Forging the Blade/The Wilderness Years, Chap. 1, pt 2/2
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Sat, 5 May 2001 21:38:23 -0400
Forging the Blade
by MacGeorge
The Wilderness Years
Chapter One, Part 2
See Part 0 for disclaimers
A week later
Duncan woke hours before dawn, slipping quietly out of bed
and breaking the thin ice on the water bucket before
splashing his face. He wrapped his plaid around his waist
and shoulders, pulled on his boots and leg wrappings, belted
the fabric and threw on a cloak before he stepped outside,
moving away from the small, isolated hut to relieve
himself. He finished his business, walked to the top of a
small rise and stood for a few minutes, just listening. The
birds weren't even awake yet, and the wind made a lonely
moaning noise as it moved over the rocks and hills of the
rough landscape.
Footsteps sounded behind him, warm arms slipped around his
waist, and he leaned back a little into the embrace. "The
bed gets cold quickly when you leave," a soft voice murmured
into his shoulder. He turned, folding her inside his
cloak. "I must be off," he said, then kissed the dark
auburn hair tumbling over her crown. "The men are gathering
at the kirk and I must stop at my parents' before we ride."
"And hear another speech about how it is time for you to
choose a bride?" she chided.
Duncan sighed and wrapped an arm around her waist as they
walked towards his horse penned in the small enclosure next
to the hut. Jean's husband had died three winters past,
leaving her with two sons and a daughter to raise. Duncan
had stopped by from time to time to help, as was his duty as
the village chieftain's son, and a flirtation and mutual
loneliness had led to mutual comfort.
"You know I would marry you, Jean MacClure," he assured
her. He stopped and took her by the shoulders. "It would
make me happy to care for you and your children, and have
children of our own."
She reached up and tugged gently at a braid of his hair she
had plaited only the night before in the pleasant aftermath
of their lovemaking. "Nay, Duncan. I am too old for ye,
and I bring no alliance to the clan, no dowry but this poor
croft which is hardly enough to support a woman and three
bairns. You're a dear boy and you make my heart glad and my
body sing, but your da would'na hear of you marrying the
likes of me, and I've always known that."
He wanted to argue with her, but his feelings on the whole
issue were clouded with so many different, conflicting
thoughts: a sense of rebellion at not being able to do as
he pleased with his life, and a genuine affection for this
strong, giving woman; but also a powerful sense of duty to
his father and his clan; and a secret realization that,
while he felt great affection for Jean, there was none of
the fire of devotion that had sparked such intense feeling
for his beloved Debra.
"I..."
"Hush, Duncan." She pushed him gently away. "Get on with
ye before half the village wakes and knows where you've been
this night."
He saddled and mounted as Jean watched, hugging her own
cloak around her in the pre-dawn darkness. She opened the
gate and he road out, but stopped and looked down at her.
Her eyes gleamed suspiciously in the dark, and he leaned
down, cupped her chin and kissed her, not knowing what to
say, not knowing when he might see her again.
"Be safe, Duncan," she whispered.
~~~~~~~
He rode to the edge of Glenfinnan and dismounted, walking
his horse the last 100 yards, and tying her with the rest of
the horses before slipping through the shadows to his
father's house. It was his own house, too, even though he
spent many a night away from it these days. He was a grown
man now, and frequently visited other crofts, helping out
whenever an extra hand was needed, serving as messenger and
emissary to other clans and septs.
There was no light visible yet in the window, and rather
than wake his parents, he waited outside, surveying the
collection of thatch-roofed huts, animal pens and stone
houses, the windows just now showing the dim light of
renewed flames in their fireplaces. He could hear the pigs
snuffling in the pen all the way on the other side of the
village, the horses restlessly stomping their hooves in the
small pen nearby. Perhaps they could sense what today was
going to bring, he thought, pulling his pelt-fringed cloak a
little more tightly around his shoulders.
