Chapter Fifteen

"Coming up on that marked section now, Mac," Mpande said, lifting the map to show him. They'd been driving since dawn, doing pretty well despite the conditions and now they were getting close to the area where they'd been captured.

Duncan slowed the truck, his eyes flicking quickly around the muddy road in front of them. Last night's downpour had turned it into a bog, like most of the road they'd covered so far. But there was nothing unusual, that he could see. Then why mark it on the map? He braked and turned off the engine. Something wasn't right here -- the small hairs on the back of his neck rose and he reached over the back of the seat to grab his rifle. "Stay here," he told Mpande, "I'm going to have a look around."

"Fuck that," he heard the tracker mutter as he grabbed his own rifle and followed him out of the truck.

Duncan sighed and rolled his eyes, but said nothing. He didn't know why he bothered saying anything. The section of dirt road in front of them was unremarkable, muddy water lying in pot-holes and ruts no different from any they had passed through already that day. But the soldiers they had taken the map from had thought it important enough to mark it clearly on their map; there had to be something here.

Mpande walked past him, reading the ground -- bent slightly forward, every step carefully placed. The posture, bent slightly forward, every step carefully placed was becoming increasingly familiar to Duncan.

"Do you see anything?" he asked quietly.

Mpande held up a hand, signaling him to 'wait'. Duncan watched him kneel and lay a hand on the ground. He found himself holding his breath. At last, Mpande stood and turned back to face him.

"So? What is it?" Duncan asked impatiently.

Mpande shook his head. "Not sure, man. Hard to tell."

Duncan's fingers curled tighter around his weapon. "Well, don't you think we should find out?" He couldn't keep the tension out of his voice, though he did try.

"Well, man, if you got any bright ideas 'bout that, I'd be glad to hear 'em. I can't see a damn thing. Doesn't mean there's nothing there, though." Mpande jerked a thumb back towards the road.

"You mean mines."

"Yebo."

Duncan raised an eyebrow and glanced back out along the boggy road, wiping the sweat away from his eyes. Christ it was hot; the sun sucking last night's rain from the ground made the air feel like steam. "Guess we'd better find out then." He turned and went to the back of the truck. There was one thing they could try. He was unbolting the spare from where it was secured when Mpande walked up behind him.

"We get a flat I don't know about?"

Duncan shook his head and kept working. The last bolt came free and he rolled the tire off the tailgate and onto the ground. Mud splashed up his legs and covered his hands as he began to push the tire.

"Well, you gonna tell me what you doing with our only spare?" Mpande stepped around him to plant himself squarely in Duncan's path.

Duncan weaved around him, still rolling the spare and heading towards the front of the truck. "You know a better way to see if there are mines out there? Are you volunteering to have a closer look?" he asked darkly.

"Nah, man. You the bullet-proof one. I was just gonna stand back and watch."

He'd had just about enough of the pointed humor for one day and it was only half over. He shot Mpande a look over his shoulder that made the other man stop short and wiped the sarcastic smile from his face.

Duncan lined up the spare in one of the two shallow ruts that ran parallel down the road, bent down and pushed, willing it to keep rolling and not fall over. It worked; the spare tire wobbled and swayed along the center of the rut, but did not fall. Quickly, Duncan stepped back to shelter behind the truck's door and caught a glimpse of Mpande doing the same on the other side. The tire rolled along the shallow depression then seemed to disappear in a cloud of dirt and noise. The blast of air from the explosion seemed to hit him like a fist.

Fuck! Instinctively, Duncan dived onto the front seat, almost colliding headfirst with Mpande as he did the same, hearing fragments pinging into the body of the truck and the crashing, tinkling sound of the windscreen smashing. He was right -- it was definitely a minefield.

He looked over at Mpande. "You all right?" Duncan asked, though the tracker didn't look as if he'd been hit.

"Yebo. Guess we know what all those crosses on the map mean, eh?"

"Yeah," Duncan said heavily, thinking of how much back-tracking they'd have to do to find the route around this minefield and all the others. "I guess we do."

***

Methos jerked as the life pulsed back into him, convulsing, shaking, coughing and vomiting up a river of mud-flavored water, while on the edges of his consciousness he realized hands were holding him, turning him onto his side and pulling a blanket up over his shoulder.

Blanket?

