Digitabulum Magae

By MacGeorge

Rating: NC-17, Slash

Rating and Warnings: NC-17. Slash. Explicit sex of the m/m variety, and possibly of the m/f variety. Probable violence.

First, please note that this is a work in progress, and I actively solicit comments to help me make it a better story.

For those of you who have read my slash work before, you will note that this is a first -- a story that is not entirely Duncan/Methos-centric. I cannot promise precisely where all this is leading, frankly, but if any pairing or sex other than DM/M squicks you, then you should go elsewhere.

I make no promises or representations about any other aspect of the story. There may be any one of a zillion things that might bother you, the reader. If you are someone who can't stand to not know exactly what is going to happen before you read a story, then you should go elsewhere.

Acknowledgements: I have recently acquired several excellent beta/advisors. First, there is Cinel Durant, who is a sounding board par excellance. Then there is Killa, who (I am so proud to say) I have managed to seduce into the Witchblade fandom (YESSS!!), then a lovely lady by the name of Fara has been of great help, especially in keeping all the Witchblade complexities in order, and finally there is Tritorella, who never hesitates to tell me when I have gone astray and lost the point of a scene. I would love it, however, if you would tell *me* what your reaction is, *especially* if you think I have not succeeded in what you think I am trying to do.

Disclaimers: The characters from Highlander: The Series are owned and operated by Rysher/Panzer Davis. The characters from Witchblade: The Original Series are, as best I can tell, owned by Top Cow Productions. In any event, they certainly don't belong to me. I am merely borrowing them and hope to return them only slightly bruised and wrinkled. I do this for my own entertainment, and for absolutely no other reason.

Digitabulum Magae II

By MacGeorge

kageorge@erols.com

Kenneth Irons was aware of his own pale reflection gleaming off the monitor’s smooth glass as he observed the two men in a spacious, well-lit exercise salon two stories below. They were engaging in combat using blunted swords, but despite the precaution, both were appallingly bruised and bloody. Sweat and blood flew and spattered the polished wooden floor, making it deceptively treacherous. The smaller of the two was an oriental man whose long queue had been used more than once, Irons observed, as a distraction, used like a whip to slap his opponent’s face when the men clenched in a momentary, fierce embrace.

But it was the other man that held his attention. Had always riveted him with his long, lean, sculpted body, his longish hair clubbed back in a neat bun, now coming lose, leaving tendrils of hair dangling in his eyes. He was in loose gi pants, without a shirt, and welts and bloody scrapes from the long bout decorated his biceps and ribs. But even though the men had been sparring for almost an hour, the intense concentration etched on his face had not altered for a second.

Irons had made a study of the art of combat for decades and considered himself a connoisseur of all its many forms. Both men were masters at what they did, probably the best in the world, and each gave no quarter in strength, endurance, speed, skill, or even in stubbornness. Having a private viewing of such artistry, of being in large measure responsible for its expression in the magnificent body and mind of Ian Nottingham was a source of secret pride, although Irons would be loath to admit such a thing to anyone.

Jiang Li countered a move, then in less than the blink of an eye twisted his body away and to the side, spinning, his momentum pulling his back leg up off the floor so fast it looked like he levitated, and a heel shot out, aimed straight at the other man’s face. Before Kenneth could even tense enough to hold his breath, Nottingham leaned back at an angle that defied physics, simultaneously extending his blade and sweeping it up. Instead of taking a bone-breaking blow to the head, he flipped Li onto his back with a heavy thud that Kenneth thought could almost be felt two stories up.

Suddenly, they were still, both men gasping for air, Li looking up at his opponent, whose sword point now pricked the small, sweat-filled indentation at the base of his neck. After a moment, Li rolled to his feet and bowed, an admiring smile gracing his fine features.

"You do me great honor," Li murmured in Mandarin.

"On the contrary, it is I who have been honored," Ian demurred in the same language, with his own low bow.

Li laughed, slapping Ian on the shoulder and moved to a bench to pick up a towel. "That’s the third time in a month you have beaten me, Ian. As much as I enjoy our sessions, as well as Mr. Irons’ considerable generosity, I think there is little I can do for you now, other than to be a willing punching bag or sparring partner. And frankly, I am getting a little homesick for Shanghai."

Ian draped a towel around his neck, his eyes lowered, but then Ian rarely met anyone’s eyes. It was part of who he was, what he did. "I need a teacher, Li. I always need teachers. Mr. Irons will insist."

Li shrugged, and the two men headed out of the large practice room towards the lockers, and Kenneth switched off the monitor.

He leaned back in his chair, looking at but not really seeing the beautifully painted ceiling in his elaborate study. Ian was right. It wouldn’t do for him not to have a teacher. The boy became…thoughtful, when he was not pressed to expand his already considerable abilities, when he had too much time on his hands. And a tool that did too much independent thinking was one that might, someday, choose to act on those thoughts, making him less than entirely dependable. And he had spent far too much time and energy on Ian to let such a finely honed instrument be tarnished by such a flaw.

He pressed the intercom button on his desk, speaking softly. "Come to my study when you are dressed, both of you."

Half an hour later, the two men entered the deeply shadowed study in silence, Ian following his teacher, his hands folded tightly at his back. Kenneth had chastised him for that hunched, wary pose many times, but it was one correction Ian either could not or would not make, as though it were symbolic of some essence of their relationship, at least from Ian’s perspective.

