Forging the Blade, Part II: Conclusion 2/3
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Fri, 30 Aug 2002 11:09:11 -0700
Forging the Blade, Part II: Kithe and Kin
by MacGeorge
Rating: PG-13
~~~~~~~
Connor had finally finished all his correspondence,
including his letter to Seamus giving him details of
Brigitte's dowry, when Giuseppe came in, hovering at the
door, bouncing on the balls of his feet, but clearly wary of
disturbing his master.
"What is it?" Connor finally sighed. Giuseppe's life was
concerned with little things - food and clothes and local
gossip - but what seemed trivial to Connor was sometimes a
life crisis to his chief servant.
"Signore," Giuseppe came in slowly, clutching a
handkerchief, and mopping his brow, "there is a rumor going
around the piazza, and...I thought..."
"I do not concern myself with rumors," Connor snapped a
little more harshly than he intended.
"But Signore Connor, it is about Signore Duncan, and it...it
frightened me, so I thought..." the small man waved his
kerchief helplessly.
Connor sat back with a sigh. "All right, my friend. What
is it?"
"They are saying," Giuseppe gestured wildly, now pacing back
and forth, "C'era una disputa. Between Signore Duncan and
that Englishman. At the Contessa's villa. Something about
a horse, and il Tedesco, the Baron Munter. They say they
almost killed each other, Signore! And I got so
frightened!"
Connor had stood during Giuseppe's nervous recitation, and
now grabbed his sword and scabbard from a nearby table.
"Where are they now?" he demanded.
"Non so, Signore! I asked, but no one knows."
Just then the whole house vibrated with the slamming of a
door. Connor was afraid his valet was going to faint, until
they heard a heavy tread taking the stairs two at a time, as
Duncan frequently did. Then the man himself burst into the
room, pausing only slightly when he saw Connor and Giuseppe
staring at him. He headed straight for the wine carafe kept
on a side table, poured himself a large goblet and drank it
all down in a few noisy swallows.
"Leave us," Connor snapped to his servant.
His eyes wide, Giuseppe nodded, and for once did exactly as
he was told.
Duncan studiously poured himself another drink, but this
time just stared into the cup's depths.
"Well?" Connor finally had to ask.
"Dunningham killed Wilhelm," Duncan growled, finally looking
up, his eyes meeting Connor's. Connor almost stepped back
from the force of the fierce rage that distorted his
student's face.
"Sit, Duncan," Connor ordered, pointing to the nearby
settee.
"Nay, I'll not sit, Connor! Not while that bastard is still
alive!"
"Calm down! I've told you over and over again that anger is
your enemy. It blinds you and makes you waste energy."
"How can you talk about being calm?" Duncan swirled,
advancing on him. "Wilhelm was my friend, and that man's
teacher! And he cut him down like a dog. Over a horse!"
Duncan shouted. "He came riding up to the Contessa's on
Wilhelm's prize stallion, with this...this look on his
face. I swear I nearly took his head then and there."
"How do you know what happened?" Connor asked, keeping his
voice deliberately calm and low.
"I know all I need to know!" Duncan snapped, putting the
goblet down with enough force to nearly break it.
"Wilhelm's dead and that man killed him!"
"Is that what he said?"
"He didnae need to say a damn thing. What could he say, in
front of the Contessa? He said Wilhelm had given him the
stallion as a parting gift before heading back to Germany,
but I know he would never have given that horse to that
Sassenach bastard! And the only reason he would suddenly
disappear without saying goodbye is because he's dead!"
Connor belted on the scabbard he was holding. "I'll go and
talk to the man."
"No!" Duncan stepped close. "This is my fight, Connor. And
besides, the Baron didn't want you fighting Dunningham.
Wouldn't be a fair fight anyway," Duncan half-smiled.
"I didn't say I was going to fight him, just talk to him,"
Connor snapped. "And it will give you time to cool down a
little."
