Perseus crashed to the ground, flung fifty feet through the air by the powerful Demon. He felt ribs crunch as he came to an abrupt, painful halt. He gasped, spat blood out of his mouth, and groggily stood up. His sword had been knocked from his hands, sent spinning into one of the darkened corners of this vast mausoleum. As his ribs began to fold back into their proper places, bringing a grimace of pain to the Spartan's face, he cast about, searching for a weapon of some sort.
On the other side of the room a set of broad, flat stairs rose to meet a wide porch upon which was set a shrine to Chuan Lun Wang, the most vile of the Yama Kings who were said to rule the infernal realms. At the base of those steps a terrible battle raged between two Immortals and a Demon. The bodies of twelve humans lay scattered about the rest of the chamber, their crushed and tattered bodies bearing evidence of the ferocity and evil of the demon.
The Demon itself stood nearly nine feet tall, with skin so black it had a purple undersheen. A wild mane of white hair erupted from the back of its head, surrounded by a ring of yellow, curving horns. Three eyes sat in the center of the creature's forehead, each one the color of blood. The mouth was huge, brimming with sharp, serrated teeth. It had three arms, each ending in massive shovel-like claws tipped with adamantine nails. And it had the strength of ten men, easily.
The two Immortals who valiantly battled the beast were companions of the Greek Perseus. The older of the two was a man named Gui Han, a two thousand year old veteran of the Game, lately turned to hunting Demons. The younger Immortal was Gui's student, Lei Wu Long. Both used long, straight swords to jab and slice at the Demon's sides.
As Perseus finally located a serviceable blade and scooped it up, ready to return to the fray, he saw the Demon's mighty right arm lash out and connect with Lei's head. The student was flung backwards, his forehead caving in under the blow. Perseus was horrified, expecting the boy to die a permanent death; but the head stayed on the shoulders, and Lei's Quickening did not erupt.
Seeing his student struck down so savagely, Gui redoubled his attack, opening a half-dozen wounds in the creature's broad stomach. Bellowing in pain and rage, the Demon swung two of its hands at Gui, clamping down on his arms like vises and locking him in place. The ancient warrior struggled to break free. His ribs weren't fully healed, but Perseus launched himself at the Demon regardless, sword held high, a wordless cry on his lips. The demon fixed him with one baleful eye, even as its third arm reached out to wrap around Gui's throat. Perseus was twenty feet away when the Demon's infernal spawned strength proved too much for Gui, and the Immortal's neck was wrenched open. A moment later, his head exploded off of his shoulders with a sickening pop, and his Quickening erupted out of him, staggering his attacker.
The Quickening flowed across the room, seeking Perseus. He tried to avoid it, but to no avail...
"And you're afraid something like this happened to your friend Pierce?" asked the dark man in the recliner. He was a tall man with a rangy build, dark skin, and shoulder length curling black hair. His eyes were hazel and wise over a large nose. A neatly trimmed goatee framed his mouth, and a small gold hoop hung from his left ear. In the city of New Orleans, he could be taken for a Creole, and it was often that he posed as one of that group. But Kurt Densmore was born in Northern Africa, in a time and place far removed from the birthplace of the Creole speaking people of the Gulf states.
Perseus nodded. "Any of a number of supernatural beings could have done it; unlike my people, most supernaturals seem to possess strength beyond the physical norm."
"And you'll need my help against... whatever it is." It wasn't a question.
"You are the expert, Kurt," the Immortal said, leaning against the mantle. "Besides, it could be something even you've never seen. It might even be that automaton you chased all over Switzerland during the Enlightenment."
Densmore shook his head. "That thing has long since fallen apart, I'm sure -- or else it is frozen and no worry of mine. But I must admit, I'm intrigued. Germany isn't known for its... nightlife." He was silent a moment.
"One condition, Perseus."
"Name it."
"I don't want your feelings for 'revenge' or 'honor' intruding on this case in a slightest. If I am, as you say, the 'expert,' then you will follow my advice as if they were orders."
Perseus smiled. "That sounds easy enough."
Martin Ozymand was in his office, practicing his putt. He had a big game this weekend with a the Japanese ambassador, and he wanted to be in top form. As the little white ball rolled into the tiny hole, the tall, silver haired man chuckled to himself. He turned away from the game, spinning the club lazily in his hand, and looked out the huge windows of his office, regarding the city. His city.
Martin Ozymand was a billionaire, the owner of the Anubis Corporation, an international manufacturer of pharmaceuticals. Through that company, he owned stock in several munitions companies with US defense contracts, computer firms, and at least fifty other, smaller companies. When the market opened early that morning, Martin Ozymand was worth an excess of 27 billion dollars.
