A pile of kilts litter the blood soaked ground. Here and there you see such piles scattered across the field and it makes for an easy accounting as to what Clans went into the fray from which vantage point.
Imagine the sight of it, wild hoards of Scots flooding onto the field of honor, stripping their kilts from themselves to give more freedom in battle. Each clan stands together in Gaelic tradition and therefore a pile of kilts bearing the tartan of the clan materializes upon the ground.
Wild eyed Scots roam the fields still seething with the battle rage. Dispatching wounded foes without mercy, the blood crusted and half naked warriors scour the field of battle for weaponry and armor of fallen enemies. Fierce warriors and hard hearted men are these clansmen.
As the battle light begins to fade from their near glowing eyes, they meet back at the piles of their kilts and dress once again in the tartans of their families. Glancing about them nervously, they dress quickly and leave the field in haste. Hearts pounding now, even more so than when engulfed in the fray of battle, they steal silent glances into every shadow and scurry quickly away into the receding light.
In the quiet of nightfall, a maddening howl splits the night and even the fiercest of warriors feels the hair stand on the back of his neck. Their pace quickens and then they are actually running from the blood-soaked field.
A single warrior riding a huge war-horse is silhouetted against the darkening sky. Blood drips from his face and rivulets of scarlet cascade down his thick chest. His arms sticky with the gore of fallen foes, he leans back his head and a terrible howl emits from his throat.
His horse prances nervously, still not used to this horrendous beast it bears upon its back, even after years of battling together, in the night of the aftermath the horse quakes with fear, even though it knows it is no actual danger. The horses Master slides from the back of his mount and the horse prances nervously away.
Screaming like the banshee, the horrific warrior prowls off into the night. In the darkness, ripping and tearing sounds fill the night. Occasionally, some poor wounded soul screams out a shrill death cry into the darkness as the beast descends upon him.
That is why the Scots kill the wounded, not from hate, but from mercy. Those that played dead and escaped them, writhe in agony through the night until the horrible fate pounces upon them and oh, how they wish for that quick death they cheated themselves from.
Bones crunch, flesh tears, shrill screams peal into the night and terror reigns. Miles away, the battle hardened Scots sit around huge roaring campfires and pray for their safety. Sickened by the knowledge of what is befalling their enemies, the grizzled warriors are thankful to be away from the carnage of their leaders post battle feast.
©2006 J.L. Day
