Bodies littered the streets.
As the buildings burned, casting an eerie glow upon the snowy ground, the Gohlem followed the curve of the Wyrm's winding body, stepping over the dead and dying remains of Werewolves gutted by Gargoyle weaponry. Occasionally, a foolish member of that stony race would attempt to attack the Gohlem, only to be crushed under the hoary fists of the walking statue.
The Wyrm was dead, slain by some small warrior with a glowing sword, and its death throes had laid waste to the street, crushing Gargoyles, Werewolves, cars, and humans huddling in fear inside the buildings lining the road. Chunks of masonry were scattered everywhere, and dust clogged the air. The screams of the wounded and trapped echoed through the night.
To the Gohlem, such misery would normally be savored. But with one of his siblings struck dead, he could waste no time investigating the cause. There was still a chance the Wyrm could be saved. Or, at least, its death could be avenged.
The Gohlem reached the head. A pile of rock and shattered stone ringed the head; the Wyrm had crashed into a building headfirst as it died, destroying the building with a titanic crash, and most likely crushing its killer to a pulp.
With Immortals, however, it paid to be thorough.
The Gohlem stumbled over the rubble, climbing over the heap to where the Wyrm's massive head lay, cradled by the rock. One glance at the gaping wound between the Wyrm's eyes told the Gohlem enough; the Wyrm was gone forever. Black blood still oozed from the gash, seeping into the ground, steaming where it struck the earth. The Gohlem traced a hand along the bulky brow of the Wyrm, noting the pool of acidic blood beneath the Wyrm's head was roughly man-sized.
"Get back," a woman's voice hissed. The Gohlem looked up, and saw a female Gargoyle standing a dozen feet away. She had a mane of red hair and a set of bat-like wings outstretched. She held the broken haft of a silver spear in her hands, and her eyes glowed with rage.
The Gohlem allowed itself a slow smile. It shifted its stance on the uneven ground, and then snapped forward with ham-sized fists extended.
The Gargoyle bitch screamed and swung the broken spear haft like a sword, to shatter against the Gohlem's stone skin. It wrapped one hand around her neck, and raised one fist to smash her skull like an egg.
A bullet twanged off of the Gohlem's forehead.
"A-a-a. That's no way to treat a lady." The voice came from beneath an overhang, what used to be a ceiling before the Wyrm crashed through the center of the building.
The Gohlem loosened its grip on the Gargoyle's neck slightly, enjoying her whimper and her futile attempt to slash at its hide with her claws. "Step into the light where I can see you," the Gohlem intoned. Perhaps the Wyrm's killer had escaped...
The figure stepped forward, and if the Gohlem breathed, it would have snorted in derision. It was a man, slightly built, with pale skin and long blond hair. He wore a leather jacket, and he held some kind of firearm in his white hand. He held his other arm behind his back. "Boo," he said.
The Gohlem released the Gargoyle for the moment, and she fell to the ground, gasping and clutching at her throat. The Gohlem took a threatening step toward the mortal. "I am not frightened," it said.
The man nodded. "You should be," he said. He fired another ineffectual round at the Gohlem, who smiled at the mortal's courage and stupidity.
"Stupid, stupid mortal. Your kind has no power over me. Nothing born of this Earth can harm the Gohlem." The Gohlem began to lumber forward, its heavy fists swinging wildly. Another bullet ricocheted off the Gohlem's hurtling form.
"I kind of figured that," the man mumbled, dropping the pistol. As the Gohlem ran forward, the man showed his other hand, whipping out a heavy sword, with a blade slickened by black blood. The Gohlem realized its mistake, and tried in vain to slow itself, but the laws of inertia kept its heavy body in motion. With a shuddering crack, the Gohlem impaled itself upon the sword, driving the blade through its chest with its own unnatural strength. The Gohlem grunted once, and slowed to a halt. It stepped backwards, and the man planted one booted foot on its chest, dragging the sword free with a grating sound.
"This," he explained, "is the Ray of Indra. Forged by the Archangel Gabrial from the heart of a fallen star. A meteorite, I figure." Finally, the sword rasped free from its sheath in the Gohlem's chest. The Gohlem looked down at the new hole in its chest, and watched in horror as cracks erupted in its skin, radiating out from the sword wound. Wisps of yellow smoke began to seep from the gap.
"Since it gave your big green buddy such a headache, I thought it might be useful on you," the man continued. He shrugged. "It saves me the trouble of wasting my grenades on your sorry stone ass." He gripped the sword in two hands, and carefully aimed his stroke. He smiled like a predator as the sword fell, saying, "Going to need those for the Fool anyway."
As the sword shattered through the Gohlem's neck, the last thing it saw was a huge, black spider perched on the man's shoulder.
"Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, I presume," the Kurgan chuckled. He slapped MacLeod's sword away with his two-hander, and looked around.
Perseus, clutching his organs and vainly trying to keep them from spilling free of his body, focused through the pain like a true Spartan, and followed suit.
Somehow, during the melee with the Kurgan, three other Immortals had arrived unnoticed. MacLeod, a young kid with freckles and badly dyed hair, and one all too familiar face. "Methos," Perseus mumbled through the blood dripping from his lips. He dragged himself into a sitting position, and watched the Kurgan and the Highlander pace like wolves, eyeing each other across their swords. Methos scrambled through the snow towards Perseus, and he noticed that the Old Man was missing his sword arm.
What else could go wrong?
Methos placed his good hand beneath Perseus to brace him. His devilish smirk was on his face, but his eyes looked tired and old. Perseus felt Methos' lips brush against his forehead, a feather's touch, and then he pulled back to look at him. "You look like shit, Percy."
Perseus coughed up a few bubbles of blood. "You go a few rounds with the gorilla... see how you look." Perseus felt the Quickening surge through him, knitting flesh, healing fatal wounds. He gripped Methos' shoulder tightly. "Is the Highlander up to this? The Kurgan is... more than he was."
