"He who bears the brand of Cain shall rule the Earth"
** New York, 1995 **
The warehouse seemed deserted to the untrained eye. But a wary Connor MacLeod drew his sword at the tingling awareness of an Immortal's presence close by. Could it be Kantos? Joe Dawson had told him he would find Adam Pierson here - a Methos Watcher. According to Joe, Pierson had apparently found information on how the older Immortals managed to resist the insidious power of the Voice.
Kantos had killed Cassandra, and then several other of the Highlander's friends in the last few months. Connor had sworn to himself that he would put an end to it.
As he walked into the building, he felt the buzz grow stronger, and closer - had Kantos followed him here? Or had he already found the young Watcher and killed him?
Connor walked cautiously forward and up the stairs toward the office, where he had been told he would find Pierson. He had asked Joe what a Methos scholar was doing in New York - after all, no one had seen or heard anything of the ancient immortal in centuries.
Most Immortals, including Connor, thought he was a myth. But Joe had been very insistent - and Dawson was a good friend. He had been ever since they had met at Duncan's funeral two years earlier. Young Richie obviously thought of Joe as family. Later, Dawson had revealed his Watcher identity to the Highlander -- a sign of trust that had only deepened the friendship between the two men.
Joe obviously thought that this Adam Pierson fellow had some valuable information - hopefully that information had not put the researcher at risk. Worried, Connor looked around as he advanced. A Methos watcher would not have much field experience - easy prey for an experienced Immortal.
"Adam? Adam Pierson?" Connor called out, feeling the presence of a strong Immortal presence invading his senses. What was that feeling? It was a deep resonating thrum of power, echoing with strange voices whispering unintelligibly into the Highlander's mind. Every step brought him closer to the source of that wellspring of presence. If this was a trap, he was going into it with his eyes open, he decided, sword held ready.
The office door was open - the lights were on. There was a young-looking man sprawled on the floor, reading a book. As MacLeod entered, the relaxed figure slipped a pair of head-phones off his ears and sat up. The corners of his mouth quirked in an attractive half smile.
"You Adam Pierson?" Connor enquired warily, looking around. It couldn't be: but it was. The sense of the other man's Quickening vibrated through him - this man was unquestionably Immortal.
"Ah -- Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the youthful stranger announced, as if no introduction were necessary. "Have a beer," he went on, tossing a can at his visitor. His smile deepened as Connor caught it by reflex, a bemused expression on his face. This was Adam Pierson? An Immortal?
"Mi casa es su casa," Pierson said, still smiling. Connor noticed that the smile did not reach the hazel eyes. Eyes that remained coldly detached and watchful.
Connor's spine prickled warningly. What would an Immortal be doing In the Watchers, ostensibly studying the oldest of their kind, unless...
"Methos?" he whispered, incredulously.
"Bright boy," the ancient Immortal approved, getting gracefully to his feet. He stretched like a cat, pulling a broadsword from behind him.
"There is no special information about the Voice, is there," Connor realised, retreating slightly out of the office as the older man advanced.
"No, none that I can give you, I'm afraid. Though it is true that many of the older Immortals are, for some reason, able to resist the Voice. No idea why, though," Methos said indifferently, advancing as the Highlander backed into a more open area.
"You set this up to meet me? Why the elaborate charade, Methos? I've never hunted you."
"There can be only one, MacLeod, you know the drill," the older man said, sounding bored. "After 5000 years, I've become quite attached to the idea of winning the Game."
"If you survive this fight, Old Man," Connor reminded him drily. After all, by all accounts, Methos had been out of the Game for some years. He had to be a bit rusty.
"There is that, of course," Methos agreed.
Circling slowly around the other man, the Highlander studied his opponent. Methos wielded a broadsword held in a two-handed grip - that might be because the sword was just a little heavy for that slim frame, or - not.
Connor's own katana was slightly shorter, but he knew how to compensate for the lack of reach. He had learned many things over the years, and he had beaten the Kurgan. Most believed that the Kurgan had been the deadliest fighter of them all.
Methos seemed reluctant to take the offensive, so MacLeod did. He moved quickly, testing the older immortal's defences, which were sound enough: every blow was parried, but the technique seemed forced, as if Methos was trying to remember the moves as he fought. He definitely did not exhibit the fluid grace that constant practice brought to most Immortals.
Connor pushed a little harder, and succeeded in drawing first blood - a long but shallow cut on Methos' right arm. It would heal quickly, but would slow him down. Faster now, a feint, a parry, - and then a quick overhand slash that laid Methos' forearm open to the bone. Distracted by the older man's sharp cry of pain, Connor missed the flash of satisfaction in the hazel eyes, and never saw the left handed attack that brought him down.
Feeling a burning pain in his abdomen, he stared down in disbelief at the hilt of the long knife embedded in his stomach. The follow up cut from Methos' sword severed the Highlander's right hand at the wrist. Speechless with agony, he stared up at his killer's face.
