Chapter four
October 27, 1980
John Ross had just about given up all hope of persuading the middle-aged secretary to let him see Mr. Nash. For the last fifteen minutes, the kindly-looking lady had told him 'no' in so many polite ways that he had lost track. Mr. Nash was unavailable at the moment, perhaps I can assist you? It might be best for you to return tomorrow. Mr. Nash will not be in for some time, so you may find waiting tiresome. At least he had begun to crumble her self-control now.
"I say again, Mr. Ross, that Russell Nash is not available at this time! He is away on business. If you are interested in a specific item, I may be able to help you locate it!"
"I am sorry, Ms. Ellenstein, but I wish to see Mr. Nash on private business. I am more than happy to await his return."
"I doubt he will return before the shop must close. I advise you to return tomorrow, or perhaps the next day." Ms. Ellenstein's voice could have frozen water.
John Ross decided to play his last card, one he had been saving in the hopes that it would not be needed. "Very well, Ms. Ellenstein, in that case, can you tell me the whereabouts of a man named Connor Macleod?"
The look of shock that passed over her face did not last long, but it told Ross everything he needed. "But then, Ms. Ellenstein, if I know where Macleod is, I know where Nash is, don't I?"
"I am sure I don't know what you mean." Her voice was a trifle breathless, a hint of fear showing in her eyes.
"Russell Nash is an alias. Your employer has been alive for centuries, and his name is Connor Macleod. I need his help, and he needs mine. Now can you tell me where he is?"
"Perhaps, Mr. Ross," Rachel Ellenstein spoke in a whisper, as shaken by this man's knowledge as if she had been struck by lightning, "perhaps you should wait for him after all." Then she did something that Ross truly did not expect. She stood up, and pointed a gun at him. "If you make one wrong move, I will shoot, and I will saw your head off before you recover. Now go into the next room and sit, with your coat off, and your hands where I can see them."
The Knight of the Word had little choice but to obey.
Mr. Nash was unavailable at the moment because he was standing in an empty public restroom, drenched in blood, his own, and that of the headless body at his feet. The fight had been savage and brutal, and at the end, his clothes were slashed up beyond repair, and even as an Immortal, the blood loss made him slightly faint. The Quickening had left him even more spent than usual, and he still had no idea how he could get out of the public restroom and back home without being seen. On the other hand, staying put would mean being found, sooner or later, with a sword in his hands, a corpse at his feet, and gallons of blood drenching every inch of the room. He was simply to exhausted to think. He had simply been washing his hands in the public washroom, not looking for any trouble, when the man with the medieval broadsword had walked in, locked the door, and begun the fight without so much as an introduction. He had been very, very, good. In the end, only the superiority of the Masamune-forged steel had saved him, breaking the standoff by shearing right through the european iron. Connor checked the door's lock. He was secure from casual passers-by in need of relief, but eventually someone would try to force entry, and it would all be over.
Ranulfson laughed heartily as he swigged his beer. This new alliance was working out splendidly. In three days, he had taken three heads, and with greater ease than he had expended in the past for one. Findo Gask, however, did not share his good spirits.
May I ask, viking," the demon said coldly, "when, precisely, you intend to challenge Macleod?"
"Whenever I feel like it, Lokison!" The Immortal was buoyed by good spirits, good Quickening, and good beer, and had reverted to the mannerisms of his younger days, when the warriors would fill the longhouse with shouts, songs, and boasts, and he called his demonic ally in the manner of a son of Loki, the closest thing to satan that his people's beliefs could muster. Loki's children had included the queen of hell, a serpent that crushed the world in it's coils, and a wolf that slew the god of war. Findo Gask was in good company.
"With you and that killing machine over there," he waved vaguely at the corner where the Slayer lurked, "I can take that idiot of a scotsman any time I want, and he will stand no chance!" With this, he slumped over and lost consciousness.
Findo Gask shook his head sadly. Such a weak foundation on which to build the Void's final victory. At least, so it seemed now. Gask was no stranger to the deceptiveness of appearances, and had realized from the start that a savage was the perfect tool. Much combat ability, little intelligence, and a complete lack of scruples, these were the ingredients of a demon's pawn, and Ranulfson met all the requirements. *If only we can finish this before the servants of the Word can disrupt things, the balance will be completely thrown off, and victory will be ours!* The thought brought some satisfaction to Gask, making a total of five separate emotions the demon had experienced that day. *So many. I must be careful not to lose my edge. This Highlander must die soon.*
October 27, 1980
John Ross had just about given up all hope of persuading the middle-aged secretary to let him see Mr. Nash. For the last fifteen minutes, the kindly-looking lady had told him 'no' in so many polite ways that he had lost track. Mr. Nash was unavailable at the moment, perhaps I can assist you? It might be best for you to return tomorrow. Mr. Nash will not be in for some time, so you may find waiting tiresome. At least he had begun to crumble her self-control now.
