(Page 3)
Chapter Sixteen
The room that would house the contest was large, oblong, and high-ceilinged, with the cone-shaped bases hanging in the northwest and southeast corners. The latter was on somewhat higher ground due to a built-in gradual incline in the lightly carpeted floor, making it more easily defensible. A coin toss awarded this base to Methos’ team. He hoped grimly that this was a precursor to a run of good luck throughout the game.
Several barrels, a small length of six-foot wall with window-like openings, and a few smaller oddly shaped barriers offered some protection from easy invasion of the base. The base taken by Kronos had similar obstructions around it, although it had a longer wall and no barrels.
A catwalk, eight feet high, ran along the east wall of the room from the northern edge and stopped a couple of feet short of the Horsemen’s base. The room was murky and a smoky haze hung in the air. Telling them to enjoy the game, Ken left by the door they had entered from and both teams reported to their bases.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” Methos said. “Cassandra, you are on guard duty, protecting the base. When you see one of them approaching, disable them before they get too close if at all possible. Try for the chest or back sensors; they’ll be deactivated longer.” Her eyes looked huge and sunken and he wondered if she’d understood anything he said until she nodded.
“MacLeod, start out on the catwalk by this near wall. It’s a good position for sniper activity, and an excellent vantage point. Keep your eyes on the base and be ready to lend a hand if it comes under attack.” As their eyes met, both men understood that Methos was talking not about the base but about Cassandra. Duncan nodded his agreement.
“What are you going to be up to?” Cassandra asked, her voice harsh.
“I’ll work my way toward their base. Hopefully, I’ll get lucky and draw first blood.” He suppressed a wince at the choice of words. “But remember, we’ll be in constant vocal contact. If anything goes wrong, sing out and I’ll be back as soon as I can to help. And if you see a potential ambush or anything…worrisome,” he turned to MacLeod, “be as succinct as possible when you warn me.” He looked searchingly at his friend, hoping that he still had enough clout to rate such a warning.
Suddenly, the lights dimmed more and the room was filled with the raucous strains of Bon Jovi, “Living On a Prayer,” at high volume. Impatient with MacLeod’s affronted expression, Methos waved his hand and the Scot took off for the stairs to the catwalk. Turning to leave the base himself, Methos glanced over his shoulder at Cassandra.
“If you get into trouble, yell.”
Her eyes narrowed and she gestured with her rifle for him to leave. Sighing, Methos moved away in a quick, crouching walk.
The instant he rounded the first barrier, the lights on his vest began flashing and an electronic alarm sounded. Looking all around him, he spotted Kronos about forty feet away, grinning and giving a wave before he ducked behind a wall. Taking advantage of being disabled, Methos rushed across the floor to a shelter about halfway between the bases and waited out his remaining seconds of deactivation.
He stuck his head out to glare at Duncan up on the catwalk. “Thanks for the warning.” MacLeod started to shrug but suddenly had to dodge a laser beam, firing back at someone else on the catwalk. Methos saw Caspian throw himself over the catwalk railing to a rolling landing on the floor. That’s a violation, he thought with satisfaction. Maybe they’ll disqualify themselves and we can call it a day. He listened for the p.a. to announce the violation, but no announcement came.
His vest lights ceased flashing, and Methos peered through a window-hole in the shelter. Kronos was approaching their base and Methos had a perfect shot at his back. Kronos never even saw where the disabling shot came from. The old man chuckled and practically slithered out of the shelter.
Darting from one barrier to the next, Methos made it to the opposing base without further assault. As he’d expected, Silas had been appointed guardian. Keeping his head below the top of the wall in front of the base, the wily old immortal made his way to the end of the wall, crawled around it, and fired at Silas’ back. The large man looked confused by the flashing and the noise from his vest, turning around to spot Methos walking calmly into the base area, grinning.
“How’s it going, Silas?” Standing under the base, Methos fired six shots methodically into the sensor. An electronic tone and a strobe effect signaled the disabling of the base. Methos frowned slightly. Wasn’t there supposed to be a p.a. acknowledgement of a base being captured?
“Well done, brother,” Silas chuckled. “You always could fool me, couldn’t you?”
“Well, you always had your own strengths, too,” Methos answered distractedly. Part of him hoped that MacLeod was enjoying the exchange over the communications system, the same part of him that hoped the mike was picking up the increased volume he had to use so Silas could hear him over the music.
“Indeed I did. And still do.” Smiling affectionately, the huge immortal stepped closer, blocking Methos from one exit. As Methos backed toward the opening he’d come from, Silas crowded him, steering him into the four-foot wall instead. The big man’s vest was indicating it was activated again, but firing at him seemed superfluous at the moment.
The music stopped, and both men looked at each other in the sudden silence. “Kronos said you’ve forgotten how to be a Horseman, brother,” Silas said compassionately. “I could help you remember.” As he finished speaking, Guns ‘N Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle” blared from the hidden speakers.
“That’s very thoughtful,” Methos said, a bit frantically. Through his forgotten earpiece, he heard Cassandra’s voice scream, “Let go! Let go of me! Methos” followed by MacLeod’s yelling her name. He looked over his shoulder in time to see the Highlander jump from the catwalk, get up from the floor, and dash recklessly toward their base.
There was no p.a. chastisement.
Glancing at the nearest security camera, Methos noted with a sinking heart the lack of a little red light. The cameras were not even on.
“So,” Methos said to Silas, resignedly, “your job in this is actually…”
“To take care of you,” Silas finished happily. From his back, he drew a knife. Methos saw but one chance and threw himself backward over the wall, but before he could get to his feet, Silas had reached over the wall and hauled him back over it one-handed. Unable to escape the iron grip, Methos tried several kicks and punches, knowing that to Silas, his blows were like the wind batting weeds against his limbs.
