Chapter 2
October 22, 1983
Connor sat on his couch sharpening his sword, Rachel sitting across from him. As always, his longtime companion demonstrated her relief that his head was still attached to his neck by scolding him harshly.
"You keep fighting battles you don't need to, keep taking risks that you don't have to take! Sooner or later, it will catch up with you, and then what? I tell you, The Prize will not be won by you if you lose your head before the Gathering! Wait, bide your time, until only one other remains. Then you can face him, and finish it in one battle!"
Connor chuckled dryly. "Rachel, there is nothing but risk, no matter how you live. If I wait until the end, my opponent, whoever he may be, will be to strong for me to face. The safest course is to take as many heads as possible now, so that when the time comes, I will be able to fight on level ground." He grinned widely as he put the last touches on the tip of the blade. "Your problem is that you worry to much. You always have. Goodness knows you have no reason to. When we first met you saw that bullets cannot kill me, and since then I have proven again and again that I do not lose duels."
"someday, Connor, that self-assurance will be your undoing."
"Perhaps, Rachel, perhaps. But that day has not yet come." He sheathed the sword, and stood up. "Will you join me for dinner, Rachel?" It wads a question that had become traditional over the long years of their relationship.
"Of course I will, Connor." This reply was also tradition.
Connor smiled. At least in Rachel, he had done something right.
*John Ross stood inside a ruined building, seeking refuge from the demons and once-men who roved the city, slaughtering the few who still remained. The shards of glass still left in the window frame were painted with the letters "R...sh tiqu..." John Ross could find no meaning in them.
His attention was grabbed suddenly by the sound of a woman's sobs, coming from deeper inside the building, where the upper stories had collapsed to the ground floor. He followed the sound, and came upon a middle-aged woman, tears streaming down her face, and the look of total despair in her maddness-filled eyes. In her lap she cradled a human head.
"Connor, why?" she sobbed, addressing, John realised suddenly, the severed head. "I told you to be careful! I told you that your confidence would kill you! You knew that Ranulfson was being helped by those creatures, yet you went in by yourself to fight him!"
The woman looked up suddenly, and noticed the fallen knight fore the first time. "You!" Her sorrow was replaced suddenly by fury. "You could have helped him, but you refused! It is because of you that Connor Macleod is dead, and because of you that Ranulfson has The Prize!" I should kill you now!" She stood up, grabbing the hiltshard of a shattered katana, preparing to do just that.*
When he woke up, he found O'olish Amaneh sitting beside him. The Lady's messenger seemed to have been at Ross' campsite long enough to make himself comfortable. He surveyed the supine Knight, and began to speak.
"You have been sent on a new mission, Knight of the Word," the big Indian began without preamble. "You have been given dreams that lead you to New York city, but as yet, you do not know their significance."
"Correct so far, shaman." John Ross spoke coldly. He remembered all to well his first meeting with Two Bears, when he had been given the rune-carved staff he wielded, and the limp that bound him to it.
"Go to the town five miles down the road. There is an alley behind the Crumper's Diner. Be there at midnight tonight, and you will see what you must deal with."
Ross arose from his sleeping bag, and began rolling it up. "That's it? No details, no word on who I'm facing?"
"I am bound by rules even as you are. It is the price we pay for our magic. You carry a limp, and are consumed from within by the dreams. I, on the other hand, can only give clues, advise you, and leave you to fight your own battles. It is my place in the Word's order of things. The price I pay for my knowledge is my inability to share it."
John Ross cursed inwardly as he finished binding his bedroll. Clearly the big shaman was a dry well as far as further help went. Nothing for it but to go to that alley. When he looked up again, O'olish Amaneh was gone as completely as if he had never existed.
Erik Ranulfson pulled the shadows of the alley around him like a cloak, his blood-thirsty slashing blade hanging easily by his side. He waited. After an hour, he was rewarded, as a youngish-looking man, elegantly dressed, walked past the alley's mouth.
"Don Ramon de la Vega, born four hundred and ninety-seven years ago; you die tonight." The young man turned toward the voice, and found himself facing a nightmare. Before him stood a seven foot tall viking, complete with sword and round shield. Ramon drew his own sword with the speed of thought, a long heavy rapier with a wavy flamberge blade.
"That toy will not help you now, Don Ramon." Ranulfson chuckled slightly as he adopted a battle-stance.