Methos nodded. "He's our only chance right now."
Connor looked into the Kurgan's black eyes, and he the faces of the dead swam out of the mists of time to mock him. Kate. Angus. Dougall. Heather. Ramiriz. Kastagir. Brenda. Duncan. Amanda. All the lives changed or ruined, destroyed by the casual evil of this one, wretched man. The hate burned like fire in Connor's veins, the righteous hate of a man wronged. "I'm going to kill you, Kurgan," Connor hissed. "And this time, I promise you, you're going to stay dead. I'm going to dice you up, fry you on the grill, and I'm going to devour you." Connor jabbed at the Kurgan with his katana, and the barbarian blocked easily.
But there was fear in the Kurgan's eyes. The Kurgan was *never* afraid. That night in New York, when they had dueled on the rooftops and the Kurgan had died on the end of his sword, there was nothing but rage and hatred in the Kurgan's eyes. Connor had been the man afraid. Afraid he would fail Ramiriz, afraid Brenda would pay the ultimate price if he squandered his opportunity to rid the world of a terrible evil.
Connor lunged forward, slashing at the Kurgan. The Kurgan's speed was inhuman; he parried smoothly and launched a counterattack that Connor barely blocked. Connor narrowed his eyes. The Kurgan had learned some tricks on the other side of the grave; he was faster now. Stronger, too, if the impact of sword against sword told Connor anything. And then there were the strange cages of energy holding two Immortals immobile in the street.
The Kurgan laughed, and gradually the confidence that Connor's appearance had shaken began to return. He created a web of steel between himself and the Highlander, but Connor met him blow for blow. Sparks erupted as the swords clashed together, flashing in the combatants eyes. Neither man flinched. Neither man gave an inch, despite the fact that Connor's arms ached with each of the Kurgan's heavy strikes.
Connor grinned.
The Kurgan roared, and electricity flashed in his eyes. Connor felt a great weight smash into his chest like a hammer, knocking him backward and off his feet. Connor gasped, fighting to suck air into lungs suddenly empty, but his warrior instincts stayed with him as he fell. He started rolling before he hit the ground, and the Kurgan's sword missed him by inches.
He stayed rolling, sucking in air, and somersaulted backwards onto his feet. The katana flashed, and caught the Kurgan's sword before it could split him in two.
The Kurgan roared again, and smashed his sword against the katana like a smith hammering against an anvil. Connor gritted his teeth and weathered the onslaught; he held steady, despite the pain blossoming in his shoulders and biceps that made his arms shiver like an old man's, despite the sparks flying in his eyes and singeing his eyebrows.
"You're not going to win this time, Kurgan," Connor hissed.
The Kurgan's eyes blazed with rage. He redoubled his strength, raining hammering blows upon the katana, punctuating each blow with a screamed word. "I! Never! Lose! High! Land! Er! You! Will! Not! Beat! Me!"
The katana shattered in Connor's hands. The Kurgan's sword flashed through the gap, ripping open a wicked gash in Connor's chest as the Highlander fell backwards. The Kurgan stepped forward, and casually poked Connor in the shoulder with the tip of his sword. Connor gasped in pain, as the blood began to flow freely.
Above them all, Wraith and Immortal and Gargoyle, Demon and Angel and Werewolf, the gate in the sky widened, tearing open the night like a jagged red wound.
Mephistopheles sat upon his great marble throne and observed the gate through the hole in the roof of his tower. The Demon smiled, exposing sharpened teeth, the white of his teeth a contrast to flesh that gleamed like molten rock.
Not far away, Huixopotchtli was shrugging out of his priestly garments in order to change into more comfortable clothing. Adam Franklin, the sallow skinned giant, stood by the altar with crossed arms, watching the crimson wheel in the sky as it grew. Paul Gold paced the length of the floor, occasionally eyeing one of the human Cultists hungrily.
Finally, Mephistopheles turned to Gold and said, "Stop pacing, Gold. There is no reason for nervousness or fear. My Nightwings have already dealt with the interlopers you brought to my door." Mephisto raised one hand, palm up. "The Gate is open, and Chibbukuk in all his slathering madness has begun his return to this pathetic world. Before the next hour is through, I guarantee we will be sipping banana daiquiris on Alpha Centauri."
Gold shook his head. "You're too damn confident, Mephisto. Hazard and his companions are not easily destroyed. If -- "
Gold trailed off as the thick oaken door, the only entrance or exit from the room, exploded inward, raining wooden splinters on the floor. Before the Demon, the Vampire, or the Immortal could move, the heroes surged into the room with weapons bared and battle cries on their lips.
A black and white blur heaved itself at Gold, and the Vampire used his own preternatural celerity to meet the attack.
A woman with short black hair aimed pistols at the human cultists and killed one with each shot she made. A man stood beside her, aiming his shotgun at the same targets and blasting away. Behind them stood a black girl with a sword -- an Immortal -- and a skull-faced creature nocking an arrow to a bow.
"Well, well, well," Mephistopheles muttered to himself. "The party has arrived." He concentrated briefly, and a military fork of blackened steel materialized in his hands.
Victoria wasn't sure if her guns would be much use against the supernatural monsters in the room, so she concentrated her fire on the human cult members huddling around the altar in the center of the room. They were clad in white robes, but blood was splattered all over them and the floor on which they sat. More blood blossomed from each cultist as her bullets found their mark.
Beside her, Jones took careful aim with his hand cannon and squeezed off a few rounds in the general direction of the giant in the Armani suit. The guy didn't seem to notice as the slugs impacted with his chest. Jones swore under his breath and tossed the shotgun to the floor. Reaching behind his back, he drew out his katana, and stepped further into the room. Vic noticed the other man near the demon -- he looked like he might be American Indian -- holding a scimitar. Immortal.