Silas raised the knife to deliver the temporarily killing stroke, but his face betrayed his distaste. Even with the chaotic vocalizations of his teammates streaming into one ear, and the screaming of Axl Rose pouring into the other, Methos could almost hear the giant’s distress at raising a blade to his favorite brother.
Releasing Methos, Silas moved the knife to his other hand. Before the old man could make a break for it, however, Silas raised his right hand again – knifeless, this time – and plowed it into the side of Methos’ head, sending him sprawling, senseless about six feet away.
Lying crumpled against a barrier, Methos could feel himself seesawing between consciousness and unconsciousness. He struggled to get to his feet, but managed only to lift his head a half inch. The screams of Cassandra rang through his soul, but all he could think was… Rest. I just need to rest a minute.
His eyes closed.
Chapter Seventeen
It was funny. When Methos was standing in front of her yammering about yelling if she needed his help, all she wanted was him out of her sight. Now that she was alone in the base, Cassandra felt woefully vulnerable. Even his presence would have been welcome. Possibly.
Looking upward into the northeast corner, she caught Duncan’s eye. He waved, then remembered she could hear him. “I’m watching,” he said simply. She nodded, not trusting her voice to be steady.
She saw Kronos ducking behind a barrier forty or fifty feet away. A minute or two later, he was ten feet nearer. She cursed him silently. She never got a long enough glimpse to get a bead on him. Her peripheral vision picked up something falling from the catwalk, and she turned her head to see Caspian hit the floor and roll. Break your neck, she thought sourly.
Thus distracted, she didn’t see Kronos looming fifteen feet away until he had her in his sight. She pulled back, but the red lights on his vest started flashing. His look of surprise and anger was almost comical as he spun around looking for the culprit. She chuckled, flashing a look at MacLeod. “Thanks.”
“Wasn’t me,” he said. She felt a stab of surprise herself, then shrugged. Even Methos was bound to come through once in a while. Just don’t expect him when it’s important.
Knowing that Kronos would be advancing again, she ducked down and headed toward the opposite side of the base. Peering through a window-hole in the six-foot wall, she saw him, again about fifteen feet away. Quickly aiming at his chest, she pulled the trigger, but he moved and her beam caught his shoulder sensor. Well, three seconds disabled was better than nothing.
Starting to get into the spirit of the game, she was smiling slightly as she backed around toward the far north side of the base area, anxious to try to hit Kronos yet again. She was startled when she backed into something.
“Hello, pretty lady,” said Caspian into the silence of the song change. The simple greeting was unbearably lewd coming from his lips.
Her blood suddenly replaced with ice water, Cassandra’s voice deserted her as well. The best she could manage was small huffing sounds as she backed away. He matched her pace, clearly toying with her. She shot without thinking, and his vest lights flashed. Caspian laughed, a revolting, ghastly sound, even with the obscenely loud music that had begun once again.
Energized by that laugh, Cassandra turned to bolt, and he grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her toward him. Pain and anger joined with her terror to restore her voice. “Let go! Let go of me!” Incomprehensibly, she added, “Methos!”
A voice from her earpiece shouted her name, but whether it was Duncan or the old man, she couldn’t tell, because Caspian was whispering in her other ear. She couldn’t understand the words over the music, but his unwholesome intent was clear enough. Slamming her effortlessly against the wall, he crowded into her personal space, rubbing himself against her urgently, gruesomely.
She turned her head and squirmed, and he used her hair again to brutally pin her head back against the wall. The other hand came up to the side of her face, and she felt cold metal on her cheek. “There, there,” he said, stroking her face gently, rhythmically, with an eight-inch knife. Never had she felt less soothed by those words.
Damn it! Duncan couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed Caspian’s backdoor advance. The distraction of Kronos’ obvious frontal assault had worked on him as well as Cassandra. He launched himself from the catwalk (let them disqualify me, he thought), landing off-balance and crashing to the floor. He was up almost before he finished falling and was rushing toward the base.
As though materializing from thin air, Kronos was suddenly in his path. Frowning, MacLeod at first couldn’t place what was different about him. The vest, said a helpful voice in his head. The laser tag vest was gone, and with it the pretense that this was a game. Kronos waved his ridiculously large sword at Duncan, who belatedly remembered Methos’ confession about swords hidden under the catwalk stairs.
Wildly, he struggled to remember where the old man had told him the third one was hidden. Barrel, said the voice again. Duncan’s eyes flitted to the three barrels placed near the front of their base.
Taking advantage of MacLeod’s wandering attention, Kronos lunged with the broadsword. It struck Duncan’s chest as he pulled away, but the vest absorbed the blow, resulting in a damaging gash to the chest sensor and housing. There goes Methos’ security deposit, Duncan thought absurdly. He leaped suddenly, up and over the nearest barrier, narrowly escaping a cutting swipe by Kronos’ sword.
He hit the floor less gracefully this time, wrenching his right shoulder. Realizing he was still clutching the laser gun, he dropped it, hauled himself to his feet and made a beeline for the barrels, Kronos in hot pursuit. The rifle banged painfully against his knees as it dangled from the cable. Great idea, letting go of it.
Feeling the breeze from yet another sword-swing, Duncan dove head-first at the barrels. They were weighted, but fortunately not that heavily. None of them fell over. On his knees, he shoved each of them over, casting about for the sword. Methos, if you were lying...
Success! The third barrel contained a longsword, and he grabbed it gratefully.
