Nancy Holder - Highlander - Measure of a Man

HIGHLANDER: MEASURE OF A MAN [065-4.8]

BY NANCY HOLDER

Synopsis:

Through the centuries one powerful and brilliant immortal has attained

the knowledge and now the technical ability to locate all the other

immortals around the world via computers and the records of the

watchers. He will be able to kill at will, taking heads whenever he

pleases. And this immortal cares nothing for the mortals who get in his

way as is witnessed by his deliberately crashing a plane on which

McCleods friend Richie is travelling. The Highlander cannot stop this

immortal. Centuries past he made a vow of honor never to take this

one's life. The measure of a man is his word of honor. What can Duncan

do to stop this killing machine?

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 Alysop; who led us to her.

Warner Books is not responsible for the delivery or content of the

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Copyright C 1997 by Warner Books, Inc.

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

Gaumont Television and 0 Davis Panzer Productions, Inc. 1985.

Published by arrangement with Bohbot Entertainment, Inc.

Cover photo by Ken Staniforth

Aspect is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.

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

OA Time Warner Company

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing: May, 1997

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Author's Notes and acknowledgments

The first part of Measure of a Man was inspired by Ashley MeConnell'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,

ConnOL

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& 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 notface 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 baim, 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 are the most alone already.

Fort;ver 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?

lnfty 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-"tana, scimitar-is more vital

to your existence than your blood or your breath. You are a secret, a

cipher, a legend even to yoursell 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 are 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 Citrodn, 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 and 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 YOUT parade of men,,ories, 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,

.",wearing 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 aDd extract your sword. So we are on a more even

footing, you and I, but I know my gods are with me today.

I know that I will kill you, Highlander.

You are fierce. You have always been fierce. Though you cast ;away

your watt ior'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 YOUT 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 thail 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. Iley 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.

At any cost.

But you are weak: You want to protect your love. I love no one. You

want to maintain your honor. I have no honor.

I am stronger.

And I am winning.

I see nothing of defeat in your face. You cannot know it yet, cannot

accept it. But I have you.

Hidari-do, blow to the left; migi-do, blow to the right. Ryote, ,sword

in both hands, karate, in one hand. You are skilled in Iaijutsu.

As soon as I answer your kata, you switch to another schoolIchiden-ryu.

Then to pure Highlander fury.

But you misstep.

You smack backward against a boulder and slide to the sand, the rough

rock ripping the skin off your back. Oblivious, you charge. Bloodlust

burns in your eyes. Your teeth gleam, bared, and there seems to be no

mind to you, no thought to you. You dervish like a machine, like the

energy of a hurricade.

For me: survival, survival.

For you: survival, tempered by the need to protect.

I know you. I know that in your soul you believe you will never die.

You think you are the one.

I thought the same about you. But today something told me to take you.

Today I knew I could beat you.

Only today.

And what mythic power compelled me, what force of nature or supernatural

being whispered in my heart, "Today, " I may never know. It is not

important.

All that matters is that it was telling me the truth.

And you die, Duncan MacLeod. You see the blade, you see the flash and

shine of it colliding with your future. You feel the first tissues of

your neck separate from your head.

You whisper a name I cannot hear. The name of a love, perhaps. Or a

teacher. Or the parents who cast you out.

And is there relief.? Is there the knowledge that, at last, the Game is

over and your burden is lifted?

Or is there only terror and despair?

I cannot say. Your dark eyes are hooded; I half suspect a trick. But

then your head comes off, so cleanly, so easily, and falls upon the

sand. I am almost sorry, but I have come so close to dying that I

cannot spare the confidence necessary to have such a thought.

The Highlander is dead.

I have killed Duncan MacLeod.

And your Quickening? The violent death of a legend?

The earth shakes; the waters rise up in a tidal wave and engulf and

overthrow the beach. Lightning shrieks down the breakers, down the

blackened sky. I writhe and shatter and roar out your name and remember

with your life force the lives you led: I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan

MacLeod. I am MacLeod.

I lose myself utterly in your spirit. I am you; I am consumed. Such a

heart! Such a mind.

We roll into the sea; we are whisked by the undercurrent as we sizzle

and explode.

And then, it is a baptism. I am myself again.

And you are dead.

I will stand over your grave and laugh. In pace requie seat. Rest in

peace, Duncan MacLeod.

