MYTHOS: RAGNAROK by Beck McLaughlin June 2000 The Highlander characters are the intellectual property of Panzer/Davis. No copyright infringement is intended. **** PROLOGUE The weather had turned. The east was black with cloud, the sea gone to steel beneath it. Lightning raced along the horizon and wind rattled the shutters of the seaside cottage. Joe lowered the laptop screen and winced at the twinge in his temples. Disks were stacked at his elbow. So many chronicles to input. He wouldn't finish them, of course. They all pretended otherwise, he included, but in moments like these, Joe stopped pretending. Sliding from the stool, he found his cane and made his painful way across the kitchen to the sink. Behind him, in the great room, he heard the television's warning beep as the local station announced the imminent arrival of what he could see quite plainly. Joe stared a moment at the array of prescription containers lined up across the sill over the sink. Then he took one, opened it and dropped the capsule into his hand. Through the kitchen windows, he saw a flock of birds flying across the marshes, heading inland. Looked to be a bad storm, then. Joe took the pill, washed it down with water and limped back to the table. The phone rang before he got there. It was MacLeod. "Joe! How're you doing?" "I feel great, Mac. You were right, the sea air *is* doing me good." "Glad to hear it. Any problems with the place?" "Are you kidding? It's a damned mansion. When you said a rustic cottage by the sea, this sure as hell wasn't what I was picturing. I may never come home." The words were out before he thought. He kicked himself in that moment of sudden silence. "Seriously, Mac. This place is great. I even got Methos to agree to go fishing. Just as soon as he gets back, we'll head up to the north end of the island and ..." "Gets back?" interrupted MacLeod. Even from Chicago, Joe could hear the alarm. "Where the hell did he go? He was supposed . . ." ". . . to baby-sit me?" Joe sighed. "Mac. I'm all right. I sent him to Boston -- I forgot the damned E-G files. He'll be back tomorrow. I wish everyone would just relax!" "You're right. Sorry." Silence. Then, "Maybe I'll just run over this weekend. There's a big auction in Charleston -- I could take a quick trip up the coast..." "Great. Looking forward to it." Joe hung up, shaking his head. A gust of wind rattled the windows. One of them was open a crack, sending the curtains billowing. He went to close it. Halfway there, pain shot through his gut, doubling him over. For a moment, Joe could barely breathe. He tried to move to the nearest chair, but his limbs trembled with weakness. Another stab of pain and he fell, crashing across the coffee table to land on the floor in a glittering pile of glass and torn magazines. It took a while for the world to stabilize. Joe lay, half on, half off the wreckage of the table, thinking irrelevantly that the damn thing was probably an antique and he'd have to spend a fortune to replace it. No. Don't panic. Breathe deeply, slowly. The medication will kick in. The pain will stop. Breathe -- one, two, three. Gradually the agony receded. He could move again. Awkwardly, he began the difficult process of getting back on his prosthetics. One hand was bleeding. Careful. Don't get any on the upholstery. It took almost ten minutes to regain his footing, to close the window, and make it back to the dining room table. The effort left him shaking and covered with sweat. He fell into his chair and waited for his laboring heart to slow. Thunder rolled across the sea. Outside, the wind flattened the marsh grasses. Rain spattered on the glass. Joe opened the laptop and stared at the words there. Maybe he should have taken Methos' offer. For a moment, Joe no longer saw the chronicle of Abraham Stenheim on the screen before him. Instead, he saw a much older Immortal, hazel eyes flashing, hand outstretched, the blue crystal swinging seductively on its golden chain. "You idiot! Do you *like* the idea of dying in agony? Been there. Done that. It's not fun, trust me!" Joe believed Methos, absolutely he did. The prospect was terrifying. It was not, however, as terrifying as the notion that he could become as they had been -- the Eternals -- mortals even more ancient than Methos, powerful, cruel, completely without conscience. Conventional wisdom declared that power corrupted. The crystals, the Eternals' precious "meh," imparted enormous power. In spite of his best efforts, Joe could still feel the temptation of it: endless life, invulnerability, abilities one could call magic, if one were so inclined. Even the Immortals didn't possess such things. God. It was better this way, Joe told himself fiercely. He was mortal. Mortals died. It was the way of his world. You could be bitter or you could get over it. Joe picked up a new disk and inserted it, turned the page of the musty ledger at his elbow. There was a banging at the kitchen door. He frowned, thinking it was the wind. It kept on and, finally, muttering, he got up and went to see who the madman was. Through the wavy glass of the door, he saw a tall silhouette. Methos? He pulled open the door eagerly and saw instead a stranger -- a tall man, dark, with broad shoulders beneath the expensive raincoat. A handsome man. A man of power. He had the bluest eyes the Watcher had ever seen. The hair rose on the back of Joe's neck. "Hello, Dawson," the stranger said pleasantly. "My name is An. May I come in?" __________________________________________________________ CHAPTER ONE Dave looked up from the screen and met Charlie Grossinger' incredulous stare. He barely felt the rolling of the deck as the ship drifted on an increasingly turbulent sea. "I -- have you ever seen anything like it?" Charlie shook his head, punching at some keys. The sonar was making some pretty wild claims. Dave watched the lines spike and wondered. "Looks like Anderson was right," he said finally. "Jeezus Christ." "Now, hold on, Kline, we don't know . . ." "Dr. Grossinger! Dr. Grossinger!" Across the lab, Bets, one of Charlie's grad students, was practically hopping in her excitement. Charlie growled, tugging at his beard, and got up. Dave took over his seat, watching the seismograph measure one microquake after the other. Miles below the surface, their effects wouldn't be felt for several minutes. It was that sonar that bugged him. The phone buzzed. He picked it up. "Captain wants to know what's going on!" He shouted across the busy lab. "What do you think?" Grossinger returned, clutching several printouts that he shoved at Dave. "We've got some major faulting going on, Kline." His voice shook with excitement. He turned to his research assistant. The ship gave another pitch, but he barely noticed. "Have we got video yet? ALEX!" The young man shook his head, scowling at the blank screen in front of him. "Charlie, we need to notify the mainland we've got a major undersea earthquake underway . . ." "They'll never believe it." Grossinger sounded suspiciously gleeful. "This part of the rift has been quiet for years!" "It's not quiet anymore." The quakes were getting stronger. Dave looked again at the sonar and caught his breath. "I don't believe it," he whispered, watching the numbers scroll faster and faster. "Let's get the hell out of here!" "What?" Dave felt a shudder run through the Sea Sprite. The ship was turning. "Hey!" Grossinger frowned. "What the hell is Thornton doing?" "Damn right!" Dave cried, jumping to his feet. "Get our asses out of here! LOOK!" Charlie pushed past him to stare at the screen. He whitened. "No way, man. Something's wrong with the sonar. Let me . . . " The ship lurched, rocked violently side to side. Dave was thrown across the cluttered counter while equipment slid left and right, breaking free of the restraints to crash noisily onto the floor. Someone screamed. Impossibly, the ship began soaring upward. Geysers of seawater erupted all around them, washing over the deck, smashing through the reinforced glass. Then the scientists, holding onto the counter for dear life, heard the hideous, unmistakable shriek of the hull buckling as, through the fathomless dark below, death rushed up to meet them. ***** It was a cold, spring night, unseasonably so. Duncan's breath frosted as he got out of his car and, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his coat, hurried across the street to Joe's Blue Note. There were times -- and this was one of them -- when he regretted moving to Chicago. Even the new shop's runaway success seemed a scant reward for enduring the erratic weather. It was early and there were only a few regulars lined up along the bar, watching the television mounted on the wall in the corner. Kyle, the bartender, recognized him and grinned. He pulled out a beer, popped the top and handed it to the Highlander. "Hey, Amy!" he shouted into the back. "Someone's here to see you!" Joe's pretty, petite daughter hurried out of the office, eyes alight. "Duncan! You're back!" "As you see." His hug engulfed her. "How's business?" She shrugged. "All right, I hope. How much damage can I do in a month?" "You're doing a great job as far as I can see," he encouraged, following her to a table. "Joe left his place in good hands." "Thanks." She beamed. "Have you heard from your father?" The smile faded. She shook her head, pulling out a chair and sitting. "I tried calling earlier -- the band canceled for next week -- but no one answered." Duncan shrugged. "When I talked to him yesterday, he said something about going fishing." "Oh, Duncan," she sighed. "It's lovely of you to let him use your cottage -- don't think I don't appreciate it -- but I really wish he hadn't gone." "I know." Duncan reached over, covering her small hand with his much larger one. "I worry, too." Neither of them spoke a moment. Amy's eyes sparkled with unshed tears and she blinked rapidly. "I'm sorry," she said, her soft voice hoarse. "I just can't get used to it." "Me neither." "But you -- you're Immortal," she whispered. "This happens to you all the time, doesn't it? Losing people you love?" He pressed the cold little fingers. "Yes," he said simply. "And it doesn't get any easier." She nodded, straightening her shoulders. "Tell you what." MacLeod pushed back his chair. Digging into the pocket of his coat, he pulled out his cell phone. "Let's try them again." The number for the cottage took a long time to go through. When it did, he listened to the ringing for several minutes. Where the hell was Methos? He'd promised to carry his phone at all times, damn it! None of those thoughts showed in Duncan's face, however. "Must be out carousing," he said. "We'll just keep trying. Sooner or later, someone will answer." "You're right. I'm worrying for nothing. Methos will take care of him." "Amy!" It was Lee, the chef, poking his head from the kitchen. She nodded and stood. "Now -- how about a burger? On the house?" "All right," he grinned. "And a side of fries?" He watched her go, settling back in his chair, trying not to let worry get the better of him. Joe's cancer was incurable, it was true, but even the grimmest prognosis gave the Watcher at least a year more of life. Other than the tumor growing in his gut, Joe Dawson was still a healthy, vigorous man. What if Methos hadn't come back? What if Joe was stuck there all by himself? The ancient Immortal hadn't been all that keen at first on going to the island. "Joe snores," Methos had objected when the idea was first put to him. "Really loudly." "I'm not asking you to *sleep* with him, Methos. It's a big cottage. Besides, you're a doctor." "*Was* a doctor," came the swift response. "The field's advanced just a bit in the last few hundred years." Of course, in the end, he'd gone. Sighing, Duncan took a pull on his beer and looked idly across the bar to the television. Something on the screen brought him out of his gloomy thoughts. It was a news bulletin. A newscaster appeared, looking unusually sober. The Highlander could barely hear him. Something about a major earthquake. On the screen appeared a rapid succession of scenes, New York, Boston, Martha's Vineyard . . . Frowning, Duncan got up and went to the bar. "...evacuating," the newsman was saying. "The quake measured six- point-oh on the Richter scale and there are reports of damage up and down the east coast. Early reports are putting epicenter somewhere in the mid-Atlantic. We're hoping to have a seismologist from UCL..." The announcer broke off. Kyle turned up the volume. Duncan looked around. Amy was right behind the bartender, watching the screen with wide, frightened eyes. "We've just had word of an aftershock -- preliminary reports say this one is eight point five. We've lost our feed from New York." "Oh, god," whispered Amy. "Oh, god, Duncan . . . Dad . . . " "The National Guard has been ordered to the area to help with the evacuation. With offshore earthquakes there is the danger of tidal waves, tsunamis . . ." "Methos is with him," Duncan said, keeping his voice calm. He put an arm around her. "He'll make sure Joe's safe." Under his feet, Duncan felt the earth shiver. No one else noticed, riveted to the television. "Amy . . . " Ice ran up his spine. She turned a frightened face to him. "Let's get out . . ." The ground bucked and jerked sideways. Amy shrieked. Glass shattered. Duncan was already moving. Sweeping her up, he dashed around the bar toward the door. Amy said something, but her words were lost in the roar of the quake and the unmistakable, horribly familiar sound of wood, masonry and steel succumbing to the appalling violence of a restless planet. Pulling Joe's terrified daughter close, he hunched over in the doorway, giving her what protection he could as the city came down around them. _______________________________________________________________ CHAPTER TWO Methos started back to life, flinging out an arm in mindless terror, trying not to breathe. It was a moment before his sluggish brain registered air. He wasn't drowning, wasn't smashing against things in the raging current. Dirty water lapped at his chest. Uncomprehending, he looked into a cloudy night sky. His gut knotted and, flopping over, he vomited muck and water. Afterwards, he lay shaking with weakness, trying to remember what had happened. It took a long time for thoughts to force themselves up from the dark. He had been in the Cherokee, taking the scenic route along US 9, Stones CD blasting. There had been an earthquake, maybe more than one. Methos vaguely remembered the truck swerving over the road and coming to rest in a ditch. Like everyone else on the highway, he'd jumped to the cracked asphalt, watching the sea race away from the shore. He remembered thinking: "I'm not going to get back to the cottage in time. Joe's going to die alone after all." The first tsunami had come soon after. Returning strength and the cold forced Methos to his hands and knees. He retched violently, expelling more foulness. When he could move without getting sick, he dragged himself up the evil-smelling slope. The process took far too long. Reaching level ground at last, he collapsed and lay, face to the sky, willing his heaving stomach to settle. Another long, stuporous stretch passed. The shaking eased enough to give Methos command of his limbs, once more. He sat up and, for the first time, dared to look around. It was