EHYEH-ASHER-EHYEH (I AM THAT I AM): An Elena Duran/Corazon Negro
Vi Moreau (vmoreau@directvinternet.com)
Mon, 23 Sep 2002 23:35:27 -0400
Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh (I am that I am) 28/34
Julio Cesar divad72@prodigy.net.mx
Vi Moreau vmoreau@directvinternet.com
Zarach was free. Aylon had skewered two of his assailants, and Methos had
distracted one long enough that Zarach was able to regain his feet, crush
both Hunter's skulls with a single blow of his mighty fist, and retrieve
both his sai-his Chinese trident-like weapons. Behind, Myrddin joined the
fray. The four Immortals battled their way closer to the main entrance of
the complex. Zarach was the only one holding his cutting weapons. The
others, including their enemies, were armed with Pulse rifles as well. But
bullets somehow missed Zarach and Aylon, and they seemed to form a sort of
protective barrier which included the four Immortals. The shots fired by
Aylon, Myrddin and Methos, however, did not miss, as they aimed for Hunters'
heads, whether with Pulse rifles or their swords.
Zarach seemed instinctively to follow Aylon's lead. Not a word passed
between the two, but they covered one another without fail. Many times Aylon
felt the breeze of Zarach's weapons slice the air by his ear, only to see an
unwary attacker fall at his side, while Methos and Myrddin keep their fight
between the elder warriors, shooting Hunters from a distance and cutting
them down whenever they strayed within reach.
They were at the base of the stairs directly beneath the main doors. Only a
handful of Hunters now blocked their attack. Aylon struck down one of those,
his hopes beginning to rise, when he heard a strange sound, a creaking
noise, and the moan of metal. He didn't recognize it for what it was at
first; not until the giant doors were toppling down on top of him.
"Move!" Aylon called out as he dove away from beneath the falling slabs of
bronze. He landed hard on his side, but rolled quickly to his feet,
gratified to see that Zarach had escaped the trap as well. Not so for
several of the Hunters. He saw two Hunters partially pinned beneath the
upended flats. Myrddin watched in surprise.
Methos was trapped as well. Then more Hunters came out from the door
carrying several small oil drums.
Aylon and Zarach both ran toward Methos, but the Hunters tipped the barrels,
and a fiery flood was unleashed over the doors, down the steps. Aylon
recognized the Greek fire, or some modern equivalent that flowed like oil
and scorched like molten lead.
Before Aylon or the horrified Zarach could respond, the liquid fire swept
down at Methos. But Myrddin was already there. The Druid raised his sword,
the mythical Excalibur. The heavy door on top of Methos flew up and away.
Aylon could only dive out of the way. He had the presence of mind to knock
Zarach out of the path of the spreading inferno, and as the two climbed to
their feet together, their eyes met. Around them, the burning Hunters
screamed under the blaze.
Myrddin had already pulled Methos to his feet when the other two approached.
"He is badly wounded," the Druid announced.
Aylon looked at Methos' broken legs. A bone stuck out of the left leg, and
his chest was caved in. Methos was gulping air with what had to be at least
one collapsed lung, and a torrent of blood ran free from its right side.
Methos was going to die. Not permanently, of course, but he was out of the
battle for now. They could not afford to care for him in the battlefield and
waste precious moments where they could be looking for Lilitu. "Take him out
of here," Aylon said.
"No! I can fight!" Methos gasped, but already he was losing consciousness.
Aylon ignored him. "Myrddin, take him out of here."
"Aylon is right, my son," Zarach said. "Go now, save yourselves."
"But-" Methos whispered.
"Now Myrddin!" Zarach ordered. His sad eyes looked at Methos. "Goodbye,
Kadosh."
Myrddin placed an unresisting Methos over his shoulders, fireman style.
Methos screamed once, then passed out, while Myrddin ran off with his
Immortal cargo.
Aylon had thought that, over the millennia, he had seen first hand all of
the horrors the world had to offer. But within Zarach's eyes was a depth of
pain and suffering, an anguish so fresh and pure, that goose-bumps stood up
on the Old Man of the Mountain's skin. He turned his head-unable to hold
that gaze for longer than a second-and when he turned back, the pain was
gone from those two-colored eyes. They were glazed over. Zarach stared at
him with a blank gaze, his face completely devoid of any emotion. It was an
expression that unsettled Aylon more than the overwhelming grief from the
moment before.
