Date: Fri, 18 Mar 1994 21:19:14 PST Reply-To: papayd@gtewd.mtv.gtegsc.com Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Dave Papay M/S 2G23 x2791 Subject: Requital part 4 Requital Copyright 1994 by David Papay Part 4 of 5 Ahead of him, Tanner could see the barbarian turning left into a side alley. He slowed his pace as he approached the corner, but dared not stop, knowing that the vorpal sword's wielder was surely following him. Tanner rounded the corner with his sword held defensively in front of him, but the side alley was empty. It was short, extending only 15 feet or so before opening up into what appeared to be the remains of a partially collapsed, abandoned warehouse. He could still feel the barbarian, and knew danger was near. At the same time, he could also hear Fanton's footfalls coming up fast behind him. Tanner flattened himself against the wall of the short alley, just past the corner, and raised his sword. After some though, he gave the blade a quarter twist. As Fanton rounded the corner, Tanner brought his sword down. The flat of the blade caught Fanton in the stomach, and he doubled over as the wind blew out of his lungs. Tanner followed this first strike with a pommel blow to the back of Fanton's head. Fanton dropped to the ground unconscious, and the vorpal sword, still shedding brilliant light, fell from Fanton's hands onto the floor of the alley. Balinor was at a loss. Of all the events he had just witnessed, the fact that Fanton had almost turned on him stood out most in his mind. Though this angered him more than anything else Fanton had ever done, Balinor could not turn his back on his friend. He slung the hammer back onto his belt, reached over his shoulder, and drew his short sword from the sheath strapped to his back. The blade's soft green-white luminescence betrayed its magical nature. While the hammer was a much more powerful magical weapon, the short sword was a more practical choice for two reasons: its light would enable Balinor to find his way down the dark alley, and it would be a much better match against a sword wielding opponent, if things came down to that. After a short prayer, Balinor started down the dark, narrow alley. Though the alley took several turns and a number of smaller side-alleys branched off to either side, the path was easy for him to locate: he simply followed the trail of blood left by the wounded barbarian. Tanner looked down at the vorpal blade, which was still glowing brilliantly on the ground. He walked over to the weapon and cautiously crouched down to retrieve it. Just as Tanner's hand neared the sword's hilt, a small piece of mortar hit his finger. Tanner looked up just in time to see the barbarian leaping down onto him from a second story ledge. Crouched as he was, there was no way for Tanner to avoid the falling barbarian. In a desperate attempt, Tanner brought his sword upward and tried to set its pommel against the ground, hoping impale the barbarian. But there wasn't enough time. He had only raised his sword partially when the barbarian landed on him. Fortunately for Tanner, the barbarian didn't fall directly on him, but slightly to his left side. Even so, the impact was almost more than Tanner could take. The sound of breaking bone filled his ears, and intense pain flowed from his left side. His right arm - his sword arm - had been crossed over his chest, and was now pinned underneath the barbarian. He was sure the shoulder and arm were broken, but knew that he would have to free his weapon if he was to have any chance against the barbarian. Despite the agonizing pain, he began to pull his arm, and his sword, free from beneath the barbarian. What Tanner didn't know was that the sword's blade was not lying flat under the barbarian as one might expect. Rather, the sword's edge was pressed against the barbarian's abdomen. So as Tanner began pulling his sword free, he was also unknowingly disemboweling the barbarian. The fall had left the barbarian only slightly stunned. He had just raised himself up on his hands when he felt Tanner's blade slice into his abdomen. His arms failed and his face fell back down against the ground. Ironically, this caused the barbarian's own weight to press his abdomen even more firmly against the razor-sharp edge of Tanner's sword. The barbarian howled in pain, and rolled himself off of Tanner and the accursed blade. Tanner felt a great relief when the barbarian rolled off of him. Still, he was seriously injured. Most of the ribs on his left side were crushed. His right arm was broken in several places, and was also dislocated at the shoulder. He tried to rise, but his left leg failed him. It too was broken. Using his sword as a cane, he finally succeeded in getting himself up on both knees. He fully expected to die now, and lifted his head up to face the barbarian. Tanner's pain had been so intense he had not heard the barbarian's screams. What he saw amazed him. The barbarian lay on his side, just a few feet from Tanner. He was in a fetal position, and both hands were pressed tightly against his abdomen. It