This is a piece I started years ago. I've pulled it out, dusted it off and shelved it again more times than I care to think about. But I've never asked anyone else what they thought of if. So I thought perhaps now was the time to do that.
The Bad Mans
ôOuch!ö Richie Ryan danced back on one foot, hand clasped to a well bruised shin. ôWhy do you keep all this junk in here anyway, Mac? I thought you had all the real good stuff over in France. Why not hold a big garage sale, make a fortune from the unsuspecting public, and dump all this?ö
ôBecause itÆs not junk.ö Duncan McLeod said patiently for about the fifth time since he and Richie had begun digging in his storage unit. ôAnd if youÆd watch where youÆre putting your feet, youÆd stop bumping into things.ö
ôMac, so, ok, itÆs not junk. CouldnÆt you have found a better place to store it? I mean, a de-wheeled semi is not my idea of the perfect place. ItÆs too narrow to walk and too dark to see these valuable things youÆve got put around here like land mines.ö
The younger man griped as he attempted once again to step forward without taking any of the piles over. A bit over medium height, trim and solid, Richie had dark sandy hair cut short now and a cheerful face his friend had remarked several times that too many girls found attractive.
As usual when he was operating in teacher mode, Richie thought a bit sourly, McLeod didnÆt bother to answer. Mac was a teacher more by example than word. This could make getting an education a pain. Now heÆd reached the side door of the old semi trailer presently serving another existence as a storage unit and unlocked it, pushing it back to let the bright sun in. With the light from both the open tail doors and the newly opened side door pouring in, much of the gloom at either end did vanish. Even the shadows in the middle lightened. It might be possible to find something in here after all.
ôWill that help?ö He asked calmly.
ôYeah, thanksö Richie growled, not particularly mollified. Ransacking a storage unit with Mac had not been first on his list of things to do today, not with Gloria in town. But saying no to Mac was harder than putting Gloria off so here he was, getting his shins barked on MacÆs mementos.
He spotted a group of boxes that might match the rather sketchy description and called, ôJust what does this box weÆre looking for look like anyway? I mean, you said it was smallish and red but I can see at least five like that now.ö
ôThose are Chinese,ö McLeod said, obviously able to see the cluster Richie was pointing to. ôWeÆre looking for one that is a plain color. It should be on top someplace nearer the back than the front and tied closed with red ribbon.ö
ôOK, IÆll keep looking.ö Richie said, stepping carefully around a rather massive crate with one corner jutting into the narrow walkway. ôI still think you ought to at least consider a garage sale though.ö
Richie missed the rather dirty look McLeod threw at the back of his head as the he ducked to look at a box that just might answer the description which was wedged under two others. Yeah, it was red and tied with red ribbon. He tugged carefully on the exposed corner of the box. It moved toward him fairly easily, sliding with minimal scraping against the boxes above, and he pulled it all the way out. As the box came free, the other two on top of it tipped down toward the now empty space below. Richie saw them move and then saw yet another box, this one a rather substantial wooden one suddenly start to slide forward across the first two.
ôShit!ö With one hand occupied with the first box, Richie flung the other out to intercept the sliding box. Before it could hit his hand, it stopped. McLeod had caught it.
ôThanks. ô Richie nodded at the box. ôI wasnÆt sure I could stop it.ö
ôYouÆd have caught it.ö The Scot said quietly. ôItÆs not all that heavy.ö
Duncan was studying the plain box with a look of introspection on his face all too familiar to Richie. It told the young man this was a rather serious piece of his friend and teacherÆs past. So he gave the box a good look himself.
It was a bit over four feet long, maybe ten inches wide and only about five deep. It was absolutely plain but where DuncanÆs hands had brushed the dust away, the dark wood glowed, the grain pattern in it a beautiful swirl. No one whoÆd spent any time around Mac and his things would fail to guess it as a sword case.
ôWhoÆs was it?ö Richie asked softly. He was sure it was no auction purchase or attic find.
ôCallie McAlpin StandhopeÆs.ö McLeod replied as quietly. ôIÆd forgotten IÆd left it here.ö
His hands brushed more of the dust away to reveal a box of stunning beauty. The dovetailed corners were perfectly fitted as was the lid, which sat so tightly and matched grain so well Richie could barely see the parting line in the sides of the box where it opened. The dark wood swirled through out the length of the box and seemed to be deep enough to reach into. Then Mac opened it.
There was indeed a sword in it, lying on what looked like gold velvet, but it was like no other sword Richie had ever seen. The shining black blade was an unusually wide rapier inlaid with gold arabesques and lettering in no language he recognized. A heavy, complicated looking braid of metal, also black, with gold wire twisted along its length and a pair of faceted yellow stones set in the ends formed the straight guard. Black as the rest, the grip was formed by the stylized body of a Western dragon with ribbed wings, scaled stomach and spade tipped tail, all highlighted with more gold flakes. The dragonÆs talons were picked out in a steely metal and its horned and crested head with wide fringed ears formed the pommel. The eyes were set with blue stones that caught the light, giving it an uncanny semblance of life. That semblance was enhanced by the winking red stones set in the nostrils that lent a banked fire aspect to the whole. It was the most fantastic weapon heÆd ever seen.
ôWhatÆs that?!?ö Richie stared at the sword, a bit in awe of the workmanship.
ôDragonÆs Hope,ö Duncan answered with a soft sigh. ôAs it says on the blade in one of those fantasy languages she was so fond of. This is CallieÆs dream sword, built to her very exacting specifications. The blade is Soligen steel, made to order in Germany. The rest was done by a fantasy artist in Chicago. Despite its looks, itÆs quite functional.ö
ôShe was one of us then?ö Richie asked. One of them, an Immortal, someone not quite but perhaps a bit more than human. Like himself and Duncan McLeod. People who could not die for good unless their heads came off their shoulders. People who could, and did, live forever. Until one of their own kind came along who was better with a sword to remove their head and take their power in the spectacle of the Quickening.
ôYes,ö Mac nodded, ôshe was. Young, crazy, full of dreams, ideas. You couldnÆt teach Callie a thing. She already knew it all, and she had it all so carefully planned. Then she met Craig Standhope. All the plans went out the window, along with whatever sense of survival she may ever have had.ö
McLeod closed the case, looked up at him, his head cocked and dark eyes distant. ôShe married Craig, dropped out of the Game. They bought a small dairy farm in southern Wisconsin, adopted two children and raised cows. I think she was very, very happy.ö
ôSo what happened?ö Richie asked as McLeod paused for several seconds, already sure of what heÆd hear. Mac had her sword after all.
ôShe died.ö Duncan said shortly.
It took no genius to see how much Mac blamed himself for that death. Richie almost hissed in exasperation. There were times, like right now, when MacÆs insistence that everything that happened to his friends was his fault was a right royal pain in the ass. It wasnÆt like heÆd been going out, setting this Callie up as a target. HadnÆt he even heard himself just say he couldnÆt teach her anything? That her sense of survival had disappeared when sheÆd met this other guy?
