Date:         Fri, 18 Mar 1994 14:25:00 PST
Reply-To:     papayd@gtewd.mtv.gtegsc.com
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.BITNET>
From:         Dave Papay M/S 2G23 x2791 <papayd@GTEWD.MTV.GTEGSC.COM>
Subject:      Requital part 3

Requital

Copyright 1994 by David Papay

Part 3 of 5

    Fanton reached for his thick, padded undershirt and pulled it over his
head.  On top of this went a chain mail vest, followed by a woolen tunic.  He
finished by strapping on his sword and concealing a dagger in his boot.
Balinor had finished dressing some time ago, and was glad to see that Fanton
was finally ready.  Like Fanton, he wore armor beneath his cloths and carried
several weapons.  But these two men were not going to battle, they were
going out to celebrate Midsummer.  The armor and weapons were merely for
self defense, should the need arise.  Not that Arete was a lawless town by any
means.  It was just that adventurers like Fanton and Balinor found it very
difficult to be without the tools of their trade.
    The two men headed for the door.  "Are you sure you don't want to come
with us?"  Balinor asked of the other three party members.  His query was
met with the same negative responses as last time.  Only he and Fanton felt
adequately rested and strong enough to celebrate tonight.  They grabbed their
parkas on the way out the door, and passed through the inn's common room,
which had already started to fill with revelers.  Once out on the street, they
paused for a few moments to get their bearings.  Balinor and Fanton then set
off for the first of many taverns they would visit tonight.

    Tanner had overslept.  Fortunately, there was still quite a bit food left
in the kitchen, and one of the serving girls was able to provide him with a
late supper.  Not surprising, Tanner thought as he pushed his way through the
crowd on his way out.  Tonight it was the inn's barroom, not its kitchen, that
was bringing in most of the business.
    Sunset, which signaled the beginning of the night's festivities, had
occurred several hours ago.  Tanner stopped just outside the door in order to
fasten the front of his cloak and pull its fur collar up around his neck.  It
was much colder now than it had been when he first arrived.
    There were few people out on the streets.  Most had arrived at the tavern
of their choice hours ago, and would remain there for the rest of the night.
Tanner had similar plans.  With his beard shaved, and the tiredness gone
from his step, he set off for his favorite taproom.

