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| Kathleen - 1323 |
by: Dare |
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Across the broad plain there were dotted many small fires in the soft pre-dawn light. Two groups of pinpoints against the dark verdant sward separated by a large expanse of empty flatland between. Around and between the tiny cook-fires moved many men on each side - some readied weapons, some knelt in prayer before robed priests. The greatest activity was centered on the campaign tents nestled against the forest that bordered the broad plain on either side - bright and flamboyant pavilions in reds and golds on one side - simple green and gray farmer's tents on the other. Figures came and went through the flaps of those command posts, runners carrying orders up and down the long lines of men preparing for the coming dawn and the battle ahead.
The sky above the battle lines grew gray with first light, heavy clouds threatened rain and diffused the gentle dawn into a murky twilight. On the south side of the field, white banners displaying bright red crosses were raised high, and the first clarion call of a trumpet was heard. Hundreds of men leapt to their feet and formed ranks at the call, straightening shields and adjusting field armor - glaring across the field at the darkened mass of their foe. To the north, the ragged line moved forward and formed a loose rank and file, rough wool and leather nearly masking them against the backdrop of forest behind. They too readied weapons and crude shields, many lifting pagan talismans to their lips in final hope of fortune.
As the thundercloud-laden horizon silvered with the first true light of day, the army of the Lord parted at its center - allowing a file of mounted figures in finery to take the front. Behind the knights and Lord himself came a large open wagon drawn by two heavy horses. Fixed at the center of its bed was a large cross of wooden timbers blackened by oil, and a small shape huddled at the base of that cross - hidden from view by a heavy cloak of moss green. When the rank of mounted riders reached the edge of the field, they turned to either side - allowing the wagon to be drawn into full view of their enemy.
At a gesture from the Lord's hand, two soldiers leapt into the wagon and dragged the small figure upright and stripped away the cloak, revealing a nude woman with long fiery hair. With ungentle hands they pressed her back against the timber crucifix and bound her arms to the crosspiece. When they were finished, she hung limp and cruelly exposed before the entire field, her long unplaited hair only partially serving to cover her shame.
Across the field the mass of warriors surged and milled, a murmur of unease gathering amidst them that swiftly grew to an outraged roar as the keener of eye among them passed word of what they saw. The Lord smiled to himself and gestured forward his herald, pleased that his ploy to unsettle his enemy was succeeding so well. The herald nodded and spurred his horse onto the field, riding at a trot to the mid-point between the armies and reigning in his mount. From an unrolled scroll - he read.
"We stand assembled before you in the defense of God and the King. Armed and armored against the minions of Satan and their Pagan followers. We challenge you to look across this field and see the witch that has led you in this war against the good and just rule of the church and throne - called by name 'Kathleen O'Shea'. In her time of need her dark powers have deserted her. For her devoted worship of Pagan and Satanic gods she has not been rewarded, she has been abandoned. Such will be the fate of any man on this field that places his faith upon any but the Almighty God and the wisdom of the King.
Your witch has been defeated. Her powers will not aid you in this battle. With the touch of the light of God upon her skin she will burn as is the nature of beasts of her ilk. Watch her burn in the dawn's light and the wrath of God. See the fate that awaits you all in the Hell that your souls have been consigned to. Repent and surrender - for nothing but the grace of the Lord will save you this day."
The speech seemed to have the desired effect in the Lord's eyes... the army he faced milled about, its ranks losing cohesion and its outraged cries becoming the distant babble of dissension and fear. Unseen by him or the eyes of his spies, however, a figure in rough priest's robes began to move forward through the ranks of the Irish. A hunched and bulky form that quickly reached the forefront of the shaken and squabbling host.
There - it paused. Then from within the folds of its hood, there came a voice that easily carried across the field and down the lines, stunning the Irish to silence with its power.
"Invaders." It roared out across the sward, "You have failed in your mission - ''tis no witch you abuse so publicly this morn. The only witchery she practiced was her words against your titles over our soil. The only crime she is guilty of is love. Love for her mother lands, for her people... and for the creature you truly seek." The hunched figure straightened, rising a full head taller than most of the men on the field, drawing back the hood to reveal a darkly handsome face.
"Look up, fools... the light you call upon already shines down on this field." He roared as the skin of his face began to darken terribly... "Your 'witch' does not burn." With a shrug of his shoulders, he threw off the cloak completely and raised mighty arms to the sky, one hand gripping a sword that was over half the length of a man - its hilt a Celtic cross. His head lowered and his eyes grew to points of flame as the gray dawn light blackened the skin of his arms and smoke began to curl from his clothing.
"BUT I DO!!!" He roared - his voice tearing across the field and striking the Lord's forces like a bitter wind.
Many of the Lord's army dropped their weapons and backed away from this sight and those words... more still turned and fled as the blackened and smoking figure raised and swung that sword above its head, roaring in battle-cry the name of its love.
"KATHLEEN!!!"
Like a courser from Hell, the burning figure charged across the field as the Irish surged forward in response to his war-cry, in seconds his unearthly speed leaving the fleetest of the army behind. The Lord and his compatriots broke their formation and spurred their horses hard on the heels of their retreating army, abandoning the field in panic. Still the smoking juggernaut came on, crossing three hundred paces in the span of a dozen heartbeats.
The soldier that stood guard on the wagon next to the shame of Kathleen felt his courage run down his leg. He raised his trembling sword against her chin in panic and screamed as he swept it home and away, begging God to turn aside this Demon she had summoned...
...her head flew up, soft green eyes wide in shock...
...all too mortal blood soaking her breasts...
...her lips parted for breath that would not come.
Crimson droplets spun from the tip of the soldier's sword as it completed its arc, his voice reached to the sky in desperate hope...
...and the burning horror struck with a roar that deafened the field, sweeping that Celtic blade through a path that left the soldier falling to either side of the wagon... his prayers as dead as his lips.
Rourke seized the ropes that bound the wrists of his love in black and cracking fingers, tearing them away as though cobwebs before a wind. His warrior's arms caught her gently as she fell, and with a sweep of his hand he struck the heavy cross from its moorings and shattered the timbers to kindling.
In the bed of the wagon he dropped to his knees and held Kathleen to his chest, his fingers upon her throat feeling a thin butterfly's tremble of life still there... he raised his hand and his voice to the sky that shunned him, his fist clenching upon his own skin until bright red ran from his palm down his charred flesh.
He lowered his fist to her lips, knowing only the Dark Gift would save his lover from this cruel and too soon death...
...then...
...he paused, trembling... seeing in her wide and dimming eyes a silent begging...
...a hidden terror...
...his hand quaked to move the last inch to her lips...
...but his heart heard the plea she could not voice...
...for her soul...
...a silent cry of agony cracked his jaw, tears of blood coursing his ruined cheeks as he held her... watching the spark fade from her eyes... watching that final light thank him for her release...
...watching his love die. |
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