But McLeodÆs dark head was nevertheless bowed over the box, even the ponytail looking limp. And he was brushing the dust off that box like it was dirt on the girlÆs face. This promised to be a very depressing afternoon unless he could somehow snap Mac out of it. Then that dark head came up and he saw the pain in the eyes. Snapping him out of this was going to be a real challenge. Richie mentally kissed all hope of seeing Gloria goodbye.
It was time to get them both out of here. He cast about for a quick change of topic and remembered the red box he was still holding.
He held it up. ôSo why did we come here for this anyway?ö
ôOh,ö Duncan set the sword case down carefully before he took it out of RichieÆs hand to open it. ôThis is sheet music, 1940Æs original blues. Its for Joe, heÆs got a birthday coming.ö
ôRight.ö
When they closed the storage unit, both the music and the sword went with them.
* * * * * * * *
Richie swung into the parking lot at JoeÆs place a bit after eight that evening, later than heÆd hoped to. The place was packed with cars, meaning there would be a crowd inside. He grimaced. He hadnÆt come to get caught in a crowd. The only spot he could find for his bike was wedged in beside a customized Harley Hog. A beautiful black machine, older but in top shape, it boasted the most complete muffler system heÆd ever seen on a bike. Whoever it belonged to wanted a real quiet ride.
He sighed. This parking lot was a lot like the rest of the day had been. Getting back to the dojo had been as gloomy a ride as heÆd ever had and nothing had improved once they were up in the loft Mac called home for now. HeÆd tried every way he knew to get Mac off the subject of this Standhope girl - and he knew a lot of them, Mac had let him farther into his life than almost anyone else besides Tessa - but nothing worked. Finally heÆd just had to walk out before the Highlander threw him out. They had a reputation for being able folk at holding a grudge or a guilt did the Scots, and Duncan McLeod, a Scot to the core of his soul, had been perfecting his skills, especially in guilt, for over four hundred years. It sometimes made getting through to him more than difficult. Still, there was one person who might know Mac better, might be able to reach him, or at least get him to talk it out. Unfortunately, he didnÆt see Joe Dawson anywhere.
He did see Mike, JoeÆs sometime barman and fellow Watcher, although Richie wasnÆt supposed to know about the latter. He waved to Mike as he made his way across the room. The promise of the parking lot was fulfilled inside all right. The place was jammed. It was rather early to have this good a crowd at the bar. And, he grimaced as his ears were suddenly assaulted; it sure wasnÆt this new band drawing them. Whew, these guys were way below JoeÆs usual standards!
But the crowd didnÆt seem to think so. In fact, Richie took a more careful look around; they all seemed to be about the same age. Maybe the draw was this awful band after all.
He was almost to the bar when an alarm only he could feel suddenly shocked through him. He slowed, letting a group of four cut in front of him to the bar as he began to take a casual look around that was anything but. This was different from the usual feeling he had when another Immortal was around. Different but unmistakably the same, almost like the alarm was coming past a layer of thick cotton wool.
No one met his glance. There was no acknowledgment from the other. Yet, as his careful study reached the table closest to the bar and crossed a slender young man with dark auburn hair worn back in a ponytail several inches longer than McLeodÆs, Richie knew heÆd found him.
The other wore the vented black leathers and sturdy high boots of a serious biker. A jacket with the Harley eagle on it hung carefully on the chair back while the owner sat quietly, alternately munching on a burger and reading. He was clearly not carrying a sword or any other long weapon. Richie could see no evidence of any weapon at all, not even a knife, although several could be concealed easily in those boot tops.
When the object of his study looked up, the Immortal blinked. This guy was one of the most exotically handsome men heÆd ever seen. He was darkly tanned and the lines of his sharply triangular face were clean with high, wide set cheekbones that wouldnÆt have looked out of place on an Indian although he was unmistakably white. The nose was thin and classically fine as was the well proportioned mouth below. His jaw was strong but narrow and the large, upswept eyes a vivid green, bright enough to look artificial but he could see they werenÆt. All this kid needed was tall pointed ears to be taken for a genuine elf. Richie almost felt sorry for him. Looks like that were rarely a blessing, no matter what some might think.
Those vivid eyes glanced around, passed across his own gaze with no acknowledgment. Richie was a bit puzzled. Immortals didnÆt just ignore one another. Was he getting this wrong? Was this the wrong guy? It sure didnÆt feel like any mistake.
Richie moved up to the bar, deliberately taking the seat closest to the elf. It got him no reaction. Yet this close, he was positive the other was one of his own kind. Maybe that cotton wool impression meant the kid wasnÆt getting the internal message. A latent Immortal? One who would become one of them but hadnÆt had his first death yet? It would explain the lack of response all right. For a long moment, Richie wished Mac was here to clue him in. The Highlander had the experience he lacked with this business and could confirm or deny the guess.
HeÆd been covertly studying the elf for several minutes, a bit amazed that the other didnÆt seem to realize he was being watched when his internal alarm shrilled again. This time there was no cotton wool involved. And when he looked back toward the door, his gaze was immediately met. This new guy was unmistakably Immortal and he wasnÆt playing any games. A big man with a huge head, homely as mud, and arms long as a gorilla, the other strode across the crowded floor like he owned it. And the crowd seemed to sense the potential for real trouble here. No one was obvious about it but somehow the crowd just casually parted to let him through. He came directly up to stand beside Richie, his sardonic gaze raking the younger Immortal from head to foot.
ôNames Al Gardener. You Ryan?ö The voice was a husky growl, suiting his appearance like few peopleÆs voices did. He kept it quiet, as Immortals always did when giving a Challenge in a public place, surrounded by unsuspecting mortals. Richie disliked him immediately.
ôYeah, IÆm Richie Ryan. Do we have business?ö He held his own voice low enough to keep it from carrying beyond this Gardener ape.
ôWe do.ö Gardener grinned, displaying teeth that looked like they hadnÆt seen a toothbrush in a century or more. ôIÆll see you tonight, æbout ten.ö
Richie stared right back, holding his own eyes level and cold despite a rising nausea the otherÆs breath was causing. ôWhere?ö
ôBehind the band shell in Lapham Park. There wonÆt be any cops around there then.ö Gardener, seeming to feel the whole business concluded, turned to go, then turned back, his grin going evil. ôYou donÆt show, IÆll find you.ö
Richie flushed angrily. ôDonÆt worry; you wonÆt have to look far.ö
Gardener snorted contemptuously. ôDonÆt you worry, boy. IÆll make it quick.ö
ôLike hell you will.ö Richie hissed at the otherÆs departing back, too smart to let himself get into a public argument but needing to vent his anger all the same.
