Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

[Theodotos I]

Prelude: What Went Before

[Theodotos I]

Prologue: Dawn of Destiny

I turned the blade over in my hands, a thrill surging through my veins. It was hardly the first time in my life that I had seen a sword, though scarce thirteen winters had passed since my birth. But a sword was the weapon of a king, of a chieftain. I, Ewan of Clan MacDougall, was neither. I was a peasant, the widow's son, as the chieftain knew me. No man knew my name. One day they would. But, as I knelt there, my bare knees cushioned by the cool earth of the furrow, I knew nothing of this. The future was a dark mist, hiding the path from my eyes.
All I knew then was the spell of the sword—a magical weapon such as I had never seen before. It took both my hands and all of my strength to lift it, a long blade as tall as I was then, a stripling of thirteen.
Where had it come from? The question flashed unbidden to my mind and I glanced furtively through the morning mist, as though I expected to see its owner staring sternly upon me.
There was no one there. I was alone, alone there upon the moor, the only witness the cow staring placidly at me six feet away.
The sword I held in my hands was no common weapon, nothing like the clansman's sword of my father, the blade which still hung above the entrance to our hut on the glen. This was the sword of a noble, of a king. . .
How long I knelt there, I know not. By the time I remember, the sun was shining over the highlands to the north, glinting off the blade I held. I lifted it up, brushing its edge carefully with my finger to clean off the dirt that encrusted it.
What to do? I knew not then, I know not now what I would have done differently. From the moment I saw it, I knew I could not give it up. And I knew I would never be the same again.
I rose to my feet with a sigh, making my way to a small cave near the Devil's Tor, an elevation rising above the surrounding plain. Looking back, I'm sure I made a comic figure, the gaunt youth carrying a colossal sword, glancing from left to right as though searching for an antagonist. Yea, but there was little amusing in the situation to me then.
Little has been amusing to me in the years since, either. Fate has woven a twisted road for this son of the clans. Fate—and a sword. . .

[Legosoldier]

hooray, a continuation!

Good luck with this story Theodotos, I hope it would be as great or even better than the last one!

[Joszen1]

Can't wait to see what this one holds! Since this is on the EB guild sub-forum, might I ask which TW and/or mod you are using?

[Theodotos I]

It's actually on the Mead Hall, so it MTW2, with the Kingdom of the Scots mod. I'll be updating a few minutes.

[Theodotos I]

Chapter I: Because of a Woman

The years passed swiftly as I grew to manhood, the gawky gaunt form of the youth exchanged for the hard body of the man. And peace came slowly to the Highlands. One by one, representatives from the surrounding clans came to the village of our chieftain, Duncan MacDougall, suing for peace at any price. And a price they paid. The clans of Mackenzie and MacLeod humbled themselves before Duncan, though the truce with MacLeod was fragile and soon to be broken again. Even a fair daughter of the Norse appeared one day, seeking an end to the conflict between us. The thrashing we gave to their fleet in my sixteenth year taught them a lesson they were not quick to forget.
I left the sword in its hiding place near the Devil's Tor, hidden from all eyes except my own, and those were fastened upon it on a daily basis. The spell the blade had cast on that long-ago misty morn still held me fast in its grasp. But its use was for the future. For now—I took down my father's sword from it's place over the door and learned its use, feinting in mock sword-bouts with the young men of the village. Regardless the training, peace had come to the glens, to the small village I called my home. And despite the ferocity of highland winter, the despair of a crop that failed, despite all these life was good, the best my people had known in long years. And deep within us was the knowledge, the certitude that such an idyll could not last.
The people to the south, the English, were stirring—no one knew which way their swords might be pointed next. And our brothers, the clansmen between us and Comyn, were equally unpredictable. Yet when war came, it was unexpected, coming upon us like the lightning-bolt of of the clear sky of summer.
It all began because of a woman.
I was on the village green when the news came, a heavy wooden sword in my hand, fashioned by the smithy to approximate the weight of a clansman's blade. I held it back toward my head, parrying a sharp blow. Recovering, I gave ground, looking across into the laughing eyes of Finbar MacDougall, a boyhood friend and second cousin of mine.
“Ewan!” He called cheerfully. “You are slipping.”
I heard girlish laughter from the side of the green and flushed red-hot, knowing from whence it came. When he came toward me again I advanced to meet him, taking the sword in both hands and swinging it round in an arc—just like I would have handled the longsword of yore. I heard a smash and then a crack as wood slapped against wood, beating down his guard. Finbar's eyes opened wide, his mock sword snapping in twain. Before he could react, I had shoved the wooden tip against his throat. My eyes locked with his down the length of the sword, a smile of triumph crossing my face. “Surrender, my enemy?”
Finbar laughed, nodding carelessly. I shoved the wooden sword back into my belt, slapping him on the back. “Who did you say was slipping, my friend?”
His only reply was an ironic shake of the head, as we turned and walked together to the edge of the green, where a small group of the village girls had gathered.
All at once I stopped, my ears pricking up at the sound. I grasped Finbar by the shoulder, hissing, “Listen!”
The hoofbeats of a horse thundered down the dusty summer road toward us, a lone rider reining up before the green. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my uncle, a look of worry on his face, coming toward us.
The rider dismounted, offering a sweaty hand to my uncle, the head man of the village. It was to him that any message must be given.
I pressed closer to hear whatever news had brought this stranger to our hamlet, and feeling movement at my side, I looked to find Finbar doing the same.
“. . .Duncan is calling the clansmen together to Dunstaffnage,” I heard the messenger say. “We sail for Jura at the end of the month.”
“Jura? Is that not the isle of Angus MacLean and his clans?” My uncle asked.
“Yea,” the messenger nodded. “We march against the MacLeans, with the hopes of taking Lagg.”
“Why? It has been years since the war.”
“A matter with Duncan's son Ewan. Apparently the young fool fell in love during a visit to Jura—with the daughter of Angus. She was denied him and he has succeeded in stirring up his father to avenge the insult.”
“Madness,” my uncle whispered. “The clansmen of Angus MacLean must number nigh a thousand men on Jura alone.”
I could see from the look in the messenger's eye that he agreed with my uncle's assessment, but declaring so was impolitic. “It is the wish of Duncan,” he replied stolidly. “Shall I tell him you wish to remain in your fields?”
Fire flashed red-hot across my uncle's visage. “Nay, we will be there. Every man that can carry a sword will be there—to avenge ourselves upon the Clan MacLean.”

