This is a very rough draft of the first part of a Highlander/Running With the Demon crossover, taking place in the original movie's universe, so Duncan, and all other Immortals exept the ones in the movie are dead. I had to bend John Ross' chronology to make it fit into the story. Please, please review.
A Gathering Of Shadows
Prologue
*He stares with weary eyes at the ruins of the once-proud metropolis of New York city, now burning with flames of mundane origin, and magical lightning. The demons and once-men have had their way here, as everywhere else in this region, but it is somehow different, the pace of the mad destruction somehow more frenzied. There is more at work in this city than demons. The tired man who had been a knight of the Word turns and limps down the shattered roadway... and stops. Coming from the direction of the dying city is the sound of a wheeled vehicle. He tries to run, to hide, but he is not quick enough. A powerful old car pulls up, and it's occupant steps out. He has a sword in his hand, some kind of broadsword, it's blade glistening red with blood. "So, a knight of the Word." The voice of the warrior is deep and vibrant, matching his well-muscled frame, but somehow cold, harsh. "I wondered when the next one of you would crawl out of the rubble. Before I kill you, know this: You are beaten, and the power of the Word broken forever; but the same may yet hold true of the void, if I so desire it. For I am Erik Ranulfson, the One! And the Prize is MINE!"
As he said these words, the warrior raised his sword for a killing blow. John Ross, free of the restraints of the time before his failure, blasted at the swordsman with waves of fire from his rune-carved staff. The man who called himself Ranulfson went down, a charred corpse. Ross was about to take the vehicle and flee when he heard a noise behind him. Turning, he came face to face with an unharmed Ranufson. Panicking, the former Knight leapt away from both the car and the strange man who would not die, and dropped the staff that was his only weapon. As the sword came up, for a truly final blow this time, Ross' last thoughts were :If Macleod were here, he could have stopped this.: Then it was too late to think.*
Ross awoke suddenly, in response to the dawn light coming in through a hole in the roof of the abandoned barn he was in, somewhere in Illinois. He grabbed his bag, and began the long walk to the nearest bus station. His dreams had rarely seemed this urgent, and never had the pattern of destruction altered so.
Chapter one
October 20th, 1980
The lettering on the window read "R. Nash-Antiques," and the ground floor bore out the truth of this. It was unquestionably an antique shop, with it's neat shelves of antique silver, racks of old and elegant weaponry, and it's wide assortment of aged, and sometimes astonishing, furnishings and art. One thing it was not, however, was a junk shop. Even if the proprietor, R. Nash himself, where to let the place slip from it's tight order, his secretary, a Miss Rachel Ellenstein, would immediately go to work, not resting until all was neat and tidy once more.
"Connor, you do not have to do this! So what if he murdered a man for no reason, so what if 'there can be only one!' You do not have to fight him!" This torrent of words came from Rachel Ellenstein, an elegant middle-aged woman, and was directed at a quiet, brooding man in a trenchcoat and jeans, who stood at the door ready to go out.
"Rachel, it was not just the murder of innocent mortals, he killed Duncan! And 'there can be only one' is all the reason any of us needs. The time of The Gathering draws nearer, I can feel it!"
Rachel heaved a resigned sigh. "Just promise me you'll be careful, Connor."
"Always, sweet Rachel." This said, Connor Macleod of the clan Macleod stepped out into the street, heading for battle. He sarted whistling an old highland marching song without noticing.
Walking through the crowde streets of New York, his home now for the last five years, Connor mused on the way life changes.
*To think, Duncan dead! just like so many others, mortal or Immortal, they all must die. Even without death, there would be change.
Rachel has been a daughter to me, then a lover, and now, finally, a mother. Without her, these last forty years would have been empty.*
He reached his destination, an abandoned factory. Making sure no eyes were on him, he drew his katana, and slipped inside.
The interior was vast; empty space all over giving room to fight, and space to run, while the shadows lurking in the corners gave a chance of a place to hide. High catwalks stretched overhead, accessible by means of wrought-iron sprial staircases scattered at intervals. The only light came from six long, tall windows, and several skylights placed in the high ceiling.
"Connor Macleod, of the clan Macleod, no doubt." The voice was smooth, elegant, but subtly mocking. "I have not had the pleasure of being introduced to you, though of course, I now know you clansman very well. You might say," the voice added with a chuckle, "that we have become soulmates!"
