Forging the Blade/The Wilderness Years, Chap. 2, pt. 2/2
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Sat, 5 May 2001 21:40:13 -0400
Forging the Blade
by MacGeorge
The Wilderness Years
See Part 0 for acknowledgements and disclaimers.
Chapter Two, Part 2
He forgot his hunger, he ignored his exhaustion. The hunt
was the only important thing now. It was almost sundown the
following day when he finally had the boar cornered in a
small copse of trees, next to a rock outcropping. He could
hardly remember the last two days through the haze of anger
and determination that had driven him on and on and on. He
would show them. He would show them all.
He circled the clearing, watching, waiting for the tusker to
move a little closer to the rocks where he would have fewer
avenues of escape. He licked his dry, chapped lips. The
small skein of water he had managed to make from cured hides
had been empty most of the day, but he hadn't the time or
interest to refill it. Not now.
The boar gradually snuffed and grunted its way through the
dark soil, looking for nourishment, until it was up against
the rock wall. Duncan stepped away from his hiding place,
moving slowly, quietly, closer and closer.
The boar stopped, its head whipping up at some tiny sound or
whiff of odor only it could sense. The thing was enormous,
as tall as Duncan's thighs, the tusks at least ten inches
long, extending out and above the ugly snout. The animal and
the man stared at each other for a heart-stopping span of
seconds, then the boar barked a high, angry squeal and
charged, its head down, sharp tusks gleaming in the fading
sunlight.
The boar was amazingly fast for its size, the spiny hairs of
its back bristling in response to the threat. Duncan held
his ground, his heart pounding in fear, but his claymore
held firmly in both hands. At the last second he danced to
the side, his blade swinging down in what was intended as a
killing blow. But the boar swept his head around, catching
Duncan's breeches as well as his calf with those deadly
tusks. The blade bounced off the tough hide and Duncan was
thrown to his back, his own yell of pain joining the boar's
high squeals and grunts of outrage.
Duncan scrambled back to his feet, but his injured leg gave
way and he stumbled, catching his balance with his hand.
The boar stopped and turned, eyeing him with a squinty,
speculative look. The strike had scored a deep gash in the
animal's side, but it was hardly fatal and would only add to
the collection of scars already decorating his hide. And
this was the true danger, when a wild, male boar lost all
fear and became the hunter instead of the hunted. That was
why you never hunted boar alone.
Duncan smiled to himself. The evil smelling black beast
looked like some demon straight from the pits of hell, its
feral eyes lit with some dark intelligence. His fear had
somehow evaporated in the heat of this battle, which
suddenly seemed entirely fitting, no matter the outcome.
The snot-and-dirt-smeared snout quivered, smelling blood.
A sharp, cloven hoof dug deep into the dirt and kicked it up
as the hog lowered its head, angling the tusks so the point
was at its most deadly angle.
Duncan pulled his legs underneath him, trying to balance
with one calf throbbing painfully. The boar charged again.
Duncan brought the point of the claymore down, spearing the
animal in the back with all his strength, but still the
blade sunk only a hand-span into the tough flesh. It was
enough to catch his sword, though, and the momentum of the
boar's charge yanked the weapon right out of his hands as
the animal swept by, swirling and lifting its head with an
ear-splitting squeal of pain. Again the tusks found a
vulnerable target, this time on the inside of Duncan's thigh
as he was lifted off his feet and flung over the animal's
back like a sack of grain.
He tumbled to the dirt with a painful grunt, the breath
knocked out of him in a rush of expelled air. But that was
minor compared to the agonizing flame that seered his
groin. He instinctively doubled up, grabbing his thigh,
almost afraid to look through the helpless tears of pain
that blurred his vision. Blood welled up between his
fingers, gushing over his hand. He pressed tight against
the wound in an attempt to stop the flow, only to look up to
see the black demon charging him again. He rolled to get
away, but felt a deep stab in his back, then sharp hooves
cut his flesh as he was gored and trampled by an enraged,
wounded beast at least twice his weight. The boar stopped
again a few feet away and turned, breathing heavily, blood
dripping from his tusks. Duncan barely had time to cover
his head with his arms as he was charged once more. The
world dissolved into a blur of agony that finally,
thankfully, faded into nothing.
