The Dragon and His Wrath

Part 4 of 5

Disclaimers in part 1

As soon as they were gone, MacLeod got to his knees from where he had been lying on the floor, and reached for one of Methos's chains. Joe watched, curious, as MacLeod took one open manacle and pounded it on the concrete floor. He studied it for a few seconds, then pounded the catch again and again. Finally satisfied, he let it go, and turned to his tap for a drink.

"What's that for?" Joe asked.

"I hope it's a trap. Be ready when they come back, Joe."

"Ready for what?"

"I don't know. Whatever comes."

"Mac, the salt …"

"Yeah?"

"Why does it last like that?"

MacLeod sighed. "I don't think it would last long. Maybe a day or so. It's just that every moment …"

"Yeah."

They were both quiet. Whatever MacLeod was intending, Joe realized it was all going to come to a head now, for good or ill. He was scared, but he also felt a welcome feeling – hope.

"Why was salting the earth so bad?" Joe asked, to keep his mind from leaping at possibilities.

"It's like a war crime, a 'crime against humanity.' It's one thing to burn a town, but if you salt the earth, nothing will grow. The entire populace will starve if they can't find some other means. It guarantees that the town will not come back, probably not ever. It's like a curse. Generally, you don't do that."

"Romans must have been really pissed."

MacLeod made a sound like a snort.

"You think Methos did that?" Joe ventured.

"I don't know. But I'm sure Kronos would have."

After far too long, they heard the sounds of the men approaching. MacLeod lay down, looking limp, next to the bars adjoining Methos's cage, but with his back to them.

Joe's pounding heart was wrung by the sight of the blood-smeared body on Olaf's shoulder. He hadn't realized how wasted Methos had become. Methos moaned, but made no movement. Joe cringed to think of the salt …

As was their habit, Olaf took Methos into the cage while Kreegan waited without, dart gun held negligently in one hand. Olaf locked one of Methos's hands and struggled with the second manacle.

"Olaf, what is it?" Kreegan demanded.

Olaf answered – the first time Joe had heard him speak – in a language Joe didn't know.

Kreegan entered the cage, his concentration on the damaged manacle. He clearly didn't consider Methos a threat, any more.

He hadn't bargained on MacLeod. MacLeod exploded to his feet, grabbing Kreegan through the bars. The dart gun his main goal, MacLeod attained it and fired its one shot into Kreegan's stomach. Kreegan went down.

Olaf, no fool, moved immediately away from the reach of the Highlander, but that brought him within Joe's reach. Joe grabbed a burly ankle and heaved. Caught off balance, Olaf fell to one knee with a yell, one arm outstretched.

MacLeod made a superhuman stretch of his own and reached that hand. He hauled Olaf brutally against the bars and patted his pockets swiftly before Olaf got over being stunned. He produced a gun and some keys, as well as another dose of dart drug. The gun he tossed to Joe and the dart he jabbed into Olaf's butt. Olaf went limp.

Joe couldn't believe it. He couldn't contain the joy that welled up in him. They were free! "Yes!" he yelled.

A grinning Highlander shushed him. "There may be other guards," he said, unlocking his door.

"Methos didn't see any," Joe reminded him. Methos had reported seeing no other servants or staff during his trip to the House.

MacLeod unlocked Methos's door and Joe's, then, with Joe covering the unconscious men with the gun, MacLeod unlocked Methos's one manacle. Too weak to move much, Methos was insensible with pain, and showed no awareness of what had happened.

MacLeod stripped the two men and donned Olaf's clothing. Joe inherited Kreegan's clothes. MacLeod made a cautious foray outside and returned with a blanket, keys to a car, and two swords. One sword was MacLeod's katana, and the other might have been Methos's Ivanhoe. Joe wasn't sure. "I don't see anyone," MacLeod reported.

"Mac, do we just leave?"

"No. Kreegan'll come after us. This has to end now." MacLeod wrapped Methos's naked form in the blanket and lifted him in his arms. "I'm putting Methos in the car. Be right back."

