Blood of the Clans Ch. 50

Liam walked in determined strides, looking for his people amongst the mass of clansmen wandering the battleground. Hatred and rage filled every breath that he took, as he looked at his own clansmen laying lifeless in rows, more being added, as the dead were sorted out. He looked about at the carnage and knew somewhere on this field of death, lay his father and brothers. Turning, he saw two men carrying a body from the far side of the field and recognized his father's clothing. He broke into a run towards them, his heart filling with grief on each step as he approached. He halted the men and had them lay his father on the ground, as he knelt beside the blood-soaked remains. The massive gash of the Lochaber axe made it clear, he was attacked from behind in a cowardly manner by someone. Unable to contain all his emotions, he looked at the skies and railed at them, releasing what was building inside him. His tears flowed heavily, as he laid a hand on his father's brow and bade him well to the next life with God.

He finally let the men pick him up again and carry him to where all his clansmen lay. Leith was being carried past him as well and Liam felt the stabbing realization, he was truly the only one left of his line. Eighteen years old and only the second battle he had fought in, he quickly realized though, the folly of his father's actions and what war would bring. Death lay all around him, its stench filling every pore in him, blanketing his soul in despair.

He looked around at the other men, their own grief of loss showing on their faces and Liam knew his pain was no less than theirs. He fell to his knees and cried out to God for help, knowing he was facing a challenge to his soul and needed his guidance. Some stopped for a moment to look at him, then went back to gathering the last of the dead.

The anguish of loss and the weight of power resting upon him, Liam prayed with his soul bared, looking for answers.

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"So, the MacDonnell's lost, or the MacRae's, Uncle Stuart?"

"I wouldn't say they lost, Sean, but the story's no o'er yet. Yer really liking yer history now, aren't ye?"

"No sh..,kidding." Sean glanced sideways at his mom and caught the glare, but looked back at Stuart. "Our guys did all that stuff? All that killing and booby trap stuff, I mean."

"Aye, our elders did that. They did what had tae be done, wi' what they had. Like I said earlier, there was no army or anything, tae go tae battle fer ye. No matter what ye did before, ye picked up what ye had and went intae battle wi' it, most times wi' little or no training. The only thing each and every man did, was pray that they'd be alive and whole by the end of it."

"So, guys my age had to go to battle?"

"Aye, and younger. If ye were big enough tae carry a weapon, ye were big enough tae use it. How do ye feel about doing that? Taking a sword and targe down and sailing towards a thousand men, miles away, that want nothing more than tae see ye dead. Things seem a wee bit more scarier, when ye imagine yerself standing alongside yer clansmen and all those men dashing towards ye, swords and axes ready tae spill yer blood, doesn't it?"

Sean looked at Stuart, imagining himself as any one of the young boys standing on that battleground, watching an advancing army coming towards him, his face showing the realization.

"Aye, not the same as looking at yer screen and pressing a button and killing hundreds of men. No reset button happening back then, son. When ye died, ye died and that was it, most likely very painfully too."

Sean gulped back the lump in his throat and his dad could see the words hit home with him. He looked at his cousin and smiled, nodding his head to let him know he liked how he relayed that message. Stuart winked quickly and looked back at Sean.

"Ye want tae know the finish, what ended up happening?" Stuart's slight lift of his head and raised eyebrows, signalled to Sean it was time to listen again.

"Oh yeah. I am so doing this for my next history project. If I don't get an A on it, I'll be cheated out of it, that's for sure." Sean's enthusiasm in presenting his history made his parents smile a bit more proudly.

"Aye, so the envoy left wi' his troops and left enough men tae watch o'er things, so they did'ne get out of hand again. The French ships, along wi' Margret, Therese, Arabella, Grayson and Garreth aboard, sailed in a convoy wi' birlinns alongside."

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They sailed south along the Sound of Sleat back towards Loch Moidart, the Captain's quarters in the Ville de Lyon buzzing with talk of one last favour to ask. Margret looked at the pleading faces of Therese and Arabella and weighed them against what was asked of her. Knowing that her people wouldn't be engaged in any fighting, or put in harm's way, she agreed and wine was brought forth. A celebratory toast to friends and allies was made, with Margret ending any more talk of warring and battles. Grayson went on deck and looked for Iain MacLean's birlinn, seeing it several rows back. He signalled to it and received a reply of acknowledgement from them, then raised and crossed his arms to let them know the French had agreed to their idea and they would be sailing past Moidart and on to Loch Linnhe. Iain spread the news amongst his men, resulting in hearty cheers heard by the others.

Sorley sailed back to Ireland with his men and disbanded the forces he came with. Word of their arrival had reached Anne's ears long before the hulls scraped up the gravel shore and they disembarked. Sorley gave orders to store all weapons and stable the horses, before he and Cola made their way across the stone bridge and into the main house, where Anne sat with great expectancy on their word. Anne's face was set with anxiousness, her possession of their seat of power resting on the outcome Sorley was soon to divulge.