Chapter Five
Methos closed the door of his apartment behind him, leaning on it for a moment before carefully engaging all three locks. He didn't turn on the lights, preferring the illumination provided by the cityscape spread before him through the floor length windows that served as the outside wall. Glancing around the studio-style condominium, he reflected briefly on the immortal penchant for open, easily defended spaces.
Removing his coat, but keeping the Ivanhoe nearby, Methos sank gratefully into a low, over-stuffed armchair. He considered grabbing a beer, but determined it unworth the effort; exhaustion, both physical and mental, lined his face.
Well, the deed was done; MacLeod had promised his support. Not, however, without first dragging more of the truth out of Methos than the oldest immortal had intended. If only Cassandra hadn't been there, and hadn't insisted on becoming involved. Methos stiffened as thoughts of Cassandra filled his mind. Rising, he decided perhaps a beer was in order.
Beer in hand, Methos slowly made his way out of the kitchen area. His steps were automatic, as his mind replayed those moments with Cassandra in the loft. She had changed over the millennia. She had become a frightfully astute woman. One not fooled so easily as the girl had been, first into believing he cared, and then into believing he didn't. That last thought brought Methos up short. Dear God, had he really cared for her?
Perching on the edge of his chair, Methos tried to be honest with himself. It was a practice begun shortly after he left the Horsemen, and one that had stood him in good stead through the years. He realized he was more unsettled now than he had been since those last days with his brothers. During the confrontation at MacLeod's he had veered from his usual self-possession to an almost reckless disregard for his own head. His emotional barometer was swinging like it was hurricane season and he was living on the coast.
The last time Methos could recall feeling this way was shortly after Cassandra escaped the Horsemen. Kronos had been displeased, but Methos hadn't really cared. The same sense of dislocation and shock had pervaded his mind then too. But, if he was going to be honest with himself, and he was, loss had been his predominant feeling then. Loss of something just beyond his reach, something not quite recognized. Methos dragged the almost forgotten bottle of beer to his mouth, swallowing blindly until lungs desperate for air forced him to stop for breath.
Gulping air like he had the beer moments before, Methos recognized a truth he had long denied. It was that sense of loss that had prompted him to search for something more fulfilling than a life of killing and pillaging. He had finally found some of the things he longed for in his current life … friendship, love, and good company. The fact that his search had taken so long only made him cherish these things more dearly.
Methos realized that he was not ready to give up his life, either to the machinations of Kronos, or to the resentments of Cassandra. Her addition to the contest raised the stakes considerably. Leaning back once again in his chair, Methos eyed his nearby chess set. Lifting the queen, he pondered the board, and his current schemes.
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Kronos snapped his cell phone open with a quick flick of his wrist. Ah, instant communications, so much faster than the old days. These days of cellular phones, instant messaging and access to vast amounts of information on the internet favoured men like him, men of action.
"Yes," he barked. Few people had this number, and he did not have to be polite to any of them. "What's that? Well of course he is, I told you he would return. Yes, well, I know my brother. No, stay there, watch him … and if he leaves, follow him. And don't lose him again." The threat was implicit in Kronos' tone.
Closing the phone and placing it back in the pocket of his leather jacket, Kronos picked up the knife he had been cleaning and sharpening when the phone rang. So, the rabbit had returned to his hole; Kronos had been sure he would. Methos had always relied on having time and space to formulate his best plans. Often, he would closet himself in his tent for days, planning their next raid or evaluating the strengths and weaknesses of the last one.
Kronos recalled having to fetch his thoughtful brother more than once so he wouldn't miss one of Caspian's entertainments. Each time, Methos seemed offended that his sanctum had been violated. Wouldn't he be upset to know that I have someone watching his every move? Kronos laughed aloud at this thought, the sound echoing through the empty room.
"Ah, brother," Kronos mused aloud, "I have bested you once already. You think that I am so easily outmanoeuvred. Plan all you want in your dark room, I will be one step ahead of you all the way."
Kronos noted with amusement that his heart rate had increased. His senses were humming, alert to the smallest sounds, from the dripping of water off a nearby pipe, to his own quiet breathing. He had missed this feeling, the anticipation of locking horns with an able opponent. Placing the knife back on the small table before him, Kronos examined all the weapons he had lain out, and began to plan their best uses.