"Oh, I'm cool enough," Duncan assured him, now pacing back
and forth, his face grim, but his eyes alight with energy.
"And I've already arranged to meet him at dusk outside the
walls." He spun around and went out on the balcony,
examining the sky. "As a matter of fact, I'd better start
now, or I'll be late."
"Damn it, Duncan, no! You don't know what happened between
him and Munter, and you can't kill a man just because you
don't like him!" Connor insisted, grabbing the man's
shoulder.
Duncan went very still, and the face he turned to Connor was
hardly recognizable. His eyes were hard and glittering, the
normally sweet, smiling mouth was twisted with anger and
hate. "But I'm doing exactly what you said to do, Connor.
After all, as you have told me so many times - There Can Be
Only One."
"And if that is the only reason we kill, Duncan, for hate
and for greed, then we are no better than animals, fighting
over a rotting carcass," Connor hissed. "I'm asking you to
stop and to think, to ask questions, to give the man an
opportunity to...."
"And what opportunity do you suppose he gave Wilhelm?"
Duncan interrupted. "You heard him. He didn't even think
we should use swords anymore, just shoot each other from a
distance and lop off the head of a man already dead! How
could a man who believed that have any honor? How can you
defend him?!"
"I'm not defending him," Connor found himself begining to
bellow as loudly as Duncan, and took a deep breath to try to
stay calm. "I'm just telling you to step back, to get all
the facts, not to rush blindly into a battle that you might
not have to fight."
"Don't you understand, Connor? I *want* to fight him!"
Duncan insisted, grimly. "You said yourself that this is
what we were born to do." He took off the scabbard holding
the rapier he had been wearing and snatched up his claymore,
swinging it until it made a musical hum in the air.
Connor felt sick. There was nothing he could say, nothing
he could do, that was going to change Duncan's mind on
this. He had known this day would come, but he had hoped it
would be a straightforward challenge, not a vendetta. This
Duncan MacLeod was not a man he even recognized. This
Duncan MacLeod would drink in his first Quickening in anger
and hate and vengeance, and Connor didn't know if he even
wanted to be around to see it. Assuming Duncan didn't die
before the day was out.
The room seemed suddenly cold, and Connor shivered, crossing
to pour himself some wine, and realizing for the first time
just how vulnerable he had made himself to this young man.
He had come to trust him, to open up to him more than anyone
since Heather had died, and now - as with all Immortals - he
was about to become his enemy.
Duncan had paused at the door and turned. "It will be all
right, Connor," he said, suddenly sounding uneasy. "You've
taught me well."
"No, Duncan. It won't be all right. Whatever happens, it
won't be all right."
The room seemed very still and empty once Duncan had left,
and Connor went out on the balcony, staring off into space,
his throat so choked with grief and anger he could barely
swallow his wine.
"Signore?" a quiet voice said.
It took a minute before Connor could speak. "Yes,
Giuseppe," Connor answered softly at last.
"Are you not Duncan's teacher?" Connor turned, and the
small man was standing in the doorway, his hands folded
quietly at his waist.
"Not any more," Connor grated out, and took another long
swig of his wine.
"Then aren't you his friend?" Giuseppe asked. "He shouldn't
face this alone, you know."
"He shouldn't be doing this at all!"
Giuseppe shrugged. "He is a man. Men do stupid things.
Does that make him any less your friend?"
With a cry of rage and grief and frustration, Connor threw
his goblet against the wall, the liquid dribbling down the
whitewashed wall like a bloodstain. He stomped out of the
house, pushing rudely through the crowds as the vendors on
the piazza busied themselves putting away their wares while
last minute customers made their final purchases.
He wound his way towards the edge of the walled city. He
knew where they were likely to meet - just past the northern
gate, where the city opened up into fields and farms. There
was a small gully nearby, where a stream provided some of
the city's water supply.
