Wee German Lairdie

July 17^th, 2092 (80 A.E.)

Northern Scotland

In the misty hills of Scotland, hundreds of corpses lay strewn across the blood-soaked earth, each bludgeoned or pierced by sword and spear. Their souls seem to linger in the air, awaiting their passage to the heavens. The faces of the fallen are etched with shock and fear. Scots lie among Anglo-Saxons, Germans, French, and Irish—all caught in the chaos of battle.

The once-proud fields of heather, tall grass, and wild bushes are now stained red. A few stragglers remain, stumbling through the carnage, wounded and exhausted. The crisp breeze carries the metallic scent of blood, chilling the purple and pink heathers beneath a leaden sky.

It is morning, but the mist offers no solace to the survivors. Desperation drives them onward, yet their hope is short-lived. Out of the fog, a squadron of cavalry appears, bearing the banners of the English crown. Armored knights of the Kingdom of England ride forth, their presence a grim reminder that the slaughter is far from over.

At the lead rode a young man, his face smooth and unmarked by age or battle scars. There was an air of importance about him, though his youth seemed at odds with the authority he commanded. The men flanking him spoke in low, measured tones, their voices filled with deference. None dared to ride ahead of him, and they struggled to control their restless horses, which stamped nervously at the ground, as if sensing the weight of the moment. In the distance, a storm gathered on the horizon. Dark clouds billowed, and the winds began to howl.

"Ride on, lads!" the young man called out, his voice firm and steady as he spurred his horse forward. Taking the lead, he charged ahead, his men following close behind. Together, they rode down into the grim expanse of the battlefield, where death had already claimed so many. The thunder of their hooves echoed across the hills, a sound that sent a jolt of terror through the remaining stragglers.

Those who were enemies of the King of England felt their blood turn cold at the sight. Some quickened their pace, fleeing in desperation, while others sought refuge among the thick heather and tall grass, hoping the flora would hide them from the advancing riders.

“There! Those Scottish beasts are trying to hide in their dirt! Get them!” the young man roared, his voice cutting through the wind like a blade. At his command, the cavalry surged forward, their horses pounding the earth as they bore down on the fleeing Scots. Steel met flesh as spears and swords struck their targets, tearing through men’s bodies with brutal efficiency. Blood splattered across the field, staining the heather red, and the cries of the dying were soon drowned out by the clash of weapons and the thundering hooves.

Hidden among the brush, one man watched the carnage unfold, his breath ragged and uneven. He had tucked himself away, concealed enough to avoid the gaze of the English riders. But the sight before him twisted his stomach, bile rising in his throat. His body trembled uncontrollably, and his hand flew to his mouth to stifle the urge to retch. His eyes stung with unshed tears as he fought to keep silent, the horrors of the battlefield overwhelming him in that moment of helpless terror.

The English cavalry slowed their pace, surveying the field with grim satisfaction. Their horses snorted, uneasy with the lingering stench of blood and death. The men, though hardened by battle, wore brave faces in the presence of their young leader, unwilling to show discomfort before him. They scanned the land, ensuring that every visible Scot had been dispatched, their bodies lying motionless amidst the torn earth and stained heather.

“Let’s move on,” one of the men urged, his voice tense. The others nodded in agreement, eager to leave the grisly scene behind.

The young leader paused, his eyes scanning the horizon before he inhaled deeply. His expression twisted, and he gagged, pulling his horse away from the slaughtered field. “I smell shit,” he muttered with disgust, spitting to the side. Without another word, he rode off, his men falling in line behind him, leaving the dead and dying in their wake as the dark storm clouds continued to roll in.

In the aftermath of the slaughter, the Scotsman who had remained hidden finally allowed his body to betray him. His long, scraggly brown hair hung damp against his face, and the traditional garb of the Scots army clung to his trembling frame. For what felt like hours, he had forced down the rising bile, but now, as the sight of his fallen comrades overwhelmed him, the nausea became too much. Without warning, a wave of greenish-yellow vomit spilled from his mouth, splattering onto the tall grass before him.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he shook off the sickness, though his body still quivered from the horrors he had witnessed. Staggering to his feet, he stumbled toward a nearby path, the dirt beneath him offering a small semblance of direction amidst the chaos. With every step, the weight of what had transpired pressed down upon him, but he forced himself onward, his boots dragging through the mud as he began the long, painful march back to his camp. The storm loomed ahead, much like the dark thoughts clouding his mind.

*-*-*

In the heart of an abandoned town, where crumbling homes and a half-destroyed church stood as silent witnesses to time’s ravages, there stretched a barren field. Once a graveyard, its tombstones had long since eroded, worn down to mere stones by the wind and rain. Only a few broken remnants of the markers remained, scattered among the rows of makeshift tents.

Within the camp, Scotsmen huddled, their faces grim, their spirits battered from days of retreat and bloodshed. Among them were a few French advisors, standing apart, quietly discussing strategies in their foreign tongue. Nearby, Irish volunteers rested, their tired faces shadowed beneath their cloaks, having traveled far to join the cause.

