Forging the Blade, Part II: Kithe and Kin, 1/2
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Tue, 11 Sep 2001 22:10:07 -0400
Forging the Blade
Part II: Kithe and Kin
by MacGeorge
Chapter One
Scotland had not changed much in the nearly forty years
Connor had been away. The rugged landscape was the same,
the beautiful mountains with a trace of snow still
decorating the peaks, the heavily antlered hart with his
loyal hinds that would suddenly thunder across the hills,
pausing to pose at the top as if to say, “catch me if you
can.” It was so easy to picture Heather at home in front of
the hearth, peacefully carding wool, awaiting his return as
she had so many times, for so many years. Almost half his
life, a lifetime ago.
He looked back down the trail. His student was laboring
now. He supposed he should slow down, but it would do the
lad good to keep him too busy or too tired to think. Duncan
spent too much time at that, or maybe he had just had too
much to think about these last few years, with not a soul to
talk to.
Connor spotted a nice flat rock where the ground wouldn’t be
soggy. He dismounted and unsaddled his horse, hobbling him
loosely to let him fend for himself for awhile in the new
spring greenery. He pulled out some dried meat and hard
cheese, and was settled into a comfortable position propped
up against his saddle by the time Duncan came huffing and
puffing up the trail. The boy flopped to the ground, laying
face down and breathing hard. He had worn his shirt as well
as his kilt this morning, but the rips from all the wounds
he had taken in battle made it hang in stained rags useful
mostly just to soak up his sweat and flap in the breeze.
“What exactly,” Duncan finally gasped, “are you trying to
teach me by running me to death?”
“You shouldn’t just stop, you know,” Connor advised him.
“You might get…” he winced in sympathy when Duncan hissed
and grabbed at his thigh. “…a cramp.”
Connor set aside his food and reached for the lad’s leg,
where he could see the thick muscles just below his kilt all
knotted up into a painful ball. It took a minute of hard
kneading, but at last the muscle let go, and Duncan let out
his breath in a gusty sigh of relief, his flushed face
pressed against the cool rock.
“Water?” he asked, turning onto his back after a few minutes
of rest, and Connor passed him the skin, noting approvingly
that it was sipped this time, instead of gulped. It
appeared the boy was teachable after all, even if it took a
few hard knocks to get him to pay attention. This one
learned lessons the hard way, unfortunately, and that might
make life difficult for them both. Damnation, he didn’t
feel prepared for this at all. He was barely a hundred
years old and had no business taking on an Immortal
student. He could never come close to the only model for
teaching he had – the ancient and exotically flamboyant Juan
Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, now dead so many years. But it
wouldn’t do for Duncan to sense his uncertainty.
He had resisted the call back to his homeland ever since
those awful dreams that had sent him shouting, straight out
of his bed night after night, and pulling him inexorably
north, but the impulse had been relentless. It ultimately
drove him back across the Channel in the dead of winter, the
seas heaving, and the blowing spray turning to ice crystals
that sliced at any bare flesh like knives. Then, at an inn
in southern Scotland, he had overheard the story of Duncan
MacLeod, his death, his rising and his banishment, and knew
instantly that this was what had drawn him. A new
immortal. Why this particular one had called to him from so
many leagues away was a mystery. He only he knew wasn’t
ready to be anyone’s teacher, especially not here in this
land that held so many powerful memories, good and bad.
“Connor?” Duncan called to him, pulling him out of his
morose thoughts. “Are ye going to eat that all yourself, or
did you expect me to run down my own meal, as well?” His
head was cocked to one side, his mouth tight, but there was
a glint of amusement in his eyes that belied any real ire.
Connor pulled some dried meat out of his pack and tossed it
to the lad, who consumed it like he had attacked all the
food they had shared – as though if he didn’t eat it
quickly, it might be snatched away.
He’d have to get Duncan to shave off that unkempt beard so
he could actually see the boy’s face. So far, all he knew
was that his clansman was a good sized fellow, topping him
by an inch or so, with big bones and broad shoulders that,
with a little more muscle, would probably be formidably
strong. But years of near starvation had made him about as
lean as Connor’s own naturally thin frame. The long, thick,
matted hair and beard hid most of Duncan’s features, but
nonetheless, a pair of large brown eyes still managed to
give away almost everything the lad felt and thought.
