The dead pressed in from all sides, and Connor lost sight of Richie and Methos and the Gargoyles. Pasty white forms, marked with the signs of ancient death, reached for him with thin, bony claws. Sharpened claws rent his flesh and clothes. Maggots and less palatable creatures leapt from the corpses to the Highlander, burrowing into his exposed skin. His body was a mass of pain and fire as the Quickening fought to retain his equilibrium in the face of the unholy assault.
There were too many of them to push away; he couldn't swing his katana at all. Nor could he maneuver to punch or kick. His blows lacked force and leverage, and his strength was sucked away from him as his wounds accumulated. The katana was knocked away, disappearing into the crowd of slavering zombies.
Soon, he knew, he would fall beneath their onslaught. Perhaps they would know enough to rip his head from his shoulders. Perhaps they would just drag his body into one of their crypts, where he would lay for centuries, unable to free himself or dig his way out.
As a claw opened up his forehead, Connor wasn't sure which fate he preferred. And then, suddenly, his peripheral vision, all but blinded by the blood dripping into his eyes, caught a flash of electric blue light. A heartbeat later, a wave of gleaming electricity washed over him and his attackers. He felt a renewed surge of strength, and he watched the bodies of the undead shatter and collapse, exploding into a million shards of bone, flesh, and cloth as the wave of electricity smashed into them.
The legion of undead fell apart. Connor dropped to his knees, panting heavily. The stench of death and corruption stuck to his nostrils, but he ignored it and let his body heal.
A hand dropped across his shoulder. Connor tensed and opened one blood-encrusted eye. Anton smiled grimly at him. The dark skinned Gargoyle sported a wicked gash in his right side and a dozen other, minor wounds as well. But he lived. "You are well, MacLeod?"
Connor hawked up a load of phlegm and blood and spat it onto a desiccated corpse that had tumbled at his feet. He grinned up at the Gargoyle. "I'll pull through. What happened?"
Anton shrugged, and went to check on the others who lay scattered about the lawn, nursing wounds and eyeing the sea of corpses warily.
Connor stood up at last and fished about for his sword. He found it lodged in the ribs of a skeleton wearing a heavily made up wig. Seventeenth century, Connor guessed.
The Highlander found Richie next. The boy was laying on his back, sightless eyes staring at the night sky. Richie's throat was a ruined mess; torn apart by the desperate claws of the undead. Connor winced involuntarily. It would take Richie a while to recover from the wound; the boy was effectively removed from the night's game.
"He'll be all right," Methos said at Connor's shoulder.
The Highlander turned slowly. "What did you do?" he asked cautiously. He discarded his tattered trenchcoat as the Old Man responded.
"Its very simple, really," Methos' voice was haggard. The flesh of his face was pulled tight, pushing his fine bone structure into prominence. He looked much like a corpse himself. Connor had no sympathy for him. Methos looked all but unharmed by the attack. "The undead are powered by Negative Energy. They walk and attack and perceive because their bodies are charged with the antithesis of life -- they're walking batteries of 'death energy,' in essence."
Connor nodded, though he didn't quite follow what Methos was talking about.
The Old Man continued. "The best remedy for that, obviously, is 'life energy', or Positive Energy. And the purest form of that I'm aware of is Quickening. I released some of mine in a focused wave. The Negative Energy of the undead was dispersed, and the corpses fell apart. Elementary, really."
<Released some of his Quickening?> Connor's mind spun. he tightened his grip on the sword. <Relax MacLeod,> he admonished himself. <You were hoping Methos would know some way to counteract Nyarlathotep's magic. <But releasing his Quickening?>
Anton shattered Connor's thoughts. "The dead hurt my people badly. We will be of no help within the wizard's stronghold." Anton's tone and expression were grim. He held his right side protectively as the lifeblood leaked out of him.
Methos nodded. "You've done enough, I think, old friend. The wizard expended much energy summoning his horde. Connor and I should be able to finish this on our own."