Hazard and Gold were a blur in the center of the room, both Vampires attacking each other at super speed, using superhuman strength and claw-like fingers to tear vicious wounds in each other that healed in moments. Vic toyed with the idea of handicapping Gold with a few .50 caliber slugs in the knees, but decided the chance of hitting Hazard was too high.
Over the sound of gunfire, Vic heard Kurt's bow twang, and she saw the arrow arc over their heads toward the red-skinned man in the black armor. Vic wasn't sure if she believed that this being was a demon, but she had to admit, he certainly looked the part.
The arrow was well aimed, Vic saw with a practiced eye. It would pierce the demon in the center of his black heart -- assuming he had one.
The Demon, holding some kind of forked polearm in one hand, casually plucked the arrow from the air with the other. He smiled at Kurt, and snapped the arrow easily. Wisps of smoke rose from his hand as he dropped the broken arrow onto the steps of his marble throne. "Mistletoe?" he said. His voice was deep and cultured, and his words flowed like honey. Victoria had to concentrate on the battle around her as the Demon talked.
"A valiant effort, my brave friends, but a wasted one. It is far too late for you and your little world. I have opened the Gate to Hell, and the Elder God on the other side is on his way through. In moments, this city will be laid waste, and after that, the rest of the planet follows. Of course, none of you will be able to witness the destruction." Flames suddenly erupted from the Demon's fingertips, flashing towards the companions where they stood in the doorway, spreading out in a fan and dripping fire onto the floor like napalm.
Victoria dropped to her knees and tumbled into the room, bouncing to her feet and unleashing a hail of bullets on the black armored monster.
Kurt's empty eye sockets flashed with blue light, and a swirling shield of darkness appeared before he and Shelley, catching the flames before they harmed either of them.
Jones wasn't so lucky. He tried to move, but the he was too slow. The fire caught him and he burst into a human fireball. He screamed until the flames devoured his vocal cords.
Victoria's well placed shots didn't faze the Demon. He turned his attention to her, and she felt an invisible hand wrap around her chest. It began to squeeze. She aimed her pistols at the Demon's head, but her fingers were suddenly nerveless. The guns fell from her hands.
Kurt dropped the shield of darkness, and ran into the room, to engage the Demon. His eye sockets still glowed, and sparks of blue fire fell from his fingertips. Behind him, Shelley brandished her sword as the other Immortal in the room stepped around Jones' fiery corpse to engage her.
Kurt bounded up the steps of the marble throne, but the Demon's eyes flashed as well, and Kurt was thrown backwards, tumbling through the air to crash on the cobblestone floor with a bone jarring thump.
Victoria fought to pry the invisible hand off her chest, but she couldn't get a grip. Her air began to leave in frantic gasps, and her vision was beginning to swim.
As Kurt picked himself up, the giant grabbed him from behind and spun him around. A massive fist crashed against Kurt's skull, and Kurt was sent reeling. "Remember me?" Franklin asked. "You gave up the search when I left Europe for the Arctic. Thought I froze, didn't you?" His fist flashed forward again, but this time the Nightbane caught it in his own hand.
"Actually, I thought you fell apart," Kurt rasped. Then Kurt jammed his knuckles into the giant's neck, and followed through with a roundhouse that staggered the massive man.
Shelley faced the other Immortal with her saber held defensively before her. The man was bigger than her, stronger, and he held his scimitar with practiced ease. She bit her lip, and waited for the attack.
As her vision clouded, and the darkness started to take her, Victoria heard the Demon begin to laugh. It was a harsh, grating sound, incongruous with his honeyed voice.
And then a blast of light seared her vision, and the invisible hand fell away. She dropped to her knees gasping and coughing, fighting to suck air into her oxygen impoverished lungs.
"Mephistopheles," someone said from on high. "The game ends here."
Victoria shifted her stance, and looked up.
Standing in the hole torn through the ceiling, framed by the crimson gate in the sky above, was a golden skinned man in shining armor. A pair of metallic wings spread out from his back, and he held a sword of flame in one hand.
"Gabrial," the Demon hissed.
The Fool stretched languidly under the wan light of a streetlamp, balls of light flipping from hand to hand. "This is not going according to plan," he mused to himself. The Wyrm lay in the middle of the road, a ribbon of green, dead to the world. The Gohlem had left to investigate the Wyrm's demise, and it hadn't returned yet. The Fool's darling Scarecrow had departed as well, to harry the Gargoyles.
That left the Fool alone, standing on the sidewalk outside of the gutted City Hall, juggling balls of fire and wondering where everything went wrong. The Wyrm was supposed to have burned the city down by now.
All those deaths would have strengthened the Gate, and facilitated the passage of the elder God through the hole in reality. In addition, the Wyrm's mere presence on the physical plane was enough to escalate aggression on a world-wide scale. Wars were supposed to be erupting, adding to the body count and serving as a tasty tribute to Chibbukuk. But now there were only three Horsemen of the Apocalypse left.
And one of them was idle.
"I suppose I should kill something," the Fool said. It sounded like a capital idea. The Fool traced patterns in the air, and the fireballs he juggled leapt from his hands, flying across the street to explode against a building. Flames leapt up along the wall, burning through the brick and steel, and the building burst into flames.
"Neat trick."
The voice came from behind the Fool. He whirled, and curls of party string exploded from his palms, spreading out like a web to capture anyone foolish enough to disturb his play.
There was no one there, and the multi-colored web fell uselessly upon an upturned slab of marble that used to be part of the stairs leading up to City Hall.
The Fool's eyes narrowed. Someone was playing a trick on the Fool. Not fair.
The Fool slowly turned, examining the entire street. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, except the burning building, and the tracks of the Wyrm as it had slithered across the snowy street. Still, it paid to be careful. The Fool reached into its sleeve, tugged mightily, and drew out a three foot long scepter of gold, tipped by three blue jewels that began to glow when the cold air reached them.
"Nice toy." The voice, again. This time, from above him.
The Fool looked up, pointing the tip of the scepter into the air.
