Date: Wed, 7 Dec 1994 00:21:41 -0500 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Ch3.(p68-75) c1994 N.L.Cleveland (comments to nancyssch@aol.com) >From his vantage point on the British ship, Duncan could see the full extent of the damage from the collision. Beneath him the smashed hull of the pirate's boat locked to the prow of the man o war, its death grip all that was keeping the shattered hulk afloat. Across the decks of both ships men struggled, their faces distorted in rage and pain and fear as they battled for their lives using knives, pikes, swords, pistols, anything that came to hand. Duncan stood in an eddy of the furious stream of humanity, no one near him for the moment, but the sounds of screams, curses and death was all around. The thud of wood on flesh, the inarticulate shouts of defeat and triumph, all blurred together in a cacophony of noise punctuated by the clash of swords, crack of pistols and the bellowing roar of the cannons. Over it all hung the stink of gunpowder and smoke as the heavy guns of the two ships traded shots at point blank range. The gun crews were aiming at the men on the decks now, instead of trying to sink one another's ships. The lower deck guns were abandoned, the men manning them now a part of the surging mass of humanity that seethed across the ships rails. The lighter cannon on the upper decks were in play, and the gun crews there stuffed muslin bags filled with sharp metal shards, nails and splinters into the gaping maws of their steaming weapons, in between pouring sea water on the outer shells to keep them from exploding between rounds. When they fired, the deadly hail swept long slices of the deck clear, bare of all life, and left moaning dazed men huddled at the edges of the paths of destruction, looking in shock at the pieces of their bodies that had been blown apart while they still lived. Duncan watched, still shaking inside, seething with rage and humiliation at the cowardly attack he'd just escaped. He'd seen and experienced many things in his years as a mortal, and an Immortal. He'd known men who loved other men, as well as women who preferred women. It hadn't troubled him. He'd respected and cared for some of those people as companions, comrades, friends, mortal and Immortal alike, and had fought others, bitter enemies to the last, as their different dispositions and circumstances warranted. What had happened to him on the pirate ship had nothing to do with love, and everything to do with power, control and hate. He'd never condoned taking pleasure by force, or giving pain to another human being for sport. Rape or sexual coercion of any sort repulsed and sickened him. He'd encountered those like Big Tom and his cohorts before. They had no preference, no special love for women or men, they were simply predators seeking thrills and taking them from whoever was weaker or unable to fight back. The attitude that let them rape, let them take and use other people for their own ends, also let those like them steal and murder and pillage. People like that....that was his definition of evil...they deserved to die. His attention came back to the present, to the mad scene before him. He wasn't sure which side he should be fighting for, here. He was no friend of the British empire, but he had a personal score to settle with Tom and his companions, now. His eyes searched across the deck, trying to pick out familiar faces in the surging mob, the darkness and the drifting smoke obscuring his vision. The ship's deck shuddered beneath him, almost throwing him from his perch, as the two vessels ground more closely together, the timbers creaking and groaning like massive beasts bellowing their pain at the heavens. There. The stance, the shoulders and neck of the man, the way he swung his weapon...it was Tom. Wielding a huge metal pulley, it must have weighed 20 pounds or more, yet he held it lightly in his hands, like a mace, and had cleared a circle of death around him on the deck a few feet below Duncan. As if sensing Duncan's glare, the man turned, caught his eye and grinned up at the Highlander, open mockery on his face. Tom pursed his lips in a jeering fake kiss and winked at him. A surge of pure fury flared through Duncan's mind as his stomach twisted in rage. He flung himself heedlessly into the mob, clubbing and shoving his way through the bodies and struggling men blocking him from his quarry. He wanted nothing more than to kill this man. His whole being focused on that goal. What ever happened next was irrelevant. A sailor in the heaving mass swung a cutlass at him, the metal gleaming in the flickering light. Duncan blocked it with his pike, feeling the steel bite deep into his wooden club. He had an instant when the man's weapon was stuck, the sharp edge embedded in the pike. He twisted his body, pulling the sailor towards him, then used the wooden end of the pike to deliver a short, sharp blow to the man's chin, knocking him back. The man's hands slipped from the hilt of the cutlass as he fell, limp and half conscious, disappearing into the mob. Duncan grasped the cutlass, pried the blade out of the wood, slashed the pike at another contorted face coming at him, the wood cracking across where it had already been weakened by the gouge from the cutlass. He tossed the broken pike aside and turned back to his pursuit of