He felt Kronos’ sword plunge deeply into his back and howled in pain.
The knife was still stroking the left side of Cassandra’s face as Caspian buried his obscene grin in her hair, nuzzling the right side of her neck. Hearing the hissing of his breath, she understood that he was sniffing her. When she felt his tongue on her skin, her stomach rolled. She screamed long and wordlessly.
Stopping for a breath, she heard Duncan’s cry of agony in her ear and her heart went cold. The word “No!” was being screamed over and over, and she realized it was coming from her. Caspian laughed, thinking her performance was all for him. Galvanized yet again by the sound of his laughter, Cassandra realized that she still clutched the laser rifle between their bodies. Bending her knees as much as his grip on her hair permitted, she launched herself upward suddenly and brought the point of the rifle straight up into Caspian’s chin.
With a grunt, he staggered backward, releasing her hair, and she took the opportunity to run out of the base area. Before she cleared the final barrier, however, she ran into the hilt of Kronos’ broadsword and collapsed, stunned, into a heap at his feet.
Mostly recovered, Caspian leapt upon her, knife poised. “Stay, brother,” commanded Kronos as he dragged the bloodied and limp Duncan into the base area.
“What are we waiting for?” Caspian rasped, voice harsh with rage and need. It echoed loudly in the pause between songs.
“Did you pay me no attention on the plane, Caspian? The deaths of these two mean nothing unless they happen in Methos’ presence. Silas should be bringing him momentarily, and then we will feast on the last of his fragile hope.” Giving the unconscious Scot a kick for fun, he added, “I promise, you can play with her to your heart’s content after I kill MacLeod. And Methos will watch it all.”
Acknowledging Caspian’s grinning nod, Kronos turned to look toward his own team’s base. Soon Silas would appear bearing Methos… and the future of the Four Horsemen.
Chapter Eighteen
He lay motionless against the low barrier, drifting through a dark internal landscape. Somewhere, friends needed help, and enemies were close, but the effort required to surmount the obstacles between himself and those around him seemed huge.
Suddenly, two sounds broke the inner stillness. One was a man’s cry of agony, the cry of a friend in dire need. The second was even more familiar, a woman’s voice chanting “No, no, no …”
Eyes snapped open, just as a hush of silence fell over the room once more. The wailing guitars ceased as the eyes quickly catalogued position and resources. Recognizing the wall, and his position against it, a hand snaked out to retrieve the stiletto taped under the small ledge beside him.
As the dirge-like gongs of “Hell’s Bells” began to sound ominously through the arena, a small smile crossed his face, never reaching the cold eyes that looked for the nearest target.
Levering himself upward slowly, he focussed on Silas. The big man had his back turned as he removed his laser tag vest. Ease of movement had obviously become more of a priority than watching the man crumpled beside the wall.
Easing forward cautiously, stiletto extended, he slid easily into a blind spot behind Silas. With a quick swipe of the blade, he sliced through his larger opponent’s right hamstring. Silas cried out in pain just as the first guitar chords of the song rang out, effectively swallowing the noise. As Silas gazed up at him with eyes full of hurt and anger, he efficiently sliced the other hamstring.
Straightening, he quickly removed his own vest and laser rifle. Whereas Silas had fussed with the buckles, he sliced through the straps with his razor sharp blade. Dropping the vest on the bigger man, he turned one last cold gaze upon his brother, then slipped into the darkness.
Kronos greeted the sound of the AC DC anthem with a small smile. This song was Silas’ signal to bring Methos to the other base. The instructions had been simple: stab Methos in the heart and bring him to this base with the blade still in his chest. Kronos was eagerly anticipating the moment when he pulled the knife free and looked into his wayward brother’s eyes, savoring the dawning awareness of his hopeless situation.
Leaning over the still stunned Cassandra, he grabbed her by the hair, unconsciously mimicking Caspian’s earlier action in bringing his lips close to her ear.
“This time, you will not escape me, woman.” The harsh whisper slid across Cassandra’s neck, causing her to shiver. “When we are finished with you, you will be begging for death. Ah, but wait, you begged for Death before, didn’t you? He will no more save you now, than he did then.”
Seeing MacLeod begin to stir beside him, Kronos dropped Cassandra to the floor once more. “Watch her,” he yelled to Caspian.
The shadows along the west wall of the arena yielded more weapons to his eager hands. Some were placed in pockets, others tucked into boots and the waistband of his jeans. As he gathered them, he continued to make his way swiftly and silently toward the opposite base.
Edging along a false wall in the southwest corner, he finally got a glimpse of his prey. Kronos was moving to the left, his sword drawn and pointed threateningly at someone on the floor. Caspian leaned on a low wall, nonchalantly menacing with knife in hand.
Crouching low, he darted across the open space between the false wall and an eight-foot wall at right angles to it. Ducking once more into the shadows, he planned the next leg of his strike. Calculating angles, and the likelihood of being heard over the pounding beat of the music, he dared a quick glance around the wall to ensure his prey remained stationary.
An athletic dive, and two quick rolls resulted in having his back flush against the low wall Caspian was seated upon. He had figured his trajectory correctly, and was almost directly behind his least favourite brother. As he prepared to move again, the music stopped, and he decided to bide his time a little longer.
The cessation of the music coincided with Duncan MacLeod’s final burst of healing. Releasing one last groan, he tried to sit up. Kronos’ sword met that effort, at neck level.
“Well MacLeod, how do you like your visit with the Horsemen so far?” Kronos punctuated his question with increased pressure against Duncan’s vulnerable neck.
“Don’t invite me back next year.” MacLeod tried to use his sarcasm to distract Kronos long enough to throw a glance toward Cassandra. Kronos was having none of it, and backhanded the Highlander viciously.
