Matters of Honor and Justice 1/3
Tim Laird-DAA Productions (doom1701@YAHOO.COM)
Fri, 1 Jun 2001 13:54:56 -0700
Matters of Honor and Justice 1/3
The streets of Hayden Hill were strangely quiet tonight. Down Main Street, the
imperceptible click of the traffic signals did its best to relieve the monotony
of the evening. The lights at Smalley's bar and grill flickered in the
distance; on a Friday night, nearly half the town would congregate at Smalley's
for dinner or a beer. The only activity in the town proper seemed to be the
occasional bum huddled over an exhaust vent or dining on the remnants trashed
by the rest of society. If it weren't for the lightning...
A mile outside of town, two men encircled each other on an abandoned wheat
field. They each appeared to be in their mid-thirties; one sported a neatly
trimmed beard across his high, well defined cheekbones. His dark hair had just
the faintest hint of gray running through it. The other man, rather tall, was
trying to cover his growing baldness--his hair was combed from one side to the
other, rather comically, to cover his receding hairline. Neither man seemed
rather strong or masculine, in fact, they were rather nondescript in their own
way. Nondescript, that is, except for the weapons they carried...
Each man hefted an ornately carved sword at the other. The smaller man held a
warriors weapon; long, double edged, with leather wrapping its hilt. The
balding man's rapier was an artwork in simplicity; it borrowed much of its
design from a Japanese katana; its ivory handle was almost a foot long, carved
from a single elephant tusk. It still held the shape of the tusk, curving
slightly to a pointed end. The blade was designed for lightness and strength;
its hollow middle was re-enforced along the edges, its sharpened side curved
near the top to a point, while its straight edge was serrated. The carvings
along its hilt were perhaps most noticeable; they covered only three fourths of
the ivory, and appeared to be letters of many different languages.
Each man continued to circle the other, while their swords still pointed to
each other. "Come on, Freedman," the bearded man was saying, "this is nuts!
People stopped fighting duels over a hundred years ago!"
The taller man, Freedman, feigned a thrust at his opponent. "It's too bad; man
was more honorable then." He grabbed his katana tightly with both hands as his
opponent moved in closer. "In those days, when someone dishonored a woman,
being run through with a sword was considered too kind for him."
"Dishonored? What?"
Freedman jumped forward, his sword heading for his opponents heart. The
bearded man quickly blocked. The two weapons crashed together in a fury of
sparks. As the two men pulled together, Freedman whispered, "Lisa carries a
child-your child. In my day, we killed men for such an offense."
The two men flew apart. Freedman continued to attack viciously. The other man
attempted to keep a purely defensive posture, blocking the quick thrusts and
sweeping swings of Freedman's blade. "Did it ever occur to you," the bearded
man said, beginning to pant, "that it could be your kid?"
"I wish it were," Freedman replied. His attacks seemed to become more violent
after that. He began to push his opponent back. A dried weed stump caught the
bearded man off balance; Freedman used the opportunity to connect. His katana
ran his opponent through just below his rib cage. The man howled in pain,
grasping the wound with his left hand. Surprisingly, he continued to defend
himself with his right.
Upon realizing that Freedman was quite serious in his attacks, the bearded man
did his best to straighten, grasping his sword with both hands, and deftly
began to fight back. The two weapons began moving incredibly fast; the sparks
from their clashing lighting up the air around the men.
The bearded man struck forward, running his sword through Freedman's upper left
leg. Strangely, the lightning seemed to increase as Freedman reeled from the
wound. "You fool!" he screamed, limping backwards as he attempted to defend
himself, "You can't kill me!"
The bearded man's weapon connected again, cutting Freedman from above his left
waist to just below his rib cage. Freedman screamed again as his opponent
yanked his blade back, feeling what could have been a rib cracking against his
weapon.
Remarkably, Freedman kept hold on his sword, although his profuse bleeding and
loss of feeling in his left leg left him open to attack. Rage had overtaken
his opponent; he began to strike out madly. He ran his sword through
Freedman's stomach, and quickly pulled back. Freedman dropped to his knees.
The bearded man lifted his sword high...
>From a safe distance, a young woman watched the duel through a pair of
binoculars. She had been told to expect this day; death is inevitable, even
for immortals. But she had always expected that Freedman's head would be taken
at the hand of someone else; someone of renown. She had never seen this
bearded man before. He must be another immortal; no human could continue to
fight with the wounds she had seen him take. But why had she not heard of him?
With his obvious experience, he should have been recognized by the watchers in
the past.
As she watched, the mysterious man struck another wound into Freedman's
stomach. Freedman fell to his knees, grasping at his abdomen with one hand as
he struggled to hold his sword up in his defense. He lacked the strength. The
bearded man raised his sword into the air, ready to make the final blow.
Lightning cracked all around; even nature knew what must come next. The man
lowered his weapon with great speed at Freedman's prostrate body. The battle
was over.
The young watcher was about to put down her binoculars; her job was complete.
Something caught the corner of her eye, though. Freedman's killer dropped his
sword, and fell to the ground, grasping at his own wounds. The quickening had
already begun; Freedman's body was beginning to glow and convulse; but his
killer was not preparing himself. He had turned away from Freedman before
collapsing; it was almost as if he was not expecting what must come next.
The decapitated body began to rise into the air, glowing brighter and brighter.
Lightning crashed all around, and electricity sparked along the ground,
emanating from the fallen immortal. A blast took the strange man completely
off guard, throwing him away from the body. As he struggled to get up, another
blast of pure energy struck out at him. The woman could have sworn she saw the
blast completely rip through him, leaving a gaping hole in the man's torso.
