In Captive Soul, published to tie-in with the fantasy adventure TV series Highlander, warrior Duncan McLeod and his friend Methos notice a particular sword on display in a NY museum. Methos recognises the weapon from his days in Ancient Egypt.
Release date:
November 29, 2009
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Print pages:
224
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All night he wandered the streets of the garish, noisy is land the natives called Manhattan, not sure exactly where he was,
what streets, what neighborhoods, save that he was moving ever nearer to the Great River, that which the natives named the
Hudson, hunting as he had hunted for many nights.
Again and yet again, he was dazzled by the brightness of the artificial lights turning the good, proper darkness to a never-natural
mockery of daylight. Again and yet again, he was stunned by the never-ending flow of traffic. So many lives crowded in together
on this island, so many souls….
The hunt was hopeless.
No, and no again! He would not let himself despair. Despair was the refuge of the weak, the commoner. His brother had told
him that many years ago, and he believed it, believed his brother…
His brother, whom he would find and rescue. No matter how long it took. No matter how many sacrifices must be made. (But…
how long had he been hunting? There were large gaps in his memory when he must have been doing something… living somehow…
yet he could not remember.)
No matter. Prior sacrifices had told him to search here within this vast city; they had brought him here, up through
a tortuous route involving many false words and docu ments. But now…
There. That man, walking alone into the park caught between the river and the wild way, the West Side Highway, the man walking
with music blaring and earphones blocking out sounds of the world around him: foolish, foolish. His race, his appearance meant
nothing. But the man was so young, so full of careless life—perfect.
He stalked the young prey through garishly lit fields growing ever less crowded, glad of the fact because he knew the hunt
must be made in private. He knew that these common lives must not know who walked in their midst, not yet.
He stalked, seeing a perfect place shrouded with trees and bushes, half hidden in shadow, a “shortcut” the young man had decided
to take, no doubt confident in his youth and strength, never knowing he was being followed, never knowing that the one who
followed was battle-trained and hardened.
Now.
He struck, catching the prey around the throat, cutting off any outcry. Now, now, the first part of the Triple Sacrifice,
the rope looped about the neck, all but strangling the Chosen One.
Then, even as life began leaving the choking body, he performed the second ritual, his knife stabbing swiftly up to the Chosen
One’s heart. Deftly avoiding the spurting blood, he let the dying sacrifice slide to the ground. The earphones had fallen
free, and faint, tinny music accompanied him.
Now, yes, now for the third, the final ritual of slaying…. His blade rose, fell, severing the victim’s head with one swift
blow. More blood spurted, coppery-sharp in his nostrils as he knelt by the body. His hands shaking with hope, he tore and
cut aside clothing till the body lay uncovered to the night.
He forced himself to calmness, murmuring the proper prayers. But all the time he was thinking, yes, yes, this
time the prayers would be granted. Knife in hand, he neatly sliced flesh open, ignoring the new reeks, warily examining organ
after organ, reciting:
“Open to me, oh Light, open to me.
Let me see truth, let me see truly.
Let me see—”
Nothing! There was nothing to be read in the size or shape of the organs, not the slightest hint of an omen to be had! The
sacrifice had failed once more!
Staggering to his feet, dimly aware of the tinny music continuing, incongruously cheerful, he stumbled blindly away, wiping
his hands clean on a scrap of cloth. He must not be found with the sacrifice, he knew that much, or even leave the cloth behind,
not in this strange, strange city where such things as sacrifices were not allowed and clues could be taken from a mere drop
of blood.
He must not be taken. He would not let himself be cast into captivity like some hopeless slave!
Hopeless. As soon as he was at a safe distance, away from the park and its too-bright lights, hidden in the shadows of an
alleyway, he sank once more to his knees. Of course the ritual had not worked. He was no priest or sorcerer!
Burying his face in his hands, he huddled there, weeping for his lost, lost brother.