“Don’t bother looking at her, she’s already dead. So are you for that matter. Once my brother arrives, you will be of one final use to me. Your death will reunite the Horsemen for the last time.” As Kronos spoke those words, the sound of a demented laugh shrieked through the hidden speakers, signalling the beginning of the next song.
Caspian grinned as he recognized Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid” ringing through the arena. Kronos was not so amused, however. Silas should have been here by now, he thought. Something was going horribly wrong.
As he crouched behind the wall, his suspicions were confirmed. Both MacLeod and Cassandra were at the mercy of his former brothers. Breathing quietly, he waited for the music to begin again; that would be his signal to move.
He exploded into action at the first sound of the staccato guitar chords. Rising swiftly, he turned to slide behind Caspian. Catching the other man’s head with his left hand, his right hand drove the stiletto between the ribs, angling up to pierce the lungs and nick the heart.
Cassandra, surprised by the flurry of movement, looked up to see the point of the dagger protruding from Caspian’s chest. Before she had time to even comment on that happy event, he was over the wall and striding toward Kronos’ exposed back.
Reaching behind his back, he pulled the short-barrelled .44 Magnum out of his waistband. Snicking off the safety, he stepped forward and thrust the barrel under Kronos’ jaw. The whole procedure was complete before MacLeod’s face could reveal his presence.
Grabbing Kronos’ sword, he risked a moment to shoot at the most likely location of the hidden speaker. In the relative silence that resulted, his cold voice was clear.
“Do you think this gun could completely blow your head off?”
Chapter Nineteen
Music could be heard beyond the tense circle of anxious participants that surrounded the base. But in that area, silence reigned. As Duncan struggled to his feet, he heard Kronos’ voice slide sinuously into the silence.
“Welcome back, brother. It has been too long.”
There was no verbal response from the silent man at his back. Instead, the gun was shoved farther into Kronos’ jaw. The front sight on the barrel broke the tender skin just beneath his ear, and a single drop of blood began to slip down his neck.
Duncan gazed over at Cassandra, to find her morbidly fascinated with watching blood bubble at Caspian’s lips in time with his shallow breaths. She seemed to be hovering over him in a deathwatch. With one last rattle, his chest ceased moving, and she finally dragged her gaze to the tableau that had Duncan riveted.
Her gasp as she looked at Methos was quite audible. The stiffening of her posture, and the way in which she seemed to psychically curl in on herself told Duncan that this man in front of him was the Methos she once knew.
This was the man who had broken slaves to his will. This was the killer who had ridden joyfully out of the sun with his band of brothers. This was Death, a man who had spawned a legend that still carried weight two thousand years later.
In that moment, Duncan realized something that had eluded him; this was not the man he knew. This cold killer was a stranger to him, a nightmare creation of time and circumstance. Duncan knew a brief moment of vertigo as he struggled to accommodate the competing versions of Methos that now occupied his mind.
As Duncan stood with his thoughts in disarray, his warrior’s instincts noted a shift in Methos’ posture. The sword in his left hand began to drop as he tightened his grip on the gun in his right hand, preparatory to firing perhaps.
“Methos!” Duncan’s voice rang out loud and clear in stillness of the scene before him. But Methos did not so much as flinch. Kronos too seemed frozen in time, life signalled only by the flaring of his nostrils as he drew deep breaths into his lungs. He had remained silent after his greeting to Methos, somehow knowing just how far he could push and still keep his head.
But Duncan had a better vantage point than Kronos to watch the drama unfold. He saw the coldness in Methos’ eyes; saw the way he looked dispassionately over the players left on the field. With every second that ticked off the clock, Duncan saw his friend, his Methos, slipping further away. He saw the thumb lift to cock the gun, and tried one last desperate gambit.
“Adam! Don’t do this.”
This time Cassandra jumped at the sound of Duncan’s voice. She hadn’t moved since she locked eyes on Death, but the more modern name seemed to have shaken her from her stasis.
“Adam,” her murmur carried clearly over the communications equipment that both Methos and MacLeod still wore. “Is he Adam now?”
The repetition of the name had some small effect on Methos. The thumb that had been hovering over the hammer of the gun relaxed slightly. Duncan noted this and moved closer to the two men locked in a deadly embrace before him.
“Adam,” he said soothingly, “you don’t have to do this. This isn’t who you are anymore.” Two more steps toward them, and a little closer to reminding Methos how far he had come since his Horsemen days. “Remember the point of this contest? You were supposed to bring Kronos to your level, not descend to his.”
Kronos snorted at those words, and was rewarded with increased pressure from the gun barrel, and a nudge against his shoulder by the sword that rose menacingly on his left side again. He wisely refrained from making any further comment.
Duncan breathed a quick sigh of relief when Kronos remained silent. The true fight for Methos’ soul was being waged within Methos, and Duncan wanted Kronos to stay on the sidelines. Further provocation might lead to a situation where Methos would not be able to find his way back from the cold place inside him labelled Death.
“Please, don’t do this, Adam.” Duncan began to see what he hoped was his friend in the cold eyes before him. “We can help you, you don’t need to do this on your own.” Part of Duncan recognized that he was repeating himself and uttering meaningless phrases for the most part. The important thing, however, was the dawning recognition he saw in the eyes of Death.
“MacLeod, I –“ The first words were halting, and interrupted by Kronos.
“Don’t listen to him, brother. He means to keep you from your rightful place. We should be the rulers of these sheep, not be bound by their laws as he would have you be.” Kronos was warming to his theme when suddenly his own blade caressed his throat.