"Yokashi Hayaki! I have come to avenge the death of Duncan Macleod, and to see justice done for the murders of the mortals, Tessa Noel and Jack Kesner!" Connor's voice rang with the cold fury that poured through his veins, touching off his celtic berserker spirit. He could now hear little exept the blood pounding past his eardrums.
"Very well, Macleod! let us finish this!" A compact oriental man with a katana in one hand, and in the other a matching short sword, a wakizashi, appeared in front of Connor, and battle was joined.
The clash of swords filled the vast chamber, sparks jumping from blade to blade as Quickenings interacted, and combatants gave and took many minor wounds. Connor pushed hard, trying to break his opponents defenses, but the two swords whirled in harmony, forming a wall of impenetrable steel, flicking out occasionally to nip at the Highlander. Leaping to the side, Connor suddenly dropped and whirled to cut at Hayaki's ankles. The Japanese swordsman lept into the air, coming down blades-first, straight at Macleod.
*I hope Ramirez was right about this trick working.* By the time Connor had the time to think this, it already had. The other Immortal had been deflected to the side, his momentum ramming him to the hard concrete with savage force, shattering the blade of his long sword, and knocking the companion blade out of his grasp. Hayaki was quick, however, and by the time the Highlander was back up, he had his wakizashi back and in guard position. Again they came together, this time with Yokashi taking the offensive, trying to keep his foe off balance with a series of cuts from multiple angles. Macleod, for his part, was keeping distance between himself and his opponent, trying to find an opening for a truly devestating cut. Suddenly, the samurai warrior turned, and dashed for the nearest stairway. Connor dove after him, but was hampered by his long coat. Yokashi Hayaki, son of a Daimyo, retainer to the Shogun, and pupil of Musashi's Nito Ichi Ryu style, reached the top of the catwalk and turned to face Macleod again, charging in the hopes of pushing him off the stair. Instead, the Highlander executed a perfect 'fire and stones' cut, shattering the much-abused short sword, paused long enough to say 'There can be only one,' and struck off his opponent's head. Then the Quickening began, and he forgot all else in the raging inferno of power, flashes of memory, and pure blinding agony.
Joe Dawson turned off the video camera, and let go a sigh of relief. After Yokashi Hayaki had murdered Duncan and his lover, Joe had requested, and recieved, the task of Watching Connor, Duncan's kinsman. The satisfaction of seeing Duncan avenged made the favors he had called in for this assignment all worthwhile. He put the camera in his car, modified with hand controls much like Roosevelt's, and was just about to get in himself, when he heard a voice behind him.
"Joseph Dawson, I presume?" the voice was deep and raspy, with a sinster undercurrent that made Joe's flesh crawl. turning, he saw two figures. one was a tall, thin man, dressed in a black frock coat. He looked about sixty, with whisps of white hair sticking out from under his black flat-topped, wide-brimmed hat, and deep lines carved into his weathered brown face. In his hands he held a book, bound in ancient leather. His companion hung back in the shadows, a very ordinary-looking man, so ordinary that the eye slid off him, and memory could not retain his face.
"What if I am?" demanded Joe. "I don't see how it's any of your business!"
The tall man smiled slowly. "Ah, but it does, my friend. For you see, I know who you are. More important, perhaps, I know what Macleod is." The tall man paused, savoring the look of astonishment that crossed the Watcher's weathered face, then continued. "But let us get to the point. I am Findo Gask, and I am a demon. So for that matter is my friend, here." The astonishment on Dawson's face became more acute, but then he rallied himself and replied.
"All right, so you know about Watchers and Immortals, and you're a demon. Do you have a reason for telling me this, or are you wasting my time?"
"Bravado will not help you now, Mr. Dawson. I and my associate are here because we have plans for Macleod, and for The Game, and you, Joe Dawson, with your taste for meddling, would trie to stop us. So I have decided to eliminate you before you become a nuisance. Nothing personal, you understand, just business."
As he finished speaking, Findo Gask raised his hand. Before he could work whatever dark magic he was planning, however, he met a far more substantial weapon: the Colt .45 that Dawson carried with him wherever he went. Two bullets passed through Gask's torso, driving him to the ground. The Watcher tried to get into the car and flee, but the other Demon, motionless until now, suddenly lashed out, wrenching the prosthetic legs out of shape with a burst of magic. Dawson fell, just in time to see Findo Gask stand up again, unharmed. Then the other Demon tore his throat out with it's bare hands.
