Viracocha proved easy to follow. Distrusting the mechanical creatures of the first world, Viracocha chose to walk rather than to take a cab. The Kurgan surmised that Viracocha would have preferred to have taken an outrigger to New Orleans, but chose a plane simply out of the need for speed. Like Viracocha, the Kurgan knew he had to be in the southern city. He felt it in his bones.
Viracocha was not planning on being followed; the route he took through the rain washed streets was straight and sure. Perhaps Viracocha felt that he needed no protection; an Immortal his age could sense the approach of another of his kind with ease. Indeed, combined with the old one's sorcerous might, it was not foolish to think Viracocha could easily pinpoint the whereabouts of every Immortal in the city.
But not the Kurgan.
The Egyptian necromancer Nyarlathotep, the dark souled creature that awakened the Kurgan from the cold sleep enforced upon him by the Highlander, had provided him with a few improvements. He now healed much faster. His strength had doubled, if not tripled. And his Quickening was masked from all of his brethren, even the oldest, like Methos or Viracocha. Truth be known, the Kurgan admitted the need for such improved abilities. The Highlander had stolen the 3,000 years of Quickening he had spent a lifetime acquiring. All he had now were the Quickenings of some dozen newlings, that bitch Amanda, and the impostor, Duncan MacLeod.
Duncan had proved a poor substitute for Connor. The Kurgan could feel the hate for the older Highlander burning in his chest, threatening to break free at any moment -- threatening to unleash the barely restrained savagery of a man born and bred on the steppes of central Russia.
But that lay in the future. With Duncan MacLeod a distant memory, the Kurgan was certain Connor would be searching for him. And the Kurgan had not tried very hard to cover his tracks. He hoped MacLeod would find him soon, so that the messy business of vengeance could get underway.
While he waited, the Kurgan watched Viracocha. The Quickening of the Incan sorcerer was a prize beyond measure. It would make him more powerful than ever; it was a single Quickening that would push him past his prior levels, into a state just removed from godhood. With that much might, wedded to the new, improved body, he would crush Connor MacLeod like a bug.
Then he could begin settling some other scores. Somewhere, that weakling Methos still lived, though crippled by the Kurgan's sword. The Greek Perseus had *twice* escaped the Kurgan's rage. He would not survive a third attack. Darius, the simpering fool in the monk's robes -- it was past time the Kurgan did something about him. And Rebecca, Amanda's old mentor. She had thwarted him a time or two as well.
With so much hate and rage radiating off of his heavily muscled frame, it was a wonder that the rain did not boil off of him, or that Viracocha did not sense him. But he stayed hidden, and followed the Incan to a cheap hotel, where Viracocha bought a room and settled down for the night.
The Kurgan watched from the street, and when Viracocha disappeared from view, he too took his leave. It would not be wise to attack an alert Viracocha. The sorcerer would not need a sword to kill him. The Kurgan would bide his time and wait for the opportune time to strike.
In the meantime, he needed food. And alcohol. And a woman.
He hardly noticed when the rain turned to sleet.
Eventually, recognition of the change in weather was forced upon him. He left the cold, wet streets as soon as possible, ducking into a disreputable looking restaurant when he found one.
The interior was dark and smoky, and somewhere within the eatery a soft horn played. The Kurgan found a table for himself in the back, where he could keep an eye on the front door and the back entrance as well.
A tired looking waitress, who looked hard used by life, took his order, a limp cigarette dangling from her lips. She returned shortly with the first of many beers, and promised to have his food out "right away."
The Kurgan settled back in his seat, adjusting his coat and the sword hidden within the folds of his jacket. He sipped the beer, and did not bother to hide his sneer. He had tasted better brew on the shores of the Danube in 336 AD, when he shared a camp with a group of Huns. He finished the beer anyway; 3000 years had given him a cast-iron stomach.
The restaurant was mostly empty; probably the reason for the prompt service. Apparently the mortals of this city were staying indoors, hiding from the weather. Hiding, too, from the Immortals, or so the Kurgan wagered.
Weird lightning shows in the streets, accompanying the strange storm that hovered over the city, would probably unnerve even the most dedicated partygoer. Mortals were such weak creatures.
The Kurgan was momentarily distracted as the front door of the restaurant jingled open, and he felt the presence of another Immortal. It was difficult to discern the man's features through the gloom, but as the Immortal stepped up to the considerably well lit bar, his identity was uncovered by a fluorescent Bud light. He was tall, with a rangy build and large hands. Short hair, dark and curly, clung to his scalp, and his skin was tanned a dark brown. A thin red scar bisected one eye neatly, giving his saturnine features an even more sinister cast.
Kronos.
One of Methos' whelps. One of the "Four Horsemen" that rode with Methos during the Old Man's wild days. Kronos was younger than Methos, but still very old and quite powerful as well. His sword was keen and his arm was strong. He was ruthless too, and on more than one occasion Kronos had not hesitated to slay a student of his who proved to be unruly. Whoever had named him Kronos named him well; Kronos devoured everything in his path, never flinching, never backing down.
