Date: Thu, 22 Feb 1996 17:43:43 EST Reply-To: "#75 Brian MacKenzie: Flyers fan, Mentos Maintainer" Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "#75 Brian MacKenzie: Flyers fan, Mentos Maintainer" Organization: TEMPLE UNIVERSITY Subject: The MacKenzie Chronicles: Bonny Portmore, chapter 4/4 yeah, yeah, complain all ya want, it's finally here... The MacKenzie Chronicles Bonny Portmore, chapter four by Brian Procopio Copyright 1996 Kaos Pictures, Inc. _______________________________________________________________________________ ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "O Bonny Portmore you shine where you stand And the more I think on you the more I think long If I had you no as I had once before All the Lords in Old England would not purchase Portmore..." --Loreena McKennitt, "Bonny Portmore" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- October 3, 1569 Kintail, Scotland ----------------- Winter comes early to the northern neck of Scotland, and, indeed, just several weeks into autumn frost covered the early morning ground and a damp chill gnawed at my bones. My horse plodded along, very nearly on its last limbs. We were close, however, and I insisted on spurring the animal on. As I came through the treeline I was treated to a glorious sight as the sun broke full and through the dim fog, illuminating the turrets of Eilean Donan Castle. Sensing that the journeys end approached, my mount picked up the pase slightly, drawing me closer to the long bridge spanning the radius of Loch Duich. A pair of kilted guards stood firm before me, watching impassively. As I grew closer, I became aware that they were not about to move aside anytime soon, so I halted my horse. She snorted irritably, wanting, like me, for this dash across the British Isle to be over with. Finally, the guard on the left hand side spoke. "Identify yourself and your business, good sir." "I am Brian of MacKenzie, and my business is with the Lady of my clan. Let me pass," I replied. At this the guards turned a more scrutinous eye towards me. "Ye wear not the MacKenzie colors..." Exasperation was well past my mental level at this point. "I've just ridden clear across bloody England, should I have painted my horse plaid and worn a sign which said, 'Kill me, I'm Scottish' while I was at it?" I exclaimed with a sigh. "Do you give this trouble to every MacKenzie who visits our own land, MacRae?" I should explain to the reader. Eilean Donan Castle is held by the clan MacRae, but lies on MacKenzie lands. The MacRaes almost always ride into battle under the MacKenzie colors, often as our archers and rear guards. The lands and castle are our gift to them, and they hold and care for them in our name. "And who are you, to expect to be allowed through, even though we donna know what yer doing here?" the second guard chimed in. I settled back in my saddle, finally deciding to deal my trump card. "I am Brian of MacKenzie, son of Colin, the late Lord of the same. You will let me pass, for I believe my mother is expecting me. Now." I had wanted to keep that facet of information quiet as long as possible, but, if there was no other way... The second guard pulled the first aside, and they began to argue vehement- ly among themselves. Finally one trotted across the bridge. "We'll bring Lady MacKenzie out to check your claim," the remaining guard explained. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Why all the added security measures, mother?" I inquired in between bites of my meal. My mother, a dark-haired Irish woman with the temper of a red-head and the determination of a bull rolled into one appeared genuinely forlorn as she rose from the table and glided to the tall, thin window on the far wall. "It is your uncle's fault," she explained. "Uncle Kenneth?" "Aye, one and the same. These are trying times for the clan, Brian, and, soon enough, for you too. Your rightful claim to the MacKenzie lands has been disputed by your father's brother." She paused, and I was able to recollect somewhat. I did not know much about my Uncle Kenneth. He was rarely spoken of and only infrequently seen about Braham Castle, which is the chief's residence and our usual home. From what I could gather there was, at some point, a falling out in between him and my father, Colin, sometime before the battle of Pinkie some twenty plus years ago. "Bu--" I started. "But why?," she finished for me. "Because your uncle has wanted the lands and the title ever since your grandfather's death, Brian. Once before, soon after you were born, he attempted to have your father killed in the midst of the battle. Your father was too good a man to banish him or worse, so he has existed as a festering sore in the side of the clan ever since. Now is his chance to take over the line..." "Except