Date: Wed, 5 Oct 1994 11:03:04 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Brian Macleod Subject: Descendants to the Prize, part 2 ************************************************************************* ************************H I G H L A N D E R****************************** *****D E S C E N D A N T S T O T H E P R I Z E****************** ************************************************************************* BY BRIAN PROCOPIO, BASED UPON THE STUDENT FILM OF THE SAME NAME COPYRIGHT 1994, CHAOS PICTURES, INC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ======================================================================== The immortal strode forth to match David's path, casting aside the black wool trenchcoat resting upon his shoulders, drawing forth a thick, two-handed broadsword. He was wearing solid black from head to toe, with black leather gloves and steel-tipped boots completeing the outfit. The two warriors stopped several feet away from each other, sizing each other up. The older was power- fully built, with thick, muscular shoulders and a broad chest under his dark Russian features. The younger was shorter by several inches, not as powerful but still firmly muscled. His tenseness was evident as he gripped his katana tightly, unsure of how the battle would start. "You are the one they call Macleod, are you not?" the immortal rumbled. "And yourself?" replied David Macleod. "I am Marak, warrior eternal. I have carved my name in the timeline of human- ity while mastering the power games that these feeble mortals play," he gestured disparingly with his right hand as he continued, "Now I have discovered a much greater power, the power of the Quickening!" He brought his tightened fist before his face menacingly. "And no one, immortal or otherwise, will stand before me in the achievement of this power. You, Macleod," he pointed at his opponent," are but an in- signifigant step on my journey to the Prize. And in a moment, evn THAT fame will escape you." "To be replaced by something much larger when I take YOUR head, I assume?" David inquired as he fanned his blade. He could feel the quickening surrounding them, its power infusing him, calming him, preparing him for the coming battle. He anticipated it, wanted it, the edge coming to him as he emptied his mind of all thoughts. "Come, Macleod," Marak spread his arms out in mock anticipation, "my sword awaits your death." "And mine, your Quickening," retorted Dave as he swung high at the opposing immortal, who easily coutered Macleod's strike with one of his own. David rolled out of the way, coming up with a block to catch Marak's following attack. He jumped back and to his feet, out of the way of his enemy's slash, the air milimeters in front of his chest parted by the blade of Marak's sword. Macleod dove forward with a thrust to the dark warrior's abdomen, which Marak riposted as he turned and elbowed David in the face, knocking him to the ground in a daze. Marak swung down in a powerful stroke, barely blocked by David as he brought the flat of his sword up in defense. His senses regained, Macleod swiped at Marak's kneecaps, the attack easily avoided by the elder swordsman. As the immortal stepped back, however, David gained an opening to rise once more to his feet. The battle then began in earnest, both combatants weaving a web of steel and sweat as they trans- versed the length of the plaza. His back up against the wall, Macleod switched to an unorthodox reverse-hand grip, slashing his sword right and left in a figure eight pattern, clearing the space around him and allowing him to manuver to a more defendable position. He drove forward on the attack, using all of the skills Mackenzie taught him in his efforts to defeat his attacker. Marak countered his blows expertly, with the skill of one who had been doing this for decades. Macleod felt his strength waning, failing to find an opening in his opponent's defense. His own sword rose and fell rythmicly, his pattern coming all too predictable. He tried once more with the reverse-hand grip, but he had only just learned it and his skill was far beneath Marak's. The older immortal brought his offensive into play, his stamina far from depleted. He cut and thrust, swiped and slashed his way into Macleod's worn-down and battle-weary manuvering. He forced Macleod back, step by step, gaining ground with each stroke of the sword. They fought alongside one of the giant stairwells in the center, the clanging of broadsword on katana echoing across the empty courtyard. Dave, realizing that his very survival was on the line, fought a battle of despaira- tion, trying to regain an advantage that he lost in the combat so long ago. His swings became more loose, too overextended, leaving himself open more and more often. Marak toyed with the young one, knowing that the fight was his. Finally he tired of it, and caught Macleod's sword under the hilt, flipping it up and away into the twilight sky. Macleod made one last desparate reach