Kenneth poured himself a brandy, not bothering to offer any to his ‘guests.’ "An interesting sparring session, gentlemen. Quite impressive." He turned to face them.

Li bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement, but Ian just looked up at him with those dark, impossibly intense eyes.

"Ian is the best student a teacher could possibly ask for, and is quickly outstripping my ability and skill, crafting new and innovative moves I have not taught him. His intelligence is astounding, his strength and reflexes almost inhuman. It has been a privilege to share my small knowledge," Li replied.

Kenneth chuckled, and found a seat by the brightly blazing fireplace, gesturing for Li to sit. Ian moved to a standing position between them, but in the rooms’ shadows, crossed his arms and followed the conversation between his teacher and his employer with his eyes.

"A privilege for which you were more than generously compensated," Irons observed.

Li smiled and nodded. "Acknowledged and appreciated. But it serves neither Ian nor you to continue my services if I have nothing further to teach him."

"Then who does?"

Li shrugged. "Perhaps Ian should be the teacher now, and no longer the student."

"No!" Ian snapped, his voice dark and hoarse. "I need a teacher."

"Ian," Li said gently, turning to him, "you are the best I have ever seen, in so many ways I can’t even describe. I’m not certain it is possible to find you a teacher."

"Not certain?" Kenneth asked quietly.

Li chuckled. "Ian is the best I know, Mr. Irons. Better than I am, now. And most of my life, I have considered myself the best."

"Only most of your life, then?" Kenneth probed.

Li shrugged. "My own teacher was a remarkable woman. Beautiful, mysterious, knowledgeable in so many forms you wondered how one so young could possibly have learned them all. But I was just a child, and Mai Ling would be in her sixties by now, at least. I tried to find her a few years ago, and she had just…disappeared. There were times when I attributed almost magical qualities to her, but that may have been because I was a little in love with her. It is also, I believe, in our nature. In the orient, especially, there are always stories of masters whose prowess went beyond the merely human scale. Why do you think it is our culture that created the bizarre and mystical fantasies embodied in something like "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon", where masters of every known martial art can fly through the air and survive against impossible odds?"

"Ah, only fantasies, then? But what if one were to look for those fantasies in the here and now?"

"Fantasies are for children, Mr. Irons. I do not waste my time with them."

Kenneth chuckled. "Mr. Shakespeare’s line comes to mind."

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy?" Li supplied. "Well, movie magic and wishful fantasies aside, the human form is constrained by physics, by time and strength and endurance and, yes, even age. And I am getting no younger, and neither is Ian. While we are at our physical peak, that is a fleeting moment, like all moments in human existence. If Ian tries to push too far past what the human body is designed to do, he will only injure himself, and hasten the inevitable decline in his skills."

"How can we know unless I test those limits, Master Li?" Ian finally spoke, his voice a ghostly emanation in the flickering shadows cast by the firelight.

"You think you are the first who wished to do the impossible?" Li snapped.

"Ah," Kenneth sighed, sipping from his glass. "Then there are those who have tried? But have they succeeded?"

Li shook his head with a small frown. "As I said, only stories, legends of mystics and powers, the stuff of comic books."

"Tell me," Kenneth ordered.

"Mr. Irons, I cannot see…"

"Tell me."

Li paused, then shrugged. "There are many stories. I recall one of an ancient mystic called Nakano, said to be a master of all the martial arts, a magician who lived for hundreds of years, who could shapeshift and cloud the mind. It was said he could fashion swords from the lightening that fell from the sky, that he could move faster than the eye could see, and could lift a mountain with his finger." Li cocked his head. "But I doubt that he is available for teaching Ian."

"And what happened to this Nakano?"

"The legends say another warrior came from across the seas, engaged him in terrible battle, and that Nakano, to protect his most promising student, gave his life to bury his enemy alive in order that the student could survive."

"So this Nakano did take students, after all," Kenneth smiled.

Li’s small mouth pursed in a half smile. "It was over 300 years ago, Mr. Irons. Even his student’s student would be long dead."

"But you said Nakano had lived for hundreds of years, perhaps this student of his learned that secret."

Li laughed, his eyes scanning the room uncomfortably, clearly looking for a way out of the conversation. "In my experience, Mr. Irons, excellence in any endeavor comes through hard work and discipline, not magic. I only mentioned that particular folktale because I understand you have a fascination for cross-cultural legends, and for the rest of that particular story, you would have to look to ancient Celtic myths."

Kenneth paused, his brandy glass halfway to his lips. Here was a topic even closer to home. "Celtic myths?"

"Yes. The student, it is said, was a Scot, but then oriental myths seem to be redolent with Scottish influences, since it also comes up in connection with the great Japanese samurai, Hideo Koto, who was said to have given his finest sword, along with all his teachings, to a Scot. It is even said that this mythical, heroic swordsman will always be there, using that magnificent blade to protect the descendants of Hideo Koto, like some kind of guardian spirit. It seems likely that the two stories, over time, have become blended in the folklore since the names are even the same."

"And what name is that?"

"MacLeod."

"MacLeod," Kenneth repeated softly. "And that’s all you know of this legend?"

"And how would I know more than that, Mr. Irons, since he probably never existed in the first place, and if he did, he would have been dead for hundreds of years? I would think you would be more interested in the names of masters living in the here and now."

