The Challenge as presented at the Fan Fiction Challenge at
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ffchallange/
"Art of War" by Karen
E-mail: karrenia_rune@yahoo.com
Highlander/Hercules Crossover
==================================
Prologue
The "Osprey" cut through the waters of the Aegean strait like as if
it had been born to sail the oceans. It was an excellent craft,
its wood beams freshly caulked, its iron fittings newly oiled to
within an inch of their lives. Sailors climbed the ropes and stays,
singing wordless, but hearting tune that served as a counterpoint to
their activity.
The helmsman gauged the turning of the wheel in his hands, his skin
turned bronze and as leathered as his tunic, from long exposure to
the sun. The merchant ship, had introduced a design of placing
rowers on two different levels, one above the other, doubling their
number, guided by two steering oars thrusting out from the stern.
A cabin boy of maybe ten or twelve years of age ascended the rope
ladder to the crow-s nest- where a bell-shaped basket afford a good
view in all directions, and from which an archer or a slinger might
cry out warnings or launch arrows at an enemy.
Elsewhere, trying to stay out of the way of this boiling activity,
which grated on his admittedly raw nerves; a man with dark hair worn long at the sides, so that it just brushed his shoulders, leaned
over the railing, being as quietly and unobtrusively ill. He felt
his guts roil inside of him, and wondered why he should suffer from
nausea, and why his `healing' power had not yet dealt with this
being sea-sick', with speed and efficiency. He had boarded the
Phoenician trading vessel, "Osprey" several weeks ago, after
traveling over land across the steppes of Outer Mongolia, nearly
driving his mount mad with exhaustion, not to mention himself. As
used as he was to the harsh climate, and changeable seasons out on the plains, it had still much longer than he had anticipated to
cross it, and then attach himself to a caravan of merchants headed
south along the ancient trade road.
In the back of his mind, he thought back to one of the longest days
of his long life. He chuckled, and smiled a thin-lipped
smile. "Being Immortal certainly has it advantages." Methos
smirked, and then heaved his guts over the railing. "Just which it
work a little faster on curing me of the cursed sea-sickness."
Just then a loud roaring rushed across the deck and blocked out all
other sounds, that Methos found himself standing in the center of
whirlwind, trying to maintain his balance on the wooden deck, and
trying to ignore the strange up and down shifts his stomach
performed. He was hurled across the deck to end slammed up against the bulkhead of the galley. The last thing he wanted to think about right now, was food, but despite his best efforts, the smell of pea soup, overcooked, at that, came to him, and hurled his lunch to the ground. Recovering, he glanced around, sweat dripping from his
forward, and shouted: "Just what the hell is going on!?"
"Move aside, Sir," a crewman said in a subdued voice. "You are in
the way.
Methos curled his lip into a sneer and grasped the man by his soiled
shirt collar and then lifted him off the deck. The man's brown face
paled and he began gurgling.
"We've come under attack by reavers!" a sailor yelled, his words
mangled by bad teeth and heaving accent, but Methos understand them well enough, having picked up a little Latin and Greek by conversing with the caravan traders on the way to Athens.
"Reavers? Oh, you mean pirates. Can we out run them?"Methos asked dropping the half-strangled sailor to the deck.
"Only if ye wanna be swimming with the sharks," he answered.
Methos glared at the sailor and then looked in the direction where
most of the activity had been concentrated. He could just barely
make out the shapes of triangle-shaped sails on the horizon. They
ships, nearly two dozen square-masted sloops approached their
position, drawing nearer, they began launching boulders and firing
arrows at those who fought to both defend the "Osprey" and bring
into a safe harbor.
Scene 2
He heard a creaking sound, and not that of the sailors manning the
wooded sweeps that lined each side of the ship, Methos looked
around at the faces of the sailors, and wondered what was
happening. It was not often that he witnessed men with very dark
skin go white as a ghost.
"We're breaking up!" the captain shouted in a hoarse voice at the
same instant as an incredibly loud whistling echoed around the ship,
followed up by a large boulder that slammed into the ship's hull and
caved it in. Moments later, the crew of the other ships launched
more boulders from the catapults rigged up on their foredeck.
A shudder ran throughout the ship, tearing the rigging, and
breaking the single mast. The ship lurched and Methos was sent
careening across the deck to come to a halt against a bulkhead, and
momentarily blacked out. When he came to, he could see crewmen
scrambling everywhere;, much like ants streaming from their nest
when disturbed by a booted man kicking it. A handful of sailors,
quickly if somewhat roughly, escorted the merchant ship's passengers towards the stern where small boats had been attached, and loaded up the passengers, and lowered the boats with their passengers into the water, but they were too late.
***
Later
The ship nearly ran ashore on the coast of Greece, either the
mainland or one of the islands. The crew staggered out of the water,
bruised battered, were confronted by a troop of armed men. In their
hands they carried and mixed assortment of weaponry. There a moment of uncomfortable silence as both sides stared at each other.