for it before coming down hard against the bench behind him, preparing for the end, realizing that although he should be dead, he didn't want to be. Marak grabbed the inexperienced immortal under the jaw, pulling him up to his own eye level. "After your friend Brian's performance I would have thought YOU would have been more of a challenge," he leered. "what the hell are you talking about!?" gasped Dave. "Oh," he smiled darkly, "You didn't know, your friend died as you soon will, ON HIS KNEES!" With that, he forced David down to his knees, prepaaring to deliver the killing stike. David looked away from the immortal's victorious form and into the sky, such a brilliant shade a blue.... <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< "C'mon, Macleod, don't make me laugh. You call that swordfighting??" exclimed Mackenzie in disbelief. The immortal was framed against a sky of brilliant blue, the sun just over his shoulder. "Shut up, Mac, we've been at it all day. It's cold, I'm tired, and this sword thiing is getting old." replied Dave gruffly. "If you want to get any older YOU'LL have to practice this 'sword thing' some more, Macleod!" warned the mentor. "Now, one last spar, show me what you've learned." Resigned to his fate, the pupil brought his sword up for one last battle. They danced the deadly dance of the steel blades once more, Macleod exuberant every time he put his trainer on the defensive, Mackenzie overjoyed at his student's progress. David slipped, however, leaving himself open as his sword swung back wide. Brian dived in, rapping David's exposed knuckles with the flat of his blade, causing Macleod to yelp in pain as he dropped his sword and fell back to the ground. Mackenzie brought his sword up for the beheading stroke, causing David's eyes to go wide in fear. He swung the weapon down and behind him, reaching out with his free hand to help his student up... >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> ...and the older immortal brought his sword up for the killing blow once more, preparing to end the short-lived immortal life of David Macleod. "THERE CAN BE ONLY O--AARGHH!" he grunted as Macleod's squat from barrelled into his gut, carrying him a clean ten feet back and causing his sword to clatter to the ground just out of reach. They wrestled for a moment, but despite the size difference it was no contest, as David's high school wrestling trophies attested to, easily gaining the advantage in this realm of combat. He rolled off of Marak and dove for the warrior's weapon. As he scrambled across the concrete the evil one grabbed for his ankle-- and missed. Marak froze on one knee as Macleod spun around on his feet, broadsword in hand. A moment of realization passed between them. Marak, seeing his defeat, lowered his head in surrender. Macleod felt his nerves explode at once, as he saw just how lucky he was to have won this fight. He quieted them with a thought, steeling himself for the final blow. He spared no thought as to could he or couldn't he, should he or shouldn't he. Attaining to utmost emptiness, he declared, "There can be only one!" as the sword met with the vanquished immortal's neck, cleaving it clean through. He stepped back a few feet, not knowing what would happen next. Brian described it to him but it was no preparation for the blast wave which hit him at that moment. His world erupted into an inferno of light and heat, electricity storming about him like a maelstrom. The broadsword was dropped, forgotten. He screamed, and the lightning blasted forth from him, seeking out the streetlights on the poles nearby, arching out and over the courtyard, shattering windows in its path. The memories flowed through him and into him, unbidden and chaoticly. He felt, saw, heard, experienced himself fighting a secret war in World War Two, trying to keep the Nazis out of his homeland at Stalin's bidding. After the war becoming Stalin's right hand man, his private assassin, mastering the killing arts. On and on the memories came, Korea, where he died his first death and learned of his immortality, his training in Tibet, where he killed his own instructors after they taught him what he needed to know. Through time and world he traveled, engaging here and there in conflicts across the globe, masterminding the rise and fall of several countries singlehandedly. The immortals he faced through the years, his knowledge that the Gathering was at hand..... With a sudden rush it all stopped, throwing Macleod to his knees, spent, out of breath, bordering on unconciousness. As the sky darkened, he got to his feet at last. Gathering both swords, he stepped away into the shadows.... ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ============================================================================== So ends the prologue to the series. Hope you enjoyed, e-mail me with comments! Brian Macleod of the clan Macleod, Macleod@vm.temple.edu =========================================================================