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Thread: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

  1. #31

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter XI: The Maiden’s Prophecy

    The sun rose brightly one morning three days later, its feeble rays doing little to warm the chill fall air surrounding us like the clammy hand of death. We were encamped almost four miles inland, in the plains below the citadel of Dunscaith, our blankets spread in the grass of the meadow. A pastoral, almost idyllic scene, broken only by the grim knowledge of why we had come to Skye. Father Colin read from the words of the psalmist at mass, translating Latin into English for the edification of the clansmen.
    He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leaded me in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me. . .
    Yet there in those green pastures, I feared evil—and I knew not why. Perhaps it was Marion’s vision, still churning through my own mind. Perhaps it was what I knew of Duncan, of his deeds in the past. Perhaps it was the perfidy of the Norsemen, of whom we had still seen no sign.
    About the third hour, a rider came galloping back into camp, his mount covered in foam, breathless from the extertion.
    “The MacLeods are approaching—they are sallying forth from Dunscaith. Prepare for battle!”
    Alarmed by his shouts, our clansmen broke camp, strapping on sword and buckler, dousing the flickering remnants of the morning’s fire.
    Chaos. Confusion as men scrambled back and forth, forming into rude battle lines out on the plain, Duncan moving hither and yon on his horse, dressing our ranks. The sun’s rays peeked over the ridgeline to our east, silhouetting the advancing host of the MacLeods. Their clansmen covered the ground, their green tartans against the heather, as many as the sands of the sea in number. I felt a chill run down my spine—surely we could never stand against so many.
    At length, apparently having decided he could do no more, Duncan rode back to join his bodyguards, dismounting and handing his steed to a young page, who took it back to the encampment. The only men remaining mounted were a light contingent of Border Horse, scarce fourteen in number, posted on the left to harass the enemy’s flank.
    I took my place in line, the clansmen from my village anchoring the right flank of our ragged line. I hefted my sword in my hand, wishing for the broadsword I had found as a boy. I had never used it in battle, but of a surety it was better than this.
    A man rode out from amongst the MacLeod’s, holding a white vesture affixed to a crooked wooden pole.
    “Duncan!” he called, his voice thundering across the meadows as he rode close to our lines, protected by the flag of truce. “I am Brian, Brian MacCreild, proud servant of Torcall MacLeod, defender of our faith and scourge of the Norsemen. Why have you come out to meet us with staves and with swords, we who should be brothers?”
    Only silence met his query, hostile, mocking silence.
    “Why? Hast thou forgotten that scarce six years ago the clans united to throw off the chains of Haakon, to free Scotland from her oppressors? The warriors of Duncan were accounted valiant in the fray, lions among men! Cometh thou now to us bearing the Norsemen’s sword, fighting their battles for them? Cometh now Duncan as a dog, trained to do his master’s bidding? Yea, this is naught but folly, my brother.”
    And this time he received a response.
    “I have no dealings with Torcall MacLeod,” Duncan replied, striding proudly to the front of our lines, “nor with those who boast themselves of being his servants. The only present have I to give is the edge of the sword, the only reward a hero’s death. As for your offer of brotherhood, I would see you at the devil first!”
    With a curse, MacCreild flung down his banner and cantered back to his waiting forces. Duncan gave a crisp, barked order to our archers, strung out along the front of our line, and then faded back to join his bodyguards, the picked men of the clan.
    And on the MacLeods came—their leaders urging them forward. Our archers waited for them to come into range, every muscle tensed for the moment.
    Then it came.

    Missiles shot forth from a full threescore bows, arrowy death speeding across the open plain, finding their mark, splashes of red across the MacLeod line. Death among the heather.

    The MacLeods stopped, halted in their advance by our barrage, bringing their own archers to the forefront. Moments passed, then their own shafts began to fall among our ranks.
    A cry here, a muffled groan, a shriek of agony, the signals of an all too soon-approaching death. A death that could be mine.
    Finbar stirred restlessly at my side, his knuckles clenched white around the hilt of his claymore, unease in his eyes.
    The arrows flew thick and fast, our archers dying outnumbered as we waited for the order to charge.
    The order seemed like it would never come, but at long last it did, Duncan’s clear, bold voice rising above the chaos. “Onward my sons! Victory or Death awaits us! Onward!”

    I had heard our battle-cry before, I would hear it again. Never had it been the harbinger of glory—not for me, at the very least. Rather that cry had been the midwife of sorrow and death. Victory? Perhaps. . .
    We ran on, our feet drumming the knell of death against the flowering heather. Brian’s bowmen fell back at our approach, retreating to the shelter of their own lines.


    The clansmen of Brian MacCreild surged forward suddenly, charging out to meet us. A frightening host. The lines collided with a palpable shock, men thrown to the ground and trampled in the onrush. Blade rang against blade, spear meeting shield, the agonized cries of men in their death throes rising above it all.

    We were born back by their rush, pressed by the weight of their numbers and their steel. They were big men, the chosen of the clan, outfitted with mail and steel caps, swords long as the ancient blade I had discovered in the field. Swords fit for a king.

    Behind us, our archers continued to ply their bows, their messengers of death falling swiftly amongst the enemy.
    Finbar fought at my side, his tartan spattered with blood. My blade glanced off a nobleman’s mail, sliding downward and falling upon his thigh.
    He screamed and clutched at his bloody leg, stumbling forward. I dispatched him with another blow to the neck. He fell backward, his blood crimsoning the grass, his sightless eyes gazing upward into heaven.
    More clansmen arrived at our side as Duncan committed our reserves, but it was not enough. Nothing was going to be enough.

    Our men were falling fast, their corpses lying in heaps, dying where they stood. Where heroes fall. . .
    Fire seemed to run through my veins, a blade scraping across my ribs. I bellowed like a wounded animal, turning to confront my attacker. My sword sliced through the air, ringing against his own. The fury of my attack forced him back, beating down his guard. His doom was sealed.

    I ran him through the belly, jerking my sword from his warm flesh as he sagged forward, his head pillowed against the heather.
    It could not last. The MacLeods were surrounding us, forcing us to give ground. Duncan’s bodyguards arrived to shore up our line, our final reserves committed as the archers charged, axes in hand against the unbreakable MacLeod line.
    Finbar fought like a man possessed, his sword hacking down many a foe. The ground around us was covered with dead, so that a man could not have walked without touching them.
    I was beside him when it happened. One minute he was upon his feet, his sword clearing a path before him. The next minute the shaft of an arrow protruded from his breast. I saw his fingers clutch helplessly at the arrow, as though seeking to wrench it from his flesh, a strangled cry rising from his throat as he crumpled forward, struck down by a MacLeod bow.
    I knelt beside his lifeless body, rolling the corpse over on its back, Finbar’s eyes gazing sightlessly into my own. Tears rolled down my cheeks, mingling with his blood. ‘Tis true, I had lost a rival, but that was gone now. Death knows no rivalry—only the memories of a lost friendship.
    We will both lose a friend. . . The words of the maiden’s prophecy floating back through my mind. The first part of Marion’s vision had come true. As for the rest. . .
    I rose just in time to beat off a MacLeod sword descending toward my head. We were being forced back across the plain, escape seeming now to be our only hope, leaving our dead and wounded behind.
    Just then a cry went up, a lone horseman galloping into our midst, calling for Duncan. He was ragged and bleeding, his garments torn, his sword dulled with another’s blood.
    The remnants of the Border Horse. What had happened?
    He was calling for Duncan, but we all heard him, saw as he gesticulated backward, toward the hill where we had been encamped so long ago.
    I looked, my eyes straining to descry what I wished not to see. Yet it was there. Enemy reinforcements coming over the crest of the hill.