This time MacLeod returned with old friends. Joe's prosthetics and cane. Joe thought of how many times he'd cursed the things. Now they meant freedom and self-reliance. If only there was some food … he knew they had to get away, but his entire body screamed at him to make eating something his top priority. Even in his excitement he found it hard to concentrate on anything but his need for food.

"Mac, what do you mean, this has to end now? You going to …?" Joe didn't finish. His own feelings were conflicted about murdering the unconscious immortal. He fervently wanted to see the asshole dead, but he hated the thought of what doing something so dishonorable would do to his immortal assignment. Methos's words about Christine Salzer from long ago came back to him. "He didn't save her; he saved you."

"When he wakes up, I'll fight him. If I could get you and Methos away first, I would, but it looks like you'll have to wait and see who wins."

"Couldn't you challenge him later?"

"Now's the perfect time. When he wakes up, he'll be groggy from the drug. That makes us about even. We may not have time to wait, though. There must be some kind of staff at this place. Didn't Olaf have a wake-up version of that drug?"

Rooting around in Olaf's clothes, MacLeod found a hypodermic. He jabbed Kreegan in the neck with it and stepped back.

Kreegan woke. Glancing at the unconscious Olaf, he rose slowly to his feet. Joe kept the gun trained on him. MacLeod held his katana like the extension of himself that it was.

"So," Kreegan asked quietly, "do you murder me now, or do you give me the same chance I gave you?"

"Maybe I'll give you what you gave my friend," said MacLeod. "That would be fair, don't you think?"

"You'll do what you choose; what I think doesn't matter."

"No, it doesn't. Outside."

Joe followed the immortals outside, keeping the gun ready. He was shaky with weakness. It was more difficult than it should be to handle his prostheses, but he managed to stay upright. The gust of fresh air on his face almost brought tears to his eyes. He really hadn't thought he'd ever see the outside of that horrid cell again.

The building which had housed them was part of a very rundown estate built hacienda style, with an inner courtyard. That courtyard is where Joe found himself now. MacLeod strode to the center and tossed Methos's sword to Kreegan.

"May I clothe myself first?" Kreegan asked, with dignity. MacLeod had left both men in their underwear.

"Would you have let me? I don't think so."

"Very well, then." Kreegan raised the sword to en garde. "I am Jan Stefano Kreegan, formerly Gamissal of Carthage."

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

With that, the fight began. Even with Joe's spotty knowledge of swordfighting, he could tell that Kreegan's tactic was to fight defensively and wear MacLeod out, but Joe saw no sign that the Highlander was tiring. MacLeod fought with deadly ferocity and a fury in his eyes. Joe thought he knew that fury. He felt it himself whenever he thought of Methos imagining he heard the golf cart approaching.

MacLeod made good psychological use of Kreegan's nakedness, scoring him with non serious cuts all over his body.

Movement at the edge of his vision caught Joe's attention. Olaf had appeared and he held the dart gun. Damn! How had they mislaid that thing? Where had Olaf found another dart?

"Freeze, Olaf!" Joe ordered.

Olaf raised the dart gun swiftly, and Joe couldn't afford to consider his action. He squeezed the trigger, and Olaf dropped to the ground, a hideous red flower blossoming on his chest. A wave of nausea that was half-flashback washed over Joe.

Whether chivalry or battle tactic, MacLeod disengaged and backed off a few feet, allowing Kreegan to turn to look at his dying servant. Kreegan looked, then turned back and attacked with renewed purpose. He did not seem unbalanced by the loss of Olaf. He attacked like he intended to finish the fight, now. Now MacLeod was on the defensive.

But Kreegan was barefoot, and turned his ankle on the slope of a cobblestone.

"Too bad, Kreegan," MacLeod announced. He sliced at the other immortal's throat like he was making a golf stroke, and Kreegan's head flew like it was the ball. "There can be only one," MacLeod told the dead man, "and it's not you."

With that, MacLeod fell heavily onto the stone paving, and only then did Joe remember how weakened he was.

Usually, Joe knew, MacLeod met a Quickening proudly, on his feet. This time he let it take him lying down.

