by C. E. Murphy
Her eyes flickered to the pack. “You’re bluffing. You want it as much as I do.”
“I assure you,” Methos said, through his teeth, “I want it far less than I want my head.” He threw the pack full force at her face. Ghean stumbled backwards, sword dropping as she tried to catch the unexpected projectile. Methos shot past her, knocking her aside to race back the way he’d come, up the stairs and back out onto the deck. He could hear Ghean curse behind him, and a pause before her footsteps followed his. She’s got the Book. I thought that might be too much for her to pass up. He slid across the deck on bare, wet feet, spinning to face the door as she came charging out.
For one vivid second the comparison between the two made Methos grin. Ghean had clearly been awake a while, and was fully dressed, wearing a crimson blouse tucked into smooth black pants, which met soft black boots, boots which apparently had traction, judging from the ease she moved across the deck with. Her eyes were bright, both with anticipation and the bloody light from the coming dawn, and her color was high from the dash between decks. The necklace of Aries glittered against the blouse, and as she dropped into a guard position, Methos saw the ring Cuthmesh bounce the early morning light.
In comparison, Methos was bedraggled. Tired, wet and barefoot, his jeans were half buttoned and clinging uncomfortably to the salt water left on his skin. Goosebumps were collecting where water didn’t roll down his bare arms and chest, and he could feel his hair drying in random spikes as it escaped from the slicking that the sea had given it.
Ghean’s expression darkened dangerously as she saw him grin, and she dropped the backpack, kicking it across the deck to land against a bulwark. It settled into a heap, an enigmatic prize for the winner to collect.
“No,” Methos said hastily, and backed up, lifting his sword protectively. “I’m not laughing at you, Ghean. We don’t have to do this. All I came here for was the Book. Go live your life. God knows you deserve the chance.”
She advanced without breaking form, scooting easily across the deck with her right foot leading. “We do have to do this,” she corrected. “All I want is your head. The Book is just an extraordinary second prize.” She smiled tightly. “All you came here for is the Book? That’s not what you said two days ago.”
Methos made an apologetic little gesture with his free hand. “I lied.”
Ghean’s eyes went darker. “You’re a very good liar, Methos. We even believed you.” She lunged forward with the words, making first contact with the blades, nothing more than a faint scrape of metal.
Methos knocked her blade away with a tap, shaking his head. “Ghean, let it go. What possible good will killing me do? The years are never going to come back to you.”
“What good will it do?” Ghean lunged again, another quick attack. “It’ll make us feel a hell of a lot better, that’s what.”
“Us?” Methos danced back, stepping around a heavy pile of chain on the deck. “I assure you, it won’t make me feel any better. Forgive me my selfishness, but I’d really rather you didn’t feel better at the expense of my head.”
Ghean drew herself up momentarily, looking at Methos down the length of her blade. “Your selfishness,” she said precisely, “is exactly what we cannot forgive.” The voices were gone for the first time since she could remember, united entirely within her, one purpose in mind. She could hear the patient one’s edge in her voice, calm and cool and rational.
Sometimes, Methos congratulated himself, you have a real talent for finding the one irrevocably wrong thing to say. “Try,” he suggested. “You’d be surprised how much more pleasant life is when you can forgive people their little faults.”
Ghean surged forward again, keeping her attack on a low line. The tactic was sound for a woman of her height; a high attack would bring her opponent’s sword into play at a level uncomfortably near her neck, and the lower attacks would keep anyone of greater height slightly off-balance in meeting them. Methos approved, in a clinically detached fashion, as he darted back from the attacks, doing little more than defending himself.
“Little faults,” Ghean snarled, in time to the clash of blades parrying. “Failing to mention our Immortality. Refusing to fight for us on our wedding day. Leaving us for dead when you knew we would waken again. Abandoning us to hell for five thousand years. Saving our mother. Sleeping with our mother. Which of those, Methos, is a little fault? We’ll be happy to forgive you for it.” Each sentence was highlighted by a swift attack, less designed for blood than eventual weariness.