was of little use, though. The eviscerated organs exuded from between his fingers and spilled onto the packed earthen floor of the alley, their warmth sending wisps of steam into the cold night air. His teeth were clenched and his face was twisted in pain. He glared at Tanner with intense hatred. Using his good leg, Tanner managed to stand up. Still using his sword as a cane, he took a step toward the entrance to the wrecked warehouse, dragging his left leg behind him. With his arm broken, he had no hope of finishing off the barbarian now. His best strategy was to gain some distance from his wounded enemy. After a few more steps, Tanner had left the barbarian behind and disappeared into the shadows and wreckage of the deserted warehouse. At first the trail of blood from the barbarian's wound had been clearly visible on the ground. But as Balinor progressed down the twisting alley, the trail steadily diminished, and then finally stopped altogether. He bent down to get a closer look at the ground, but there was no denying it. Even to an experienced tracker like Balinor, the trail of blood was no where to be found. Balinor was puzzled by the disappearing trail of blood, but didn't waste too much time pondering it. He had been fortunate to have so easy a trail to follow, but now he must look for other evidence of human passage. He knelt down and began studying the ground for signs. In the short alley, the barbarian slowly rose to his feet. His legs were shaky and his face was ashen. The front of his heavy parka was slashed open and covered with blood, but there was no fresh blood flowing from the wound. In fact, all that remained of the wound was a hideous dull-red scar running across his abdomen. His strength increased with each passing moment. He ignored Fanton and the vorpal sword, and turned toward the abandoned warehouse. Picking up his sword, he started into the warehouse - in pursuit of Tanner. It took Balinor only minimal effort to find the footprints left by the other three. He looked ahead. The alley was relatively straight, and few side alleys were present now. The trail was clearly visible for some distance ahead, so Balinor sheathed his sword and silently stood up. Once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Balinor was able to see a dim blue light shining from around a corner not too far off in the distance. He began walking down the alley, toward the source of the light. The barbarian walked into the wrecked warehouse. It was perhaps 100 feet wide, and twice again as long. Most of the ceiling had collapsed, allowing the moonlight to shine in - whenever the intermittent cloud cover allowed it. Evidence of the former roof was abundant: large, rotten wooden beams were scattered about in a seemingly random pattern; a few tall stone columns - which would have supported the roof - still stood. In addition to the wooden beams, crates and barrels were strewn all over the floor of the warehouse. Most were broken, but a few were still intact. The smell of offal permeated the air. The debris on the ground presented no real obstacle, unless one was trying to run - or fight. Keeping this in mind, the barbarian moved slowly toward the center of the warehouse. His warrior instincts were at work: he began a systematic visual and aural search for his opponent. The barbarian walked with barely a sound, a skill he was quite proficient at. He looked to both sides, and then spun around quickly to make sure Tanner was not behind him. He backpedaled while scanning the area from which he had just came. There was no sign of movement. Slowly the barbarian turned forward again - and stopped abruptly. Tanner was standing a mere ten feet in front of him. Like the barbarian, there were no signs of Tanner's earlier injuries. He bore his weight evenly on both legs and was not guarding his previously crushed ribs. Though he held his sword in both hands, this was more a matter of fighting style than due to a weakness in his sword arm. For the first time tonight, the barbarian faced Tanner on even terms. That is, the barbarian did not have the element of surprise. After several seconds of silence, the barbarian spoke: "I knew you would return. I have waited seven years for you." "You lie," Tanner replied. "Had you known I would return, I'm sure you would have left this place as quickly as possible - as you did the last time." "I am no coward!" screamed the barbarian. To even imply that a barbarian was a coward was a great insult. Tanner knew this, and his comment had been carefully calculated to enrage the barbarian and make him careless. But the barbarian gathered Tanner's intentions and calmed himself. "It was simply - inconvenient to fight you when last we met. Don't you remember?" the barbarian asked with a slight laugh. His expression then turned cold and serious. "I had just killed your apprentice, and the city guards were rather anxious to catch me." he said in a cruel, mocking tone. This time it was Tanner's turn to get angry. True enough, seven years ago to the day the barbarian had killed a pupil of Tanner's. The