Forging the Blade/The Wilderness Years, Chap. 5, pt. 1/2
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Thu, 24 May 2001 23:01:04 -0400
Forging the Blade
Part I - The Wilderness Years
by MacGeorge
See Part 0 for Acknowledgements and disclaimers.
~~~~~~~
Chapter Five
He rode until dawn, stopping only when the mare was clearly
laboring and needed rest. He would have pushed on, but he
couldn't be cruel to the animal, especially not after his
promise to Old Mog. He let the horse pick her way down to
the river that led off from Glen Kingie, unsaddled her and
watched as she drank her fill from the cold water, still
running swift and turbulent from the spring runoff. He put
a loose hobble on her to let her graze and rest while he ate
a cold meal and rested his head on the saddle for a few
hours. But his sleep was fitful at best. The thought of
seeing his father again, of worry for his mother and the
other villagers, helpless against an onslaught of ruthless
raiders, haunted his dreams and by mid-morning he was
anxious to be on the move again.
By evening he reached Strathan at the western end of Loch
Arkaig. It was a village he had visited many times, both
alone and with his father. He would be recognized, for
certain. He paused at the top of the long hill sloping down
to the small collection of houses, gardens and animal pens
and a small kirk. His heart was pounding, his hands sweaty
with fear. He knew these people, had traded with them,
laughed and drank with them, even danced at Beltaine with
them once, ending the evening with sweet Doireann NicRath,
watching the moon rise from the other side of this very
hill, kissing and touching until they both had to stop
before it went too far. Doireann had since married, he had
heard, to a widower with two motherless bairns, and had a
child of her own. He wondered if she would be among those
who would turn her back on him.
He dismounted, leaving the mare in a small copse, well out
of sight. He walked in, drawing only glances at first, but
soon doors were opened and people peered out of their
houses, and by the time he reached the center of the
village, a group of men had formed with Edmond Sinclair, the
village chief, standing in front. He had his sword
unsheathed, held across his body like a shield.
"Stop right there, Duncan MacLeod," he said. "You willna'
bedevil anyone here."
Duncan had deliberately left his sword with Maise, and
opened his arms slightly, spreading his palms to show he had
no weapon except the dirk in his belt. "I want nothing from
you, Edmond," he said. He looked around at the familiar
faces. "Nor from anyone here," he announced. "I only want
to know about the raiders that I've heard are coming up the
coast."
"I dinna care what you want to know," Sinclair snapped, and
stepped forward, the sword swinging menacingly to point in
front of him, held now in both hands. "I say leave here,
Dāmhnull Dubh."
"Edmond, you know me. Have known me since I was a lad,"
Duncan pleaded. "Have I ever done ought to harm you or any
of these folk? I only want to make sure my kin are safe."
"Your kin? There are none in Glenfinnan who are your kin,
nor anywhere else on this earth. I only know what's been
said - that you were a changeling brought by a witch who
beguiled Iain MacLeod into raising you has his own. That
you were speared through with a wound the size of a fist and
that you died, Duncan MacLeod! You died and woke again,
healed as though nothing had 'er touched your skin. I
always knew there was something different about you." His
voice grated, and the crowd behind him huddled closer
together. "Do not think no one noticed how easily you
bewitched us all with your Kelpie's eyes. Now begone!" He
lunged towards Duncan, who stepped back beyond the reach of
the threatening claymore.
"I am not your enemy, Edmond Sinclair! Do ye want Kanwulf
and his men burning the village? I would think every arm
raised against him would be welcome."
"Every arm but yours! For all we know you're in league with
that devil."
Duncan caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and
turned to see others crowding around at his sides and back
and he began to question the wisdom of having left his sword
behind. But if he raised a hand, even in defense of
himself, they would only use it as evidence that he truly
was a demon or a criminal, or both. "I'm in league with no
one. And I've done nothing to harm you or anyone else.
You," he pointed to an older face he recognized. "Hugh
Carthy, I helped you with the lambing for two seasons
running when your back hurt so you could hardly rise from
your bed. Is that what a demon would do?" He edged further
back, but that only put him closer to those crowding his
back.