for me," I concluded. My head swam, trying to sort out the var- ious threads which spun through my mind. My sense of honor and duty bade me to fight my Uncle's claims, but, to be honest, the rest of me questioned why. I knew that assuming the role of chieftain would require alot of work, effort, and dedication, things which I knew I had but had just never worked on. With three elder brothers, the thought of becoming Lord of MacKenzie. Deep down, though, I knew that there would be no other path for my future. Besides, if I decided to walk away from it, my mother would have killed me because of it. "What can I do about it?" I asked. My mother fiddled with her hands as she responded. "We've discussed this extensively, the MacRae chieftain and myself. War may be the only option a- vailable t--" "No. Too much bloodshed has occurred already, and too many MacKenzies have died," I broke in adamantly. "You don't know the half of it, my son," she replied. "Twice now has Kenneth sent men to bring back my head. Once in our own castle and once here. Bless the MacRaes, at least they know where their true loyalties lie." "What about the rest of the MacKenzie clan? Why have they stood for this?" I asked incredulously. "Your uncle has slandered your name quite endlessly, Brian, talking about how you abandoned your clan, even going so far as saying that Mary es- caped by herself and that you had assisted the English in trying to kill her," Lady MacKenzie lectured. "bu-- But-- Mary is *dead*, for God's sake, she can't even defend her own name, let alone mine..." "Exactly," my mother glared. "You have to understand the person Kenneth is. Greedy, cruel, manipulative. He will do or say whatever it takes to gain his power." I stood and began to pace the room, trying to formulate a plan of action. "I still think there are better options than war. Clansman against clansman, that sort of thing will only lead us into ruin. It would leave us wide open for invasion by the MacDonalds and their ilk," I rambled on. "He won't listen to talk," my mother added quietly. "Do you know that? Maybe he will...," I countered. "If it's a way to save this clan intact then I'll take it..." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- October 9, 1569 Braham Castle ------------- Alone, unarmed, I was escorted into the audience chamber of the spacious castle which I knew so well. Tapestries adorned the far walls, detailing the history of the MacKenzie clan. Not that there was alot of it, by any means, but the clan had been influential in many of its years of existance. It's first chief, also a Kenneth, lived a mere three centuries before my own time, a decendant of Colin of the Aird, who himself was the ancestor of the Earls of Ross. The decour had changed signifigantly in my years away, evidence of my uncle's touch, no doubt. I swallowed back any comments and made my way towards the overly ornate... throne? I don't remember us owning a throne... My guards walked easily, probably more so than if they had actually known who I was. I was entering the castle under the guise of a messenger. It was rather well known than Kenneth of MacKenzie would probably have his only nephew shot before he let him enter his own castle, where upon he would be constrained by certain laws of hospitality not to kill him. The far doors opens to allow my uncle's entrance, and a tremor raced through the core of my being. *please*, I prayed to the heavens of fate. *please let it be one of his bodyguards, please* It was not, of course, to be, for it was then that I met Kenneth of Mac- Kenzie, my uncle, and an immortal. His gaze met mine, and instantly burned fury and rage. I saw the knuck- les of his right hand caress the hilt of his sword as he strode forward to his cerimonial chair. As he seated himself he questioned, "State your name and business and be done with it," the staple greeting taking on an evil undertone, matching the visage on his face. For an immortal he seemed to be on the older side, probably in his late thirties or early forties when he died his first death. A full, greying beard spilled over the front of his vest, matched by long, straggly locks of black and grey. His eyes were dark, probably a very deep blue in hue, though I wasn't close enough to tell. He was stocky; on the short side yet muscular of build. I stepped forward, holding my head as high as possible. "I am Brian MacKenzie of the Clan MacKenzie, and I am here to claim the Caberfeidh," I announced, informing my uncle and the room that I had come for the chieftain- ship. A low rumble passed through the circle of guards around me, and they teetered uncertainly. "The MacCoinnich? Here, alone?" I heard whispered, a guard referring to the original derivation of the name MacKenzie, meaning "Son of the Bright