Forging the Blade: Part II -- Kithe and Kin Chapter 5 MacGeorge For acknowledgements and disclaimers, see Part 0. ~~~~~~~ “He agreed?!” Brigitte squealed as Connor barely made it to the ship’s deck before she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Aye, that he did,” Connor managed to say, even though she was choking him. “Well, I’ll be. Your da must have been Irish, Connor MacLeod, for you surely have the gift.” Seamus beamed at him, his cheeks and nose reddened by the cold wind, and, no doubt, by the effects of Huntly’s illicit grog. “Come along, lad, and tell us all about it.” They went to Seamus’ cabin, where Connor showed them the papers proving the ship was free of Huntly’s lien. Even so, he was forced to relay his conversation with Huntly, word by word and gesture by gesture. He ended his tale with the final, ambiguous threat he probably should not have made. “So I suggest, Seamus, that you set out to sea as soon as you can. It will take no more than a couple of months for his Lordship to find out that the Letter of Marque was revoked over six months ago. In any event, you will not be able to do trade in either Aberdeen or Inverness for a good long while,” Connor advised. “Ah, that’s no hardship, for certain,” Seamus assured him, and offered him some grog, which Connor declined. “Scotland has become a wild, lawless place. More are leaving this land than are born to it, I fear. I can probably get a cargo of passengers looking to find a better life across the Channel. It may not pay as much, but I won’t have to worry about whether the goods are legitimate, or about the King’s bloody taxes on everything from wool to whiskey.” “Oh, Connor,” breathed Brigitte, leaning close to him, which made him scoot his chair as far away as the small space allowed. Despite his repeated assurances that he was absolutely, positively never going to marry her, she did not seem even slightly discouraged. “That reminds me, while you were gone, I was at a tavern near the docks…” “Dammit, Brigitte, you should not be wandering around there unescorted. It’s dangerous and you might get…well, it’s dangerous for a woman alone,” Connor groused. “Don’t bother, Connor,” Seamus sighed into his cup. “I’ve tried scolding her and punishing her. It does no good. She will do what she wishes.” Brigitte glared at both men. “That is right. I will do what I wish and no man will ever tell me different!” “That is not an attitude that is likely to get you a mate,” Connor sighed. “I don’t need to get myself a mate,” she replied smugly, scooting her chair next to his and slipping her hand through his arm. “I already have one.” Connor disengaged, and stood, finding a wall to lean against. “You were saying something about a tavern near the docks?” He would have done anything to change the subject at that point. “Oh, aye. I joined a bunch of lads who were talking about a man asking after someone named MacLeod. It sounded like the same man who had asked around the docks a few weeks ago. They said he was paying hard coinage for information, and someone told him he knew of a MacLeod who had been banished from his clan, who was now settled somewhere around Glencoe.” Connor’s skin washed with cold dread, and he pushed away from the wall. “Headed towards Glencoe? Do you think this was the same man you wrote me about?” Brigitte shrugged. “I don’t know. The man who asked about you said his name was Hyde, and that he was an old friend of yours, but he was certainly well armed. We told him nothing, of course, but it seems likely it might be him.” “Martin Hyde.” Connor whispered to himself. The mere sound of the name made the hairs on Connor’s arms rise. “I have to go,” Connor said, grabbing up his cloak. “No!” Brigitte cried. “You were going to sail with us, weren’t you? You said you eventually wanted the ship, I heard you and Da talking about a dowry, and I thought…oh, Connor, you can’t just leave me like this!” “Damn it, Brigitte, will you listen to me? Your Da agreed to give me this ship when he retired, and I agreed to provide a nice dowry for you, that’s all! There was no talk of marriage and never will be!” “But…” “Seamus, I have one favor to ask,” Connor turned to the old captain, hoping he was sober enough to remember his request. “Anything, Connor, you know that.” “Wait a week before you sail. If I’m not back by then, go on without me.” “I’ll wait as long as you like, Connor. Why don’t I…” “No! You need to get away from Aberdeen, away from Huntly’s influence as soon as possible. I don’t trust the man and neither should you.” “A week, it is then, old friend,” Seamus reached for Connor and crushed him in a hug, while Brigitte stood, brilliant red spots staining her cheeks and tears running down her face. ~~~~~~ The stallion was heaving for breath with every stride. White lather streaked his withers, and foam was flying from his mouth, but Connor pressed on. He was trying not to think, trying not to feel, but the image of Ramirez’ headless body wouldn’t stop haunting his tired brain, alternating with the last image he had of Duncan, those dark eyes glittering with anger and resentment. Connor should have known not to leave him, not that way, not feeling as though Connor didn’t trust him, didn’t feel he was good enough, smart enough. Truth be told, whatever his experience as a swordsman, Duncan MacLeod was a better man, a more caring man, a man who opened his heart to others in a way Connor had never been able to do. And Connor had walked away, abandoning his student. More than his student. His kinsman, his clansman, and the best friend he had ever had. He cursed himself again, spurring his faltering horse onward. The stallion stumbled and almost went down, and Connor pulled him up at last, both man and beast heaving and gasping with exhaustion. Still, Connor urged the horse forward at a trot, and the loyal animal obliged, but his head was drooping and Connor knew he had been pushed to the end of his strength over the last two days and a hundred miles. Taking pity, but still determined to press on, Connor dismounted and walked