Hugh looked uncomfortably around to his neighbors for
support, but didn't answer. Edmond answered for him,
though. "Oh aye, you come in here and try to earn our
trust, then seduce our women and steal their souls. But
we're onto you, Black Donald." Edmond nodded to the group
and Duncan felt a sharp blow on his shoulder that almost
sent him to his knees.
"No! Wait! I'll leave then, I just..."
But his words were lost in the ugly shouts, grunts and
insults that filled the air, along with his own screams when
he felt a blow that shattered his nose, and sent him
staggering right into the arms of someone at his back.
After that, it was all a red, agonizing blur of faces and
blood and pain. He knew he was hit, again and again, kicked
until he could feel his ribs give way with an ugly
splintering, crunching noise, then dragged over rocky ground
and dumped in freezing water. He flailed weakly as the
swift-moving current carried him deeper and deeper, but
finally had no strength left, almost grateful to let the
cold and dark take him.
He opened his eyes, gasping in a painful gulp of air and
blinking away the haze until he could focus on the night sky
stretched far above. He was cold, almost too cold to move.
Finally he turned his head, gradually putting together
enough information to discern where he was. He had washed
up against the smooth stones at the edge of the river, only
a few feet from shore. A shallow breath, and he coughed,
then gagged and made himself turn over, his feet searching
for purchase on the slippery rocks. He barely made it to
shore before he was coughing and vomiting at the same time,
spitting out river water and blood in equal quantities.
At last the painful spasms eased, but he stayed on his hands
and knees, gasping, his eyes closed, trying not to remember,
but unable to keep the images of the hate-filled faces of
people he had once called friends out of his mind. He bit
his lip until he felt the skin break, forcing his emotions
under control, then deliberately turned his mind away from
the memories.
Time. He had lost too much time. He pushed himself to his
feet, staggering for a moment, trying to orient himself. He
was downstream of the village, obviously. He forced his
legs to move, and in a few moments he broke into a trot,
then a run, the movement warming chilled, stiff limbs. It
took him until after moonset to get back to Maise, mount
her, urging her to a trot, then a gallop, southwest, towards
Glenfinnan.
~~~~~~~
He rode through the night, his wet clothes clinging to him,
chilling him even under the fur-collared cloak he pulled
over his shoulders to try to keep some warmth next to his
body. He pressed Maise until he could hear her grunt of
expelled air with each long stride, could see the lather on
her withers shining whitely in the dim light, but as he got
closer to Glenfinnan, even concern for the mare didn't slow
him down as he passed two crofts with their roofs burned in,
the pens open, the ground trampled, the inhabitants nowhere
to be seen.
He knew he was near his village even in the pitch black of
pre-dawn He could smell burning flesh and smoking thatch,
and as he drew near he could hear the shouts, the screams,
the wails of grief.
"Donald, who did this?" He was off the horse and demanding
an answer from Donald MacAndie before he even realized his
knees were shaking from fear and exhaustion.
MacAndie, who he had known since birth, looked at least ten
years older than the last time Duncan had seen him. His
nearly bald head was damp with dirt and sweat, even in the
chilly air. But the man just backed away as Duncan
approached, stuttering with terror. "No! It cant be you."
"Dammit man, who did this?" Duncan grabbed his arms,
keeping him from running away.
"You're dead. Dead! I saw it with my own eyes!"
"Damn you, who did this?" Duncan insisted.
"Kanwulf, the Destroyer!" The man's eyes were wild with
terror and he pulled to get away.
"Kanwulf's a legend. He's not real!"
"Neither are you!" MacAndie yanked away, and turned and
ran.
Duncan's gaze circled the village, now in ruins, women
weeping over prone bodies, men still beating uselessly at
flames that had already consumed their homes. He slowly
turned towards the most familiar entrance, his heart
pounding in sick dread, fearing the worst. He ducked his
head to enter, not wanting to look, but seeing anyway.
Iain MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, fully dressed in his best
plaid, was carefully laid out on his pallet, eyes closed,
that fierce face pale and still, the great claymore he had
always wielded lying beside him.
