Re: The Fall of Falkirk
Pyres over Argyle
Piles of coarse firewood, made wet by the morning dew, lay in twin rows alongside the Battlefield of Cairns. It seemed almost ironic to burns bodies in a place named for its burial stones, but Malcolm Argyle was too tired to care.
Malcolm trudged wearily between the funereal mounds and he could smell the aromatic pines dispersed into them. The scent stirred old memories of his grandfather’s funeral, when he was just a boy. Some still called him “boy,” but those people had not yet been put to the edge of his blade or the edge of his mind.
The Arms of Argyle marched from victory to victory in the name of their Lord Malcolm, but each battle bored him more and more. Death had not yet challenged him.
At the end of the pyre rows stood a mound twice as large as the rest and his father lay atop it. In death, Shylock Argyle looked nothing like the passionate man Malcolm knew. His father’s spirit had truly gone. Perhaps, the Registrar would issue the late Baron and his Knights a place of honor at his table. Perhaps, they would feast for eternity as heroes of Falkirk. Perhaps, they would…
Who cared? Who bloody cared? Perhaps, just perhaps, none of this mattered, thought Malcolm.
While the Falkirks fought against everything within sword’s reach the Marwolaeth claimed more lives under their iron-shod boots. They were losing… and losing was not supposed to be part of a Falkirk warlord’s vocabulary.
A rider galloped down the pyre rows and stopped a respectful distance from the Baron’s body. As the rider dismounted, Malcolm spoke, “Ashbury, Brittington, or Evorra?”
“I’m sorry, my lord, but what?” The rider shook the mist off his cloak and approached the bleary-eyed Argyle.
“From whence is your news, rider?”
The rider looked at Malcolm suspiciously, “Not a one of those, my lord. I have news from Dame Gabriela. Why would you expect news from the other Duchies?”
“No reason, friend. Just guessing,” Malcolm slurred. A gripping tiredness was overtaking him and the tranquility of the funereal site threatened to calm his spirit to sleep.
“My lord, my news is to be kept confidential. May I humbly request that you ask your healer to leave?”
Malcolm looked up at the rider as a sudden alarm filled him. He followed the rider’s gaze to a black-robed, hooded figure standing just to the side of his father’s pyre.
“That is not my healer. Summon my Knights. Hurry.”
The rider did not hesitate to mount his horse and thunder off to the nearby encampment.
“Your father’s Knights will not be needed, boy.”
Malcolm drew his sword. He knew that voice.
“Gavin Ross, you are a murderer and a villain. How dare you stand in the honored presence of the Baron of Argyle in disguise?”
Ross reached up slowly and lowered the hood. The appeared as sleepless as Malcolm felt. His eyes were sunken his features sagged, but there was a difference beyond age and over-exertion. Two black triangles, points down, were marked under Ross’ eyes.
“You speak of disguises, boy, but I see a lad in his father’s coronet pretending to be a Baron.”
“Why have you come here? Mockery could not be your only desire, but I would not put it against you.”
Ross looked up to the dead form of Shylock Argyle, “I knew your father very well, Malcolm. He was a fierce man. I fought by his aside several times even before we were both Barons. I wish he were alive so that I may make the offer to him, but you’ll do. Come with me.”
Malcolm’s confusion was apparent.
“Yes, boy, come with me. I have met the commander of the Marwolaeth and he is just. I have joined his army as a Knight of Tranquility. He will happily accept you as well. None of this world matters, Malcolm. Only death will give it meaning.”
Malcolm’s heart understood Ross’ words and he immediately felt guilty for knowing. It’s true he didn’t believe that the world deserved to live, but was this form of annihilation merited?
No. It wasn’t.
Death will give it meaning? No. The challenge of death will give it meaning.
Malcolm felt a stubborn pride within, a pride born of countless brushes with death only to emerge victorious again and again. If Death itself wished to sue for peace, then Malcolm Argyle would dog the coward himself and stab it in the night.
“No. My answer is no, Ross. Summon your master. Tell him that Malcolm Argyle is waiting for him.”
Ross nodded, “I was wrong about you, boy… I mean, Malcolm. You’ve got your father’s spirit after all.”
The sound of riders rumbled like Falkirk thunder and Malcolm looked down the way to see his Knights, lead by Sir Timothy Black, fast approaching. When he looked back to Ross, there was no one there.
“My Lord Argyle, are you alright?” Sir Black asked, dismounting his horse and drawing his sword.
“Yes, Timothy, I’m fine. The robed man is gone.”
“The messenger who alerted us passed on his news before he left and implored that we deliver it to you personally,” Sir Black pulled a letter from his belt pouch.
The seal was of Dame Gabriela Tolmie.
The message was that Sir Gavin Ross, Baron of Ross, Warlord of the North, was permanently slain by her hand.
Malcolm looked up at Sir Black, and then turned to his father’s pyre. He pulled a piece of flint from his pocket and struck it against his blade. The pitch caught ablaze and after only a few minutes the entire pyre was lit, pouring rich, pine smoke into the air.
“Strike the camp, Sir Black. Light the pyres. Send a messenger to RomWing for aid. We ride north within the hour and will need all the help we can muster.”