At first Eoin thought it another trick of his mind. Ever since the men stood to at dawn, his ears had been twitching like a rabbit, picking up the subtlest of sounds. Everything was a sign of the enemy's approach. “This was the day,” Eoin thought bleakly, “the day he would die.” The scouts had reported the enemy less than a day’s ride away. They will arrive today. But they hadn’t yet, and Eoin was bored out of his mind. The fight itself had to be better than the boredom and restlessness of waiting for the dam thing. His body was pumped full of adrenaline, but he had nowhere to use it. He just sat and waited and listened for Death’s tune to come rolling across the hills.
A drumming sound swayed back and forth on the periphery of his hearing. Convincing himself of its existence, he walked along the lines of tents, organized in a grid, spanning the field from the earth mounds this side of the ditch to the edge of the nearby forest. The men were all lying against the earthen bulwark, talking in small groups. They were noticeably less rowdy than usual. Women walked amongst the men, carrying water and berries. “Arnald’s orders,” Eoin thought, “he is an experienced chief, knows the men will fight better if they can relax before the fight.” He adjusts his armor, the smallest that could be found, but was too big for him and dug into his neck and shoulders. He looks into the distance, where he knows the enemies will appear, squinting his eyes as the sun shines brightly over the Brandubh mountains.
At last he spots the man he’s looking for. Old Ardgal, everyone knew he was a great warrior, but was a bit mad to say the least. Eoin and his friends had often played who can get the closest to a drunk Ardgal without getting a beating. A dangerous game. Arnold trusted him though, so he was the man Eoin was to report to. He was sitting on a stump, talking with another man. His infamous club set up leaning against the stump. While most men favored a heavy battle-axe or a sword, Ardgal carried a club, which looked to Eoin more akin to a small tree. How he lifted it at his age Eoin would never know.
“Ardgal” Eoin said, nodding his head down as a sign of respect.
Ardgal turned his eye on him. “Ah, Ormond is it? What do you want?” he said gruffly.
“It's Eoin. I think I might hear them coming.”
Ardgal scoffed. “There’ll be no ‘might’ lad, when they’re here you will know.“
Eoin listened again. It was definitely louder. Other men began to take notice as well, standing up and gazing out toward the mountains.
Suddenly, a horse burst out of the trees, galloping at full speed toward the center of the line. Its rider pointing his sword to the sky. The signal for enemy close. They were here.
“Best get back to your post, son.” Ardgal said, picking up his club and starting towards the center of the line, where Arnald and the command group were.
Eoin stood still for a moment before forcing his legs to move, making his way back to the north flank, his mind absorbed with thoughts of his death. “What would happen to his younger sister? Is there really anything after death? Will I see my mother and father there?”
The drumming had become louder now, like thunder that never ceases to end, a rolling, pounding sound that struck fear into his bones. Every minute it became louder.
By the time he reached his position, the drumming was shaking his skull. All eyes were on the gap in the trees where the horse lords would emerge. His mouth was dry, he realized, as he swallowed. He reached for the water skin skin he left resting against the earthen wall and missed the first sight of the horsemen as they rounded the bend in the mountain pass. The men around him let out a gasp as they saw the great war party.
The horsemen rode stirrup to stirrup in a line of around 30. And they just kept coming, line after line, like a great flood flowing down the trail from the mountains and onto the plain. They were here to wash away the life clinging to the plain.
Eoin knew that here, at the base of the foothills, where the mountain pass opens up onto the plain, was the best place to meet them, where they wouldn’t have room to maneuver their cavalry, where they would be forced to shrink their front line, where they would have to meet and overcome the defenses of the plainsmen. His logic said all the advantages they could get were with them, but now, as Eoin looked out over the field, as the horse lords assembled in their fighting formations, the thought that they had a chance seemed ridiculous. They had, what, 600 men. But not all were fighters. There were old men and boys younger than Eoin himself. Boys who could barely lift a sword. Still, they needed as many swords as they could get. On the other hand, the horse lords were famed fighters. All of them would be experienced fighters, merciless killers. Oh, and there were many more of them, it was hard to put a number on it. Around 1000 Eoin estimated. “Almost two to one odds,” Eoin thought, “actually, considering the kinds of fighters each side had, it was even worse odds than that.”
“At least there’s the ditch.” a man said next to him. It sounded more like he was convincing himself than speaking to Eoin.
The horsemen wouldn’t be able to ride past the ditch. Arnald had ordered sharpened wooden spikes over two meters long to be placed in the ditch, facing up at an angle. A man could easily slip through, but a galloping horse could not. The cavalry would have to dismount and fight on foot.
It seemed the horsemen were unprepared for this as they stood still, aside from the snorting from the occasional horse, it was dead quiet as well.