    Our last chance of escape had been cut off. We were all dead men now, our hope disappearing fast as the morning’s mist. He will die. You will be destroyed.
    The prophecy. . .
    Last edited by Theodotos I; 02-02-2009 at 18:52.
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  2. #32

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Amazing AAR you have here and an excellent sequel.

    Just out of curiosity: is the sword that Ewan found the same sword that Cadwalador received from Aneirin only a few moments before his death?

  3. #33

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Quote Originally Posted by julius_caesar_the_first View Post
    Amazing AAR you have here and an excellent sequel.

    Just out of curiosity: is the sword that Ewan found the same sword that Cadwalador received from Aneirin only a few moments before his death?
    Many thanks, and yes, you are exactly right. The Celtic longsword the dying Aneirin tossed to his faithful servant is the one featured in Sword of Albion. Thanks for asking.

    In the mean time, those who would like to show their support and are members over on Total War Center forums can vote in the AAR of the Month Competition going on now
    Last edited by Theodotos I; 02-04-2009 at 16:43.
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  4. #34

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter XII: In Enemy Hands

    But on we fought, with the frenzy born of desperation. Finbar dead, my kinsmen slain, I found myself fighting shoulder to shoulder with Duncan’s bodyguards, the last rock in the midst of a broiling sea.

    Men fell beneath our blows, in the ring of our blades one could hear the weeping of widows, the wail of children left orphans by our sword-arms. Yet for all of this—we were dead men, and we knew it. I saw men flee past us, men from a neighboring village, taking to their heels, gambling on their ability to reach the cogs before MacLeod cavalry could chase them down.

    They would never make it. Their hope was but a vapor, transient as the morning’s mist, futile, empty. A man reaches out to grasp it and it vanishes betwixt his fingers, dancing yet on before him, ever out of reach. Such is hope, Fate’s mockery of mankind.
    Duncan’s little band dwindled ever fewer, grim-faced men wielding swords dulled with the blood of their foes as they encircled their chieftain.

    I glimpsed Duncan himself fighting in the midst, a powerful figure. As yet we held the high ground, but it was of little advantage against the host that pressed upward into the death of our swords. I looked around at my companions, a brotherhood of death. And within myself, I nodded in consent. With such men as these, I would be content to die. The die was cast—here we would fight, here we would die. Brothers. . .

    Arrows flew amongst us, smiting down brave men and cowards alike, the champion and the stripling dying together. A bowman is no regarder of persons.
    I thought of Finbar in the field beyond, brave Finbar, dying as he had lived. For years we had striven in a friendly rivalry for the hand of a maid. Yet in this moment, I could feel no triumph, no joy. For the bitter irony was that we had both lost. Both of us fallen together.
    He will die, but you will be destroyed. Our deaths foretold by the maid we loved, cruel irony in that.
    We were but a handful now, the detritus of battle, Duncan’s bodyguards and clansmen like myself rallied to his standard. Rallied to the banner of a noble death.
    In the years since, many times, I have prayed God in heaven that I should have died that day. If I had, what sorrow I might have been spared! But it was not to be. . .
    Our line broke suddenly, first one man running to the rear, then another. And another.

    I saw Duncan fighting alone, his sword beaten out of his hands by the blow of a MacLeod. “Sire!” I cried, the words wrenched from my lips, my voice rising above the battle. Duncan turned, his hand raised high as I tossed my sword to him, the blade spinning to him through the air.
    The hilt slapped into his hand with an audible thud and he was fighting once more, a lion against men. Weaponless, I ducked as a blade whistled through the air, narrowly missing my neck. I lunged forward, desperation filling my body, my hands closing around the man’s throat as I ducked beneath his guard. I felt his flesh compress between my fingers, dimly hearing the gurgle from the depths of his throat.
    I shook him, like a dog shakes a doomed rodent. His eyes bulged, his body convulsing in one last effort to throw me off. His body went limp, the sword falling from his hands. I released him, grasping for his weapon and retreating to Duncan’s side. The chieftain was dirty and bleeding from myriad wounds, but in his eyes there shone a strange fire of delight as he continued to battle—on against countless foes.
    Our forces had melted away—there remained but the two of us. Duncan grasped the hilt of the sword in both hands, swinging it around his head, his blows dinting helmets, tearing flesh.
    I wielded the heavy sword with difficulty—I had not my chieftain’s experience in war, but I fought as hard as I knew how. I was weary, unable to guard myself as I had at the beginning of the battle.
    A MacLeod blade sliced into my sword-arm, laying the skin open to the bone. I screamed, blood spattering over my tartan, the sword falling from my hand. I was defenseless, waiting for the finishing blow I knew would come. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Duncan fighting on—but only for a moment. Of a sudden, his blade snapped in two, leaving him with a mere ragged stump of metal.
    His arm fell to his side, a look of resignation on his proud face as we stood there, MacLeod swords pointed at our chests. The blow I was waiting for never came. A tall figure materialized from the MacLeod hosts, scarred from the battle.
    It was Brian MacCreild, leader of our foes. “Duncan,” he began calmly. “Where are your men?”
    My chieftain did not reply, pride in his eyes, defiance despite the glistening sword-tip only inches from his heart. “Do you wish to surrender?” Brian asked, his words a mockery in light of the situation.
    Duncan’s only reply was a nod, a scant tip of the head. Brian smiled. “I, Brian MacCreild, accept your surrender in the name of my master Torcall, chieftain of the MacLeods.” He raised his voice. “Take them away.”
    Rough hands grasped my arms, seizing hold of me fast. We were in the hands of the enemy. . .
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  5. #35
    The Naked Rambler Member Roka's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    bravo!

  6. #36
    Rampant psychopath Member Olaf Blackeyes's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    WOOT!!!! This is 1337!

    My own personal SLAVE BAND (insert super evil laugh here)
    My balloons:
    My AAR The Story of Souls: A Sweboz AAR
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    Quote Originally Posted by Dayve View Post
    You're fighting against the AI... how do you NOT win?

