by Wade McMahan
Bowmen were gathering their arrows on the field as we rode towards three hundred warriors standing in solid ranks waiting for the call to join the battle. Their wild enthusiasm rocked the earth as we approached.
My horse snorted and pawed the soil as I reined to a stop before them. Two men stepped forward from the cheering ranks. One of the two, a gangling lad, handed me a circular wooden shield plated with a thin coating of bronze; painted a brilliant yellow, in its center a coiled, black serpent displayed bared fangs.
He bobbed his head and then stared at the ground as a bare toe drew a circle in the dust. “The shield be a gift from us all, Wise One, though it was Meallán worked the most on it. Arrs ’ll soon be a’fallin’ amongst us thick as hailstones, we’re thinkin’. The shield there with its sacred serpent, it’ll do a proper job of protectin’ ye.”
During almost two months of fighting I never felt the need for protection other than that offered by the gods. The coming battle would be far different, though, and the youngster was right. “Arrs” would be falling like hail. The shield was cleverly designed for a horseman. I slipped my left forearm through hoops attached to its back, leaving my hand free to grip the reins.
To my left Laoidheach accepted a similarly designed shield. A black crow, wings extended, spanned its surface from edge to edge, the background blazing crimson.
The lad reached forward and took my hand as I leaned down and offered it while saying, “They are fine shields and timely gifts. We thank you both, Meallán, and everyone.”
There remained a battle to fight so the death’s head swirled and the serpent shield flashed as I held them high and shouted, “The gods are with us this day!” I swiveled around on my horse and pointed the staff towards the distant enemy. “The Christians are there confident in their great numbers and they wait for you. Will you take the fight to them?”
Wild cries and shrieks filled the air as warriors danced, leapt about and waved their tribal flags. Again I raised the staff, twirling it above me, stoking the fires of their battle fury.
“Stay together,” I shouted over the din, “fight together and remember—a man who fights alone is a dead man. Listen to the drums, listen for the signal horn and heed your captains’ whistles. Now prepare yourselves to stand tall. Show those bastards your hearts; let them feel the keenness of your blades. Captains, prepare your men.” I raised a fist in the air. “The Morrigan stands beside us this day. Who among you stands beside her?” Amid renewed cheering I shouted, “Death to the Christians!”
I spun my horse around to the face the enemy and kicked its ribs. Laoidheach pointed to his drummers, who began pounding the marching cadence. Whistles blew and our force moved forward through the scene of the earlier fighting.
* * *
A sense of bitterness followed by an onrush of despair filled me as I walked my horse through fire-ravaged carnage, the horrid stench of it all filling my nostrils, coating my tongue. Charred, grotesque figures of horses and men sprawled all about me, mute testament to the effectiveness of our strategy, stark evidence of its unrepentant brutality.
Since leaving Rath Raithleann I had seen much of fighting, though never slaughter on the scale of this. Now there would be more butchery. Revulsion engulfed me at the knowing of it. Unbidden, doubt entered my mind. What purpose would be served by going forward with this horrible thing? In the name of the gods, what were we doing?
It was not the time to wonder at the reasons for the fighting so I shook my head to dispel my doubts and concentrated on the action to come. Without question the Christian leader originally intended that his horsemen would ride us down. How would he react now after witnessing the holocaust that consumed them?
My greatest fear as we marched across the fields was the Christians might strike at us first—mass together and charge among us. If so, firebombs could again be used to break up their initial assault. Regardless, they could easily maneuver their men on the open ground and envelop us within their greater numbers. Many Christian warriors would break through. The bombs would prove useless within a swirling melee of close quarters fighting.
We left the enemy dead behind us as we crossed the meadow in line of battle, four hundred men three ranks deep, drums throbbing, flags flying. My thoughts turned from worrying over the plans of my adversary to consider my own. Eight hundred firebombs remained from the original one thousand. Each of Torcán’s two hundred horsemen rode with two bombs in a pouch attached to his saddle. Archers still carried four firebombs within their bundles and they had their orders.
