Measure of a Man - Nancy Holder

Measure of a Man - Nancy Holder, ebook

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HIGHLANDER: MEASURE OF A MAN [065-4.8]
BY NANCY HOLDER
Synopsis:
Through the centuries one powerful and brilliant immortal has attained
the knowledge and now the technical ability to locate all the other
immortals around the world via computers and the records of the
watchers. He will be able to kill at will, taking heads whenever he
pleases. And this immortal cares nothing for the mortals who get in his
way as is witnessed by his deliberately crashing a plane on which
McCleods friend Richie is travelling. The Highlander cannot stop this
immortal. Centuries past he made a vow of honor never to take this
one's life. The measure of a man is his word of honor. What can Duncan
do to stop this killing machine?
ALSO IN THE HIGHLANDER SERIES:
The Element of Fire
by Jason Henderson
Scimitar
by Ashley McConnell
Scotland the Brave
by Jennifer Roberson
Published by WARNER BOOKS
For dearest Brenda, our guardian angel,
and for Alysop; who led us to her.
Warner Books is not responsible for the delivery or content of the
information or materials provided by Thunder Casue Games. The reader
should address any questions to: Thunder Castle Games, Dept. 119, P.O.
Box 11529, Kansas City, MO 64138.
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this
book may have been stolen property and reported as "unsold and
destroyed" to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the
publisher has received any payment for this 'stripped book."
Copyright C 1997 by Warner Books, Inc.
All rights reserved.
'Highlander' is a protected trademark of Gaumont Television. C 1994 by
Gaumont Television and 0 Davis Panzer Productions, Inc. 1985.
Published by arrangement with Bohbot Entertainment, Inc.
Cover photo by Ken Staniforth
 Aspect is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.
Warner Books, Inc. 1271 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020
OA Time Warner Company
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: May, 1997
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Author's Notes and acknowledgments
The first part of Measure of a Man was inspired by Ashley MeConnell's
HIGHLANDER novel, Scimitar. My thanks to her and to authors Jason
Henderson and Jennifer Roberson, and to all those who created and have
subsequently enriched the universe of Duncan MacLeod and his kinsman,
ConnOL
Very special thanks to my researcher and friend, Hodge Crabtree, Jr. Any
errors in this book are mine. Mythenos is a fictional colony, although
the Venetians were indeed hard put to maintain their Greek colonies, and
Crete was always a thorn in their sides. The six-month celebration of
Carnival developed gradually and reached its culmination in the
eighteenth century. In 1655, Venice had a terrible reputation for its
torture chambers, but historians tend to agree that the Republic was
relatively mild in this -regard. Also, the Inquisition tended to slap
the hands of accused witches rather than execute them.
I used the Thomas Cleary translation of The Art of War and the John
Stevens translation of The Art of Peace. The unattributed quote about
samurai in the epilogue is from The Art of Peace. There are dozens of
good books about chess; one is The World& Great Chess Games, edited by
Ruben Fine. There is absolutely no historical evidence to support my
fictional explanation for Machiavelli's "will to power."
Without Maryelizabeth Hart, this book would not have been written. My
deep thanks to her for her generosity and friendship. I would certainly
be the poorer without them.
I'm very grateful to executive producer Bill Panzer and to staff
writer Gillian Horvath for saying yes. They and script coordinator and
Watcher Chronicle CD-ROM author Donna Lettow worked hard to help me find
the right story to add to Duncan's chronicle.
Thanks to my Warner editor, Betsy Mitchell, for being everything an
author dreams of Thanks also to Wayne "Zelig" Chang for his assistance.
And to you both for walking, and walking, and walking.
To my terrific agent, Howard Morhaim, mahalo and aloha nui nui.
To Jeremy Lassen, Elizabeth Baldwin, Patrick Heffernan, Jeff Mariotte
and Christopher Golden, my thanks for their wonderful imaginations and
their support.
Also, my sincere thanks to all the fans who have built HIGHLANDER web
sites. To Queen and Roger Bellon, thank you for the evocative music I
 have listened to all day, every day, for months. Memento mori, Freddy
Mercury.
My everlasting gratitude to my husband, Wayne, whose love makes me
immortal. To everyone at Reproductive Sciences, bless you: Samuel Wood,
M.D., Ph.D.; David Smotrich, M.D.; Lila Schmidt, M.D.; Elaine Epperson,
Ph.D.; Steven Chan, Ph.D.; Catherine Adams, Ph.D.; Vickie Stocker, R.N.;
Becca Hansen, Cindy Miller, Jennifer Bantle, Jannell Terry, R.N., Amie
Baldwin, and Linda Anderson.
Finally, I would like to thank Mssrs. Christopher Lambert and Adrian
Paul, and the casts of Highlander: The Series and the films, for
creating a kind of magic that has made me, quite simply, lose my head.
Prologue: The Kata of the Adversary
-When you want to fight, do not face an enemy near water. Watch the
light, stay in high places, do notface the current. . . ."
-Sun Tzu, THE Art of War
Here we are, Highlander.
Princes.
But there can be only one king.
So, listen. Listen to my voice that stretches across the universe and
tells you a story of once upon the end of your time: This is how it will
be when you die, Bonnie Prince Duncan.
