Prelude: What Went Before
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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. . .
hooray, a continuation!
Good luck with this story Theodotos, I hope it would be as great or even better than the last one!
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?
It's actually on the Mead Hall, so it MTW2, with the Kingdom of the Scots mod. I'll be updating a few minutes.
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.”
Chapter II: Voyage to Jura
We assembled at Dunstaffnage at the end of the month, as spring was turning into summer, every mother's son of the Clan MacDougall, four hundred in all.
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Finbar and I wandered through the corridors of the wooden motte, marveling at it's construction for defense, the design far more complex than the simple palisade guarding the village at home.
I smile at the thought of my wonder now. Now when the vagaries of life have carried me so far from my birthplace—I have seen so many things, the wonders of Dunstaffnage fade into the distant mist. They are as nothing now. But as a boy—they were in verity marvelous.
Assembling at the wharf, we prepared to board a small fleet of cogs—some of the very ships that had vanquished the Norse fleet three years previous.
As we marched aboard, our swords firmly girt to our sides, a small band of riders came in from the east, their mounts foaming.
The clansmen turned as one man about us, their blades raised high to heaven in salute, their voices calling out lustily, “Duncan!”
I jabbed Finbar in the ribs with my elbow and in a trice we joined the salute, our young voices bellowing out adoration to our chieftain.
Duncan smiled as he came up the gangway onto the cog, his kilt dusty from the journey, a broadsword in his hand. It was my first look at our clan's leader. In appearance, he was little more than an ordinary man, like any other I might have met in the villages. A servant carried his armor and weapons onto the ship, he retaining only the conical helmet and sword. But it was his face that caught my attention.
Eyes flashed out from sockets deepset in his rugged face, eyes sea blue and charismatic. He glanced over in our direction, his gaze sweeping over the assembled clansmen. It was passing, but for that moment I felt as though his eyes were gazing into my very soul. I felt a stirring inside, a fierce surge of patriotism building within me. This man was a leader to fight for, yea, verily to die for. And I was ready. . .
Ready, as it soon appeared, for everything except what happened. I had only been out on my uncle's fishing smacks once or twice. They had never really affected me, journeys through calm little inlets and short passages across the waters. I had enjoyed them.
The two-day journey to Jura was hell. The priest was in high demand pronouncing last rites over clansmen who believed they were only two steps away from the grave, vomiting their meals over the side of the cog. Some never made it to the side and soon the vessel reeked with their stench.
I was one of them. In my agony, I cursed the day of my birth, the sea, the vessel, and most of all Finbar, the fisherman's son, who proudly bestrode the decks, laughing at the poor benighted lubbers less accustomed to the sea than himself.
How, I asked myself, if we could not best the sea, could we be expected to stagger ashore and fight the MacLeans?
Our fleet dropped anchor off Jura the following day and our eagerness to get on dry land once more overcame our fear of the coming battle. For coming it was, certain as the rising of the sun. Duncan had no intention of turning back. His name had been insulted, and that was cause enough.
The dark, craggy cliffs of Jura loomed threatening through the morning mist as we sailed in closer to the island. I heard Duncan speak to the master by the ship's wheel.
“Where is this beach you speak of?”
“Scarce three more miles, milord,” came the patient reply, the sailor to the warrior. “We should arrive shortly.”
Three more miles. My heart beat faster with the excitement of the moment. I went and told Finbar and together we stood in the prow of the cog, gazing eagerly into the mist. We were nothing but boys then, ignorant of the horror of what we were about to face, ignorant of the true nature of battle, of war.
Nothing but foolish, stupid boys. . .
Uhh wheres Chapter II?
EDIT: LOLOLOL Its cool dude.
Thanks for catching that. It's a typo.:embarassed:
Chapter III: The Valley of the Shadow
We disembarked upon the beach of Jura, floundering ashore through breakers that well nigh threatened to drown us. A chill wind was blowing from the north, and we huddled 'round small fires that night, soaked to the skin and shivering.
Just over the brow of the hill lay Lagg, the capital of Angus MacLean.
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There was little sleep to be had that night in our camp, and when we awoke we were thrice as exhausted as when we had lain down.
I found Finbar washing his face in a brook, endeavoring to clear the sleep from his eyes. I knelt there beside him and found my hands trembling as they raised water to my face.
I tried to hide the nervousness, sure my friend would laugh at my discomfiture. Instead he looked at me and I saw my fear mirrored in his eyes.
“What's it like to kill a man, Ewan?” he asked. I shook my head, staring down at the ripples of the brook, ever-expanding, never-ending. It was a question I had asked myself countless times through the night, tossing and turning on my rude bed of pine boughs.
“How should I know?” I replied abruptly, angered more at my ignorance than at his question. Angered by my fear. Fear of the unknown.
The horn blew in the distance, calling the clansmen together. I sprang to my feet, grabbing up my sword and the sodden piece of bread that had done for my breakfast.
Skies grew dark in the northern sky, casting a long shadow over the vale where we gathered, assembling in our companies. Finbar and I took our places, together with every fighting man of our village. I saw my uncle at the head of our band, claymore in his hand, his head bared.