He owned New York. Body and soul, it was his city. From the gleaming towers and municipal centers of Wall Street to the crime dens of Brooklyn. He owned it all. The fact that much of his power was hidden was just the icing on the cake.
He heard the massive double doors of his office swing open a crack, as someone eased their way into his sanctum. Without turning, he said, "I gave Grace orders that I didn't wish to be disturbed. This had better be good."
"It is, Mr. Ozymand," came the reply. Ozymand recognized the voice. It belonged to Ivan Rerschenko, his aide. Ozymand turned.
"What is it, Ivan?"
"I must request a leave of absence, sir." The tall, dark haired man stood rigid in the center of the room. He was dressed in a maroon suit that, to Ozymand's trained eye, made the large Russian look uncomfortable.
<He probably misses his armor> mused Ozymand.
The smaller man ran a hand through silver hair; his hair was not gray or the hair of an old man, but the gleaming metallic color of actual silver. His face was unlined, young, and powerful. His compact body was lithe and muscular, hidden under carefully tailored clothes.
Ozymand stepped behind his expansive desk and laid the club down upon it. "Whatever for, Ivan?" he said carefully. No hint of emotion graced his voice.
Ivan answered in equally careful tones. "Quintan Pierce was discovered dead in Germany two days ago."
Ozymand pursed his lips. This was news. "And you think this will draw out the Spartan, no doubt?"
Ivan nodded. "Pierce was one of the few of my kind to remain a friend of Perseus for any length of time. I believe he will want to investigate the murder."
More interesting. Ivan never referred to a death of one of his fellow Immortals as a "murder." Unless... Pierce died at the hands of someone or something else. "Certainly, Ivan. Feel free to go. The Spartan has caused me enough trouble in the past; you may take his head if you wish."
Ivan clicked his heels and left the room without another word.
Martin Ozymand turned around in his chair and looked out at his city.
But his eyes were unfocused, staring off into infinity.
"My liege, the foreigner you summoned is here."
Ramses waved his attendant away and stepped over to a low table. He picked up a pear and began to slice it into chunks and swallowed them down. Behind him, he heard the heavy tread of the foreigner. He turned, popping the last bit of fruit into his mouth.
The man was large, taller even than the eunuchs that served in his father's palace, with skin as pale as linen, and long dark hair. His tunic was dyed black, and the largest sword Ramses had ever seen hung from the man's belt.
"Welcome, stranger. What do they call you?"
The man looked around at Ramses' room, at the trailing, brightly colored curtains, the carved wooden furniture, the golden ornaments that were strewn about the room. "Call me Kurgan."
Ramses nodded. There was something about this... Kurgan that vaguely unsettled him. There was a savagery, a gleam of murderous intent in the man's eyes, a sense of superiority that seemed to exude from his pores. Ramses, already into his eighth century, was not used to being intimidated by anyone, especially a foreigner. Unlike a mortal, Ramses didn't panic, didn't try to impress upon the foreigner his own importance.
"Very well, Kurgan. Can I get you anything to eat or drink?"
The Kurgan shook his head. "Your servant mentioned something about a job."
Directly to business, then. "Yes. There is... a certain Greek has been causing me trouble. I want him eliminated."
The Kurgan nodded. "I've heard of that pup. I suppose I'd have gotten around to him sooner or later anyway....200 silver."
"What? I'm hiring you to kill one man, not an entire army!"
The Kurgan smiled. "Let me assure you, the Greek is akin to me; if he needed to, he could take an army. I'm actually being generous."
Ramses swallowed another chunk of pear, and ran a hand through his shoulder length silver hair. "Very well. Two hundred. My attendant will ensure you are paid."
The Kurgan turned sharply and left without saying another word.
Ramses stared at the space he had occupied for a long time after he left.
Two days later, word reached him that the Kurgan and the Greek had fought, and the Kurgan had the best of the fight. The Greek could not even touch the savage, while the Kurgan managed to disembowel the other man. Somehow, the Greek had managed to make his way to a shrine to Osiris before the Kurgan could finish him off. No doubt the Greek bled to death.
As for the Kurgan, he disappeared soon after the fight.
Many years later, Ramses, the man who now called himself Martin Ozymand, learned that both the Kurgan and the Greek were Immortals, though of a different sort than himself. He would use the Kurgan occasionally, but sometime after the sixteenth century the Kurgan became less predictable, more obsessed with the foolish Game of his.