Methos wiped the hair out of his eyes, taking his attention off the
tableau, just long enough to assure himself that his sword was still
strapped to his back, in the sheath he wore underneath his coat. He
thought about his brothers in the Four Horsemen: Kronos, Silas, and
Caspian, not without a small twinge of regret that they were no
longer together. No one else understood him as well, or could see
inside his very soul, even if so-called `hellions' such as they
could be said to possess such a thing. He took a moment to be
certain no one was paying him any attention, to check if his sword
was still securely bond in its sheath strapped to his back. It was,
and he turned around to find the sailors hopelessly out-matched and
they knew it. After putting up a rather lack-luster resistance,
they were quickly captured and divested of their weapons. Methos,
seeing the way wind blow, figuring he would have better luck
striking out on his own, and began running in the direction of the
distant village, when he felt a blow with a blunt instrument head
the back of his scalp, and he succumbed to blackness.
****
When he came to, Methos was forced to his knees in the wet sand, by the gauntleted hand of the lead slaver, he felt mingled fury and
frustration as the leader ordered with a curt gesture of his hand, a
iron collar clamped and soldered around his neck. He glared up at
his captor and in cold and measure voice he said: "You wouldn't
dare to do that if I were free."
"Oh, wouldn't I?" the other replied. "Take the slaves away, and
prepare for the march to the mines." he ordered. His yellow hair
hanging lank and dripping wet. He wore a tricorn helmet, chain
mail, and a dagger at his belt. He ordered the troop into marching
orders. The other captives, once sailors, were also chained with
the iron collars around their necks, roped together at their ankles,
and marched away in a staggering line to the east.
****
2 weeks later
"Who the hell are you?" Methos demanded. He felt the `buzz' that
signaled the presence of another Immortal, he scratched the short
hairs at the nape of his neck, and kicked himself for not having
noticed it earlier. It irritated him no end, but until only a few
years ago, he thought he and his brothers in the Four Horsemen were the only Immortals around. "Well, it's rare when it happens, but I could be mistaken about that. I've been around Kronos and that other pair of miscreants, Silas and Caspian, too long." Methos itched the side of his face where the stubble of several unshaven days rubbed against the fabric of his hood all the male slaves wore.
"Depends who you ask. "We've been watching you, for some time now, and I would suspect you're one of those new ones who always think escape at the first, last, and only possibility." Ares folded his
arms across his armored chest. "Methos, is it not?"
"We?" Methos mocked, not even bothering to ask how the other knew his name.
"I mean, I have been watching you. `We' is just a figure of
speech. And to answer your first question, I am Ares."
Methos gave an apathetic shrug, trying for bland indifference,
hoping that the stranger would give up in frustration, if nothing
else. "The first duty of any prisoner is to escape," Methos giving
the other a quick glance that took in everything, from the dark hair
and eyes, cut short almost to the ears, to the boiled leather armor
and the sword hanging at his hip, he wore black leather that was
almost the same shade of black as his hair. He had pale skin and
long narrow slit of a mouth and thin nose.
"Indeed," Ares nodded. "And how to you plan on doing this?" Slaves
here usually do not live very long. Often they are condemned to
death for committing crimes."
"At this point, I really do not care," Methos remarked, turning his
attention back to the pickaxe in his hand, and proceeded to pound on
the rock wall, to coax more copper ore out of it, ignoring the
presence of the other man, at the same time taking note of
everything present in the prison yard: The compound was large,
easily 100 yards in circumference, closed in on all four sides by
thick stone walls easily 10 feet thick, made of baked adobe mud-
bricks. Other slaves performed their assigned tasks, with the
overseers standing in the shade of the walls. The guards were
perched at each of the four gates, and another pair perched on the
top of a viewing platform of a rickety structure made of straw and
wood, who were armed with cross-bows and plentiful supply of
arrows. He had taken due of these security measures, as he was
hauled into the compound, half-unconscious after being knocked on
the head with a battle-axe, not enough to cause any real damage, but enough to make him black out for as long as it took to leave the
port city and reach this miserable copper mine. Escape was not
going to be easy, but not impossible.
"I offer you power, command over my entire army, and your freedom
from this mean place," Ares smiled, "All you have to do is swear
allegiance to me." Ares looked Methos over, taking special note of
the deep brown eyes, wariness seemed ingrained in him like the dirt
under his fingernails. He was good to look at, but he wore masks,
like the actors in the theaters. He armored himself in layer after
layer until the real man was hidden beyond threat of discovery.
Ares took a closer look, and was taken aback by the feeling that
here was a challenge, and that was as close to the truth of the man,
as few would ever get.
Methos briefly speculated on what Kronos would have done in his
position.
"Well," Ares prompted. "Have you had time to think over my generous offer?"
"Yes, I will swear allegiance to you. But let's make one thing
crystal clear, just to avoid any confusion later," Methos
said, "What's in it for you?"
"Direct. I like that," Ares replied. "I admire that quality, if you
are verging on the arrogant and insolent side."