“Who are ‘we’, Ghean?” Methos stared at the small woman, almost failing to block her attacks at all until one came dangerously close to drawign blood. He twitched back, and vaulted over a bulwark, paying more attention to his defense.
“Us,” she hissed. “All of us whom you abandoned. We were so patient, and so frightened, and so alone. And now you’ll pay for our imprisonment, Methos. You’ll pay with your head. Your memories will be ours. Memories we should have had all along.”
She is mad, Methos realized with horror. I thought she came out of Atlantis whole. I was wrong. “Ghean,” he said softly, “Ghean, you need help, not revenge.” He met another attack with an easy parry. “This could go on all day, Ghean. People are eventually going to wake up. Stop this, and we’ll find a way to heal you. Please, Ghean.”
She smiled, a flash of teeth in the early light. The sun broke the horizon, shooting spires of red through the clouds above them, and it began to rain. “Our healing will be your death. So much fun, we thought, to pretend we still loved you, to use you and then to kill you. And you even proved Atlantis for us. You did very well, Methos. Now it’s time to die. They won’t wake up if it’s over soon.” She shifted her attack, moving from low to high in a smooth, rapid sequence, then dropping it again.
“Dammit, Ghean! I’m better than you are, and we’re in the middle of the ocean on a metal ship full of mortals. If you press this, don’t you think it’s probably going to end badly for them? Nevermind you?”
Ghean straightened again, falling back out of his reach. “You won’t even take us seriously,” she said quietly. “Fight us, Methos. The challenge has been made. You can’t walk away from it.”
Methos sighed. “Have it your way.”
Ghean’s jaw set, and she nodded, satisfied. Methos met her next lunge with no greater enthusiasm, but far more dedication. He could see surprise in her eyes at the power behind the blow. Then something else colored her expression: pleasure. Methos took the fight to high ground, throwing a blow at her shoulder with the hand-and-a-half sword he used. Ghean tangled her rapier in his blade, thrusting it away, and retreated.
Her next attack was high, and he stepped outside it, knocking her blade away and dropping his to swing upward at her leading leg. She parried, pushing the bastard sword away and turning to the side, reducing target area. They tossed offensive and defensive back and forth, blades sparking as they smashed together, distant sunlight glittering off raindrops as they trailed down the swords. The ring of metal on metal was loud to Methos’ ears, but the mortals on the ship continued to sleep, protected from the sounds of battle by the heavy steel floors and walls.
Wind picked up, knocking Ghean’s hair into her eyes a moment. She brushed it back, a fighting grin growing wider as none of Methos’ blows hit home. He remained serious, scowling as they fought in the rain. Ghean’s moment came as they whirled around each other, Methos’ footing bad on the wet deck. Sunlight bounced off Methos’ own sword, reflecting brilliantly off steel and water alike to blind him momentarily. Ghean lunged forward, scoring a thin red line across his belly before he could knock the rapier off course. He fell back, touching his fingers to the cut to test its depth. It stung, but it would heal within the minute.
“We can take your blood,” Ghean said into the silence left by the cessation of clashing metal. “But you’ll never take ours.” Secret delight crackled in Ghean’s brown eyes. “We’re surprised you didn’t recognize it.” She lifted her sword
hand to display the ring she wore around her thumb, and pressed wet hair out of her face to more clearly see Methos. “The ring of House Leo, Methos. It protects us. You’re going to die.” The words were changed, almost a sing-song.
Methos looked at the blood on his fingers, diluted by the pouring rain, then raised his eyes to Ghean. She split a grin of triumph at the horror on his face, and laughed as he whispered, “Oh, Ghean. I did love you.”
She flung her hands up, embracing the storm-ridden sky and the red rising sun. “Too late!” she crowed. “Today you pay — ”
The blow that sent her to her knees was the same one that brought her the first death, thousands of years ago. Methos’ sword came down in a wide arc, half gutting the tiny woman. Her rapier fell from numb fingers as she crashed to her knees, one hand wrapping disbelievingly around her midsection. Incredulous, she lifted her head, brown eyes staring as life drained from them. “How — ?”