“Ready, son?” Fergus asked Eoin with a grin, snapping him out of it. It was good that Fergus was here with him. Having Maeve’s dad by his side was the only connection he had to his peaceful life before news came of the approaching army. “I wonder how Maeve is doing,” Eoin thought. If he made it through this, he would tell her how he felt. Just saying those words was always so terrifying, but compared to the overwhelming fear of death he now faced, he had to do it. If he lived through this, he would live, and live with no fear. Maeve would be with his sister behind the ditch, gathered in the forest, along with all the other women and young children. Safe, hopefully. He wondered how both of them were doing. He had sworn to Sorsha that he would come back, that he wouldn’t leave her like Ma and Da had. Maeve had to drag her away from me, kicking and screaming, when he was called up to the lines to get his armor equipped. As the man in charge of his family he had to fight, or so he was told.
He looked at Fergus. He was the stone mason in Eoin’s village. And now he’s going to fight and kill other men. Men he had never met in his life. He was just beginning to sprout grey hairs, but he had a young approach to life. The other men called him a fool who never grew up, both mentally and literally. Fergus was a short man. Eoin liked him though. There was always a smile on his face and a joke behind his lips. He had a bit of a gut, but not from the drink. Never touched the stuff. Despite his build he was quite strong due to his work.
Fergus was also his partner. Arnald had the men pair up, one armed with a spear to stab down at the men trying to climb up the fortifications. The long range of the spear was the ideal defense weapon. However, once the enemy had swarmed up the wall, the spearman would become vulnerable, not equipped to fight short ranged. This is where the other comes in, armed with a sword or axe. They would pick off men who made it up the ditch and threatened the spearman. Fergus insisted on wielding the spear, half joking that Eoin could barely hold a sword, let alone use a long spear.
Quiet muttering had broken out amongst the men in the line, asking what the silent horsemen would do. They didn’t have to wait long as a horn sounded from the enemy ranks.
The entire front line trotted out, followed by the line behind them, and the line behind them.
“They’re just going to beat us with numbers!” a man yelled.
Eoin had come to the same conclusion. There were no formations, just a head on, all out assault. The enemy thought they wouldn’t need to use any strategy to beat the plainsmen defense. “And they’re probably right,” Eoin thought grimly.
As Eoin looked out across the field, hundreds of horses slowly approached him, their riders' blades reflecting the early morning light. The encroaching cavalry before them broke into a canter. In this moment, true terror struck Eoin. A thousand men, a thousand trained soldiers, coming to kill him. Sure there were others with who he would fight, but his brain didn’t recognize that. All it saw was the wave of horsemen screaming war cries bearing down on him. The men around him were silent.
As they approached the ditch they slowed and smoothly dismounted their horses. Eoin focused on one man. He dropped down into the muddy ditch. His feet sunk into the mud, causing him to fall into the mud. He immediately got up, breaking into a run, threading through the stakes, and trying to scramble up the other side. Only to be met by Fergus’ spear in his throat. The man clawed at the wooden handle of the spear. Blood was seeping out at a nauseating rate. He tried to scream and more blood shot out around the spear. Fergus pulled the spear out and immediately plunged it into the chest of another horseman. The first man fell back and was trampled by his comrades, all trying to scramble up the ditch.
Eoin mentally staggered. All his life he’d been raised hearing tales of great warriors in battle. He had envisioned great acts of courage and noble sacrifices. But this, it was not that. It was a hacking, shoving, scrambling mess of bodies. The screams of the wounded and dying pierced the air, slicing through his ears, scratching at his mind.
Eoin didn’t know how much time had passed. His sword was in his slack hand, point in the ground. His eyes following the spear, wreaking havoc on the bodies of the men scaling the ditch wall. He never realized how much men are akin to wood. The way they split when they met iron.
At last, the horseless horsemen retreated, unable to make it up the wall. They eyed the men on the wall, who were victoriously stabbing their swords into the air. A pile of their comrades at the base of the ditch. Eoin caught the eye of a man staring across the field at him. The sheer rage in his face scared him. Eoin, who had never seen this man in his life, who didn’t even want to be here, was the person that man hated. Hated. As if Eoin was the one who went to his lands and killed his people.
Eoin broke eye contact first and looked down into the ditch. It was covered in the bodies of the horsemen, but there were many of their own in the ditch as well. He recognized Declan O’Conor. He was a farmer from his village. He had a wife and two young daughters. He also had a slice from the back of his neck to his mouth. His mouth hung agape, his jaw twisted at a grotesque angle, as if shocked that he was the one to die.
Fergus seemed to read his thoughts. “Most men believe they will be the one to survive, even if the rest die. Comes as a shock.”
Eoin didn’t know what to say.
“Y’alright lad?”
“Y - yeah, I’m fine.” Eoin forced out.
Fergus looked at him for a moment. Eoin dragged his eyes up to look the man in his eyes.
Fergus placed his hand on Eoin’s shoulder. “You didn’t lift your sword,” he said softly.
Eoin couldn’t hold it back any longer. “I know! I can’t do it.”
“Sure you can.”
“I won’t. What gives me the right to kill a man? Do you not see how horrible this is?” Eoin screamed at him. “How can you kill a man you’ve never met, a man you don’t know?”
Fergus sighed. Keeping his hand on Eoin’s shoulder, he got down on one knee. “I do see how horrible it is. I do. But they will kill you, your sister, everyone around you, if you do not raise your sword and thrust it into a man’s body. It is you or them. Simple as that.”
