THREE - Heresy
London.
Present Day.
The black and green screen read:
IMMORTAL: Pyro Artorius.
BORN: 125 B.C.
PLACE OF BIRTH: Rome.
FIRST DEATH: 96 B.C.
MENTOR: Juan Sanchez Villalobos Ramirez (Tak-Ne).
CONFIRMED IMMORTAL KILLS: 203.
STATUS: Dead.
"Now let me add it to your record," an elder lady in her mid fifties whispered softly as she typed something on the computer keyboard and the information changed.
IMMORTAL: Clarice Minon
BORN: 1977 AD
PLACE OF BIRTH: Massachussets, USA.
FIRST DEATH: 1992 AD
MENTOR: Gregory Briggs.
CONFIRMED IMMORTAL KILLS: 24.
STATUS: Alive.
The woman hit the keys quickly and the 24 changed to a 25.
"That's it, Marc."
Behind her, Marcus Lecter was sitting with embarrassment at the library the Central Headquarters of the Watchers had in the main floor of the old mansion where it was established.
"I'm sorry, Diana."
The lady smiled wryly. "For what? It was your immortal who killed mine. What could you have done? Interfere?"
"Even so..." he looked away.
"I watched Artorius for twenty years. It's a long time. With any luck, I'll get an immortal living in holy ground so I'll have time for myself." She stood up. "Good to see you, Marc."
"Sure." He shook his head as she left. She was right. It was Clarice who had killed Artorius, but he still felt bad for Diana. She had lost someone whom she had watched for twenty years. It was a long time, and losing someone after such a period surely hurt, even if you were not personally close to the decedent.
On her way out, she came across a thin slender man who delivered a quick farewell kiss on her cheek before she left. He was holding under his left hand a couple of books – nothing compared to the huge amount stored in the shelves at the walls. Marc scrutinised him as the man approached with his right hand extended. He jerked his arm forward, shook it and let it go.
"So, how's it going with the lovely Clarice?" the man asked as he sat down and opened an ancient book that Marc took to be a millennia-old chronicle.
"You know how. Immortals coming for her head. She's ceased running, and now she's fighting them... and winning." Marc shrugged uneasily.
"So I heard. They are all ancient immortals, right?" the man queried as his eyes shrunk before opening wide in surprise.
"Yeah, why?"
"There're a couple of unrecognised immortals on the field, taking down experienced ones."
"So?" The other showed him a page written in an ancient, impossible to understand language.
"This is the tale of Logozz." The man motioned him to take a seat. "Logozz was a ruler in Egypt, before the times of the Pharaohs. It was said that he was able to dodge death, and that he died many times." Marc set his eyes on a sketched portrait of that person. "This matches the picture from the report."
"You're saying that this... Logozz..." Marc spoke nervously "... is an old immortal that has resurfaced... so?"
"The tales date back to a long time... 6000 years at least."
Marc did not notice when his jaw fell until he felt the cold in his vocal chords. He breathed out and massaged the sides of his head, rationalising the implications of what the other had just said.
"Older than Methos... "
"I always wondered what happened really." The other stared at Marc, for a second accusatorily, then fondly. "I mean, I dare say you omitted some things from your report."
"You really want to know?" Marc felt his hands were suddenly wet, and a cold chill ran down his back. The other nodded with a buddy smile. "Until she left the place of the slaughter, all is true, then..."
-----
Santa Monica, CA.
Summer, 1997.
Carlos Dini was kneeling before the altar in silent prayer. No one was there. The priest had delivered his morning mass and left. He would have attended it but he had to attend a matter that was older, much older than Christianity itself. He had found this church rather small. It was not really so, but it was nothing compared to the grand church at the Vatican.
He heard the echoing footsteps unsteadily climbing up the stairs and felt the presence that had been nagging him for some minutes now approaching really close. It was probably Briggs' apprentice. His former friend had a tendency to constantly get new students. It had been so since the fourteenth century. A long time ago.
Now there was silence. He heard the presence approaching him more and more and sitting on the first bench to the right. He stood up, blasphemously grasping the altar as an aide, while he put up his left and then his right leg.
He turned. Before him there appeared a blonde woman, really beautiful and young. Her eyes were purple and her face evidenced the tears she had shed. There was blood in her hands. It was surely the blood of those little children that had tried to defend Briggs, and which he had been forced to kill.
She was glowering at him, but not with hatred. What he saw in her eyes was something akin to scepticism, mixed with a certain uncertainty. He approached to the bench to the left and sat down.
"Who are you, small butterfly?"
"My name..." she sounded emotionally destroyed "... is... Clarice Minon."
Indeed she was a minon, Carlos thought. This woman did not seem to be very acquainted with what was going on.
"Do you know... what we are?"
"Immortals... or so said Greg..." her voice levelled a bit. "Did you kill him?"
"I did." He spoke solemnly. "We were friends once, you know? But then he tried to get in my way and friendship died. He was a fine warrior."
"Did you also...?" She hid her face in her hands.
