Date: Thu, 10 Mar 1994 15:56:27 PST Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: James Mangin Subject: REPOST: "The Prize" - Opening My apologies to all, the text was severely mucked at the end of this section of the story, I have corrected wrap-around lines and am now re-sending. I've learned to stick with one text editor now. *grumble* Thanks, James === "The Prize" (Based on "Highlander, The Series" & "Highlander") James A. Mangin Copyright, 3/01/94 Opening - Sydney: 1998 ====================== The wind carried softly across the bow of the ferry as it made it's way across the harbor. It was funny, he thought. Of all the places in the world where the Gathering could occur, it was here, in Sydney, that the Prize was to be won. For some reason he had believed that it would take place in some large, American city like Los Angeles, New York or maybe even San Francisco. Malcolm breathed deeply, enjoying the warm, late summer breeze blowing on his face. The full moon was just making it's appearance in the eastern sky, illuminating the cool waters of Sydney Harbor and competing with the Southern Cross for dominance of the early evening sky. One thing was for sure, he thought, the Gathering had indeed taken place in a large city and the odds had narrowed drastically over the last seven weeks. The media was clamoring for State intervention in what they were calling an epidemic of brutal, ritualistic murders. At first they thought it was a single psychopath, but after 2 months and 11 killings it had become apparent that several killers were now running amuck in their city. Malcolm knew the score. He also knew that now there were only four. Thousands of years of struggle between good, evil and many times neutral immortals had led to this moment in time, and with the Game nearly over and the Prize within reach he was only now beginning to realize the full importance of winning. Only he and one other stood between the possibility of the forces of evil winning the Prize and plunging humankind into an eternity of darkness. Almost more difficult to think about was Malcolm's other adversary. Sarah had been immortal for only 50 years when they had met, and the love that grew between them had seemed as eternal as their race. Her soft brown hair and hazel eyes were too much for mortal man to bear, much less immortal. They were together 20 years before Sarah received her first Quickening. They were in Toronto at the time, taking a long vacation away from the Game, they had hoped. Sarah ended up fighting a young man who had taken the head of a good immortal. The good immortal was Connor Macleod. Because of his youth and inexperience, the power of the Quickening that Richie, the young immortal, received was overwhelming. The life force and spirit of Viktor Kurgan, an Ancient, surfaced and dominated. Richie became as evil as the Kurgan had been. With the same luck that had enabled Richie to take the head of the highlander, Sarah won the fight and had taken his head; but the dominant evil prevailed in her soul. Malcolm laughed softly to himself. Hundreds of years of training and experience seemed to be all for naught as the Ancients fell to immortals less than 100 years old. Connor had been struck by a car as he dashed across a back alley and, ignoring any sense of fairness, Richie took his head while he lay there helpless, and unarmed. The force of Connor's Quickening had hit him like a train. Just as it had when Sarah had taken Richie's head. She had not gone after Malcolm then; battling the whirlpool of emotions and forces at turmoil inside her she had simply disappeared. The lights of Circular Quay were coming into view now and Malcolm rose from his seat at the front of the ferry and stretched his tired muscles. Off to his left, the Opera house slowly disappeared from view as the ferry pulled up to the mooring area. Nalotep. Somewhere in the maze of city streets the ancient Egyptian was breathing the same air and watching the same moonrise. Malcolm shuddered at the thought. The last of the truly ancient immortals was evil incarnate. His origins had been traced back as far as biblical times and that was only as far back as the Watchers records went. Only Nalotep himself knew the answer to that question. "I must remember to ask him about that", Malcolm murmured to himself as he lightly jumped from the side of the boat onto the cement walkway below, drawing a frown from the steward who had just played out the plank for the passengers to disembark from. He headed for the restrooms, marveling at the fact that he could take a shotgun blast full in the chest and arise unscathed five minutes later, yet he could not hold his bladder for an hour after a few beers. He was just emerging from the stall when he felt it. Just barely perceptible, at the edge of his mind, a ringing bell more felt than heard, that indicated the prescence of another immortal. He slowly exited the restroom and headed up the street towards the heart of downtown proper, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of the broadsword hidden within his longcoat. At this early hour of the evening the city was just coming alive. The streets were full of people crowding the bus-stops and heading to the many restaurants and pubs to enjoy the the late summer evening in the company of friends. In King's Cross, Sydney's red-light district, another Friday night was winding up. Prostitutes and pushers, girlie bars and movie houses, all were here as they were in any other