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  Highlander

  The Highlander

  Book I

  Garry Douglas Kilworth

  CONTENT

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Prologue

  AT THE END of the battle there were two warriors left on the field. The dark one, riding a black horse and wielding a broadsword, and the Mongol on his white stallion. Both men had been wounded many times during the melee, but still sat upright in their saddles, one at either end of the valley. Between them lay hundreds of bodies: the dead on either side.

  The dark one, a Kurgan, called to the Mongol ‘There can be only one!’ but whether the knight from the far Orient heard and understood was not evident from his posture or any gesture. He merely tested his curved blade on the wind: a few strokes to take the stiffness out of his arm muscles. The sword flashed incomprehensible heliographic messages to the hills on either side.

  The Kurgan smiled to himself. This Mongol would be his third immortal. He recalled the words of his old mentor, the Arab: ‘Remember, when you meet someone like yourself, you must take his head there and then. Otherwise your opponent will have more time, over the centuries, to learn further fighting skills. The next time you meet him, you may regret not beheading him the first time - and you will meet again, be sure of that. If not in the near future, most certainly at the final Gathering. Time is a weapon too – never let them have more time to increase in strength and skill . . . ‘

  The Mongol began riding down the length of the valley, careless of the bodies beneath the hooves of his grey.

  The Kurgan took his sword in both hands. He had watched the Mongol fight during the battle: had observed his technique, which was to make his horse rear, just before meeting his opponent, so that the steed’s head protected the knight’s body. The Kurgan gathered his strength together, psychologically preparing himself for a single, tremendous blow.

  He would need the speed of the charger to help him and the timing would need to be exactly right. A blow of supernatural strength was called for and while the Kurgan believed himself capable of such a stroke, he knew it would take all his concentration, his spiritual and physical reserves.

  He began riding towards the Mongol, his mount gathering in speed until the mane and tail were horizontal, flowing like black whips in the wind. The hooves thundered on the blood-soaked earth of the Russian steppes. Sweat and foam flew from the mouth of the gelding, splattering on the Kurgan’s hammered-bronze helmet with its beast’s-skull crest.

  The heavily furred, narrow-eyed Mongol closed rapidly. The horses’ lungs were creaking like worn leather and sprigs of steam spurted from their nostrils.

  Just before the clash the Mongol reined his mount, as expected, and the horse went up on its hind legs, its head and shoulders protecting the Mongol’s body.

  The Kurgan let out a loud battle-cry, swung back in his saddle and brought the edge of his broadsword across the grey’s throat with tremendous force. The heavy blade sliced through flesh and bone, severing the horse’s head. The Kurgan’s horse continued to surge forwards. The broadsword followed through, to impact with the Mongol’s neck, divorcing head from body. A double-decapitation in one stroke. The two heads, human and animal, hit the ground almost simultaneously, followed by a tangle of limbs.

  The victorious Kurgan reined his own mount and let out a scream of joy as lightning forked down - out of the clear sky - and into his body. For several minutes, the static electricity sought him out, arced into his giant frame.

  When the Quickening was over, the dark warrior turned northwards.

  ‘Now for the boy, Conner MacLeod,’ he said.

  Chapter 1

  THE BATTLE WAS about to begin.

  MacLeod’s restless eyes scanned the other spectators filling Madison Square Garden. As usual with such events there was a strong smell of human sweat in the air brought on by the close proximity of many bodies, and an atmosphere of anticipation. MacLeod’s damp raincoat was uncomfortable and he sat partly sideways in his seat to avoid pressure on the object he carried strapped to his back.

  A scattering of applause broke out, which increased in volume as seven hundred and forty five pounds of wrestling flesh climbed into the ring in two giant lumps: the Tonga Kid and the Blond Backbreaker. Their opponents were already in there, snarling at the audience and flexing their muscles. All four wrestlers began prancing around and making threatening gestures towards one another. The crowd loved it. It was what they expected. MacLeod began to take an interest in the forthcoming battle, though his attention remained partly on the tiers of spectators that lined the ring, looking for old, familiar faces amongst the crowd.