dawn, or very close. A cold wind was coming in off the Atlantic. As far as the eye could see were barren, muddy lumps of earth sticking up through the water. Debris gathered in vast, floating islands. It was a harrowing vista. Methos staggered to his feet and only then realized he was naked. He choked on a disbelieving laugh. His trip here had been rougher than he thought. This particular hump of island was muddy rock and very little more. He walked the few steps to its highest point. Looking west, he saw land -- real land -- in the distance. It gained substance as the gray light brightened. Wrapping his arms around himself, teeth chattering, he tried to reckon distances and the likelihood of making the shore without dying again. Of course, if it wasn't really the end of the world, he could just sit and wait for the rescue teams to find him. Thunder rolled. A drop of rain hit his shoulder, than another. Ah, yes. More water. Slipping in the mud, he returned to the narrow shore. After a moment, he saw something promising, a bit of post trailing barbed wire. With much grunting and frequent rests, he dragged it onto the island. What had happened? A nuclear bomb? A meteor? In five thousand years, Methos had seen his share of natural disasters, but nothing -- *nothing* -- like this. Had the continent's interior been spared this catastrophe? Somehow, he didn't think so. He thought of Joe, who no longer faced a lingering, agonizing death. And of course, hard on the heels of that came thoughts of MacLeod, of all Methos' small, cherished circle of friends. The Immortals might survive. The others . . . It took a long time for him to cobble together a raft. He expected to hear planes, boat engines, voices, but there was nothing. Only the sea whispered to him, a sibilance punctuated by thunder and the hiss of the endlessly falling rain. From time to time, the earth would shudder. Then he would freeze, afraid it was starting all over again. As it turned out, the rain was a blessing. Desperately thirsty, surrounded by filthy salt water, he rescued a plastic mixing bowl floating in the debris, using it to catch what he could. Even so, by the end of the second day, he was dizzy with hunger and had barely the strength to drag his ungainly craft into the water. Sometime after that, he lost consciousness. There was a long, wretched period of waking and fainting. Nightmares haunted him, delirium brought on by thirst and hunger. He was never sure afterwards how long it took the raft to make its way to shore, or how long he lay on it, tangled in the roots of dying trees, before the boy found him. When he opened his eyes again, he saw a gently billowing canvas over which danced patterns of candlelight and shadow. Someone spoke to him -- a woman. There was a cup at his lips. He drank desperately, making a small sound of protest when the cup was taken away. "Slowly. You've been through a terrible ordeal. Take it easy." Good sense. Methos tried to focus on her features. The water helped. Strength bled back into wasted muscles. "Who . . ." "Shhh. My name is Emily." More water. Methos drank and drank again. Afterwards he slept, waking to the whisper of rain on the canvas. For the first time, he had the wits to take in his surroundings. He lay on a cracked vinyl floor, tucked up against a wall and wrapped in several blankets. The scent of burning wood mingled with that of damp plaster and the fragrance of cooking food. He was in a kitchen and it was filled with stuff -- iron pipes, sheets of dirty plastic neatly folded, a couple elderly generators, and hundreds of unlabeled tin cans, all stacked tidily. His hostess had been scavenging. Very wise. The walls were still standing, but part of the roof was gone, washed or blown away in the cataclysm. Everything within view showed water damage, but the house hadn't been completely destroyed. It seemed he had reached the limits of the sea's rage. Water and real sleep gave Methos the strength to sit. He pulled his blanket tight around his shoulders and was exhausted by even these small efforts. Touching his face, he felt a beard -- a week's worth, at least, maybe longer. Footsteps sounded outside the door. The woman appeared. Around forty, graying hair pulled back from a thin face, she smiled at him. "Good. You're awake." "Emily," he said then, remembering. "That's right." Her smile widened. "And you?" Methos, he almost replied, but caught himself just in time. "Adam." "Are you hungry, Adam?" "I could probably force something down," he admitted faintly. Emily smiled and sank to the floor beside him. She held out a bowl and spoon. "Rabbit stew. Ben got one this morning. Looks like the animals are coming back." His guts cramped and water filled his mouth. His hands started to tremble and in the end, to his great embarrassment, she had to feed him. When the worst of his hunger was blunted, Methos looked up to see two faces peering through the doorway behind her, a boy's, perhaps sixteen, and a young girl. "My kids," she explained. "Ben and Lucy." They were staring at him with open apprehension. He managed a wobbly grin. The little girl returned it, Ben didn't. "Thank you," he said. Then, as she sat back with the empty bowl, he asked: "Where am I?" "Meyersdale," she replied. When he returned a blank look, she added, "It's in Pennsylvania." Pennsylvania? Almost three hundred miles from where he'd started! "What happened? he asked finally. "I don't know. There were earthquakes first, and then the tidal waves. We watched them coming -- drove up the mountain to get away." Emily's voice wavered. "When the water drained back, this was left." She gestured helplessly at their ruined surroundings. "Our home." She blinked rapidly and stood up, clutching the bowl. The children had vanished. "You're the first person we've seen for a two weeks." "Ditto," he managed, watching her struggle to hold herself together. His gaze traveled to the cans. "It looks like you're managing pretty well." "We were lucky. There was a Safeway about five hundred feet down the road. They were building a new shopping mall there -- with a Video House." She took a deep breath. "During low tide, you can see the walls. Ben and me, we've been diving, bringing up the cans. Plus, a lot of junk's been floating now that the ocean's calmed down. We figured we'd better get what we could, 'cause you never know, do you?" Her eyes met his in perfect understanding and without another word, she turned and was gone. Methos slept some more, and when he woke again, he felt almost human. It was dark, the room illuminated by a bit of candle that burned fitfully on the floor near his head. The rain had stopped for the moment. He heard voices, muffled through the walls. One of the voices rose in a scream. The Immortal was on his feet at once, heart in his mouth, looking wildly for a weapon. Another scream -- Emily -- and raucous male laughter. Heart pounding, he grabbed one of the pipes stacked neatly in the corner. Hearing heavy footsteps approach, the Immortal blew out the candle and wedged himself between the refrigerator and the wall. Someone strode in and stopped. From his hiding place, Methos couldn't see who it was. A flashlight beam danced overhead, then across the floor in front of him. He held his breath, fingers so tight around the pipe that they ached. Directly across from Methos were the scavenged cans. A man appeared in his line of vision, as dirty and bearded as himself. He had his back to Methos, eyes only for the food. Chuckling triumphantly, he began shoving the cans, one by one, into a bag Methos eased out of his niche and cast a quick look toward the door. No one. Some unfortunate sixth sense stirred the lout to alertness. Straightening, turning around, he stared in shock at the gaunt, naked man behind him. He opened his mouth and Methos drove the pipe right through it. Working fast, cursing the weakness that plagued him, Methos stripped the body and dressed. The clothes were filthy and much too big but they were warm. The man had been armed with a knife and gun, an old '48. Its clip was half spent and he could find no more ammo on the body. Methos shoved both weapons into his tightly cinched belt. Then, every sense stretched to the limit, he went to the door. There was a brief expanse of hall, oak flooring warped and still damp. Archways led off to the right and left. Firelight cast dancing light through one of them. He heard Emily's voice, pleading, terrified, and a child crying. There was more laughter and the sound of things crashing to the floor. She screamed again.. Methos took out the gun, mouth settling into a grim line. He walked to the archway, hesitated, then stepped through it. A fire crackled in the brick fireplace. Most of the roof here was intact. He had a lightning impression of a cluttered space -- their main living area, probably -- and of three roughly dressed men. The crashing sound had been one of them clearing the table. Another dragged Emily across it, ripping at her clothes. His friend grabbed at one bare leg. The children were pressed into a corner under the watchful eye of a third thug with a baseball bat. Lucy sobbed against her brother, who held her protectively behind him, his face the color of milk. Neither of them saw Methos, their eyes only for their mother. First, Methos shot the man who menaced the kids. Then he took out one of the rapists. The remaining thug had time to return fire, but the shot only grazed the Immortal's arm. Lip curling, Methos put a bullet right between his eyes. In the echoing silence that followed, he strode across the room to Emily. She stared up at him, mouth open, eyes wide and blank. He lifted her off the table and carried her to a big bed pushed against the wall. Putting her into it, he pulled the blankets over her. "Are there any more?" he asked Ben shortly. The boy shook his head, mute, eyes huge in his face. "You're hit," he whispered. "It's a scratch." The kid was shaking in reaction. Lucy, sobbing, scrambled into the bed. Emily's bruised arm emerged from the blankets and hugged her daughter close. Methos scavenged the bodies for weapons. Then, just to make certain there would be no more surprises, he stepped outside. The ocean was less than a hundred feet away. Too close for his comfort. Making a quick perimeter check, Methos found the remains of a barn and some sheds, but no bandits. When he returned, Ben was dragging bodies outside. Methos walked past him and back into the house. The boy followed, noiseless, careful. Lucy was still in the bed with her mother. Over the child's golden head, Emily's eyes met his, red- rimmed and circled with shadow. He crouched beside them. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I'm sorry I wasn't faster." She closed her eyes then, tears leaking out. "No. No, thank you. Thank you for saving our lives." "It's the least I could do." He grinned faintly. "You have a way with rabbit that's all too rare these days." She closed her eyes briefly, mouth trembling into an answering smile that vanished immediately when he rose and started toward the door. "Where are you going?" Her voice shook with panic. "To get rid of the bodies." The Immortal looked over at Ben. The boy stood nearby, back against the wall. "Give me a hand?" Those thin shoulders straightened. Ben's chin came up. "Yes, sir." "We'll be back." He watched her face, watched the visible effort she made not to beg him to stay. "Be careful," she said instead. "I am one of the most careful fellows you'll ever meet," he replied sincerely. "Ben, bring one of the lanterns." He and Ben got the dead men uphill to a gravel road above the house. It took a while -- everything was so goddamned damp -- but they soon had a good pyre going. Neither of them stayed to watch the bodies consumed. "They snuck up on me," Ben said suddenly. Methos stopped and turned. In the lamplight, the boy's eyes were painful to see. "I shoulda been watchin'. I shoulda seen 'em comin'." "Why?" Methos asked shortly. "You've never lived in a world like this." The boy pressed his trembling lips together. "What do you mean?" "When the roving predators show up, you know civilization's against the ropes." The Immortal took a deep breath, thinking about another age of chaos, thinking how easy it would be to revert to animals like those men. Like himself, once. "Where's your dad?" Ben turned away, shoved his hands in pockets. "He worked in Meyersdale -- for the Park Service." Methos studied the bent head, the hair so pale and fine. "Where's that?" The boy turned and pointed over the dark sea. "About fifteen miles down," he said flatly. The Immortal stared at him, then nodded. "Sorry. That's why you're still here?" A quick, anguished nod. "He's not coming back," Methos said brutally. "You have to leave. Those men won't be the last." "I know," whispered the boy. In the lamplight, Methos saw the tears blinked fiercely back. "We'll talk about it the morning," he sighed. "Come on. Let's go check on your mom. Then you can show me where a guy can get a bath and a shave." **** The plane banked left, making a low circle over the ocean. Below, the waves moved swiftly to the east, quieter now, but most still over twenty feet high. Dipping lower, the aircraft turned again. Braden got up and, grabbing his camera, went to the windows. Those of the team who could leave their instruments did so. "Shit," one of the geologists said finally. "There it is. I don't goddamned believe it." Across the water, a line of black appeared. The plane drew closer and the line grew denser, became a wall of rock stretching north and south as far as they could see. An angry ocean roiled around it. Braden's stomach tightened at the sight of humanity's nemesis. According to satellite photos, there was about a million miles of new land. Its birth throes had killed untold millions of people, drowned thousands of square miles of coastal land on either side of the Atlantic. The geologists said the water displacement was so great that when it was all over, when the aftershocks stopped and the planet settled, the sea level would have risen an average of sixty miles world wide, more along the Atlantic, of course. It was suffering and death on a cataclysmic scale. They flew over the new shallows. Braden's view was obscured by dense fog. Here the water was almost fifty degrees centigrade, or so his learned companions claimed. Then they crossed the towering coastal cliffs and were flying over land. It was a bleak, inhospitable place, flat -- miles and miles of wet, barren rock. Pools of evaporating sea water reflected back the cloudy sky. His camera captured the monotonous image. Someone came up on his elbow. "So. This is Atlantis." Braden looked around. General Anderson nodded to him, then looked down at the tiny new continent. Even the army was using the name, then. Maybe it was official. The chief geologist, Maxwell, joined them. "According to my report, we should be coming up on some kind of rock formation," he said. "How are you doin', John?" "Plenty of tape," Braden replied. "Bring it on." Max smiled faintly. Braden looked away, remembering that the man had lost his entire family. Resolutely he lifted his camera to capture the first glimpse.. "Holy shit." "That's no rock formation," Anderson said. "That's a building!" They came up on it fast -- sheer walls thrusting up through the