And there he was: a slim, pale skinned human with a mane of blond hair, hanging by his knees from the top of the streetlamp. He was holding some kind of red box in his hands, with what appeared to be silver ribbon wrapped around it. But with the glare from the streetlamp, the Fool couldn't get a good look.
"Darling!" the Fool grinned. "Why don't you come down from there?" He emphasized the request with a wave of the scepter, and a bolt of electricity flew from the tip, connecting with the man's chest. He grunted, but seemed maddeningly unharmed.
"Ouch," he said. "Now, is that anyway to treat someone bearing gifts?"
"Gifts?" the Fool asked, intrigued. "Is that for me? Darling, you shouldn't have! I didn't get anything for you."
"Not to worry," the man said. He dropped the package, and without thinking, the Fool caught it. He grunted as it fell into his hands, surprised at the weight. Something within sloshed. Liquid? The Fool now had a closer look at the package, and he suddenly realized what it was. A metal gas can. Painted red. It was wrapped with duct tape that kept little green pineapples attached to the can.
"What the hell?" the Fool said.
Then one of the grenades went off.
The resulting explosion rattled the windows all along the street, and blew the streetlamp apart as if it were made of matchsticks.
The Spider had already leapt away, evading the Fool's fiery fate.
Connor lurched backward, out of the range of the Kurgan's next wild swing, and barely managed to keep himself from getting bisected.
The fear in the Kurgan's eyes had evaporated, replaced by the rage of old. "Pathetic, Highlander. I knew it. Your last victory was a fluke. Now, you're mine."
Out of the corner of his eye, Connor saw the Greek the Kurgan had butchered. The man had recovered his sword, a foot long gladius. As the Kurgan brought his sword up in a killing arc, the Greek hefted his own blade and threw it. The short sword flashed through the air and blasted into the Kurgan from behind, ripping through his side to rupture a kidney.
The Kurgan stopped short, and gave the Greek a glare. "Wait your turn, Perseus," the Kurgan rasped. He did not seem perturbed to have a foot long chunk of steel piercing his side. Connor smiled sickly. Perseus would have been smarter to give Connor the sword.
"Connor!" Richie called. Connor spared the boy a glance. Richie looked worried, and at the same time very grim. He held a sword in his hand.
A katana.
As the Kurgan turned his attention back to Connor, Richie tossed the blade to the Highlander, who deftly caught it. He recognized the sword. Duncan's dragon headed katana.
He automatically blocked the Kurgan's attack, while at the same time making a mental note to ask the boy where he found Duncan's sword.
"The Game isn't over yet, Kurgan," Connor said. He launched a series of blurring attacks, slashing at the Kurgan again and again. The violence of his assault pushed the Kurgan back a few paces, and Connor realized that the sword in the Kurgan's gut was slowing him down. The flesh around the sword was sealed; the Kurgan's out of control healing factor had repaired the wound in seconds, as it did any other wound he received. But the sword was still there, cutting into him with each movement, and though it wouldn't kill him, it hurt enough to distract him. To slow him down.
Maybe Perseus was a smart fellow after all.
Connor slipped past the Kurgan's defenses to slash open his neck, and as the blood spurted from the wound, the Kurgan stumbled backwards, leaving him open for another strike. Connor took advantage of it, and brought the edge of Duncan's sword across the Kurgan's face, splitting one eye open and slicing his nose off. Blinded, the Kurgan attempted to push Connor away with a wild swing, but Connor blocked it easily, deftly knocked the Kurgan's sword arm away, and as the Kurgan's face began to repair itself, Connor sliced the Kurgan's arm off at the elbow.
Blood fountained onto the white snow, and the Kurgan's sword clattered to the ground. Desperately, the Kurgan attempted to wrench the gladius from his belly, but Connor was quick and brutal.
Duncan's sword bit deep, severing flesh and bone, and the Kurgan's head tumbled free to snow. His body stood for a moment, not quite comprehending the loss of his head, and then it too plummeted to the ground.
Connor watched, the katana still held tightly in his hands, half expecting the Kurgan to pick his head up and reattach it.
Then the Quickening exploded from the Kurgan's body, and Connor was enveloped in its agony and ecstasy, as his every atom was caressed by the life force of the man he had just killed.
The golden man swooped down from the sky, his fiery sword pointed forward, and slammed into the Demon. But the Demon was ready for him, and he blocked the attack with the fork, deflecting most of the charge and flipping the Angel into the throne with a shuddering crack.
But the Angel was on his feet in a moment, and the fiery sword flashed, connecting with the adamantine fork with a shower of sparks. The two otherworldly beings began shouting at each other in a high pitched language that sounded like bird calls.
Victoria sucked in another long breath of oxygen, and checked on her companions.
Jones was dead, but the fire seemed to have run its course, leaving him nothing more than a shattered, blackened corpse. Victoria hoped Jones would be able to recover.
Shelley fought valiantly against the other Immortal. Victoria could see slashes in Shelley's jacket, but the girl wasn't bleeding yet, and the other Immortal was. Shelley had marked him twice across the chest.
Shallow cuts, but they served to make the Immortal more cautious. He was fighting economically, now, trying to wear Shelley down.
Hazard and Gold had slowed down, and Victoria could actually see them now. Both men were tattered and torn. Sheets of blood ran down from vicious wounds rent in their flesh. They were circling each other like wolves now, snarling at with their fangs exposed, their Vampiric eyes flashing red.
Kurt threw the giant against the altar with a tremendous heave.
Kurt was stronger than he looked; as Victoria watched, Kurt stepped into the air and flowed into a spinning kick that literally shattered the giant's jaw, snapping a portion of his mandible off with a sickening crack.
Teeth and chin smashed to the ground, and the giant uttered a wordless cry, blindly attacking Kurt. The giant grabbed Kurt in mid-air, wrapping thick fingers around Kurt's jacket, and then smashed Kurt against the basalt altar. Kurt yelped in pain, but still managed to drive a foot into the giant's solar plexus. But the creature was beyond pain. It ignored the blow, and smashed Kurt against the altar again. And again.