    It was ten o'clock at night.  The barbarian waited on the corner of two
nameless secondary streets for Alec to arrive. The streets were deserted, just
as the barbarian had hoped.  This was a warehouse district, and there would be
no one working tonight.  Unconsciously, he moved his arms and legs from
time to time in order to generate additional body heat.  This reflexive action
was necessary in order to survive in this climate.  Even now, on
Midsummer's Eve, the temperature outside had dropped to twenty degrees
below zero.
    Long before the barbarian could see Alec, he heard the boy's approaching
footfalls.  He moved out of the shadows in which he had been standing so the
boy could find him easily.  The boy approached slowly, and stopped a few feet
away from the barbarian.  By the expression on the boy's face, it was plain to
the barbarian that the boy was frightened about meeting him alone at night,
and in this deserted neighborhood.  This suited the barbarian just fine.
    "Well?" the barbarian asked.
    "I followed him, just like you told me," Alec said.
    "And where is he now?" the barbarian inquired.
    "He was heading toward the Drunken Wolf.  That's a tavern in the
Merchant's Quarter."
    "Heading toward the Drunken Wolf?" the barbarian queried.  "You mean
you didn't follow him there?  You didn't make sure that was where he was
going?"  The barbarian's voice had become manacing.  He had little tolerance
for incompetence.
    As boldly as he cold, Alec defended his decision not to follow the man. "I
didn't want him to see me.   The streets are pretty empty now.  Most people
started celebrating hours ago, at sunset."  He stopped for a moment, and then
dared one last comment.  "Besides, you told me to meet you here at ten."
    The barbarian reached out and grasped the front of Alec's cloak.  He drew
the boy in close to him, at the same time lifting him several inches off of the
ground.  "I know what I told you," the barbarian hissed, barely keeping his
temper in check.
    Alec was paralyzed with fear.  He made no attempt to break the barbarian's
grasp on his cloak, not that he would have had much success anyway.
Fortunately for Alec, the barbarian had much more important things to
concern himself with this evening, and he decided to overlook the boy's
impudent remark for the time being.
    The barbarian released Alec and turned away from him.  Alec stood frozen
to the spot where the barbarian had dropped him, looking at his employer's
back.
    Without facing Alec, the barbarian asked one final question.  "Are you sure
that he's going there?"
    "Positive," replied Alec, as confidently as he could.  "It's the only
tavern in that part of town.  He couldn't be going anywhere else."
    "Good," said the barbarian.  He turned around briskly so he was facing Alec
once again and removed a small leather pouch from inside his thick fur
parka.  "Here."
    Alec took the pouch and discreetly judged its weight before putting into
his cloak pocket.  He would much rather have counted its contents, but didn't
want to risk offending the barbarian.  In the end, it wouldn't have mattered.
Alec muttered a quick word of thanks, turned around, and began to walk
away, anxious to leave the barbarian and get to a tavern he knew of where he
could spend his new-found wealth.
    He had taken only two steps when an intense pain in his abdomen caused
him to double over and grab his stomach with both hands.  Surprisingly, his
hands encountered something cold, hard, and slick.  He looked down to find
himself grasping the barbarian's sword, a foot of which was protruding from
his stomach.   He tried to turn his head to face the barbarian, but to no
avail.  Most of his strength had already left his body, and his legs were
buckling.  As his last conscious thought, Alec found it strange that he had
not felt the sword enter his back first.  Then his lifeless form crumpled
onto the bloodied cobblestone pavement.
    Alec had suffered the same fate as the three others the barbarian had
employed to look for the man; the barbarian wanted no loose ends.  'Besides',
the barbarian thought, as if he needed to justify Alec's murder to himself,
'the boy had been insolent.  He deserved to die'.
    The barbarian placed his foot on Alec's back for leverage and removed his
sword from the body.  Without remorse, he knelt down, wiped his sword
clean on the dead boy's cloak, and retrieved the leather coin pouch from the
cloak pocket.  He stepped over the body on his way to the Tavern of the
Drunken Wolf.

    Mead.  The nectar the gods.  It was the traditional drink of Midsummer,
and while it was practically nonexistent at other times of the year, the
expensive drink flowed freely tonight.  Tanner took another sip of the honey
wine from his mug.
    He had arrived quite late.  The tavern was nearly filled by the time he had
gotten there.  Luckily, he had once been good friends with several caravan
guides who were regulars at the tavern.  A round of mead easily gained him a
seat at their table.
    Tanner surveyed the taproom.  Mead was not the only item that had been
imported from the Far South.  Trays of exotic fruits, frozen during the
journey north, lie on several tables.  Rare tobaccos were being smoked in long
clay pipes, filling the room with variety of odors, and a light haze.  Tanner
shook his head at the extravagances.  It would cost some of the tavern's
patrons two months wages to pay for these luxuries.  He lifted his mug to his
mouth once again, and started.
    The sensation was subtle, but it caught his attention immediately.  Tanner
hadn't felt anything like it for a few years, but he knew what it meant.  His
eyes nervously scanned the taproom.  No, it was not coming from within, but
from outside.  Tanner rose from his seat, draining the last of the mead as he
did so.
    Under the pretense of refilling his mug, Tanner excused himself and
headed toward the bar.  Halfway there, he set his mug on a table and turned
toward the tavern's exit.  He drew his cloak tightly around himself and
pushed aside the thick hides hanging in the doorway of the tavern.
    The relative warmth of the tavern was abruptly replaced by the bitter cold
night air.  Tanner sobered up quickly, courtesy of the glaciated world's
climate.  He had taken only a few steps on the dry cobblestone street before
stopping.
    He felt the sensation again, stronger this time.  It was sudden and
painful, but not terribly so.  He drew a deep breath and the pain abated
somewhat.  What the cold air had started, the sensation had finished:  Tanner
was now fully alert.