"Father?"
For an endless moment there was no sound, no air, no color,
no movement, no life. Time had ceased and he waited for the
darkness to close in. Against all logic, he took another
breath. And another. Everything rushed back into painful
focus, movement caught his eye, and the still figure at the
bedside turned. Mairi MacLeod's face was etched in grief,
her hair awry. For a moment, her look was blind,
uncomprehending, too deep in her own misery to see anything
but her husband's body.
"Mother?" Duncan approached cautiously and stumbled down on
one knee, still unable to encompass that his father was
gone. No, not merely gone. Dead. Killed defending his
clan. Murdered with no son to guard his back.
He instinctively took the hand that raised up as his
mother's eyes widened. "Duncan!" Mairi gasped, then she
touched him as though fearful he might disappear. "Is it
really you?"
"I'm here." Duncan could barely speak, his throat was so
tight. Now his mother was alone, undefended, bereft. His
eyes traced her worn, tired, ravaged face.
"My beautiful son's come back," she whispered, and stroked
his hair in wonder. "They tried to tell me you were evil.
I knew it wasn't true."
His own problems suddenly seemed so petty, so small. "It
doesna' matter now," he whispered, wanting to comfort her
even though some small, anguished voice whispered that
nothing mattered now. Memories ran helplessly through his
mind, of his father grabbing him up in a bruising hug of
relief when he thought his son had been lost to wolves in
Donan Woods, of hours of patient teaching to hunt, to fight,
to lead -- so many moments that could never come again. He
wanted to howl his grief to the skies, but found himself
struck dumb.
Mairi pulled herself up, shaking away her tears and her face
hardened as she looked over at her husband of three
decades. "His sword." She nodded towards the familiar
claymore. "Claim it," she demanded.
Duncan looked longingly at the blade that had represented
all that he valued in his life. His father's love for his
people. His pride. His strength. Honor. Duty. Loyalty.
"I canno.'" His voice broke, and he almost gave way to the
shameful sobs that choked his throat. "He banished me. I
have no right. I have no clan. I'm not even your son."
"No! It matters not who bore you," his mother insisted.
"You are my son. And it is yours. Take it."
Duncan couldn't bring himself to touch the blade, fearful he
would defile it somehow, that something awful would happen
just by his daring to touch what he knew his father prized
above all.
"Take it, I say!" his mother demanded in a voice that
brooked no dissent. She lifted the heavy sword from her
husband's side with her own hands and thrust it towards him,
her face hard, her eyes bright with determination. "Let no
man tell you different. Ye are Duncan MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod."
It was painful to hear the pride and love with which she
spoke his name, a name he had almost decided he had no right
to lay claim to. But perhaps it was time he tried to live
up to it once more.
He took up the blade at last, bracing himself for some
demonic consequence, but all that happened was that he felt
its heavy weight, the cold, smooth hilt fitting easily in
his hands. The blade had been passed down from Iain's great
uncle, to his father, then to Iain, and had steadfastly
served in the defense of the inhabitants of Glenfinnan for a
century or more.
And so it would serve again, Duncan vowed in silence. This
time, in vengeance.
He stepped out of his mother's home to find familiar faces
gathered, talking together in low voices, distracted by his
presence even in the face of disaster. Well, if nothing
else, he had learned that attempts at reason were worse than
a waste of time. He strode to his horse, pulling his
father's baldrick and scabbard over his head and shoulders
so he could sling the long blade across his back. He
mounted and turned, eyeing people he had always considered
friends and family.
"Whoever did this, demon or no, I swear to you he will pay
with his life!" he growled.
Neil MacGreggor stepped forward, Donald MacAndie hovering at
his elbow. "Twas Kanwulf, no doubt. His men screamed his
name as they attacked. There were dozens of them. They
took out our lookouts, first, then fell on us like ravening
wolves." He pointed to the sword now at Duncan's back.
"But that's the sword of the chief, and canno' be yours,
Duncan MacLeod! It belongs in Glenfinnan, not in the hands
of some devil's spawn."