"You might have grown to be a formidable opponent, MacLeod. An impressive feat, killing the Kurgan. But you've become a bit of a nuisance of late - you killed Morgan d'Estaing - he was useful to me. And your elimination of Paul Karros was a definite setback. You've managed to interfere with too many of my plans lately," Methos said, raising his sword over his shoulder for the finishing stroke.
"Kantos, too?" Connor managed to groan, bitterly.
"No, I never had any use for the twit," Methos said. "You could have killed him, for all I care. In fact, I'll probably do it myself." He hesitated for a moment longer. "Nothing personal, Highlander. But I can't let you get in my way." The broadsword came down, singing its deadly song.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Though this be madness, yet there is method in't."
** 1995, Bordeaux **
The man calling himself Melvin Koren swore to himself, conscious of violent frustration as he surveyed his bleak surroundings. He had done his best to turn the abandoned submarine base into a reasonable facsimile of a dark age fortress, but neither the familiar décor nor his latest exploit gave him any sense of fulfilment. Why was this all so empty? So flat?
He had spent years, and squandered a fortune recklessly in pursuit of his latest acquisition. Locked in his safe was a deadly vial containing a doomsday virus. Once infected, a human victim had no chance. Death, when it came, would be a merciful release after the unimaginable agonies of the disease. It was worse than Ebola.
Still, it was not enough. He needed a plan. He needed a band of ruthless killers to put his ideas in motion. How he missed the old days, when he had ridden at the head of the most feared band of warriors the world had ever seen. He had roved the world for centuries, marauding and slaughtering at the head of a dozen different cuthroat bands. Trash, all of them, never measuring up to the undiluted force of destruction that the Horsemen had been.
When the buzz hit him, it was strong, stronger than he had felt from anyone in centuries. His skin crawling with the power, he thought for a moment that he was day dreaming still. Surely it could not be? He picked up his sword and came to his feet, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he watched the entrance to the hall.
The slender man who sauntered in, hands tucked carelessly into the pockets of his jeans, looked amused when he took in the sight of the scarred man with the wickedly barbed weapon. "Hello, brother. Nice sword. Can I assume you're just happy to see me?"
"Methos!" he breathed, hardly able to believe it. "So it is true - all things do come to he who waits."
"Kronos," the other man acknowledged, the smile growing. "Who's your decorator?" he asked, gesturing at the walls. "All it needs are a few skulls, and perhaps an axe or two."
"You haven't changed, Methos," the scarred man said, advancing to meet his visitor. "Still the smart mouth, I see."
"I try," the oldest Immortal quipped, his smile not faltering at all, even when Kronos' sword swung abruptly up to graze his throat. "Tsk, tsk. The first time you see me in 3000 years, and this is how you greet me, brother?"
"Well, brother, you poisoned me and left me to rot at the bottom of a hole in the ground, that last time I saw you. Did you expect me to forget?"
Methos shrugged. "At least I didn't take your head. I could have, you know."
"Perhaps I'll take your head now, Methos," Kronos growled, pressing his blade a little closer, drawing a thin red stripe across that vulnerable neck. "For a long time, I thought you were dead. I hunted you across three continents. Finally, I gave up. I should have known you would survive. It's what you do best. Or did," he said meaningly, his blade drawing a trickle of blood.
"If you kill me, you'll never have the Four Horsemen again, Kronos," Methos responded calmly, his eyes never wavering.
"What?" The sword arm relaxed slightly.
"Don't tell me you haven't missed it, Kronos. You do remember: the four of us, riding side by side, thundering across the plain like doom incarnate. We were unstoppable, a force of nature, a holocaust all unto ourselves."
Memory! The sound of hooves drumming in perfect unison, the familiar throb of Presence beside him, the wild exhilaration of the hunt! Kronos allowed the sensations of the treasured past to wash over him.
"The power, the pure thrill of it... Riding out of the sun into a village of helpless mortals, knowing that you're the most terrifying thing they've ever seen," the seductive voice purred, resurrecting the savage emotions of those glorious, long lost years.
Kronos stepped back and lowered his weapon, his own eyes aglow with remembered fires. "They called us the 'End of the World'," he murmured.
"I know where Silas and Caspian are," Methos told him, the familiar air of calculation alive in every line of his face.
Kronos snapped back to the present abruptly, suspicion hardening in his eyes. "Why now, Methos? After all this time?" He stared at the man who had been Death on a horse, trying to read the tortuous motivations behind the ancient mask.
"What better time than now for the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Kronos? This is the age of technology. Think of the tools at our disposal - men like us, who understand the true use of terror. That virus you stole, for instance: now there's a nice little toy, for a group of enterprising and ambitious Immortals. Think about it."
Oh, the mind of this one! Dark and infinitely convoluted, this was the brains of the Horsemen, and he was back! Kronos thought exultantly. "Your information is impeccable, old friend. I'd forgotten how good you are," he admitted. "You have a plan?"
"Don't I always?"