Meanwhile, Perseus would surface about once a century and somehow entangle himself in one of Ramses' plans. Usually the fool would foil the currant operation, seldom realizing who he was hurting. The last time he ran afoul of one of Ramses' agents was during the second world war. The Spartan eliminated a handful of Ramses' agents who were sent to Japan to recover a lost artifact.
After that, Perseus disappeared. Ramses assumed he would get another chance to eradicate his old foe, but he wasn't expecting the opportunity to arrive so soon. He smiled the smile of a predator, and returned to his golf game.
Perseus and Kurt passed through customs easily; a suggestion from the Immortal, accompanied by a careful application of the Quickening, had served to blind the customs officials to the presence of his sword.
Now they were free to mingle amongst the mortals while Kurt rescued his bags. As the two men waited patiently in Baggage Claim, Perseus suddenly felt the presence of another Immortal -- a young one, as yet untried in battle. The "taste" of the Buzz told him so. He looked around nonchalantly, trying to pinpoint the source of the disturbance.
But it was a nearly impossible task; the small baggage claim area was packed with people of all sizes and description. The Buzz was too faint for Perseus to pick the Immortal out of a crowd.
Kurt looked at him. "You okay? You look like you have a headache or something."
Perseus was about to answer when a young black woman shouldered her way out of the crowd, into the small space Perseus and Kurt commanded. She was of medium height, dressed in casual clothes that seemed to accentuate her lithe, athletic build. High cheekbones supported two of the greenest eyes Perseus had ever seen, eyes that were clouded with concern and worry. Her long, loosely curled hair was tied into a French braid.
She smiled shyly. "Perseus, I presume?" she said in American accented English.
Perseus nodded, extending his hand. She took it. "And you must be Shelley. I'm terribly sorry about Quin."
Her hand gripped his tightly, and her eyes saddened. "I didn't know what to do when he... thank you for coming." Suddenly she wrapped him in a tight embrace, and tears slid down her cheeks. Perseus held the girl for a while, and when she was ready, she released him. "thank you," she repeated, sniffling a bit.
Perseus smiled. "Quite all right my dear, and understandable under the circumstances." Kurt appeared at his elbow, bags in hand. Perseus hadn't realized the man had left. He introduced Kurt to Shelley, and Shelley to Kurt, and then suggested that they leave.
Shelley nodded, and led the two out of the terminal, into the German morning. The winter had not been kind to Munich, and large drifts of snow were piled up against the curbs and in huge piles in the parking lots. But today the sun was shining, the wind was merely biting, and the temperature just below freezing.
Kurt was shivering even when they reached the car and Shelley cranked the heater to the max. Perseus didn't mind; he had spent fifty years on the Alaskan tundra during the 19th century. Compared to that, this cold snap was a mild irritation, easily ignored. Especially when one had two thousand six hundred and fifty four years of Quickening to keep one warm.
"Tell me about Quin," Perseus said.
"Well, you know about his larcenous streak, right?" Perseus nodded. "Of course you would," Shelley muttered.
"Relax," Perseus urged. "Take your time."
Shelley shot him a grateful glance and continued. "Well, two weeks ago he found out that this Bonnheim guy had acquired a chunk of crystal. Quin says he recognized it as part of some legendary artifact of the Immortals. Supposed to give a mortal long life and other gifts, but make an Immortal more powerful than he should be.
"Quin decides he has to have it, so we fly to Germany, take the tour of Castle Bonnheim, and he cases the place. Me, I'm not so hot to risk getting arrested in Germany, so I stick to myself. Then, two nights ago, he makes his play. Only, he never comes back.
"Its all over the news the next day: man...," Shelley paused for a moment, then ploughed on, "decapitated at Castle Bonnheim. I checked the body just to make sure. It...it was him all right."
Perseus interrupted. "You identified the body?"
Shelley shook her head. "No, I...," she glanced away from the road, and looked at both Perseus and Kurt. "Can you keep a secret?"
Perseus grinned. "Shelley, you are looking at two of the world's best secret keepers."
Shelley smiled self-consciously. "Right. Of course. I'm still trying to get used to this. Anyway, sometimes I can...influence weak-minded people into doing what I want them to. It takes a lot of concentration, and it doesn't always work, but this time it did.
"I told a cop I wanted to see the body, and he showed me. Simple as that. And it was...it was Quin." Perseus laid his hand on her arm.
She looked like she might break down again. But she blinked back tears and continued. "His head wasn't severed. Something ripped him apart."
