Spring, 1708

Swords slashed and crossed, making loud clangs, when two figures twisted their forms as they diced at each other's blades, dancing in a death dance on the white sandy ground of the Nassau beach. A sight too common in the Caribbean.

One was a young, blonde, man, who had his hair tied in a pony-tail, who's arrogance could be seen in his untimely and too hesitant cuts, as opposed to his older and more experienced opponent, a red-haired man who had a long mustache growing on top of his upper lip. A Scotsman, no doubt.

The youth parried a chancing blow made by his opponent's iron wrest, and the venomous steel cried out blue sparks. The Scotsman, a gaunt of face, brown-haired man slashed his sword in another stroke, chancing it, onto an on-coming charge made by the youth, then twisted around his form, carrying out a quick strike which was caught by a stroke.

In a single hiss of breath, the youth the duel came to a halt, when the youth made a quick cut on the Scotsman's hand, which carried his rapier. The Youth's blade was bathed in crimson. Seeing this, a small crooked smile crawled on his face, eager and tempted in making another cut, if the magistrate hadn't seen the blood drawn.

"Halt, gentlemen." an elderly man stepped in. "Blood has been drawn, and honor has been satisfied. Mister MacCullach has been wounded."

"Nay," the youth cried. "This duel shall be to the death. No honor shall be satisfied until I have pierced this foolish Scotsman's heart."

"No such thing shall happen, young, Hollinster." stated the Magistrate. "Not in Nassau, while I am still Magistrate. Sir Physician, come and dress Mister MacCullach's wound."

"Hardly any honor in this," the tall Scotsman interjected. "More like rubbish I'd get, even if I scratched this runt's hide."

"You'd like that, would you!" Hollinster exclaimed, while his face turned red with anger. He produced a dagger, while putting his red, embroidered, jacket on. He slowly walks towards the Scotsman, who was busy putting his own jacket back on, though Sir Rupert chance was all for none when the Magistrate pointed a pistol at his head.

"Murder shall be paid in full, with death, Hollinster. Do you want such a heavy thing on your soul when explaining your sins to Saint Peter?"

Conan MacCullach wheeled around, as he put his fur cap on, seeing the dagger in the young nobleman's hand, ready to strike at him, and the steel, pistol barrel kissing his blonde head.

The young Englishman raised his hand into the air, and sheathed his dagger when he heard the sound of a matchlock click, and felt the cold metal pressing upon his skull.

"Fair enough, Sir Magistrate. But know, I shall have the honor, some day, of carving this Scotsman's, pathetic corpse, like the boar he is, when he isn't not looking."

"And such a day might never come, you foolish young Englishman," MacCullach commented. "If you don't ever perfect your skill with the sword. And when the days comes, which might not be ever, when you grew some bollocks." The comment plunged Hollinster into a fit of rage when he left the beach with his band of friends, who spectated the entirety of the duel from nine yards away.

Rupert Hollinster was a local ruffian, and son of a nobleman who is the owner of a sugarcane plantations on the island of Nassau. All cocky and spoiled, as was his nature since his school boy days. How a duel broke out with a local mercenary such as Conan MacCullach, it all started when MacCullach came into a pub, about a few days ago. Hollinster was there with his mates, drinking and singing up songs telling perverted, tall-tales, spun up among them.

The Scotsman accidently spilt a mug of ale on the lad, must have made the very liquid in his held cup of ale, nearly boil when he turned red with such fury, which only the devil himself could only instill in such a juvenile mind. And, with dagger in hand, Hollinster was spitting out curses about MacCullach's mother, his father, his sister, and any possible mistresses the mercenary might have had at the time. Thus, afterwards, a duel was arranged, which would be under the observance of Magistrate William Talbot.

Conan waltzed back into town, a little while after Rupert Hollinster and his gang of hoods came back from the beach. The tall Scottish Mercenary was a giant compared to the Englishmen, Frenchmen, and Spaniards who roamed the town, taking a quick glimpse his height and stature with widened eyes. Such a man would rival even Goliath, if the two men were put in the same time period. Though the Scotsman's height wasn't the only curious sight the townsfolk were in total shock and awe at. For he carried with him a gigantic sword with him. An heirloom from Scotland which Conan had carried with him his entire mercenary career. A Scottish forged claymore, which he held upwards with only one hand, pointing the large blade, blue steel blade into the air, while resting the fuller onto his shoulder.

Though, in these days, thanks to the use of smoothbore, firearms which any uneducated peasant can use in combat, the art of two-handed sword combat was nearly extinct. Though, Conan's line of work didn't require fighting in ranks with linemen, in the open field. He usually seen himself being hired by Merchants who need such a weapon on their ships to counter the privateers and brigands who carried only one-handed blades with them. The Scotsman could also hack one or a few in two, if ever, any freebooting Buccaneers attempted to board his ship.

Many of the townsfolk have heard of the fight which had occurred at the beach down south, from the raving boastings of Hollinster and his mates when they returned. Though some knew that young Hollinster was lucky, for they knew that Conan was only holding back his skill so that he wouldn't end up dicing the boy with his sword.

Some in the Pub were whispering about the fight, just as Conan entered and cut through a crowd of people, just to sit himself onto a stool.

"Fetch me some ale, here," the Scotsman ordered.

"Here ya are," the bartender replied as he handed him a silver tankard. Just as soon as he received it, he sipped it of its contents, allowing for the liquid to pour down to his stomach.

"Mr. MacCullach, I presume," said man with a low toned voice, walking up behind Conan, who quickly wheeled around his seat to see an elderly looking gentlemen clad in all black. His rosy red face was haggard and gaunt, with icy-blue eyes which hung low with his Anglo, hook-shaped nose. All under the shadow of a black, wide brimmed, hat.

"I am he," the Scotsman replied, while taking another sip of his ale. "And who, might I ask, is asking?"

"My name is Philip Smythe, Sir." he replied while tipping his hat." I am a merchant, and owner of the Carolina Trade Company. A company which I had built and maintained for twenty years, now. And with a great, successful run, while giving to the good people of His Majesty's colonies and the Bahama islands, with many fine goods.

"Though, recently, my trade routes have been molested by the most unpleasant of Buccaneers this side of Nassau has ever seen. I would like to pay for you to protect one the ships which carry out a batch of sugar cane, which should make a voyage for Carolina, in a day or two."

"Why just one ship though? Wouldn't they be attacking any barge carrying any goods, which should fetch any scoundrel a pretty price?"

"Another reason, I wish to hire you, sir, is that I want you to track down the lair of these heathens, and possibly end the life of their ring leader. Whoever that maybe. I shall give you a fat bag of Spanish silver, once the job is done."

"How fat are we talking?"

"As fat as a boar's waistline. I take care of my hired-men, Mister MacCullach. I heard of your skill, and the history which your name holds in Nassau. They call you the Terror of Argyll, if I heard correctly. A tall, brown-haired fiend from the far-flung, homeland isles. And, who uses a menacing cleaver in combat, that one no doubt."

He pointed to the Scotsman's Claymore. Aye, it earned him that name. All true, indeed.

Conan slowly pondered on taking up the offer, rubbing his unshaven chin with his thumb and index finger.

"Only a mad-man would not take up such an opportunity, Master Smythe. Very well."