The priest came forward, his eyes lifted toward the heavens, a crucifix in his hand, pronouncing a blessing upon the assembled warriors.
“Yea,” he cried, “yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”
A rumble of thunder from the north punctuated his words. “Thou, yea Thou my God, Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.”
The morning sun glinted off the golden crucifix, a strange counterpoint to the dark clouds gathering to the north. The clouds of war. Death was present with us there.
The priest made the sign of the cross as he continued, pronouncing absolution over those who would die, assuring them of the safety of their souls.
Duncan appeared at the priest's side, his unsheathed sword in his hand. “March on! March on, brave sons of MacDougall. And remember, victory! Victory or Death!”
My boyish heart swelled with pride at the words, as our line swung forward, moving toward the town. I was young, I did not know—yet. The two were not mutually exclusive. Victory did not come without Death. Only the fortunate lived to see the victory.
But we moved forward regardless, the brave sons of the clan. . .
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The long awaited storm broke upon Jura with the suddenness of death, rain lashing down upon our bodies, lightning illuminating the scene with sudden flashes.
I hurried forward slightly to speak to my uncle, to ask if we were truly going to attack in the midst of this storm.
He nodded, smiling at my confusion. “It will neutralize the archers of MacLean. God is with us, my son.”
The MacLeans came out to meet us as we formed a rough line in front of the town.
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A sword in my right, a buckler in my left. I was ready, my fingers trembling as the cold rain continued to fall. I cast a glance to our right flank, where the personal entourage of Duncan's son Ewan awaited. He may have shared my name, but that was all. He stood tall and proud, clad in a helmet and armor. His blade was long and broad, reminding of the sword I had discovered as a boy. Perhaps one day I would carry that into battle.
The warriors of Angus MacLean came swirling out to meet us, their warcries echoing amidst the thunder, amidst the driving rain.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the line to our right leap forward, Ewan's men rushing forward, their huge swords ready for the slaughter.
“The fool!” I heard my uncle swear under his breath. Then he raised his sword on high and gave the order to charge.
To our front, roughly dressed clansmen wielding heavy axes rushed forward to meet us. I struggled to keep up as the men of my village raced toward the collision, toward the death that was to come.
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What was it like to kill a man? I would find out, that was the only thing certain in my mind. That and the gut-twisting knowledge that I might be the one to die.
Our lines collided and in a trice we lost all organization, all sense of place. One moment Finbar was at my side, and the next he was gone. I turned briefly to look for him and felt an axe swing past my head.
I ducked low, twisting on heel to look into the face of a MacLean. This was no boy, this was a warrior in his prime. Cursing, he made another pass at me with his axe, chopping a piece out my shield as I raised it to protect my head.
I made a feeble parry with my sword, reacting instinctively, well aware my life was now on the line for all of the practice I had done in the village green. That had been play.
This was anything but.
As his axe came down for the third time I got its haft on my sword-blade, holding it high above my head, our weapons locked together. His face was unchanging, impassive, no hatred nor joy there, just a sheer determination to kill me, the invader of his land.
And he was the stronger. I could feel my arm tiring as I endeavored to push him back.
My left hand dropped the buckler, fumbling for the dirk at my waist, grasping it by feel, not by sight, as my eyes locked with his.
There. It was mine, my fingers closed around the hilt and jerked it from my belt, struggling to stave off the continual downward press of his sword.
Summoning up all of my remaining strength, I pressed suddenly forward, catching him by surprise. His power ripped the sword from my hand, but it was too late. I was in close, the dagger flashing in my hand.
The blade slashed deep into his body between the ribs and I jerked it out to stab again. His eyes glazed over, the heavy axe dropping from his nerveless fingers as he crumpled forward into the mud of the field.
I stooped to retrieve my sword, my stomach churning at the sight of his blood covering my hands, droplets flecking my tartan. I wanted to do nothing more than run, run away and empy my stomach in the woods. But I could not—there was no place to run to—all the men of my village were surrounding me, fighting like heroes.
Fighting like beasts.
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No place to run, no place to hide. So I pressed forward, fighting my way to my uncle's side, seeking courage from his company.
Duncan's bodyguards had joined us now, pressing the MacLeans back across the blood-stained grass of the meadow. Toward the outskirts of Lagg.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. . .
The warrior's world is a small one, restricted to the few feet in front of and around his body. That day, I was just learning that truth. Had someone asked me “How goes the battle?” I would not have known aught to tell them. My only judge was the dead bodies of my villagers I stood over, fighting with my highland blade.
A sword-slash bit deep into my shoulder and for a moment I thought I would faint with the pain, but to do so was to die. I lashed back, my sword driving deep into the belly of my antagonist. He looked down at the protruding blade for a moment, as though in disbelief, and then fell forward as I ripped it from his body.
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The skirl of pipes rose high above the din of battle, Duncan's piper urging us on. I caught a glimpse of Ewan, son of Duncan, fighting heroically amongst his clansmen just a few feet away from me. His tall form was bloodied but a look of stolid defiance was on his face as his sword cleared a path amidst his enemies.
