Redemption, Chapter Thirteen
morga...@my-deja.com
by Beck McLaughlin
Methos, Duncan and Cassandra are the property of someone else, alas, and
no copyright infringement is intended. Everything else is mine.
Comments, criticisms and flames can be sent to bec...@umich.edu.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tom twisted his wrists again, ignoring the burning of the ropes against
his raw skin, but the knots held true. He was sick with fear and the
shame of knowing that he'd allowed himself to be fooled by Methos.
Cassandra had been right about the evil Immortal and he, Tom, had almost
betrayed her for him.
Outside Lucius' house, it was now quiet. Tom went frequently from the
bed to the window, but there was little to see in the darkness outside.
A ruddy glow reflected on the wall of the neighboring house and he
smelled smoke. They'd dumped him into the old priest's bedroom after
taking him prisoner on Fire Point. That had been almost four hours ago.
Now, forgotten, he could only guess at what was happening. Moving his
arms again, the young man tried in vain to ease the ache between his
shoulder blades.
The bedroom door opened. It was Methos. Tom felt a rush of fury and
clamped shut his jaw on it. After regarding the captive for several
moments in silence, the Immortal said: "Stand up."
Tom glared. The Immortal sighed. Leaning over, he grabbed a handful of
the boy's hair and pulled him off the edge of the bed. Another quick
twist of long fingers and Tom's hands were free.
"Don't touch me!" the boy spat, trying to pull away. Methos released
him at once, shrugged.
"Vortig wants you. It seems Cassandra is here." Graceful, indifferent,
the Immortal stepped aside. Giving him a look filled with loathing, Tom
walked from the room, rubbing his aching wrists. Methos fell in behind
him, silent as shadow.
The bastard was right. Cassandra was a prisoner. In Lucius' cramped
living room, she sat in the arm-chair by the fireplace. Vortig stood
beside her. There was a guard at the door and in front of the picture
window. Outside, Mrs. Quinn's cottage was burning. A truck thundered
past.
"Tom!" Stricken, Cassandra jumped to her feet. Vortig seized her and
pushed her roughly back into the chair. She twisted away from him. "If
you've hurt him, Vortig, I'll kill you!"
"I'm OK, Cassandra," Tom said hastily, afraid the bastard would hit her.
Vortig only grinned and nodded. Cassandra's anxious eyes moved past
Tom and narrowed. Her beautiful mouth twisted in contempt.
"Methos!"
The Immortal winced and met Vortig's startled stare with a wry grin and
a shrug.
"Methos? You?"
"Oh, did I break your cover?" Cassandra jeered. "So sorry."
"The world's oldest Immortal," breathed Vortig. "I thought you were a
legend."
"In his own mind," she snapped.
Without even looking in her direction, Vortig backhanded her across the
face. Tom, shocked and angry, lunged at him, only to be hauled back by
Methos.
"She's Immortal," he told the boy harshly. "She'll get over it."
Vortig's grin widened. "Is it true you were one of the Four Horsemen?"
Methos bowed mockingly. Vortig shook his head. "You must tell me all
about it," he said, "after I finish my business here." He turned his
attention back to Cassandra. "Had time to reconsider?"
She pulled away and stared inimically at Methos. Vortig sighed.
"Convince her."
Without another word, Methos walked across the room and held out his
hand. "Your knife?"
Eyes glinting, smile hovering at the corners of his mouth, Vortig handed
the blade to the other Immortal. Methos took it and then, with
startling speed, whirled around, seizing Tom, pulling the boy against
him. The edge of the dagger pressed against Tom's windpipe and
Cassandra made a small sound of horror.
"You know I'll do it," Methos told her softly. "Now save us all the
inconvenience. Tell the man what he wants to know. Spare your people
this misery."
Tom stood perfectly still, raging, as much at himself as at Methos. How
could he have been such a fool? Miserably he waited, heart pounding.
For a moment, Cassandra said nothing, expression stark.
"You were right about the tomb" she said tonelessly. "Beneath the
idol."
"So, he *is* there," Vortig breathed, "how do I get at him, pagan
bitch?"
She looked at Tom again, white-faced in Methos' implacable grip. "You
don't," she said finally, dully. "I do."
***
"They're leaving."
Duncan nodded. He could see that much, unaided. Joe swept the
binoculars to the left. "And Methos is with them."
The Highlander heard that without surprise. "A prisoner?" he asked
hopefully.
Joe snorted and handed the glasses over. "Sorry, MacLeod --he's being
true to form -- throwing his lot in with the strongest."
"Maybe."
The Watcher, shaking his head, got awkwardly to his feet. "What are we
going to do? It looks like Vortig's got the entire island under
control."