The Kurgan had never met him. He recognized Kronos only from second hand sources. He sipped his beer and thought of how accurately those sources had described Kronos. The Kurgan respected the man immediately. He could tell by the way Kronos walked and moved and held himself that the man meant business.
But for all that, the Kurgan mused, Kronos was still but a pale imitation of himself. Who else but a man insecure with his own prowess would masquerade as some mythical horsemen out of a Christian fairytale?
The Kurgan stood up as the waitress arrived with his meal. He gestured for her to put it down, then walked over to the bar. Kronos, sensing nothing, kept his back to him. The Kurgan grinned, and slapped Kronos against the back.
Kronos stiffened, and turned slowly, his eyes glinting balefully from beneath darkened brows. "Do I know you friend?" he asked, his tone light.
The Kurgan's grin widened. "No, you don't. But let me buy you a drink anyway." The Horseman's face tightened, and he was about to refuse, when the Kurgan added, "Kronos."
Instantly Kronos's features went bland. "Pardon?" he asked.
"My table is over there," the Kurgan said, gesturing with his thumb. "Let's chat."
Kronos regarded him for a moment. He seemed unsure of what to do.
Obviously he could not sense the Kurgan's Quickening. So he had to be wondering just what the Kurgan was, and what kind of threat he represented.
Men like Kronos always thought others were threats. The Kurgan knew that better than anyone.
At last, wordlessly, Kronos picked up his own beer and began walking towards the Kurgan's table. The Kurgan followed, and resumed his seat. While Kronos watched, the Kurgan began to pick his meal apart, using his hands in favor of the fork and knife. Kronos was nonplused.
"You can't be one of the Blood," he muttered, half to himself. "What are you, then?" Kronos asked at last.
The Kurgan washed a bit of food down with a swig of the sub-par beer. He smiled at Kronos and licked his lips. "I am the Kurgan," he said.
Kronos raised one eyebrow. "Aye," he said, "and I am St. Peter. I knew this was a waste of time." Kronos began to stand.
Faster than Kronos could react, the Kurgan shot out his hand and, reaching across the table, grabbed the front of Kronos' coat. With his free hand, Kronos struck out at the Kurgan, connecting with the larger man's chin. The Kurgan felt teeth crunch and blood well from his mouth.
He spat a tooth into Kronos' eye, and then picked him up one handed and slammed him into the table. The table shattered under the force of the blow, and a sickening crunch came from Kronos' form as well. The Kurgan dropped him to the ground and kicked him in the head a half dozen times.
The bartender, the waitress, and the handful of mortal patrons watched the spectacle of violence unfold with open mouths and shocked expressions. No one made any attempt to call the police, or thought the Kurgan's anger could be directed against any of them. The watched passively as the Kurgan dismantled Kronos.
When he was finished, the Kurgan picked Kronos up and threw him into a chair. He leaned in over the battered horseman, and spoke in rapid fire Ancient Greek. "Truth be told, I don't much care if you believe I say who I am or not. If you don't think by now that the Kurgan can raise himself from the dead, that's your problem. Hopefully, though, you're aware that I am a serious man intent on serious matters."
Kronos' dark eyes blazed fury at the Kurgan, but the horseman nodded weakly, blood dripping from his open mouth.
"Good," the Kurgan said. "Good," he repeated. The Kurgan reached down into the wreckage of his table, and found a greasy napkin. He picked it up, and, with elaborate care, began to dab at the gashes and cuts on Kronos' face.
"I have need of you, Kronos. I have been away from the Game for ten long years, and I am not at all familiar with the players. I need your knowledge. Now, I could take it the old fashioned way," the Kurgan said, smiling. "But I thought we might settle this in a more amicable way. You tell me what I want to know, and I'll let you live." The Kurgan paused. "I'll wait until your jaw mends before we start chatting in earnest."
Kronos' hands tightened into fists. His eyes glimmered with hatred.
The Kurgan's smile broadened. This was immensely fun. Soon, he knew, Kronos would explode, regardless of how many humans watched. And then the Kurgan would cut him down. And, with Kronos' Quickening added to his own, Viracocha would be much easier to dispatch.
The Fates were truly smiling upon him.
While the Kurgan had his chat with Kronos, the last flight from outside of New Orleans landed at the airport. All subsequent planes would find themselves redirected elsewhere, as the savage weather over New Orleans made landing there a difficult prospect at best.
Only twenty passengers disembarked; seventeen of them were veterans of Mardi Gras, and uncertain weather conditions could not keep them away from their favorite city nor their favorite party.
The other three came, not because they wished to, but because they felt that they must.
The taller one was raw boned and thin, with aquiline features and dark hair cut severely short. His right arm terminated just beyond the elbow, though the lack of a hand did not seem to trouble him.
His two traveling companions looked far younger than he, and truth be known, they were. One had short, scruffy red hair and a brooding expression that he wore like a badge; his cheeks were fuzzy with three days of beard.
The other man was compactly built, with dark hair, that, even at a distance, looked clumsily dyed, and a pair of glasses that looked uncomfortable on his small nose.
"Well, lads, we made it, though I would have wagered otherwise," the older man quipped.
