Chaos broke out in the English ranks as the men began to scatter, trying to evade arrows that they could not see. They cried out in their panic, screams of terror thundering across the distance between the castle and the forest. Captains and other officers among the men tried to shout above the din, trying to enforce some sense of order among their men.
Volley after volley of arrows flew through the night sky, following the men as they ran through the forest towards Castle Kyle of Lochlass. Those who tried to run back to Stone Castle were cut down quickly by the men Kieran had instructed to take up hidden positions in the forest mere feet away from the English force.
The English knew how to fight battles on flat, open ground. But here, in the Scottish Highlands, the Scotsmen knew how to fight in the mountains, the gullies, the uneven and the broken ground. Their tactics were not those of the English.
The Englishmen were being felled in hordes as they moved through the forest, the first line of men breaking through the last of the tree cover and into the open ground that lay between the forest and castle.
The death cries were ceaseless and relentless. Men who had been soldiers their entire lives were being slaughtered by Kieran’s archers, and even their tough natures and years of experience did not prevent them from crying out in agony, screaming for their wives, for their mothers, for mercy.
It was not a sound Kieran enjoyed, but it was a necessary evil of war.
The Englishmen who had reached the edge of the forest attempted to reform their positions within their ranks; their officers who were still alive shouting orders as loudly as they could.
The element of surprise they had counted on was lost, and they knew it.
Kieran watched as men from the English army deserted, running through the underbrush, around his castle, back through the forest, and away from their comrades in any direction that they felt they had the best chance of survival.
He smiled grimly; a scattered army was a useless army.
The archers who had forced the Englishmen out of the forest stopped firing their arrows; their part in the attack was largely completed.
The Scottish force waited with bated breath for the next signal while the Englishmen continued to collect themselves in the clearing, just close enough to the walls that they were within range of those archers placed on the ramparts.
The English line of archers had formed loosely behind their men; there were not enough of them to protect what remained of their force. What had looked like an impressive small army to begin with, now looked like a ragged bunch of mercenaries without order to their ranks.
Two fire arrows flew through the sky, and the English began to wail before anything had even happened.
The foot soldiers surged forwards towards the castle wall that was closest to the granary, whether they liked it or not. Those who were still willing to take their chances joined those who had already deserted and ran for their lives. There were those who would prefer the risk of facing the gallows than die in a senseless battle in the middle of the Scottish Highlands.
The English archers protected their foot soldiers as best they could, firing arrows at the castle walls, barely bothering to aim for anything. They were simply trying to stay alive.
Kieran decided to send a messenger to his own archers, those who had been attacking the English army through the forest, to have them pick off any soldiers they could. There was no point in planning this attack if he did not take every opportunity he could to show Lord Stone that he was not an enemy the man wanted to make, even if it was already too late for that.
Kieran turned his attention back to the force that was marching towards his castle. Two broad strips of grass running from the castle walls to the forest were set on fire as two of his archers shot fire arrows into the ground from atop the ramparts.
The pitch and oil that had been poured along the ground on both sides of the entrance to the castle to the forest took to the flames in seconds. The fire streamed down the length of both strips; the flames flaring up high, too brightly to look at, were searingly hot.
The Englishmen who had been closest to the fires – either within the pitch strips or to their sides – screamed in agony as their clothes caught alight. There was no stopping the flames from reaching those within its proximity as embers fluttered on the wind. The cries of the injured and dying were a riot of terrifying sounds. The sizzle and cracks of the fire itself were all but drowned out by the din of their slaughter.
Kieran hated the thought of what was happening to the men on the ground, but he had no choice. He had to protect his people, his castle. He was not proud of the decisions he had had no choice but to make.
He had to send a message, and it needed to be heard.
The loss of the lives of the men on the ground for absolutely nothing but one man’s arrogance weighed heavily on his shoulders, but war was not fought through diplomacy and kindness.
War was fought with blades, armor, fire, and a strong stomach.
Battles were not strategized by the weak.
Kieran had seen too much bloodshed in such a short period. He was weary of it; he could only pray that Lord Stone would cease his attacks on the MacBride clan. Kieran was utterly exhausted by the man’s cruelty and treachery.
Any remaining soldiers and mercenaries turned tail and ran – Lord Stone’s army collapsed in front of Kieran’s eyes.
He ordered that the strips of ground that were burning be extinguished. Kieran congratulated his officers and soldiers early the next morning; the bodies of the deceased soldiers and mercenaries had already been removed from the field and burned to ash.
If Kieran had to guess at the total number of English lives that were lost, he would say that it was at least half of the numbers that had been reported to him as the English marched on his castle.
Kieran wished there had been another way – any other way of avoiding yet another violent encounter with the English – but Lord Stone had given him no other way out.
