Buying Trip:  Pako Ho-Sung vs Muhammed Al-Santori
Written by Cameron Dial
March 14, 2001
Edited by Greg Masterson for the Highlander Role Playing Game

This Story is Rated PG-13

The trip to Richmond had been a mistake almost from the start. He'd been told there was a martial arts dojo for sale in the city and Al-Sontori had wanted to see it on the chance that it would make a reasonable investment. His flight from Detroit had been delayed by weather, but no more than one might expect in early March. As it was, he'd taken comfort in the fact that he was at least headed for warmer climes and declined the flight attendant's offer of anything to drink. He'd settled instead for the bare handful of salted peanuts he'd shaken out of their miniature plastic package and a magazine that was only two months old.

Stepping off the plane in the Richmond airport, he'd been met by the realtor who was offering the property, a young man in his middle twenties with a poster board sign announcing that he was there to pick up a "Mr. Sontori." He'd smiled, picturing himself incongruously as an Allen or Albert--maybe even an Alfred--before gently explaining that it was Al-Sontori, with a hyphen.

"Please, call me Aaron," he'd said, forestalling what could only be a laughable attempt at pronunciation on the youngster's part, considering the southern accent he came equipped with.

In fact, Aaron had forgotten just how south Richmond was. The former capital city of the Confederate States of America, the city had seen its share of blood and destruction over nearly 300 years, and still the past wasn't dead in Richmond. In fact, it wasn't even truly past. Amid the aroma of cured tobacco, Sunday worshippers still gathered for services every week at St. John's church, where Patrick Henry had stood before an audience of men including George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, declaring, "Give me liberty or give me death," on the eve of the American Revolution. And just a few miles west stood the state house, designed by Thomas Jefferson, author of the Declaration of Independence and former governor of Virginia, as well as the nation's third president. Ringing the old city, he knew, were battlefields like Petersburg, Chickahominy and Cold Harbor, where the fighting had been as fierce during the Civil War as any he'd experienced in two thousand years. Whatever the conflict--and he'd seen his share--it was sobering to realize that more Americans had died in the Civil War than in any other, since combatants on both sides of the battlefield had been Americans.

"I've got you booked in the Crowne Plaza," his young companion said, stretching his stride to reach Aaron's long-legged pace.

"I hope that's all right."

"Overlooking the river? Yes, that's fine. And the package I mailed you?"

"It arrived this morning. It's in the trunk of my car."

"Good," Aaron said. Trusting a sword to the U.S. mail had never been his favorite means of transport, but it was easier than getting one through an airport metal detector these days. In truth, it made his hand itch just to think of being separated from the Guingate he'd carried for so long. He stifled a grin, half ashamed he'd let himself grow so dependent on it. He'd be better off, he thought, to increase his studies in his other fighting skills and rely less on the sword except when absolutely necessary.

The drive into the city was short, the trip to the dojo barely longer. They passed the tree-lined median of Monument Avenue, the car rolling over the cobblestoned street and past the Confederate greats honored there: Lee, Jeb Stuart, Stonewall Jackson and, of course, Jeff Davis, president of the failed Confederate states. The dojo was one of a half dozen businesses occupying a derelict tobacco factory where Richmonders had once toiled to give the world its nicotine fix in the days before the surgeon general's warnings. A block over, the neighborhood gave way to trendy condos, studios, and lofts overlooking more cobblestoned streets and plazas. It was the vogue again, this downtown living, a lifestyle many affluent young professionals preferred to long commutes from the far flung suburbs, and Aaron could see the appeal. He could even see the dojo as a reasonable investment, though the asking price was a bit steep.

His young guide had sense enough, as dusk was coming on, to say little as Aaron wandered the dojo's length, opening a door here, looking without a word through the window there, hands on his hips as he contemplated the frozen yogurt shop with its striped awning on the opposite corner.

"So," the younger man ventured at last. "What do you think?"

"It has potential," Aaron responded. "The asking price--"

"--is more than it's worth."

"Well, yes, possibly, but given the renovation of this entire area--"

"--you could find yourself closed by a new zoning ordinance anytime."