"Let's say, I agree to do this," Methos started to say, then clamped
a hand over his mouth.
"I am the God of War!" Ares suddenly shouted, "I will not be
bargained with like a haggler in the market. "Do or do not!"
Methos nodded, slightly alarmed, wondering what he was getting
himself into, but it too good an opportunity to pass up. "I will
swear allegiance to you." What do you want me to do?"
"It is very simple." Ares smiled. "You lead my armies to victory
over any and all enemies, and you will have power and rewards beyond your wildest dreams. Take this."
Methos stretched out his hand and wrapped his fist around a bronze
pin, and turned it over and over. It was solid bronze of good
quality, a golden eagle with wings spread to full extension adorned
the surface.
"Present this token to present commander of the armies, he'll know
what to do." Ares said, while Methos tuned out and thought back to
the last time he'd seen a sign similar to this one. He had believed
this to be a long buried memory, because it was something of a
failure on his part.
Flashback
Kronos galloped up to his side, sawing at his mount's reins, and
leaned over to where he could whisper into his ear without Silas and
Caspian over-hearing. He had a soft, hoarse voice and Methos idly
wondered for a second if he used that same tone of voice in the bed-
chamber. Dismissing the thought as he would swat a fly or cut an
arm from an enemy, Methos turned his attention back to what the
other was saying.
"I hear tell that a certain petty king is offering a reward to any
brave or foolish enough to take any one of us, or even the whole lot
into custody. He has even put up a reward." Kronos said.
"A reward. And how much is the price on our heads this time?" Methos asked.
"300 florins, a head," Kronos replied, and went back to his position
in the line.
"Wanted dead or alive, is it? Given his position, this petty king
would no doubt prefer us dead? That's more money than we've seen in months."
They rode into the unsuspecting and unprotected village in the
valley. It was made up of several tents, and a cattle pen that had
been enclosed on all four sides by a wooden fence to prevent them
from straying or becoming easy pickings for predators. In the back
of Methos' mind, he thought it a wise precaution, but not from two-
legged predators mounted on horses. This raid would be too easy." He muttered to himself under his breath. He placed the mask painted
black and white, painted a bone-white to portray his role in the
Four Horsemen, as Death on a Horse, waiting for Kronos to take the
lead, and give the signal to sweep into the small village and cut
down anything that moved or even so much as resisted, he could that both Silas and Caspian were spoiling for a good raid, and other
things as well. There was the signal, Kronos raising his arm, his
fist clenched, then jerking it down in one quick movement. They
kicked their mounts flanks and spurred them forward, swords at the
ready.
**
Methos dismounted and swept into the last standing tent. Inside he
found a woman holding a sword in trembling hands, seemingly without the strength to lift it, much less fight, but determined to defend her home. He inspected her, tall, dark with pale skin and brown eyes. Her hair was dark brown shading over into black and hung in ragged curtain down her back. He felt a confusing mix of emotions, contempt for her puny attempt at defense; desire to possess her and make her his slave; and even a trace of what he thought that he could use her for . Something other than the purpose than what she half-expected him to do. Methos moved forward, knocked the weapon from her hand, and slung over his back.
***
When Methos came out of the tent with the woman slung over his back, her hair blowing in the wind, Kronos approached him. "Find a new playmate or a new slave?" Kronos inspected the woman, noting with interest the fine bronze brooch that held her cloak closed, adorned with a golden eagle with its wings outstretched. "Do you mind sharing, Brother?"
He noted that while he had been occupied in the tent, his `brothers'
had slaughtered all the other villagers and set fire to their tents,
cattle, and stored goods. Methos thought it over for a moment,
seating the woman on his horse.
"Very well," Kronos said, and walked over to talk with Silas and
Caspian.
*end flashback*
A week later
Methos exchanged glances with the assembled military advisors, he
had been expected to take over the command of the armies, not
without a lot of grumbling from the previous general, Ortho. Just as
Ares had promised, the bronze pendant was enough to win them over.
His army sprawled across the river valley, and it appeared that the
Scythian general would comply with orderly dawn starting times for
battles, after all. A fortunate turn of events given that there was
nothing a Scythian liked better than surprise attacks and night-time
raids.
"The wolves will howl, and there will be a raven's feast," Methos
whispered, pulling his visor over his face and spurring his bay
stallion into the melee.
"We will make sure the Scythians provide a better meal for them,
then we do," Ortho replied, riding up next to him.
The war-chariots of the Scythians pulled up in front of his battle-
lines, in rough v-shape. They were very light vehicles drawn by two
or three horses. The car was little more than a platform floor with
a waist-high semi-circular guard in the front. Only chiefs were
allowed to ride in the war-chariots pulled by a matched set of roan
horses. The distinctive ring of metal on metal as weapons were
drawn, spears smacking onto the ground, echoed in the chill dawn
air.