What the hell? Methos tried to open his eyes but his eyelids were leaden. The hand on his shoulder squeezed...warningly?

"He will live," the Sangoma said. "You were very lucky." Methos could hear the unconcealed reproof in her voice. "He is worth nothing to you dead."

"Well, then, it is very fortunate for all of us that you are here," came the snapped reply. Allessandro. Methos heard -- felt -- someone come nearer and his heart beat a little faster. "Move aside, I must secure him."

"There is no need. He is too ill -- he will not be going anywhere."

An impatient snort. "Very well," Allessandro said grudgingly. "I will leave him in your care."

There was a shuffle of footsteps and he felt the hand on his arm relax a little. A minute of silence, then he heard her hiss an old Xhosa curse under her breath. Something sharp sliced his skin and he cried out as a deep burning spread rapidly through his body. Methos opened his eyes, wanting to say something, wanting to understand what was happening, but a terrible dragging exhaustion was pulling him back into the dark and he could not resist it.

It didn't take long for the dreams to come.

The music came first, low, soft, guitar notes that wrapped around him like the sweetest sadness, like beauty gone but not forgotten. He was inside it, or it was inside him...was he part of it? Notes like heartbeats, chords like whispers of truth, melody like gazing into the eyes of a lover pulsed and filled the air, filled him.

Weightless, he spun in it, slowly, floating on tides of rhythm, feeling his edges beginning to blur again, feeling the music merge with him, adding instead of taking away. He opened himself to it and let it take him, though his heart beat fast to be so open -- so exposed. But the exposure was so gentle and so inevitable that he could not fight it. The sweet, sad tide flowed up and over and through him, filling places he hadn't known were empty.

And though he could feel the music all around him, he could not see the musician. He knew him, knew with a certainty the identity of the unseen player, but though he searched with his mind and his senses, he could not find him. The knowledge pierced his heart with the bittersweet memory of things and people gone too soon.

Oh, Joe.

Then slowly, he became aware of an undercurrent to Joe's music, a distant drumbeat that swelled and rose so subtly that he could not be sure when it had started -- only that now it was there. He knew this music too as it throbbed and pulsed inside him -- it was the music of Africa, the drumbeat of thunder, of hooves over the savannah, the great heart of the people.

Harsh and beautiful -- desolate and inspiring -- wrapped up in the resonant beat of broad, brown hands on a skin drum.

Other notes joined the drumbeat as the guitar music faded away into the darkness, sounding of lilting strings and haunting pipes rising up, sad and powerful, strong and beautiful, joining with the drumbeat in counterpoint to the beat of his heart. He knew this music too -- could feel it like arms holding him close.

***

"We're gonna have to stop soon, Mac," Mpande said. "It's suicide without headlights." He gave a small snort. "Well -- for some of us."

Duncan knew he was right, but the time they'd lost already was eating at him and he couldn't shake the feeling that the danger to Methos was growing every second they wasted. His hands tightened around the steering wheel as he squinted through the space where the windscreen used to be. "Just a little longer." He could still make out the road -- just -- though the shadows seemed to lengthen with every minute.

Mpande grumbled under his breath, but said nothing more.

Duncan concentrated on the road for another half-hour or so, until it completely disappeared into the darkness. It was a damn shame the headlights had been blown when the mine was set off. Nothing they could do about it now, of course. But Mpande was right, he couldn't negotiate a road this rough in the dark. Conceding a temporary defeat, he pulled the truck to the side of the road and turned off the engine. At least they'd made a bit more ground; with another early start tomorrow they could reach well into the mountains. Maybe even far enough.

Mpande climbed out of the truck and Duncan followed him, still deep in thought. He stayed quiet through the familiar tasks of setting up camp for the night, cooking their dinner, obliquely aware of the guarded, sideways looks the tracker was sending him. But the other man kept his distance and Duncan was grateful.

They had finished their simple meal and Duncan was gazing up into the sky, watching the stars disappear behind banks of dark clouds, when something tapped his shoulder and jolted him out of his reverie. He looked sideways and managed a smile as he took the beer Mpande was holding out to him. "Thanks."

Mpande nodded and twisted the top off his own bottle, tossing the cap into the fire. "Looks like we get some rain tonight. Maybe we better sleep in the truck."