  Would any of them be here tonight? He must expect them at any time, in any place, and he could never fully relax - to do so might prove fatal. He scratched at his two-day growth of beard as the M.C. was calling for a lull in the pandemonium.

  ‘. . . the toast from the coast. . . from Brad Street, USA. . .’ cried the M.C.

  The words were drowned occasionally in the roar of the spectators. As one of the wrestlers was being introduced he suddenly ran across the ring and slammed his head on one of the corner posts. Women leapt from their seats, some of them cheering, some of them screaming abuse, depending upon the position of their partisanship. Show, all show. But it was what they wanted. It was what they had paid to see.

  The Blond Backbreaker leaned forward on the ropes, leering at the crowd, and seductively unzipped his jacket to reveal the solid chest beneath, covered in wiry hair. There were screams of delight from the spectators. A little girl, sitting on her mother’s lap looked across at MacLeod, possibly wondering at his lack of enthusiasm in the bedlam around her.

  The Blond Backbreaker finally wriggled out of the slinky jacket, which he threw into the crowd, playing to their expectations.

  Bloodlust, thought MacLeod. It was like a tangible thing in the air around him. Yet there would be no blood, not here: merely an enactment. If you couldn’t get the real thing, you went to a place like this, which pretended well enough to satisfy but was actually quite safe, quite harmless. He had known other battles, other fights, where the gore had run in rivers, soaking the heather, turning the green and purple plants to scarlet. There had been spectators at those gatherings too - the camp followers but there had been far fewer of them than the combatants. Here the watchers outnumbered the combatants more than a thousand to one. A gladiatorial spectacle.

  The sound of the bell interrupted his thoughts and he watched as the four wrestlers moved in on one another. The Tonga Kid immediately ran at his opponent and butted him in the belly, carrying him back and slamming him into a corner post. Then he gripped him by his long, black hair and began hammering his head with his fist.

  While the referee was engaged in this exchange, the Cruncher took a flying kick at the Blond Backbreaker, his feet hi
tting just below the other’s neck, sending him spinning out of the ring. The crowd screamed at the referee, the referee screamed at the wrestlers, the wrestlers screamed at each other. Flesh met flesh. Bone met bone. Each blow looked a crippling one. Each arm lock appeared to be delivered with enough pressure to snap a three-inch-thick pole. Yet always the combatants parted, turned, gestured, snarled, and went in for more.

  A spectator near MacLeod shrieked, ‘Kill them,’ though who was supposed to kill whom, he didn’t specify. Presumably it was enough for him if somebody killed somebody. The chant was taken up around the Gardens: kill, kill, kill. Gradually, it dissolved into more specific requests for maiming and the sight of blood again. There were those who were happy with the old, banal phrases, and those who were more inventive, more poetic in their demands for broken bodies. MacLeod remained silent, staring with weary eyes at the scene before him.

  The little girl was sucking on a candy bar now, still staring at him rather than the wrestlers, and he grimaced at her, receiving a faint, uncertain smile in exchange. The girl tried to whisper to her mother, but the woman’s attention was completely taken up by the four mounds of blubber in front of her, pounding away at each other’s bodies. Her eyes were wide and shining and there was a faint smile on her face. Her absorption in the scene before her seemed more complete than that of a Tibetan monk attempting to reach Nirvana.

  The little girl might just as well try talking to a brick wall.

  Suddenly the woman shrieked, ‘Tear his head off!’ MacLeod jerked upright in his seat at these words as they triggered a reaction in him. For one second he was alert, but then he relaxed again, and stared at a Chinese spectator whose face told him he had his shirt on the Tonga Kid and his partner. His expression altered alternately from one of dismay, to one of delight, as the battle swayed, first one way and then the other. It almost seemed as if he were feeling the blows of his favourites himself. From time to time he kept touching his breast pocket where, no doubt, his wallet was situated.

