Forging the Blade - Part I The Wilderness Years by MacGeorge Disclaimers and Acknowledgements: See previously posted Part 0 NOTE: The html version, complete with graphics and author's notes (translations, historical references, etc.) can be found at: http://www.wordsmiths.net/MacGeorge/wip.html Chapter 8, part 2 ~~~~~ Duncan helped the able-bodied men bury the dead and tend the wounded. They also buried anything that had a clear Campbell identification on it, and covered the disturbed soil with brush. It would be best if it was assumed the party had passed this way on patrol and left for more promising territory. No one would go looking for them for a few days, at least, and by then the wagons would have reached safety, and this small party of men would have disappeared into the mist. They also now had sufficient horses to mount the whole group, and Duncan unexpectedly found himself on the Campbell leader's big bay stallion, and the new owner of a fur-caped cloak. The other men had backed off as he approached the fine animal and no one challenged his right to claim it. Just as they had backed off each time he had tried to join any small group that had gathered to talk, or share a skein of water, or simply rest for a moment. It quickly became obvious that Simon may have accepted his services as a fighter, but the others were leery of having anything to do with him. Duncan tried not to let his feelings show on his face. He just held his chin high and busied himself by working harder, refusing to take a break, digging the shallow graves until his palms bled. They rode out at last, and when it became clear that Duncan was being given a wide berth, separating him from the rest of the group, Simon sought him out, riding at his side. They rode in silence for awhile, until Duncan asked Simon what his plans were. "There's an abandoned manor house west and south of here at West Monar where the others will meet up, but I think it best that we circle around to the east and south of there, and scout for anyone taking too close an interest in the spot. It may be weeks or months before we rejoin them, you know, and we'll be riding hard, hiding from the King's men. Meals will be scarce and comfort even more so." Simon looked over at him, understanding in his eyes. "You owe us naught, MacLeod, and I canno' make the men unafraid of you. I would understand if..." "I gave you my pledge, and I meant it," Duncan interrupted. "It matters not that they fear me." "That can be no kind of a life," Simon protested. Duncan's mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "Let it go, Simon. At least what I do here has meaning." Simon raised a dubious eyebrow at him, but then one of his men called to him, riding up with a question and giving Duncan a dark look, so Duncan fell back. It would not do to have Simon's judgment or leadership questioned because of his developing a friendship with a demon. But Simon called him back, and Duncan turned. "Here!" the chieftain called, and tossed Duncan his own claymore. Simon nodded approvingly when Duncan reflexively caught it by the hilt. Then he wheeled his horse around to join his men. ~~~~~~~ Simon had not exaggerated the hardship the MacGregor men endured. They were constantly on the move, rarely staying more than one night at a single campsite, moving south, then east. The Earl of Argyle's men, the MacKinnon Clan, the Colquhouns, all their septs, and any of the King's soldiers were all on the lookout for the band of outlaw MacGregors. The group grew gradually as more men joined them, and their sense of commitment and kinship was strong. While there were plenty of squabbles and fights and petty arguments among them, each knew the others would defend them all with his life. Through it all, Duncan stayed an outcast, openly spat at and cursed by the other men, especially when they struggled with hurts and soreness and wounds from their small skirmishes, but he always came away unscathed despite the unbridled ferocity of his fighting style. He refused to let them know how much it bothered him. Instead, he let his hair go wild, and left his beard untrimmed. If he was truly something less than human, it seemed natural for him to look the part, and he liked the look of terror in his opponent's eyes as a wild beast cut a wide swath through their ranks. The only ones who were civil to him were Simon, who was respected by his men, and Angus, who was clearly the men's favorite. Angus laughed easily and often, and at night would pass around his jug of whiskey and tell wild tales of MacGregor heroes. Sometimes at night one of the men would pull out a pipe and another a drum, and the men would drink and sing and dance until the moon had set. Duncan usually stood watch on those evenings, patrolling the edge of the camp. One such night he found Simon sitting on a fallen log, looking up into a star-studded sky on a rare cloudless evening. He wasn't wearing a cloak, and his shirt shone in the moonlight like a beacon. "You should be with the others," Duncan observed. "They love it when you relax with them and share their stories." Simon looked up at him, then let his gaze take in the vast night