by Nancy Holder
I ain’t no damn dog.
I’m not a damn dog.
And I never was.
Duncan. If he had betrayed her, she’d kill him.
No. Never.
Yes.
As Machiavelli’s guards threw MacLeod to his knees, he drawled, “I expected you here days ago.”
The Highlander said nothing. With the dignity Machiavelli remembered so vividly, the man got to his feet and stood. Another fighter, such as Machiavelli himself, could detect the energy coiled inside him. The modern age suited him. The hair drawn back, the clothes. Duncan MacLeod was timeless, ageless. He bore his centuries with grace.
He extended his hand. “I welcome you.” MacLeod only looked at him. Machiavelli shrugged, dropped his hand to his side. “You know what I have accomplished.”
MacLeod finally spoke. “I know you must be stopped.”
“The gambit paid off. A few pawns sacrificed. Let’s jump ahead to your last move. NxQ.”
MacLeod remained silent.
“You should play. NxQ.” He frowned at the bruise fast disappearing on the Highlander’s high, chiseled cheek. He looked at his men. “Which of you struck him? I gave orders that he not be harmed.”
No one answered, but one man—a mortal—reddened. Machiavelli reached forward, grabbed the man’s submachine gun out of his hands, and fired at least twenty rounds into him. The man fell to the ground. Machiavelli, face impassive, fired another twenty and tossed the weapon on top of the bloody body. Shocked, the others drew back slightly, but regained their composure within seconds. He was proud of them.
“That was not necessary,” MacLeod said angrily.
“Oh, but it was. Did you never read The Prince? If you cannot be loved, be ruthless. NxQ. Oh, come. You must know what I want.”
“My head.”
“I thought so as well. I’ve been waiting for this day for so long. No, not waiting. I never wait.” He smiled. “Planning. I knew I’d have only one opportunity to get you. But then my disloyal Beauties started making their own plans. I figured I’d take advantage. Besides, it would be better to have you out of the way before my system was in place.”
“Why? Why do you do this?”
“Why not?”
MacLeod shook his head. “That’s not a good enough reason, not for you.”
Machiavelli walked languidly to a ruined statue of the Goddess of Mercy and touched the ravaged base. “I was made for this time, when so many things can be done, and so easily. The little bad men, they’re hampered by computer data bases that reveal their secrets to the FBI and Interpol. The age constrains them. But I am Machiavelli. I was outfoxing governments before most of the nations on the globe were founded. My name is in the dictionary, friend Duncan, and it means manipulative and cunning.”
He shrugged. “Why do I do these things? Because I can. Because the more power I have around me, the more invincible I become. There is no power on earth greater at this time than the corruption and control of computer systems. You can manipulate reality with computers—send out photographs of events that never occurred, file reports of events that never happened. Heretofore, altering the world at such a basic level has been the provenance only of God, if you believe there is one. Surely a man in your position—an Immortal—can grasp the attraction.” He spread his hands. “Don’t you want to win the Game?”
“How will any of this accomplish that?” MacLeod demanded. “Harming hundreds of innocent mortals, causing misery—”
Machiavelli felt almost sorry for him. “How entangled with them you are, caro mio. We sent Sammi Jo to you because we knew you wouldn’t be able to withstand the charms of a wounded dove, but I see it wasn’t really necessary. Your heart bleeds for anyone in trouble. It’s very weak and shortsighted of you. You really need to toughen up.”
He folded his arms. “Duncan, once my knight, always my pawn, this world as you knew it is finished. There is no way you can protect these people any longer. Those who are not for me are against me, and I will brook no enemies. I’ll be the only authority on this planet.”
“You will be dead.”
“Ah, so focused. Such a hero. You know that’s a hollow wish.”
“Draw your sword. I’m challenging you.”
Machiavelli pursed his lips. “Perhaps we could join forces. I need someone I can almost trust.”
“I’m not that man.”
