Siren Song of Battle

Cathair O’Connor Sat upon his roan charger, surveying the field off in the distance.  The banner of clan MacCraith fluttered in the breeze.  For weeks, the MacCraith clan had been raiding their homes, stealing their livestock and taking what little grain they owned.  Cathair did not relish the idea of needless bloodshed.  Diplomacy had failed, leaving him no other option to settle the dispute.

A crow as black as night rested on the branch of an old elm tree nearby, it’s shrill squawking echoing through the hills.  One of his men began to knock an arrow, intent on quieting the pesky bird.  The bird sensing the danger, gave an irritated bray before flying off to a safer perch.

Cathair signaled for his men to advance.  His standard bearer drummed off a slow cadence as the men of his clan marched onward toward battle.  Clan MacCraith out numbered them almost two-to-one but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in tactics and fighting prowess.

Rowan MacCraith, leader of his clan was nothing more than a simple brute and no better than the clan less brigands that preyed upon travelers in the lonely parts of the land.  He knew nothing of tactics and simply hoped to overwhelm them with superior numbers.  Cathair would make his rival pay from his folly in blood.

A small rolling brook lay next to the path.  Cresting a hill, Cathair spied a slight figure kneeling by the water.  Her spurred his horse to a trot.  As he neared, he saw the it was an old woman covered in a grey traveling cloak.  In her hand, she bore a blood stained shirt and was busy scrubbing the stain on a rock.  The old wash woman watched him with eyes filled with sorrow and Cathair understood the meaning.

A crow flew over head, its sharp screech the clarion call of battle.  Cathair watched with pride as his men arrayed on the field in perfect synchronicity.  Cathair spurred on his mount, charging through the field of battle, his sword raining destruction on all who crossed his path.  Soon, Clan MacCraith would be routed but Cathair would not allow Rowan, his hated rival, the luxury of escape.

Digging his heels into his trusted steed, Cathair sped towards his foe.  The dim witted leader of Clan MacCraith turned in time to witness his own demise as Cathair’s sword cleaved his head from his body.  Cathair’s joy was short lived as pain exploded in his chest.  An arrow pierced his lung, throwing him from his horse.

Through eyes clouded in pain, Cathair gazed upon a young maiden; her face bore the kindness of angels.  Hand outstretched, she sang her siren song, beckoning him to the hereafter.  With a final shout of defiance, Cathair charged, a look of triumph on his pain etched visage and embraced his fate.

The End

Word Count - 477