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  He couldn't sleep. He was angrier, and more upset, than he had been in a long time. He had always known that the Highlander took it upon himself to sit as judge and jury on the actions of other Immortals but that didn't make it any more comfortable to have that cold judgement turned against himself.

  What the hell did MacLeod want? Apologies? Restitution? Methos couldn't give these to him. It would be pointless and hypocritical to apologize today for what he had enjoyed doing 3,000 years ago. And he couldn't make restitution, either to the woman, Cassandra, or to the long-dead mortals he and his Brothers had slain. And the Highlander couldn't forgive him unless he offered at least one of these.

  Methos closed his eyes to sleep and saw Duncan's disbelieving stare turning to tears. The memory lanced pain through his heart and Duncan's face melted into Kronos' leering features. Disbelief again, this time his as the agony in his chest swelled and the night around him darkened into death.

  He struggled to force away the memories, and give his tired mind a different picture. Must be calm, rest. Time to sleep. . . .

  ****

  Dismounting, Methos pulled the burden from the back of his horse and dropped it to the packed earth. Roughly he unrolled the fabric, dumping the contents unceremoniously on the ground.

  Staring up at him in mingled shock and fury was a dark-haired man with a path of drying blood across his chest.

  "Surprise. You're alive." Methos watched the knowledge sink in as the man's hand touched his undamaged skin. "Your kind is hard to kill." He extended his hand to help his captive to his feet. Disregarding the offer of assistance the man scrambled up on his own. So be it. Those who submitted were treated reasonably well. Those who fought were punished.

  He didn't know why he had saved the dark-haired savage from Silas' blade that day. Something in the defiant gaze or the stubborn set of the head had caught his attention. Silas, ever cooperative, had willingly traded the limited potential of a Quickening from the new Immortal for a pile of looted furs.

  The man lunged for the dagger at his belt and Methos, expecting the move, knocked him brutally off his feet. The unwilling slave wiped a trickle of blood from his lip and glared up rebelliously.

  "You are alive because I wish it. Do not make me regret my generosity."

  Rolling to his feet, the man turned and ran for the desert. Fool, Methos thought. He would die a dozen times before he reached any help. He could wander out there for weeks without seeing another human being. Impatiently he re-mounted his tired horse and set off after the captive.

  In a few seconds he caught up to the running man. Disregarding subtlety, he urged the horse to overtake the fleeing figure. Hearing his approach, the running man stooped to grab a rock and threw it desperately at Methos. He missed and struck the animal. Frightened and hurt, the stallion reared and lashed out with one sharp hoof, catching the prisoner in the head. Dismounting, Methos knelt over the prone figure and watched dispassionately as the life faded from the dark eyes. Lesson number one, he thought. There is no escape.

  . . . . . . .  

Later that day the two men faced each other in the tent. The captive was refusing food. Losing patience, Methos struck him sharply, knocking him to the floor.

  "If you choose to die of starvation, then do so. You will live again. And again and again, as often as I choose. You will learn to obey me, MacLeod." Under his gaze the other man swallowed nervously, just beginning to understand the extent of the Immortal's power over him. Methos watched the knowledge sink in. Satisfied he and pointed toward the abandoned food bowl. "Eat."

  Two men sat in silence over the meal. Relaxing as much as he could, Methos drank the sour beer that accompanied the food and wondered what MacLeod would do about the punishment. If he is wise, he will let it pass. To survive, a slave had to learn to ignore more than the blow MacLeod had received. I doubt that this one possesses that kind of wisdom, he decided.

  As the silence stretched between them he could almost hear the other man thinking and planning. Suddenly MacLeod jumped to his feet and dashed for the tent flap, obviously heading for the abandoned desert around the camp. Lunging after him instantly, Methos pulled out his dagger and planted the knife squarely between the shoulder blades. The suddenly lifeless body crumpled at his feet.

  Leaving the inert body where it fell, he walked back to his abandoned meal and prepared to wait. Soon enough the other man would revive. When he did, Methos would try to crush this rebellious streak.

  Signs of life returned to the captive Immortal who inhaled sharply then gasped at the pain. By this time Methos was at his side.