“Ah, but you are. You always keep your word. I’ll tell you what.” He made a show of holding out his empty hands. “Our girl is waiting like a princess to be rescued by her handsome knight.” He made a courtier’s bow to MacLeod. “There’s a lock on her door. In one hour, I will signal the other person in the room, an Immortal you have never cared for, to cut off her head. You may spend the hour looking for her, or fighting me.” He chuckled. “And you swore, many centuries ago, never to take my head.”
He was right.
MacLeod raised his sword, hesitated. Machiavelli was right. He had sworn.
“I never said I would not harm you,” MacLeod said slowly. “I only swore I wouldn’t kill you.”
“Then what’s the point, Duncan?” Machiavelli crossed his arms and smiled condescendingly at MacLeod. “If you’re not going to stop me, why bother slowing me down?”
“There are other ways to stop you.”
Something crossed Machiavelli’s face—a strange, simmering fury—and MacLeod advanced.
“The sand stopped me,” he whispered. “And I hated you for that, Highlander. I hated you every day that I suffered.”
“What are you talking about?” MacLeod asked harshly. “The sands of time? What?”
“You don’t even know?”
MacLeod waited. He had angered Machiavelli, and that was good. Anger threw an opponent off-balance. The truth was that he really didn’t know what Machiavelli was talking about. He had left Algiers for Europe and—
—Ah. Ali had told MacLeod he would detain Machiavelli. He had never said how.
“The lady is not sufficient incentive, then,” Machiavelli said, his voice rising. “But she’ll slow you down. You’re worried about her. You’ll worry about how much time she has. You’ll wonder if she’ll survive.”
“She’ll survive.” But MacLeod wasn’t sure of that. Machiavelli was right; he would worry. He was worried now.
“She?” Machiavelli snorted. “She’s a frail little blossom.”
“No.” Of that, MacLeod was sure. “She’s like us. She has a warrior’s heart. She just hasn’t had to use it.”
“High praise from the laird of the Clan MacLeod.”
MacLeod assumed a fighter’s stance. “I’m taking you on.”
“On holy ground? I think not. This is a Shinto shrine.”
MacLeod looked at the ruined place, then back at Machiavelli. “Is it your intention to hold me here an hour then? Make a mockery of your challenge?”
“It’s all a game anyway, is it not? Perhaps a grand one, but a game nonetheless?”
“Not for those you’ve killed.”
Machiavelli waved his hand. “Mere pawns, Duncan.”
“No. They are people. With lives, and dreams. Living beings you have no right to murder!”
And suddenly, MacLeod was filled with rage. As if they were back in Venice, and he stood before the grave of a small boy, killed for sport.
He stood before Maria Angelina, who had been exploited, battered, and bruised.
He stood before Richie’s crashed and sinking plane.
“You bastard.” He advanced like a snake, slow, sure. He aimed his sword. “You are going to die today.”
Machiavelli’s eyes widened. “Holy ground, MacLeod.”
MacLeod came closer.
“Madonna,” Machiavelli breathed. “You mean to do it.” He looked wildly at his men. “Take him!”
But there must have been something in MacLeod’s face that frightened them; they kept their distance, white faces looking from Machiavelli to MacLeod and back again.
Machiavelli would not touch them. Not the ones he loved.
With an inhuman shout, he flung himself after Machiavelli.
The other Immortal turned and ran.
It was the most foolish thing Machiavelli could have done, MacLeod told himself as he flew after him. For who would fight on holy ground, truly? Who could?
But now, out of the shrine, the bastard was fair game.
“Is this how you hunted ‘Tonio down?” he shouted after him, pushing people out of the way.
Then Machiavelli’s guards began to realize what was happening; one of them drew a gun. Before he could fire it, MacLeod lunged forward and ran him through. Another aimed. MacLeod dispatched him.
Machiavelli saw, and stopped.
“They’re loyal to me,” he said with a hint of relief.
