The three men then continued their journey, over the low hills, until the lights of the village came into view. Sentries called out to them as they approached, an edge to the voice which revealed a nervous tension. There was the smell of boiled vegetables in the air, underlined with the odour of cooked meat. Conner’s stomach began to respond to the stimulants, churning over. He had not eaten since the early morning.
At their approach, a figure came out of one of the peat-and-stone crofts, standing in the light of the dim candles within. As Conner and his companions passed the bonfire in the middle of the village, she came running towards them, crying, ‘Conner!’
Dugal said, ‘Somebody’s pleased to see somebody.’
‘I’ll thank you to keep your thoughts to yourself, cousin Dugal,’ said Conner, but he was pleased to be greeted in such a fashion.
Kate caught hold of his rein as she arrived breathless, by the horse’s side. He looked down on her and smiled. Her thin face broke into an impish grin.
‘Did you bring me a present, Conner MacLeod?’ ‘We’ve been out gathering recruits woman, no on a spree,’ Angus said testily, replying for him.
‘I brought you myself, Kate MacLeod. Is that no good enough?’
She pouted. ‘It’ll have to do, won’t it?’
Chapter 3
CONNER MACLEOD’S EYES opened just as the Blond Backbreaker was slammed face-down onto the canvas. The big man hammered the boards with his fist, as if in great pain. The crowd cheered, delighted. His opponent pranced around the ring clapping his own hands above his head, applauding with the spectators.
MacLeod had had enough.
He rose from his seat and began threading his way to the end of the row to the indignation of the people he had to pass. He ignored them. They were soon back to their yelling and screaming in any case.
Once in the centre aisle, he made his way to the underground garage where he had parked his automobile. On reaching- it he stopped and scanned the silent cars standing in neat rows beneath the jaundiced light. It seemed empty, but he wasn’t sure. There was a small nagging doubt in the corner of his mind. He took a few steps forward and there was a crunch from underfoot. Looking down he saw that he had stepped on an empty coke can. He kicked it away and it went skidding along the floor to hit the wall.
He continued walking, along the line of cars, his eyes still probing all the dark corners. He stayed away from the pillars, walking in the centre of the aisle. From outside came the rumble of traffic on the New York streets and the faint sound of a police siren.
When he reached abreast a Chevrolet he stopped suddenly, and turned. A whisper of cloth against the metal of a car had caught his attention. Then a man stepped out of the shadow of a pillar and stood there regarding him silently for a moment, before saying, ‘MacLeod. ‘
He nodded. ‘Fasil . . . wait.’
The man threw open his coat and reached inside. Something flashed in his hands as he took up a fighting stance in the middle of the garage floor. It was a sword with a golden hilt and Fasil held it like a man who knows how to use what he holds in his hands. The weapon was obviously very familiar to the thick-set Fasil. MacLeod could see the grey head nodding slightly, as if to say, this is it. The time. . .
‘Wait,’ cried MacLeod again, but as if this were the word which called for action, Fasil leapt forward and slashed at MacLeod’s head. The Scot jumped sideways, ducking as he did so and the blade touched his hair, taking a few wisps with it as it whistled past. MacLeod jumped forwards, gripping Fasil’s wrist, trying to force him to release the weapon, but their individual strengths were evenly matched and they swayed there, locked together for a few moments. MacLeod could smell Fasil’s breath: it reeked of garlic. He tried to force a leg between the other man’s knees, to knock him off balance. The sword was held at arm’s length, over their heads, pointing towards the heavens.
MacLeod let go of the wrist and punched Fasil directly in the mouth with all his strength. The other man staggered back, still clutching his weapon and shook his head quickly. Then his face set again and he came forward.
MacLeod reached down the back of his coat collar, finding the handle of his own weapon, and drew the shorter blade: a Samurai sword with an ivory handle.
Fasil nodded, grimly, and leaned back against a pillar for a moment. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Now.’