sky. "I've known most of them since I was a boy," he said softly, his thin lips curving into a sad smile. "And I've heard their stories many times before." "Yes, but to have such a family," Duncan said wistfully, and settled onto the log beside him, watching their breaths fog and disappear into the chill, clear night air. "Tis a great gift and a great comfort, especially knowing they trust you so, and will follow you even to their deaths." Simon looked down, studying his hard, callused hands. "Tis no comfort, Duncan, to know men will follow you to their deaths. I've seen too many die, made too many mistakes. I wish..." His voice trailed off and he didn't finish the thought. Duncan studied the man beside him. They were not so different in age, yet Simon seemed much older, wiser. "What do you wish?" he urged. "I wish we could all just find a nice, small croft somewhere, settle down with a pretty lass and raise some bairns, no matter that they weren't called MacGregor." "Aye, but you'd have to set aside your name, your clan, let your family's history and heritage disappear forever, and all this," he gestured to the fighting men still drinking and singing below and behind them, "would have been for naught." Simon laughed silently, shaking his head. "Duncan, don't you know we canno' win this fight? There will always be more Campbells, or men just like them, and there will always be a King who wants to make an example of rebels." "But you canno' let them take away all that you are, your entire history, without a fight! You're a Highlander, and the Campbells are but the sassenach King's toadies." Duncan was appalled at the thought. Simon looked at Duncan for a moment, then nodded sadly. "Aye, I know. And this is what we do, eh?" He pushed himself to his feet with a tired sigh. "I suppose I'd better join the men, then." Simon paused, as though reluctant to return, and studied Duncan a moment. "And you, Duncan? What do you wish?" Duncan looked away, scanning the dark horizon, not wanting Simon to see his face just then. "I wish you a good night's sleep, Simon." He felt Simon's hand on his shoulder briefly, before he heard the man's footsteps retreat, then he heard Angus call out to their leader, making a bawdy joke about what he had been doing so long away from the fire. The men's laughter drifted on the wind as Duncan once again made the rounds of the perimeter of the camp. ~~~~~~~ It was over a week later that they were almost cornered by a patrol of King's soldiers near the old MacGregor ancestral lands, in a glen near Crianlarich along the river that emptied into Loch Lomond, and they were forced south, leading their pursuers further away from West Monar. They now numbered almost a half a hundred, making their movements more difficult to conceal. Duncan spent much of his time hunting for food for the group by himself. Their ostracism was easier to bear if he kept himself occupied and out of sight. He had brought down a good-sized stag, and was bringing it back to camp when he realized from a distance that something was wrong. The fires had been doused, and the men were moving quickly, gathering their belongs and finding their mounts. He rode in and dismounted, pulling the stag from his horse's withers, but then letting it drop to the ground. He made his way towards Simon, who was standing amidst his captains. Simon's eyes flicked to him, and he nodded his head, indicating that Duncan should move closer. The other men reluctantly made way for him. "They are coming from two directions," Simon was saying. "The MacKinnons are gathering to the west of us, and the Colquhouns from the northeast. The Earl of Argyle has camped his men to the north, and they've got lookouts all along the river, so we canno' cross to the east. What they are trying to do is clear - drive us straight towards Glen Fruin, with no northern retreat." "Well, we all know what happened the last time the MacGregors fought at Glen Fruin!" one man snarled. "We slaughtered the lot of them, and we'll do it again." "Nay, Dougal," Simon hissed. "They outnumber us more than two to one." "And every one of us is worth any three of them," someone else said. "I say if they want a battle at Glen Fruin, then they shall get one!" The men murmured in agreement, nodding and shifting their weight, as though ready to do battle at that very moment. "And I say it would be suicide," Simon announced. "We should disband, scatter, and regroup in the hills west of Inverness." "We're tired of running, Simon," Angus MacGregor stated firmly. He stood with his arms crossed, big and strong as an old oak. His iron gray hair was tied back in a messy tail, his ancient baldrick scarred and battered, his plaid tattered and stained, but his expression was resolute. "Damn you, Angus!" Simon hissed. "Would you have us all die, leaving our families unprotected?" "Our families are unprotected," Dougal chimed in again. "My wife and son have been without husband and father these past five years. It is time to make a stand!" "What stand?" Simon demanded. "What purpose would it serve to get us all killed?" "It would serve history," Angus said quietly. "We have let them harry us for as long