Anton nodded. His face pinched as a wave of pain washed over him, and he dropped to one knee. As quickly as he went down, though, he was up again. "I will watch the hatchling while you finish the wizard."
Connor allowed himself an internal sigh of relief. He felt better leaving Richie behind if the boy was watched. He turned to Methos. "Well, Adam, shall we continue?"
Methos gave him an odd look and pursed his lips. "Aye. I'm ready."
The two Immortals left their friends behind and made their way across the field of the dead to the entrance of Nyarlathotep's house.
Dust, darkness, and the sweet stench of preservatives greeted Connor's nostrils as he breached the front door, sword at the ready. Only a fraction of the light from outside penetrated the heavily draped windows, creating deep shadows throughout the interior. Shadows that could house any number of the wizard's twisted servants. Methos brushed past him, slightly impatient. The Old Man's sword glinted eerily in the half-light.
Something in the shadows shifted, and Connor reacted without thinking -- he slid like quicksilver across the floor and reached out with his sword. The creature, whatever it was, gave a bellow of surprise and faded away. Connor shook his head. "Sorcery," he muttered.
"This way," Methos urged. "Nyarlathotep will have his lab in the basement; that is where we'll find him."
Connor's sharp eyes roved over the room and the adjoining hallway. "And why is that, Old Man?"
Methos sighed bitterly. "You know, Duncan used to trust me."
Connor smiled grimly. "And look where that got him."
There was a sharp intake of breath, and Connor wished he could see Methos' expression. When Methos spoke again, his voice shook with barely suppressed anger. "Nyarlathotep would keep his lab in the cellar, away from even the slightest stray beam of sunlight. Sunlight would ruin his creations. And the trick with the undead legion weakened him; he'll be in his lab, the hub of his power. He'll believe he's safe there."
"So he will be prepared for us?"
"Most likely he is expecting me. He probably won't expect you."
<Good enough,> Connor mused. "Lay on, Methos," he said. Methos muttered something in a language Connor didn't understand, and stepped deeper into Nyarlathotep's sanctuary, searching for the staircase to the basement.
Hazard unconsciously adjusted his clothing and stepped into the lobby. He ran a pale hand through his wet hair, brushing it back and out of his eyes. The lobby was richly dressed, with an Ottoman carpet and tapestries from a dozen eras hanging from the walls. The woodwork gleamed with carefully brushed vitality, and the soft lighting, unnecessary in a Vampire sanctum, gave the entire room a friendly glow.
There were deep shadows in the room, however, and Hazard didn't need his Vampiric senses to tell him dozens of his brethren roosted throughout the chamber. He ignored them all, striding into the center of the room as if he belonged there.
They were all children, barely old enough to accept the Kiss and its benefits and penalties. They were Gold's first line of defense, and as such, they were neither very skilled nor very powerful. Their only advantage, should Hazard prove hostile, lay in their numbers. Against him numbers would not be enough. He allowed himself to smile inwardly at that fact.
"I have business with the master of the house," he announced to the air.
A pair of Vampires materialized out of the darkness. The male was thin and anemic, probably had been even in life, and wore dark clothes. A pair of sunglasses lay across his nose, obscuring his eyes. He sneered at Hazard.
His companion was a well-endowed female, whose prodigious femininity was barely contained within an elaborate leather outfit. Her hair looked dyed black, and her makeup was garish and heavy. Her hooded red gaze appraised Hazard thoughtfully.
Hazard could barely contain his mirth. They were new, that was obvious. And apparently they had stepped out of some poorly designed role-playing game. Gold and his damned sense of humor.
The boy took a threatening step towards Hazard. "You aren't welcome here, renegade," he lisped. The girl watched, keeping her own counsel.
Hazard debated briefly whether he should have some fun at the boy's expense, but decided he did not have the time. He turned to the girl, who seemed eminently more reasonable, and said, "I would like to see Paul."
Several of the hidden Vampires hissed disapprovingly at Hazard's lack of respect. The girl before him blinked at his audacity, but the boy reacted violently. He didn't enjoy being ignored. His features twisted into a full Vampiric grimace, his crimson eyes gleaming balefully behind the dark shades and his fangs displayed prominently. He lurched toward Hazard with claws outstretched.