He removed his coat, deftly changing sword hands, then held it out like a gladiator’s net. As they stood there, facing each other, a bulb pinged, somewhere in the garage and a patch of darkness replaced its light. Fasil suddenly threw the coat, which spread like a sheet over MacLeod’s head. The Scot brushed it aside with his free hand, still keeping his eyes on his opponent and a firm grip of his sword. He pointed the blade at Fasil’s throat.
‘All right,’ said Fasil, as if he had just agreed to go to a ball game with MacLeod. Then he lunged at MacLeod, who parried. The sound of metal on metal rang out, echoing through the catacomb-like garage. Fasil’s technique, learned from the Saracens at the time of the crusades, relied mainly on the slashing, cutting strokes. He was not a thrust man, his teachers employing the scimitar’s cutting edge, rather than the point. MacLeod knew this and kept well out of sword-arm length, refusing to close.
Only one of them was going to walk away from this fight alive. There would be no first blood - no mercy. Had there been a Roman emperor watching his thumbs would already be turned down. Fasil rushed at him, almost blindly, lunging as he ran. MacLeod again parried the blade, at the same time shouldering his opponent into a parked car. MacLeod’s sword slashed through the air but Fasil was swift, rolling sideways and the Samurai blade struck the wing of the vehicle, skidding into the mirror and causing a shower of sparks.
MacLeod leapt at Fasil, pinning him to the side of the car, but neither man could work his sword arm free far enough to strike. Fasil kicked out, lifting MacLeod off his feet and sending him sliding across the hood of the car…
MacLeod found his feet in’ an instant and both men glared at each other across the vehicle, breathing heavily.
Fasil said, ‘It’s time to die, MacLeod.’
‘Do it then.’
‘I intend to.’
Fasil’s sword lashed out again, denting the other wing of the car and he cursed.
‘Yours?’ said MacLeod, indicating the car with a nod. ‘Going to need a respray.’
Fasil spat across the space between them and they both edged their way into the aisle between the cars again. For a few moments both men studied each other’s stance. They were aware of each other’s weaknesses, and in that awareness were able to protect themselves against mistakes. MacLeod watched his opponent’s eyes, hoping for a signal, an indication of his next move. There was a flicker, and suddenly Fasil rushed forward, in a bull-like charge, his sword slicing air.
MacLeod stood his ground and a furious exchange of thrusts and parries took place, each man searching for an opening. Fasil, the bigger, heavier man, began to force MacLeod backwards, into a corner of the garage. The blades rang against each other, the clashes almost forming a rhythmical sequence which begged for other instruments to join in.
There was a pool of oil on the patch where MacLeod fought to keep his balance against the onslaught of heavy blows being rained on him from all sides. His feet slipped and slid as he skated back and forth, ducking, weaving, blocking the attempts to slice, and he leaned back on the wall to get some support.
Fasil, seeing that his opponent was in trouble, redoubled the ferocity of his attack. A faint smile of triumph had found his lips. Each blow brought a grunt from him, like a boxer on the receiving end. He was using the sword in a two-handed grip now, determined that MacLeod was not going to get out of the corner and into a more advantageous position.
Suddenly, both MacLeod’s feet went from under him. He half-slid, down the wall. Fasil gave out a yell. The heavy sword was raised above his head. MacLeod slipped sideways, but Fasil had been watching, anticipating any move. The sword came
down.
Just above MacLeod’s head, about three feet from the ground, was a fuse box. The main supply for the garage power ran through this point. On its descent Fasil’s sword sliced through the cable leading to the box and the blade then buried itself amongst the wires and contact points of the box itself.
There was a pyrotechnical display of sparks and flashes. Hissing, fizzing sounds filled the air and an acrid smell of burning plastic and rubber assailed MacLeod’s nostrils. Fasil danced. Tremors were rippling through his body and his cheeks were stretched taut over the bones of his face, like those of a man experiencing G-force speeds. His eyes rolled as the high voltage played havoc with the nerve ends of his muscles: His hands began to smoke, the flesh bubbling and blistering. He was screaming. The lights failed.