"The last owner was considering turning it into an exercise and weight training salon."

Salon. Now, there was a word he'd have to think twice about.

"I'll have to give it some thought," Aaron said at last, but he knew he was just being polite, even then.

As tempted as he was at times by a move to warmer weather, he actually liked living in Detroit. God alone knew why, but it was true, and he'd just wasted his time--and the realtor's--on a useless trip to Richmond to look at a dojo he suspected he wasn't going to buy.

"Well. Let me give you a lift to your hotel and we can discuss it on the way."

"Thank you, no. If you wouldn't mind dropping my overnight bag off with the hotel concierge, I'd like to walk a bit, get to know the area."

"But it's--well, at least a mile or more to the hotel."

"Good. The walk will let me stretch my legs after being cramped on the plane." And in your too small car, he didn't say. Aaron smiled.

"If I do happen to get lost," he said, "I'll just catch a cab to the hotel. I have your card, of course. I'll contact you tomorrow and let you know what I've decided."

The realtor was reluctant, but Aaron was gently, politely insistent. In the end he had the long, narrow box containing his sword tucked under one arm and was strolling unhurriedly through Carytown just west of the Fan District. It was an amazing and delightful experience and something about it put him in mind of strolling through the streets of ancient Persia. Carytown's businesses seemed to have sprung up spontaneously, in no particular order he could discern, so that at one moment he was smelling the wares of coffee and tobacco shops, only to find himself next looking in on a bicycle shop or a store offering handblown glasswares or lingerie. Jewelers' shops crowded next to the Amazing Pet boutique, and only a few doors down there was Mongrel's, a shop specializing in unusual and creative cards and gifts, and beyond that was one of the most incredible chocolate specialty stores he'd ever encountered. Up the way a bit, the World of Mirth offered collectibles from the '40s, '50s, and '60s--only in the U.S. would such things be considered anywhere near worth collecting--and beyond that was a personal training and massage spot much along the lines, he imagined, of what the young realtor had envisioned for the dojo, full of blonde oak, hanging plants, and brass. Aaron smiled. Lots of brass, no doubt.

Shaking his head at it all, Aaron realized he should have allowed more than a scant day for sightseeing and ducked into a side street where he could at last unwrap his package and tuck his sword away where it belonged, in the sling made to hold it inside his lightweight London Fog. The packaging went into the wheeled Dempsey dumpster in the alley behind what looked for the world like a skateboard shop, and Aaron went on his way, heading toward the three-block long section of Richmond known as Shockoe Slip. According to a flyer tacked up on a lightpost, the area had just played host to a local renaissance fair, and there was evidence of it still, though many of the makeshift booths were closing down with night coming on. Having lived through the renaissance, Aaron had to smile a bit at the modern interpretation it was receiving, though he appreciated the attempt, at least. A group of tin whistle minstrels had just completed a credible rendition of a piece that dated back no further than the 18th century, though it sounded quaint enough, he supposed, to ears more accustomed to hip hop and gangsta rap. In a good humor, he tossed a few coins into the upturned tambourine decorated with flowing pastel streamers, just starting to think about food.

Richmond, of course, had an excellent reputation for fine dining, though it was too early for anything much in the way of night life. Streetlights were coming on, along with live torches here and there about the square as the remnants of the renaissance fair set up for the evening, and he could feel the breeze, cooling, off the river that tumbled through town. Off to his right the tin whistle musicians started up again--something Celtic from the sound of it--though abruptly there was something else that demanded his attention.

There; the growing ring of Immortal presence, insistent, reaching out toward him, and coming . . . coming from one of the renaissance fair stalls, where the weapons maker demonstrating his craft surely knew far more about the work he was about than any dozen other men now alive. Their eyes met and Aaron nearly sighed.