Aylon had seen the will drain from men in battle, had seen their fury
dwindle and all volition abandon them. He thought, at first, he saw that
same lessening of will in Zarach, and knew that, alone, he could resist for
only so long. But once again Zarach surprised him. The Son of the Endless
Night raised his weapons and charged at the Hunters who were coming, rushing
at them, firing their assault weapons as they came. Before, Zarach had
roared and bellowed with battle rage. This time, not a sound passed his
lips.
The liquid fire had spread through the front portion of the gates,
incinerating the bodies of the dead and wounded, but its momentum was now
spent. The attack had done its worst, and Aylon and Zarach still stood.
Smoke billowed toward heaven, thickening in the shifting darkness. That
added confusion to the two members of the Ancient Gathering's attack. Aylon
put his pistol away so he wouldn't give away their position, and used his
more silent yet equally deadly scimitar instead. The Hunters were slow to
coordinate their attacks, and one by one they fell beneath the Immortals'
blades. Zarach slaughtered them in silence. Each of his blows usually cut an
arm or leg or head from a body, but the screams of the dying didn't affect
Zarach at all. Aylon too, waded into the gore. Footing became treacherous
with blood and entrails spread around, underfoot, and a sticky foam coating
the ground.
Behind the shadows, through the smoke, there were always more Hunters. They
marched forward, undaunted by the annihilation of so many of their comrades,
if they noticed the carnage at all. Aylon knew they had to be under some
spell, some compulsion, to continue coming in spite of the almost certain
death that awaited them. How had Lilitu managed to gather so many mortals?
He wondered. What a cold-hearted bitch, to use them all up, to send them all
to die like this, although it was he and Zarach who were doing the actual
killing.
Zarach hacked mercilessly at the mortals. He was a dispassionate butcher;
his weapons taking on the aspect of cleaver, dripping blood and dispensing
dismemberment to any who stood before him. So much so, in fact, that Aylon
made sure not to push ahead of Zarach, to guard his flanks and rear instead.
Zarach in this state might not recognize Aylon. The Son of the Endless Night
might simply destroy whoever moved within his sight.
But at that very moment, Zarach, for the first time since Myrddin and Methos
had gone, turned to face Aylon. His stare was no longer blank, but his eyes
were glassy. "She is calling me! She is calling my name!" With that, Zarach
turned and stepped into the shadows, disappearing from Aylon's view.
"Wait! Where are you going?" Aylon yelled as his scimitar cut two more
Hunters. Had Zarach taken complete leave of his senses after all? More
Hunters closed in again. The Old Man of the Mountain knew well enough that
the best change they had against Lilitu was to fight her together. But first
things first. Aylon turned on the Hunters, pulled out his Pulse rifle,
rammed in a new clip, and strode powerfully toward them.
========
Myrddin put his precious cargo down on the sand. Methos had expired while on
the wizard's back. The Druid was very glad that although tall, Methos was
lean, all bone and muscle. He would have hated to have had to carry the dead
weight of a huge man like Aylon!
At the distance he could hear the gunfire and screams as a distant echo, and
if he faced away, looking at the waxing moon over the dark moving water, he
almost felt like he was on the shores of Britain, his beloved isle. He took
a deep breath, trying to catch the scent of the sand and sea, but instead
got a whiff of blood from Methos' wounds. Sighing, he knelt to straighten
out Methos' broken legs so they would heal properly then got himself
comfortable on the soft sand, hero style, one foot on the ground, standing
guard and ready to fight and waiting for--
A movement, a shadow in the dunes to his left, caught his eye, and he
dropped to the ground to make himself more difficult to see while he
strained to catch a glimpse of... a man. One solitary man, dressed in robes.
Even from this distance, Myrddin could make an intelligent guess that this
was one of the Headless Children of Lilitu. Someone making good his getaway.
A rat!
Indeed, he saw the figure reach into some bushes and pull out a small hidden
craft. Realizing there was no one else who might harm Methos, Myrddin stood,
pulled out his sword, and approached the new arrival, gratified to see the
other man jump in fear when the Immortals sensed each other.
"Who? Who is it? Cartiphilus? Is that you?" the Immortal asked.
"Not quite the man who put a spear into Yehoshua bar-Joshua's side," Myrddin
answered. "But I'll be happy to cut into you!"
The man pulled up to his full height, which was considerably shorter than
the Druid. Myrddin studied him, trying to see if he could guess ... the man
had not died in his first youth, and he was overweight to boot-obviously an
Immortal used to having others fight for him. Now he was running off in the
night, deserting his dying comrades, Myrddin thought, contemptuously. The
man was dressed in the simple black cassock of a Roman Catholic priest, as
he turned, the Druid could see a large gold cross on a chain swinging on the
man's chest, glinting in the same moonlight which illuminated his face.