"Legends and myths, especially those that repeat themselves and which appear in multiple cultures, frequently have some core of truth to them." Kenneth rose. "You have done well Jiang Li. You do know, however, that you will never speak of what has transpired here, you will never discuss your teaching of Ian Nottingham, you will never acknowledge that you even met me."

Li cocked his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Are you threatening me, Mr. Irons?"

"I don’t threaten," Kenneth answered.

Silence filled the room, and at last Li bowed slightly, his body stiff. "A man of discretion and honor needs no reminders of what is already known and understood."

Kenneth held himself very still. He didn’t often make such tactical blunders. "You are most correct," he replied in Mandarin, and bowed slightly. The answering bow was perfunctory, but sufficient to acknowledge that an apology had been extended and accepted. Kenneth refilled his glass after Li left, aware of Ian’s eyes boring into his back.

"Do you think there is any truth to this legend Li speaks of?" Ian asked softly.

"You know as well as I do that such things are possible," Kenneth answered. He turned and graced Ian with a cold smile. "Just very, very unlikely. You may pursue the issue if you like, but in the meantime make arrangements for us to go to London. We’ll take a commercial flight."

"Business or…personal?" Ian asked. The discretion with which the arrangements were made was sometimes dependent on the nature of their trip.

Kenneth shrugged. "A little of both. I need to visit the London office, and there is a young man in Suffolk who recently inherited what I believe is a remarkable collection of medieval religious texts and artifacts that might have some interesting references to the Witchblade. The boy is being cagey about my inquiries, and a personal visit may be necessary."

Ian bowed and began to back away as Kenneth moved to the fire, watching the flames flicker through the distortion of his brandy snifter.

"Oh, and Ian? Don’t spend too much time pursuing this Nakano business. You know it is probably a waste of time." A few seconds passed, and Kenneth knew the room was empty. He sipped his brandy with a smile. The legend Li had mentioned was not unfamiliar to him. He had made himself an expert on any legends regarding historical heroes whose prowess seemed to defy rational description or explanation. This one was no more or less likely to have any useful grain of truth than most fanciful tales, but it would keep Ian’s imagination occupied for a while, and that was always a good thing.

London had been more annoying than usual. The gray rain, the bad food, the toadyism of the woman in charge of his London office all conspired to give him a low level headache that made him snap at his employees and spoiled his enjoyment of a concert by an excellent young pianist at Royal Albert Hall. The drive back from the concert was tense and silent, and Ian hovered in the corner of the limousine like some great carrion bird.

"I wish you wouldn’t do that," Kenneth finally snapped.

"Do what?"

But Kenneth knew Ian was hyperaware of exactly how he was perceived. The two men strode into the lobby, Kenneth’s damp coat flapping open, spraying droplets of water onto the thick carpet, aware that Ian was one step behind him, matching him stride for stride. He knew they looked impressive. Two tall, well-built men, one pale, cool and aristocratic, the other dark, brooding and intense. The elevator rose silently to the hotel’s top floor suite, and they were obsequiously bowed onto the floor directly opposite the double doors of their rooms. Ian stepped in front and keyed open the door, and Kenneth pushed past him, turning to watch as Ian closed the door behind them both.

Ian turned, pausing expectantly as Kenneth studied his… employee… minion… student… tool… lover… creation. Kenneth moved closer, shedding his coat and letting it fall to the floor of the suite’s carpet where it pooled amid the swirled patterns of red and beige and pink flowers. Ian’s chin finally rose and Kenneth smiled. He liked it when Ian looked defiant, and his cock stirred. He stepped close, seeing the fine droplets of rain still sparkling in Ian’s hair, especially where unruly curls had escaped any attempts to pull the mass back into a tight ponytail.

He leaned in, reaching with a hand behind a neck, to pull Ian close. There was the expected momentary resistance, the hard look in those dark eyes. Ah, yes, Kenneth breathed deep, smelling the rain, the musk, the dark scent that was uniquely Ian Nottingham. He leaned in, opening his mouth and moving it over those hard lips, feeling the rough texture of Ian’s beard and mustache. He knew Ian was not going to close his eyes, that the man didn’t want to begin this ritual, so he pulled them a little closer together, running his tongue along smooth, hard teeth until they parted slightly. He pushed, forcing Ian back all the way against the door, and pressed in, now using his other hand to search under the warmth of the other man’s coat, then his jacket, and to the softness of a sweater that barely disguised the rippling warmth of human flesh.

A long, noisy breath in through his nose and Ian’s chest expanded as they kissed. Kenneth let his hand wander down to caress a hard, tense ass and pressed Ian’s legs open with his thigh so he could feel the throbbing presence of a filling cock. Tension thrummed in Ian’s body like a hot electric wire, the resistance warring with the need, pride battling with something far more primal. God, he loved this part, watching Ian’s internal battles rage. Lust, shame, pride, need, want. Ian wanted to be loved, but he wasn’t certain Kenneth loved him. Ian needed to be needed, but wasn’t sure Kenneth would not replace him without a thought. Ian hated to feel used, but desperately wanted to be useful. It was magnificent to watch.

"Fuck me. Hard," he whispered in Ian’s ear and felt a shiver resonate through the man’s entire body.