large city, but here, it seemed, they were just a little more bearable. Sydney was rich with British culture and history and Malcolm felt almost as much at home here as he did in his native England. There it was again, the ringing in his mind. He made his way past George Street and, turning the corner, saw the place he was looking for. Almost 200 years old, this pub had been a place of refuge and relaxation for Malcolm and his friends since it had opened. Of course back then you could throw back a keg of ale and head upstairs with a willing wench to finish off the evening with. Malcolm grinned at the memory. This place was an oasis of old Sydney in a desert of modern architecture. Much of the city was this way; old establishments nestled in amongst skyscrapers, banking centers and monorail tracks which ran like silent webs overhead. He pulled open the huge oaken door of Nelson's Pub and, heading down the hallway to the ornate bar, with it's stained wood and old kegs, stepped into the past. . . . "That'll be two hundred dollars a night, thanks", announced the desk clerk. Sarah nodded distractedly and handed the man a credit card. The ringing in her mind had become a constant companion since arriving here in Sydney last week, and it still unnerved her. She was not experienced enough to determine the distance of an approaching immortal the way the Ancients could, and did not know if the other's presence was a mile away or next door having a drink in the hotel bar. The combination of the Kurgan's Quickening and that of the Highlander were renting the fabric of her mind and she knew that she was going slowly insane. She felt unworthy to be a participant in the Gathering and worse, terribly afraid of facing Malcolm. The latter, she knew, was a pretty remote possibility. The Ancient called Nalotep was here and she knew that he could not be seduced out of his Quickening as she had done to Richie. She giggled maniacally to herself at the memory of the foolish young immortal she had so easily deceived and separated from his sword. "Excuse me miss?" The clerk was holding out a key to her. "What's the joke?" She snatched the key from his hand and turned silently towards the elevator. "Another Yank bitch" she heard the man mutter under his breath as he returned to whatever paperwork it was he was working on when she had arrived. He had just enough time to pick up his pen before his face was being slammed, hard, onto the surface of the desk he was working on. She yanked his head back up and tightened her grasp on the hair at the top of the man's head. "Don't you ever", she said, slamming his head into the desk again, "Ever, speak to me". The familiar madness was again upon her. Her mind hummed and burned as redness filled her vision. She snapped the man's head back and let go, sending him careening off his stool and onto the tiled floor. He slowly stood up, blood running from his nose and lip splashing onto the desk blotter in little, scarlet droplets. His eyes wide with fright at the inhuman strength the slender, brown haired woman had displayed, he simply nodded his head and looked at his feet. The redness began to subside from her vision and she turned once more and quickly walked towards the bank of elevators on the far side of the lobby. Once inside, she pressed the button for the penthouse floor and let out a deep breath. She was completely powerless, she realized with some horror, to control these near debilitating attacks of rage and aggression and the episodes were becoming more frequent. She had killed three mortals since receiving Richie's Quickening, and each time, once the madness had passed, she dispaired of what she had become. The elevator hummed silently upward and finally arrived at the top floor. She was thankful that nobody had entered the car on the way up. The doors whooshed open as she grabbed her travel bag and she stood staring into the piercing grey eyes of Nalotep. Too shocked to do anything but gasp in surprise, the doors of the elevator began to draw back together before he quickly reched out with one, well-manicured hand to prevent them from closing altogether. As she reached for the weapon hidden in her coat, he spoke softly in slightly accented english. "Don't be a fool, Sarah DeLaney. If I wanted your head it would already be rolling merrily down the corridor. Come, I have drinks waiting and so many things to discuss with you." He motioned lazily towards the open door of the suite as he said this. "I...I don't understand", she stammered, still grasping the hilt of the sabre which was halfway out of her coat. "There is nothing to understand, my lovely lady. Time is something we have finally run out of, so please..." he said, offering his outstretched hand to her. Sarah warily released the grip on her sabre and, ignoring his gesture stepped out into the hall. Nalotep reached out and took the luggage from her hand and, turning his back to her, walked through the open door and into the room. "Brazen son of a bitch", Sarah thought to herself as she tentatively followed the Ancient into her suite. She closed and locked the door behind her and quickly took in her surroundings. She intended to go out with style and the penthouse was absolutely beautiful. To the right resided a massive, canopied bed upon which was assembled a myriad of brightly colored comforters and pillows. She sighed as she suddenly remembered how tired she was. On her left was an enormous wet bar, behind which Nalotep was retrieving