bedrock. It was big, very big, but Anderson was right. This was a building,. Everyone was at the window now, gaping. "It's a fucking pyramid," someone cried. "I don't fucking believe it!" A few short weeks ago, Braden had been an anthropologist. Now he cleared his throat apologetically. "Not quite," he replied. "Older." They all looked at him as the plane came around for another pass. "That's a ziggarut." _______________________________________________ CHAPTER THREE The rain hadn't stopped for three weeks. Sometimes it faded to mist, offering false hope that it might actually cease. Other times it came down so hard, you couldn't see more than a foot or two ahead. Most of the time, however, it was a steady, monotonous downpour. Duncan pulled the collar of his raincoat against it, making his way along the narrow lane between the rows of tents. A jeep rattled by, spraying mud in every direction. He swore under his breath and ducked down a narrower path. The army camp spread over the hillside. It was an impressive sprawl, but ten miles further north was the civilian refugee camp, dwarfing this. Each day New Chicago grew. Word was there were over twenty- thousand people in it now. Duncan and Amy would have been among them if it were not for the fact that his resurrection had been witnessed by a passel of doctors and military personnel. That odd occurrence led to a full-scale search of Joe's bar, or what remained of it, and the discovery of Amy's Watcher journals, and from there to another ruined building, this one in a quiet, west Chicago suburban house, the Watchers' regional headquarters. It was strangely anti-climactic to have Immortality revealed in the midst of apocalypse. The immediate consequences were unremarkable. The entire affair was promptly designated "top secret." As Colonel Riley, the camp commander, put it: "All I need is some goddamned messiah madness running through the camps, or worse -- a witch-hunt! Like we don't have enough problems!" They did ask him a lot of questions at first. He was told not to leave the camp, but the Highlander had no intention of doing so as long as Amy was here. Otherwise, he had been treated courteously, given a very comfortable tent not far from the hospital, and small tasks to make himself useful. They'd even allowed him to keep his katana, pulled with him from the rubble. At some point, the other shoe was going to drop, but with luck, both he and Amy would be away from here when it did. Ahead was the hospital tent. It was set apart from the rest of the army's encampment, plenty of space around it for ambulances. Duncan slid past a group of soldiers coming out, then ducked in. Making his way through the partitions, he came to Amy's small enclosure. Will Shen was there, leaning on the rail of her bed, talking in a low voice. The Highlander heard her laugh and smiled. She caught sight of him. "Duncan!" Shen straightened abruptly, reddening. "Um, hullo, Mr. MacLeod. How are you?" Duncan grinned and bent over the bed rail, taking Amy's hand in his. "It sounds like you're feeling better." Her fingers tightened. "That wasn't laughter," she retorted, giving Shen a sideways glance. "Those were cries of pain. It was a *painful* joke!" "It got you laughing, didn't it? Oh, well -- gotta go. I'm already late for the rest of my rounds." Amy shook her head and shifted a little. Duncan sprang to help her find a more comfortable spot. She made a little face. "Oh, Duncan, I'm so bored with this! Lying here day after day, these stupid casts weighing a thousand pounds each!" "You're alive," Duncan reminded her, still giddy with relief at that. "The bones will mend." "I know." She gave him a shamefaced smile. "So many didn't make it. I'm horrible to be so ungrateful." "Absolutely," he agreed with a grin. "No ice cream for you." "Ice cream? I don't believe it!" Duncan pulled out a pint of Ben and Jerry's, displaying it triumphantly just out of her reach. "Sit me up!" she demanded. "Where's the spoon?" "What a greedy little thing." "Where did you get it?" "I traded for it -- took someone's post at the short-wave listening station. Is that the right angle?" He inserted another pillow. "Perfect! I want to get every bit!" With her one good hand, she maneuvered the spoon into the ice cream. "The listening station? I don't suppose . . ." Duncan shook his head. She nodded, lips pressed together. "I guess it's pretty stupid to keep on hoping, isn't it?" "Methos would make sure he was safe," the Highlander said doggedly. "We'll hear from him, Amy." She nodded, turning her head, blinking very fast. Her smile was determined when she looked back. "You're right, of course. Joe's pretty hard to kill." She took another scoop of the ice cream, then paused, eyes narrowing. "It's odd that they gave you access to the station." "I thought so, too." He met her suddenly sober gaze with a crooked grin. "Maybe they've figured out that I'm harmless." She set down her spoon. "Have they said anything more to you?" Duncan shook his head. "What are they waiting for?" Her voice dropped. "They won't let you leave the camp. They follow you around everywhere. I'll bet you weren't alone at the station." He acknowledged the truth of her statements with a shrug. "Maybe they have more important things to do right now than worry about a man who died and came back to life." "If it weren't for me, you'd be long gone," she sighed. "Don't deny it. They couldn't hold you if you didn't want to be held. You should leave, Duncan. This is what the Watchers always dreaded -- the day mortals discovered your existence. You *know* we don't have a very good record when it comes to tolerating difference!" "Immortals aren't any better," he replied. Shen returned a short time later. With him were two MPs. Amy, spoon halfway to her mouth, looked anxiously at Duncan. "Sir," one of the soldiers said, "Colonel Riley would like to see you." "What for?" Amy demanded. "Mr. MacLeod has a phone call." The young Watcher and the Immortal exchanged startled looks. "Coming," Duncan said, standing up. Bending over, he gave Amy a kiss on the forehead. To Shen, he said, "Keep your mitts off her ice cream." The young doctor grinned and took the Highlander's place by her bedside. "Is that Cherry Garcia?" Duncan heard him wheedle. "C'mon, Amy, just a taste?" Leaving Amy in her admirer's tender care, the Immortal followed the MPs outside. Another officer stood by the jeep. Duncan looked past him, down the hill toward the circle of razor-wire and guard-towers protecting the camp. Beyond was what remained of Chicago, a submerged necropolis slowly drowning in Lake Michigan. Riley's geologists were saying they could expect the Great Lakes to keep rising for a while. Command occupied the center of the camp, surrounded by its own fencing and guards. They waved the jeep through. Expecting to be taken to the central communications tent, the Highlander was startled when they rolled past and into the officer's living quarters. The jeep stopped in front of a large tent. It was Riley's. Several of his officers lounged around.. "Phone for you," said Andy Summers, a major and the commander's right hand. "We've traced it to Kentucky." "You're joking!" Duncan stared at the expectant faces. "Someone found a really, really good transmission tower." Riley's expression was unreadable. "It's all yours, MacLeod." A portable communication unit sat on a wheeled cart next to Riley's cot. Summers jumped forward to drag a chair over to it. Duncan looked around again, then shrugged and sat down. "It'll take a moment to patch through." The Highlander stared at the blinking red light. It turned green. He picked up the headset. "Don't bother," said Riley apologetically. "It's on speaker." Duncan nodded resignedly and settled back. "Hullo? MacLeod here." "Mac? Mac, is that you?" The Highlander froze, thoughts spinning to a complete stop. The reception was lousy, scratchy with interference, but he knew that voice. "Joe?" "Mac? You there?" "JOE! Thank god! Where the hell are you? Is M--Adam there?" "I'm fine. I think. No. He never made it back." Duncan closed his eyes briefly, pain shooting straight through him. "Mac! Amy -- is she -- is she OK?" It was an effort to keep his voice steady. "Amy's fine, Joe. She's here with me, safe and sound. Where are you? What happened?" The silence that followed was so long that Duncan thought the connection had been broken. Then, "Thanks, man. I really appreciate it. Give her my love." "You can give it to her yourself. Where are you?" "Jenkins -- it's in Kentucky. There's a motel on the edge of town. Sleepy Hollow Inn. I need you to come here, Mac." "I'll be there." "As soon as you can. And, Mac? Bring the sword." Ice trickled down the Highlander's spine. "What?" "Gilgamesh's sword. Bring it." "Joe, what's going on? How did you get off the island?" "Just bring the sword, Mac and get here as soon as you can!" "Joe? DAWSON?" The line was dead. "Who's Dawson?" "Amy's father." Duncan pushed back his chair, staring at the console, the light no longer blinking. "I can't believe he survived!" The mortal regarded him steadily, then, to MacLeod's surprise, turned to the others. "Wait for me in the conference tent." The other men saluted and were gone. Duncan took a deep breath, prepared to plead his case, but Riley held up a hand to cut him off. Jaw set, he regarded the Immortal with a troubled frown. "I don't know what you are, MacLeod, and I suspect, in the end, you'll be trouble. If the provisional government in Dallas wasn't still setting up, I'd ship you there and be done with it. " The mortal shook his head. "The thing is -- I've been watching you since you were dragged out of the rubble. Whatever you are, you know the meaning of honor and courage. You risked your life again and again going into death-traps to rescue others when you could have run. We've been doing what background checks on you that we can, and what you've told us pans out. Everything says you're a straight-up guy." Duncan waited, wondering where this was going. "Do you know what caused this catastrophe, MacLeod?" "Earthquakes? Sudden movement of tectonic plates? Volcanoes?" "Can you give me your word that Immortals had nothing to do with it?" The Highlander's jaw dropped. He stared into the colonel's face, dumfounded. Shaking his head, he started to laugh. "We're Immortals, Riley, not gods." Riley grimaced and walked to a table covered with maps, graphs and pictures. "Have a look at these." There were four photographs, all of them showing different views of a rocky shoreline and a sprawling, black plain. "What is it?" he asked finally. "Good question. Three weeks ago, we got a transmission from a science vessel, the Sea Sprite. It was over the mid-Atlantic rift, investigating a series of small, undersea earthquakes. The data they transmitted was, to say the least, unusual. We tried to contact them immediately after the transmission, but no luck. Shortly after that, the big 'quakes started. Two days into *those*, and this emerged." "Emerged?" "From the sea. It's land, MacLeod." "A volcanic island?" "According to our geologists, our new arrival qualifies as a full- grown continent." MacLeod's jaw sagged. "And on that continent is another surprise." Riley slid over another photo. "You know what this is, MacLeod?" "It's a ziggurat," the Highlander replied carefully. "The Sumerians built them as temples for their gods." "You weren't there, by any chance?" "Sumer?" MacLeod thought of Methos. "No. It was before my time." "That's right. 1592, wasn't it? Jesus." Duncan smiled faintly, his attention on the photograph. "This looks pretty big." "Three hundred feet high. Two miles long at the base -- yeah, big." Riley traced the image with a blunt finger. "They're calling the continent Atlantis. Guess *that* was inevitable." "This is fascinating," Duncan agreed evenly. "But I don't understand what this has to do with me." The colonel sighed. "I'm on my own here, MacLeod, so I have to make a judgment call. Look at it from my perspective. The world just came to an end -- or damn near. We've a continent out there that rose from the dead, and I've got a man right here, who did the same thing. This man gets a call from a friend who should be dead on a cell phone that shouldn't work. My fucking hair is standin' on end from all this." Duncan said nothing -- could say nothing. He looked into Riley's eyes and saw an earnest, troubled man. "I can't help you," he said finally. "I'm Immortal. So what? I'm in the same boat as everyone else." Riley nodded. "That's what I'm counting on." He turned and walked back across the tent, crouching to pull something out from beneath his cot. It was a long, steel box. Riley laid it on his bed and punched out the combination on the lock. He opened it. "As part of our investigation, MacLeod, we went to your apartment -- what was left of it -- before water took it. We were looking for clues to what you are. We found this." The colonel lifted out the ancient, Sumerian sword. Duncan's heart faltered and he was suddenly, irrationally, sick with relief. "The hilt is gold," Riley continued, studying the weapon, "but our facilities couldn't identify either the blue stone or the metal. May I ask where you got it?" "Iraq." "I'm not much on ancient history, but wasn't that where Sumer used to be?" "Yes." "Another coincidence?" "As far as I know." Duncan met Riley's gaze squarely. Their eyes held. He didn't want to hurt Riley, might not even be able to, but he had to go. He had to find Dawson. Riley smiled faintly and looked down at the sword. "We're going to take you to find your friend," he said quietly. "Then we are going to have a long, detailed debriefing. If I like what I hear, I'll escort you to Dallas as a comrade. If I don't," Riley shrugged, "then you'll go in chains." ******* Day came at last to the Hall of the Companions. As the water sheeted away, the crystal skylights began to open. Sunlight fell straight through the vast emptiness to the floor eighty feet below. There, in her nest of silks, Lady Ashtar, Second Companion, stirred and opened her eyes. The golden warmth enveloped her and for a time, she made no effort to move. Even in the Sleep, it seemed, one could feel the cold. The sun moved to the next skylight. The Hall brightened. Ashtar left her bed at last. She found her favorite robe where she had left it. Wrapping herself in its velvety folds, she padded silently across the tiles to Noia's bed. Pulling aside the gauzy curtains, she shook the mound beneath the blankets. "Move, lazy one! It is the Awakening. They will be coming for us soon." Noia struggled up, rubbing her blue eyes and smiling sweetly at Ashtar. "Louno?" "Yes, darling. He'll be here before you know it. Get up and make yourself beautiful." Briefly caressing the girl's soft hair, Ashtar followed the sunlight from bed to bed. When each Companion had been awakened, she herded them together with gentle reminders, patient with the disorientation of the newer ones. Ashtar was the oldest of them now. Although she didn't like to remember, her gaze slid to the two empty beds. Selah and Lucen. Both gone. She still couldn't believe it. The Hall rang with voices as the Companions hurried to prepare themselves for the arrival of their Lords. Ashtar bathed and dried her hair, giggling with Willow as they tried to get the Seventh Companion's golden