[Ludens]

I am glad to see you back to writing, Theodotos. Please continue with this tale.

[Theodotos I]

Thanks to all, both old friends and new. I will try to post up another chapter early next week, so keep watching--the best is yet to come.

[Theodotos I]

Chapter IV: The Price

Arrows flew fast and thick among our ranks as the MacLean archers plied their bows against us, undeterred by the pounding rain. It was as though God in heaven was attempting to wash away the blood as fast as we could spill it. A futile effort. I saw a neighbor fall, an arrow protruding from his chest as he sagged forward into the muddy sod.

My arms were tired, more tired than they had ever been in my life, but I fought on, struggling to raise the sword for each successive blow. There was nothing else to do. I caught the blow of a MacLean axe on my buckler and twisted it away from my body, driving deep beneath his guard with my sword. His mouth opened as though he were about to say something, but no words came out, at least none that I could understand. A curse upon me, a prayer to God above, a plea for mercy—I would never know. The words died with him.

The death of the chieftain's son seemed to endue our highlanders with even greater strength, greater fury. We pushed on until the clansmen of MacLean broke before us, several bands turning and running into town. Several of my fellow villagers started to pursue, but my uncle's voice rang out strong and clear above the din of the battle, ordering us back into position.
Our line turned, swinging upon the embattled right flank of our army, where Duncan stood with his guards, fighting viciously against the enemy.

The MacLeans did not realize their danger until too late as our clansmen charged down upon their rear, pinning them between our two forces.
I was at my uncle's side as the forces collided. He had been wounded and his garments were stained red with blood but there was no slowness in his step, no sign of weakness as we met the MacLeans sword against sword.
Our clansmen against theirs, our leader against theirs. My uncle laid his hand on my shoulder, pointing out a tall warrior among the enemy's ranks. “Angus!” he hissed.
We closed in around the MacLean chieftain, wolves baying for his blood. There was one thing uppermost in the minds of all of us. Revenge. Revenge the son of Duncan. . .
Duncan closed with Angus, chieftain against chieftain. I could see our leader from a distance, see the tears mingling with blood and sweat, running in dirty rivulets down his face.
One of his bodyguards stepped in, claymore drawn back. Everything seemed to move as though in a dream. I saw the blade descend upon the shoulder of Angus, breaking the shoulderblade with its weight.The MacLean chieftain screamed, falling to the ground.

The bodyguard drew back the sword once again, the blood-wet blade descending one final time. And Duncan was avenged. . .

The fallen chieftain's clansmen broke at the sight, fleeing back into the town. Duncan followed and we pursued, entering the village right on the heels of the fleeing foe.
Duncan fought like a man possessed, hacking down the enemy as we ran through the village.

None did he spare in his wrath—I saw his blade descend upon a young woman running for shelter across the village street. Her scream echoed across the square, above the clamor of the battle, haunting me with its anguished intensity. There was no quarter, not here, not now. Those that tried to surrender were slain where they knelt.
Vicious fighting erupted once more around the village green as the MacLeans came slowly to the realization that this was no ordinary battle. For them, this was a fight to the death.
Yet to no avail. Their warriors fell one by one, until only two remained, the last defenders of Lagg.