    The vorpal sword had been forged over three millennia ago.  More than
just fine steel had gone into its construction: powerful enchantments had
been cast upon the blade.  Over the years, the sword had given wielders too
numerous to count added prowess in battle.  But in all those years, the true
powers of the sword had been awakened only three times.  Now, after nearly
two centuries of slumber, the sword had awoken for the fourth time.  Its
awareness reached out to the mind of its current wielder and began to take
hold.  Once again, the sword would combat the being it had been created to
slay.

    The barbarian sensed his opponent and moved cautiously down the
narrow alley.  His opponent had, no doubt, felt him as well, but there was
still a chance to achieve surprise.  Though he was a skilled warrior, the
barbarian had won more battles through deceit and treachery than by fair
swordplay.  He hoped that this encounter would have a similar outcome.  No
need taking unnecessary risks; too much was at stake.
    He had drawn his sword earlier so his opponent would not hear it clearing
its sheath.  For a normal-sized man it would have been a two-handed sword,
but the barbarian wielded it as a bastard sword.   The ancient runes that had
been engraved on the blade when it was forged were now worn and barely
legible, but the blade still held a razor-sharp edge.  It had seen the
barbarian through more battles than he could remember, and that was all that
really mattered.

    Balinor and Fanton walked briskly toward the only tavern in the
Merchant's Quarter.  Not coincidentally, it was also one of the only taverns
that had not yet forcibly removed them and banned them from any future
patronage.  While the others in their party were resting and recuperating, the
two long-time friends had spent a sizable sum celebrating Midsummer.  With
the chins tucked into their chests to guard against the cold, they pressed
onward toward the tavern of the Drunken Wolf.
    Fanton's thoughts had been drifting.  He had left it to Balinor to lead
them to their next destination, looking up only occasionally so as not to
bump into anything.  At first he attributed his weariness to the strong ale
and the cold weather.  But now it seemed harder and harder to shake off their
affects.   'Damn this cold weather', he thought.  He'd be sure to sit close
to the fire pit once they arrived at the tavern.

    Despite the cold, Tanner loosened his cloak and exposed the hilt of his
broadsword, placing it within easy reach.  The sensation was starting to grow
more intense; a confrontation was imminent.  By the dim moonlight that
gleamed through the broken clouds, Tanner could see two figures coming
toward him.  He quietly slipped into the shadows with his back against the
wall of the tavern.  The quiet of the night was broken by only three sounds:
the footfalls of the two figures, the din of noise coming from within the
tavern, and the creaking of the wooden sign above its entrance, which was
moving slowly in the light breeze.  The sign bore a weathered painting of a
drunken wolf.

    The quickening.  The sword's awareness heightened.  Its power grew with
each passing moment as it recognized its enemy and remembered its purpose.
Up until now it had been slowly weaving its way into the mind of its wielder,
attempting to quietly gain control.  But with its enemy so close at hand, the
sword could no longer restrain itself.  Its hatred of its enemy and lust for
death flared from within its magical core, and with an overwhelming surge
of power the sword dominated its wielder.

    Tanner's left hand hovered just above the hilt of his sword.  He still
hoped that a confrontation could be avoided, but the sensation grew stronger
as the two approached.   Suddenly, Tanner nearly doubled over from an intense
twinge.  Then, as abruptly as it had appeared, the pain receded, allowing
Tanner to regain his composure.  He focused on the figure on the right: he
was the one.  Tanner thought it strange that this person continued forward
without feeling the discomfort that he had felt.  Quite to the contrary, his
would-be adversary approached in apparent ignorance.  A fatal mistake,
thought Tanner, as he stepped out of the shadows to confront his opponent.

    The barbarian felt a painful sensation he had never experienced before.  He
remained calm though.  He had come too far, and things were too perfect to
be ruined now.  He endured the pain, which lasted longer than the
quickening should have.  Soon it subsided, and he continued to move in on
his opponent.  Through a warrior's eyes the barbarian surveyed the scene: it
could not have been more ideal.  Distracted by some unseen agent, his victim
was unaware of his presence.  This would be a quick victory.