the drinks he had already prepared. She furitively studied him. Standing roughly six feet tall, he was only marginally taller than herself. He wore a carefully tailored, grey suit of european make, she guessed. A conservative tie and not so conservative shoes. Hell, she thought, as close dress shoes can come to being running shoes. Good for fighting in, she mused. His black overcoat was carefully arranged on one of the chairs in the dining area adjacent, and to the left of, the bar. His jet black hair was lightly streaked with silver, as was his neatly trimmed mustache and beard. His hair was drawn in a short ponytail, clasped with a gold object she couldn't readily identify. All in all, he looked like your average european businessman. Until you got to the eyes. He turned to face her from behind the bar and, as had happened in the elevator, a cold chill went straight to her soul. Deeply set in his olive/brown skin, cold grey eyes regarded her silently, and a little lustfully, she thought to herself in horror. With cat-like grace he came around from behind the bar and offered her the glass of wine he had poured for her. "Gewurtztraminer, 1987, your favorite if I am not mistaken?", he grinned. "You are not", she said, forcing a slight smile to her lips. She took the glass from his hand as he motioned for her to join him on the couch. "I'd like to freshen up a bit", she said. "I'll be right back". She took a sip from her glass and, closing her eyes, relished the sweet fruity taste of her favorite wine. She set it down on the drink table in front of the couch and giving Nalotep a quick smile turned to walk down the hall. His hand caught her wrist so fast it astonished her. "You'll be leaving your sword with me, my pretty", he said, and for the first time she saw his sword. Silvery steel glistened from the exposed folds of the overcoat on the dining area chair. "Of course", Sarah breathed, and slowly, with her free hand, she drew the antique sabre from her coat. She offered the sword hilt-first to Nalotep who, standing, took it and placed it on the chair next to his own. "Civil War? An interesting choice of weapons", he mused, noting the extreme care which had been taken in the maintenance of the sabre. "It's light, sharp, and easily hidden", she shrugged. He released his grip on her wrist and in doing so let her hand slip slowly through his before releasing hers altogether. Suddenly she felt woozy. "I'll...I'll be back in a moment", she managed to get out and then she was walking down the hall. Entering the door on the right, Sarah found herself in the most beautiful bathroom she had ever seen. A huge, wrap-around picture window faced south and west, before which, recessed in the floor, was a jacuzzi large enough to accomodate 4 people. Looking out the window to the south, the lights of downtown Sydney stretched out towards the Opera house to the right and the Sydney Harbor Bridge to the left. Just within view to the right of the Opera house were the Botanical Gardens, now only an absence of lights in the evening skyline. "I must live to see this view in the morning", she vowed to herself, going to the sink on her right. Splashing cool water on her face, she tried to shake off the near hypnotic feeling she had gotten when Nalotep had briefly held her hand. . . . After ordering a schooner of ale from the bar, Malcolm went down the hall to the back area of the pub. Shaped like an 'L', the rear area had a fireplace and dart boards, one of which was in use now. Selecting a table near the empty fireplace, he hoped he would still be around in the winter to see it roaring with it's five-log capacity. A backgammon game was in full swing at the table nearest to him and Malcolm sat back in his chair, closed his eyes and let the tensions and stress of the last few weeks drift away on the sounds of the pub. Suddenly, the the faint ringing in his head became a klaxon and his eyes snapped open. "I am Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod", the other immortal softly said. "I am Malcolm Frasier, of the Frasier Clan", he said in return and then fiercely embraced the other man. "I can hardly believe it!", said Malcolm, unable to supress the wide grin that had spread across his face. "It is good to see you too, my old friend", Duncan said, a big smile creasing his face as well. "Sit, I'll get you a schooner. Cooper's? "Aye", Duncan said with a smile as Malcolm disappeared around the corner. He sat back and smiled inwardly at Malcolm's choice of meeting places. 150 years ago, they had sat in this very spot. Then, Connor had been with them. Duncan's face clouded over with sorrow as he remembered his fallen clansman. Long ago even Malcolm had been an enemy, but that was before he had become immortal and discovered that the Clan Wars were pretty much insignificant in comparison to the Game. After being nearly beheaded by his own kinsmen when he became immortal, Malcolm had met up with Connor shortly after the death of the Ancient, Ramirez. Connor, recognizing Malcolm as a Frasier and consequently a possible ally of the Kurgan, had almost taken his head before realizing that he was not an evil man. The Kurgan had made a deal, he explained, with the leader of the Frasier clan to assist them in their war against the MacLeods in exchange for the opportunity of taking Connor's head. Malcolm was a boy of 19 then. Connor had trained Malcolm as well as he had trained Duncan. The only difference was, Duncan laughed to himself, Malcolm