  7. #37

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Many thanks, my friends. Not to sound ignorant, but what is 1337, anyway?
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  8. #38

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter XIII: The Chieftain’s Son

    We encamped there that night on the hillsides of Dunscaith, above a field of death. Fighting continued on into the night, small skirmishes between roving parties of armed men as the moon climbed high into the firmament, bathing the scene in an eerie glow.
    I sat across the fire from my chieftain, both of us under close guard by our captors. The flames leapt higher into the darkness of sky, flickering, falling, taking on a magical quality of their own as the cinders wafted ever upward into the heavens. For man is born to trouble, sure as the sparks fly upward, my lips quoting the ancient sage even as the irony of the words struck deep into my heart.
    Silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire. For what was there to say. The day had witnessed nothing but the shattering of dreams, the end of life, lives sent out into the dark unknown. Souls taken to the tortures of purgatory. If the priest were right. . .
    At length, I looked up, meeting Duncan’s eyes. “I wish to thank you, my son,” he began, a faint smile flickering across his visage. “You are a doughty fighter, in very truth.”
    I acknowledged his words with a nod of gratitude. “I could ask for no great honor than to fight in your company, my lord.”
    His lips curled into a half-smile, half-sneer. “And as quick of tongue as of sword! The words of a courtier, lad. Bah! I had enough of those sycophantic fools in Dunstaffnage. It is no honor to fight with me—no more than to fight with any one of those that lie dead upon the hills this night. I brought them here. It is for me they died. For my dreams of glory. There is no honor in such a death.”
    I knew not how to reply to such words, my lips struck dumb by his frankness. His own words seemingly spent, he fell silent once again, looking around at the guards that stood nearby—a respectable distance away as though honoring his station.
    “Your name?” he asked, his words penetrating my reverie. I jerked my gaze away from the flames, my eyes locking with his.
    “Ewan, Ewan MacDougall,” I replied honestly, unconscious of the effect my words would have.
    “Ewan?” he asked, and I was struck by the change in his countenance.
    I nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
    “Well, Ewan, I wish you to know this. There cometh a day, a day when all this will be nothing but a foul memory and in that day our service will not go unrewarded, I swear it by the memory of my father, God rest his name.” A cautious glance cast at the nearest guard. “But for the present, it would be best that we should get our rest. It will be needed.”
    And with that cryptic comment, he stretched out by the fire, his head pillowed against his torn cloak.
    I followed his example, the stars above shining down upon my body, each one of them a flickering pinpoint against a blanket of blue. A tapestry of glory above the fields of death.
    Sleep fled me that night. I tossed and turned against the hard sod, visions of Finbar flitting across my mind. I could see him, the look of anguish on his face as he died, his fingers clutching helplessly at the arrow.
    He will die, but you will be destroyed. The prophecy of a maiden, as yet but half-fulfilled. Perhaps the summation would arrive with the morning light. I knew not.

    The next thing I remember, the sun was shining over the hills, a rough hand on my shoulder shaking me awake. I rolled upon my back, looking up into the face of a guard.
    “Get up,” he ordered gruffly. “We march for the citadel.”
    I rose to my feet, my body stiff and sore from the wounds I had received. Duncan stood a short distance off, two spear-armed guards flanking him.
    The MacLeods were breaking camp, moving back to Dunscaith as the guard had said, and I realized with a sinking heart that the remnants of our force must have been beaten back to the fleet, that any chances of our rescue or escape were fast slipping away.
    Brian MacCreild rode up to our little group, the proud conqueror on his warhorse. His eyes swept over us, I saw pride in their depths.
    “Take him with the rest of the prisoners,” he ordered my guards. They nodded in acknowledgement and seized me fast, half-pulling, half-dragging me down the hill to where the main body of prisoners awaited.
    “Stop!” Duncan’s stentorian tonesrang out across the hillside, the voice of a chieftain, the voice of authority so powerful that my guards halted instantly and even Brian looked bewildered at the sudden challenge.
    “What is it?”
    “If I may, one boon you must grant to me in my captivity. Pray let this young man stay by my side.”
    Brian’s eyebrows shot up in a glance of astonishment not unmixed with contempt. “And what is he to you, Duncan?”
    “He,” Duncan replied calmly, “is my son.”
    My head jerked around at his words, the memory flickering fast through my mind, realizing with a sudden pang the reason for his look the night before. Ewan MacDougall. The chieftain’s son. . .
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  9. #39

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Okay, TWC seems to be out of action at the moment, so for the time being, the Mead Hall has an exclusive on this story. . .
    I also thought this might be a good time to promote the music that keeps me going through these long chapters. Celtic stories demand Celtic music, and Marc Gunn's Irish and Celtic Music Podcast supplies my needs. Slightly more rock than suits my taste, but it has something for everyone. Enjoy!
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  10. #40
    Rampant psychopath Member Olaf Blackeyes's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR


    My own personal SLAVE BAND (insert super evil laugh here)
    My balloons:
    My AAR The Story of Souls: A Sweboz AAR
    https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showthread.php?t=109013


    Quote Originally Posted by Dayve View Post
    You're fighting against the AI... how do you NOT win?

