"We can't keep it up with the Picts anymore! Finbar, pull the men back. PULL THEM BACK!" The roar of order nearly died over the sea of hard bodies and clashing weapons. The call was loud though, trained just as the ear to catch it was trained.
Finbar was a strong man, anyone with eyes could see that, but his face was gaunt and drawn back in the primal snarl of a soul on the edge of collapse. His blade was glazed in a fine gore that dripped down and made the handle slippery. The warrior turned after dispatching another of his enemies, crowing back to the cry of his leader. "NO! No Cormac! We can finish this, their numbers are thin and they're thinning faster than ours, we can endure!"
"I won't lose our men for the advantage, I said BA—" A arrow silenced the man, making him just another body in the soup of mud and viscera the men now trudged through.
"CORMAC!" Just as the leader fell, Finbar's face blanched. A horrible sound came not a moment later from the enemy's side of the field. It was their final charge call. A vicious horn with a sound meant to pierce a man and his spirit alike. That was the sound of imminent defeat.
No....No, no, no. We can do this. I don't care if the commander didn't believe in us. We can finish this! Finbar's mind was racing faster than the frantic beat of his heart. His tired hands gripped his axe tighter as he began to see his comrades turn back from the sounding of that horn. Finbar wouldn't turn back, and he couldn't let them. They'd come too far, they'd lost too many, and there was fire left in them yet. All they needed was to fan that spark bigger, some way to touch the deeper parts in their body still holding a reserve, go all out....Dip into the abyss where man and blade became naught but a single entity, and the enemy at the end of it's killing blow little more than bloody butter beneath their swing.
Summoning hazard chance and tempting fate was in a warrior's blood. But not all these men were warriors. Cormac hadn't been a warrior, he had been a leader; a politician. Most of these men weren't even warriors. They were farmers, fathers, craftsmen and herders. They didn't know....They didn't have the desperation bred into them like Finbar and his other fellow warriors did. They'd been raised one way, knew one trade.
To war and to win.
Even though his body was feeling the first true drags of fatigue, even though the day had disappeared and the sun was drowning down over the writhe of the horizon his enemies still occupied, Finbar was not ready to give up. He still had something left, there was still a god he had not prayed to. There was a chance, but only if he was willing to pay a price more dear than the blood of his fellow man. Finbar took up his axe and held it high as he sank to his knees, taking a stance no soldier should ever take in a tidal weave of fleeing bodies.
"Macha, Badhbh....Two sisters, call to your sibling which makes you three..." His voice quavered as he began, and few saw him, but the few that did slowed, forming a shield of flesh and weapon as his deep voice began to rise higher and higher.
"We humble few that still war, our fires have been lit and have all but burned to the quick. The night of our foe sweeps without mercy. We've little left to give but the very wick of our candles....We beg of you, Morrigan three. Grant us your final gift..." Finbar felt his legs go numb from the cold of the muck he was knelt in creep higher and higher up his body, crushing his lungs, clawing around his heart.
"....call your sister, bid her give us the final burst. Let us finish our fight. Nemain, we call down your might! Stay our blades and see us through to victory's light!"
Somewhere much more distant than the enemy line, lightening shattered the sky and the unearthly rumble of thunder threatened the men below. Not a breath later, as the air stilled and the hairs, muddied or no, stood up on end along the men's necks, a clarion call shattered through the growing storm. A banshee of death.
The sky crackled again, and lightening struck the ooze between the ranks of the warring men, spraying and slapping the faces of both sides. The enemy clamored with alarm, but Finbar and the men that stayed to circle him stood their ground, eyes closed against the earthy shrapnel that coated their bodies. Wherever the mud touched, it burned. The burning spread deep into the muscles they'd thought worn and torn beyond use, fueling them, firing them; taking that already fierce purpose and pushing it past the realm of man's sanity. Each mind that had embraced the power rode it high, claiming a force no man could muster alone; those that did not felt a searing cold that stole the breath in their very lungs and exploded weary heart vessels.
Weapons rose again and throats broke, bleeding with the rage of war cries as the men newly embodied by their chosen goddess' fury, crashed into their enemy anew. In the stead of their fallen leader Cormac, Finbar lead the charge, riding at the helm, crashing through the enemy ranks wild eyed and swinging. The crack of bone and the snap of sinew colored the air, blood misted across faces already slathered in mud and tears and sweat.