Duncan looked at the darkening sky again. "Aye," he said as he opened the beer and took a long drink. A voice echoed in his head, achingly familiar: Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.... Have a beer. The memory opened up the deep pocket where he'd hidden the pain away and it knifed through him, fresher than ever.

Mpande must have seen it on his face. "Hey, man, it's warm but it's not that bad," he said lightly. Another few moments of quiet, the passing of time lost in his contemplation of the play of firelight on the bottle. Then the tracker spoke again: "Seriously, Mac, what's up?"

Duncan finished the beer in a series of long swallows and gazed into the flames. "It's nothing," he shrugged.  He shook his head. "Nothing."

"If you say so..." the tracker replied easily. Something in the fire burst, a shower of sparks leaping above the flames for a second, but it barely registered. "So what is it with you and this guy...?"

For a long time Duncan didn't answer, he found himself rubbing his forefinger over the beer label, deep in thought. What was it with him and Methos anyway? Friendship? Love? Need? Something else, or all those things? Or was it nothing at all anymore? He didn't want to try to explain it when he didn't even understand it himself. "It's complicated," he said at last. "Isn't it time we tried to check in?" he asked, changing the subject.

Mpande looked at his watch, twisting his arm to let the firelight shine on his wrist. "Just about." He reached into his pack and pulled out the satellite phone.

They'd been trying to check in at this time every evening. So far they hadn't had any success; he wasn't sure if the phone even actually worked, but he couldn't bring himself to give up on it yet. Mpande dialed the number and the code and Duncan waited, watching anxiously. Then Mpande gave him a thumbs-up and smiled broadly. Duncan's hand clenched convulsively around the bottle he still held.

The tracker began to speak and Duncan went very still, listening intently to the monosyllabic responses. His eyes flicked up at Duncan tellingly for a moment, and Duncan's breath caught in his throat. Something had happened. It was another tense minute before Mpande ended the call.

"There's been some news." He didn't bother to make it a question.

"Yebo. There was a ransom demand -- few hours ago. They tracked the transmission." Mpande was busy writing something down in the same notebook where he kept the scramble codes and the communication data.

"How close?"

"They narrowed it down to a ten k area where the message came from -- 'bout fifty k from here. I got the coordinates."

Hope flickered and caught in Duncan's heart.

***

The sound of rain on the thatched roof disoriented Methos when he woke again. For a moment he was sure he was back in the hole again and the rain was coming in to drown him. He sat up quickly, gasping for air and, then wished he hadn't. Oh fuck... Eleven kinds of drum were going off in his head all at once and his stomach lurched as if it was going to force itself up his throat.

A deep, slow breath in and out centered him -- brought his concentration back to the here and now. The dim, gray light in the hut might have morning or evening, it was hard to tell with the rain still coming down, but it felt like morning to him.

He realized the Sangoma was sitting beside him on the narrow cot. "Be still," she said, laying a hand on his arm. "You are still very sick."

And whose fault is that, I wonder? Methos groaned and lay back down.

Someone had clearly pulled him out of the hole sometime after he'd drowned. But what then? Had they'd known he was dead? What had happened in the hours he'd been out to it? That was one of the things he hated most about dying: the complete and utter vulnerability it imposed. A shudder ran down his spine. He did a quick, surreptitious check of his limbs and other assorted bits; they all seemed to be intact, which was always a good start. It could have been so very much worse. "What happened?" he asked at last. Not terribly original, but his head was still pounding and he was hardly at his best.

She looked down at him, with the same coldness he'd seen that first day, then lifted her eyes to stare across the hut. Methos followed her gaze and was only mildly surprised to see Serao lying on a cot opposite him. He felt the shudder run through her.

"That is the second time I've saved your life. Some might say you owe me now."

"Some might," he agreed warily, curious to see where she was going with this. At least now he knew what the game was. She was deluded, but he was curious to see what she thought he could do for her.

"How badly do you want to get out of here, Doctor?" she asked, her voice tense and low, not looking at him at all.

"I think we both know the answer to that." Methos slipped away from her touch and sat up on the side of the cot, pulling the blanket around his bare skin. His head still spun a little, but his system was rapidly ridding itself of whatever she had used to poison him.

"Yes. I think we do." She looked back at him at last, coldly assessing.

He shivered, but it was only the lingering chill of the rain and his drowning. Of course it was. He turned away and caught sight of Serao again, looking at him properly for the first time.

