Forging the Blade/Wilderness Years - Conclusion, Pt. 1/2
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Fri, 22 Jun 2001 23:28:27 -0400
Forging the Blade
Part I - The Wilderness Years
by MacGeorge
See previously posted Part 0 for acknowledgements,
disclaimers and ratings.
The html version, with graphics and author's notes, can be
found at:
http://www.wordsmiths.net/MacGeorge/wip.html
~~~~~~~
Chapter Nine
Duncan just stared at the stranger, captured like a fly in a
web by the intensity of the man's hooded eyes. Connor
MacLeod. There were so many thoughts spinning in his head
he couldn't begin to sort them out. Connor MacLeod. A
legend from his childhood of a great warrior who had died in
battle, only to rise from his deathbed and walk again. And
the hermit had said...his mind skittered away once again
from that memory.
"Are you real?" he whispered, realizing how absurd the
question was, but he had to ask it still.
Again, the man made that odd, hacking noise Duncan assumed
was a laugh. "I'm as real as you, Duncan MacLeod, though
you've led me a hell of a chase over half of Scotland these
past few months. But come," he gestured, turning to climb
back up towards the rise. "We'd best leave this place
before the others return."
"Wait!" Duncan turned, looking out over the field of his
fallen comrades. He stumbled across the broken landscape,
littered with corpses and weapons, and knelt beside the body
of Simon MacGregor. Angus lay nearby, staked to the earth
by his own sword. Simon's light brown eyes were staring
vacantly at the sky and Duncan gently closed them. "I will
remember," Duncan whispered, his throat tight with unshed
tears.
"Come, Duncan!" the man who called himself Connor MacLeod
shouted across the field of bodies.
"I canno' just leave them!" Duncan yelled back.
"And what will you do? Bury them all?" An arm was waved in
an expansive gesture. "Of course, having tired of chasing
the remaining few MacGregors over hill and dale, soon the
victors will return, and then they will kill you - again -
and you will be buried alongside your comrades, probably in
a mass grave. Have you ever been buried, Duncan MacLeod of
the Clan MacLeod? Trust me, you wouldn't enjoy it."
"But..." Of course, the man was right. He couldn't help
these men, and his sword had not really made a difference,
had it? The tears clogging his throat turned to sour bile.
A hand rested on his shoulder, breaking the bitter thread of
his thoughts. "You can't help them now, Duncan. It's time
for you to think about helping yourself."
Duncan wanted to find something cutting and ugly to say. He
wanted to lash out, striking down everyone within reach of
his sword. These had been good men, noble men fighting for
their families, their clan.
He pushed himself to his feet, struggling to master his
temper, his tears and his bile with several long, deep
breaths. He pulled his sword from its scabbard and raised
it over his head. It seemed so heavy, for a second he
feared he couldn't hold it up. "S' Rioghal Mo Dhream!" he
shouted hoarsely. "I...Will...Remember!"
Then tears came, just a few, as though there were a great
stone blocking his heart, only letting a trickle of his
sorrow free. A hand on his shoulder squeezed, and he was
pulled and pushed blindly away, up and over the rise to
where a horse was waiting. Connor mounted, looked down and
held out his hand. Duncan sheathed his sword, reached up and
grasped the man's forearm and leapt up behind him, and
together they rode away from Glen Fruin, and the last stand
of the MacGregors.
~~~~~~~
Twice before dark Duncan had to dismount and take cover to
avoid being seen by patrols on the lookout for any
MacGregors who had escaped the slaughter. No doubt they
would remember a wild man fighting in the midst of the
outlaws, said to be a demon who was once a MacLeod.
Duncan watched from cover as the riders attempted to
question the oddly dressed stranger, only to be answered in
what sounded to Duncan's ears like complete gibberish,
recited excitedly in a high, annoying voice until the
questioners would give up in disgust and ride away. After
the second encounter, Duncan declined to remount. The extra
weight was tiring the horse, and the awkward position behind
the saddle made him want to lean into the other man. Given
the weariness that was pressing him down like a stone on his
back, Duncan worried he would fall asleep, and some inner
sentinel was uncomfortable with that possibility.
Duncan had a thousand questions he wanted to ask Connor
MacLeod, but he was too tired and too preoccupied with the
ugly memories of the battle and thoughts of all the things
he could or should have done differently, of the hermit who
had decapitated himself on Duncan's blade, of his stumbling,
bumbling battle with Kanwulf, of his father's body lying so
cold and still in its grave, of his mother's grief and her
careworn face, of so many, many things. Gradually, it was
all he could do to put one foot in front of the other, the
effort now requiring so much concentration that it pushed
some of his inner turmoil away.
