Forging the Blade/The Wilderness Years, Chap. 1, pt 1/2
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Sat, 5 May 2001 21:37:39 -0400
Forging the Blade
The Wilderness Years
by MacGeorge
See Part 0 for acknowledgements and Disclaimers
Chapter One, Part 1
Duncan laid a soothing hand above the velvet soft nose of
the shaggy, sturdy Highland mare that had carried him for
almost five seasons now, and who knew to quiet at his touch,
and not to stray from where she was left. His father was
crouched, whispering final instructions to a small group of
his clan, rising carefully and nodding across the small
clearing to his son, who had already passed along his plan
to the rest of the men of Glenfinnan. Men. Duncan smiled,
as they crept silently towards the village, knowing his
amusement was hidden in the pre-dawn darkness. Boys and
elders, mostly. Only a few in their full prime, like
himself, his father and a few distant cousins.
The Campbells had stolen three of their cattle, thinking
they would not realize the loss until the animals had been
slaughtered and the evidence gone, or even if they did,
there would be nothing the MacLeods could do. But they had
underestimated Iain MacLeod once again. The Campbell's
village lay below, the huts dark, the villagers sleeping.
The stolen cattle were to be taken back, plus three more for
good measure. The Campbells would learn they could not take
from the MacLeods with impunity.
For generations the two clans had fought bitterly over
territory, politics, religion, cattle, sheep, and any other
notion that could possibly serve as fuel to feed the
long-standing rivalry between them. They had hoped to
resolve the feud four years back with the betrothal of the
Campbell clan chief's beautiful daughter, Debra, to Duncan's
cousin Robert, but that mismatch had ended in double tragedy
that had only widened the gulf between them.
Duncan shook off the depressing memories, shifting the
weight of the claymore strapped at his side. If all went
well, he wouldn't have to use it. These territorial battles
might be necessary, or at least traditional, but the clans
wasted too much energy fighting each other when they should
be worrying about the thrice-damned Sassenachs and their
attempts to impose English rule on Scottish soil.
"Ye think they know we're coming?" Niall Harris whispered at
his elbow, bringing his thoughts back to the task at hand.
"Hush!" Duncan shushed his cousin, then laid a reassuring
hand on the lad's shoulder. He was just a boy, barely 14
seasons, on his first foray away from the village. The lad
was naturally nervous, but eager for battle. Even though
Duncan knew that in all likelihood there would only be a few
moments of fairly harmless but thrilling near-terror, he
could feel the excitement stir his own blood. Whatever
happened, it would make for many fanciful fireside stories
in the nights to come, and maybe even a few heroic songs.
He had been on many such forays with his father in the last
decade or more. Iain always included his only son, the
designated heir to the leadership of their village, in the
councils with the elders and in the planning of such raids.
Duncan had even led a few in the last few years, as some of
Iain's old wounds were beginning to make him stiff and
uncomfortable during these treks in the cold of a Highland
night. Duncan would have handled this confrontation quite
differently, probably sending a representative to the head
of the Campbell clan to make a demand before resorting to
theft, which he was sure would likely just result in the
Campbells feeling the need to return the gesture. But he
had bowed to his father's leadership, and his demand that
the insult be answered with insult, that honor be satisfied.
"Stay close to me, Niall," he hissed when the boy darted out
too far ahead of the group.
The boy slowed and Duncan caught up to him, frowning at him
in disapproval, but had to turn his head to hide a smile.
The boy was positively bursting with excitement.
They crept around behind the largest stone-mud-and-thatch
hut to a small holding pen. They were to retrieve the three
MacLeod cattle while Iain's group was over the rise, cutting
out three of the Campbell's herd, leading them all back to
the ponies they had left behind an outcropping of uplifted
stone a quarter-league to the west.
Duncan had four men with him, including Niall, the
youngest. But the lad was the one who had noticed the
missing animals and had therefore won his right to be here.
Duncan waved one man to a sentinel position along the path
of their retreat, crept up to unlatch the gate to the small
pen, then waved in Niall and the other two men. Each one
slipped a loop around an animal's neck and gently tugged,
leading the animals away one by one.
Duncan tensed at the sound of a low moo coming from the
small herd over the rise and held up a hand for the men to
stop where they were. The sound did not seem to disturb the
village, though and after a few tense moments, he signaled
for them to move again. There was sometimes a lookout on a
herd, but he had confidence that his father would have found
him and tied him up or knocked him out. They had no desire
or intent for anyone to be injured, they just wanted to
prove a point to prevent further insults to their clan.