A Gathering Of Shadows
Prologue
*He stares with weary eyes at the ruins of the once-proud metropolis of New York city, now burning with flames of mundane origin, and magical lightning. The demons and once-men have had their way here, as everywhere else in this region, but it is somehow different, the pace of the mad destruction somehow more frenzied. There is more at work in this city than demons. The tired man who had been a knight of the Word turns and limps down the shattered roadway... and stops. Coming from the direction of the dying city is the sound of a wheeled vehicle. He tries to run, to hide, but he is not quick enough. A powerful old car pulls up, and it's occupant steps out. He has a sword in his hand, some kind of broadsword, it's blade glistening red with blood. "So, a knight of the Word." The voice of the warrior is deep and vibrant, matching his well-muscled frame, but somehow cold, harsh. "I wondered when the next one of you would crawl out of the rubble. Before I kill you, know this: You are beaten, and the power of the Word broken forever; but the same may yet hold true of the void, if I so desire it. For I am Erik Ranulfson, the One! And the Prize is MINE!"
As he said these words, the warrior raised his sword for a killing blow. John Ross, free of the restraints of the time before his failure, blasted at the swordsman with waves of fire from his rune-carved staff. The man who called himself Ranulfson went down, a charred corpse. Ross was about to take the vehicle and flee when he heard a noise behind him. Turning, he came face to face with an unharmed Ranufson. Panicking, the former Knight leapt away from both the car and the strange man who would not die, and dropped the staff that was his only weapon. As the sword came up, for a truly final blow this time, Ross' last thoughts were :If Macleod were here, he could have stopped this.: Then it was too late to think.*
Ross awoke suddenly, in response to the dawn light coming in through a hole in the roof of the abandoned barn he was in, somewhere in Illinois. He grabbed his bag, and began the long walk to the nearest bus station. His dreams had rarely seemed this urgent, and never had the pattern of destruction altered so.
Chapter one
October 20th, 1980
The lettering on the window read "R. Nash-Antiques," and the ground floor bore out the truth of this. It was unquestionably an antique shop, with it's neat shelves of antique silver, racks of old and elegant weaponry, and it's wide assortment of aged, and sometimes astonishing, furnishings and art. One thing it was not, however, was a junk shop. Even if the proprietor, R. Nash himself, where to let the place slip from it's tight order, his secretary, a Miss Rachel Ellenstein, would immediately go to work, not resting until all was neat and tidy once more.
"Connor, you do not have to do this! So what if he murdered a man for no reason, so what if 'there can be only one!' You do not have to fight him!" This torrent of words came from Rachel Ellenstein, an elegant middle-aged woman, and was directed at a quiet, brooding man in a trenchcoat and jeans, who stood at the door ready to go out.
"Rachel, it was not just the murder of innocent mortals, he killed Duncan! And 'there can be only one' is all the reason any of us needs. The time of The Gathering draws nearer, I can feel it!"
Rachel heaved a resigned sigh. "Just promise me you'll be careful, Connor."
"Always, sweet Rachel." This said, Connor Macleod of the clan Macleod stepped out into the street, heading for battle. He sarted whistling an old highland marching song without noticing.
Walking through the crowde streets of New York, his home now for the last five years, Connor mused on the way life changes.
*To think, Duncan dead! just like so many others, mortal or Immortal, they all must die. Even without death, there would be change.
Rachel has been a daughter to me, then a lover, and now, finally, a mother. Without her, these last forty years would have been empty.*
He reached his destination, an abandoned factory. Making sure no eyes were on him, he drew his katana, and slipped inside.
The interior was vast; empty space all over giving room to fight, and space to run, while the shadows lurking in the corners gave a chance of a place to hide. High catwalks stretched overhead, accessible by means of wrought-iron sprial staircases scattered at intervals. The only light came from six long, tall windows, and several skylights placed in the high ceiling.
"Connor Macleod, of the clan Macleod, no doubt." The voice was smooth, elegant, but subtly mocking. "I have not had the pleasure of being introduced to you, though of course, I now know you clansman very well. You might say," the voice added with a chuckle, "that we have become soulmates!"
