Highlander: The Measure of a Man

  THE PALAZZO SHIMMERED AND

  BLAZED LIKE

  THE VERY GATES OF HELL

  The screams were terrible; he could see nothing but fire in all directions. Then, despite the danger, he froze. In this room. Yes, somewhere near. To the left.

  A presence.

  His body prickled, all senses on alert. All he saw was row upon row of fiery eruptions, shooting up like fountains. All he smelled was fire and death.

  He waited, scanning. His eyes watered. The other was nearing. Close now, very close.

  A black-cloaked figure on a rope swooped down on him, blade extended. Easily, MacLeod ducked, then sprang with his scimitar extended in an attempt to inflict some damage. The tip of the scimitar caught the hem of the cloak; he pulled hard. The hood yanked back and slipped off the head. The figure was masked; MacLeod pulled harder.

  If all he had seen was the hatred in the eyes, he would have known it to be Ruffio.

  ALSO IN THE HIGHLANDER SERIES:

  The Element of Fire

  by Jason Henderson

  Scimitar

  by Ashley McConnell

  Scotland the Brave

  by Jennifer Roberson

  Published by

  WARNER BOOKS

  For dearest Brenda, our guardian angel,

  and for Alyson, who led us to her.

  Copyright

  Warner Books is not responsible for the delivery or content of the information or materials provided by Thunder Castle Games. The reader should address any questions to: Thunder Castle Games, Dept 119, P.O. Box 11529, Kansas City, MO 64138.

  WARNER BOOKS EDITION

  Copyright © 1997 by Warner Books, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  “Highlander” is a protected trademark of Gaumont Television. © 1994 by Gaumont Television and © Davis Panzer Productions, Inc. 1985. Published by arrangement with Bohbot Entertainment, Inc.

  Aspect is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: September 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-446-56562-2

  Contents

  The Palazzo Shimmered And Blazed Like The Very Gates Of Hell

  Also in The Highlander Series

  Copyright

  Author’s Notes and Acknowledgments

  Prologue: The Kata of the Adversary

  OPENING: King’s Gambit Venice, 1655

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  MIDDLEGAME: Queening the Pawn

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  ENDGAME: Checkmate

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue: The Kata of The Victor

  IT’S A KIND OF MAGIC…

  Author’s Notes and

  Acknowledgments

  The first part of Measure of a Man was inspired by Ashley McConnell’s HIGHLANDER novel, Scimitar. My thanks to her and to authors Jason Henderson and Jennifer Roberson, and to all those who created and have subsequently enriched the universe of Duncan MacLeod and his kinsman, Connor.

  Very special thanks to my researcher and friend, Hodge Crabtree, Jr. Any errors in this book are mine. Mythenos is a fictional colony, although the Venetians were indeed hard put to maintain their Greek colonies, and Crete was always a thorn in their sides. The six-month celebration of Carnival developed gradually and reached its culmination in the eighteenth century. In 1655, Venice had a terrible reputation for its torture chambers, but historians tend to agree that the Republic was relatively mild in this regard. Also, the Inquisition tended to slap the hands of accused witches rather than execute them.

  I used the Thomas Cleary translation of The Art of War and the John Stevens translation of The Art of Peace. The unattributed quote about samurai in the epilogue is from The Art of Peace. There are dozens of good books about chess; one is The World’s Great Chess Games, edited by Ruben Fine. There is absolutely no historical evidence to support my fictional explanation for Machiavelli’s “will to power.”

  Without Maryelizabeth Hart, this book would not have been written. My deep thanks to her for her generosity and friendship. I would certainly be the poorer without them.

  I’m very grateful to executive producer Bill Panzer and to staff writer Gillian Horvath for saying yes. They and script coordinator and Watcher Chronicle CD-ROM author Donna Lettow worked hard to help me find the right story to add to Duncan’s chronicle.

  Thanks to my Warner editor, Betsy Mitchell, for being everything an author dreams of. Thanks also to Wayne “Zelig” Chang for his assistance. And to you both for walking, and walking, and walking.

  To my terrific agent, Howard Morhaim, mahalo and aloha nui nui.

  To Jeremy Lassen, Elizabeth Baldwin, Patrick Heffernan, Jeff Mariotte and Christopher Golden, my thanks for their wonderful imaginations and their support.

  Also, my sincere thanks to all the fans who have built HIGHLANDER web sites. To Queen and Roger Bellon, thank you for the evocative music I have listened to all day, every day, for months. Memento mori, Freddy Mercury.

  My everlasting gratitude to my husband, Wayne, whose love makes me immortal. To everyone at Reproductive Sciences, bless you: Samuel Wood, M.D., Ph.D.; David Smotrich, M.D.; Lila Schmidt, M.D.; Elaine Epperson, Ph.D.; Steven Chan, Ph.D.; Catherine Adams, Ph.D.; Vickie Stocker, R.N.; Becca Hansen, Cindy Miller, Jennifer Bantle, Jannell Terry, R.N., Amie Baldwin, and Linda Anderson.