He glanced at the almost elf, but he was back to reading and didnÆt seem to have noticed a thing. A bit frustrated, a bit angry, more than a bit concerned by the unexpected Challenge, Richie settled for ordering dinner. He did ask about the band. Friends of a good buddy of JoeÆs niece, Mike told him. This explained how theyÆd gotten the gig and why the crowd was so young. He hoped Joe wouldnÆt ask them back. The elf left before he finished dinner so he didnÆt get a chance to talk to him either. Nor did Joe show despite his deliberately stretching his meal until he was almost going to be late meeting Gardener.
* * * * * * * *
Duncan sat in the loft alone at last. Richie had left him only after spending hours pestering him. The only reason he hadnÆt thrown the younger man out was his obvious concern. His painfully obvious concern. It had been a real relief to have him take his too open efforts to be cheerful away.
Unfortunately, this left McLeod all alone with his own too vivid memories, some of which heÆd managed to avoid for almost twenty years. Cleaning DragonÆs Hope led him back over those yesterdays. He saw her again in his mindÆs eye, a young, fiery blond, headstrong, overconfident, charming, witty, graceful, and dead.
The blue topaz eyes of the dragon head pommel filled his vision for a moment. When they receded, he was no longer seeing the present. He was at the WorldCon hotel. It was 1971. Callie stood before him, a trim pixie dressed in brown leather pants and a matching tunic pulled over an emerald green shirt with long full sleeves, holding up her brand new sword for his inspection. Around them, the seemingly endless flow of people in similarly fantastic outfits went by without giving the two Immortals more than a passing glance. The few who did pause were looking at the sword, most with admiration mixed with envy.
ôSo what do you think, eh, Duncan? IsnÆt she great? Best German steel you can buy and I love the work on the mountings.ö
ôAh, donÆt you think this is a bit conspicuous? ô Duncan replied carefully, unsure how to deal with both Callie and this whole science fiction crowd.
Some of these people were outright weird. HeÆd been met almost at the door by one, clearly not well-regarded by the rest here, whoÆd offered him a piece of foil to put on his head to keep the Venusians out of his thoughts. He was not a fan of most science fiction and wouldnÆt have come here if she hadnÆt insisted this was the only place sheÆd meet him. It hadnÆt been any help to his nerves to realize he was now surrounded by the one group of mortals most likely to believe in the existence of the Immortals. He was getting edgy just listening to some of the things they already believed in and it came out a bit too clearly as he tried to reason with the girl.
ôI mean, yes, itÆs beautiful, but how do you expect to carry it around every day? WhatÆll you do if youÆre Challenged? YouÆll never get it out in time. The horns and ears on that thing are just made to hang up on your coat. You canÆt spend your whole life at some science fiction or fantasy convention either. YouÆve got to earn a living somehow.ö
ôDo you know how well off Dad left me?ö She replied sharply, plainly exasperated at his lack of gushing approval. ôNo, I donÆt have to earn a living. Not for years and years. And if my lawyers and investment people are clever, I may never need to. So forget being so super practical for a while, eh? Just tell me what you really think of DragonÆs Hope.ö
ôOf what?ö Duncan was a bit exasperated himself.
Trying to get Callie McAlpin to understand just what Immortality really meant was sort of like trying to empty the ocean with a tin cup, a futile ambition. She was a bright kid but if she didnÆt want to know something, it wasnÆt allowed to penetrate her mind. She adamantly refused to accept the murderous reality of the Game. She wouldnÆt take sword training seriously either. For her, it was a hobby. Callie would not recognize how dependent on those skills her life was going to be. He understood though, why Conner had felt he was the only one who might reach her. His lack of success, evidenced by her pride in this extravagantly impractical weapon, depressed him.
ôThe sword, McLeod, your honest opinion of the sword.ö She growled. ôAnd donÆt bother to tell me sheÆs overdone. ThatÆs all my kendo sensei could think of to say.ö
ôWell,ö the Highlander forced his attention to focus on the sword, looking the weapon over much more carefully than he had when she dragged it out of the over decorated scabbard, ôhe does have a point. Aside from catching on your coat, the pommel could be a hazard to your hand if your grip slips too low. Then there are the wings. Those folded wings are too smooth to give you a solid hold if you have to use it in wet conditions or if your hands sweat badly. The scales on the stomach will help, of course, but the wing area is greater than the stomach area, so I doubt theyÆll help enough. HowÆs the balance?ö
Callie held the sword out, inviting him to try it for himself. McLeod almost shook his head to refuse, she wouldnÆt learn what that kind of trust meant between Immortals either, then took the blade instead. After all, they were in a very public place; the gesture could not hold the significance it would in more private circumstances.
He was pleasantly surprised to find it was a well balanced weapon after all. With all the decoration, heÆd expected it to be top heavy. He moved it in a slow, gentle arc, well aware of the surrounding crowd, then tried holding it at different angles. While none of these were a substitute for actually trying it in a kata, the balance remained good no matter how he turned it. He gave it back to its proud owner with honest praise for the feel of it in the hand. Callie beamed.
Duncan blinked. The corridor of the world science fiction convention hotel was gone. Now the two of them were standing on a windy hill, Holstein cattle grazing around them, overlooking a small hollow and a tidy farmstead nestled there. Callie was still a pixie but now the pixie wore blue jeans, a plaid work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a wedding ring. It was high summer in southern Wisconsin in 1972.
ôSo,ö she said, one hand outflung to direct his gaze across the land. ôThatÆs the tour. What do you think of Standhope Farm?ö
ôYou and Craig have a good place here.ö Duncan replied honestly, trying at the same time to suppress frustration. Callie hadnÆt changed; she was still as enthusiastic as ever. And as determinedly blind to the realities of Immortality. The farm was as good a place as heÆd ever seen but the two of them were not making any allowance for the threat other Immortals could pose to them both. And now theyÆd adopted children! Worse, the babies were not destined to be mortals.
He tried one more time to reach her. ôBut, Callie, youÆre an Immortal. The Game will find you. Believe me; IÆve tried dropping out myself. The Game always finds us. And it most always kills the mortals around us first when it does. You and Craig are adults, you can decide on your own risks. I donÆt deny you both the right to choose whatever risks you want. I do question whatever persuaded you to adopt those two children. You know what theyÆll be some day. How could you put them at risk too?ö
ôBecause of what theyÆll be.ö She turned dead serious eyes up at him. ôI thought you of all people might understand. There was no one to raise me properly, to prepare me to be an Immortal. Mom and Dad loved me and they did their best for me. But they were both mortal. They knew nothing of Immortals and what we need to survive. Ye gods, just think of some of the things you told me about your own first years as an Immortal!ö
CallieÆs stance shifted, becoming defensive and defiant. She had to know, at least on some gut level, how dangerous this was. Yet her next words made it very plain the knowledge was being refused.