In moments they were on the bed, the quilted swirls of the bedspread imprinting its pattern on Kenneth’s cheek as he felt Ian’s hard, callused hands parting his ass cheeks and smooth, cool lubricant spreading over his anus and smearing his balls. A sharp pain in his ass made him gasp, but then he moaned as a finger delved deep inside, stroking and stimulating. He pushed against it, wanting more, and in only seconds his ass was stretched further, the thin skin pulled tight and painful, but that burn was forgotten when his prostate was nudged and he couldn’t suppress a cry. Then the fingers were gone, replaced by softer, yet more substantial flesh. When there was a moment of hesitation, he pulled his knees underneath his body, rose up and pushed back, forcing the entry.

"Yes!" he hissed, finally feeling the thick, heavy cock push deep inside. Ian’s harsh breaths were warm against the back of his neck, but there were no words, no moans, just short, guttural grunts as Ian undulated against him. He wanted to grab his own cock, but needed both hands to brace against the headboard as Ian jammed into him again and again. Oh, God, it felt good. Too good to stand for long. His breaths became ragged, punctuated with small, almost incoherent urgings to go faster, deeper. Finally, a hard hand grabbed his straining cock, squeezing it in the same rhythm as the push deep inside and he came with a yell and a bright, hot flash of ecstasy.

Ian curled up against his back, pushing in hard and holding his breath as he finally came, as well, then convulsively did it again, finally gasping in a great gulp of air and catching his weight on his hands against the wall, panting harshly against Kenneth’s neck. Kenneth lowered himself to the bed, moving slightly to one side to avoid the messy puddle of come he had just spilled over the covers. Ian moved back a little, slipping out of Kenneth’s body with a mildly uncomfortable pull, letting Kenneth settle before lying on his back near the edge of the bed.

"I feel much better," Kenneth sighed. Even though his eyes were closed, he knew that Ian was staring darkly off into the room’s shadows, his body still flushed with heat, still shiny with sweat, the room redolent with the musky, earthy smells of male sex. Ian would be angry with himself, feel slightly used even after the release of orgasm, and yet he would always come back, always craving those few moments of intimacy. Kenneth smiled to himself.

A moment later the bed moved, and he heard Ian pad off to the bathroom. He rolled enough to slip underneath the covers, barely rousing when Ian returned to clean some of the mess off the bedspread, then gently bathed Kenneth’s sticky thighs and ass with a warm cloth. Some part of his subconscious only relaxed, however, when he heard the bedroom door click closed, and he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It was an ugly old English manor house, square and boxy, but quite large. The half-mile of road leading up to the estate was lined with ancient poplars that hid the circular driveway until you were right at the ivy-shrouded house. There were wings going back on either side, probably built on well after the original structure had been completed, Kenneth estimated somewhere in the mid-18th Century. Gravel crunched under their feet as they stepped up to a rather unprepossessing entrance of a large, arched oaken door, and Ian reached for the heavy brass knocker. The echoing boom it made indicated a large interior, and they had to wait a couple of minutes and knock again before a short, squat woman with iron gray hair finally answered, wiping her hands on her apron as she peered up at them.

"Aye?" she asked, not unfriendly, just slightly harassed.

"Is this Dr. Pierson’s residence?" Kenneth asked, suddenly wondering if they, indeed, had somehow gotten lost on the badly marked twists and turns in the hour and a half drive from London.

"Aye, that it is," she said in a slight Irish brogue. "And who might you be?"

"Kenneth Irons. I believe I am expected," Kenneth bowed slightly, and smiled his most winning smile, well aware that charm was not his strong suit.

"Well, come in then. Wipe your feet, mind, I just did these floors," she opened the door and they stepped into a large foyer paneled in rich oak. Double doors leading towards the back of the house were closed, but there was an arched entrance to the right, and a doorway to the left leading to what appeared to be a dining area. "I’ll tell Dr. Pierson you’re here," she announced, then left them, her short legs thumping on the parquet floor as she disappeared to the room at the right.

Kenneth could hear murmured voices, and after a moment the woman appeared again, scurrying along, headed straight through the room, waving at them vaguely as she did. "I’ll just put on some tea," she said. "You just go right on in."

Kenneth looked at Ian, who just cocked his head and shrugged. They walked through the archway, stepping onto an ancient, but beautiful Persian carpet of deep blues and reds. The room was two stories high with narrow, floor to ceiling windows demarking breaks in long rows of shelving and display cases. A fire crackled in the hearth at the far end of the room, where the warm light of a single lamp illuminated a large, elaborately carved Mazarin desk. Kenneth prided himself on recognizing its quality and its origins, even though the term for the late 17th Century Boulle-decorated writing table hadn't been coined until the 19th century. A work of art in and of itself, and he wondered whether the young man sitting behind it with his booted feet propped on its surface had the slightest idea of its true worth.

The feet were moved to the floor with a small thud, and the man rose, taller and leaner than Kenneth expected. Pale skin contrasting with dark, short hair. A prominent, aquiline nose emphasized the sharpness of the young man’s features, but Kenneth was particularly interested in the eyes. They revealed nothing, and could have been any color, taken on whatever environment the man inhabited. There was intelligence there, and something else that Kenneth couldn’t quite identify, and that made him very wary, indeed.

"Mr. Irons, I presume? Adam Pierson," the young man said by way of introduction, putting out a long-fingered hand.

