by Barbara Bard
George drew a breath, ready to take Eamon hostage. He rushed forward, attempting to strike at areas on Eamon’s body that would disable him but not kill him. The two fought with a hectic yet graceful precision, Eamon parrying each one of George’s blows and managing to stay a step ahead of him at each turn. George, at one point, manage to strike Eamon in the arm. Eamon, a river of ruby flowing from the wound, clutched at his arm. George spotted his opening, came up behind Eamon, and curled his arm around his throat. He squeezed, attempting to choke Eamon into unconsciousness.
“Just let it happen,” George said. “Your fate now rests with Simon.”
Eamon cocked his head back, the back of his skull making impact with George’s nose and breaking it. In a daze, George stumbled backward, and Eamon spun around before striking a fatal blow to George’s sternum. George fell to the ground, clutching at the wound in his chest as the life fleeted from his body.
Eamon jutted his chin. “Yer fate noo rests with God,” he said as he fled from the area and George dropped dead to the ground.
Not far away, Gavina, having taken down two more of the Hands of God and bringing their numbers to four in total, heard the growl of Simon holler out from behind her. She turned around, the lecherous leader of the Hands of God holding his weapon high and ready to attack.
“Damn you,” Simon said. “You and your whole village.”
Gavina wasted no time and rushed forward. She engaged Simon furiously, the two of them exchanging blow after blow, the clinking of their swords reverberating through the village as the Bairdsmen and the remaining members of the Hands of God fought in small groups around them.
Gavina attempted to take a strike at Simon’s head—but he ducked under and managed to strike Gavina in the leg. Gavina fell to her knees, Simon then coming up behind her and slicing her in the back. Gavina went pale, falling onto her hands as she dropped her sword.
“Not as skilled as you thought you were,” Simon said as he raised his hand high over his head.
Gavina closed her eyes, ready for the moment of her death to arrive. But as Simon prepared to strike, he heard one of the Bairdsmen shout out: “They are retreating! The Hands of God are leaving!”
Simon ceased the blow and saw that only two members of the Hands of God were left and were currently mounting their horses and riding away from the area. He growled, lowering his weapon and retreating.
As Gavina bled out, Agatha and Eamon rushed up to her side. “Gavina!” Eamon shouted. “Gavina, are ye alright?”
Eamon turned Gavina over and examined her wounds. The cut was deep—but she would surely live.
“We did it,” Gavina said with a smile. “We forced those bastards oot of here.”
Eamon looked up and saw Simon riding with his last two men toward the west. “It is nae over yet,” he said as he fetched a nearby horse and mounted it.
Agatha, her eyes wide, shouted out: “Where are you going?”
“To end this,” Eamon said as he slapped the reins of his horse. “I shall return. Douse the fires. Tend to Gavina. I will finish the last men off once and fer all.”
Eamon rode like the wind in the direction that Simon and his last two men had fled in. Connor, rushing up to Gavina and Agatha, began barking orders at his men. “Douse the fires! Tend tae the wounded! We are victorious, me friens. We are victorious!”
Rose, having managed to avoid most of the fighting, came to Gavina’s side. “Are ye alright?”
Gavina nodded as Agatha began tending to her wounds. “I will live,” she said, pointing to Eamon as he began a faint outline in the distance. “But the same cannae be said for Simon…”
***
An hour had passed since Simon had fled from the village. His two men riding alongside him, their tunics covered in grit and blood, came to the edge of a forested area. Their horses panted and heaved, tiring from a long and arduous ride.
“Simon,” the man on the left said. “We must stop. The horses are tired.”
Simon, breathing heavily, held up his hand. “Then we stop. But not for long.”
The trio held their position at the edge of the forest. They searched around, finding no signs of Eamon or any other approaching riders.
“I don’t see him,” the man on the right said. “Where is he?”
Simon shook his head. He was tired, defeated, feeling like the world was slowly coming to an end. “I don’t know,” he said. “But take a moment’s rest.”
The men hunched forward on their saddles, depleted of energy and waiting for death to knock on their door.
“What should we do?” the man on the left said.
Simon said nothing in reply as he dismounted his horse and fell to his knees. He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes, feeling the weight of all of his decisions catching up to him. He was questioning his methods, questioning his life, questioning everything that had happened up until this point.
Simon drew a breath, tilting his head to the sky as he closed his eyes and prayed: “Lord…what have I done? What has become of me? Nothing you said has come to pass. All is lost. Nothing is as it seems. I am trying to see this through. I tried engaging in the campaign that you set forth, but I have failed…” He began to weep. “You took my wife and child from me. You told me that their death was meant to be a catalyst for this crusade…but now I have discovered that they are alive. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where I am supposed to go from here. I am at my wits end, Lord…tell me what to do…”
Simon waited for a reply—but all he heard was the breeze. He heard nothing, not a word from God, not a sign from heaven indicating what to do. Simon then let his hands fall into his lap, the feeling of defeat completely overcoming him.
