Forging the Blade/Wilderness Years - Conclusion, Pt. 2/2
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Fri, 22 Jun 2001 23:28:33 -0400
See previously posted Part 0 for acknowledgements,
disclaimers and ratings.
The html version, with graphics and author's notes, can be
found at:
http://www.wordsmiths.net/MacGeorge/wip.html
~~~~~~~
Chapter 9, Part 2
~~~~~~~
"Smells good."
The sudden breaking of the silence almost made Duncan drop
the spit of meat he was turning over the fire. He whipped
his head around to find Connor standing behind him, wrapped
in a warm cloak.
"It's almost ready," Duncan responded, turning back to his
cooking duties. "Do you normally sleep all day?"
"I sleep whenever I get the opportunity," Connor answered.
"You never know when the chance will come again."
Duncan poked irritably at the fire and started to mention
that he would have appreciated such an opportunity, himself,
but by the time he turned his head to speak, Connor had
disappeared. Perhaps the man was a sorcerer, since he seemed
to just appear and disappear at will. Duncan stood, peering
out into the rapidly darkening night sky. "Connor?"
"Just washing up and changing my clothes," Connor's voice
called from over by the loch. "Especially since you seem to
take exception to the fine suit my tailor in Ravenna took
such trouble to make."
"Oh, aye," Duncan mumbled to himself, kneeling again in
front of the fire. "We wouldn't want to get your little
pantaloons dirty, now would we?"
"No, we wouldn't."
Duncan froze as once again as Connor seemed to appear from
nowhere right at his elbow. He flushed at what the man had
overheard, but Connor didn't seem perturbed. He only
reached over and pulled some meat off of the spit, then blew
on it before he popped it into his mouth. He cocked his
head and nodded. "Not bad. Ramsons for flavoring? Nice
touch. And you found some baldmoney, I see."
Duncan ignored the compliment, not wanting to reveal that he
had no idea what the herbs and roots he had found were
called. He had only learned their uses through painful
trial and error. Then Duncan realized with a start that
Connor was dressed now in a well-worn blue and green plaid
that draped easily on a lean, hard body. Somehow it made
him look younger. With his brown hair flowing to his
shoulders, he looked almost like Robert, his cousin,
before...
"What is it?" Connor asked, catching Duncan staring at him.
"It's just, you remind me of someone." Duncan pulled the
birds from the fire and busied himself cutting them away
from the spit so they could be more easily eaten.
"Who?" Connor asked, settling easily on the ground and
stabbing the baldmoney roots with his dirk to pull them from
the fire.
"It's not important," Duncan murmured, deliberately filling
his mouth with food while the memory of being called
"kinslayer" echoed through his mind, and for a few minutes
the two men ate their meal in silence. Full at last, the
two men sat near the fire for warmth, and Duncan sucked on
the bones of the last of the grouse, staring at the flames
and wondering when, or if, Connor MacLeod was ever going to
tell him anything, when he had claimed to know so much about
him. Finally, he could wait no longer and he took a deep
breath, preparing to insist on some answers to some
questions.
"It was a battle to protect our village from a warlord who
had stirred up the Frasers against us," Connor began softly,
before Duncan had a chance to speak. "We all rode out that
day with the drums rolling and the pipes playing and I
wasn't really frightened at all. I was eighteen, and it all
seemed like a great adventure. I rode with my cousin Dougal
and we laughed and waved, and I kissed a girl I thought I
loved, and she shouted at Dougal and Angus, who had been
like a father to me, to make sure I came to no harm."
Connor smiled at the memory, the light from the flames
softening his hard features. "But when the battle began, no
one would fight me. They all ran away, and then I came face
to face with the largest man I'd ever seen. They called him
the Kurgan. He must have been seven feet tall, and he
skewered me in one blow."
Connor stirred the fire with a stick, sending sparks dancing
up into the night sky. "I learned later that Dougal and
Angus charged him and killed him, and they dragged me back
to Glenfinnan, mortally wounded. All I remember is a lot of
pain, and my mother and friends weeping. Then I woke up."