By mid-morning, the sun would be warm. By afternoon, the
battle would be joined. There was a kind of ritual to such
things, he mused. Everyone knew it was coming. Everyone
knew what was expected. Scotsmen weren't renowned for the
sophistication of their battle strategy, and the Campbells
were waiting for them at Glen Garven.
And this was no benign cattle raid. This was a battle,
blade to blade, with no quarter given nor expected.
Somehow, Duncan had no real fear for himself, but he worried
for his father, who had slowed a little in the last couple
of years. He worried for the younger men of his village,
whose training he supervised. Had he taught them well? Had
he disciplined them enough? Certainly he had failed with
Niall, and that was the reason for all this madness. As
deeply as his anger ran at those who needlessly murdered a
child, he was just as angry at himself for that failure.
And after the battle, he had promised his parents he would
chose a bride, that within the month he would be prepared to
announce the bans, and marry. Oh, there was many a comely
lass he would be happy to bed. He smiled, thinking about
Jean. There were quite a number he had bedded, somewhat to
his shame and his priest's admonishments about the sin of
lust. But the sins of the flesh seemed to be an
irresistible temptation. Duncan sighed, shaking his head at
his many failings and frustrations, wondering if he would
ever be worthy of clan leadership.
He would be happy to settle down with one lass, someone to
love and care for, to raise many sons and daughters. And he
was almost resigned to the fact that his choice for a bride
would be more political than romantic. Such a match was
hardly unusual among the clans. Indeed, it had been his and
Debra's defiance of that tradition that had led to her
death.
A big shadow stepped out of the house, and his father nodded
to him, unsurprised to find him standing watch. For several
long moments, father and son stood together, watching the
village rouse itself, the men emerging fully armored. They
would be joined today by at least a hundred others from
other septs, but all of the MacLeod clan, all eager for
battle, anxious for glory. It was their way. Duncan felt
his father's arm fold gently over his shoulders in a
familiar, comforting gesture.
"Take care today, Duncan," Iain finally broke the silence.
"The future of the clan rides with you."
Duncan looked at his father in surprise. Iain MacLeod was a
man who showed his affection and caring easily and often,
but always with a cuff on the shoulder, a slap on the back,
a touch, even a rough hug. But never with words.
"I want only to make you proud," Duncan replied, meeting his
father's eyes.
"Ah, lad, you've already done that," Iain smiled, and
Duncan's heart squeezed tight in his chest. Iain ruffled
his hair, then slapped him on the back, urging him into the
house. "Your mother has some porridge ready, then we must
join the others at the kirk to ask God's blessing. The Good
Lord willing, we will see the last of the Campbells by
sunset."
Duncan followed his father into the house, secretly
wondering whether slaying the entire Campbell clan was part
of God's plan, or would resolve anything in the long run,
then shook off his doubts. This was their way, the way it
had always been, and he would follow his father, wherever
that might lead.
The church service seemed overly long, although perhaps it
only seemed so because Duncan was restless, anxious for
action. But his father was a stickler for such things,
waiting until the last prayer had been said, the final
blessing given. Each of them took communion, and Duncan had
to admit that the familiar Latin words were a comfort. Even
though Iain had insisted that Duncan learn the meaning of
the Latin, and as a lad he had sat for many boring hours
with the priests listening to the translations of the
liturgy, Duncan had given little thought to religion, had
simply accepted it, along with the mysteries of the Solstice
festivals, the legends of the Sidhe, and the thousands of
other rituals and magics, small and large, that were part
and parcel of everyday life. That the world contained
saints, spirits and demons was a given, even though he had
never knowingly encountered one.
It all seemed to make sense -- that protecting your clan and
family, that fighting with courage for a cause that was
just, that obeying the laws and traditions of your sept,
that giving proper worship to God and his Son, Jesus Christ,
all would lead to a place in heaven. Certainly the rituals
to display and confirm all those virtues were a necessary
prelude to a battle.
