Redemption, Chapter Seven

[morga...@my-deja.com]

REDEMPTION
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 SEVEN

"Methos?"

The Immortal looked up from the short-circuited toaster, then laid aside
the soldering iron. Tom poked his fair head around the corner.

"There you are!"

"Here I am," agreed Methos. "Am I in trouble?"

Tom grinned. "Not at the moment. What are you doing?"

The kid was bored. Methos hid a smile, turning back to his task.
"Building a bomb."

"Har har." The young man sat down on a box near the workbench.
Overhead, a single bulb, bare, swung gently back and forth.

"Ever been off this island?" Methos asked.

"Sure. I went to school in the States."

"So I hear. Sigma cum laud. Very impressive. How did you end up on
Elwyn in the first place?"

"Cassandra adopted me." Matter-of-fact. "She used to run a free medical
clinic in East L.A., back in the seventies. I was born there. My mom
was a junkie and she died. Anyway, I've also been to Paris, Rome,
Milan, Madrid . . .."

"Junkie?" Methos repeated faintly. "Sorry."

The boy's face tightened a moment, then he shrugged. "Yeah. Sucks,
huh?"

"Looks like you made out pretty good, considering."

"I was damn lucky," replied the young man frankly. "Cassandra's done a
lot of things like that. Jason, for instance. When he was a kid he was
a chicken hawk. You know what those are, right?"

Methos half-laughed, but caught himself and nodded gravely.

"Jason's pimp used to beat him up all the time. Made him do all kinds of
nasty shit."

"Cassandra's quite the philanthropist, isn't she?" The bitter
observation escaped before Methos could stop it. Tom opened his mouth,
firing up at once, but was interrupted by the approach of hurried
footsteps.

"Tom! Methos?" Maurice's voice.

Methos straightened and Tom jumped off the box. The cook appeared in
the doorway, breathless. "There's been an accident down in the valley!
One of the bridges collapsed and Edward Locksea's four-by-four is in
the creek! Jason's sending Charlie and he wants Methos out there, too!"

"I'm coming!" Tom announced.

Methos touched the collar.

"He's turned it off - temporarily," replied Maurice. "And you're *not*
going, Thomas. It's too dangerous. Jason was very specific about that.
Just Charlie and Methos."

"Why just them? Damn it, Maurice, I'm not a *baby*!"

Excitement made the Immortal's heart leap. If the collar was turned off
- if he could get away and out of range . . .if, if, if . . .

Outside, it poured rain, the afternoon dark. Charlie was waiting in the
jeep, windshield wipers beating a futile rhythm against the downpour.
He nodded to Methos, taciturn as always, and started the engine.

"Wait! Charlie! WAIT!"

The door banged open and Methos was pushed into the center of the cab.
Tom gave them both a look that dared them to object. Charlie shrugged
and stepped on the gas.

Wind whipped the evergreens as the truck crawled down the rough road.
Methos remembered his trip up this hill. The jeep turned, and turned
again, and suddenly they came upon a handful of vehicles, tail- and
headlights barely visible in the downpour. Charlie stopped.

Several men, drenched and carrying lanterns, approached the jeep. The
ground was treacherous with soft mud and, ahead, he heard rushing water.
Clambering out of the truck, Methos and his companions were soaked in
seconds. One of the islanders was shouting to Charlie, leading them
down a dangerously slick embankment.

"Damn! Tom hunched shoulders against the downpour. "I've never seen
Barrow Brook so high!"

Methos had seen the stream often from Fire Point, broad, customarily
tranquil. Tom talked about ice-skating on it in deep winter. The
unusually heavy rains, however, had turned it into wild flood. Until
recently, a bridge had crossed it here. Now there were only stone
pilasters standing against the torrent, two of them joined by a fragment
of arch. Wedged in the debris beneath it was a half overturned pick-up.
Methos could see a figure in the cab, clinging to the door as the water
tore past.

He saw the problem at once. The rescuers kept throwing weighted lines
to the man, who, utterly terrified, would not let go of the door to grab
at them. They needed to get someone in there, and that was suicide.

A sudden shout rose above the roar of the water. The man, Locksea, had
nearly lost his grip. Methos pushed forward. He grabbed an armload of
rope from a startled islander and, ignoring the man's exclamation, tied
the end around the bumper of the heaviest truck. Men ran up to surround
him - one was Lucius. The old man was well bundled against the wet and
cold.

