There was a clap of thunder, and the sky darkened further as if it knew what was about to unfold. Then again, Kyle thought he knew as well, but still, no ambush came. Still, they waited in the rain as the dirt track they were on turned rather quickly to mud, and each man’s mood soured even more in the downpour.
“One! Two! Three!” MacNear bellowed, and with mighty straining grunts, the four men shoved the log off the remainder of the road, eliciting a cheer from the laborers. “Well done, lads!” MacNear called above the growing gale. “Well done!”
“We’re clear!” Kyle called out, his eyes still on the horizon. “Let’s move out!” The four men turned back and reached down for their spears, their faces bright with enthusiasm for their small triumph, but as they bent down, a cry went up from all around them, and the outlaw clan showed their faces.
They rose from behind the ridge in a great wave of painted faces, their old war axes held high above their heads, the look of maddening violence upon their brows, and shouted together in a belting ferocity, clanking their weapons against small leather bucklers and old war shields.
“Here we go!” Kyle shouted, wheeling his horse about to face one direction, and his soldiers grouped up in a rapid movement, forming a tight circle around the wagon with their spears pointed outwards. A tall, scarred and grizzled man stepped forward from the back, his face menacing and mean in the rain, his hair plastered against his shoulders from the precipitation, and he called down:
“I’ll be havin’ that silver McGowan! And vengeance fer me brither!” at that proclamation, the warband all around them gave another cry in unison, and they hunched down, ready to sprint into battle, their stances changing from one of intimidation to impending combat.
“Steady!” Kyle yelled to his men, and the four up front with MacNear fell into their ranks around the wagon. The sounds of monotonous marching had been replaced by the howling of the wind between the dagger-like rain and of that rain striking down hard against the mud. The world seemed to hold its breath among the storm as these men faced off with one another, waiting for the action to begin. “Steady!”
“Nothin’ tae say?” the rebel Scot taunted, lifting up a long horn that hung from his waist by a thin leather cord.
“Steady!” Kyle commanded, his eyes moving from one rebel to another, waiting for his moment. “Steady now!”
“So be it!” the outlaw spat, and he lifted the horn to his lips and blew. The sound was long and hollow, and it wrang out through the weather like a droning cry of a ghost that stalked the ruins of a forgotten fortification, and with it, they charged.
Kyle drew forth his mighty sword, which in truth, he had never before used in combat. His training sword was one thing, but this weapon, forged to kill, and to bite, and to break anything in its path, was quite another. Its bright steel flashed even in the dim light of the storm, and rain slicked down the edges in an almost mythic pattern as Kyle held it aloft, and his men sprang into quick action.
The outlaws coursed down the rise, charging at them with full speed, their weapons coming up over their heads and their teeth gnashing like rabid dogs while their eyes projected the madness of the blood lust overtaking them. This was their moment as much as Kyle’s, and they knew it with every fiber of their beings, and it showed in their veracity. For a split second, Kyle pitied them, to have come so far under the promise of redemption and glory, of revenge and wealth, their lands restored, and their names redeemed, all to have it smacked away seemed cruel and devastating. But before the second was passed, Kyle forgot that pity and glimpse of compassion, for they were bearing down, their faces fierce, and Kyle’s combat training took control.
“Now!” he shouted, and their trap was sprung.
The soldiers turned to the cart they were assembled around in record time and reached down beneath the canvas, spinning back around to face their attackers wielding loaded crossbows. There was a brief moment of terror in the outlaws' eyes as they saw what was coming, but it all happened far too fast for anyone to do anything about it.
“Loose!”
The crossbow volley went out from the carriage like a porcupine shedding its quills in a massive, subtle blast. It was a subtle twang, followed by the woosh of the bolt, multiplied in its circle around the wagon, and the bolts flew true at their short range. The front row of charging rebels went down all around them, their faces contorting from shock and the percussion of the strike, and their bodies were flung backward into the muddy incline, their legs and boots flailing out in front of them as they began to slide and tumble, their blood leaking rapidly out into the muck.
“Reload!” MacNear shouted, holding his own sword aloft, for the outlaws did not stop, and Kyle locked eyes with MacLean, the rebel chieftain, charging straight ahead, seemingly unaffected by the sudden and horrific loss of life all around him. They were drawing closer now and closer, and though everything was happening incredibly fast, Kyle felt as if time were slowing while he and MacLean prepared to meet.
The soldiers struggled to reload their crossbows in time, and though some did manage to get a shot off, others did not. So it was only a scattering of bolts that flew a second time, peppering into the enclosing mass of outlaws. Their shrieks of shock went up like shrill punctuations among the steady hollering of the advancing war party.
Then they collided, and the melee began. In seconds the scene became a charnel house. The ring of soldiers around the wagon were distinguished by their gambesons, and they fought with vigor as the outlaws connected, their axes and swords flashing out and clanging against shields and shorts words. It was a maelstrom of shouting and clattering, and men of both sides began to fall, their blood spraying out in horrific arcs as their bodies sank to the muck.
Kyle twisted to the right and brought his blade down upon an outlaw’s shoulder, registering the crack of his clavicle as the gore sprayed up, but this was not like the meadow where he had slain Roger MacLean. There was no time to stop, to ogle and mourn, for there was screaming all around him and another enemy on his left.
He spun back around in his saddle just in time to see MacLean leaping from atop the wagon, his hands outstretched, but Kyle had no time to bring up his blade. MacLean smashed into him, sending the both of them tumbling to the ground below, splashing into the cold mud as the rain continued to pour in sheets. The force of the impact sent MacLean bouncing off a few feet away, and the both of them hurried to their feet, slipping out a bit on the slippery ground.
“It’s over, MacLean!” Kyle bellowed, fishing his sword up from the ground. Around them, the combat continued, but the number of outlaws was greatly diminished. Had they not lost so many men in the crossbow volley, they may still outnumber the McGowan men, but alas for them, that was not the case, and the soldiers had begun pushing the outlaws back one step at a time. Over the din, Kyle heard MacLean scream out while he brought his blade down upon another outlaw.
“Is that so?” MacLean laughed out, readying his dueling stance. But something else began to happen at that moment. The ground began to shake. It was subtle at first, but it grew more intense by the second, and the fighting began to subside all around the wagon as the soldiers, their faces covered with mud and blood and streaks of rain, gradually turned their heads up the road. “Look what friends I’ve made, McGowan!” he screamed, the veins in his neck bulging with his intensity.
Round the bend in the road appeared the English horse, their tabards soaked and stuck to their jostling mail, and their lances down along with their visors. At the front of their column rode the distinguished coat of Sir Simon Blackmarch, and Kyle grimaced. They had not been fast enough. They knew the horse would come, but they had thought to have dispatched the rebels before their arrival. They were exposed and unable to form the famous Scottish schiltrom that worked against such a charge. As such, they were doomed.
“Spears!” Kyle bellowed, and the outlaws began slowly backing away, no doubt for fear of being caught in the cross fighting of the English knights and the McGowan’s soldiers. Those soldiers glanced nervously at the outlaws, anxious to turn their shoulders to such assailants, caught between the threat of charging horses and a flanking attack with axes.
“Ye’re right, McGowan!” MacLean shouted, his face red from the shouting, and his sword held fast in both his hands. “It is over!”
The horse galloped closer, and panic began to set in. The tips of the lances pointed downward, aiming for their targets as they drew in. The ground was shaking fiercely now, and the horses were lowering their heads as they came steadily on.
“Brace!” Kyle shouted, finding his back to the wagon. “Brace!” And the English horse struck home.