"We will see, barbarian!" The spanish nobleman leapt at his opponent, his sword supplemented now by a matching main gauche that he had produced seemingly out of nowhere. The spaniard was lightening-fast, his techniques elegant and efficient, as befited a student of Juan Sanchez Villa-lobos Ramirez, but the norseman withstood them easily, using his shield to take the blows, and responded with sweeping cuts from his double-edged battle-sword. De la Vega finally penetrated the Dane's guard and thrust with inhuman speed at the warrior's heart, only to have his blade glance off of the tough mail that Ranulfson wore under his fur cloak. Off balance and shaken by the impact, Ramon was lucky to hold his ground against the viking's onslaught. Ranulfson finally managed to back his foe up against the grimy wall, dashed the sword from his hand with a blow from his shield-edge, and thrust the Danish iron right through the spanish don's heart.
"There can be only one!" The traditional cry left Ranulfson's lips as Ramon's head left his shoulders. Then The Quickening came, blasting stone, shattering glass, frying electronics, melting metal, the power of a hundred fallen champions, all of it rushing directly to the core of Erik Ranulfson's soul. When it was over, he shuddered, and fell.
Findo Gask nodded to his companion. The time had come for them to move. stepping from the shelter of the dorrway, the two demons walked up to the convulsing Immortal.
"Erik Ranulfson," Findo Gask said. "Born one thousand, one hundred, and thirty-seven years ago; you will *not* die tonight."
The battered viking looked up blearily at this unexpected intrusion. He drew himself up with some difficulty, and raised his sword. Findo Gask shook his head.
"You will not need that weapon, viking, nor would it do you any good." This last was not entirely true. The bullet wounds in Gask's chest still throbbed in pain, and had they been placed somewhere more prominent, like his head, he would have been unable to show himself in public for some time, waiting for them to heal. He pressed on. "I and my companion wish to help you, to make sure that The Prize becomes your own."
Ranulfson stared in astonishment. His brain, battered as it was by a Quickening, had trouble absorbing this bewildering statement. "What exactly did you have in mind?" he asked shakily.
"Perhaps we can *show* you, Erik. Yes, we will show you. Go to the house of Joseph Randos three days from now, and we will make his head yours."
October 22, 1983
Connor sat on his couch sharpening his sword, Rachel sitting across from him. As always, his longtime companion demonstrated her relief that his head was still attached to his neck by scolding him harshly.
"You keep fighting battles you don't need to, keep taking risks that you don't have to take! Sooner or later, it will catch up with you, and then what? I tell you, The Prize will not be won by you if you lose your head before the Gathering! Wait, bide your time, until only one other remains. Then you can face him, and finish it in one battle!"
Connor chuckled dryly. "Rachel, there is nothing but risk, no matter how you live. If I wait until the end, my opponent, whoever he may be, will be to strong for me to face. The safest course is to take as many heads as possible now, so that when the time comes, I will be able to fight on level ground." He grinned widely as he put the last touches on the tip of the blade. "Your problem is that you worry to much. You always have. Goodness knows you have no reason to. When we first met you saw that bullets cannot kill me, and since then I have proven again and again that I do not lose duels."
"someday, Connor, that self-assurance will be your undoing."
"Perhaps, Rachel, perhaps. But that day has not yet come." He sheathed the sword, and stood up. "Will you join me for dinner, Rachel?" It wads a question that had become traditional over the long years of their relationship.
"Of course I will, Connor." This reply was also tradition.
Connor smiled. At least in Rachel, he had done something right.
*John Ross stood inside a ruined building, seeking refuge from the demons and once-men who roved the city, slaughtering the few who still remained. The shards of glass still left in the window frame were painted with the letters "R...sh tiqu..." John Ross could find no meaning in them.
His attention was grabbed suddenly by the sound of a woman's sobs, coming from deeper inside the building, where the upper stories had collapsed to the ground floor. He followed the sound, and came upon a middle-aged woman, tears streaming down her face, and the look of total despair in her maddness-filled eyes. In her lap she cradled a human head.
"Connor, why?" she sobbed, addressing, John realised suddenly, the severed head. "I told you to be careful! I told you that your confidence would kill you! You knew that Ranulfson was being helped by those creatures, yet you went in by yourself to fight him!"