That was also something Connor would have to teach him
about, and a lesson he wasn’t looking forward to. The world
was a cruel place, and showing every thought and emotion in
your face was giving a powerful advantage to your enemies.
It was a lesson he had somehow always known, and it had been
heavily reinforced in the hard, lonely years of wandering
and fighting all over Europe and Asia after he had left
Scotland.
Duncan finished the portion of meat Connor had given him,
and although he surreptitiously cast a longing gaze at the
cheese Connor still held, he didn’t ask for more. “I hope
you’re not expecting me to run all the way to Glencoe,”
Duncan grumbled, lying back, his hands laced under his head
for a pillow.
“Why?” Connor asked. He sliced off a chunk of the cheese
with his dirk, and tossed it so it landed on Duncan’s
chest. “Don’t think you could do it?” He had to wait for
any answer beyond a surly growl while Duncan propped up on
one elbow and chewed a large mouthful of cheese.
“I dinna’ think I care to,” Duncan finally managed to say
around his food, then he took a few swallows of water. “And
what’s the point? Is there some reason we need to hurry?
Someone on their deathbed?” he asked.
“No. No one is waiting,” Connor said, a little more curtly
than the remark deserved. He deliberately put thoughts of
Heather out of his mind, although she never seemed very far
away, especially here.
“Then what is the big rush? If you really want to go that
fast, you ride on ahead, and I’ll catch up,” Duncan waved
the last of the cheese to make his point before popping it
into his mouth, then lying back again, chewing contently.
Connor took a long breath, and stifled a sharp reply.
“Duncan,” he said softly, “If you met up with another
Immortal right now, you’d be dead before you could draw your
sword, so from now on, until I say otherwise, you stay with
me, and do as I say.”
“Och,” Duncan sighed, shifting around to find a more
comfortable position, “I’ve been taking care of myself just
fine all my life, Connor MacLeod. I’m no’ too bad with a
sword, myself, you know.”
Connor had to hide a smile at that. Duncan’s swordsmanship
was crude, at best, by Immortal standards, and from what he
had seen of the battle at Glen Fruin, remarkable mostly in a
singularly stubborn ferocity of purpose. Perhaps it was
time to disabuse his student of his exalted opinions of
himself. “I thought the same thing, until Ramirez…” but
soft snores interrupted him, and it was clear any lecture
about fighting techniques would fall on deaf, or at least
unhearing, ears.
He let Duncan sleep for a while, catching a quick nap
himself. The boy looked worn down, ragged and underfed.
And Connor suspected there were things about Immortality
that Duncan couldn’t bring himself to ask about yet,
possibly from some earlier encounter with an immortal that
had not gone well – not that many of them did go well, at
least not in his experience. Connor quietly gathered up
their things and saddled the horse. Another day of travel
and they would reach Glencoe, where he could get some more
supplies and get Duncan some decent clothes.
“Och, the day’s half gone,” Duncan said, sitting up at last
and rubbing his eyes.
“Aye, that it is, so I guess we’ll have to make up for the
lost time, won’t we?” Connor advised, giving the girth of
the saddle one final tug before he mounted.
“Oh, no. Connor!” Duncan struggled to his feet. “I canno’
run the whole way to Glencoe. If you want to go that fast,
then let me ride awhile, and you can run your legs into
stumps,” he insisted.
Connor looked down at his student with a smile. “But what
would you learn from that?” he asked, then kicked the
stallion into a slow trot, ignoring the curses he heard
behind him.
~~~~~~~
The village of Glencoe was just a cluster of huts and
houses, but with a central marketplace that attracted a fair
amount of business. Sometime in the last forty years, an
inn with a stable had been built to accommodate travelers,
and a smithy shop had been added, as well. Connor inspected
the place from the top of a rise while he waited for Duncan
to catch up. Surprisingly, after the fourth day of steady,
slow running with frequent stops for food and water, the
sturdy young man still complained, but it seemed to be more
for form’s sake than because he was struggling with the
exertion. He even appeared to enjoy it a little, especially
as the weather cleared and they had a few days of sunshine
to brighten their travel.
