon warrior attacked, roughly threw his father out of the way as a sword stroke that would've taken the knight in the neck clattered off Grayle's hastily raised shield. Grayle's short sword took the man through the throat and, given a few seconds grace to talk, he turned to Percival, who stood, breathing heavily behind him.

"For God's sake father, you are not fit. Find Merlin, we need to do something now or the defences are going to fail, and that mad old man has something planned."

Percival nodded, his face grey with pain and fatigue. Grayle flashed him a quick look of understanding and then leapt back up onto the low step to help the miners hold the western side.

Percival, his sword arm leaden, body bruised and battered, slid his sword into its scabbard and removed his helmet to allow the fitful breeze to dry the sweat in his hair. His hair hung in lank curtains over his face, and as he regained his breath and strength, Elyan appeared as if by magic next to him with a pail of water and a ladle.

"Thanks lad, have you seen Merlin?"

"He's at the top of the shaft, Sir Knight," replied the boy as Percival drank, pointing to where Merlin stood leaning against one of the wooden arms of the small A-framed crane. He was looking thoughtfully into the Pit. Merlin, seeming to know he was being watched, looked over at Percival, and a sudden grin appeared on his face as he motioned him over to join him.

"I need you to do something for me boy," he said as Percival joined him.

"Like what?" asked Percival somewhat suspiciously.

"When I scream, I want you to tip this stack of stone into the hole."

"When you scream?"

"Yes," said Merlin. "You'll know when. Ready?"

"Er, yes, I think so."

"Iseult!" shouted Merlin up at the platform. "Get that flag up now."

As Iseult put down her bow and attended the flag, Merlin made his way swiftly towards the southern wall. Choosing his moment, he waited until the two kings beat away a couple of Saxons, and with a leap that belied his age, he jumped onto the top of the wall. Once in place and plainly in view of the opposing forces, he let out a blood-curdling screech that caused the attackers nearest him to cower away in terror, a ripple of apprehension spreading out from the attackers as the old man once more made an appearance.

Percival reacted instantly, pushing a large and precariously balanced stack of nearby stone into the open pit with a rushing clatter.

"Behold, the dragon is ours!" Merlin shouted dramatically as he stood on top of the wall, arms raised to the sky, the red gold dragon banner unfurling in slow motion behind him in the light breeze, prompting a screech of frustration from Morgause. A roar of triumph went up from the defenders, the mixed forces of Tintagel, Exeter, and Camelot shouting in one voice, declaiming their anger and hatred of the Saxons who once again reeled in the presence of a powerful omen.

Morgause gave voice, an inhuman, animalistic noise of challenge and rage, and ran towards the soldiers clustered around the southern area of the wall. Hengist followed, bellowing orders and exhorting his warriors to lift their weapons and attack, rather than stand gawping at the exultant form of Merlin, and the red-gold dragon fluttering majestically behind him.

The Saxon King, his flag bearers, and a few other men fell in behind the enraged woman, watching as Morgause reached the now empty space directly in front of Merlin. She stopped and spat very deliberately at the walls, shouting epithets and curses at Merlin. The old man reached inside his robe and pulled out a clawed and shrivelled hand with two golden chains twined around the fingers, twin pixies dancing together against the mummified skin. He threw it at her feet and cackled triumphantly as Morgause recoiled in horror.

There was a low, earth-shaking rumble, and Merlin danced with maniacal glee atop the wall. "The Dragon rises!" he yelled, shouting like a madman, "Behold your doom!"

The rumble continued, and men from both sides looked suddenly unsure as a faint tremor shook the ground. All thought of fighting had ceased, the Saxons backing still further away from the walls, wide-eyed with superstitious fear.

"Hold men, the Dragon is ours!" called Arthur clearly to his men, as some of the defenders started muttering in superstitious dread.

Grayle, standing by the west wall, watched as events unfolded, grateful of the break in the fighting. The faint rumble from below them prompted a whoosh of air from the shaft behind him but as he turned to look he noticed movement on the northern section of the wall, movement that was abruptly obscured by a billowing cloud of dust and debris that flew vertically upwards from the Pit. Spluttering, Percival staggered back from the shaft waving his arms frantically and coughing as the dust enveloped him.