Connor looked over at Duncan to make sure he was listening.
"But I hadn't fallen asleep, Duncan. I had died. And I
lived again. The wound had disappeared."
Duncan had to remember to breathe, and to blink when his
eyes began to water from the fire's smoke.
"But there was no celebration that I had lived," Connor went
on. "They tied me up and threw stones at me and would have
burned me at the stake, but for Angus, who stood between me
and the mob, insisting they let me go. I was banished from
Glenfinnan. Even Dougal and the girl who had said she loved
me, denied me," he said, tossing the stick he had been
toying with into the fire. "I wandered north, looking for a
way to live, and met Angus MacDonald, who took me in, taught
me to be a blacksmith, and I fell in love with his daughter,
Heather. She left her family, her clan, gave up everything
to follow me into exile. We built a small croft on some
land outside Glencoe." Duncan watched Connor's face soften
with a gentle smile that widened when he chuckled. "It was
our own private world, and if no bairns came, it was enough
that we were together."
"And then along came Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, chief
Metallurgist to the Court of King Charles V." Connor threw
his head back, looking at the heavy, full moon, the stars
and the clouds scudding along above them. "He appeared
amidst storm and lightning, and taught me what I was, and
how to survive. I never dreamed then that someday I would
do the same for someone of my own clan."
"I know how to survive just fine," Duncan grumbled,
wondering when the man would ever get to the point. "But it
would be nice to know what happened, and why. I thought you
were going to tell me that, not recite stories of old
battles."
"Patience, young Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Connor
grinned at him. "Ramirez was outrageous, dressed like a
peacock, so full of himself I wanted to break his jaw. But,
of course, I couldn't have, even if I had tried. He was a
master swordsman, a man who had studied the art of combat
for over 2,000 years."
Duncan just stared at this man who called himself Connor
MacLeod, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach until
he thought the grouse he had just eaten might come back up
again. Another madman. Would he also try to decapitate
himself on Duncan's sword? He took a deep breath and stood
slowly, not wanting to startle his companion. "Aye," he
nodded. "Well, that's most interesting, I must say." He
backed away a little, reaching for his baldrick and sword.
"You know, with all that food, I feel the need for a little
bit of a walk." He gathered up his meager belongings. It
was nothing other than his cloak and his weapons. All else
had been in the pack left on his horse, now lost.
"We cannot die," Connor said, watching him closely. "We do
not age." He stood, catching Duncan's wrist as Duncan began
to back away from the campsite. "I was born in Glenfinnan,
on the shores of Loch Shiel, in 1518. I am over 100 years
old, Duncan, and I am Immortal, just as you are."
Duncan tried to pull his arm away, but hard fingers gripped
him and yanked him back. "You're mad," he whispered. "Let
me go!"
"You died," Connor insisted. "But you didn't stay dead.
Your clan banished you, just as they banished me. And you
can feel me coming, that nasty pressure in your head. It's
so we recognize each other, and can prepare."
"Prepare for what?"
"Combat. Because there can be only one."
"One what?"
"One Immortal. We fight each other for the Prize, in combat
to the death. For when one Immortal kills another, the
victor gains all the other's power through their
Quickening. Someday there will be a Gathering, and at the
end of it, only one Immortal will remain, and he will carry
all the power of all the Immortals who ever lived."
"But I thought you said we...you couldn't die!" Duncan
wanted to get away, but the grip on his arm was like iron,
and Connor's words held him just as strongly.
"There is only one way," Connor replied. "And that is by
cutting off our heads."
This time Duncan found the strength to yank his arm away.
"No!" he snarled. "Not again. I won't do this again!"
"What do you mean?" Connor asked, eyeing him with a narrow,
speculative look that made Duncan even more nervous.
"Nothing," Duncan whispered. "You're mad, and I don't want
to hear any more." He turned and walked away, back up
towards the trail.
