The Captive Soul

by Josepha Sherman

  Khyan couldn’t have heard too much of that, but he suddenly convulsed under the men holding him captive, nearly tearing free, shouting out foulnesses at Methos in the Hyksos tongue, insane curses that made no sense.

  Coldly, Methos turned back to Ahmose and the cluster of priests. The chief among them, the priest of Amun, a tall, lean man of indeterminate age and great dignity, dipped his head in grave courtesy to Ahmose.

  “We have decided, oh pharaoh. This is, enemy or no, a king. He cannot be slain like a common man.”

  “No,” Ahmose agreed reluctantly. “How, then?”

  Let me, Methos thought. Ah, let me. “I have witnessed the rites of Set,” he cut in. “It seems only just that he should, in turn—”

  Cries of horror, denial, from the priests interrupted him: They were civilized men! They would not sink to such depths!

  Unless it suited you.

  “Besides,” the priest of Amun added thoughtfully, “he is, as you remind us, a royal follower of Set. And as such, his soul is far too perilous to release. It would fly straight to that god to tell Set what we have done. That we cannot risk. Instead…”

  With a lunge swift as the striking of a snake, the priest snatched up Apophis’s fallen sword.

  “Hear us, oh men of Egypt, men of the Hyksos: Apophis, once known as King of Avaris, will meet this fate. His body will be slain, smothered so that his royal blood will not be shed—but his soul will be trapped forever in this, his own sword!”

  “Nooo!” Khyan wailed in horrified pain. “Brother, nooo!”

  As warriors folded robes over Apophis’s nose and mouth, holding him helpless for all the ferocity of his struggles, the priests began their chanting.

  “Hail to thee, Osiris, Lord of Eternity.

  Hail to thee, oh King of the Gods.

  Let him not pass.”

  “Stop it!” Khyan screamed. “Stop it!”

  But the priests’ voices never wavered.

  “Hail to the first Doorkeeper, Sekhet.

  Let him not pass.

  Hail to the second Doorkeeper, Unhat.

  Let him not pass.”

  Superstition, Methos thought. No matter how a mortal dies, death still holds the same permanence.

  But the slightest of, yes, superstitious pricklings raced up his spine, regardless.

  And the priests continued relentlessly as Apophis fought with all the desperate strength in his body, as the warriors pressed the robes more firmly over his nose and mouth:

  “Hail to the sixth Doorkeeper, Atek.

  Let him not pass.

  Hail to the seventh Doorkeeper, Sekmet.

  Let him not pass.”

  Khyan twisted his head free of those who were trying to silence him. “Brother! My brother! No, fight them, live! No!”

  But Apophis’s frenzied fight for life was starting to lessen. And the priests chanted on:

  “Let this soul be blocked.

  Let it not pass.

  Let this soul be trapped.

  Through all the eons,

  Let it be trapped.

  Through all the eons,

  Let it never know rest,

  Let it never know peace,

  Let it never know life.”

  Apophis’s struggle slowed… slowed… stopped. The warriors warily released their holds, and the royal body crumpled, lifeless.

  “Brother!”

  It was a shout of wildest agony. Twisting about to stare at Methos, Khyan screamed, “You! Demon! It is your doing, all this, all the wrongness, all your doing! Demon! Yes, hear me, this is no man but a demon! Cut him—and see him heal!”

  “He is insane,” Methos began.

  But with a surge of that insane strength and speed, Khyan was free, snatching a sword and lunging. Methos felt the blade like an icy blaze through his chest, and had time only to think, Not here, not now. Choking, he tried to cry out, “Damn you.”

  But it was too late for words.

  And then, with the usual stunning suddenness, there was light and life again, and he was coughing his lungs clear, struggling to breathe, struggling to regain his feet and dazed senses. Khyan had been caught by the others, which was, Methos realized, the only reason he was coming back to life at all.

  Absolute silence fell, everyone staring at Methos. They had all seen him die. He couldn’t possibly pretend it had been nothing but a trick.

  “Impossible,” someone breathed. And, “A miracle,” others gasped.

  But it was Ahmose who shouted out, eyes cold, “Demon! This is no ‘man sent by the gods’—this was never a man at all, but a betrayer of men! Demon!”

  There was no doubt at all that he knew exactly what he said, without the slightest trace of superstition. And of course, since the pharaoh had said it, the others were echoing, “Demon! Demon!”

  There’s gratitude for you!

  Or was it that the clever Ahmose didn’t want another clever man around? One who just might be too ambitious a man? One who had seen the boy god-king in his all too- human weakness? No matter: The sudden betrayal hurt Methos more than he ever would have credited.

  Never mind, never mind, just get out of here before anything else goes wrong!

  Which it did: Khyan tore free once more and attacked.

  All right, then, Methos thought in despair, let them see a Quickening!

  His sword clashed against Khyan’s stolen blade, once, twice—

  Then Medjai arrows cut short the fight. Methos felt agony blaze through him, felt himself convulse with the impact, crying out, at the same time hearing Khyan’s scream.

  The prince fell, dying, pierced by half a dozen arrows. But with one last effort, he forced himself up on an elbow, shouting out, “I curse you, Ahmose, curse you with all my might! I will free my brother’s soul, I swear this, though it take me the lifetime of the world!”

  For that one shocked moment, all attention was focused on the prince. “Get out of here,” someone whispered violently shoving Methos: Ahmose-the-Soldier, eyes wild with his own daring. “Don’t know what you are; don’t want to know. But you’re a brave fighter. Go on!”

  The Egyptian turned on the others, pointing at the fallen Khyan, yelling, “Demon! There’s the demon! Come on, stone him!”

  The strategy was thinner than papyrus, but in that moment of mob hysteria, Methos, biting his lip till it bled against the pain, concentrated only on surviving, only on moving, step by unsteady step, to the river’s edge. He would not collapse. He would not give up, no matter how his agonized body was failing him. He was not going to die here, damn them all, not going to lose his head to those he’d thought friends.

  A way out… must be a way…

  Yes, yes, one of the fishing boats, little thing… no one on board…

  Methos fell into it, helplessly crying out at the blinding new slash of pain. Darkness swirled before his eyes—no, no, he could not die, not yet!

  Gasping, nearly sobbing in his agony, he slashed the anchor rope, let the sail unfurl. The wind caught it, pulling the rope from his hands, filling the sail… sweetest sight in the world… sail like the belly of a pregnant woman… couldn’t remember who’d said that…

  It didn’t matter. As the little boat sped over the Nile, Methos fell helplessly back onto the deck, dimly aware he’d passed beyond the point of pain, dimly aware of the breath rasping in his lungs growing slower… ever slower. He lay staring up at the clear, beautiful turquoise-blue desert sky…

  … and then…

  Darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  New York City, Midtown:

  The Present

  “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere… ”

  The lines from that more or less anthem of New York City, “New York, New York,” insisted on running through Duncan MacLeod’s mind as he hung from the balcony in the Branson Collection there in the middle of the night.

  It certainly was true, at least, that you could find anything you needed in this city—includ
ing the rope and tackle from which he was suspended right now. That had come, no questions asked, as part of rock-climbing gear, from a sporting goods store over on Third Avenue, as had the soft-sided case, meant for a tennis racket, that should be just the right size to hold the Hyksos sword, and the narrow-beam, tight-focus flashlight that was letting him see where he was going without lighting up the whole gallery. A hardware store next door had provided an archaic but functioning walkie-talkie set, of which he had one half and Methos the other, and a nice, compact tool kit holding a pair of wire cutters, pliers, and screwdriver.

  Methos, up on the Branson balcony, having won or lost the toss of the coin (depending on how one felt about rope climbing), was watching him intently, a dimly seen figure up there, face ghostly pale. MacLeod nodded, I’m all right, and began his wary hand-over-hand climb down the nicely knotted rope. He didn’t think the Branson Collection had alarmed the floor as well as the doorways, but there was no reason to take unnecessary risks.

  As opposed to necessary ones? This is not the way I like spending an evening.

  Outside, the night was rapidly turning nasty, building up to what promised to be a truly Gothic storm.

  Just what we need. Or rather, don’t need.

  A preliminary flash of lightning made him start, nearly losing his hold on the rope and making it swing alarmingly as he clung to it. MacLeod caught a flash of Methos’s face, eyes wide with apprehension.

  Not much I can do. Just wait till I stop swinging… ah, there.

  It had been ridiculously easy to break into the Branson Collection. He and Methos had merely hid in a supply closet till the building had been shut for the night.

  Good thing we’re not trying to rob a larger museum.

  He wouldn’t have cared to tackle something, say, the size and sophistication of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, not without Amanda’s help.

  To be fair, security was perfectly tight in the Branson Foundation offices, where vital data were kept. But it was, by comparison, on the casual side out here in the galleries, where the one guard had gone off on a coffee break. Who, after all, was going to break into an exhibit containing nothing of flashy worth?

  Only a four-hundred-year-old Scottish Highlander and a… who-knows-how-old whatever-he-is.

  Of course, a coffee break only lasted so long. No time to waste, unless he wanted to explain to Professor Maxwell why he was here after closing hours.

  At least the coming storm, rumbling its way toward the city, should drown out any noise he might make. It should be reasonably easy to get out of here again, too. Go back up the rope, then out and down the side of the elaborately ornate building. All those nice stone handholds.

  Hopefully not slick with rain by that point.

  The sword in its case was right below him. Fortunate that said case was one of the old-fashioned, plain-glass-box-in-wood-frame variety. He wasn’t sure he could have opened a more modern version, but this… well, now, MacLeod knew he’d never admit to Amanda just how much he’d learned from her.

  There must be an alarm wire, though… yes, there it was, a nice, simple one, too. A quick clip with the wire cutters took care of it. Some delicate work with pliers and screwdriver, and… ha, yes, that did it.

  Hanging from the rope by one foot braced in a knotted loop, MacLeod gingerly raised the glass lid of the case. One slip and…

  But he didn’t slip, and no, the case had no secret alarms, either. Unless they were silent?

  No might-be’s!”

  MacLeod gently lifted the Hyksos sword free of its stand and slipped it into the tennis racket case slung across his chest—ha, yes, a perfect fit. He just as carefully closed the museum case, then started his careful way back up the rope, hand over hand, to rejoin Methos. Giving up the tennis racket case with a flourish, MacLeod told him, “All yours.”

  Methos gave a curt nod. “Now to see if our trap catches its prey.”

  “Well,” MacLeod said with forced good cheer, “you know where I’ll be. Happy hunting!”

  “Did anyone ever tell you, MacLeod, that you have a very bizarre sense of humor?”

  Methos was gone into the shadows before MacLeod could reply.

  MacLeod winced at the sound of thunder and fought the urge to glance up yet again. He knew what was up there: clouds. Dark, heavy, threatening clouds. The storm would be upon them soon enough, and at least he could take some consolation in the fact that it wasn’t raining.

  Yet.

  The wind was rising, chilly for mid-May. MacLeod pulled the collar of his trenchcoat up about his ears and continued his prowl on the sidewalk surrounding the Branson Collection. Fifth Avenue—Seventy-first Street—Madison Avenue—Seventieth Street—back to Fifth Avenue, hand never that far from the hilt of his concealed sword, and never mind that the square of land he was covering was too large for him to sense Khyan if Khyan happened to be on the far side of the building. Methos and he had already agreed that it was impossible for any one man to keep watch over an entire building. All MacLeod could do was keep up this constant quadrangular stalk, hoping some overzealous policeman wasn’t keeping tabs on this eccentric walker, and wait for the warning of another Immortal’s presence.