They parried our every sword-slash as we surrounded them. My uncle, gashed in a hundred places by the blades of the enemy, stepped forward to meet them, matching blow for blow. I saw it in his eyes then, an indefinable courage, a fearless defiance.
Courage was of no use on this day. And all the courage in the world could not have saved my uncle. His fellow clansmen rushed forward to help him, but it was too late. The enemy warrior rushed deftly beneath my uncle's guard and ran him through the belly. I saw him collapse, too far away to help, an anguished cry breaking forth from my lips as I saw my father's brother fall to the street, wallowing in his own blood. Dying. . .
Our highlanders closed in then, fighting over the body of their dying clansman. And the two defenders of Lagg paid the price for their deeds. For their defense of their town.

The battle was over—we were triumphant. Dear God, what triumph? All around me, clansmen fell to their knees, loud cries reaching to the heavens as they praised God for their victory.
The price of victory.
I dropped down beside my uncle's body, my tears wetting the earth. He looked up into my eyes, faint strength still lighting his visage.
“Fare thee well, Ewan. Fare thee well, and Godspeed you, boy. . .”
And the light died in his eyes, his spirit passing from this life to the next. God rest his soul, I thought, clasping his lifeless hands in my own.
Duncan came striding onto the green, the darkness of his face unmatched by the clouds in the firmament above. “Rise, my brothers of MacDougall! Rise and slay. Let no one be left alive. Avenge my son!”

I rose slowly, my sword still in my hand, gazing about as though unsure of his meaning. And I saw my clansmen begin to move between the houses, entering them at will. I heard screams of women and children dying. And I realized the horror had only just begun. . .

[Theodotos I]

Chapter V: Memory's Eye

Wailing. Screams. Cries of terror and agony, children crying out, their pleas cut short by the edge of the sword. I shot bolt upright in bed, a cold sweat soaking my shirt, the memories flooding through my mind. Memories of Lagg. Memories of slaughter. Devastation.
It had been well nigh a month since we had returned from the isle of Jura, a month since that horrible day. If I shut my eyes, I could still see them.
I rose and dressed, moving quietly so as not to disturb my mother, who slept on the other side of the partition in the small hut we called our home. I slipped carefully from the house, leaving the latch-string out. Where I was going, I knew not. Somewhere, anywhere, a place to flee the memories that haunted me.
The moon was full, shining an eerie light down upon the small village I called home. Mourning had come to the village, for not only had my uncle died but many others of the clan, many good men.
And so I walked, on through the night, aimlessly and yet with purpose, I knew not what. On and on, across the hills.
At length, I found myself near the Devil's Tor, its craggy height silhouetted by the moonbeams, a haunting spectacle. I fell to my knees near its base, my hands peeling away the rocks I had placed there so many years ago. A hollow emerged, shadowed by the darkness of night.
I reached within, my fingers encountering cloth, the remnants of an old cloak in which I had wrapped the sword.
I unwrapped the glistening blade, held it aloft. The years of work since my boyhood had strengthened me, and I could lift the sword in one hand, the weight bespeaking might. Power.
The same power that had caused carnage at Lagg. I heard a gasp from behind me and whirled, the blade still in my hand, my nerves frayed and on edge from the month of sleepless nights, reliving the horror.
The figure of a young woman stood behind me, her hand raised to her mouth to stifle the gasp of surprise. My sword lowered, I grasped her by the arm, drawing her forth into the moonlight.
“Marion!” I exclaimed, my own surprise showing itself. “What are you doing here?”
I had not spoken with her since our departure for Jura, nay indeed, since my boyish fancy had lighted upon her during the sword-bout on the green.
She turned away, her bright eyes shadowed. “I used to come here with my father,” she replied, choking back a sob.
I closed my eyes briefly, calling back the memories, though pain flooded through me with each fresh image. And I remembered.
Her father. One of the strongest men in the village. And one of the kindest. He had smiled upon my attentions to his daughter with an indulgence few fathers would show.
He had died scarce five minutes following the first charge of Angus MacLean on the outskirts of Lagg.
Died wallowing in his own blood. For what?
I laid the ancient longsword to the side, leaning it against the rocks and moved forward, placing my hands on her shoulders.
She leaned back, pillowing her head on my chest as I wrapped my arms around her waist. I could feel the tears running unbidden down her cheeks, the outpouring of a heart full of sorrow. I wanted to say something to comfort her grief, but my lips refused to form the words, helpless in my own sorrow and fury.
I would never know how long we were there, how long her body shook with silent sobs, how long her tears fell upon my hands as I held her close in the moonlight.
When the sun arose, the first rays of light dawning across the hills of purple, we were still there, the same as before, save that she had fallen asleep in my arms. I bent forward, my eyes sorrowful as my lips grazed her cheek. “Never,” I whispered, resolve steeling my voice. “No will hurt you—ever again. I will see to it.”
It would take me years to realize just how vain that promise had been. Vain and empty as the wind blowing across the heather. To memory's eye all is vanity. . .