Victoria scrambled and grabbed one of her pistols, and saw the battle between the Demon and the Angel had taken them off the steps, and they were now almost on top of her. The Demon's eyes glowed once more, and fire exploded from the orbs to splatter against the Angel's golden armored chest. The Angel slashed with his sword, but the Demon parried with his military fork. Victoria leapt out of the way as the two weapons, locked together, slashed past her head.
She heard Shelley gasp out in pain, and saw in horror that the other Immortal had made a vicious wound in Shelley's left arm. The girl blocked the Immortal's next swing, but barely.
Victoria took careful aim. Immortals weren't bullet proof, at least.
She was knocked off her feet as the Angel was pushed back, slamming into her from behind. Victoria heard the Demon cackle as her pistol flew from her hands. The Angel ignored her, his golden eyes shining with anger, and pressed forward, seeking an opening in the Demon's defense.
Victoria scrambled on hands and feet to get out of the way. Light blazed from the Angel, and darkness poured out from the Demon as the two figures clashed.
Victoria watched the Angel and Demon battle, Shelley forgotten, and felt wholly insignificant. She was just a frail human woman, dragged into a war between gods and demons. She was less than useless. She was an insect, just waiting to be stepped on, crushed beneath the heels of creatures beyond her understanding.
She bumped up against the bottom step on the throne, startling herself. She hadn't realized she was retreating so quickly. She glanced at the steps, and noticed the shattered arrow, lying broken and forlorn where the Demon had dropped it.
The Demon suddenly laughed, and Vic whipped her head around to see fire explode across the Angel's face. The Angel was knocked backward again, and appeared to be staggered. He raised his sword in an effort to ward off the next blow, but the Demon thrust the fork in low, beneath the sword, and rammed the blades of the polearm deep into the Angel's stomach. Bright golden blood, like liquid light, splashed free as the Demon jerked the fork and wrenched it from the Angel's body. The sword of fire fell from the Angel's hand. The Demon took careful aim, and then drove the points of his weapon through the Angel's chest, until they exploded out the other side, erupting from the Angel's back. The Demon grunted, and then levered the Angel into the air, lifting him on the end of his pike.
Liquid light dripped from the Angel's wounds and mouth, and he spat on the Demon. "I win again Gabrial," the Demon laughed in English. "I think I shall swallow your soul."
Victoria twisted without thinking, and grasped the pointed end of the arrow in her hand. She leapt to her feet and ran towards the Demon, the arrow held tightly in her hand, point down. She launched herself at the Demon, and jammed the tip of the arrow into his neck with all her strength. Where bullets had failed, the fragment of mistletoe succeeded, piercing the Demon's flesh easily.
"Swallow this," Victoria swore, driving the arrow deeper into the Demon's throat. The monster gasped, and steam bubbled up from the wound in his neck. He dropped his weapon and the Angel, letting both fall to the floor with a metallic clang, and then pushed Victoria violently away. The Demon reached for his neck, gasping and gurgling as more smoke poured from his throat. His eyes began to bulge from his face, and his tongue snaked out. His fingers burned as he grabbed the piece of mistletoe projecting from his neck, and all he succeeded in doing was snapping a piece of it off, leaving most of it still buried in his throat.
The Demon lurched backward. Victoria watched as the flesh of the Demon's face began to bubble and smoke, burning up from the inside, devouring itself. His cheeks started to cave in, and Victoria realized the Demon was melting before her. His eyes suddenly exploded in a wet pop, and his face collapsed completely, melting into a viscous crimson liquid. The armor fell apart, clattering to the ground as the being inside it became fluid, dripping onto the floor to become a steaming pool that lapped against the soles of Victoria's shoes.
Victoria backed away quickly.
She looked up sharply as, across the room, a Quickening erupted, sending arcs of lightning to flash throughout the area. Victoria almost swallowed her heart, until she realized that Shelley was at the heart of the storm, while the other Immortal lay in two pieces on the ground.
Victoria looked about wildly. Kurt was a battered heap at the foot of the altar, and the giant's massive fists were caked with blood. Vic took a deep breath, and then skirted the pool of fluid that used to be Mephisto, and scooped up the still blazing sword of fire. Twenty feet away, Shelley crashed to the ground, spent and breathing wildly, but still alive.
As Victoria jogged towards the giant, the sword flashing in her hand, Hazard wrapped his claws around Gold's head, and wrenched it free from the Vampire's body. Gold fell to the ground, lifeless. Hazard stared at the head for a moment, and then threw it to the ground.
"Franklin," he yelled. The giant looked up from the beating it was giving Kurt, to regard the battered and bleeding Vampire coolly. "Unhand my friend. Or I'll rip you apart and sew you back together with barbed wire."
The giant grinned at the Vampire's boast. "You can barely stand, leech. Wait your turn."
It was all the distraction Victoria needed. With the giant's attention on Hazard, she ran up to him on cat's feet and drove the flaming weapon through the giants back to the hilt. He cried out once, and then lurched away from the altar, turning towards Victoria with arms outstretched. As the creature took one shuddering step toward her, it began to fall. Vic tried to move out of the way, but she knew in an instant that she wasn't fast enough; the beast would crush her as it died.
Then everything blurred, and she watched from several feet away as the giant crashed to the ground. She turned, held close in Hazard's bloody arms, and kissed him gently on the lips.
When Connor was aware of the world around him once more, he could feel the presence of a number of new Immortals. He opened his eyes, sucked in a breath of blessedly cold air, and ignored the devastation wrought by the Kurgan's Quickening. No, not just the Kurgan's Quickening; someone else's. Someone old and very, very powerful. Connor felt like the energy inside him was going to split him open, burst free form his body and take on a life of its own. He shuddered when he realized there was electricity bleeding from his eyes.
