Story Update: Forging the Blade, Kithe and Kin, Chapter 6, 2/3
kageorge@EROLS.COM
Thu, 11 Jul 2002 10:02:22 -0700
Forging the Blade, Part II - Kithe and Kin
by MacGeorge
Rating, PG-13
~~~~~
See disclaimers and acknowledgments in previously posted
Part 0.
Chapter 6
~~~~~~
He was a plain man, lean and lanky with shoulder length
brown hair and an unmemorable face punctuated by light blue
eyes. He was dressed in a well used, but serviceable coat,
waistcoat and breeches. The only thing that might have made
him stand out in a crowd was the fine Spanish rapier worn at
his side.
Connor strode up to the table, his hand resting lightly on
the hilt of his blade, and nodded to the stranger, who stood
and smiled carefully.
"Baron Wilhelm Munter," he said with a quick nod.
"Connor MacLeod," he responded coolly.
The Baron smiled, but the expression didn't reach his eyes.
"Ah, yes, another MacLeod. How...unusual. I was just
telling Duncan how very pleasant it is to meet up with my
own kind."
Connor smiled tightly. "What brings you to Ravenna?" he
asked. "Our own kind tend to be interested in how good the
hunting is, but you should know that around here sport
hunting can be quite dangerous."
"I assure you, sir, I was just traveling on business when I
ran into your delightful young cousin here.
"My student is a friendly soul," Connor replied. "And
unlike many of us, he trusts easily, and sometimes
unwisely."
The Baron laughed, showing white, even teeth. "I assure
you, I have no designs on your student or yourself. I only
wish to pass the time, share a few stories, have a few
drinks. Come! Join us!" He gestured to the nearest bench
and Connor sat carefully, eyeing this unknown Immortal
uneasily.
"Oh, Connor, stop looking like you were about to be
attacked," Duncan grinned at him. "The Baron has ordered
the tavern's best wine and food. Relax! No one is going to
behead anyone here."
"That's right," the Baron clapped Duncan on the shoulder,
signaling to the barmaid to bring another cup. "I was just
telling young Duncan about an adventure I had in Morocco
about 50 years ago, when a local emir entertained me by
sending four of his concubines to my room."
Connor sat back, sipping judiciously at his wine, watching
the Baron weave fanciful stories of exotic locales.
Duncan's eyes gleamed with interest and delight, and he
asked dozens of questions, and got steadily more giddy as
the evening progressed and the wine flowed.
At last the three of them stumbled out into the night, the
chilly air a blessed relief to Connor, who had not relaxed
his guard for an instant.
The Baron and Duncan were staggering, arm in arm, as Munter
tried to teach Duncan a German drinking song while Connor
trailed behind until they reached their inn, where Duncan
gave a cheery goodnight and lurched inside.
Munter turned to Connor, suddenly no longer weaving, his
blue eyes cold and hard. Connor stiffened, his hand
automatically moving to his blade.
"I've heard of you, MacLeod," he said softly. "You've
gotten yourself quite a reputation for your age."
Connor cocked his head, smiling a little. "I had a good
teacher. So has Duncan," Connor added. "And he is a gifted
swordsman. Do not think he would be an easy target, even if
I were not around to protect him."
The German nodded briefly, then clicked his heels and their
eyes met in a hard look. "Until we meet again then, Connor
MacLeod," he said softly, smiled, swirled and disappeared
down an alley.
The next morning, Duncan was slow to rise, but Connor was
patient, sitting and reading through the latest
correspondence from his bankers until his student managed to
yank on his breeches and boots, raking his fingers through
long, tangled hair to tie it back away from his face.
"We will be leaving for Ravenna this afternoon, but I think
we could both use a bit of exercise. There is a salon not
too far from here where we can do some sparring."
Duncan groaned. "Nay, Connor. My head feels like it may
fall off my shoulders without even bothering with a blade,
and I told Wilhelm we would..."
"I wasn't asking, Duncan," Connor snapped. "You cannot
afford to get sloppy or careless, especially when there are
other Immortals about."
Duncan blinked at him slowly. "You mean Wilhelm? He's my
friend! We spent the whole day together, and he was going
to take me riding today on a new stallion he had purchased."