Kenneth shook it, noting that Pierson’s grip was firm, the skin cool and dry. No fear here, no nervousness at meeting one of the world’s most prominent and wealthy entrepreneurs. Interesting. Pierson turned to Ian, studying him closely. "My associate, Ian Nottingham," Kenneth supplied, and observed as the two men shook hands. Again, Pierson’s reaction intrigued him. Most people were intimidated by Ian, who managed to look threatening even in the most benign situations, but Pierson just seemed…amused.

Pierson motioned towards the divan and chairs set near the fireplace. "Mrs. Ingram will be bringing us some tea shortly, if you’d like."

"That will be lovely," Kenneth replied, even though he would have preferred coffee. "This is a beautiful library. I assume this is the collection you inherited from your great-uncle?"

"Yes, it is a good portion of it, although I already had a substantial collection of my own." Pierson shrugged and smiled. "I think a love of books runs in the family."

"I see. And did you plan on keeping all these volumes?" Kenneth asked, waving at the two stories of shelves. "Surely you haven’t a need for them all."

"Does one ever need books, Mr. Irons? They are a quiet obsession, and a relatively harmless one." Pierson glanced over at Ian, who had continued to stand, and was looking up at the small balcony that ringed the shelves, reached by a circular wrought iron staircase in the corner.

"Please excuse my companion, Dr. Pierson. He is a restless soul."

"Go ahead and explore if you like, Mr. Nottingham, just please put any books back where you find them," Pierson instructed. Ian nodded solemnly and wound his way up the stairs, but Kenneth knew that it was primarily so that Ian could eavesdrop, unobserved, on their conversation, and to better survey the area.

"Have you fully catalogued the collection yet?" Kenneth asked.

Pierson’s laugh was low and rich with amusement. "In a manner of speaking. I have been exploring these volumes all my life and could tell you where each one of them is located, and their contents."

Kenneth smiled at Pierson's boyish exaggeration, and both men waited a moment as Mrs. Ingram scurried in and served them tea in exquisitely fine china cups. "Well, I was certainly impressed with that monograph you wrote for your graduate dissertation. You cited some sources that I had not previously heard of, and that is what really prompted me to contact you. You see I am a bit of a collector myself. My interests are in fairly arcane bits and pieces of literature and art."

Pierson smiled over his cup. "That makes four."

"Excuse me?"

"Four readers of that particular monograph, you and my dissertation committee. You must be an avid researcher to have even discovered its existence."

Kenneth just smiled and sipped his tea. Pierson needn’t know that he had three full-time researchers on staff combing every published word for any references possibly related to the object whose influence had so dominated his life for the last half-century.

"In the monograph, you mentioned a tomb rubbing, as well as a translation of an ancient poem about Septima Zenobia. The allusion to the Great Queens of the Middle World and their subjugation by Rome are topics of particular interest to me."

"I see," Pierson said noncommittally, studying Irons curiously. "Why?"

"Why?"

"I find that such intense interest in arcane subjects is usually sparked by some personal quest for enlightenment or knowledge," Pierson replied. "What might yours be?"

Kenneth smiled his coolest smile. "If it is, indeed, a personal quest, then I would think it should remain…personal. Is there any reason you might not wish to share your research with me? I would have thought that, for a scholar such as yourself, such an interest in your work would be welcome. And, given what just the taxes on a place like this might be," he gestured at the large building around them, "and without any visible means of support, any potential…donations towards your work would also be more than welcome."

Pierson tipped his head back and chuckled, and Irons stiffened and even flushed slightly. This man was getting irritating.

"You do get right to the point, don’t you, Mr. Irons?"

Kenneth relaxed a little. This was more like it. An offer made, an offer considered. They were now into the negotiation phase. This Pierson was much more sophisticated and cagey than he had presumed, given the man’s youth, but now that they were on familiar territory, things could move more quickly. Irons glanced up to the balcony, noting that Ian had slowly circled around and was now on the opposite side of the room, towards the foyer, and was looking down at them, his expression, as always, intense.

Pierson followed his glance. "An interesting man," he commented softly. "Bodyguard?"

Kenneth shrugged. "That and more."

"I see."

"I doubt it," Irons replied. "We were discussing a tomb rubbing and a poem?"

"Yes, I suppose we were." Pierson stood, crossing to his desk. "My great-uncle knew a number of archeologists who explored some caves near the sea in what is now Syria. There was a find that indicated that the bodies of some ancient rulers had been moved there from their original burial sites, possibly in secret. They appeared to be the bodies of women, based on the few bones and bits of decorative pottery found, but there were also a surprising number of bits and pieces of what appeared to have been weapons. He speculated that the bodies of the nine queens who had been conquered by the Romans, including Septima Zenobia, had been stolen from wherever the Romans had buried them and moved there."

He took a folder out from a desk drawer and pulled out several 8 x 10 glossy photographs. "There was a rubbing done of some very eroded carvings on the walls of the cave. It is difficult to see in the photos, but you might be able to tell there is a figure wielding a long blade against many smaller figures."

Kenneth leaned over Pierson’s shoulder where he had spread the photos out underneath the light of the desk lamp. The Englishman’s long, elegant fingers danced over the barely visible images, outlining a curve here, a line there.