as I can remember. I'm getting old, Simon, and I'm nay willing to go back w' my tail between my legs and give up my name, only to serve the Campbells as some tenant sheepherder, watching my grandchildren grow up without pride or clan. I'd rather they remember the MacGregors as men who fought and died for their freedom in the same place where we won our greatest victory." He looked around over the crowd. "Are ye with me, men?" The men looked at each other, some with uncertainty, but others with fire in their eyes, their chins held high. "Aye!" stated Dougal firmly. "We're with ye." He drew his claymore, holding it over his head. "S' Rioghal Mo Dhream, eh, lads? Who is the bloody Earl of Argyle to tell us different?" "No!" Simon pulled down Dougal's arm and yanked him around. "We should not throw away good men's lives for the sake of pride!" "And do ye have none?" Dougal demanded. "Pride is all we have anymore. They've taken our land, our name, our history. We have followed you for years, Simon MacGregor. No one questions your courage, and you know I'd give my life for you and yours, but we've nay had one real battle in all that time. One chance to show what we're worth. I say now is the time, and Glen Fruin is the place, where we slaughtered our enemies once before." A chorus of 'ayes' echoed through the crowd, which had enlarged to include most of the camp. "They'll be waiting for us, damn it!" Simon answered. "We cannot win this battle." "As Dougal said," Angus responded, "Any MacGregor is worth any two Campells or MacKinnons, and any three sassenachs. I'm ready to fight them, whether you lead us or no'. The question is whether you are with us, Simon MacGregor." "Damn you, Angus!" Simon said again in a choked voice and turned away, standing with his back to them for a long minute, his fists jammed hard on his hips. The group was silent and tense, awaiting his answer. When he turned back at last, he look slowly over the crowd, taking the time to meet each man's eyes. Oddly, he ended his gaze at Duncan, and the two men shared a long look. Finally, he broke the stare and took a deep breath. "Aye," he said quietly. "I'm with you, as I have always been." At that, Dougal raised his claymore high once again. "S' Rioghal Mo Dhream!" he called, and Duncan could hear the slide of many swords slipping from their scabbards, as the crowd took up the chant. "S' Rioghal Mo Dhream!" They shouted together in a deep-throated roar, and then shouted it again, and again, until the rhythm broke and they began laughing, slapping each other's backs and joking about how many enemies they would kill. Duncan was eerily reminded of his father's stirring words just before the battle at Glen Garvin, and a cold shudder walked across his shoulders. Simon watched the celebration in silence and Duncan moved closer. "Is there no way to win?" Duncan asked him quietly, but Simon shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together. "You should leave us now," Simon told him, catching his forearm and squeezing it to emphasize his point. Duncan frowned. "Nay. I pledged you my life as well as my sword arm." "I release you from your pledge, MacLeod. You should not be a part of this insanity. I'll not have more needless deaths on my conscience." "My death is unlikely," Duncan squeezed Simon's shoulder. "And is not one that should trouble you or anyone else, Simon MacGregor." He didn't want to hear the man's token protest, so he turned and headed back to his horse. Even if they were all to die in battle before long, they would still need to eat, and he had a stag to butcher before they broke camp. ~~~~~~~ The days passed in a blur of exhaustion. No matter which way they headed, except south, small groups of King's soldiers or Campbells or MacKinnons or others would be there to turn them back, and Duncan realized Simon had been right. They were being artfully herded south, through the narrow neck of land between Loch Lomond and Loch Long. They ate cold rations, their food quickly running low, and their horses tiring. They almost managed to catch a contingent of about twenty redcoated soldiers and engage them, but the men slipped away, and their western flank was harried by a band of yelling MacKinnons. The body of MacGregors had to turn to protect their stragglers. While they did, the redcoats slipped away. But Duncan charged after the redcoats alone, unwilling to relinquish the chase and catching two slower riders from behind and dragging them down off their mounts. He managed to gut one and seriously wound another before their companions turned to assist. He got away, but not without sustaining another blood-soaked tear in his shirt he would not be able to explain. He headed back towards the MacGregors, but had to duck around a group of a half dozen blue-and-black kilted riders, and it was almost dawn before he found them again, deep in the forest south of the village of Craggan, where Simon had told him there was a crofter who was sympathetic to their cause - a former MacGregor whose father had changed their family name to Orr. His exhausted horse stumbled into the small, crowded clearing. Sleeping men were scattered everywhere, and