Date: Sun, 30 Oct 1994 23:34:42 -0500 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Corrected Repost: The Hunter and the Hunted (P 11-15) Apologies, apologies all around...please dump previous post as it had a rather significant typo...sorry folks....this is the corrected version. Enjoy. c 1994 N.L. Cleveland Duncan put the phone down. Action was what he needed now. He shrugged on the clothes, left his hair hanging loose and unbound across his shoulders, grabbed his leather jacket and headed out, down the slow moving lift. The ride seemed interminable. The familiar walls were closing in on him. His breath was coming fast and shallow. Scraps of visions from other lives flickered at the edge of his consciousness. The boundary between himself and his fellow travelers was thinning, stretching. He could feel them, sense their thoughts, their emotions, their ghostly lives sucking at his vitality, blurring their memories with his own. He pulled up the metal grate and strode out of the elevator, across the darkened dojo, out into the cold November rain. It fell across his face, streaking his skin with trails of ice, as he hunched his shoulders against the bitter chill and unlocked his car. Grief shook him, anew, and he leaned against car, his hands spread on the slick wet surface, his eyes staring blindly into the mist shrouded night. Remembering another night, long ago... The rain poured out of the sky, as if nature itself were trying to wash away the earth. Duncan shivered, hunching forward on his horse's back, pulling ineffectually at the sodden woolen cloak that covered his shoulders and head. The horse's hooves sucked out of the deep mud on the trail, the noise audible with every step, even over the pounding of the water on the trees, the ground, his body. He glanced ahead. The man in front of him was only a shadow, in the gloomy twilight, the jingle of his spurs and monotonous cursing about the April weather all that located him in the dusk. Duncan could only assume there was someone in front of him, as well. And behind. He was too cold, too miserable, too wet, to bother to look around. Five of them had left the main encampment this morning, and unless the others had been washed away by the sheer force of the water beating at their heads, they were still here now. His horse threw up its head, coming to a sudden stop, jerking him out of his damp misery. He looked up. The line had halted. The man behind rode into him, swore and backed his horse away, as Duncan clung grimly to his saddle, soothing his rangy chestnut gelding. The cheap gray wool of his uniform jacket and pants chafed at him, chafed especially under his knees and seat. He could only imagine how the rest of the men around him felt, without an Immortal's healing ability to keep the wet fabric from wearing blisters in their skin. The shadow in front of him dismounted. It was time. He swung his legs from the stirrups, landed on the ground and sank deep into the mud, stifling an oath as the slimy substance found its way through a loose seam and began filling his left boot. He walked forward, squelching, to join the huddle of men at the edge of the Virginia wood. Looking down, through the darkening air, at the smoky orange fires gleaming from a Confederate army camp, in the farmland valley, below. He stood among them, a solitary figure in gray, the men around him dressed in blue, as they watched the campfires flickering, silently, in the gathering dark. He adjusted his gray forage cap, pulled up the collar of his jacket. Turned to the captain, and saluted. The man saluted back, somberly. Then offered him his hand, to shake. Duncan took it, welcoming the clasp, even though the hand was cold, the heart behind it was warm, and strong. He was here to spy. To find out the intent and strength of this battalion, and report back with that information to the desperately thin and overextended Union forces, where to put their strength to counter that threat from below. He had volunteered. The third man to do so. The first two had ridden out the day before, and not come back. His escort had made sure he was where he needed to be. The rest was up to him. "Here they are, MacLeod. Best of luck to you, man." The captain faced him, his eyes invisible in the dark now, but Duncan could feel their gaze, feel the pressure of his intense look, on his own. A final clasp of the hand, and he stepped away. The captain mounted up again, and the rest of his escort followed. They stood, watching silently as Duncan mounted again, then let his horse pick its way out of the woods, down the sodden grass of the hillside, towards the camp. He knew they were there, even though they were invisible as soon as he'd rode a few feet away. He knew they would watch, their eyes straining in the night, until they saw him pass the outer picket lines in safety. Or would return with the report that he had been captured, with the wrong passwords. It was the first information he had to find. The least, and the most, for it would get him in to the camp, or get him killed, immediately, as a spy. And