My attention rested on the distant Christians, their flags, banners and an occasional crucifix held high. At both ends of the enemy’s main line of battle Torcán’s horsemen followed orders. The harassed Christians responded exactly as we anticipated. Their flanks turned back at right angles to their front. Battle lines lengthened and thinned as warriors were positioned to stand further apart. Yet even as I watched, Christian horsemen galloped along the lines and their men began falling back, crowding together.
My stomach churned. They were massing for an attack. I motioned to Laoidheach, who waved a signal to his drummers. The drumbeats stopped and the whistles of my captains sounded up and down the line as our advance halted in its tracks three hundred paces from the enemy. Bowmen would be needed to stem the coming assault but before I could turn in my saddle to motion them forward the Christians’ strategy became clear. They were forming a defensive box and I was stunned by the stupidity of it.
Laoidheach nudged his mount next to mine. “What’s happening?”
“The Christians sealed their fate.” My staff pointed forward. “Behold their funeral pyre. Signal Torcán, for I would speak with him.”
* * *
Some men are born to fight, pure warriors who relish the call to battle. Such a man was Torcán, the richness of his armor and weapons reflecting his trade. As his horse cantered toward me, his face turned to the sky and he howled like a wolf.
“We have them,” he roared. Exhilaration and the lust of his battle fury flashed in his eyes. “The dumb bastards withdrew inside an oven of their own making to be roasted like a side of beef.”
“Aye, that’s the truth of it,” I nodded though again my heart sickened, seeing already the bloodbath to come. No matter, there was nothing to do but press on.
I stood in my stirrups and pointed. “See for yourself; they’ve created a four-sided box, four men deep on each flank. Instruct your riders to distract the enemy on the three sides facing away from us. Race past them and hurl fire into their ranks while we attack those to our immediate front. Begin upon hearing three blasts from the horn.”
His teeth flashed as once more he raised his face skyward and howled. Part hero, part rogue, and fully a fighting man, Torcán leaned back in his saddle and jerked his reins hard—his leather-armored horse reared, its iron-shod hooves flailing the air as it spun about. A broad grin crossed his face and a wave came over his shoulder as he galloped away toward his men.
Four hundred pairs of eyes followed me as I turned my horse and rode back and forth in front of my troops. “Archers—at fifty paces, stop and unleash two flights of arrows into the enemy directly facing us. Afterwards be prepared to throw two firebombs into their ranks as you lead our charge upon them. Save your other two bombs for use against the Christians’ other flanks as the opportunity presents itself. The rest of you. Your time has come. Are you ready?”
A roar swept up and down our ranks. Laoidheach motioned for the drums to begin thrumming. I raised the death’s head, reined my horse and, with Laoidheach beside me, trotted directly toward the enemy’s line. Behind me, my warriors followed and began a chant in time with the drums.
“Morrigan!”
“Morrigan!”
“Morrigan!”
* * *
The Christian crosses fell within a whirlwind of fire. Flaming men spinning ’round and ’round, their sightless eyes staring, open mouths screaming silently—arrows singing, swords, axes a
nd war clubs swinging, javelins flashing, horses racing, firebombs bursting—cheer upon cheer, roar upon roar, horror upon horror.
Just as a bird selects twigs, one here another there, to create its nest, so too my senses selected colored images, sounds, odors and the feel of the battle to weave a singular nest, defined as one by unimaginable anguish.
My horse snorted and danced near the edge of the fighting. An iron-tipped arrow “tinked” against the surface of my shield, one more among the many that had already struck it.
“Ossian!”
It was Loaidheach. His ashen face was turned to me as he cried out, “Ossian. They’ve killed me.” He slid off the far side of his horse and I glimpsed an arrow protruding from him as he fell from view.
