Date: Tue, 20 Jun 1995 20:59:14 -0700 Reply-To: Naomi Hayashi Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Naomi Hayashi Subject: X-File #A274-D33 part 4 of 17 This is being posted for the author, who currently doesn't have internet access. Please direct all comments you want to be passed on to the author or requests for missing parts to nhayashi@sfsu.edu X-File: #A274-D33 Part 4 of 17 by Albert Low "That was a truly fine meal," Franklin said, pushing away his plate. "I'll pass your compliments to my chef," Stocker assured him. The three men sat in the dining room of Stocker's large mansion situated a few miles outside of London. While waiting for dinner to be prepared they had talked about such diverse topics as their individual experiences in England, their various opinions about the upstart United States, and the great loves and losses of their lives. During that last part of the conversation MacLeod had been relatively quiet, content to listen to the others while admiring and enjoying the elegance of the large living room and its warming, cozy fire. Then they had had dinner in an extravagant banquet hall, complete with its own fireplace. Even MacLeod had to admit the food had been superb, the hospitality gracious. Stocker had been the perfect host.. *It's not the first time my instincts have been wrong,* he mused. "Please, have some more wine," urged their host. "Thanks. I believe I will," Franklin said, pouring some into his glass. He'd had about three glasses already, while MacLeod had drank about a glass and a half. It was an excellent vintage, but exceedingly strong. And he didn't want to head home drunk. Stocker was still working on his first glass, having begged off due to an intolerance of alcohol. Now he looked at the windows where the wind was blowing the heavy downpour against the glass. Then he turned back to his guests. "It's late, and the storm has gotten much worse. Please stay overnight; I have plenty of room. I insist." Franklin readily agreed; MacLeod offered his assent a second later, unwilling to let his continuing suspicions get the better of him. After a few minutes Stocker showed them their rooms on the second floor, then went back downstairs with Franklin, MacLeod remaining upstairs after he had bid them both good night. He had washed up and was preparing to retire for the night when he decided he wasn't _that_ tired. So he dressed and went back downstairs, slowing at the staircase when he heard the voices coming from the living room. The sound echoed through the hall, carrying clearly to him. "I've rather enjoyed our conversation," said Stocker. "As have I. It's helped to share my memories of Elizabeth with someone besides Duncan." A pause. "Let me help you with the glasses." "Is something wrong?" "I...I can't get up. I can barely move." Franklin sounded frightened, confused. "Oh, is that all?" Stocker's voice was nonchalant. "That's because of the drug I put in the wine." "Drug?" "A curare derivative. It's a paralytic agent. Pity your friend didn't drink more, but you can't have everything." Incensed, MacLeod hurried down the stairs and across the hall. "Why?" Franklin demanded. "It's all part of the game. But I'm a man of my word. I said I'd help you with your pain, and I will. Death cures all ills." MacLeod sensed the two immortals on a primal level as he entered the living room, blade drawn. Franklin was slumped in his chair, barely conscious. Stocker stood a few feet away, sword in hand. He turned and smiled at MacLeod. "And now all the players have assembled," he said, his voice as calm as if he were discussing the weather. "Not for long," replied MacLeod as he attacked. Seconds later he realized that attacking might have been a mistake. None of his blows came close to connecting. Stocker blocked them all with ridiculous ease and then counterattacked. MacLeod found himself giving ground before the assault despite his best efforts. He was amazed by the barrage of blows. He'd never faced anything like this. Stocker's sword was blindingly fast, faster than he had thought possible. Then it penetrated his defenses and slashed across his chest, leaving a shallow cut over six inches in length. MacLeod bit back a cry of pain and retreated back across the hall, into the dining room. "First blood!" Stocker said, smiling broadly. He seemed to be having a good time. He slowly followed MacLeod, then attacked once more. *It's time to make my stand,* decided MacLeod. He stood his ground, sword whirling through the air to block all of the other immortal's attacks. He fought better than he had ever fought, putting into practice everything he had ever learned, from Connor long ago, and from his teachers in Japan and Mongolia. Moments seemed like eternity as each man looked for a weakening of the other's defenses. Then Stocker blocked a blow, stepped forward with amazing speed, and smashed him in the face with his free hand. MacLeod stumbled backwards, the world spinning about him. "I've rather enjoyed this, MacLeod, but I think it's time to end this particular game." He raised his sword-- And, with an inarticulate roar, MacLeod leapt forward, attacking furiously. The sheer ferocity of the assault caught Stocker by surprise. He did his best to fend off the vicious blows, but one slash connected. Blood welled out of the cut on his cheek as the two disengaged. Stocker reached up and probed the deep cut as he said harshly, "You're going to pay for that." His sword flashed through the air, moving faster than MacLeod could follow. He retreated hastily, all his efforts directed towards defending himself. It wasn't enough. MacLeod cried out as the sword stabbed deeply into his stomach. He did his best to ignore the searing pain as he swung his sword toward the other man's unprotected neck. But Stocker moved like lightening, taking a step forward and grabbing MacLeod's arm by the wrist before he could get much force behind the swing. In the process the sword was pushed even deeper into his flesh. The agonizing pain tore through MacLeod, weakening him enough that he dropped his sword as Stocker squeezed his wrist with incredible strength. Summoning all his energy, he placed a foot on Stocker's chest and pushed himself free of the sword. He fell down next to the fireplace, unable to get to his feet. His sword was a good eight feet away, out of reach. Stocker stumbled backwards, then recovered and advanced, sword held high. "Does it hurt, MacLeod? Don't worry. It won't for much longer!" And he brought his sword down. Desperate, MacLeod looked around for something, anything, to use as a weapon. There was only one option. He reached into the fire and, pulling out a rather large burning log, slammed it into Stocker's stomach. Stocker doubled over, the breath knocked out of him. MacLeod's hands were in great pain, but his maintained his grip on the log, using it to push himself up on his feet. He grabbed the bottle of wine on the mantel and dashed it to the floor right at Stocker's feet. The bottle shattered, wine splattering onto Stocker who looked up in horror as MacLeod tossed the log into the puddle of alcohol and dived away. Stocker's entire body caught fire as he was engulfed in flame. "Aaaaah!" He screamed in pain as he leapt backwards out of the fire and tried to smother his burning legs with his hands. It was a futile effort, and he soon realized it. He turned to MacLeod and spoke through gritted teeth. "This isn't over, Highlander! We'll meet again." Then he ran across the room and leapt through one of the windows, out into the driving rain. MacLeod staggered over to the window just in time to see the still burning figure disappear into the night. "Yes. We will." =========================================================================