Merlin, still parading madly on the southern section of the wall, spread his raised arms to mimic great stretching wings. As his arms arced away from his body, the cloud of dust rose vertically above them. With the rumbling settling, the rush of air ceased, and the light wind took hold of the dust, rolling it into two separating spirals of dust spreading to east and west.

Mark turned to look at the spectacle as Merlin continued to caper on the wall in front of him. The dust was spreading, thinning, the central column of airborne detritus spilling out so it looked like the giant spreading wings of a....

"Dragon!" the voice came from the side of the hill deep within the Saxon forces, a note of terror and awe evident, but there was something else too.

"Morholt?" said Mark softly, his head snapping to the south. Arthur, standing next to him turned, his brow raised in question.

"That shout had a Cornish accent," said Mark wonderingly, the warmth of hope spreading suddenly across his face.

"Don't get your hopes up too high Mark, the Saxons have a lot of traitors and ne'er-do-wells in their ranks," said Arthur softly.

"I know what I heard Arthur, my sword brother lives," said Mark stubbornly.

Arthur turned away from Mark, doubt and dust in his eyes, but unable to deny his brother king some vague hope. He watched as the Saxons backed away from the walls, whispers of 'Dragon' spreading through the attacking forces, the murmuring susurration of doubt and superstitious fear multiplying as Hengist raged at his men.

Grayle lifted his head from his hands, the eye scratching dust dissipating, a recent memory suddenly sparking him to look around to the north as a group of men stealthily edged over the battlements. He started to run towards them, his sword raised, opening his mouth to shout a warning, but as he watched, one stood up and waved at him, the black cross on a white background painted on his shield, standing out clearly in the morning sunlight.

"Church Knights," he whispered hoarsely, the dust coating his throat.

"My Queen!" he shouted.

Guinevere, now standing again on the wooden platform turned to look at him, and as her gaze followed his pointed finger she whooped in a most unqueenly fashion, smiling broadly. Sounds of fighting grew on the northern edge of the walls, spreading around both sides as more and more men joined from the north.

"Arthur!" The High King turned to look at his smiling wife and became aware of the sounds of fighting behind him, slowly working its way around the perimeter of the hill fort.

He looked about in surprise as a hollow and deeply eerie note sounded from a horn on the northern side of the fort, more and more voices joining in from around the hill. And then, as the long mournful tone stopped, there was a roar from a hundred new throats, the defenders joining in as the tide of the fight turned. David sank to his knees in fervent prayer as a white tabard with black cross sped past him with sword raised.

"For God and the Church!" the battle cry split the air as the fighting spread.

"Archers!" shouted Arthur into the clearing air, the mist starting to thin in the strengthening sun.

A small volley of arrows leapt into the sky. Many of the Saxons, still staring in terror at the dragon-shaped cloud of dust, hurriedly raised their shields in defence. A warrior darted forwards from the mass of attackers to throw Hengist and Morgause out of the way of the arrows, one taking him in the leg.

Merlin screeched anew in triumph and dropped out of the way to the top of the wall as the arrows sped past him, slipping quietly behind the defences, exhausted and trembling with fatigue.

As they watched, the Saxons took one step backward, then another, and like a fire on dry heathland, the terror took hold fully as the grim-faced church knights continued to work their way around the fort.

The Saxons ran.

Hengist leapt to his feet and shook his fist in impotent fury at Arthur who now stood on top of the wall. As the high king roared in mad triumph, Hengist took one last look at the prone form of Morgause who lay buried under the warrior who'd saved him from an arrow and took off down the hill after his fellows.

The jubilant cry of "Camelot!" chased them down the hill, the defenders exultant at having beaten them off again. Arthur quickly pulled the remaining able-bodied troops into a fighting line, leaving a skeleton crew, including the miners to defend the upper fort, and took the initiative, forming a squad to pursue the retreating Saxons, twin streams of Church Knights flowed around the sides of the fort from the north and joined them in the rout.

The sun was finally burning off the mist. As it cleared, more notes pulsed through the morning air, a host of mounted men appeared from the east.

"Sir Ecrivain," said Arthur in wonder, "come from Marlborough."

"Come on!" He roared anew, Grayle following, other soldiers streaming over the walls.