  11. #41

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter XIV: The Ruse

    I stared at Duncan as though he had gone mad, my mind swirling as I struggled to comprehend his words. Surely he did not mistake me for his son Ewan, the young man who had died before Lagg, cut down by the swords of the MacLeans. And yet. . .
    “Your son?” I heard Brian ask, glancing quizzically from one of us to the other.
    Duncan nodded, certitude filling his countenance. “Have you never heard of Ewan, son of Duncan? He is my son. Let me keep him by my side.”
    Brian hesitated a moment, indecision clearly written in his eyes. At last, he nodded. “It is little enough. The two of you fought like heroes. You and your son have earned this boon, Duncan MacDougall.”
    He spoke to our guards and they marched us away together. It was true. The name—the name of a son whose death had driven him to madness. That I shared that name was my deliverance. If confinement with a madman could be described as deliverance.
    A man will accept any port in a storm. . .
    Horses were brought and we mounted up, a guard of men surrounding us closely. It had been years since I had felt a horse between my knees and I struggled to hide my inexperience. It would not be fitting of a chieftain’s son.
    “Be warned, Duncan,” MacCreild stated, riding past us to take his place at the head of his men, “If you or your son try to escape, you will be cut down like dogs.”
    Duncan nodded his acceptance of the statement and we started our march. The sun was rising high above the hills of Skye, those hills we had assaulted so proudly the previous morn. Our clans had been scattered to the four winds, shattered beyond retrieval. How many had died, I knew not. Perhaps fifty of us had been captured, still more driven back to the cogs. But of the five hundred that had left Dunstaffnage with Duncan, most had found their eternal sleep among the blossomed heather of Skye. I shuddered as I thought of our people, the widows left behind, the children left fatherless.
    Our horses picked their way up the steep road, the citadel of Dunscaith looming high upon the horizon.
    Our escort straggled out as the road became narrower, approaching the walls of Dunscaith, until it was just Duncan and I riding together.
    I looked over at him, guiding the horse with my good hand, my other arm swathed in bandages and hanging in a sling. He looked over at me and smiled strangely, seeming as though he was about to speak. Brian’s men closed in once more before he could utter a word, the rattle of the drawbridge being lowered. Men with halberds and spears stood to both sides as we clattered across the moat and into the courtyard of the castle.
    Duncan reached over and laid a hand on my shoulder. “Stand close by my side, Ewan. Our fortunes are only beginning.”
    I looked at him, not understanding his cryptic words. A guard appeared between us before he could say more, motioning for us to dismount. Duncan slid off his mount with ease, standing tall and proud in the middle of the courtyard. An imposing figure even in captivity. I dismounted with difficulty, my wounded arm giving me trouble. The guard helped me to the ground.
    I looked around, my eyes taking in the wonders that surrounded me. I had never seen such a bastion—Dunstaffnage was a cowshed compared with this place, the wooden bailey surrounding Duncan’s residence insignificant compared with the thick stone walls that seemed to rise into the heavens.
    What fate awaited us within these brooding, crenelated walls? What chance of escape stood we from this place?
    Duncan was standing only five feet from me, our horses led away by Brian’s men. Above us, the gulls of the sea swirled over the castle walls, screeching their shrill omens of doom. The hair seemed to stand on the back of my neck, harbinger of danger. Of destruction.
    You will be destroyed. Hands laid hold on me suddenly, dragging me away. I raised my voice, calling out. I saw Duncan move forward to my aid, a spear suddenly presented to his chest.
    “Ewan!” he cried out, helpless rage filling his face. I saw him press forward into the spear tip, press until the spear tore his doublet. Futility. “Ewan!”
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  12. #42
    The Naked Rambler Member Roka's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    i like the way you're building it up so that you're not sure wether he is the chieftains son or whether he just said that.

    good work!

  13. #43

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Quote Originally Posted by Roka View Post
    i like the way you're building it up so that you're not sure wether he is the chieftains son or whether he just said that.

    good work!
    Ah, you noticed. Yes, which will it be. . .
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  14. #44

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter XV: The Breakwater

    A key in the lock, the door rumbling on its hinges as it swung outward. Sunshine streaming in upon me. I blinked.
    Two weeks had passed since I had seen the sun. Two weeks since Duncan and I had been separated in the courtyard of Dunscaith. Bread and water had been brought to the cell, but always at night.
    A figure stood above me, silhouetted in the light. A halberd glistened in his hand. The instrument of death sparkled harmlessly in the sun, polished metal sharp and menacing.
    “Here he is,” he announced, stepping to the side to let another man into the entrance of my small cell.
    Brian MacCreild stood before me, a sword girt to his side. His eyes swept over my body, over the slowly-healing arm I held tight to my chest.
    “He is able. Take him with the others,” he stated cryptically. And he was gone, as quickly as he had come.
    The guard stepped forward, reaching down to pull me up, my hands and feet in shackles. His hand on my back, I stumbled out of the dark cell, into the light of day.
    Wind whipped at my face, swirling around the cliff-face. I blinked like an owl caught in the daytime, struggling to discern my surroundings.
    We stood on the wall of Dunscaith, my lightless cell in one of the towers overlooking the sea. Taking hold of my shackles, the guard led me down the cobbled stairs, into the courtyard of the citadel.
    Others of the MacDougalls stood there, under the watchful eye of their captors, nigh fifty of my compatriots, my comrades from Dunstaffnage. Peasants, nobles, all were equal now. My eyes swept the ranks, searching for familiar faces. Only strangers stared back at me, the detritus of war.
    What of Duncan? He was nowhere to be seen, his massive frame absent from the ranks of prisoners.
    Guards moved among them, unchaining their ironed feet and wrists, gathering the shackles together in a pile at one corner, near the gate. What was the meaning of it all—this assemblage?
    Danger stirred in my bosom as I joined my companions on the square, a feeling of doom settling over me.
    The guard unlocked my irons, my hands freed of the weight seeming to rise upward of their own volition. Freedom. Or a cheap parody of it.
    Brian appeared on the castle wall as we stood there, a proud figure overlooking the ragged captives. He had defeated us, with a force outnumbering ours almost three-to-one. What pride was there in that?
    I knew not, but he had found it. “Listen to my words!” he bellowed, his voice reverberating from high above us.
    “Your leisure has been long enough,” he continued mockingly. “It is time that you earned the food which has been provided for you. A breakwater is being constructed along the bay of Dunscaith, to shelter our fleet in safe harbor below the cliffs. From this day forth, you will assist in its construction, hauling rock to continue it into the bay.”
    The words fell upon us numbly. We were beyond reacting, beyond pain. Or so we thought. . .
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  15. #45
    The Naked Rambler Member Roka's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    i reckon that he isn't the chief's son at all it would be too much of a coincedence and also a little bit fairy tale like

    what program do you use to take your screenshots?

    i'm going to be starting my casse AAR sometime this week and i'm currently using fraps but if you have a better program please let me know...

  16. #46

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Maybe he is, and maybe he isn't. Fraps is the best one I've found, if you've got the registered version it's even better. Good luck with your AAR.
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  17. #47
    The Naked Rambler Member Roka's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Quote Originally Posted by Theodotos I View Post
    Maybe he is, and maybe he isn't. Fraps is the best one I've found, if you've got the registered version it's even better. Good luck with your AAR.
    Thanks, I've posted the first chapter today and I'm doing my first draft of the second chapter right now. I'll stick with fraps it's actually a really good program and I think I'll be upgrading to the registered version when i get paid.

  18. #48

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter XVI: “He That Hath No Sword. . .”