The sky lightened, and lancing rays of sunlight pierced through the
clouds. Methos raised himself up in his saddle with his left fist
clenched, that was the signal. Both armies rushed forward and
weapons met each with a shuddering jolt of steel on steel. After
that, the river valley echoed with shouts, screams, and thuds. The
battle swirled around them, hoof beats pounded across the ground,
boots slogged in mud and bloodied dirt, somewhere in the melee he
lost track of Ortho, but it did not matter He could faintly hear
the scrape of steel and the hiss of arrows that criss-crossed in the
air before finding their targets. Methos remotely heard the
screams of a thousand horses and their riders; men shouting curses,
begging for mercy; but it had already be determined to give no
quarter.
**
The battle quickly disintegrated into a raging sea of men and
horses, Methos pulled his stirrups higher to survey the immediate
area, but men in armor and helms look very much alike. He gave up,
cursing the helmet that blocked his peripheral vision, swore he
yanked it off and stuffed into his saddlebag. At that moment, a
hairy Scythian armed with a speak thrust at his stallion's
unprotected legs.
A glancing blow to his left check, with the blue tattoo, sent Methos
reeling on his horse, and nearly fell off, he grasped at the rains
and regained his balance. He drew his sword, the one that he had
carried for years was now buried somewhere in the copper mines, but
this would suit him just fine. "Rather inglorious way to go," he
muttered, "staring up a small, hairy brute with the ground and the
sky switching places on me."
The Scythian, even without the benefit of words, could understand
when he had the business end of a speak level with his opponent's
beating heart, and in his native language. "Now, little man, you
die." he said, stabbing downward with the spear, and was about to
deliver the killing when the spear fell from to the ground, his eyes
rolled back in his head with shock, and a sword blade stabbed into
his back with enough force to come out on the other side. He fell
on top of Methos, and both horse and man went tumbling onto the
ground in tangle of arms and legs. When they came to a halt, Methos
was sore, bloody, and feeling several bruised if not broken ribs.
Rolling to the side, he stood up tried to ignore the pain.
Ortho appeared on his blind side, and Methos blinked in the bright
sunlight, wondering what happened to his sword. The other rider
dismounted and removed his helmet. It was Ortho, he grinned, "Mount
up. It will never do to have our general accept the enemy's
surrender on his own two feet."
"We won?" Methos asked, gingerly accepting the hand up and mounting
behind the other man.
"When all else fails, overwhelm them with superior numbers, and
pound them into submission," Ortho grinned. "Yeah, we won. Come on."
Scene 7 Conclusion
Methos knelt on the churned up ground, his new sword's hilt planted
in the mud. One hand wrapped around the now-familiar two-handed
grip, the other held his chin. He glanced around at the field where
only hours before men had contested over something that was now a
moot point. The wind blew his lank dark hair over his eyes. War
was Chaos, and death, but it by an odd contrast while one was
hammering at the enemy, pounding at his armor, and striking and
parrying sword blows, and dodging armor; slipping and sliding in the
mud; he felt supremely alive. Not that he was looking forward to
going through it all again right this instant. He did not like
Ares, but in war, as Kronos was wont to say, made strange
bedfellows. He had to admit that Ares offer was compelling. And
he still knew he had an ace up his slave, Ares just thought he was
the by-blow between some Minor Greek deity and a mortal, Methos
coughed and spit out a bloody tooth. He wiped his mouth, and tossed
his head back, thinking in the back of his mind, that it would be a
fine joke if Ares knew the real truth, that he was an Immortal. He
would agree to play along with Ares, command his armies, for a time,
but he would damned if he would be anyone' slave, even a so-
called `God of War,' he thought. "Let Ares believe what he wants,
but I've been "Death on Horse,' and I still am. I live and die by
my own rules."
Thanks, Karrenia aka Karen
=========================
Disclaimer: Hercules: the Legendary Journeys and all related
characters, including Hercules, Ares, and Ialous, are the property
of MGM Studios, Renaissance Pictures and Paramount. They are not mine, and no money is made from this. They are only borrowed for entertainment purposes and for the story. I may be diverging
slightly from continuity, I used to watch the show in syndicated
reruns, but bear with me. g.This is my second foray into this
fandom, but is not necessary to have read my previous story, "Zenith" in order to read this one. This isn't a sequel, that was just the order that I wrote them in. Written mostly from Methos'
point of view.
2nd Disclaimer: Highlander: the Series and all related concepts,
events, characters are the property of Rysher Television,
Panzer/Davis Productions, and their respective creators, and they do
not belong to me. You know the drill. Note: In series continuity,
I'm not actually certain what is considered cannon from the time
that Methos took Cassandra prisoner and made her his slave. She was a pre- immortal at the time, and her `caused her to `die' over and
over again. If I diverge somewhat from continuity, please bear with
me. g
Note: Written in response, if rather extremely belated, to a story
challenge posted by Cindy J, on the story challenge message board of the Seventh Dimension Highlander Fanfiction Archive back in 12/98.
