CHAPTER 2

"ONE YEAR EARLIER" ********************** It was a dark and stormy night at a small village in Western Scotland. Philip Swethre was sitting upright in his bed thinking about the village. What would they do when the French attacked them? He wanted to fight the French, but his father wanted him to stay home and protect the village if there was to be an attack from the French. And there would be. Philip knew it. Just as he was thinking that, his father walked in.

"Philip, it's time for bed." "What? It's only 8:15." "Yes, but tomorrow, we will meet the French and attack them. I'm sick and tired of waiting for them." "Okay. Sounds good. I'll get some rest."

Suddenly, a firy blast pelted over the house. They were here. Screams came from every corner. Philip jumped out of his bed and ran outside with his sword, his father not far behind with his sword. They were everywhere. On horses and on land. Philip, in rage against these men, charged a ground soldier. The soldier turned to face Philip and with his shield, he knocked the sword out of Philip's hand. Philip fell down to ground, stunned by the blow. Then the soldier knocked him out. And everything went black.

When he woke up, Philip was under a door. He throw off of him and stood up. That was when he discovered his splitting headache and bloody forehead. He looked around the smoldering village and to his horror, every building was resting in ashes. And wherever there was a sturdy area, there was a hanging corpse. All 39 members of the village. His family. His freinds. His mentors. All dead. A firy rage was now burning inside of Philip. He collapsed to the dirt, head in hands, sobbing. How could he let this happen? If only he had killed that soldier, everyone would be still alive. Then he heard voices. He stood up, with ashes and tears covering his face and a burning anger inside of him. He picked up a large piece of rooftop and headed towards the voices.

Just around the corner. He moved slowly. There was great pain in his ankle. He looked down to see a large wooden splinter impaled in the bottom area of his leg, right above his ankle. He tried to hold the pain within, and move on. Then he saw them. A group of men. Only, they weren't French. They were Scots. Philip's heart leaped for joy when he realized it was a posse of men that his father knew. One of the men was William Wallace. A notorious fighter against the French, fighting for the freedom of Scotland. The freedom they all greatly deserved. Philip cried out to them and collapsed on the ground again, and then, once more, everything went dark.

"He's gonna be okay."

An elderly man stood over Philip who was know inside a hut on a bed. Also there was two men that Philip recognized from the posse and a third man who was Wallace.

"Hey boy, that was a nasty wound you had", remarked the elderly man. "Ugh, which one?", replied Philip.

The elderly man chuckled. "We're sorry about your village, son", said Wallace. "Thanks." "We're gonna get em. The French. They will pay. Very soon."

TO BE CONTINUED....

Thanks to Sarah and her review. Nice to know I have a "Number 1 Fan". *laughs* Anyways, I'll have my next chapter up in a couple days. Enjoy! Please review!