Date: Mon, 25 Apr 1994 17:11:49 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Obi-wan never saw this place 25-Apr-1994 1704 Subject: Sacrifice Gambit (3/4) 3 The auction was a maddening experience. It took almost three hours for the pistols to come up, and not long after the bidding began Macleod realized he'd wasted his time. The auctioneer suggested a hundred thousand dollars as an opening bid. Someone offered a quarter of a million dollars and the price was through Macleod's limit of half a million in less than two minutes, driven there by two scowling old men. Perhaps they wanted to use them on each other, Macleod thought as he left the gallery. He took a taxi from Sotheby's to his hotel, and there was a message left in his mail slot. Rhys-Jones had stopped by on his way to Paris to explain his reason for going there. Not willing to wait for the stately, sedate elevator, Macleod raced up to his room and called the boat. When the answering machine picked up and greeted him in his own voice Macleod pounded the bed, in order to keep from roaring in frustration. After the beep, Macleod said, "Richie, there's --" and then cut himself off. The phone might not be safe, now. A badly chosen phrase could undo everything. Macleod drew a couple of deep breaths and thought. Finally, in as calm a voice as he could manage, he said, "Richie, when you hear this, STAY THERE!" Then he broke the connection and dialed the front desk. "Yes, this is Mister Macleod. I'll be checking out directly." Should he take the Underground to Heathrow? No, the taxi would be worth it. "Don't bother the bell man -- I've just the one bag. But have someone signal for a taxi." Leaving the hotel was easy; the Savoy staff were efficient and helpful through the last step over the threshold. The driver was a middle-aged man, an obvious veteran of London traffic. He concentrated on getting to Heathrow without even a vestige of small talk. London was the only big city in the world where a taxi ride was a pleasure. Nevertheless, the traffic was terrible, but Macleod did not mind. He couldn't do anything until he got to the airport and he needed time to think. That was the troubling thing about the message; it was the hurried communication of someone plunging headlong into action without taking time to think. Despite an adventurous history and a reputation for action in the face of overwhelming odds, Macleod knew that Rhys-Jones was a careful, cunning man. Even an immortal could not get through seven centuries on the strength of a sword-arm alone. He hoped the towering outrage that had driven Rhys- Jones to intercede for Anastasia Romanov was not misguided now. There was still time to reach him, but Macleod was acutely aware of the dangers of precipitous action. It was always better to avoid leaving things to chance. Little point in worrying about that now, of course. Best to plan for things he could still do something about. Macleod spent the rest of the taxi ride considering his movements once he got to the airport. The first order of business would be to find out if there was an earlier flight to Paris. There was some hope he might catch Rhys-Jones at the airport. Unless the estimable Sir Peter Cleary put transportation to France at Rhys-Jones's disposal. Thankfully, there would be no bother at customs; the two old men with more money than sense had spared him the difficulties moving the pistols would have caused. The Citroen was waiting in a car park at Le Bourget. The complications arose at the airport. There was no earlier flight to Paris: the ones there were might be hours delayed. "I'm in a terrible rush," Macleod said to the woman in the crisp blue uniform. "I'm terribly sorry sir, but it's a security situation. They'll have it cleared up as soon as possible. There was no point in raging at her. Macleod took up his bag and commandeered a credit-card phone carral. While the police search for the bomb or mortar or whatever it was, Macleod searched in vain by telephone and public address system for Trevor Rhys-Jones. # It was almost quarter of nine. It was not like Macleod to be late. It used to be that when Macleod did not appear at an appointed place at an appointed time, Richie would tell Tessa Noel that Macleod could take care of himself. Funny how things change. Richie had no doubt that Macleod could still take care of himself. The brief, outraged phone message did nothing to ease Richie's mind. He knew Macleod would read him the riot act for leaving the boat, but it had gotten to be more than he could stand. He'd gone out or a quick walk, a stop at a cafe, with a half formed notion of perhaps catching sight of the woman he thought was spying. Just as he felt the tingle, a booming bass voice called, "Richard Ryan!" *I guess Mac couldn't convince him.* Richie hauled himself out of the chair and went into the bedroom. The basket-hilt broadsword Macleod had given him was leaning in a corner, sheathed in steel and leather. He took it by the hilt and went up on deck. The man from the street near Oxford was there, wearing a knee-length leather coat and carrying something that looked like the case for an electric guitar. "I'm Richie Ryan." Richie put his free hand on the top of the sheath, preparing for the draw. "I am Trevor Rhys-Jones." "I didn't do it." Rhys-Jones shrugged impassively. "I think we can spare Macleod the work of swabbing one of us off the deck?" Richie's heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. The man was big and he looked very, very confident. "There's a good spot a little further up the canal." "Very good." Rhys-Jones gestured broadly with his free hand. Richie walked down the gangplank, and together they followed the path next to the canal, not coming within striking distance of each other. Richie kept directing sidelong glances at the other immortal, and was unable to catch him doing the same. The building once housed the government agency responsible for traffic