And then it happened, before I or anyone else could react. A MacLean was behind him, slashing down one of Ewan's entourage with a powerful blow of his axe. He turned, the bloody war-axe lifted high in the rain, swinging down.
It bit into Ewan's neck between helmet and armor. I saw blood spurt into the air, the heir's form slowly toppling forward as his knees went out from under him. And in that instant, as he lay face-down in the muddy sod, I knew. He was dead.
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His enraged bodyguards closed upon the assassin and cut him to pieces. I saw him die beneath their blades. But I knew. No one had to tell me. The battle was turning against us. . .
wow detailed :2thumbsup:
Ah, great pictures!
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
excellent! another AAR, and one featuring the wars that shaped my country to boot :beam:
you've made me a happy man
I am glad to see you back to writing, Theodotos. Please continue with this tale.
~:thumb:
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.:2thumbsup:
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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The bodyguard drew back the sword once again, the blood-wet blade descending one final time. And Duncan was avenged. . .
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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!”
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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. . .
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. . .
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.
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“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.”
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“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.”
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“Duncan approved of this action of MacCoul's?”
Finbar looked across the room at me in disbelief. “Approve? It was Duncan's plan. . .”
Chapter VII: Final Reckoning
Winter came, fierce and harsh across the highlands, smiting the countryside with its icy breath. People died that winter, women and children left desolate by the expeditions against the islands of Jura and Arran.
The price of victory, delayed as more innocents perished 'neath the flood tide of sorrow. Even the village priest seemed to sense the irony of it all, as he took his text from the words of our Lord unto St. Peter, Those that take the sword will perish by the sword, before continuing with the mass in the sacred language, Latin.
Winter was no time for campaigning, no time to rip more men from their families. A sensible man would have known this. Unfortunately for the welfare's of the clan's helpless, Duncan MacDougall was not a sensible man. Buoyed up and emboldened by the success of John MacCoul's strike against the Hamiltons during the harvest, he began laying the groundwork for a further attack. A day of final reckoning against the MacLeans. I had known it was coming, for I had been on the square of Lagg, kneeling at the side of my uncle's lifeless body. I had heard the oath Duncan swore that day, cradling his son's corpse in his arms, an oath mighty and terrible, that he would not rest while a MacLean remained alive.
And alive they remained, their final stronghold the village of Tobermory on the Isle of Mull, under the leadership of Angus' son, Malcolm MacLean.
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Duncan's retainers began spreading over the highlands at the first thaw of spring, rallying a force to attack Mull and Malcom's people there. This time it would be final.
And the young men responded to the call, I among them. Finbar was going and although the purpose of our journey saddened me, I was glad to see him out of the village. All through the long winter, I had never quite grown accustomed to finding him at the house of Marion, his presence like a wedge between us. Sadness, that an old friend should intervene twixt I and the girl that had ensnared my heart.
She gave no indication to me that she was annoyed by Finbar's attentions, no indication that she appreciated them. Either way, it gave me a source for unease. And so we left the village together, brothers-in-arms. Brothers indeed.
The voyage was not quite as rough this time, perhaps because I was becoming more accustomed to the sea, perhaps because more important things occupied my mind. A year had passed since I had first seen battle, yet I loved the thought of it no more now than then. Nay verily, even less.
Finbar seemed more assured, striding the quarterdeck of the cog as though he was its master, without a care in the world.
I worried. The time for planting was come, and we were gone, almost every grown man of the MacDougalls.
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A late planting meant a late harvest. God in heaven knew that times had been hard enough without this.
We landed on Mull in the last days of April, wading ashore in ice-cold water. The MacLeans had gathered their women and children into the village of Tobermory and armed themselves, awaiting our coming. Duncan was not the man to make them wait.
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It took us two days to get men and provisions off the cogs, two days filled with fear and tension as we anticipated a MacLean attack before we could disembark. The attack never came.
On the third day we marched inland, to Tobermory, to meet the MacLeans, our forces encircling the village as dusk fell on that night.
We settled down on the hill above the village, shivering through a long, sleepless night. Finbar and I stood guard, swords in our hands. I sweated despite the cold, my eyes straining to pierce the darkness, to perceive the threat. I need not have feared.
Dawn broke bright and chill, the sun shedding its pale glow over the plain where we gathered, our teeth chattering as we strapped sword to side, buckler to arm, preparing for battle.
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Movement among the houses, their thatched roofs caught by the light of the rising sun. Men hurrying forward, dressing their ranks as they moved to meet us. A single man came out from their ranks, a naked sword in his hands.
“Duncan!” he cried, his voice a challenge thrown upon the winds. “What is the meaning of this?”
Duncan stood forth, tall and proud before our lines, his own blade bared. Espying him, the messenger continued. “Have you come out against us as against the beasts of the field, to catch and kill at your leisure?”
“Nay!”our chieftain roared back, rage in his voice, booming across the meadow as the sound of many waters.”Nay, but to avenge the murder of my son am I come!”