tresses to lie smooth. Ashtar's own copper hair lay in a neat plait down her back. It was Krug's favorite style. He found special pleasure in its unbraiding. She smiled, thinking of it. "Louno? Louno come for Noia?" Willow said something under her breath, rolling her eyes in the big mirror. "Hush," chided Ashtar gently. She turned in the chair and smiled at the girl. Noia wasn't even dressed yet, although her body was still dewed from the bath. "Soon, little one. Come. Let me bind up your hair." So Noia, with wide, trusting eyes on the Second Companion, knelt at her feet. Ashtar drew the brush through that tangle of ebony while Noia leaned against her knee, eyes closed in sensuous bliss. Gathering the silken mass in both hands, the Second Companion deftly twisted it into a knot at the top of Noia's head and anchored it with a jeweled pin. "There you are. Now -- run and put on that green dress we chose before the Sleep." Noia danced away and Willow shook her head. "They are a good match," she sniffed at Ashtar's lifted brow. "Luono and Noia, and not a single brain between them." "You are speaking of the Fourth Lord," Ashtar said with mock severity. "Have some respect. And anyway, they are most admirably suited in other ways." Willow sniffed, but her eyes danced. "True enough. I suppose we shall all be fortunate if they can restrain themselves long enough to reach the privacy of their quarters." "Aye." In the mirror, a handsome boy appeared. "My Lord Daniel and I have the interesting fortune of being quartered next to them. You will think me exaggerating, but I swear I am not -- the walls between us shake." Willow's eyes got very round. Unconsciously, her hand stole to her breast. Tarn's beautiful mouth twisted. Ashtar caught his eyes in the mirror and turned about, frowning. He laughed, seizing her hand and kissing it. "Will you have the morning wine with me, my lady?" "No." "Ah, but then, you are the most fortunate of Companions," Tarn said. "I cannot, alas, say the same." Ashtar sighed, hearing the bitterness, and watched him stroll away. She turned to see Willow watching her. Summoning a smile, she said, "You look lovely, Willow. Jeznig will be pleased." The girl's bold smile softened at mention of her Lord. "I wish they would come. How I long to see him!" Leaving Willow, Ashtar walked through the Hall, making certain each Companion was ready. She found Noia in Lucen's empty bed, small face bewildered. Swallowing on the sudden tightness in her throat, Ashtar drew her gently away. "Lucen and Selah are with the Ancestors," she said. "We will see them again someday." Noia's face cleared instantly. Slipping a trusting hand in Ashtar's, she allowed herself to be guided from the sleeping quarters into the great Hall itself. The air filled with a soft chiming. At once, the Companions fell silent, gathering in a group to face the tall doors at the end of the Hall. Ashtar's heart began to beat faster. She cast another quick look at her charges. All of them were so beautiful, eyes alight with anticipation. Only Tarn was not smiling. Taking a deep breath, Ashtar returned her attention to doors. They were here. Ashtar's eyes closed briefly, feeling Krug's soul touch hers, savoring it. Then the doors swung open, silent on their massive hinges, and the Victors filled the opening. Ashtar barely noticed the others, her eyes only for Krug. He was not the tallest of them, but he was the broadest, with a barrel chest and shoulders so wide Ashtar could barely get her arms around them. The Second Lord's dark visage lit at the sight of her. A moment later, she was in his arms. Around her, the other Lords greeted their Companions, but she barely noticed. The shock of contact after millennia of Sleep made her shiver and press close to him. His lips were in her hair, his large hands moving over her body with eager, almost anxious, delight. Then he possessed her mouth and all else vanished. Both of them breathless, he at last set her back. "Ashtar," he said hoarsely. "I have dreamed only of you since the last Awakening." "And I, only you, my Lord," she whispered, her arms going up to encircle his neck. His black hair, thick and curly, tickled her skin. He bent his head to the hollow of her throat, moved further down to touch his lips teasingly to her sekkhe. Heat ran through her. "Let us go to our rooms," she whispered, "and make up for time lost." He hugged her tightly, but when he released her, his face was grim. "The Ancestors have summoned us to the Council chamber," he said. "We will have to wait." She took a deep breath, struggling with the sharp bite of disappointment. All around she heard a rising murmuring as the other Companions were told the news. "Illia?" she asked before thinking. Krug's face darkened with anger. Jaw set, he turned to hide his fury. She lay a hand on his arm and found the muscles tensed. With an effort, the Second Lord turned back to his lady. "I'm sorry, my love. The thought of him makes me ill with the need for vengeance!" The chiming sounded again, louder and of a different tone. Krug took her arm. Heart speeding, she looked at him. "Go to our quarters," he said. "As soon as the Council is done, I will be with you." "Yes." She replied, hiding her own anxiety with a smile. "Do not linger, dear one. Each moment is precious." He was gone then, the others with him. The Companions stood about, silent, uncertain. Ashtar straightened her drooping shoulders and returned their anxious looks. "Well? What are you standing about for? We have rooms to open and air, food to prepare! To your quarters everyone! Go!" They scattered at once and Ashtar, heart filled with misgiving, went with them. _____________________________________________________ CHAPTER FOUR It had been two days since the last rain, two weeks since the last tremor. Late that afternoon, breaks appeared in the clouds and the sun came through. Ben's shout brought Methos and Emily to the front door. The woman laughed aloud, holding her hands up to the warmth. "I'd never thought we'd see it again!" she said joyfully. Lucy was dancing in the puddles of light spreading over the hillside. It caught her bright hair and reflected it back with painful brilliance. Methos grinned. "Life goes on," he observed. "Yes. It does." Emily turned to look up at him, eyes shining. They fell silent as a new sound intruded on their day. "It's a plane!" shouted Ben, racing uphill to stand panting at their side. The sound grew louder. They could not see, the clouds were still too thick, but the noise was unmistakable. It faded soon, but their mood remained light. That night they heard crickets. Emily pulled the ragged curtains back from the windows in the big front room and moonlight fell through. They celebrated by opening up several of the precious cans and having chicken ala king, green beans and fruit punch. Later, as the children slept, exhausted by the excitement, Methos and Emily sat close to the fire, sipping tea. It was Earl Grey, the last of Emily's precious stash. "But it's an Occasion," she had announced, eyes sparkling. "There is a world out there and it's not completely destroyed." "There's a world out there, I agree," he replied. "As for the rest . . ." He shrugged. She laughed a little, looking down into her cup. "You don't believe things will be back to normal?" "I think we'll just make another definition for normal." "You're very young to be so cynical." "Maybe I'm older than I look," he replied lightly, tipping his cup against hers. "Maybe so. How old *are* you, Adam?" "How old do you think I am?" he hedged, startled by her sudden seriousness. She looked away, fingers twisting around her cup handle. "Adam. . ." Her mouth worked. Then the words tumbled out in a rush. "You were dead when Ben and I pulled you off that raft. We were going to bury you, Adam! We had the hole dug, and you came back to life." "You're a doctor?" He raised an eyebrow and hoped she couldn't hear his suddenly thundering heart. "A nurse," she retorted. "I know dead when I see it!" "You were mistaken," Methos said shortly. "Things have been, shall we say -- stressful?" "That's what I told the children, but you *were* dead! Please. Don't insult me by lying. You owe me that much." She set down her cup. "Emily. . ." "I know that Ed is truly gone." Her soft voice shook. "I didn't want to believe it, but I know God would not have sent you otherwise. No, please! Don't say anything!" She set her hand gently against his lips. "I don't know what you are, Adam -- maybe an angel." "No," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not. Not even close." "You're here to protect us, to lead us to safety." she continued with quiet conviction, her direct gaze meeting his reluctant one. "Emily," he laughed shakily, "you're scaring me." "Maybe you don't know it yourself." "Keeping your staff in the dark doesn't seem very efficient use of divine personnel." She choked, eyes sparkling. "Maybe not." Her face was very close to his, dark hair was loose over her shoulders. She was a beautiful woman, Methos thought, disconcerted -- kind and brave. Without really thinking what he was doing, he reached up and caressed her cheek. "What if I could prove I wasn't divine," he whispered. "And how would you do that?" He leaned over and kissed her. For a moment, she was still, then her lips parted, her arms coming around his neck. What he'd intended as a gentle salute became something much warmer. When he released her at last, they were both out of breath, a flush staining her cheeks. "That's supposed to be proof you're not divine?" she laughed shakily. "I'm very much afraid, Adam, that I'll need a lot more evidence than that!" Methos woke to find sun heating the canvas overhead. At his side, Emily stirred, nestling closer. He smiled faintly, lifting some of that dark, silver-streaked hair, feeling it slip silkily through his fingers. "Adam!" He sat straight up, reaching for his pants. Ben appeared in the doorway and his eyes widened. "Er, hi," said Methos inanely. The boy's mouth opened and shut. "H-hi. I mean -- there's someone coming." "Where's your sister?" "In the living room." "Get the guns." Ben vanished. "Adam?" Emily struggled awake, blinking, a slim hand pushing the hair from her face. "What is it?" "Visitors," he replied shortly, zipping up his jeans. Ed's jeans, actually. They'd been close to the same size. "Stay with Lucy." She nodded, dressing quickly and running into the next room. Methos met Ben at the door and took the shotgun. He could hear them now -- voices getting closer. He slipped the safety off. "Sounds like they're on the road. I'm going up to have a closer look. You stay here. If you hear me tell you to 'get your father,' be ready to defend your mother and sister." Ben pressed his lips together, but it wasn't good enough to hide the shaking. "Yes, sir," he whispered finally. Methos nodded, gave him a confident grin, then started up to the road. He went carefully, keeping to the cover of the trees. In a moment, he spotted a small group of people trudging along the broken pavement. There were women and children among them, everyone carrying bags and suitcases. Refugees. Methos thought about it a moment, then stepped into the open. They saw him just about the same time they saw the burned bodies. Shouldering his weapon, he watched as one of the men detached himself from the group and warily came forward, giving the blackened asphalt wide berth. "Hello." He stopped several feet from Methos. "My name's John Greenwald. We're from Frostburg -- most of us, anyway." Methos nodded warily, eyes moving over the group. There were about nineteen of them; two of the women carried babies. "We're a little short of food," the man said. "For the kids." Banker, thought Methos suddenly, or someone like. Without help, the lot of them would probably be dead within the week. "We don't have much, but maybe we can spare something -- for the kids." Greenwald looked at the bodies. "It's a good 'No Trespassing' sign," Methos said calmly. The mortal nodded. He didn't like it, but he was desperate. Methos could see that in the gaunt face, the bitter smile. "This way." They followed him back down into the trees. Greenwald relaxed slightly seeing the house, smoke drifting from the chimney. Still, he made a sign and his people stopped at the edge of the clearing. He and Methos went on alone. Ben was at the door, hand gripped around his gun, knuckles white. He looked anxiously at Methos. "It's OK. Put that away and go get your mom." The boy nodded and disappeared into the house. Greenwald took a deep breath, body sagging. He swallowed hard. Methos set a hand on his bent shoulders. "It's going to be all right. Hang in there." "Thanks," the man said hoarsely. "We didn't think -- Christ. We've been on the road for a week. We haven't seen anyone else." Emily appeared, eyes wide. "Adam! What's going on?" "Refugees," he said. "There are children and infants. They need your help." She nodded. "Where?" "At the edge of the woods." Emily was gone, running around the corner of the house. "Your wife?" "No. Like you all, I washed up on her beach. Adam Pierson, at your service. Come on in, let's see what's on the menu." ***** It was a grim journey. Duncan watched the unrelenting vista of death and ruin wear on his mortal companions as the miles swept by. On their second day out, Riley got a call. It lasted a long time, and when it was finished, the colonel stood for a long time, staring at the ground. Finally, jaw tight, looking very unhappy, he curtly motioned everyone back into their vehicles. They had been in the mountains for about a day and half, The roads were all but impassible, slowing even the all-terrain trucks to a crawl. Avalanches had obliterated acres of forest and human habitation. In some places, deep chasms cut across the road, forcing them to double back. Four days out of New Chicago, they reached Jenkins. The little town was a ruin. In the dark, it took a while for the trucks to make their way through streets littered with fallen masonry and crushed cars. They saw no one, only wild dogs that slunk away as the headlights probed the way ahead. Duncan had grown so used to the smell of death that he didn't even notice it anymore. The moon was high overhead when they crested a ridge and saw a small, u-shaped building perched at the edge of a road below. Duncan, heart speeding, leaned forward, looking down at it. Except for a single square of light spilling out onto the parking lot, the place seemed deserted. Riley spoke finally, his voice tight. "A week ago, a fighter squadron was dispatched to Atlantis. They never came back. Another was sent -- same results. Whatever that ziggurat thing is, it doesn't like company." When the Highlander said nothing, he nodded grimly. "The call I got was from Dallas, from General Anderson's office. He says I'm to give you a truck, some supplies and cut you and your friend loose." Duncan stared at him. "Who?" "Look, I *do* know who Anderson is, OK? I understand why you couldn't say anything. Maybe you still can't, but I gotta know -- what's in that pyramid?" "Colonel, I haven't the faintest idea." Riley shrugged, resigned. "OK. I'll get the truck together." "Cut us loose where?" This had to be a mistake. "I wasn't told. Maybe your friend has your orders." Thoroughly flummoxed, Duncan followed the colonel across the