Chapter Twelve – Just A Taste
Mahon headed towards the chaos of the front lines, his men following him in a constant dim of footfalls upon the earth. Ahead the cries of men locked in the heat of battle raged on unabated. Sounds of swords, maces and spears clanging against their opponent’s weapons, the cries of pain of the fallen and screams of the victorious rang out in a melody to the art of war. As he grew closer to the front lines, he could the faces of his opposition registering their upcoming arrival and most had the expression of shock as if they did not expect to be flanked.
Mahon smiled at this realization as the clang of metal greeted his ears from the meeting of his men and theirs just ahead.
A young man, no older then he would be somehow alluded his men and charged towards him, sword raised high. It glistened with the blood of fallen soldiers before him as did the young mans tunic. Mahon moved his sword with newfound grace, in a fluid motion that even he was surprised to see and in one silent slice, the young man would never raise another sword again. His right arm spiralled as if thrown into the crowd, blood spurting out of it in rhythmic spurts as his cries of pain soon echoed in Mahon’s ears. The young man dropped like a fallen tree, clutching what was once his elbow in an expression of shock and fear.
Mahon did not notice this, for he wheeled around to his right quickly to find three soldiers almost upon him. His blade found two of theirs in mid-swing; breaking them both in half. The third man swung his shield at him, hitting the hilt of his blade as wood met bone. It was enough to knock him off balance and crash into the mud below as two of his attackers started at their broken swords. Mahon realized that he did not have his sword, he must have lost it in the fall and been covered with mud! He frantically searched around for the blade as the third lunged towards him, sending his sword in a plunging motion to pin him right to the ground.
At the last second Mahon felt something metal against his fingers. He grabbed it quickly and threw it at the solider as he roared his battle cry, almost upon him. The piece of broken sword flew from Mahon’s hand and with a sickening squish, sunk itself between the attacker’s eyes. The roar that had emanated from his lips quickly died to a gurgle as his eyes instantly glassed over, his charge stopped in mid-stride before slowing falling to his side, completely shuffling his mortal coil by the time he hit the ground.
Mahon looked to see his well-placed shot, his hand finally finding the blade as his foe landed. He got up on one knee, still in amazement at what he had done. His skill with the blade, in battle, this must be what Creidhne meant when he said that the blade communicates with its wielder. It was as if the blade had nullified his one weakness, his one Achilles heel in this world. A feeling of confidence began to build within his soul, one that had rarely seen the light of day, one that would be unleashed by the actions proceeding this moment.
‘I know how to use this sword then I ever thought possible.’ he thought as he slowly rose.
“I can vanquish any foe that challenges Me.”, he said aloud as he finally stood up, but few heard as it was drowned out by the sound of battle.
“I will smite them all!”, he bellowed out as he raised the sword in front of him, the feeling of confidence, knowledge, and power all like electricity coursing through every part of his body. A grin formed on his face highlighted by the strike of lightening flashing nearby as he focused upon the soldiers that he had shattered their weapons. They had finally risen and had looked to be ready to charge him.
But not now.
Their expressions switched quickly from one of rage and bloodlust to one of shock and fear. Their complexion went pale; their feet looked to be almost rooted in place as if fear had frozen them. Mahon then heard a voice, whispering inside his mind, one that was vaguely familiar to him.
‘Taste their fear.’
‘They would have killed you if they were just a bit faster. They all would.’
‘Vanquish them.’
‘Claim your victory. Strike them down like harvest wheat and take what you deserve.’
It was different this time, more soothing, calming, more like a mentor or a close friend then the guttural voice that greeted Mahon before upon the beach. This time, he did not fear it. In fact, he expected it, welcomed its return almost like an old friend. He replied to it with one sentence.
“Yes. I shall.”
As the two soldiers started to find their feet, beginning to run from what they had just seen but it was too late. Mahon lunged ahead at almost inhuman speed, landing upon them in an instance as the blade sliced downwards in his wake. One of the soldiers had raised his shield to deflect the blow, but it was cleaved in two as if it was made of cloth. The shield-bearing soldier fell hard to the ground, seeing his partner run through as Mahon plunged his sword through his chest right to the hilt. Mahon kicked off his fallen prey, disregarding the spray of blood as his opponent fell, his sights already upon his next prey.
The shield-bearing soldier turned himself over upon his back, his chest aching from landing upon the broken shield, his head from landing upon the ground. As he turned he saw Mahon standing over him. He whispered something illegible, his shaking hands frantically making the sign of the cross as Mahon plunged the blade down through his chest. As the shield-bearer felt his life splatter upon his armour, his assailant ripped the blade out of his punctured chest and let out an unearthly roar of triumph, the bloodlust of battle fully gripping him as his recent kill slowly faded from this world.
