Chapter Twenty-Three

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod decided that he did not like dodging. He wondered, as he ducked another broad swing of Silas' axe, if he was constitutionally incapable of avoiding a fight. Another part of his mind started chiding him about losing his focus during a fight, just as he backed into one of the pillars supporting the catwalk.

Silas grinned as his target stopped moving abruptly. He lifted the axe and brought it down again in a huge chopping motion, the clear intent of which was to cleave his opponent in two, from left shoulder to right hip. And it would have worked, had Duncan not simply collapsed to the floor.

Eschewing fancy ducks, dives and rolls, all of which would have put him within the arc of the axe, Duncan slid down the post to assume a prone position on the floor in front of Silas. As the Horseman followed through on his swing, Duncan raised the long sword into position above his torso. Silas' inertia, along with the razor sharp edge of the sword, did most of the work, and Duncan was soon splattered with warm blood from the deep slice across Silas' abdomen.

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Kronos and Methos circled each other warily, neither willing to commit fully without first assessing his brother's new skills. Blades touched briefly and slipped away, never lingering too long or too hard. Feints were made and responded to, while eyes and minds noted the position of feet and hands.

Methos noted a new wariness in his usually foolhardy brother. In the past, Kronos had been one to attack with rage and abandon, sure of his own skill and his ability to intimidate his opponent. That quality seemed lacking now.

"What's the matter Kronos," he taunted, hoping to distract his opponent. "Afraid I've learned some new tricks? Worried I can beat you now?" Methos knew both men remembered how often he ended up on his bum in the sand when they sparred during their reign of terror.

But Methos also knew that he had been just as guilty of relying on things other than his swordsmanship to guarantee victory during that period of his life. Kronos had been one of those things, just another of the tools he employed as a Horseman, like the masks and the make-up.

"No, brother," Kronos' voice broke into Methos' thoughts. "I was simply debating whether to kill you quickly or slowly. Either way, I wouldn't want you to miss the fun when your friends die, so I'll make sure you're up for that." Kronos' leer reminded Methos painfully of Caspian's past pursuits, and he shifted his focus briefly to the fight between two more of his tools, his former brother and his former slave.

Over Kronos' shoulder, Methos could see them fighting fiercely in the base of Team Methos. Cassandra had the obvious upper hand, and Methos was torn between pride in her accomplishments, and disgust at how sharp an edge his tool held. Placing any self-contempt firmly behind a locked door in his mind, Methos determined to keep Kronos from noticing how badly Caspian was acquitting himself, giving Cassandra a chance to end things, once and for all.

"Come brother," Methos cried, twirling his sword in imitation of one of MacLeod's showier moves, "let me show you what I've learned."

********

"Get up!" Cassandra rasped, every nerve in her body quivering with stimulation. Caspian's slackened grip on the hilt of his sword tightened a little, and she slapped him viciously on the back with the flat of her sword. "I said get up, dog! Fight me on your feet, like the man you pretend to be!" She poked him with the tip of her sword, making small bloody gashes on his body and clothing.

Caspian lurched to one knee, glaring blackly upward with his sword held loosely. He seemed to realize that the killing strike would not come until he was fully upright and on the attack. Cassandra watched his chaotic thoughts of violence and vengeance smoulder behind his eyes.

"You've lost something over the centuries, Caspian," she chuckled, strutting before him, flaunting herself. "You never would have let yourself be taken down by a woman two thousand years ago."

"I'll taste you yet, b*tch," Caspian growled.

"Big talk from a man who can't even stand up," she shouted derisively. She turned her back to him and peered over the low wall as though to retrieve something. Her awareness was heightened by adrenaline, by excitement, by unadulterated joy, and she waited until she sensed he was about six feet away before she risked a look back. He was charging, sword as high over his head as he could manage with the partially healed shoulder and the fresh belly wound.

She collapsed sideways onto the edge of the wall as though cowering; then as he swung his sword with diminished speed and strength, she rolled away, avoiding the cut. Pulling her legs up and balancing on the edge of the wall, she thrust both feet hard into his pelvis, sending him flying backward. Caspian did not fall, but stood doubled over several feet away. Rolling smoothly off the wall, Cassandra ran toward him. He brandished his sword feebly, and one stroke of hers tore it from his hand. She launched a brutal kick at his knee, feeling the kneecap slide far out of place, and brought the hilt of her weapon down on the top of his head as collapsed to the other knee, howling.

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Duncan rolled quickly out of the path of a collapsing Silas. He had a brief moment's panic as he bumped the pillar, but his years of martial arts training kept him calm enough to continue his move out of harm's way.

The abdominal wound he had inflicted on Silas was both deep and long. It bisected the larger man, and he fell to one knee, trying to hold his intestines in with one hand, while he attempted to maintain a grasp on his axe with the other. His pain was evident only in the gasps he let out, gasps that echoed loudly as the music stopped once again.

