Waves in the Wind (11 page)

Amid the bustle, Aine emerged from the crowd and ran to stand beside Laoidheach where he sat astride his horse. Her small, tear-streaked face turned upwards and she waggled a finger at him. “Don’t you go about getting yourself killed. Come home to me. Come home soon!”

Chapter 9

Blood for Blood

I positioned the wolf headdress upon my head as I stood on the ridge crest. The shouting warriors in the mist-shrouded meadow below were anxious for a fight. More than two hundred jeering men massed in two solid ranks, their distant insults sweeping uphill toward us. Behind them stood a Christian church and, nearby, a small village.

During the past month I had seen their like in nine other Christian villages. No doubt some of the men had experienced more than one battle, but regardless, they were farmers, not proper warriors. The majority wore no armor and a few carried nothing more than sharpened wooden spears.

A black-robed priest waved a crucifix on high as he paraded back and forth before them shouting encouragement, but why would he not? My men stood in a single row behind me and the priest could see we were a small force.

I leaned upon the death’s head staff as my eyes roved beyond the enemy to a shadowy woodland in the background. There was no sign of movement. The foolish priest and his followers had no concept of the ruthlessness of the battle that would soon consume them. The Christians determined the manner in which this war would be fought by massacring every living soul at Dún Ailinne. As was the case in the nine previous villages, repayment would be in kind.

Fifty-three confident warriors afoot waited behind me, men of Rath Raithleann and villages nearby. They were volunteers all, not enough to wage a major war but well armed and sufficient in number to prick Christian skins.

Laoidheach looked to my black-painted face, a question in his eyes. At my nod he struck the leather-clad drum a single beat, paused, and then began a slow rhythmic pounding that grew in volume and echoed within the valley below.

“Remember lads,” I called out to the men over the throbbing of the drum, “‘quick’ is the word, and fight as a team! Watch the backs of those around you. Fight to bring honor upon yourselves and your tribe. Fight to defend the almighty Lords of the Sidhe. By the time this day has ended only heroes will be left standing.” Bitterness filled my heart and rang forth in my wild cry, “For the glory of Fea, Nemon and Badbh; in the mighty name of Macha—death to all Christian priests and those who stand with them!”

The men roared as one and my staff waved them forward. Stepping in cadence with Laoidheach’s drumbeat I led them down the slope towards our enemies. At fifty paces from the Christians’ front rank I stopped and waved my archers forward.

Twenty-four bowmen stepped to the fore, knelt and unleashed a salvo of arrows that rained down upon our foes. In the manner of the veteran warriors that they were, they reloaded, aimed and released a second flight. My warriors began shouting their own taunts as Christians fell back in disarray under a relentless shower of arrows. Now and again one of our foes was struck and fell, though whether wounded or killed I knew not.

At my nod Laoidheach picked up the cadence on the drum until it became a steady roar. My twenty-nine mounted warriors erupted from the distant woodland accompanied by eight chariots. Feral screams filled the air as they raced toward the rear of the enemy’s left flank, which melted away before the ferocious onslaught. Horses reared, their hooves flailing the air while the swords of their riders struck the Christians down.

Chariots, wheels stirring great clouds of dust, swept among the Christian ranks, their armored passengers hurling iron-tipped javelins among the enemy with deadly accuracy. What but moments before had been a solid front of opposition dissolved into individual frenzied groups swirling about to face riders who slashed at them from every side.

Again I lifted my staff high, motioned my warriors forward, and we went among them with the sacred names of the gods escaping our lips. The battle was won before it began. Christians by the dozens dropped their weapons and fled toward the false safety of their church and village. My men afoot swarmed and battered those few who stood firm while mounted warriors pursued and hacked down every man who would flee.

I strolled unarmed and unconcerned among the fighting as stout men of both sides grunted, cursed, bled and died about me. Distinct images—a raised shield, a brawny arm holding a sword high, a rearing horse, arrows hanging suspended against the gray sky.

The Christian priest was among the fallen. I stood above him as he gasped away the waning moments of his life, his profane blood corrupting Mother Earth’s hallowed soil. Grasping fingers clawed toward a small golden crucifix lying where he had dropped it just beyond the abilities of his feeble reach. His pleading eyes locked onto mine.

The crucifix was no larger than my finger, but solid gold it was and it would join the growing pile of plunder that would purchase provisions for my men. The trinket quickly found its way into the leather purse at my belt and I strode away from the priest as light left his face forever.

The fighting continued until not a Christian was left standing. My men walked among the fallen ensuring that none still breathed. Afterwards they gathered about me, some grim, others holding expectant grins on their battle-grimed faces.

“Bring our wounded there,” I pointed to a tree, “and I will treat them. You there,” I nodded to a young warrior, “do you hurry back up the hill and bring down my bundle, for there are medicines and bandages in it.”

I rubbed the tension and tiredness from my eyes before continuing. “The rest of you—burn the church and make a good job of it.” I pointed to one of men. “Aimhirghin knows this village well and he tells me that a few of its people remain loyal to the Lordly Ones. Oak-leaf wreaths hang upon their doors. Remember that, for they must not be molested or disturbed in any way. As for everything else in the village, it is yours. Take what you will.”

I walked toward the tree to serve the wounded; my heart long since hardened against that which would befall Christians within the village. As was custom, the children would come to no harm, though all males capable of wielding a sword would be killed. As for the fate of the women, few if any would be killed, but they knelt before priests and I regarded them no higher than their men.

* * *

The merchant stood in the back of his open wagon and heaved a bag of barley to the ground atop a gathering pile. Behind him the rolling grasslands of the midlands stretched into the distance. Our supplies were low and I had anxiously anticipated his arrival at our camp. Word of our mission and victories spread across the country. During the past month ten to twenty new warriors arrived every day and my small army had swollen to six hundred fighting men.

