Date: Mon, 1 May 1995 10:08:27 +0100 Reply-To: MB Overton Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: MB Overton Subject: "Atlantic Games" Part 7 "Atlantic Games" Part 7 by Mark Overton Bridgnorth, Shropshire England 6th June 1071 "Annet!" The young woman standing in the sunshine turned as her mother called. The older woman, in her mid-forties but looking at least ten years older after several decades working on the farm to support the family, emerged from the cottage wiping her hands on a piece of rag. She had a scolding expression on her face. "Annet, what are you doing daydreaming again?" she demanded. "Looking, mother," the young woman shrugged. Twenty-six years old, she had dark rough-cut hair that was cropped to reach no further than the nape of her neck. "I finished my jobs, so I thought - " "And who said you could think?" her mother said exasperatedly, though with a hint of good-natured affection for her daydreaming daughter. "Come on, child. Inside." Taking her child by the arm, she steered her into the dark cool interior of the cottage, filled with the scent of bread cooking. The cottage had but two rooms and an upstairs floor; the lower floor held the kitchen and the main room where everything else took place; the upper floor held the six beds in which the large family slept at nights. Annet sat down at the kitchen table and, obeying her mother's instructions, began to sort through the herbs lying on the table that had been collected that morning. Then the shadow fell across the doorway. Annet and her mother looked up. The man was in his mid-thirties, with dark hair and strong harsh features that were not softened by the russet-brown of his clothing. He held a drawn sword in one hand that was stained with someone else's blood. "Who are you?" Annet's mother asked. The man did not spare her a glance. "Be quiet, old woman," he said in accented English after a moment, looking directly at Annet, who returned the gaze warily. It was not unknown for rich men, especially if they were Norman, to come to a peasant cottage and rape the daughter while the mother and father watched powerless. She wondered if she was about to suffer such a fate. "You, girl," he said. "What is your name?" "Annet, sir," she answered. "Annet what?" "'Tis just Annet, sir." "Just Annet," the man repeated with a grimace of disgust, and said something in French that neither the young woman nor her mother understood. "Well then, Annet," he continued, reverting to English, "I would speak with you." He shot a glance at her mother. "Alone." "My lord," her mother interrupted, "may I ask - " "No." It was the man's turn to interrupt her. "No, you may not ask. Go out into the sunshine. It is a lovely day, too good to be inside. I will not harm your daughter." Annet's uncertain heart calmed a little at that statement, and it seemed to reassure her mother as well, who left the cottage without looking back any further. The man stepped to the edge of the table and looked down at her with a smile she did not recognise for a moment. Pleasure. "It's good to see one like you again," he said. "Like me, sir?" "An innocent." The man lifted his sword and rested it on the table. "Someone who hasn't yet changed." Annet frowned. "My lord, I don't - " "You will," he interrupted, and lunged forwards with his sword, impaling the young woman right through her heart. Her eyes went wide and she spat blood out of her mouth, then went limp. With a smile, the immortal pulled his sword free of the body and sat down to wait for her resurrection. 23rd July 1976 16:26 The Magician stepped outside Ralph Summers' cabin and closed the door, carefully checking both ways to make sure nobody saw her. When she was satisfied she had not been observed leaving the cabin, she strolled along the corridor without looking back, the picture of light and freedom without a care in the world. As she stepped out onto the outside deck of the cruise liner and was bathed in warm yellow sunlight, the Magician was tempted to relax all the way and go for a swim. Only the knowledge that there were two other immortals on the cruise liner, each of whom would be happy to take her head, stopped her from doing so. Instead, she walked to the railing and leaned on it, considering her options. She could drown again; an unpleasant possibility, but one that had to be considered. Sooner or later she would again be dredged up and then, with any luck there would be no immortals on that ship and she could proceed without concern. On the other hand, she had missed her nine hundredth birthday this time round by being dead for nine years, and she could well miss more by drowning herself a second time. No, drowning was out, she decided. That left fighting. Although the summery dress she wore was light, the Magician was almost as fully armed as if she had access to her usual arsenal on land, after raiding every conceivable storehouse on the cruise liner. She had no sword, but it had long been her practice to neutralise her opponent and then use his or her own sword instead, both as a malicious irony and because it meant she did not have to carry one around all the time. She wondered whether it would be enough to beat the experienced Connor Macleod; she knew it would be sufficient for Dallas, but would it be sufficient for both of them? The Magician wondered if there was an alternative possibility. Connor wondered if there was an alternative possibility. It wasn't that he was worried about what might happen to himself when he fought the Magician. The previous two times they had met, they had come to a standstill, and Connor thought that if he was sufficiently concentrating he had the capacity to beat her. It was what would happen to Dallas and Flint afterwards; Flint was good with a sword, very good, but disinclined to use it and probably out of