    My hands were raw and bloody, bathed in stinging salt water as we continued to pile rocks into the sea. Many of us were stripped to the waist, our clothing cut to shreds by the elements as we formed a chain along the breakwater, rough rocks passed from man to man, jagged edges tearing into flesh. Our blood stained the rocks, washed away each night by the swelling tide.
    A man had drowned in the waves the night before last, caught over-balanced by the rock he was lifting. Several among us had formed a grim pool, a lottery, gambling as to who would go next. Who would be the next to die.
    The sun beat down hot upon our heads, upon our exhausted bodies. The young man beside me sagged, the stone dropping from his hands, splashing into the water below us as his knees gave way. He nearly went over the embankment, his helpless body rolling near the edge. I scrambled for him, grabbing at his garments in a frenzied attempt to stop him. A priest’s cassock, my mind processed irrelevantly as the worn fabric tore in my grasp, sending him closer to the edge.
    I saw his eyes—the eyes of a man not much older than myself, saw the fear there, the uncertainty on the brink of death. I reached out my hand, myself now sprawled on the edge of the breakwater, my feet clawing for a firm hold.
    My hand closed fast upon him, clutching his forearm with the desperation of a man possessed. I could hold him, but my strength was spent. I could not pull him to safety. I could not even save myself.
    How long I lay there, clinging to the rocks with blood-slick hands, I know not. Probably no more than a minute, maybe not that, but it seemed like far more. Far more.
    Hands upon my arms, upon my legs. I was drug backward across the rough rocks as our fellow prisoners pulled us to safety. I collapsed upon the breakwater, the limp form of the young priest in my arms. He had fainted.
    Seawater, brought up from the bay, was splashed upon his gaunt face. I slapped his cheek gently, fearing for one horrible moment that our efforts had been in vain, that he had died under the stress.
    His eyes fluttered open, blinking as the outside world returned to focus. They locked on my face, a startling blue-green gaze so penetrating it seemed to sink to my very soul.
    His hand upon my wrist, he whispered something in Latin. A blessing, I realized. “Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you, my friend. May God’s face shine upon you for your kindness unto his servant.”
    A guard came rushing up, spear in hand. “This man saved my life,” the priest explained, rising slowly to his feet.
    The man stopped, his expression softening slightly—I glimpsed something I might have taken for mercy in his eyes. He nodded.
    “Get back to work as soon as you are able,” he said finally, before turning away.
    Such passed for mercy. The priest smiled as the guard left, glancing over at me. “I am Father David,” he stated, clasping my raw hand in his.
    “Ewan MacDougall,” I replied, our blood commingling, mixing in the painful handclasp. Brothers.
    Blood brothers.
    We fell to work once more, continuing as the sun rose higher into the sky, until a mighty bell sounded from the mainland, calling us from our work to the dinner prepared for us.
    David moved behind me, his slight form still staggering unevenly from side to side as he navigated the breakwater.
    “What type of soup shall they feed us today, Ewan?” he asked, a smile crossing his thin face. I looked at him.
    “Whatever it is, I hope there is less water than yesterday,” I replied grimly. He laughed, genuine amusement twinkling in his eyes. “Agreed, brother.”
    We separated as we passed by the pot of soup, the cook filling each rude wooden bowl with the allotted portion of cloudy water. I saw the priest circling at the edge of the crowd, near one of the guards. A man jostled my elbow, nearly spilling my ration of soup, and I turned, what I had observed passing instantly from my mind.
    I sat down upon a log to drink my soup, looking up at the sky, overshadowed by the towering walls of Dunscaith on the cliffs above us. A symbol of the oppression that kept us here, of the power that had defeated us and brought us to this place.
    I shivered and turned away, my attention focusing back on my meal.
    “Ah, Ewan,” a voice said above me, “I have found you at last.”
    I looked up to see Father David standing above me. I smiled, motioning for him to sit down beside me. As he did, the folds of his rough cassock parted, my eyes fastening on the glint of metal so briefly disclosed.
    “What do you have there?” I asked, my curiosity aroused. He looked around for a moment, then shot a strange glance in my direction. Once again I felt as though he was reading my thoughts.
    “You have a knife,” I stated unequivocally, sure of what I had seen. The look on his face only made it a certainty.
    He reached out, grasping my wrist in a powerful grasp, far stronger than I would have anticipated. “You will not betray me, Ewan.”
    It was then it struck me, a chill running up and down my spine. He was not asking a question. . .
    I shook my head. “Where did you get it?”
    Father David looked around once more, as though to see if anyone was listening. “I took it from one of the guards—not more than five minutes ago.”
    “You? A priest?”
    He smiled, that amused, all-knowing smile I had come to realize was characteristic of him. “Is it not written in the word of the Lord, ‘he that hath no sword, let him sell his garment and buy one’. I had no garment to part with, and no one was selling a sword. . .”
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  19. #49

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    No replies? Oh well, the Mead Hall isn't well advertised.
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  20. #50

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter XVII: The Priest

    Over the weeks that followed, I learned little about Father David, though I spent most of my time in his company. He was a quiet, enigmatic little fellow, meek to the point of the seeming sheepishness.
    Men seemed to enjoy pushing him around, and he seemed to take it with the patience of a reincarnated Job.
    Yet there were times—like the moment after my discovery of his knife—times when that essence of pious patience would peel away like a veneer, revealing a very different man beneath the tattered robes and cassock.
    Very different indeed. The type of a man who could be the truest friend—or the most ruthless enemy.
    Work continued on the breakwater, hard, treacherous work. Fights broke out among the men over the slightest matters as nerves frayed and tempers wore thin. At times the guards intervened, other times they allowed the fights to continue, seeming to enjoy watching the fray.
    Every morning we descended to the breakwater. Every evening we hauled our weary bodies up the serpentine path to the citadel, bathed in the blood-red glow of the setting sun.
    Thus it was.
    Men broke under the pressure, their bodies pushed far past the breaking point, worn down by the work and the humiliation of their captivity.
    I watched over Father David with a sympathy and feeling of protection that I had not known I was capable of. He was small and physically weaker than many of us. Every day he seemed at the breaking point.
    I was young—it would take me many years to realize that strength does not come from a man’s body, but rather from his mind, from the innermost depths of his being.
    And his will kept him moving, kept him alive when others died. And in the end, I broke first. But that was yet to come.
    I remember the day well, as a day my life changed forever. A day among many such days. We were finishing up the day’s labors on the breakwater, passing the last few rocks to the water’s edge when it happened.
    One of the prisoners suddenly dropped his rock, his mouth falling open in surprise. The rock splashed into the water below, splashing water upon us, but he heeded it not, staring to the south.
    Men cursed him for his negligence, but he ignored us, his cracked lips openly in a shout of what could only be described as glee. “Ships! Ships!”
    He pointed, and my eyes followed the line of his finger, seeing his object. There they were, ships on the horizon, coming from the south. Cogs, I could tell by their tubby shape. Father David dropped his shovel and moved to my side, murmuring a prayer. His eyes flickered to my face. “Do you think, Ewan?”
    I didn’t know what to tell him. I knew not whether our eyes were playing tricks upon us, whether what we gazed upon were real, or whether they were ships of a yet uncertain enemy. One thing we knew for a certainty. The fleet of the MacLeods was anchored at harbor near their capital, harbored for the winter. Whoever was approaching, they did not belong to our captors.
    The response of the guards served to confirm this. They closed fast around us, herding us off the breakwater and up the path toward Dunscaith. One of our clansmen put up a fight, endeavored to wrest the halberd from one of the guards. He was run through with the sword. I saw his body fall from the path and go hurtling over to fall on the rocks far below.
    I turned, my face ashen, to find Father David behind me. He seemed unruffled, his hand on my shoulder, his lips against my ear. “Do not resist them, Ewan. Now is not our chance.”
    I started to speak, but he cut me off, his voice a powerful whisper. “Wait!”
    And on we hurried up the path, our hearts, so long depressed, now beating high with hope. All of our toil, all of our trials.
    Deliverance was nigh at hand.
    We reached the summit, near the street of Dunscaith, looking down into the bay. The ships were coming on fast, their sails filling with the wind. The longships of the Norse, our allies. A ragged cheer rose up from our parched throats.
    The guards ranged along our front, frantically trying to keep the desperate clansmen back, their halberds brandished and shining in the evening sun, blood already dripping from some of the sharp tips.
    I sensed frenzy about to break loose. I looked over at Father David, his thin lips pressed together in a tight line.
    They pushed us back into the streets at the points of their polearms, between houses of the town. I caught a glimpse of people looking out from their windows and doorways as the confrontation escalated into a riot.
    “Now!” a voice hissed into my ear. I turned without hesitation, the slim back of Father David already disappearing into the crowd. We pushed our way through the press, through the struggling mass of our clansmen. Several guards had already been thrown to the ground and were being beaten to death. I saw another in our midst. A hand rose behind him, a long dirk flashing in the sun before plunging into his back. Blood stained his garments as he fell to the ground, his scream lost in the cacophony of noise surrounding us.
    “Ewan! This way!” I looked and saw David in the crowd, wiping his knife clean against the brown folds of his cassock.
    I started to move toward him. My foot caught against the upturned edge of a cobblestone and I stumbled. A body struck me and I fell to the ground, caught off-balance. A foot trampled upon my chest and my head struck the stones. For a moment, a galaxy of stars exploded in my brain. Then everything faded away. Light replaced by darkness. . .
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  21. #51
    Wandering Fool Senior Member bamff's Avatar
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    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Bravo Theodotus!