  "Obviously you do not understand that the world is different now. It is time you learned what your place in this world is. Did you think I would just let you go? If you run again, I'll track you down, no matter how long it takes. And then I'll kill you."

  While he waited, Methos had retrieved the leather strips originally used to restrain MacLeod. Kneeling over the still-recovering prisoner he tied his wrists firmly and repeated the action on his ankles. Pulling the bound and furious Immortal from the floor, he dragged him to the pile of blankets in the corner and dumped him there.

  Glaring down at the helpless man, he commanded, "Make yourself comfortable, if you can. I suggest that you get some sleep. Tomorrow I will make certain you have enough to do so that you don't have time for these stupid tricks."

  Methos dropped wearily onto the piled furs in the other corner of the tent. He wondered if, after all, he might be better off taking the slave's head now, before Kronos noticed the rebellious attitude and decided to deal with it his way.

  From the darkened corner of the tent, MacLeod interrupted his thoughts. "I won't work for you. Never! I won't help you slaughter women and children for nothing."

  Methos was angry. "Nothing? You call food and clothing nothing? We do not kill for nothing, we kill to survive. You are quick to judge that which you do not understand." He glared at the other man for a moment before he regained control of his temper.

  "Anyhow, no one would trust you with a weapon." His voice was cold. "The work you have to do is well within your power. There are animals to be tended every day. Soon we will break camp and we will be moving for several days. You should have work to suit your abilities." The last words were scornful.

  There was a short silence. "You have many others to do this work. Why do you want me?" The question sounded sincere.

  It was a difficult question to answer. Methos knew this man was going to be nothing but trouble and his chances of making him understand the Horsemen were slight. "I am beginning to wonder that myself. Slaves require to be tamed. You are no exception." His voice indicated that the conversation was over.

  . . . . . . .

  Early in the morning, as the dawn began to streak the air, Methos was awakened by an unusual noise. Silently he cleared the sleep from his mind and searched for the source of the sound. It took several seconds for him to identify the muffled noise as MacLeod struggling with the leather bonds that held him. After a moment, he let his voice float across the night air.

  "Give it up, MacLeod. Why do you reject the survival I offer you?"

  "You murdered all of those people!"

  "They would have died some way or other."

  ...silence...

  "You no longer have to die if you are wise. Wisdom now consists of obedience."

  ...silence...

  "This is useless. Your life will be better when you learn to accept that my world is now your world."

  "I cannot accept this. You are evil. Your lives are evil. How can you live this way?"

  "We are surviving. We take what we need. So do many others. We are no different. Is the lion evil because he kills the rabbit?"

  "You slaughter needlessly. You can't die so you take no risks when you fight. It is an unfair advantage."

  Methos answered him seriously. "I fight well. Do you expect me not to take advantage of that? You were training to be a warrior and to kill. Didn't you intend to fight and to kill when necessary? Did you tell yourself that it was unfair to others who had not been trained? No, you didn't. You used your advantage. You do not ask yourself to be something other than what you are. Do not expect me to be anything other than what I am. This is my world. Accept it."

  "It is not the same."

  "How is it different? Each of us uses what we are given. My Brothers and I have the power, the freedom to do anything we wish and this is who we wish to be."

  "You enjoy it, the killing, don't you? Knowing that you cannot die? That those people have no chance against you?"

  "Did you not enjoy your life? Have you not killed? It is true that I do not risk death. It is a power that I have. How can I not use it?"

  "It isn't the same thing." MacLeod's voice was stubborn. Methos knew that the other man didn't understand what he was trying to tell him.

  "Fine. I enjoy what I do. Is that what you want to hear? That village was nothing! Those people were nothing! I have killed hundreds, thousands of people! And I liked it! Is that what you want to hear?"

  Rolling to his feet, Methos dressed quickly and left the tent. Kronos was waiting for him. He stopped to face the other Immortal, wondering how much Kronos had heard of the scene. His question was soon answered.

  "You're taking trouble with this one, Brother. Why? Why not just kill this MacLeod?" Kronos was watching him closely as he asked the question.

  "I would take the same trouble with any of them. Do you have some objection?" Methos stared back at him calmly.

