Belatu had always seen this as a dream.

He took the reins of his reaver and tugged at the savage beast. It snarled at the damp morning air, its breath rising as steam from its nostrils and the mouth - lined with stiletto-sharp teeth. Belatu turned back to his squadron, hefting the awesome brute around to the rattling sound of its chains and bridle.

"Remember," he bellowed to the Fomorian riders, "Death is our ally and Mayhem is our chieftain - let us bring damnation and hell to the Gaels. Let us leave their menfolk lying dead on the battlefield. Let the cries and lamentations of their women be our fanfare!"

The Fomorian reaver riders stood in their stirrups and whooped and shouted, crying, 'damnation!' and 'death!' and the reavers themselves wailed and bellowed their ferocious roar.

Belatu took his place, amid his bodyguard. The morning sun had started to melt away the mist and before them, ranged along the crest of the opposite hillside, were the bondsmen and swordmaidens of the Lyr; their bronze war trumpets calling the warriors to arms.

"Before the noonday sun rises the valley floor will flow with the blood of our enemies," snarled Belatu. His three bodyguards nodded their agreement.

He sniffed the air. His trusted men - Nudd, Hafgan and Segomo - readied their weapons for the charge. They all shifted in their saddles, ready for the call to take battle to the enemy force.

As they prepared for the coming slaughter the mists parted just enough for the first signs of blue sky to make itself known.

Yes, thought Belatu to himself, this is the day I have dreamt of. A good day for dying.

He rose in his stirrups and unfurled his leather whip. In the other hand he raised his spear, leant back his head and roared out, "Kill them! Kill them all!"

And on that word the charge went forward into the valley of mist.