"They got in my way too." Now Carlos sounded detached.
Clarice glared at him, feeling a surge of despise and rage boiling up inside of her. She clenched her fists and pounded against her lap.
"You son of a bitch!" she cursed, not even thinking of the fact that she was in a church.
"If you want, we can settle this. This church is rather isolated from the city so we can battle outside. I have a spare sword."
Battle? What could this man have in his mind that he was so eager to fight? And why? All those questions faded away when he opened his brown leather coat and offered a shiny weapon with a curved blade. Something within her impelled her to reach out for it and grasp it before she could even think about it. Next she was stepping out of the church and testing the weapon, lashing to the air as Greg had taught her.
He eyed at her opponent, who drew out a thick sword that reminded her of the film "The Swordsman". Suddenly he struck, chopping at her fiercely. She did not notice how or when she dodged him; she only found herself away from him. He shook his head and went forward again. He sent a thrust intended at her groin but a momentum of some kind led her armed hand to parry and make a deep gash across the stomach of the experienced warrior.
Carlos fell on his knees, cradling his out-coming intestines while he let out a hiss that masked his pain. Clarice regarded him blankly, unable to explain how she had performed those movements. Greg had taught them to her, arguing that he wanted her to learn "so that they share something else". But never had she been even close to master them. Now she had the slayer of all that had mattered to her at his knees. What should she do?
Inadvertently, Carlos' wound seemed to heal, for he scrambled to his feet and began to run towards the church. Clarice noticed, and that act of cowardice - escaping - made her really angry. She stormed after him. He dove through the entrance of the church and landed hardly on the floor. She walked in as a steam train and kicked him hard. He squirmed in pain.
The wound would not kill him as it would not kill her. But she wanted to kill him. Despair and rage fuelled her to. The boys had died. Greg had died... maybe...
Clarice rose up her sword. Carlos opened wide his eyes and shook his head. His mouth opened to form a circle when she let the weapon fall and the whistle of the air being cut precluded the farewell of his head to his body. She saw the blood beginning to scatter and she dropped the sword, regaining composure and realising of the murderous atrocity she had just committed.
To her horror, the body started to shine out a yellow light. Suddenly, it began to levitate. She felt a certain something in the atmosphere that gave her the creeps. She felt her hair being charged by a strange force and raised. Then the light began to flicker and darken. Now it was black. And it dragged her towards it as it became harsher and more dazzlingly.
Clarice was overwhelmed by a sensation she could neither describe nor think about. It was pleasant, but at the same time concomitant with pain. It was like an orgasm, if not in the least similar, but multiplied tenfold. She felt that somehow she now knew more things, including what was going on.
The Game. Immortals take heads to receive the Quickening of their opponents, their power, knowledge and in limited cases, special skills. In the end, there can be only one. There were rules to abide by... and Clarice had just broken probably the most important of them all...
-----
Cairo, Egypt.
1997.
A hidden tomb, dug deep within a pyramid, protected by many secret passageways and traps. Inside it, many treasures awaited the ventured soul that would dare go for them. In the centre, a sarcophagus, with the face of a jackal on its lid, covered with dust, was placed, to provide whoever was inside it a proper resting place for eternity... until now.
The lid whined as it was pushed open. Bony fingers, with inches-long fingernails, slid from inside and removed it completely. A mummy rose from it and began to remove his bandages slowly, as he stuck a hand inside the coffin and drew out a magnificent if dusty sword...
-----
London.
Present Day.
"If this Logozz is after Clarice, she's dead!" Marc complained.
"She's been dead since she took that head on holy ground." The other replied, seemingly calm. "The Grim Reaper's been sparing her life so far."
"But... no one went after Jacob Kell!" Marc protested.
"Kell absorbed a multiple quickening on holy ground. That should have made him unstoppable..."
"I know." Marc barely nodded. "Connor MacLeod had to give in his head so that Duncan MacLeod could defeat Kell. But still..."
"Kell died two weeks after attacking the sanctuary. Clarice has been stalked for... four years?"
"Five."
"She's been lucky." The other replied stiffly. "Now, if Clarice could count on the Highlander, she might have a chance against Logozz."
"Where is he?"
"Who knows? He's vanished. But remember we can't interfere."
The man dug his nose in the book. Marc rose, patted the other's back and left very concerned. From his seat, the man watched him leave. The young Lecter had reasons to be worried. Clarice Minon had taken a head on holy ground. Unbeknownst to Marc, that pulled the most ancient immortals, either those alive or those dwelling as quickenings inside others, against her.
Only the legendary Methos could resist the pull and help her to stay alive. There was a reason for that immunity, Adam Pierson thought as he closed the book, and it led him not to want to become involved. However, he knew he did not have a choice.
AUTHOR's NOTE: The word "minon" derives from the word "mina", which is used in my country to refer to a woman (I think the closest equivalent is "chick"). "Minon" is used to refer to a very attractive woman. It's colloquial, and mostly used by men. "The Swordsman" is a film with Lorenzo Lamas.