"Yokashi Hayaki! I have come to avenge the death of Duncan Macleod, and to see justice done for the murders of the mortals, Tessa Noel and Jack Kesner!" Connor's voice rang with the cold fury that poured through his veins, touching off his celtic berserker spirit. He could now hear little exept the blood pounding past his eardrums.
"Very well, Macleod! let us finish this!" A compact oriental man with a katana in one hand, and in the other a matching short sword, a wakizashi, appeared in front of Connor, and battle was joined.
The clash of swords filled the vast chamber, sparks jumping from blade to blade as Quickenings interacted, and combatants gave and took many minor wounds. Connor pushed hard, trying to break his opponents defenses, but the two swords whirled in harmony, forming a wall of impenetrable steel, flicking out occasionally to nip at the Highlander. Leaping to the side, Connor suddenly dropped and whirled to cut at Hayaki's ankles. The Japanese swordsman lept into the air, coming down blades-first, straight at Macleod.
*I hope Ramirez was right about this trick working.* By the time Connor had the time to think this, it already had. The other Immortal had been deflected to the side, his momentum ramming him to the hard concrete with savage force, shattering the blade of his long sword, and knocking the companion blade out of his grasp. Hayaki was quick, however, and by the time the Highlander was back up, he had his wakizashi back and in guard position. Again they came together, this time with Yokashi taking the offensive, trying to keep his foe off balance with a series of cuts from multiple angles. Macleod, for his part, was keeping distance between himself and his opponent, trying to find an opening for a truly devestating cut. Suddenly, the samurai warrior turned, and dashed for the nearest stairway. Connor dove after him, but was hampered by his long coat. Yokashi Hayaki, son of a Daimyo, retainer to the Shogun, and pupil of Musashi's Nito Ichi Ryu style, reached the top of the catwalk and turned to face Macleod again, charging in the hopes of pushing him off the stair. Instead, the Highlander executed a perfect 'fire and stones' cut, shattering the much-abused short sword, paused long enough to say 'There can be only one,' and struck off his opponent's head. Then the Quickening began, and he forgot all else in the raging inferno of power, flashes of memory, and pure blinding agony.
Joe Dawson turned off the video camera, and let go a sigh of relief. After Yokashi Hayaki had murdered Duncan and his lover, Joe had requested, and recieved, the task of Watching Connor, Duncan's kinsman. The satisfaction of seeing Duncan avenged made the favors he had called in for this assignment all worthwhile. He put the camera in his car, modified with hand controls much like Roosevelt's, and was just about to get in himself, when he heard a voice behind him.
"Joseph Dawson, I presume?" the voice was deep and raspy, with a sinster undercurrent that made Joe's flesh crawl. turning, he saw two figures. one was a tall, thin man, dressed in a black frock coat. He looked about sixty, with whisps of white hair sticking out from under his black flat-topped, wide-brimmed hat, and deep lines carved into his weathered brown face. In his hands he held a book, bound in ancient leather. His companion hung back in the shadows, a very ordinary-looking man, so ordinary that the eye slid off him, and memory could not retain his face.
"What if I am?" demanded Joe. "I don't see how it's any of your business!"
The tall man smiled slowly. "Ah, but it does, my friend. For you see, I know who you are. More important, perhaps, I know what Macleod is." The tall man paused, savoring the look of astonishment that crossed the Watcher's weathered face, then continued. "But let us get to the point. I am Findo Gask, and I am a demon. So for that matter is my friend, here." The astonishment on Dawson's face became more acute, but then he rallied himself and replied.
"All right, so you know about Watchers and Immortals, and you're a demon. Do you have a reason for telling me this, or are you wasting my time?"
"Bravado will not help you now, Mr. Dawson. I and my associate are here because we have plans for Macleod, and for The Game, and you, Joe Dawson, with your taste for meddling, would trie to stop us. So I have decided to eliminate you before you become a nuisance. Nothing personal, you understand, just business."
As he finished speaking, Findo Gask raised his hand. Before he could work whatever dark magic he was planning, however, he met a far more substantial weapon: the Colt .45 that Dawson carried with him wherever he went. Two bullets passed through Gask's torso, driving him to the ground. The Watcher tried to get into the car and flee, but the other Demon, motionless until now, suddenly lashed out, wrenching the prosthetic legs out of shape with a burst of magic. Dawson fell, just in time to see Findo Gask stand up again, unharmed. Then the other Demon tore his throat out with it's bare hands.
