"Between Stimulus and Response"
Letterewe – 1651
There wouldn't be another gloriously sunny day like that along the banks of Loch Maree for a dog's age. A couple weeks later, however, the weather was good enough for Penance to enjoy some of his free time off in the woods on the far side of the hill. He got in a little personal training time, and since he was far enough away from Uallas for the time being he decided to indulge himself in a little knife-throwing practice.
Needless to say, his skill in this area was not improving.
After about an hour of ineffectually pelting a poor tree into a splintery wreck he took a break, crouching to his haunches. He sighed with dismay at his dozen 'little blades around the tree; only two were stuck in the bark, itself. This was not exactly headway.
Hell, at this rate it would take him centuries to make 'headway'.
"It'd be easier to cut down that tree, I think, if you found yourself an axe."
Penance looked behind him; a man sat atop a horse not a dozen feet away. He eyed the beat-up tree trunk with a thin smile:
"Or perhaps if you keep bludgeoning the poor thing with the hilt of your blades it'll simply tire of your efforts and fell itself."
The man was a traveler; that much was obvious. He wore a tartan kilt under a thick coat of furs. His collar was a very wooly thing, and the fur matched his own dirty blond hair, which was much unkempt from his time on the road, under assault by the fierce highland winds. His eyes were long and thin, narrow, framed around a thick nose and set over a thin, well-formed face. The eyes looking out of those narrow sockets were colored a piercing green hazel, like syrupy marsh water. The man was in his late 20s from the look of him, but his eyes looked older, still. They looked ageless, somehow, and also very cunning.
But, as Penance knew, looks could be deceiving...
The boy got to his feet as the man dismounted. A small bauble dangled off the fringe of his kilt: it was a tiny sigil in the shape of a bull's head. The man stepped over to Penance's tree and ran a finger over the bark, clucking his tongue at the banged-up wood.
"I'd be careful with these little toys, boy: you're liable to beat someone silly if you throw any of them at a living body."
"I didn't ask you," Penance crossed his arms.
The man looked back at him, again flashing a thin smile.
"That was free advice. And you're welcome."
Penance again surveyed the sarcastic man from head to toe. He looked the part of a Scotsman; that went without saying. And he had the accent, mostly, but there was something else to his voice. He didn't talk like Cadha or Struana. Most of what he said was spoken in a muted and gravelly whisper, and there seemed to be some trace of other accents hidden beneath his tongue.
"You talk funny, traveler," Penance said. "Where're you from?"
The man shrugged, pulling one of Penance's knives from the bark of the tree.
"A few different places," he admitted.
He had one thing going for him, Penance thought: he wasn't a crazy, half-naked pagan covered with body paint. So, that was something, at least.
"Have you traveled long?" The boy asked.
"Oh, yes," the man nodded and chuckled.
"What brings you to Letterewe?" The boy asked.
"Oh, you know. Fresh air. Does wonders for the lungs. Keeps a body young..."
Penance looked at him skeptically. The boy shook his head and approached the tree, where the man was about to retrieve Penance's other knife embedded in the bark. He gripped the blade at the same time as the man, and when their fingers touched Penance felt a jolt of electricity rocket from his fingernails all the way to his toes.
Both he and the traveler pulled away from each other, each with a look of surprise on their faces. The traveler recovered quickly, however, again letting his narrow eyes betray a knowing glint. Penance stumbled back against the tree trunk.
"Well," the man said, "guess we can both forget about the 'fresh air', can't we?"
Penance reached around the tree trunk and retrieved a sword resting against it. He backed away from the tree, setting his feet in a combat stance, and brandished the blade, snarling as best he could.
The traveler stepped back, chuckling, and he nodded appreciatively at the boy's efforts. He threw back one side of his fur coat, exposing a sword in a scabbard. It was unlike anything Penance had ever seen: the hilt was very long and dull white— it looked like a slab of pure ivory— with what appeared to be a dragon's body wrapped around it, and all its scales were rendered in ornate, loving detail. That wasn't the strangest thing about it. The blade itself was alien to him; it was extraordinarily narrow and it was not straight; Instead it curved gradually along its oversized length until ending in a razor-sharp point.
The traveler drew his sword from its scabbard slowly and matched Penance's stance. He never lost that thin smile. Penance couldn't see his own face at this time, but suffice to say he was not smiling.
After nearly a minute of silence, during which they motionlessly stared at each other, the traveler finally raised one eyebrow:
"Well, child?"
Penance let out a war whoop and lunged for the man, at first swinging low on his body. The traveler deflected this attack, and a blast of sparks exploded from their blades as they contacted. Next Penance tried getting over to the man's other side and slashing his shoulder, but the man parried this attack with ease and caught the boy's cheek with the very tip of his blade. When they separated Penance stepped back, cradling the flesh of his cheek. Still the traveler smiled.
"Do you need a bandage, lad? Or perhaps a nursemaid to kiss it well?"
Penance pulled his hand from his now undamaged cheek and snarled. He charged at the man with all he had in him.
This proved unwise.
After a few seconds of furious sword-on-sword clanging and fancy footwork Penance spun around from an attempted swipe on the man to find the flat end of the man's sword waiting for him; it struck Penance in the face, bringing an explosion of color to his eyes, and the man quickly followed this up with a slash to Penance's sword-hand, cutting tendons and forcing the blade from his hand. The man slammed Penance's back against the tree trunk and stood over the boy with his sword against his throat.
"Well met," the man hissed into Penance's ear. "Your attack was slighter better than a clumsy child's ought to be. But— and I'm very sorry to say this— lad..."
Penance breathed hard, wincing as the blade dug into his flesh. He twisted his head to the side, eyes squinted tightly shut, teeth bared in fear.
For a time nothing happened. Only the sound of the boy's heavy, panicked breathing disturbed the woods.
