Waves in the Wind (12 page)

He was confused. “Pine tar? Yes, that is, I know where I can acquire it.”

“Good man. I wish to order one small keg of pine tar, two barrels of your flaxseed oil and one thousand wine bottles.”

“Very good sir! I can assure you I will deliver some of the finest wine—”

“No. Not wine. Only the bottles.”

He stared at me as if he was now firmly convinced that I was dim-witted. “You want one thousand empty wine bottles, sir?”

“Yes. The bottles along with all the other items we’ve discussed. Can you deliver all those things here by next week?”

It would be understandable if he still questioned my sanity but I could see his mind swirling and he came through like a champion. “Yes sir! Absolutely sir, though it will require several trips.” His lips turned down in a scowl. “These be troubled times so I shall need payment in advance.”

“You may have ten percent of the payment before you leave here. The remainder you will receive upon delivery.”

“You do not trust me.”

“As you say, I do not trust these troubled times or the sense of a man who would travel alone in a wagon, his purse stuffed with gold.”

“As you say, sir. You understand that all this special…well, my regular customers will suffer a bit, don’t you see, and I’ll—”

The cost of such things remained a mystery to me but much looted gold, silver and similar treasures resided in our treasury. I had a good man who would see to proper payment. “Say no more. You will receive special compensation.”

Chapter 10

The Battle of Lough Derg

My soft leather shoes swished through the wet grass as I walked from camp towards a small nearby mound. Behind me men were donning armor, saddling horses, preparing for the fight of their lives. Hidden behind a wall of morning fog swirling across the prairies from Lough Derg, warriors in the enemy camp would be doing much the same while hearing the words of Christian priests speaking of their god.

I climbed the mound to its crest and shivered slightly in the cold, damp air. Overhead, misshapen skeletal branches of a long-dead tree jutted into the gray sky. Face upward, arms spread wide, I offered up prayers to the gods for their aid and protection during the coming battle.

It was while I was standing just so, that amid a fluttering of wings, a carrion crow lit upon a limb immediately above my head. The branch gently swayed under its weight. I could have reached up and touched it.

The crow cocked its head in the manner of birds and squawked, “So Druid. Do you prepare a feast for me or shall you become a part of it?”

Glaring black eyes and the raucous voice sent a chill down my spine and struck me mute. My outstretched arms fell to my side and I stood there, spellbound.

“What say you, foolish man? Are you too feeble-minded to speak?”

Calling upon the gods for their aid and protection is a natural thing but to have them magically appear in such a form no man would expect. Within the manifold gods and goddesses this one I knew on sight; it was said she appeared in many guises, including the one roosting before me silhouetted against the gloomy sky, her crow aspect. I knew her as the Morrigan, as well as who and what she was. Mór Rígan, mighty Queen of the
Sidhe, descended from the Tuatha Dé Danann themselves—goddess of war, life and death. Though awed by her appearance I was also wary of her.

Well known for her wrath, she fed upon the souls of the dead. I tried to wipe the horror of such things from my mind, swallowed hard and bowed before her. “Pardon me. Yes My Queen, of course I can speak. Your presence here is an unexpected honor.”

“Hmm, yes. But, you haven’t answered my question.”

A wind gust ruffled her feathers while I gathered my wits at her miraculous arrival. “As for your question, it shall be answered soon enough.” I pointed across the rolling grasslands where the fog was lifting. “Look for yourself. There is stirring within the enemy’s camp. Already they plan to launch their attack.”

“You are outmanned, Ossian, two of theirs for one of yours. Are you prepared for that?”

“You know my name, My Queen?”

She sat on her branch and ignored my foolish question. Of course the goddess knew my name and I flushed with embarrassment for asking.

I swiveled my head around for my neck grew stiff from staring up at her. “I finalized my battle plan last night. We intend to surprise the Christians with new weapons. My most seasoned warriors offered their thoughts and all believe we have at least a chance to succeed despite the odds.”

Her talons gripped the branch and it bounced a bit as she sidled back and forth along it. “So, you understood the meaning behind my message, eh?”

“Yes, we…wait. I see. Yours was the voice that whispered in my ear while I spoke to the merchant.”

“And who else’s would it have been?”

New confidence filled me. The Morrigan, goddess of war, was guiding me. “I sincerely thank you for planting the seed for the idea in my ear.”

“Your gods stand beside those who uphold them. Meanwhile, Druid, you may keep your thanks until after you have won the battle…if you win it.” Her wings rustled and without another word she took flight. My eyes followed her until she disappeared in the gray western sky.

* * *

Laoidheach and I, eyes upon the ground, picked a cautious path as we slowly rode forward through the late morning gloom to meet the robed priest and armored warrior who cantered toward us from the Christians’ massed ranks. Our horses danced as we reined them in at a distance of three paces from our adversaries.

The priest stared at us as though we had emerged from the Underworld. We were naked, our bodies painted black. I wore the wolf’s headdress and carried the death’s head staff.

He cocked an eyebrow and sneered. “So, pagan,” he gestured towards me with an open hand, “I expect to meet a worthy adversary and find only a heathen. I should have known you would appear as such after the manner in which you pillaged defenseless villages.”

His insults were expected and I replied in kind. “And you are precisely what I expected, priest—an arrogant bastard like those who massacred our innocents at Dún Ailinne. Say your piece and be on your way. We have many Christians to kill this day and you waste my time.”

The warrior stiffened, his hand reached for his sword. “Hold your tongue you blasphemous horse turd or your head will come off here and now.”