"Duncan, wait!" Connor shouted after him.
"Why?" Duncan whirled around, heartsick and angry. Connor
had been the first person who had sought him out, a clansman
who neither feared nor reviled him, and all he turned out to
be was another madman talking about living forever and
taking heads. "You want to fight me? To see if I can take
your head? No, thank you, Connor MacLeod, or whoever you
are. I've no desire to cut off anyone's head for any Prize.
You and that old hermit can go to hell!" He turned away and
practically ran towards the trail, wanting to put as much
distance as possible between himself and this madman.
But a dark shape flowed past him, and blocked his path.
The strange curved sword with the gleaming, sharp edge sang
in the air, and then was pointed at the center of his
chest. The tip slowly moved upward until the cold metal
touched his chin and Duncan swallowed carefully. "If I
wanted to fight you, Duncan MacLeod, you'd be dead already,"
Connor soft voice drifted to him, just barely audible above
the whispering breeze and lapping water from the loch. "And
as for you taking my head," a low chuckle sounded in the
darkness. "That seems highly unlikely."
"This is insane," Duncan whispered, but he could feel the
sweat of fear dampen his skin, even in the chill night air.
"What do you want from me? I have no money, no clan, no
family. I have nothing. I am nothing, no one. Why can't
you just leave me alone?!"
"You are Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Connor said
evenly, his eyes glowing and flickering from the reflected
light of the campfire behind them. "And you are Immortal,
just as I am. You must learn to survive as an Immortal, and
I am here to teach you what you need to know. Do I have to
prove it to you by killing you, and letting you revive, or
by killing myself? No," Connor shook his head. "I don't
think so. I think you know that what I'm telling you is
true. I traveled across half a continent to find you, and I
am not going to let you just walk away because you're too
stubborn to admit it."
Duncan sighed heavily, and let his shoulders slump in
defeat, closing his eyes and shaking his head, relieved when
the blade moved away from his throat. For a pause of about
five heartbeats he gathered himself, but didn't move a
muscle. Connor relaxed a little, and started to resheath his
sword. That's when Duncan made his move, charging forward,
shoving with one arm and drawing his claymore with the
other, certain his longer, heavier blade would easily swat
away the light sword the other man carried. But his
stiff-armed shove only met air, and the lack of resistance
made him stumble.
Duncan barely managed to get his claymore free of its
scabbard as he turned, off balance, trying to locate his
opponent, when a hard blow hit the back of his knees and his
legs went flying from underneath him, landing him flat on
his back and sending his breath out in a rush. Then that
deadly, silver blade was descending, its edge caught by the
moonlight. He watched in astonishment as its tip cut
through his flesh like soft cheese, and sank deep into his
chest. He looked up, unable to breathe for the pain, and
his last view was of Connor MacLeod's darkening shadow
looming over him.
It hurt. The first breath was the worst, but then he
coughed, and that was really bad, too. He rolled over and
managed to sit up, spitting blood into the grass, coughing
some more and dragging air in with noisy gasps until it
didn't seem like each breath was going to be his last.
Somehow, he was now back in their camp.
Connor was sitting cross-legged on the other side of the
fire, his sword across his lap. "Feeling better?" he asked
with an irritating, kindly smile.
Duncan rubbed his aching chest. It was slippery with blood,
but when he looked, there was no wound. A wet cloth landed
in his lap, and he looked up to meet Connor's eyes again
before he picked it up and used it to wipe away the mess.
"What did you do that for?" he growled.
"You are a stubborn one, aren't you?" Connor sighed. "I was
trying to make a point, and if someone has to die to do it,
I'd rather it be you than me. Duncan," Connor said sharply,
and waited until their eyes met before going on. "You're
not a demon. Neither am I. We are men, just like other
men. We live, we love, we feel pain. We can be good, or
bad or lazy or hard working. But we...are...Immortal. It
means you can be whatever you choose to be, do whatever you
choose to do."