ridge as the man shouted orders. "At least let me take a medic down there!" Soldiers sprang to obey, loading things into a jeep. The colonel nodded. "All right, I'll send Sam." He stuck out his hand. "It's been a pleasure, MacLeod. Maybe someday we can get together and have a drink, talk about history." It was dazed Immortal who walked down the steep slope, Sam, the medic, at his heels. They reached the parking lot without seeing another soul. Then, as Duncan set foot on the broken asphalt, he felt a sudden, all-too-familiar thrill along his nerves. Eternal! "You know, maybe you'd better wait here," he told the medic. "Yes, sir." Leaving Sam staring curiously after him, sword under his arm, Duncan walked across the parking lot to the door. He knocked. "Dawson?" "Come in." Warily, the Highlander turned the knob. It gave easily and he opened the door. Joe sat on the edge of his sagging bed, behind a small, round table. A propane lantern burned low at his elbow. Nearby was a wheelchair. Duncan looked swiftly around, but there was no sign of an Eternal. "Hullo, Mac." The Watcher saw Duncan's restless gaze. "I'm alone." "No, you're not, Joe. I can feel . . .oh." The familiar, grizzled chin lifted. At his throat, the lamplight caught the flash of blue fire. A meh! Duncan nodded, puzzled, but reassured nonetheless. The crystal made its wearer as immortal as he. It would explain why Joe survived. Heart lighter than it had been in weeks, Duncan strode across the room. They clasped hands. Joe's face worked under strong emotion and his eyes were wet. "Good to see you, my friend." "Good to see you, too." "Amy?" "Several broken bones, otherwise fine. How the hell did you get here, Joe?" The Watcher took a deep breath. He reached up and touched the meh at his throat. "An." For a second or two, it didn't register. "An? Methos' An? The Eternal?" "Eternal *and* Immortal," the Watcher reminded him grimly. "He came to the cottage a day before all hell broke loose. I remember letting him in and then - bang - I wake up here, three weeks gone, with a head full of thoughts that I didn't put there." Joe's stopped. When he spoke again, his voice was unsteady. "And this, of course." He yanked at the gold chain around his neck, face filled with loathing. "That isn't Methos' crystal?" Joe shook his head. "An saved your life," Duncan said finally. "Why?" "He wants us to go somewhere. East -- there's a map, it was left with my things. I found it when I woke up." "Can you travel? And what about Amy?" Real anguish stared out at him. Pushing away from the table, Joe stood up. Moving with the unmistakable grace of natural limbs, the Watcher crossed the room to the window. Turning, he gave the stunned Immortal a wan smile. "The meh cures *everything*." Duncan nodded, speechless. A long silence stretched between them. Then, "You know there's a huge new island in the Atlantic. And a pyramid on it?" The Highlander nodded. "Did you know that inside that pyramid are Immortals?" There was a vinyl-covered arm-chair nearby. Duncan sat in it, head spinning, trying to remember everything Methos and Amanda had told him about An. It wasn't very much. Amanda's encounter had lasted only minutes. As for Methos, aside from a few comments, the old man had been reluctant to speak of him. What Duncan *did* know, however, was enough to make him very nervous. "How do you know what he gave you is true, Dawson?!" "I just do, Mac. I can't explain it." Helplessly, the Watcher shook his head. "Look at me! I'm not dying anymore. I have legs. I'm as Immortal as you! That's one hell of an obligation." "An enslaved Methos and murdered his adopted people. His Eternals were cruel and selfish." "And he was largely responsible for civilization as we know it. He helped you defeat Nergal and voluntarily gave you the Star to destroy!" "We're supposed to just write off everything else?" "It worked for Methos." Joe reminded him bluntly. "I *know* Methos. I don't know An." But Joe had a point. "What's it going to be, MacLeod?" "And Amy?" It was his ace, and with a sense of losing ground, Duncan played it. "Is she in danger, Mac?" Duncan thought about Will Shen. "Depends on what you mean by danger," the Highlander said finally. "Mac!" "Amy's got the chief of New Chicago's medical unit wrapped around her dainty finger. She's probably the safest person there right now." Joe nodded. "Then we should go -- get whatever this is over with!" Reluctantly, Duncan agreed. "I'll give my escort the all clear," he said. "Now -- where's this map?" ___________________________________________________ CHAPTER FIVE Krug was gone a long time. Ashtar moved restlessly around his quarters, arranging and re-arranging cushions, setting out the oils and lotions for the bath. Her stomach growled, but she wanted to wait and dine with her Lord. What could be keeping them? With a heavy sigh, she sat down on the divan, drawing her knees close against her body. There was so little time until they must ride out with the others to Claim the Ninth Victor. Each moment wasted was a bitter one. What would they find out among the ruins this time? Desert? Forest? She remembered, vaguely, the world as it had been when in her Age. There had been trees so tall their uppermost branches would have touched the Fortress' distant roof. Animals and fish abounded. Ashtar remembered flowers big enough to sleep in. Most of their Awakenings had been to worlds like hers, although with the magnificent trees fallen and mountains raw with avalanche. The destruction always distressed her. Krug took it in stride. "It is the Cleansing," he'd explained once. "It is the will of our Ancestors. The old destroyed to make way for the new." A soft chiming broke the silence. Heart leaping, Ashtar smoothed the folds of her robe and ran through the luxurious suite. She drew open the door, feeling his Presence even before her fingers touched the latch. He caught her and pulled her close, kissing her until she was breathless, but did not immediately carry her to their bedroom, as he was wont to do. Instead, he set her back and she saw he was troubled. "Are you hungry, my lord? I have prepared food." "Aye." He smiled, but his eyes were distant. Taking his hand, Ashtar led him to the table. He sank onto the cushions before it. She stayed a moment to knead his shoulders, feeling the tension there, then rose to fetch dinner. Both of them ate voraciously. She saw him begin to relax. "There is trouble, Ashtar," he said finally. Relieved that he could speak of it, the Companion came around the table to sit beside him. "Tell me, my love. Perhaps I can be of some small assistance." "The Keep was attacked." Ashtar's eyes widened. "Attacked? How could this be? Who would attack the Keep?" "Animals." He bit off the word. She shook her head. "My lord, this is fantastic. Animals? And what do they do? Hurl themselves against the walls?" He grinned faintly, but the expression didn't linger. "They look like men," he said. "Animals that look like men? My lord!" "I swear to you it's true! We captured one and brought it in. In almost every way, the creature was a man. But when we ran it through, it did not revive." "This creature attacked us?" "They are unusually intelligent animals, Ashtar, and cunning. They have constructed flying machines and weapons of impressive strength. The Ancestors tell us that there are millions yet alive." He hesitated, face darkening. "We were shown images -- cities!" Ashtar, stunned, could only look back into Krug's distressed face. "Do you remember your second Awakening?" he asked. "Do you remember the Third Age?" She nodded, lips pressed together. "Do you remember who was Victor?" "Of course, my lord. It was L-Lord Illia." "What else did we find there?" "Cities," she whispered, aghast. "Illia is alive, Ashtar. ALIVE!" Ashtar flinched at his roar. "It cannot be!" "It is," was the blunt response. "Somehow, the heretic has survived. This is his work -- we are all agreed on that, even the Ancestors!" "What of the Ninth Victor?" "There is no word yet," he replied heavily. "Among these animals, he will be hard to find." "What is the will of the Ancestors?" she asked finally. He turned, pulling her against him, burying his face in her hair. She felt his heart pound. "The Victor must be found. No matter what else, that is paramount. The Ancestors are in Council, seeking him. We await their word." "Than we do not ride right away?" It was impossible to keep the joy from her voice. Krug laughed softly, leaning away to look into her eyes. One large, blunt-fingered hand stroked the red hair back from her brow. "You're right. We have time. " "You see? Nothing is ever all bad." He began to laugh, gathering her close and holding her. After a while, finally, he lifted her into his arms and went with her into their bedroom. ********* Ben and Emily's persistent scavenging paid dividends. Among the piles of tins brought up from the submerged grocery store, they found baby formula. The nurse went into action, quickly setting up a nursery in the front room. In short order, the infants were fed and tucked into makeshift cribs. Methos, with the help of the others, set up shelters around the house. The sun set. Ben and a couple of the refugee kids built a big campfire on the hill overlooking the sea. One of the kids had a boombox and, since Ben had a cache of scavenged batteries, the hills soon rocked with hip-hop and techno As the evening deepened, everyone drifted to the fire. Emily appeared and settled down beside Methos. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to slip his arm around her. "What are your plans?" the Immortal asked Greenwald. "Well, we'd hoped to get to one of the big cities -- maybe Lexington - - see what's left. What about you? You going to stay here?" "There are enough of us for safety. I think it might be a good idea if we did." Methos looked past the fire to the distant sea, the islands scattered over its now-placid surface. "Why?" "We saw a plane yesterday," Ben piped up. "Maybe there are people looking for survivors right now?" "A plane? You saw a plane?" "We *heard* a plane," Methos corrected. Ben just grinned and shrugged. Terrible hope leapt into Greenwald's face. "You -- you think it's true?" Methos nodded. "If we keep a good bonfire going, we'll be spotted from the air. Then, if no one comes after a few days, we try for Lexington." Greenwald looked around at his people uncertainly. They looked back, anxious, wanting to stay. "I agree with Adam," said Emily. "The babies are dehydrated and slightly malnourished. It's nothing serious, but it would be better not to move them for a while." "OK," Greenwald said, nodding. "A week." Methos smiled. "Who knows," he said. "We might be found tomorrow . . ." He froze, heart faltering, ice running over his skin. Something touched his mind, familiar, terrifying. His coffee fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. "Adam?" Emily's voice came from a great distance, anxious. He could barely hear her over the rushing in his ears. Without thinking, he was on his feet, turning to face the hill and the road. A second later, they could all hear it. Engines. The sound grew louder. Someone cheered. Greenwald was clapping him on the back. "Adam!" Emily shook him, caught his face and forced him to look at her. He ran a tongue over dry lips, managed a smile. "Do you remember when you said God sent me?" he asked. She nodded, frightened by the look on his face. "I don't suppose -- you had a specific god in mind, did you?" He didn't wait for her answer. The engines were very loud. On the top of the hill, they saw headlights, two, three, four pairs of them. He started walking swiftly toward the house, thoughts in chaos, only one intention clear. Get the hell away from here. "It's the army!" One of the refugees had binoculars. "Damn! We're rescued!" "ADAM!" He spun around on the doorstep, throwing another desperate look toward the jeeps, now coming down the hill, slowing to avoid trees and rocks. "I have to go, Emily." "But why? Are -- are you in trouble with the law?" "Not exactly." He tried to push past her, thinking to grab a few things, some supplies to hold him over. He could lose himself in the woods. Panic was a heartbeat away. "Please! Please don't leave us!" "You'll be safe now," he said tersely. "Emily, get out of my way." She threw her arms around him instead, pulling him close. In spite of his need to be gone, he found himself hugging her tightly. Then he pushed her back. Immortal sense burned through him, and with it, the unmistakable, abrasive presence of an Eternal. "All right," she said, voice unsteady. "There's a backpack there. Take what you need. Anything at all!" "Thanks." He shoved things willy-nilly into it and spun around. Ben was in the doorway, wide-eyed. "Adam?" "Sorry, kid. Gotta run. Places to go, people to meet." He started to push past the youth and stopped. His world crashed in pieces around him. Soldiers were standing at the bottom of the porch steps. With them was a man he hadn't seen in five thousand years. Methos couldn't move. "An," he said faintly. The man stood with several officers, a handsome man with strong, regular features and a long, expensive raincoat. His uniformed companions moved respectfully aside to let him pass. "Hello, Kae'n. Good to see you again." His eyes moved to Emily who stood, her hand on Methos' arm, watching him. Something in that gaze sent an icy shock of fear through Methos. He gently set the woman away and came down the steps. "What do you want?" An's attention stayed on the woman standing on the porch. "Sir!" Methos' voice shook slightly, and to his relief, the vivid eyes moved back to him. "To rescue you, of course," An said softly. "These men will take care of the mortals now. I would speak with you. Alone." Methos nodded. The night had turned surreal. Memory crashed upon memory. His heart lurched and stumbled. Turning, he walked back into the house. Emily started to follow, but he spun around. "NO!" he almost shouted. "Stay with the others tonight." "What?" Incredulously, she looked from him to An. Her mouth pressed into a thin line. "Adam!" "Adam?" An laughed aloud. Methos closed his eyes briefly, swallowing sickness. "Emily. Just do it. You'll be all right. Just do what I say. Please." She spun about and ran from the house, catching Ben and pulling him with her. "This way." Less than a week before, he and Ben had reclaimed another room in the house -- "a bedroom for you," they had said, hoping it would please him and keep him there. Methos led An to it now. "Inside," An ordered. Methos walked in. A soldier came up behind them. An shut the door in Methos' face. The Immortal stood a moment, listening to the murmur of voices through the wood. Then he made his way through the dark to the bed and sank onto the edge of it. There was a window. He could climb out and run, but it wouldn't do any good. Not now. Elbows on his knees, head bent, he waited. It wasn't long. The door opened again and An came in. He carried a propane lantern. Methos didn't look up. He closed his eyes instead, listening to the familiar footsteps move across the room, felt the long, strong fingers brush his hair. "Stand," said the most ancient of Immortals. Mutely, Methos got to his feet. An's hand moved to clasp his chin and lift his face. "I've missed you, Kae'n," he said quietly. Methos