The woman looked up suddenly, and noticed the fallen knight fore the first time. "You!" Her sorrow was replaced suddenly by fury. "You could have helped him, but you refused! It is because of you that Connor Macleod is dead, and because of you that Ranulfson has The Prize!" I should kill you now!" She stood up, grabbing the hiltshard of a shattered katana, preparing to do just that.*
When he woke up, he found O'olish Amaneh sitting beside him. The Lady's messenger seemed to have been at Ross' campsite long enough to make himself comfortable. He surveyed the supine Knight, and began to speak.
"You have been sent on a new mission, Knight of the Word," the big Indian began without preamble. "You have been given dreams that lead you to New York city, but as yet, you do not know their significance."
"Correct so far, shaman." John Ross spoke coldly. He remembered all to well his first meeting with Two Bears, when he had been given the rune-carved staff he wielded, and the limp that bound him to it.
"Go to the town five miles down the road. There is an alley behind the Crumper's Diner. Be there at midnight tonight, and you will see what you must deal with."
Ross arose from his sleeping bag, and began rolling it up. "That's it? No details, no word on who I'm facing?"
"I am bound by rules even as you are. It is the price we pay for our magic. You carry a limp, and are consumed from within by the dreams. I, on the other hand, can only give clues, advise you, and leave you to fight your own battles. It is my place in the Word's order of things. The price I pay for my knowledge is my inability to share it."
John Ross cursed inwardly as he finished binding his bedroll. Clearly the big shaman was a dry well as far as further help went. Nothing for it but to go to that alley. When he looked up again, O'olish Amaneh was gone as completely as if he had never existed.
Erik Ranulfson pulled the shadows of the alley around him like a cloak, his blood-thirsty slashing blade hanging easily by his side. He waited. After an hour, he was rewarded, as a youngish-looking man, elegantly dressed, walked past the alley's mouth.
"Don Ramon de la Vega, born four hundred and ninety-seven years ago; you die tonight." The young man turned toward the voice, and found himself facing a nightmare. Before him stood a seven foot tall viking, complete with sword and round shield. Ramon drew his own sword with the speed of thought, a long heavy rapier with a wavy flamberge blade.
"That toy will not help you now, Don Ramon." Ranulfson chuckled slightly as he adopted a battle-stance.
"We will see, barbarian!" The spanish nobleman leapt at his opponent, his sword supplemented now by a matching main gauche that he had produced seemingly out of nowhere. The spaniard was lightening-fast, his techniques elegant and efficient, as befited a student of Juan Sanchez Villa-lobos Ramirez, but the norseman withstood them easily, using his shield to take the blows, and responded with sweeping cuts from his double-edged battle-sword. De la Vega finally penetrated the Dane's guard and thrust with inhuman speed at the warrior's heart, only to have his blade glance off of the tough mail that Ranulfson wore under his fur cloak. Off balance and shaken by the impact, Ramon was lucky to hold his ground against the viking's onslaught. Ranulfson finally managed to back his foe up against the grimy wall, dashed the sword from his hand with a blow from his shield-edge, and thrust the Danish iron right through the spanish don's heart.
"There can be only one!" The traditional cry left Ranulfson's lips as Ramon's head left his shoulders. Then The Quickening came, blasting stone, shattering glass, frying electronics, melting metal, the power of a hundred fallen champions, all of it rushing directly to the core of Erik Ranulfson's soul. When it was over, he shuddered, and fell.
Findo Gask nodded to his companion. The time had come for them to move. stepping from the shelter of the dorrway, the two demons walked up to the convulsing Immortal.
"Erik Ranulfson," Findo Gask said. "Born one thousand, one hundred, and thirty-seven years ago; you will *not* die tonight."
The battered viking looked up blearily at this unexpected intrusion. He drew himself up with some difficulty, and raised his sword. Findo Gask shook his head.
"You will not need that weapon, viking, nor would it do you any good." This last was not entirely true. The bullet wounds in Gask's chest still throbbed in pain, and had they been placed somewhere more prominent, like his head, he would have been unable to show himself in public for some time, waiting for them to heal. He pressed on. "I and my companion wish to help you, to make sure that The Prize becomes your own."
Ranulfson stared in astonishment. His brain, battered as it was by a Quickening, had trouble absorbing this bewildering statement. "What exactly did you have in mind?" he asked shakily.
"Perhaps we can *show* you, Erik. Yes, we will show you. Go to the house of Joseph Randos three days from now, and we will make his head yours."