he had to step over snoring bodies to reach the stone and thatch hut. The door was wide open and the entry was blocked by Angus' large frame, but the older man turned aside when Duncan tapped him on the shoulder. "Well, we wondered where you'd gotten off to," he said with a tired smile. "I suppose you took care of a few redcoats for us, eh?" Duncan just returned his strained smile and ducked into the room. Simon had spread his painted sheepskin maps on a table, and barely acknowledged Duncan's presence. "We'll split the men, sending a third around this western valley towards Gare Loch. They will hold position at the southern end of this hill," he gestured in an arc, and instructed the captains on when the various flanks he had set up were to move in, anticipating that the MacKinnons would close with them at the northern end of Glen Fruin. Duncan said nothing, knowing they were probably too few in number to reasonably split up into smaller groups, but figuring Simon was trying to give at least some of them an opportunity to escape the slaughter if they weren't all caught in a single cluster on the battlefield. Later, he walked with the MacGregor chieftain to the nearest rise to watch the sun come up. "Will you remember us, Duncan MacLeod?" Simon asked softly after several moments of silence. The sun's rays had just broken the horizon, splintering the sky into rays of peach and gold and blue. "That's what they want, you know. To die with honor. To be remembered with pride." "I will remember," Duncan said, and then the two men were quiet, each with his own thoughts as they watched the sun rise over the long, narrow valley known as Glen Fruin. ~~~~~~~ It was a slaughter. Redcoats attacked from the south, then fell back, drawing them in, then MacKinnons fell on them from the west and the Campbells blocked the northern retreat. Duncan stayed at Simon's side until the chieftain was pulled from his horse, then Duncan dismounted, fighting back to back with him. When Simon was wounded in the thigh and stumbled, Duncan held him on one side and Angus on the other. They would have taken their leader from the field, except there was no place to retreat, and Simon, gray with exhaustion and pain, shook off their help. Another wave of attack broke over them from the east this time, and Duncan went down, a sword piercing him deep in the belly in a breathtaking blossom of agony. He woke amid the groans of the dying and a pool of his own blood, and looked around. There were only a few left standing, Angus among them, straddled over Simon's body, swirling his huge claymore in a circle, a look of almost fierce joy on his bloodied face. Dougal was with him, but wounded, his left arm hanging uselessly. Duncan charged in with a yell, drawing their attackers off, but only for a moment, when he heard riders pounding close behind him and he was flung to the ground again. He heard a scream of agony, and a choked cry from Angus of "S' Rioghal Mo Dhream!" He tried to rise to his feet, but a blow on forehead dazed him, then a sword pierced him, back to front. He felt blood rise in his throat and pour over his lips, and as hard as he tried, his legs refused to hold him up. ~~~~~~~ It was too quiet. All Duncan could hear was his own harsh breathing and a few distant groans. All he could see was blood, and mud, and death, and mist, the heat still rising from open wounds and severed limbs. Then a horrifying silent scream in his head sounded and he clapped his hands to his ears. Not again! This time he didn't even want to look. "Get up," a ringing voice ordered. Duncan snatched up his sword, ready to fight once more, but his legs refused to cooperate and he realized they were weak with a kind of pure terror that no number of King's men could inspire. "Get up!" the voice said again. Duncan squinted against the bright light of the setting sun, where a strange figure was outlined in the mist. "You've better things to do than lie there on your ass," the man said. "Who are you?" Duncan asked, not certain if he really wanted to know. "Someone who knows more about you than you know about yourself." "Are you a demon?" ~~~~~~~ The man made an odd sound Duncan could only assume was a laugh. "I've been called that," the stranger admitted, coming closer, stepping carefully through the mud and over bodies. "And worse." The vague shadow resolved itself into a lean man wearing the finest clothing Duncan had ever seen, white silk hose, elaborately embroidered pantaloons in a style that would have made Duncan laugh if blood and fear weren't still choking his throat. A short, beautifully stitched cape was draped over one shoulder, and the whole outrageous outfit was topped by a matching cap whose feathers drifted gaily in the slight breeze. "I'm Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." "Connor MacLeod!" Duncan barely managed to gasp, and he came as close to fainting dead away as he ever had in his life. The bizarrely dressed man stepped close, inspecting Duncan with a dubious smile and frighteningly intense blue eyes. "And like you, my friend, I have a hard time dying," and he reached out to help Duncan to his feet. To Be Continued...