Tom, a thrill of satisfaction running through him now that he was armed once more with a sword. Duncan had only a second to test the awkward balance of the heavy blade in his hand before he had to defend himself from a half glimpsed attack, thrusting it up desperately to block the hungry knives of two men of his own ship's crew. He severed one man's arm at the elbow and gutted the second, wrenching the blade from the man's bloody stomach as his instincts screamed out at him to turn....too late. The huge metal pulley crashed across his shoulders from behind and he staggered forward, the force of the blow driving him half to his knees, numbing his right arm and leaving it dangling uselessly at his side. He scrabbled with anxious fingers for the hilt of the cutlass, dropped on deck by his paralyzed arm. His remaining good hand closed on the hilt just as he saw the pulley swinging towards him again, held in Tom's meaty fists. Duncan pulled the sword up, left handed, and thrust it blindly behind him, at Tom's shadow, throwing himself down on the deck to avoid the pulley's lethal arc, feeling the wind fan his cheek as it grazed across his scalp, barely touching him but cutting a thin slice of skin and scalp as it passed. The sword quivered in his hands, stuck hard to something. Duncan shoved it, harder, heard a grunt of pain, and rolled again, letting it go. He looked up into Tom's contorted face, hovering over him like a wrathful god, huge and vengeful, a demon coming out of the flames. Fire glowed behind the man, and licked at the mainsail of the British ship as the dripping oil from a broken lantern fed the greedy flames. Duncan had an instant to wonder just how far from any land the two ships were, and how long he would take to swim... or wash ashore....and where.... Then Tom pulled at the metal blade of Duncan's sword as if it was a toy, or a toothpick. Pulled it from deep in his side, and tossed it away. Duncan watched, amazed, as the man stepped towards him, his fists reaching for Duncan's throat. Duncan scrambled backwards, groping in his tunic for the knife he'd forgotten he'd lost. The other fighters ignored them, locked in their own private wars. Duncan searched for a tool, a weapon, anything to help him fend off the implacable giant. He couldn't believe the man was still coming after him, yet he was. Duncan found himself pressed against the wall of the ship, his back to the outer hull, no where left to run, no room and no time. His left hand groped along the wall, blindly seeking a way out, his right arm hung , still almost useless at his side, still numbed from the blow of the metal pulley. He kicked at Tom's crotch again, but the man was too quick for him this time and blocked his kick with his knee. "That only works on me once, laddie," he snarled, then the man grabbed Duncan's leg and started twisting his foot, trying to break his ankle. Duncan's hand closed on a small metal cleat, set into the wall. He grasped it tightly and used it's leverage to pull the giant towards him, drawing his legs in quickly and then kicking off again. He shoved the man away, backwards, hearing his ankle crack in Tom's grasp, the stabbing pain almost making him lose consciousness. Through the waves of blackness that crossed his eyes, he saw Tom's shape slumped before him, the slim sharp tip of the blade of a British officer's sword protruding from his stomach. He had fallen backwards, onto the blade, as the officer had come up behind him. Big Tom was dead. The massive body slid to the floor as the officer yanked his weapon from the sailor's back. Duncan shook his head, trying to clear his mind and focus his body on whatever action was required now. His relief was mixed with awe at the stamina of the dead man, and wariness at the motives and plans of his latest opponent. He had little trust in the British, none at all in their officers. And the man who faced him now was clearly an officer. Lace at his cuffs, immaculately polished buttons and tailored suit jacket, all marked him as one of the wealthy ruling elite on board this ship, and on land as well, for all Duncan knew. The two men stared at one another, measuring the potential threat, the possibilities for other options than a fight, than death. The mass of struggling men had moved away from them, and they were in a pocket of calm, of quiet.. The fight seemed to be dying down, Duncan noticed, as the flames licked higher on the rigging of the ship and cries of alarm spread among those still alive on the deck. Duncan pulled his attention back to the man in front of him, concentrating on preserving the next few minutes of his own existence. Even Immortals saw no reason to seek out death casually. The officer raised his bloody sword and leveled it at Duncan, his eyes cold, his face impassive. "You're not one of us. Why was he trying to kill you? Give me a reason not to finish the job." Gritting his teeth against the pain of his still healing ankle, Duncan took a careful breath and replied, casting his fate aboard this ship on the winds of chance. "I was a captive, taken against my will. I am not one of them, either." He tried to smooth out the Scottish burr in his voice, remembering too late that French would have been a better language to answer with. "I see. From the Highlands, eh?" The officer stepped forward, bringing his sword closer to Duncan's chest . Duncan mused, < If he kills me, they'll just dump me as shark food. I can handle that. I wish I knew how close we were to land.