Forging the Blade, Part II Kithe and Kin by MacGeorge Acknowledgements and disclaimers in Part 0, previously posted Rating: PG 13 Chapter Two The first full day at Connor’s croft dawned bright and clear, the world washed clean from the driving rain of the previous day. Connor woke and stood and stretched, letting the wind blow away the last of the tendrils of sleep from his mind. He wrapped his kilt around his waist, not bothering with a shirt on what promised to be, for Scotland at least, a warm day. During his search for Duncan, he had finally shed the obsessive and, in this land, futile search for that real warmth he had enjoyed during his travels in Italy, Spain and France, and now hardly noticed that, even in high summer, his homeland’s mornings and evenings were brisk. He strode to the top of the rise and watched the sun break the horizon in sharp shards of light, and smiled. Sometime in the night, he had found his peace with this place. It was, after all, home, and always would be. He turned in a circle, scanning the landscape. Across, on a hilltop on the other side of the glen, was Heather’s grave. He would visit there later and sometime during his stay here put a more permanent marker at the site. Their old house was just a tumble of rocks, now, a burned-out shell, long since overgrown with moss and low shrubs. It would take some work to make it habitable, but he was having thatch delivered in a fortnight. Between his efforts and Duncan’s strong back, they ought to be able to get the necessary work done in time. Duncan was still asleep in the shadows of the ruins of the tower, huddled in his cloak. No doubt he had not gotten much rest last night after their shared, painful revelations about their past lost loves. Well, it was time to get busy, to think about the future instead of the past. There would be no room for self-pity or bitterness now. There was too much work to do. “Duncan!” he bellowed across the glen, and was pleased to see the dark head immediately jerk up and look around. Connor loped down the hill. “Get your lazy arse out of bed, and get the fire started,” he called. “I’m going for some breakfast. Actually, he was going for a run along the loch. It had a long, sandy beach perfect for stretching his legs and he had been sitting in a saddle for too many days. He had always loved to run, the feel of wind moving against his skin, the burn of muscles, the rush of air into his chest. When he was a lad, he was frequently used to run messages between the villages because he was fast and tireless, his lean frame built to cut the wind. He grabbed a short spear from his pack and followed the valley around the knobby hill towards the water, trotting along for a half a mile or so until he reached a flat rock that jutted out over the dark, still lake. Unlike many lochs, this one fed from the mountains directly into the sea, and was teaming with fish. He lay flat on the cold stone, stretched out, his upper body hanging over the still, smooth water. He could see his reflection, and the wavering face that looked back at him was an anachronism – that of someone just on the verge of full manhood, light brown hair dangling to his shoulders, his fair skin barely touched with the kind of coarse fuzz that decorated Duncan’s broader chest, and he would never be able to grow a respectable beard. He had long ago reconciled himself to his perpetual youth, but he could not but envy that Duncan had been allowed to mature to his physical peak before his first death. Ah, well, there were many things he could not change, and his lanky 18-year-old body was the least on the list. Now, unless the habits of the local trout population had changed, there was usually one or more hiding in the shadows just…ah…breakfast. ~~~~~~~ Connor deliberately drove Duncan from dawn to dusk, piling stones, clearing brush, hauling water, gathering wood. When he wasn’t laboring to ready the stone house for occupancy, or building a pen and a shelter for the horse, Connor had him doing drills with his sword over and over and over again, or running long distances over steep terrain to build up his endurance and wind. Of course, all that effort required food, and Connor was hard pressed to provide enough for his ever-hungry student. They had brought lots of grain, but maintaining and monitoring the snares and doing the necessary hunting and fishing to keep them fed kept Connor almost as occupied as he tried to keep his student. Connor had expected resentment and reluctance from Duncan, but the lad seemed to relish every assignment, then challenged Connor to come up with another. It was as though Duncan had something to prove, to himself or to his teacher – that he could endure anything, overcome any obstacle, achieve any goal his teacher set, although he clearly resented the more humble, menial tasks Connor always delegated to his student – caring for the horse, mucking out the pen they had built for him, cleaning Connor’s saddlebags, mending both their clothes, gathering herbs and edible greens for their meals, then hours of boring, repetitive drills with the sword as dusk closed in. Towards the end of the first month, Connor arrived back at their camp at sunset with enough meat to last them at least a few days. He could see Duncan at the top of the far rise, near Heather’s gravesite. His feet were braced far apart and he had on just his kilt. Even from so far away, his body gleamed with sweat as he swung and parried and thrust the heavy claymore again and again and again. Connor urged his stallion forward, across the glen, and Duncan’s concentration broke briefly as he felt Connor’s presence and then he returned to his task. Connor drew near and watched for a moment. It was time for Duncan to move to his next level of training. “You display great strength, cousin,” Connor said. “But sword work is not just about strength. It is about flexibility and quickness, about defense as well as offense, about the mind at least as much as about the body.” The blade whipped through the air and landed, point down, in the earth between Duncan’s feet. “So you have said, but you’ve yet to prove it, cousin,” his student answered breathlessly. His eyes were gleaming with a blatant challenge. “I’ve told you I’ve been taking care of myself for awhile. Perhaps it is time I proved it.” “Really?” Connor studied the horizon thoughtfully. “You have a very high opinion of yourself, Duncan MacLeod.” “I was a chieftain’s son and was given a blade as soon as my hand was large enough to hold one,” Duncan announced. Connor had to hide his smile. In the last weeks, his clansman