"We won't be seeing the Baron again," Connor said. "At
least I certainly hope we won't," he added more softly.
"Dammit, Connor!" Duncan pushed himself to his feet, his
eyes hard with anger. "He was nothing but kind and friendly
to me. You yourself said that not every Immortal is out to
take heads. I'm not. You're not, and it was really nice to
be able to talk to someone else about their experiences
without having to lie or hide what I am. Maybe you're just
jealous!"
Connor slowly stood, meeting Duncan's hard gaze with one of
his own. "You're a fool," he said softly. "That man
befriended you for only one reason, to catch you off guard,
get you drunk and take your head."
"But... that would be dishonorable! He's not like that,"
Duncan insisted. "There are rules...."
"I said there are rules we must abide by," Connor insisted
coldly. "But I did not say all Immortals fight honorably.
Far from it. We are a cold, heartless, ruthless race,
Duncan MacLeod. The sooner you accept that, the longer you
are likely to survive."
"Is that what you are then, Connor?" Duncan asked. "Cold?
Heartless? Ruthless?"
Connor yanked his sword from its scabbard and Duncan
stumbled back to the wall as Connor pressed the katana to
his student's throat. "Yes," Connor hissed. "When I have
to be. Just as you must be, in order to survive. And once
you've taken your first head, you will know why," he
whispered. "The rush of power, the energy, having all your
senses overwhelmed and magnified until you think you'll die
from it. It is ecstasy, Duncan. And agony. After that,
the student becomes a hunter, and the teacher is a teacher
no more."
Duncan's eyes met his, and Connor was surprised that there
was no fear there, no anger, just stubborn determination and
even a little sadness. "You're my friend," Duncan
whispered, putting his hand over Connor's on the hilt of the
katana. "My clansman. Do you really think my taking a
Quickening would change that? That I would become some
demon, some monster you could no longer trust?"
Connor pulled the blade back and turned away, feeling oddly
angry and ashamed, but not exactly sure why. "No, Duncan.
I only know what Ramirez told me, and he had been teaching
for almost 2,000 years - that an Immortal's first Quickening
will effect him the rest of his life."
"So if I took my first Quickening and you weren't there to
make sure I understood what was going on, I would no longer
be worthy of being your student?" Duncan demanded in a
harsh, low tone.
"I didn't say that." Connor realized how unforgiving his
words sounded, but he wasn't sure how to express his
concerns and Duncan was pushing him, demanding an answer he
wasn't sure he knew how to give to someone who had never
felt the power, the ecstasy, the confusion and pain brought
by any Quickening, but especially the first. "What I'm
trying to say is that you need to be careful, to choose your
battles for the right reason. That is part of what I need
to teach you."
"And what if the battle chooses me?" Duncan asked. "What if
I'm not given a choice?"
"There is always a choice," Connor snapped, wanting the
conversation to be over with. "You can walk away. Run
away, if you have to."
"I'd no' run away from a fight," Duncan insisted. "I'm no'
a coward!"
"It is not being a coward to know when you are outclassed.
There is no honor in dying for no purpose." Connor
shivered, the morning's cold penetrating his skin. "Enough
of this," he sighed. "I'm hungry, it's cold and we've got a
lot to do before starting out to Ravenna. All I am saying
is you still have much to learn, not just about the sword,
but about when to take a stand and fight and when to walk
away. Right now, you are not ready to take on another
Immortal. No," Connor raised his hand as his student
started to voice another protest. "You will have to rely on
my judgment in this, Duncan." He turned and pulled his
cloak off the chair, headed to the door and downstairs for
breakfast, determined to put an end to the conversation.
~~~~~~~
The trip to Ravenna was made in strained silence in a badly
sprung coach that, had they been mortal, might easily have
rattled loose a tooth or two. As they finally approached
the city and the rutted dirt path changed to cobblestones,
Connor was delighted to return to a place he now considered
'home.' Once they finally arrived at the spacious piazza
in front of the building he had owned for the past two
decades, he threw open the doors of his apartments, pulled
off the linen covers, showed Duncan to a spare bedroom and
spent the next few days restocking food stores, making
repairs and contacting the various tradesmen and servants he
had let go during his long hiatus in Scotland. Some of them
had found other positions, but his former manservant,
Giuseppi, had been eager to leave the aging baronet who had
hired him as a second valet, and return to his status as
Signore MacLeod's head of household.