“As thou killed my father in the fields of Lagg?” the speaker demanded, identifying himself as Malcolm MacLean. “Not a man here was responsible for the death of thy son! It is thou that art the murderer, the slayer of innocents. Come, and may God require our blood at your hand!”
Excellent work thus far Theodotos. When working with AAR's it's always tough balancing SS numbers with how much you write, it looks like though you have maintained a very good balanace here thus far.
Please continue. :yes:
Chapter VIII: End of the MacLeans
The man turned on heel, walking back into the ranks of his followers. We could still see him, rallying them forward as the MacLean host swelled out from the among the houses, charging out into the field of battle. At Duncan's order, our line moved forward, marching slowly, steadily—then faster, ever onward.
“Victory!” I heard Duncan cry, his sword describing an arc above his head, air forced from his lungs as he screamed the age-old battle-cry of the MacDougalls. “Victory or death!”
Finbar marched at my side, excitement clearly written in his visage. He was enjoying himself.
We echoed Duncan's cry, a savage scream ripped from the depths of a hundred throats, our blades and axes lifted high as we broke into a run, racing to our deaths, charging into the oncoming MacLeans.
The lines collided with each other with an almost audible crash, throwing men off their feet, the ring of steel sounding through the air as blade met blade.
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The boy on my right was disemboweled by a MacLean sword, fell screaming to the earth, his face bathed in the mud of the field. I turned, facing his killer, a tall bearded warrior, his tartan spattered with the boy's blood.
My sword flashed upward, locking with his own. I saw fire flash in his eyes as he endeavored to beat down my guard. The boy moaned, his body writhing in its last agony. He was a stranger to me, but rage consumed me at the sound and I pressed my attack more fiercely. Men were falling all around me, to the right, to the left. Nothing mattered, a fierce bloodlust rising up within me, everything fading away. Every sight except my antagonist, every sound save the ringing of our swords one against the other.
It was as though I soared above the field of battle, looking down upon the warriors, upon the death struggle. I saw our cavalry, twenty men on small horses, sweep in from the side, flanking the MacLeans.
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I was myself and yet not within myself, fighting desperately for the ground upon which I stood. Two feet upon a patch of soggy ground. Nothing more did I fight for. Nothing less.
I was fighting an older warrior and a stronger. I was tiring, both of us gashed and bleeding freely.
Losing—the reality of my own approaching death struck me with renewed force, panicking me to one last desperate effort. I thrust forward with my own sword, the blade sliding along his bared forearm, raising the flesh into an angry weal. Leaving myself open, off-balance, vulnerable.
He moved in to take advantage of my mistake, his sword lifted high for one final blow. I could see myself stumble backward, caught off-guard. Finbar materialized out of the blood-red mist that surrounded my vision, his sword flashing forward. The blade bit deep into the MacLean's neck, he roared like a wounded bull, starting to turn, his guard coming up.
It wasn't soon enough. Finbar's sword slid forward, driving below his guard into his belly. The man screamed, falling into the muck of the meadow, dead as the boy he had slain.
The haze began to clear away, I heard Finbar dimly exclaiming, “You guard yourself well, brother!”
And the battle surged on, the killing never abated. The MacLeans were fighting for the last home they knew, fighting for their wives and children, for everything they held dear.
They, as I, remembered Lagg. They would never abandon those they loved to such a fate. They would die first. They, or we.
I moved forward, fighting shoulder to shoulder with my fellow clansmen, as we steadily pushed the MacLeans back across the meadow. We were dirty, bloody, and worn.
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Somewhere off on the left flank of our host, our horsemen fought on, torn to pieces by the swords and spears of the MacLeans, regrouping to fight on time and again.
A boy thrust his spear toward me—a boy, perhaps four years my junior. Too young to fight, too young to kill. Too young to be killed. I caught his spearpoint in the wood of my buckler, a wrench of my arm twisting it out of his grasp. The next moment my blade descended upon him, his blood spattering my face as the lifeless corpse crumpled to the earth. A life extinguished. To what purpose?
Rallying once again, our cavalry charged, descending upon the rear of the MacLean battle line like avenging angels. Michael himself never raised such a tempest, men trodden under foot by their steeds. I would later learn that Malcolm MacLean was among them, disappearing beneath the hooves, his last words lost forever in the tempest of battle.
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What had happened I knew not then, but the MacLean line wavered, cries of rage and sorrow erupting from their ranks.
A man fled to the rear, a lone, terrified, faceless figure. His fright was as contagious as it was anonymous, groups of clansmen turning and running toward the rear.
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Men before me threw down their weapons and fled, running toward the village of Tobermory. We followed, hacking down all those we could catch. I seized one man by the arm, the battle-rage still filling my body. He turned half-round, a plea for mercy on his lips. His sword and buckler tossed away, he was defenseless. My blade descended upon his head, silencing that plea forever. The body lolled limply into my arms, his blood bathing my tartan. I recoiled, sickened by the thought of what I had just done.
My sword-hand dropped to my side and I stumbled away from the fray, my head swirling. The MacLeans were vanquished. I had no wish to see what happened next. I remembered Lagg all too well.
Some time later, it may have been minutes, it may have been hours, I found myself on the top of a nearby hill, overlooking Tobermory. There was no peace in the glen this dark day.