Yes, I know, ancient history, but better late than never.sigh,
featuring the first meeting between the God of War, Ares, and
Methos, or Death on a Horse set during the Bronze Age.
==================================
Prologue
The "Osprey" cut through the waters of the Aegean strait like as if
it had been born to sail the oceans. It was an excellent craft,
its wood beams freshly caulked, its iron fittings newly oiled to
within an inch of their lives. Sailors climbed the ropes and stays,
singing wordless, but hearting tune that served as a counterpoint to
their activity.
The helmsman gauged the turning of the wheel in his hands, his skin
turned bronze and as leathered as his tunic, from long exposure to
the sun. The merchant ship, had introduced a design of placing
rowers on two different levels, one above the other, doubling their
number, guided by two steering oars thrusting out from the stern.
A cabin boy of maybe ten or twelve years of age ascended the rope
ladder to the crow-s nest- where a bell-shaped basket afford a good
view in all directions, and from which an archer or a slinger might
cry out warnings or launch arrows at an enemy.
Elsewhere, trying to stay out of the way of this boiling activity,
which grated on his admittedly raw nerves; a man with dark hair worn long at the sides, so that it just brushed his shoulders, leaned
over the railing, being as quietly and unobtrusively ill. He felt
his guts roil inside of him, and wondered why he should suffer from
nausea, and why his `healing' power had not yet dealt with this
being sea-sick', with speed and efficiency. He had boarded the
Phoenician trading vessel, "Osprey" several weeks ago, after
traveling over land across the steppes of Outer Mongolia, nearly
driving his mount mad with exhaustion, not to mention himself. As
used as he was to the harsh climate, and changeable seasons out on the plains, it had still much longer than he had anticipated to
cross it, and then attach himself to a caravan of merchants headed
south along the ancient trade road.
In the back of his mind, he thought back to one of the longest days
of his long life. He chuckled, and smiled a thin-lipped
smile. "Being Immortal certainly has it advantages." Methos
smirked, and then heaved his guts over the railing. "Just which it
work a little faster on curing me of the cursed sea-sickness."
Just then a loud roaring rushed across the deck and blocked out all
other sounds, that Methos found himself standing in the center of
whirlwind, trying to maintain his balance on the wooden deck, and
trying to ignore the strange up and down shifts his stomach
performed. He was hurled across the deck to end slammed up against the bulkhead of the galley. The last thing he wanted to think about right now, was food, but despite his best efforts, the smell of pea soup, overcooked, at that, came to him, and hurled his lunch to the ground. Recovering, he glanced around, sweat dripping from his
forward, and shouted: "Just what the hell is going on!?"
"Move aside, Sir," a crewman said in a subdued voice. "You are in
the way.
Methos curled his lip into a sneer and grasped the man by his soiled
shirt collar and then lifted him off the deck. The man's brown face
paled and he began gurgling.
"We've come under attack by reavers!" a sailor yelled, his words
mangled by bad teeth and heaving accent, but Methos understand them well enough, having picked up a little Latin and Greek by conversing with the caravan traders on the way to Athens.
"Reavers? Oh, you mean pirates. Can we out run them?"Methos asked dropping the half-strangled sailor to the deck.
"Only if ye wanna be swimming with the sharks," he answered.
Methos glared at the sailor and then looked in the direction where
most of the activity had been concentrated. He could just barely
make out the shapes of triangle-shaped sails on the horizon. They
ships, nearly two dozen square-masted sloops approached their
position, drawing nearer, they began launching boulders and firing
arrows at those who fought to both defend the "Osprey" and bring
into a safe harbor.
Scene 2
He heard a creaking sound, and not that of the sailors manning the
wooded sweeps that lined each side of the ship, Methos looked
around at the faces of the sailors, and wondered what was
happening. It was not often that he witnessed men with very dark
skin go white as a ghost.
"We're breaking up!" the captain shouted in a hoarse voice at the
same instant as an incredibly loud whistling echoed around the ship,
followed up by a large boulder that slammed into the ship's hull and
caved it in. Moments later, the crew of the other ships launched
more boulders from the catapults rigged up on their foredeck.
A shudder ran throughout the ship, tearing the rigging, and
breaking the single mast. The ship lurched and Methos was sent
careening across the deck to come to a halt against a bulkhead, and
momentarily blacked out. When he came to, he could see crewmen
scrambling everywhere;, much like ants streaming from their nest
when disturbed by a booted man kicking it. A handful of sailors,
quickly if somewhat roughly, escorted the merchant ship's passengers towards the stern where small boats had been attached, and loaded up the passengers, and lowered the boats with their passengers into the water, but they were too late.
***
Later
The ship nearly ran ashore on the coast of Greece, either the
mainland or one of the islands. The crew staggered out of the water,
bruised battered, were confronted by a troop of armed men. In their
hands they carried and mixed assortment of weaponry. There a moment of uncomfortable silence as both sides stared at each other.