Perseus nodded to himself. He suspected as much. If an Immortal had taken Pierce's head, he doubted Shelley would have been able to call him the day before, or would even be talking to him right now.
"That isn't it, though," Shelley said, surprising both men. "Five other people have died in or around the castle in the last few days. Two tourists, a local man, and two members of the castle staff. They were ripped apart, too."
Kurt snapped to attention at that.
"And there's more weird stuff. They didn't perform a real autopsy on Quin; they just bundled him up and buried him."
"Where?" Perseus demanded.
"In the cemetery outside of the village." Shelley said.
"Take us there first," Perseus ordered. Shelley nodded.
It was a rather long drive to the village of Bonnheim, and there was a smaller airport closer to the village that Perseus could have gotten a flight to, but he needed the confusion of a large airport in order for his sword trick to work properly.
Two hours brought them to the village of Bonnheim, a sickeningly tiny, traditional German town. It had tourist trap written all over it in a dozen languages.
As they pulled into the cemetery, Perseus could see the huge castle, heavy in the distance, its gray walls looking black against the snow. Kurt leaned forward. "Reminds me of Tenebrae," he said.
Perseus looked back at his friend quizzically." What?" he said.
Kurt looked thoughtful. "That's right, you weren't there. I forgot. It was Mitra and Fafnir who were with me."
Shelley gave them both a wide-eyed look. Perseus shrugged, just as puzzled at Kurt's remark. Shelley guided the car through the narrow lanes, eventually parking in an area obviously set aside for such things. As she turned off the car -- and the heat -- Kurt groaned melodramatically.
Perseus exited the small rental car, ignoring the biting wind.
Shelley got out as well. "Its up at the top of that hill," she said, pointing. "Its an unmarked, plain cross."
Perseus nodded. "You're not coming?" The girl shook her head. "I don't need to," she said. Kurt stayed in the car, rubbing his hands.
Perseus started the climb up the hill, passing tombstone after tombstone, trying to ignore the inscriptions and dates. It took him ten minutes of struggling through five inch deep snow to reach the top of the hill. He found the grave easily; it was the only fresh one there. A great hump of dirt rose over the ground before a simple, bare stone cross. The dirt was powdered with snow.
Perseus pulled off a glove and tested the ground. It was hard and packed. The village must have been in one hell of a hurry to bury a man in soil like this. It must have been backbreaking work to break up the earth here; Perseus saw no sign of vehicle tracks.
He looked at the cross then, and thought about his friend. A short while later, he felt the Buzz rattle his brain with an intensity far beyond what Shelley could muster. Perseus waited as the feeling intensified and the other Immortal drew closer.
A figure appeared, walking up the hill from the opposite side. He was huge, massively built, with bright blond hair cut short. Intense blue eyes looked out over a rugged, weather beaten face with three days growth of beard. He was dressed in a light parka, jeans, and heavy boots. His left arm terminated at the wrist; the man was one hand short.
He stopped at the edge of Pierce's grave, and was silent a moment. Finally, Perseus said, "Tyr."
The larger man nodded. "Perseus." They were silent again for a while, two old Immortals contemplating the death of a friend.
At last, Perseus broke the silence again. "What brings you here, Aesir?"
Tyr looked up at Perseus. "I've been living in Berlin for the last decade. The papers said there was a decapitation here two days ago; news items like that tend to get my attention. So I came down. Found out it was Pierce."
"What do you plan to do?" Perseus asked.
Tyr shrugged. "You're here now. Not much sense in me sticking around. Besides, there's some business I should take care of in Hong Kong."
Hong Kong. Perseus felt his insides turn to ice. He could tell by the tone of Tyr's voice that something bad was going on. "What is it?"
Tyr coughed. "Its Lei," he said. "He's gone off the deep end. Thinks he's going to save Hong Kong from the communists. He needs to be stopped."
Perseus closed his eyes. <Lei. Lei. Why, boy? Why now? Why at all?> Perseus had an obligation to Lei Wu Long, an obligation sealed in blood and bone. He couldn't ignore that obligation, nor could he give up his present course just yet.
"I'll finish up here, and then I'll join you."
Tyr smiled grimly. "I'd appreciate that. You might be able to reason with him. Otherwise..." Perseus knew the alternative. But he didn't like it one bit.
"Give me a few days," he said. "Then... do what you have to."
Tyr nodded and turned to go. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Spartan." He headed back down the hill, and, after a moment, Perseus did the same.
<-- Previous | Table of Contents | Next -->
PoT_Ch02.php -- Revised: January 27, 2021.