said nothing. Five thousand years slipped away like smoke. Without invitation, An began to unbutton the younger Immortal's shirt, and there, in the darkness of a ruined house on a ruined world, things came to what Methos reckoned they would. _________________________________________ CHAPTER SIX Kae'n paused at the corner of the granary, heart banging in his chest, knowing himself for a fool. The villa was silent, everyone abed except the bakers at work in the kitchens on the other side of the sprawling building. Satisfied that no one was abroad, the boy slipped across the moonlit lane and into the slave quarters. He crept along the narrow way, peering curiously into the cramped niches. No one woke to see the master's favorite slave tiptoeing past. "Kae'n?" A soft voice from the shadows of a niche brought him up short. In the narrow opening, a slender figure appeared. Eyes large and luminous held his. A mouth of melting sweetness curved into a welcoming, seductive smile. "Aliki!" "Come," she whispered, holding out a hand. He took it and was drawn into the tiny space. A saucer of cheap oil with a wick floating upon it gave the cubicle faint light, enough for him to see the outlines of her body beneath her flimsy shift. Her pallet lay, its single ragged blanket rumpled, at their feet. He pulled her close, feeling her yielding warmth against him, so different from his master. She made a soft sound, pressing close. Of their own volition, his hands moved possessively over her back and her rounded behind. His fingers tightened, digging into the firm flesh. Fire heated his blood. "Aliki," he said again, hoarsely. Her arms around his neck, she pulled Kae'n's head down to hers and kissed him. Her lips were so soft, giving way to his with exquisite abandon. They demanded his response, but in a way much different than he knew. The two young slaves pulled apart at last, breathing hard. With trembling hands, Kae'n pulled at her shift, yanking it over her head. He stood, transfixed by the sight of her, the lovely curves, the high, pink-tipped breasts, the mysterious triangle between her legs. "Take me, Kae'n," she whispered, taking his hand and guiding it to that mysterious warmth. "Make sweet love to me." He seized her, bearing her down to her pallet. With one impatient hand, he tore at his kilt, flinging it away. She opened her legs to him, eyes closing, lips parted. This was not like anything he knew. She fit him perfectly. Nothing hurt. With her, he was the stronger, the one who moved aggressively into her. Pleasure shook him; he was drunk with it. Their voices mingled in soft, panting groans. Then, suddenly, Aliki stiffened, went rigid beneath him. Her eyes flew wide open, staring Fear smashed into him, killing his desire. The slave girl screamed, body arching, fingers clawing deep into his back. Horrified, the boy rolled away from her. A shadow fell across the cubicle. An! Aliki's screaming went on and on. Each dreadful, harrowing note sent Kae'n further back into the cubicle until he was pressed against the wall. His master stood, face thunderous, watching him while Aliki died, her final shriek bubbling into hideous silence. Kae'n couldn't move. He huddled, paralyzed, tears pouring down his face. Rage, fear, despair -- assaulted by emotions he could not bear, the boy tried to speak, but no words came. An bent over him, seized him by his hair and pulled him to his feet. Kae'n sobbed as his master pushed him roughly against the wall. "You are mine," An said with deadly softness. "And when you are with me, you keep yourself only for me. Do you understand?" "Y--yes, master." "Good. Now go back to my bed and wait. I expect to be pleasured with at least that much enthusiasm!" Nodding, feeling sick and dizzy, the boy reached for his kilt. An pulled it away. "No. I think you need reminding of what you are. I'll keep this for now. When I am no longer angry, perhaps then you may wear it again." "Yes, master." Kae'n's voice broke. An's face held no forgiveness. His master stepped quietly out of the doorway and the boy crept past. Outside, in the other cubicles, the white faces of their occupants peeped out fearfully. They vanished when he looked directly at them. Without another word, blinded by tears, the boy turned and fled. Methos came awake abruptly, heart pounding. He was alone, sheets in a damp tangle around his naked body, staring up into the water-stained ceiling. "No," he whispered suddenly. "NO!" Leaping out of bed, the Immortal looked wildly around for his clothes. He found his jeans and pulled them on. There was no immediate sign of his shirt; he left it, running barefoot out into the chill, spring morning. Tents brought by the army had sprouted up behind the house, circled protectively by jeeps and a medical truck. The campfire had gone out, smoke drifting in wisps from dying coals. First light ruddied the horizon, spread a crimson stain across the water. Filled with dread, Methos moved swiftly through the silent tents, lifting the flaps to look inside. On his fourth try, he found Emily, Lucy curled up with her in a sleeping bag, Ben asleep on his back, mouth open. Relief made him weak. Methos let the flap fall back and stood a moment, head bent, arms wrapped around his chest, letting his pounding heart slow. He could feel An some distance away. Without intending it, he walked into the trees, following the rocky shoreline to a place where part of the hill thrust into the water, forming a bluff. The Sumerian looked out over the bleak archipelago. Methos stopped at the edge the trees. The breeze was stronger here, and cold. An turned and beckoned, and Methos clambered up onto the rocks to join him. "What do you want, An?" Methos asked finally, tiredly. "I don't think you came all this way, and with all those soldiers, just to fuck me. I'm not that cute anymore." "It seemed to me, boy, that once you got over yourself, you enjoyed last night well enough." "A slave learns to make the best of things," Methos replied evenly. "What happened, An? Do you know something about this catastrophe or are you just moving into the power vacuum?" "I see you've grown a sharp tongue." An smiled grimly. "Have a care, Kae'n. My patience is only slightly longer than it used to be. Maybe I was worried about you." Methos stopped himself from sneering at the last second. "Respectfully, master, I don't think so." "You're right, of course." An turned away. "There's something I must do -- and you're going to help me." "And what would that be?" "Look out there," An said, pointing southeast. Methos scowled at the horizon, seeing nothing he hadn't seen for weeks. Then An's hand locked around his wrist and everything shifted. Methos gasped, nearly falling as a rocky plain met his startled gaze. Nothing relieved the perfectly flat expanse -- no hills, no rivers, no vegetation of any kind. Then the scene shifted again, leaving him blinking furiously at a massive ziggurat reaching skyward, monolithic walls of the same black stone as its surroundings. Methos felt a sudden stab of complete terror and was abruptly released. "What is it?" he asked shakily, rubbing his bruised wrist. "You'll have your explanation," An said shortly, looking over his shoulder. "But not now. Your woman is here." Methos was afraid all over again. An's chiseled mouth twisted wryly. "Don't look so terrified, boy. She has nothing to fear from me. Kiss her goodbye. Make love to her if you wish, but when they leave, she leaves with them, and you -- you stay with me." ****** Krug took Ashtar to see the animals. She found everything very exciting. It was not often he took her past their living quarters and into the great fortress. Attack the Keep? She still could scarcely believe anyone would dare. They came at last to a high promenade looking down over an echoing, empty Hall. The walls and roof along the walkway were transparent, letting in glorious sunshine and showing the stark plain of Askarte stretching to the sea. Krug's arm around her waist, they walked for a while, saying little, stopping now and then to kiss or simply hold each other. Then they rounded a corner and she stopped in her tracks. Scattered across the landscape were heaps of metal. Some still burned. "Their flying machines," Krug explained. Here, the water was within view. Ashtar saw ships, too far to make out much detail. "Look there," Krug said suddenly, pointing to the right. A group of figures came running from the direction of the shore. At first, she couldn't make them out; their clothing was of such colors and patterns as to let them blend into the rock. When she pointed this out to Krug, he ordered the windows to magnify. At once, everything was larger and clearer. "By the Ancestors," she said finally. "You are right, my Lord. They look like us!" The animals threw themselves on their bellies behind the wreckage. She saw bright sparks flash on the ends of their weapons. Bewildered, she turned to Krug. "Projectiles. Very clever, these not-men. Much too clever, in my reckoning." "Are you certain they're animals?" "Watch." Raising his voice slightly, Krug ordered, "Kill the one on the left.". A beam of light, straight and impossibly bright streaked from somewhere in the Keep. One of the animals screamed, body twisting, and lay still. The others began frantically firing in the beam's direction. She paid them no attention, watching the dead animal closely. It didn't move. Moments passed. "Do you see? It's dead." She finally had to admit he was right. "Kill them all," Krug said. Outside, Askarte vanished in a blaze of light. She took Krug's arms, allowing him to lead them back along the promenade. "It is Illia's work. He always spoke of doing such things, always poking and prodding, asking questions of the Ancestors -- how things worked, why things were the way they were. Always seeking knowledge not granted to him." "He made them?" She could not believe that, not even of Lord Illia. "Why not? You saw his world when we rode out to Claim him." "I saw buildings of many colors. They were beautiful, even broken and scattered by the Cleansing. How different their inhabitants' lives were from ours, my lord." Krug took her shoulders and spun her around. She quailed at the look on his face. "It was a world not made by the Ancestors," he admonished harshly. "It was imperfect, perhaps even as heretical as its Victor. You and I lived with the Earth, took what the Ancestors gave us." And were often cold and hungry, she thought, but said nothing, only lowered her eyes. "Yes, my lord." He sighed, releasing her. His fingers were gentle as they lifted her chin. "Sweet Ashtar," he said, eyes sad. "Someday this will be over. The Keep will rise and never sink again. The Ancestors will give us leave to go out into the world. Our waiting will be done. We will have towers more beautiful than those in Illia's world. We will have white-topped mountains and fields of flowers like our own. We must only be patient and trust in them." She nodded and put her arms around him, laying her head against his breast. "How long?" she asked in a small voice. "How much longer?" But that even the Second Victor didn't know. __________________________________________ CHAPTER SEVEN Joe didn't remember much of the night. He slept in the passenger seat, oblivious to the jolting ride, not waking until morning. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. "Too much excitement," Mac grinned. "And I can't blame it on age anymore." Joe stretched, yawning. "Breakfast?" "You wish." "Where are we?" MacLeod pointed. Ahead was a fallen overpass. Its steel support poles were snapped like dried spaghetti; a sign swayed in the breeze. "Highway 52," he explained. "The map says we need I-79 North." "My turn to drive, then." They changed places and, within minutes, the Highlander was asleep. Joe had not yet seen the full extent of the destruction caused by the appearance of Atlantis. He saw it now, revealed gradually by the dawn. The closer they drew to the new coast, the worse it got. The smaller disasters that had followed the quakes -- fires, tornadoes, floods -- had added immeasurably to the overall catastrophe. He thought about Amy and what might have happened if MacLeod hadn't been there. The day warmed. He rolled down his window to enjoy the breeze and it was then that he heard it. Aircraft. A plane, flying low, passed overhead. Joe waited in silence, but it didn't come back. They found Interstate 79 and started north. It was slow going. The once-major highway was riven and cracked, completely gone in places where the earth and sea had shifted the land. Collapsed bridges formed barriers of concrete and steel. Twice they found their path covered with water. At midday they stopped and rooted around in the supplies piled in the back of the jeep. They found field rations and a couple canisters of gasoline. After refueling both themselves and the vehicle, they resumed their mysterious journey. "How did it happen?" Mac asked, watching from the corner of his eye as Joe knocked a bit of wet paper from his shoe. "Your legs, I mean. Did they just appear?" "I don't know. There are three weeks of my life that are just gone. I honestly remember nothing until calling you. I have vague impressions -- nightmares really -- of hurting. A lot. But when I woke up, the legs were there and they were real. I spent the last four days learning how to use them again." "Did you dream about Atlantis?" Joe shook his head. "No, yes -- hell, MacLeod, I don't know! All I can tell you is that when I close my eyes I can see it. And there's a feeling of fear -- as if the Immortals inside are watching us, waiting to come out." Late the next evening they came to the Kanawha River. Once a respectable stream, it had swollen to three times its original size, filling its valley, swift and turbulent. They could see the tops of signs and, here and there, roofs peeking up through the muddy, debris- covered water. The bridge still stood, but it looked precarious. The two men got out of the jeep and walked to the edge of the embankment, looking across. "I say we wait until morning," Mac said finally. "If it collapses under us, it'll be easier to find each other afterwards." Joe laughed hollowly. "This is going to take some getting used to. Once, falling in for me would mean death. Now it only means inconvenience." "Dying is still unpleasant," Mac reminded him. "Let's find a place to wait out the night." They chose an old cabin nestled on what had once been the upper ridge of a hill. It had collapsed, part of it taken into the river by a mudslide. Thunder rumbled, but for the moment, the rain held off. Joe sat on the hood of the jeep and pulled out his harmonica. He'd found it among his things when he'd awakened in Jenkins. The small consideration jarred him. "What was your impression of An?" MacLeod asked, leaning against the vehicle, looking out over the broad, choppy river. Joe shrugged. "I don't really know. Power, certainly. There was a driven quality about him, too, an intensity -- as if he's on some vitally important mission." "Of which we're to be a part." MacLeod shook his head. "I wish we knew more about him." Joe was silent a moment. He gave his harmonica an experimental toot. "You know," he said finally, "I've been thinking that we might find the Old Man at the end of this journey." Mac smiled grimly. "I'm counting on