so they could both cool down and catch their breaths. It was fortunate, or perhaps thanks to Fortune Herself that he did so, or he might not have smelled the faint tinge of woodsmoke, might not have looked in that direction, might not have been drawn off the trail to find out if a fellow traveller had recently seen a tall, dark-haired man in MacLeod tartan. Twenty feet off the trail, Immortal Presence stopped him cold. He dropped the horse’s reins and pulled his sword from its scabbard, moving forward cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest. If it was Martin Hyde, then he needed to clear his mind from all this turmoil and guilt and fear, for Hyde was an expert swordsman of vast experience. Connor had won against better swordsmen, but it was partially luck, and partially the cold determination to win that drove him to never, ever concede defeat. Connor wrapped himself in that crystalline void, and stepped over a rise, the katana raised to strike. A man stood at the far end of the clearing, legs wide, claymore held in both hands. He had thrown off his cloak, and his long hair was wild around him, drifting in the evening mist that swirled in the small valley. He looked like he had been formed from the very soil and trees of this wild land, and as Connor realized who it was, an overwhelming sense of relief struck him like a blow and he stumbled, his knees suddenly going weak. “Duncan!” he gasped, his momentum carrying him forward. Even as he moved, all the fear and guilt that had been roiling in his guts for the past two days broke free and became white-hot anger. His strides lengthened as he approached, and he grabbed Duncan by the shirtfront and pushed him hard up against the nearest tree. “What the hell do you think you are doing here!? There’s an Immortal out searching for you. You should be halfway to France by now!” Duncan shoved him away but Connor only backed off a step. “I couldn’t let him go on killing people. I had to stop him,” Duncan insisted, his mouth set in stubborn resentment. “You? You were going to stop him? Are you mad?” Connor realized he was shouting, and wondered distantly where all his cool detachment had fled. “No,” Duncan answered coldly, crossing his arms and stepping towards the campfire and away from his teacher. “I’m not a fool, Connor, despite what you may think. I rode towards Aberdeen, looking for you, because I knew I was no match for him, but he kept killing innocent people and leaving a piece of MacLeod tartan in their hands! What was I supposed to do? If I had tried to ride all the way to Aberdeen, I would only have exposed more people to Hyde’s blade.” “He was baiting you, Duncan. Trying to weaken you so you would be an easy target.” “No, Connor.” Duncan whirled back towards him. “He was killing deliberately to drive me towards you, like a child runs to its parent when they are threatened or uncertain, and when I realized that, I stopped running. I had no choice. If I didn’t face him, more people would die.” A cold fist grabbed Connor’s heart and held it still. “You fought Martin Hyde?” A snort of laughter escaped, and Duncan moved away to pull a few pieces of wood from a pile and toss them on the fire, sending up sparks and smoke into the cold air. “I don’t think it would rightly be called a fight. He threw me around like a child, then said he had no desire to fight a nobody, that I was not worth the time, and he rode off, leaving me lying in the mud.” Perhaps it was just relief, but Connor’s mouth insisted on curling into a smile at that image. He quickly turned away to retrieve his horse and valiantly refrained from saying anything further. Duncan’s safe proximity, and the familiar chore of unsaddling his poor, exhausted stallion and wiping the beast down brought him some much needed peace of mind and body. He joined his kinsman by the fire, where Duncan was roasting a couple of small rabbits. The sun was setting quickly, and the chilly mist settled around them like a shroud. Connor shivered as the cold seeped through his sweat-soaked clothes and into his skin, and a deep, aching tiredness settled in his bones. Duncan wordlessly handed over a skewer of roasted meat, and for a while the two men concentrated on their food. “We need to leave Scotland, you know,” Connor finally broke the silence as he sucked on the small bones, then wiped his fingers on his kilt. Duncan nodded, his eyes a flickering reflection of the fire’s embers. “Best to do it now before the winter storms make the Channel crossing dangerous.” “To France, then?” “Or Italy. I have a home in Ravenna.” When Duncan didn’t comment further, Connor prodded a little. “It was nothing to be ashamed of, Duncan. You are a good, strong swordsman. But Hyde is a killer with centuries of experience who has taken many, many Quickenings. I have lived for a century and had two of the finest Immortal teachers in the world, but I am not at all sure I could take him.” Duncan threw the bones from his meal into the fire, sending flames and sparks up into the dark. “And I am thirty years old, Connor. A man, not a child. If I am to be an Immortal, and not a burden to you, and if I am to live for centuries and fight to survive, then I must not take centuries to learn the ways of Immortal battles. I must learn now. From you, from others if I must, from the very best there are, no matter how long it takes until I am the best there is. And I will learn, Connor. I will not be humiliated like that again.” Connor chuckled, but held his hand up at Duncan’s dark look. “I’m not laughing at you, Duncan. And if anyone can take on that task and succeed it is you, but humiliation awaits us all, no matter our skill with a sword or all our wit or strategy. It is only a matter of time and circumstance.” Duncan’s mouth twitched into a grim smile. “Aye, well, at the rate I’m going, it will be an all too familiar one.” They headed out in the morning, moving directly east, back towards Aberdeen. They just had time to catch O’Brien before he sailed, hopefully leaving Martin Hyde far behind. ~~~~~~~ Cont. in Pt. 4