> "Did you fight on the wrong side in the uprising, then?" There was an urgency to the question, as if it really mattered to the man. Duncan opened his mouth to speak, knowing that the truth would be his death sentence. A shadow loomed in the dark behind the officer, a club swung high in its dimly seen hands. "Look out. Behind you..." Duncan barely got the words out before he was buried in a rush of stinking, struggling men, pummeled and shoved back against the plank wall again. They were the survivors from the pirates charge, driven back by the rallying and now victorious British, looking for a refuge to make their last stand. Three men seized the officer, wrestling his sword from his hands, one holding it tightly across his throat, pulling the blade into the superficial layer of skin, letting a dark streak of liquid trail from its edge down his pale neck. Three more grabbed at Duncan, clouting him on the head, leaving him dazed, and bleeding, bent almost double from a vicious kick in the stomach that drove the air from his lungs in a hacking gasp. The man holding the blue jacketed officer captive snarled at the pressing pursuers. "We'll bleed him dry if you come any closer." He turned and pushed the officer in front of him as a shield against the pistols and wrath of the crew, who surged closer, then fell back with angry shouted threats, baffled and frustrated. The ragged group of pirates pulled together like a pack of snarling curs, facing the circle of bristling weapons and uniformly hostile expressions of the crew. Duncan saw it all, pinned and helpless for the moment between the arms of two of the pirates. "So you were going to sell us out, were you?" The voice was familiar. Duncan craned his neck, and saw the pirate lieutenant. Squibbs was his name, Duncan now knew. Squibbs stared at Duncan for a moment, absently wiping a streak of blood from his face, as if trying to decide whether it would be simpler to just cut his throat now, or later. "We'll see if they're interested in trading for you, too. If not, I'm sure we can figure out something else to do." His smile promised Duncan nothing but death, then he turned away to face the British once more. "Give us a long boat, and we'll let you have your man back." Squibbs was opening the negotiations, shouting loudly to get the wandering attention of the crowd. There were maybe a dozen of the pirates left, Duncan noted, moving his eyes carefully around the group. And all of them were the worse for wear, clutching cuts or bruised and broken limbs, huddled together, men with nothing to lose and no hope for the future. Desperate men, Duncan knew. Willing to do anything to survive a little longer. He glanced surreptitiously at each of them, not meeting their eyes, waiting for the moment when he could act. He hung limply in the arms of the two men holding him, letting them carry most of his weight, acting cowed and hurt and hoping they thought he was no threat. He could feel the tingling in his shoulder and ankle as his muscles and bones knitted together, and as the confusion from the blow to his head cleared from his brain. Soon, very soon, he would be ready. And he had to hurry. Beyond the tightly packed group of men ringing the pirates, Duncan could see dark shadows of the British sailors climbing the rigging, trying to fight the spreading fires that threatened to burst unchecked across the canvas sails. Fire was the greatest fear to a sailor, and men at the back of the pack were turning, in response to the cries of their brother crew members, heeding the calls for help, hesitating, obviously torn between the two evils, to fight the pirates, or the flames. Even the pirates saw the danger, and as a tongue of red flame burst madly up the tarred ropes towards the mainsail, the man holding Duncan's right arm shivered and crossed himself. It was all the opening Duncan needed. He lifted himself up and wrenched his arm free, then reached for the shoulder of the man on his right, pulling his head sideways, hard, into the head of the man on the other side. There was a dull crack, and both men slid apart, Duncan free between them. The men holding the officer had their attention already divided between the menacing crowd facing them and the fires spreading across the sails above. They never saw Duncan coming. He tore the sword loose from the first man's grasp, reveling in the light springy feel of the blade, then pulled the weapon back and sank it deeply into Squibb's stomach as the lieutenant turned and thrust his sword at him. Duncan let a smile flit across his face as the man shuddered and died at his feet. He remembered it very clearly. Squibb had been above the deck, those few long minutes ago, before the two ships had collided. Had been above the pirate's deck, watching Big Tom's assault. Duncan hadn't known, until the last instant, who the vaguely glimpsed figure looking down from above was. He had hoped for a moment that the man would help, but had given that hope up when the figure made no move, lifted no voice in protest. The flash of lights as the two ships hit had shown Duncan his face, in profile. And Duncan never forgot a face. The others, if they survived...he would find