Date:         Thu, 14 Sep 1995 14:33:02 EDT
Reply-To:     Russ McMillan <mcmillan@ASTRO.PSU.EDU>
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         Russ McMillan <mcmillan@ASTRO.PSU.EDU>
Subject:      Dark Side, Part 3 of

        The Dark Side of the Mirror, Part 3
        by Russet McMillan
        mcmillan@astro.psu.edu


        There was music running endlessly through Duncan's head.
Every time he managed to banish one tune from his consciousness,
another would start up.  Half the time he didn't even recognize what
he was humming.
        It was the same with the memories.  He had been having
momentary flashbacks for the past few days: flashes of violent images,
especially duels and beheadings.  But the duels were not ones that he
recognized, and sometimes he was on the receiving end of the fatal
stroke.
        It wasn't unusual to have a few false memories after he had
taken a quickening, but usually they passed off within a few hours.
These images came so fast and furious that he hardly had time to sort
out which ones were his own, which were alien, and which were
completely imaginary.  A moment ago, on the barge, Duncan had had a
frighteningly detailed vision of his own katana cleaving Amanda's
neck.
        Now he was walking, his shoulders hunched and his hands in the
pockets of his black trenchcoat.  He was trying to wear himself out so
that he could sleep, or perhaps he hoped to avoid Amanda if she should
return.  Or perhaps he wanted to outrun these persistent visions.
        He closed his eyes against the memory of Fitz's head coming
off, but the image was merely sharper against the insides of his
eyelids.  He recognized the music in the back of his mind now; it was
Siegfried's funeral from Gotterdammerung.
        Dizzily, he sat down on a bench for a moment to try to gather
control of his thoughts.  But a flash of Sheriff Crowley bringing his
saber down for a fatal blow drove Duncan to his feet again.  He
scrubbed at his eyes, trying to wipe the image away, and went back to
pacing the cobbled streets of Paris.
        A whisper in the back of his mind warned of some danger --
real, not imagined.  He welcomed the distraction from his losing
inward struggle and began to pay closer attention to his surroundings.
Footsteps tapped behind him, pacing him.  Was someone following him?
He made two quick turns away from the more populated streets with
their cafes and late diners.  He slowed his speed, increased it,
ducked around a corner and waited.
        A few seconds later, a man followed him around the corner --
the same man who had sat on a nearby wall when Duncan stopped at the
park bench, and who had gotten up when Duncan started walking again,
who had slowed and speeded when he did.  Before he could react, Duncan
had him pinned to the wall with one hand under his chin.
        "Who are you?" he demanded.
        The man gaped at him, moved his lips soundlessly.
        With his free hand, Duncan grabbed the man's left wrist and
forced back his sleeve.  There was the Watchers' symbol, half hidden
by a watchband.  "Who do you work for?  Hunters?"
        The Watcher gurgled.
        "Dawson?"
        He nodded vehemently.
        Duncan leaned close to hiss in the man's ear.  "I don't like
being spied on.  If you're going to follow me, do it where I can't
see."
        The man was beginning to turn a dusky purple.
        Duncan knew he was pressing too hard on the Watcher's neck.
An unexpected flood of anger seemed to have clamped his muscles.  He
realized that there was something familiar in the man's look -- just
so had Alfred Cahill's victims stared up at him.
        Appalled, Duncan pulled his hand away and caught the Watcher
by the shoulders as he slumped.  Choked by rage and fear, he gave the
man one sharp bounce against the wall.  "Just stay out of my sight,"
he growled, and stepped back out into the street.  He paused for a
moment, breathing heavily, trying to get a grip on himself.
        He remembered kneeling on a hill of sulfur, staring
incredulously as his adversary cut open his stomach, then his arm,
then aimed one final blow at his neck --
        The Watcher leaned back gasping against the wall where Duncan
had left him, feeling gingerly at his bruised throat.  When he had his
breath back, he pulled out a cell phone and placed a call with shaking
hands.  He didn't follow Duncan into the street, so he didn't see the
Immortal fall to his knees, fists clenched at his temples and mouth
open in a silent scream.  He didn't see the way the pedestrians
separated around the crazy man, or crossed to the other side of the
street.  He didn't see him slowly straighten, climb to his feet, and
look about with a stranger's eyes.
        He didn't see the man in the black trenchcoat who followed him
when he left the alley.