"I'm going in," Methos told them. "I think I can get above the truck if
I move along that part of the bridge. I'll need headlights on it."

"You're crazy!" shouted someone standing behind Lucius.

"No," the old man returned, nodding. "Drowning won't kill him. If he
fails, there's no real harm done. Get more rope!"

They moved fast now, for Locksea was exhausted. Methos wrapped several
lengths around his chest and scrambled back up the embankment to the
road. The broken span above the stream looked sturdy enough. He
stepped out onto it, then dropped to hands and knees as the wind
threatened to blow him off. Reaching the end, he stopped and adjusted
the rope. Just below, the truck bobbed wildly. It was wedged on
several huge chunks of concrete.

Methos jumped, gasping as a bit of concrete broke off under him. He
slid toward the water for one heart-stopping moment before the rope
under his arms caught on something and brought him up short. Scrambling
along the slick, steep surface, he began inching toward the rocking
truck.

Locksea saw him coming and hung on grimly. The footing was worse than
impossible. Twice, Methos nearly tumbled into the water. Finally,
after far too long, he reached the truck. Leaning out, bracing himself
against the wind, he untied the rope and making a quick noose, climbed
up on the hood.

Rocking wildly, the vehicle nearly came free of its precarious perch.
The man shouted, sound lost in the rage of water and storm. Ignoring
him, Methos stretched flat along the roof and then, reaching down,
grabbed at one of his hands.

Locksea screamed, nearly pulling free in his panic, but somehow, Methos
managed to get the noose over the thrashing limb and pull it tight. At
the last moment, the man came to his senses, grabbing at the rope with
his other hand. From the bank, men shouted and pulled. Locksea vanished
into the darkness.

The sudden change in weight distribution tilted the truck wildly.
Methos slid backwards as fast as he could, but it wasn't fast enough.
The vehicle bucked again and came free, plunging into the drink. Icy
water closed over his head, filled his mouth. He fought to get to the
surface, only to be struck by something flashing past in the torrent.
He must not lose consciousness! He must not drown! Everything depended
on getting out of the stream and away.

In the chaos of the storm, he managed somehow to get a lungful of air,
but reaching the bank was impossible. The fury of the current swept him
along, smashing him against rocks and the debris that shared the stream
with him. For an interminable time, very little made sense. Then his
desperate, grasping fingers found purchase on a branch overhanging the
stream and he clung to it with all his fading strength.

His muscles cramping in protest, Methos hauled himself up, swung a
moment above the foam, then fell onto the bank. It began to slide away
beneath him. Scrabbling, he crawled further from the water until he was
safe. Exhaustion dimmed his vision.

His heartbeat slowed. The rain continued, relentless. Its chill bit
deep. He sat up, hugging himself, teeth chattering, and looked around.
Oaks glistened wetly, their branches thrashing overhead. It was almost
impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. Getting shakily
to his feet, Methos tried to get oriented, picturing the valley as seen
from Fire Point.

There was a pass through the cliffs that led to Elwyn's small bay. If
he remembered correctly, the pass lay almost due east from the grove.
Methos swayed as weakness threatened to overwhelm him. Grimly, praying
for time to reach the cliffs, he started through the trees. When they
suddenly thinned, his heart sank.

He was completely turned around. Across the clearing, he saw a pale
gleam through the trees. It looked like a building, but he saw no
lights and there was no road anywhere in sight. Wiping hair out of his
eyes, he decided that east lay to the right and started in that
direction. The ground suddenly gave way beneath him. Methos yelped and
fell.

The damp smell of stone and rotting leaves filled Methos' nostrils. His
head spun. Overhead was a faint rectangle of light -- the way out. A
moment later and his eyes became accustomed to the deep gloom. Knowing
that each passing second brought him closer to capture, he started
forward.

He must have fallen through the roof of a tunnel, for abruptly he came
upon steps leading up into a cavernous chamber. A scattering of dried
leaves were strewn across the flagged stone. At the chamber's far end,
behind towering columns of silver-veined marble, stood an enormous
statue. Methos' mouth dropped as he turned slowly around. Overhead was
a domed ceiling with a round skylight at its apex. Droplets of rain
fell through to pool on the floor.

His footsteps echoed as he crossed the expanse toward the statue. It
was huge - a dragon. Methos was conscious of a change in the
atmosphere -- a feeling of heaviness, not of body but of mind --
growing stronger as he approached it

Death . . .