"And if you follow this pattern, you can see what might be the curve of a breast, and the distinctive drape of a woman’s robe. Most unusual. My great-uncle was certain this was the final resting place of Septima Zenobia, although he never had sufficient evidence to prove it."

"This is a photograph of a rubbing," Kenneth observed. "Do you have the original parchment?"

Pierson turned, looking at him. "The cave was found over 100 years ago. The parchment would be very delicate and very valuable."

They were only inches apart and Kenneth was struck at the depth of Pierson’s eyes. He had thought they seemed of no particular color before, but now they seemed golden, like a cat’s eyes, with the same kind of knowing, secretive understanding of the world. And he knew.

This was the Witchblade at work again. He had not met Pierson by chance. It was all connected somehow.

"You do have it, don’t you, Adam?" he asked softly, leaning close, using the man’s name for the first time.

A small noise above caught his attention, and he glanced up. Ian had turned and was striding down the balcony to a small alcove, where he disappeared into the shadows. Kenneth smiled. Ian must be feeling jealous.

"Wait! Don't..." Pierson had turned, also seeing Nottingham go through the upstairs door. "Damn."

"What?"

But Pierson's long legs carried him to the spiral staircase and up, and Kenneth followed close behind, asking what was wrong, but getting no answer. They reached the door, and stepped through to another balcony overlooking what had to originally be a ballroom, with an enormous crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. The ten foot wide ledge on which they stood extended all the way around the perimeter of the large room, but Ian had not gone far. He was leaning against the railing, staring transfixed down into the ballroom.

Kenneth stepped closer and followed his gaze. A lone man was using the space, the sounds of his bare feet slapping the wooden floor echoed through the room, punctuated by grunts of expelled air and the musical hum of metal cutting through space. Chills washed over Iron’s flesh in a hard shudder. Oh, yes. This was definitely the Witchblade’s work. The form was perfection, the speed hard to fathom, the complexity surpassing anything Kenneth had ever seen, and he thought he had seen it all.

About five minutes passed as the three men watched in silence, then the man below concluded his exercise with a flourish of the sword, tucking it at his side as though there were a scabbard invisibly worn there. He looked up, obviously aware that he had acquired an audience.

Kenneth’s mouth went dry. Dark, deep-set eyes, flawless golden skin, muscles sculpted to perfect proportion, thick, dark hair curling just at his neck. Male beauty incarnate. He opened his mouth to apologize for their intrusion, but suddenly Ian was headed down the curved stairs leading to the main floor. He moved to stop him, but Pierson put a hand on his arm. "It’s all right. He's in no danger."

Kenneth didn’t know whether to laugh or be insulted. The notion that anyone might be able to hurt Ian Nottingham was ludicrous. Ian had pulled off his coat as he rushed down the stairs, throwing it aside and striding to a wall display, where several katanas were sheathed in the ‘peace’ position on the wall. He pulled one free and strode to the middle of the floor. He held the hilt between his palms, point down, and bowed.

The anonymous swordsman cocked his head with a slightly bemused smile, then mimicked Ian’s actions. Both men simultaneously stepped back on their right foot, blades up in a ready position and suddenly his earlier arrogance about Ian’s safety seemed misplaced. Those were not blunted swords.

Ian moved first, and the two men exchanged several standard patterns, each feeling the other out as to their skill level. Then it quickly, subtly altered and sped. Kenneth could tell that Ian was consistently on the attack, with the other man using only defensive moves. They circled each other, with Ian closing in again and again, finally using more and more of the complex moves he had seen him develop with Jiang Li. After ten minutes, however, neither man had been hit, although each was sweating heavily.

Ian appeared to be getting slightly frustrated, and with a small shout closed in, crowding the other man close to the stairs. But the man moved backward with the same agility as he moved forward, and he stepped up the stairs and pushed off, twisting into a backward flip that carried him straight to the railing of the staircase where he landed one-footed, then propelled himself into a forward somersault. His katana extended horizontally, catching Ian’s defensive upward thrust and pushing Ian’s blade down. Kenneth watched in astonishment as the man reached out mid-air and plucked the blade right out of Ian’s hand. He landed lightly and folded both blades away behind his shoulders.

Ian stared at his empty hand, open-mouthed.

"Adam?" the other man said, not taking his eyes off his unexpected sparring partner. There was barely any breathlessness, despite the hard exercise. "I think you ought to introduce me to your guests." Kenneth couldn't quite place the slight accent coloring the warm baritone.

"I apologize for the intrusion," Kenneth didn’t wait for Pierson to intervene, and moved down the stairs to get a closer look at this modern-day warrior. He held out his hand, but then took it back, realizing the other man’s were occupied with deadly weapons. "Kenneth Irons, and this is my associate, Ian Nottingham."

"And this rather sweaty individual," Pierson's voice came from behind him as he drifted down the stairs, "is a friend of mine who is staying with me for a while." Pierson stepped into the small group of men, forming a circle, his eyes dancing with some secret amusement. "Mr. Irons, Mr. Nottingham, I’d like you to meet Duncan MacLeod. Of the Clan MacLeod," he added as though it were a private joke.

Ian surprised Kenneth once again by dropping to a knee and bowing his head. "It is an honor, Sensei MacLeod."

A frown flickered across MacLeod's face. "Stand up, Mr. Nottingham. Here," he tossed over the blade Ian had taken from the wall, then crossed to a bench where he pulled a soft cloth out of a sports bag and threw it to Ian.