"Are you okay?" Richie asked, touching Connor's shoulder tentatively. He jumped as Connor carefully stood.
"Where did you find Duncan's sword, Richie?" Connor asked. He tried to ignore the fact that his voice now had a strange, echoing quality, as if two people were speaking.
"Uh... I went back to the barge while you and Methos were recovering from the fight with Nyarlathotep. I... wanted something to remember him by," the boy said. Connor nodded, and handed the katana to Richie.
"Thank you," he said. "You saved my life."
"He saved us all," Methos said, approaching them. Connor looked around, and saw the blond woman holding Perseus close, while the Hindu had recovered himself as well, and stood off to the side. A tall, muscular black man in a leather duster stood a dozen feet away from the Hindu; another Immortal, and one who looked vaguely familiar. It took Connor a moment to realize that the man was Ogbanna, a fellow New Yorker.
Cierdwyn, the Gallic warrior woman, was present as well. She held her straight blade casually, watching the others closely. It had been a long time since Connor had seen her, and she didn't look as if time had been good to her. Her long brown hair was shorn off, and what remained was spiked with lime. Her cheeks were painted with blue Celtic designs, and her eyes burned with loss and fear.
Down the street, Connor could see two more men approaching. His heightened senses could detect their Quickenings.
"What next?" Connor asked, turning to Methos.
The Old Man smiled grimly. "Now, we save the world."
"How?" Connor asked.
Methos turned to Perseus. "He knows what to do."
The Scarecrow suddenly convulsed as if in pain. He dropped the corpse of the Gargoyle he had been draining of life, and placed a hand across his chest in a very human gesture, as if his heart were hurting. Of course, he didn't have a heart. Just straw packing.
He dropped his hand and wiped the glove on his leg. He fluffed his tattered cloak out behind him, and stepped over the Gargoyle's body. Beyond it lay more corpses, mostly Werewolves, but Gargoyles as well. The winged guardians had proved the victors in the battle against the Lycanthropes, as their silver weaponry proved too much for the Werewolves, already tainted by the Wyrm's blessings. But the Gargoyles had fled the scene when the Scarecrow arrived, except for a few brave specimens. The last had fallen before the Scarecrow's dread power.
But instead of feeling the heady joy of victory, he suddenly felt a terrible sense of loss. As of someone had torn off his right arm. The Gohlem? Where was it? And the Fool? What of him? Could the hero who slayed the Wyrm attacked his other siblings as well?
The Scarecrow increased his pace, shifting into a slow jog. He hopped over the bodies with casual ease, heading for City Hall where he had left his love, the Fool.
He turned a corner and came face to face with a slim, pale faced human. He had blond hair, a leather jacket, and a huge glass jug, full of some blue, watery fluid, held in his left hand. The other hand held some kind of pistol. The man was smiling.
And he smelled... enticing. There was a scent coming off of him, something vaguely familiar, that awakened the Hunger in the Scarecrow's breast. He had just fed on the Gargoyles, and fed well, but if the leather mask that served as his face could drool, the scent of this mortal would drive him to do so. Immediately, he advanced on the figure, hands held out to grab him, to drain him dry.
And then the Scarecrow saw the spider perched on the man's shoulder, and he paused. A sudden realization hit him. The man was no mortal; he was a Wraith. Pure spirit. A succulent delicacy for a creature that devoured souls; small wonder that the Hunger had responded with such strength.
The man spoke. "Hold it right there, Attila."
The Scarecrow froze at the mention of his mortal name.
"Thought that might get your attention. We've never met, Attila, but you and I have a score to settle."
"And... what would that be?" the Scarecrow asked slowly, watching the man closely. Wraiths were canny creatures, but emotional. The Scarecrow had met a few in his centuries of existence, and had fought hard against each of them. In the end, their grief and their love had proved their undoing.
"A girl. A human girl named Rachel."
The Scarecrow shrugged. "I've never heard of her. But I must admit, I've killed a lot of humans in my time. Few leave an impression."
The man nodded. "That's what I expected," he said. He hefted the jug in his hands. "I know you don't like fire, so I picked up a bottle of nitroglycerin." With one smooth movement, he threw the jug at the Scarecrow, who caught it deftly with one hand.
"Fire isn't all that worrisome," the Scarecrow said. Still, he was careful to keep the bottle stable. That amount of nitroglycerin could take apart a city block. It wasn't to be trifled with, not with the Fool's fate in question. An explosion of that magnitude would probably stun him for days, and he couldn't afford to leave his love unattended.
"Yeah, I heard that too," the Wraith said. He aimed the pistol and fired, and the Scarecrow pulled the jug to his chest automatically, seeking to protect it from the Wraith's bullets. It was futile gesture, as one slug tore through the jug and ripped into the straw of the Scarecrow's chest.
He braced for the explosion, but none came. Instead, the jug simply shattered, spraying its contents all over the Scarecrow. As it splashed on him, it steamed, and the substance began to burn.
"Acid doesn't harm me either," the Scarecrow growled.
The Wraith shrugged. "It isn't acid. I stopped by an Aldrich depot on the way here, and picked up a jug of industrial strength liquid nitrogen." He twirled the pistol in his hands lazily, and watched with grim satisfaction as the Scarecrow's chest began to freeze. Parts of his mask and arms also began to stiffen up as the chemical seeped into his straw body and worked its magic.
The Wraith slipped his pistol into his jacket, and stepped toward the Scarecrow. The Scarecrow tried to move, but his chest was a solid mass and his arms would not obey his commands. The Wraith planted a hand on the Scarecrow's shoulder, and balled the other into a tight fist. He slammed his fist into the Scarecrow's chest, and the Scarecrow felt his trunk shatter like glass, to fall in shards to the sidewalk below. He tried to gasp in pain, but he couldn't feel anything.
The Wraith pushed the Scarecrow over, and the man of straw fell backwards onto the snowy pavement. One arm shattered to pieces, and the other fractured in a half-dozen places. The Scarecrow couldn't move, couldn't think. How could this be happening?