Grief overwhelmed me and my heart threatened to burst as I leaped from my horse and ran to fall on my knees beside him. He lay on his back; his still naked, war-painted frame stretched long and unmoving, eyes closed.
Tears streamed down my face and I brushed them away with the back of my hand. My old friend who I loved like a brother, indeed, he was to become my brother-in-law, now lay—wait! There was something odd about the arrow penetrating him.
I pulled his right arm away from his side and straightened up with a snort. The arrow had barely skewered the fleshy inner part of his upper arm. Laoidheach wasn’t dead. He fainted.
An arrow swished past my head and I ducked instinctively, as, grumbling, I hurried to my horse and retrieved my small medical bag. Returning to Laoidheach’s side, I snapped the head from the arrow and drew the shaft back through his arm. Three quick wraps with a clean linen cloth bound his slightly bleeding wound and I gave the knot an extra hard jerk as I tied it off.
Rising battle clamor caused me to glance toward the fighting. The enemy had fallen back under our initial assault but were attempting to rally. Five long strides took me to the goatskin water bag hanging from the side of Laoidheach’s horse. With a sense of evil satisfaction I emptied its contents onto his face.
“What?!” he spluttered as he shook his head and sat up. Confused, he looked up and saw me standing above him. “Ossian. Are you dead too?”
“Of course I’m not dead, you idiot, and neither are you.” Looking about, I spotted his shield, stalked over to it and then tossed it to him. “Stay behind that thing—don’t make me report your death to Aine. Now get back up on your horse. You have duties to perform.”
The Christians’ rally was short-lived as firebombs continued to splatter among them. For them the battle was lost. Indeed, they had no chance from the very beginning in the face of our new weapons and strategy. Their lines were beginning to break apart as their warriors fell while others began to turn and flee before our savage onslaught. Our horsemen slashed down all who attempted to run away.
The battle was ours and the bitter thought of the slaughter to come became more than I could bear as, once again, unbidden the question came. Why? My horse cantered into the fighting. I pointed my staff at Christians fighting alone and in small groups, and shouted, “Yield! Will you yield?”
Desperate, grimy faces lifted to mine, amazed and uncertain at my remarkable offer. Clemency was an unheard of thing. Precious time elapsed while more men fell, but I was determined to stop the fighting. “Drop your weapons and back away.” To my own men, I demanded, “Give quarter to all who will accept it.”
Throughout the battle scene, amid the swirling, fighting groups, time and again I repeated my offer and demands. My captains, hearing my words, echoed them, taking up the cry.
“Yield!”
“Yield!”
“Quarter for all who yield!”
Many Christians immediately grasped the opportunity to live and dropped their arms while others, their faces snarling like cornered beasts, continued to fight until they were battered down. In the distance our horsemen struck down all who tried to escape to the rear and I galloped toward them.
“Stop it! Let them go!” Back and forth I rode, repeating my order. Horsemen drew up, staring at me in amazement as battle lust faded from their eyes.
A horse raced towards me. Torcán, his face taut with fury, raged, “What are you doing? We kill them today or face them again tomorrow.”
I laid my staff across my lap, leaned forward in my saddle and met his glare. “You will do precisely as I say—do it now, and without further said about it.”
His fury turned to wonder as he tried to divine my thoughts before he turned his horse, galloped away and, like any good man, obeyed my orders. Relief flooded through me, my shoulders sagged. Perhaps Torcán was right, perhaps we must fight against those same fleeing men again, but I prayed otherwise.
I walked my horse back to the battlefield where Christians stood in dispersed groups, uncertain of their lot as prisoners. My warriors surrounded them, unsure of what to do with prisoners. Dead and wounded lay everywhere—hundreds of them.
Within a group of prisoners, I spotted a black robe. As I rode closer I recognized the Christian priest who met me prior to the battle. He sat upon the ground, head down, and didn’t look up as I reined-in my horse beside him.
“So priest, you sit there like a lump while your followers suffer?”