MacLeod fought to regain his feet as the loose end of the cable snaked above his head. He could hear Fasil’s teeth grinding and could smell the pungent odour of burning flesh. Then he was up and behind his enemy. Fasil tore the blade from the box just as the emergency lighting came into operation. He whirled to face MacLeod again. His hands were still smouldering. He was ready to fight on after a shock that would have stopped the heart of any normal man within moments. There was pain in his eyes, but no indication that the charge of high voltage electricity had weakened him at all. Behind him the severed lines still spat sparks.
MacLeod decided to try for a height advantage and sprang onto the hood of a car, then onto its roof. He was directly above Fasil, who, seeing the danger slashed out wildly at MacLeod’s legs. The blow was aimed too low and shattered the windscreen of the car, showering the big man with diamond-sized pieces of glass.
It was MacLeod’s turn for a chance at the head. He brought the Samurai sword round in a wide arc, sweeping downwards. It was also his turn to be thwarted by technology. The keen blade severed a steam pipe above his head and hot vapour bellowed from the tube into his face. He shrieked, falling backwards, rolling over the floor against a pillar. Fasil’s blade followed a split second later, missing and burying its tough steel edge three inches deep into the concrete pillar.
The fuse box was still belching sparks and smoke and suddenly burst into flames, the fire spreading along the cable and down to the oil on the floor. There was the faint sound of an alarm coming from somewhere. Then it
began to rain. Torrents of water poured down on the battling men as they fought to gain an advantage over one another. The sprinkler system had come into operation.
It was like fighting in a thunderstorm, but the Scot had fought in such conditions many times before. The highlands of his original homeland were not renowned for constant sunshine. He had fought in drizzle, mist, rain and storm, with mud up to his ankles and visibility down to a couple of feet. A drop of rain made him feel at home. He could see that Fasil was not happy, though, with the water hissing from the roses above them. The big man was moving his lips, cursing in a language unfamiliar to MacLeod. The water mixing with oil patches on the floor was making the surface extremely slippery and both men were having trouble keeping their footing.
MacLeod got in close and slammed the hilt of his sword into Fasil’s face. Fasil spat blood into his eyes and then MacLeod felt a blow on the wrist which sent his Samurai spinning out of his hand. It struck a car and bounced back, clattering at Fasil’s feet. Fasil kicked it, hard, and it skittered over the oily surface to the far side of the garage, beneath a car.
MacLeod began to run between the cars with Fasil following closely. He knew what he wanted and headed straight for the Fire Point, hoping to find an axe. He reached it, pulled open the door to the box. There was no axe, but inside a wrench was clipped to the door. He grabbed it, turning just in time to slam it into Fasil’s face. The big man fell, screaming.
MacLeod knew he had to get his sword back. He could beat Fasil all night with the wrench and still the man would keep coming at him. There was only one way to stop him and that required a cutting edge. Pain was only a distraction and without a sword that was the only thing either man could inflict on one another.
MacLeod was running through water now, which hampered him. The garage was beginning to flood. He scrambled out, searching beneath the cars under which the sword had gone, looking for the shine of its blade. But the lights were playing on the water and there were glints and flashes everywhere he looked. He kept low, behind the cars, hoping they would screen his movements. Fasil was doing backflips down the centre aisle, not to put distance between them, but to keep on the move. Also he could momentarily look underneath the vehicles as he went along. MacLeod watched his athletic opponent at his gymnastics, keeping his body off the floor, on a car bumper.
With water pouring from the ceiling, steam hissing from severed pipelines, sparks still spurting from crackling cables and a man doing backflips along the shallows of a flooded garage, MacLeod was inclined to think that the fight had turned into a circus act. He allowed himself a small, wry smile.
He peered under the car once Fasil was past.
There was the Samurai blade!
MacLeod reached under, his fingers just touching the handle. The sword tilted slightly, rolled and was still only just within fingertip length.
There was a soft plashing sound. Fasil’s feet and ankles appeared within MacLeod’s viewpoint, on the far side of the car. He lay still, his face half in the water. Fasil began to walk round the car and MacLeod edged beneath it.
