Chapter five
October 28, 1983
It was about three in the morning, and Connor had yet to return. Rachel did her best to mask her worry, but as she talked with the strange and uncanny visitor, she was convinced that her facade was not working.
For his own part, John Ross was growing increasingly nervous. His last dream had showed him a day calendar. He had until Halloween to save the universe. With the universe so far having done very little to help. With nothing else to occupy his mind, he drifted in memory to the events of six days past, when he had followed the advice of Two Bears, and found himself in a small alley in a small town...
...where nothing interesting could possibly happen. Or so it seemed to the casual eye. John Ross' eyes were far from casual. Brief though his service to the Word had been so far, he had seen much of good and evil and their eternal war, and knew how much of that war was waged in places like this. Midnight. There came a rustling from one end of the dark alley as a man stepped out of the shadows, and into the light of the small lamp that hung over the kitchen door of the diner. He was tall and lean, wrapped in a long dark coat, into which he had thrust one hand, which seemed to be grasping some object in a hidden pocket. He surveyed the area carefully, but did not notice John Ross, who had chosen his hiding spot very well. From his perch on the diner roof he could see all that went on below, without risk of being spotted. Even if someone chose to glance up for some reason, the lamp's glare would hide him.
The tall man was now joined by a woman, of medium build and long dark hair. In her hand she carried a sword. Ross' years of academic life enabled him to identify the blade, a Polish saber from the middle ages, lightly curved, single-edged, hardly any guard, a lightweight slashing weapon.
The tall man drew forth his hand from the leather coat, revealing that he, too, had a sword. This blade was a cutlass, short and heavy, with a solid bell-guard that gave the hand complete protection. The woman spoke first.
"I am Moire O'Flanders, of Dublin, Ireland, born two hundred seventy-three years ago." She spoke with a musical lilt, her accent not quite gaelic, tinged with shadings that Ross, for all his language skills, could put no name to.
"And I am Jacob Robinns, born four hundred and two years ago in London." The man spoke with a deep bass voice, and his accent was also untraceable.
The two combatants closed the distance, and began to fight. As they cut, thrust, and parried, they managed to spare enough breath for some conversation.
"So Jacob, a Londoner, are you?"
"Yes, Moire, a Londoner. And you, are not only a poor fighter, but unable to make an effective distraction!" With this, he lunged fiercely, but met empty air. The woman spun, drew a long dagger from her belt, and buried it in the man's left shoulder. He leapt back, and tore the razor-keen blade from his savaged flesh.
"Hm, better than I gave you credit for, lass. But I still live. En garde!" He swept forward again, sweeping the cutlass in wide arcs that whistled through empty air.
"Burn your energy all you wish, fool. Will you live to be the last of us if I take your head while you're gasping for air?" Moire stepped lightly to the side and back, letting the wild strokes, which partook more of vigor than skill, be deflected by cleverly angled parries of the lightly curved blade in her hand.
"My wind will last longer than yours, woman," Robinns snarled. "The heads I've taken outnumber your own kills by the basket-load!"
"And will you trust the power of the Quickening alone to keep you going?"
He finally gave up on his furious attack, and began to probe her guard carefully. "And why not? It is the Quickening that has kept me alive for four centuries, and will preserve my body forever."
"Only if your head stays on your shoulders." O'Flanders suddenly launched a sweeping offensive, weaving a net of steel to entrap her opponent's unwary blade. He slipped through her attacks and launched one of his own, biting deep into her left leg with his sword-edge. She bit back a yelp, and rammed the point of her steel into his body. He dropped to his knees. She scooped up the cutlass, let fall from his numbed fingers, and stood over him.
"There can only be one, Jacob. And that one shall recieve the Prize. A pity you will not be there to see that. Goodbye." With that, she swung down at an angle, cleaving through spine and flesh, sending the man's head flying.
At this point, a rather shocked and bewildered John Ross had seen something that truly unmanned him. For a few seconds, the decapitated corpse lay in the dirt, motionless. Then it began to glow. John Ross, no stranger to bizarre sights, looked on in awe as the mortal remains of Jacob Robinns was lifted into the air by unseen forces, giving off a blue radiance like that of a lightning bolt. Moire O'Flanders stood with her arms outstretched, cutlass and saber both forgotten as they lay on the dusty ground. A great wind sprang up out of nowhere, and thin tendrils of energy, creeping like ivy vines, if ivy vines had been bred by Thor the thunder god, spread slowly, almost delicately, from the headless body that now hung in the air like a blue sun, filling the alley with its pallid glow. The slowly writhing ropes of lightning fanned out, then gathered together as it focused on a single destination: the waiting swordswoman below. Suddenly the bolts increase in size, speed, and numbers, flowing like a torrential waterfall of blue fire into the body of the centuries old woman. She twitched and shook, a look of wonder, bliss, and perhaps agony covering her face, which was illumined by an unearthly light. The lamp exploded suddenly, touched by an errant strand of soulfire. It was followed by all the lightbulbs Ross could see, as well as all the windows. A car parked nearby shook violently, the engine starting, headlights and radio turning on. It rolled forward slowly, then was cut off in it's tracks as the windshield shattered and the metal of the hood burst apart. Then, it was over, the end as sudden as the beginning was gradual. The corpse fell to earth, no longer glowing, and the ancient Irish woman dropped to her knees, gasping for air.