~~~~~~~
He breathed, choking on dirt and dust he had pulled into his
mouth. Oh, Christ! He couldn't begin to catalogue or even
recognize all his hurts, so he just curled up into a tight
ball of misery. It was only after he must have either
passed out again or slept that he realized the pain was
almost gone. All except for a raging thirst, a distant
gnawing hunger and a general stiffness that made him feel
bruised and battered.
He forced his arms to move, pushing himself to sitting. He
clothes were in stiff, ochre-stained tatters. He didn't
want to look, but morbid curiosity turned his attention to
his inner thigh, and he pulled back the torn fabric where he
knew his flesh had been ripped almost to the bone.
There was nothing there. Not a mark on his skin.
He closed his eyes, breathing carefully. This couldn't
possibly be real.
The distant, now familiar noise of a squealing animal was a
welcome distraction, and he staggered to his feet, stumbling
through the underbrush, not really watching or caring where
he was going. It was almost dark, his vision and balance
seemed unreliable, so all he could do was follow the sound.
What finally caught his attention was the last of the day's
sunlight gleaming off the metal edge of a sword.
The blood spattered, wounded boar was squealing in a
high-pitched, angry voice, trotting in a circle in the
middle of a field, throwing its head back in a perpetual,
futile attempt to reach the claymore still stuck in its
back.
Duncan didn't hesitate. Running with a strength he would
never had suspected he had, he was nearly on top of the
beast before the animal was aware of him, his hand reaching
unerringly for the familiar hilt. The boar spun wildly,
throwing his head back and forth to reach him, but this time
Duncan arched away from those lethal tusks and yanked the
blade free. Acting on instinct alone, he swirled in a full
circle, bringing the heavy blade over his head, using his
momentum, all its weight and every bit of his strength as it
came down on the beast's neck.
The enormous weight of the boar's body threw him to the
ground, and both boar and man toppled heavily to the grass.
And still the beast struggled, its hooves flaying
dangerously even with its head hanging only by shredded
flesh. With one leg caught under the heaving body, Duncan
pulled the claymore up once more, slashing downward
repeatedly until the long blade was just too heavy to lift.
Then he pulled his dirk out and stabbed, and stabbed again.
And again.
And again.
~~~~~~~
It was the flies that brought him back to himself. That and
the bright dawn sunshine that warmed his face. He was lying
in the grass, staring straight up into the sky and for a
long time he had no inkling of why he might be lying in the
middle of a field, or even what field he was in. Oddly
enough, he didn't really want to know.
But flies were tickling his face, buzzing all around, and he
waved a hand to make them go away, only to have them
return. Then the smell assaulted him and he knew why they
had gathered.
He pushed himself to his elbows and reluctantly looked
around. Not only was he covered with blood, offal and gore,
but the boar...he rolled over and vomited a thin stream of
bile into the grass. His stomach tried to expel more, but
there was nothing in it, and he just choked and coughed as
his insides cramped up.
All he wanted now was to get away.
He finally had to glance at the butchery again in order to
retrieve his sword and his dirk, but his eyes slid away from
the unrecognizable flyblown carcass. It looked like some
wild animal had ripped it apart in a frenzy of bloodlust.
Or some demon.
He forced his feet to move, his mind retreating to a safe
blank place where his only thought was of the next step to
be taken, and the next, until the sun was well past its
zenith and he had reached the small, mean shelter he had so
diligently refined over the past weeks. He stumbled into
the creek and drank until he could drink no more. He
stripped off his bloody clothes, washing away the gore in
the icy water, scrubbing himself until his skin was raw.
Then he put on his plaid, cleaned his blades and checked his
snares, relieved to find a rabbit still struggling in one of
them. He ended its life quickly with a twist of its neck,
gutted and skinned it, noting distantly that his hands were
shaking badly. Probably from hunger, he decided. It took
awhile to make a fire, and he only managed to cook the
rabbit enough to eat it slightly less than raw. Despite his
hunger, the meat was utterly tasteless.
He double checked the rest of the snares before dusk, then
built up the fire against the evening chill, pulling his
familiar cloak close around him. Tomorrow, he would head
away from here, maybe east or north. He could stop by Jean
MacClure's croft on the way, maybe dig some peat for them to
use in their fire to repay the kindness she had shown. He
could pile it by her door before dawn, but she would know
who had left it - a friend. A lover.
A man.
Not a demon.
~~~~~
To Be Continued