Niall was the last one out of the pen, and Duncan knelt to
keep a low profile, carefully closing the gate so the rest
of the cattle wouldn't wander off. He scanned the area
behind them, waiting for them to get further up the path
towards the horses before relinquishing the rear guard
position.
Then a small yelp snapped his head around. A cow lowed, its
deep voice breaking in a sound of panic, and Duncan was on
his feet, running towards the noise.
A small body slammed into him, almost knocking him down, and
Niall's frightened, white face was staring up into his. The
boy still had hold of the animal's lead, but he was headed
in exactly the wrong direction.
"Niall!" Duncan hissed. "Ye're going the wrong way!" He
tried to turn the lad, but Niall squirmed out of his grasp.
"He...he's there!" the boy shouted in a voice that made
Duncan wince and try to clap a hand over his mouth, but it
was already too late.
"Raiders!" a voice bellowed. "Raiders!" the alarm came
again.
"I almost ran right into him...he was pissing behind the
hut, and..."
"Go!" Duncan gave up all pretence at stealth and shoved the
boy back towards their horses. "Run!"
"But..." the boy was struggling now with an excited animal
that weighed ten times more than he.
"Damn it, lad, let the animal go and run!" Duncan pulled
the claymore from the scabbard at his belt as men stumbled
out of their homes, frantically wrapping plaids 'round their
waists and shoulders and peering out into the darkness.
Perhaps it was the ringing sound of the metal as it pulled
free of its scabbard, perhaps it was the knowledge that he
stood between the entire roused village and the men of his
clan, but even as his heart sped in fear, it felt like his
vision became sharper, his hearing more precise, his footing
more certain as he balanced easily on the balls of his feet,
just as his father had taught him. It seemed he was born to
do this very thing and something deep inside recognized it.
He had never desired anyone's death or wished anyone harm,
so this warm, energizing humming sensation that tingled
under his skin was a mystery and a wonder, and he felt a
private grin broaden his face as he turned toward his foes.
Then there were three figures before him and more closing in
and he moved, slashing right, then left, then ducking and
whirling, feeling the wind of their blades as they flashed
so close, they tore his shirt. More movement out of the
corner of his eyes and more shouts, possibly from his own
throat, and his clansmen had closed in behind him, drawing a
few of his attackers off, but more were pouring out of their
huts now, and he knew they were outnumbered, even if they
had the advantage of surprise and being fully armed.
A burning flash along his forearm told him he had been
wounded, but he could take no time to assess the damage. He
fell back, along with the rest of his men, now only wishing
to escape without further damage to anyone.
"Hold Fast!" his father's shout could now be heard and then
Iain MacLeod was there, the huge MacLeod claymore swinging
like a scythe in the Chieftain's massive arms. Duncan
automatically moved to his side, meeting the gathering
numbers of aroused Campbells with the metal of his blade as
he urged his father to fall back. They would soon be
outnumbered and surrounded if they didn't flee, and quickly.
At last the situation became obvious, and all the MacLeods
danced backwards, with the Chieftain and his son covering
their rear, backpedaling and managing to put a few yards
between themselves and the angry villagers. Duncan heard
the shout of his name, and felt his mare's reins shoved into
his hand. He paused for a heartbeat, looking around, still
breathless and excited, his heart pounding with a kind of
fierce pleasure.
They had secured five cattle, in all, and his father had
reached his mount. For a second their eyes met and Duncan
saw his father's face shine with triumph and pride, and he
could not contain his own exultation. With a whoop of
victory, Duncan leapt on the pony's back, steering with his
knees as he swung a wide clear swath with his blade, backing
the Campbells to a safe distance. Then he pulled his mare
back and raised his fist. "Mac-Leod! Mac-Leod! Mac-Leod!"
The men joined his chant as he urged the mare around,
pushing the cattle they had taken into a slow trot towards
the horizon, then a run as they scrambled to the top of the
rise, where they turned to face the villagers below,
prepared to relish their victory.
But their cheers quickly died to silence.
Stretched out at the feet of Angus Campbell, Debra
Campbell's father, was Niall Harris, blood turning the
colors of the boy's plaid into a black stain in the pre-dawn
light.
"No!" Duncan gasped, and moved his mare back towards the
village, but his father grabbed his arm and stopped him.
"There's naught you can do for the lad, now," Iain
counseled, but then the Chief urged his own horse forward a
few steps. "Damn you, Angus Campbell!" he bellowed, "there
was no need for anyone to die! He was just a lad!"