"Whatever I am, Neil MacGreggor, or whatever Kanwulf is, I
will see to it that he who killed my father dies by my
father's sword," Duncan snapped. MacGreggor had ever been a
bully and a braggart, and no doubt he would assume he would
take over as chief of the village. He was tired of these
people's accusations, of their fears. Mostly, he was tired
of his own fears, and it was time he faced them. With a cry
to Maise, he urged her forward, and the small crowd parted
before him, and he could feel their hostile eyes on his back
as he rode away.
~~~~~~~
The hard-won tracking skills he had lived off of for two
years were hardly necessary as the signs of a large mounted
party clearly led into Donan Woods. He stopped for a brief
meal and to rest the mare, squatting on the ground, chewing
patiently at the hard, dried meat while carefully inspecting
the various hoof and boot prints he found in the soft forest
floor. It shouldn't have surprised him that Neil had
grossly exaggerated the size of the raiding party. Duncan
estimated maybe ten men.
Long odds, ten to one. But the Campbells hadn't managed to
kill him. The hunger and cold of two hard winters hadn't
killed him. The villagers in Strathan hadn't killed him.
If there was some purpose, some real meaning to the madness
that had become his life, perhaps this was it.
He slid the claymore out of its scabbard, rubbing the skirt
of his plaid along its edge. He could feel the blood
pounding in his veins. He hadn't raised a weapon against
another in two years and now he could hardly wait for the
battle to begin. He put the sword back in its sheath,
listening to the musical slide of the metal as it slipped
home.
The afternoon turned warm, and Duncan shed the weight of his
cloak, enjoying the freedom of just his vest and his plaid.
He felt almost at peace, now, and full of purpose, anxious
to find these bastards and strike them down, personally, one
by one, ending with the one they called Kanwulf. They
hadn't even bothered to cover their tracks and their
arrogance grated on him, only sharpening his edge of anger
as he went deeper into the forest.
And then he found the body. It was Gavin. Gavin MacAndie,
Donald's young cousin, barely fifteen when Duncan saw him
last, a playful but shy lad, almost girlishly pretty,
anxious to please when Duncan tried to train the village
boys. Not very talented with a blade, but what he lacked in
talent he made up for in hard work. They must have taken
him in the raid, toyed with him, beaten him, done
unspeakable things to him before they finally tied him
spread-eagled to a tree and eviscerated him. Duncan's
stomach knotted at the sight, but he was too angry to
acknowledge the nausea that threatened to empty his
stomach. One more reason for vengeance.
He heard them before he saw them. Their drunken laughter
and the smell of their campfire carried through the
mist-shrouded woods, drew him in until he crept close,
looking into a scene of utter, undisciplined debauchery.
They were staggering around the campfire in drunken revelry,
gloating or gambling over the spoils of the lives they had
destroyed, his friends' belongings, his kinsmen's clothes
and weapons, tools and valuables. The worst of it was that
he even recognized a few faces. Layabouts or no-accounts
from other villages, clanless men with no honor who were a
disgrace to their families and their country.
Duncan blinked away a red haze of hatred, finding himself at
the edge of the small clearing in plain sight. He paused,
waiting for them to see him. He wanted to watch their faces
as they died.
They turned, one by one, the camp growing gradually silent
as they stood, reaching for their weapons. One of the more
familiar faces grew slack and his weapon sank. "It's him,"
he shouted to the others. "The ghost! The ghost of Duncan
MacLeod!"
That almost made him smile. The man had described him well.
"Aye, back from the dead to seek my vengeance," he
announced. He pulled the claymore free of its scabbard and
stepped to the closest man, swinging the weapon like a
scythe, almost cleaving him in two. The man went down with
a scream, and Duncan swirled around, looking for more
victims, but the clearing was emptying fast, the men
scrambling away in terror.
"No! Fight me, damn you!" He rushed to the middle of the
clearing, his sword raised, eager to engage any and every
man there. "Come on, fight me!" he demanded, but the men
scampered away and in seconds the clearing was empty except
for the abandoned food and loot and smoking fires, leaving
him fuming with frustration.