"You were a worthy opponent," Duncan said as he moved cautiously around Silas, staying out of range of the axe. His sword licked out, stroking Silas' arm, and the axe fell to the floor.

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The floodgates of Cassandra's rage were now flung wide, and she was beating Caspian with her sword, both with the flat and the edges. She struck at his arms, his back, his legs, each blow feeding her rage. She varied her attack occasionally with shallow pokes with the tip, seeking not to cause death but only pain, infinite pain. It seemed to her the most enjoyable thing she had ever indulged in, and she reveled in the agony she saw in his eyes, and in the hate and fear as well.

Her hacking and stabbing escalated until she heard Methos' voice stern in her ear. "Cassandra, finish it!"

************
Methos took advantage of Kronos' obvious desire to prolong their fight until the other Horsemen could defeat his team mates. His brother's intent to keep Methos alive and able to watch their deaths allowed the wily immortal to appear fully engaged while subtly choreographing the fight to keep Kronos' back to the confrontation between Cassandra and Caspian.

However, the longer that confrontation went on, the more obvious his ploy was becoming. He knew Cassandra had taken Caspian down; what the devil was keeping that Quickening? Risking a glance, Methos was stunned to see Cassandra strutting and gloating over Caspian, torturing him jubilantly, but avoiding the killing strike.

Irritation swelled within him – didn't she understand that this was not a game; that all their lives were at stake? But a second glance brought a darker worry. By the look on her face, the torture she was inflicting was inspiring joy in Cassandra, and she was surrendering herself to that joy wholeheartedly. Whatever seething black pit had spawned a man like Caspian, Cassandra now stood at its edge, teetering.

Methos struck at Kronos, allowing him to turn away in the follow-through and hide his face momentarily. "Cassandra," he said with as much command as he could muster, "finish it!"

There was no time to say more. He hoped she would heed him before it was too late.

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Pausing, Cassandra turned her head toward where Methos and Kronos were engaged. He met her eyes only briefly as he fought his battle, but the recess from the assault on Caspian was enough to bring home Methos' point. Her rage, useful – even indispensable – for a time, was beginning to consume her. Fighting fire with fire was one thing; becoming the fire itself was quite another.

Looking down on the beaten and whimpering Caspian, Cassandra realized it was time to extinguish this flame.

She raised the blade over her head and sliced cleanly and quickly through his neck.

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"Keep thinking you have won, little man." The words ground out between gasps as Silas swayed on one knee before Duncan. "My brothers will avenge me, if you even manage to kill me." Duncan looked on, disbelieving, as Silas threw back his head and laughed, then lurched to his feet.

Duncan stepped back, raising his sword protectively in front of him, preparing himself to deliver the killing strike. Then both men felt and heard the difference in the room. This hush had nothing to do with music, and everything to do with the energy they could suddenly taste like ozone before a thunderstorm. As they stilled, the first flash of lightning split the air of the arena.

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Cassandra threw back her head and allowed the energy to pour into her. The light and the power pooled around her, glowing like a nimbus around a sun. Her hair began to move and crackle as if it had a life of its own, lifting off her scalp and stretching toward the energy that engulfed her form.

Kronos and Methos, standing not thirty feet away from the tempest, were thrown to the floor when the first bolts of lightning started to cascade around the room. Both had to duck as the base, which had begun by hanging ten feet behind Cassandra, went flying past them to crash into the shadows across the room.

Meanwhile, Cassandra's arms were flung out, as if to embrace the life force flowing out of Caspian, and into her. Although her face was cast in a tight grimace, laughter soared out of her open mouth. Methos shivered to hear echoes of Caspian in that laughter, and wondered if they were a result of the Quickening, or of the cat and mouse game that preceded it?

As the Quickening gained strength, all the speakers in the room began to explode, electronic parts showering outward from their hidden recesses. After the speakers, the lights began to blow out. Thankfully some of them were sodium arc bulbs, and they seemed to avoid the worst of the damage, leaving at least some light to see by.

At the end, one last surge of energy struck the catwalk. Methos, lying on the ground mere feet away from the structure, heard bolts snapping under the strain, and then creaking as the metal moved away from the wall. He rolled desperately to avoid the falling metal while listening to Cassandra's cries through his earpiece.

Rising quickly, Methos spotted Kronos circling to get behind Cassandra; a Cassandra who was too busy collapsing to the floor to be able to do anything to stop him. Even in the dim lighting, Methos could see the lustful glare that suffused Kronos' face, teeth flashing in a predatory snarl. Vaulting the remains of the catwalk, Methos sprinted across the base area and stepped between Cassandra and Kronos.

"Not this time, brother," he hissed, levelling his sword at Kronos. "This time, you fight me."