young man had more potential than anyone Tanner had ever instructed in the past. He would have made a fine warrior, had the barbarian not murdered him. Tanner considered it murder because the barbarian had struck him from behind, before his pupil could even draw his sword. This was typical of the barbarian's tactics. Tanner raised his sword and rushed at the barbarian. Though he was angry, his attack was not driven by rage. He was far too experienced for that. He chose that moment to attack because the barbarian was still gloating over the verbal assault he had inflicted, and was not yet expecting Tanner's physical counter attack. The barbarian's parry came almost too late, but managed to catch Tanner's sword just in time. Sparks glittered off of the two swords as they made contact in the otherwise calm night. The two had joined in battle for the last time. The closer Balinor came to the light, the more convinced he became that it was the light of Fanton's vorpal blade. Something was wrong though. Although he could hear the sounds of swordplay, the blade's magical light was steady, not shifting, as one would expect if the sword was being used in melee. Preparing himself for the worst, Balinor stopped before entering the side alley and drew his short sword once again. He then sprang around the corner, his sword at the ready. What he saw confirmed his fears. The short alley was well lighted by the magical blade, which was lying a few feet from Fanton's inert form. There was an immense pool of blood on the ground, and what looked like human entrails. Balinor sheathed his sword and knelt down close to his friend, checking for signs of life. He was relieved to discover that Fanton was not dead, but just unconscious. The sounds of the sword fight in the warehouse caught his attention, and as he looked up to see what was transpiring, his gaze fell upon the vorpal blade. Balinor's mind was suddenly filled with anger and thoughts of revenge. Yes, he had to get revenge on those who had involved Fanton in this affair. And how appropriate it would be to use Fanton's sword to do so. The sword beckoned to him, but as he began to reach for the blade, the sound of crashing wood brought him back into control. Balinor looked up into the warehouse, toward the source of the noise. One of the few remaining wooden staircases leading up to the second story had somehow collapsed. The barbarian had just moved clear of the pile of lumber and rejoined the battle with Tanner. Balinor allowed himself a slight laugh, as he surmised that Tanner must have forced the barbarian to back into the weakened staircase. He wished he had been watching while that had happened. Why had he wanted to pick up Fanton's sword anyway? Still kneeling next to Fanton in the small alley, Balinor continued to watch the battle unfold before him. The two combatants danced an intricate ballet of thrusts, blocks, and feints, each one precisely executed. In admiring the skill of the two fighters, Balinor mused at how easy it was to forget the lethality of this display. As he watched further, one thing started to become evident to Balinor: these men were good swordsmen. Very good. This seemingly modest appraisal was not to be taken lightly, as Balinor himself was a highly skilled swordsman. He had been adventuring - and fighting - for nearly twenty-two years, and deemed himself at his prime. In all of the known world, there were perhaps a handful of other warriors who could be considered his peer in battle - one of them was lying unconscious next to him right now. So for Balinor to consider a fighter "very good" was quite a compliment indeed. Balinor found himself watching the two combatants the same way he had watched his masters as an apprentice. He absorbed every move - every nuance - of the battle, and witnessed techniques he had never even imagined possible before. Reluctantly, Balinor acknowledged the skill of the two warriors. They were not just better than he, they were in an entirely different class. Balinor looked down at Fanton, who was still lying motionless next to him. Fanton was lucky to be alive. It had probably been more trouble for one of those fighters to knock him out than it would have been for them to kill him outright. Tanner had proven to be more capable an opponent than the barbarian had bargained for, and he was starting to fear he might loose this battle. He had to gain the advantage once again or he would be out of the game permanently. He blocked Tanner's next slash, catching Tanner's sword at the guard. He then shoved Tanner away with all his strength in order to gain some room between him and his adversary. With Tanner temporarily at a distance, he used his left hand to draw the spear that was slung on his back. Now fighting two-handed, he moved in on Tanner. The barbarian thrust at Tanner with the spear, using it both to jab at him and to keep him out of sword range. Once the barbarian had worn Tanner down with the spear thrusts, he would finish him off with his sword. He continued to jab at Tanner, forcing him back toward a pile