had quickly shed the morose distrust and bitterness he had shown in their initial confrontations. Eager for acceptance, and reveling in having a purpose and an identity that included even the small “clan” the two of them had formed, Duncan MacLeod’s true nature was quickly revealing itself: Proud, stubborn, embarrassingly affectionate, sometimes even exuberant, the lad was like a great overgrown puppy who didn’t yet realized his own strength and size. Connor curled his right leg up over the saddle and slipped down to the ground, then pulled his katana from its sheath. “All right, oh great chieftain’s son,” Connor smiled and bowed elaborately, “overwhelm me with the brilliance of your technique.” Duncan’s eyes gleamed and he readied himself as Connor slapped the stallion’s rump to send it back to the comfort of the pen they had built for him and the fresh oats awaiting him there. Without preamble, Duncan’s heavy sword swung, and Connor dodged, then deflected the next blow, angling his lighter blade to slide the claymore away from his body. Again the huge claymore chopped at him, and he easily moved out of its path, backpedaling across the stony ground at the top of the hill. As he dodged and weaved, and his opponent’s sword kept meeting air, Duncan began to frown with frustration, and the strength of the blows increased. The few times Connor blocked the blade, his arm stung with the power of his student’s swing. Connor danced away again, watching how Duncan moved. He had agility and strength, but he was not anticipating, not thinking ahead, and was letting his frustration affect his actions, wasting enormous energy on attack, and not even really considering his defense. Well, Connor decided, the lesson would have to be learned eventually, and it was best done without an audience. As Duncan was raising his blade for another hard blow, Connor darted in and nicked his student in the thigh, drawing blood in a bright red gash against pale skin. Duncan jerked and stumbled, and Connor leapt, shoving the larger man back with a hard kick to the chest. Duncan swirled his arms, his blade flying away into the grass, then fell down the hill, tumbling over and over and landing in a heap at the bottom of the slope. Connor took his time getting down the hill, letting Duncan struggle to his feet and brush the grass off his kilt and out of his beard, although a few thistles were still incongruously stuck in his hair. Connor reached out and plucked them away, to his student’s annoyance. “I slipped!” Duncan snapped, pushing Connor’s hand away. “Oh, aye,” Connor agreed. “I could see that.” Duncan’s face blushed a ruddy hue, and he stomped over to find his blade. Connor decided to say nothing, and waited to find out whether Duncan’s pride was going to be such an obstacle that it would have to be deliberately and painfully broken. Duncan picked up his sword, still in the grass halfway up the hill, then stood there a minute, staring off at the horizon before he came back down. His face was a thundercloud of tension and anger and Connor feared the worst. “I would normally have used wooden blades for a spar, but nothing helps the correction of error like a little loss of blood,” Connor explained, but his student did not appear to be mollified. “Show me,” Duncan growled. “Show you?” Connor repeated, uncertain exactly what his student was asking. “What I did wrong. Show me, dammit!” The two men stood in silence for a moment, while Connor carefully controlled his reactions and thought about his response. He was both relieved and troubled. Duncan’s outrage was at himself, and while that was a better response than being angry at his teacher, it still carried with it the seeds of a problem. “You are young, yet, Duncan,” Connor said gently. “You have much to learn. Knowing how much you don’t know is perhaps one of the most important lessons I can teach you. Now…” and he began, talking about how to stand, how to defend, how to observe an opponent. Duncan’s attitude was hostile at first, but after a while the anger faded, replaced by intense concentration, and before either of them realized it, the sun was all the way down and nothing had been done about their dinner. Duncan shifted uneasily throughout their late meal, clearly suffering from the countless falls, direct hits and hard bruises he had endured in spite of his remarkable healing capacities. “Sore?” Connor finally asked. “Aye,” Duncan admitted ruefully. “I never knew there was so much to know and remember all at the same time.” “Oh, we have only touched on what you will eventually need to know. Whole books have been written about the art of sword fighting,” Connor observed. “Books? You mean someone actually sat down and copied all of that out? Why would they do that? If it were all written out, what need would there be of a teacher? They could just teach them to read, and hand them a book.” “There are many reasons to write it down, but mostly so their knowledge could be known beyond the sound of their voice, and into the next generations. There will always be a need for teachers,” Connor added. “After all, it is hard to spar with a book.” He judged the moment right, and went to the chest he had built to hold his things, pulling out a parcel wrapped in oilcloth. He reverently unfolded it, and inside were several leather-bound volumes. He started to hand one to Duncan, but stopped and admonished him to wipe his hands. Once he was satisfied that his student’s hands were relatively clean he passed it over. “It’s all right,” he assured his student. “Just open it carefully and try to keep your fingers off the ink. It is by Camillo Agrippa, one of the great masters from Italy. I studied with him before I went to the Orient.” Duncan didn’t react to his words, just scooted closer to the fire, his eyes wide with wonder at the pages and pages of writing and the many illustrations. “Do they fight naked in Italy?” he asked in amazement. “No wonder their language is all high and chattery.” Connor laughed aloud, both amused and amazed that Duncan had remembered that he had been speaking Italian to the soldiers on the day they had first met. The boy was much smarter than his barbarian manners and upbringing would indicate. “No, the illustrations are done that way so you can see exactly how to stand, and understand the way the blade is moved and used most effectively,” he answered at last. “Well, I’m not sure it wouldn’t be a good thing,” Duncan’s eyes gleamed at him mischievously. “It would make battles in Scotland much shorter, or everyone would freeze their balls off.” ~~~~~~~ Continued in part 2