        Amanda slammed the phone down onto the table.  "I can't get
through to Joe Dawson."
        Connor looked up.  "He's in Paris?"
        "Yes.  He probably knows where Duncan is right now, but he's
not answering his phone."  Amanda reached a decision.  "I'm going to
go out and look for him."
        Connor stood up.  "No, don't."
        Amanda froze.  "What?"
        "It could be dangerous for you out there."
        She frowned. "You mean the other Immortal I sensed?"
        "That's right."
        "But you've been saying all along that Duncan was in no
danger."
        Connor wouldn't meet her eyes.  "If it's -- who I think it
is," he said slowly, "he'd be more likely to come after you than
Duncan."
        Amanda leaned towards him, trying to catch his gaze.  "Who do
you think it is?"
        Connor shrugged.  "I followed a man to Paris -- an Immortal
with a special taste for women's quickenings."
        "Why didn't you mention this before?"
        "I'm not sure it's him.  And I wanted to tell Duncan about it
at the same time."
        Amanda crossed her arms.  "Well, I'm going to go out and look
for Duncan.  If you're so worried about my safety, you're welcome to
come with me."
        Connor sighed and picked up his coat, checking to see that his
katana was securely concealed in its folds.  He wasn't about to
abandon a lady in distress, but he knew from past experience that
hunting for Duncan could lead to trouble.

 ==========================

        In a run-down shed on the outskirts of Givagny in Normandy,
two Immortals were arguing.
        "This is the most appalling get-up I have ever been forced to
wear," said Hugh Fitzcairn disgustedly.  He brushed at the shabby,
ill-fitting black coat Connor had found for him.
        Connor settled a floppy hat over his hair and glared at his
companion.  "You said you'd been in the Crusades.  If you're that old,
you must have gone in disguise before."
        "Certainly I have.  I despised every minute of it, and I made
a vow that the next time I had occasion to disguise myself, it would
be as a rich man."  Hugh sighed and picked up the saddle at his feet.
"I suppose we had better get on with this," he conceded, shifting the
door of the makeshift stall where they had put their horses.
        "We're not riding," Connor declared.  "How many peasants have
you seen with horses like these?"
        "But we've still three miles to go!" Hugh protested.  "With
these vile boots you've given me, I'll have more blisters than toes by
the time we reach the estate."
        "Too bad," said Connor shortly, holding open the door to the
shed.  "After you."  He bowed with a sardonic flourish.
        Grumbling, Hugh led the way out of the shed and back to the
road leading to Givagny, where they hoped to find news of Duncan.