Mark caught Merlin as the old man half slumped, half fell from the ramparts, clumsily supporting him with his shield and free arm.

"How did you know?" he said, wonder in his tone.

"I didn't." Merlin started to laugh weakly and sat heavily on the step behind the wall. "Go, quickly, Arthur will need you."

"Are you well Merlin?" Mark asked, concern in his voice as he watched the old man settle himself, his limbs trembling with palsy.

"I'm fine man, I'm just tired. Behaving like a madman takes it out of me, and I'm not the spring chicken I used to be. Now, go quickly, Arthur must have you with him."

Mark settled his hand on the man's shoulder. "You saved us Merlin, rest now."

"Aye," replied Merlin. "I think I'll enjoy the sun for a bit. Go and smack some Saxons, there's a good king."

Merlin tilted his head to the sun, smiling as the faint warmth touched his face.

As the attackers slid clumsily down the hill, all thought of attack and warfare forgotten in the face of magic, dragons, and new adversaries, Hengist tried desperately to make them stand and fight, but even he was wide-eyed and shaking with fear. Finally, with the presence of mounted warriors threatening from the east giving them pause, the Saxon king restored some vague semblance of order, and the Saxon rout stalled. As Hengist and the veterans of his forces restored order, the Saxons reformed into an arrow shape, and changed direction to punch straight into the heart of the approaching horsemen, the discordant clash of engagement heard clearly over the thin wind.

"Oh hell," said Arthur, "Hengist's engaged them head-on, it'll be carnage if Ecrivain can't get his horsemen running. Come on!" The last words were a shout, exhorting the tired defenders and church knights into motion. The defenders streamed down the hill, roaring their pain and anger at the retreating Saxons, many of whom made for the previously abandoned fort.

Mark landed clumsily near to the stilled form of Morgause who lay on the grass, flattened as she had been by one of the warriors who had tried to protect her. He looked back over his shoulder as Percival appeared behind him.

"Stay there boy, have Iseult and Guinevere come here and tie this hellion up."

There was a groan, and the warrior who had pitched Morgause to the floor sat up slowly, disengaging himself from the woman he'd knocked over. He looked at the arrow sticking out of his leg, and then swore, a distinct accent thickening his words.

"Bloody hell," he muttered. "I'll be having words with that boy." Morholt rose unsteadily to his feet, the white-fletched arrow, as usually used by Grayle, protruding from the meat of his thigh.

Mark strode forwards and enveloped the smaller man in a massive hug, holding him tightly for long seconds, his eyes blurring with tears of joy.

"I thought I heard a Cornish burr to that 'Dragon' earlier," he said grinning madly. "Your acting is appalling though."

"It worked didn't it? I'm sorry I couldn't keep hold of Hengist."

"No matter," replied Mark, "I think whatever happens today he'll rue the day he attacked us. What the hell happened to you anyway?"

"I got stuck, they started moving earlier than I thought they would. I left it too late to come back up the hill, so I took out a sentry, pinched his gear and joined in on the march up the hill. Thankfully the mist was so thick no-one could really see too clearly. There were a couple of rogue Cornishmen in the ranks, so I joined in with them and kept a low profile. "Sorry Mark," he added softly, "I didn't mean to fail you."

"You daft old sod," Mark said, still smiling. "You're back in one piece, you helped scatter this lot, and you've captured this bitch. How can you say you've failed?"

"True," said Morholt brightening suddenly. "I'm still going to have a word with that blasted grandson of yours though, I haven't been shot in years."

"What did you do to Morgause?" Mark asked as Guinevere, Iseult and Elyan appeared beside them.

"Well, I fell on her, which winded her. That was probably a good thing, as she recognised me straight away, but couldn't speak, so then I throttled her a bit."

"You throttled her a bit?" said Mark starting to laugh.

"Just enough to keep her quiet, but she sort of passed out."

"Well, it worked. At least she's quiet for a change. Listen, I need to catch up with Arthur." He hugged the man fiercely again. "I'm glad you made it brother," he whispered.

Mark moved off down the slope, bounding after the other men as if the weight of the world had lifted from his shoulders. Morholt turned to find himself looking into Guinevere's eyes.

"Good to see you again Captain," she said. "Now, while the rest of them are away playing with the Saxons, what do you think we should do with the witch?"