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I looked and watched in helpless fascination as the screams of the innocent wafted up to me on the breeze. Fire sprung up from one house, then another, and another, and another—the village was being put to the torch. Desolation. . .
another great AAR theodotos, keep it up
:2thumbsup:
Chapter IX: Second Sight
The MacLeans were vanquished that dark day in spring, not a man of their number left alive. Not a man, not a babe. The slaughter was complete. Many of our own number had fallen, our losses sore upon the already struggling families of the highlands. A late planting—I knew all too well what this would mean. Many would not survive another winter, not one as brutal as the last. I feared for my people. But the MacLeans were gone. Duncan’s son had been avenged, his memory sanctified in a final welter of blood. Surely peace would now come to the highlands. I was young, but I cared no more for war. My mother was old, my love was yet young and I wished for nothing more than to be able to stay home and enjoy the hours with them both.
That was many years ago. I, Ewan MacDougall, have lived through much since. Through the strength of my sword-arm I have survived many a field of battle, but the desire still burns strong within my body. The desire for the fighting to cease. I once fancied that Duncan would stop with the MacLeans, that his bloodlust would be satisfied with their sacrifice. I was young—I was naïve. It didn’t stop. Nothing did.
That fall, I remember the day well when the news came. An alliance signed with the King of Norway was drawing our forces once more to war. I would never learn the truth, but it seemed that MacLeod pirates were harassing the Norwegians from their bastion on the Isle of Skye
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Our alliance committed us to go to war against the MacLeods, to fight with our brothers the Norsemen, or so Duncan’s proclamation read. Since when had the Norse been our brothers? I knew not.
Yet I prepared once more for the good-byes, for the tears, for the grim knowledge that each good-bye might be the last. I knew not what would lie beyond the grave, even the priest seemed not to know. Mass had been said one last time, I had knelt before the priest for confession every Sabbath-day. My sins were absolved, or so I had been told. Or were they?
Surely my complicity in the slaughters of Lagg and Tobermory were sins against an almighty God—crimes unforgiven. The foreign chants the priest pronounced at mass did nothing for the grief of my heart, nothing to assuage the guilt that laid so heavy upon me.
I spent the last few days before we left with Marion, out upon the moors, away from Finbar and the prying eyes of the old gossips of the village. Our love flourished in those highlands, happiness marred only by the thoughts of war and my soon departure.
Two days before we left, I met with her again. We had walked but for a few minutes together when I realized that something was troubling her. I turned, my voice soft. “Darling, what is it?”
She looked up at me, brushing her long black hair back from her tear-stained eyes. “Don’t go, Ewan. Not this time,” she whispered, urgency in her tones.
I stared at her, sensing something, something beyond her usual concern for my safety. Something more. “Why?”
She turned away from me for a moment, glancing far away across the moors. “I don’t know, Ewan. I have seen. . .” her voice trailed off, as though she was unwilling to continue.
I laid my hand on her shoulder. “What? What have you seen?”
“Last night. A dream.” Her words tumbled out in a breathless stream. “I saw our clansmen fighting—in the heavens, as though they fought upon the clouds. Shadowy figures, fighting and dying.”
I stood looking at her, at a loss for words. “Our clansmen?” I asked finally.
She nodded. “Please, please, Ewan, just don’t go.”
“You’ve known of this—it was on your mind, the campaign. Of course you would dream of it.”
Marion shook her head and I stopped, looking deep into her eyes. “There’s something you don’t want to tell me, isn’t there? There was something more to the dream.”
A brief nod and she looked away, biting her lip. “Oh, Ewan, I don’t know what to think. Is it true, is this second sight, or is it just my foolish fears. You’ve proved yourself capable in battle, I know that. There is not a braver man in the village.”
My heart swelled with pride at her words, but I pushed it away with an effort. She was avoiding the subject. I touched her arm, turning her around to face me. “The dream,” I continued firmly, my gaze unwavering. “Tell me the rest of the dream.”
“We will both lose a friend,” she replied haltingly, unwilling to look me in the eye.
“Finbar?” I demanded.
She nodded. “I saw his face. And yours. He will die, but you will be destroyed.”
My arm fell nerveless to my side, unable to believe what I had just heard. She turned away and ran, her tears flowing freely down her face. Stunned by her words, I called after her, shouting for her to stop, to wait, but to no avail.
She disappeared like a wraith into the gathering dusk, swallowed up in the cryptic words of her prophecy, the grass bedewed with her tears.
I turned after a moment, returning to the village. I would not see her again before the fleet sailed. I would not see her for a long time to come. . .
another great update!
you have me in almost unbearable suspense here
My thanks, friend. It's been good to have you along. No highland story I've ever read has been complete without a reference to second sight, so I thought I would include it.:2thumbsup:Quote:
Originally Posted by Roka
Looks interesting....
Chapter X: Where Heroes Fall
The weather was fair as we sailed north, bound for the isle of Skye and our rendevous with the Norse fleet under the command of Frederik of Bogense.