Methos wiped the hair out of his eyes, taking his attention off the
tableau, just long enough to assure himself that his sword was still
strapped to his back, in the sheath he wore underneath his coat. He
thought about his brothers in the Four Horsemen: Kronos, Silas, and
Caspian, not without a small twinge of regret that they were no
longer together. No one else understood him as well, or could see
inside his very soul, even if so-called `hellions' such as they
could be said to possess such a thing. He took a moment to be
certain no one was paying him any attention, to check if his sword
was still securely bond in its sheath strapped to his back. It was,
and he turned around to find the sailors hopelessly out-matched and
they knew it. After putting up a rather lack-luster resistance,
they were quickly captured and divested of their weapons. Methos,
seeing the way wind blow, figuring he would have better luck
striking out on his own, and began running in the direction of the
distant village, when he felt a blow with a blunt instrument head
the back of his scalp, and he succumbed to blackness.
****
When he came to, Methos was forced to his knees in the wet sand, by the gauntleted hand of the lead slaver, he felt mingled fury and
frustration as the leader ordered with a curt gesture of his hand, a
iron collar clamped and soldered around his neck. He glared up at
his captor and in cold and measure voice he said: "You wouldn't
dare to do that if I were free."
"Oh, wouldn't I?" the other replied. "Take the slaves away, and
prepare for the march to the mines." he ordered. His yellow hair
hanging lank and dripping wet. He wore a tricorn helmet, chain
mail, and a dagger at his belt. He ordered the troop into marching
orders. The other captives, once sailors, were also chained with
the iron collars around their necks, roped together at their ankles,
and marched away in a staggering line to the east.
****
2 weeks later
"Who the hell are you?" Methos demanded. He felt the `buzz' that
signaled the presence of another Immortal, he scratched the short
hairs at the nape of his neck, and kicked himself for not having
noticed it earlier. It irritated him no end, but until only a few
years ago, he thought he and his brothers in the Four Horsemen were the only Immortals around. "Well, it's rare when it happens, but I could be mistaken about that. I've been around Kronos and that other pair of miscreants, Silas and Caspian, too long." Methos itched the side of his face where the stubble of several unshaven days rubbed against the fabric of his hood all the male slaves wore.
"Depends who you ask. "We've been watching you, for some time now, and I would suspect you're one of those new ones who always think escape at the first, last, and only possibility." Ares folded his
arms across his armored chest. "Methos, is it not?"
"We?" Methos mocked, not even bothering to ask how the other knew his name.
"I mean, I have been watching you. `We' is just a figure of
speech. And to answer your first question, I am Ares."
Methos gave an apathetic shrug, trying for bland indifference,
hoping that the stranger would give up in frustration, if nothing
else. "The first duty of any prisoner is to escape," Methos giving
the other a quick glance that took in everything, from the dark hair
and eyes, cut short almost to the ears, to the boiled leather armor
and the sword hanging at his hip, he wore black leather that was
almost the same shade of black as his hair. He had pale skin and
long narrow slit of a mouth and thin nose.
"Indeed," Ares nodded. "And how to you plan on doing this?" Slaves
here usually do not live very long. Often they are condemned to
death for committing crimes."
"At this point, I really do not care," Methos remarked, turning his
attention back to the pickaxe in his hand, and proceeded to pound on
the rock wall, to coax more copper ore out of it, ignoring the
presence of the other man, at the same time taking note of
everything present in the prison yard: The compound was large,
easily 100 yards in circumference, closed in on all four sides by
thick stone walls easily 10 feet thick, made of baked adobe mud-
bricks. Other slaves performed their assigned tasks, with the
overseers standing in the shade of the walls. The guards were
perched at each of the four gates, and another pair perched on the
top of a viewing platform of a rickety structure made of straw and
wood, who were armed with cross-bows and plentiful supply of
arrows. He had taken due of these security measures, as he was
hauled into the compound, half-unconscious after being knocked on
the head with a battle-axe, not enough to cause any real damage, but enough to make him black out for as long as it took to leave the
port city and reach this miserable copper mine. Escape was not
going to be easy, but not impossible.
"I offer you power, command over my entire army, and your freedom
from this mean place," Ares smiled, "All you have to do is swear
allegiance to me." Ares looked Methos over, taking special note of
the deep brown eyes, wariness seemed ingrained in him like the dirt
under his fingernails. He was good to look at, but he wore masks,
like the actors in the theaters. He armored himself in layer after
layer until the real man was hidden beyond threat of discovery.
Ares took a closer look, and was taken aback by the feeling that
here was a challenge, and that was as close to the truth of the man,
as few would ever get.
Methos briefly speculated on what Kronos would have done in his
position.
"Well," Ares prompted. "Have you had time to think over my generous offer?"
"Yes, I will swear allegiance to you. But let's make one thing
crystal clear, just to avoid any confusion later," Methos
said, "What's in it for you?"
"Direct. I like that," Ares replied. "I admire that quality, if you
are verging on the arrogant and insolent side."
"Let's say, I agree to do this," Methos started to say, then clamped
a hand over his mouth.