They were of a height, scarcely a hair's breadth difference between them. If he were perfectly honest, though, he'd have to admit the other was, just possibly, a bit taller. On the other hand, Aaron was the heavier of the two, though again not by much. As for eyes and hair color--there they were just reversed. Aaron's eyes were brown, his hair black; the other's eyes were black, with an Asian cast, his hair a coarse brown, worn long and braided to his waist, a curtain that concealed much as he bent to his task, collecting tools, weapons, accoutrements, all to be packed away at this, the end of another day. Except it wasn't, was it? With another Immortal in the area it was never just the end of another day, at least not until a few questions were settled. This time Aaron did sigh and he couldn't help being self-conscious of the Guingate against his left leg and hip as he walked unhurriedly toward the man's stall.

Seemingly unconcerned, Ho-Sung watched as the other man approached. There were advantages to wearing your hair long, one of them being that you could take your time in acknowledging another's presence if you chose. As it was, he had plenty to do to close up the stall from the day's events, and he deliberately avoided meeting the other man's eyes until he was ready to do so on his own terms.

"I suppose we could just skip the whole thing," Aaron said.

"We could." Ho-Sung waited, slowly and carefully packing away half a dozen sets of nunchucks.

"Then again, say we did somehow both manage to make it through the Gathering to the end of things. We'd just end up facing one another anyway."

"True."

"So we might just as well get it over with, I suppose."

"Put that way, it seems almost inevitable, doesn't it?" Ho-Sung asked.

"In the good old days, you'd have had choice of weapons, since I'm more or less the challenger here," Aaron mused. He ran his eyes over the assortment of materials Ho-Sung was calmly and methodically packing away into what looked like an old Army duffel bag.

"Suppose I choose mine and you choose yours," Ho-Sung said. "That way neither of us needs be at any particular disadvantage."

"Have you a location in mind?" Aaron asked.

"Henricus City works well enough after dark if you don't mind cleaning up after yourself."

Aaron arched an eyebrow.

"A city?"

"Henricus City," Ho Sun repeated. "Just south of town. Even a stranger to the area should be able to find it without too much difficulty."

He smiled slightly as he hefted the duffel bag up and over one shoulder.

"Check with Michelin," he advised. "Midnight, then?"

"It seems a bit melodramatic," Aaron said, "but it works as well as any other hour. Midnight, then. Oh--I'm Aaron Al-Santori, if that matters."

"Pako Ho-Sung. And it doesn't matter. Not in the least."

Tapping one forefinger against his teeth, Aaron stood watching Ho-Sung walk away. Completely unawares, he was smiling just a bit.

"Michelin, huh?" he muttered.

All right. He glanced at his watch, found it was still quite early. In fact, he had nearly five hours to kill before his unexpected appointment. Some part of which, he supposed, he should use in hunting up a bookstore and locating "Henricus City" and learning why a city would strike the local Immortal as an appropriate location for a swordfight.

"The second English settlement in the New World," Aaron read, "Henricus was established in 1611 by Sir Thomas Dale, a leader of the original Jamestown party who was charged with establishing a safer, healthier location. He founded Henricus along the James River in an area inhabited by the Appomattucks tribe and where Pocahontas grew up. This James River settlement was the fledgling English colony's next step west from Jamestown. Evidence indicates that the first hospital in English America was established here. The settlement was in decline when an Indian massacre in 1622 put an end to the occupation."

"Huh." Aaron pushed aside the tour book he'd found at Barnes and Noble--not Michelin, unfortunately, but just as good for his purposes--and sat back, toying with his coffee rather than actually drinking it. Apparently people weren't content to leave well enough alone after the Indian massacre, and the good folks of Richmond and the surrounding area were in the process of restoring Henricus City as a tourist site, something along the lines of Jamestown itself, with recreations of the stockade and other original buildings, and friendly locals who re-enacted scenes from colonial American times during daylight hours. After dark, from what Ho-Sung had said at least, it was a different story. Not that Aaron was surprised--every city he'd ever lived in had its own group of Immortals, whether a few or many, and every group of Immortals had its own inner network that knew of spots throughout the city that were more or less appropriate--i.e., private enough--for the occasional swordfight. And beheading. And disposal of the body, of course.

"Dessert, sir?"

Aaron almost laughed out loud, given the timing of the waiter's question, but managed to quell the impulse.