Then a painful blast of sound that wasn't really sound
slammed into his head and his heart was suddenly pounding so
hard he thought he would pass out. The overwhelming sense
of impending doom made him whirl around in a panic, looking
for the threat that he felt certain must be near. His
instincts drew him cautiously along a trail away from the
campground to find a man standing patiently, waiting for
him. A long cloak enclosed his body and icy blue eyes of
the northern tribes looked at him with calm disdain.
"You're Kanwulf," Duncan breathed, believing for the first
time that the legendary warrior truly was a demon, for the
terrible fear that had washed over him just at the nearness
of the man had felt like nothing of the natural world.
"I killed the one who held that," the man said, casually
gesturing to the claymore Duncan held. "He fought well, for
an old man."
"Ill do better. I'm his son!" Duncan's claim was part
bravado, part oath to himself.
"His son?" Kanwulf smiled and shrugged off his cloak,
revealing a vest of chain mail over a dark, loose shirt and
breeches. "You don't even know what you are, do you? Or
what I am."
"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and you're dead!
That's all I need to know." The man's icy arrogance
rekindled his rage and Duncan swung hard, meeting Kanwulf's
strange, single-headed axe with a force that vibrated his
bones. Duncan spun, slicing across Kanwulf's back, but his
blow bounced harmlessly off the broad shield slung there.
Then Duncan found himself entirely on the defensive, backing
away at a near run as he fended off a weapon that whirred at
him with unexpected speed and force. Duncan considered
himself an experienced and well-trained swordsman, but he
had never conceived of such skill and power as he dodged and
weaved down a long slope, using the claymore more as shield
than weapon. Then their blades clanged together and caught
under the head of the axe. Duncan strained to push away,
but Kanwulf swung a mighty fist and Duncan was falling,
tumbling over and over until he landed in a painful heap at
the bottom of a shallow ravine.
Kanwulf was on him again in only a heartbeat and Duncan
forced himself to his feet, fending off blow after blow of
that deadly axe. There was a moment of horrified surprise
when Duncan realized he was totally outmatched, that this
man was far stronger, more experience, more powerful than
he, and he stumbled back and back again, falling painfully
against a broken stump, barely keeping Kanwulf's axe from
slicing him into bloody pieces, and he knew his doubts and
fears were showing on his face by the gleam of satisfaction
in Kanwulf's icy eyes.
Barring a miracle, any second now, it would be over, and
somehow this time, death would be permanent. However much
he hated his current life, Duncan realized with no small
surprise, something in him truly didn't want to die, not
yet. Not like this. Not at the hands of the man who had
killed Iain MacLeod. The two blades met, and Kanwulf pushed
forward until the axe blade hooked over Duncan's shoulder,
its curved metal digging painfully into his shoulder.
Kanwulf pulled, throwing Duncan off balance and he tumbled
to the ground.
Instinct and training made him instantly roll away, barely
avoiding the axe which cut deep into the forest floor where
his head had been only a second before. He found his feet,
then fell back and back again, overpowered by sheer speed
and strength until he found himself trapped against a stump
with nowhere to go. He was out of time and out of space for
retreat when Kanwulf charged in for the final blow, a
triumphant grin on his face.
The only move left was to attack. Duncan ducked, swinging
the claymore low in desperation. He and Kanwulf were both
surprised when the blade struck, and he could feel and hear
it slice into flesh. Kanwulf gasped, his eyes wide with
surprise and he slowly folded over, his belly opened side to
side, blood gushing out over the deeply embedded metal. The
Viking slammed to his knees, still hanging onto the axe now
embedded deep in the wood of the tree stump, where Duncan
had almost been trapped.
Kanwulf slowly turned his head to look at Duncan. Surprise
had transformed into an oddly peaceful, almost transcendent
expression. "Strike!" he gasped. "Send me to Valhalla!"
"I'll send ye to hell!" Duncan yanked the claymore free of
Kanwulf's flesh and as the man tumbled to the ground, Duncan
spiked the blade down through the heavy chain mail, the
flesh and bones of the broad chest, and deep into the earth
beneath. With only a sigh, Kanwulf breathed his last
breath. Not a demon after all, then. Just a man.