Albion chapter 2
_King Alaric the Just was more than a warrior. More than the bravest of Tigers. More than the most merciful and wisest of Kings. He was also a mage - a fact known to only a few of those closest to him. He only used his magic in battle, and only rarely, for he preferred to fight with sword and shield. _
It was magic that enabled him to drive his sword into the stone. On that fateful day, on the fields of Eghincourt, Alaric himself slew the rebel earl Morghan. All around them, the King's knights and soldiers were soundly defeating Morghan's army. When it was over, and the ground was slick with blood and the air thick with carrion birds, Alaric knew that he was dying from the wounds Morghan had inflicted upon him.
And so he spoke these words: "One day, someone worthy will come, and they will heal and unite the land. The one who draws and wields my sword will be the one, true ruler of Albion."
Those words were heard by many, and they were written down by a priestess of the Sisterhood named Lauren.
(Court historians wrote down Alaric's last words as "One day, the true King will come, and he will rule the land with strength. He who draws and wields my sword will be the one, true King of Albion." Children, now, are taught this incorrect version of the last words. The Sisterhood, however, knows the truth.)
_And then, with his dying breath, King Alaric plunged his sword - Valerian - into the stone. _
In the many, many years since that day, untold numbers of Animal Folk have tried to pull the sword out of the stone. All have failed. King Alaric's lineage continues to rule Albion, of course - Alaric's son ascended to the throne, and then his grandson, and then his great-grandson, Edgar. The monarchy - the royal family - continues and thrives. As I write these words, Edgar's great-grandson, Alfred, is King of Albion. It is tempting to wonder what would happen if someone did manage to free the sword. How would the King react? Such thoughts are idle speculation, of course. The sword is, apparently, held fast by magic, and no one has been able to draw it. Kings have tried, and Earls, and nobles, and knights. There are even rumors that commoners have tried. All have failed. It's been a century and a half, and the sword remains in the stone.
-- From "The sword in the stone: the legends and the reality," by Elenna of the Sisterhood. (Note: this book was originally meant to be private - a history written only for those in the Sisterhood.)
**
"Riley! Wake up!"
Someone was shaking his shoulder - and not gently, either. Was this a dream?
Gradually, Riley the Fox became aware of some things. For one, he'd had too much ale that night. He'd gone to bed more than a little drunk, and now - waking up - he felt dizzy and very dehydrated. For another, something was happening - the air outside the tent was filled with shouts. Who was shouting? And why? Riley also - gradually - became aware that it was his friend Rutger who was shaking his shoulder (and not very gently, either). Rutger, the brown-furred Pit Bull, was naked, because that was how he slept, this time of year - he claimed that when late Autumn arrived, and the air cooled, he'd start wearing layers upon layers to bed.
Feeling _very _much out of sorts, thanks to the ale, Riley sat up. He usually wore a simple, cotton nightshirt to bed, because it was still just early Autumn, and the days and nights were still fairly warm.
"The camp is under attack!" Rutger said, quickly. He rushed to his chest, and he began putting on his clothes.
"How . . ." Riley was momentarily unable to process what Rutger had just said.
"It's the rebels, of course - who else could it be?" Rutger pulled on his chain mail and his sword belt. "They're in the camp - inside it - that's impossible, of course, there's no way they could've gotten in. It's impossible - and yet -" He shrugged his broad shoulders.
The stocky, brown-furred Pit Bull looked around. Where in the name of all the gods were his boots? He'd been so drunk last night, so absolutely deep inside a tankard . . . and now he was trying to shake off the effects - not an easy battle, surely. He felt like he had sobered up, more or less - the shock of the news plus the sounds of battle outside the tent had, he hoped, sobered him up. Yet he still felt some effects of the ale. For one thing, if he moved his head too fast the tent spun around him. And where were his - ah - there - in the corner, for some reason. His boots.
Meanwhile, Riley was rising from the old, stuffed mattress. He felt shaky, thirsty. He wondered, again, if, perhaps, he was dreaming. But - if this wasn't a dream, he'd have to get up and get going, quickly.