"Uh, no, thank you," he said.

He pulled enough bills out of his wallet to cover the check and gratuity, asking, "What's the best way to Henricus City from here?"

The waiter looked surprised. "At this time of night?

"I guess a cab could drop you off there if you wanted, but the stockade's closed at night. I mean, there aren't any shows or anything, and it's still pretty wild out there. I wouldn't want to go too far off the beaten path, if you know what I mean."

Aaron smiled.

"I guess I'd better wait until tomorrow, then. You say it's a reasonable cab ride?"

"Reasonable?" the youngster echoed. "Not on my salary."

Aaron let it pass in laughter. Outside the restaurant, Richmond's nightlife was just heating up, with rock and roll floating on the night air from somewhere not too far off. Standing under a streetlight, he consulted his recently purchased guidebook again and then hailed a taxi. Telling the fare to go to Henricus, Aaron reached for his wallet again, handing the driver twice the estimated amount in cash. The driver looked at Aaron and then at the cash, shrugged, and said, "You're the boss." It was, of course, exactly the reaction Aaron had wanted, and they made the short drive in almost complete silence.

"You sure about this, mister?" the driver asked as they pulled into the more cultivated part of the site. "I mean, I'm not waiting around, no matter how big the tip. It's pretty barren out here, you know."

The taxi's headlights pierced the semi-darkness, highlighting the rough, wooden stockade as the driver backed out of the gravel-covered parking area. The stockade, Aaron supposed, had been erected on the site of the original, though he was reasonably sure it hadn't had motion sensor floodlight mounted on top in its first incarnation. But then again, he doubted his host for the evening's festivities would be found anywhere near the floodlights.

Aaron pressed the light button on his watch, holding it in long enough to determining that it was, indeed, nearing midnight. And, if he stood perfectly still and concentrated, he could almost sense his opponent's presence, like the teasing edge of a whisper, half-heard.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Aaron chanted under his breath, trusting his senses to lead him where he needed to be.

With the exception of the stockade and some pseudo-seventeenth century buildings, the gravel-strewn parking area was the most modern thing in sight. In fact, Aaron thought, it was easy to see why Henricus City might make an ideal meeting place for Immortals, at least after dark. The "city" appeared to have been built on a peninsula, with the river on one side and, from the sound of things, a wetlands on the other. There was a trail, more or less well kept, which looped at the midpoint and, if you went far enough along, ended at a bluff with a truly spectacular view of the James River, tumbling white through the night. It was quite a nice view, actually, and would probably have been peaceful under other circumstances. In fact, except for a bridge in the distance there was little or no sign of any human habitation--just a bench at the top of the bluff that would have been an ideal spot for contemplation another time. Any other time, as a matter of fact, because the whisper of Immortal presence brushed against his consciousness again and Aaron moved toward it.

"There's really no reason to be coy," he muttered, and then he was falling, sliding downhill, having thrown himself abruptly to the side to avoid the swing of Hoc Sung's blade, aimed neatly at the spot occupied by Aaron's head a moment before.

"Shit!" he gasped, sliding rapidly downhill.

He'd very likely have landed in the muck at the bottom if the heel of his boot hadn't snagged an exposed tree root on the way down, bringing him to an abrupt and jarring halt. His sword was half under him on his left side and flailing in the mud was hardly the most efficient way of freeing it from the recesses of his coat. It was, however, what he'd been reduced to, so he had little choice in the matter. The Guingate was free then, and he had it out and upright, but the angle was all wrong as he scrambled for purchase, trying to get to his feet even as Ho-Sung jumped, landing within a handspan of him. Predictably, Ho-Sung's leg swung for him, ready to kick the sword out of his hand, but Aaron snatched Ho-Sung's foot in his free hand, twisting with all the strength he could muster. It wasn't enough to push the slighter man into the drink, but it bought Aaron enough time to scramble frantically uphill a few feet and get his own feet beneath him in the process.