"Duncan?"
He blinked, realizing they had stopped. Connor was standing
in front of him, his hand on his arm.
"What?"
"We're going to make camp here."
Duncan looked around. They were off the road, in a small
clearing obviously used before as a campsite. "Oh," was all
he managed to muster in response. It took another few
heartbeats for his thoughts to circle around to something
relevant and useful. "I'll gather wood for a fire," he
offered.
"No," Connor said. He reached out and pulled Duncan's heavy
cloak off his shoulders, and led him over to a bed of pine
needles, where someone had thoughtfully spread a tartan in
his own blue and green plaid. A gentle hand pushed him down
onto the soft pallet, and Duncan's knees gratefully folded
underneath him, and he sank all the way to the ground,
thinking he really ought to eat something, or do something
useful. He felt someone cover him with his cloak like a
blanket, the gesture comforting him more than he could have
expressed, if he could have said anything at all.
~~~~~~~
The familiar smell of cooking porridge dragged him out of a
deep, deep sleep. His stomach growled noisily and at last
he rolled over, his body responding only reluctantly to his
commands. The foppish young man who had declared himself to
be a legend was bent over a fire, stirring a small pot. He
didn't look quite so outlandish without the hat, but he
still wore those ridiculous pantaloons and a doublet that
Duncan assumed was more appropriate at a royal court ball
than for living in the wilds of the Highlands.
"Ah, I thought the smell of food might stir the beast at
last," the man said, not looking up from his task.
Duncan sat up and stretched his back and shoulders with a
long, joint-popping, satisfying yawn. Then the memories of
the slaughter of the previous day came back with a
stomach-lurching shock, and he closed his eyes, holding
himself very still while he mastered an instinct to shudder,
or retch.
When he opened them, he found Connor MacLeod studying him
with those strange, predatory blue-gray eyes. Duncan pushed
himself to his feet and turned away, seeking a bush or tree
behind which he could relieve himself and thereby avoid that
pitying expression.
The two men ate silently from the communal cooking pot,
using their fingers when the porridge had cooled
sufficiently, and washed the sticky gruel down with a skein
of water which would need refilling soon. Duncan found
himself watching the other man out of the corner of his
eyes, trying not to get caught at it. He had so many
questions, but didn't know where to begin. Connor MacLeod
seemed to be a strange mix of the odd and the ordinary -
utterly comfortable in his environment, yet looking like
someone from another place and time.
Duncan started when Connor unexpectedly and effortlessly
surged to his feet, rinsing out the pot and putting it away
in his saddlebags, then pulling the various pelts and
blankets from the ground to shake them out. Duncan rose to
assist and they worked together easily, without the need for
words as they packed up the camp and prepared to depart.
"Where are we headed?" Duncan asked, finally breaking a
silence that had become almost eerie.
"Glencoe," Connor answered, without looking at him, or
indicating in any way that Duncan had any say in the matter.
He mounted his horse and looked down at Duncan, cocking his
head at him, those ridiculous feathers in his hat waving in
the chilly morning breeze. "Can you run?"
Duncan frowned. "What do you mean?"
"It's a simple question. Can you run?"
"Of course I can run!" Duncan snapped.
"Good," Connor answered. "See if you can keep up." He
kicked his horse hard and before Duncan could yell after
him, was trotting comfortably down the hill towards the
trail.
"Wait!" Duncan yelled, but then decided to save his breath,
and lengthened his stride to a trot then a run to catch up
to the quickly disappearing rider. He considered just
letting the man go, but he had far too many burning
questions haunting him, and Connor MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod was the first person he had met in three years who
just might have some answers.
~~~~~~~
He ultimately stumbled off the path, gulping air in huge
gasps, knees wobbling, feet burning, his sides aching with
sharp slices of pain that felt like a dirk in his ribs. It
was almost mid-morning and Connor had trotted slowly, then
sometimes galloped ahead the whole time, just keeping in
sight. Only once had he waited for him to catch up, and
then paused only long enough to take Duncan's cloak, which
Duncan had pulled off and was carrying over one arm when his
body started to get overheated even in the spring chill of a
dreary, drizzle. Then, before Duncan could summon breath
enough to ask what the hell the man was trying to do, Connor
wheeled around, trotting ahead once more.