He glanced down at me as he reached for another bag. “I’m telling you, sir, it’s not easy finding folk willing to sell their stores in these hard times. Some kings are selling off everything in their granaries at high prices. It’s a crying shame what they’re doing if you ask me.”

I leaned against his wagon, my arm propped atop a wheel. “So kings enrich themselves while their people starve?”

“Right you are, sir. Such treatment of their people is inhuman, I say.”

My eyes roved from the man to the meadow in the background where there was stirring within our camp. “Inhuman? I think not. Humans come in many forms and are capable of many things, good and bad.”

I pointed into the wagon. “What are those boxes?”

“Empty wine bottles, sir. Now as I was saying, and you can mark my words. Cruel kings seal their own fates. In the end a king serves at the will of his people. The people rise up against tyrants and fools. Such will be the case now, I’m thinking.”

“Maybe, maybe…but if so, it will be too late to do any good.” I nodded toward the bags. “You guarantee the barley is fresh, now?”

“Fresh?” He was reaching down for another bag but stood up and stuck a thumb in his chest. “You think I would cheat you? Of course it’s fresh and you’ll find none better.”

“We will see.”

“You’ll find it to your taste well enough.” He grabbed a bag and tossed it on top of the others. “Now, what did you mean when you said it will be too late for the people to rise?”

I shrugged. “Even during times of desperation an uprising requires organization, and it is the nature of people to act slowly. Food is needed now, today. Many will starve before the people finally rise.”

“Aye,” he nodded, “on that I agree, sir. Indeed I do, though it’s a sad thing that.”

Though outwardly I showed little interest in the discussion, in truth my heart sank. While I fought Christians, a new, perhaps wider war was beginning; the war King Túathal Máelgarb greatly feared—war to acquire food.

“Only the dead have seen the end of the war,” I murmured.

“What’s that, sir?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head to drive away memories. “I merely quoted Plato.”

“Plato?”

“No matter. Listen carefully. We’ve heard rumors that Christians have formed a large force and plan to move against us. Do you know of it?”

The merchant’s wide eyes were innocent. “I’m sorry, Wise One, I am a simple trader and know little of such important things.”

No doubt my warriors could get the truth out of the man, but I opened my purse, removed a silver coin and tossed it to him. “Now perhaps you remember something of the Christians’ movements?”

He grinned. “Yes sir, now that I think on it I believe I do. I heard they’ve put together near a thousand warriors and are moving this way even as we speak. I should think that in no more than a fortnight,” he pointed toward the north, “they’ll be cresting yon ridge.”

My hand absently tapped the wagon wheel as I considered his news. It matched what I had heard from other sources. Although my forces had grown considerably, we would still be outmatched by the Christians and this time we would face more than farmers.

“Excuse me, sir.” The trader motioned toward the grain. “I delivered the fifty bags of barley and, if it’s all the same to you, sir, I would be taking my pay and heading off.” He pointed to the west. “As you can see, there be storm clouds gathering and I would make a start towards home before the rains arrive.”

“Certainly,” I threw my thumb over my shoulder, “go to the first tent and see the man there. He’ll see to it you’re paid.”

“Thank you sir, I’ll be doing that very thing. Before I go, would you be wanting to order more supplies?”

“Aye, that I would. Deliver us fifty bags of rye, twenty barons of beef, twenty smoked mutton shoulders and hams, and twenty barrels of ale. Also toss in all the vegetables and fruit you can fit aboard. Have all that here a week from today.”

The merchant scowled. “That I’ll do, sir, but be warned prices are going up and I can’t guarantee what it’ll cost ye. Now would there be anything more? Salt, seasonings, wine, oil, anything of the like?”

I had been watching the skies and he was correct: Rain was coming for sure. His mention of oil while I was thinking of rain brought a small smile to my face. “Oil you say? What manner of oil?”

“Ach, sir, it be the finest grade of flaxseed oil. It’s good for cooking of course, but if you’re thinking of lighting, it burns with a bright flame and will serve you well for the purpose. Allow me to say too that I’ve a fine stock of wine—”

“No. No wine, thank you.”

From behind me a woman’s voice whispered, “Oil, Ossian, oil. Remember Master Tóla’s manuscript, the one about Alexander the Great.”

I whirled about—but no one was there.

“Remember,” the voice whispered again.

Once more I spun around. The merchant seemed to be paying me no mind and I asked, “Did you just now hear a voice? A whisper?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “A whisper? No sir, can’t say as I did.”

“That is very odd. I heard it clearly.”

“If you say so, sir.” His uncertain nod said more than his words.

There was no doubt I heard it—a woman’s voice but how could that be? Who whispered? What did she mean? I thought for a moment and the importance of her message came to me along with the remembrance of the manuscript. It contained ancient knowledge told within a story of Alexander the Great and the Persians. Of course! If that knowledge could be properly brought against our enemies, the shock might even the odds and turn the tide of the coming battle in our favor.

I turned around toward the spirit voice and whispered, “Thank you.”

The decisive outcome of the battle might well depend upon this merchant, and I pointed into his wagon. “Would you be so good as to hand me one of those empty wine bottles?

”The man watched me, a question in his eyes. “Why, of course, sir.”

He handed me the bottle and I hefted it in my hand. It was made as baked pottery, though it felt light enough. I hurled it as far as I could, where it fell and shattered upon the ground.

“Sir, I must say!” He was red in the face. “Those bottles cost money, you know!”

“Of course they do, and I will pay you for that one. Now, do you have pine tar at your disposal?”