By the time the service was over, the sun was well into the
sky, and the men moved to their horses, mounting in
silence. At last Iain MacLeod rode to the front of the
group of almost 200 men, standing in his stirrups.
"Ye know what we fight for today, lads!" he shouted. "The
Campbells have stolen our animals, insulted our women,
besmirched our honor, encroached on our territory and now
they have slain a child! They will learn today that the
Clan MacLeod will not stand by in the face of such evil and
insult. Are you with me!?"
"AYE!" the men shouted, and Duncan raised his fist and his
voice with the other men in a united chorus, his heart
beating fast and proud as he watched the sun glint off the
wolf pelt covering his father's broad, strong shoulders.
~~~~~~~
By the time they reached Glen Garvan, the nearest broad,
flat meadow that bordered the unofficial boundary between
the land claimed by the MacLeods and that inhabited by the
Campbells, the horses were well lathered. Scouts sent out
earlier that morning reported that the Campbell clan was
camped on the far side, that they had been gathering for
days, and there may be as many as 300 there, but that many
in the camp were women and boys not fit for battle.
Iain snorted in disdain. "Only the Campbells would bring
their women along to battle," he snarled. "Too helpless to
do their own cooking no doubt."
Duncan smiled. His father's version of camp-cooked porridge
was famously inedible. He edged his horse to his father's
side, eying the ranks of men now forming on the opposite
slope of the moor, decked out in their dark blue Campbell
tartans. "If we send some men to circle around," Duncan
suggested, "Then attack with the rest of us from the front,
we could catch them off guard, and be prepared for any
tricks they might want to play."
"And reduce our numbers in the initial attack?" Iain
scoffed. "Nay. They will send their best fighters out in
the first rank, and we must be at full strength. One on
one, we can beat them and send them back to their villages
licking their wounds. It will be many winters before the
Campbells dare bother the MacLeods again, and there will be
opportunity to take back some land they have stolen from us
over the years."
"But Father," Duncan urged, "if we commit all the men in the
initial attack, we will have none to deal with any tricks
they might have planned. You, at least, should stay here
with the other leaders so that..."
"And have Angus Campbell call me coward?" Iain snapped, his
eyes narrowing in a look Duncan knew too well brooked no
disagreement. "Nay, Duncan. I will lead the attack. Let
the boys and old men stay here, if you like, just in case
the damned Campbells try some treachery."
Duncan wheeled his horse around, unsatisfied with the plan,
but deferring to his father's greater wisdom and authority.
He chose twenty men to stay behind, over their protests,
instructing them to await a signal to join the fray or to
act if they observed any traps their opponent may have laid.
He barely made it back to the front of their ranks in time
to dismount and hand his mare's reins off to the lads they
had brought along to watch the horses. Highlanders fought
on foot, hand to hand, blade to blade. He checked to be
sure his dirk was close at hand at his waist, and slid his
claymore out of its scabbard. His blood was beginning to
pound loudly in his ears and he shed his cloak, his skin
flushing warm even in the chilly breeze.
He could hear the quick, nervous breaths of the men around
and behind him, could feel their mounting excitement and
readiness, all of them tending to lean forward, ready to
move, ready to join the battle. At last his father raised
his claymore high over his head, watching as across the
field Angus Campbell did the same. A long, breathless
silence descended and the breeze seemed to die, leaving the
air still and thin, almost unbreathable.
"Cirean Ceann Cinnidh!!" Iain MacLeod roared at the top of
his lungs, as his powerful legs pushed him forward through
the low-lying gorsh that scraped at their calves as the line
dashed forward, spreading out slightly. A wild roar filled
the air as all the men took up the cry of "Ciraen Ceann
Cinnidh!" until it evolved into a scream of unintelligible
noise as legs pumped forward, each man watching the line of
men advancing towards them, unconsciously choosing someone,
some running figure, some embodiment of the "enemy" to kill
first.