    Please keep the updates coming!


  22. #52

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Thanks much.
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  23. #53

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Hey, I've yet had a chance to read through this but it is great that you are writing another aar man keep up the good work.

  24. #54

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    I'm starting to worry that this great AAR is dead. I hope not.

  25. #55

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    No, I've just been very busy the last few weeks. I've updated over at TWC, but hadn't here, but I will get around to it. Perhaps tomorrow. Thanks for the comments.
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  26. #56

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter XVIII: Landing of the Norse

    The world seemed to swirl, my mind floating upon an ever-rippling tide of sea. My eyes flickered open, a haze seeming to surround my body. I blinked, willing my eyes to pierce the fog. What had happened? Where was I? How had I arrived here? Where was here?
    My rags were gone, bandages swathing my head and chest. My left arm was in a sling—I couldn’t move it. I tried once more, fiery pain shooting through the damaged limb. A moan escaped my lips as I leaned back against the blankets, struggling against my weakness. My head swam, the room circling around me. Where was I?
    “Lie still,” a feminine voice commanded gently, a soft hand on my shoulder. I blinked, forcing my world into focus, staring at the dim, shadowy figure that hovered over my pallet. A young woman emerged from the mists of my mind, her hair long and flowing, raven locks dancing down her back.
    “Marion?” I asked, my heart catching in my throat as I sat bolt upright upon the bed. It seemed impossible. It was. And yet. . .
    Her face came into focus, revealing dark, liquid eyes set above high, elegant cheekbones. It was not Marion. Someone else. . .
    “Who are you?” I asked, my voice failing to rise to its full strength. She ignored my question, turning from my pallet.
    “Mother! He has awakened.”
    Footsteps. The sound of a door opening and shutting as a tall, matronly woman entered the room from another part of the house. House. Yes, that was it. I was in a house.
    She sat down upon the edge of my bed, pressing her hand against my brow. “Good,” she said, clucking her tongue like a mother hen. “The swelling has gone down.”
    “Where am I? How did I get here?”
    The woman smiled at my outpouring of words. “You fell at our door in the press. You were nearly trampled by the mob, knocked unconscious and stepped upon. My husband says your arm is broken and your right ankle is terribly swollen. You may have sprained it.”
    “You saved my life,” I whispered, conscious of a sudden sense of gratitude. “What is your name?”
    “Sarah MacLewis. This is my daughter, Jane.” The girl acknowledged the introduction with a slight curtsy, but her mother continued. “We did not save your life, however.”
    “Oh?” I asked, pain shooting through my head and neck as I endeavored to rise from my pillow. I sank back, wearied by the exertion.
    “One of the men brought you to our door and knocked until my goodman made haste to open unto him.”
    “What did he look like?”
    Sarah MacLewis shook her head. “He had turned away by the time we opened the latch. I never saw his face.”
    “A small man?” I asked persistently.
    She nodded slowly, dawn breaking across her face. “Yes! Much smaller than you. I remember wondering at the time how he had mustered up the strength to drag you to the door. You know him?”
    I ignored her question, a smile creasing my lips. Father David. He had risked his life to save my own, to ensure that I would be cared for. Had I gone back to our cell in my battered condition, I must sure have died. As it was, the guards probably thought I had gone over the cliff. . .
    “Does anyone know that I am here?” I whispered with sudden intensity, my eyes fixed on the face of the older woman.
    She shook her head. “Only my husband. He is in the plain with Brian MacCreild, fighting the Norse.” I saw the shadow of fear flicker across her face, fear for the safety of her husband—and the town.
    “They have landed?” I asked, hope in my voice, sickening guilt at the realization that hope for me brought only despair for this woman and her daughter. For me to secure my freedom would mean the loss of everything they held dear.
    One must win. One must lose. Such was life. . .
    Sarah MacLewis rose from the side of the bed, brushing her hands on the front of her apron. She looked over at her daughter and then down at me. “I am going to the market. Jane will remain here and make sure you are comfortable. If you need anything, call her.”
    “Thank you, my lady.”
    Silence fell over the room as the matron left, her skirts rustling in the corridor outside. The girl stood there awkwardly for a moment, then walked over and opened the door to what appeared to be a balcony.
    I heard a small gasp escape her lips and I raised myself up on one elbow, straining against my wounds. “What is it?”
    “The Northmen. . .” she whispered, her words barely audible. “They have landed.”
    I heard sounds from below in the plain, wafted up the Cliffside by the morning breeze. “Help me,” I exclaimed, frustrated at my inability to get up on my own. I swung my legs to the side of the bed, determined to see the situation.
    Jane rushed over to the bed at my movement, her hands planted firmly on my bare shoulders. I winced as she pressed against bruised muscle. “You musn’t move.”
    I stared into her eyes. “I have to see the battle. I can make it to the balcony.”
    “You’ll damage your foot,” she protested.
    “I can lean on your shoulder.” She hesitated and I pushed the matter. “I’m going with or without your help.”
    She nodded, taking my uninjured arm and draping it around her slender shoulders. I stood, clad in a baggy pair of her father’s breeches, my chest wrapped in dirty, rust-red bandages. Pain shot through my injured ankle as I put weight upon it, her frail form little enough to support me. Together we hobbled to the balcony and I looked out upon the plain below. I released her and gripped the rail with all of my remaining strength.
    The Norwegian ships had been pulled up on the beach, men spilling over their sides and assembling on the sand.