Duncan, however, had been unusually moody and terse ever
since their argument over Baron Munter. The studied
silence, the grim concentration during their spars, the long
disappearances on days when they didn't have specific
training scheduled, was all wearing on Connor's own
disposition, so after a few weeks of putting up with his
student's black mood, he used the excuse of Giuseppi's
arrival to have him order up some new clothes for them both,
hoping the appeal to Duncan's vanity might create a crack in
the wall of hostile silence his student had erected.
Connor's manservant was a man full of love of life and
laughter, and his ebullient presence had always lightened
Connor's own tendency towards dark broods. If Giuseppi
could make Connor laugh even in his blackest moods, surely
he could provide a lighthearted distraction for Duncan,
whose disposition was far more easy going. Fortunately,
Connor's hopes were fulfilled, if not exactly in the way he
had expected. It had only taken one stunned look at Duncan,
and Giuseppi had clearly been utterly smitten. It was
Duncan's obvious embarrassed discomfort with the adoring
attention Giuseppi lavished on him that helped at last to
distract Duncan from whatever dark humor had so affected
him.
Connor allowed Giuseppi to measure first himself, then
Duncan for the new suits of clothes, watching in secret
amusement as the valet's small hands fluttered over Duncan's
broad shoulders. Duncan was learning Italian quickly, but
Giuseppi's rapid-fire local dialect was hard for him to
follow. Even though he missed most of the lewd and
suggestive innuendoes the manservant was tossing around
while measuring Duncan's back, thighs and arms with gently
pressing fingers, Duncan understood enough to flush bright
red when Connor finally chuckled at Giuseppi's running
commentary on Duncan's manly beauty.
"What's he saying!?" Duncan insisted, finally slapping away
a hand that lingered a little too long on the inside of his
thigh.
Connor struggled to smooth the smirk from his face. "Only
that he thinks you would look very nice in blue brocade with
bright gold trim."
"I think not!" Duncan's dark brows huddled together in a
frown. "If I must wear all these pantaloons and fancy
tunics, at least they can be in black or brown!" But
Giuseppi protested loudly, waving his arms and gesturing
with the long feather quill he had been using to write
measurements. "What the devil is the man saying now?"
Connor forced his face into a smooth, benign smile. "He's
just suggesting a modest compromise. Perhaps gray and
silver for the second suit of clothes?" he supplied
innocently, thinking that it was about time Duncan's looks
garnered him something other than the adoration of every
female that crossed his path. "I think you should let
Giuseppi choose the cut for you. He knows all the most
current fashions and the best tailors in town."
"Well," Duncan said dubiously, shifting constantly, in a
vain attempt to stay out of reach as Giuseppi found all
kinds of things to measure that seemed irrelevant to the cut
of a suit of clothes. "If you think it best, I suppose
that's all right. I know nothing of all these ridiculous
local fashions."
"Oh, aye, and those wee black smudges on your upper lip and
chin are just because your barber got careless?" Connor
smirked.
Duncan drew himself up to full height, looming darkly in
umbrage at the slur on his carefully groomed facial hair as
he gently smoothed the well-waxed mustache and tiny goatee
with a fingertip. "I'll have you know the ladies consider
such fine whiskers the mark of a virile man, unlike some I
know, whose best efforts only manage to make him look like
he forgot to wash!"
"Oh, ho! So you think a little hair on your face makes you
the better man, then?" Connor stepped up to the slightly
bigger man, smiling coldly as Giuseppi nervously stepped
away, his eyes getting large. He may not have understood
the words, but he certainly understood the body language and
the tone, even though Connor was just jesting.
Duncan cleared his throat, swallowed and squared his chin,
suddenly serious. "No. I may never be the better man, but
you won't be able to always best me with a sword. And
someday, Connor MacLeod," he added softly, "Someday, I'll be
as good a fighter as you, maybe even better."