“You are not there, God,” Simon said. “Are you?” A laugh. “You never were. I put my faith in something that wasn’t ever there, did I? You are not real. There is no such thing as the divine. There is nothing but coincidence. Nothing but chance. I have wasted my time on a pointless crusade of bloodshed.” He held his head in hands. “I have killed for no reason. I have committed…” he held his hand to his mouth, “I have committed murder in vain.”
Simon stood up, his hands draped at his sides and the two men left in his employ waiting for him to give an order.
“Simon,” the man on the right said. “What do we do?”
Simon laughed and shrugged. “We do nothing now. Everything is lost. All we have pursued has been nothing more than an illusion.” He stripped his tunic and let it fall to the ground, nothing but his bare chest showing as he grabbed his sword and examined it.
“What are you saying?” the man on the left said.
Simon jutted his chin toward the forested area. “We make our last stand in there,” he said. “Eamon Baird will be here soon. God has abandoned us, my friends. There is nothing left. All that we have now is a fight to the death. We will fight alongside each other. We will wait for Eamon Baird to arrive. Once he does—fate will decide what is in store for us.”
The two remaining men exchanged quick and apprehensive glances.
“What say you, my friends?” Simon said. “Do you wish to fight?”
The two men took a moment—and then they stripped themselves free of their tunics. The trio then took their weapons, marched into the forest, and disappeared among the trees.
Ten minutes after heading into the forest, Eamon arrived on the outskirts and spotted the three horses belonging to Simon and his men. He dismounted his steed, taking cautious steps toward them as he looked around for signs of Simon. After a moment, and seeing the footprints leading into the forest, he knew where Simon had gone.
Eamon drew a breath, his hands trembling as he felt the final hour of combat upon him. He stripped himself free of any excess weight on his person, only his tunic, pants, boots, and sword now on him.
“God,” he said, praying out loud as his eyes scanned around the forest, “grant me a steady hand. Help me dispense of these men. See tae it that I bring the
m down. Bring me back tae me family. Help me find our peace.”
As he released his breath and held his sword with a white-knuckled grip, Eamon took a step forward and marched toward the opening to the forest, the tall and towering trees foreboding and casting ominous shadows on the ground as he proceeded to take down Simon once and for all.
Chapter 38
Eamon was creeping through the forest, the trees tall and looming and only letting in slivers of light. No animals were stirring, not a noise was being made as he weaved his way through the trees and navigated the rough terrain.
The further that Eamon ascended into the forest, the tighter the groupings of trees became. He started to feel claustrophobic, concerned at any moment that Simon or one of his men would come out of hiding and strike him down where he stood.
Despite the fact that there was very little illumination in the forest, the heat was starting to increase the further Eamon travelled. After what felt like an eternity of navigating the forest, Eamon decided the time had come to take a rest. He found a log, covered in moss and positioned in front of one of the towering trees. With a sigh, he sat down, but still looked over both shoulders for any traces of Simon or his men.
Eamon breathed. He began to think of Agatha, wondering if she was alright and hoping that she wasn’t worrying too much about his condition. He thought of Gavina, praying that her wounds were not as bad as they seemed. He thought of the fallen villagers, of the men who had fought so bravely to secure their victory and their peace.
Once again, Eamon tilted his head to the sky, lowering his voice to hush as he began to engage in prayer. “Lord,” he said, “guide the men who hae fallen into the gates of heaven. See tae it that they are granted eternal rest. Watch over their families. Bless them and watch over them all.”
With a sigh, Eamon slumped back. He felt the fatigue from the battle an hour prior catching up to him, his bones aching and knees feeling like they were on fire. He knew he couldn’t rest too long, that he needed to keep moving so he could find Simon and put an end to the entire debacle.
I cannae wait any longer, Eamon thought. If Simon escapes, he will simply recruit mair men. The bloodshed will continue. Hell will be raised. The entire Highlands will be destroyed. My entire family will be put into harm’s way.
With a groan, Eamon pushed off the log and stood back up. He gripped his sword tight in one hand, stepping with cautious footing through the forest so that he did not make any noise. He moved further into the thicket of trees, scanning from left to right, waiting for that proverbial moment when Simon and his men would attack—and then he heard a twig snap.
Eamon stopped dead in his tracks, swiveling his head to find where the source of the noise came from. He waited, on guard, sword held high, the rush in his body once again picking up and alleviating the overall weary nature he had been feeling. Moments later—he saw it, two flashes of gray rushing toward him from the left and the right, Simon’s men, their teeth gritted and eyes manically wide as they prepared to take Eamon down.
The man on the left took an overhand swing at Eamon’s head, the steel missing Eamon by inches as he ducked under and pushed the man away into one of the trees. The man collided with the trees, the wind knocked out of him and forcing him to take a moment to recoup.