"And you think Campbells might not die in the cold, hard,
long night of winter when we have nae enough food because
you bloody MacLeods stole it?" Campbell shouted back.
"You're the thief!" Iain snapped back. "We were just
retrieving our own, and you well know it."
"I know nae such thing, and damn you for a bloody liar, Iain
MacLeod!"
"No man calls me liar and lives!" Iain hissed, moving
forward until it was Duncan who lay a hand on his arm.
"Not here, Father," he whispered grimly, recognizing they
were now seriously outnumbered, and their only advantage was
distance, their mounts, and clan traditions. "Not now.
There will be another day," he added. He addresed the crowd
of villagers in a shout that carried across the valley.
"Will you let us take the boy home to his mother?"
Angus turned and consulted with a few men of the village,
then turned and nodded, stepping back from the body. His
florid face was flush with anger, but Duncan suspected it
was also colored with shame at the death of a mere boy at
their hands.
Duncan sheathed his sword and slowly rode forward, waiting
until the crowd stepped back a few more paces. He
dismounted, picked up Niall's body and lay it as gently as
he could over the mare's withers as she nervously danced at
the smell of blood.
The crowd's hostility was palpable from this distance, their
murmurs low and angry, and finally he heard a voice call
out, "Thief!" Then another, deeper voice growled,
"Kinslayer!" Another shouted, "Defiler!" and he looked
over, prepared to defend himself, but Angus Campbell had put
his hand out to prevent an attack.
"Nay!" Campbell snarled. "I've given my parole. Let the
cur take his pup back to the den. Unlike my Debra, at least
the boy can be buried on holy ground."
"You know that was no' what I wanted, Angus Campbell,"
Duncan snarled. "It was you who wouldna' let us marry,
insisting on a union she did not want. I loved her!"
"Oh, aye. Loved her enough to let her fall to her death when
she thought she couldn't have you!" Angus strode forward and
the two men stood eye to eye, hands on their blades.
"That's nay true!" Duncan snapped, "and you know it. It was
your --"
"Enough, Duncan," his father's deep voice interrupted.
"Angus Campbell would nay acknowledge the truth if it kicked
him in the head. Bring the boy's body and be done with
this."
Duncan and Angus stared at each other for several more
heartbeats before Campbell reluctantly stepped back a pace.
"Aye," he finally growled. "Let the kinslayer go. We'll
have our day with the lot of them."
Despite himself, Duncan felt a flush creep over his
shoulders and face. His cousin Robert's death at his hands,
and Debra's fall during their argument over whether they
should marry despite the tragedy, would forever haunt him,
especially since the church had never acknoweldged that her
death was an accident instead of a suicide. He remounted,
then rejoined the others, feeling the hateful stares drill
into his back as they wheeled their horses and headed home.
He and his father shared an uncomfortable look until Iain
MacLeod turned away, his steel gaze fixed on the horizon.
If Iain had not insisted that Robert's challenge be answered
with steel, his cousin might still be alive, and Debra, as
well. But Duncan knew his father would never express regret
for his fateful demand, and as long as Duncan had known him,
Iain MacLeod had rarely openly admitted error.
~~~~~~~
It was near dusk the next day when Iain and Duncan rode into
Glenfinnen alone, having left the rest of the men driving
the cattle home at a much slower pace. As they passed the
outer edge of the cluster of stone and mudbrick huts, the
women looked out their doors and slowly gathered behind the
two riders. Their muffled sounds of grief broke into a
heartrending wail as Duncan dismounted, pulling Niall's body
into his arms and carrying him to the door of his mother's
home. Eibhlin Harris stood in the doorway, a shawl wrapped
tightly around her shoulders. Their eyes met and in the
space of a few heartbeats Duncan watched old age settle on
her shoulders and in her face. Her husband had died two
winters before of a fever, her daughters were all married
and gone, and now she was alone.
There would be a funeral as soon as a priest could be
brought from the nearest kirk, and then the men of the
village would meet. Vengeance would be taken. Honor would
be satisfied.
~~~~~~~
"You're hurt!" his mother announced as Duncan slammed into
their croft, his father close behind.
"T'is not your fault, Duncan!" his father assured him,
following him into the main room, as though that
pronouncement would be enough to make an end of it. They
had been arguing the subject all the way back from Niall's
family's croft. It was a familiar discussion. Duncan had
always been painfully aware of his own failings, despite his
father's teaching that to publically acknowledge failure was
to show weakness.