on Parisian waterways: it had been empty for at least fifteen years. The part closest to the canal was a shipping and receiving area. Rhys-Jones mounted the dock first, and walked briskly to the far end. Richie stopped and unsheathed his weapon and waited. Rhys-Jones set the case down on the dock and opened it, and drew from it a long-hilted broadsword, a beautiful weapon, its elaborately wrought quillions set with jewels that sparkled even in the Parisian twilight. It looked to be double-edged and had a curved, symmetrical point. It was longer and heavier than Richie's blade, and the grip was big enough for two-handed swings. When Rhys-Jones turned to face him, he looked slightly puzzled. "It isn't wise to ignore an advantage." He took an experimental stroke. The sword hissed like an angry cobra. "I've been on the losing end of unfair fights," Richie answered. "And I heard you're a decent guy." "Macleod did make his mark on you." Rhys-Jones brought up his sword, and advanced. Richie swallowed hard, and went to meet him. They were unscathed by the first clash, three passes of sparking and ringing steel. It was enough to tell Richie why Macleod thought so highly of this man. He wielded the weapon with the particular ease of an immortal, the familiarity of centuries of conflict. The sharp smell of ozone was in the air now. "You're not without skill," Rhys-Jones said, circling to his left, the blade at guard, but held casually. "I can see Macleod's mark on you." "I've picked up a few things on my own, too," Richie assured him. "But you haven't had too much time to collect them." Rhys-Jones slashed and Richie barely parried. They exchanged blows in rapid succession. Rhys-Jones had the advantage at first, driving Richie back toward the canal, but Richie kept his wits about him. First he concentrated on defense, then slowly turning the tide to counterattack, regaining ground. "I'm a quick study," Richie panted. Rhys-Jones resumed the attack, and Richie proved his point by anticipating the maneuver, driving his opponent's blade to the side, and swinging for the neck. Reflexes born of long experience were all that kept Rhys-Jones's head atop his shoulders. He snapped his upper body backwards just in time, and the point of Richie's sword slashed across his forehead. "I was afraid your heart wasn't in it," Rhys-Jones grimaced, swiping the sleeve of his jacket across his forehead. Richie didn't answer. He pressed the attack, and now it was his turn to gain ground, but even as he drove Rhys- Jones back he realized that he was going to need something more to win. Richie could feel the first signs of fatigue, and Rhys-Jones did not seem to be tiring at all. The blood from the cut on his forehead did not seem to be bothering him. It might have made him more angry. Richie slashed hard, the edge of his sword catching moonlight as it arced toward Rhys-Jones's exposed flank. Before the stroke could land, Richie's left foot slid on a damp patch of planking, and the stroke went wide. It left the blade positioned on the other side of his body, impossibly far away. Rhys-Jones turned his defensive sidestep into a spinning attack. The sword bit deep, catching Richie just under the ribs, opening him all the way to the hip. The end of the blade lodged in the bone. Rhys- Jones pulled back with both hands, and the blade came free. Richie screamed and staggered back, unable to keep from clutching his side though he knew it was ruinous to his balance. The squeal of tires split the evening air. The noise and the shared sensation of an approaching immortal drew the attention of both combatants. A black Citroen was lurching to a stop in the middle of the street. Duncan Macleod leaped from the car, katana in hand. "Jones!" Macleod shouted. "He's on his own now, Macleod!" Rhys-Jones shouted. Macleod stopped at the edge of the dock, and then, to Richie's amazement, retreated into a shadow. Richie wanted to shout for help, to protest again that he hadn't done it, but that wasn't the issue any more, was it? Richie held up his sword and took two steps forward. He tried to take his hand away from his side but the slash was deep and when he took his hand away liquid warmth gushed from it. There was a new tang in the air, a salty smell of blood. Rhys-Jones was watching him. If he was pleased with the turn of events, there was no sign of it on his face. The blood from the cut on his forehead ran in twin rivers down his cheeks. Rhys-Jones tested him. Strokes that Richie would have fended off easily before now came within a hair's breadth of opening new wounds. "Get it done!" Richie snapped. "I'm not going to kneel down and wait for it, if that's what you're expecting." Rhys-Jones lunged, and Richie sidestepped. *Mistake!* he realized, as he saw the lunge become a feint. Rhys-Jones pivoted and kicked Richie in the ribs, knocking him down. "You're making me pay for what happened to her," Richie panted as he got to his feet. Now it hurt to breathe, too. "She said she begged." "I'm not going to." "I know." Rhys-Jones paused, looking or listening for something, and his guard faltered for a second. Richie stepped in and swung for the neck. Rhys-Jones backpedaled enough so that the stroke missed, damaging only clothing, and then he brought his sword over and down with terrifying force. A clash of steel, a shower of sparks. Richie felt muscles in his wrist tearing. His fingers popped open as if they were spring-loaded, and his sword fell to the damp wood of the dock. Before he could stoop, Rhys-Jones kicked it away. Quite abruptly, the pains from his wounds abated, and Richie felt a curious peace. He heard something that sounded like a muffled cry off in the distance. "Remember, there can be only one." Rhys-Jones said as he drew back his blade. Richie closed his eyes. He had just enough time to wonder what he would say to God before the blow came. =========================================================================