it." **** Tarn was drunk again, laughing to himself on the sofa under one of the skylights. Ashtar watched him, troubled. Each Awakening it got worse, or so it seemed to her. Setting aside her embroidery silks, she rose. "Why bother?" Willow asked, shaking her head. "We both know why he does this." "I understand his pain," Ashtar replied, "but that is no excuse for his behavior." "Uh-oh." Willow grinned. "Tarn's in trouble now!" Ignoring her chuckling friend, Ashtar went to a low table set with a variety of colored jars. From one, she poured pink liquid into a goblet. Holding it carefully, she walked back across the Hall, passing from one pool of sunlight to the next, until she reached Tarn. He watched her approach with bright eyes, sprawled loosely on the divan. "Ah, 'tis Ashtar, Second Companion, beautiful beyond compare! Come! Sit with me!" "Tarn, you have had too much of the wine. This must stop." "Nonsense." He blinked foolishly at her. "I've not had nearly enough. Sit with me." Ashtar did not move, knowing full well what mood was upon him. "Drink this." "Ah! Wise Ashtar." He sighed, passing a hand over his eyes. "You are right, as always." Relieved, she handed him the goblet. To her alarm, he knocked it away, seizing her wrist and pulling her down with him. "Tarn, no . . ." His arms were tight around her, his mouth greedily seeking hers. She could taste the wine on his lips. Horrified, she pushed at him, but he was too strong. He tore greedily at her robe. Suddenly, his weight was gone. He howled, flinging up his arms to protect his head as Willow pounded him with her hand-loom. Ashtar rolled away, pulling her torn robe together, breathless, her mouth throbbing. Tarn swore and grabbed for her, but she kicked him back. "Stop it! Stop it, at once!" Tarn got away from the vengeful Willow. He tried to flee, only to run into Cevyrn and Arista. Arista, six feet tall, ebony-skinned and beloved of Lord Gan, sent him sprawling with her fist. Ashtar scurried back to the table. Noia, eyes wide and filled with tears, tried to catch hold of her robe. "It's all right, dearest," the Second Companion said breathlessly, prying away the clinging fingers. "Tarn isn't feeling well." "Sick? He ate something bad?" "Yes." With shaking hand, Ashtar poured another glass of medicine and hurried back. Tarn was sitting up, rubbing his jaw, eyes blazing. His dark hair had come loose from its clip, falling around his slender shoulders. She had to remind herself that he wasn't truly a boy. He stared mutinously at the glass she held out, then up at the others. Wordlessly, gathering his feet under him, he took it and drank. When he handed back the cup, his eyes were wet. A shiver ran through him, then another as the potion did its work. "I'm sorry," he whispered, turning and pressing his face into the divan. "Don't tell Lord Daniel, please." "No more elixir." He looked up at her in horror. "You can't! It's the only thing that keeps me sane! When he puts his hands on me -- by the Ancestors, Ashtar! --I can't bear it any other way!" "I know you didn't ask to be brought back. Yet you are here, you have your head again -- you are *alive*!" But Tarn was so white, so despairing, that she took pity on him. "Very well," she said finally, "but only before you serve him and only with my express permission." He nodded. Getting to his feet he began setting the cushions to right. "I am sorry," he said, lifting a shamed face. She smiled and shook her head. "You look tired. Go to your quarters and sleep." "Lord Daniel . . ." "Krug tells me they will be in Council for some time. When they finish, I will have some wine sent to you." "You have more patience than I," Willow said when Ashtar returned to their embroidery. "We were fortunate -- we knew and loved our Lords before they were Victors. Not so with Tarn. He knew his Lord only as a Challenger. It is not, I think, in his nature to love another man. To Choose him was not kindness on the part of Lord Daniel." "It is a Victor's right to choose his or her Companion," Willow reminded her. "As you told him. He is alive. Maybe, when the final Awakening comes, Lord Daniel will free him." "Maybe," sighed Ashtar. **** Emily cried when he kissed her goodbye. While the chaos of packing up and departing went on around them, she held him fiercely. "It's him, isn't it?" she'd whispered in Methos' ear. "He's the devil!" The Immortal buried his face in the curve of her shoulder, then gently set her back. She looked up into his still eyes and shook her head. "What power does he have over you?" she'd asked. "Good-bye, Emily," he'd said quietly, regretfully. "Thank you." He'd turned his back on her and walked to An. The dark-haired man had smiled and putting his arm around Methos' shoulders, drawn him into the woods. Emily was the only one who'd noticed. They returned to the house when the others had gone, and the silence of the sea and wind crept back to the shore. On the sun-warmed front porch, they sat for a long time, unspeaking, looking out over the sea. "I've watched you since you left Sumer," An said finally. "You've had an interesting life." "I'm sure you mean that in a positive way. What did you do after I left you bleeding on the temple floor?" "Dazzled the priests with my miraculous resurrection. I should have your hide for gutting me like that." "I'd have taken your head if I'd known that's what it would take to kill you." "Don't tell me you blame me for your years as a bloody scourge on horseback? *Death*, indeed! How ostentatious. Perhaps we can lay it all at the door of some unresolved, adolescent rage at your father?" "Is that what you were? And all this time I thought you just loved me for my extremely youthful body." "Your body was, and is, a most attractive case for something much more valuable." "My personality, right?" Methos sneered. "In Dilmun you learned to read, not just in one language, but many. I showed you mathematics and philosophy the Sumerians never had." "Which you promptly took away when you threw me into the desert." Methos shook his head. "Still angry?" Methos was beyond speech. He heard An sigh. "It wasn't all bad, surely?" That was too much, and too close. Methos started to laugh. He laughed and laughed, hearing the edge of hysteria in it. An sat patiently until the younger Immortal fell silent, hugging his knees to his chest. "Do you remember Ts'ai Lun?" Methos turned his head slowly, meeting An's vivid blue gaze. "Do you remember showing him how to fashion paper from wood pulp and rags? How did you know to do that?" Abruptly, Methos saw a sunlit terrace and himself on his hands and knees pressing a sodden mass into a frame. He remembered how much fun it was, the goo sticking to everything, and how the slaves had complained later when they had to scrape the stuff off the tiles. "You taught me," he admitted finally. "The amnesia was never intended to be permanent. You took those things you learned from me on your headlong flight away from Sumer, remembering them as the situation demanded. Although you never realized it, everywhere you went, you left knowledge behind. You have served me and the mortals extraordinarily well." "And Kronos?" "No plan is perfect," An replied, shrugging. "Not even mine. Some failures are to be expected." Methos dropped his head into his arms at the casual dismissal of so much horror. "That I did not teach you." Skin prickling, Methos looked up. "What?" "Compassion. I cannot afford it." An left on some mysterious errand of his own after that. Methos remained where he was, sprawled on the warped porch steps, looking out into the sea, trying to think of nothing. Instead he thought of An, of a youth spent alternating between terror and adoration. The sun finally slipped behind the mountains and, getting cold, Methos sat up and considered going inside. An still had not returned. Out to sea, slightly to the south, black clouds gathered. He watched uneasily as lightning, blood-red, stitched along them. Methos walked down to the edge of the water. The debris that had covered it weeks ago was mostly settled now, no doubt littering the new sea floor to tease future archeologists. He and Ben had seen fish the other day. Earth was healing. He looked again at that distant storm and suddenly, irrationally, wished for An to come back. A moment later, he felt the other Immortal approach. In a moment, Methos saw him, walking down from the road. "What is all that ?" he asked. "The rags of the old world's power." An stared out at the distant storm. "Who knows? Perhaps they're are up to the task." "They're bombing that -- that whatever it was?" "It's unlikely the mortals will succeed in anything but adding to their own staggering body count. Still, you never know. It would save me a great deal of trouble." "You *will* tell me what's going on one of these millennia, won't you?" "Soon, little one." An thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat and turned away from the shore. Methos hurried to catch him up, the two of them returning to Emily's house. He followed An into the front room where Emily and her children had slept. Junk lay everywhere, abandoned by the mortals in their eagerness to be gone. The furniture remained. An looked around. "Clean this up," he said, "And build a fire." Methos threw the junk into one of the ruined, unused rooms. He brought in wood and knelt by the hearth, coaxing flames from the damp stuff while An sat on Emily's bed, watching him. Thunder rumbled across the hills. When the fire burned merrily, the younger Immortal sank crosslegged to the floor, hands loose in his lap, acutely aware of the man who shared the room with him. After a time, he heard An rise and come across the room. Bending down, the Sumerian laid something on the tiles beside him. It was Enkidu's sword. The sight nearly stopped Methos' heart. "I left that in Chincoteague," he said finally, voice shaking with anger and distress. "Careless of you. As you can see, however, I rescued it, and your Watcher friend." "Joe's safe?" Not quite believing it, Methos looked up. "Safe, and well, even. He was dying. Did you know?" "Yes." "Well, he's not any more. I have a use for him, and for your beautiful young friend." "Amanda? She's not as young as all that." "You know very well who I mean." An chuckled softly. His fingers ruffled Methos' hair. Methos looked back into the fire, jaw set. "Leave MacLeod alone." "Or what?" An laughed, releasing him. The sword was still beside him, under his hand. Methos' fingers curled around the hilt and he moved, bringing it up with all his strength. Swearing, An threw himself to one side, but not before the razor edge carved a gash along his arm. Cursing, Methos was on his feet, sword flashing, driving the older Immortal back a few steps. An side-stepped the next blow, moving with the kind of fluid grace Methos' expected only of MacLeod. His arm was bleeding profusely. Desperately, Methos lunged again, but the room was suddenly filled with gold and he stumbled. "Wizard tricks!" A strong hand came out of the brilliance to clamp around his wrist, wrenching it until Methos heard the bones crack. Pain dropped him to his knees. The Sumerian shook his head and released him. His eyes blazed cerulean, and for just a moment, Methos couldn't breathe. Then An turned away. "Get up," he said over his shoulder, voice cold. "Your friends are coming. Go welcome them." __________________________________ CHAPTER EIGHT They found the burned bodies on the road, a grisly pile surrounded by blackened asphalt. Joe muttered something under his breath and turned the wheel to take the jeep around it, but Duncan cried, "Wait!" The Highlander felt the Presence like a shot of cool water. "Methos!" Joe rammed on the brakes. "You're kidding! Where?" "Down there." "Are you sure?" The Watcher looked askance at the bodies, then down the hill. "Yes!" Duncan was already opening the door. He jumped out, looking around. Miraculously, most of the forest on this side of the mountains was still standing. In the mist and deepening twilight it was impossible to see through the dense tangle to the shore below. Still, Methos was near, Duncan knew it with unswerving conviction. He started carefully down the slope. "Mac! Be careful!" Halfway down, a pale figure appeared in the gloom beneath the trees. The Highlander stopped, heart was pounding. The figure came closer, and he saw the gaunt, sardonic features, as familiar to him as his own reflection. "Hullo, MacLeod." Methos stopped, watching Duncan stride across the wet leaves and undergrowth. "What a surprise." "I doubt that!" The Highlander threw his arms around his friend, felt the hard body rigid against his own. Then, almost reluctantly, the embrace was returned, quick and fierce before Methos pushed him back. "I see you decided to take my advice after all," he addressed Joe, who had jumped out of the jeep and scrambled to join them. "You're looking good, Joe." "No thanks to you," Duncan snapped with mock severity. "Leave him alone, Mac," retorted the Watcher, grinning. "Good to see you, Methos. For a while there, I thought you might not have made it." "Remember me? The survivor?" Methos bowed mockingly. "Welcome to the new east coast. Buy now -- in another hundred years this will be prime real estate." "Where's An?" Duncan asked. The lean face twisted. After a long pause, he said, "I don't suppose I could talk either of you into turning around and riding away?" "Without you?" Duncan smiled serenely. "No way, Methos. Besides, I'd like to thank him for saving Joe's life." "Ah, well, I doubt you would have gotten far. Follow me." He led them to a small house, half the roof gone, that stood a hundred feet or so from the water. Light gleamed in its windows. Duncan suddenly stopped, feeling a dual assault of Eternal and Immortal through his veins. Methos gave him a long look, then, mouth settling into a grim line, mounted the sagging porch steps. He vanished inside, leaving Joe and Duncan to follow, a million questions trembling on their lips. The Eternal/Immortal buzz was strong. He and Joe stood a moment in the entrance, exchanging wary looks. Then Duncan went the short distance to a room filled with a mishmash of furniture -- a bed, a couch, several tables and chairs. A tall, handsome man stood by the fire, one hand on Methos' shoulder. Power was like electricity in the room. Duncan felt his hackles rise and his hand slid to the sword thrust through his belt. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the ancient creature greeted him softly. "Welcome. How are you, Joe? Legs work OK?" Joe said something inarticulate, then looked away. Methos' face was utterly still. "Your lady friend left a couple of bottles of wine in the store-room," said An. "Fetch them." Methos nodded and walked past Duncan and out of the room. "Come in. Warm yourselves by the fire. We have much to discuss." A retort rose to Duncan's lips. He forced it back. From the corner of his eye, he saw An retreat to the bed and sit down. So this was Methos' teacher -- and former owner. "What do you want, An?" "To save the world." The wry edge in that voice reminded Duncan strongly of Methos. "You're a little late." "Don't be absurd. Mortals are like cockroaches, relentlessly adaptable. On the other hand, if we don't act, it may very well be the end. Have a seat, MacLeod, Dawson. Ah, here is Kae'n." Duncan looked around. Methos had a bottle in one hand, four cracked coffee cups held precariously in the other. He thunked them down on a nearby table. Duncan watched him pour the wine. He gave a cup to An first, then brought Duncan and Joe theirs. Duncan tried to catch his eye, but Methos avoided it, taking his own cup and going to the bed. Without a word, he sat at An's feet. The Sumerian reached down an idle hand and ruffled the thick, dark hair. There was an unnerving intimacy in the gesture. Reluctantly, uncertain, Duncan took a chair. Joe settled on the edge of the table. An sipped at the wine, grimaced, and set it aside. "As Joe has probably told you, the arrival of Atlantis is only the first wave of destruction." Methos' head came up sharply. Hazel eyes held Duncan's a moment before glancing away. "Plato's account of the continent, Atlantis, is flawed, taken from the oral tradition of primitive tribes whose own memories were ancient and fragmented. In reality, it has risen many times, and sunk again just as often. Each appearance causes the sort of widespread and terrible destruction you all have witnessed." Duncan looked at Methos, but the old man was staring fixedly at a point on the floor. Watching the casual, possessive way An touched him, the Highlander's skin crawled. Why the hell was Methos putting up with it? "Yeah, Joe told me. A pretty fantastic story." The Highlander made no effort to hide his disbelief. "How do *you* know this?" "That building -- the one so well defended against the mortals? Ten thousand years ago, I was an inmate of that place," replied An calmly. "A prisoner." Duncan's eyes narrowed. "Have you ever wondered what happens after the Game is won and the victor stands alone? Have you ever wondered about the Prize?" "I've heard theories," the Highlander said. An nodded. "Let me banish all uncertainty, children." The Sumerian's mouth thinned. Blue eyes hard as sapphires, his gaze turned inward. "The prize is eternal slavery. "Inside the Keep are six warriors unlike any your age has ever seen. They are the previous Victors of the Game, the winners of the Prize. For each Age there can be only one, bound forever in service to the Ancestors." "Who are the Ancestors?" "Your guess is as good as mine." "Why are these Victors here?" "They have come to Claim the new Victor, the latest in their line. They will escort him back to the Keep and its unending cycle of destruction and servitude." "Even if that's true," Joe said, "there is no Victor. It's still the time of the Gathering." An's grin was pure, wicked delight. "You are absolutely right, Joe Dawson. A fact that should stun and confuse the Ancestors, and with luck, buy us much-needed time." "Time for what?" "To enter the Keep, to find its heart, and to destroy it before they can finish destroying the world. Again." *** Methos moved around the small room, doing things he had done five thousand years ago. It was easy to slide back into that routine, to prepare the bed, to prepare himself, to wait for the familiar step outside the door. The boy, Kae'n, had barely thought about such things, accepting them as An's due without question. He discovered that if he simply shut off his mind, it was almost the same. There was only one difference. The boy, Methos, had lived with fear every day. That fear was still there, raw and painful, but now it was subordinate to an anger the man dared not express. Against the weapon An held over Methos' head, there was no defense. An was coming. Methos sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off his shoes. The door opened. He didn't look up. "A strong man," An said calmly. "A worthy successor to Bilgamesh." Methos said nothing, pushing back that older pain, setting his shoes neatly under the bed. "It would take very little to make him want you," An continued, tone casual, almost disinterested. "Why haven't you taken advantage of that?" "Because that's not what I am," Methos replied, "Nor what he is. We're friends." "Really?" Amusement shook An's voice. Methos took off his shirt, balled it up and threw it on the floor. "Really," he bit back. Then, taking a deep breath, remembering what he served, he said: "It doesn't matter anyway, does it? You're here." "I am," An agreed. Reluctantly, Methos raised his eyes. An leaned against the bedroom door, watching him. Something in his gaze lifted the hair on the back of Methos' neck. "Beneath the bed," said An, "is a box. Bring it to me." The box was very old, Egyptian. Methos handed it over and watched An lift the lid. Something gold rested in a bed of black velvet, gleaming like satin in the candlelight. It was a medallion of some sort. The size of his palm, it was embossed with fine, detailed carving. An took it out. "Come nearer," he said, voice thick with emotion. "Why?" Methos remained where he was. The Sumerian's long fingers closed over the medallion and his face was suddenly black with anger. Methos had time only to gasp before something seized his muscles and he couldn't move. An strode through the dimly lit room and took hold of him, spinning him around to slam him into the wall. Methos saw stars. Eyes glittering with rage, An put his face next to the younger man's. "I am tired of your defiance," he hissed. "There is no time for it!" It was impossible to speak, although Methos tried. An pressed the medallion against his breastbone. Pain stopped Methos' breath. Perhaps his heart stopped, as well. Scarlet filled his vision. Abruptly, he was released, knees buckling. An turned away and went to the bed. Outside in the hall, Methos heard running footsteps. MacLeod! The door shook under the pounding. "METHOS!" So. He had cried out. Great. Trembling, Methos looked down at his chest and the circle of gold embedded in the swollen flesh. He touched it, flinching, and stared wide-eyed at An. "Get rid of him." Holding his arm over the medallion, clenching his teeth at the agony in his chest, Methos cracked the door. "What do you want, MacLeod?" The Highlander, face alive with concern, tried to see past him. "Are you all right?" "I'm fine. What's wrong? Can't a fellow have a little fun?" "Fun?" Bewildered, concern turning to angry disgust, the Highlander glared at him. "What the hell's going on, Methos?" "You're a big boy, figure it out." With an elaborate wink, Methos shut the door, then collapsed against it. There was a long, unnerving silence, then MacLeod's footsteps moved away. "What is this thing?" he whispered finally. "What have you done to me?" "Saved your life," said An. Methos heard weariness in the deep voice. "Now, Kae'n, if you're done with your tantrum, let's go to bed." __________________________________________ CHAPTER NINE Something woke Duncan just before dawn. He lay a moment, wondering where he was and, for just an instant, panicking. Then he remembered. Turning over, he sat up. Across the room, dead to the world, Joe sprawled on the bed. Duncan had finally fallen asleep on an old couch smelling faintly of mildew, but it was a restless slumber. The subject that had kept him awake came back full force. Methos and An. Remembering last night, the Highlander's fists knotted. That had been a scream of *pain*, damn it! Abruptly, he rose and, picking up his sword, quietly left the room. He glanced down the hall at the door shut firmly on the two oldest Immortals. Turning his back on it, he nearly ran from the house. The morning was raucous with birdsong. Duncan walked across the damp grass and down the embankment to the water's edge. A pale line of purple marked the horizon. Out over the water, gulls wheeled against the brightening sky. Was An telling the truth? *Was* all this caused by Immortals? Age after age of Gatherings? Of fighting and killing to attain an eternity of it? The thought shook him. He wanted to believe An was lying, but somehow he could not. Was the other Immortal manipulating his thoughts? The Eternals possessed varying degrees of telepathy, and An was the most powerful of them all. "Damn it!" he shouted suddenly. Dropping to a crouch, he drove the blade deep into the soft earth and remained there, gripping the hilt with both hands, thoughts spinning. Methos. He needed to talk to Methos and alone. Immortal/Eternal Presence sent him lurching to his feet, twisting around, slipping a bit in the mud. An stood on the embankment, looking down. "Good morning, MacLeod. An early riser, I see. Excellent." "Where's Methos?" "Packing. We leave soon." MacLeod pulled his sword from the earth, knowing such ill-treatment had no effect on the unnatural blade. He strode back up the bank to face An. "You're not telling us everything," he said flatly. "Until you do, I'm going nowhere." "You're right, of course. I'm *not* telling you everything." The sardonic smile made MacLeod itch to wipe it off with his fist. "Everything's need-to-know, MacLeod." "I'm not interested in more lies, actually. I don't believe the ones you've already told." An laughed and drew his sword. It was Enkidu's. The sight only added to the Scot's simmering anger. "I'll tell you what, Highlander. We'll decide things the old- fashioned way, shall we? You win, you're free to go -- and you can take Dawson with you. Lose and you're on my team, no more fussing." "If I win, I leave with both Dawson *and* Methos." "Kae'n," An retorted softly, "is not negotiable." He lifted his blade. "En garde!" ******** Methos heard the song of steel when he came out of the bedroom. Joe was in the hall, scowling, tucking his shirt into his belt. "Where's An?" he demanded. Methos stared at him a moment. Then, swearing, he pushed past the Watcher and ran outside. MacLeod and An were fighting, swords flashing in the new light. Methos reached out and caught Joe's arm as the man started toward them. "No!" he said in a low voice. "Don't distract him!" The angry glare faded. Joe nodded, but he was afraid. So was Methos. Their ground conditions were terrible, still muddy, with little vegetation. Both men slipped frequently. MacLeod was bleeding from a cut on his arm and his flank. Seeing that, Methos' heart lifted slightly. This was not a fight to the death. He said as much to Joe, who scowled and wanted to know how he knew. "MacLeod would have been dead two moves back. An's toying with him." "Maybe not," Joe retorted loyally. "MacLeod has a few tricks of his own." Methos said nothing, crossing his arms over his chest, and enjoyed the spectacle of two superb athletes displaying their skill and passion. An feinted, drawing MacLeod to the right. He danced lightly past the powerfully swung blade and caught the Scot on the other flank. Joe swore. Methos shook his head, chuckling. "Whose side are you on?" the Watcher demanded. "The winner's," teased Methos and watched the Watcher's disconcertingly young face redden. The meh had almost finished its work on the Watcher, or so An claimed. Joe Dawson had the look of a man about thirty-five, straight and vigorous, light brown hair just beginning to show gray. He shook his head at Methos and returned his attention to the fight. MacLeod was grinning now, getting into the spirit of it. He slid easily aside, parrying a forward thrust and piercing An's flank. The Sumerian cried out, leaping back. Joe cheered. An went in, a renewed flurry of attacks so swift and precise that MacLeod was forced back several steps, grin wiped from his face. "Oops," Methos said as a poorly timed parry went awry. An's sword pieced the Scot's shoulder and his sword clattered to the ground. Joe took a step forward. Methos quickly grabbed him and pulled him back. "Don't be a fool." "Look, Methos! I don't know what your game is, but MacLeod's my friend..." Joe's indignation died as An sheathed his blade and held out a hand. MacLeod, on his back, took it and was pulled to his feet. The two men turned and clambered up the muddy embankment. "A good fight, MacLeod." Wiping sweat from his brow, An turned to Methos. "Get some breakfast together. We'll leave immediately afterwards." "I'll help," MacLeod said suddenly. Methos, fighting the flash of resentment at the order, immediately said, "I can handle it, MacLeod." "I know." Smiling, the Highlander gestured toward the house. An said nothing, so, shrugging, Methos turned and walked away. MacLeod was right behind him. "What's going on?" The Scot hounded him through the cluttered kitchen. "What is it between you and An?" Methos poked among the remaining cans. "What does it look like, MacLeod?" "What it looks like," grated the Highlander, "is that he still owns you. 'Get the wine, Kae'n. Time for bed, Kae'n. Make breakfast, Kae'n . . .'" "Leave it alone." Methos straightened, can in each hand, and scowled blackly. He tried to move past MacLeod, but the other Immortal blocked his path. Looking into that face, he saw the Highlander at his most mulish. "I can handle it." "It didn't sound like that last night!" Methos thought about the medallion, now part of his body. He pushed past the Scot and slammed the cans on the counter. "I said, leave it alone!" "Tell me that this is what you want." The Scot was right behind him. Methos set his jaw, tempted to let the Highlander find out for himself the limits of An's patience. "It's what I want," he snapped instead. Opening the drawer, he got out the can opener -- it had been everyone's most precious possession -- and started on the first can. Rice pudding. Yum. "Bullshit, Methos! If you talk to me, maybe I can help you!" "MacLeod, I'm fine. Worry about yourself -- and Joe. Your options aren't any better than mine." "We can walk away..." "Than do it." Spinning around, Methos faced him, eye to eye. MacLeod took a startled step back. "Walk out of here! Now! Don't look back. Take Dawson and run as far and as fast as you can . . ." An! Methos shut his mouth with a snap and went in search of more cans. Duncan stood, rigid, by the counter. "Need some help in here?" An looked from one man to the other, brow lifted. MacLeod was close to explosion. Methos held his breath. "He has it under control," growled the Highlander finally. "I think I'll go clean up." He strode from the room. An turned a limpid gaze on Methos. "What's your fancy?" Methos asked, holding up the cans. "Tuna and Cheez-whiz casserole or rice pudding with asparagus tips?" ********* They lay together on the blankets and cushions, not speaking. Overhead, the stars were brilliant. The moon floated just above the horizon. Ashtar watched it spill its silver light into the empty Hall below. Soon, she thought, they would be out under those stars with no crystal roof between. "Less than a week," Krug had told her earlier. "We ride." "The Victor has been found!" "Yes." Only that. No excitement. No eager anticipation of a new comrade. Then, when she would have pursued the matter, he'd said, "Let's go to the promenade," and this had been waiting for her. Soft rugs of crimson and blue, cushions in jewel colors and wonderful designs had been laid out. There was food -- all sorts, dishes gleaned from each of the Ages past. Through the crystal roof, the setting sun painted the sky in a display as colorful as the rugs. Ashtar wept at such thoughtfulness. Far, far from the others, overlooking the ruin of the animals' futile attacks, they made love while the day died. Afterwards, they'd eaten their fill. Now Ashtar rolled over, nestling against him, one arm across his broad chest. "What if this