Call of War

Thunderous, beast-like roars echo across the landscape, creating a terrifying symphony—a war ensemble. The Celts unleash their battle cry deep within the forest, blowing their horns and igniting a primal fear within their enemies. What instils this fear of the unknown? Who are they? How many are there? Where are they? The beastly trumpets continue to sound.

An eerie silence lingered over the meadows after the last call echoed out. They let down the horns, and since then, not a sound had been made. The foreign army on the hill kept a watchful eye, scanning the front of the forest for any signs of activity. After what felt like hours, the silence was shattered by the whisper of an arrow flying through the air. Blood erupted from a gaping wound as one unfortunate soldier became the first victim of the impending conflict. The leader of the foreign army gestured for everyone to take cover and prepare for retaliation.

It was a brutal start to an even more brutal afternoon on the thick, wet, and pungent marsh floor of wild, barbaric Britannica. The Romans had faced many fierce battles with the Celts, but never anything quite like this. The Celts displayed a haunting presence that sent shivers down the spines of even the toughest warriors in the Roman cavalry.

A solitary crow glides majestically in the sky, its glossy black feathers shimmering as it loops and dives, casting a shadow over the assembled army below. With a powerful beat of its wings, it descends swiftly, a harbinger of fate, before disappearing into the thick embrace of the ancient forest. The Morrigan, a figure of mystery and power, lingers in the air, her presence woven into the fabric of destiny that surrounds the warriors.

The Morrigan, a warrior of the woods, whispered. The Celts had hidden among the trees, well camouflaged, but they were few. One might mistake the woods for being empty if not for their horn trumpets and shooting arrows.

The Romans, on the other hand, were numerous, their armour creating a god-like semblance, and their weapons unmatched by their opponents. They knew they could defeat them, even though the Celts' strategy had secretly impressed them. The hidden army continued to fire arrows at the Romans. The Romans moved forward, shielding many of the blows as they did so.

"The Morrigan was a bad omen for us", one whimpered. "No, not for us," said another warrior. "This is our land, and she knows it; she is our god", he said with pride.

As the Roman cavalry drew near, several men in the trees continued to fire arrows while the rest of the Celtic tribe moved deeper into the forest for their next strategy.

The arrows took down a few men from the Roman side, but hundreds remained. Deeper and deeper the Celts receded into the woods. A thick fog hung in the air on the perimeter of the woodland. The atmosphere was on their side. The silent lurkers high in the great oak trees poised and ready. The Dampness and darkness engulfed the Romans as they entered the forest.

All was quiet in the forest. There were no more arrows, and not a single barbarian could be seen. Something didn’t feel right; every part of their being told them this battle was not going their way. Until now, every war with the Celts had been easy. This one was different.

The men in the trees blended well with their surroundings. They remained still and crouched within the crevices of the trees, waiting for their turn once again. The Romans remained still, which felt like the wisest choice. Little did they know they made the wrong move by entering the forest.

Ahead of them, many Celtic soldiers lay in wait. All around, the trees concealed hidden enemies ready to pounce. Behind them, a horde of Celts from various tribes travelled by chariot. The Roman army was unaware that they were being ambushed. The Celts were giving their all in this battle.

The realisation hit the Romans that they had made a significant mistake by entering the forest. The chariots behind were closing in. Arrows suddenly shot from above. A whole line of soldiers dropped. The enemy fired back into trees that did not expose their shooter. More arrows flew from ahead in the forest while wild shouts echoed from behind. What was happening? The Roman army was still formidable, but the Celtic tribes were holding strong and had not lost any soldiers yet.

The visibility was poor, and the weather was a huge contributing factor to this. The woods were so dark that you couldn't see the shooters who were deeper in the forest. The men on the chariots at the outskirts of the forest had ploughed through most of the army, sending more troops into the woods to seek shelter, only to be shot down by arrows as they entered. The remaining army was depleting rapidly. It was not looking good for the Romans. This was unheard of.

The leader and a group of 100 men withdrew deeper into the forest, taking down a few stragglers among the Celts who crossed their path. Eventually, they arrived at a clearing in the woods and stopped. The sunlight bathed the area in brightness, and they remained still, listening intently. Suddenly, a voice called out in a language they could not understand, though its owner was unseen at first. Gradually, a man appeared before them. His body was adorned with painted symbols, and he wore a kilt. His long, unkempt hair contrasted with the proud demeanour he exhibited as he bore a sword at his side.

All around them, more and more faces emerged from the forest. They found themselves surrounded. The Romans refused to back down. The last battle was fierce and brutally gruesome as their groups clashed head-to-head, but the Celts emerged victorious.

The Celts fought fiercely that day, knowing they had everything to lose—their land, their tribes, and their families were at stake. They needed to be clever, and their ingenuity paid off. Typically, Roman armies consisted of thousands to tens of thousands of soldiers, which was a significant miscalculation on that day. The Romans had only 1,500 troops but did not anticipate that so many tribes would unite against them.

The remaining tribes returned home, bringing prisoners with them from the defeated ones on the battlefield. The celebrations were grand, and the tribes remained hopeful for their future. They cleaned off their weapons. The battleground was still a ghastly sight, and there, within the forest on a pile of leaf litter, lay a single carnyx, the significant symbol of their victory.

The carnyx lay there. It was never picked back up by its victors. Perhaps they forgot, perhaps the person holding it had been killed in battle, or perhaps it just got tossed and lost amongst the rubble for a while.

Many eons later and after many battles won and lost, the landscape eventually changed. What was once a forest became a field and a marshy bog. “James, watch your step, mate! Look in front of you; there’s a big drop or something!” Kevin shouted. “Oh, yeah, I see it! Thanks, bro! Lucky I didn’t go down there, haha,” James replied. “Hey, I think I see something down there!” he called back to Kevin. Down in the layers of earth, a brass knob of some sort was poking out. James slid down into the narrow ditch, which was damp and had a thick, earthy smell. Kevin wasn’t far behind; he slid down after James.

Two boys were being adventurous, as they often did, but what they found was a thousands-of-years-old object waiting to be rediscovered. "Oh wow! Let's get it out!" James exclaimed.

"Whoa, okay, it's big," he added.

"That's what she said," Kevin joked.

James disregarded the joke, focused on the task at hand, and continued digging in the mud because he knew this was something special. Together, they managed to unearth the object by digging around it and carefully pulling it out from the side.

It came out fully. "Woahh woah, what the helll is that?" Kevin exclaimed. It looks like some animal ornament or something, maybe" James said inquisitively. “Wait, there’s some kind of mouthpiece at the bottom,” James said. “Oh yeah!” Kevin replied. “Here, let’s clean it up in the stream down the way,” James suggested.

When they examined it, the object was shiny, and they could see all of the intricate details. It was in perfect condition. "Well, I definitely think it's some kind of horn," Kevin said. "Yeah, it seems to be," James replied. "I've never seen something like this before. Have you?" Kevin asked. "No, but I reckon we should donate it to a museum or keep it," James said with a laugh. "I want to try something," James added.

James held the instrument upright. It was heavy, but with some effort, he managed to steady it. He took the mouthpiece and blew into it, but no sound came out—it was clogged with dirt. The boys helped clean it out, and James was eager to hear what it would sound like. Determined, he tried again. This time, a sound emerged: a harsh, raspy note that thundered across the land just as it had many centuries ago, over the hills and through the forests. It let out one last hurrah, a final "last call."