Connor found himself unexpectedly touched that the youngster
seemed to crave his company, shyly asking questions over
their meals and listening raptly to Connor’s stories of his
first teacher. Connor deliberately painted a glowing,
heroic picture of the exasperating ancient Egyptian, and he
had to acknowledge to himself a certain pride that Ramirez’
had chosen him as a student. The guilt he had carried over
Ramirez’ death gnawed at him, getting stronger the closer
they got to the valley where he had been given his first
lessons in Immortality.
“I was returning from a trip into Glencoe for supplies when
I felt…something,” Connor had told Duncan the previous
twilight by their campfire, when the sun had just left the
sky, leaving traces of gold and orange and pink trailing in
its wake. “It was like an awful pain, but no where in my
body that I could see or feel. It’s hard to explain, but I
knew something terrible had happened. When I got here I
found Heather sobbing in the ruins of the old stone tower
where we had lived, and Ramirez’ headless body in the rubble
left behind after the Quickening.” Connor closed his eyes
against the ugly memory. “Someday,” he whispered. He
didn’t finish the thought, but when he opened his eyes, he
found Duncan studying him with those luminous dark eyes that
concealed nothing.
“Aye,” Duncan agreed. “Someday, you’ll find him, and he
will pay for your teacher’s murder.”
Connor shook himself a little, reminded that he had more
than swordsmanship and vengeance to teach his student.
“Nay, Duncan. It wasn’t murder. It was a battle between
Immortals, and even had I been there, I could not have
interfered once the challenge had been made. The Kurgan had
come looking for me, though, to finish the job he had
started on the battlefield with my clan, the day of my first
death – but you are right. Someday I will meet him again,
and one of us will lose his head.” He caught the quick,
uneasy look in his student’s eyes. “I don’t intend that it
be me,” he added, making sure he had a smile of confidence
as he said it.
Truth be told, he was centuries away from being ready for a
battle with the likes of The Kurgan. He had taken exactly
twenty-three Quickenings in his first hundred years, each of
them a messy, near-disaster. But each time, endurance,
quickness and an ability to find a place inside himself that
allowed him to think with cold, crystal clarity, had
ultimately provided victory. If he had anything to teach
this lad, those would be the qualities he would pass along.
Connor let his eyes re-focus on the familiar, yet strange
village below, letting the memories wash over him as they
had so many times during the past few months, but even more
so as they neared his old croft. He heard footsteps, and
turned to see Duncan trotting up the trail behind him,
coming to a breathless pause as he spotted their
destination. He had expected the youth to be glad to see
the end of their day’s travel and the promise of a real bed,
but Duncan’s eyes narrowed. He put his hands on his waist,
catching his breath, then looked around at the hills behind
them.
“Ready for a hot meal and a soft mattress?” Connor asked,
but there was no answer, and Duncan refused to look at him.
“Duncan?”
“You go on ahead,” Duncan said, still slightly breathless,
now pacing back and forth. “Leave me my cloak and some
food, and I’ll camp over there,” he pointed to a small rock
outcropping.
“Surely you don’t think you would be recognized in every
village in Scotland.”
Duncan shrugged. “Why take the chance? I’m used to
sleeping out of doors, anyway. Come by tomorrow morning and
we’ll go from here.”
“No,” Connor stated flatly. “You’re staying with me, and I’m
going into the village.”
Duncan crossed his arms over his chest, his feet firmly
planted at shoulder width. “And I say I’m staying here.”
Connor carefully dismounted, flexing his legs a little after
being so long in the saddle. Then he stepped up to his
clansman, untroubled by the fact that he had to look up
slightly into Duncan’s stubborn glare. “Are you my student,
or not, Duncan MacLeod?”
Duncan paled a little around the eyes, but stood his ground,
his chin rising in defiance. “Aye, Connor MacLeod, I’ll be
your student, but I’ll no’ be a laughing stock or have you
be ashamed of me, or have to defend me from the likes of
those as would stone me, beat me and toss me into the
nearest loch, which is what happened the last time I tried
to go into a village.”