Aaron crouched, flipping the Guingate from right hand to left and threw himself forward at the same time. He connected, slamming first and hilt together into Ho-Sung's face in a very satisfying contact that snapped the other's head to his left. Too close for swords then, they grappled, feet sliding in the mud, and abruptly Aaron lost his footing and pitched forward, slamming into Ho-Sung. The slighter man cursed and they tumbled off the bank and into a foot or so of dark, standing water filled with reeds and something that moved, slithering, insulted no doubt by the sudden intrusion into its space.

Seemingly of one mind, the two men floundered together toward the shore, swords held high, both dripping and sputtering water. Ho-Sung swung then, barely discernible in all black, and Aaron hardly knew he'd blocked the other's swing until their swords clashed. The impact radiated up Aaron's arm and hummed in the long muscles of his arm and shoulder, but even as his arm protested the impact he was swinging himself, the Guingate describing a deadly arc that Ho-Sung countered with surprising ease, catching Aaron's steel on one edge of the Chinese broadsword he was using.

Damn but Ho-Sung was fast! Only after the fact was Aaron able to translate the blur he saw into what had happened, and that only because he felt full force Ho-Sung's foot slamming into his chest. It was luck alone that placed Aaron's rib cage in the path of Ho-Sung's boot--he'd slipped in the damned mud as he tried to jump back in time to avoid a vicious kick--and Ho-Sung's booted foot had connected with and very probably broken at least one rib. Pressing his hand momentarily to the rib, Aaron knew it could easily have been all over in that instant, since his sternum had been the intended target. If he hadn't slipped, Ho-Sung's brutal kick would have driven bone splinters into Aaron's lungs and it would have been a simple matter to finish him off.

Well, hell--he barely had time for the thought to form as Ho-Sung was on him again, this time lunging and thrusting with the broadsword, sending Aaron scrambling for room to put his own Guingate into play. He was clear then, and the Guingate swung, biting through the air with deadly force, connecting with flesh this time. Aaron lunged forward, shoving the sword forward in his right hand, and felt his blade sink purposefully through flesh.

Ho-Sung's breath hissed out in an agony and he swore, twisting to get free of the blade, but Aaron followed, shoving the blade in further still. They were in the water again, up to their knees in it, Ho-Sung flailing ineffectually to free himself from Aaron's blade and at the same time trying to put his own sword to use.

He was losing, though, and they both knew it, Ho-Sung most of all. The water was sapping his strength, red with his blood if only there had been light enough to see it by, and still Aaron pursued, driving the Guingate in deeper still, and Ho-Sung's mouth opened in a silent scream.And then, abruptly, it was over.

Thrashing in the water together, Aaron knew only that there was suddenly nothing beneath his feet and he and Ho-Sung sank without warning toward an unseen footing, neither knowing if the muddy bottom was a foot away or ten feet down. In the dark, who knew how far from the shore, with only Ho-Sung's labored breathing and the white water sounds of the James River for company, Aaron wasn't about to take the chance. He jerked the Guingate free of the other man's body, threw himself backward--and, he hoped, shoreward--groping with his feet for the bottom. Sputtering and treading water, his heart loud in his ears, Aaron forced himself to calm, straining for any sound that would tell him of a certainty which way the shore was to be found. After a moment his pulse steadied and he was able to concentrate. He caught it then, the sound of wind in the trees to his right, and slowly he paddled in that direction, keeping his sword free of the water.

After a few very long seconds one foot found the bottom, and then the other. Tired almost beyond caring, he waded ashore after a moment and fell to his knees in the mud, burying the Guingate point down in the ooze and leaning heavily on its length. Of Ho-Sung, there was no sign. Perhaps he'd drowned and sunk to the uncertain depths. Perhaps he'd floated into the main body of the James and would revive to find himself floating face up and staring into the sun when it rose in the morning. Aaron wasn't really sure he cared all that much. What he did care about was that he was alive, and while he might not be the only one, at the moment he was the only one who mattered.

After a bit he looked up, realizing tiredly he still had to climb back up the bluff and get himself back to Richmond somehow. Damn, he thought. And to top it all off, he'd decided he didn't want to buy the dojo anyway.