“Do not tempt me, brother. I have never wished your death, but I would not mourn you deeply.” The chill of the words cut sharply into all the listeners present. Duncan opened his mouth to try to gain back lost ground, but was cut off by the dry tones of the man before him.
“Save it, Highlander. You’ve already done your bit to save my tortured old soul.” The sarcastic bite of the words was belied by the warmth and gratitude Duncan saw in Methos’ eyes briefly before they were once again shuttered. “What say we finish this?”
Duncan marvelled silently at the ease with which Methos changed personae. In the span of less than two minutes the old man had shifted from confusion, to the cold killer that Kronos longed for, to the sardonic wiseass that Duncan recognized. But this time Duncan vowed not to be misled by the emotional shell game that Methos played so well.
As MacLeod thought, Methos acted; moving with that deceptive speed which never failed to surprise Duncan, Methos threw Kronos’ sword several feet away and stepped back beyond his reach. He kept the gun levelled at the leader of the Horsemen as he continued to back away.
“Well, Kronos, I’d say we could call this contest a vic-“
Almost before Duncan could process the fact that Methos had stopped speaking, the sound of gunshot filled the air. Kronos lay dead on the floor, the knife he had pulled from a forearm sheath still clutched in his hand. Methos looked down at him in disgust, then turned toward MacLeod and Cassandra.
“Let’s go. We’re done here.”
Chapter Twenty
Methos led Duncan and Cassandra quickly through the maze of barriers to the door that had granted them entry. Grasping the handle, he shook it and frowned.
“Locked.” He cursed quietly but didn’t look terribly surprised.
“Emergency exit?” Duncan asked, looking around for one.
“I think we can count on it being locked, too,” Methos said bitterly. “So much for the best-laid plans. Kronos certainly got the drop on me this time.”
Cassandra’s mind flashed back to the day she had followed Methos to learn where he lived, and to his other, mortal follower. Something close to – but not quite – guilt washed over her like a gentle rain.
“We need to get to the swords,” Methos was saying.
“Swords?” Cassandra echoed, expecting Duncan to be as bewildered as she.
“The ones under the catwalk stairs should still be there,” Duncan said. “The one from the barrel is probably out on the floor near the base, unless Kronos grabbed it while I was out.” Neither he nor the old man noticed Cassandra’s look of slowly building anger as she realized she’d been left out on the weaponry information.
Methos began handing out some of the trinkets he’d gathered on his trip across the playing field, just in case something came up before they could reach the swords. To Duncan, he gave a bowie knife, a shortsword, and a hatchet. Cassandra received a police-issue nightstick, another throwing knife, a dagger, and a revolver. She wondered what he had kept for himself, other than the knife she could see tucked behind him.
“Stick together,” he said, and they hurried across the playing field toward the northeast corner.
The music changed as they traveled, and Van Halen’s “Running With the Devil” played as the three made it to the catwalk stairs without incident. Cassandra knew it wouldn’t be long before Caspian, at least, revived, and she kept glancing nervously back at their base. Seeing both Duncan and Methos reaching under the stairs to retrieve a pair of swords, she felt a resurgence of anger about being kept in the dark about the weapons. She opened her mouth to complain, but saw Duncan’s eyes widen abruptly. Before she could turn to see what had captured his attention, Methos body-slammed her to the floor, and the stroke of Silas’ ax barely missed her.
“Silas, stop!” Methos remained on the floor as a protective drape over Cassandra.
“I only wanted to help you, Methos!” boomed the big immortal, somehow managing to be plaintive and wounded even at that volume and with the enormous ax in his hands.
“I’m sorry, Silas. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I can’t go back to that life. I’m not the man you used to ride with anymore!” Cassandra sensed his desperation to make the only Horseman for whom he’d ever felt real affection understand his actions.
Silas shook his head sadly. “You’ve only lost your way, brother. We want to help you find it again.” He eyed Duncan and Cassandra hatefully. “It’s this lot’s got you confused, turned you away from your path, from who you are.” The ax began to rise...
“Silas!” Methos stood and brandished his sword. Cassandra could see the reluctant resolve in his eyes. Duncan clearly saw it, too, and he stepped forward, putting his right shoulder between Methos and Silas.
“Take her and find the other sword!” cried Duncan. “I’ll deal with him.”
The oldest immortal hesitated, but there was relief in his face. With a last look at the huge man with the ax, he said regretfully, “Good-bye, Silas.”
“I’ll see you soon, brother,” growled Silas, aiming his ax toward the Scot.
Methos grabbed Cassandra’s hand and they dashed toward their base. Cassandra knew it was not a good time, but she couldn’t seem to restrain herself. “Why didn’t you tell me about the swords?”
“You didn’t seem able to handle any more information at the time.” Methos never slowed, nor did he allow her to. “I was trying to protect you.” They were twenty feet from the barrels.
“By leaving me defenseless?” She shouted even knowing he could hear her at normal volume.
“You were never defenseless. MacLeod had you in sight at all times.” Ten feet now.
“A lot of good that did. We’d both be dead if – ”
Methos whirled toward her, stopping, and let go of her hand. “I misjudged everything, all right, Cassandra? I thought I had the bases covered, and I was wrong. I put my friends at risk in a foolish plan, and we may all die because of it. I acknowledge fully and completely the breadth and depth of my folly. What else do you want from me?”
They remained facing each other, not squared off for combat, but two people seeking to find the route to honest, essential communication, that there might be understanding between them once and for all. His final question echoed in her mind. What else did she want from him...?
“Look out!” she screamed, pulling him toward her as Caspian came over the low wall, sword in hand. He was a leering, lethal fiend, making cuts in the air with the blade before his feet even touched the floor.