[Theodotos I]

Chapter VI: John MacCoul

Springtime, summer, harvest. The cycles of life continued in my village, but not without change. Men who had planted their crops in the spring were no longer there in fall to reap the harvest. Barley rotted in the fields as starving widows struggled with their wee bairns to bring in the grain. By the time I had finished with our field, my hands were covered with blisters from swinging the scythe. But we were the lucky ones.
I left and went to the fields of young Marion McCann and her mother. Her father had been prosperous in his life and planted much grain—before Lagg.
The days passed as I wrapped my hands in cloth ripped from Marion's petticoats, struggling to protect the blisters. It was of no use, but the grain began flowing into their barn. It would be enough to survive the coming winter. I hoped.
It was in the afternoon, a week after I had come to work with the McCanns. I was in the field, wiping sweat from my brow as I prepared to wrap another sheaf of barley. The sun beat down with a fervent heat as I struggled with the stalks of barley.
Marion materialized at my elbow, a pitcher of water in her hand. I sat down on a rock as she handed me the dipper.
“I want to thank you for helping us, Ewan,” she whispered, looking out over the fields. “I don't know how we could have managed without your help.”
“I'm sure someone else would have offered,” I replied with a smile, draining the dipper. A sigh escaped my lips as the cool water slid down my parched throat. “Finbar, perhaps?”
She flushed, laughing as she refilled the dipper and handed it back to me. “You hadn't heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Of Finbar. He left three months ago.”
I looked at her strangely. “No. I knew that I had not seen him during the harvest—but I assumed. . .Where did he go?”
“South. To join the clansmen of John MacCoul.”
I nodded in understanding. John MacCoul was the new son-in-law of Duncan MacDougall.

“Why?”
She smiled. “I don't know. He didn't tell me that.”
And then she was gone, running lightly over the barley stubble back to the rude house she called her home. I watched her go, shaking my head at the news.
Finbar, with John MacCoul. Would wonders never cease?
They never would. That evening, I sat at the bare wooden table with Marion and her mother, dipping barley bread in a weak pottage. They needed this harvest, I realized with fresh intensity. It was the line between themselves and starvation.
Hoofbeats in the distance, then closer, an ominous thunder. I glanced first at Marion and then at her mother. “Expecting someone?”
Both women shook their heads in the negative. I rose from my seat and crossed the dirt floor, nearly tripping over a chicken in my path. My sword was by the door and I drew it from its sheath.
“Hello the house!” A cheery voice rang without. I smiled, dropping the sword and pulling open the latch-string. “Finbar!”
His back was toward me as he dismounted and he turned, as though not believing his ears. “Ewan!” he exclaimed, forcing a smile to his face. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping with the harvest,” I replied with a grin. “What tidings do you bear from John MacCoul?”
“I come from the Isle of Arran,” he retorted, still breathless from his ride.
My brow furrowed as I stood in the doorway, puzzled by his statement. Movement at my shoulder and I half-turned to find Marion standing there. “Ask our friend in, Ewan,” she instructed softly. “We have enough.”
“Yes,” I assented, far from wanting to obey her request. “Won't you come in and join us for supper, Finbar?” I invited, though I knew the look in my eyes was far from inviting.
My old playmate didn't seem to notice, striding into the house and bidding hello to Marion and his mother as though entirely familiar with his surroundings. “Arran?” I asked. “Are those not the holdings of the Hamiltons, Alexander and his sons.”
“Were, my brother,” he responded with a grin, washing his hands in a basin of water Marion held out to him. “Alexander Hamilton is dead.”
“Why?”
“Their merchants were cheating our people in the lowlands, charging high prices for their grain, just because they knew we had none. So we struck.”
“You struck?” I asked, still struggling to grasp the enormity of what he was saying.
“Yes, yes, brother,” he replied impatiently. “John MacCoul led a force of well-nigh six hundred clansmen to attack the Hamiltons. It was glorious.”

“And?” I asked.
“And we won,” he replied. “I didn't come skulking in here like a whipped pup, did I? Arran is in our hands. The Hamiltons have bowed the kneee to Duncan.”

“Duncan approved of this action of MacCoul's?”
Finbar looked across the room at me in disbelief. “Approve? It was Duncan's plan. . .”

[VAE VICTUS]

It's flipping dead. Curses.


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