Hazard glanced briefly at the boy and met his angry eyes. The older Vampire reached out with the gentlest expression of his Will and took control of the boy's clumsy and backward mind. Hazard forced the boy to revert once more to a normal human expression, and then ordered him to disappear. Without a backward glance, the boy left for the front door, and departed from the building.
The girl took a cautious step back, as if mere distance would protect her from Hazard's ire. He arched one eyebrow and regarded her silently. After a moment, she spoke breathlessly, her breasts threatening to explode from her leather bustier. "Master Gold has been expecting you. Within the theater."
Hazard gave her a curt nod and walked past her. He could feel the eyes of the younglings on his back as he entered the theater proper. <Was I ever been that young, that brash?> he thought, half-amused. If he had been, he could not remember it. Hazard was born old; the measure of Archimedes' power that he absorbed so long ago made him superior to most of his Vampiric brethren in almost every conceivable way. Only Gold or Han Yuan could have matched him. Han was dead, destroyed over a century ago by Hazard himself. Han's strength had been added to Hazard's own. As such, he should be more than a match for Gold if the meeting turned ugly.
Hazard hoped fervently that everything went well. After recovering from his bout with the Witches, he did not need another pointless fight sending him into hibernation once again. Better to discuss matters with Gold amicably.
Later, he could destroy the bastard. But just now he needed Gold more than he cared to admit.
Unlike the lobby, the theater was completely dark. Some bit of light should have penetrated through the great stained glass ceiling, but the rain and heavy clouds prevented even a glimmer of moonlight or streetlights from entering the room. Hazard felt some small relief, and mentally upbraided himself for it. Light or dark mattered little in the long run. His eyes could penetrate either with ease, and his bat-like ears would enable him to navigate through the high-ceilinged room even if he were blinded somehow.
Gold leaned against the wall of the orchestra pit, some sort of paper unfolded before him. Whatever he was looking at remained a mystery to Hazard as he walked carefully down the aisle to where Gold waited. Gold looked up briefly as Hazard approached. The prince of New Orleans was dressed in a dark blue three-piece suit, a yellow tie knotted at his throat and gold-rimmed spectacles gracing his aquiline nose. Gold's long blond hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail that fell down almost to the middle of his back. A gold watch adorned his left wrist, and Hazard knew the Vampire's cuff-links, belt buckle, and shoe eyelets would be fourteen karat as well.
Hazard looked like a vagabond compared to Gold's carefully manicured and coifed exterior. His clothes were soaked with rain water, his jeans marked by stains his washing machine simply could not remove, his sneakers scuffed and muddied by years of use. Not that Hazard cared overly much.
Hazard drew to a halt two meters away from Gold. Gold glanced up at him, smiled amicably, and then folded the paper up and stuck it in his pocket. Gold extended a hand, and Hazard took it. "Michael, so good of you to come."
Hazard eyed Gold warily, and replied, "You were expecting me."
Gold released his hand and nodded. "There is too much going on right now. With the destruction of the Witches Three -- thanks to your own actions, you scoundrel -- mass chaos has erupted in our city streets. The doggies and the statues are warring openly, while the freaks hide as usual. Something very large and terrible is about to happen. And unless I miss my guess, you, Michael, are at the heart of it all."
So. The supernaturals were locked in a gang war. Hazard's fears were realized. All the more reason to see Gold and ask for his help. Hazard folded his hands before him and tried to ignore the other Vampires filling the dark hall, clinging to the walls and ceiling, draping themselves across seats, gathering on the balcony.
"It may be worse than you realize, Paul." Gold did not react. His gaze held Hazard's steadily. "My friends and I have uncovered a human plot to awaken one of the Great Old Ones."
Still Gold did not react. If Hazard had a pulse, it would have quickened. "The Witches were in on it," Hazard continued, "and so I destroyed them. But the real culprits are hidden somewhere; their evil plan continues. They have to be stopped, Paul." Hazard was suddenly aware of just how many Vampires were in the building, in the room. At least thirty. Probably closer to forty.