The man pulled his sword away from Penance's throat and stepped back a few paces.
"...you move your feet too much. You should stand your ground, even being so small. It makes for a more effective technique."
The boy slowly opened his eyes, just in time to see the man sheathe his sword. He put his fingers between his lips and whistled; instantly his horse appeared from the thick of the trees. The man saddled up even as Penance slumped down onto his rear, still resting his head against the tree. The man looked back at him, again wearing a sardonic smirk:
"See you at The Norman's. I can only assume that you hail from there. I'd offer a ride, but this damn horse is nearly exhausted as it is. You'll manage, I know. You're quick on your feet, after all..."
"I— I... wh... wha..." Penance waved a limp arm, motioning to his discarded sword, and then back at the man. "What was that?"
"That was free advice." The man nodded at the boy. "And you're welcome."
The man cantered off, leaving Penance alone against the tree. The boy slowly got off his rear, his back still supported by the bark. He tried to breathe as calmly as possible. When he was finally ready he attempted to get to his feet.
And then he fell down right on his side, instead.
X
X
X
It was nearly an hour before he reached the homestead, and when he did he found Uallas and the traveler lounging outside the front door, each of them holding tankards filled with whiskey. They were conversing, laughing, and just having a grand-old time.
Penance could only scowl bitterly.
"Ah, ah! Speak o' the devil!" Uallas motioned to the boy. "Here, now, Penance! Meet our very esteemed guest, if ya would!"
The narrow-eyed man gave Penance a thin smile and extended his hand. Penance waited a moment before taking it and then he gripped it firmly, giving an overly aggressive shake. This seemed to amuse the man.
"Charmed, I'm sure," the man said. "Penance, is it? He hasn't the name of a Scotsman. Nor does he have the look of a Scotsman, does he?"
"No. Our young friend is a Spaniard. From Zaragoza." Uallas rolled the word 'Zaragoza' with dramatic flair, twisting his tongue with a fierce Castilian lisp; he expelled quite a bit of spit, too.
"Ah, well met, little Spaniard." The man took a long swig of whiskey before introducing himself. "I am Connor MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod." He looked over at the older man. "Your apprentice shows promise with a blade, Uallas. Fierce in the fight, too, like a wild animal."
"Indeed. And a touch too wild, at times," Uallas said. "He's been studying all relevant techniques, but the boy gets skittish in the fray far too often. He's no patience, you see. That makes him get terribly clumsy at times, almost like a fox trying to wrap its bare paws around a sword hilt!"
"Well, we've all got imperfections," Connor pointed at the boy. "But your little 'fox', here: he's of a particularly rabid breed, Uallas."
"Yeah, well, you're not so bad with a blade yourself," Penance said.
Connor's smile widened:
"Don't feel sore about losing today, lad; I've been swinging my sword since long before you were ever born." Connor clucked his tongue and looked over at Uallas with a furrowed brow. "Maybe, at least..."
Uallas nodded, slapping Connor's shoulder. He motioned to Penance:
"Indeed you have. The boy's a genuine baby."
"Baby? I am fifty-two years old, you know!" Penance protested.
"Talk to me when you're 133, kid," Connor said.
"Yes, by then he'll be almost out of diapers!" Uallas chuckled. "Try getting up to 636, or so, my very young lads. Not that I wish to date myself, or anything." He gulped down another mouthful of whiskey and let loose an immodest belch. "Penance may be a baby, Connor, but even the likes of you are still mere tots before your elders!" The man stood up, wobbling on unsteady legs, and he gave Connor another pat to the shoulder. "Stay for dinner, MacLeod, and for the night as well; I'll be bringing that little bit of 'merchandise' out for you tomorrow!"
The man toddled off, leaving a very offended Penance in his wake. Connor looked no better.
"See? Guy's an asshole, am I right?" Penance said.
"Not as much as some," Connor downed the rest of his whiskey, hissing as he finished it off. "But aye: that Norman can be a real haggis, sometimes..."
Penance blinked, setting one hand on his stomach; it gave off a sympathetic little growl in response.
"Hope we're having that tonight. Cadha just might cook one, too, what with us having a guest, and all."
Connor gave the boy a distasteful look:
"You can actually eat that, lad?"
Penance nodded.
The man shook his head. He went so far as to stick out his tongue in disgust.
"Maybe you're more a true Scotsman than I," he got to his feet with a little help from the wall. As he walked off Penance followed behind him:
"You play the Game, don't you, Connor?"
The man stopped walking.
"Aye," he answered after a pause. "More than some. Less than others, though..."
"Why did you not take my head, earlier today?"
"Should I have, do you think?"
Penance plunked down on the wood slats sticking out the side of the house:
"Uallas taught me that when anybody fights they must act immediately. Kinda like we're working on instinct, or something. He says there's no room for any delay, and that you should never pass up the initiative when you have it."
"Stimulus begets response, does it?"
Penance nodded:
"Uallas says that only a fool would refuse to use their every advantage in a fight, and one should never leave their opponent standing..."
Connor looked back at the boy, lips pursed:
"Does he, now? Well, I'm certainly not a fool, lad. I've never thought so, at least."
"Then why didn't you take my head?"
"Were you after mine?"
Penance shook his head:
"Didn't have time to think about it; I was trying to defend myself."
"Aye," Connor smirked. "And you failed, did you not?"
Penance began to scowl, but he gave Connor a grudging look and nodded.
"Now, that must've disappointed you, after all the fancy training you've gone through." Connor walked up to the front door. "I guess you could say that the only reason I spared your life is that I really hate to see people die disappointed." The man flashed an impish smirk.
Penance crossed his arms as he watched Connor saunter inside the house.
"It takes a haggis to know a haggis," the boy grumbled.