When she looked up, she saw a man. He was ordinary-looking, but a bit battered, as if by long travel. He leaned on a curiously engrave staff of black walnut, and gazed at her with the oldest eyes she had ever seen. She would have taken him for an Immortal, but there was no Buzz of Quickening coming from him, despite his proximity. Then he broke the silence.
"Would you care to tell me what just happened? First, come with me. Your fireworks display is bound to attract attention in a town this size, and you seem ill-equipped to deal with that at the moment. By the way," he added, scooping up the hilt of the Polish blade and handing it to her, "I believe this is yours."
She was to numb yet to speak, but took the sword, and the helping hand, he led her away to a nearby campground, where she gave him the answers he had sought...
...Which had, in turn, led him to further questions. Now, though, he had found his goal, and would hopefully recieve some illumination as soon as Macleod...
His musings were interupted by the jingling of the bell over the door. He and Ms. Ellenstein both looked up to see a tall, gangly man in slacks and a sweater, his lean face dominated by a blade-thin hawk-beak of a nose. When he spoke, he used a clipped british accent.
"Excuse, me, my name is Adam Pierson, and I'm looking for Mr. Russell Nash. Perhaps you can..." He froze suddenly when his eyes met Ross', and both of them paused to take the measure of the other.
Connor Macleod had been struck by an idea. This close to Halloween, many strange things were seen in the streets of New York, most of them drunks that had been thrown out of costume parties. A naked man with a long rag-wrapped bundle in his arms running from Times Square to Hudson Street would probably atract little attention. He didn't like it, but there was no alternative that he could see. His clothes were in veritable shreds, and more importantly, drenched in gore. He removed his tattered garb, took a large piece from the inner lining of his coat and shaped it into a mask, to preserve his dignity. The rest of his clothing he used to wrap the Samurai in such a way that anyone looking at it would not immediately think "sword." He was only moderately successful in this, at best. *Oh, well. Off we go.*
And off he went.
October 28, 1983
It was about three in the morning, and Connor had yet to return. Rachel did her best to mask her worry, but as she talked with the strange and uncanny visitor, she was convinced that her facade was not working.
For his own part, John Ross was growing increasingly nervous. His last dream had showed him a day calendar. He had until Halloween to save the universe. With the universe so far having done very little to help. With nothing else to occupy his mind, he drifted in memory to the events of six days past, when he had followed the advice of Two Bears, and found himself in a small alley in a small town...
...where nothing interesting could possibly happen. Or so it seemed to the casual eye. John Ross' eyes were far from casual. Brief though his service to the Word had been so far, he had seen much of good and evil and their eternal war, and knew how much of that war was waged in places like this. Midnight. There came a rustling from one end of the dark alley as a man stepped out of the shadows, and into the light of the small lamp that hung over the kitchen door of the diner. He was tall and lean, wrapped in a long dark coat, into which he had thrust one hand, which seemed to be grasping some object in a hidden pocket. He surveyed the area carefully, but did not notice John Ross, who had chosen his hiding spot very well. From his perch on the diner roof he could see all that went on below, without risk of being spotted. Even if someone chose to glance up for some reason, the lamp's glare would hide him.
The tall man was now joined by a woman, of medium build and long dark hair. In her hand she carried a sword. Ross' years of academic life enabled him to identify the blade, a Polish saber from the middle ages, lightly curved, single-edged, hardly any guard, a lightweight slashing weapon.
The tall man drew forth his hand from the leather coat, revealing that he, too, had a sword. This blade was a cutlass, short and heavy, with a solid bell-guard that gave the hand complete protection. The woman spoke first.
"I am Moire O'Flanders, of Dublin, Ireland, born two hundred seventy-three years ago." She spoke with a musical lilt, her accent not quite gaelic, tinged with shadings that Ross, for all his language skills, could put no name to.
"And I am Jacob Robinns, born four hundred and two years ago in London." The man spoke with a deep bass voice, and his accent was also untraceable.
The two combatants closed the distance, and began to fight. As they cut, thrust, and parried, they managed to spare enough breath for some conversation.
"So Jacob, a Londoner, are you?"
"Yes, Moire, a Londoner. And you, are not only a poor fighter, but unable to make an effective distraction!" With this, he lunged fiercely, but met empty air. The woman spun, drew a long dagger from her belt, and buried it in the man's left shoulder. He leapt back, and tore the razor-keen blade from his savaged flesh.
