Forging the Blade/The Wilderness Years, Chap. 8, pt. 1/2
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Sat, 16 Jun 2001 10:48:33 -0400
Forging the Blade - Part I
The Wilderness Years
by MacGeorge
Disclaimers and Acknowledgements: See previously posted
Part 0
NOTE: The html version, complete with graphics and author's
notes (translations, historical references, etc.) can be
found at:
http://www.wordsmiths.net/MacGeorge/wip.html
~~~~~~~
Chapter Eight
The road between Strathconnon and Scardroy was
well-traveled, and twice Duncan had to duck into the woods
or behind a hill as mounted men in Campbell and MacKinnon
tartans rode past. He reached the village late the next
day, but skirted around and headed north, checking the damp
ground for signs of recent traffic. He found the
scatterings of a trail, notable more because there appeared
to be attempts to cover the tracks than because it was well
marked.
He slowed his progress, staying off the trail, but within
sight of it, hidden in the trees, although cover was a
little sparse. The hills rose up on either side, and he
finally had to abandon the trail entirely, working his way
carefully over a rise to reach a spot where he could see
down into a small glen where a dozen or so wagons and tents
were encamped, their fires carefully banked to keep smoke
from staining the horizon.
It was late afternoon and the sky was its usual gray, the
air cold and damp. Duncan looked longingly at the several
cookfires, where pots bubbled, their odors drifting on the
wind and setting his ever-eager stomach to rumbling. He was
looking for...ah, there he was. Angus MacGregor, the
peddler he had seen a week or so before.
Walking directly into the camp without someone to vouch for
him would likely only get him a dirk in the ribs, but if
Angus was there, he might at least get an opportunity to
talk. He crawled back below the rise on his hands and
knees, trying to think of the best words to use.
The small rustle of foliage behind him was his only warning,
and he hadn't even managed to turn around when a bright,
white pain slammed into his head and he felt the ground rush
up to meet him.
~~~~~~~
The intense ache behind his ear made Duncan squeeze his eyes
shut for several painful, throbbing heartbeats. He reached
to touch the source of the agony, but his hands were bound
behind him, and all he grasped was a fistful of mud. He
reluctantly opened his eyes, squinting against the light.
Even the dim, cloud-shrouded late afternoon sun made him
squint, and an involuntary groan growled in the back of his
throat.
He could hear voices above him, and he blinked several
times, trying to focus. At last his tearing eyes cleared a
little, and the high whine in his ears faded.
"...I canna say if he's for us or agin' us, but I am no' for
killin' a man if we're not sure."
The voice sounded familiar, and with a few more blinks and
he managed to focus on Angus MacGregor, who was practically
standing on top of him, nose to nose with a much smaller,
heavily armed man dressed in a loose shirt, breeches and a
rough, pieced-together wool-and-pelt cloak.
"And you'd stake all our lives and the lives of our families
on that, would you Angus?" the smaller man responded softly,
with a hard, unfriendly smile. The smile was made all the
more menacing from the pull of an old scar than ran from his
ear to his chin.
"No need," Duncan managed to say loudly enough so that both
men looked down at him. "If you want to know something,
just ask me."
"Well, well," the smaller man squatted, examining Duncan
with narrowed eyes. "You take a blow well. We were just
discussing whether or not you were mostly dead already, or
whether we should finish you off and be done with it."
Duncan smiled grimly and tried to sit up, then winced at the
stabbing pain in the back of his head. "Tis a peculiar
talent I have," he whispered with a slight gasp. The man
reached under his arm and pulled with surprising strength
for his size, and Duncan found himself on his feet, wavering
as his vision filled with blank spots.
"Why were you spying on our camp?" another man demanded,
stepping forward. He was a barrel-chested fellow with far
more hair on his chin than his head. The sound of every
word sent a small shard of pain stabbing behind his eyes,
and Duncan took several long breaths. He didn't dare close
his eyes for fear of falling, but he kept having to blink as
the world faded in and out of focus.
"Easy, Dougal," Angus admonished, taking Duncan's elbow in a
steadying grip. "The lad can barely stay on his feet." He
nodded to the smaller man who had helped Duncan up. "Let
Simon handle this."
"I'm all right," Duncan managed. "He is right to ask. I
would do the same."
"Would you?" Simon asked wryly. "You are hardly in a
position to ask anything at the moment."
Duncan took another long breath. The pain seemed to be
easing, and the world steadied. "I came because I wanted to
join you, to fight the Campbells. I'm a MacLeod from
Glenfinnan, and have known Neil MacGregor most of my life."
"Angus here says you claim to be Duncan MacLeod," Simon
slowly walked around him, eyeing him up and down. "And
we've all heard tales. That you are cursed, a demon,
banished by your clan. And you want me to believe you, to
trust you?" he chuckled.