ôCraig and IÆve decided thatÆs wrong, that a kid deserves to have the training to at least have a shot at making it. So when I found them, he was as glad about it as I was. I just assumed you would be too. You think they should maybe wander around seven or so years hopelessly confused like you did before that Conner guy tripped over you and pointed you in the right direction? And what if they donÆt find a teacher in time, eh? Thought about that? I have! WhatÆs so wrong about this, eh? WhatÆs so wrong?ö
Duncan could only shake his head as too many of the dead crowded his mindÆs eye. ôYou canÆt protect them. You can never protect them. If one of us comes for you and wins, theyÆre defenseless. Callie, Immortals arenÆt meant for families, for children. Maybe thatÆs why we canÆt have them, to keep us from falling into the temptation and going mad from the grief when that lesson gets driven home.ö
She turned away from him with finality, a refusal he knew heÆd not get past. ôI say youÆre wrong. I say we can do it. And Craig and I are going to try. Damn it, someone should have tried for all of us!ö
He lied to her then, lied to keep her from cutting him off if she or the children should ever need his help. ôMaybe youÆre right.ö
The joy his lie brought to her face cut him to the heart.
The sword clattered down onto his desk, jerking him back into the present. He could feel the tears running down his face. It did not surprise him to find he was crying. Callie had been worth crying for, then and now.
Duncan wiped his eyes, checked both DragonÆs Hope and the desk for any damage. Thankful when he found none, he decided he needed to get out. To go somewhere, almost anywhere where there would be people. After over four hundred years, heÆd gotten to know himself fairly well. He could feel the onset of depression lurking at the edge of his mind. If he let this get to him, heÆd be depressed for days. He put the newly cleaned blade back in itÆs now spotless case, grabbed his own katana and coat and went looking for a happier atmosphere.
Unfortunately, Joe DawsonÆs place, his first choice, wasnÆt an improvement. Parking had been a challenge and the bar was crowded with noisy kids in their early twenties - an age group Joe didnÆt usually draw in any numbers. The air was almost stuffy and the new band definitely wasnÆt up to the usual standards. Worse, Joe himself wasnÆt there, although his barman promised he was only out for a few minutes. If Mike hadnÆt come in from the back room just then, looking worried nearly to death, McLeod would have gone. But the WatcherÆs concern bothered the Immortal, especially when MikeÆs eyes found him and immediately sought something else to look at.
In general, Duncan McLeod preferred to give Watchers other than Joe as wide a berth as possible. While he and they werenÆt active enemies right now, that situation might, and sometimes had, changed with no notice. He didnÆt want any extra attention from those mortals who dedicated themselves to observing and recording, but never interfering in, the lives and deaths of the Immortals scattered through out the human midst. Yet when one he knew saw him and immediately began to avoid him, Duncan had no trouble deciding the situation might concern him. So he ordered a glass of JoeÆs best single malt, found an empty chair near the back door, and pretended to be absorbed by the second rate band. He doubted he was fooling anyone, but in the strange and delicate balance he had reached with the Watchers, appearances counted.
Because he was keeping an eye on the back door, Duncan saw Joe before Mike did. His friend was looking harried tonight, like maybe things werenÆt going as smoothly as usual. The glance he gave the band suggested at least part of the problem. Vigorous, still in his forties, his salt and pepper hair and beard suggested a decadeÆs more years than he could actually claim. The cane, so much a part of him McLeod couldnÆt visualize him without it, was the only readily visible sign of his long ago encounter with a land mine. A man of integrity, warmth, and dry wit, Joe Dawson was someone to depend on. The Immortal cherished the friendship they had managed to share despite their differences. Then Mike saw Joe and hurried over before he could even clear the doorway.
He shifted his position just enough to be able to watch them out of the corner of his eye without being obvious about it. Whatever Mike had to say, Joe was plainly both startled and bothered. When Mike made a small gesture in his direction, confirming this did involve him, the Immortal was glad heÆd stayed. He was more than a bit surprised when Joe came directly over to grab another chair and sit beside him as soon as Mike was finished. Joe did not rub their friendship into other WatcherÆs faces, not even those like Mike who were well aware of it.
ôWe may have a problem.ö Joe said with no preliminaries, catching Duncan by surprise again with his abrupt seriousness. ôMike logged in a new Watcher today. The kid had orders to take a temporary replacement position. Trouble is, the Immortal heÆs supposed to Watch has no permanent Watcher assigned to him yet who could be temporarily out of action. Mike got a glance at the orders, they looked official all right, but they were oddly incomplete. He just now got through to our Western office to check it out Guess what. TheyÆre a fake. The people back at Western Regional are having a fit. It seems this kid failed his field test three times and was set to be assigned to Research. You Immortals apparently spot him coming a mile off. HeÆd never draw an emergency assignment, not with a liability like that. Then thereÆs a small complication, who I was warned about a few days ago, that walked in tonight too.ö
ôWhere is this my business, Joe?ö Duncan asked, both intrigued and bothered. ôYou donÆt make a habit of telling me Watcher secrets.ö
ôYeah, I know.ö Joe Dawson replied grimly. ôBut the Immortal involved is Richie. Makes me wonder if thereÆs more to this than meets the eye.ö
McLeod sat up straight. ôJust whatÆs happened?ö
ôSeems our kid, his nameÆs Tony, checked in about seven this evening. Richie came in a bit after eight. Now, and this bothered Mike a lot, Richie apparently took immediate notice of our guy. Mike says he looked him over very carefully while pretending to be studying the band. This was just like the reports say other Immortals have reacted. Mike didnÆt think the kid knew Richie noticed him.ö
Joe shifted his cane, looking sidelong at Duncan, who kept his face blank. There were several reasons Richie might have noticed the Watcher, most heÆd just as soon not discuss, even with Joe, until he could confirm which one it was with Ryan.
With no reaction forthcoming, Joe continued. ôTheyÆd been ignoring each other for a bit when the complication came in. Mac, Al Gardener is in town.ö
ôWhen is the Challenge?ö McLeod kept his voice even only with an effort.
Gardener was bad news, very bad news. Richie Ryan was far better with a sword than his few years as an Immortal would suggest but Gardener was a specialist, an assassin for hire who killed other Immortals for money. He was not someone Duncan was sure Richie stood any kind of honest chance against. Worse, Gardener had a name as a cheat.
ôTonight, in less than an hour, behind the band shell at Lapham Park.ö Dawson said tightly. He liked the brash young Immortal too, as McLeod was well aware. He also clearly knew GardenerÆs reputation. Perhaps heÆd been doing some reading in the Watcher records.
ôMike says our kid left before Richie, but he knows he had a map, so I suspect heÆll be there.ö
ôI think we should be there too.ö Duncan said, considering the situation and finding no good answers. ôYou may have something to Watch.ö
ôYeah,ö Joe agreed grimly. ôBut I can hope not.ö
ôRide with me?ö Duncan asked.