"Hm, better than I gave you credit for, lass. But I still live. En garde!" He swept forward again, sweeping the cutlass in wide arcs that whistled through empty air.
"Burn your energy all you wish, fool. Will you live to be the last of us if I take your head while you're gasping for air?" Moire stepped lightly to the side and back, letting the wild strokes, which partook more of vigor than skill, be deflected by cleverly angled parries of the lightly curved blade in her hand.
"My wind will last longer than yours, woman," Robinns snarled. "The heads I've taken outnumber your own kills by the basket-load!"
"And will you trust the power of the Quickening alone to keep you going?"
He finally gave up on his furious attack, and began to probe her guard carefully. "And why not? It is the Quickening that has kept me alive for four centuries, and will preserve my body forever."
"Only if your head stays on your shoulders." O'Flanders suddenly launched a sweeping offensive, weaving a net of steel to entrap her opponent's unwary blade. He slipped through her attacks and launched one of his own, biting deep into her left leg with his sword-edge. She bit back a yelp, and rammed the point of her steel into his body. He dropped to his knees. She scooped up the cutlass, let fall from his numbed fingers, and stood over him.
"There can only be one, Jacob. And that one shall recieve the Prize. A pity you will not be there to see that. Goodbye." With that, she swung down at an angle, cleaving through spine and flesh, sending the man's head flying.
At this point, a rather shocked and bewildered John Ross had seen something that truly unmanned him. For a few seconds, the decapitated corpse lay in the dirt, motionless. Then it began to glow. John Ross, no stranger to bizarre sights, looked on in awe as the mortal remains of Jacob Robinns was lifted into the air by unseen forces, giving off a blue radiance like that of a lightning bolt. Moire O'Flanders stood with her arms outstretched, cutlass and saber both forgotten as they lay on the dusty ground. A great wind sprang up out of nowhere, and thin tendrils of energy, creeping like ivy vines, if ivy vines had been bred by Thor the thunder god, spread slowly, almost delicately, from the headless body that now hung in the air like a blue sun, filling the alley with its pallid glow. The slowly writhing ropes of lightning fanned out, then gathered together as it focused on a single destination: the waiting swordswoman below. Suddenly the bolts increase in size, speed, and numbers, flowing like a torrential waterfall of blue fire into the body of the centuries old woman. She twitched and shook, a look of wonder, bliss, and perhaps agony covering her face, which was illumined by an unearthly light. The lamp exploded suddenly, touched by an errant strand of soulfire. It was followed by all the lightbulbs Ross could see, as well as all the windows. A car parked nearby shook violently, the engine starting, headlights and radio turning on. It rolled forward slowly, then was cut off in it's tracks as the windshield shattered and the metal of the hood burst apart. Then, it was over, the end as sudden as the beginning was gradual. The corpse fell to earth, no longer glowing, and the ancient Irish woman dropped to her knees, gasping for air.
When she looked up, she saw a man. He was ordinary-looking, but a bit battered, as if by long travel. He leaned on a curiously engrave staff of black walnut, and gazed at her with the oldest eyes she had ever seen. She would have taken him for an Immortal, but there was no Buzz of Quickening coming from him, despite his proximity. Then he broke the silence.
"Would you care to tell me what just happened? First, come with me. Your fireworks display is bound to attract attention in a town this size, and you seem ill-equipped to deal with that at the moment. By the way," he added, scooping up the hilt of the Polish blade and handing it to her, "I believe this is yours."
She was to numb yet to speak, but took the sword, and the helping hand, he led her away to a nearby campground, where she gave him the answers he had sought...
...Which had, in turn, led him to further questions. Now, though, he had found his goal, and would hopefully recieve some illumination as soon as Macleod...
His musings were interupted by the jingling of the bell over the door. He and Ms. Ellenstein both looked up to see a tall, gangly man in slacks and a sweater, his lean face dominated by a blade-thin hawk-beak of a nose. When he spoke, he used a clipped british accent.
"Excuse, me, my name is Adam Pierson, and I'm looking for Mr. Russell Nash. Perhaps you can..." He froze suddenly when his eyes met Ross', and both of them paused to take the measure of the other.
Connor Macleod had been struck by an idea. This close to Halloween, many strange things were seen in the streets of New York, most of them drunks that had been thrown out of costume parties. A naked man with a long rag-wrapped bundle in his arms running from Times Square to Hudson Street would probably atract little attention. He didn't like it, but there was no alternative that he could see. His clothes were in veritable shreds, and more importantly, drenched in gore. He removed his tattered garb, took a large piece from the inner lining of his coat and shaped it into a mask, to preserve his dignity. The rest of his clothing he used to wrap the Samurai in such a way that anyone looking at it would not immediately think "sword." He was only moderately successful in this, at best. *Oh, well. Off we go.*
And off he went.