By
earliest dawn light he could see them, the ranks of men stretching
away before him in their neat and unfamiliar geometry. Officers, mounted
and on foot, waited with their companies; some with their arms folded
across their chests and half sneer hidden by their beards.
The
Northmen were only a mile away. There was coughing and foot shifting
among the soldiers, and they rippled like pond water, leaning forward,
falling back. It would be impossible for all of them to hear him, no
matter how strong his voice. He rode his horse slowly to the open space
in front of the line, and when he was certain most of them were
watching, he drew his sword and held it over his head.
"I am
Brian of Boruma!" he called to them, with all the power in his lungs. "I
am one of you!" He slid off the horse and stood before them on foot.
The horse, uncertain, drifted away and he made no effort to stop it.
There was a gasp in the ranks, and he turned to look behind him. A line
of men had come up over the horizon, a dark metallic band that advanced
steadily toward them across the plain, dividing to flow through woods
and around obstacles and then joining again, one inexorable mass that
was coming to crush the Irish forever.
Brian turned back to
face his army. The sun was just up now, its first pure light touching
his face and picking out the glinting copper threads in his hair.
"I am Brian of Boruma!" he cried again, filling his lungs with the
sweet morning air of Ireland. "I am going to die, but I am going to die a
free man! If you would be free also, come with me!"
He looked
to the side and gave the signal to the right wing to follow him. No one
moved. They stood transfixed, staring at the unbelievable numbers of
the Northmen who had now come to a halt a half mile away and were
drawing themselves into their battle formation.
He set his face
toward the enemy, lifted his chin, and began to march forward. He did
not look back to see if anyone followed. He heard nothing behind him.
The Vikings waited. Sunshine struck sparks from the metal on their
bodies; in their hands. They watched in eerie silence as Brian advanced
alone. He heard nothing behind him. His belly was hollowed by fear. His
guts cramped, anticipating the thrust of a sword. His whole body was
suddenly slippery with sweat. Salt rivulets ran down his forehead and
into his eyes, stinging him. In a few minutes he would die. But he had
to go forward. He heard... something... behind him.
The waiting
Northmen tensed, began to move about, Brian could see them shifting
their weapons and preparing for some sort of action. A shield wall was
raised, as if that was necessary to repel one lone warrior. But Brian
was no longer alone. He heard the tramp of feet behind him, the jingle
of bits and the rasp of swords being drawn, the slap of leather throwing
slings against open palms, the grunt as javelins were hefted and
balanced, the rustle and clatter and thunder of an army at his back. An
army carried forward by his courage, caught up in it like a net. An army
that was powerless to resist the tidal pull of his magnetism. An army,
beginning to chant something. "Brian of Boruma! Brian of Boruma!"
He felt them as a weight behind him, a wall at his back, a light
shining over his shoulder. The fear still gnawed his vitals, but a pulse
had begun to beat in his throat, stronger than the fear, stronger than
wine or the desire for women. "Brian Boru! Brian Boru!"
He
raised his sword above his head, willing the sunlight to enter it and
magnify its brilliance. He heard the men cheer. He heard the men
following him. "Brian Boru! Brian Boru! The flesh crawled on the back of
his neck. A love pounded through him; love for the mass of them, the
faceless unit and the individual man, a love so deep and total he felt
it transform him as he advanced. He could not be beaten now.
Following him, they felt it. Their common fear became a common rapture,
an exultation that made hearts race and eyes glitter. They were lifted
beyond themselves into something greater, something that seemed, at that
moment, immortal. "Brian Boru!" He had them now. They were with him
like the beats of his heart. "Boru! Boru!" One body of men---his body.
One will---his will. "Boru! Boru!" The chant at his back, building.
Their strength flooding through him, the wave of their devotion pouring
over him, carrying him forward on its crest.
"Boru!" Boru!"
They went forward together into the swords, into the axes, and nothing
could stop them. Nothing could defeat them. They were the Irish; they
were his men. They were Brian. "Boru! Boru! Boru!" And the Northmen fell
away before them like wheat from the scythe.
Posted in: Anti Zog Media,Editorial,Europe,Indo-European
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