Chapter three
October 25, 1983
John Ross walked the street of New York, seeking some hint as to the whereabouts of Russell Nash, having little success. He now knew what the man's secrets were, thank to both his apocalyptic dreams, and the encounter he had witnessed when he followed O'olish Amaneh's advice. Now all he had to do was track the man down. His quest had taken him all over the city, from one end to the other. He was by the docks when the demons caught him.
Three of them, ordinary-looking, but smoldering with the unfocused anger and hatred that was the mark of all who served the Void. They spread out, forming a triangle aroung the Knight of the Word, closing in slowly, gathering dark fire to themselves. The you Knight realized he could not defeat so many, and prepared to kill as many as he could before going down, when one of his opponents burst into flames. The human body destroyed, the soul flew away in terror, only to be cut down by another blaze of fire. Ross and the remaining demons turned to see the source of this magical devestation, and Ross could only stare in amazement at what had to be another Knight of the Word. He had a runestaff very like the one Ross carried, and it blazed with magic. He lashed out again, and the demons fell back. Then they launched a counter-offensive from two angles, forcing the Knight to use his magic to form a barrier against the demon-fire that rushed at him. Again John Ross was about to draw on his magic, to help this strange Knight, when the embattled paladin dropped his shield and struck at one of the demons. Shell and soul were both annihilated by the magical onslaught, but not without cost. Seeing the opening, the third demon rushed in, lashing at the Word's champion with dark fire and poisoned steel. The Knight writhed in agony, twisting like a mad serpent as demon poison coursed through his veins like liquid fire, the magic flames roasting his skin all the while as though he were walking on the face of the sun. With all this, however, the warrior still retained enough control to turn his power towards his killer, blasting the husk of a human body to ash. But not even his mighty strength of will could last forever. The spell-fire waned and died without finishing the demon who, reduced to it's true batlike self, black and twisted, fled into the darkness of the gathering dusk, seeking some refuge where it could rebuild a human form.
John Ross ran twards his fallen savior, wishing, not for the first time, that his magic could heal others besides himself. The mortally wounded champion looked at him through eyes full of pain set in scorched, blackened skin, and gathered the strength to speak.
"Came to tell you...must not use magic until you meet...the planner. He and ...the Slayer, they are the true peril. Also," the Knight's power was draining as fast as his blood, which had already pooled across the concrete floor. "Also, I must give you this." He exausted himself grasping a six-inch long piece of carved black wood, which bore many of the same runes as John Ross' staff. "A battery of magic, to be used... once and only once, if you have need of power before the last battle. I am content. My dreams have not come to pass." And with that, the paladin of the Lady fell silent, forever.
John Ross took the magic battery, said a brief prayer for his comrade-in-arms, and vanished into the gathering shadows, before the police could arrive.
Erik Ranulfson, without his viking regalia this time, carrying his sword in a gym bag, stood in an elevator with the two demons. Ascending silently to the roof, the three stepped out into a wilderness of tar paper, vents, fans, and unidentifiable hulks of rusting metal. Next to the water tank that stood near one corner of the roof sat a man.
"I have been expecting you, Erik." The man spoke without turning. "I was, in fact, expecting you two days ago, when you killed de la Vega. Next it will doubtless be the Highlander. I doubt you will be satisfied until all of Ramirez' pupils are dead. Very well, let us play our little game again." At this, the man stood and turned, revealing the CSA cavalry saber in his hand. He was taken aback by the sight of the viking's companions, but regained his composure quickly.
The two Immortals stood facing each other, blades in hand, for about a minute without moving. Then the saber-wielder, Joseph Randos by name, lunged furiously, cutting with an elegant rage, a graceful abandon, bringing the edge of his confederate-issue weapon towards Ranulfson from every angle, blocking cuts from the viking's broadsword with a consummate skill. Then Findo Gask's companion went into action.
Leaping into the conflict, his motions dominated by a feral grace, the utterly ordinary-seeming creature was transformed into a living whirlwind of strikes and kicks, moving like a shadow, striking like an axe. Randos cut at the demon with the same skill that he showed against Ranulfson, but each time, the saber passed through empty air, and the demon only drew closer. Finally, the savage killing machine that was the Slayer came close enough to smash the sword from the Immortal's grip. Unarmed, the six hundred year old swordsman was forced to retreat, rolling and leaping, past both the demon and the viking. He dived for the other side of the elevator, grabbing the sword he had concealed there earlier as a contingency plan, then fleeing into the jungle of vents and pipes. The Slayer lept after him, demon fire forming around his hands, aching to be used against this fool who dared to challenge him. Ranulfson followed closely, sword held at the ready, eager for blood. The three came together by the fire escape, where Randos was preparing to flee. Then Findo Gask appeared, and smote the rusted iron of the fire escape where it joined the stone of the building. With a harsh crash, the metal sundered, smoking, from the shattered stone. No escape lay in that direction. Randos dodged a blast of fire from the Slayer, and parried a stroke from Ranulfson's blade, but he could not escape Findo Gask's attack. Chanting words of power, Gask caused a waterpipe to burst apart, and made the flood of water turn to ice. The deadly-sharp lances of frozen water drove themselves right where the demon wanted them: Joseph Randos' heart. Erik Ranulfson stood above his fallen enemy, sword held high.
"There can be only ONE!" The norseman struck the head from his pinioned foe's shoulders, and let the power flow into him, as Findo Gask and the Slayer looked on.