Catching the cloth one-handed, Ian used it to carefully wipe the blade clean before he returned the sword to its place on the wall.

"Kenneth Irons, of Vorschlag Industries?" MacLeod asked. "Adam told me he was expecting some guests this afternoon, but I wasn’t aware they were of such renown." MacLeod reached for a towel and wiped his own blade clean. He then pulled out a silk cloth and wrapped the blade with almost loving care. "And I normally avoid public demonstrations, although sparring with someone as skilled as Mr. Nottingham is a rare pleasure." The man’s smile was cool.

Kenneth nodded. "Understood, and I apologize for Ian's intrusion. You must forgive him. He is quite adept at various martial arts and had despaired of finding a teacher whose skills exceeded his own. I must say finding you is a most fortuitous… coincidence."

"He is a MacLeod," Ian said. "It is not a coincidence." He had taken up position slightly behind Kenneth, his hands folded behind his back. His skin was still flushed with exertion, and, Kenneth suspected, emotion.

At Ian’s words, MacLeod stiffened, then turned to look, not at Ian, but at Adam Pierson. A silent communication passed between those two men.

"Yes, well," MacLeod smiled tightly. "It is not an uncommon name. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me…"

"May I see Hideo Koto’s blade?" Ian blurted out.

Kenneth gritted his teeth. Ian was brilliant, gifted, but occasionally horribly indiscrete.

"Excuse me?" MacLeod asked, and Kenneth watched his face drain of color.

"That was Hideo Koto’s blade you used, was it not? The one given to the gaijin he had sheltered against the Shogun’s wishes? Your ancestor?"

Again MacLeod looked hard at Pierson, one eyebrow raised in question.

"I believe our tea is getting cold," Pierson inserted, gesturing towards the double doors that led to the foyer.

Ian started to say something more, but Irons shot him a hard look, and he stopped. Ian grabbed his coat off the stairs and put it on, crossing his arms tightly across his chest as he trailed behind. Kenneth glanced back, not surprised to see Ian turn his head to watch MacLeod leave through another door.

Methos watched the dark limousine pull away, raising a trail of dust until it rounded the corner of the long driveway and disappeared toward the main road. He closed the front door and wandered through the ballroom, his hands tucked deep in his pockets, thinking on the intrusion of Kenneth Irons and the mysterious Ian Nottingham. He would have been irritated, except that it was such a waste of energy, since the influence of the Witchblade, which he hadn’t felt for centuries, was something outside the realm of mere happenstance or coincidence.

No, the marks on the back of Irons’ hand, Nottingham’s more-than-human skills, Irons’ interest in the centuries-old research he had used in his recent academic monograph, and the seemingly coincidental encounter with MacLeod, all had the intersecting confluence of events that was a hallmark of the Witchblade.

It was most unwelcome, but not really unexpected. Mac had always been, and likely always would be at the center of whatever swirl of conflict and chaos defined the event horizon of mankind. Now, more than ever, the man was a walking magnetic storm of power. It was inevitable that a similar influence, embodied in an instrument of destiny like the Witchblade, would either be pulled towards him, or pull Mac towards it. And Methos had always known that the Witchblade’s power would, at minimum, hover at the edges of his own life. You could not live for five millennia and not at some point become either its tool or its enemy, or both.

MacLeod had occupied the north wing of the house for three months now. Methos had given the man plenty of privacy and space to grieve and to assimilate the massive amount of Quickening power he had been forced to absorb. For Methos, it had been a very pleasant and peaceful interlude. They spent frequent evenings together in the library, sometimes reading in companionable silence, sometimes talking or playing chess late into the night. Mac didn’t talk about what had happened in New York, his brother/teacher’s death or the battle with Jacob Kell. Maybe someday he would, but for now, Mac just seemed to need a sense of normalcy, a mundane routine that seemed to comfort him. Somehow, Methos suspected their brief idyll was about to end.

He tapped on Mac’s bedroom door, and responded to the call to enter. Mac was pulling on a sweater, his hair still damp from a shower. He turned and gave Methos a tight smile. "Interesting friends you have, there." He ran his fingers through his hair in a desultory attempt at grooming.

"Not friends. Just met them both today. Irons called me months ago, trying to get me to come to the States and bring the research I used to write my dissertation. I declined, he persisted and finally called yesterday to say he was coming to see me."

"Your dissertation? That thing about the ancient queens buried in a cave in Syria?"

"You read it?"

Mac chuckled. "That surprises you?"

"Shouldn’t it? Since when do you go around reading obscure monographs on speculative archeology?"

"Since you wrote one," Mac responded. He pulled a bottle of water from a stash on his bureau, opened it and finished half of it in a long series of gulps.

"Should I be flattered?"

Mac shrugged. "That’s entirely up to you. I thought it was very interesting. It’s a shame the cave collapsed. All you have left is the rubbing?"

Methos nodded, and inclined his head towards the door, leading them both back towards the main part of the house. "The original parchment is not in good shape and it’s in a special vault I keep for delicate papers. I suppose I should have it digitally scanned, just to make sure it gets permanently preserved."

Mac followed him down the hall, and through a back door into the library. "I have some stuff like that, as well. Most of it is in Paris, but I have a few things in Seacouver. Old letters mostly. Somehow, I’m reluctant to do it, even though I know I ought to before time takes any more toll on the fibers and ink."