One." I stood firm, gazing at my uncle's countanence for his response. He stood slowly, wearily, it seemed, and strode forward towards me. I tensed, preparing for a blatant attack, but instead he swept me up into an enormous bear hug. "Brian!," he exclaimed. "My newphew, you've returned!" To his guards he added, "One of my newphews lives!!" Now, having spent quite some time in an acting troupe, I knew talent when I saw it, and, trust me, my uncle was truely talented. Immediately a meal was prepared, rooms arranged, and meaningless chitchat exchanged. Oh, he wanted to know all about me; oh, he wanted to hear how my stay in London was; oh, he was lying his worthless Scottish ass off. Not once was I allowed to broach the subject of why I was actually here or why he had attempted to murder my own mother, or anything of the sort. Tommorrow, I was promised, Let us not spoil good times with such talk, he informed me. So it was that I retired to a soft, comfortable bed, fully satiated, that night.... ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- As I said, my uncle was good. By the evening's end I was almost willing to believe that everything was one big misunderstanding, and that we really would get things sorted out in the morning. So, one way or another I was actually able to fall asleep, and a rather sound sleep at that, for several hours at least. As the hour crept into lateness I awoke to a heart-pounding boom. I bolted upright, to be rewarded by a billowing curtain in the face, the heavy and wet fabric slapping me soundly upside the head. I peered out to see a violent storm brewing upon the Scottish countryside, an arc of lightning shooting down to land somewhere on the opposite hillside. I rose from my bed and began to search around the room for something to hold the curtains down, lest I wake drenched to the core come morning. The spartan furniture provided little in the way of heavy sturdiness, however, and I hurridly made myself presentable before slipping out into the hallway on my scavenger hunt. Not twenty feet from my door, however, was a presence. It was one I had felt just that day, one that I had almost begun to trust, one that was holding a claymore and heading towards my door. "Ah, Brian," he began cordially, trying to recover from his oh so innocent appearance. "Uncle Kenneth," I returned icily. "What a surprise. What brings you out on a night like this?" I folded my arms before me, leaning back on the door frame. My eyes scanned the corridor, looking for weapons, tools, anything I could possibly use. "I believe it is time for us to talk, dear nephew," he explained, a slight twitch playing across his cheek at the word 'nephew.' "You see, when I did those things I did, I hardly knew that you were what you were..." "What, irrepressibly handsome?" I smirked angrily. "No. You know what I speak of, immortal," he retorted. A silence passed between us. There. It was said. It was out in the open now. May we contin- ue? "Would it have changed anything, Uncle Kenneth?" I questioned, adding a leer in with the 'uncle' designation. "Aye, Brian, it would have," he stated as he stepped a foot closer. "I would have instructed my man to cut your head from your body after he stabbed you in that alleyway." I felt, somewhere back in the haze of conciousness, my knees buckle be- neath me, my body sliding slowly down to the stone floor. My death, a hired hit by my own uncle. Even then, he knew, even--- "You had them killed, didn't you?" I growled, a haze of red settling over my vision. "What, your father and brothers?" he laughed, a loud, maniacal laugh, the sort that sends a chill through your bones. "I plunged the dagger through your father's back myself, Brian, he was always far too trusting for my tastes..." With a bellow of rage I bolted, diving for his neck, wanting to do as much damage as possible to this man who had killed my own, his own, family, the man who had changed my life irrevocably. With ease he brought the heavy blade up, creating a nice gash down my left arm and knocking me cleanly against the wall. I rolled right, avoiding his second strike and gaining some distance between us. A torch burned low in a sconce near me, and I pulled it from the wall, swinging it too and fro as a shield. Kenneth grinned and dove forward with a snarl, stabbing the air which I had just vacated. As he recovered I jumped upwards, spearing him in the face with the smoldering torch. He cried out in pain and rage, shaking his head from side to side to knock away the ashes. In my second of reprieve, I sprinted for the end of the corridor, my uncle in too close of a pursuit be- hind me. One.. Two... THREE doors and turn, crash... stairs... I slammed the door in his face behind me, gaining a second or two more of time. Hands