  The Blond Backbreaker was lifting his opponent high above his head now, ready to slam him down on the canvas. Both the woman and the Chinese were crying, ‘Yes! Yes!’ They wanted to see him go down, hard, and stay there, permanently. The referee was caught between two battling giants and was himself in danger of being strangled. MacLeod glanced towards the exits, but there was no one leaving or entering. Flashbulbs were filling the stadium with lightning - a silent storm - as all four wrestlers were locked together in one writhing mass in the centre of the canvas. The referee was getting his breath back, as no doubt were the wrestlers themselves.

  On the opposite side of the stadium, one of the spectators held up a hand painted sign, which read ‘KILL THE PIGS’. At that moment the man behind MacLeod, slammed a hand down on his shoulder and MacLeod twisted round to look into his face. It was not familiar.

  ‘God - you’ve got to love it,’ said the man, his eyes shining.

  MacLeod nodded, pulling his shoulder from underneath the hand. The battle below, continued, unabated, with grunts and phrases like, ‘That son of a bitch,’ drifting upwards in the brief lulls in the shouting of the crowd. MacLeod closed his eyes, seeing a different scene, from a different time. . .

  Chapter 2

  THE SUN WAS low over the Glenfinnan hills, filling the valleys with long shadows and dark lanes of purple. An eagle wheeled in tight circles above a tall pinnacle of rock: a stack on which MacLeod guessed it kept its aerie. The clansman breathed the sweet scent of the heather, drawing it deeply into his lungs, and wondered how such perfect scenery could have so many faces.

  He turned to his two companions, his cousins, Dugal MacLeod and Angus MacLeod, but their eyes were’ not on the eagle. They were studying the rocks ahead of them and Conner could feel the tenseness in the air. In that year of 1536, Conner MacLeod and his clan had decided to settle their differences with the Frasers.

  His cousins were ever watchful for the ambush which might come at any time on their ride back to their village. All three men were riding bareback and their thick Celtic legs gripped the sides of the sturdy mounts, gently applying pressure to maintain direction. Each of them carried his claymore and tard in the right hand, while the left loosely held the reins.

  ‘We’ll be back before nightfall,’ said Angus, in a satisfied tone. ‘I mind I said it would be so.’ His beard glistened with drops of sweat, which ran down from his cheeks into the matted tangle of hair.

  Dugal said, ‘You’re never wrong, Angus. That’s one thing we could never accuse you of - being wrong.’ Dugal’s face was staring away from Angus at the time and the older man strained in his saddle to attempt to look at the other’s expression. He was never sure whether he was being made a fool of or not. Dugal turned to him now with a face full of seriousness, though a muscle was twitching in the corner of his mouth.

  Conner, who knew full well that Dugal was being sarcastic, smiled at the irony of his cousin, careful not. to let Angus see. His kinsmen were not above fighting him and amongst themselves, even though the Frasers might descend upon them at any time. The maxim of the MacLeod’s might be, ‘I am against my cousin, but my cousin and I are against the stranger.’ They were a warlike people, by necessity, having to guard their crofts and huts against marauders from all sides of the Scottish hills.

  Suddenly, Conner’s mount shied slightly. Angus had already paused, his huge nose sniffing at the air.

  ‘What is it?’ said Dugal.

  ‘If I knew, I wouldna be worried,’ said Angus. ‘Ah’m not a-feared of things I can see.’

  Beyond the rocks were some pines, a clump not much bigger than a spinney, but large enough to hide several men, if. they were disposed to wait in ambush. Conner’s horse was doing a sidestep now, clearly feeling its rider’s agitation. The sun had been sliced in two by a flat-topped peak and the light was beginning to fade rapidly. Conner listened hard, but all he could hear was the gargling of the burn as it struggled to find a downward path through the peat.