The Wraith reached down, and grabbed hold of the Scarecrow's leather mask. He casually wrenched the Scarecrow's head from his shoulders, and raised it up to eye level. Still conscious, the Scarecrow saw the Wraith produce a Zippo lighter, and flick it open. A flame blossomed in the lighter, and the Wraith held it under the Scarecrow's neck, where wisps of straw hung down. They caught immediately, and the Scarecrow began to scream as his head went up in flames.
Perseus watched as Connor MacLeod relaxed following the massive Quickening he had absorbed from the Kurgan. Viracocha's might was mixed in there with whoever else the Kurgan might have killed in the last few days, on top of Connor MacLeod's own considerable might. With that much power sandwiched inside one human body, it was small wonder that some sparks of Quickening were bleeding from MacLeod's eyes, and his hands sparked as he handed the katana to the young Immortal named Richie.
Perseus pulled Selura closer to him and breathed in her scent. She clung tight to him, and nestled her head against his throat. He needed her strength now, more than ever before.
Eight Immortals stood in a semi-circle, each one watching the others carefully. Ogbanna, Ramses' trained killer, shifted from one foot to the other, anxious about being so close to so many of his kind at once. The woman, Cierdwyn, if Perseus remembered correctly, seemed resigned to her fate, whatever it might be.
Two other Immortals approached from the other end of the street, and as they drew closer, Perseus identified them. John Greystoke and Doctor Savage, both of the Mystery Council.
Perseus shifted his gaze to the stripling, Richie Ryan. He would be of little use in the coming ceremony. Nine Immortals then. The Spartan hoped it would be enough.
Methos, standing next to Connor and Richie, half turned towards Perseus and said, "He knows what to do."
Connor and Richie followed Methos' gaze, and examined Perseus. Perseus kissed Selura gently, and disengaged himself from her. She held his hand tightly as he stepped towards the younger Immortals. Connor's electric gaze was a bit disconcerting, but Perseus ignored it.
"Well?" Connor challenged.
"How much have you told them?" Perseus asked Methos.
"Not much," the Old Man admitted sheepishly. "I just told them that the future of life on Earth hinged on their presence here."
Perseus nodded. "I think we can leave the boy out of this," he said.
He saw Richie begin to object, but silenced him with a look. "Listen carefully to me, Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. And you two as well, Ogbanna and Cierdwyn. I am about to tell you an ancient secret, one held for centuries by the disciples of Viracocha. I am going to tell you the secret of our origins. But I must do it quickly, for the gate Mephistopheles has summoned grows wider by the second, and when it is fully open, all life on Earth as we understand it will cease to be. And we have to key that will lock the gate shut."
He had their attention now, and the attention of Greystoke and the Doctor as well as they joined the circle.
"Millennia ago, the Peruvian Immortal Viracocha used his abilities to pierce the veil of the Astral Plane, to look within the cloudy reaches of the otherworld. He sought answers to ancient questions, questions humans have asked since the dawn of time, but questions that held special significance to an Immortal immersed in the Game. 'Why am I here?' 'What am I?' 'How do I go on?'"
"In the mists of the Astral, Viracocha found those answers. he communed with the spirit of a long dead wizard, of the race known as the Thanok-Dun, reptilian humanoids who built a great civilization when the world was ruled by dinosaurs. The wizard told Viracocha of the death of that civilization, and of the giant beasts who wandered the globe. The death knell was sounded when the Elder Gods were drawn to Earth, attracted by the primal energy of the world. Cthulhu, Shadrak, Xis, Chibbukuk and a dozen more alien intelligences came down to Earth from the heavens, and they laid waste to what they found there. But magic was a primal force then, and the Thanok-Dun had mastered it long before. The greatest wizards of their race fought against the Elder Gods, and the succeeded in imprisoning some of them -- Cthulhu in the tomb of R'lyeh beneath the oceans, Shadrak sealed in a comet sent spinning through the cosmos. But the Elder Gods fought back, and the cities of the Thanok-Dun ceased to be. They continued to fight, even as their world died, and as the twilight came for them, they gained an ally in the form of another Elder God. One who chose to support the frail creatures of this world against its brethren, for some inexplicable reason. With the help of this mysterious benefactor, the other Gods were sealed away in dimensional prisons, deep within Tarterus and Muspelheim, sealed away from interfering with the Earth again."
"The effort saved the Earth, but the backwash from the spell destroyed the last of the Thanok-Dun, the few remaining dinosaurs, and it shattered the last Elder God as well. It fell to Earth in glittering fragments, and where it landed, it bonded with the Earth. There, it formed Holy Ground. And when it touched living creatures, the fragments of the Elder God became Quickening."
"Down through the ages, as evolution took its course, and humanity eventually arose as the new masters of the planet, the Quickening lay dormant. But when the Elder Gods, sleeping in their prisons and shackled by magic, began to contact humanity and promise power in exchange for freedom, the Quickening flared within humans, and the first Immortals were born."
"We are the children of an Elder God, my brothers and sisters, the scion of an omnipotent being. And as each fragment of that being, each piece of Quickening, joins together, the reconstruction of that Elder God becomes more and more likely. Were all the Quickening in the world to be combined, that God would return."
"This was the Game. This was the Prize. And now, when one of those Elder Gods imprisoned long ago threatens to return, we must summon up that ancient savior once again. We must use its might to seal the gate, and to keep the Gods locked in their prisons."
Perseus stopped talking, aware that everyone was staring at him, aware that, deep within each of them, the truth resonated with their Quickening, and they recognized it as the truth, though they wished otherwise.
"So, then, what do we do?" Ogbanna asked haltingly.
Perseus checked the sky, and he saw that the gate was dangerously close to completion. A darkness deeper than any mortal shadow lay at the heart of the gate, and it pulsed as if alive. Chibbukuk was close.