But this was not safe, either. Predators prowled this city, those who hunted any weakness, predators who just might chance
on the one true way of slaying. He could not die before his goal was reached, could not lose his soul until his brother’s
soul was freed.
So be it. The sacrifice had not worked because it was not meant to work. The gods had not forsaken him; they merely tested
him, as they had done and done and done—
He must not question. He must try again, closer this time to the water, the sacred, flowing water…. He would try again, and
yet again, as often as he must. There were endless
victims to be found in this teeming New York City. And at last, at last, he vowed, he would succeed.
Determined anew, he sheathed his blade and set out into the night.
Duncan MacLeod, in perfect New York style in his casual black blazer, white shirt, and black trousers, his dark hair caught
back in a neatly groomed ponytail, stood on the northeast corner of Fifth Avenue and Seventy-first Street on this sunny May
morning, ignoring the never-ending roar of traffic and enjoying the new day’s warmth. It had only just turned ten o’clock;
he had a few minutes to spare. With not a sign or feel of danger anywhere, MacLeod smiled and allowed himself the luxury of
a few peaceful moments of just playing tourist. Why not? He’d come to New York to check out an important estate sale, had
even found a handsome mid-nineteenth century writing desk almost worth the inflated price. But today he was free to answer
an invitation.
On the far side of Fifth Avenue, Central Park was lush with spring greenery and noisy with school groups on their way to visit
the Children’s Zoo a few blocks south. He was standing on the more commercial side of the avenue, with row after row of expensive
offices and apartment houses. The Branson Collection, there on the south side of Seventy-first Street, was a charming anachronism,
a Victorian mansion full of the stone eccentricities of the period and masquerading as an eighteenth-century Italian villa
complete with central garden.
MacLeod could remember the building from an earlier era. Edmund Branson, shipping magnate, had held many a glittering party
in that mansion a hundred years ago. Gaslight had glowed from the marble walls back then—no new-fangled electricity to spoil
the effect, thank you very much—and there had been the soft rustle of satin gowns and murmurings of pleasant conversation.
Outside, the only sounds of traffic had been the clopping of horses’ hooves and the roll of carriage wheels.
The unromantic blat of a bus horn shook him back to the present. New York, MacLeod thought with a wry smile, had never been a city for any Immortal
seeking stability. It didn’t merely change every century; it redesigned itself every few years!
He crossed Seventy-first Street, dodging a taxi and a group of giggling, admiring teenage girls, and entered through the ornately
carved stone doorway of what was now not a magnate’s home but a small museum still owned by the family, as well as the site
of the Branson Foundation offices.
He stopped in the small, marble-walled lobby, getting his bearings. The space had definitely been rearranged yet again. To
one side was a mahogany desk labeled INFORMATION, staffed by an earnest young man who was probably an art student, and beside it was the predictable rack of postcards. But
beyond that, three corridors, one of them still with the fresh paint scent, led off into the building.
Before he could ask for directions, a shrill voice called, “Duncan? Duncan MacLeod? It is you!”
A balding, scrawny little man was scurrying toward him down one of the older hallways, grinning widely, and after a second
memory triggered the right name.
Amazing. Even after a decade or so, Professor Albert Maxwell still looked exactly like one of those small, friendly, nervous
little terriers that are never still for a moment.
“Professor Maxwell,” MacLeod said solemnly.
The professor was clutching a newspaper and several
manila folders in his arms. After a moment of awkwardly shuffling items, he managed to get a hand free, and MacLeod, fighting
not to laugh, shook it.
Maxwell didn’t let go. “Welcome to the Branson Collection!” Shake. “So glad you could make it!” Shake, shake. “It’s been…
how long since we’ve seen each other?” Shake. “Ten years?”
MacLeod gently pulled his hand free. “Something like that.”
Staring up at him, Maxwell tsked. “Amazing, simply amazing. You don’t look a day older, while I…” He ran a hand self-consciously through his thinning hair.