Myrddin recognized the man's hard features from his extensive file on
Immortals.
"Tomas de Torquemada," he said, putting Excalibur back in its sheath. The
worst he'd have to fear from this killer of innocents-correction, this man
who sent innocents to be killed by others-was being shot. There would
undoubtedly NOT be a swordfight. "I knew you would be one of Lilitu's
minions. Didn't you have enough with the burning and looting of a few
thousand of your own countrymen back in the fifteenth century? Didn't you
have enough with Darius' death at Horton's hands by your command? Do you now
have to destroy the rest of humanity?"
"Mortals are sinful vermin who deserve to die," Torquemada answered.
"So much for your Christian charity and forgiveness of sins," Myrddin said.
"I, too, am most unforgiving."
"Now that we know who I am, shall we level the playing field and find out
who you are?" the Inquisitor asked.
Myrddin could hear Torquemada's voice tremble, good. But he also saw the
Spaniard reach into a pocket of his robes, and the Druid came closer, into
sword range, his hand flying to the hilt of Excalibur.
"I am Myrddin, also known as Merlin from King Arthur's court," he announced
proudly.
"A heathen. A worshipper of plants, and holder of bacchanalian orgies,"
Torquemada answered contemptuously, pulling a pistol out of his pocket.
But Myrddin was ready, and Excalibur swept out, cutting off the Spaniard's
hand, then on the backward swing through the bone and skin of the neck in
one smooth stroke. The false priest fell to the ground like a stone, his
blood immediately soaking into the thirsty sand.
"Plants aren't all bad," the Druid murmured as he got ready for the
Quickening "And I doubt that you will ever see the loving God you claim to
serve." It occurred to him, as the light show started, that a circling
Heru-sa-aset might see this from overhead, and Myrddin hoped his comrade
wouldn't strafe him and the still-dead Methos!
========
Lilitu stood on the branches of a tree, hiding in the shadows, looking
across at the battle ahead. Zarach was somewhere out there. She could feel
him. She shook her head in frustration.
The initial plan had called for the operational commanders-her most powerful
Headless Children-to hang well back from the action, directing troops and
staying out of the line of fire. Furthermore, by insisting that Cartiphilus
and Torquemada remain in close proximity, Lilitu had both reduced their
ability to act against her-oh, she knew about their schemes to kill her in
the end, poor fools!-and increased her own chances of survival. In theory,
Lilitu's presence would be enough to make both idiots behave, though it was
hardly an ironclad guarantee.
The problems began with an unlucky incident: the Ancient Gathering had won
in New York. Now they were here; they had found her. Perhaps the freshly
spilled blood from the Hunters had combined with the excitement of the
battle to drive them toward her, or maybe they were just in a mood to
glory-hound. It didn't matter. They were on her island, but it was her home
ground-she had the advantage.
Lilitu cursed, briefly but with heartfelt passion. She had two choices. Go
against them, or try to protect herself. Although she had demonstrated for
millennia the ability to take care of herself, that didn't matter either. In
the end, it was no choice at all. She was the new Goddess.
Lilitu plunged off into the firelight night to face Zarach Bal-Tagh. Killing
any other member of the Ancient Gathering who got in her way would simply be
a bonus.
Quietly, effortlessly, she slipped from shadow to shadow, observing. She
watched, dispassionately, as a roaring Aylon smashed a Hunter into a bloody
pulp. Flames from the oil traps and from the many bonfires on the island
licked the air, lighting the entire scene in lurid yellows and reds.
She watched, wordlessly, as a pack of howling Hunters ran, shooting at
everything that moved. She watched, frowning, as Aylon efficiently cut a man
who got in his way to pieces. Nowhere, however, did she see Zarach. She knew
he was here; she'd felt his buzz often enough. Not once, though, did the Son
of the Endless Night present himself. Evidence of his handiwork was
everywhere-torn corpses, mostly, mixed with Aylon's neater handiwork-but her
former son and lover was as elusive as smoke.
Fortunately, Aylon wasn't. For lack of anything better to do-the island's
defense was not her problem, after all-she began following the Old Man of
the Mountain as he moved from scene of carnage to carnage again.