The noise as the two battle lines met was deafening, and the
shouts became grunts and growls and screams of pain overlaid
with clangs of metal meeting metal, of flesh being torn, of
bone being splintered. For long moments each man knew only
the man whose blade met his, and the battle quickly became
anarchy, a morass of individual fights. Duncan slashed and
stabbed, finding his dirk in his left hand without having
consciously reached for it. A gray-haired warrior went down
before him, blood washing warmly over his forearm as Duncan
stabbed deep to get underneath the man's leather baldrick.
Then there was another, and another. His arms moved, his
legs held him and his world narrowed to the small space
immediately around him until he heard a familiar cry and
dared look up to see his father shouting, raising his
claymore high again as it appeared the Campbell's line was
being pushed back. Iain's face was smeared with blood, but
exultant and wild with a fierce joy.
But the cry was premature as Duncan felt the rumbling
vibrations of men on horseback and saw a new contingent of
warriors bearing down on them from each flank, long, pointed
spears drawn back to their shoulders, ready to throw. With
a shout he stabbed into the enemy nearest him, sending him
to his knees then turned, yelling at the top of his lungs
and waving his arm to signal the men they had held in
reserve.
His throat closed before the shout had finished and his
blades dropped from suddenly numb fingers. He opened his
mouth to try again, but no sound escaped. He looked down,
oddly surprised to see a spear stuck deep into his belly.
His legs refused to hold him and he slammed painfully to his
knees, choking for air that refused to come.
He heard his father scream his name, barely audible over the
sudden roar in his ears, but he didn't...couldn't answer.
He had to get it out. It was his only thought. It didn't
belong there. His hands closed around the spear shaft. He
yanked and the agony hit and rolled over him, flattening him
to the ground. He was almost glad he couldn't breathe,
otherwise he would have screamed with the pain. Then there
were arms around him, pulling him up, carrying him. He kept
trying to get enough air to speak, but it hurt too much to
breathe and warm liquid was choking his throat.
"Retreat!" he heard men yelling around him. Somehow he was
moving away from the battle, towards their line of horses.
"No!" he whispered, but the sound was so small he wasn't
sure anyone could hear him. "We must beat them back, the
extra men..."
"Hush, Duncan!" a voice said. It was Jamie Bethune, a man
almost his father's age from a different sept. The huge man
was carrying him off the field like a babe in his arms.
"Save your strength, lad."
Jamie pulled him onto a horse and Duncan was deeply shamed
as he cried out at the hellish pain that lanced through his
middle, filling every corner of his mind and stealing his
strength. Then they were riding, with every jolt of every
step a different agony. He started shivering from the cold,
but that movement only added more layers of pain.
He had to have passed out, but the jarring sensation of more
movement stirred him to consciousness as someone laid him on
soft pelts and he opened his eyes, looking up into the
thatched roof of a small stone hut. An unfamiliar voice
drew his attention and he was uncertain whether the old
woman crouched against the wall, fumbling with her rosary
and mumbling prayers was praying for him, or for herself as
these bloody warriors invaded her tiny, shabby home. For a
moment Duncan felt sorry for her, would have reassured her
if he had any breath to speak, but another wave of dizzy
weakness and overwhelming pain made his eyes squeeze shut,
as he tried desperately not to shame himself or his father.
Duncan could still hear the distant sounds of battle. They
couldn't have taken him very far. He had been clutching the
hot agony in his belly, but his hands were forcefully peeled
away.
"Looks bad," he heard Jamie murmur. "I'll gather the men."
Then another shadow fell across him and he opened his eyes.
He was scared to look at his own wounds, and wanted to ask
if Jamie was really talking about him, but another shiver of
cold wracked his body before he could get the question out.
"Duncan," Iain began, his voice cracking.
Looking into his father's anguished face, a certainty
settled over Duncan, and with it a surreal calm. Jamie had
been talking about him. He was dying. "Father, I..."
"No, save your strength. You fought well. You fought like a
MacLeod."
He forced a few more words past the liquid bubbling in his
throat. If only he had a little more strength, there were
so many things he wanted to say. "I wanted to be part of
the victory...."