We never tested it, the frightened one one whispered in shock.
An arrow embedded itself in Minyah’s arm, the patient one screamed, too late. She wore the ring then — he told us and we didn’t hear, we never thought –
— the larger the artifact the more effective it is in providing physical protection –
“The ring gives you Immortality, not protection from external harm,” Methos said softly. “I did love you once, Ghean,” he repeated, voice gentle. Without taking his eyes from hers, he swung the sword up and over, the weight and speed of nearly a full circle racing down to sever her head from her neck.
I did love you.
The thought burned through Methos’ mind, and for an eternal second he stood in the downpour, letting grief be his companion. The Retribution. It could conduct the lightning. She’ll bring the ship down with her, unless –
Methos turned and ran for the side of the ship, vaulting one-handed to stand on the waist-high railing. He took one deep breath as the sky roared with thunder, and launched himself from the railing out into the sunrise.
Lightning cauht him as he broke the water’s surface. Storm-colored water already tinged red by the rising sun, the Mediterranean added blue fire to its palette, flashes of electricity slicing through Methos as he fell deeper into the water.
Memory sent a scream of panic and pain through him, out into the water, as Ghean’s life pounded into him with her Quickening. The terror of the water closing over her head in the temple made him scream again, reaching for the grey skies above the surface. Waves pushed him further down, pain rocketing through his body as lightning struck again and again, bringing with it thousands of years of solitude and fear, whispering voices and mindless despair. Methos held on to himself, on to his own memories of those many centuries, forcing what Ghean had been deeper into himself, acknowledging it, accepting it, but not surrendering to it.
The sea seethed, flinging him back out on an outburst of water, to meet lightning falling from the stormy sky. It danced down around him, a ragged pattern of rapid-fire shocks that surged into the water and back up through it, up through the soles of his feet and through his body, building towards the nerve-wrecking threshold between absolute pain and excrutiating pleasure. Methos flung his head back in a wordless shout of pain and grief and release, the only release the Quickening ever allowed. Time ceased within the Quickening, a few seconds lasting forever, and then it cast him back into the ocean, spent.
For long minutes Methos remained in the sea’s cradle, choppy waves made by natural winds rocking him as the sky brought forth the storm that the red dawn warned of. Dazed, he opened his eyes, finding his sword still clutched in his hand. The hilt left dimples marked deep in his palm, and he loosened his grip on it a little, trying to right himself in the waves, energy drained. After a moment he oriented himself, turning wearily towards the ship.
Michael Powers stood on the deck, hands light on the railing. He watched, silent, as Methos swam weakly back to the ship, and dove under to search out the submarine dock again. One-handed, he pulled himself up the ladder. Powers, wordlessly, crossed the deck to offer Methos a hand. After a moment’s bleary hesitation, Methos accepted the mortal man’s help, letting Michael pull him on to the deck. The two watched each other, Methos marked with total fatigue, Michael with unhappy understanding.
“She told you what we were,” Methos said, over the rain, when the silence drew out too far.
“Her ring didn’t work,” Michael replied.
Methos shook his head. “No,” he said, “it didn’t.” He turned his head, looking at the waves building in the water, and the faded light from the sun that had now risen behind the clouds, leaving the skies dreary and grey. “The storm’s getting worse,” he said a little hoarsely. Emphasizing his words, lightning fell from the sky again, shattering the horizon. “Two of your researchers were lost in it,” he suggested quietly.
Michael licked his lips and nodded, swallowing hard.
“Thank you,” Methos said, and went to pick up Ghean’s sword. “Do you want this?”
Michael shook his head, mutely. Methos nodded, and dropped the rapier over the side. It made a tiny ripple in the choppy sea as it sank.
“You don’t want to watch the rest of this,” Methos said. Without responding, Michael turned away, walking belowdecks. Methos closed his eyes momentarily, then crouched beside Ghean’s body, hands steepled in front of his mouth. Wrapping his hand around the Aries pendent, he took it from her body, and then slid the golden ring off her thumb, putting the ring on the chain with the pendent. He stood, slipping the necklace into his jeans pocket, and found a length of chain to weight Ghean’s body with, sending it after her sword into the Mediterreanean.