The air hung heavy with the weight of defeat, thick and suffocating, as the men sat in quiet reflection. None knew what tomorrow might bring, or if they would even live to see it. In the distance, the low rumble of hooves echoed, stirring a brief murmur in the camp. But the sound carried no threat this time; these were French cavalry, allies to the Scots. As they approached, a few weary Scotsmen rose to greet them.

"Where is MacTavish?" one of the Frenchmen asked, his thick accent making the words heavy. "We have dire news."

"Aye, this way," replied the eldest of the Scots, his voice gruff, his thick grey beard marking his years of hard-fought battles. His accent was unmistakably from the north. "What news do you bring?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as they walked alongside the riders.

The Frenchmen, their horses moving at a slow pace, began to explain. “The King of England has sent a request to our King Louis. He offers a great sum of coin in exchange for our withdrawal from Scotland. A white peace with England is what he asks.”

The elder Scotsman grunted, his face twisting in disdain. “That German bastard,” he muttered, the words laced with venom. “And what is your King’s answer?” His eyes flicked to the Frenchman beside him, his voice edged with both hope and dread. They continued walking, the mood tense with the weight of this new development, as the storm clouds darkened overhead.

“He’s weighing his options in Edinburgh,” the Frenchman continued, his voice heavy with doubt. “An answer seems close, but I fear it may favor the English.”

As they walked, they passed a group of Scottish soldiers, their expressions somber as they marched towards their tents. The elder Scotsman shook his head, his voice low and grim. “That would be a great misfortune for Alba.”

“Indeed,” the Frenchman agreed, his face tightening with frustration. “That’s why I’m thinking of speaking to the King myself. Not all of us in the French military wish for a white peace, but I’m not sure I can sway Louis. Our nation is in turmoil. The war has drained our supplies, we've lost Jersey to the English, and a plague is sweeping through Paris. This may be the final nail in the coffin.”

The Frenchman sighed, the weariness of his words clear as he lowered his head, his eyes distant. He urged his horse forward, riding ahead of the elder Scotsman, who watched him with a knowing gaze.

“This war may be over soon,” the elder Scotsman muttered to his younger comrade as the last of the French cavalry rode past them, hooves kicking up dirt in their wake. “And when it is, that German king in London will see to it that any traitors to his rule are slain—us included, lad.”

“I accept that fate,” replied the younger Scotsman, his Glaswegian accent clear, his voice steady despite the somber words.

“Aye, I know you do,” the elder sighed, nodding, though there was no mistaking the sorrow in his eyes. Both men stood silent for a moment, watching as the storm brewed behind them, heavy clouds darkening the sky. Rain fell in the distance, a veil of mist over the hills, and the scent of dew and earth rose in the air.

Beyond the ruined town, where wild grass now claimed what was once a thriving village, the frames of old houses stood like skeletons against the horizon. And down the hill, stumbling through the remnants of stone walls and thick brush, the Scotsman from the field of death made his slow, weary climb. His body trembled with exhaustion, his legs unsteady from the long journey, and his mind—haunted by the slaughter he had witnessed—drifted in and out of clarity.

As the Scotsman climbed toward the camp, his legs, heavy with exhaustion, finally gave out beneath him. He collapsed onto a moss-covered stone, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The cool, damp earth beneath him offered a fleeting comfort as he lay there, staring into the heart of the approaching storm. Dark clouds rolled ever closer, and for a moment, all he desired was sleep—an escape from the horrors he had seen, to dream of days long past, when the world felt less cruel.

His eyelids grew heavy, and as they fluttered shut, a blinding flash of lightning split the sky. The crack of thunder that followed was deafening, snapping him back to the harshness of the present. His heart raced, and with a groan, he pushed himself up from the stone. His muscles screamed in protest, but he forced his battered body to move. The storm was almost upon him now, its winds swirling around him, chilling his back and pushing him forward like an invisible hand urging him to press on.

As his head crested the hill, the Scotsman’s tired eyes fell upon the bustling camp below. Fires crackled, and men moved about with a sense of urgency. The French cavalry, who had ridden past him earlier, were making their way toward the large central tent—the one where the general leading the rebellion both slept and commanded from.

He squinted through the dim light, his gaze settling on the head of the French cavalry as he dismounted near the tent. There was something familiar about the man, a memory tugging at the corners of his weary mind.

As the Scotsman strained to pull himself up onto the ridge, his body—pushed beyond its limits—finally began to fail him. His legs wobbled, his vision blurred, and the ground beneath him seemed to sway. His slow, stumbling approach did not go unnoticed. An Irish guardsman, standing nearby with his spear in hand, spotted the struggling figure. Without hesitation, he rushed over, slinging the Scotsman’s arm over his shoulder to support him.

“Easy, lad,” the guardsman said in a soft, accented voice, guiding his weary ally towards one of the smaller tents on the outskirts of the camp. The Scotsman muttered something incoherent, too exhausted to respond properly, his limbs barely cooperating as he leaned heavily on the Irishman.