"Niall was my responsibility," Duncan snarled, unbuckling
the baldrick that held his claymore and yanking it off. "He
should'na have died! He was right there behind me! Why
didn't I see he was in danger?"
"The lad disobeyed his orders, tried to fight when he hadna'
the strength or training," Iain insisted. "If there's blame
to be found, tis with the damned Campbells," he added with a
snarl. "To kill a lad like that," he snapped, with a shake
of his head. "No MacLeod would ever do that."
Mairi MacLeod reached for Duncan's arm, trying to clean it
with a wet cloth, but he didn't want her attentions and
pulled away, still pacing in agitation, the villager's
hateful words still ringing in his ears.
"I'll kill the murdering bastards!" Duncan announced,
whirling to face his father. Duncan was now taller than the
older man, and although Iain MacLeod was a bear of a figure,
his son was as broad of shoulder, his arms lean but powerful
from wielding a sword from the moment he was old enough to
close his hand around a hilt. "You must let me lead the
battle, Father," he demanded.
"The insult was to me, Duncan," Iain said, laying a
reassuring hand on Duncan's shoulder and squeezing
slightly. He sighed and closed his eyes, running his
fingers through his heavy reddish beard, just beginning to
be streaked with gray. "And to the Clan. Now let your
mother see to that arm, or you won't be fit for battle,
leader or no."
Duncan reluctantly sat at the table, letting his mother undo
his sleeve and peel it away from the long, shallow cut in
his forearm. She washed it with warm water, then dabbed her
usual unguent on it, smiling at little as her big, brawny
son winced at the sting.
"Maybe that will teach you to be more careful," she
admonished as she wrapped his forearm in clean cloths. "You
are fortunate to have a mother with such healing skills,
young man. Look, it has already stopped bleeding, and
probably won't even leave a scar if you are careful and keep
my potion on it." She was trying to draw his attention away
from Niall's death, Duncan knew, and smiled wanly at her
efforts.
Mairi MacLeod smiled back at her son, pushing a lock of his
long, dark hair away from his face. Duncan caught her hand,
and held it for a moment. "I'm lucky, indeed, Mother. I've
hardly a scar to show for all the scrapes I've been in," he
said, then grimaced a little. "Maybe too lucky, since other
men display their old wounds like battle prizes."
"Ah, they are just jealous of all the lasses who hang around
our door, waiting for you to finally decide on one to take
to wive," his mother declared, standing to take away the
bowl of water and bloody cloths. "Of course, if you dinna
choose soon, who knows what kind of scandal we'll see," she
added with a raised eyebrow. "You've been lucky so far,
Duncan, but your bride should nay be selected by the first
wallydraigle who misses her courses and claims you for the
father. That would be a richt fankle. "
"Mother," Duncan warned. It had been a conversation they
had had many times.
"In this, your mother and I agree," Iain MacLeod said as he
took off his own cloak and baldrick, hanging them on a hook
by the door. "It's past time for you to take a wife,
Duncan. Grieving for Debra Campbell is all well and good,
but you have a duty to the clan, a duty to me and your
mother, so make your choice and be done w'it," Iain
instructed.
"The Campbells won't let me be done with it, Father," Duncan
sighed.
"Angus Campbell is a fool, but you've always worried
overmuch about such things, Duncan," Iain insisted. "Robert
died from his own foolish pride."
"Twas not just Robert's pride that caused that death, but
yours," Mairi inserted harshly, and Duncan closed his eyes
against the tense silence that suddenly fell in the room.
It was an old battle between his parents, a wound that had
never healed. They had raised Robert as a fosterling when
his father had died and his mother had fallen into a despair
from which she had never recovered. Iain's insistence on
Duncan fighting Robert over insults shouted in hurt and
anger had always galled her.
"Let it be, woman," Iain finally said softly. "What's done
tis done and canna' be undone. What is important now is for
Duncan to put it in the past and find a woman suitable for
marriage, and soon."
"Tis not that simple," Duncan said, relieved that the moment
had passed without an ugly argument between his strongwilled
parents. "And we have this business with the Campbells to
deal with. Niall's death cannot go unanswered."
Iain had watched closely as his wife tended his son's arm,
and he now rested a hand on Duncan's shoulder. "Aye. But
this time, I think it will be more than just the men from
our village. Killing a boy over a cow," he shook his head.
"I'll send word to the rest of the sept. Mayhap it is time
we took care of those damned Campbells once and for all."
~~~~~~~
continued in Chap 1, pt 2