Terry McConnel - Highlander - Scimitar.pdf - Terry McConnel - widez2

HIGHLANDER: SCIMITAR

BY TERRY MCCONNELL

If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this

book may have been stolen property and reported as "unsold and

destroyed' to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the

publisher has received any payment for this 'stripped book."

"Highlander" is a protected trademark of Gaumont Television. C 1994 by

Gaumont Television and Davis Panzer Productions, Inc. 1985.

Published by arrangement with Bohbot Entertainment, Inc.

Aspect is a registered trademark of WarneT Becks, InC.

Warner Books, Inc. 1271 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 Time

Warner Company Printed in the United States of America First Printing:

February, 19%

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 AUTHOR'S NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The first part of Scimitar is based, of course, on the Algiers flashback

in Part 1 of the third season Finale of HIGHLANDER. Particular thanks

are due to David Tynan, whose script it is; to Gillian Horvath and Donna

Lettow, for providing the flashback details; and to Shirley Emin, who

mentioned the Barbary corsairs at the right moment.

The second part of the book is very loosely based on the Arab Revolt,

and is set in the last month of 1916 and the early part of 1917. Several

of the people named, including T. E. Lawrence (who later came to be

known as Lawrence of Arabia), Colonel Clayton, and the Emir Faisal ibn

Hussein, are real. Faisal's army was indeed progressing up the coast of

the Red Sea during this time. Petra is a real place, and my thanks go

to Richard Halliburton for recording the "rose-red city, half as old as

time," in his Book of Marvels.

Everything else, particularly the tribes of Rushallah and the Irzed and

the legendary treasure house, is a product of my own imagination, with

the help of Nina Kiriki Hoffman's magic sprinkles.

Additional thanks should go to Sean Antonio Romero, who provided the

source book for more research material on the martial arts than I could

possibly use here, and to Betsy Mitchell, who took a great deal on faith

and handled a sensitive situation with tact and humor.

Any historical or linguistic errors are, of course, entirely my own

responsibility.

Prologue: The Watcher

A Watcher was supposed to Watch: observe, record, report. That meant

putting forth some effort from time to time, Joe Dawson acknowledged.

He'd gotten lazy, though, since the subject of the Watching knew about

it. Sometimes he even talked to Joe about his life. It had made Joe's

job much simpler.

But as usual, when a job got too simple, details got easier to overlook.

He was reminded he'd been neglecting his duties when the package arrived

at the bar, and he couldn't recall the last time he'd had a conversation

with its intended recipient.

Someone had left it sitting there, one afternoon in early June, before

the evening crowd began wandering in. He couldn't figure out how the

thing got there; one minute the bar was empty, the next the box was

lying on the corner of the stage, next to a guitar case. The package

wasn't small, either: a good four feet long, a foot wide, some six

inches deep, wrapped up in brown paper and tied with twine, a

cream-colored business card tucked under the knot. A name was written

on the card in flowing brown ink. Joe hefted the parcel: not too heavy.

Nothing ticked ominously.

The bartender was new, still learning where the good stuff was kept, and

he swore there hadn't been anyone there. Joe merely cocked an ironic

eye at him, snorted, and decided it was time to go visiting.

Watching.

Keeping track.

Leaning on his cane in the doorway of the dojo, he watched Duncan

MacLeod move through the elegant, deadly forms of a kata, sweat

glistening on his upper body. Light gleamed on the blade of the sword

shrieking through the air, left shimmering afterimages that hurt the

eyes. MacLeod's face was very still, his attention focused inward. His

movement was a cross between dance and death.

He looked like a man who had spent most of a lifetime in such exercise.

He was tall, appeared to be in his midthirties; sleek-muscled, with long

dark hair tied back in a ponytail that whipped the air as he spun and

leaped, shadowfighting. The elegant grace of it gave the Watcher an

unaccustomed pang of envy, a feeling of weariness in his bones, a sense

that he was-getting old.

That was ironic, too. Joe brushed at his graying beard and smiled to

himself. Anyone looking at the two of them together might be forgiven

for thinking him perhaps twenty years older than the man who fought with

shadows.