MacLeod didn’t hear. He dived at him, slashing. He had never fought so fiercely in his long life. Death; he would deal the final blow to this evil on the earth, this smiling jackal—
“I’m unarmed,” Machiavelli shouted.
MacLeod ignored him, coming hard, whirling his sword over his head like the Highlander he was.
Then Machiavelli pulled his weapon, and in his left hand, a short, sharp stiletto. He had lied; he had been armed all along. He was the Prince of Lies.
And suddenly, MacLeod was in a black, hard place he had never been before. Icy fury propelled him forward; he was racing against time, through it; he was a blade forged in the pit at the beginning; he was inhuman; he was nothing but the desire to kill this treacherous moving target, this prey.
Machiavelli saw the transformation, and said desperately, “Forty-five minutes until she dies.”
But MacLeod scarcely heard words. Kill him, kill him, his blood commanded, for all the innocents he had been unable to save. For ancient Scotland, and the modern world. For the tyrants you have watched rape, plunder, and murder. For the death of the evils that assault the world daily.
For yourself, for the pain and the loss and the inability to stop any of it.
MacLeod, you are fierce. You have always been fierce. Though you cast away your warrior’s role, you have never cast away your warrior’s heart. You fly at me; you terrify me. But I fight back now. I pierce your shoulder socket; you stagger, chancing a thought for your sweet darling.
Across the compound, dodging bullets and the vain attempts of Machiavelli’s men to cheat him of this triumph. Across a field and into a cave, as Machiavelli looked at him with eyes vacant with terror.
He came at him, animalistic, atavistic, a killing machine—Such we must have been, to survive; I will cut you down, bastard, killer, menace, you will never hurt anyone again. You will bend to my will and you will die.
Thirty minutes.
I am on you, Machiavelli. I slash and slash, answering your lightning parries, your riposte, your lunge. I cuff you with the hilt of my katana. I hit you with my fists, I knee you. I will beat you.
I will destroy you, body and spirit and soul.
Fifteen minutes until she died.
But Duncan, you have sworn not to take my head.
What measure of a man are you, if you break your oath?
“Check,” Machiavelli said, as he sliced MacLeod’s arm and laid bare the bone, and the Highlander slipped to the ground. Then, without a moment of warning, he was on his knees with Duncan’s sword across his throat.
Duncan hissed, “Stand.” When Machiavelli did not, MacLeod pressed his blade.
“Take me to her. Now.”
“She’s as good as dead.” Machiavelli was terrified, outraged. Yet his terror was exhilarating; he had not known such depth of passion in all his long life. “But I’ll humor you, if you renew your oath here and now. You will not kill me.”
MacLeod was silent. “You swore to me, Duncan. And though your Turkish friend caused me unbearable agony, I must concede that you kept your oath. And have, all these centuries.” Machiavelli made a show of looking at his watch. “She has ten minutes. I will show you where she is if you swear once again that I am safe with you.”
MacLeod struggled. It was over. Again, he was defeated. Tersely he said, “On my honor. But throw down your weapons.”
Machiavelli obeyed. MacLeod dragged him into the house threatening anyone who approached with Machiavelli’s death. Again the eerie sameness made him wary; where before he had rescued a friend, Ali, now he was to save a woman who may prove to be as faithless as Maria Angelina.
There were five minutes left. MacLeod said, “What now?”
“She’s in the most dangerous part of the house.”
MacLeod thought for only a few seconds. “Her bedroom.”
Machiavelli smiled. “Ah, bravo.”
“Show me.”
They moved through the house. Machiavelli’s people fell away, stunned at the sight of the great man held at sword point. One or two darted forward, but he told them to desist. They marveled that he was smiling. He was fearless. He appeared overjoyed.
They were awed.
An alarm sounded. Ruffio looked at Samantha.
“Your time is up.”
Slowly, deliberately, he walked to her. Hoisting the sword over his head, he took a deep preparatory breath.
Her heart pounded, yet a portion of her mind remained calm. If she was to die, she would die. If she was to survive, she must remain in possession of herself.