"Believe what you want," Duncan felt his chin rise and his
face flush as everyone in the camp now seemed to have
gathered around. "Keep me under guard, if you must. But
allow me to prove myself the only way you can be certain,
and that is in battle."
"And how do I know you will not betray us before you ever
get that opportunity?" Simon demanded to know, stepping
close and looking up into Duncan's face, his light brown
eyes hard and unyielding.
"If I had wanted to betray you, I would already have done
so," Duncan answered, moving even closer and looking down
until their noses were almost touching. "I passed more than
one patrol on the road from Strathconnon, and I could easily
have led them here, but I did not."
"And what do you get out of this, Duncan MacLeod?" Simon
asked softly, not backing down from the close proximity of a
bigger man.
"A little peace of mind," Duncan almost whispered, closing
his eyes for just a moment, as though he could picture it.
"Some reason for my existence. Whatever happened with my
clan, whatever I am, demon or no, there has to be some
purpose behind it all. I have been living alone for three
years and I don't want to do it anymore. I canna' help my
own clan, but I can fight against the Campbells, and you
know the MacLeods and the Campbells have been at odds for as
long as anyone can remember."
Colin stepped forward, holding Duncan's battered pack.
"He's got a MacLeod plaid, Simon. I don't know why he would
lie about such a thing. I heard from another peddler that
he was beaten and thrown in the river by the men of Strathan
last year. They all thought he was dead, for sure."
Simon stepped away and took the pack, digging through its
contents and finally pulling out the colorful length of
fabric Mog had given him, its vibrant blue and green
contrasting sharply with the brilliant red and dark green of
MacGregor's own plaid he wore defiantly on his soft cap,
with its sprig of pine pinned in the brim. He examined it
for a moment, then looked around the solemn faces of the
crowd of fifty or more people. "I don't trust him," he said
to the crowd, "and I don't want anyone here to be beguiled
by him."
"I won't talk to anyone then," Duncan offered. "If I am a
demon, isn't it better to have me fighting for you than
against you?"
Angus stepped forward, towering over Simon, who was clearly
their chief, but Angus was much the elder and obviously held
the crowd's respect. "We canno' let him go now that he's
found us anyway, Simon, and we need every fighter we can
find. I'll keep watch on him until he proves himself, and I
can promise you he willna' beguile me." Angus' smile
through his beard was tight and hard.
Simon shared a long look with Angus, then scanned the faces
that stood around him. Finally, he seemed to come to a
decision, walked up to Duncan, and yanked him around.
Duncan felt a knife slide through his bonds and suddenly his
arms were free. "Here." His pack, with the tartan stuffed
in the top, was shoved into his arms. "Put the plaid on.
As long as you're with us, we'll all be reminded of who you
are. And what you are," he added in a threatening tone.
"You want to fight? Fine. But until then every move you
make will be watched and if I think for one moment that you
might bring harm to any of my people, I'll slit your throat
before you even know I had the thought."
Duncan's jaw clenched at the threat and his body tensed in
response, but he took a long, calming breath. Simon had
every right to question his motives, to suspect his
actions. He forced himself to nod. "Understood," he
managed to say between stiff lips. "What about my
weapons?" Duncan nodded towards his dirk tucked in Simon's
heavy, metal-studded leather baldrick, and Colin was holding
his sword.
"You'll get those when there is an enemy to use them
against, and not before," Simon said grimly, taking the
sword from Colin. Duncan and Simon stood at hostile
attention for another moment before Simon turned on his heel
and walked away towards the largest campfire, trailed by
Dougal and several other followers, while Duncan's heart
slowly tried to achieve a more normal pace.
"Don't mind Simon," Angus told him. "He has been hiding
from the Earl's men for the better part of his life, and
trusts no one who isn't a MacGregor."
"No, he's right," Duncan shook his head. "He doesna' know
me, and he has to protect his people." He looked around,
wondering where he might make a place for himself. Angus
shifted his weight uncomfortably as the rest of the crowd
slowly drifted away, back to their wagons and small
shelters. "And I know you took a risk when you said you
knew me. I won't try to take advantage of one evening of
road hospitality."
The gray-haired man shook himself slightly. "Nay," he said
softly. "You may eat at our fire, at least for tonight.
With this many men to hunt and women to cook, there is food
to spare."
Even though he was uncomfortable with the arrangement,
Duncan gave in. He was too hungry and too anxious to share
the comfort of a family, even if only from a distance.
