One of the horses snorted, stamping her hoof. Joe didn't blame her — he was uncomfortable, too. Georgia summers were hot and muggy, and they no longer had the prospect of air conditioning to make it bearable. The traveling they had done the last few months had all been on horseback, and before that, on a tramp freighter from Terneuzen in the Netherlands, across the Atlantic to Plymouth Harbor in Massachusetts. Neither of those had helped either his backside or his disposition.

He studied the new immortal. The best word to describe Daryl was scruffy. Shaggy brown hair, clothes that were dirty, but not completely filthy, and a sleeveless t-shirt showing off muscled arms that said he wasn't starving. Daryl, and the people he had spoken of, had obviously had access to sufficient food and water since the world ended.

How had they survived? What had they gone through? He and Methos had met pockets of other survivors since the world's end, and they all had different experiences to share. Joe itched to pull out one of his journals and start writing, to record what had happened to Daryl's group — as well as the current conversation between the two immortals.

Daryl took a breath, obviously reining in his earlier frustration with the slow pace of the information they were giving him, and waved a hand near his head. "What's with that weird feeling? You called it a buzz."

"That's what we call it," Methos corrected. "You might say it's an early warning system, letting us know other immortals are near."

Suspicion filled Daryl's eyes. "And just why do we need an early warning system?"

"Most immortals believe in something called the Game. We cannot die unless we lose our heads, remember? If another immortal cuts off your head, they take what we call our quickening. Your power and memories."

Daryl sat silently for a moment, just staring. "Let me try to wrap my brain around this. You crazy fuckers run around chopping each other's heads off?"

Joe muffled a snicker at that reaction. He sympathized — he'd had a similar reaction when his mentor, Ian Bancroft, had told him about immortals when he was healing after losing his legs.

Methos shot him a quelling look before answering Daryl. "Yes."

They sat in silence as Daryl attempted to absorb that information. "What in the hell does that mean for me?"

Methos shrugged. "I teach you to fight with a sword, or find you another teacher."

"A sword?" Daryl stared at him in disbelief. "Why?"

"We fight with swords, one on one, like a duel. The winner takes the loser's head. The only rule is that no one is allowed to interfere in our fights. However, since the world's end, there are groups of immortals that refuse to play the game, and they are banding together for protection."

"But someone still might decide to fight me and chop my head off?"

Methos nodded.

"Uh huh. Okay. My crossbow may not be the most subtle of weapons, but I've got guns, too. Anyone challenges me to a duel? I'll shoot them and chop off their head."

What? Surprise made Joe sit up in his chair. "You... you can't do that!"

Next to him, though, Methos smiled broadly. "My boy!"

"You approve of that?" Joe asked sharply. The idea went against the grain. In all of his experience with immortals, only a handful that he knew of had ever violated the one on one nature of their duels.

Methos looked surprised at his disapproval. "Why not? It's practical."

"'Practical,'" Joe muttered darkly under his breath. Of course. He shouldn't have been surprised.

Methos rolled his eyes and turned to Daryl. "If you do that, make sure you don't get a reputation among us for cheating."

Joe nodded. Now that was sensible.

"Just make sure you kill anyone who might see you cutting corners like that."

Joe froze, then huffed out a laugh. Of course. He should have expected Methos to give a warning like that.

Daryl looked from him to Methos. "Now we got that settled, why do I get this buzzing thing with walkers?"

Methos sighed. "That is a long story, and requires a little background — and another bottle."

"This is where I come in, isn't it?" Joe asked sourly, shaking his head when Methos looked relieved. "Yeah, yeah. Just gimme that bottle, kid."

Daryl handed him the bottle.

He drank deeply, then let out a satisfied sigh. They kept their alcohol supplies strictly rationed these days. He unbuttoned his cuff on his left wrist, showing his tattoo to the kid.

Daryl eyed it. "So you got some ink. What of it?"

"This is the symbol of an organization called the Watchers. It's been around for thousands of years, just like the immortals." Joe didn't mention his suspicion that Methos had been the one to start the Watchers, no matter what their own records said — and had been the one stepping in to keep the organization going when membership faltered. "We keep records of them, and their fights."

He could see Daryl shrink into himself, withdrawing uncomfortably. "Buncha voyeurs, ain't ya?"

"Well, not actually voyeurs, but…" Joe sighed. "Yeah, I guess you could call us that. The problem with our organization was… some of the Watchers became jealous of the immortals they watched. They formed a secret branch, called Hunters. They killed the immortals and took their heads, instead of watching and recording. But that wasn't enough for them. They…"

"When the world ended, Joe and I were in Holland," Methos took over when the silence dragged on too long. "We'd heard some rumours of a falling out among the Hunters. After the chaos died down, we found the facility." He went quiet, seemingly turning inward.

Joe recognized the look. Methos was reliving everything that had happened to them at the facility. Immortal brains sorted and saved their memories differently than mortals — they had to, in order to cope with lives that could last hundreds or even thousands of years. With a single reminder, the immortal would remember what happened to them, almost as if they were experiencing the events again.

"And?" Daryl interrupted, looking impatient.

Methos jerked his head up to look at Daryl. "Of course. The facility we found had been abandoned." His smile went cold and sharklike, a reminder that he had once been Death himself. "Which was a good thing, or I would have slaughtered them. They were the ones to release this plague — in the name of 'helping' mankind. They had no idea that they were so wrong in their calculations."

"What… what did they do?"