    I saw the banner of Brian MacCreild assembling from down the serpentine path and hatred mixed with the pain streaming through my veins. What of Duncan? I thought of him for the first time in days—of his enigmatic words just before we were parted.
    Movement beside me and I looked down into the girl’s face. Fear was clearly etched into the lines of worry on her forehead, her cheeks white and drawn. I feared too, but for different reasons, reasons that had nothing to do with the Norse winning. Rather, I feared their defeat. . .
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  27. #57

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter XVIV: Calamity

    I looked down into the fields below Dunscaith, my knuckles white as I clutched the railing in a deathgrip. The lines advanced toward each other, faint cheering wafting up to us on the breeze. Te moritori salutant. Latin, words Father David repeated mockingly to the wind each morning as we went down to work. I had asked its meaning one day and he had given it.
    We who are about to die salute you.
    Men, filling the empty, yawning void of their own fear with the sound of their own voice. Cheering, yelling taunts.
    I seemed to see myself at their side, as I had fought at Lagg, at Tobermory, in the plains of Skye. A sword in my hand, marching in the ranks. Dying at their side.

    The lines collided with a palpable shock, the clang of steel against steel ringing out across the hills.
    I was there. I looked for the herculean form of Brian MacCreild, but could not find him amidst the press. I wanted to find him, press my sword-tip against his chest, see his blood upon the heather. I looked down, saw my hand. It was empty.
    I had no sword.
    The cheers turned to screams as both sides stuck into melee. I saw Jane’s face and it was white—wan with fear. Screams of rage and terror drifted up to us there on the balcony.

    Dozens fell, death in the tall grass of the plain, but the MacLeods were gradually giving ground, leaving their wounded behind.
    My heart leapt in my throat. Could it be? Was this the day of my freedom? The long months—we would be restored to our homes, to our families. I made the sign of the cross mechanically, whispering a prayer that it could be. That we could be set free.
    Then I saw him—as though I was there, in the ranks. And I saw him. Brian MacCreild, a longsword in his hand. He seemed to seek out the Norse captain, fighting his way toward him, his mighty arm cutting a path through the fray. Their swords rang against one another, sparks flying from the blades. I saw another MacLeod by MacCreild’s side and he threw himself at the big Viking, his sword glancing harmlessly off the shirt of mail. The Norwegian turned, disemboweling him with a single blow. The man fell to the grass, dying.
    It was enough. Brian’s longsword reached the end of its arc, striking the Norseman just below the left ear, nearly beheading him. The champion stood there for a moment, swaying obscenely—then crumpled to the grass, falling on top of his victim.
    The Norse battled on, but the fight had left them with the death of their leader and they began to break—one by one, running toward the beach.

    I heard a groan, a sound of agony—of disappointment, and realized it had come from my own lips.
    The field was liberally strewn with the bodies of the slain, debris in the churning wake of battle.

    I turned, watching the Norsemen flee to their beached galleys, my eyes bitter with disappointment. I took a halting step back toward my pallet. Jane reached forth a gentle hand to steady me, but I brushed her aside with a muttered oath. Reaching the side of the bed, I collapsed on the edge, leaning back against the blankets. I remember seeing her looking down upon me and then I closed my eyes, willing the pain to go away. Willing everything to go away. . .

    It may have been hours later when I woke, but I was roused by a heavy knock on the cottage door. I heard the voice of Sarah MacLewis near my bed. Apparently, she had returned from the market in the midst of my slumber.
    A moment’s pause and then I heard a man’s voice joining with hers. “Has anyone been troubling you, Lady MacLewis?”
    “No, why?”
    “A man just ran away as I came up. A small, knavish little fellow. Do you know him?”
    Father David! I sat up in the bed, listening intently. I saw the man’s profile in the doorway, a young man perhaps a few years older than myself, his swarthy face scarred from the battle. Sword and buckler were slung over his back.
    “My husband?” Sarah interrupted him, intensity in her tones. “Have you seen him since the battle?”
    I saw the young man pale and I knew then the message he had come to bring. I was not a widow’s son for nothing.
    “Lady MacLewis,” he stammered haltingly, his face turning several shades of red and white by turns. “Lady MacLewis, your husband—he. . .”
    “Yes!” she demanded, clutching his arms. “Yes, what of him?”
    “Your husband—he, well, he fell fighting by the side of Brian MacCreild.”
    I heard a soft cry from beside me and the color drained from Jane’s cheeks. She collapsed on the side of my pallet, weeping uncontrollably.
    The young man fled from the house and I heard loud sobs coming from the corridor where Sarah MacLewis had stood. I lay there, utterly unsure what to do with myself, listening to the sounds of sorrow coming from the two women. And within myself I bitterly cursed praying for the victory of the Norse. . .
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  28. #58

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter XX: Betrothed

    The weeks passed and my broken body mended slowly. The MacLewis women nursed me faithfully back to health, keeping me out of the sight of suspicious eyes in Dunscaith.
    “Why?” I had asked Sarah one day as she sat beside my bed. “Why do you shelter me?”
    A sad light flickered across her worn countenance. “Sarah Conacher was I born—of Dunstaffnage.” She smiled at my surprise. “Yes, Ewan. I was born a MacDougall. I married my husband in the days before the troubles, when the clans were at peace. It is for remembrance of my childhood that I shelter you now. The townsfolk will be told that you are our cousin from the Hebrides. My husband was commander of the garrison—no one will dare question my word.”

    I prayed that she was right—that she could ensure my escape from this place when the time came. In my heart, though, I knew I could not leave—not by myself. Not leave, and desert David—and Duncan. I had not seen my chieftain since our separation in the courtyard of the citadel. I knew not how he had fared in the months since.
    Jane and I grew closer as the days passed—our bond as “cousins” drawing us together as I escorted her about the town. I had filled out with their cooking and bore scant resemblance to the skinny, ragged figure that had labored upon the breakwater.
    Still, I feared recognition, averting my eyes at the passing of MacLeod warriors in the street. I knew not who might have been part of the guard upon the breakwater.
    Mass once again became a part of my life, as the bells of Dunscaith tolled out their ominous knell with the dawn of each and every Sunday.
    I avoided confession like the plague, fearful of what I might disclose under the questioning of the priest.
    As I grew stronger, Jane and I took long walks out into the countryside surrounding Dunscaith. I had still not recovered my full strength and walked with the aid of a oaken cane.
    Winter was nigh upon us, the trees bearing the last shades of fall, the sun straining to warm the afternoon sky.
    One of our jaunts took us back to the field of battle, where Finbar had fallen and the MacDougalls had been sold into captivity by the treacherous hand of Fate. He will die, but you will be destroyed. It had been months since I had thought on her words and with Jane at my side, my memories of the past were slipping into the distance. Only my proximity to the scene of their fulfillment brought them back to mind.
    Jane seemed to sense the sobriety of my mood. “I lost friends here,” I said finally, breaking a long silence.
    She nodded, her silence a balm for the raw memories my return to the battlefield awakened. I reached out for her hand.
    A thousand things I wanted to say to her, rushing unbidden to my lips. I knew not how to frame the words. I am no scholar—no man of letters. I am a warrior, a man of the sword. The eloquence of the courtier had never appealed to me—till now.
    “I cannot tell you,” I began haltingly, “how much your friendship has meant to me through the past weeks.”
    She seemed on the verge of speaking, but I rushed on, ever the young fool, awkwardly undoing my statement by adding, “And that of your mother. . .”
    She fell silent, her eyes downcast—as though unsure what to make of my statement. I could not blame her—I knew not what to make of it myself.
    And yet I blundered on. “I have enjoyed your company and would be honored to court you in the future.”
    Jane turned, looking earnestly up into my face, and I was astonished to see sadness in her eyes. She touched my cheek tenderly, her hand like fire against my skin. “I am sorry, Ewan. . .”
    “Sorry?” I demanded, astounded by her reaction. “Why?”
    She turned from me, a far-away look entering her eyes as she gazed out over the rolling hills of Skye. When she glanced back, her eyes were bedewed with moisture, her words a soft whisper. “I am betrothed to another. . .”
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  29. #59