Duncan dropped the cloth, feeling strangely numb, his mind
blank. "Can you make it go away?" he finally asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Can you make it...stop? I never wanted to be anything but
a chieftain's son. Never wanted to do anything but take
care of my clan. I...I don't want this Prize. I don't want
to be Immortal. How do I change it?"
"You can't, Duncan. You were born an Immortal. You can't
go back. But there is a whole world out there for you to
see, so much to learn and do, and you'll have many lifetimes
to do it in."
"Until this Gathering you speak of, and in the meantime, we
all go around chopping off heads of people we don't even
know," Duncan observed bitterly. A shudder trembled over
him as he said it, and with it the realization that he had
somehow accepted Connor's unacceptable explanation as fact.
"Well, why didn't you take my head, eh? And what if I
choose not to fight? What then?"
"At your age, your head is hardly worth taking," Connor
smiled crookedly at him before his expression grew more
serious. "But others will come for you whether you wish it
or not. Your choice is to fight, or to die."
"But if I am one of these...Immortals you talk about, why
didn't I have any desire to kill you, or..." the image of
the hermit's mad face just before he jerked Duncan's blade
through his neck flashed in Duncan's mind. "...or anyone
else?"
"Perhaps because you haven't yet developed a taste for
Quickenings," Connor answered grimly, then shrugged. "Not
every Immortal you meet will want to take your head. I've
met a few who let me walk away without a fight. But trust
between Immortals is rare, friendship even more rare."
Duncan sat for a long time, staring into the fire, twisting
the wet cloth in his hands, his mind in turmoil. Connor
carefully added fuel to the sputtering fire, waiting in
patient silence for Duncan to ask more questions, but Duncan
wasn't sure he wanted to know any more. "Get some rest, if
you can," Connor finally instructed. "We've got a ways to
travel and you have a lot to think about, a lot to learn."
It took hours for Duncan to actually sleep, and the sun was
well into the sky when Connor shook him awake. He felt
heavy and lethargic and somehow resented Connor's easy grace
as the man energetically served up porridge, then proceeded
to pack up their things while Duncan unenthusiastically ate
his portion.
Connor finished securing the various rolls and packs on the
horse while Duncan doused the fire and filled the water
skein, then Connor mounted and held out his hand. "Give me
your cloak and sword."
"What? Why?"
"Why isn't important, student. Just do it."
"I'm no' your student, Connor MacLeod!" Duncan snapped.
"No? Do you want to survive, or not?"
Duncan thought about his answer for a minute. In a way, he
had been running after death for three years, believing that
was the only way he could prove he wasn't what everyone
accused him of being. But now that he knew he could really
die, he finally had a choice and a real future. That
realization almost took his breath away, and he had to
swallow before he could answer. "Aye," he said
breathlessly. "I want to live."
"Then you are my student, aren't you?" Connor smiled down at
him, and Duncan was reluctantly forced to nod, although he
could hear his teeth grind as he clenched his jaw at the
humiliation. Connor waited a moment, then Duncan snatched
off his cloak, and handed over his sword. With a grin,
Connor tucked them securely behind him before he kicked his
horse into a trot. "Try not to fall too far behind," Connor
shouted over his shoulder, then urged his mount into a
gallop and disappeared around a bend in the trail.
"Bloody bastard!" Duncan growled to himself as he walked,
then ran after his kinsman. But he found himself relaxing
as he seemed to find a rhythm, and his body warmed to the
exercise. The sun had broken through the thin clouds, and he
could see his teacher far ahead, turning periodically to
make sure they were always in sight of one another.
Someday, Duncan thought. Someday, they would spar and
Duncan would beat his kinsman, dumping the irritating man on
his arse just as he had dumped Duncan the night before. It
might take awhile, given that Connor had almost 100 years of
experience to catch up to, but catch up, he would, Duncan
decided. Connor thought he was stubborn? Duncan laughed out
loud. He didn't know the half of it, and with his face
stretching to a grin, Duncan lengthened his stride.
End of Part I