I'm a soldier in the Earl's army, _the Fox told himself. _An apprentice, sure - a trainee. Still, I'm a soldier, and I need to be out there, fighting the rebels.
Riley shrugged off his nightshirt, exposing fur that was a shade of orange (rather than red or auburn). Trying very hard to appear confident, and trying very hard to not fall over, he quickly dressed.
"Sword and belt," Rutger reminded him, with an amused grin.
"Oh. Right." Chastened, Riley tied on the belt and sword. They hadn't given him his own shield yet, and he suddenly felt vulnerable without its protection.
Rutger, the experienced, veteran soldier, never carried a shield. Instead, he kept a small dagger in his belt. He said that if a battle got crazy enough, he'd fight with a weapon in each hand.
"What do we do?" Riley asked.
"Look for a captain - any captain," Rutger responded. "They'll give us orders. Until we find one, well, we'll just search for rebels to kill or capture."
Together, the two friends left their tent. It was a few hours before dawn, and the air was filled with smoke, and shouts, and screams, and the sounds of Animal Folk violently fighting each other with swords, and bows, and two-handed broadswords, and daggers, and maces, and who knew what all else.
++
Not for the first time in his life - and certainly not for the last - Trajan wished he were a mage. Surely, mages had spells that could get rid of the effects of drinking too much ale. Surely, mages could sober themselves up right quick, with a spell, with a snap of their fingers. By all the gods of the Norse pantheon, especially Jolnar, god of wine and revels, Trajan had consumed a river of ale not that long ago.
He was a Wolf with light gray fur, born and raised in Norseland. He had a small friendship Pack, and (of course) he had a Pack formed with the other soldiers in his battalion. However, his Family Pack - well, that was a closely-guarded secret. He'd seen many years, and many, many battles, and he'd come to realize that the toughest battle of all was . . . waking up in the middle of the night, with a belly (and a swimming head) full of ale, waking up to the realization that the enemy was close at hand. It had happened on a ship, once. Trajan had awoken at dawn, still mostly drunk, and he'd immediately discovered that pirates were swarming the ship (_and _storm clouds were rolling in, too).
He knelt down and began tending to the old Rottweiler who sat, injured, propped up against an ancient trunk. Trajan was no medic, but he felt somewhat confident he could bandage the handsome dog's wounds. He couldn't remember the Rottweiler's name, but he knew he was a noble, as well as one of the Earl's most veteran captains.
"The rebels got inside," the Rottweiler said.
"I see that, sir."
"No, I mean - they got inside. Some of them _joined _us - weeks ago - they pretended to be volunteers who wanted to join the Earl's army. So we brought them in, began training them. Fucking scum!" the Rottweiler spat. "We fed them, clothed them. Tonight . . . tonight, they slaughtered the guards in the sentry towers, and they opened the gates. Fucking rebels came swarming in."
"Gods," Trajan muttered, appalled. "They used treachery and trickery. For all the rebels' talk of how the King is somehow unfair, that he keeps most of Albion's wealth to himself, the rebels . . . they used trickery to get inside the camp."
"We should've been prepared for anything. We thought we were."
"Wait - should you - " Trajan said, as the noble struggled to his feet.
"I'm hurt, not dead," the dog growled. "I've got to find the Earl."
"I'll help you, sir."
"Good. No, wait. See to the stone, will you? That's why the King sent you Wolves here. See to the stone, though I'm certain the rebels couldn't harm it."
++
Sierra woke in darkness to the sounds of battle. Instantly, she was awake, alert, and leaping from bed. Quickly, she dressed in a leather shirt and leather pants. She slipped on her chain mail jacket and reached for her sword and scabbard. The makeshift army camp was under attack, that much was clear. The how and the why did not matter, she knew, as she laced up her thick boots. Attack, invasion, most likely the rebels - that was all the information she needed. The details could be sorted out later.
The tall Lioness grabbed her shield, left her tent, and joined the fray.
Everywhere was chaos.