"Aye, you will. You will be part of a great victory," his
father grated out.
The roar in his ears intensified, and the notion of his own
death seemed so inevitable, yet so unreal. It was too
soon. "I...always thought there would be more..." but he
had no more breath, no more words, no more time. The roar
in his ears faded to a high whine, almost a musical note.
Then there was nothing.
Breath burned. He pulled in air again, and again it
burned. He coughed and spat blood out of this throat, then
gasped in the first deep draught of air he had felt in what
seemed like a long time. Distantly, he could hear his name
shouted outside the window. "Duncan MacLeod! Duncan
MacLeod!" He was being called, and thought he heard his
father's voice. But...
He sat up, then felt his belly. The pain was gone.
Just...gone. He looked down at his bloodied hands, looking
where he had not dared look before, not wanting to see the
fatal, gaping wound he knew was there. But his skin was
unmarked. Not a cut. Not even a scratch. He reached for
the wet cloths someone had set out to tend or clean him,
washing away the blood to be certain what he saw was real,
but started when he heard a scream. The old woman who had
been praying was looking at him in abject horror.
His father slammed into the small hut, his men crowding
behind him, his eyes sweeping the room before they settled
on Duncan. Iain MacLeod's eyes grew large and Duncan froze
under that intense stare, trying to read his father's
thoughts by the expression on his face. Shock,
astonishment...Duncan expected something else and was
chilled to the core when he didn't see it. No joy, no
relief to see him alive, no warmth, no welcome, as though
all his father saw was a ghost, a spirit that had no right
to be among the living.
Had he truly...died, then? He had been so certain of it.
Had felt it, had known it deep in his soul. There was only
one explanation. "It...it's a miracle," he whispered. He
was frightened, uncertain of what had happened or why,
hoping his father would have an explanation. His father
always had an explanation. Always knew what to do.
Iain backed away, his eyes swiveling between the astonished
boy on the rough pallet and the old woman whimpering
hysterically against the wall. He shook his head slowly.
"No," he growled. "Tis the work of the demon master of the
world below!" As the words fell out of his mouth, his voice
rising to a near scream, for the first time in his life
Duncan saw sheer terror on his father's face.
"Father..." Duncan reached out, but Iain backed away.
"Nay! You're no bairn of mine. You're no my son! YOU'RE NO
MY SON!" The last was a hoarse, horrified cry. The door
slammed, and his father was gone.
"Father?" Duncan called softly. He tried to push himself to
his feet but he only managed to fall off the pallet,
spilling the bowl of pink-stained water into the dirt
floor. "Father!" It was a shout this time, hoarse and
painful. This was a mistake. Some dream. Some awful
nightmare.
He struggled to his knees, fumbling with his ruined shirt.
He used the wall to lever himself up, but the room swam and
he gasped and closed his eyes, clinging to the cold, rough
stone walls. There were noises outside, voices, shouts and
cries of dismay. The battle. He had to rejoin his
clansman. He lurched through the door and his eyes watered
from the acrid smoke hanging in the air from nearby homes
put to flame. He wiped his eyes with his hand and squinted,
trying to focus.
The clan was mounted, moving away, leaving him behind.
"Father, wait!" he stumbled forward. He could see his
father's outline through the thick haze, would recognize
that wolf pelt, those broad shoulders, anywhere. The Chief
of the Clan MacLeod turned briefly and the horses paused.
No one spoke, and all the men, his friends, his cousins,
family he had known all his life, Jamie Bethune, Donald
MacAndie, Neil MacGreggor, dozens of others whose faces he
knew better than his own, they all looked away.
"Father?" it came out as a question, a plea.
Then Iain MacLeod wheeled his horse around, and with a harsh
cry to his men, thundered off at a gallop back towards Glen
Garven. In only a moment, Duncan was alone, with only the
distant sounds of battle breaking the silence.
Continued in Chapter Two