ôSure.ö Dawson agreed. ôMikeÆll look after the bar for me.ö
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The Bad Mans
ôOuch!ö Richie Ryan danced back on one foot, hand clasped to a well bruised shin. ôWhy do you keep all this junk in here anyway, Mac? I thought you had all the real good stuff over in France. Why not hold a big garage sale, make a fortune from the unsuspecting public, and dump all this?ö
ôBecause itÆs not junk.ö Duncan McLeod said patiently for about the fifth time since he and Richie had begun digging in his storage unit. ôAnd if youÆd watch where youÆre putting your feet, youÆd stop bumping into things.ö
ôMac, so, ok, itÆs not junk. CouldnÆt you have found a better place to store it? I mean, a de-wheeled semi is not my idea of the perfect place. ItÆs too narrow to walk and too dark to see these valuable things youÆve got put around here like land mines.ö
The younger man griped as he attempted once again to step forward without taking any of the piles over. A bit over medium height, trim and solid, Richie had dark sandy hair cut short now and a cheerful face his friend had remarked several times that too many girls found attractive.
As usual when he was operating in teacher mode, Richie thought a bit sourly, McLeod didnÆt bother to answer. Mac was a teacher more by example than word. This could make getting an education a pain. Now heÆd reached the side door of the old semi trailer presently serving another existence as a storage unit and unlocked it, pushing it back to let the bright sun in. With the light from both the open tail doors and the newly opened side door pouring in, much of the gloom at either end did vanish. Even the shadows in the middle lightened. It might be possible to find something in here after all.
ôWill that help?ö He asked calmly.
ôYeah, thanksö Richie growled, not particularly mollified. Ransacking a storage unit with Mac had not been first on his list of things to do today, not with Gloria in town. But saying no to Mac was harder than putting Gloria off so here he was, getting his shins barked on MacÆs mementos.
He spotted a group of boxes that might match the rather sketchy description and called, ôJust what does this box weÆre looking for look like anyway? I mean, you said it was smallish and red but I can see at least five like that now.ö
ôThose are Chinese,ö McLeod said, obviously able to see the cluster Richie was pointing to. ôWeÆre looking for one that is a plain color. It should be on top someplace nearer the back than the front and tied closed with red ribbon.ö
ôOK, IÆll keep looking.ö Richie said, stepping carefully around a rather massive crate with one corner jutting into the narrow walkway. ôI still think you ought to at least consider a garage sale though.ö
Richie missed the rather dirty look McLeod threw at the back of his head as the he ducked to look at a box that just might answer the description which was wedged under two others. Yeah, it was red and tied with red ribbon. He tugged carefully on the exposed corner of the box. It moved toward him fairly easily, sliding with minimal scraping against the boxes above, and he pulled it all the way out. As the box came free, the other two on top of it tipped down toward the now empty space below. Richie saw them move and then saw yet another box, this one a rather substantial wooden one suddenly start to slide forward across the first two.
ôShit!ö With one hand occupied with the first box, Richie flung the other out to intercept the sliding box. Before it could hit his hand, it stopped. McLeod had caught it.
ôThanks. ô Richie nodded at the box. ôI wasnÆt sure I could stop it.ö
ôYouÆd have caught it.ö The Scot said quietly. ôItÆs not all that heavy.ö
Duncan was studying the plain box with a look of introspection on his face all too familiar to Richie. It told the young man this was a rather serious piece of his friend and teacherÆs past. So he gave the box a good look himself.
It was a bit over four feet long, maybe ten inches wide and only about five deep. It was absolutely plain but where DuncanÆs hands had brushed the dust away, the dark wood glowed, the grain pattern in it a beautiful swirl. No one whoÆd spent any time around Mac and his things would fail to guess it as a sword case.
ôWhoÆs was it?ö Richie asked softly. He was sure it was no auction purchase or attic find.
ôCallie McAlpin StandhopeÆs.ö McLeod replied as quietly. ôIÆd forgotten IÆd left it here.ö
His hands brushed more of the dust away to reveal a box of stunning beauty. The dovetailed corners were perfectly fitted as was the lid, which sat so tightly and matched grain so well Richie could barely see the parting line in the sides of the box where it opened. The dark wood swirled through out the length of the box and seemed to be deep enough to reach into. Then Mac opened it.
There was indeed a sword in it, lying on what looked like gold velvet, but it was like no other sword Richie had ever seen. The shining black blade was an unusually wide rapier inlaid with gold arabesques and lettering in no language he recognized. A heavy, complicated looking braid of metal, also black, with gold wire twisted along its length and a pair of faceted yellow stones set in the ends formed the straight guard. Black as the rest, the grip was formed by the stylized body of a Western dragon with ribbed wings, scaled stomach and spade tipped tail, all highlighted with more gold flakes. The dragonÆs talons were picked out in a steely metal and its horned and crested head with wide fringed ears formed the pommel. The eyes were set with blue stones that caught the light, giving it an uncanny semblance of life. That semblance was enhanced by the winking red stones set in the nostrils that lent a banked fire aspect to the whole. It was the most fantastic weapon heÆd ever seen.
ôWhatÆs that?!?ö Richie stared at the sword, a bit in awe of the workmanship.
ôDragonÆs Hope,ö Duncan answered with a soft sigh. ôAs it says on the blade in one of those fantasy languages she was so fond of. This is CallieÆs dream sword, built to her very exacting specifications. The blade is Soligen steel, made to order in Germany. The rest was done by a fantasy artist in Chicago. Despite its looks, itÆs quite functional.ö
ôShe was one of us then?ö Richie asked. One of them, an Immortal, someone not quite but perhaps a bit more than human. Like himself and Duncan McLeod. People who could not die for good unless their heads came off their shoulders. People who could, and did, live forever. Until one of their own kind came along who was better with a sword to remove their head and take their power in the spectacle of the Quickening.
ôYes,ö Mac nodded, ôshe was. Young, crazy, full of dreams, ideas. You couldnÆt teach Callie a thing. She already knew it all, and she had it all so carefully planned. Then she met Craig Standhope. All the plans went out the window, along with whatever sense of survival she may ever have had.ö
McLeod closed the case, looked up at him, his head cocked and dark eyes distant. ôShe married Craig, dropped out of the Game. They bought a small dairy farm in southern Wisconsin, adopted two children and raised cows. I think she was very, very happy.ö
ôSo what happened?ö Richie asked as McLeod paused for several seconds, already sure of what heÆd hear. Mac had her sword after all.
ôShe died.ö Duncan said shortly.
It took no genius to see how much Mac blamed himself for that death. Richie almost hissed in exasperation. There were times, like right now, when MacÆs insistence that everything that happened to his friends was his fault was a right royal pain in the ass. It wasnÆt like heÆd been going out, setting this Callie up as a target. HadnÆt he even heard himself just say he couldnÆt teach her anything? That her sense of survival had disappeared when sheÆd met this other guy?