"I am the God of War!" Ares suddenly shouted, "I will not be
bargained with like a haggler in the market. "Do or do not!"
Methos nodded, slightly alarmed, wondering what he was getting
himself into, but it too good an opportunity to pass up. "I will
swear allegiance to you." What do you want me to do?"
"It is very simple." Ares smiled. "You lead my armies to victory
over any and all enemies, and you will have power and rewards beyond your wildest dreams. Take this."
Methos stretched out his hand and wrapped his fist around a bronze
pin, and turned it over and over. It was solid bronze of good
quality, a golden eagle with wings spread to full extension adorned
the surface.
"Present this token to present commander of the armies, he'll know
what to do." Ares said, while Methos tuned out and thought back to
the last time he'd seen a sign similar to this one. He had believed
this to be a long buried memory, because it was something of a
failure on his part.
Flashback
Kronos galloped up to his side, sawing at his mount's reins, and
leaned over to where he could whisper into his ear without Silas and
Caspian over-hearing. He had a soft, hoarse voice and Methos idly
wondered for a second if he used that same tone of voice in the bed-
chamber. Dismissing the thought as he would swat a fly or cut an
arm from an enemy, Methos turned his attention back to what the
other was saying.
"I hear tell that a certain petty king is offering a reward to any
brave or foolish enough to take any one of us, or even the whole lot
into custody. He has even put up a reward." Kronos said.
"A reward. And how much is the price on our heads this time?" Methos asked.
"300 florins, a head," Kronos replied, and went back to his position
in the line.
"Wanted dead or alive, is it? Given his position, this petty king
would no doubt prefer us dead? That's more money than we've seen in months."
They rode into the unsuspecting and unprotected village in the
valley. It was made up of several tents, and a cattle pen that had
been enclosed on all four sides by a wooden fence to prevent them
from straying or becoming easy pickings for predators. In the back
of Methos' mind, he thought it a wise precaution, but not from two-
legged predators mounted on horses. This raid would be too easy." He muttered to himself under his breath. He placed the mask painted
black and white, painted a bone-white to portray his role in the
Four Horsemen, as Death on a Horse, waiting for Kronos to take the
lead, and give the signal to sweep into the small village and cut
down anything that moved or even so much as resisted, he could that both Silas and Caspian were spoiling for a good raid, and other
things as well. There was the signal, Kronos raising his arm, his
fist clenched, then jerking it down in one quick movement. They
kicked their mounts flanks and spurred them forward, swords at the
ready.
**
Methos dismounted and swept into the last standing tent. Inside he
found a woman holding a sword in trembling hands, seemingly without the strength to lift it, much less fight, but determined to defend her home. He inspected her, tall, dark with pale skin and brown eyes. Her hair was dark brown shading over into black and hung in ragged curtain down her back. He felt a confusing mix of emotions, contempt for her puny attempt at defense; desire to possess her and make her his slave; and even a trace of what he thought that he could use her for . Something other than the purpose than what she half-expected him to do. Methos moved forward, knocked the weapon from her hand, and slung over his back.
***
When Methos came out of the tent with the woman slung over his back, her hair blowing in the wind, Kronos approached him. "Find a new playmate or a new slave?" Kronos inspected the woman, noting with interest the fine bronze brooch that held her cloak closed, adorned with a golden eagle with its wings outstretched. "Do you mind sharing, Brother?"
He noted that while he had been occupied in the tent, his `brothers'
had slaughtered all the other villagers and set fire to their tents,
cattle, and stored goods. Methos thought it over for a moment,
seating the woman on his horse.
"Very well," Kronos said, and walked over to talk with Silas and
Caspian.
*end flashback*
A week later
Methos exchanged glances with the assembled military advisors, he
had been expected to take over the command of the armies, not
without a lot of grumbling from the previous general, Ortho. Just as
Ares had promised, the bronze pendant was enough to win them over.
His army sprawled across the river valley, and it appeared that the
Scythian general would comply with orderly dawn starting times for
battles, after all. A fortunate turn of events given that there was
nothing a Scythian liked better than surprise attacks and night-time
raids.
"The wolves will howl, and there will be a raven's feast," Methos
whispered, pulling his visor over his face and spurring his bay
stallion into the melee.
"We will make sure the Scythians provide a better meal for them,
then we do," Ortho replied, riding up next to him.
The war-chariots of the Scythians pulled up in front of his battle-
lines, in rough v-shape. They were very light vehicles drawn by two
or three horses. The car was little more than a platform floor with
a waist-high semi-circular guard in the front. Only chiefs were
allowed to ride in the war-chariots pulled by a matched set of roan
horses. The distinctive ring of metal on metal as weapons were
drawn, spears smacking onto the ground, echoed in the chill dawn
air.