  Finally, I would like to thank Mssrs. Christopher Lambert and Adrian Paul, and the casts of Highlander: The Series and the films, for creating a kind of magic that has made me, quite simply, lose my head.

  Prologue: The Kata of

  the Adversary

  “When you want to fight, do not face an enemy near water. Watch the light, stay in high places, do not face the current….”

  —Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  Here we are,

  Highlander.

  Princes.

  But there can be only one king.

  So, listen. Listen to my voice that stretches across the universe and tells you a story of once upon the end of your time:

  This is how it will be when you die,

  Bonnie Prince Duncan.

  And this is the nature of the life you will lose:

  Into the misty Highland dawn you come, (or you believe that you did), and as any wee, trusting bairn, you smile and reach out your chubby fingers to faces that croon and hearts that embrace. You are held within the band, the tribe, the clan. You belong. You have rights, privileges, duties, and obligations.

  Then, slashing deep, lightning upon a battlefield, the sword hacks into body, heart, and soul. You are not the longed-for son, the mother’s mirror, the prayers of your grandparents.

  You are no one.

  You are outcast.

  Although your body heals, your soul and spirit are forever maimed, and will never again be whole.

  From this moment on, you are alone inside yourself for the rest of time.

  And alone, you are abandoned, driven out to hunt your own kind, who hunt you in return. You may love fiercely for centuries, but at the Gathering, your beloved may take your head. You may protect, but your student is a hunter,
too, and there can be only one.

  The mortals you love will prove their fragility, and you will mourn in darkness over their rose-strewn graves.

  If you attempt to stop loving, you will be more alone than ever. And of everything in the world, you arc the most alone already.

  Forever apart, forever waiting, forever watching, and Watched.

  But no, not forever.

  For imagine the heartbeats of your days and nights, pulsing endlessly like star bursts. Is there a limit to the heavens?

  Infinity is a mortal dream.

  Is there a limit to eternity?

  There can be only one.

  And so you go through your life a being unlike any other, even the ones who are of your kind. A lifeless object—katana, scimitar—is more vital to your existence than your blood or your breath. You are a secret, a cipher, a legend even to yourself. Since you do not know the who and why of yourself, you must cling to what you have become. Motherless, fatherless, a family dynasty of one.

  Who wants to live forever?

  You do.

  Because this is how it will be when you die.

  You’ll start out, of course, in battle. The particulars don’t matter, but for the sake of argument, let’s say you’re challenged at a beach in the south of France. Of course, you could be confronted on the ravaged Russian plains, or in a Chinatown warehouse, or along the shore of the Pacific Ocean. And then there arc museums, castle ruins, and secluded rural cabins. Terrible battles can take place in antique store showrooms. Have taken place.

  But imagine that it’s a warm, sunny day at this remote French beach. By some lucky chance, few locals know of its existence, and no tourists at all. You’ve arrived not half an hour before with a lover, a mortal woman who has no idea what’s in store for her. As you unpack your Citroën, you satisfy yourself that you are, for the moment, safe. There are no other Immortals around.

  Your adored one looks to you, sees that you are satisfied, and reveals her relief in a quick smile. She is in your care; though she doesn’t grasp it, she is your responsibility. If harm comes to her, you will try to forgive yourself, but you know from experience that you will never succeed.

  While you fold your duster around your sword and pull off your shirt, she spreads a blanket, takes off her top, and puts on her sunscreen, chatting to you of the things that are still important to women: her friends and perhaps a new hairstyle and wondering what she should do about her career. She is clever anc witty, and never ceases to fascinate you intellectually as well as physically.

  Ah, physically.

  You help her oil her back, making slow, teasing movements as you cup the sides of her breasts with your hands. So firm. So yielding. Your women are always beautiful, MacLeod. Even your bitterest enemies, if they are female, want you. And this one stretches like a pampered cat. She loves you. loves it when you fondle her. A man who has lived for centuries knows much of pleasing women.

  She turns her head for a kiss, and then she is in your arms. You lower her to the blanket. She smiles. You take off your boots and stand barefoot in the satiny sand as she raises her hips to pull off her shorts and bikini bottoms. Your jeans come next, and she knows that you’re hungry for her, and that you must have her.

  When you lie on top of her, holding your weight above her, she lightly scratches your back and arms, traces the whorl of hair on your stomach that plummets to places you reserve for her touch only. When you enter her, she arches her back and cries out with animal pleasure, feral, lusting joy. Her fingernails dig into your back, your hips. You kiss her as you move, slowly at first, and then faster, faster, taking her to the heights of ecstasy. When she cries out, you allow yourself release.

  Your eyes tightly shut, you feel the warmth of her contented sigh against your ear and kiss her hair. She wears a perfume you buy for her. You’ve never bought it for anyone else, and you never will.

  After a time, she returns to her previous conversation. She asks for your opinion; drowsily you give it, feeling yourself drift away into memories of other good days long past. Wandering cobbled streets that now are car parks. Supping on the flesh of animals now extinct. Hearing music no one knows how to play, not really, not anymore.