His fingers closed around the hilt of the Samurai sword. He watched Fasil’s feet as they circumnavigated the vehicle, then moved off in the direction of the centre aisle of the garage.
MacLeod was out from under the car in an instant. Fasil turned as Macleod approached him from behind and stood at the ready. Macleod closed with him and blade met blade once more.
This time the Scot’s weapon caught the other right on the tip. Fasil’s hands must have been either sweaty, or wet from the sprinklers above.
The sword went flying from his grip and across the water covered floor. MacLeod’s blade was at his throat.
Fasil stood quite still. His eyes stared directly into MacLeod’s but there was no plea for mercy in them, or from his lips. He expected none. MacLeod fought down, repressed the feelings of pity that began to rise within him. If he showed compassion now, there would only be a second meeting, and a third, until one of them lay dead at the other’s feet. To let Fasil off the hook only meant a delay in the inevitable. Fasil would seek him out again and perhaps the next time MacLeod would be at the big man’s mercy - and he knew that none would be shown. There could be only one ending.
The Samurai blade swept out, in an arc. It seemed to gather light to itself, brilliance flooding into the blade. MacLeod put all his strength behind the blow. Fasil’s eyes were still staring into his own as the weapon sliced the grey-haired head clean from the broad shoulders. It rolled down Fasil’s chest and between the open legs of MacLeod, coming to rest a few feet away. The wound on the torso fountained blood and the body crumpled as if it were boneless, hitting the ground heavily and splashing MacLeod’s legs with water. The shallows began to turn pink as threads of red mingled with the water.
MacLeod turned to look at the head. The face was away from him and he was glad of that. Its hair was waving in the current, as the water flowed towards the drains.
One down, thought MacLeod. But there would be more. This was just the first encounter of the gathering of a clan that was not tied by blood, but by something far deeper: a shared power. A power that...
Then it came. Where the ceiling of the garage had been was an intense blackness. Out of this darkness came the lifeforce, the energy due to him: his right, earned by the death of Fasil. He felt the bolts of energy enter his body, was shaken by them. Pain, pain, pain - but the pain of life, not death. They surged through him, burning through his veins, along his nerves, into his heart, his brain. His whole frame shuddered as the blue, crackling lifeforce lit the garage from end to end, finding in him its contact point, its earth. It rippled al
ong the car roofs, down pillars, and over the surface of the water. Its dazzling brilliance blinded him and still it came, filling his body with its white light. His mind sang with colours. Pain. He shrieked, a cry of joy as well as agony. His body felt charged with strength and it seemed he could lift buildings, crush cars.
‘Ahhhhaahhh . . .’
He could not stop the sound coming from his own throat. The intensity of the influx of power grew until he felt he could contain it no longer. Yet still the bolts of blue-white light assailed him.
Around him. the cars began to receive the overflow of energy that passed through him. It travelled along sills and bumpers of the metal vehicles. Hubcaps split, doors burst open, rubber melted as the heat warped the steel. Engines sprang to life, one after another and headlights, radios, wipers, heaters, electric windows, all took on a life of their own as the external power found a way into their circuits, overloaded them, caused them to explode. The noise was deafening, as windscreens began to shatter, filling the air with bright crystals that fell like hail over the whole scene.
Over two hundred cars around MacLeod’s juddering body were banging, flashing, rattling, roaring. It was pandemonium. A sump cracked and split open near to where he stood, the oil splurging out over the garage floor. A piece of glass from a headlight whined past his face, like a bullet, to bury itself in the wall behind him.
MacLeod screamed, wondering how much more he could take. A tyre exploded in the car to the front of him. At last it began to ease off and he began to run along the back wall, where the fire point hoses were whipping at the air.
He reached the L turning at the end of the garage and turned the corner. His own vehicle was parked well behind the main area. Its headlights were on and the
motor was running. Steam was coming from its radiator. A strong wind was sweeping down the aisles now.
Highlander Page 2