But McLeodÆs dark head was nevertheless bowed over the box, even the ponytail looking limp. And he was brushing the dust off that box like it was dirt on the girlÆs face. This promised to be a very depressing afternoon unless he could somehow snap Mac out of it. Then that dark head came up and he saw the pain in the eyes. Snapping him out of this was going to be a real challenge. Richie mentally kissed all hope of seeing Gloria goodbye.
It was time to get them both out of here. He cast about for a quick change of topic and remembered the red box he was still holding.
He held it up. ôSo why did we come here for this anyway?ö
ôOh,ö Duncan set the sword case down carefully before he took it out of RichieÆs hand to open it. ôThis is sheet music, 1940Æs original blues. Its for Joe, heÆs got a birthday coming.ö
ôRight.ö
When they closed the storage unit, both the music and the sword went with them.
* * * * * * * *
Richie swung into the parking lot at JoeÆs place a bit after eight that evening, later than heÆd hoped to. The place was packed with cars, meaning there would be a crowd inside. He grimaced. He hadnÆt come to get caught in a crowd. The only spot he could find for his bike was wedged in beside a customized Harley Hog. A beautiful black machine, older but in top shape, it boasted the most complete muffler system heÆd ever seen on a bike. Whoever it belonged to wanted a real quiet ride.
He sighed. This parking lot was a lot like the rest of the day had been. Getting back to the dojo had been as gloomy a ride as heÆd ever had and nothing had improved once they were up in the loft Mac called home for now. HeÆd tried every way he knew to get Mac off the subject of this Standhope girl - and he knew a lot of them, Mac had let him farther into his life than almost anyone else besides Tessa - but nothing worked. Finally heÆd just had to walk out before the Highlander threw him out. They had a reputation for being able folk at holding a grudge or a guilt did the Scots, and Duncan McLeod, a Scot to the core of his soul, had been perfecting his skills, especially in guilt, for over four hundred years. It sometimes made getting through to him more than difficult. Still, there was one person who might know Mac better, might be able to reach him, or at least get him to talk it out. Unfortunately, he didnÆt see Joe Dawson anywhere.
He did see Mike, JoeÆs sometime barman and fellow Watcher, although Richie wasnÆt supposed to know about the latter. He waved to Mike as he made his way across the room. The promise of the parking lot was fulfilled inside all right. The place was jammed. It was rather early to have this good a crowd at the bar. And, he grimaced as his ears were suddenly assaulted; it sure wasnÆt this new band drawing them. Whew, these guys were way below JoeÆs usual standards!
But the crowd didnÆt seem to think so. In fact, Richie took a more careful look around; they all seemed to be about the same age. Maybe the draw was this awful band after all.
He was almost to the bar when an alarm only he could feel suddenly shocked through him. He slowed, letting a group of four cut in front of him to the bar as he began to take a casual look around that was anything but. This was different from the usual feeling he had when another Immortal was around. Different but unmistakably the same, almost like the alarm was coming past a layer of thick cotton wool.
No one met his glance. There was no acknowledgment from the other. Yet, as his careful study reached the table closest to the bar and crossed a slender young man with dark auburn hair worn back in a ponytail several inches longer than McLeodÆs, Richie knew heÆd found him.
The other wore the vented black leathers and sturdy high boots of a serious biker. A jacket with the Harley eagle on it hung carefully on the chair back while the owner sat quietly, alternately munching on a burger and reading. He was clearly not carrying a sword or any other long weapon. Richie could see no evidence of any weapon at all, not even a knife, although several could be concealed easily in those boot tops.
When the object of his study looked up, the Immortal blinked. This guy was one of the most exotically handsome men heÆd ever seen. He was darkly tanned and the lines of his sharply triangular face were clean with high, wide set cheekbones that wouldnÆt have looked out of place on an Indian although he was unmistakably white. The nose was thin and classically fine as was the well proportioned mouth below. His jaw was strong but narrow and the large, upswept eyes a vivid green, bright enough to look artificial but he could see they werenÆt. All this kid needed was tall pointed ears to be taken for a genuine elf. Richie almost felt sorry for him. Looks like that were rarely a blessing, no matter what some might think.
Those vivid eyes glanced around, passed across his own gaze with no acknowledgment. Richie was a bit puzzled. Immortals didnÆt just ignore one another. Was he getting this wrong? Was this the wrong guy? It sure didnÆt feel like any mistake.
Richie moved up to the bar, deliberately taking the seat closest to the elf. It got him no reaction. Yet this close, he was positive the other was one of his own kind. Maybe that cotton wool impression meant the kid wasnÆt getting the internal message. A latent Immortal? One who would become one of them but hadnÆt had his first death yet? It would explain the lack of response all right. For a long moment, Richie wished Mac was here to clue him in. The Highlander had the experience he lacked with this business and could confirm or deny the guess.
HeÆd been covertly studying the elf for several minutes, a bit amazed that the other didnÆt seem to realize he was being watched when his internal alarm shrilled again. This time there was no cotton wool involved. And when he looked back toward the door, his gaze was immediately met. This new guy was unmistakably Immortal and he wasnÆt playing any games. A big man with a huge head, homely as mud, and arms long as a gorilla, the other strode across the crowded floor like he owned it. And the crowd seemed to sense the potential for real trouble here. No one was obvious about it but somehow the crowd just casually parted to let him through. He came directly up to stand beside Richie, his sardonic gaze raking the younger Immortal from head to foot.
ôNames Al Gardener. You Ryan?ö The voice was a husky growl, suiting his appearance like few peopleÆs voices did. He kept it quiet, as Immortals always did when giving a Challenge in a public place, surrounded by unsuspecting mortals. Richie disliked him immediately.
ôYeah, IÆm Richie Ryan. Do we have business?ö He held his own voice low enough to keep it from carrying beyond this Gardener ape.
ôWe do.ö Gardener grinned, displaying teeth that looked like they hadnÆt seen a toothbrush in a century or more. ôIÆll see you tonight, æbout ten.ö
Richie stared right back, holding his own eyes level and cold despite a rising nausea the otherÆs breath was causing. ôWhere?ö
ôBehind the band shell in Lapham Park. There wonÆt be any cops around there then.ö Gardener, seeming to feel the whole business concluded, turned to go, then turned back, his grin going evil. ôYou donÆt show, IÆll find you.ö
Richie flushed angrily. ôDonÆt worry; you wonÆt have to look far.ö
Gardener snorted contemptuously. ôDonÆt you worry, boy. IÆll make it quick.ö
ôLike hell you will.ö Richie hissed at the otherÆs departing back, too smart to let himself get into a public argument but needing to vent his anger all the same.