Methos answered the Nigerian. "We must sacrifice our heads, and our Quickenings. Perseus will bind them into one, and use them to seal the gate."
Richie bent over and started puking. Ogbanna looked at the boy distastefully, but looked ill himself. MacLeod was pale, but he held his ground, while Cierdwyn appeared resigned. The others, having already been aware of the price they would pay, seemed determined.
Perseus wished he felt as certain. What if the Quickening wasn't enough? What if the gate remained open, despite their efforts, and Chibbikuk still weaseled through onto the mortal plane? <Well, at least I'll be dead,> he thought, trying to reassure himself.
He pulled Selura to him, and she melted into his arms, as if she were fashioned to fit him. And she did fit him; she was his love. And they had wasted the last decade over a petty argument. He bent down and caught her lips with his, and drank deep from her, and gave as much of himself as he could in return. He felt her tears against his cheeks, and knew that they mingled with his own.
Then, abruptly, she stepped away from him, and handed him her claymore.
He took it numbly. The other Immortals formed a circle around him wordlessly. Connor MacLeod watched him with those eerie eyes, and Mitra tried to give Perseus a lopsided grin, but failed. Perseus took a deep breath, and then raised the sword up into the air.
"Richie, step away," he commanded, and the young Immortal meekly complied. Perseus caught Methos' eyes, and he saw a certain sadness there, but relief as well. Relief.
Perseus began to chant in Quechua, dragging the words up from within his chest. As he chanted, the Immortals knelt in the snow, and one by one he took their heads. One by one, he absorbed their souls, their Quickenings, and piece by piece, his own soul died.
MacLeod was the last, and when his Quickening erupted out of him, Perseus was swept up within it. Every pore, every molecule, every atom screamed out with the power of the Quickening. Light exploded all around him, through him, within him. he was consumed by the light, and he consumed it. With vocal cords burning raw, he screamed out the last words of the spell, binding his Quickening to those he had absorbed, and the power swelled out from him, bursting from his body, tearing it apart piece by shattered piece, cracking open his every atom and sending each electron, each proton, each neutron winging through the sky towards the spinning crimson gate. The lightning flashed and rumbled, and as magic met magic, the sky erupted in a blazing white explosion, searing away the clouds, the night, the Immortals, and the gate.
Richie Ryan came to his senses slowly. His vision and hearing returned at a snails pace. When they did, he wished they would leave him again. He clutched Duncan MacLeod's sword to his chest like a talisman, and tried to wrench his eyes away from the sight before him: eight bodies lying in the snow, stretched out in a circle, and between them, a charred claymore and a few scraps of flesh that might once have been a man.
Finally, Richie was able to turn his eyes away, and he looked up into the clear night sky.
The ride back to Perseus' mansion was a sedate one. With the gate gone from the sky, and their enemies dead, they could afford to take their time. Kurt was badly wounded, but slowly healing, and Hazard looked like hell, but he was grinning like a wolf. Shelley's face was drawn, almost haggard, and she looked like she had aged ten years in the past ten hours. They had bundled Jones up in an old sleeping bag and stuffed him in the trunk; hopefully he was healing as well.
Victoria felt as bad as the others looked. Even her hair hurt. She was certain she would not survive another Mardi Gras like this one. <Go on,> she told herself. <Tell jokes. Keep yourself sane.> But it wasn't that easy. What she had seen, what she had been a part of, had changed her irrevocably. She could not go back to her shallow little life as a CIA assassin.
She needed a new direction. And at the moment, entering a nunnery sounded like a good idea.
Victoria guided the truck into Perseus' driveway and turned off the engine. Beside her, Hazard groaned. "What is it?" she asked.
"Someone kicked in the front door," he said. "And I can sense the sun is getting ready to come up."
"Shit," Vic muttered. She levered the door open and drew a pistol. "Let's go take a look," she said. Hazard followed her up the front steps while Shelley helped Kurt out of the truck and across the lawn.
Vic took a careful step into to house, and puckered her nose. Something inside smelled like it was dead. Or dying.
Hazard groaned, but led the way inside. "My sense of smell is much better than yours, Victoria. This thing smells like shit. And it went... into the drawing room." He headed into the house, and Victoria followed him, pistol at the ready.
It looked like something had dripped on the floor. Maybe bits of flesh, but they looked soft as putty. Victoria's gorge might have risen if she hadn't already witnessed enough horror to last lifetimes.
They reached the drawing room, and both drew up short in the doorway.
Stretched out across the couch, apparently unconscious, was Bran Mac Lyr. Or, to be precise, what was left of Bran Mac Lyr. His body was marred by vicious wounds, terrible burns that were seemingly caused by some virulent acid. His chest was a mass of dripping tissue, and most of his right arm had melted away. His legs were burned to the bone in places, and his face was blistered and disfigured. Victoria had no idea how he made it back to Perseus' house, or how he had gotten inside. The man was almost certainly dying, if not dead already.
Hazard saw her horrified expression. "He'll heal," the Vampire said. "So will Jones, and Kurt, and Shelley, and you. It will take time, but we'll do it."
"How long?" Victoria whispered, unaware of the tears falling from her eyes.
"I don't know," Hazard said softly. "May take years. But now we have those years. Be glad of that." He pulled Victoria close, and held her as she wept.
Well, there you have it. My final word on Perseus, Immortals, Highlander, and all the rest. I hope you enjoyed it. I had a great deal of fun writing it. Thanks to everyone who stayed with me through the whole thing, despite all the spelling errors and other inconsistencies, late posts, and so on. I really appreciate your patience, your encouragement, and your faith.
Take care.
Rysher owns the Highlander concept.
Nightbane are copyright Palladium Books
Everything else -- story, ploy, characters -- belongs to me. I do not give permission to reproduce this story in any medium. Its mine, dammit.
All mine! HAHAHAHAHahcough, cough, cough. Ug.
Copyright 1997 James M.G. Cannon
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