Mahon plunged into the heart of Mug’s army, felling the enemies’ forces like a scythe through grain. He could never remember just what possessed him during them. It was as if he was completely gripped within the throngs of battle, sensing what his opponents would do before even they knew their actions. As he continued to work his way closer to the centre he saw the leader of this army and his guards on a slight rise over the rest of the chaos below. Mug Nuada, the King of Munster was right now able to avoid the fray that raged below him, his guards vanquishing what little opposition made it to his hilltop. Mahon redoubled his efforts to head for the one man that would stop this battle, one way or another.
Mug looked towards the battle that his forces, while valiantly fighting the good fight, were slowly losing. He cursed Roibeard and the other treacherous leaders of the Northern nations for siding against him, and Conn for somehow finding a weakness against what was sure to be a secure location. His expression became as black as the sky as he saw his flank being attacked from across the river.
And then something unusual happened. What looked to be their champion was ploughing through his men with little resistance, heading towards his temporary keep. He gestured to his guards at this newest threat, ordering them to take care of it with only a glance. They nodded and slowly advanced to the perimeter, their swords drawn, ready for battle.
Mahon crashed into them like a wave against a sandbank, knocking back two of the guards with his latest victims body as he kicked it out of the way, while fluidly turning to deliver a hard chop to the closest guard, decapitating him swiftly before he could even parry the blow. The only standing guard left looked at the headless corpse standing there as if by sheer willpower, then turned back to this aggressor; raising his sword just in time to parry a well delivered blow. The hit bent the guard’s sword slightly, but glanced off harmlessly to the side. Mahon quickly glanced to his right, seeing that the two guards he had knocked over in his charge were getting to their feet. Mahon shot a quick thrust of the hilt towards the standing guard’s face, the metal of the hilt making a fierce crunching sound against the brittle bone of the bridge of his opponent’s nose. His quarry stopped in mid thrust, his blade being only inches from Mahon’s liver as his nostrils flowed forth with blood from the recent wound. He took the sword and thrusted the blade behind him, the sound of metal sliding into the soft guts of one of the two guards left greeted his ears.
But the second guard, being much closer then Mahon had anticipated , landed a hard blow with his mace against his left shoulder, the sound of bone breaking against the metal head of the mace preceded the blinding scream of pain that bombarded Mahon’s brain. He fell foreword, left side first, as he held out his right hand to brace the impact. Mahon crashed into the ground, the mud below spurting out on all sides from under his body. He took his right hand, wiping off the mud from his eyes as he realized that he was unable to feel his left arm, the blow having dis-located it from his shoulder. A bolt of lighting illuminated a large shadow directly behind him and he realized that it was the last guard, and he was about to deliver a finishing blow! He turned to his right just as the mace crashed into the soft mud, making a splattering sound and sending mud into his attacker’s eyes.
He looked to see that his sword was now serving as a marker to where his latest victim lay, the blade sticking straight up from the mans stomach. His attacker continued to swing madly at air, cursing profusely as he tried to clear his vision. Mahon cursed; it was too far to run to obtain the sword from his previous victim, and his attacker while blinded, was still armed. In a flash, Mahon kicked his attacker hard, landing a solid blow on the side of his knee as a loud pop told both attacker and prey that he would not be standing on it for quite some time. The guard roared in pain, crashing hard to the ground with a hard crunch. Mahon looked to see that he had landed against a rock buried in the mud forehead first, his blood mixing with the mud in a putrid burgundy soup.
Mahon whipped the mud from his brow as he up to the slight hill where Mug now stood. With a slight grimace and a shout of pain, he ran his shoulder into the nearest tree, the sound of bone popping into socket being loudly heard. He walked over to his victim holding his sword upright for him, his blood starting to run as the rain started to come down hard against his lifeless corpse. Mahon quickly pulled the blade out of its living sheath, drops of blood and bits of intestines followed the exit of the blade from the wound. He looked up at his last opponent, The King of Munster, Mug Nuada.
This would decide his fate, and end this in more ways then one.
Mahon smiled at that thought.
Mug grabbed his large metal shield and mace, his expression one of rage and annoyance as he watched who he believed was Lord Conn’s army defeat his, that he killed his best guards and now came for him. ‘Let this usurper come!’ he swore. ‘His army may win the day, but I will make sure he doesn’t relish the victory!’
Quickly Mahon advanced up towards Mug’s position, grabbing the blade for a downward slice as the rain began to come down almost in sheets. Mug raised his shield, almost as tall as a man, and blocked the hard blow with a loud clang. The blow was harder then Mug expected, throwing his counter-attack off balance as his mace shaved past Mahon’s forehead, the spikes grazing Mahon enough to cut him slightly. Mahon glared hard at his opponent, and with a roar kicked towards him swiftly, landing a hard blow against his left abdomen. Mug flew back a few feet, his shield flying off his forearm and crashing down the hill, his mace following suit in the other direction as he rolled into where his guard’s weapons were stored, lying against a tree at the top of the hill.