The storm did a fair job of washing blood away, but Methos found a bucket and filled it with seawater, splashing it over the deck. The deck was scored black under the blood, a long trail of charred steel where lightning had followed his leap off the ship’s railing. He toed at the burned metal, and then, still soaking wet, he went below to get the sheath for his sword. He took the wetsuit as well, finding another length of chain to weight it with before dropping it over the side of the ship. Sword strapped to his back, he returned to the submarine port, looking down into the grey water.
The Book. Methos looked up. It lay where Ghean had tossed it, crumpled agains the edge of the bulwark. He smiled without humour, and went to collect it, retying the sword to the outside of the backpack. He glanced at the submarine port, then shook his head a little, and vaulted once again over the side of the Retribution, following the same path he’d sent Ghean on.
Seconds later he resurfaced and began, for the second time in his life, swimming through a storm, away from Atlantis towards the safety of shore.
Chapter 30
The newspaper spun twices as it was thrown down the counter, landing with the text upside-down at Joe’s elbow. A gold ring bounced down the counter after it, whirling to a rattling stop a few inches away from the paper. Joe glanced up to see who’d tossed them. Then, with his eyebrows lifted, he rotated the paper to read the short article.
Morning storm claims lives
An early-morning storm on the Mediterranean Sea claimed the lives of two research doctors. Doctor Mary Kostani of the University of Chicago, recently acclaimed for finding the legendary city of Atlantis, and unaffiliated researcher Adam Pierson died Friday morning when a violent storm arose. The two were the only ones on the deck of research vessel Retribution, thanks to a late-night party the evening before.
“We have a crew that’s usually up early,” Dr. Michael Powers, a friend of both the deceased, said in a subdued interview Friday afternoon. “We had a fantastic find Wednesday afternoon. After we’d verified some of our findings we threw a party to celebrate on Thursday evening, and everyone was up all night. I guess we were lucky, if you can call it that, since no one else was up to get caught in the storm.
“This project was Mary’s life. I’d like to see it go forward, in her memory,” Powers added.
When asked
about Pierson, Powers shook his head. “I only met him recently,” he said. “He was a recluse, no family. It was his discovery, in fact, that we were celebrating. I guess that means I should thank him, for saving the lives of a lot more of the crew, no matter how inadvertantly.”
The storm blew itself out early Friday afternoon, only after which it was discovered that two of the Retribution crew were missing. No bodies have been found. Neither Kostani nor Pierson have next of kin. Kostani’s assets were left to the University.
The article went on to discuss the Atlantis Project. Joe looked up.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Methos asked. “I like the part about how I saved everyone’s lives.”
“What happened?” Joe asked pragmatically.
Methos shook his head. “Adam Pierson turned out to be an Immortal. He’ll need a Watcher, Joe. Make it someone we can trust.” He turned his head towards the door as a warning tingle washed through him. “Company,” he added, and sat on a stool.
Joe picked up the ring as Duncan came through the door. “What’s this?” the Watcher asked.
“What happened?” Duncan demanded before the door closed all the way.
Methos considered the ring Joe held. “Call it a legacy of Atlantis,” he said.
Joe turned the ring, watching light sink into the lion’s head etching. “A legacy.” He looked up at Methos over the ring, folding his hand around the gold metal. “You couldn’t bring me back a unicorn, huh?”
Methos’ mouth twitched in a smile. “Everybody knows there’s no such thing as unicorns, Joe.”
The Watcher laughed, putting the ring in his pocket. “Hope you don’t mind if I’m not sure I want to wear it. That kinda choice takes some thought.” He turned away, pouring drinks for himself and the two Immortal men at his bar.
“As long as you’re lucky enough to have the choice,” Methos said mildly.
Joe nodded, turning back to the counter with the drinks. “What happened to the Book?”