“How do you do it?”
“Clean living,” MacLeod told him dryly.
Maxwell laughed. “Good genetics, too, I’d say, yes, and all that nice, clean Pacific Northwest air.”
But then the professor stopped short, blinking. “Ah. It’s a bit late now, but I, uh, never did get a chance to offer face-to-face
condolences….”
An unexpected pang of grief stabbed through MacLeod, still surprisingly sharp after all this time since Tessa’s death. “Thank
you.”
But Professor Maxwell wasn’t quite ready to let the subject drop. “So terrible, what happens today: random violence, I mean,
drug crimes, madmen—Look at this!” He brandished the newspaper almost accusingly in MacLeod’s face. “Another of those so-called
cult killings, and right here in New York! We do not have serial killers in New York!”
Of course not, MacLeod thought wryly. And that series of serial beheadings back in… ah… 1985 was just a minor incident.
MacLeod had heard about the most recent killings; given the media’s enthusiasm for gore, it had been impossible not to hear about the killings. All had taken place along the Hudson, most in Riverside Park, which had given the media a convenient
handle: the West Side Slayer. That the bodies had all been beheaded had given MacLeod
a moment’s start, but they’d also been carefully disemboweled and laid out according to a definite plan. Not necessarily the
work of an Immortal, then. Just as probably a mortal lunatic.
“Random violence,” he reminded Maxwell wearily, “is nothing new. Neither, unfortunately, are ritual killings.”
“True enough, true enough. ‘The more things change,’ and all that.”
“Indeed,” MacLeod said wryly.
“Which brings us to the Hyksos, those, ah, charming folks, and of course you’ve come to see the Hyksos Exhibition! So nice
that you should be in town just now.”
“So kind of you to invite me!”
“Yes, well, I thought you’d appreciate it, knowledgeable man that you are. Follow me.”
As they walked down the newly painted corridor, passing neatly framed floral prints and charts, their footsteps ringing on
smooth stone, Maxwell continued, glancing up from time to time at MacLeod as though making sure he was listening, “Quite a
coup for us, the Branson Collection, getting this show when no less a museum than the Metropolitan wanted it. But it was our
parent foundation that did the engineering work for the Egyptian government—you know that, I think—yes, and uncovered most
of the antiquities in the process, so…”
His triumphant sweep of an arm took in the banner proclaiming over an archway: THE HYKSOS: CONQUERORS OF EGYPT. True enough, MacLeod thought, even if their conquest had taken place almost three millennia ago and had lasted less than
a hundred years. He smiled inwardly. As Darius might have put it: a mere blink of time!
“Building looks different, doesn’t it?” Professor Maxwell crowed. “We put in improved lighting in the last two years, and
redivided some of the exhibit halls. Quite a few changes since your first visit, eh?”
If only you knew!
A severe woman in a severely cut business suit hurried up to Professor Maxwell, dipping her head in impatient
courtesy to MacLeod, then whispering in Maxwell’s ear. He gave MacLeod a stricken glance. “I completely forgot. I’m supposed
to be making a conference call just about now. With Management. Would you mind very much…?”
MacLeod solemnly assured the professor that he was quite capable of seeing and, yes, understanding the exhibit all by himself.
“I’ll rejoin you later,” Maxwell assured him. “We can, as they say nowadays, do lunch. Yes? Splendid!”
Waving Maxwell away with a grin, MacLeod roved the small, circular gallery. Now he knew exactly where he was. This, if his
memory was correct, had been Edmund Branson’s music room, an imitation of a Roman rotunda, complete with paintings of rather
overblown pseudo-Classical deities on the curved ceiling high overhead… yes. They were still there, nicely restored and still
opulently ugly. The narrow balcony still rimmed that ceiling, too, intended to make a cleaning crew’s job easier. MacLeod
had once pointed out to Edmund Branson that it would also make any prospective burglars’ job easier, too, but had been ignored.