them too. His unexpected attack on the pirates had freed the officer, and the crowd of British sailors hovering around them burst forward as if an invisible dam had broken, screams and howls splitting the air as the pirates disappeared, literally buried by the swarming mob. Duncan shoved his way to the edge of the melee, the British officer pulling him free from the clutching grasp of several sailors hell bent on exacting revenge for the collision and its aftermath The officer stepped between Duncan and a man with a long machete, holding his arms out to calm the sailor. "Stop it man, this one's with me." Duncan didn't wait around to see the outcome of the discussion, but scrambled instead up the ladder to the upper deck, feeling the heat from the spreading flames above beating down on his head and neck. The officer followed him, put his hand on Duncan's shoulder and pulled him around to face him. Duncan stepped back, the captured sword still in his hands. "I'm James Foster. I owe you my thanks, Scot. And my life. For as long as we've got left, anyhow." The man held out his right hand, empty, a small grimace that could pass for a smile on his face. Duncan hesitated a moment, then took the man's hand and shook it. Sensing that here was a man who could be a valuable friend. Or fierce enemy. "I'm Duncan MacLeod." He bit off the words, regretting them already. A crackling, popping sound made them both look up. Shielding his eyes from floating embers of flaming canvas, Duncan saw that the upper rigging was now all alight with fire. This ship was doomed. And so were all the men on it. Unless the sails could be cut away. The flames were too widespread for the buckets of seawater passed hand to hand by the men clinging grimly to the ropes and masts to have any effect in containing their spread now. Duncan exchanged glances with Foster. They had both realized the same thing, and they turned together to the massive metal cleats sunk in the deck that moored the ropes holding up the sails. Foster pulled out an axe from one of the wooden chests bolted to the deck, and tossed a second to Duncan, who caught it with his free hand and put the sword away. Foster pointed Duncan to the ropes, and went himself to the mast, pulling sailors to him with his voice, and directing them to the task at hand. Four of them were chopping at the wood, alternating strokes, while Duncan tried to sever the ropes holding up the sail. Others screamed to the men in the rigging to come down, and help with freeing the ship from the flaming curtain of canvas that crowned the night sky above them, before the flames spread across the deck, and consumed it all. - - - - - Duncan opened his eyes. The red flickering glare of the neon signs above the rain splattered Tokyo streets had brought back the rush of memories. James Foster...and the rest of the crew... had all gone down with the burning ship, the towering sails had collapsed in sheets of flame across the decks, igniting the tar soaked wood. Duncan had been the only "survivor," thanks to his immortality, and had washed up drowned and dead, only to recover on shore in Tokugawa Japan. His first, fatal visit to the closed and mysterious island kingdom. After his ill fated stay at the compound of the doomed samurai who offered him shelter at the cost of his own life, Duncan had fled inland, disguised as best he could, seeking refuge and protection from the shogun's deadly decree to kill all foreigners. Seeking refuge with the only group who could protect him, the warrior priests of the ninjitsu. Hideo had told him where to go, before he had committed hari-kiri, had told him what to say and who to speak to, if Duncan managed to reach the temple's sanctuary. And Duncan had. At this very place. Here. Two hundred years before. His place of refuge. His home. But now, the temple was bare. Abandoned. Desolate. Only his memories kept him company now. And the ghosts from his past, that would linger in his mind forever. He would honor their memories. All of them. It had been foolish to come here. Foolish to expect that things would be the same. And yet....the building still stood. Surely that meant something, in modern Japan, where every inch of land was at a premium, and nowhere more so than in Tokyo. Some remnant of the clan's power must have survived, for the building to still be here. After he found Raven, Duncan would look into this more deeply. But for tonight, he had seen enough of the past. Far more than enough. He touched the cold wet stone wall once more, the chill cutting into his hand like a frozen flame. Then he turned and walked down the massive carved stone steps, picking his way among the litter of leaves and trash, back to the waiting cab. The weight of the centuries pressed down on his shoulders, heavier than it had been for a long time. The weight of his memories pressed on his soul. The cabbie glanced at him, no expression on his face, as Duncan opened the door and climbed in. He suppressed the surge of weariness that rose up in him, and forced himself to sit up, alertly, to keep his voice crisp and precise as he directed the driver back to his hotel. That stirring of caution, that inner instinct, still warned him to be wary of this driver, to show no weakness, no carelessness tonight. =========================================================================