"The race is not to the swift, or the battle to the strong."--Ecclesiastes 9:11
Macleod and Callaghan were fencing in the courtyard of the ruined mission when they felt the presence of another. Swords in hand, the two men went towards the gate, from which the sensation emanated. before the fallen walls of the old church stood a man, black of skin and clothing, his eyes covered by reflective sunglasses. He stood easy in the shade of a large tree, a dark-bladed rapier and heavy Kukri knife leaned against the trunk. He nodded at the two men. "You were extremely difficult to find." He remarked.
"Who are you?" demanded Connor, standing with katana ready even though he stood on Holy Ground. Strangers with swords were almost always trouble.
The dark man seemed almost not to have heard him. "My employer has unfinished business with your companion, Harry Callaghan. He wishes you to deliver him into my keeping."
"Who is your employer?" Connor asked.
The stranger responded with an off-handed flick of the wrist. Connor didn't even see the knife until it buried itself into the crumbling adobe wall with a thunk. It was a narrow-bladed throwing dagger, and impaled on its slender length was a business card, marked with only one word inscribed on it with ancient Chinese ideograms: 'Chang.'
"What does your boss want me for, and why is he sending his flunky after me instead of coming himself?" Harry snarled, his hand tightening on the saber-hilt.
"Will you deliver your companion to me, Highlander?" the dark stranger's voice had an edge to it now, and his hands were almost resting on the hilts of his weapons.
"Your boss can either come here himself to collect me, or you can try to bring me back. Either way, you'll have to kill me," Harry growled.
"That, Callaghan, can be easily arranged. Come, leave your sanctuary and face me in equal battle, and we shall see if your bold words mean anything."
Dirty Harry didn't pause to think about the offer. He just charged. Connor cursed inwardly. This was going to be messy.
Harry lunged furiously at the lanky man with a force that would have laid him open, but the blackened steel of the man's rapier deflected the slashing blade. He parried with his heavy-edged Ghurka jungle knife, aiming the blow at his enemy's neck. Harry ducked and countered with a thrust, his blood-hungry warblade ripping at his opponent's flesh. Blood oozed from a shallow wound in the elegantly clad killer's leg. He back-stepped, smiled, and saluted with his rapier.
"Impressive, Callaghan. Perhaps this will be more sporting than I thought."
"Who are you?" Harry growled at the man before him, crimson-edged saber held at the ready.
"Elijah. With that knowledge, will you die satisfied?" The swift thrust of the dark rapier was parried by the Confederate steel, but the follow-up cut from the Kukri held in his left hand bit into Harry's side.
The former cop did not recoil, but counterattacked. Too near his adversary for a good swordblow, he struck Elijah in the face with his brass-guarded swordfist. The enemy fell back, and Harry lunged, raking the ribs of his enemy with his ravenous steel. Elijah swept the air with a horizontal rapier slash, which Harry ducked, thrusting in reply. The kukri came down, to be deflected by Harry's saber. Harry straightened, and used his upward momentum to make a sweep for the other man's groin. Elijah twisted, preserving his most vital organs, but losing his balance. Harry dealt him a solid kick to the ribs, and he toppled.
Harry came at his prostrate foe without any show of mercy. His blade bit deep in the other man's body, rending his left shoulder with savage force. The fallen man dropped his heavy-bladed knife from his numbed fingers, rolling away from the fury of of his intended victim. He got to his knees in time to meet Harry's next blow, a savage head-taking cut, with a clumsy rapier parry. The blow was deflected, but the slender sword-steel lacked the strength to hold against the blow. The dark metal snapped, and Elijah was left with only a hilt-shard to defend himself.
He stood, dove around Harry, and rolled across the ground to reach his kukri, which he switched to his right hand as he stood up again. Harry tried to use his now-superior reach to wound his opponent's blade-arm, but Chang's assassin parried the stroke. Harry tried again, and again was repulsed. Elijah was unable to attack because of his foreshortened striking range, but this also meant that he could focus on making his defense impregnable.
Harry tried a desperate gambit. Engaging the much heavier blade of his enemy with his own sword, he closed the distance between them and tried for a body thrust. He failed.
Elijah wrenched his knife, and the saber was bent past the breaking point. He thrust the hilt-shard of his rapier into his target, and pulled back.
Harry sank to the ground, one broken sword in his hand, another in his gut. Standing at the gateway of the mission courtyard, sword in hand, Connor watched tensely. Custom stronger than law forbade his interference until one or the other of the combatants was dead. His kinsman Duncan might have bent the rules and intervened, but not Connor. He could only watch, hope, and if neccesary, avenge.
Harry mustered his willpower and pulled the broken blade from his body. Hilt in each hand, he faced his foe. He almost leapt back into the fray, but some small voice of sanity penetrated his blood-lust benumbed brain. He heard Connor's voice telling him i'If you want to live, you need to be able to give ground sometimes.'/i
Harry Callaghan, who had never retreated in his life, fell back now. iFirst time for everything,/i he thought as he made tracks for the safety of the mission. Behind him Elijah gave pursuit, but was delayed by Harry's throwing of the sword-hilts in his general direction. Harry won the race to Holy Ground, but Elijah had built up a good deal of momentum. He sailed past the crumbled wall of the courtyard, and straight into the arms of Connor Macleod.
Elijah wrenched free, and turned to run, but Harry's fist stopped him in his tracks. When his vision cleared, he was lying on his back, glasses broken, looking up at his intended prey, who was pointing a very large handgun at him.