"If they succeed," he plowed on, "all of creation is doomed. Even us. Even you and Azmodeus and everything the two of you have worked for all these millennia." That got a reaction. Hazard silently congratulated himself, even as his mind worriedly began to plan an escape.
Gold's left eye twitched. His mask of amicability shattered. "And so you have come to me, Michael. You need my help to catch these humans, is that it? And why am I going to help you? Because you eliminated the Witches and created a vacuum that I can easily fill? Because Azmodeus' plans are compromised by the actions of this mythical cult?"
Hazard could see he had made a gigantic mistake. He suddenly regretted coming here without backup. Gold's rant continued as Hazard took a cautious step away from him.
"Do you and Archimedes actually think I am that stupid? I know the two of you have been plotting to undermine me in this country. I was simply unprepared for the extraordinary lengths you were willing to go to see me destroyed. Well, I have news for you Hazard. You have seriously underestimated your opposition."
"Children: destroy the renegade."
In the darkness Hazard heard the Vampires rise and prepare to attack. Hazard gathered his Will and unleashed the snarling beast within his breast; his eyes flashed red and bled sparks. His muscles swelled with power and his white fangs flashed in the dark. They *might* destroy him, tear him apart. Gold *might* kill him with forty or more Vampires at his back. But they would pay a bitter price. That Hazard swore.
Suddenly the stained glass ceiling shattered, sending shards of glass and droplets of rain spinning into the theater. Gold was momentarily distracted. Hazard moved faster than human thought, and his claws ripped Gold's throat open. Sweet carmine blood fountained from the wound and Gold growled, turning once again to face Hazard.
Behind them, a scarecrow and a clown dropped through the shattered window into the room.
Methos shrugged his long coat off his shoulders despite the drafty interior of the aging townhouse, preferring ease of movement over warmth. Connor, who had lost his raincoat in the melee, left his other jacket on. The Quickening would keep him warm if necessary, but he preferred not to tax his resources. Methos' drawn features were enough illustration of the consequences.
The two Immortals moved quickly through the lower rooms of the house, dispatching Nyarlathotep's horrific servants with unsettling ease. Only a Nightwing or two proved to be dangerous at all, breaking several of Connor's ribs and slashing open Methos' chest. Other, less impressive creatures were silenced with alacrity and little fuss.
As the battles grew easier to win, Connor's distrust of the situation grew. After the display in the courtyard, Connor expected more resistance from the wizard. Methos seemed unruffled, however. Almost as if he had been expecting such a welcome.
Eventually they found the entrance to the basement. Connor kicked open an ancient wooden door, shattering the pathetic lock in the process, and revealing the darkened stone stairway that would lead the ageless duo into the bowels of Nyarlathotep's lair.
Enough light existed that Connor could just make out empty sconces on the wall, where torches should have blazed. "I don't suppose you brought a flashlight," Connor said.
"Of course not," Methos said sharply. "That would have required too much forethought," he admonished himself. "Have you a lighter?" Methos asked.
Connor shook his head. "I quit smoking before Richie was born."
Methos muttered something under his breath. He looked up. "Then we shall have to make do," he announced. He tucked his sword under one arm and raised his good hand. A spark formed between his thumb and forefinger, and Connor watched the spark flash and expand millimeter by millimeter until a ball of electricity hummed in Methos' hand. The light from the ball illuminated most of the stairway in bluish light. It also gave Methos' features a devilish cast.
Methos flashed a grin at Connor. "I haven't done this sort of thing in a while. I suppose the practice is good for me." He stepped past Connor onto the stairs and carefully made his way down them.
"Sorcery," Connor muttered under his breath. He was born at the height of the witch craze that gripped all of Europe during the Renaissance, and though he had tried very hard to forget much of his past -- particularly his youth on the shores of Loch Shiel -- many of the Catholic prejudices of his childhood remained with him. His basic distrust for all things involving magic or the undead were paramount among those prejudices.