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Chapter XXI: Black Billy

    Her words smote me like the blow of a clenched fist. I felt my mouth open, a hundred questions dancing unspoken upon my lips.
    It was full a minute before I could master myself sufficiently to speak. “Who?”
    “Do not be angry, Ewan,” she whispered softly. “It was the wish of my father. It has been arranged since I was thirteen.”
    Small consolation that. “Who?” I repeated, struggling to modulate my tones. I reached out for her hand, desiring to hold her close, to comfort her against the harshness of my questions.
    Jane pulled her hand away, her eyes downcast. “William MacCreild,” she replied, her voice soft and low.
    “Black Billy?” I demanded, feeling stabbed to the heart. I knew the man. Firstborn son of Brian MacCreild, he had commanded the MacLeod horse in the plain of Dunscaith, running down and butchering many of our fleeing clansmen.
    But we had not given him his infamous nickname. Nay, his own people whispered that in the shadows, watching as he passed. Tall, handsome, and cruel, he was a powerful figure, the spirit and image of his father. In his mid-twenties, he had a reputation for brutality that not even his father could match, brutality evinced in both his public and private affairs.
    My gaze fell upon Jane, standing there upon the hill, her form one of frail, innocent beauty. Could it be? The words seemed to wedge in my throat, afraid of an answer too horrible to contemplate.
    “Do you love him?”
    A long pause—naught but the sound of the birds in the trees, the chill fall wind blowing through their soon leafless branches.
    “No,” she said finally. “He is at once two men, the one the people of the town know, and the one I know. And yet even when he is with me, Black Billy lurks ‘neath his charm, a demon in the darkness.” She looked at me and I saw her eyes nigh brimming with tears. “And yet I promised my father. . .”
    “Your father no longer lives,” I whispered desperately, rash words springing to my lips.
    “Promises made to the dead are doubly sacred,” she replied, fury shining through her tears at the audacity of my remark. “You must know that, Ewan.”
    She turned without speaking further and stormed off across the hills, toward her mother’s home, ignoring my call to halt. I remained, feeling foolish. I had overstepped myself in my haste.
    I stood there, making my way homeward only well after the sun had gone down on the hills of Skye. And as I walked, an image rose continually before my eyes, menacing, malevolent, dark as the night sky. Black Billy. . .

    He returned the week afterward, from an expedition to the north, striking against a Norse supply camp in the Hebrides. William MacCreild returned a conquering hero and spent his coin freely among the garrison of Dunscaith.
    He killed a man in one of the taverns outside town, cut him down in a duel. A fair fight, or so they said. If a fight could be counted fair against Black Billy, his reputation as one of the finest swordsmen in Scotland reaching us even in my boyhood days near Dunstaffnage.
    The fourth night, he came to dine at the MacLewis household, by invitation of Lady MacLewis. I made myself scarce that night, for reasons as varied as the colors of a rainbow.
    I had met Black Billy upon the eve of the Battle of Dunscaith, he had known me later in my guise as Ewan, son of Duncan. He would remember me.
    And I could not stand to see him in the presence of my beloved, knowing that her hand was promised to him in marriage. It was more than I could take.
    So, when he came, I was gone.
    I wandered out into the hills, no destination in sight, no aim to my steps. I cared not whither I went.
    I sat down, to watch the beauties of a sunset, purples swirling against red and fiery gold, the canvas of a painter unrolled against the sky.
    “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament sheweth His handiwork,” a voice announced from above and behind me.
    I jumped in surprise and heard a chuckle. “Father David!”
    He laughed, taking his seat easily upon the rotting log at my side. “You are surprised to see me?” he asked ironically.
    “Rather,” I retorted, gazing earnestly into his face. “I fancied you locked behind the walls of Dunscaith.”
    He laughed once more, genuine mirth in his tones. “Nihil tam munitum quod non expugnari pecunia posit. ‘Nothing is so well fortified that money cannot capture it.’ Cicero said that. It is equally true that no lock is so secure that a man cannot buy himself liberty.” His voice sobered. “I must return before the dawning of day, to take my place in the rolls of morning.”
    “Why are you here?”
    “I have not forgotten you, Ewan. I never forget a friend—or an enemy. You saved my life upon the breakwater. We are brothers.”
    He lowered his voice, gazing out into the darkness. “I know a man, a fisherman I befriended. He has agreed to sell me his shallop. With it, we can make our way off this island, back to Dunstaffnage and home.”
    “What of Duncan?”
    “He is coming. I can spring him from the fortress—but I will need your help.” He gestured to my arm. “Is it healed? Can you wield a sword?”
    I stretched it out before me, making a fist. “I think so. There is an armory beneath the house of Lady MacLewis—her husband’s weapons. I can obtain what we need there.”
    A sudden thought, Jane’s face rising before me like a vision. To leave her here, in the arms of Black Billy, it was more than I could bring myself to do.
    ` “I—I cannot,” I stammered, shaking my head.
    The priest’s face darkened. “Why?”
    “There—there is a girl,” I began. In a few short words, I explained to him my situation, my love for Jane MacLewis, the entrance of Black Billy, my present predicament.
    He was silent when I finished. Then he placed a hand a hand on my knee, pointing up at the moon. “Three weeks from this night. We will strike with no moon to disclose our movements to the guards. If you are with me, brother, be ready on that night. As for your woman, what thou doest, do thou quickly. . .”
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

  30. #60

    Default Re: Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

    Okay, you're all up to date.
    “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.”-Proverbs 16:32


    Read my Aedui AAR-"Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration"
    And the sequel "Sword of Albion"

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