Mug raised himself up, shaking his head to remove the dizziness from his eyes. He heard Mahon advancing quickly, his footfalls against the soft earth growing louder. Mug grabbed a dagger close to his location and in one fluid motion turned and dove for his quarry, the dagger leading the charge. Mahon moved at the last second to dodge the surprise attack, but blade stuck him in the fleshy part of the hip; not deep, but enough to make a wide gash.
Mahon turned to see the cut, the blood slowly soaking the torn wet cloth, but instead of pain, a new sensation built within him. Rage, mindless rage consumed his mind fully. He swiftly grabbed Mug by the neck, lifting him off the ground with ease even though they were roughly the same size. Mug’s face wrinkled with the effort of freeing himself and trying to breathe, his face stating to go pale from the lack of blood being sent by Mahon’s strong grip on his throat. With a roar, Mahon threw him across Mug’s command compound as if he was a sack of potatoes, landing against the trunk of another thick tree.
Mug‘s crumpled body laid on the ground in a heap as he slowly moved to right himself. His head was spinning from the impact of bone against wood, his mind screaming in fear to run, escape from this….thing! He looked up to see Mahon standing over him, like an ominous obelisk as dark as night from the shadow cast by the lighting strike behind him. Only the massive blade held in his right hand and his long hair proved that it was a man, or at least the guise of the man. Mug could not speak, his mind gripped with fear for what he now saw. ‘No mortal thing could do what this has done, no mortal makes sounds like this’, his mind screamed at him constantly.
And then he noticed his eyes. Like the fires of Hell itself, they glowed with a red fire that destroyed Mug’s last reserve of courage. He yelled out to his attacker “What…..what manner of devil are you?!” the scent of fear thick in his voice.
Like coming to the end of a thick fog, Mug’s words pulled Mahon out of his state. The memories of what had happened over the past few moments all were clear to him, as if he had done everything himself, but again not by himself. Mug’s words flashed the one soldiers last actions squarely into view; his face of fear as if he had seen the devil himself, making the sign of the cross before Mahon had slain him. Was this man right? What has happened to him?
Mug looked at Mahon, confused as to his hesitation. He looked at his eyes and saw the red Hellish glow fade from them. ‘Perhaps the devil inside is losing the battle?’ Mug thought. He decided to take advantage of this momentarily lapse. He grabbed a fallen branch that was on the ground beside the tree and with all his might swung at Mahon’s hand that held the blade. As the branch neared its’ target, Mahon’s expression swiftly changed back, quickly moving out of the way of the blow.
Mug knew at that moment, that he would die.
As he began to cross himself, Mahon sliced through both his neck and most of the tree behind him in one swift spinning motion. The dis-jointed skull flopped upon the ground, its former owner’s look of fear permanently frozen upon its face. The rain suddenly stopped, as did the battle as everyone looked to see the large tree slowly plummet to the ground below, landing with a dry crack from its dead branches hitting the earth hard.
Mahon slowly walked over to Mug’s head, picking it up with his left hand by the hair and walked to the end of the hill. Both armies stared at this sight, wondering just what had happened atop the hill; who had won the battle. As he reached the end of the hill, he felt the bloodlust or whatever it was that had overtaken him slowly fading from him, like the ending of a dream. But as he looked at the head of his slain opponent, he knew it was not a dream. The petrified face staring back at him was all too real, it’s words beginning to ring louder in Mahon’s mind by the minute.
He lifted the head of Mug to the resounding cheers of Roibread and the armies led by him. As the cheers echoed against the northern cliffs, Mahon tossed the head into the crowd and roared, “Behold your new King!” His men chanted back in unison “All Hail King Conn!” chanting it over and over again with passion as only the victorious can do. Mahon raised the sword over his head to acknowledge the crowd, but his thoughts were not on the victory like he had planned, or the finishing of this test that he had followed into.
His mind kept playing Mug’s reaction to him, over and over in his mind it played like a bad dream. ‘What manner of devil are you?’ he said. Had he been possessed? If so, had he lost his immortal soul? What exactly happened to him there that would drive a battle hardened veteran to be almost frozen in fear of me?
A bolt of lightening struck the sword as Mahon held it high, blinding Mahon’s sight to the glow of pure white everywhere. He did not fear it, unlike last time he had a good idea of exactly where he would end up. But the thoughts nagged him, like guilt at his heart.
He may have passed the tests that he had faced…but at what cost would it demand of him in the end?