For a moment he remained motionless, and then he turned his head and spat upon the ground. The hatred filling his face reached out to me as he looked up. “Damn your cold heart. You cannot chastise me, pagan. Only God Himself can do that.”
“I will chastise any priest, Christian or Druid, who idles while men urgently require his aid.” The death’s head staff pointed ’round the battlefield. “See for yourself. Your wounded and ours call for water and care. Stand up like a man! Treat your men, pray over your dead, but do something of value!”
It wasn’t until he stood and staggered in doing so that I saw that the lower portion of his robe had been burned away. His exposed leg, cherry red and covered in large blisters. My staff gestured to it. “See me later. I have burn salve and herbs to allay the pain.”
A Christian warrior stooped, picked up a javelin and handed it to the priest, who grasped it and leaned upon it with both hands. His stoic face turned to me. “Keep your magic potions, for I will have nothing to do with them. God will provide all I need.”
He turned his back to walk away, and I asked, “What is your name?”
“Joseph. They call me Father Joseph.”
Chapter 11
The Brightening
The graves of our dead stretched across the meadow in three long rows. Each warrior lay buried with his weapons, that he might have them in the afterlife. I offered up prayers as I proceeded down the rows, naming each man in turn and invoking the gods’ blessings upon him. The ceremony ended with my brief, final prayer.
Gods of our fathers,
O Lords of the Everlasting,
We humbly ask your blessings on one hundred thirty-four of our comrades,
Valiant warriors all, who fell fighting for you.
We ask for their release from the darkness,
We pray they might all arrive safely,
And become one with the Golden Ones,
Upon the blessed shores of Tír na nÓg.
* * *
Warriors massed about the small group of captains gathered around a central fire. Two days had passed since the battle, two nights during which I remained awake, my heart torn by all that had occurred and what might lie ahead. Of one thing I was convinced. The fighting must stop, not through our surrender but through a truce with the Christians. If such a thing were possible, it would be my responsibility to bring it about. First though, I needed support for such a thing from my own men.
I revealed my thoughts to them and a warrior shouted, “The Christians must turn their backs on the new god before peace can be restored. I say if they do not, we kill them all!”
“You would impose religious tyranny upon our people? Kill all whose beliefs differ from your own?” I shook my head. “No, dear companion. That is not the way.”
“It
is the way of Christians who began this war!” another warrior shouted.
“Yes, but it is not the right way. People will and should fight when their right to live and freely believe as they choose is threatened.” I pointed into the distance. “Our dead lay buried there, men who fought to defend our freedom to worship our beloved Lordly Ones. However, to deny others the right to worship Christianity or any god of their choosing would make a mockery of the freedom those men died for. That is not a vision for the future for our land that I could support.”
Torcán stood nearby, arms crossed over his chest. “What is your vision?”
“It is vague at best, though shamed I am to admit it. However, this I do know. I see the futility of continuing a war wherein both sides merely strive to enslave the other. Innermost beliefs are not a matter to be decided upon a battlefield but within individual souls. I pray that yesterday’s battle and all those that came before will finally reveal that truth to our enemies. Perhaps the best we can hope for, though, is that the horrible consequences of the battle will give them pause, cause them to consider that now is a time for reason, not further fighting.”
An older warrior, a captain with graying hair and somber eyes, slumped by the fire. His son fell in the fighting and the personal tragedy of it weighted his words as he spoke to the others. “I share Ossian’s hope for the future, for what other choice is there? To fight on and on with no hope of winning by either side?”
A great sigh escaped him as he paused. “What manner of men are we?” His hand swept ’round to capture the group. “We fought to defend our honor and our beliefs in the Lordly Ones. Those are good causes and righteous ones, I’m thinking. Now? There is no righteousness in continually killing others because of what they hold in their hearts. If the Christians learned by their defeat that we are men who will rise up to defend our gods, and if they stop their depredations against us, then I say there have been enough deaths. Let this battle be the end of it.”