~~~~~~~
Duncan didn't have long to wait for his opportunity to prove
himself. He had spread his bed well inside the circle of
tents and wagons, feeling the scrutiny of many eyes as he
deliberately put a bit of distance between himself and
Angus' camp, and far from any other campfire. Sleep was
difficult. He felt exposed and watched, and small sounds of
movement, snores, low voices, could be heard throughout the
night, and several watchmen patrolled the edges of the
gathering.
So when a voice shouted an alarm, he had rolled out of his
pallet and was on his feet before the echo died. He felt
naked without a weapon, even more so in just his plaid,
baldrick, and a shirt he had gotten from Angus in trade for
one of his pelts. In seconds, everyone was up, and Simon
emerged from underneath one of the larger wagons, pulling on
his baldrick and running his fingers through shoulder length
brown hair.
"What is it?" he snapped as a lad, barely old enough to
shave, rode a pony in at a gallop, throwing up mud as he
jerked his mount to a halt. The boy slid off, his legs
giving way a little as he fought for balance.
"A patrol," he gasped out. "In Scardroy. I was at the inn
and I overheard one of them say they're going to do a full
search in this direction at first light. He was bragging
that he'd broken Father Andrew's fingers one by one, then
burned his flesh with a hot poker until he finally told him
where we were."
"How many men?" Simon asked calmly, though his face had gone
pale at the news. Someone handed the boy a water skein and
he took a long swallow, wiping his mouth with the back of
his hand before he spoke.
"Hard to tell," he answered, still breathing hard. "There
were about a dozen horses in the stable, though, and it
sounded like he expected more men to come in during the
night."
"All right," Simon raised his voice so everyone could hear.
"We're breaking camp. Fast as you can. You'll head west,
then south. Scatter after you reach the river, and regroup
at the West Monar site in a week. I need a dozen men to
stay with me to cover the rear, so we can make sure everyone
gets cleanly away."
Duncan stepped forward. "I'll stay," he volunteered. Simon
ignored his offer and looked past him at the other men,
silently counting as various families discussed which among
them should stay and which should go. Angus and Colin were
arguing, but Angus prevailed, sending the younger man off to
guard and care for his wife and children. In a few moments,
a core of men were standing in the center of camp and other
figures were quickly and quietly gathering their belongings
and hitching the horses to wagons.
"I've got enough men, MacLeod. You go with Colin and his
family," Simon finally decided.
"No!" Duncan insisted. "If you want me to prove myself,
then give me the chance to do so."
"I am chieftain here, damn you!" Simon MacGregor snapped.
"And I don't want to feel like I have to watch my back as
well as my enemy."
"Then put me in front, or at your side. Use me somehow, but
don't send me away with the women and children! Besides, if
you don't trust me, isn't it better to keep me close at
hand?"
Simon started to snap back at him, but stopped himself,
cocking his head to the side for a moment as though
listening for something, and the group became quiet.
"Angus," Simon called, a sudden light of eagerness in his
eyes. "Find the wagon with the lightest load, and spread
its contents to the other wagons. Then move it to the
largest campfire," he instructed. "Hugh," he called to the
lad who had delivered the news to the camp. "Unsaddle your
horse and leave it here, then head on out with your family.
No, I don't want to hear it." He waved off the boy's
protest and turned to Duncan with a grim smile. "We'll see
what you're made of, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."
~~~~~~~
Duncan sat on a log, stirring porridge over a fire in an
otherwise empty campsite. Hugh's exhausted mare was tied on
a long lead to the empty wagon, contentedly searching for
grass in the undergrowth. The air was heavy with early
morning mist, and he had no cloak to keep the damp away, but
he had long since learned to ignore the chill. He felt a
small tremor in the earth, and made it a point not to move
or even look up until several mounted men broke into the
glen. In seconds, the camp was surrounded by about twenty
riders. He stood to greet his visitors, his only weapon the
dirk he held in his hand.
One of the riders urged his horse forward and looked around
the well-trampled glen before his eyes finally settled on
Duncan, and one corner of his mouth curled slightly. "A
MacLeod, eh? And what are you doing here? Living off the
scraps the MacGregor dogs leave behind?"
"No," Duncan met the man's eyes. "But they left their privy
in yon ditch just for any Campbells that might be attracted
by the smell."
The man dismounted, his familiar blue-black plaid swinging
easily on narrow hips. He was a lean, hard man, about the
same height as Duncan, his dark auburn hair pulled neatly
back and tied elaborately with a complex knot of braided
leather. He studied Duncan imperiously over a nose that had
been badly broken at some point, healing unevenly and
lending a hawk-like quality to his face. With sudden,
blinding speed he backhanded Duncan, almost spinning him to
the ground. Duncan staggered, then lunged with his knife,
but by then a half-dozen men had dismounted and he was
grabbed and pulled away before he could reach their leader.
Duncan could feel blood trickle down his chin from where his
lip had been split.