He glanced at the almost elf, but he was back to reading and didnÆt seem to have noticed a thing. A bit frustrated, a bit angry, more than a bit concerned by the unexpected Challenge, Richie settled for ordering dinner. He did ask about the band. Friends of a good buddy of JoeÆs niece, Mike told him. This explained how theyÆd gotten the gig and why the crowd was so young. He hoped Joe wouldnÆt ask them back. The elf left before he finished dinner so he didnÆt get a chance to talk to him either. Nor did Joe show despite his deliberately stretching his meal until he was almost going to be late meeting Gardener.
* * * * * * * *
Duncan sat in the loft alone at last. Richie had left him only after spending hours pestering him. The only reason he hadnÆt thrown the younger man out was his obvious concern. His painfully obvious concern. It had been a real relief to have him take his too open efforts to be cheerful away.
Unfortunately, this left McLeod all alone with his own too vivid memories, some of which heÆd managed to avoid for almost twenty years. Cleaning DragonÆs Hope led him back over those yesterdays. He saw her again in his mindÆs eye, a young, fiery blond, headstrong, overconfident, charming, witty, graceful, and dead.
The blue topaz eyes of the dragon head pommel filled his vision for a moment. When they receded, he was no longer seeing the present. He was at the WorldCon hotel. It was 1971. Callie stood before him, a trim pixie dressed in brown leather pants and a matching tunic pulled over an emerald green shirt with long full sleeves, holding up her brand new sword for his inspection. Around them, the seemingly endless flow of people in similarly fantastic outfits went by without giving the two Immortals more than a passing glance. The few who did pause were looking at the sword, most with admiration mixed with envy.
ôSo what do you think, eh, Duncan? IsnÆt she great? Best German steel you can buy and I love the work on the mountings.ö
ôAh, donÆt you think this is a bit conspicuous? ô Duncan replied carefully, unsure how to deal with both Callie and this whole science fiction crowd.
Some of these people were outright weird. HeÆd been met almost at the door by one, clearly not well-regarded by the rest here, whoÆd offered him a piece of foil to put on his head to keep the Venusians out of his thoughts. He was not a fan of most science fiction and wouldnÆt have come here if she hadnÆt insisted this was the only place sheÆd meet him. It hadnÆt been any help to his nerves to realize he was now surrounded by the one group of mortals most likely to believe in the existence of the Immortals. He was getting edgy just listening to some of the things they already believed in and it came out a bit too clearly as he tried to reason with the girl.
ôI mean, yes, itÆs beautiful, but how do you expect to carry it around every day? WhatÆll you do if youÆre Challenged? YouÆll never get it out in time. The horns and ears on that thing are just made to hang up on your coat. You canÆt spend your whole life at some science fiction or fantasy convention either. YouÆve got to earn a living somehow.ö
ôDo you know how well off Dad left me?ö She replied sharply, plainly exasperated at his lack of gushing approval. ôNo, I donÆt have to earn a living. Not for years and years. And if my lawyers and investment people are clever, I may never need to. So forget being so super practical for a while, eh? Just tell me what you really think of DragonÆs Hope.ö
ôOf what?ö Duncan was a bit exasperated himself.
Trying to get Callie McAlpin to understand just what Immortality really meant was sort of like trying to empty the ocean with a tin cup, a futile ambition. She was a bright kid but if she didnÆt want to know something, it wasnÆt allowed to penetrate her mind. She adamantly refused to accept the murderous reality of the Game. She wouldnÆt take sword training seriously either. For her, it was a hobby. Callie would not recognize how dependent on those skills her life was going to be. He understood though, why Conner had felt he was the only one who might reach her. His lack of success, evidenced by her pride in this extravagantly impractical weapon, depressed him.
ôThe sword, McLeod, your honest opinion of the sword.ö She growled. ôAnd donÆt bother to tell me sheÆs overdone. ThatÆs all my kendo sensei could think of to say.ö
ôWell,ö the Highlander forced his attention to focus on the sword, looking the weapon over much more carefully than he had when she dragged it out of the over decorated scabbard, ôhe does have a point. Aside from catching on your coat, the pommel could be a hazard to your hand if your grip slips too low. Then there are the wings. Those folded wings are too smooth to give you a solid hold if you have to use it in wet conditions or if your hands sweat badly. The scales on the stomach will help, of course, but the wing area is greater than the stomach area, so I doubt theyÆll help enough. HowÆs the balance?ö
Callie held the sword out, inviting him to try it for himself. McLeod almost shook his head to refuse, she wouldnÆt learn what that kind of trust meant between Immortals either, then took the blade instead. After all, they were in a very public place; the gesture could not hold the significance it would in more private circumstances.
He was pleasantly surprised to find it was a well balanced weapon after all. With all the decoration, heÆd expected it to be top heavy. He moved it in a slow, gentle arc, well aware of the surrounding crowd, then tried holding it at different angles. While none of these were a substitute for actually trying it in a kata, the balance remained good no matter how he turned it. He gave it back to its proud owner with honest praise for the feel of it in the hand. Callie beamed.
Duncan blinked. The corridor of the world science fiction convention hotel was gone. Now the two of them were standing on a windy hill, Holstein cattle grazing around them, overlooking a small hollow and a tidy farmstead nestled there. Callie was still a pixie but now the pixie wore blue jeans, a plaid work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a wedding ring. It was high summer in southern Wisconsin in 1972.
ôSo,ö she said, one hand outflung to direct his gaze across the land. ôThatÆs the tour. What do you think of Standhope Farm?ö
ôYou and Craig have a good place here.ö Duncan replied honestly, trying at the same time to suppress frustration. Callie hadnÆt changed; she was still as enthusiastic as ever. And as determinedly blind to the realities of Immortality. The farm was as good a place as heÆd ever seen but the two of them were not making any allowance for the threat other Immortals could pose to them both. And now theyÆd adopted children! Worse, the babies were not destined to be mortals.
He tried one more time to reach her. ôBut, Callie, youÆre an Immortal. The Game will find you. Believe me; IÆve tried dropping out myself. The Game always finds us. And it most always kills the mortals around us first when it does. You and Craig are adults, you can decide on your own risks. I donÆt deny you both the right to choose whatever risks you want. I do question whatever persuaded you to adopt those two children. You know what theyÆll be some day. How could you put them at risk too?ö
ôBecause of what theyÆll be.ö She turned dead serious eyes up at him. ôI thought you of all people might understand. There was no one to raise me properly, to prepare me to be an Immortal. Mom and Dad loved me and they did their best for me. But they were both mortal. They knew nothing of Immortals and what we need to survive. Ye gods, just think of some of the things you told me about your own first years as an Immortal!ö
CallieÆs stance shifted, becoming defensive and defiant. She had to know, at least on some gut level, how dangerous this was. Yet her next words made it very plain the knowledge was being refused.