The sky lightened, and lancing rays of sunlight pierced through the
clouds. Methos raised himself up in his saddle with his left fist
clenched, that was the signal. Both armies rushed forward and
weapons met each with a shuddering jolt of steel on steel. After
that, the river valley echoed with shouts, screams, and thuds. The
battle swirled around them, hoof beats pounded across the ground,
boots slogged in mud and bloodied dirt, somewhere in the melee he
lost track of Ortho, but it did not matter He could faintly hear
the scrape of steel and the hiss of arrows that criss-crossed in the
air before finding their targets. Methos remotely heard the
screams of a thousand horses and their riders; men shouting curses,
begging for mercy; but it had already be determined to give no
quarter.
**
The battle quickly disintegrated into a raging sea of men and
horses, Methos pulled his stirrups higher to survey the immediate
area, but men in armor and helms look very much alike. He gave up,
cursing the helmet that blocked his peripheral vision, swore he
yanked it off and stuffed into his saddlebag. At that moment, a
hairy Scythian armed with a speak thrust at his stallion's
unprotected legs.
A glancing blow to his left check, with the blue tattoo, sent Methos
reeling on his horse, and nearly fell off, he grasped at the rains
and regained his balance. He drew his sword, the one that he had
carried for years was now buried somewhere in the copper mines, but
this would suit him just fine. "Rather inglorious way to go," he
muttered, "staring up a small, hairy brute with the ground and the
sky switching places on me."
The Scythian, even without the benefit of words, could understand
when he had the business end of a speak level with his opponent's
beating heart, and in his native language. "Now, little man, you
die." he said, stabbing downward with the spear, and was about to
deliver the killing when the spear fell from to the ground, his eyes
rolled back in his head with shock, and a sword blade stabbed into
his back with enough force to come out on the other side. He fell
on top of Methos, and both horse and man went tumbling onto the
ground in tangle of arms and legs. When they came to a halt, Methos
was sore, bloody, and feeling several bruised if not broken ribs.
Rolling to the side, he stood up tried to ignore the pain.
Ortho appeared on his blind side, and Methos blinked in the bright
sunlight, wondering what happened to his sword. The other rider
dismounted and removed his helmet. It was Ortho, he grinned, "Mount
up. It will never do to have our general accept the enemy's
surrender on his own two feet."
"We won?" Methos asked, gingerly accepting the hand up and mounting
behind the other man.
"When all else fails, overwhelm them with superior numbers, and
pound them into submission," Ortho grinned. "Yeah, we won. Come on."
Scene 7 Conclusion
Methos knelt on the churned up ground, his new sword's hilt planted
in the mud. One hand wrapped around the now-familiar two-handed
grip, the other held his chin. He glanced around at the field where
only hours before men had contested over something that was now a
moot point. The wind blew his lank dark hair over his eyes. War
was Chaos, and death, but it by an odd contrast while one was
hammering at the enemy, pounding at his armor, and striking and
parrying sword blows, and dodging armor; slipping and sliding in the
mud; he felt supremely alive. Not that he was looking forward to
going through it all again right this instant. He did not like
Ares, but in war, as Kronos was wont to say, made strange
bedfellows. He had to admit that Ares offer was compelling. And
he still knew he had an ace up his slave, Ares just thought he was
the by-blow between some Minor Greek deity and a mortal, Methos
coughed and spit out a bloody tooth. He wiped his mouth, and tossed
his head back, thinking in the back of his mind, that it would be a
fine joke if Ares knew the real truth, that he was an Immortal. He
would agree to play along with Ares, command his armies, for a time,
but he would damned if he would be anyone' slave, even a so-
called `God of War,' he thought. "Let Ares believe what he wants,
but I've been "Death on Horse,' and I still am. I live and die by
my own rules."
Thanks, Karrenia aka Karen
=========================
Disclaimer: Hercules: the Legendary Journeys and all related
characters, including Hercules, Ares, and Ialous, are the property
of MGM Studios, Renaissance Pictures and Paramount. They are not mine, and no money is made from this. They are only borrowed for entertainment purposes and for the story. I may be diverging
slightly from continuity, I used to watch the show in syndicated
reruns, but bear with me. g.This is my second foray into this
fandom, but is not necessary to have read my previous story, "Zenith" in order to read this one. This isn't a sequel, that was just the order that I wrote them in. Written mostly from Methos'
point of view.
2nd Disclaimer: Highlander: the Series and all related concepts,
events, characters are the property of Rysher Television,
Panzer/Davis Productions, and their respective creators, and they do
not belong to me. You know the drill. Note: In series continuity,
I'm not actually certain what is considered cannon from the time
that Methos took Cassandra prisoner and made her his slave. She was a pre- immortal at the time, and her `caused her to `die' over and
over again. If I diverge somewhat from continuity, please bear with
me. g
Note: Written in response, if rather extremely belated, to a story
challenge posted by Cindy J, on the story challenge message board of the Seventh Dimension Highlander Fanfiction Archive back in 12/98.
Yes, I know, ancient history, but better late than never.sigh,
featuring the first meeting between the God of War, Ares, and
Methos, or Death on a Horse set during the Bronze Age.