Connor forced himself to follow Methos.
Eerie shadows danced along the walls as Connor followed Methos down the damp stone steps. Their footfalls echoed and reverberated along the stone corridor. Connor had the distinct feeling he was descending into Hell. He grinned at the thought of Methos playing the role of Virgil. He tried to hold on to that momentary feeling of amusement, but it disappeared as soon as he and Methos reached the bottom of the steps.
Methos shivered slightly, and Connor belatedly realized that, cold as the upper levels had been, the basement was freezing. As Methos examined the doorways branching out from the landing, Connor zipped his jacket up all the way. He cursed himself for his weakness; too much soft living had dulled his endurance levels. Back in the day, clad only in kilt, cotton shirt and leather jerkin, he would have scoffed at the cold.
Perhaps it was time to return to the motherland, spend some time in the hills and valleys. He hadn't been back since Brenda died. Best not to think about her.
"This way," Methos announced, gesturing with the ball of light.
Thinking about Brenda reminded him of why he was here. To avenge the deaths of Duncan and Amanda. His anger rediscovered, Connor nodded at Methos and followed him deeper into Nyarlathotep's dungeon.
The hallway they took eventually opened up into a huge room with a vaulted ceiling. Dust hung heavy in the air, and the mouth of the passageway was heavy with cobwebs, which Connor brushed aside as they stepped into the room. It appeared to be some kind of laboratory -- like something out of a Universal film. Heavy wooden tables laden with various body parts, beakers, bottles, buckets, candles, and less identifiable odds and ends were scattered about the room. Heavy blocks of machinery graced the walls, covered with gears and switches and gauges and humming with quiet power. An occasional arc of electricity would flash from the antennae of one machine to the antennae of another.
Connor squinted, trying to pierce the darkness and locate the wizard. "Where is he?" Connor whispered.
Methos shrugged, looking about. "I don't -- " he began. A flash of dark light exploded from the far end of the room, silencing Methos. The eldritch energy sparked and fizzled about two feet away from the Old Man, where blue white electricity suddenly outlined a curving shield. A rumble like thunder shook the room.
Connor's teeth ached. He wondered how much good his sword would be against a wizard.
Methos advanced into the room slowly, kicking bones and bits of rock out of his way. He pulled his hand back and launched the ball of light into the air. It flew towards the center of the room, near the ceiling, and stopped, hovering there. It cast its weird, blue light throughout the room. Connor saw the wizard now; Nyarlathotep huddled near a rune etched altar. The ancient immortal clutched a staff of iron in one claw-like hand. The other hand pointed towards Methos and Connor.
Another dark flash shook the room, but shattered against Methos' shield.
Connor crouched down instinctively. "Do something," he hissed at Methos.
Methos gave him a sickly grin. The Old Man looked even worse under the miniature blue sun. His skin was almost translucent, and his eyes bugged out from his thinly drawn face. "I can't," he answered sharply. "The Quickening is purely a defensive force. I cannot attack with it."
Connor rolled his eyes. "Now you tell me."
Another bolt of dark light crashed against Methos' shield. Was it Connor's imagination, or did Methos' shield look dimmer?
"I'll draw his fire. You sneak up and take his head," Methos grimaced.
Connor shook his head. Pure madness. The wizard would see him coming. But it seemed it was their only chance. Tucking the katana under his arm, trying vainly to keep the metal blade from reflecting the electric light, he bolted across the room, leaping over tables and scattered body parts as more of Nyarlathotep's eldritch energy flashed across the room, seeking Methos.
He heard the older Immortal cry out in pain -- a thin wail against the mighty pounding of Nyarlathotep's blast. Connor redoubled his speed. He tripped over a skull and flew through the air to crash down hard on a partially decomposed corpse.
Connor rolled off of it quickly, biting back a howl of dismay. He scrambled to his feet, but was brought up short when something grabbed his elbow and spun him around. A huge fist smashed into his face, shattering his nose and knocking him backwards against a table. The katana flew away from him, skittering on the stone floor.