And this is the nature of the life you will lose:
Into the misty Highland dawn you come, (or you believe that you did),
and as any wee, trusting baim, you smile and reach out your chubby
fingers to faces that croon and hearts that embrace. You are held within
the band, the tribe, the clan. You belong. You have rights,
privileges, duties, and obligations.
Then, slashing deep, lightning upon a battlefield, the sword hacks into
body, heart, and soul. You are not the longed-for son, the mother's
mirror, the prayers of your grandparents.
You are no one.
You are outcast.
Although your body heals, your soul and spirit are forever maimed, and
will never again be whole.
From this moment on, you are alone inside yourself for the rest of time.
And alone, you are abandoned, driven out to hunt your own kind, who hunt
you in return. You may love fiercely for centuries, but at the
Gathering, your beloved may take your head. You may protect, but your
student is a hunter, too, and there can be only one.
The mortals you love will prove their fragility, and you will mourn in
darkness over their rose-strewn graves.
 If you attempt to stop loving, you will be more alone than ever. And of
everything in the world, you are the most alone already.
Fort;ver apart, forever waiting, forever watching, and Watched.
But no, not forever.
For imagine the heartbeats of your days and nights, pulsing endlessly
like star bursts. Is there a limit to the heavens?
lnfty is a mortal dream.
Is there a limit to eternity?
There can be only one.
And so you go through your life a being unlike any other, even the ones
who are of your kind. A lifeless object-"tana, scimitar-is more vital
to your existence than your blood or your breath. You are a secret, a
cipher, a legend even to yoursell Since you do not know the who and why
of yourself, you must cling to what you have become. Motherless,
fatherless, a family dynasty of one.
Who wants to live forever?
You do.
Because this is how it will be when you die.
You'll start out, of course, in battle. The particulars don't matter,
but for the sake of argument, let's say you're challenged at a beach in
the south of France. Of course, you could be confronted on the ravaged
Russian plains, or in a Chinatown warehouse, or along the shore of the
Pacific Ocean. And then there are museums, castle ruins, and secluded
rural cabins. Terrible battles can take place in antique store
showrooms. Have taken place.
But imagine that it's a warm, sunny day at this remote French beach. By
some lucky chance, few locals know of its existence, and no tourists at
all. You've arrived not half an hour before with a lover, a mortal
woman who has no idea what's in store for her.
As you unpack your Citrodn, you satisfy yourself that you are, for the
moment, safe. There are no other Immortals around.
Your adored one looks to you, sees that you are satisfied, and reveals
her relief in a quick smile. She is in your care; though she doesn't
grasp it, she is your responsibility. If harm comes to her, you will
try to forgive yourself, but you know from experience that you will
never succeed.
While you fold your duster around your sword and pull off your shirt,
she spreads a blanket, takes off her top, and puts on her sunscreen,
chatting to you of the things that are still important to women: her
friends and perhaps a new hairstyle and wondering what she should do
about her career. She is clever and witty, and never ceases to
fascinate you intellectually as well as physically.
 Ah, physically.
You help her oil her back, making slow, teasing movements as you cup the
sides of her breasts with your hands. So firm. So yielding. Your
women are always beautiful, MacLeod. Even your bitterest enemies, if
they are female, want you. And this one stretches like a pampered cat.
She loves you, loves it when you fondle her. A man who has lived for
centuries knows much of pleasing women.
She turns her head for a kiss, and then she is in your arms. You lower
her to the blanket. She smiles. You take off your boots and stand
barefoot in the satiny sand as she raises her hips to pull off her
shorts and bikini bottoms. Your jeans come next, and she knows that
you're hungry for her, and that you must have her.
When you lie on top of her, holding your weight above her, she lightly
scratches your back and arms, traces the whorl of hair on your stomach
that plummets to places you reserve for her touch only. When you enter
her, she arches her back and cries out with animal pleasure, feral,
lusting joy. Her fingernails dig into your back, your hips. You kiss
her as you move, slowly at first, and then faster, faster, taking her to
the heights of ecstasy. When she cries out, you allow yourself release.
Your eyes tightly shut, you feel the warmth of her contented sigh
against your ear and kiss her hair. She wears a perfume you buy for
her. You've never bought it for anyone else, and you never will.
After a time, she returns to her previous conversation. She asks for
your opinion; drowsily you give it, feeling yourself drift away
into memories of other good days long past. Wandering cobbled streets
that now are car parks. Supping on the flesh of animals now extinct.
Hearing music no one knows how to play, not really, not anymore.
Wondering if this day will melt into YOUT parade of men,,ories, and
knowing that if it does not, it will be because today you died.
"What do you think, Duncan?" asks your love, and you pull yourself back
to the present and apologize. You know Immortals who laugh at you for
your preoccupation with mortals, even with other Immortals. The Game
insists that every man be for himself.
But you know others who don't accept that. Methos, the oldest Immortal,
once offered his head to you so that you could beat Kalas. Rebecca
allowed herself to be slain to save her aging, mortal husband, who would
have died soon anyway.
You would do the same for this woman, and you know this can be used
against you.
Now, as your beloved sighs at your silence-she accuses you on occasion
of being too closed and brooding-you open your eyes and stare out to
sea. The water is a deep, azure blue Mediterranean, beckoning. You
kiss her deeply and tell her that you're sorry, you're preoccupied, and
suggest you both take a dip.
Softening, she shakes her head, says it's too chilly. But she urges you
to go because she loves you, and she wants you to enjoy yourself.
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