“At least uncuff me,” she said.
He paused. “I thought you’d be screaming by now.”
“Yes, I imagine you did.” Did it hurt when the Quickening took your force and gave it to another? Would she be aware? Or would she be nothing at all?
She made fists to hide the fact that she had started to shake. But Ruffio saw her fear, and smiled.
“All right,” he said, “I’ll uncuff you.”
“And fight me.”
He shook his head. “A nice attempt, but there’s no advantage to me, carissima. Let’s get it over with, si?” He brought his sword down on her wrist and ankle cuffs.
“Oh.” She raised her hands to her face and burst into tears. “God, help me.”
“There is no help for you. Not even Duncan MacLeod can help you.” He swung.
Screaming like a banshee, she dropped her pretense of tears and rushed him, toppling him to the ground. He jumped up and slapped her hard, sending her flying across the room, and charged toward her.
“You bitch! Strega! You’ll pay for that.”
It didn’t matter too much. Better to die this way than the way she had been. To die a warrior.
Better.
They reached the door. Machiavelli said, “Hear them? He’s killing her.” The keypad was prominent beside the doorknob. “A few buttons separate us from them.”
“Open the door.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t promise to do that.” Machiavelli pulled himself away. MacLeod punched in some random numbers. “And now, I’m finished with you for today. I have a helicopter to catch.”
MacLeod whirled on him. “Open the door!”
“I’ve done as much,” Machiavelli said. “If you weren’t so stupid, Immortal, you’d know the code. Madonna, you’re such a terrible player.”
Immortal. A player.
Chess.
The chess moves.
Machiavelli had been a chess champion in the nineteenth century. As such he had been present at many ground-breaking matches, many written up in chess history books.
Suddenly he remembered: They had been playing the famous game won by Adolf Anderssen in Berlin in 1864.
The game known to history as the Immortal Game. A man named Staunton had been his adversary.
MacLeod punched in the last play: B-K7.
The door opened. Machiavelli cried, “Bravo!” and took off at a run.
Ruffio whirled around on MacLeod and knocked him
to the floor. As Ruffio moved back, Samantha launched herself at him, pummeling him. MacLeod threw his own sword to Samantha.
Their gazes locked. She was battered and bruised, and his fury rose again at what had been done to her. She nodded, and for the oddest moment, he thought she was going to swing against his own throat. Then she attacked Ruffio, shouting as she brought down the heavy blade.
As soon as the man’s head fell from his shoulders, MacLeod grabbed Ruffio’s sword and flew after Machiavelli, wheeling his sword around his head, ululating a Highlander war cry.
Machiavelli half turned as he ran from him. He shouted, “You swore!”
“Aye, I did. On my honor,” MacLeod replied, launching himself at the Prince of Lies.
Machiavelli went for his sword. MacLeod caught it with his blade and flung it out of Machiavelli’s reach.
The Italian was shocked. “At least let me fight like a man.”
“No.”
Machiavelli stared at him openmouthed. He had poisoned kings and popes; he had promised to dominate the earth. And yet, he was just a man.
Who had thought to live forever.
“Duncan, I’m unarmed. And you took an oath.”
MacLeod replied, “There can’t be another chance for you.” He took a breath and swung.
In the distance, Ruffio’s Quickening overtook Samantha.
Highlander, where is your honor?
Where is the foundation of your word?
You have lied. You have deceived.
You have sinned.
The Quickening rocked him; it dragged him under, and above; it killed him, revived him. It transformed him.
It became him.
Machiavelli, dead for all time. And yet, as MacLeod shook like thunder, a memory separated from the others like a feather, and trailed into the calm at the center of the tumult:
A little boy with foxlike eyes, standing hopeful and eager in a doorway. It was a school. And the other boys laughed, “You puny little girl! Get away. Go away.”
Unloved.
Sobbing home, to seek the arms of his mother. Comfort there, understanding there:
