Date: Tue, 31 Jan 1995 02:01:12 -0500 Reply-To: NancySSCH@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Ch 3 p188-194 c 1995 N.L. Cleveland A saffron robed man moved towards them from the darkness, his shadow looming huge on the wall behind him as the flames from the flickering candles lining the altar shivered and danced in the stir of his passing. Jonathan watched the easy, loose jointed way he walked, saw the dagger, sticking from his sash. Met his eyes, eyes that had gazed upon the pious, and the damned. Recognized a kindred spirit, in his soul. This was a warrior priest, as well versed in all the ways of killing a man as in saving one. A fitting guardian for the gates of hell. An assassin. Like himself. Jonathan signaled to the others to let the palanquin down. It settled to the floor with a muffled thump, the old, dry wood creaking under its new coat of black enamel. Jonathan bowed, offering his respect more to the spirit of the grim dark god of the underworld, than to his earthly representative. His final obeisance, to the one deity that would never turn its back on him. His final offering still to come. Blood, and death, the price he would tender for his own ride across the river Styx. A company of others, a score, a hundred, would follow him to hell. He turned to the two cousins and jerked his chin towards the door, signaling with his eyes that it was time for them to go. He'd promised to show them where to find the Dragons. In return, they had promised him an hour alone, free reign, with no interference, no meddling. They bowed, and withdrew. The priest, the still hidden watchers, made no move to stop them. No one would bar their way. They would be watched, but not detained. Mariko's message had taken care of that, yesterday. The Dragons knew he was coming alone, with casual helpers hired form the festival his only, temporary companions. He had no allies here, or so they believed. He nodded at Richie, next, and nudged the youth with his shoulder when he made no move to leave. The young Immortal stared back at him, his eyes defiant, stubborn, his jaw set. Jonathan felt a surge of irritation flowing through him. Then the touch of another Immortal...that too familiar aura... ahead, or behind...he did not know. Shonte was here, somewhere near, hovering, waiting, a hunter tracking its prey, following its target to its lair. Jonathan urged on the Immortal hunger he felt and shared. Let his traitorous self call out and beckon the other to its death. Very well, the boy could stay. It would do no good to send him off to die, pointlessly, on the street, to lose his head, and his soul. And perhaps he would survive the destruction of the Dragons. Perhaps he would even survive Shonte. At least he had a slim chance, this way. None, the other. Vulcan and Jonathan exchanged glances. Jonathan shook his head almost imperceptibly, and nodded towards the door. Towards life, however fleeting and temporary. He did not seek the man's help now, did not want him to walk with him into certain doom. For a mortal, that was. Vulcan smiled, the deaths head mask of his face like a grinning skull. Mocking death with death. He would not leave, either. Jonathan let out an exasperated breath. His private jihad was becoming a group event. He was sure Mariko had followed them, too. He had mistrusted her too ready acquiescence to his demand that she go, and only hoped his warning to the cousins, that it would be lethal to be too close in the next hour, was something she would heed as well. "You have brought us a gift for the festival?" The priest's voice was infinitely worldly, infinitely amused. Jonathan inclined his head again , this time towards the priest, and responded. Lowering his voice, flattening his accent, speaking in the dialect of a native from the northern island of Hokkaido. "A gift for the god of the dead. Yes." He stepped back towards the closed curtains that concealed the idol, and his weapons cache. Stepped back and raised his hand to open it, as if to reveal the gift, or to arm himself with the hidden weapons. Heard the rustle of fabric, of hidden feet, rising up out of the dark all around him. The walls, the shadows, came alive with men. Men in black, their forms almost invisible in the dusky shrine, their faces masked, their hands gloved. Men who flowed around him like the tide, like the sea, pulling him down, pulling him beneath the dark surface of the night. He fought. It was expected. He would never get below if they were suspicious. He knew they would not kill him here, if they believed he was unarmed, his weapons gone. Knew they wanted him alive, for a while. Knew it gave him an unfair edge. But did not care. He had a brief, sharp moment of regret. These were only the minions. He wanted the leaders, instead. But then it no longer mattered. The fury of battle was on him now, and he reveled in it, reveled in doing what he had trained for more than half his life for. He killed the first man who touched him, with a blow to the throat. Shattered the second's kneecap, ruined him for anything but office work. The third spun away from his grasp, leaving him winded, from a kick to Jonathan's stomach with a foot. Two more grabbed his arms, one on each wrist, and he bent and threw them into one another, hearing the sharp crack as their skulls met. He twisted and kicked at the three men behind him, feeling their ribs collapse, muscles buckle under the sharp impact of his feet. Arms clawed at his face and he reached up, breaking the wrist of whoever's hand it was, wrenching another man's elbow, popping the joint from it socket. Sobs and screams of pain rose up from the fallen men around him, and he felt his own and other's blood as it mingled, softly tickling his face, flowing across his torn and abraded skin. His lips were drawn back in a feral snarl. He was the minion of death, incarnate, come to reap the bloody harvest from the field of life. He fought, silently, his hands curved, beckoning the mortal fools onwards, slashing at the vulnerable throats and eyes of the men before him. Forgetting for a moment his elegant plan. Trying to batter his way through the solid human wall that faced him, towards the priest, towards the altar and the hidden door. Towards the heart of the Dragon clan, so that he could rip it out and hold it smoking in his hands. Then he remembered. Cool reason reasserting itself. He had to let them take him, to draw them down, away from the palanquin. And soon. But he could not let it seem that he tried. He had to make the fight, the resistance, seem sincere. The crowd around him eased away, eddies and ripples stirring its surface, and he shifted his focus, widened his concentration, his awareness of possible threats. He glimpsed a darker shadow among the shadows, flying towards him, and thrust his hand upwards, catching by instinct the cudgel thrown from the crowd, aimed at his head. A tiny glimmering shape darted at him from his other side, this one gleaming with sharp, deadly edges. A shiruken. He deflected that as well, using the wooden cudgel to catch the silent weapon on its shaft. Three of the metal disks thunked and quivered in the wood, and he spun and slashed the once empty dark with the battered stick as the lethal whisper of an arrow caressed the air beside him. Jonathan felt the arrow crack and splinter as he connected with it in mid flight. He brought up his flimsy weapon again, feeling the solid thud of a silent, almost undetectable crossbow bolt sinking deep into his impromptu wooden shield, then he stepped sideways to avoid a second arrow's menacing hiss and almost simultaneously staggered backwards as a second and third bolt from two more crossbows shattered his shoulders, driving him to the wall. Numbing his arms, deadening his fingers grasp as the wooden club slipped to the floor. Knowing there had been four archers... pretending he had only sensed the two.... The moment's visible distraction was all they needed. The men surged forward again, in full flood, hands reaching towards him like the unnumbered waves in the sea, and then he was down, the simple weight of bodies carrying him to the floor, his breath pressed out of his lungs, his arms bound roughly behind his back, his ankles lashed together, his ribs bruised and sore, his shoulders flaring with agony as the bolts were pulled roughly out, then throbbing with a sharp, bone deep ache, his face bloody where a fist had found its mark. He felt them fumbling at his clothes, searching him, taking away his katana. They pulled him to his feet again. Pulled him around so he could see them, see the victory on their faces, in their eyes. Yanked him over to the palanquin so he could watch while they dismembered his trap. He could see Richie and Vulcan standing silent in the corner. Their hands bound as well. Their faces bloodied. Neither looked directly at him. Neither, it seemed, had fought. He felt the blood seeping from his shoulders, the torn muscles and shattered bones searing his mind with burning fire as he was pulled and shoved along....and as they started to knit themselves together. He gritted his teeth, fought to clear his eyes from the dusky, mocking shadows that danced across his vision. And watched the Dragon's victory. The submachine guns were the first. They pulled them out from under the woven coverings of the palanquin and tossed them to the floor. Contemptuous. Jeering at his choice of weapons. He could hear the voices, the words. "Gaijin. Coward. No honor. Guns.." A leader emerged from the group, and walked towards him, the crowd parting in a disciplined wave as he moved forward. He held Jonathan's sword, sheathed, in his hand. Jonathan recognized him. Hata Shin. Son of a former leader of the clan. Son of one of the many men he had killed, on his day of vengeance, those long bloody years ago. The two men stared at one another. Stared with hate filled eyes, the hate as fresh and hot between them as if it had been yesterday, not a decade ago, that Jonathan had last seen this man. "So you have returned." Shin looked at him, his voice carefully bland, his expression closed. Only his eyes betrayed his true feelings, the depth of his passion, of his hate. They burned at Jonathan, burned with fury and rage. Burned like the fires of hell, like the furnace that seared his own soul. He let the blazing emotions inside him show, as well. Let Hata Shin see his own rage, his own hate. Let his fury rise up and consume him, for the moment. Let himself be only the vessel, for his rage. He said nothing, let his eyes speak for him. Let his memories speak, and Shin's. They said enough. "Traitor. You are mine." The words whispered out as Shin flexed his fingers, as if wishing to close them on Jonathan's neck. Clenched his fist on the hilt of the katana until his knuckles whitened with the strain. He leaned forward, his body tense with desire to rend, to kill. The crowd around them went silent, only the harsh ragged breathing of the wounded and dying men cutting through the sharp stillness. Jonathan could see, could sense Shin trying to control himself, to restrain himself from his impulse for revenge. Could imagine, and understand, the mighty effort this most trusted of the young leaders was making, to bring his captive alive before the council. To wait on his private vengeance. Shin stepped towards Jonathan, his feet sliding soundlessly on the deep mats on the floor. He stood, face to face with the renegade assassin, the man who killed his father.... faced his former comrade....his former friend.....and drew back his empty hand, then slashed it across Jonathan's face. The slap sounded like a shot from a gun, the noise ricocheting across the room as Jonathan fell back, the hard hands of the men holding him all that kept him off the floor, tasting blood where his lips had split against his teeth, his head ringing from the force of the blow. The carefully calculated and restrained blow. He knew he would be dead, if Shin had wished to kill him. The man could have been his equal, once. Would have been now, if Jonathan were still mortal. And Jonathan asked himself again if he fully understood his own heart in this. He had struck, had timed his attack, those many years ago, for the scant few moments that Hata Shin had not been in the Dragon's compound. A fact he had known, then, and could have compensated for. If indeed he had truly sought to destroy the Dragons, this man, this man above all should have been one of the first to die. Somehow, it was cold comfort, now. Jonathan looked back at Shin. Saw him draw a slow, carefully controlled breath. The slap would be the only expression he would give, to his own rage. His own quest for vengeance. Jonathan still did not speak. He had no feelings for this man. They had once been blood brothers, in the clan. Had sworn to protect one another for eternity. An oath Jonathan had lied though his teeth to make, and had never meant to keep. An oath, like so many others he had made with the clan, that meant nothing to him. Nothing at all. His entire life with the Dragons had been an act, an elaborate and well played sham. He had filled a role, and won their trust. Nothing remained in his heart of the man he had pretended to be. Nothing. So he reassured himself, clinging to his rage, fanning the flames of hate in his soul higher and higher. Letting the blind fury close off his mind, and his heart. Letting it armor him and carry him forward through what he had yet to do, today. And yet...the honor of the clan... the codes of the warriors...the traditions they followed, that he'd been taught...the skills and experiences and simple human warmth he'd shared with these men...he could not put those memories aside, either. Facing Hata Shin, he could no longer deny the splinter of doubt that pierced his heart. He had known for years that he had not destroyed the clan. And for years he had done nothing to complete his revenge. It was not just that he was sickened with killing. He had been a killer. Continued to kill. For money. For the Agency. But he had not sought out the Dragons again. Only the fatal attacks on Jari and Hikari, in his own home, had finally driven him back here. And even today, he had not drawn his sword. Had not pulled out the weapon that would have let him cut through the men opposing him, would have doubled their dead and dying. Even today, he had not drawn his sword.... But what they had done, in Hawaii, that was enough. More than enough, to ensure their utter, total destruction, now. To use a boy as a pawn, to twist and distort his entire life...To destroy the child's future, as Jonathan's own existence had been destroyed at the murder of his parents, so long ago...Jonathan felt the frustration and loss, the grief and fury surge in his breast again. He flared his nostrils and breathed out, then in, pulled in the enmity that hung heavy in the very air surrounding him, and feasted on it. Rediscovered his rage, the bitter sharp diamond that cut forever into his soul, and treasured it. Clung to it. Grimly. He stood silent, his heart frozen, his mind frozen, while the Dragons pulled out the explosives he'd stuffed into the embroidered cushions of the palanquin, and held them aloft triumphantly. Stood, silent, while they took the gilded eight armed idol that the palanquin had held and smashed it at his feet, pulling out the timed detonation device he'd hidden there. He stood, and watched, as the crowd mocked his preparations and his plan, holding aloft the bricks of C-4, the timer, the automatic weapons and ammunition clips, like trophies from some perverted hunt. Hata Shin turned back from supervising the stripping of the palanquin. Turned back and looked at Jonathan once again, a small smile curling around the edge of his lips. His eyes as cold as stones in the bottom of a frozen well. Jonathan tried to focus all his attention on the mortal, to pull his mind away from the aura, Shonte's aura, that hovered and moved closer, ever closer, to reuniting the lost parts of his soul. He bit the inside of his cheek until he felt the blood start and flow, to fix his concentration on the man and the scene around him, while it wavered with a surreal glow, the power of the approaching Immortal taking on an almost visible dimension, to Jonathan's too well attuned eyes. "The wheel turns, Raven." Shin indicated the palanquin, the plundered explosives, tossed like children's toys from hand to hand in the celebrating group. "Your friend betrayed you, as you betrayed us." The man shook his head, almost sadly. "And so it ends. All the pain...all the years, searching for you, to avenge my father's spirit..." His voice died away and he dropped his glance, meditating. "It ends, today." Shin gestured towards the men holding Jonathan. They lifted and half dragged, half carried him along the floor, towards the altar. Towards the hidden entrance to the Dragon's stronghold, now open, now revealed. The steps to darkness. Leading down. Down, into the pit. Into purgatory. Into hell. Behind him, he heard Richie and Vulcan being urged forward, brought to share his fate, too late for them to go. Too late for him to speak, to plead their case. Shin would never have listened anyhow. He fought to control his mind, and his face. To keep his eyes empty, his expression that of a man defeated, and without hope. To show the world, the Dragons, his grim determination, despite the crushing blow they had delivered. To let them think he knew they had won, but that he would fight on to the death, knowing he faced only defeat, anyhow. As they would expect. He struggled to hide the fierce exultation that surged in his heart. Hide it from the Dragons, and from the questing tendrils of the other Immortal's mind. His plan had worked, the bait was taken. The palanquin rested on the temple floor behind him, its body, its frame, untouched. A vast bomb, the plastique built into the very structure of the walls, and floors and ebony coated roof of the conveyance, waiting for its time, to explode. Enough to destroy the concrete and mortar walls that surrounded the Dragon's stronghold. Enough to destroy the Dragons, this time. Preset to detonate, in less than an hour. 35 minutes to go. Ticking down to its allotted fate. And Jonathan the living bait that would keep them here, pull them in from across the city, for their final rendezvous. All of them. All. * * * * * Duncan brushed his hand across his forehead. Eyed the man who held his sword, wondering how alert he was. More than one Immortal was approaching, and Duncan had no idea who or what it meant. It made no sense...and yet, clearly, there was more than one aura pressing down on him, unless Raven had taken many, many Quickenings since they'd last met. That too was possible....barely...and if so, it meant he'd be an even more dangerous foe. Duncan knew facing him would be one of the most difficult battles of his life. But one he wanted, thirsted for, would not be denied..even if it meant he, himself died. Not that he intended to. Again, he felt the inner voice, the oh so reasonable suggestion that he let the Dragons know the little trick to keeping Raven dead...or let them do the dirty work first and follow up himself...Like Xavier....Self disgust churned in his stomach as he contemplated the formerly unthinkable. He had sworn he would never become like Xavier St. Cloud. He placated those voices with a promise. Temporized. Would wait and see how Raven handled himself, here. Before the judgment of his foes. How he handled defeat by mortal men. Then Duncan would decide. He could hear footsteps in the hall, a murmuring crowd pressing along the corridor. The Immortal aura grew stronger, far stronger than their simple physical proximity would suggest, and Duncan turned to the door, to watch the Dragons bring their captive enemy in. Half carried, half pushed, Raven's eyes were unfocused, as if he stared into another world instead of seeing the grim countenances arrayed before him. Duncan felt a shock of...pity....stir in his heart as the demon ridden Immortal looked right past him, no recognition in his haggard, driven face. The men guarding him shoved him forward, hard, throwing him to the floor, his bound hands and legs making him unable to catch himself. Duncan flinched in instinctive sympathy as the Immortal fell, noting automatically, his brain assessing, probing for weakness, planning his eventual tactics for the time they must face one another, that even tied and off balance, even wounded, with blood soaking from his clothes, leaving a wet red smear across the mats, the new Immortal still managed to soften his impact on the floor, twisting his body lithely, like a cat. Raven struggled to his knees to face his captors, his face icy in its otherworldly calm. Duncan watched as the once mortal man shook his head, his expression slowly clearing and his eyes reflecting awareness of the hostile, expectant crowd surrounding him in the room. The man stiffened, and his form froze, his gaze locked with those of the woman Duncan had noticed earlier, sitting next to Tawara. The two stared at one another, the woman's complexion turning pale as ivory, her eyes like dark burning coals in the white mask of her face. Her hand crawled up her neck, her palm hiding her throat, as if she felt the pressure of Raven's fingers on her flesh, demanding the answers his expression shouted out at her. Neither said a word, but the silence between them crackled with emotion, and their faces played out the unspoken dialogue of fear, love, hate. Duncan pried at the swirling fragments of memory from the Black Dragon inside. He had to know who this woman was..what her presence here implied...Could it be Raven's dead lover, the woman he'd thought he'd fathered a child with? How could she be here? And alive? Then all thoughts of the mystery in front of him were driven momentarily from his mind. The Dragon guards were dragging in two other captives, evidently Raven's companions. The attention of the council members shifted for a moment, some turning their heads to the back of the room, to note the source of this new disturbance. Duncan couldn't see, at first, over the heads of the men surrounding the two, but one, clearly, was an Immortal. Was *he* the cause of this exceptionally strong aura Duncan felt stirring the atmosphere around them all? A flash of copper colored hair, and Duncan's heart leaped, relief washing over him. He saw him clearly now. It was Richie. Alive. Well. And with Vulcan? Duncan's eyes widened, then narrowed in speculation, as the blond mortal moved into view. This put a whole new dimension on the situation. Were they with, or stalking, Raven? Were they allies, or foes? There seemed to be some connection between the two captives. But what, he could not tell. A temporary joining for convenience, or the simple juxtaposition of two unrelated hunters sharing the same captors? His understanding of what had happened between them in Washington would have to be revised. Radically. Then Richie saw him, as well. The two Immortals, once mentor and student, now learning to be equals, to be friends, exchanged a quick glance across the room. Richie's face breaking out into a smile, the lines of strain easing on it for a moment.