"Witches! Show yourselves and prepare to die! We will be avenged for the deaths of our kin! Come out and meet yur death!" Malcolm stood in front of the entrance to the cavern, his voice raised in a raspy command, his eyes wild with fury and challenge. "Ye have caused me and mine troubles enough! Your plot of fun and games has been revealed! Show yourselves and face my wrath!"
"Silence, oh silence oh great King of Scots. We come, anon, we come! What do we three humble servants of the crown, what harm do we cause ye?" The witches emerged from the cavern, the young, beautiful one leading the way, obviously chosen as the speaker for the group.
"Ye have caused the death of my father, my uncle, and now even my brother! You're meddlesome false prophecies will cease, and I shall be the one who has the power to stop you! Come and face me!"
"Our predictions are clear, oh great one. Fleance shall rule before his time, and you, oh great sovreign of Scotland, shall die afore the week is out. This is our predictions for you!" The young blond witch let out a horrific cackle and then vanished before the mens eyes, only to reappear behind them, her fist full of ashes. "A pox on the crown of Scotland! Yer blood will be strong for years to come, But ye shall fall finally to the blows of England! And the Scots shall ne'er again be free!" She cackled again and threw the ashes at Macduff. As they landed on his face and body, great boils and legions appeared. Macduff screamed in acute agony and he grasped for his face, only to catch more ashes upon his hands and bring them to his eyes. With horror, the soldiers watched as within seconds the boils burst open and were festering, blood and puss oozing out of the gaping pores on Macduff's face and eyes. "Kill me! For the love of all that have gone before! Kill me and have done with them!" The Macduff was thrashing on the ground, his entire body bleeding and festering. Malcolm loomed over his body with his sword drawn. "Kill me, damn you Malcolm! Kill me! And then let the little witches have it! Give me the mercy I would give you! ARRGHHHH!!" The Macduff screamed in pain and finally, able to bear it no longer, Malcolm sliced downward and cut his friend and cousin's head cleanly off his shoulders. Malcolm turned his eyes away in horror at the blood dripping from the wound and from his sword, but at Fleance's cry, he turned back. His eyes widened in astonishment as he watched the Macduff's body disintegrate and the ashes and dust rose up with a great wind to the air. "Shield yourselves! Stay away from the ashes of his body!" Avoiding the gusts of wind, the men also avoided being touched by ashes, for fear that they too would end in much the same way as the brave Macduff.
"Witches! You have caused me more pain and trouble than you are worth! Show yourselves, no more vicious lies and tricks to deceive my mind and my family!" Malcolm rose in full fury, raising his blood stained sword high above his head.
"Careful, oh great king, your fury will be your end. Face us yes, but not with a sword, for by no metal can we die, but by the fierce flames of justice forever we shall cry." Standing together in a group of three, the witches stood, laughing at Malcolm and his men. "Your body is weak, though you use your strength to prove it is not. Your time is lessening by the minute. Fight us now, but by the goddess Hecate, your life will be naught by gloaming (sunset)!"
Malcolm ordered the others to fall back, and be ready to retreat for their lives if necessary. Doffing his armor, he turned and faced the witches. "I am ready. I wish to choose who I may fight."
"You think us foolish enough to fight you in hand-to-hand? Surely, oh great Malcolm, but you jest. We are to meet you with power of the mind. My sister, she shall face you." With these words spoken, the oldest witch stepped forth from the shadows. The soldiers backed away in fear from her great ugliness, repulsed by the warts and wrinkles upon her face.
"Great King, Malcolm of the Scots," Her honeyed voice slowly gushed forth from her wrinkled throat, shocking and drawing closer the men of Malcolm's command. "Ye who are hailed near and far as having ended the reign of the bludgeoning King Macbeth. Ye come to seek our destruction. For what, I ask of ye. For having a bit of sport, like ye have with your goshawks and falcons, hunting the woods of Scotland with nigh regard fer the lives of those who live there. Should you then ask that we regard the worthless lives of those who have hunted our animal friends?"
"Worthless wench! Ruthless witch! Stray me no more from my deeds with your sweetened words! Face me, oh Witch! Ugly and cursed servant to Hecate! Face me, and have your fate sealed at last." Malcolm's face was ravaged with emotions of fury and inner pain.