We were relying upon the support of the Norwegians, our own force numbering scarce more than five hundred men.
Together we would descend upon Skye, our forces united, pushing the MacLeods before us. Or would we?
A chill wind rippled across the back of my neck as I stood by the railing of the cog, looking out over the sea, the taste of salt in the spray. I thought back to my village, to Marion.
Dear God, had she been right? I looked over to where Finbar stood, leaning against the rail, as I. His brown hair tousled by the wind, his hand resting easily upon the hilt of the sword at his waist. He felt my gaze and flashed me an easy smile.
He will die, but you will be destroyed.
No, it could not be. Never. What had she meant? That I would be destroyed. I would not die, but I would destroyed. . .
It could not be, yet still the chilling words echoed back, her face flitting across memory’s eye as she uttered them. He will die, but you will be destroyed. . .
We arrived at the rendevous point five days after our departure from the keep of Dunstaffnage, our voyage prospered by the grace of our Lord, the fair winds He had supplied for us.
The Norse were nowhere in sight. No matter, we were early.
Our tiny fleet tacked back and forth, always remaining within sight of the small, rocky island that marked the rendevous , always waiting. We could dimly make out the isle of Skye in the distance, on the edge of the horizon, a gray, hazy mass against an ocean of blue.
Duncan’s temper was running short, as were our supplies. The Norwegians were late. Were they even coming? Only God knew, and He had not confided in Duncan. . .
Our captain worried about the danger of being caught by MacLeod ships on the sea, but Duncan dismissed that with an angry snarl. Had the greatest victory we had ever won against the Norse not been fought at sea? Sea was no disadvantage for us. Nay, not for the sons of MacDougall. . .
We waited a week, a week wasted upon the billows. Then Duncan exploded, making his decision suddenly and unequivocally.
“The devil take Frederik of Bogense! We sail to attack Dunscaith, Norse or no Norse. If there is no one to share in the fight, then likewise there will be no one to share in the glory.”
One of the older warriors stirred at my side, I could see trepidation in the man’s eyes. Fear. I turned to him. “Dunscaith? What do you know of it?”
He cast a sidelong glance in my direction. “I was there in my youth, selling fish before the troubles began. It is a mighty fortress, bounded by the ocean on two sides, a sheer cliff on the other. The only way to attack it is up a winding, serpentine path, scarce wide enough for ten men to walk abreast.”
“Formidable,” I breathed, the only thing I could think of at that moment.
He nodded. “If we attack Dunscaith, we are all dead men.”
I looked at him, a breeze cold as the hand of death blowing across our faces, Marion’s words ringing in my ears. Our clansmen. . .fighting and dying. He will die, but you will be destroyed. . .
Yet on we sailed, our course straight and true, Skye looming large ahead of us as sun set, its fiery rays silhouetting the rocky isle. Our pilot had spent years around the island, fishing in the days before the troubles, when the MacLeods had been our brothers, in the days of Duncan’s father. He knew the island by heart, guiding us into a deep, tranquil bay on the east of the island.
“Saints be praised!” he murmured as I stood beside the wheel, watching him guide the cog in.
“What?” I demanded, my eyes searching his countenance.
“Our Lord has blessed us by guiding us to this place. It is a sign.”
“What place is this?”
“In the fields above this bay, Allan MacLeer led his rebels not ten years ago in a heroic fight against Chieftain Torcall MacLeod. The rebels won the fight and drove Torcall’s clansmen back to Dunscaith. It is a sign, where heroes fall, others rise to take their place. . .”
In my heart, I hoped he was right. . .
Applause for you.:2thumbsup:
those pesky norsemen are not to be trusted! :beam:
Never!Quote:
Originally Posted by Roka
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.
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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.
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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!”
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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. . .
Amazing AAR you have here and an excellent sequel:2thumbsup:.
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.:2thumbsup:Quote:
Originally Posted by julius_caesar_the_first
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
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.
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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.
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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.
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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. . .
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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.
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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. . .
bravo!
WOOT!!!! This is 1337!:2thumbsup:
Many thanks, my friends. :2thumbsup: Not to sound ignorant, but what is 1337, anyway?:inquisitive:
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. . .
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!:2thumbsup:
~:0:fainting::fainting:~:shock:~:dizzy:
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!”
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! :2thumbsup:
Ah, you noticed. Yes, which will it be. . .:2thumbsup:Quote:
Originally Posted by Roka
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. . .
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 :laugh4:
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...
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.Quote:
Originally Posted by Theodotos I
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. . .”
No replies? Oh well, the Mead Hall isn't well advertised.:embarassed:
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. . .
Bravo Theodotus! :2thumbsup:
Please keep the updates coming!
:bow:
Thanks much.
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.
I'm starting to worry that this great AAR is dead. I hope not.
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.:2thumbsup:
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.
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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. . .
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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. . .
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. . .”
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. . .”
Okay, you're all up to date.:2thumbsup:
Do you write books for a living Theodotos?
Because you are GREAT AT THIS!!!