“Methos!” he said, making the name sound like an insult. “I’d take your head in a second, but Kronos wants you alive. So I’ll be content with slicing through your pathetic heart before I gut your woman.” Caspian’s eyes glittered as he spoke.
Armed with the sword, Methos pushed Cassandra behind him and adopted a ready stance. His face betrayed surprise when she edged around him and put her hand on the hilt, over his.
“Let me have him,” she said. His expression told her there was fire in her eyes, and the thought made her nerve endings tingle pleasantly. “You go find the other sword before Kronos wakes up.”
Her eyes were those of a woman with new purpose, though he had no time to evaluate what had brought about this circumstance, or to argue with her. Releasing the hilt, Methos was obliged to dodge two of Caspian’s vicious swipes while trying to find a way to get to the barrels.
He feinted convincingly to his right, causing Caspian to over-commit, then pivoted and snaked around to his left. As he passed, he ducked with tremendous agility and avoided a lateral swipe, but Caspian’s foot caught his ankle, bringing him thudding to the floor.
I have got to pay more attention to tripping, he thought.
From his new, low vantage point, Methos was amazed to note that Caspian – now about to pin him to the floor with a vertical thrust – had actually turned his back to Cassandra. Didn’t he realize she had the sword? As the blade descended toward him, seemingly in slow motion, but in reality too fast to avoid, it occurred to Methos that for Caspian, Cassandra was still the helpless slave, a human plaything that would be waiting timidly for him when he disabled Methos.
The Horseman learned otherwise when her sword ably deflected the killing thrust meant for his brother. Methos allowed himself a small grin at Caspian’s look of shock, his eyes and mouth all making O’s on his face. He scrambled to his feet and headed for the barrels, leaving the two of them to their personal combat.
The longsword had been thrown or kicked a few feet from the toppled barrels, but he found it just as the speakers went silent between songs. Into that stillness a cold, clear voice announced, “And now, the real game begins, brother.”
He turned quickly to face Kronos.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Well, brother,” Methos threw all the scorn he felt into that one word. He shifted the sword to a more comfortable grip and prepared to engage Kronos. Hoping to use his greatest weapon, his wits, he opened his mouth to launch a verbal salvo. At that moment, the music began again, and the selection struck him momentarily dumb.
“Sledgehammer?” Peter Gabriel seemed an abrupt departure from the previous songs.
Kronos grinned as he used Methos’ distraction to lunge; caught off guard, Methos parried desperately. Blades locked together, Kronos leaned in close to Methos’ ear.
“I liked the video,” he purred.
Methos shoved away and mentally added another tally to Kronos’ side of the scorecard. The score was heavily weighted, and not in his favour. Once again he marvelled at how he had been outmanoeuvred.
“You can’t run forever,” Kronos taunted as Methos backed away.
Perhaps I have gotten soft, Methos mused. Regardless, it was time to start evening the score.
ooOooOoo
Duncan MacLeod was too consumed by his battle to notice anything but the fierce opponent in front of him. An initial miscalculation had almost cost him his head already, and Duncan refused to spare attention for anything but keeping that portion of his anatomy.
Thinking to distract Silas long enough for Methos and Cassandra to slip away, Duncan had allowed the largest Horseman to back him into the small space beneath the catwalk stairs. The only thing that saved him was Silas’ inability to swing his axe under the catwalk.
“Come out, little man,” Silas taunted Duncan over the sound of the music. “You will pay for turning my brother against me.”
“You know,” Duncan yelled as Silas began trying to reach under the stairs with one hand, “I’m getting tired of being badmouthed by the Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”
Sucking in a deep breath, Duncan barely avoided the grasping fingers that brushed his shirtfront. Sliding slightly to his left, he tried to aim a kick at the bigger man’s knee, but the distance was too great.
“All right,” Duncan didn’t even realize he was muttering aloud to himself, “can’t go over him, can’t go around him, gonna have to go through him.” Shifting his sword to his left hand, he eased the bowie knife Methos had given him out of its sheath.
It didn’t take Caspian long to recover from his initial shock at Cassandra’s blade deflecting his thrust at Methos. Spinning quickly, he knocked the sword aside and moved out of range of a killing thrust.
“He must be good, that brother of mine, to inspire such devotion.” The words oozed out of Caspian’s mouth, sliding into the pseudo-silence of the speakerless base area. “Do you like the games he plays with you? I taught him those games, you know.”
The whole time Caspian spoke, he kept circling Cassandra, waiting for her guard to drop, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. Moving sideways, she edged closer to the break in the low wall around the base, not wanting to be trapped.
“We could play, you and I …” Caspian trailed off with a suggestive leer as he suddenly lunged toward Cassandra, but there was no power to his thrust, and she deflected it easily.
“You want to play?” Cassandra called out to Caspian in a singsong voice. “Then come play,” she practically cooed, stilling the eager shaking in her hands as she eased her sword lower, leaving an opening that Caspian couldn’t resist.
Leaping forward, Caspian drove his sword toward Cassandra’s left shoulder. Once again over-committed, he could not escape the arc of the nightstick that Cassandra levelled at his head. His sword sliced ineffectually at her shoulder as she twisted out of his way, almost dropping the sword she now held one handed. The blow she landed against his cheekbone was anything but ineffectual though; the crunching of bone echoed off the low wall as he staggered through the gap.
Cassandra smiled as she gazed at the ruin that had been the left side of Caspian’s face. “C’mon, you sick bastard, let’s play.”