“And just how long are you going to hide away, Duncan?”
Connor asked, a little more gently. “Are you ashamed of who
you are?”
“No!” Duncan snapped, but then had to look away when he
couldn’t hold Connor’s intense gaze. “But…they hate me,
Connor. And I just…” he put his hands up in a helpless
gesture and shook his head.
“I guess you never get used to people who hate for no good
reason,” Connor admitted, he was not sure if sympathy or
bullying was a better tactic in this instance, but he could
not help but take pity at the stark pain in Duncan’s eyes.
But his comment only prompted a surprisingly bitter laugh
from his young clansman.
“Who says they have no reason?” Duncan snapped, and would
have turned away except that Connor grabbed him by his
ragged shirt and twisted him back around.
“I do! You are not a demon, Duncan MacLeod. You’ve done
nothing to be ashamed of. It is they who are in the wrong,
not you. Do you think I would have ridden a thousand miles
in the dead of winter for someone I did not believe was
worthy of the effort?”
“How do you know?” Duncan snarled at him. “You don’t know
me, or what I’ve done, just that I’m one of these…these…” he
paused before he could say the word, “Immortals you speak
of. You don’t know that I wasn’t there to protect my father
and my clan when my village was threatened. He died,
Connor! He was the village chieftain, and I was supposed to
be there, to stand by his side, to watch his back. Now my
mother is a widow with no one to care for her, and my
village is being led by a pompous, arrogant…” he couldn’t go
on, and turned and walked away towards the rocks he had
indicated would be his resting place for the night.
Connor followed at a bit of a distance, watching Duncan
stride over to the rocks, then turn and cross his arms,
sliding down the side of a weathered slab of granite until
he was sitting on the ground, looking as immovable as the
rock he leaned against. Connor squatted in front of his
student, trying to look him in the eye, but Duncan was
staring at the ground, and the hills, anywhere but at his
teacher. “Duncan,” he finally said quietly, “whatever you
did, or think you did, or didn’t do, has to be put behind
you. You have a whole new life ahead.” He reached out and
let his hand close over Duncan’s wrist. “I won’t let the
villagers hurt you, nor you them.” Connor didn’t really
expect his words to have any effect. They were things you
would say to a frightened, hurt child, not a warrior
seasoned by many battles.
But Duncan wasn’t acting like a seasoned warrior. He was
acting like someone who cared so deeply about his
obligations, had so many emotional ties to his clan, his
family, that whatever reasons caused his failures did not
matter, only that he had failed them. It seemed a
stunningly painful way to live. Connor had long ago
shielded his heart from such self-inflicted wounds,
discarding his sense of clan or family, living only for
himself or the very few he let inside his barriers, the way
an Immortal was intended. Or at least that was what he told
himself, again and again. And in that, he had nothing at
all in common with Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.
Well, perhaps there was one thing in common, he decided. He
took a deep breath and swallowed, then reached up and
grasped his young student’s shoulder, squeezing it. “We are
family, now, Duncan. You and I. Clansmen and Immortals.
Together. If I go into that village alone, I will have no
one to watch my back, and you will have no one to watch
yours.”
Glittering brown eyes finally met his, and Duncan took a
deep breath, then licked his lips and swallowed before he
reached up across his chest and put his hand over Connor’s.
“You really need me to watch your back?” he asked softly.
“Aye, I do,” Connor answered, holding on tight even though
he had never been comfortable with physical demonstrations
of affection – except with Heather, but she was the single
exception to just about everything in his life.
Duncan let out a long sigh, staring at his lap for another
moment. “Well, all right, then, if you’ve a need,” he said
softly.
Connor stood and held out his hand, and Duncan grabbed his
forearm so Connor could help him to his feet. “And
besides,” Connor added over his shoulder as he turned,
mounted his horse and kicked him into a trot, “I’ll need
someone with a strong back to carry our supplies around.”
He laughed out loud as he heard the now-familiar, whine of
“Connor!” behind him.
(Continued in Chapter One, Part 2)