        Connor insisted on making a thorough search of the ruins of
the burned-out chateau at Givagny, but though they found a few
blackened bodies amid the rubble, none of them was Duncan's.  They
felt not the slightest hint of a buzz as they tramped over the ashes.
        Next Connor sought out the nearest auberge so they could pick
the brains of the locals.  Hugh complained and limped for the whole of
the additional distance.
        "We saw a burned chateau a few miles back," Connor said
conversationally to the barmaid who served them a rather second-rate
beer.  "Did you catch any aristos?"
        "But certainly we did, citizens," she replied with a
flirtatious glance at Hugh.  "Two of them, the infamous Duc de Givagny
and his son."
        "Did the fire flush them out or did they burn inside?" Connor
asked.
        "Oh, they came right out into our arms," the girl exclaimed
with a glow in her cheeks.  "That was a week ago, and we haven't had
anything nearly so exciting happen since then."
        "A week ago?" Connor mused.  "Then I suppose we are too late
to see them guillotined."
        "Not at all, they were taken to Paris."  The girl took a seat
at their table, looking crestfallen.  "We don't have a guillotine of
our own, and it will be some months before we get one.  But in Paris
there are so many aristos lined up for an improving haircut that it
will be another week before the Duc gets what's coming to him."  She
smiled again at Hugh.  "The baker's son offered to take me in to Paris
to see the beheadings, but his father will not let him go."
        "Whyever not?  We may be heading that way ourselves," Hugh
began cheerfully, then broke off at a black glance from Connor.
        "Two of them taken from here, you say?" Connor asked again.
"That's quite a record, for such a small town."
        "Actually, there were three!" the girl boasted.
        "Yes, there was a third taken with them," a new voice rumbled
from behind Connor.  A large man had moved closer to join the
conversation.
        Connor turned slowly, a polite smile on his lips.  "Is that
so?  Who was the third?"
        The large man bent forward menacingly.  "He was an English spy
who tried to defend them.  He'll be getting just what he deserves."
        "I don't doubt it," Connor replied.
        "The funny thing is, this fellow had an accent just like
yours."
        "What do you have to say to that?" said another man, advancing
upon them.  The barmaid pushed her chair back from the table and
slipped out of the way.
        Hugh looked from one threatening face to the other and laughed
incredulously.  "Surely you don't think _we're_ English!" he
exclaimed.  "Can't you tell a Scottish accent when you hear one?"
        The first man looked baffled.  "You mean you're Scottish?"
        "Am I Scottish?" Hugh barked back at him.  "Why, my
grandfather died at Culloden field!  And my other grandfather was
wounded there.  My father was hounded out of the country by those
bloodthirsty Englishmen, and that's how I come to be in France.  I
assure you, we have no loyalty to the Hanoverian tyrant on the throne
of England."
        Connor's lips thinned, but he didn't so much as glance at his
companion, who up until a few hours ago had been the very epitome of
an English gentleman.
        "You may hate the Hanoverians," said the first man, "but what
do you say to the Bourbons?"  There was a rumble of agreement from the
other men who had gathered around.
        "Why, I say, good riddance to them!  Liberte, Egalite,
Fraternite, that's the way to go!"
        "You know what I say?" said the second man.  "I say the Stuart
prince got his support from filthy aristos here in France, not from
the French citizens.  And if there's anything worse than an English
spy, it's a Scottish one!"  This time, the cries of agreement were
much louder.
        A little space had cleared in front of Connor as the heavies
clustered around Hugh, and he took advantage of the room to leap to
his feet and pull out the sword he had hidden under his peasant's
coat.  The Frenchmen fell back amid cries of "He's one of them!" and
"Aristos!"
        "Oh dear," muttered Hugh faintly in English.  "I wish you
hadn't done that."
        "All your talk wasn't doing much good," Connor pointed out.
        "Get them!" cried the largest of the heavies, but no one made
a move.
        Connor waved his sword in the face of the bar patrons.  "Stay
back," he cried, "unless you want a foot of steel in your gullet!"
With threatening jabs and a couple of disabling kicks, he began to
clear a path to the door.
        By bluster and intimidation, they made it as far as the
courtyard, but then the Frenchmen began to throw stones.  They stood
in a ring just out of reach of Connor's sword, and their aim was
wickedly accurate.  A heavy rock struck Connor's head and made him
stagger.
        At last Hugh pulled out his own sword, surprising the men
nearest him and making them pull away a little.  He rushed forward,
forcing an opening in the ring of attackers, and made himself a path
to freedom.  Connor, struggling with a man twice his size who had
grabbed his swordarm, was unable to follow.  He managed to keep his
grip on his sword, and a few of his attackers screeched as he made use
of it, but he was badly outnumbered.  With his back undefended, he
couldn't hold them off for long.  Kicks and blows rained down on him,
and he cursed himself for ever trusting an English fop.
        Then a new sound entered the mix of angry shouts and howls of
pain.  Hoofbeats thundered, a shrill neigh pierced the air, and the
crowd around Connor parted as a huge grey form shouldered in.  Connor
looked up to find Hugh straddling a hefty farm horse bareback.
        "Come on!" the Englishman cried, stabbing at the front rank of
the mob.  "Get up behind me!"
        Connor grabbed Fitzcairn's waist and pulled himself up to the
horse's high back by main force.  Hugh swayed and grabbed the animal's
mane as he tried to kick it to a faster gait.  The staid plow horse
had probably never achieved a gallop since it was a yearling, but it
was fast enough to outdistance men on foot, and strong enough to bear
two men on its back with ease.  Soon the angry cries of the mob faded
into the distance.
        "Thanks," Connor gasped when he got his breath back.  "I
thought you had run out on me."  He dabbed at the blood running from
his forehead.
        "You Scots!" Hugh exclaimed.  "Always suspicious.  You're just
like Duncan, has anyone ever told you that?"
        "No," said Connor doubtfully.
        "Well, you are.  Almost the first thing he did when we met was
to stab me to death, just like you.  He had a better reason for it,
though."
        Hugh guided the horse, now more interested in stopping to
graze than in running away from noisy mobs, to the shed where they had
left their own horses stabled.  He sent the old gelding on its way
with a smack on the rump, and they quickly saddled the other two
horses.
        "So, is it to be Paris next?" Hugh asked.
        Connor nodded.  "If that's where Duncan is.  I wish we had
caught up with him while he was still here, though.  Even if we break
him out of prison before he's taken to the guillotine, it won't be so
easy to escape from Paris."
        Hugh smiled as they mounted up and trotted onto the road in the
deepening twilight.  "I think I know someone who might be able to
help."

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