The whisper flowed around him, raising the hair on the back of his neck.

Welcome...

The vision came on him suddenly. Methos was no longer on Elwyn. Fire
leapt skyward, roaring through the village. There was Kronos -- and
Caspian before him -- axes cutting a bloody path toward the temple while
the priests ran to and fro. They did not try to escape, only to
extinguish the flames that leapt from the wooden shingles of one wing to
the other. Kronos cut a priest in half, laughing. He was covered in
blood - exultant with the mad joy of murder.

Up the broad steps they went, fanning out along the terrace that
surrounded the cluster of wooden buildings. Most of the temple complex
was afire now. A group of young boys, acolytes, raced from one of the
buildings, screaming, and into Caspian's howling advance. Like wheat
before the scythe they fell, small bodies heaping on the planks, fodder
for the advancing flames. Methos stalked, unconcerned, through fire and
the clash of iron. A villager appeared before him, face blackened by
smoke, swinging an old, nicked sword. A swift slice and the sword
broke; the peasant leapt back, crying out. Another slash and he fell,
blood spreading across the wooden walkway.

On went Methos, eyes glittering behind the face-paint, hair in a filthy
tangle across his shoulders, a walking nightmare. Priests tried to stop
him, but his sword took them, too, until at last, he was in the center
of the temple. Another priest. He slashed the man's throat without
even looking at him.

Columns wreathed with golden vines supported the domed ceiling. Methos
ignored them, eyes on the prize in the center of the room. In a cage of
delicately carved wood - itself a treasure - was the enormous skull of
a beast unlike any Methos had ever seen. It was covered in the same
hammered gold as the leaves, and in its eye sockets were rubies.
Crudely shaped crystals were embedded in its long jaw for teeth. He
brought up his sword and swung down, shattering the cage, drawing the
blade away swiftly to save the artifact within.

"METHOS!" Silas' jubilant roar filled the chamber. Methos looked
behind - grinned as the big man began stripping leaves from the column.
"A fine idea, my brother, to attack the temple! These priests are fat
and rich."

"And now we, too, will be fat and rich," agreed Methos, turning back to
the skull. He picked it up, tilted it to face him. The crimson eyes
flashed balefully. For a moment, something in that crystal gaze held
him transfixed. Then, growling, he pulled his dagger and pried the gems
from the sockets of the skull.

"Death!"

Air rushed into lungs that had forgotten to fill. The burning temple
was gone. Methos spun around, the memory past, and saw a figure
standing between the columns. Lucius.

"Lost?" the old man asked, advancing across the floor. Methos watched
him, heart pounding, thinking how easy it would be to snap that frail
neck. Behind its columns, the statue's eyes glinted, watching him.
Imagination, thought the Immortal, but that same frisson of fear and awe
ran up his spine.

"The Tomb of the Dragon," Lucius continued, stopping prudently just out
of reach. "You've not been here before."

Methos shook his head.

"Come," invited the old priest. "Closer."

Not wanting to, Methos nevertheless obeyed. The idol was easily fifteen
feet tall, perhaps thirty feet long - perfect in every detail.
Conscious of Lucius' eyes on him, he reached out and touched an
exquisitely carved scale. Gasping, he jerked away his hand. It was
warm.

"Geothermal heat," he said aloud. Lucius smiled. Tilting back his
head, Methos looked up at its great head. Its eyes were rubies, too,
crudely carved. He felt that startling shiver of deja vu.

There was shouting from outside. A moment later, Tom and Charlie,
followed by several villagers, came into the Tomb. Methos bit his lip
and turned away, disappointment tightening his throat. Another glance
at Lucius showed the man still smiling. The bastard knew full well what
Methos had intended. Hopelessness swamped him.

"You OK?" Tom's face was concerned. Distantly, Methos wondered at it,
but he nodded.

"Tired," he said.

"I'll bet." The boy's eyes were filled with admiration - another sharp
stab of something that felt ridiculously like shame. "You saved . . ."

"Let's get back," Methos interrupted harshly. "Before Dane has another
excuse to get in my face."

"No problem," Tom replied cheerfully. "Charlie called him on the cell
phone."

Methos gave Lucius a long, bewildered look. The old man's eyes gleamed.
High above them, the rubies winked and glittered. Without another
word, Methos turned and led them out into the dusk.
***
continued

Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/
Share what you know. Learn what you don't.