Blood fountained from his ruined nose, and Connor fought for balance as another fist hammered his chest. More bones broke with a sickening crunch. Connor's eyes focused wildly as another flash of dark light flew from Nyarlathotep's hands.
Connor wasn't sure how he had missed the massive figure that loomed over him now -- where the seven foot monstrosity could have hidden was beyond the Highlander. It must have once been human, before the Egyptian had sunk his claws into it. Now it was a sallow skinned mountain of muscle, its thick arms and legs banded with scars and sores. A few scraps of dirty cloth hung to the huge frame, barely clothing the giant. Its face was a twisted mockery of a human being, with bulging, yellow eyes and a mangled jaw brimming with greenish teeth. More scars stretched the facial muscles into a macabre expression, somewhere between a grimace and a grin.
Connor ducked under its flailing fists and dove for his sword. The thing was faster than it looked; it grabbed Connor by the back of his jacket and heaved him up over its head. Inhuman muscles flexed, and Connor was suddenly airborne. He crashed down on a wooden table, shattering glass beakers and pipes into powder. Chunks of glass were driven into his exposed skin. He fought to catch the breath that was driven from his body, and pulled himself into an upright position. His hands shook involuntarily as they brushed glass off of his chest and pulled bits out of his face. At least his nose and breastbone were healing.
Nyarlathotep pressed the attack against Methos, advancing slowly across the wreckage of the room. Methos appeared to be collapsing under the assault. Connor cast about him, looking for some kind of weapon.
The giant drew closer.
Something silver, glinting in the blue light, caught Connor's eye. Whatever it was appeared to be buried under several bones. Connor leapt off the table and brushed the wreckage away, grasping the metal object tightly. He pulled it free as the giant lurched towards him, reaching out with its heavy fists.
It was an ax, carved with runes.
Behind Connor, Methos was driven to his knees by another of the Egyptian's bolts of energy.
The giant was dangerously close. One massive fist drew back to hammer Connor, while the other reached out to grab him and hold him in place. Connor spun on his heel and slashed with the ax, opening up the giant's stomach. As its intestines spilled free, the giant froze, a look of dull surprise spreading across its ruined features.
Connor reversed his swing, and the ax blade bit through the giant's throat. Brackish blood gouted from the wound, and the giant fell to its knees, surprised that it was dying. Connor stepped away and surveyed the situation.
Methos had managed to get one foot underneath him, but the wizard unleashed another bolt of dark light that shattered Methos' shield. The Old Man was knocked backward, bouncing hard against the wall behind him.
Connor was sure another such blast would destroy Methos. The wizard was yards away. Nyarlathotep gathered power into his hand, wreathing the claw in dark light. There really wasn't much Connor could do. But he would not allow the wizard to kill another friend.
"MacLeod!" he screamed, heaving the ax at the wizard. Nyarlathotep's attention flickered towards Connor for an instant. The ax smashed into his chest, the heavy blade hammering deep into his body and knocking him backwards. Nyarlathotep's energy backfired in his hand, causing the extremity to explode in a flash of light. Nyarlathotep leaned heavily against his staff and howled.
"Connor!" Methos called. The Highlander glanced at the Old Man; Methos heaved his blade at him. Connor caught it deftly by the hilt, and stepped towards the dying wizard.
Nyarlathotep lurched backwards, muttering an incantation under his breath. His sunken eyes burned with intensity and power. In a moment, Connor knew, Nyarlathotep would marshal his strength and unleash his might on Methos and himself. He could ill afford a wasted moment.
But Connor had to do this correctly.
He hefted Methos' straight sword in his hand and stepped towards the wizard. "I am Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he rasped. "And you, wizard... you are nothing."
Nyarlathotep grimaced and waved his ruined stump feebly. Connor's sword arm rose and fell.
Nyarlathotep's head fell to the floor. The staff clattered on the stones, and the body, now devoid of life, tumbled in a heap. Duncan and Amanda could rest a little easier, wherever they might be.
But for Connor, it wasn't over.
The Kurgan was waiting.
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