The man was as still and quiet as Methos had ever seen him, but the skin of his arms and legs and chest were scored with a geometry of long, shallow cuts, crusted black with dried blood. He seemed to have shrunk in the few days since Methos had seen him last, his skin -- dulled to a dusky gray -- was stretched tight across his bones. His breathing was slow and uneven, shuddering through his skeletal frame. The scent of death in the room was stronger now, high and sickly sweet. Whatever she was doing to Serao, he was more convinced than ever it sure as hell had nothing to do with healing him.

He looked pointedly at Serao, then turned to the Sangoma, raising a questioning eyebrow. She returned the look without a word, raising her chin challengingly.

"I need to know why," he said, answering the unasked question.

So she told him, the lack of emotion in her voice more affecting than any amount of histrionics would have been.

***

Dawn was barely a faint lightening of the dark sky to the east when Duncan chivvied Mpande from his sleep and hurried him through an abbreviated breakfast, so they were out onto the road again by first light. The coordinates they'd been given were still a good four hour drive from their current location and that was with no unscheduled stops or problems. If they wanted to get Methos back today, they had no time to waste.

He'd been gone five days already and that was too many.

The optimism he'd started with, all those days ago, was beginning to wear thin under the strain of the search. His fear for Methos was a constant at the back of his mind now, like white noise, accompanying his every waking thought. And his dreams too. The little sleep he'd managed had been filled with disturbing images of every time he'd been too late, waking him time after time during the night. He should have been tired, but instead he was buzzing with taut, nervous energy. Today. They had to find him today.

Mpande's voice broke into his thoughts. "Mac! Pull over!"

Duncan caught sight of what was coming around the bend up ahead and braked as quickly as he dared. A troop of soldiers was coming down the road towards them, crowded on top of a camouflage-painted tank. Shit! Duncan ducked down beneath the dash. "Quick! Swap places with me," he hissed at Mpande.

He caught a boot in the shoulder as they struggled to change places in the cramped space. Duncan stayed down as Mpande re-started the truck and kept going in the direction they'd been headed.

"What are they doing?" he whispered from his cramped position in the foot well in the front of the passenger seat.

"Why are you whispering?" Mpande shot back, his mouth twitching as if he was repressing a laugh.

Duncan glared at him -- this was not the time to be making jokes. "What are they doing?" he asked tersely.

"Waving," Mpande said between his teeth and Duncan blinked disbelievingly as he grinned out the window and waved back.

Waving? Duncan shook his head, but said nothing. Over the rumble of the tank as it passed he heard Mpande call something that sounded like a greeting, although it was in a language he didn't recognize. Gradually the rumble of the tank faded away.

"They gone?" he asked.

"Yebo."

Duncan pushed up out of his hiding place and slid back into his seat. "Pull over and I'll drive."

***

"So, you want to...what? Torture him?" Methos asked softly as her voice faded away and he could see the faint glassiness in her eyes, probably as close as she would ever come to tears. "Kill him?"

"Yes."

Both then. "It won't change what happened, you know."

She dashed the tears away and stood up to face him, shaking visibly. "You would have him live, after what he did to me?"

And Christ, could the universe get anymore circular? Methos closed his eyes for a second, willing the past away. What could he honestly say, after all, when he had been in both their places, too many times to think about? And so, there being no judgment that he could honestly make, he chose to make none. Again.

"How did you do it?" he asked instead, with a nod of his head in Serao's direction.

Her eyes glittered at him. "A curse."

That wasn't all of it and Methos waited for the rest.

"And a slow-acting poison."

Methos frowned, trying to imagine it. "But how?"

"After the first time..." And the bleakness on her face was terrible to see. "After the first time, he wanted me to...use my mouth on him," her voice shook but she covered it well, "I took some powder -- a very strong uMuthi -- a little bit can be very good but all...it will cause..." She flicked a hand in Serao's direction. "I put it inside him." There was a brief glimpse of agony in her face before the shutters came up again and she shook her head. "It does not matter how the snake comes to die -- only that he does." The black eyes hardened again and Methos didn't push the question. She was right in that -- right now it didn't matter. "He was...very surprised," she added after a moment.

I'll bet. "He didn't know who -- what you are?"

She laughed, humorless as a hyena and shook her head. "He didn't care. And now he pays for his mistake."

"And what will it do to you?" He stood and pulled the blanket tight around his nakedness. "When he is dead and you live with the memory of what you have done?"