Yet another bolt threw the injured man into the air. He toppled head over
heals back to the ground. As he lie prostrate, the blue aura began to surround
his body as well. He began to levitate, like Freedman's decapitated cadaver.
The lightning grew even fiercer, engulfing the bodies of both men, and lighting
up the field around them. Thunder began to grow to a deafening level.
Suddenly, they screamed.
It could not have happened. The watcher could see Freedman's head lying on the
ground, lifeless, but she had heard both men scream. It happened again; this
time loud enough to break through the thunder. Yes, they had both screamed.
Lightning crashed all around, almost blinding the woman. She had seen
quickenings before, and none had ever been like this. None had lasted this
long, released so much power...
And the dead had never spoken before.
And then it was over. Both bodies dropped to the ground, lifeless. The field
grew dark and quiet again, and nature returned to her nightly song. The young
watcher debated whether or not to go down to see the remains of the battle.
They were undoubtedly far enough away that she would not have to worry about
authorities showing up yet. No, she wasn't afraid of being caught; she was
afraid of this strange new man.
She had never seen the quickening kill anyone before; not even temporarily.
The power released was staggering, no doubt, but it was not enough to harm an
immortal.
But what could it do to a mortal?
The tall, lanky cowboy sat against a tree at the edge of the clearing. Beside
him, at the ready, sat his rifle. He held in his left hand an ornately
designed sword, and in his right was a small dagger which he was using to carve
symbols into the sword's ivory handle. Symbols of one sort or another ran
about a fourth of the way down the hilt.
"Stand and defend yourself, murderer."
Duncan MacLeod held his sword pointed at the strange man as he appeared from
behind a large tree. Blood stained his earth brown tunic.
The cowboy sheathed his dagger and slowly stood. He leaned against his sword,
which he still held pointing at the ground. "A white man?" he mused. "You're
a sight for sore eyes, stranger. Not much civilization around here, is there?"
"Not anymore."
MacLeod still stood ready, backing out into the clearing slightly. The buzzing
in his head continued; this man was definitely an immortal. That didn't
matter, though. The man would not see the next sunrise, not because of his
lineage, but because of his actions.
Duncan had returned from the hunt earlier that day to find the dead. Five had
been shot, and three had been done in by the sword. As Duncan had cradled one
of the dead children in his arms, the remaining members of the tribe told him
of a single perpetrator. They spoke of a white man who had taken many fatal
wounds, but continued to fight. He had scoffed as they tried to fight back.
He almost seemed to take joy in watching the innocents suffer. And then they
showed him the final victim.
The Wicasa Wakan, the tribe's medicine man and spiritual leader, had been run
through while communing with the spirits.
He had been killed on holy ground.
The Wicasa Wakan had been mortal, and hence the rules of the game did not
apply.
Duncan was no less furious.
While the other members of the tribe discussed retaliation, Duncan snuck out of
the village, sword in hand. The white man was no doubt heading back for the
road, perhaps to escape, or to tell the others what he had found, or to simply
find another tribe to massacre.
When Duncan spotted the man at the edge of the clearing, he kept a safe
distance away to study him. The cowboy was carving something on the handle of
his sword, constantly looking down at the ground beside him.
Now, as MacLeod stood in front of the man, sword at the ready, he could clearly
see what the cowboy had been looking at, and what he had been carving into the
hilt of his weapon.
"Red Bear," the Highlander spoke, the fire behind his eyes growing with each
word. "Walking Eagle. Sitting Stream."
The cowboy lifted his sword, not in an attack posture, but simply to admire his
handiwork. "You read their language?" he asked. "Yes," he continued as he ran
a hand along the markings, "I like to keep a record of them. You know,
something to show the kids." He lowered the sword again to point at the
ground. "Well," he chuckled, almost nervously, "someday.
"I have to admit, I missed a few. It's not easy to get a name off of a dead
guy. But one day I realized that most people carry some sort of identification
around with them. Sometimes it's on paper, or carved on a weapon. Sometimes,"
he continued, motioning with his sword to the ground next to were he had been
seated, "they wear it."
Duncan continued to stand his ground. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan
MacLeod," he told the stranger, angrily. His bantering had gone on long
enough. Now it was time to exact payment. "I will have your head as
retribution for my people."
The cowboy chuckled. "Well, since we are getting all formal and everything,
I'm Jonathan Freedman. Don't really have a clan, but my father, God bless his
soul, ran the biggest tavern in Connecticut during the Revolution." Finally,
Freedman began to raise his sword. "About my head, you can give it a shot, but
I should warn you, nobody's been able to kill me yet. Even took a blast from a
musket once. You could actually see through me..."
Didn't he understand? Didn't he feel the fire in his soul, the quickening of
his opponent? Hadn't he been taught of the Game, and of holy ground, and of
the future Gathering? Didn't his heart yearn for the Prize, as did every other
immortal? Could he be so naïve? "Do you not desire my head, murderer?"
Duncan asked, curiously.
"What is this obsession you have with beheadings?" the cowboy asked. He drew
closer to MacLeod, raising his sword with surety. "I usually don't kill other
white men, but I fear I might have to make an exception with you. You're too
much like them."
Duncan took firm grasp of his weapon. "If times were different, Freedman, I
could teach you the importance of watching your neck," he said, taking the
initial swing towards the cowboy. Freedman quickly blocked, and soon the two
men's swords were flying against each other in battle.
"If times were different."
=====
Tim Laird
-----------------------------
Nobody lives forever, so you might as well go out with a good caffeine buzz...
There's always hope, because it's the one thing that they haven't figured out how to kill yet...
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