And that is how it will be. And, more or less, how you will die. Oh, it

may not be at a beach, or in a museum, or an antique store showroom.

But you will die.

By my hand. And by my name, which today is one thing, and toniorrow

another, but remains this: your last adversary. The one who is

stronger. Down through the centuries, I will corpe to you one day, and

you will surely leave this world to me.

There can be only one, Scotsman.

And I am coming.

It was almost dawn when Duncan MacLeod completed the first of the

bare-hands forms of the Seven Star Praying Mantis k-ung fu style, Secret

Force. Frowning, he bowed to his imaginary adversary and slowly

exhaled. He had hoped a good workout with the soft southern Chinese

style would calm him, but he was more charged up than before he had

begun. Adrenaline coursed through his body as if preparing for a fight,

not ending a training session. But better to hone his body and his

reflexes than stay in bed, tossing and ruminating, and watching the sun

rise.

He grabbed a towel off a wooden chair, dried off, and pulled back his

hair. On light feet he crossed to a Chinese lacquer table containing a

large glass of water, a cafeall lait, a croissant slathered with

marmalade, and the certified letter he had received late yesterday

afternoon. Again he took the letter from the envelope, though he had

done so at least a dozen times already, and reread the cryptic message,

inked in a swirling hand: P-K4.

The advance of a pawn. The opening move in a chess game.

He had no idea what it signified, but there was no question who had sent

it.

"You old devil," he murmured. "I shouldn't be surprised that you're

still alive, but I am."

He turned the letter over with his left hand as he downed the water and

looked at his own name and address in a nondescript, typed font. The

postmark was Tokyo. The water gone, he sat on an ornately carved bench

beside the table, picked up his cafe all lait, smooth and pungent, and

took a small sip.

P-K4. A very standard opening for a thousand different potential games.

But not sent, he knew, by a standard opponent. How long since the two

of them had played? More than three hundred years. How long since he

had received an opening move in the mail? Perhaps sixty years. He

counted backward, and was startled to realize it had been precisely one

hundred. Was this some sort of anniversary, then? Or was the ancient

Italian merely bored?

"Or up to something," MacLeod said, and put the letter down. Like the

others, he would not answer it.

And as with the others, the memories flooded back: Italy, 1655.

Venice, to be precise.

Niccolo Machiavelli, the deceiver, the murderer, who wore a smile as

easily as a dagger, whose every gesture of friendship cloaked a

carefully planned scheme of betrayal.

One of the most dangerous Immortals MacLeod had ever crossed swords

with.

MacLeod crumpled the letter and aimed it at the trash can. He pitched

it; the shot fell short, and the letter tumbled like a head to the

wooden floor.

MacLeod grunted in disgust, reached for the croissant, closed his eyes,

and remembered it all, as clearly as if it had happened yesterday ...

which in some ways, it had, for time for an Immortal is not what it is

for mortals. It is compressed, expanded, distorted, and put in

compartments so that one does not go mad with so much remembering.

But these memories, the memories of Machiavelli, were brilliant and

vivid, like gaudy and desperate Venice herself. As shimmering and

unforgettable as the beautiful women he had loved with the brute energy

of youth in those early years of eternal life: Debra, Terezia, Maria

Angelina.

Maria Angelina ...

OPENING:

King's Gambit

Venice, 1655

for a man who strives after goodness in all his acts is sure to eome to

ruin, sinee there are so many men who are notgood."

-Niccolo Machiavelli, THE Prinee

The Protector was a fine, well-armed brigantine decorated at the stern

with the coat of arms of its master, Lord Axthur Burlingame. She was

given her name to flatter Oliver Cromwell, the Great Protector of

England, who had lopped off the head of the rightful king and sent his

son and successor scurrying to France. The world was in a deplorable

state: kings murdered; wars lasting for thirty years; Turks growing

beautiful women like tobacco on farms to placate their savage sexual

appetites; plagues that killed more than all the century's wars and the

incompetent, small-minded men who sat on most of the thrones of Europe

combined.

On top of all that, the poseur, Cromwell, wanted to readmit Jews into

England. Burlingame snorted with disbelief.

But a maD could count on safe passage. Honor still existed. So, while

Lord Axthur's ship plied the perilous Mediteff anean on a peace mission

sanctioned by the Signory of the Most Serene Republic of Venice, he kept

his safe-passage confidently locked inside the strongbox beneath his

bed.

Nancy Holder - Highlander - Measure of a Man

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