"He does," sighed Duncan. He watched the group of mercenaries and
prisoners climb into the jeep waiting in front of a house. It pulled
away. Down the little street, another house burst into flames. "But
you're right. First we need allies."
"We could get to Cassandra's house. There has to be a radio or
something to let us communicate with the mainland."
"We don't have time." Duncan was up, starting down the hill toward the
besieged village. "Wait here."
Joe ignored him, of course. Together, the friends slipped through the
woods, circling around the burning buildlings. At the end of it, near
the lake, was a barn. Earlier, they had seen the mercenaries herding
the islanders into it.
Most of the mercs were pulling out with Vortig, but a few stayed behind
to guard the prisoners. MacLeod took out three of them, Joe a fourth.
There was one more inside, but he was too busy bullying a young islander
to notice the body dropping on him from the hayloft directly above.
"Duncan MacLeod," the Highlander introduced himself, stepping over the
now-unconscious mercenary. He turned and opened the barn door. Joe
limped in, a confiscated rifle over his shoulder. "My friend, Joe
Dawson. Would someone tell me what all this is about?"
The young man opened his mouth, but was forestalled by high, clear tones
from the crowd at his back.
"I will."
The crowd parted and Duncan found himself staring, bemused, into the
pinched features of a child. A woman hovered anxiously behind her, but
made no effort to stop her halting progress across the barn floor.
Alarmed, looking around in astonished outrage, Duncan dropped to one
knee, holding out his arms to catch her when she tottered the last few
steps to him. She weighed frighteningly little in his arms. Fever
burned in her.
"This child is sick!" he accused the frightened woman. "Are you her
mother?"
"She's a handmaiden of the Dragon," said another, older woman. She
joined the Highlander in the small circle that gathered around them. "I
am Eloise, also a priestess. Speak, Igraine."
Two high spots of color glowed on the little girl's thin cheeks, but her
voice was steady. "You must go to the Tomb at once! The White Dragon
cannot be allowed to kill the Red. You're the only one who can stop
him!"
"What is she talking ab . . ." Duncan froze. "Red Dragon? White
Dragon -- *King Arthur?"
The little girl looked blank.
"Ambrosius?" The older woman snorted. "That hairy barbarian? Certainly
not! He died at the hands of one his own bastards! It is the
king-maker we serve, the Faerie lord himself, the Old Man of the Forest,
Emrys Aurelous." And, when Duncan still looked blank, added
impatiently: "You have heard of him as Merlin."
***
Apparently, there were problems. Vortig stood several yards away,
talking urgently into his cell phone. Methos settled down on the Tomb's
broad front step. Someone had given him a jacket; it was nice to be
warm again. Cassandra, struggling helplessly against her steel
handcuffs, stood near Vortig. Her hair had come loose from it's knot,
tumbling around her classic features in a way that Methos found
unsettling. He looked away, across the churned earth and the jeeps and
trucks that covered it.
Vortig had brought twenty men to the island, supposedly just a small
part of his hired army. Another petty warlord with a grudge, thought
Methos, and was not impressed. Still, he was careful to keep his
disdain hidden. Vortig was his ticket off this rock.
Across the lawns, two more jeeps rolled into view. That should be the
last of Vortig's men. Methos looked up into the cliffs. Still no sign
of MacLeod.
The Highlander had to be about somewhere. He'd not had time to get off
the island. Furthermore, Methos knew that if MacLeod encountered Vortig
and his thugs, Duncan would almost certainly put on his hero hat. The
Highlander's predictability would be the death of him some day and
wouldn't that be a damn shame?
Looking around, Methos met Lucius' hostile glare. The old man, bruised
and bound, spat and looked away. Methos smiled faintly. He got up,
dusted himself off, and sauntered over to Vortig. The mercenary
commander shoved his phone into his pocket, flushed with anger.
"Trouble?"
"The men I left to guard the islanders -- they're not answering."
"My money's on MacLeod," Methos said.
"Bastard!" Cassandra flew at him, fingers clawed. He laughed, dodging
her easily.
"He's here?" Vortig hauled Cassandra back. "You neglected to mention
that! Why?"
"It must have slipped my mind," he retorted.
Cassandra, voice dripping contempt, interrupted: "He saved your life
and this is how you repay him. Why am I not surprised?"
"You always did know me the best," replied Methos softly. "I really
should have fought Kronos for you."
"Yes. You should have. You'd be *dead* now!"
Methos laughed aloud. Ignoring Vortig's increasingly thunderous face,
the oldest Immortal reached over and pulled her to him. He kissed her
hard, ignoring her struggles, then flung her away. Shoving his hands
into his pockets he turned his back on them both and walked away.
When the sniper fire started from the woods, he ignored it.
***
continued
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