    Balinor guessed that the tavern doorway lie no more than ten yards away,
and, in spite of the cold, brought his head up to confirm his estimate.  It was
then that he saw the figure standing between them and the tavern entrance.
It took him only an instant to shake off the ale-induced grogginess and assess
the situation: a stranger with his hand by his sword was standing a mere ten
yards ahead of them.  A stranger who had his eyes fixed on his friend, Fanton.
He stopped short and turned toward Fanton.  But Fanton continued forward,
taking two more steps beyond where Balinor stood before stopping, his head
rising to meet the stare of the stranger.  Balinor had no way of knowing it,
but although the body he was looking at was that of his friend Fanton, the mind
within was that of the vorpal blade.

    Tanner had moved out into the open and assumed a battle posture.  His
sword was still in its sheath.  The person on the right finally seemed to take
notice of him.  Tanner felt another sharp pain.  It lasted for only an instant,
but it was strong.  'Who was this?', he thought.  With swords still not drawn,
the two warriors faced each other, each one waiting for the other to make the
first move.  Finally Tanner decided to take the initiative.  "I am Tanner -" he
started, but he never got to finish his sentence.

    The moment could not be more perfect.  While his opponent stood still,
apparently confronting someone else, the barbarian charged forward and
closed to within striking distance.  He lifted his sword above his head and
brought it down in a deadly arc aimed at his victim's neck.

    "Kill him.  Take his head!" the sword cried out in Fanton's mind.  His body
could do nothing but obey the command.  Fanton drew the vorpal blade that
dominated him and assumed a battle stance.  Light poured out of the sheath
as the sword cleared it, flooding the entire street in blue magical
illumination.

    The instant Tanner saw Fanton reach for his sword, he reflexively drew his
own.  But even as his hand touched the hilt, he was aware of the light
emanating from Fanton's sword and had guessed its magical nature.
Tanner's mind raced as he tried to fit together the pieces of what had just
become a complex puzzle.
    Those of Tanner's race could not wield magic weapons, and because of this
Tanner knew that Fanton was not the adversary he had sensed.  'But why
should this stranger draw on me?', he wondered.  Then Tanner reached the
only possible conclusion: the sword was a vorpal blade.  That would explain
the intense pain he had felt.  The sword would have to be dealt with, but first
he had to locate the quickening he had originally detected.   His gaze shifted
to Balinor to see if he was its focus.  It was then that he saw that Balinor
was not looking at him, but past him.

    Balinor had fought with Fanton many times before and was accustomed to
the light shed by Fanton's blade.  But this time the blade seemed to shine
much brighter than Balinor recalled.  He had little time to consider this
though.  By the light of Fanton's drawn sword, Balinor could now see behind
Tanner, into an alley that had up until a few moments been concealed in
darkness.  It was then that Balinor saw the barbarian raise his sword and begin
the arc that would decapitate Tanner.

    The bright light blinded the barbarian, but he did not pull his swing; he
was committed to the attack.  His aim had been sure, and with luck he would
have Tanner's head whether or not he was actually able to see it.

    From Balinor's gaze, Tanner surmised the danger behind him.  He
simultaneously pivoted on his right leg and dropped to his left knee.  The
barbarian's slash was an instant late, and missed severing Tanner's head,
sailing less than a hand-span above it.
    The barbarian's sword met nothing but air, and without the expected
resistance of Tanner's neck, his swing went wild.   He was unable to stop the
sword's momentum, and it sliced into the stone wall on the left side of the
alley.  The force of the blow pulverized one of the roughly cut stone bricks
that made up the wall, and the impact sent numbing vibrations up and down
the barbarian's arms.  Sharp fragments of stone and mortar flew in all
directions, and brilliant sparks danced off of the blade and cascaded to the
ground.  Despite the force of the blow, the blade did not break, but became
firmly wedged in between two bricks.
    The barbarian was off balance and his flank was unprotected.  Tanner used
this opening to thrust his sword upward into the barbarian's right side.  The
barbarian howled in pain and anger, and stared down the length of the sword
into Tanner's eyes.  Then, drawing upon all of his great physical strength, he
back-handed Tanner across the face.
    The blow had caught Tanner off guard.  Its force knocked him clear of the
barbarian and sent him sliding on the cold cobbles.  Tanner had managed to
retain a grip on his sword, which tore the barbarian's side open even wider as
it withdrew from the wound it had created.