  ‘The trees. . .’ Angus sniffed again. He maintained he could smell a

  Fraser from quarter of a mile away, but Conner suspected that it was because the older man was going a little deaf that he trusted to this sense when his sight would not tell him what was going on.

  ‘Well, man? We canna stay here all night,’ said Dugal. At that moment they came; not out of the trees, but from the rocks above. There were five of them, all wearing the Fraser tart and even the hard-of-hearing Angus must have been deafened by their yells.

  ‘Right again, Angus,’ cried Dugal, though whether he was talking about the fact that the enemy were present, or whether he was being sarcastic again, and referring to the pines, no one stopped to ask.

  The claymores were out, catching the last rays of the sun on their blades. Conner held his tard low, to protect his thigh and the horse’s flank, since the Frasers were on foot. One of them, a red-bearded man with wild ‘eyes came pounding over the turf to slash at the horse’s head.

  Conner turned his mount. He brought down the claymore in a wide sweep at the Fraser’s head. But the clansman was too quick for him, bringing up his own blade to block the blow. Both men were jarred to the teeth from the clash of weaponry. Conner’s horse sidestepped then, onto the Fraser’s foot, and the man yelled, striking its head with the boss of his tard.

  With the Fraser’s shield arm thus occupied, Conner thrust with the point of his sword. The blade entered the man’s cheek, just below the bone. It was not a death blow, but the other, his foot free now, ran backwards. Conner could see him sticking his tongue through the new hole in his face.

  An axe hit Conner’s shoulder, but the blade was almost flat on impact because the wielder had to stand on tiptoe. Conner recognized the attacker as Ian Fraser, a youngster not more than fifteen years of age. Conner backed his mount into the lad, sending him sprawling on the heather.

  ‘Away an’ home to your mother,’ yelled Conner, ‘before I have to split your ears.’

&n
bsp; ‘Boys,’ cried Dugal. ‘Just wee laddies.’

  One of them lay dead on the turf, half draped over rock. The others had scattered now, all except the man that had first attacked Conner;.. He began scrambling up the escarpment, but Angus was quick to follow, dismounting and chasing him on foot. The Fraser turned to face him on the slope and blades clashed, metal biting metal. The Fraser’s bonnet came off, revealing a bald head that shone in the gloaming.

  Angus kicked him high on the leg and the other went over. The MacLeod’s sword came down, point first, and pinned the writhing Fraser to the hillside. There was a brief yell from the victim, a spurt of blood from his mouth, then the evening was quiet once more.

  Angus came down, wiping his blade on his kilt. ‘What was the man thinking of?’ he grumbled. ‘Bringing youngsters o’ that age?’

  Dugal said, ‘If they’re old enough to lift a weapon, they’re old enough to fight.’

  Conner said nothing. He was leaning over from his horse, looking at the young man sprawled over the rock. The darkness had descended now, like a black shroud. He was thinking about a pig they had slaughtered a few days back and how the eyes of the animal had been wide with stark terror as the spear went into its throat. The lad’s eyes were like that of the pig’s - wide and full of the horror of death. He was saddened by the youth that had been spilled like water on the heather.

  ‘Did you have to cut his throat, Dugal? Could you not have stunned him?’

  Dugal sounded incensed, but Conner guessed this was partly defensive.

  ‘He was coming at me, man. I didna stop to question his age. The laddie had a claymore, an’ that was what I kept my eyes on, not his face. It’s no my fault. It’s his. . .’

  He pointed with his own sword at the body lying on the side of the hill. Conner rubbed his shoulder where the battleaxe had struck him. It had not even broken the cloth but still there would be a bruise the size of Angus’s fist there in the morning. Angus was collecting the weapons dropped by the Frasers when they had fled. They would be useful in the coming battle. There was a certain amount of satisfying irony in killing a Fraser with one of his own clan’s weapons.