"I say again, Mr. Ross, that Russell Nash is not available at this time! He is away on business. If you are interested in a specific item, I may be able to help you locate it!"
"I am sorry, Ms. Ellenstein, but I wish to see Mr. Nash on private business. I am more than happy to await his return."
"I doubt he will return before the shop must close. I advise you to return tomorrow, or perhaps the next day." Ms. Ellenstein's voice could have frozen water.
John Ross decided to play his last card, one he had been saving in the hopes that it would not be needed. "Very well, Ms. Ellenstein, in that case, can you tell me the whereabouts of a man named Connor Macleod?"
The look of shock that passed over her face did not last long, but it told Ross everything he needed. "But then, Ms. Ellenstein, if I know where Macleod is, I know where Nash is, don't I?"
"I am sure I don't know what you mean." Her voice was a trifle breathless, a hint of fear showing in her eyes.
"Russell Nash is an alias. Your employer has been alive for centuries, and his name is Connor Macleod. I need his help, and he needs mine. Now can you tell me where he is?"
"Perhaps, Mr. Ross," Rachel Ellenstein spoke in a whisper, as shaken by this man's knowledge as if she had been struck by lightning, "perhaps you should wait for him after all." Then she did something that Ross truly did not expect. She stood up, and pointed a gun at him. "If you make one wrong move, I will shoot, and I will saw your head off before you recover. Now go into the next room and sit, with your coat off, and your hands where I can see them."
The Knight of the Word had little choice but to obey.
Mr. Nash was unavailable at the moment because he was standing in an empty public restroom, drenched in blood, his own, and that of the headless body at his feet. The fight had been savage and brutal, and at the end, his clothes were slashed up beyond repair, and even as an Immortal, the blood loss made him slightly faint. The Quickening had left him even more spent than usual, and he still had no idea how he could get out of the public restroom and back home without being seen. On the other hand, staying put would mean being found, sooner or later, with a sword in his hands, a corpse at his feet, and gallons of blood drenching every inch of the room. He was simply to exhausted to think. He had simply been washing his hands in the public washroom, not looking for any trouble, when the man with the medieval broadsword had walked in, locked the door, and begun the fight without so much as an introduction. He had been very, very, good. In the end, only the superiority of the Masamune-forged steel had saved him, breaking the standoff by shearing right through the european iron. Connor checked the door's lock. He was secure from casual passers-by in need of relief, but eventually someone would try to force entry, and it would all be over.
Ranulfson laughed heartily as he swigged his beer. This new alliance was working out splendidly. In three days, he had taken three heads, and with greater ease than he had expended in the past for one. Findo Gask, however, did not share his good spirits.
May I ask, viking," the demon said coldly, "when, precisely, you intend to challenge Macleod?"
"Whenever I feel like it, Lokison!" The Immortal was buoyed by good spirits, good Quickening, and good beer, and had reverted to the mannerisms of his younger days, when the warriors would fill the longhouse with shouts, songs, and boasts, and he called his demonic ally in the manner of a son of Loki, the closest thing to satan that his people's beliefs could muster. Loki's children had included the queen of hell, a serpent that crushed the world in it's coils, and a wolf that slew the god of war. Findo Gask was in good company.
"With you and that killing machine over there," he waved vaguely at the corner where the Slayer lurked, "I can take that idiot of a scotsman any time I want, and he will stand no chance!" With this, he slumped over and lost consciousness.
Findo Gask shook his head sadly. Such a weak foundation on which to build the Void's final victory. At least, so it seemed now. Gask was no stranger to the deceptiveness of appearances, and had realized from the start that a savage was the perfect tool. Much combat ability, little intelligence, and a complete lack of scruples, these were the ingredients of a demon's pawn, and Ranulfson met all the requirements. *If only we can finish this before the servants of the Word can disrupt things, the balance will be completely thrown off, and victory will be ours!* The thought brought some satisfaction to Gask, making a total of five separate emotions the demon had experienced that day. *So many. I must be careful not to lose my edge. This Highlander must die soon.*