practice. Dallas had no experience with swordfighting, and could in no way protect herself. If Connor lost, those two would have to face a strengthened Magician on their own, and they might full well not manage it. "Connor?" a voice inquired, muffled through the door. Connor rose and opened it to reveal Mandy Dallas, dressed in a man's shirt and jeans with a pair of sneakers on her feet, her red hair now close- cropped instead of a long ponytail. She smiled at him in welcome and stepped inside. "How are you?" "I'm alright. And you?" "I'm fine," Dallas shrugged. "I thought you might need someone to talk to. It's only two hours until you - well, until the fight." "Until I might lose, you mean," Connor filled in for her. Dallas sighed. "Well...I didn't like to say it. I'm new to this game." "I know what you mean. You're worried the Magician might come for you next." Connor moved past her to the drinks cabinet and poured them each a Scotch. "No. Well, yes. I'm worried for you as well, but somehow dying seems so much more unfair now I have the chance to live for much longer. I could do so much for the world, being immortal." "No." Connor handed her the Scotch. "You cannot risk your life being open to the eyes of history. Especially now there's photography, television. Our secret must never be known to the world at large." "Why not? You're immortal. Why have you never tried to help the world progress out of the dark ages?" "Because it's not my place," Connor said simply. "Mortals have to get on with their own lives. We watch, we observe, we help individuals. We fight each other and we die. We never do anything else." "But I don't understand why." "Nor does anyone. That's just the way it is." "That's not the way it has to be." "That's the way it is," Connor repeated. "You can't get away from it. None of us can." Dallas stared at him tensely for a long moment, then sighed and relaxed, drinking from her Scotch. "It doesn't seem fair." "It never does." Connor picked up his katana again and made a small swing with it, noting absently the way Dallas flinched. He paused, looked at her. "You know, you'll have to learn how to fight with a sword." "I guess so," Dallas said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Connor shrugged. "Or you could just die the first time an immortal comes along and wants to take your head, of course. Considering you just said you wanted to live for longer, that doesn't make much sense." "I don't like fighting, that's all," Dallas answered. "I guess that's the downside of it, taking up a life that's based on fighting others of the same kind." "Like everything, immortality has its benefits and its curses," Connor said impassively. "It's been some time since we last met," Flint said. The Magician shrugged. "I've been dead for a while, but I'd guess you know that." "Connor's making it rather difficult to ignore." The woman and the young man sat together in the bar of the cruise liner, watching the variety of people rush past on their own business, some chatting each other up, others just having a quiet drink in the late afternoon like Flint and the Magician appeared to be doing. "Yes, well." The Magician finished her drink. "I don't suppose you want to betray Connor." "He'd be rather annoyed if I did." "Ah well," she smiled, "he was always awkward like that. And what do you think?" "What do I think? About what?" "About his challenge, about which I take it you know. Who are you betting on?" "That would be telling," Flint smiled. "In any case, the both of you are probably about the same in my estimation. Plus, of course, I don't gamble." "Boringly sensible," the Magician said in mild displeasure. "I'm afraid so. Where've you been in the past few centuries, anyway? I lost track of you after that business in Elizabethan England." "Back and forth," she shrugged. "I was in England for most of the seventeenth century until the Puritan purges, during which I went off to the south of France. Then back with Charles II, and in England until I was deported in 1795 to the colonies." "And en route you met Duncan?" "Correct," she nodded. "Yes, he told me about you," Flint said thoughtfully. "He and Connor still believe I never met you before the 19th century." "Instead of being my tutor and trainer," the Magician said with a catlike purr in her voice, trailing a gentle finger round the curve of Flint's jaw. "Someone who unleashed me onto the world at large." "I'm not exactly proud of it." Flint pushed the hand away. "You've killed a lot of people." The Magician's voice turned suddenly sharp. "So have you." "Not for the same reasons." Smoothness returned to her voice. "Let's not argue. Can't we share a drink or two together before I have to go down to the car decks and take Connor Macleod's head?" Flint looked at her suspiciously. "What are you up to?" She shrugged. "Nothing, really. If I'm in the bar with you, firstly I shan't be approached by anyone else who wants nothing more than to get inside my clothing. Secondly, Connor and my own little protegeMandy Dallas won't try and take my head whilst I'm in a bar as busy as this one." "Crafty," Flint said with genuine admiration. "Unfortunately, Captain Alexander Myles survived your decimation of his trawler crew as well. He's onboard, according to Connor." The Magician lost her smile. "Ah," she said thoughtfully. "I wouldn't go near him," Flint warned. "Myles is protected by a plainclothes security guard who follows him everywhere he goes. More of Connor's information." "Is he now," the Magician frowned. Her face suddenly brightened. "Oh, of course. Thank you, Flint. That gives me just the clue I need." "For what?" "For how to make sure of Connor and Mandy Dallas. Listen to me a minute. I want your help." ..to be continued.. =========================================================================