"God...Damn...You," Duncan wheezed between gasps. He
doubled over, clutching his thigh with one hand and his
aching sides with the other, near to throwing up except that
he couldn't spare the breath. "Are you trying...to kill
me?"
Connor had dismounted, and was leaning over, filling his
water skein from the loch he had left the trail to reach.
He stood and took a long drink while Duncan watched, his
mouth open, almost mimicking the other man's motions as he
recognized how desperately thirsty he was. Finally, Connor
finished, wiped his mouth and handed the skein to Duncan,
who grabbed it and poured the cold, refreshing liquid
straight down his parched throat, until the skein was pulled
from his hands.
"Not so fast, my friend," Connor warned. "You'll only make
yourself sick, and you're rank enough already."
Duncan reached for the skein, but Connor held it out of
reach. "Take small swallows," he ordered.
Duncan nodded, still breathing too hard to waste air on
conversation. He took the skein back, taking a few more
gulps.
"I said, slowly!" Connor snatched the water back.
"All right!" Duncan growled, and this time when Connor
handed him the skein he did sip it more carefully, since the
water he had already drunk lay cold and heavy in his
stomach, and he was not feeling too well anyway. His skin
was hot and sticky inside clothes soaked through either with
rain or his own sweat. His hair clung to him like a heavy,
wet shroud, and his feet burned like he had walked on hot
coals.
He walked slowly back and forth, his body thrumming, his
heart still pounding, and his skin just beginning to feel
the cold of his wet clothes and the damp, cool air. "What
the bloody hell were you doing?" Duncan finally got enough
breath to ask. "I must've run ten miles or more! I'm no'
some horse you can race at a village fair. Next thing you
know, you'll have a saddle on me." Duncan waved his arms,
his agitation growing now that he didn't feel like he might
faint.
"Running is good for you," Connor shrugged. "Clears the
mind."
"Well, my mind is clear enough, thank you!" Duncan growled.
"Who are you, really? I don't see how you can truly be
Connor MacLeod. He must be 100 years old by now, if he ever
really lived at all. And you certainly don't look like a
Scot, dressed in those ridiculous clothes." He knelt at the
edge of the loch and splashed some of the icy cold water on
his face, then stood and turned, eyeing his companion with
distrust, his arms crossed defiantly on his chest. "You
don't even sound like a Highlander, with all that silly
gibberish you were pratting at those patrols yesterday."
Connor MacLeod cocked his head at him, an annoying, amused
smirk on his face. "Well, my Italian has gotten rid of
several patrols that could otherwise have made life
difficult for both of us, and at least my clothes are
relatively clean, which is more than I can say for yours.
As for sounding like a Highlander, I'm sure after being
around you for a few days I'll be rolling my 'r's and
dropping my t's with the best of them."
"Och, you talk nonsense, man," Duncan responded in disgust,
shaking his head. "You said you knew about me, well spit it
out, man. I've no' got forever, you know."
"That, my friend," Connor smiled at him, and stepped
uncomfortably close, "is where you're wrong." Connor's
hands were suddenly on his chest, shoving hard, and Duncan
was propelled backwards, his arms wheeling around and
around, trying to hold his balance, but the rocks were
slippery behind him and he was falling, hitting the cold
water with a slapping, painful splash and instantly sinking
beneath the surface.
It took him a minute to figure up from down, to overcome the
dragging weight of the pelts on his feet and calves, as well
as the claymore still slung on his back, and find some
purchase on the smooth, slippery rocks. At last he managed
to stand, sputtering, gasping and coughing, and fighting his
way towards the shore, muttering every curse in Gaelic and
English he could think of, only to meet the tip of the
strangest sword he had ever seen, inches away from his
throat. It was a long, thin curved blade, with one
extraordinarily sharp looking edge, ending in a hilt that
was also long, but carved in intricate patterns.
He stopped, still thigh-deep in the cold water, his eyes
traveling up the blade to meet the cold stare of Connor
MacLeod. The man looked far from foppish now, and it wasn't
the chill of the water that sent a shudder straight down
Duncan's spine.
"Here." With his free hand, Connor tossed him a brown lump,
which Duncan caught reflexively. "You can come out when you
and your clothes are clean, and not before. I'm going to
find us something to eat and when I get back, I expect you
to have a fire built and the camp set up."
"I'm no' your..."