Quickly, Sierra decided she'd walk through the camp, killing or subduing any rebel she saw. That was her plan. She began by shield-bashing an arrogant rebel who stood, laughing, urinating on the cold ashes of a small campfire. Then she angrily cut down a Cheetah who was waving a sword in the face of a frightened servant. Sierra would not have expected the rebels to have any honor, but - to threaten an unarmed civilian! No doubt, the Cheetah had had something other than 'mere' theft (or attack) on his mind when he'd found the servant. Why did so many males turn towards that when they were sent to war or battle?
She made her way past the rows and rows of tents. Up ahead, she saw a Wolf she knew - Trajan. He was surrounded by four rebels - no, three, as one fell to Trajan's sword. Sierra was fairly confident the Wolf needed no help, but she rushed to his side nonetheless.
"Sierra? Well, by the gods, it's good to see you."
"And you as well," Sierra couldn't help but smile, as she deftly parried the thrust of a rebel's rusty sword.
"At first, I thought all of this was just a dream caused by the ale," Trajan waved a hand at the swirl of chaos surrounding them.
"How much did you drink?"
"Enough to float several longboats."
More rebels were running towards them - probably, Sierra assumed, because she and Trajan were the only two soldiers in the area. Two were easier to fight than many. As well, she knew that many males _yearned _for a chance to fight one of the fabled Wolves of Norseland.
For the next few minutes, the Lioness and the Wolf dispatched rebel soldiers with calm efficiency. It was brutal work, distasteful and ugly. And yet . . . Sierra would never admit this to anyone, but the way of the sword made her blood sing. And when fighting rebels such these folks - well - the rebels had no honor. Sierra believed they had no justification for their actions. Fighting them, she had no reason for qualms or remorse, and she could allow the siren call of battle to draw her in.
As the last of the rebels fighting them fell, Sierra glanced to her left and saw an Ox charging towards her. There was another Ox close behind the first. They were tall, and wide beyond measure, and both carried large axes. With a savage grunt, one of them ran towards Trajan. The other threw himself at Sierra - she could not, for a moment, believe how fast he moved, considering his wide girth. She raised her shield just in time to meet his ax.
There was so much strength behind the blow, Sierra was knocked back several paces - but she did not fall. The Ox charged again, and this time Sierra stepped aside nimbly, forcing the Ox to blunder past her. As he did so, she lashed out with her sword at his unprotected lower leg (even though striking a foe in the back was, she felt, an act without honor). The Ox's skin opened, and blood poured out, but she hadn't hit a major muscle, as she'd hoped to. The Ox roared and spun around (again, his speed was impressive). He stepped back, collected himself, raised his large ax. Sierra held her sword in a parry position. For a moment, neither moved, as they both sought to appraise their foe.
Then the Ox charged. Again, Sierra blocked with her shield, but this time she held her ground. Staying close, she swung her sword, but all she did was nick his arm, drawing more blood.
That was a poor blow, _Sierra chided herself. _I've been trained to do better.
The rebel pushed himself forward, trying to knock her off balance. He nearly succeeded. Sierra reacted without thinking, and the edge of her weapon cut into the Ox's armor, at the shoulder. It was nowhere near a killing blow, but it did hurt, and it did draw more blood. Instead of falling back, the Ox, now enraged as well as hurt, charged forward again and - with truly surprising speed - his ax clanged heavily into Sierra's shield. At the same time, the rebel slammed his head into Sierra's.
Dazed, eyes watering, the young Lioness reacted purely on instinct - no rational thought involved. She brought up her knee and drove it hard as she could into the Ox's male parts. Stunned, the rebel crumpled forward, trying to hold his ax and cradle his injured bits at the same time. Sierra forced herself to fight the dizziness, move forward, do something. She gripped the Ox's shoulders and pushed him backwards. The rebel almost fell, but somehow kept himself on his feet. Sierra charged at him, hard, and the Ox barely deflected the blow with his ax. Then the Lioness bashed him with her shield, and - again - the rebel nearly fell.
As Sierra advanced with her sword, the Ox _roared _his battle call into her face. Quickly, he shifted his weapon to one hand, rather than two, and - moving faster than Sierra would've believed possible - he caught her sword arm in his free hand. Clumsily, trying to give the Lioness no time to react, the Ox drove his ax into Sierra's shield, and the force of the blow drove the shield back, into Sierra's chest. Then the Ox let go of her sword arm, and punched her in the face.