over feet I scrambled up the stairwell, pausing to pry an orna- mental blade from the wall beside me, rusted spikes popping loose with it. I continued upwards, hearing my uncle's footsteps just one landing beneath me now. Finally I shouldered my way through the uppermost hatch, spilling myself out and onto a rain-slicked roof. Lightning flashed, temporarily blinding me. I stumbled towards one of the turrets, looking for a place to hide. A roar erupted in the doorway behind me, and Kenneth of MacKenzie charged across the stones at me, claymore high over one shoulder. I answered his attack with one of my own, running full tilt at his form. As he brought his heavy blade around to strike, my left foot found purchase in a small depression in the rock surface. It locked, twisting my ankle painfully and pitching me face first into the solid rock. A pair of booted feet kicked me in the ribcage as my uncle's momentum carried him clean through and over me, and he crashed to the ground several yards distant, sliding across the slick surface. Stunned, we both stumbled to our feet slowly, I gingerly attempted to place weight upon my ankle, only to fall to the concrete again. My uncle re- trieved his weapon and made his way towards my prone form, nursing his right arm somewhat. A slow grin made its way over his features, his eyes alight in darkness. "Now it ends, my nephew..." he stated quietly. He swung, right to left, with a powerful blow. My poorly-made weapon cracked cleanly in two, deflecting just enough of the strike to let me live. As Kenneth extended through with his swing, I dove forward, driving what was left of my blade into his stomach. His jaw dropped in shock as I pulled up- wards on the hilt, carving a deep red line clean up through his chest. The sword met bone and my wet fingers slipped, knocking me backwards once more. My uncle stood, transfixed in horror as blood poured from the gaping wound, his blade since dropped. I half-crawled over to it, recognizing it as my father's sword. Using it as a cane, I hobbled upwards to my feet and pulled back for the killing strike. "TULLOCH ARD!!!!" I bellowed, the MacKenzie rallying cry calling forth over the castle as the blade severed the neck of my uncle. I dropped to my knees, exhausted, drained, in pain, and sore. And then, the Quickening struck. Lightning and thunder and wind and rain screamed around me, and I screamed with them as well, the wave of energy corsing throughout my body. For a brief milisecond I glimpsed the Vision, the moment of living all life which I tasted upon my own death, but then that was replaced by all that I found evil in this world, images of death and carnage poured forth unbidden from my uncle's mind, I felt the handle of the dagger, could identify each and every grain in the wood of it as I drove it into my father's back, the look of betrayal on his face, the image of my brothers and he lined up alongside the battlefield, the blank stares of death.... ....I cried, holding my head and screaming for and end to it all. Death stood before me once more, laughing, mocking. His visage superimposed over my family members' faces, a leering, knowing, grin. Long into my mental torture my senses slowly became aware of my physical surroundings again. The pain, first, every muscle of my body calling for release, the grapefruit-sized lump which my ankle had become, the thinning trickle of blood from my arm. Then the watchers. Three of them, Kenneth's own guards by their colors, standing in the stairwell, observing, unsure. Slowly, they made their way towards me. I did not care. I wanted death, I wanted to die. I wanted away from this cruel and ironic world which haunted me so. The lead guard said but one word to me as he bowed down, placing his sword at my feet: "Caberfeidh." My vision wavered as another wave of tears crested. I collapsed yet, be- fore losing consciousness, uttered just three words which had possessed my mind throughout the entire Quickening, "Luceo non uro." I shine, but do not burn. The motto of the clan MacKenzie. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> January 5, 1994 Northeast Philadelphia, Pennsylvania ------------------------------------ Silence settled into the room; I, lost in my own thoughts and Dave in his as well. It was my pupil which broke the quiet after several minutes. "Okay, Bri, you win," he smiled half-heartedly. "I win?" I questioned. "I thought my first was worse than yours could have been... I was wrong," the youngest Macleod explained. "Aye, lad, that you were..." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- well, thanks for reading, all. the new and revised version of Behind Blue Eyes is up next, so see you then, sync, Brian =========================================================================