The rest of the dojo was empty at this hour, the exercise mats rolled up

neatly out of the way. The weapons were racked or mounted, as if they

were no more than conversation pieces, works of art interrupting the

bare starkness of the walls.

The exercise was complete, finished with a snapped nod, a silent salute

to the invisible opponent. Joe stifled an urge to applaud. He did

shift his weight, and MacLeod pivoted smoothly, unstartled.

"Joe. Hello." A faint, pleasant accent, too light to identify anymore,

flavored his voice. A glint of pleased recognition lit his dark eyes.

"You're slipping, MacLeod. You don't want somebody sneaking up on you

one day."

The words were wry, and the man to whom +,hey were addressed met them

with an equally wry smile in response. It wouldn't happermot now, not

ever. Joe was reasonably sure MacLeod had known someone was standing in

the doorway in the same heartbeat he had arrived; focus on the kata

notwithstanding, MacLeod was always aware of his environment.

Now, setting the sword aside, he reached for a towel and began to dry

the sweat from his chest and arms. "Something up7" he asked, perhaps a

trifle too casually.

"No, no. Just hadn't seen you for a few days, thought I'd look in and

see how you were doing." Joe moved away from the doorway, limping over

to look at the sword. It was a practice weapon, weighted to duplicate

another weapon, kept out of sight but always to hand. He shifted the

package under one arm, mentally measuring the sword against it.

MacLeod chuckled. "I'm doing fine, Joe. No ancient enemies showing up,

no new ones either. It's quiet. I like it that way." He tossed the

towel over his shoulder, led the other man into the back office of the

dojo.

This, too, showed much of the spare good taste of its owner. Weapons

hung on these walls as well, but this was a room for doing business,

with a wooden desk-not expensive, but not cheap either-office chairs,

and metal file cabinets. It was a place where work was done, and

clutter was not permitted.

A bottle of water waited on the desk; MacLeod took it up and drank

deeply, ostentatiously not looking at the package Dawson carried under

his arm. Dawson waited; MacLeod was in excellent shape and would

recover quickly from the exercise, and then there were the private

rituals of friendship to be observed.

Thirst satisfied, MacLeod pulled on a white T-shirt that had been draped

neatly over the back of his chair, and opened a drawer in the desk. He

produced a bottle of singlemalt whisky and two glasses. Pouring a

fingerful into each glass, he handed one to Joe and raised the other.

"To peace and quiet."

Joe acknowledged the toast and took a sip of the liquid, holding it in

his mouth a moment before swallowing. MacLeod raised his eyebrows,

waiting.

. Dawson took his time, considering. Finally he said, "This is, ah,

let's see. Dark Roses? That little place up near Inverness."

MacLeod grinned. "Right. I thought I'd had you there."

The Watcher grinned back. "It's all right." He took another sip.

"Not bad," MacLeod agreed, looking critically at the contents of the

glass. "I've had worse." Setting the glass aside, he reached for a

long-sleeved shirt and shrugged it on, dropping the towel on the desk as

he did so, plopping himself into the desk chair and swiveling around to

face his visitor. "So. What's the real reason?"

Joe lowered himself stiffly into the visitor's chair, setting the

package on the desk. "Just say hello, that's all. Oh, and there's

this." He indicated the box.

The other man examined it curiously. "What's this?"

"Somebody left it for you at the bar. We didn't see who left it; the

new day guy isn't too bright."

MacLeod turned over the card with his name on it, looking in vain for a

message on the back. It was blank.

He shrugged, tossing the card back on the desk, and poured himself just

enough more whisky to cover the bottom of the glass.

"Aren't you going to open it?"

MacLeod finished his drink. "Nah. It'll keep." He burst out laughing

at the expression of disappointment that crossed the other man's face.

"All right, alright. Is it your birthday or something?" Pulling the

package back, he yanked the twine apart with casual strength and ripped

the paper away.