Now even more dazed, Sierra lashed out with her sword and somehow managed to slice open her attacker's throat. Shocked by both the injury and the pain, the large, lumbering Ox dropped his ax. Falling to his knees, clutching his neck, he tried desperately to contain the flow of blood.
Sierra, meanwhile, had fallen backward. Because her right arm was stretched out, her sword connected with . . . something . . . it hit something and it . . . broke.
The Lioness struggled to a sitting position. She gazed at the shattered remains of her sword, still clutched in her right hand.
_How did it break? It hit - it hit that rock, but it shouldn't have broken. It didn't even hit it that hard! Even if I'd smashed my sword against that rock, at my full strength - which I surely did not do - the sword shouldn't have _shattered.
And then she looked behind her and saw that her sword had collided with no ordinary rock - it was, in fact, the rock which held the legendary sword. The rock that King Alaric the Just had driven his sword into. Somehow, the famous rock had broken her sword.
Only then did she remember - the Ox. She jumped to her feet, nimbly shaking off the effects of her injuries. The Ox was dead. Trajan, she quickly noted, had slain his opponent, but now he was busy fighting two rebels at once. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone rushing at her, sword raised. The rebel was a Cougar, and his sword was dented and nicked. She parried with her shield. Again, the Cougar rushed with his weapon, and again Sierra parried with her shield.
I need a sword.
Then she noticed another rebel - a Dalmatian - coming towards her left. Now it was two against one. Sierra dodged the incoming blow of the Cougar's sword, then she barely, just barely, brought up her shield in time to stun the Dalmatian, as he lunged forward.
The Lioness found herself near the famous rock, again, and - without thinking - she reached out. She heard music, ethereal and somehow familiar, in her head, briefly. Then it was gone. She felt a sense of sureness, of certainty - and she felt something calling to her.
Reaching out, she touched King Alaric's sword, then she placed her steady hand around the grip.
And then Sierra drew the sword from the stone.
The two rebels went still, as if frozen. For who knows how long, their eyes simply went from Sierra, to the sword in her hand, to Sierra again, like two travelers unsure of where to go. Then, eventually, they looked at each other. Moving as one, they turned and fled.
Sierra looked down, at the sword, at the runes which were barely visible on the blade. Looking up, she saw Trajan walking towards her. The Wolf's mouth hung open, and his eyes were wide. And then - more movement. Two males were approaching, but they were soldiers, not rebels.
The Lioness looked at the sword again.
++
"You drew it. The sword - you drew the sword from the stone," Trajan said, in hushed tones. He could not believe what had just happened. And yet, he'd seen it happen, he'd turned his attention to his friend Sierra just in time to witness . . . something he thought he'd never see. Gods, up until that moment, he'd thought no one would ever see the sword drawn - because folks had been trying for more than a century, and so far no one had been able to do it.
The Wolf noticed two soldiers approaching, both with the same stunned looks of wonder in their eyes. Trajan was not at all surprised when he realized the soldiers were the two males he'd met earlier in the pub. Riley, the Fox with the orange fur, and Rutger, the handsome Pit Bull. When he'd met them, he'd felt some sort of connection with them. He had known, somehow, that their fates were somehow tied up with his own.
And they'd arrived just as Sierra drew King Alaric's sword. That could not have been a coincidence.
Looking around at the circle formed by himself, his new friends, and Sierra, Trajan understood - it was the _four _of them who shared a connection.
He'd always noticed things like that - he'd always sensed them. As a child, he'd told his father about it, and his father had laughed. Oh, how he'd laughed, so hard - young Trajan worried the old male would injure a rib or something. And so, Trajan had begun keeping his insights to himself. He only revealed them, to friends or fellow soldiers, when doing so would help win a battle.
"Valerian," Sierra said, looking at the sword. That was the name of it - the name King Alaric had given to his famous sword, all those many years ago. The Lioness looked up, looked at the three males standing in front of her. "So . . . what do we do next?" She asked.