  Wondering if this day will melt into your parade of memories, and knowing that if it does not, it will be because today you died.

  “What do you think, Duncan?” asks your love, and you pull yourself back to the present and apologize. You know Immortals who laugh at you for your preoccupation with mortals, even with other Immortals. The Game insists that every man be for himself.

  But you know others who don’t accept that. Methos, the oldest Immortal, once offered his head to you so that you could beat Kalas. Rebecca allowed herself to be slain to save her aging, mortal husband, who would have died soon anyway.

  You would do the same for this woman, and you know this can be used against you.

  Now, as your beloved sighs at your silence—she accuses you on occasion of being too closed and brooding—you open your eyes and stare out to sea. The water is a deep, azure blue Mediterranean, beckoning. You kiss her deeply and tell her that you’re sorry, you’re preoccupied, and suggest you both take a dip.

  Softening, she shakes her head, says it’s too chilly. But she urges you to go because she loves you, and she wants you to enjoy yourself.

  Nuzzling her firm, flat belly, you rise and walk through the sand as the sea rolls gently toward you. The uneven ground is soft and stretches the muscles in your feet in a pleasant way.

  You reach the water’s edge. The rippled flow is cool but not cold. It will be good for swimming. Again you glance at your duster, at your woman. You look up and down the deserted coastline.

  You walk into the water.

  A breeze laps at your skin, tickles the hair on your chest, legs, and arms. The water swirls around your ankles, your shins, your thighs. You crouch forward and push off, swimming toward the horizon. The water is colder now. She calls, asking how the water is. You mimic shivering. She laughs and tells you she will warm you when you come back.

  You ride the waves as they take you farther out, the color changing from deep blue to blue-gray. The sun shines brightly overhead. A seabird whirls above you, flies away.

  The waves rock you up, down, and you swim with long strokes. You swallow sandy salt water, throw back your head to slick your hair away from your face. A piece of seaweed brushes your thigh. You grab at it. Not seaweed, but a small fish. It submerges perhaps another five centimeters; the water is too dark to watch the little creature’s escape.

  Then, in one instant, you feel a presence. The prickling of your skin; for some—but not you, you are too seasoned—a disorienting vertigo. Another Immortal is nearby.

  And you are naked, and unarmed.

  Your blood floods from your face. As you have done for centuries, you quickly look around. You concentrate. You feel.

  There is a shadow behind your lover, who is innocently pouring herself a glass of wine.

  You wave your hands, call out. She does not hear you.

  You begin to swim with all your strength, swearing at yourself, swearing at the shape, willing it to be a friend who has sought you out for some good reason.

  But you know you mustn’t waste your time with idle thoughts. You must assume the worst. You must begin to prepare your assault on the beach. You play out various scenarios: if he holds your woman hostage; if she runs away; if she grabs your sword; if she is killed.

  It is taking too much time and too much strength to get back to shore. Dimly you realize you were probably caught in a rip current that carried you out to deeper seas. Today you might have drowned once, twice, three times; no matter now. No matter at all.

  You are closer. You must stop to survey the scene. The shadow stands alone, farther back, sword drawn.

  Your beloved lies inert on the sand. For a panicked moment you see her head a meter away; then you realize it’s the picnic basket.

  You charge the beach.
There is nothing else you can do.

  And while I have already sensed your presence, it did not dawn on me to look for your sword. And so you surprise me. I give you that, as you grab up your duster and extract your sword. So we are on a more even footing, you and I, but I know my gods arc with me today.

  I know that I will kill you, Highlander.

  You are fierce. You have always been fierce. Though you cast away your warrior’s role, you have never cast away your warrior’s heart. You fly at me; you thrill and terrify me. Unclothed, you are more vulnerable than I, and I take every advantage. I slice your chest, I pierce your shoulder socket; you stagger back, chancing a glance at your sweet darling. You know she’s not dead. You know that if you look at her again, you will be.

  For I am on you. I slash and slash, impressed by your lightning parries, your riposte, your lunge. You are relentless. Everything they say of you is true. I almost begin to doubt myself, but you have been in the cold water, and you have worked harder than I this day.

  You cuff me with the hilt of your dragon blade. You hit me with your fist, you knee me. You push me backward and leap on top of me. You are a savage. You have never left the heather forest primeval.

  You are hitting and punching and I hear the bones in my face crunch and shatter. I see the sun on your blade as you raise it; I hear your grunt as I throw sand in your eyes and slam you with the full force of my upper body.

  Mortals never fight like this. Their guns do the work. If they use knives, they are cautious. They hold back. We do not. Every hit, every thrust, produces noise and pain. Sweat flies; we heave with effort. Mortals may battle to the death, but we battle to the Death. We, who have fought for centuries, who have survived, do so because in our ferocity we are fearless. It is as if we are possessed. There can be only one. It is our kata, our mantra, the consuming drive that controls our muscles and arteries and nerve endings: Survive, survive. survive at any cost.