He was at the top of the path when he heard the rhythmic
clash of metal against metal. His heart lurched with dread,
and he paused with a small gasp. He couldn't do this. Not
feeling this way. So exposed, so vulnerable. Connor closed
his eyes and took a long breath to get himself under
control. He swallowed carefully, and searched for and found
a place deep inside that was cold and distant and
unfeeling. In a moment, his thundering heartbeat slowed,
and he walked on.
It was brutal. Dunningham was clearly the more skilled,
experienced fighter, but Duncan's hours and hours of drills
had given him tremendous strength and endurance. No matter
how many times Dunningham cut him, no matter how long and
violent the exchanges, Duncan kept coming, ignoring the
pain, ignoring the exhaustion. Now they were reduced to
mindless hacking at one another, both men using a
double-handed grip to even raise their weapons.
Finally, Dunningham backed off, his sword tip falling to the
ground as he gasped for air, clearly completely spent. "I
told you, MacLeod, I didn't kill him! He was my teacher,
for God's sake! I heard the noise and found them fighting,
and saw the Quickening. It was Hyde, I tell you. Martin
Hyde!"
"You were preening in front of the Contessa," Duncan growled
breathlessly, "riding Wilhelm's stallion, acting like a
great lord. You were glad to have me believe you killed him
then! Now you've proved you're both a coward and a liar."
With a grunt of effort, Duncan raised his sword and attacked
once more.
"I didn't think you'd challenge me over it, you great Scots
dunderhead! You hardly knew the man," Dunningham shouted,
barely deflecting Duncan's clumsy, but still powerful blows.
"No, you just didn't think you'd lose!" Duncan yelled, and
with a final kick to Dunningham's chest, the man landed in
the dust, his sword flying from his hand.
Dunningham scrambled to his hands and knees, reaching for
his sword, but Duncan got to it first, and stepped on it.
Then, with slow deliberation, Duncan raised the claymore
over his head.
"Duncan, don't!" Connor shouted, stepping closer.
Dark glittering eyes rose to meet his across the clearing,
and for a moment Connor thought Dunningham's life just might
be spared.
"There can be only one," Duncan said, in a hard, low voice,
and the sword swung with all the power the man could put
into the blow.
Connor felt himself take a long, involuntary breath as he
watched the mist rise from Dunningham's decapitated body and
reach its tendrils towards Duncan. He had expected his
student to be wary, frightened, uncertain at this mystical,
utterly alien experience. Instead, Duncan, planted his
sword firmly in the ground, and raised his chin as though in
anticipation of a blow. His head turned, and he looked at
Connor, and what Connor saw there astounded him.
No fear. Just sad resignation, as though Duncan knew what
was coming, didn't want it, but was determined to endure,
regardless. The mist crept up Duncan's body and his eyes
widened as he gasped, then the energy hit. He cried out,
his arms reflexively letting go of his sword and reaching
out in an instinctive urge to dissipate the lightening that
now was dancing like St. Elmo's Fire on and around him. He
jerked and screamed as another blast jolted through him, and
again, driving him to his knees, where he grabbed the hilt
of his claymore, hanging on for dear life. It was another
half minute of agony before the Quickening energy finally
died away, and he sagged, leaning his forehead against his
hands, supported only by the steel of the blade still
dripping with Dunningham's blood.
Connor felt ill and breathed deeply several times to control
the urge to vomit. The sharp scent of lightening hung in
the air, as well as the stench of spilled bowels and blood.
But it wasn't the smell that sickened Connor. It was the
sense of loss, that something precious had been defiled for
all time, and that Connor had been at least partially
responsible for it.
Duncan began to raise his head at last, and Connor turned
away before he had to look into the eyes of a man he had
taken into his heart, but now had to count as a potential
enemy. He barely saw the path, stumbling blindly as he
somehow found his way back to the city gate. He went into
the first tavern he could find, found a quiet corner and got
silently, thoroughly drunk.
~~~
concluded in part 3