"You have no idea what you are or aren't, Duncan MacLeod of
the Clan MacLeod," Connor snapped. "If you want to find
out, you'll wash your stinking body and filthy clothes and
do as I say." The strange sword disappeared into its
scabbard, and Connor MacLeod turned, mounted his horse and
rode away without a backward glance.
Duncan opened his mouth to shout a curse after him, but
something stopped him. He looked at the lump of soap in his
hand. A part of him was insulted and angry, and he wanted
to throw the soap straight at Connor MacLeod's head,
knocking that stupid hat off. But Connor MacLeod was the
first man in three years who had sought him out, who
intimated he knew what had happened, and more importantly,
why. And the hermit had said...no, he wasn't going to think
about that.
He looked down at his blood-stained shirt and kilt, saw the
layers of sweat and grime and blood still in the creases of
his skin despite his dunking, and decided that whatever he
was going to do, washing was probably not a bad idea, if
only to keep away the flies. He yanked off his baldrick and
sword and threw them onto the shore with all the force of
his anger and frustration, pulled off his kilt and shirt,
then his leggings, and started to scrub.
~~~~~~~
It had taken awhile to get a fire going. Everything he had
was wet, and most of the wood and kindling he found was damp
and moldy. The sparks from the flints in his poor excuse
for a sporran only smoked thinly, then died before any
flames appeared. So he resorted to the old, hard way,
rubbing a stick against as dry a log as he could find,
rolling it in his hands again and again and again until a
small stream of smoke finally appeared. Even then, it
seemed like hours before tiny flames arose, and he had to
keep the wood pieces rubbing together until the heat drove
out enough of the damp in the wood to finally start a smoky
fire. He fed it carefully, concentrating totally on his
task, not daring to let his eyes off of the delicately
maintained combination of fuel and flame. After hours of
hard effort, he finally had a decent campfire, and only left
it long enough to make brief trips along the loch and into
the woods to gather what edible greenery he could find. He
was painfully hungry, but then it seemed he was always
hungry. It was only a matter of degree.
He was tired, as well, and questions kept building up in him
until he was checking the trail almost constantly, watching
for Connor MacLeod's return. At last he felt that awful
surge of pressure in his head, and jumped to his feet, for
the first time welcoming the uncomfortable sensation.
Connor MacLeod rode easily into the camp, and dismounted,
pulling several fat grouse from his saddle. They had been
tied together at the feet and he tossed the birds to the
ground near the fire.
"I assume you know what to do with those," he announced,
then pulled the rest of his pack off his saddle, along with
a bow and a quiver of arrows. "I'm going to take a nap.
Wake me when dinner is ready." Duncan watched as the man
unrolled a pelt from his pack onto the ground, rolled his
cape into a pillow and stretched out, his cap pulled down
over his forehead to shade his eyes, his lean legs crossed
at the ankles.
"But..."
Connor raised a hand, one finger extended. "And don't
forget to unsaddle and wipe down my horse."
"I'm no' your servant, Connor MacLeod!" Duncan snarled at
him. He was chilled from wearing naught but a damp kilt all
day, since his shirt was in despearte need of repair, and
his hair heavy and wet on his back. He was hungry, he was
tired and he was frustrated. He stood, waiting for Connor
to respond to his obvious ire, but all he got for his
trouble was a muffled snore coming from underneath the
feathered cap.
He went over to the horse and yanked the saddle off. At
least he could retrieve his cloak, although Connor would
probably be having him wash that next. He wiped the horse
down and hobbled her loosely so she could seek out her own
nourishment, then turned back to the camp.
By then, Connor was snoring in earnest, and Duncan studied
the man for a moment. The strange sword he carried was at
his side and Duncan was sorely tempted to pick it up and
inspect it more closely. He knelt, looking at the intricate
carving in the hilt, like nothing he'd ever seen before. He
touched it, and the knobby, cream-colored surface felt
almost warm, as though it were alive. Then he realized
Connor's snores had stopped, and he jerked his hand away.
But the man's body was still relaxed in sleep, his eyes
hidden behind his cap. Nonetheless, Duncan stood quietly and
backed away, his heart pounding more quickly than it should.
He berated himself. It was just a sword. Whatever legends
there were about Connor MacLeod, he was just a man who
didn't even look like a proper warrior. He shook himself
and turned to the preparation of the birds for dinner.
~~~~~~~
Continued in Chapter 9, Part 2