Gripping the bowie knife tightly in his hand, Duncan feinted right, giving the impression that he was seeking refuge further under the stairs again. As expected, Silas moved to block his progress. With a quick side step, Duncan ducked to his left.
Diving toward the open floor, Duncan used the bowie knife to open Silas’s forearm, gashing almost to the bone. The roar of pain that resulted was nearly enough to halt Duncan in his tracks, but he kept rolling, outdistancing the axe that swung for his head with incredible force, even wielded one-handed.
Tossing the knife away, Duncan rose with sword in hand, ready to battle the man before him. He had just begun to wonder how much time the wound would buy him when the axe swung once again at Duncan’s head.
Relying on years of fighting skill, Duncan engaged his opponent. He attempted to parry each blow of the axe with the sword he now carried. Although not his usual katana, Duncan was familiar enough with most blades for the difference to be insignificant.
It came as a shock then, for the blade to be ripped from his hands by the sheer power of Silas’ stroke. Duncan saw the sword tumble and land several feet away as he scrambled to unsheathe the short sword strapped to his leg.
Silas’ booming laugh rang out when he saw Duncan’s new weapon. “Ha, a little sword for a little man!” Still laughing, he redoubled his efforts to take Duncan’s head. With a mighty swing, the axe connected directly with the short sword. The blade snapped off four inches above the guard.
Duncan stared silently at the shattered sword in his hand, then shifted his gaze to the looming man in front of him.
“Okay, blocking blows from an axe doesn’t work. Time for something different.” As he spoke, Duncan tossed the remains of the sword into Silas’ face and scrambled for his longsword.
Kronos and Methos continued to jockey for position. It was clear to Methos that Kronos did not wish to kill his “right-hand man,” that he was banking on the other Horsemen killing MacLeod and Cassandra and with them, Methos’ will to resist. The devious, old immortal was frantically creating, evaluating and discarding plans to take advantage of that fact.
“We really don’t have to do this, you know,” he called out to Kronos, stalling. As the words left his mouth he winced at how like MacLeod he sounded.
“Please, brother, spare me the trite commentary on how unnecessary and distasteful this all is.” Kronos didn’t seem too impressed by Methos’ words either. “You have known from the beginning that this could end only one of two ways. You join me … or you die.”
As he spoke the last words, Kronos struck. Sword flashing, he drove toward Methos’ left side, seeking to score a quick hit to the shoulder or thigh, but Methos was prepared and fended off the attack handily.
Regaining his balance, Methos risked a glance over at Cassandra. Kronos followed his gaze.
“You’ve trained her well, brother. Perhaps we should keep her.” The taunting note in Kronos’ voice made Methos’ skin crawl, but he refused to respond. Cassandra and MacLeod were fully capable of defending themselves, and he was responsible only for himself at this point. He knew that he would have to keep his head … if he wanted to keep his head.
Cassandra felt her blood rushing through her body, and the power coursing through her arms. She felt strong and ready to defeat not just Caspian, but the ghosts of her past. Standing tall, she tossed the nightstick aside, grasped her sword tightly and waited for her foe to approach.
Spitting blood, Caspian slowly straightened up. The look he turned on Cassandra would have felled many a lesser opponent. With a snarl of rage, he ran toward her, sword flashing in the dim lighting.
For one moment, Cassandra was almost paralysed by fear. Her mind flashed back to the day the Horsemen had destroyed her village and her life. At the last second, a cool voice spoke in the back of her mind, reminding her she was no longer that scared girl.
Twisting her upper body, she avoided the first onslaught of Caspian’s rush. Spinning on her heel, she put her back to the base and brought her sword up to defend herself. The speed of Caspian’s assault soon had her breathless, and she began to back away, hoping to buy some time.
Caspian, once again sensing, shark-like, blood in the water, pressed his attack. Again and again he forced Cassandra to parry and block his strokes, making sure to avoid falling into a predictable pattern of attack. Just as the backs of her thighs met the wall behind her, he disarmed her, sending the bastard sword flying into the darkness eight feet beyond the wall.
The sword clanged loudly in the silence as the pre-programmed music shifted once again. Placing his sword against Cassandra’s throat, Caspian grinned as Def Leppard began to blare through the speakers. Licking his lips, he spoke loudly enough for Cassandra to hear him clearly.
“Now we have some fun, sugar.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Duncan MacLeod was not accustomed to being flat on his back, groping for a sword. His gasps sounded loud in his ears as he strained to reach the hilt of the sword, tantalizingly just out of reach under the bottom riser of the catwalk stairs. With a cry of triumph, he pulled the sword free barely in time to avoid the falling axe above him.
Rolling desperately, Duncan crashed headlong into the low wall that ran parallel to the catwalk. Looking toward the stairs, he noted that Silas seemed to be having a problem removing the head of his axe from the floor. Duncan grinned a little, then wondered just how hard he had hit his head on the wall.
Reaching up to rub the lump that had formed at the base of his skull, Duncan jumped when music poured out of the wall to his immediate left. While not a connoisseur of heavy metal music, Duncan had lived with Richie long enough to recognize some bands; but this one was unfamiliar. Duncan leaned back against the wall just as more words blared out of the speaker.
“Pour some sugar on me, in the name of love. Pour some sugar on me, c’mon fire me up.”
Still absently rubbing his sore head, Duncan assumed he had discovered the name of the song and turned his attention back to Silas. Seeing that the Horseman had finally succeeded in freeing his axe, Duncan struggled to his feet, shrugging off questions about the music and focusing once again on his challenger.
ooOooOoo
The edge of the wall ground into the small of Cassandra’s back as Caspian pushed the sword against her throat. With his free hand, he groped her crudely, painfully, grinning with soulless eyes. She bit her lip and willed the tears that formed involuntarily not to fall, while slowly working her right hand along the wall and behind her back.