at the very least, if they knew they had the wrong passwords, they could stop sending men out after him on suicide missions, until their own intelligence agents could find out the right ones again. It would be a start. Little enough to die for. But more than enough, if it kept one of his comrades alive. He rode on, the mist curling up from the drenched ground, the rain masking the sounds he would expect to normally hear, from a camp. He fixed his eyes on a campfire, and aimed towards it, sure he would encounter a picket far before he arrived at the burning flames. He was calm, although he could be riding to imminent death. The thought of being executed as a spy was not something he looked forward to, but he had, at least, the certainty he'd come back. He passed a darkened farmhouse. The shutters gaped, and the door stood open, ruined, sacked and broken by war. He paused, sensing a presence, a touch of an Immortal's soul, on his own. He had not expected to find this. He was not eager for a fight. But he could not go on, without confronting the other. The presence was so close, he must be almost on top of him...her.....He strained his eyes in the darkness, trying to see. Pulling up his horse, to listen. "Halt and identify yourself." The voice floated out of the night, from behind him. He whirled, pulling his horse's head around abruptly. A man was behind him, sitting quietly on a dark horse, his hand on his horse's bridle. Dressed in the pale gray of the Confederate Army. An officer, by the braid on his sleeve. Duncan's heart sank. His forged identification papers were in another name. Not in his own. He hadn't expected to be challenged by an Immortal while on a covert mission. Now he would have to kill this man. Or think of a good explanation why he wasn't using his own name, to serve in the Confederate Army. He took a breath. Spoke. Consigned his mission to the hands of the gods. "I'm Duncan MacLeod. Of the Clan MacLeod. Who are you?" The other man sat, silently. As if considering whether or not to even speak, or to just fade back into the mist and the dark, like a ghost in the night. Then he stirred and spoke again. "Llwellyn Cornwall. And I expect, Duncan MacLeod, that you are not all that you seem to be. I know all the Immortals in our army. Why are you here?" Duncan gripped his cavalry saber, pulling it out of the sheath and preparing to fight to the death. He realized that a mortal would probably have been able to pass this checkpoint, assuming the password has been any good, and damned his foolish pride in expecting to succeed where the others had failed, simply because of who and what he was. He dug his heels into his mount and raised the saber, pulling it back to start an attack, when the other Immortal spoke again, calmly, quietly, sitting still on his horse, as if unaware of Duncan's preparations to attack. "You don't have to fear. I won't expose you." Duncan paused, his arm in mid-swing. Lowered the saber. Pulled back on the reins and stopped his horse's advance, knee to knee with the other man. They faced one another, their eyes barely a foot apart. He had to know what this one's game was. "Why are you protecting me? Why don't you want to fight?" He kept his voice low, not knowing if other, mortal men waited, listened, in the dark. "I fight when I must. You would have died instantly if you'd come closer with your sword." The other man smiled, his teeth gleaming in the dark, as he turned and Duncan saw a long ancient cavalry lance held loosely in his hand, low, along the side of his horse. The metal tip gleamed in the reflected glow of the campfires. It had a wicked barbed edge. He sat back in his saddle, realizing the other was right. He would have been skewered before he even got close enough to swing his saber. "Very well. We don't have to fight." He was willing to pass on that point, now. Unless the other still meant to betray him. In which case he'd at least go out honorably, and make him work for his Quickening, not just let him take him after he'd been shot or hung, helpless in death. "I suspect you are here as a spy. To find out our plans and strength." Lwellyn's voice whispered in his ear as the man reached out and pulled Duncan's head closer to his own, tugging the rough wool of his jacket with his strong fingers. Duncan stiffened, then let his body move forward. The man was obviously trying to keep this between the two of them. He'd play along and find out why. But admit nothing. Try to salvage something of this operation. "Is that why you are here? To capture spies?" That would make sense. A major, Llewllyn was a major, Duncan could now see from his shoulder tabs, would not normally stand picket duty. The Immortal was here for a specific purpose. And it seemed to be catching spies. Duncan wondered if his being an Immortal would have any effect on that agenda. Would the man simply let him go, with a warning not to return. He must know he'd try again. Unless he was just a dilettante, and not committed to his army and his cause. Or unless he thought Duncan was. But Duncan knew he'd be back. No matter what. Even if he had to fight his way through this Immortal. His friends, his commander, needed this information. He believed in the battle he had joined, and he would not quit. Not for anything less than death. Final death. It mattered that much to him. More than the pursuit of a Quickening, even. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am here to find spies." The man laughed, and fumbled a wad of papers into Duncan's hands. Duncan's fingers closed on it, instinctively, his mind tumbling with questions. Everything in this Immortal's attitude perplexed him. Unsettled him. "What is this?" He felt the stiff wax seal, holding the packet shut, and stuffed it into his shirt, to keep it from melting away in the rain. "This, my dear Immortal, is what you came looking for. And what your friends, unfortunately, died trying to find. " The man spoke quickly, his voice still a hoarse whisper. "This is the command dispatch from Lee, outlining the battle orders for tomorrow. Take it back to your army, and use it. It's your only hope of turning back the attack. Of keeping Lee from breaking the back of Grant's forces." Duncan straightened in his saddle. This was impossible. How could this man know what he'd come for? And that the men before had been his friends. He clenched his teeth, anger and grief rising in his heart. "Go, now, and hurry. " The Immortal put his hand on Duncan's chest, and gave him a light shove, for emphasis. "And tell them you got it from Lieutenant Jones. He was the one who reached me, yesterday. Too late for me to save him. But in time for me to get this ready, for you. Tell them he died, for this. Let him be the hero he was. Don't take his credit, Duncan MacLeod." Duncan fought down his suspicion, his pain at the confirmation of the deaths of his friends, fought to listen, to hear the timbre of this Immortal's voice, to try to sense if he was telling the truth, or if this was just another level in the cat and mouse game of deception and intrigue, misinformation and misdirection that each side in this ugly war had mastered. "Why should I trust you?" He spoke as quietly as the other, and pulled closer, put his hand on the other's wrist, holding it tightly, feeling the pulse beating strong and slow in the man's veins. Feeling a wash of warmth coming from the close contact. As if he'd found a brother, a kinsman. Wondered at it. Waited and listened. "I don't want to see this country torn apart. I have to fight with my people, my friends, my adopted family...but I can see beyond this war." The man shrugged his shoulders. " You aren't here just because you love to fight. You know what is right. What is wrong. So do I. And this is wrong. Help me try to make it right." His voice deepened with urgency, sincerity. "You must believe me. You must convince them." Duncan stirred, still holding the man's wrist. Still feeling the slow even pulse. This was the key question. This would tell him the truth, or expose the lie, he hoped. "But your friends, your comrades, will die in this battle, your side will be slaughtered, if the surprise is lost." "I know." Llewellyn's voice was low, unhappiness, sorrow, pain, etched in his tone. "I know. But if they must die to end this struggle, so be it. And I will die with them, if I must." He shook his hand loose from Duncan's grasp. Reached across the saddle and brougth the lance back, swinging it high over the horse's head. Handed the wooden shaft to Duncan. Sat, unarmed, and watched him. "You can kill me, if you don't believe me. Kill me, if it will make you believe me. Take my Quickening, understand what I believe and know, inside. If that wil make you trust me. If that will make you go back and stop this attack." He raised his hands, held them out, open, his neck, his chest exposed. Vulnerable. Duncan felt a flush of shame staining his cheeks. He handed back the lance. Reached out and clasped the other Immortal's hand. The second man whose hand he'd clasped tonight. Wearing a different uniform, but with the same goals at heart. Again he felt that flow of warmth, of connectedness. Of brotherhood. "Go now, Duncan MacLeod. Go." The voice pushed him away. Reminded him of his duty. His cause. He broke the contact. Turned his horse's head and nudged it with his heels. He'd never even seen the man, clearly. Wouldn't be able to pick him out, by face, in a crowd. But he'd know him again, anywhere, as a brother. He rode away, from that first meeting with Llewellyn, knowing he'd found a man he admired. Wondering if they'd ever meet again. His vision refocused back to the concrete and brick surrounding him, back to the chill Seattle night. He opened the car door and slipped inside, the water running down his face like tears from the heavens. He switched on the engine and pulled slowly out of the alley, heading for Joe's bar. For another, mortal brother......to find some small measure of solace in his company, and to learn how and why and...most importantly...who...had killed Llewellyn. =========================================================================