"Sweet, gentle king. Calm yourself, your heart is not strong enough to deal with such excitement. Rest assured, my great king, ye will feel the pin pricks of pain moving sharply up your legs, into your torso and out over your arms. They are not enough to kill, but discomfit your haughty nature and furious face. Can you not feel the pains, moving through your body. Ahhh, yes. I can see you do. The pain will worsen with the time. Ahh. watch his face grow pale with pain and distress. Know this full well, your time is near, and you will die. The time until gloaming is short, as is the time till ye join your father and brother." The witch's soft spoken words drifted over the now hushed crowd. The soldiers watched in shock and horror as Malcolm dropped his weapons, and appeared to pale to ghostly white before all of their eyes. He dropped his drawn sword, and clutched at his arms and legs, his face was written with an agony many men had never seen before. His hands suddenly grasped at his chest in the region of his heart. Falling to his knees, Malcolm croaked out, "Cursed witch! Spawn of devil's hound! What affliction have ye sent upon me, that I be so ravaged?"
"Ye, Malcolm are cursed by your own weak will. And your own weak blood. Your body is no longer fit to rule, and you shall die! Suffer as your heart, the very beating of your life bursts beneath your hands and you die miserable and lonely!" Turning to the gathered men, the witch raised her hands to the sky and shouted, "Behold the horizon, young men! The gloaming time is here, and Malcolm, King of Scots is no more!" At her proclomation, Malcolm screamed in agony and his face burst with a flush of bright color and his eyes lit with a fierce torment, then closed as his body sunk to the ground. Beneath his hands a bright red stain emerged. Rushing to Malcolm's side and dragging him back from the glare of the witches, Fleance pulled back Malcolm's hand. Malcolm's heart cavity was truly visible, but no pieces of the heart were left. His heart had been exploded to pieces within his chest, and he had suffered no more.
Rising with a feral scream of vengeance, Fleance grabbed for the nearest soldier's sword and rushed at the oldest witch, slashing at her chest and throat, making contact swift and sure, her head falling to the ground at her feet. The witch walked around, grabbing at her now vacant shoulders before her body crumpled and vanished into the earth. Her head was taken and placed into a bag. "Burn it," came Fleance's simple command, and the bag was taken and thrown to a fire.
The remaining two witches howled in pain and threw themselves at Fleance, the young one clawing her nails at his face, thrashing in his grasp as he held her fast by her hair. "No more, witch, will you taunt me and mine! To your death I do leave you!" With that he threw her to the ground and stabbed his sword through her body. Slicing through her ribs again and again and with each thrust and parry her body was sliced into more and more pieces, scattered to the different edges of the battlefield. "Burn her body!" Came the shouted plea, and a thousand or so fire arrows were loosed into the still twitching body of the young witch. Fleance turned his savage gaze now to the final witch. Having much sense, she sank to her knees before him and begged for his mercy. "Mercy? Since when have you showed mercy to any of my kin? Why should I give mercy to you, witch?"
"My King Malcolm, The pieces that were given of my sisters and of the other bodies should appease the great HEcate for years to come. I was not instrumental, I but followed my sisters for fear of death. I shall go away and ne'er return. Send me away, banish me from your sight, and me and mine coven shall leave and ne'er torment the shores of Scotland again." She remained on her knees before Malcolm, her head bowed.
"Witch, my patience for killing has worn thin. You are right, Be gone from my sight, and your other witches with ye. May none of your blood or coven's soul ever curse the isle of Scotland again." Turning his back to the witch, Fleance faced the soldiers who had stood behind him all the while. "Soldiers of Scotland, let us journey home, for our women are awaiting our presence. Douse those fires and besure that the ashes are never seen again, lest we gain some power to the witches who remain there. Let it be known, that the remaining witch and her like shall no more return to Scotland, give her free passage away from our shores and our lives. Come, my friends, Let us away from this saddened place and be home at last." As the men were mounting up, the witch's voice was heard above the rest.
"Hail, Fleance! King of the Scots!" She walked boldly to Fleance's mount and placed the crown from Malcolm's head upon Fleance's. "Hail, Fleance! King of All Scotland! May your children reign supreme and forever!" With that spoken, the witch vanished, and all that was evident of her being there was gone. All that remained was Malcolm's rigid body and Fleance. Fleance astride his stallion, head fully crowned with the holy crown of Scotland. The men followed Fleance to Glamis, and the feasting began once again. For now and always, they knew, Scotland shall be free and shall no more fight within her own walls for peace.
LONG LIFE TO SCOTLAND, JEWEL OF THE ISLES!
Copyright 1999