Occasionally he'd stop and examine what Zarach had left behind, but
generally he was on the move, swift, angry and deadly. Every so often Lilitu
caught him causing surprising amounts of peripheral damage as he loped
along, and slowly she realized that she wasn't the only one looking for
Zarach. The two-colored eyes Immortal had slipped his leash and was loose on
the island, hell alone knew where.
Lilitu would have laughed if she dared, but that would reveal her presence
to Aylon. She knew she was lucky the Old Man of the Mountain was
preoccupied; otherwise he might well have noticed her. However, even though
her inner power no longer controlled the Dream, she still had the strength
to hide her buzz. No Immortal would find her unless she wanted him to.
In the meantime, it became increasingly clear Aylon was looking for Zarach
in the mist's of the flame and the chaos. Lilitu, as she saw it, had three
choices now. She could follow Aylon back to Zarach and hope she could strike
down her former son before the old Man of the Mountain could interfere; she
could strike out on her own and hope she found Zarach before Aylon did; or
she could abandon the entire exercise, retreat inside her cave, and wait for
another window of opportunity.
No. She was a Goddess. She was hell on earth. It took a split second for her
to decide that following Aylon was her best course of action. She was
powerful. She was omnipotent. She could kill them both. Besides, Aylon
occasionally had to deal with the various messes Zarach had not quite
finished.
Aylon himself was leaving an impressive path of gore behind him, meaning
that no doubt he was drawing heavily on the power within himself. Judging
from the amount of blood pouring onto the sand and splashing onto the rocks,
Aylon was seriously injured. When Zarach finally caught up to his comrade,
and Lilitu caught up to both of them, the two men would be weak, unable to
fend off her own most powerful assault. Surely she would be able to deal
with them permanently. The thought of a double very-potent Quickening
flashed in Lilitu's face and made her feel hot.
Someone bellowed with rage ahead. A scream of terror matched it, spiraling
up with it through the night. Aylon didn't even bother to stop and look up.
Instead, he simply sprinted in the direction of the noise with a superhuman
burst of speed.
Lilitu grinned wolfishly and silently followed.
========
Aylon had been cursing under his breath non-stop for nearly five minutes,
ever since Zarach had gone bounding off into the darkness. Under normal
circumstances he would have caught the fool in a matter of instants, but
these were not normal circumstances. Zarach was a badass all right, but that
wasn't what the situation needed right now.
In front him, Aylon killed anyone who dared to cross his path. This served
no good purpose except obscuring Zarach's trail and crisping Hunters who got
too close. The resultant battles cost Aylon precious seconds that stretched
into minutes as he navigated the chaos in an effort to locate Zarach's
trace. Only the feel of his Immortal comrade's buzz in the air served to
guide Aylon, but fortunately, where the Old Man of the Mountain was
concerned, that was enough.
The other complication was that not everyone whom Zarach ripped through was
quite dead. Some demonstrated a surprising amount of fight as Aylon pounded
past them in an effort to follow Zarach. Lilitu's puppets were willing, and
they were certainly loyal. One played dead until Aylon was nearly upon him,
then put two bullets into the Old Man of the Mountain's left arm. Aylon
rolled to cover and sent a tentacle of energy out from under his scimitar to
crush the Hunter. Aylon didn't have time to see if the victim became an
unrecognizable pulp. Other victims simply moaned, and the Old Man of the
Mountain took a second to dispatch each with a single blow. One never could
tell who was faking, after all, and he would not be surprised again. The
last thing he needed was some would-be hero coming up behind him,
distracting him at precisely the wrong moment with a bullet or bull rush.
Distractions were precisely what he didn't need when going up against
Lilitu.
More screaming and hoarse shouts of rage came from up ahead. Aylon
concentrated for a moment to heal the wounds the bullets had torn in his
arm, then redoubled his speed in hopes catching up with Zarach so they could
fight together again, as they should have from the beginning. If Zarach was
caught in a serious fight, say if Lilitu found him, the psychic itch of a
summons from the old witch could be the difference between avoiding a blow
and almost avoiding it.
As he sprinted forward, Aylon made a little promise to himself. Once the
Ancient Gathering was safely off the field of battle, he was going to beat
the living shit out of Zarach, for old times' sake. As long as he had
anything to say about it, Zarach was going to survive this battle against
Lilitu, but he was going to wish he hadn't.
The shouting in the near distance died down, and Aylon put his head down for
a final sprint. With any luck, that was the sound of Zarach coming down off
his hate-inspired frenzy. If not, it meant that Lilitu had just found him.
Either way, Aylon wanted to be there. Like a madman, he ran.
========