“Why did they have to come here? Why couldn’t they just leave us alone?” Eoin asked, pleadingly.
Fergus looked down. “I don’t know, son. But I am a dead man if you do not lift that sword. Your not lifting that sword is putting it in my back. If you do not lift that sword, you might as well use it to slit your own throat, and your sister’s too. You must lift that sword. And you must use it. You must. It is what you have to do. Protect yourself. Protect your sister.”
Fergus paused, looking deeply in Eoins eyes, calculating what they saw there. “Can I trust you, boy?”
Eoin took a moment to process Fergus’ words. It made sense, a horrible sense, but what other path could he take? If he didn’t kill a man, that man could go on to kill Sorsha. Or worse.
The thought steeled resolve. “You can.” he said, his voice quivering slightly.
“Good man.” Fergus said, getting up and gazing over at the regrouped horsemen across the field. In the time Fergus had spent consoling Eoin, the horsemen had reorganized and were about to attack once more.
They mounted their horses and once again began trotting their horses forward, hurling their war cries at the plainsmen. This time, they were met back with equal ferocity, the plainsmen throwing jeers at the horsemen as they approached the ditch.
The horses broke into a canter.
Then a gallop. Something was different. They weren’t slowing down.
The front line spurred on their horses, driving them at top speed toward the ditch, and the sharpened wooden stakes. As the horses ran into the ditch, the riders jumped forward, reaching near the top of the earthen mounds. They ignored the screams of horses below them, driven head on into the wooden spikes. The second rank followed the first. More horses shrieked. But it was working. The horsemen were getting past the ditch and up to the men manning it.
The first man up went straight for Eoin and Fergus. Eoin raised his sword, prepared to do what needed to be done. For himself, for his people, and most of all, for Sorsha. He swung the sword, trying a horizontal cut at the man's torso. It was easily blocked by the man's own sword and, before Eoin could react, in the same motion hit Eoins helmet with the flat of his blade, slamming his head into the ground. The world spun, and Eoin's vision blurred.
Fergus tried a thrust at the man with his spear, but the spear was not meant to be used in such close quarters. Eoin watched dazed as the swordsman easily deflected Fergus’ desperate thrust and, with an overhead cut, lodged his blade in a gap in Fergus’ armor, between the neck and shoulder.
Eoin had failed him. All around him, the horsemen were flooding over the earthen wall. The plainsmen were still fighting hard, but more and more horsemen were flooding over the wall. Soon, their numbers would prevail.
In that moment, surrounded by men who would want nothing more than to kill him, it was not fear that gripped him. Rather a primal determination, a determination to make that man pay for killing Fergus. As he stood up, his vision turned red with fury. The man had his back turned, fighting a plainsmen, and clearly winning.
Eoin ran up behind him, and with a yell of pure fury and grief, stabbed the man in the center of his back. He fell back into Eoin, writhing and screaming in pain on top of Eoin. Eoin was forced to the ground under the weight of the dying man, but at last he lied still.
Eoin scrambled out from under the man’s body and pulled out his sword from the man’s back. Before he could think about what he had just done, he heard a great cry of grief, standing out from the screams of the injured.
“Markus!”
Eoin turned to see a man stalking toward him with a killing rage in his eye.
“You would stab a man in the back, savage? Have you no honor?” the man asked, his voice shaking with anger.
Eoin didn’t know what to say and would have been unable to say it as he stood there, frozen. The man, taking his silence as insult charged him, his sword brought up high to deliver a heavy overhead cut. Eoin raised his sword to block the blow, but his sword was knocked clean out of his hands, knocking him to the ground. As he looked up at the man, his eyes pleaded with him. He hadn’t wanted to kill him. He didn’t want to kill anyone. Yet here he was, with a bloody sword clenched in his white-knucked grip. Eoin searched the man’s eyes, looking for some softness, some understanding, some anything, but his man’s eyes showed no mercy as he stood over him.
Eoin thought of his Sorsha, what would happen to her. He thought of his friends, how many were still alive? The blade began its lethal downstroke and Eoin could only sit and watch as Death opened his welcoming arms. What of Ardgal, of Arnald? Would they live, save their people?
What of Sorsha? He had swore he would come back to her.
With that thought, his mind strained against reality, trying to overcome truth with passion. Desperate for a way to survive, a path to be. But there was no way out. Eoin watched with wide eyes as the sword bit through his leather armor and dug deep into his side.
The pain instantly overcame his mind, drowning out all thoughts and replacing them with the screams of his nerves. Through blurry eyes, he saw the sword taken out of his stomach, followed by a torrent of blood. He watched as his intestines and organs squeezed out of the flap of skin left in his gut and fell into the mix of blood and dirt on the ground.
As he writhed on the ground, barely aware that he had a body, watching the darkness of death slowly creep up to him, he heard a man’s voice say, “No. Leave him. This savage deserves a dishonorable death. Let him drain.” There was no vengeance in the voice, rather a primal determination, a determination to make the boy pay for killing his brother.