of refuse and the wall of the warehouse. Tanner was backpedaling to avoid the sharp point of the spear. He knew that the barbarian was maneuvering him against the warehouse wall, but couldn't do anything about it. The numerous spear wounds were beginning to take their toll on him, and for the first time he began to fear the barbarian. Then, without warning, he stumbled over a wooden crate and began to fall backwards. Fortunately, his fall was cut short by the warehouse wall. Tanner hit the wall hard, injuring his back in the process, but at least he had remained on his feet. He straightened himself up against the wall, and prepared himself for the next spear thrust. The barbarian's plan had worked. Tanner was now cornered, and could no longer escape his spear. It was only a matter of time before he weakened Tanner enough to kill him. The barbarian lunged forward and thrust his spear at the same time. But his step brought his foot down upon the now broken crate Tanner had stumbled over, the slippery contents of which had began to ooze out from between the wooden slats. The barbarian's foot slipped only a few inches forward, but those few inches were all that were needed. The barbarian's fate had just been sealed: he was already a dead man. Balinor had seen what had happened to the barbarian and knew exactly what it meant. Off balance from the slip, the barbarian's spear thrust was overextended. In a natural response to this unbalancing, the barbarian brought his right arm - his sword arm - backwards to avoid falling. Now the barbarian was not only unable to continue his attack with the spear, but he was also unable to defend himself with his sword. Balinor could hardly believe the unexpected turn of events, and anxiously waited to see if the barbarian's cornered opponent would take advantage of the situation. He didn't have to wait long. Tanner's thoughts were essentially the same as Balinor's. With the barbarian's spear thrust overextended, it would take little effort to parry it aside. With a blur, Tanner's sword moved from a his lower left side, diagonally across the front of his body, and up to a high guard position near his right shoulder. Along the way, it made contact with the barbarian's wrist and severed it cleanly off. The spear, still clutched by the barbarian's dismembered hand, fell to the ground. The barbarian's mouth opened wide in shock, and a scream of rage began to escape his lips. But Tanner gave him no time. He quickly reversed the sword slash that had taken off the barbarian's hand and directed it upward towards the barbarian's neck. With a single swipe, Tanner took off the barbarian's head. Balinor had seen men decapitated before. With Fanton's vorpal sword it happened often enough. Still, he could not help but flinch as the head came away from the barbarian's neck and fell to the ground beside the even-now crumpling body. While decapitation was a sure way to kill one's enemy, it was difficult to do. Balinor could not understand why Tanner had chosen to kill the barbarian in this manner when any number of simpler slashes to the chest or abdomen would have accomplished the same end. Then again, Balinor did not know that the barbarian had been an immortal: a race of men who could not die. Their wounds would always heal, they would recover from any sickness, they were immune to all magics and poisons. In fact, there was only one way to kill an immortal: to take his head. Tanner knew this, for he too was an immortal. He straightened up and regarded the barbarian's lifeless body. The abandoned warehouse, which had only seconds ago been filled with the sounds of clashing swords, was now absolutely quiet. Tanner opened his mouth, drew a short breath, and broke the silence with a simple phrase: "There can be only one." Small tendrils of lightning began to materialize in the debris near the barbarian's body. They danced around the discarded crates and scattered garbage, and seemed to coalesce all around the barbarian's remains. They increased in number, and their combined light began to illuminate the warehouse. A slight breeze materialized, and it grew rapidly in strength. The tendrils could now be properly called bolts, as they both struck the barbarian's body and emanated from it. What had been a small breeze was now a strong wind. Balinor watched in awe as the barbarian's body began to levitate into the air, apparently supported by the lightning bolts and gusts of wind. Then the bolts struck out at the walls of the warehouse, blasting small holes in them and sending pieces of brick and mortar flying in all directions. Crates and barrels were splintered by the lightning's power. The few shuttered windows in the warehouse were blasted apart, adding more flying debris to the maelstrom that the wind had created. The force of the wind peppered Balinor's face with the debris, and the last thing he saw before he shut his eyes to avoid being blinded was Tanner being struck again and again by bolts of lightning. End of part 4 =========================================================================