    Balinor could not believe the barbarian was still able to stand, let alone
strike the other swordsman.  Any other man would be dying on the ground,
but the barbarian remained on his feet.  His left hand was pressed tightly to
his side in an attempt to quell the flow of blood from the wound, while his
right hand tried to wrench his sword free from the impinging stones.
    Although Balinor didn't perceive any threat to himself, he was too
experienced a fighter to stand unprepared with a melee so close by.  He
reached for the war hammer that was slung from his belt and held it
defensively, trying not to look overtly hostile.  He didn't know why Fanton
had drawn his sword - he recognized neither of the men - but this was clearly
not their battle, and Balinor had no intention of getting involved.

    The sword was surprised for a moment.  Two of its enemies were present.
Never before had this ever happened.  After the initial shock, it regained its
sense of purpose and commanded its wielder into action.   Fanton watched
through unblinking eyes as Tanner fell onto the ground only a few feet away,
his back toward him.  "Now! Kill him!" the sword commanded.  Fanton
lifted his sword and began to step forward when a strong hand gripped his
sword arm above the elbow.
    "Fanton, no!" Balinor screamed.  He pulled Fanton's arm, forcing Fanton
to turn around and face him.  Fanton's body spun around, the sword still
raised high in a threatening posture.  His eyes flared with hatred.  With a
fighter's reflexes, Balinor released Fanton's arm and moved back, bringing his
hammer on guard as he did so.  The two old friends stood facing each other,
weapons drawn, ready to do battle.

    The side of the barbarian's fur cloak was soaked in blood - his own,
unfortunately.  He was not accustomed to this at all.  Once again calling upon
his incredible strength, he pulled his sword free of the wall, sending mortar
and stone flying as he did so.
    The barbarian had lost his advantage: surprise.  He had to regain it,
particularly with his wound.  While Tanner was still recovering from his
impact with the cobblestones, the barbarian retreated back down the narrow,
twisting alley from which he had appeared.

    The force of the barbarian's blow had been tremendous.  Tanner hit the
street hard, and was still trying to shake off the effects of the fall when he
heard a shout and footfalls behind him.  The vorpal sword!  He had forgotten
about it.  Still on the ground, Tanner turned toward the noises.  The two
people he had first seen walking toward the tavern were now facing each
other, as if to do battle.  Then another sound, that of stones falling, caused
Tanner to look back to where the barbarian had been.  The barbarian had freed
his sword, and was staggering back down the alley.  With a quick glance back
to the vorpal blade,  Tanner rose and started toward the alley.

    The sword was outraged by Balinor's interference.  A mere human had
dared to come between it and its enemy.  The sword became so absorbed in its
own anger that it momentarily forgot about Fanton.
    Balinor knew that he would be at a disadvantage against Fanton.  His battle
hammer didn't have the reach that Fanton's long sword did, and this would
force him to move in close to Fanton.   But as Balinor went over tactics in his
head, he noticed a change in Fanton's demeanor: his eyes softened, he had
lowered his sword somewhat, and his lips were parted slightly, as if to say
something.
    "No! They're getting away!"  The sword's outrage for Balinor had blinded it
to the fact that the barbarian, and then Tanner, had withdrawn down the
alley.  It could not let its prey escape!  The sword fumed at losing sight of
its objective, and at loosing control of its wielder.  At least the latter was
easy to rectify.  There was no subtlety this time: the sword's power flooded
into Fanton's mind all at once, momentarily contorting his entire body.  The
sword was in control once again.
    Balinor saw the instantaneous change in Fanton: his body convulsed, and
when it straightened, the cold, distant look had returned to his face.  Fanton
turned toward the alley were the barbarian and Tanner had went, casting a
final acrid look at Balinor before he too disappeared into the narrow alley.

End of part 3
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