Torn away, the paper revealed a large plain case, rectangular, with

rounded corners, of some old, highly polished dark wood that shone

almost with a life of its own; the brass hinges were tinged faintly

green with age. There was no lock. The lid was shallow, a quarter the

depth of the whole thing. It appeared to be more formal than a mere

box: rather, it appeared to be a case specifically designed for

something, something long and flat and narrow. Like one of the weapons

on the wall.

"What is it?"

MacLeod's hand hovered at the corner, as if reluctant to lift the lid.

He had, Joe realized suddenly, the same introspective look on his face

that it had worn earlier, when he was moving through the meditative

forms of the exercise. He sat back to watch, fascinated, wondering what

MacLeod was thinking, what he was remembering. It was obvious that he

recognized the container.

Joe wanted, very badly, to ask again what the thing was, what it

contained, what memories it triggered. He suspected that he knew, but

suspicion wasn't enough; he was supposed to know. It was his business,

after all. He was a Watcher; Duncan MacLeod was his assigned subject.

But there was more to their relationship than that. Duncan MacLeod was

his friend, as well. So he kept silent, refusing to intrude, knowing

that his curiosity would be satisfied eventually.

MacLeod's fingers drifted over the glossy wood, as if caressing it, and

then, as if he had reached a sudden decision, he set the wooden case

back on the desk and flipped back the lid to display the contents.

"My God!" The Watcher was unable to restrain his surprise. He rose to

his feet, leaning over to get a closer look.

The box held a scimitar, a long curved blade set in a worn black leather

scabbard. At first glance it didn't appear particularly prepossessing;

it was inlaid with no rubies or emeralds, no enamel on the guard. The

sword had a hilt of plain rough silver, bent back at a right angle, with

a ring set where the pommel should be. The scabbard, too, was decorated

for part of its length with silver, worked in a fine embroidered wire.

Then MacLeod took the hilt in his hand and slid it free of the cracked

and dusty leather, lifted the sword up to the light.

The damascened blue-gray metal shone like triumph, catching the light in

ripples, as if the steel was viewed through water, or oil. Along the

back, near the hilt, the blade had been chiseled out in arabesques and

inlaid with gold; along its length, more gold inlay set off an

inscription in flowing Arabic characters.

Joe drew a reverent breath. "That's beautiful."

"Yes," MacLeod agreed absently. He rose. stepped away from the desk,

and slashed at the air, his wrist twisting. He put his back into it;

the blade shrieked as if it had a life of its own, and stopped a

fraction of an inch from the chair. He raised it again, inspecting the

edge, and ran his thumb along it.

Joe winced as blood welled up and ran down the metal. MacLeod cursed,

sucking at the cut and setting the sword down, carefully, to reach for a

soft cloth.

The cloth wasn't for the cut. The cut, in fact, was almost gone by the

time the man removed his thumb from his mouth, and he dried saliva and

leftover blood on the leg of his jeans and took up the sword again to

clean away the red stain on the blade.

Joe had seen this before, a hundred times, and it still sent a chill

through him. The cut had been deep, to the bone; enough blood had

flowed to run clear to the base of the man Is thumb; now there was no

sign of it. MacLeod didn't appear even to notice. He was polishing the

blade with slow, even, practiced strokes. The muscles in the corner of

his mouth tightened in what might have been a reminiscent smile.

He obviously knew the weapon. The polishing was a welcoming of an old

acquaintance, a smoothing away of years of separation. From the

expression on his face, the scimitar represented both good memories and

painful ones.

"How old is it?" Joe asked, very quietly. He could see, now, that the

inlaid inscription was so worn down in places as to be illegible; the

enameling had chipped out in two places. There was a dent in the hilt.

The silver was badly tarnished, nearly black in places.

"I don't know," MacLeod said thoughtfully, still absorbed in the

polishing. "At lest three hundred and fifty years. Someone's making me

a very nice gift."

"You've been looking for it, then?"

"No, not really. I'm glad to have it, though." He looked up, past his

visitor, as if searching for the right spot on the wall.

"Whose was it?"

"It belonged to one of my very first teachers," MacLeod said. "He was a

Terry McConnel - Highlander - Scimitar.pdf

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