ôCraig and IÆve decided thatÆs wrong, that a kid deserves to have the training to at least have a shot at making it. So when I found them, he was as glad about it as I was. I just assumed you would be too. You think they should maybe wander around seven or so years hopelessly confused like you did before that Conner guy tripped over you and pointed you in the right direction? And what if they donÆt find a teacher in time, eh? Thought about that? I have! WhatÆs so wrong about this, eh? WhatÆs so wrong?ö
Duncan could only shake his head as too many of the dead crowded his mindÆs eye. ôYou canÆt protect them. You can never protect them. If one of us comes for you and wins, theyÆre defenseless. Callie, Immortals arenÆt meant for families, for children. Maybe thatÆs why we canÆt have them, to keep us from falling into the temptation and going mad from the grief when that lesson gets driven home.ö
She turned away from him with finality, a refusal he knew heÆd not get past. ôI say youÆre wrong. I say we can do it. And Craig and I are going to try. Damn it, someone should have tried for all of us!ö
He lied to her then, lied to keep her from cutting him off if she or the children should ever need his help. ôMaybe youÆre right.ö
The joy his lie brought to her face cut him to the heart.
The sword clattered down onto his desk, jerking him back into the present. He could feel the tears running down his face. It did not surprise him to find he was crying. Callie had been worth crying for, then and now.
Duncan wiped his eyes, checked both DragonÆs Hope and the desk for any damage. Thankful when he found none, he decided he needed to get out. To go somewhere, almost anywhere where there would be people. After over four hundred years, heÆd gotten to know himself fairly well. He could feel the onset of depression lurking at the edge of his mind. If he let this get to him, heÆd be depressed for days. He put the newly cleaned blade back in itÆs now spotless case, grabbed his own katana and coat and went looking for a happier atmosphere.
Unfortunately, Joe DawsonÆs place, his first choice, wasnÆt an improvement. Parking had been a challenge and the bar was crowded with noisy kids in their early twenties - an age group Joe didnÆt usually draw in any numbers. The air was almost stuffy and the new band definitely wasnÆt up to the usual standards. Worse, Joe himself wasnÆt there, although his barman promised he was only out for a few minutes. If Mike hadnÆt come in from the back room just then, looking worried nearly to death, McLeod would have gone. But the WatcherÆs concern bothered the Immortal, especially when MikeÆs eyes found him and immediately sought something else to look at.
In general, Duncan McLeod preferred to give Watchers other than Joe as wide a berth as possible. While he and they werenÆt active enemies right now, that situation might, and sometimes had, changed with no notice. He didnÆt want any extra attention from those mortals who dedicated themselves to observing and recording, but never interfering in, the lives and deaths of the Immortals scattered through out the human midst. Yet when one he knew saw him and immediately began to avoid him, Duncan had no trouble deciding the situation might concern him. So he ordered a glass of JoeÆs best single malt, found an empty chair near the back door, and pretended to be absorbed by the second rate band. He doubted he was fooling anyone, but in the strange and delicate balance he had reached with the Watchers, appearances counted.
Because he was keeping an eye on the back door, Duncan saw Joe before Mike did. His friend was looking harried tonight, like maybe things werenÆt going as smoothly as usual. The glance he gave the band suggested at least part of the problem. Vigorous, still in his forties, his salt and pepper hair and beard suggested a decadeÆs more years than he could actually claim. The cane, so much a part of him McLeod couldnÆt visualize him without it, was the only readily visible sign of his long ago encounter with a land mine. A man of integrity, warmth, and dry wit, Joe Dawson was someone to depend on. The Immortal cherished the friendship they had managed to share despite their differences. Then Mike saw Joe and hurried over before he could even clear the doorway.
He shifted his position just enough to be able to watch them out of the corner of his eye without being obvious about it. Whatever Mike had to say, Joe was plainly both startled and bothered. When Mike made a small gesture in his direction, confirming this did involve him, the Immortal was glad heÆd stayed. He was more than a bit surprised when Joe came directly over to grab another chair and sit beside him as soon as Mike was finished. Joe did not rub their friendship into other WatcherÆs faces, not even those like Mike who were well aware of it.
ôWe may have a problem.ö Joe said with no preliminaries, catching Duncan by surprise again with his abrupt seriousness. ôMike logged in a new Watcher today. The kid had orders to take a temporary replacement position. Trouble is, the Immortal heÆs supposed to Watch has no permanent Watcher assigned to him yet who could be temporarily out of action. Mike got a glance at the orders, they looked official all right, but they were oddly incomplete. He just now got through to our Western office to check it out Guess what. TheyÆre a fake. The people back at Western Regional are having a fit. It seems this kid failed his field test three times and was set to be assigned to Research. You Immortals apparently spot him coming a mile off. HeÆd never draw an emergency assignment, not with a liability like that. Then thereÆs a small complication, who I was warned about a few days ago, that walked in tonight too.ö
ôWhere is this my business, Joe?ö Duncan asked, both intrigued and bothered. ôYou donÆt make a habit of telling me Watcher secrets.ö
ôYeah, I know.ö Joe Dawson replied grimly. ôBut the Immortal involved is Richie. Makes me wonder if thereÆs more to this than meets the eye.ö
McLeod sat up straight. ôJust whatÆs happened?ö
ôSeems our kid, his nameÆs Tony, checked in about seven this evening. Richie came in a bit after eight. Now, and this bothered Mike a lot, Richie apparently took immediate notice of our guy. Mike says he looked him over very carefully while pretending to be studying the band. This was just like the reports say other Immortals have reacted. Mike didnÆt think the kid knew Richie noticed him.ö
Joe shifted his cane, looking sidelong at Duncan, who kept his face blank. There were several reasons Richie might have noticed the Watcher, most heÆd just as soon not discuss, even with Joe, until he could confirm which one it was with Ryan.
With no reaction forthcoming, Joe continued. ôTheyÆd been ignoring each other for a bit when the complication came in. Mac, Al Gardener is in town.ö
ôWhen is the Challenge?ö McLeod kept his voice even only with an effort.
Gardener was bad news, very bad news. Richie Ryan was far better with a sword than his few years as an Immortal would suggest but Gardener was a specialist, an assassin for hire who killed other Immortals for money. He was not someone Duncan was sure Richie stood any kind of honest chance against. Worse, Gardener had a name as a cheat.
ôTonight, in less than an hour, behind the band shell at Lapham Park.ö Dawson said tightly. He liked the brash young Immortal too, as McLeod was well aware. He also clearly knew GardenerÆs reputation. Perhaps heÆd been doing some reading in the Watcher records.
ôMike says our kid left before Richie, but he knows he had a map, so I suspect heÆll be there.ö
ôI think we should be there too.ö Duncan said, considering the situation and finding no good answers. ôYou may have something to Watch.ö
ôYeah,ö Joe agreed grimly. ôBut I can hope not.ö
ôRide with me?ö Duncan asked.
ôSure.ö Dawson agreed. ôMikeÆll look after the bar for me.ö
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