Above it all, hidden amongst the clouds, eyes darker than dark watched the carnage below, reflecting the scene like a pair of onyx gems polished to a mirror fine sheen.
Finbar was a strong man, anyone with eyes could see that, but his face was gaunt and drawn back in the primal snarl of a soul on the edge of collapse. His blade was glazed in a fine gore that dripped down and made the handle slippery. The warrior turned after dispatching another of his enemies, crowing back to the cry of his leader. "NO! No Cormac! We can finish this, their numbers are thin and they're thinning faster than ours, we can endure!"
"I won't lose our men for the advantage, I said BA—" A arrow silenced the man, making him just another body in the soup of mud and viscera the men now trudged through.
"CORMAC!" Just as the leader fell, Finbar's face blanched. A horrible sound came not a moment later from the enemy's side of the field. It was their final charge call. A vicious horn with a sound meant to pierce a man and his spirit alike. That was the sound of imminent defeat.
No....No, no, no. We can do this. I don't care if the commander didn't believe in us. We can finish this! Finbar's mind was racing faster than the frantic beat of his heart. His tired hands gripped his axe tighter as he began to see his comrades turn back from the sounding of that horn. Finbar wouldn't turn back, and he couldn't let them. They'd come too far, they'd lost too many, and there was fire left in them yet. All they needed was to fan that spark bigger, some way to touch the deeper parts in their body still holding a reserve, go all out....Dip into the abyss where man and blade became naught but a single entity, and the enemy at the end of it's killing blow little more than bloody butter beneath their swing.
Summoning hazard chance and tempting fate was in a warrior's blood. But not all these men were warriors. Cormac hadn't been a warrior, he had been a leader; a politician. Most of these men weren't even warriors. They were farmers, fathers, craftsmen and herders. They didn't know....They didn't have the desperation bred into them like Finbar and his other fellow warriors did. They'd been raised one way, knew one trade.
To war and to win.
Even though his body was feeling the first true drags of fatigue, even though the day had disappeared and the sun was drowning down over the writhe of the horizon his enemies still occupied, Finbar was not ready to give up. He still had something left, there was still a god he had not prayed to. There was a chance, but only if he was willing to pay a price more dear than the blood of his fellow man. Finbar took up his axe and held it high as he sank to his knees, taking a stance no soldier should ever take in a tidal weave of fleeing bodies.
"Macha, Badhbh....Two sisters, call to your sibling which makes you three..." His voice quavered as he began, and few saw him, but the few that did slowed, forming a shield of flesh and weapon as his deep voice began to rise higher and higher.
"We humble few that still war, our fires have been lit and have all but burned to the quick. The night of our foe sweeps without mercy. We've little left to give but the very wick of our candles....We beg of you, Morrigan three. Grant us your final gift..." Finbar felt his legs go numb from the cold of the muck he was knelt in creep higher and higher up his body, crushing his lungs, clawing around his heart.
"....call your sister, bid her give us the final burst. Let us finish our fight. Nemain, we call down your might! Stay our blades and see us through to victory's light!"
Somewhere much more distant than the enemy line, lightening shattered the sky and the unearthly rumble of thunder threatened the men below. Not a breath later, as the air stilled and the hairs, muddied or no, stood up on end along the men's necks, a clarion call shattered through the growing storm. A banshee of death.
The sky crackled again, and lightening struck the ooze between the ranks of the warring men, spraying and slapping the faces of both sides. The enemy clamored with alarm, but Finbar and the men that stayed to circle him stood their ground, eyes closed against the earthy shrapnel that coated their bodies. Wherever the mud touched, it burned. The burning spread deep into the muscles they'd thought worn and torn beyond use, fueling them, firing them; taking that already fierce purpose and pushing it past the realm of man's sanity. Each mind that had embraced the power rode it high, claiming a force no man could muster alone; those that did not felt a searing cold that stole the breath in their very lungs and exploded weary heart vessels.
Weapons rose again and throats broke, bleeding with the rage of war cries as the men newly embodied by their chosen goddess' fury, crashed into their enemy anew. In the stead of their fallen leader Cormac, Finbar lead the charge, riding at the helm, crashing through the enemy ranks wild eyed and swinging. The crack of bone and the snap of sinew colored the air, blood misted across faces already slathered in mud and tears and sweat.
Above it all, hidden amongst the clouds, eyes darker than dark watched the carnage below, reflecting the scene like a pair of onyx gems polished to a mirror fine sheen.