  When. And if.

  Another thing on which he and Methos had flatly agreed was that this was no place for heroics. Whichever one of them first spotted Khyan took care of him as quickly as possible.

  Glaring at the streetlights, MacLeod added to himself, Presuming that we can find some less brightly lit place. “See Immortals Fight to the Death Under a Spotlight!”

  Even if he couldn’t get near enough to Khyan to stop him, MacLeod reminded himself, he would at least be able to warn Methos through their walkie-talkies.

  One way or another, this ends tonight.

  Assuming, of course, that Khyan shows up at all.

  The weather, Methos thought, crouching on the roof of the Branson Collection and hoping no one on the surrounding building was going to look down and see him (though, he thought, they’d have needed a floodlight for that), was hardly cooperating.

  At least it isn’t raining. Yet.

  He had to admit, though, that the great black clouds and the occasional flashes of lightning, thunder echoing and reechoing down the city canyon, certainly set the proper mood.

  I already did my Gothic period, thank you very much.

  MacLeod was, by now, somewhere back down on the sidewalk, staking out the outside of the museum. It would have been impossible for one man, even someone as efficient as Duncan, to keep watch over an entire building, so Methos and he had agreed that the first to catch any sense of another Immortal’s approach would warn the other.

  Assuming that there is such an approach. Assuming that this works and I’m not up here in the open during a thunderstorm, being a perfect target for lightning for nothing.

  The sooner begun, the sooner done. Removing the sword from its makeshift case, Methos set it down before him and began his chant to show the “captured soul” he was its master.

  I had forgotten just how different that era’s beliefs were. I had forgotten so much…

  Nebet. Poor, loving, doomed Nebet. He could, after so many centuries, remember only the faintest shadow of the passion he’d felt for her. He must have genuinely loved her, though; in fact, considering, Methos was sure of it. Why else would he have risked his neck for her? Why else make that utterly ridiculous vow about bringing down the entire Hyksos world?

  It would have fallen without any help from me. And Khyan—yes, Khyan would still have survived, then till now, and would still be posing a threat.

  And yes, I would probably still be trying to draw him here.

  What had made him visit the Hyksos exhibit at all? There had been more than mere curiosity to the decision. Duncan, being Duncan, seemed to think it had all been part of an elaborate plot.

  No. Not really. Not quite.

  And yet… had he, deep within him, suspected that Khyan still lived?

  Not su
spected, Methos corrected, so much as guessed. Not so much plotted, for that matter, as wanted to bring closure to a distant part of his life.

  I’m getting as superstitious and maudlin as—as someone still living back in the once-upon-a-time. Which I most certainly am not.

  On with the show.

  MacLeod froze on Fifth Avenue, feeling… yes. Another Immortal was nearby.

  And he has to be aware of me, too.

  He hurried around the corner onto Seventy-first Street, to see a tall, shadowy figure tense, head up, looking this way and that, trying to locate the enemy.

  That has to be Khyan!

  Just then, a second, smaller man nearly collided with Khyan, presumably apologized, then began unlocking a door into the Branson Collection—

  Khyan grabbed him, prodding his captive.

  Something about that smaller figure… Professor Maxwell! MacLeod realized, racing forward.

  Khyan all but hurled his captive inside. MacLeod was just in time to have the door slammed in his face.

  Damn, damn, damn!

  But Khyan had been in too much of a hurry. The door hadn’t fully latched, and MacLeod hurled it open—only to be confronted by a wall of nearly total darkness: The other Immortal wasn’t risking letting Maxwell turn on any lights.

  But they’d have to have some way to see where they were going—

  There! The thinnest trace of light meant Khyan or Maxwell had a flashlight. Moving smoothly up—an elevator! They could only be heading up to the roof. MacLeod took a rashly hasty step forward and nearly fell over a body just inside the doorway: a security guard, a hand told him, uniform sticky with blood and throat quickly cut by Khyan.