Duncan MacLeod had had a lot of homes in his lifetime, but he couldn't remember feeling toward any of them the way he felt when he saw the barge. Home, normalcy, security, food. Food! A sudden weakness at the thought of food washed over him as he got out of the car. His thinking, which had remained doggedly clear for all this time, started to fog. He made himself circle the car to Methos's door and open it, but then he stared at the other man, foolishly, unable to think what to do now.

Methos was no help. He remained slumped in the seat, his head to the side, eyes closed. MacLeod waited, and eventually he remembered what he needed to do.

"Methos," he said. "Adam," he corrected, in deference to their semi-public location. He reached in to unbuckle the seat belt holding him in place. His sluggish thoughts went to the barge's galley. Could he remember what supplies he had had nearly a month ago? Food that wouldn't have spoiled?

Methos stirred and opened his eyes, slowly.

"Can you walk?" MacLeod asked.

Methos shook his head.

"Lean on me, then," MacLeod said, and slid his arm around the man's waist. His vision dotted as another wave of light-headedness passed over him. Strange that he should be so affected now, now that it was all over.

Methos's waist was so small; his ribs were really all MacLeod could feel. He was almost afraid he would break as he tugged him out of the seat. The two of them limped up the ramp to the door of the barge, only the wool blanket preserving Methos's decency. Thank heavens MacLeod had a hidden key; his own keys were long gone.

As they entered the barge, Methos seemed to become more aware of his surroundings. "Holy ground," he croaked. "Take me to holy ground."

MacLeod was exhausted. "Later. Methos, we can stay here."

"We're in no shape …"

"It will be all right. I promise."

Methos had been leaning on the bulkhead, but his strength gave out and he collapsed. Not moving very fast, MacLeod didn't reach him before he fell.

He touched his shoulder gingerly. "Methos."

To MacLeod's surprise, Methos looked directly at him, a piercing, pleading look of intensity. "Duncan, I'm so hungry," he cried.

MacLeod stood, startled into action. Methos had been so strong for so long that his weakness now was unnerving. MacLeod left him where he was and headed straight for the galley. The first thing which came to hand was a loaf of bread. A hasty survey yielded two slices which were not moldy. He crammed one slice into his own mouth and knelt down beside Methos with the other one.

Methos put out a shaking hand and took the bread.

"Chew," MacLeod reminded, and Methos nodded, chomping. Then he coughed it back up, onto the floor.

Methos looked at MacLeod in dismay.

"I'll get another." MacLeod brought back bread and a glass of water.

Methos ignored the water, and downed the bread, but heaved and threw it up again.

"Okay," MacLeod declared. "On the bed." He reached under Methos's arms and drew him up, toward the bed.

"Nooo," Methos protested, like an overtired child, as MacLeod propped him up on the bed. "I'm hungry," he said again.

MacLeod threw open cupboards, looking for something easily palatable and immediate. His preference to cook with fresh food worked against him, as most of his supplies were unusable after this amount of time. He opened a tin of peaches and took it to the bed with a fork.

Methos's gaze locked on the can as MacLeod approached, and he reached out. MacLeod let him have the can. Methos didn't ask for the fork. He dipped right in and would have gobbled the first peach had MacLeod not grasped his wrist. "Slowly," he advised.

Methos's expression was one of pure anguish as he pulled feebly against MacLeod's grip. "I can't," he cried.

Shocked again, MacLeod froze, holding Methos's two wrists and staring into his clouded eyes. He needed help.

MacLeod released Methos and stood, watching, as Methos wolfed down two peach halves before convulsing again and spitting them up. MacLeod took the can and wiped up the regurgitation, studying Methos's desperate face.

The other immortal seemed to have exhausted himself, for he lay limp and unmoving, but wore an expression of despair. When MacLeod moved away, Methos's eyes closed.

MacLeod did some quick time zone calculations, and concluded that Anne would be at the hospital. He had to be downright rude to three people, but once he had her on the line, he explained hastily the problem, leaving out most of the circumstances that got them there.

"What can I do for him?" he begged.