Sword of Albion: A Clan MacDougall AAR

[Roka]

another great update!

you have me in almost unbearable suspense here

[Theodotos I]

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.

[Gbone]

Looks interesting....

[Theodotos I]

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. . .

[Olaf Blackeyes]

Applause for you.

[Roka]

those pesky norsemen are not to be trusted!

[Theodotos I]

those pesky norsemen are not to be trusted!

Never!