Methos crossed to a small sideboard and poured each of them scotch before they relaxed in chairs before the small fire. "I know what you mean. It seems an admission of the impermanence, even of memories, but there are many things I would love to still have, even if all that was available was an image, a picture, a hologram."

Mac nodded thoughtfully, his eyes on the fire. Methos could see the flickers from the fire reflected in his wide, dark eyes. When MacLeod let down his guard, his eyes became transparent windows to his emotions, and right now he seemed pensive and distracted.

"What do you know about Irons?" Mac asked, turning a hard gaze on his host. "And were those marks on the back of his hand what I think they were?"

Methos paused, organizing his thoughts. "How much do you know?" he asked.

Mac studied him in silence for a moment. "I met Elizabeth Bronte when I was a British agent during World War II. I sensed something odd about her, but since it wasn’t Immortal or pre-Immortal presence, I wrote it off as one of those fey Celtic moments I get sometimes. Then we ended up in a real bind when she was trying to get the Enigma codes out of Berlin, and what I saw…well, let’s just say Immortality and millennium demons aren’t the only inexplicable phenomenon in the world." Mac took a heavy pull on his scotch. "I assume you know of what I speak."

"The Digitabulum Magae, also known as the Witchblade," Methos said softly. "I first ran across it when I was an advisor to Lucius Domitius Aurelianus. Septima Zenobia wielded it in battle against him and I will never forget when she was dragged before him. Gods, she was magnificent, even if she was an arrogant bitch. She killed her husband, you know, so she could rule Palmyra herself," Methos added. Memory suddenly crowded in, and it was as if he could feel the desert heat, hear the flapping of the tents and the distant clamor of war.

"Yes, I’ve read the histories. She was wearing the Witchblade? I thought it practically made the wearer invincible."

"No, far from it. The Witchblade uses those who wear it, not the other way around, and Zenobia only wanted power. It betrayed her in the end, allowing her to be captured and killed. And it was not a pretty death," Methos added with a sigh. "Aurelian was not known as a merciful man."

"What happened to the blade?" Mac asked.

"She didn’t have it on her when she was captured. Aurelian tore her camp apart looking, but never found it. I was just as glad he didn’t. I couldn’t convince him that the blade wasn’t meant to be used by any man. Anyway, I suspect she gave it to someone in her court, and who knows what happened to it after that. I know I didn’t hear much about it at all until it appeared in France a thousand years later."

"Joan of Arc?" Mac asked in a wondering voice.

Methos nodded, starring into his glass. "In the end, the blade betrayed her as well. No one knows why the Witchblade does what it does, or what its goals are. As often as not, those who are chosen to wield it are more cursed than blessed."

"And what would Kenneth Irons’ interest be in the Witchblade?"

"I’ve only heard rumors, legends, stories. It is said that once a man tries to wield the blade, if it doesn’t kill him, he ends up forever influenced by its aura. If Irons tried, and lived to tell the tale – and the mark on the back of his hand would indicate he had – he is not a man to let anything but his own will control his destiny. He would seek to find a way to influence the blade to his own ends, perhaps even control it." Methos smiled grimly. "Not a task I envy."

"Where does the blade come from, Methos?" Mac asked. "If anyone would know, it would be you."

"I am not the source of all wisdom and historical events, MacLeod," Methos snapped. "I could only be in one place at one time, and didn’t hear of the Witchblade for over two thousand years after I became Immortal. Who knows where it came from? Atlantis? Aliens from outer space?" he shrugged.

"And why only women?" Mac rose, pacing the small space in front of the fire. "Is it intended to only be used for good, and women are considered inherently more peaceful than men?"

Methos had to laugh at that, but stifled it when Mac glowered at him. No one could glower like Duncan MacLeod.

"Well, it's more true than not," Mac insisted defensively. "Whether or not maternal instinct affects women’s fundamental outlook, their bodies are generally smaller, less muscular, so they have to find ways to deal with conflict that don’t involve physical confrontation. Give a woman an indestructible blade that bestows all kinds of other abilities and she might be more inclined to use that power for good than a man."

"You have always been frighteningly naïve about the destructive capacities of the fairer sex, Mac," Methos couldn’t help observing. "But rumor has it that once it could be wielded by men, but that something happened. Perhaps it was misused," he shrugged. "Anyway, Kenneth Irons and your Mr. Nottingham are somehow mixed up with the damn thing, and as far as I am concerned, we ought to stay as far away from them as possible."

"He’s not my Mr. Notthingham, although he sure as hell has moves unlike any mortal I’ve ever sparred with. And he has that oddness about him, too? Didn’t you feel it?"

"What I did or did not feel is irrelevant, MacLeod. Getting sucked into the Witchblade’s orbit is bad news. It’s already touched both of us once, and Nottingham honed in on you like a heat-seeking missile. Haven’t you had enough upheaval in your life lately?" The dark look Mac sent him almost made Methos want to take back his words. He had wanted MacLeod to relax, to heal, to move on with his life, not remind him of the grotesque tragedies of the past few years.

"Yes, I have," Mac answered quietly. "But I've also learned to trust my instincts, which tell me that Ian Nottingham needs…someone…something, some kind of guidance or he just might end up using all that aggressive energy in a way that will end very badly. For him. Maybe for us all.