October 25, 1983
John Ross walked the street of New York, seeking some hint as to the whereabouts of Russell Nash, having little success. He now knew what the man's secrets were, thank to both his apocalyptic dreams, and the encounter he had witnessed when he followed O'olish Amaneh's advice. Now all he had to do was track the man down. His quest had taken him all over the city, from one end to the other. He was by the docks when the demons caught him.
Three of them, ordinary-looking, but smoldering with the unfocused anger and hatred that was the mark of all who served the Void. They spread out, forming a triangle aroung the Knight of the Word, closing in slowly, gathering dark fire to themselves. The you Knight realized he could not defeat so many, and prepared to kill as many as he could before going down, when one of his opponents burst into flames. The human body destroyed, the soul flew away in terror, only to be cut down by another blaze of fire. Ross and the remaining demons turned to see the source of this magical devestation, and Ross could only stare in amazement at what had to be another Knight of the Word. He had a runestaff very like the one Ross carried, and it blazed with magic. He lashed out again, and the demons fell back. Then they launched a counter-offensive from two angles, forcing the Knight to use his magic to form a barrier against the demon-fire that rushed at him. Again John Ross was about to draw on his magic, to help this strange Knight, when the embattled paladin dropped his shield and struck at one of the demons. Shell and soul were both annihilated by the magical onslaught, but not without cost. Seeing the opening, the third demon rushed in, lashing at the Word's champion with dark fire and poisoned steel. The Knight writhed in agony, twisting like a mad serpent as demon poison coursed through his veins like liquid fire, the magic flames roasting his skin all the while as though he were walking on the face of the sun. With all this, however, the warrior still retained enough control to turn his power towards his killer, blasting the husk of a human body to ash. But not even his mighty strength of will could last forever. The spell-fire waned and died without finishing the demon who, reduced to it's true batlike self, black and twisted, fled into the darkness of the gathering dusk, seeking some refuge where it could rebuild a human form.
John Ross ran twards his fallen savior, wishing, not for the first time, that his magic could heal others besides himself. The mortally wounded champion looked at him through eyes full of pain set in scorched, blackened skin, and gathered the strength to speak.
"Came to tell you...must not use magic until you meet...the planner. He and ...the Slayer, they are the true peril. Also," the Knight's power was draining as fast as his blood, which had already pooled across the concrete floor. "Also, I must give you this." He exausted himself grasping a six-inch long piece of carved black wood, which bore many of the same runes as John Ross' staff. "A battery of magic, to be used... once and only once, if you have need of power before the last battle. I am content. My dreams have not come to pass." And with that, the paladin of the Lady fell silent, forever.
John Ross took the magic battery, said a brief prayer for his comrade-in-arms, and vanished into the gathering shadows, before the police could arrive.
Erik Ranulfson, without his viking regalia this time, carrying his sword in a gym bag, stood in an elevator with the two demons. Ascending silently to the roof, the three stepped out into a wilderness of tar paper, vents, fans, and unidentifiable hulks of rusting metal. Next to the water tank that stood near one corner of the roof sat a man.
"I have been expecting you, Erik." The man spoke without turning. "I was, in fact, expecting you two days ago, when you killed de la Vega. Next it will doubtless be the Highlander. I doubt you will be satisfied until all of Ramirez' pupils are dead. Very well, let us play our little game again." At this, the man stood and turned, revealing the CSA cavalry saber in his hand. He was taken aback by the sight of the viking's companions, but regained his composure quickly.
The two Immortals stood facing each other, blades in hand, for about a minute without moving. Then the saber-wielder, Joseph Randos by name, lunged furiously, cutting with an elegant rage, a graceful abandon, bringing the edge of his confederate-issue weapon towards Ranulfson from every angle, blocking cuts from the viking's broadsword with a consummate skill. Then Findo Gask's companion went into action.
Leaping into the conflict, his motions dominated by a feral grace, the utterly ordinary-seeming creature was transformed into a living whirlwind of strikes and kicks, moving like a shadow, striking like an axe. Randos cut at the demon with the same skill that he showed against Ranulfson, but each time, the saber passed through empty air, and the demon only drew closer. Finally, the savage killing machine that was the Slayer came close enough to smash the sword from the Immortal's grip. Unarmed, the six hundred year old swordsman was forced to retreat, rolling and leaping, past both the demon and the viking. He dived for the other side of the elevator, grabbing the sword he had concealed there earlier as a contingency plan, then fleeing into the jungle of vents and pipes. The Slayer lept after him, demon fire forming around his hands, aching to be used against this fool who dared to challenge him. Ranulfson followed closely, sword held at the ready, eager for blood. The three came together by the fire escape, where Randos was preparing to flee. Then Findo Gask appeared, and smote the rusted iron of the fire escape where it joined the stone of the building. With a harsh crash, the metal sundered, smoking, from the shattered stone. No escape lay in that direction. Randos dodged a blast of fire from the Slayer, and parried a stroke from Ranulfson's blade, but he could not escape Findo Gask's attack. Chanting words of power, Gask caused a waterpipe to burst apart, and made the flood of water turn to ice. The deadly-sharp lances of frozen water drove themselves right where the demon wanted them: Joseph Randos' heart. Erik Ranulfson stood above his fallen enemy, sword held high.
"There can be only ONE!" The norseman struck the head from his pinioned foe's shoulders, and let the power flow into him, as Findo Gask and the Slayer looked on.