:yes::yes::yes::yes::beam::beam::beam::beam::yes::yes::yes::yes::yes:
Chapter XXII: The Armory
Black Billy was still at the house when I returned from the hills of Skye. I waited in the shadows of the street, watching as he departed. He paused in the door, pressing his lips to Jane’s cheek. I heard her murmured “Good night”, and watched as he strolled off into the darkness, a smile glittering upon his swarthy face.
I waited a moment or two and crossed the street, mounting the steps two at a time. The latch-string was still out and I put my hand to the door, entering abruptly. Jane still stood within the antechamber with her mother.
Both of them looked up in surprise at my entrance, their conversation ceasing suddenly. Mrs. MacLewis seemed on the verge of speaking, but I brushed past both of them without so much as a salutation, retiring to my bedchamber at once.
I laid back upon my pallet, my mind swirling with the events of the evening. What thou doest, do thou quickly. . .
The image of Jane in the arms of William MacCreild flickered across mind’s eye, and I gritted my teeth, endeavoring to block the picture from my mind. What I had witnessed. . .
The night wore on and the house fell silent as Sarah MacLewis and her daughter went to bed. I lay there sleeplessly, tossing and turning upon my pallet.
If you are with me, brother, be ready on that night.
I rose, moved by a sudden impulse, and took the tallow candle from the top of the crate at my bedside. Another moment of groping in the darkness, and my hand found the flint and steel nearby.
My door opened noiselessly and I slipped into the hall. I could have found my way around the house blindfolded and a few moments took me to the stone stairs leading down to the cellar of the MacLewis house, or the armory, as I had described it to Father David.
Pausing at the foot of the steps, I struck the flint, sparking the candle into full flame. I replaced the implements into the pocket of my jerkin, holding the candle above my head as I proceeded down the narrow passageway. A stout oaken door barred my progress and I halted, examining the latch carefully. The lock was simple and easily defeated—I was inside within moments, closing the door behind me. The candlelight reflected off steel and armor hanging from the walls. I gasped.
Jane had described the family armory to me, but I had never been inside. Swords, maces, suits of mail—every imaginable accoutrement of war hung within. Enough weapons for a small army. Perhaps that was what Father David had in mind. . .
I pondered the thought for a moment, still unable to decipher the motives of the enigmatic priest. A man of God—yet a man of the sword, a well-nigh unimaginable combination in my mind. There was no good answer.
Dismissing the thought out of hand, I turned to more pressing business. Choosing a sword from the selection on the wall before me, I hefted it in my hand. It was lighter and more graceful than most swords I had seen in the highlands, possibly manufactured on the continent.
It would do. My sword-arm was not completely healed—at least not able to handle the heavy claymore like I had wielded in battle with Duncan. This sword was just what I needed.
I returned it to its scabbard and took both from the wall, casting a long look around at the armory before departing. The wall to my left, there was something strange—a way it caught the light of my guttering candle. Sword and candle both held in my right hand, I moved over to the wall, moving my hand along the roughly hewn stones. Something, almost a seam along the stones. As though there was an opening. . .
Air seemed to flow through my fingers, a cold draft snuffing out the candle and plunging the room into darkness. Loose mortar crumbled ‘neath my hand as I groped for the wall, suddenly panicked. I hurried across the pitch-black chamber to the stairs, nearly falling in my haste.
Above, in the house, all was still quiet, or so it seemed. I slipped quickly into my bedchamber, turning to close the door.
“Ewan!” A soft cry from behind me. I whirled, nearly dropping the sword in my surprise. Jane stood there, her form silhouetted against the moonlight streaming in off the balcony.
“Jane!” I exclaimed, laying the sheathed sword on the table at the foot of my bed. “What are you doing here?”
“I—I thought you had left us,” she whispered, “You were angry when you returned tonight, I knew not what you might do.”
I relit the wick, candlelight flickering off her pale features. Unable to speak, I stood there, drinking in her beauty like a thirsty man in the desert. Her eyes lit suddenly upon the ill-hidden sword, her gaze flickering upward to my face. I turned away like a guilty schoolboy, unable to meet her glance.
“You plan to fight him, don’t you?” she asked, her voice quivering. I knew not how to answer her—indeed, I knew not my own plans, my own intentions. I stood there, in silence, swallowing hard upon her words.
A small cry burst from her lips and she threw herself into my arms, crying bitterly. “Please, Ewan, please don’t draw your sword against him. Please, if you love me, don’t fight with Black Billy. . .”
“You care for him that much?” I asked coldly, my heart a leaden weight within me. Defeat, imprisonment, nothing had torn me apart such as the love I had felt for this maiden.
She lifted her head from my chest, her dark eyes shining with tears. “I care nothing for Black Billy, but you cannot stand against him! He will kill you without thought, without remorse, as he has killed many before you.”
It took a moment for her words to sink in. It was for my safety that she feared! I wrapped my arms around waist, drawing her close. “As you wish,” I breathed, feeling as though a burden had been lifted from my shoulders.
“Promise me,” she whispered.
I would have promised her anything at that moment, wings on my feet at the magic of her words. I felt as though I could walk without ever touching the ground. “I promise,” I replied, leaning down to seal the bargain with a kiss.