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Methos idly replaced the queen on the chessboard. The best thing he could say about his plan right now was that he had adapted to changing circumstances; he had improvised. That thought rang a bell in his mind, and he recalled his last improvisation. It had resulted in near disaster for Joe, MacLeod, himself, and many others. Shaking his head, Methos finished his beer and resolved that this situation would end differently.
Lifting a white pawn, Methos held it poised over the board briefly before placing it deliberately in an opening gambit position. Kronos had taken the wager; he had unwittingly given Methos the time he needed to plan. As with all opening gambits, this one set the board in motion. It was open now to move and counter-move.
The white knight glimmered in the reflections of the city lights. Methos reached out to run a finger down its proud mane. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he murmured, "protector of the innocent, defender of the wronged. I am neither, and still he comes to my aid."
Methos had a brief pang of something that felt suspiciously like guilt. MacLeod had indeed agreed to assist him in his plan, and had not pressed for details. How would the noble Scot react when faced with the other Horsemen? Unconsciously, Methos checked the position of his Ivanhoe. Catching himself, he realized he'd answered his silent question.
The urge to pick up his sword conquered, Methos stared at the other pieces of the set. He still had many pawns to carefully place before the contest, some were expendable, and some were not. Safeguards must be imposed on the actual field to protect the important pieces. As he plotted position and strategy, his eyes were drawn again to the lonely queen. So regal she looked, but she was a deadly piece. Her moves could determine victory or disaster.
With great care, Methos turned his attention to the black pieces on the board. Once, he thought, I would have aligned myself on this side of the board unquestioningly. The white queen and all her soldiers would have been my enemies. "And now?" Methos chuckled as he muttered to himself again; this was turning into a habit. "Wonder if I could find a set in shades of grey?"
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Kronos lifted a short sword from the table before him. It had seen hard use over the years. He had often thought of having another forged, but returned to this one time and again. It, like his brothers Caspian and Silas, was a faithful companion, willing to be used whenever necessary. Kronos smiled as he thought of the coming reunion of the Horsemen. He had long desired such an occasion, and it was ironic that the most reluctant of his brothers would be responsible for it.
Passing a whet stone slowly over the length of the blade, Kronos questioned his ready acceptance of Methos' claim to have knowledge of the other Horsemen's whereabouts. If it was, in fact, a ploy to buy time, the punishment meted out would be harsh. Both Caspian and Silas had vital roles to play in the coming contest, roles that would guarantee Kronos' victory. Testing the edge of the gladius with his thumb, Kronos grunted his satisfaction and put it aside.
With dagger and gladius attended to, Kronos turned his attention to his broadsword. Unlike the others, it had not been forged for him specifically; rather, he had claimed it as his prize after besting another immortal. Kronos' grin was feral as he recalled the overconfident man who had relied on his greater size to defeat his opponents. The years of sparring with Silas had paid off, and Kronos had easily taken the man's head. That man had underestimated the fierce Horseman, and had paid the ultimate price.
Taking a chamois cloth and sword oil in hand, Kronos mulled over the options left open to Methos. He was counting on his brother to draw Duncan MacLeod into their contest. His initial surprise at hearing Methos suggest a contest that involved others had been quickly supplanted by the desire to include MacLeod in the wager. Seeing his brother in the company of a man who had thwarted him before angered Kronos, and he longed for the chance to destroy MacLeod and the bond he so obviously shared with Methos. Any other teammate would be of secondary importance, he concluded. Still, Kronos meant to keep someone close to Methos; knowledge was power.
Setting the broadsword down carefully, Kronos sat quietly and watched his breath plume in the cool room. His weapons were as ready as he could make them. His mind was fully engaged by a challenging opponent in what promised to be a test of both strength and skill. A slow smile spread across his face, pulling at his scar and bringing a dangerous glint to his eyes. "Soon brother," he whispered his promise, "soon."
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At the same time, both men rose and prepared for sleep to claim them. They had a meeting the next day, one that would pit them each against a worthy adversary. The stakes were high in this contest, and neither wished to lose the advantage.