The mask of anger slipped for the briefest of moments. Then it was back. "I will know he's dead, that will have to be enough."

"And you expect me to do what? Help you? Kill him for you?" he asked harshly, refusing to pull back even when he saw her flinch.

"No. I'll do that by myself. I need you to help me get away."

***

Four hours on the road and still they were not nearly close enough. The road was a muddy, slippery bog -- worse as they traveled further into the hills -- making the going slower than he'd expected. They'd had to get out too many times and cut branches to lay across the road so that the truck could pass at all. Too much time lost, when he had no time to spare.

Duncan pressed the gas pedal to the floor and felt the truck respond sluggishly. He gritted his teeth in frustration and took the next corner faster than he should have. The truck lurched sideways and for a second he thought it would roll; he wrenched the steering wheel back in the opposite direction and felt the truck bounce as all four wheels connected with the ground again.

"You know...it'd be a bloody good thing if you didn't kill me today, thanks all the same, Mac," Mpande said dryly. "You want me to take the wheel for a while?"

Duncan shook his head. "I'm okay." The only thing worse than driving through this godawful mess would be not being in control of driving through it. He didn't know how Mpande sat there so calmly. The tracker had even been singing to himself under his breath. "What is that, anyway?" Duncan asked, trying to distract himself. "That song you keep singing?"

"Just a rock song in Zulu, from a few years back. I used to listen to it a lot when I first got out of the army."

"Where'd you serve?" Duncan asked as he steered around another massive pothole. Anything to stop him singing, Duncan didn't think it was possible for anyone to be more tone-deaf than he was himself, but Mpande's voice was pretty awful.

"Here."

Duncan spared a second to look across at him and blink. "You might have mentioned that."

"You didn't ask."

Duncan had to give him that -- he hadn't been thinking of anything but Methos and how to get him back since the moment he'd heard the news about the chopper crash. He changed down gears as they started up a steep grade, shoving the stick into place with an effort. "So, do you know this area we're going into?"

"Yebo. Saw a bit of action here and there, maybe ten years ago."

"I thought the South Africans had pulled out before then?"

Mpande snorted. "Don't believe everything you read, man."

Duncan conceded the truth of that with a shrug. "So what was it like, working with the FAA?"

The tracker barked a humorless laugh and Duncan looked at him sharply. "Wrong side, Mac. We were here with UNITA."

***

"I think I've already proved fairly conclusively that getting away isn't as easy as all that," Methos said. "Allessandro seems quite determined to keep me here. What makes you think we can both get out of here alive? And why should I trust you? For that matter, why should you trust me? How do you know I won't go running to Allessandro now and spill the beans?" Better to have it all out in the open now. There was no way in hell he was really going to put much trust in her but, if it was going to get him out of here, he would make a bloody good show of it.

The Sangoma folded her arms across her chest and looked down at Serao as she answered, "I don't expect you to trust me -- any more than I can trust you. But I know that when he is dead, it won't be long before I am too, if I don't get away. I think that goes the same for you, don't you think? What will telling Allessandro get you? He will not let you go because of it -- perhaps he is even mad enough to kill you for it. I do not think you want to take that risk."

She'd clearly thought it through and when she was right -- she was right. He didn't have a lot of choices here. He could rat out Kumari to Allessandro and risk getting her killed and he would still be a prisoner. Or he could try to talk her out of killing Serao and escape with him anyway -- except why would she bother? She wasn't the one who was a prisoner; she could leave whenever she wanted. Unlike him. Or he could stand aside and let her kill Serao and at least have a chance of escape. One thing was for sure -- when Serao was dead, the camp was not going to be a very healthy place for Methos to be. He shuddered at the thought of being returned to the hole.

What good were choices if they all sucked? Damn it, the whole situation had him backed into a corner. He hated being backed into corners.

The Sangoma must have grown tired of waiting for his answer. "Can you handle a gun, Doctor?" she asked.

"I manage," Methos replied with a shrug. "Can you get your hands on one?"

"I can. Will you help me?"

For reasons he didn't want to think about too closely, Methos held back a little longer. "Do you truly want to do this, Kumari?" he asked quietly. "Think about it -- do you want to let him make you into a murderer? Have you ever killed a man before? Trust me...it stays with you -- deep inside you -- where you can never get it out. Are you ready to have this man with you the rest of your life?"