I was young then. I knew not how easily promises could be made—how they could be broken with equal ease. Would to God I had kept my word. . .
I just finished reading the whole story so far. :study: It's amazing!:yes: I enjoyed every bit of it.
Chapter XXIII: Best-Laid Plans
I danced through the next days, my heart light as a feather in the cold winds of fall. I was now assured of her love, and that was all I needed. Love conquers all, or so the poets say. I was young then, and fancied that I could conquer anything. Reason is the gift of age—the cold calculations that keep a man alive when passion fades, when glory seems far out of sight. I knew nothing of it then—perhaps if I had I would have been more careful.
I met with Father David several times over the course of those weeks, smuggling weapons to him from the MacLewis armory.
Together we went to the marketplace, to conduct a careful reconnaissance and rehearse our plan.
Five days remained until the appointed time, the night of our freedom. David was quiet, almost brooding, his eyes darting to and fro from beneath his cowl. He was dressed in the clothes of the laity now—bearing nothing on his person that would identify him as a priest.
“Everything must go according to plan, Ewan,” he cautioned. “Nothing can be left to chance, nothing that could betray us.”
I nodded as he began to rehearse the plan once more in my ears. “Duncan’s cell is on the wall, about twenty-five feet along the battlements from the top of stairs. There is a guard at the top of the stairs at all times—you can see him from here.”
I looked, and indeed, it was as he said.
“Two guards stand outside the cell of Duncan—armed with halberds and swords. You will probably have to deal with at least one of them, maybe both. Are you strong enough?”
I shrugged. It didn’t make much difference. I would have to be. He looked at me sharply. “Now tell me the rest. What are you to do?”
“I will stand near the foot of the stairs as the sun goes down. You will cross the drawbridge into the keep with your market cart. Once the wagon is on the drawbridge, you will throw a torch among the pitch and hempen sacks in the cart and leap from the wagon, stabbing one of the guards. I will wait until the guards run to the alarm and then I will make my way up the stairs and to Duncan’s cell, disposing of any trouble I encounter there.”
I paused and he nodded like a schoolmaster. “Go on.”
“Once Duncan is free, I will lead him down to the southern sallyport, where you will meet us. From there, we will make our way to the sea road, where this fisherman of yours awaits.”
“Exactly. What of your woman?”
I looked down at my feet as we walked together from the citadel. “She knows nothing of our affairs.”
“You’ve not spoken to her?” Father David demanded incredulously.
I shook my head in the negative.
“God’s teeth, Ewan!” he exclaimed, surprising me with the ferocity of his oath. “You’ve changed your mind?”
“No.”
“Then speak to her quickly, or all may be lost.”
I started to speak, but changed my mind. He glanced at me keenly. “What is the matter?”
“I fear what she may say,” I said uneasily. “What if she refuses to leave?”
The priest chuckled wryly, his eyes twinkling. “Affairs of the heart are tricky beyond all reason, Ewan. There are times when I view my own vows as a blessing from God. . .”
I returned to the MacLewis home in the late afternoon, our plans made and finalized. Now all that was left to do was wait.
Sarah MacLewis met me as I entered the door, her face lined with worry. “Ewan! I thought for a moment that Jane had returned.”
“Returned?” I demanded. “Where has she gone?”
“William MacCreild came this morning with two horses, to take Jane with him on a ride in the hills.” She hesitated. “They should have been back hours ago.”
My face darkened and I pushed past her to my room. She called out, “You haven’t seen them, have you?” as I passed.
“No!” I flung back over my shoulder, sweeping the sword from beneath my pallet and girding it to my waist. She appeared at the door, concern on her face as she watched my preparations.
“Lady MacLewis,” I said hastily, “may I beg the loan of your horse?”
She seemed to grasp my errand in a trice and nodded, a look of resignation sweeping across her countenance. “Yes.”
Her hands reached out to grasp my cloak as I passed. “Bring my daughter back to me, Ewan,” she whispered tearfully, kissing me on the cheek. “Bring her back safe. . .”
Striding from the house and to the adjoining stable, I saddled the brown mare and swung myself up, ducking my head as we passed ‘neath the stable’s archway. The mare’s hooves beat a steady tattoo against the cobblestones of the street, cantering toward the gate at the edge of town.
The guard opened the gate to us without a word and we passed through, the mare responding readily to the reins in my hand.
I reined up at the outskirts of town, uncertain which way to travel. At length I pulled around to the northwest and slapped the mare on the rump. She responded by breaking into a gallop and we headed into the hills, my face dark as the twilight gloom surrounding us, the words of Lady MacLewis ringing hauntingly in my ears.
Bring her back safe. . .
this AAR isnt dead is it?????? LOVIMG IT! dont leave us in suspense!!!!!!!!:furious3::help:
Its dead
First of all, let me apologize to my readers here on the Org for leaving you like this. However, this AAR is far from dead. Indeed, it has been on-going--just not here. I've been somewhat over-committed of late and have not been able to continue double-posting the AAR both here and on TWC. However, the entire AAR can be found here, on TWC. Enjoy!
It's flipping dead. Curses.
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