"They had kidnapped a brand new immortal — one who barely even know what he was. They'd killed his teacher when they took him. They were jealous of the immortals, and had decided that their science," Methos practically spat the word, "would help them discover the secret to immortality. They were wrong. What they managed to do was unleash death upon the world — and upon themselves. We found the immortal they experimented on in a cage, barely alive. They'd left him there, with no way to escape, constantly dying and reviving. He had no idea what they'd used him for, and when he did…"

"He couldn't live with himself. It was a mercy to kill him." Joe remembered the nameless immortal pleading with him, wanting him to take his head rather than for Methos to take it. Hell. They had never even learned his name. He hadn't told them, and it hadn't been in the records they'd found — the Hunters hadn't bothered to find out. Joe picked up his cane, using it to lever himself up, out of the chair. Daryl looked at him with curiosity, but Joe ignored him. He needed to get away from immortals for a minute.

Leaning heavily on his cane, he limped to the edge of the clearing, ignoring the two men behind him.

Methos watched Joe, concerned, but let him go. He understood the need for privacy. He turned to Daryl. "That's why you get a kind of buzz from the walkers. They're an artificial kind of immortal, never meant for our kind of immortality. The buzz draws them together — they recognize it in each other. It draws them to us, too, so watch for that." He fell silent, studying Daryl. Damn. He had no choice, did he? "Come on, up you get."

"What? Why?"

"You need a sword."

Daryl shook his head. "No, I don't. I already said. Anyone I kill has a sword, I just use theirs."

Methos ignored the protests, dragging Daryl along to where his pack lay. He reached in, unerringly finding the sword he wanted. It was a heavy British cavalry officer's sword. He'd picked it up in 1813, after finding himself in the British Army as a lieutenant. His captain, a mortal, had carried a similar sword. Richard had been very good — and very lucky — in battle. "You need a sword," he repeated, handing Daryl the heavy sword. "This was used in the Peninsular War against Napoleon."

Daryl took the sword with obvious reluctance. He frowned. "Peninsu-what?"

Not wanting to insult the young immortal's intelligence, and not familiar with what was taught in American schools these days, Methos said matter of factly, "The part of the Napoleonic War set in the Iberian Peninsula — that's Spain and Portugal — from 1808 to 1814."

"Huh. That's old," Daryl said, his eyes on the sword as he gave it an experimental swing. Growing bolder, he swung the sword around him in a wide arc.

Methos sidestepped the sweeping blade, and forbore to mention that it was barely two hundred years ago. In his mind's eye, he could see Richard, walking along a trail in Spain, dust rising around his feet, Baker rifle in hand and sword at his hip. Richard turned, facing him.

"We'll rest here. Harris, Perkins, Hagman — on picquet. If you spot any rabbits, Dan, bag them. We could use some meat for the pot."

Hagman nodded and started moving into the brush. The other two riflemen said, "Yes, sir," and headed in different directions to stand guard.

Richard waited while his orders were carried out, then called, "Harper, Adams, with me."

Methos fell into step with Harper. How the hell had he ended up fighting in a war? He knew better than to pick sides and go into battle, but purchasing a commission in the British Army had seemed a convenient way to get away from another immortal who had been hunting him. He hadn't intended to get ordered to Spain, fighting against Napoleon's troops.

Richard had moved ahead, and alternated between looking at the trail ahead and studying a worn, ragged map. His green eyes focused on Methos as they approached. "Looks like we're two days march from Vitoria. We'll stop here and rest until evening, then we'll get on."

"I'll see that the men are ready, sir. If Hagman doesn't manage to get a rabbit, permission to let him trail behind?"

"Granted, Harper. Tell him to take whoever he needs with him — within reason. We could all do with a full belly." Richard glanced at Methos. "You acquitted yourself well in our last battle, lad. I wasn't sure about you at first, but you're a good addition to the company."

"Thank you, sir." Methos kept his amusement to himself. He'd been leading armies centuries before this man had been born. His eyes dropped to Richard's sword of their own accord. His own faithful Ivanhoe was out of reach for the moment, and the comparatively flimsy infantry officer's sword he wore was no replacement. He needed to get his hands on a sword like that.

Richard's eyes followed his gaze. "Like my sword, do you, Adams?"

"Yes sir. It's not regulation. Where did you get it?"

Surprisingly, Richard ducked his head, utterly failing to hide a shy smile. "Patrick made it for me. Mine broke at Salamanca."

The tips of Harper's ears went pink. "You needed a sword, sir," he said gruffly. He gave a possessive pat to the Nock gun he held like a baby.

The Nock gun, Methos already knew, had been a gift to Harper from Richard. The big sergeant was one of the few men who could handle the six-barreled rifle.

Richard's smile turned fond as he looked up at Harper. "That I did. Adams, would you like to see it?"

"Yes, sir." He took the sword that Richard handed him. A tension that he had no longer been aware of left his shoulders now that he held a proper sword. He took a practice swing, parrying an imaginary attack. It had a good, solid weight. With considerable reluctance, he handed it back to its owner. He knew what sword he would be looking for next. He was sure he'd be able to trade for one — and if that failed, there was always looting the dead.

Methos pulled his attention back to the present to find the younger immortal was still swinging the sword around. "It's a sword, not a bat," he said, exasperated.

Daryl flushed, holding the sword awkwardly against his side. "It ain't no big deal. It's just a big knife."

"A big knife," Methos scoffed. "It's a big knife that might just save your life one day."

"Maybe. But I still have my crossbow. And a gun. I've killed walkers, kept myself and the others alive."

"Well done, you. But facing a walker is nothing like facing an immortal."

Daryl flushed. "At least I'm not dragging around someone who can't even walk right. Your friend there is easy pickings for walkers."

Methos went cold, struggling to contain his fury. "What did you say?"