The priest waved him to be silent. “Druid, God in His infinite majesty may yet grant your warriors mercy. I wished to meet with you and share His message. Go among your men, tell them to recant their pagan ways, tell them that if they will throw away their weapons and come to the One True God, then today their lives will be spared. As for you, well…you understand there can be no mercy for you and,” he nodded toward Laoidheach, “your friend there.”

A yellowish glob splattered on the priest’s shoulder and he almost gagged as he sputtered, “Upon my word!”

Circling above was a single carrion crow. I laughed aloud. “Oh ho, priest, how do you like the mercy of my gods?”

My attention turned to the warrior. Was there doubt in his eyes? “What say you now, big man? You know an omen when you see it, do you not? Go back and tell all your warriors of it if you dare!” I pointed to the sky. “See the Morrigan above. She shits on your priest and his god. The goddess of death waits there to feast upon your corpse. The gods have ordained this day is lost to you, and well you know it. I urge you all to leave while you still can.”

Fury filled the warrior’s eyes. “I know foolish talk when I hear it, Druid. I’m done with you and your filthy insults. Prepare for your death!”

They wheeled their horses and trotted back toward their men. I glanced upwards once again and winked. The importance of signs from the gods was well known to me, as well as an understanding of how they might be perceived by common men standing in the ranks. Doubt would fill superstitious Christian hearts as word of the Morrigan’s omen swept among them. My eyes met those of Laoidheach and, despite the coming battle, we both laughed aloud.

* * *

Laoidheach stood beside me, an ornate carved cattle horn hung by a cord against his chest. To his right three eager lads waited behind tall, leather-clad drums.

At my nod he swirled a hand high with a flourish and then dropped it to point to the drummers. A single unified beat thrummed once across the wide-open landscape.

The drummer’s signal sent one hundred selected archers forward to form a single line at three-pace intervals. Bows and quivers filled with arrows were in their hands, bulky leather bags draped from their shoulders. Behind the archers stood fifty warriors equally distributed along the line. The fifty held burning torches.

A grim smile touched my face, the brightening of midday adding to the spectacle that unfolded to my right. Colorful banners streamed throughout the throng as my almost two hundred mounted warriors and chariots trotted their horses’ forward en-masse and then held them in check fifty paces behind the line of archers. Further back and painted for battle, four hundred warriors chanted, shrieked and waved their tribal flags on high.

To my front an equally colorful mass of shouting Christians advanced towards us across the wide-open meadow, their mounted warriors in the lead. Earlier my scouts reported the Christian army consisted of twelve hundred men, perhaps a few more. These would be no mere farmers we faced this day—they were well-armed, well-armored and well-led warriors.

My experienced war council had assured me this battle would consist of little sophistication. Knowledge I had gained through years of studying traditional methods of warfare supported their opinions. The open landscape offered nowhere to hide enveloping forces and since we were badly outnumbered the Christians would see no reason to divide their large army for feinting maneuvers. They would simply hurl their vastly superior numbers directly at our front and bludgeon us into the ground.

Our battle plan was devised accordingly. Now it would be tested as our long, thin line of archers offered an obvious target. Nervous sweat ran down my still naked body etching streaks through the black paint.

Horns blew and cymbals crashed among the Christian ranks a quarter of a mile to our front. It was beginning.

* * *

I muttered last prayers to the Lordly Ones knowing as I did the Christians would be offering up prayers to their god as well. Whether men or gods would decide the battle I could not say with surety, but only the corpses of warriors would litter the field at the end of the day. There was no time to worry that my own might lie among them.

Distant horns blew again. Mounted warriors massed into a compact horde of at least three hundred riders and chariots cantered forward from the Christian ranks. They gained speed until reaching a full gallop as on they came in a solid wave toward my thin line of archers.

I nodded to Laoidheach, who removed the horn from around his neck, placed it to his lips and blasted out a single long burst. Without thought I took a few steps forward, my eyes locked upon my bowmen.

Upon hearing Laoidheach’s signal, archers dropped their unwieldy leather bags, knelt, nocked arrows in their bows and waited. The Christian riders came on, more than a thousand hooves pounding the ground like rolling thunder, showering dusty clouds and clods of earth into the air. Banners streamed against the gray sky, swords swirled high as on and on they raced.

I wondered at the riders’ horror when they reached our carefully sown field of iron caltrops. For some their thoughts would be brief as they were thrown from the backs of their falling, screaming horses and crushed underfoot by those coming on from behind.

Pandemonium broke out among the Christian ranks as more horses and riders fell while those following smashed into one another as they slowed to avoid their fallen comrades and the sharp-spiked caltrops. The momentum of the enemy’s charge was broken though they did not stop. The vast majority of Christian riders kept coming but much slower than before.

My bowmen required no order to begin unleashing their arrows. They were told beforehand to shoot as soon as the horsemen came within range. Now hundreds of arrows were flying through the air as the archers lofted arrow after arrow into the massed riders. The steady deluge of iron-tipped missiles had little effect on the armored enemy so onward they rode, now at little more than a walking pace like a deadly, indomitable wall of iron.

Again I nodded to Laoidheach and again he blew the signal horn. Archers dropped their bows and opened leather bundles. Each man withdrew a wine bottle filled with flaxseed oil containing a linen fuse and sealed with pine tar. The fifty men bearing torches stepped forward to within arm’s reach of the archers.

My eyes fixed upon the scene, gauging distances. I raised the death’s head staff and Laoidheach blew his horn. Bowmen lit linen fuses on the torches, turned and hurled their flaring firebombs among the enemy’s tight-packed ranks.

The resulting terror defied description—one hundred fragile bottles shattering against armor, flaming oil showering amid horses and riders, screams of animals and men filling the air. I swung the staff above my head again and another one hundred firebombs lobbed through the air to sow fiery ruin among the enemy.