Eamon cocked his head to the right, the other man charging toward him with the tip of his sword pointed outward and aimed toward Eamon’s belly. Eamon, striking the tip of the blade away, quickly shuffled to his right just before the man was able to land his blow.
The man who had collided with the tree had recouped his senses. Pushing off of the tree, he charged toward Eamon and swiped his sword from right to left repeatedly. Eamon jumped back—once, twice, three times, nearly being clipped by the sword each time as he ducked out of the way and waited for his opportunity to parry. As soon as the man exhausted himself, Eamon raised his blade and came down in a downward strike toward the man’s shoulder.
The man raised his sword, blocking the blow, absorbing it, and pushing Eamon back. Eamon fell onto his back, the other man charging toward him and raising his sword high over his head to come down with a killing blow.
Eamon, knowing that he did not have enough time to stand, rolled to the right just as the sword came down and made contact with the earth. The man raised his sword again, chopping at Eamon as he rolled away and missing him by mere inches as Eamon rolled to the edge of a dip in the terrain and found himself rolling head over heels down a hill.
Eamon tumbled down, and down, and down, the trees scraping at his flesh and causing small cuts to form in his flesh. The world was like a blur of green and brown colors, Eamon reaching out to grab a hold of anything he could to stabilize himself. He tumbled all the way down the slope, and came to a stop when his body made impact with the base of a tree and knocking the wind clear out of his body.
As Eamon struggled to regain his senses, he looked up and saw the two members of the Hands of God quickly shuffling down the hill. Eamon, still trying to catch his breath, looked around desperately for his sword—but it was gone. Nowhere to be found.
Cursing under his breath, Eamon stood and fled, looking around for anything of use to help aid him in his fight. At one point, he spotted a jagged branch that had broken off of a tree laying on the ground. He picked it up.
Eamon moved quickly into a thicket of trees grouped together. He hid behind one of them, holding his breath as the Hands of God came to a stop and began searching around.
Eamon waited patiently as the men searched, the one on his right approaching from ten feet away. Eamon held his breath, waiting for the right moment to strike as he remained concealed behind the tree. He waited, the man’s footsteps growing closer and closer. He came ten feet shy of the tree…eight…five…two—and then Eamon jumped out from hiding, swiped the tree branch he was clutching in his hand, and made impact with the man’s skull and shattered it. The man dropped dead, his sword falling to the ground.
The other man, ten feet away, saw Eamon jump out from hiding and the other man fall dead to the ground. He charged toward Eamon; sword raised high as Eamon scrambled to pick up the dead man’s weapon.
Both men were panting and heaving, sweating and exerting more energy than they ever had before in their lives. They continued to engage with blow after blowing, tiring each other out to the point that they stood a few feet away and rested while staring each other dead in the eye.
Through labored breathing, Eamon looked at the men dead in the eye and said: “Give up. Yer crusade is over. It is all over.”
The man, raising his sword fruitlessly, shook his head in defiance. But after a moment, he dropped his sword to the ground and ran from the forest.
Eamon began walking, looking from left to right and praying to God that he would give him the courage and energy to end the fight. Eamon walked for thirty feet as he weaved through the trees, scanning for signs of Simon but starting to feel that, perhaps, Simon had fled the area for good. But once Eamon came into an open clearing, with the sun shining bright onto a vividly green patch of grass—he saw Simon standing there, shirtless and with his sword in his hand.
Chapter 39
The fires that had been set throughout the village had been put out. All of the bodies of those who had perished were gathered in the center of the village. The fallen Bairdsmen, eight in total, were lined up, side-by-side. Two of them were Connor’s men, and Connor stood over them with Rose at his side as he folded his hands and crossed himself.
“Lord,” Connor said, “bring these men into the light. Grant them salvation and eternal rest. Bring solace and comfort to their families. Help guide them through their turmoil and strife.”
Rose squeezed Connor’s arm. “They fought gallantly.”
Connor nodded. “Aye. They maist definitely did.”
Rose forked a thumb over her shoulder. “And what of the deceased members of the Hands of God. There are quite a few.”
Connor looked over his shoulder and saw t
he Bairdsmen gathering the bodies and putting them onto a pile. “Burn them,” he said. “Their judgement awaits with God and God alone.”
Rose gave the order, the bodies of the deceased members of the Hands of God promptly burned as the smoke rose and curled into the sky.
Connor and Rose then walked over to Rose’s cottage, Gavina laying on her side on the bed as Agatha tended to her wounds.
“How dae ye feel?” Rose inquired.
Gavina laughed. “I will hae quite a pretty scar once all is finished.”
Dabbing at the wound, Agatha said: “I have applied several ointments. She shall heal well, though she needs to rest for quite some time.”
“What of the village?” Gavina asked. “What is the condition of the fires?”
“They hae been put out,” Connor said. “Me men are starting tae rebuild the structures that were damaged.”