"Okay punk. Do you still feel lucky?" Harry growled at him.
Macleod and Callaghan were fencing in the courtyard of the ruined mission when they felt the presence of another. Swords in hand, the two men went towards the gate, from which the sensation emanated. before the fallen walls of the old church stood a man, black of skin and clothing, his eyes covered by reflective sunglasses. He stood easy in the shade of a large tree, a dark-bladed rapier and heavy Kukri knife leaned against the trunk. He nodded at the two men. "You were extremely difficult to find." He remarked.
"Who are you?" demanded Connor, standing with katana ready even though he stood on Holy Ground. Strangers with swords were almost always trouble.
The dark man seemed almost not to have heard him. "My employer has unfinished business with your companion, Harry Callaghan. He wishes you to deliver him into my keeping."
"Who is your employer?" Connor asked.
The stranger responded with an off-handed flick of the wrist. Connor didn't even see the knife until it buried itself into the crumbling adobe wall with a thunk. It was a narrow-bladed throwing dagger, and impaled on its slender length was a business card, marked with only one word inscribed on it with ancient Chinese ideograms: 'Chang.'
"What does your boss want me for, and why is he sending his flunky after me instead of coming himself?" Harry snarled, his hand tightening on the saber-hilt.
"Will you deliver your companion to me, Highlander?" the dark stranger's voice had an edge to it now, and his hands were almost resting on the hilts of his weapons.
"Your boss can either come here himself to collect me, or you can try to bring me back. Either way, you'll have to kill me," Harry growled.
"That, Callaghan, can be easily arranged. Come, leave your sanctuary and face me in equal battle, and we shall see if your bold words mean anything."
Dirty Harry didn't pause to think about the offer. He just charged. Connor cursed inwardly. This was going to be messy.
Harry lunged furiously at the lanky man with a force that would have laid him open, but the blackened steel of the man's rapier deflected the slashing blade. He parried with his heavy-edged Ghurka jungle knife, aiming the blow at his enemy's neck. Harry ducked and countered with a thrust, his blood-hungry warblade ripping at his opponent's flesh. Blood oozed from a shallow wound in the elegantly clad killer's leg. He back-stepped, smiled, and saluted with his rapier.
"Impressive, Callaghan. Perhaps this will be more sporting than I thought."
"Who are you?" Harry growled at the man before him, crimson-edged saber held at the ready.
"Elijah. With that knowledge, will you die satisfied?" The swift thrust of the dark rapier was parried by the Confederate steel, but the follow-up cut from the Kukri held in his left hand bit into Harry's side.
The former cop did not recoil, but counterattacked. Too near his adversary for a good swordblow, he struck Elijah in the face with his brass-guarded swordfist. The enemy fell back, and Harry lunged, raking the ribs of his enemy with his ravenous steel. Elijah swept the air with a horizontal rapier slash, which Harry ducked, thrusting in reply. The kukri came down, to be deflected by Harry's saber. Harry straightened, and used his upward momentum to make a sweep for the other man's groin. Elijah twisted, preserving his most vital organs, but losing his balance. Harry dealt him a solid kick to the ribs, and he toppled.
Harry came at his prostrate foe without any show of mercy. His blade bit deep in the other man's body, rending his left shoulder with savage force. The fallen man dropped his heavy-bladed knife from his numbed fingers, rolling away from the fury of of his intended victim. He got to his knees in time to meet Harry's next blow, a savage head-taking cut, with a clumsy rapier parry. The blow was deflected, but the slender sword-steel lacked the strength to hold against the blow. The dark metal snapped, and Elijah was left with only a hilt-shard to defend himself.
He stood, dove around Harry, and rolled across the ground to reach his kukri, which he switched to his right hand as he stood up again. Harry tried to use his now-superior reach to wound his opponent's blade-arm, but Chang's assassin parried the stroke. Harry tried again, and again was repulsed. Elijah was unable to attack because of his foreshortened striking range, but this also meant that he could focus on making his defense impregnable.
Harry tried a desperate gambit. Engaging the much heavier blade of his enemy with his own sword, he closed the distance between them and tried for a body thrust. He failed.
Elijah wrenched his knife, and the saber was bent past the breaking point. He thrust the hilt-shard of his rapier into his target, and pulled back.
Harry sank to the ground, one broken sword in his hand, another in his gut. Standing at the gateway of the mission courtyard, sword in hand, Connor watched tensely. Custom stronger than law forbade his interference until one or the other of the combatants was dead. His kinsman Duncan might have bent the rules and intervened, but not Connor. He could only watch, hope, and if neccesary, avenge.
Harry mustered his willpower and pulled the broken blade from his body. Hilt in each hand, he faced his foe. He almost leapt back into the fray, but some small voice of sanity penetrated his blood-lust benumbed brain. He heard Connor's voice telling him i'If you want to live, you need to be able to give ground sometimes.'/i
Harry Callaghan, who had never retreated in his life, fell back now. iFirst time for everything,/i he thought as he made tracks for the safety of the mission. Behind him Elijah gave pursuit, but was delayed by Harry's throwing of the sword-hilts in his general direction. Harry won the race to Holy Ground, but Elijah had built up a good deal of momentum. He sailed past the crumbled wall of the courtyard, and straight into the arms of Connor Macleod.
Elijah wrenched free, and turned to run, but Harry's fist stopped him in his tracks. When his vision cleared, he was lying on his back, glasses broken, looking up at his intended prey, who was pointing a very large handgun at him.
"Okay punk. Do you still feel lucky?" Harry growled at him.