"He raped me -- he will be with me the rest of my life. That I can't change. But when he is dead I will know he can never do it again." The shaking had stopped and she watched him, still as an obelisk.

Methos shrugged internally. He had tried, made more of an effort than Serao deserved, in all likelihood. He looked across into eyes as flat and black as a mamba's and asked simply, "When?"

Victory flickered about the corners of her mouth. "After the ceremony, tonight."

***

"Better pull over just up there." Mpande pointed to a rough track running off to the side of the road.

The light was closing in again, long shadows merging all around them. The sky was leaden with rain clouds and the air was damp and sticky with the storm to come. But it didn't matter, none of it, because they were almost there. There was a rebel camp about a mile to the west through the forest, according to a truck driver they'd bribed an hour back. A handful of American dollars -- far more enticing than the local currency -- and the man had been more than willing to pass on what he knew of the 'fucking rebels' who stole his cargo the week the before.

Duncan realized his hands were shaking with anticipation as he steered the truck onto the track and turned the engine off. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, forcing himself back under control. He had stay calm -- in control -- he was no good to Methos otherwise. This had to be the place -- it felt right.

"Pity we're losing the light, Mac. We could have gone in today instead of waiting for tomorrow," Mpande said, dragging his pack up from the floor and rummaging in it.

"We aren't waiting for tomorrow, Mpande. We're going in tonight." Duncan couldn't imagine waiting that long, not now that they were so close. "The darker the better in fact. We'll wait 'til close to midnight." The thought of waiting another five or six hours before they could go in, was making him grind his teeth with frustration, but they couldn't just go wading in with guns blazing -- he had no idea what he would find. Best to wait until the camp had settled down for the night, then move in.

"Then how you gonna find him in the camp? If he's even there...." Mpande shook his head dismissively.

"I won't need to see him to be able to find him. You just worry about covering my back and let me worry about finding Matthew." Duncan slid out of the driver's seat and started to ready his gear.

"This one of them Immortal things?" Mpande asked, looking across from where he still sat on the passenger side.

Duncan pulled the second machete from his pack and unsheathed it, examining the now razor-sharp blade. He spared a quick look at the tracker. "Yeah, it's an Immortal thing."

Mpande nodded. "We wait then."

Duncan barely heard him, his attention already captured by the preparations he needed to make.

***

Midnight at last and Duncan slipped through the forest, traveling light with only his weapons, his cheekbones blacked with charcoal from their campfire mixed with axle grease to cut the reflection of any stray ray of light.

Going to war -- the impression of doing so not at all lessened by the drumbeats he'd been hearing in the distance. They'd been going since sunset; they had to have been coming from the camp, only ceasing an hour ago. Duncan quickened his pace through the thick forest, hearing the sounds grow louder with every step. He and Mpande moved together through the trees; he could hear the tracker's steps keeping pace with him. Moonlight silvered tree trunks here and there, giving him some orientation at least.

Closer now and it seemed every crack of branches beneath his feet sounding as loud as gunfire. He pushed through the damp undergrowth, his heart pounding like the drums he'd been listening to all night and his whole body vibrating with tension. He wiped his hands one at a time on the sides of his trousers, took a firmer grip on his rifle and forced himself to be calm.

Then the forest was thinning up ahead -- structures looming out of the darkness -- huts, perhaps. A few steps more and they solidified; yes, it was a row of huts and a distant orange glow beyond. Fire? He paused and signaled to Mpande with the low, tuneless call of a night bird that the tracker had taught him. Mpande appeared soundlessly at his shoulder.

"We need to get in closer," Duncan whispered.

"Round the back...."

Duncan nodded and they circled around the back of the tiny village, traveling side-by-side now. He scoped it out as he went; through the trees he could make out a u-shaped arrangement of thatched huts, seemingly quiet and peaceful -- no one about that he could see. Still not close enough to sense Methos though. Duncan realized out of the blue that the pounding in his chest had slowed and he was calm, focused -- centered the way he was before a challenge -- the fear stored in a far-away place where it could not touch him.

Then as Duncan took another step closer to the village, two things happened very quickly. There was the harsh cough of gunfire and, at the same time, he felt the faint, welcome prickle of Methos' presence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Continued in Chapter Sixteen Back to Main Page Back to Contents