Connor held Duncan's hard gaze for a long moment before he
broke the tension with a smile. "I believe you might,
Duncan MacLeod," he said softly. "I just believe you
might."
~~~~~~~
Their conversation was prophetic. In only a few weeks of
steady sparing, for the first time, Duncan caught his
teacher off guard, almost stripping his sword away. It
might have just been a fluke of circumstance, but then a few
days later, after the two had been at it for what seemed
like hours with Duncan getting by far the worst of the
contest, Duncan unexpectedly swept out with a leg just as
Connor closed in, and with a woof of expelled air, Connor
ended up on his back with the point of Duncan's claymore at
his throat. It was a move Connor hadn't taught him, and for
a moment the two men froze, the student looking almost as
surprised as the teacher.
Then Connor laughed out loud. "Well, well, well," he sighed
as he let Duncan pull him to his feet. "Where on earth did
you learn that?"
"Little Dougal Harris," Duncan answered breathlessly, "A
young scrapper whose parents had a miserable little croft on
the south side of Glenfinnan. The poor sod could never win
a fight for as long as I could remember 'cause he was such a
skinny thing, but that never stopped him from trying. Then
one day he got in a brawl with Big Angus MacKay over Maggie
Nic Neal, and you never saw the like. Just when I thought
Angus was going to wallop him good, the stringy wee mite
swept out a leg and down Angus goes in the mud. Dougal
jumped on his chest and pounded Angus' face 'til his nose
broke and he cried 'uncle.'" Duncan chuckled at the memory
as both men wiped their blades and sopped the sweat off
their brows and necks. "Just now, I decided I was getting
tired of losing all the time, and it made me think of
Dougal."
Connor watched as the laughter died and a sad, wistful
expression settled on Duncan's face.
"He married Maggie and the last I heard they had made three
babes, one of which died before his first Solstice," Duncan
added, pulling on his tunic. "But I think they are a happy
family, for all that."
"Well," Connor slapped Duncan on the shoulder, looking for a
distraction. "Learning from everything you have seen and
experienced is an excellent survival skill, Duncan. What
say we celebrate? There's a small tavern I know that serves
a wonderful dish with fresh sea bass and leeks...," but he
paused when Duncan turned away, suddenly seeming engrossed
in straightening his tunic and making sure his hair was tied
back properly. "What's wrong?" Connor asked.
"Wrong? Nothing's wrong," Duncan said, putting first one
boot, then the other, up on a bench to wipe away invisible
dust. "I just...had somewhere else I was going this
afternoon."
"Ah, not another signorina," Connor sighed. "You know, some
day some irate father is going to run you through, and that
can be most inconvenient."
"No, it's not always a woman," Duncan snapped in annoyance.
"I just have someplace I was going, is all. It's not
important."
Connor studied his student closely. While Duncan had an
annoying tendency to play jokes and tricks on his teacher,
when it came to actual deceit, the lad might as well have
had his sins written on his forehead in illuminated
letters. But Connor was curious as to what was so "not
important" that he felt compelled to lie to his teacher, so
he said nothing.
But when Duncan slipped away an hour or so later, Connor let
him go, then followed at a discreet distance, just out of
sensing range. Duncan was hardly difficult to trail. He
'helloed' everyone in site, greeting them with a grin and a
wave, frequently stopping to try his limited, but
enthusiastic, Italian on trades people and neighbors. He
had only been living in the city a few months, yet knew more
people by sight and by name than Connor had managed in over
a decade.
Duncan stopped for several minutes to help a wine merchant
lever a large cask off the back of a wagon, getting a free
mug of wine for his efforts, then continued on towards the
southern part of town.
At last Duncan paused in front of a large inn. It was a
comfortable looking place, with a long tiled veranda in
front and a large adjacent stable. After a moment a figure
appeared in the doorway, then moved out to the courtyard.
Connor's blood went cold. It was Wilhlem Munter.