"Where did they go?" the hawk-faced man asked, his cold gray
eyes studying Duncan as though he were a particularly
distasteful smear of dung he had accidentally gotten onto
his best boots.
"To visit your sister?" Duncan smiled at him, licking the
blood from his lips. "I hear she's been giving it away for
free since she was thirteen."
This time, the man used his fist, first on Duncan's face,
then on his ribs. He could hear them crack on the blow that
finally drove him to his knees, and when someone kicked him
hard enough to make him retch, it made the pain even worse.
Campbell leaned down grabbed a handful of Duncan's hair and
yanked his face out of the mud. "I don't have all day,
MacLeod. You know you'll tell me eventually." A searing
wave of heat near his face made him instinctively pull back
from the flaming stick of kindling Campbell had pulled from
the fire.
"But I have all the time in the world," Duncan managed to
get out between clenched teeth.
"No," his tormentor whispered. "You don't." He jammed the
burning brand into Duncan's palm while his men held him
down.
Duncan screamed in pain, and then it seemed like everyone
else was screaming at the same moment. But he was only
really aware that suddenly his captors had let him loose and
shouts and wild cries were all around him. All he could do
was curl around his hand, panting, willing the pain in his
stomach and ribs and hand to go away, vaguely sickened by
the lingering smell of his own burning flesh.
Disturbingly true to form, in only a moment or two the
ripped, bloody, charred skin of his hand began to heal, the
agony faded, and he was able to stagger to his feet. The
ambush had been set and triggered, although he had expected
Simon to wait much longer to attack, at least until all the
riders had dismounted to watch whatever tortures they
planned to use on their captive. The sudden appearance of
the dozen men hidden in the underbrush had given the
MacGregors a momentary advantage over the Campbells' larger
numbers, but now their ranks appeared about even, and the
battle had broken down into individual skirmishes.
Duncan was weaponless, still breathless, bruised and aching.
He had fulfilled his promised role of sacrificial bait, but
he could not stand by now and do nothing while others
fought. He spotted a prone man in a dark Campbell tartan
and rolled the body over, pulling the man's sword from a
limp, lifeless hand. He charged into the nearest cluster of
combatants, yelling like a banshee, pulling as many
opponents away from the MacGregor clansmen as he could, and
for the next several minutes time seemed to stop and the
unrelenting confusion and despair of the past three years
was forgotten. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had a
purpose and a goal, people who needed him, and he felt like
he could do no wrong. He slashed and stabbed, used his
fists, his feet, his head, his elbows, anything he could to
take on as many as possible.
Then it was over, and the MacGregor men were left standing,
gasping for air, clutching wounds, some of them sinking to
their knees, retching into the blood-stained mud. There
were bodies of Campbells scattered throughout the glen,
including their hawk-faced leader, whose colorless eyes now
stared sightlessly at the sky. Duncan looked around to make
sure there were no enemies left, oddly disappointed it was
over so soon. He had lost track of how many he had killed.
Simon made the rounds of each of his men, assessing their
wounds and instructing those still standing to tend to them.
He sought out Duncan at last, and their eyes met. Simon's
face was gray underneath a messy cut over his eye that still
oozed blood down his temple, but his gaze was steady. "You
fought well, MacLeod," he said with a grim smile, then shook
his head a little. "But I'm sorry we waited so long," he
added, and Duncan frowned in puzzlement.
"But I thought you were going to wait until they had dropped
their guard. A little more time and..."
"I couldn't let them cripple you, not like they did Father
Andrew," Simon looked offended, and reached for Duncan's
right hand, which still gripped a sword. He stared for a
minute, then pulled the blade out of Duncan's grasp and
opened his palm, staring at the unmarked flesh. His eyes
slowly traveled up to meet Duncan's once more.
"The stories are true," Duncan said softly. "I am not like
other men. But that is all the more reason I can be of use
to you."
Simon let him go and backed away a step. "What are you?" he
demanded. The rest of the men had quieted, watching the
exchange, many of them crossing themselves fearfully.
Duncan slowly went to one knee. "Whatever I am, Simon
MacGregor, my sword arm...my life...is at your service,"
Duncan insisted, steadfastly holding the young chieftain's
eyes. "Whatever gift this is, is it not better to use it to
your benefit and the benefit of your people?"
Simon just stared at him for a moment, blinking slowly.
"May God forgive me," he whispered, then he grasped Duncan's
forearm and helped the larger man to his feet. "But if you
are a demon, we could use more like you in our cause." The
smile that finally crossed Simon's face was tight and tense,
and the forearm clasp was brief, but left no doubt that he
had made his choice, for good or ill.
~~~~~~~
Cont. in Chapter 8, part 2.