  "Be careful, Brother, that you do not lose your head to this man. I cannot spare you."

  "It's good to be of value," Methos' answer was sarcastic. He didn't care what Kronos thought, as long as the other man did not interfere.

  Kronos was not in the mood for humor. "We need you to plan our raids. To make sure of our claim to this territory. To help the terror and the fame of the Horsemen spread throughout this land. You are necessary to my plans, Methos. I will not let one slave interfere with those plans."

  Methos was surprised. Obviously the other man considered MacLeod a danger to the Horsemen in some way that Methos didn't understand.

  "Kill him. Now, before he kills you. You know he'll do it if he can. He hates you, he thinks we all deserve to die." Kronos' voice was soft and insistent in his ear. "I know you don't want to die, Methos. Kill Duncan MacLeod."

  "No." Methos' reacted immediately to the idea. Looking at Kronos, he realized with a sinking heart that this was a test of loyalty. To Kronos and to the Horsemen. Kronos frequently demanded such proofs.

  Attracted by the sound of the argument, Caspian and Silas had arrived and arranged themselves at Kronos' back. Their support of his position was obvious and Methos realized he didn't have a choice.

  "Will you do it?" Kronos fingered the sword at his side and Methos knew that he had to make a decision. He could not protect MacLeod from all three of the Horsemen. He would lose his own life and MacLeod would die anyhow.

  "Yes." Methos knew he had no other option. Turning, he entered the tent silently, drawing his sword as he moved. Inside he came face-to-face with MacLeod.

  The younger Immortal was standing in the center of the tent, glaring at him angrily. Methos knew that the man was not going to make this easy for him. No admission of defeat, no kneeling to accept the blow. He would make whatever fight he could.

  Looking into the dark, defiant eyes, he had to admit his own defeat. He could not kill Duncan MacLeod. Moving quickly, he slid the blade of his sword into the worn fabric of the tent, cutting a long slit at the back. Returning to the prisoner, he cut the leather bonds with two quick motions.

  "Leave, MacLeod. Escape." He whispered the words urgently, knowing that the other Horsemen would not have moved far from the tent. "You can reach the brush in back of the camp and, if you are quick and careful, you may even escape. Beware of Kronos through the years. He will never stop hunting you."

  MacLeod started toward the escape route provided, then hesitated. Turning to Methos, he looked at the other man questioningly. "What about you? What will they do?"

  "That is not your problem," Methos whispered harshly. "You wanted to be through with me, with all of this. I am giving you back your freedom. Take it and go."

  "I cannot leave you here without knowing what will happen to you," MacLeod insisted. "Can they kill you?"

  "What do you care? I am a monster, remember? The man who killed all of those people you never met. Forget about me and go!"

  MacLeod turned slowly toward the freedom he had been offered. Methos was furious, if MacLeod didn't go now, Kronos would return for an explanation of the delay and they would both die. "Go now, you fool! Or I will kill you myself!" Raising his sword, Methos lunged at the reluctant figure.

  MacLeod, needing no other persuasion, slipped through the slit in the tent and disappeared. Thinking quickly, Methos threw a pile of furs and some discarded garments against the opening. It wouldn't fool any of them for long, but the trick might buy MacLeod a few more precious moments to make his escape.

  Suddenly the full extent of his betrayal hit him. He had sacrificed everything for this stranger. Over two thousand years, thrown away. And for what? For a barbarian who hated him, who called him evil, and who judged him without compassion or understanding.

  Behind his back, he heard someone enter the tent. It was Kronos, he knew that without looking. He was not surprised to feel the blade that slid coldly against his vulnerable neck.

  Dropping his own sword, he turned and looked at Kronos, searching for some hint of understanding or hesitation.

  There was no more compassion in the pale eyes staring back at him than he had found in MacLeod.

  Kronos smiled gently and asked, "What do you think, Brother? Was he worth dying for?"

  The blade swung high, catching the light of the morning sun and shattering the rays. For an instant time stood still. Then he heard Kronos laughing as the sword resumed its journey, cleaving the air and biting like ice against his throat.

  . . . . . .

  Methos awoke in a cold sweat. From the distance the sound of Kronos' laughter echoed through the room.  

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