Now, electronic alarms or no, the balcony remained.
Amazing that Amanda never discovered it in some nocturnal visit, he thought.
He turned his attention resolutely back to the exhibit. It was nicely mounted, considering the annoying lack of data and some
very old-fashioned, wood-framed, glass-box cases: good maps and concise, clearly worded labels explaining the political situation
in Egypt circa 1600 B.C. to a lay audience. Not too much was known about the Hyksos, save that they had come out of Palestine but weren’t of Hebrew
stock, had conquered, then lost Egypt, and had then faded back into obscurity. But the lack of information didn’t make them
any less interesting for—
MacLeod came abruptly alert, aware in every sense of the sudden blazing presence of another Immortal, a quick
protest shooting through his mind, Not here, not in an art gallery—all these precious, fragile things!
But then MacLeod relaxed as he recognized the lean figure so casually comfortable in loose gray sweater and jeans stepping
out from behind an exhibit case.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Methos said coolly. The narrow, sharply planed face had already fallen into its usual enigmatic
mask, though humor glinted in his eyes. “Business or pleasure?”
MacLeod shrugged noncommittally. “A bit of both. And you?”
“Oh, I just wanted to see if there was anything here I recognized.” Methos being Methos, it was impossible to tell if he was
joking. “Not,” he added, glancing at a case full of bronze arrowheads, “that the Hyksos were people anyone would want to claim
as acquaintances.”
“Oh?”
A shrug. “It’s rather difficult to like dictatorships, particularly those involved in building an empire by killing off enemies
in clever, painful ways.”
“Speaking from experience, are we?”
That earned him a sly sideways glance. “That, my young friend, was quite a long time back.”
“But?”
“But yes, in the words of the sages: ‘Been there, done that.’ They were a bloodthirsty lot.”
“Nothing new there.”
“Why, MacLeod, how cynical!”
“Not cynical, just honest. Civilizations change, but people, good or bad, remain people.” Remembering the newspaper that Professor
Maxwell had been waving about with such indignation, MacLeod added, making his point, “If you’ve been following the local
news, you know we still have a few psychopaths running around.”
“Ah, you mean those garish murders on the West Side, don’t you? You’re right; I couldn’t quite avoid hearing about the West
Side Slayer, either, though I’ve managed to escape the lurid details, thank you very much.”
“Turning squeamish, are we?”
“Hardly that.” Something dark glinted in Methos’s eyes for a fraction of a second. “I just don’t find psychotic killers entertaining.
We both know how easy it is to kill—how all too easy it can become to enjoy killing.”
Then Methos grinned, and the hint of darkness was gone so quickly that MacLeod wondered if he’d imagined it. “One good thing
about the Bad Old Days,” Methos said, almost lightly. “There might have been just as much general bloodthirstiness, but there
was very little in the way of media. You didn’t have the Crime of the Day trumpeted into your ears at all times.”
“Now who’s the cynic?”
“Realist, MacLeod, realist.”
They strolled on together, studying the exhibit, both of them pretending by unspoken agreement to be just two ordinary men
on a day off. They had the place pretty much to themselves at this early hour on a workday, but MacLeod suspected that there
never would be much of a mob. Nothing flashy here, after all: just bits of metal and the potsherds that told archaeologists
more about the past than any gold. He remembered from the days of the antique store (flinching away from the intertwined thoughts
of Tessa) that only the most knowledgeable of his customers had been drawn to the plain-hilted katanas; the majority had gone
straight to the flashy, useless parade swords with the pretty hilts.
Yes, and speaking of swords, here was one beautifully preserved bronze blade. As they both leaned over the case to study it,
MacLeod caught the reflection of Methos’s face—which had suddenly gone closed and mysterious.
“I never thought I’d see that again.” It was barely more than a whisper. “The sword that holds a royal soul.”
MacLeod straightened, staring at him in surprise. “The, ah, what?”
“The . . .
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