Authors note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This submission is part of the "
Heroism - the Oggbashan Memorial Event 2024
."
The Last Stand
The storm had vented its rage. The rain had ceased. The wind that had howled through the night, now dropped to a soft breeze. It was often this way on the coast. A storm would appear from nowhere, lashing the cliffs and churning the waters or the harbors into froth-laced chaos.
Conor stepped out from the squat round tower that stood at the cliffside of the settlement, sniffing at the salty air. His nose told him that the day ahead would remain untroubled by the wild weather of the night before. It was going to be a lovely day to greet his death.
A voice hailed him from above. Conor stepped out, turning to look up at the bearded face that peered down at him from the parapet. His own face, the lower half frosted silver from stubble he hadn't bothered to cleanse from his chin, stoic as befitting his station.
Jonas was a capable veteran, calm under pressure and above all else, a man who used his head. Had it not been for the loss of his right arm, Conor would have had him holding the walls. As it was, Jonas had been the perfect choice to command the catapult crew on the flat roof of the tower.
"All well?" Conor called up to him.
"Aye Chief, makes a lovely sight on the open sea," Jonas replied. He scratched idly at the thick black beard that was sorely in need of a wash and comb before adding; "Chief, is there no chance you'll have me by your side this day? I'm still twice the man of any of these pups. I only need one hand to hold a sword, not like I'll miss the other to scratch my ass when I'm in battle."
Conor didn't respond, he just kept looking up at the warrior, his grey eyes revealing none of the tension that tore at him within. To his credit, Jonas met his gaze for almost ten seconds before finally looking away abashed.
"I'll see to it the puppies here give a good account of themselves" Jonas said, jerking his remaining thumb at the group of youngsters, hidden from Conor's view, assigned to help man the catapult.
"Good man," Conor said, sparing him one of the few smiles he had within himself before moving off.
His response to Jonas had been expected, necessary. That was what these few who survived expected of their leader. Rough, gruff, unflappable. Conor had to appear to know what he was doing even when he didn't. Decisions had to be made with an air of certainty, even when he hadn't the first clue if it was the right move. Followers expected that of their leader, their Chief, their hero. Conor wore those labels uncomfortably. Too much had happened, far too many dead with more to follow this day, for him to take any pride in any of those titles bestowed upon him. Standing straight and tall, his greying hair tied back in a warrior knot, armored and armed with his finest war gear, he looked the part. Regardless of his appearance though, he felt a fraud.
Long strides took him down the slope of the small hill that was topped by the ugly round tower and into the small village that clustered at the foot of the incline, surrounding it.
Jonas's greeting still rang in his ear. 'Chief' he thought ruefully to himself. What was he Chief of anymore? The clan was finished. Hunted across half a continent by an enemy that weighed victory not in lands conquered or riches accrued. No, only Conor and his clan's destruction would satisfy the foe that sat outside the pathetic defenses of this small settlement. Once he had been one of five Chieftains that ruled the clan by council, his people numbering in the hundreds of thousands. Now he was the sole survivor of that council and those of his people that hadn't fallen to blade, arrow or the iron collar of slavery stood with him now, just under a thousand strong. The clan was dead, dying, but what a life it had led. In his minds eye images of life before the war rolled through his memory. The art, the songs, the contests of strength and skill at the weekly fairs. And the laughter. His people, grim now, had been born to laughter, carrying it in their souls and passing the blessing of it on to all whose path they had crossed.
He passed along the small lane that ran through the settlement. Crude stone huts lined the route, fishermen's homes that now housed what wounded clansmen were unable to fight at the walls. This was to be the final battle. Those wounded men and women would not live to recover from their wounds.
This place had once been among the least of his holding, a few dozen families calling it home. The insignificance of it was illustrated by the fact that it didn't even boast a name for itself, not even warranting marking on a map. Perhaps though, it was fitting for him to die with his kin in a place with no name.
The walk had invigorated him, blood pumping now. It had also served to remind him that the boots he wore could have done with resoling, worn thin from retreating for so long, over such a distance. Conor paused, stamping his feet a few times, trying to shift the boots in place, judging their grip. They'd do. For one more day, they'd suffice. He wasn't feeling much like a Chieftain anymore and with worn boots on his feet and half a week's worth of grey stubble on his chin, he was sure he didn't look like one either. When he'd spotted the color of his stubbled chin, he'd been shocked. He was only forty, young to be on his way to becoming a grey beard. The strain of battle and loss had aged him.
Conor continued on his way. All along his route he passed men and women, holding their heads high at their Chieftain's passing. Faces drawn and pale from weariness and fear, expressions set however in a cold façade as they tapped down on such negative emotions, one's that would not serve them well in the battle to come. At last his trudging progress brought him to the wall. It had been built to keep livestock in, no more than a person's height at its highest point, no higher than Conor's waist at its lowest. Still, it had surrounded the settlement on three sides, the cliff providing the last link in the boundary. His warriors had reinforced it as best they could, adding to its height with stone, thick gorse and, in places, the bodies of the dead. Another time he'd have buried the dead, honoring their passing. Moreover, the corpses would only breed contagion, illness that would decimate the inhabitants. With the final battle looming, these concerns were irrelevant. Dead, his kinsmen could still serve, their bodies an obstacle to the enemy. As for illness, no man or woman in the clan expected to see the next day's dawn.
Beyond the wall, he could see the neatly ordered ranks of the enemy as they prepared to carry out an assault.
The army had arrived the day before, his clansmen milling around him, seeking to still their own panic by dint of his calm assuredness. Everyone had expected the enemy to attack the wall as soon as they had arrived, but it seemed that the general commanding the forces facing them was in no hurry for this, the final victory. In the end, the enemy had contented itself by simply setting up camp, pitching tents and lighting fires. It made good tactical sense. The pause gave the enemy time to recover its strength after the chase and it gave time for the clan's survivors to take in fully the scale of their opponent's numbers. Many in the clan would probably have spent the long last night staring at the host opposite them, but Conor had sent them back from the wall save for a strengthened detail of sentries and a fighting company stationed nearby. The rest of his people were given the chance to rest, to make their peace with each other and the Gods they worshipped.
The heavy thread of armored troops marching made the ground tremble, even at this distance. The ranks shifting as the General made some last-minute changes to his dispositions, companies, regiments, wheeling and marching at his order. Then they were set.
Heavy infantry at the front, their mail and shields, uniformly black. On each wing, a dark mass of cavalry waited. They'd play no part in today's battle, their presence only required to hunt down any survivors who might make a break for it. Even taking the cavalry numbers out of the equation, the infantry outnumbered his people by a factor of ten. Victory was impossible, death, it was inevitable. Conor had made all the preparations he could, serving his people to the best of his ability right to the end. His and theirs. All that was left now was the battle itself. All he could do now was die well and ensure that these soldiers would respect the clan for its fighting qualities.
Did that even matter? In the face of annihilation, who cared? He gripped the hilt of his sword with a sudden intense strength, his knuckles whitening. It did matter. He cared. If the clan was to cease it's existence, then all that would be left was tales and memories. Conor would be damned if he didn't finish the song of his people with one last great effort. He would not set foot in the halls of his ancestors without leaving behind a verse filled with heroism and courage.
Conor dragged his gaze from the enemy to meet the anxious faces that surrounded him. Many of them he knew by name, and even those he did not, their faces were familiar to him. The path to this place had meant that strangers had become friends, friends becoming family.
"They are away." He pitched his voice loud enough for it to carry along the line of people who stood either side of him, ready to defend this last vestige of the Clan's lands, to the death.