“It appears I won’t have the time I’d planned to take with you, slave,” he hissed, spraying saliva on her face, “but I promise to make up for it in enthusiasm.” The skin over his shattered cheekbone had healed, but she noted with satisfaction that the bone beneath was still grotesquely misshapen. As he leaned in to nuzzle and lick her as he’d done earlier – or maybe to bite her, she wasn’t sure – she felt the pressure of the sword relax a little, and she let fly the hand holding the dagger.
He felt her movement and saw the dagger just in time to duck. She missed him, but took advantage of his slight distance and imbalance to bring her left knee up to her chest and kick him in the abdomen. He staggered away a couple of steps, enough for her to transfer the dagger to her left hand and lean into and over the wall, backward. She landed with a graceful roll, as though she practiced it all the time. Rising quickly with the throwing knife now in her right hand, she launched it with cold precision as he prepared to follow her, and buried it deeply in his right shoulder.
His scream brought a feral smile to her lips. Putting the dagger back into her waistband, she dashed nimbly to retrieve her bastard sword, six feet away. “Come on, you pig! What are you waiting for?” she taunted loudly, gesturing for him to come to her. Rage darkened his face as he pulled the knife free and started toward the wall, never losing eye contact with his quarry.
ooOooOoo
Caspian’s scream drew Kronos’ eye to the combatants. Doubt flickered briefly across his face as he began to realize how he had underestimated Cassandra. Switching his attention back to Methos, he was just able to deflect the killing stroke aimed at his heart.
“I thought you didn’t want to hurt me, brother.” He taunted Methos as he scrambled back over the discarded laser tag vests of MacLeod and Cassandra.
“And I thought you might have outgrown your need to dominate and enslave,” Methos answered. “Guess we were both wrong.”
Sword swinging, Methos fully engaged Kronos for the first time. Feeling anticipation rise in his chest, Kronos defended himself and looked for hints that Death was near the surface. Although Cassandra’s presence had been a surprise, and her fighting ability an even greater one, Kronos was sure that he had misjudged nothing else. Loss and fear and pain would cause his brother to return to the fold; nothing would stop his plan.
ooOooOoo
A small objective part of Cassandra marveled at how much she was enjoying this confrontation. Her heart was pumping hard and strong and steadily, she felt as though she could almost defy gravity, and she actually caught herself pulsing – almost dancing – briefly to the beat of the music.
Caspian took his time joining her on the other side of the wall, partly, she knew, to give her time to think about what would happen when he got there, and partly to allow his shoulder time to heal. He needn’t have bothered. She was already giving plenty of thought to what would happen, and she was pretty sure that his shoulder couldn’t heal fast enough to prevent it.
Caspian climbed the wall slowly, his grin back in place, but with a hint of a question mark behind it. Perhaps this was the first time he had encountered a victim who goaded him to come for her. Certainly, it was the first time he’d ever seen Cassandra behave in such a way. Perhaps, too, he was taken by the shock of recognition; Cassandra had the feeling that her face was reflecting a joyous glee at the thought of causing harm and pain that was similar to the expression he routinely wore during “play.”
ooOooOoo
Duncan gave a final shake of his head as Silas approached, axe carving lazy circles in the air. A slight grin graced his face as the larger man approached slowly.
“I think you’ll find me hard to kill,” Duncan yelled over the sound of the music. “Remember, the bigger they come, the harder they fall.”
“You should have run away when you had your chance,” Silas bellowed. “I like a good chase sometimes.”
“Nowhere to run,” Duncan called back.
“Fine. You can stand and die!” Silas finished crossing the distance to Duncan’s position and began to wield the axe with purpose. Duncan, having finally learned from his earlier folly, dodged and waited for his opening.
ooOooOoo
“I like a prey with spirit,” Caspian said as he closed the distance between himself and Cassandra. “Breaking it makes the victory more enjoyable.”
“I know what you mean,” she replied, matching his grin. “That’s why I didn’t take your head when I had the chance. Watching you bleed a little at a time will make your Quickening that much sweeter.”
Caspian’s ever-present grin degraded into a mere baring of teeth at that, and he launched an enraged diagonal cutting stroke at her right shoulder, which she dodged. His injured shoulder was forcing him to use his left arm more than he liked, and his skill was markedly reduced. More cuts and thrusts followed, each of which she managed to evade without even using her own sword to block.
It struck her suddenly that she had learned that from Methos, watching him spar with the other Horsemen or occasionally fight for sport with a captive in the camp. The key to his approach seemed to be to avoid, as much as possible, contact of any kind with the enemy’s weapon, until he could see the opportunity to move in and strike. Without realizing it, she had internalized this practice, and her own fighting technique consisted more of avoidance tactics and exploiting her opponent’s mistakes rather than of the clanging of steel and complex offensive maneuvers.
Cassandra could see her enemy’s growing frustration, and she prepared for the moment when he’d leave himself open. As he lunged toward her, she sidestepped and prepared to stab him in the side, but he surprised her by ducking down and sweeping her feet from under her with his blade. Glee flooding his eyes once more, Caspian threw himself upon her... and landed on the dagger she’d again taken from its hiding place.
Another roar of pain escaped him, and Cassandra squirmed out from under him, giving the dagger a quarter-turn. He rolled onto his side with a screech, and she propped one foot against his ribcage for leverage and yanked the dagger from his midsection. He screamed again, and she laughed, a full-throated, guttural sound. With the grace of a dancer, she regained her feet and began to circle him, vulture-like.