Once inside the tent, the guardsman helped him to a bed of hay, where the Scotsman collapsed in a heap, his body sinking into the straw. His eyes fluttered shut almost instantly, the warmth of sleep overtaking him with an irresistible force. The last thing he heard before slipping into unconsciousness was the distant rumble of thunder, mingling with the sounds of the camp outside.

*-*-*

"Tell us, gentlemen. What is the dire news you seek to inform us with?" MacTavish's voice cut through the tension, his northern accent thick and rough, like the land itself. His eyes bore into the Frenchmen before him, each word heavy with suspicion. "Does the French King wish to abandon us?"

The leader of the French cavalry, a seasoned man with a somber expression, nodded gravely. "I'm afraid so. The German King in London has offered a bountiful sum of coin to Louis. Indeed, he is considering the offer." His voice carried the weight of unwelcome truth.

A heavy silence fell over the room. The murmuring of the gathered Scots and their foreign allies filled the air, a low, uneasy hum of voices. Men glanced at each other, worry etched on their faces. Abandonment by France could spell the end of their rebellion—a death sentence.

MacTavish scratched at his thick beard, his brow furrowed in thought. His eyes wandered around the tent, taking in the faces of those who looked to him for guidance. The tension was palpable. Though his exterior remained composed, the storm within him was just as fierce as the one raging outside the camp. The rebellion had fought too long and too hard to be forsaken by their closest ally. Yet here they stood, on the brink of such betrayal.

"What shall it take to convince your King otherwise? To keep the French army in Scotland?" MacTavish's voice was low but forceful, each word carrying the weight of desperation. His eyes bore into the Frenchman's soul, searching for any sign of hope, of hesitation, of something to cling to. "To keep the supplies flowing; we need your help, monsieur."

Shifting uncomfortably in his boots, the Frenchman could feel the weight of MacTavish's unrelenting gaze, piercing him like the cold wind outside the tent. His mouth felt dry as he struggled to find the right words. Clearing his throat, he clung to the hope that some answer might form, but the right words escaped him. He hesitated, glancing at the men surrounding him—French soldiers, seasoned and hardened by war, yet now sharing the same unease. Their faces, usually so stoic, mirrored his uncertainty.

Finally, the Frenchman spoke, his voice thick with caution and weighed down by uncertainty. “I understand your plight, sir. Truly, I do. But our nation is in turmoil, and our supply lines are stretched thin. France teeters on the edge of disaster, on the verge of revolution. It wasn’t so long ago that Paris stood as its own city-state—it could very well return to that state.”

The Scotsman breathed deeply, glancing toward the storm visible through the tent flap. “So, the war must end?”

“For us, yes,” the Frenchman admitted, stepping closer to the table cluttered with maps and tools. “Paris is on the brink of an epidemic. The nobles are restless, demanding peace and stability. They are content to abandon Scotland.”

MacTavish met the Frenchman’s gaze, a smirk tugging at his lips. “We do have the Irish—united because of us.”

The Frenchman nodded slightly. “Oui, the Irish have rallied to your cause. But their strength dwindles. You know it, and I know it. Ireland is a beaten dog, barely holding on. It’s not enough to turn the tide of this war.”

“Captain MacTavish!” an Irishman’s voice called from outside, interrupting the conversation.

“Aye! Lad, come in!” MacTavish shouted back, his eyes never leaving the Frenchman in front of him.

Through the tent flaps stepped the Irishman who had helped the exhausted Scot moments earlier, his face grim. He slipped past the Frenchmen, saluted MacTavish, and spoke urgently.

“Sir, there’s a soldier from the battle by the river! He looks to be the sole survivor.”

“A survivor, ye say? Bring him here,” MacTavish ordered.

“He’s incredibly tired, sir.”

“Bring him!” MacTavish snapped.

The Irishman rushed out, leaving the tension behind. The Frenchmen exchanged uneasy glances as the wind blew through the tent, and the storm brewed darker.

Moments later, the Irishman returned, guiding a bloodied, battered Scotsman inside. Sweat dripped from his brow, bile clinging to his lips.

“Sir, here he is!” the Irishman announced.

“Good lord,” muttered the French leader, eyes wide.

The Scotsman squinted. “Wait… don’t I know you? I’ve seen you before.”

“Silence!” The Frenchman barked, “This man needs rest!”

But the Scotsman pressed on, “I saw you... with the English! At the battle!”

The accusation hung in the air like the storm that loomed over them, thick with tension. Chaos erupted in the tent as swords and daggers were drawn in a flurry of tension. The Scotsmen and their Irish allies stood ready, their weapons gleaming under the dim light as the French cavalry instinctively reached for their own blades, their faces hardened with sudden resolve. The storm outside mirrored the conflict inside, thunder crashing as if to punctuate the rising hostility. Rain began to pour in earnest, drumming against the tent, while the wind howled like a battle cry.

Death hung in the air.