preferred Connor's old broadsword to the lighter, Japanese-style sword that Duncan and Connor favored. But then again, Malcolm was a strong enough man to wield the broadsword as effectively as Duncan wielded the katana. At six feet three and a well muscled 220 pounds, Malcolm was very near the equal to the Kurgan in strength, stamina and agility. But why brood over the past and the Kurgan, when the present held Nalotep. Malcolm returned with a glass of ale for Duncan and settled back into his chair. "I see you've grown your hair again, lad", said Malcolm as he took a long pull from his beer and wiped the foam from his reddish brown mustache. Any man with near waist-length hair is readily noticed and Duncan smiled. "I haven't had it this long since the 1600's, back when you were still a snot-nosed brat with questionable intentions and a boorish manner. How many women do you think slapped you that century?", Duncan snickered. Laughing, Malcolm replied "Okay, so it took me a few decades to acquire the finesse with which you so easily attract women. But at least I am somewhat with the times, Malcolm smiled, referring to own, closely cropped crewcut. He then frowned, took another drink from his nearly empty schooner and looked broodingly into the amber liquid. Sighing, he said "Time has caught up with us Duncan." Duncan took a drink from his own glass and realized that they both still mourned the loss of their friend, Connor. "He should be here, sitting with us right now. But instead, some punk with aspirations of grandeur and no honor took him out", he said bitterly. "Where do you think we go?", Malcolm said softly. "At least mortal souls aren't snatched away upon death like so much fodder for a feeding enemy". Duncan looked at the table thoughtfully. "I wish I knew my friend, I wish I knew. Maybe a part of us returns to the life force from which we came. I know one thing, and that is not all of our soul is absorbed in the Quickening. Some of it goes someplace else and I like to think that it returns to where it originated. To the life spirit of the world and of the ages". Malcolm slowly looked up and into Duncan's face. "So, you think..." "Yes", interrupted Duncan. "I think that when this is all finally ended, if we prevail, Sarah will be freed of the evil forces within her. And, wherever her soul has gone, it will be a good place." Malcolm wiped his eyes. "And if we are defeated?" Duncan looked into his glass, and found that he had nothing to say. . . . Sarah finished washing her face and slowly dried off with a soft towel. She knew it was suicide to try and fight Nalotep, but she hated to give in to whatever it was that he had planned. More urgently, she knew she had to resist the raw charisma of the man. She had only been in his presence ten minutes and she was having problems. "Get a hold of yourself", she said out loud, tossing the wet towel into the provided hamper. Steeling herself, she opened the door and casually walked down the hall to the main room. On her right was another bedroom, one she hoped that Nalotep would be using tonight, it he stayed at all. "He's just another immortal", Sarah thought to herself. "Just another, and I've known so many." (but none like this) a small voice whispered in the back of her mind. Suddenly she was stricken with fear. She had heard the legends of this man for almost 50 years, from the others of her kind that she had encountered. She was about to sit down and have drinks with a man who had debated philosophy with Socrates; a man who had witnessed the building of the Great Pyramids; for crying out loud, this guy had PARTIED with Mozart! She also considered the fact that he had also run with Genghis Khan as a military strategist, Napoleon Bonaparte in the same capacity, and as an unrecognized advisor to the greatest monster in history - Adolf Hitler. "I'm done", she thought morosely to herself as she approached the couch where Nalotep sat, no, RESIDED, sipping thoughtfully from a glass of whisky. She sat down at his right and retrieved her own glass from the table. Before she could say anything, he arose. "We need music my dear", he said while walking over to the microdisc player. "I am NOT your dear, my foreign friend", she said contemptously in return as she finished taking a drink from her glass. Suddenly, she had to fight hard to keep the madness back, for she knew that here it would be her undoing. "Forgive me" he said, while rifling through the hotels selection of discs. "It is merely an affectation I adopt when amongst female companions of my own kind. I mean no disrespect". "I am NOT your own kind," she said, fighting the redness that even now was beginning to fill her vision. "Oh?" he replied, turning to face her with a small disc in one hand. "You and I are of the same spirit, I have felt it. Why do you think I sought you out?". "You feel the spirit of someone you once knew, and he is dead", she returned, anger beginning to give way to resignation as she realized that she could never rid herself of the evil of the Kurgan and tap into the goodness and hope of the other spirit that was still, somewhere, within her. "Yes, he is dead", Nalotep agreed. "But, his essence is in you. His essence IS you". Sarah looked away and finally stood and went to the bar to refill her wineglass. The penthouse began to resound with the music of Tchaikovsky and Sarah silently wondered if Nalotep had known him too... =========================================================================