It was as though a spear of lightening struck just behind
his eyes, and before he was even aware of it, his sword was
in his hand and he had charged all the way into the clearing
and shoved Duncan aside. The use of his fist was far more
satisfactory than his sword, though, and he lashed out,
catching Munter in the act of drawing his sword and knocking
him to the ground. Connor drew his blade back for a killing
blow, but froze when Duncan stepped in, grabbing his forearm
in an iron grip.
"No, Connor! Stop this!"
The white-hot emotions that had sparked the attack were
still roiling inside, with no outlet but the one in front of
him. Connor yanked his sword arm free and backhanded his
student, spinning him almost to the ground. "How dare you!"
Connor snarled. "I do everything in my power to protect
you, to teach you some common sense about how to survive,
and you defy me, go behind my back. Were you so cocksure of
yourself you thought you could take him? God, you are an
arrogant ass!"
Duncan used the back of his hand to wipe blood from his
mouth. "I wasn't going to challenge him," he said darkly.
"Nor he me. You wanted me to find a way to earn my own
keep. Wilhelm offered to pay me to train his horses."
"And you trusted him?" Connor asked derisively. Munter had
gotten to his feet and was fastidiously dusting off his
clothes, watching student and teacher quarrel with amused
interest.
Duncan stepped closer. "Aye, I trusted him. I know you
trust no one, confide in no one, but I spent time with the
man, and I do not believe he intends me harm. If he had, he
could have done so the first night we met, before you ever
came along. I am not nearly the naive bumpkin you seem to
think me, Connor MacLeod."
Connor stepped up until their noses were almost touching.
"The only reason he didn't was because he knew you were a
youngling and he wanted to know who and where your teacher
was," Connor said quietly. "Other Immortals are not to be
trusted, I've told you that again and again."
Duncan cocked his head and one corner of his lip curled into
a half-smile. "Aye, that you have. And you have almost no
Immortal friends to speak of, do you? You yourself said
Immortals are human, with the same drives, the same needs.
I offered Wilhelm my friendship, and he offered me his. I
trust that. If that makes me a fool, then so be it."
"It's all right, Duncan," Wilhelm inserted before Connor had
an opportunity to reply, smiling when both men's attention
turned to him. "MacLeod is just trying to protect you.
Here." He reached into his purse and extracted a few
coins. "This is for the work you've already done with my
stallion."
"But..." Duncan protested, looking between the money, Connor
and Munter.
"Go ahead, take it," Munter insisted, grabbing Duncan's hand
and folding the money into it before turning his attention
to Connor. "Your student is an excellent horseman and
earned his money. He is also a decent, caring young man.
There are too few of us that can say the same, but I don't
envy you the task of teaching him," Munter grinned. "I
suspect he is quite a handful."
"As for you, Duncan," Munter added, "You mind your teacher's
words. Trusting unwisely could cost you your head, no
matter how charming you are." Then he bowed to both men.
"Until we meet again, gentlemen," he said softly, then
turned and went back into the inn.
Connor was too angry to talk, knowing he would say something
hurtful, so he just turned on his heel and headed back
towards the center of the city. After a few long strides,
he realized he could barely feel Duncan's presence, so he
turned. Duncan was still standing in the inn courtyard,
hands on his hips, staring at him darkly.
"Well, are you coming or not?" Connor demanded coldly, half
fearful that Duncan would walk away, abandoning their
relationship, their friendship. But after a moment, Duncan
followed, and Connor turned, trusting that once his student
had decided on a course, he would follow it to its
conclusion.
Eventually, his student caught up to him and Connor slid his
eyes sideways in the dusk. Duncan walked at his side, tall
and proud, his shoulders square, his dark eyes scanning
ahead. Connor's throat closed. It would be soon, for
sure. Soon Duncan would feel he was ready for a true battle
with another Immortal. But no one could truly be ready for
that assault on the mind and body - even assuming he won.
Would Duncan be able to take that final, deadly stroke, to
sever his enemy's head from his body, to absorb that first
bitter taste of the true power of what he was without being
forever tainted by it? A shudder ran across Connor's
shoulders at the thought, but he shook it off.
Duncan was a warrior, born and bred. He would do what was
necessary when the time came. Connor would see to that.
~~~~~~
cont. in Chapter 6, part 3