The man with the glasses plucked the lenses off of his face. "I am through with these," he muttered. "Clark Kent, my ass. This is a dumb disguise," he added in a lower tone.
"It worked, Richard, didn't it?" the older man said, as the two headed down the ramp. His sharp features suggested he was smiling, though the younger man couldn't be sure. He looked to the third man for support, and found he wasn't there.
Richie and the older man looked back, and saw their other companion standing alone on the ramp, his head cocked as if listening to something. Or for something.
"What is it MacLeod?" the older man asked, raising his voice slightly.
Connor MacLeod closed his eyes, and said, "I can feel him."
Methos glanced at Richie. "Hear who?"
Richie's mouth was set in a firm line. "The Kurgan."
Methos' brow darkened. "How do you know that?"
Richie shrugged. "Who else would he be referring to?" Connor recovered himself, shouldered his pack, and quickened his stride to catch up with the other two. Richie grabbed his elbow. "The Kurgan, right?" he asked.
Connor nodded. "Aye. I can't explain it... but as soon as I stepped off the plane, I felt him. He's here, somewhere in this city."
Methos shook his head. "How?" he demanded.
Connor raised an eyebrow. "Hey," he said, "I'm no wizard. You tell me."
Methos scowled at Connor's remark, and then started walking again, muttering to himself about rude Scots. Connor grinned at Richie, and slapped him on the back. They followed the bitter old man.
Selura walked on air. Despite the difficulties her car had navigating the snowy roads, despite the emptiness of the city at the early morning hour, and emptiness that should have made her edgy and nervous. Despite the fact that the hotel lobby was packed to the gills with people who had been caught by the storm. Selura felt good. Really good. For the first time in ages.
After so many years apart, she had simultaneously dreaded and hoped for a reunion with Perseus. She did love him, beyond a doubt. That he did not love her in return hurt, and hurt immensely. But she couldn't help herself; even as old as she was, she could not master her emotions like Perseus could. It was one of the things she admired most about him: his self-control, his dedication.
That their reunion had gone so well would have made Selura happy enough. But her present elation was beyond mere "happy." She was positively ecstatic. No words had passed between them, none that mattered at least. His apology meant little compared to the other gift he gave her.
Himself. For the first time in their relationship, he had given himself to her completely, fully, without reservation. He held nothing back. He was hers and she was his.
Was it love? Had he finally acknowledged his love for her? It certainly felt that way. She certainly wanted it to be that way. Selura wasn't stupid, however. She knew this sudden change came from something that happened recently. Was it due to Perseus' failure in Hong Kong? The new bond he shared with the mortal girl, affecting his emotions and his ability to restrain them? Or was it simply because the End was so close? Whatever the cause might be, Selura reasoned, it had merely been a catalyst, a means to awaken dormant feelings.
Love.
So many years alone. More for him, surely, but had seemingly developed the ability to ignore that particular need. And neither Perseus nor Selura had ever lacked for friends. They never lacked for companionship. But companionship can only satisfy certain needs, as Brigid and Bran learned. They gave in to their emotions long ago, and for a time, they had paradise.
Selura shook her head. Even now, describing the greatest love she had ever seen, she used Perseus' words for it. "Giving in" to emotions.
Bran and Brigid had been freed. And now, it seemed, Perseus was freed as well.
She made her way up to her room and keyed the door open. She tossed her coat on the bed and carefully leaned her claymore up against the wall. Then she flipped open the closet, pulled her suitcase out, and began to pack her things. She was checking out today, and moving into Perseus' home.
But she was not so distracted by romantic notions that she did not sense the approach of another Immortal. The claymore was in her hand, and she had grabbed her long coat before she heard a rap on her door. Shrugging into the coat, she glanced towards the balcony.
There was a loud crack, and the door burst open. A huge man stood outlined in the doorway, his white beard bristling. A velvet patch obscured one eye.
"Wotan," Selura breathed.
The Immortal grinned like a wolf and stepped into the room, producing a large handgun as he did so. "My master would like a word with you, Selura." He gestured at her with the muzzle of the gun. "I see you're already packed to go. Excellent." His one remaining eye was a chunk of ice, hard and cold.
She smiled demurely, and scooped up the suitcase. "Sure, Wotan. Let's go," she said, and then tossed the suitcase at him. He knocked it away with one massive hand, and then aimed the pistol at her. But she was already in motion, following the path of the suitcase towards the German, her claymore drawn and flashing.
He squeezed of a shot that buzzed past her ear, while she drove the point of her sword through his chest, smashing through ribs and tearing into vital organs. Wotan spat blood and brought the edge of the gun down across the back of her neck. Selura grimaced as her vision swam with stars, but maintained her discipline; as Wotan's dying body slumped against the door, she planted a boot against his chest and pulled her blade free.
Blood flowed freely down his shirt, staining him and the rug scarlet. Wotan slid down the door, landing in a sitting position on the floor. The gun fell from nerveless fingers, but his single crystal blue eye remained open, watching her. His mouth formed words that she could not hear.
She pondered, for a moment, the wisdom of taking his Quickening while the opportunity presented itself. As she hefted her blade, considering the matter, a squat man in a hotel uniform walked past the door, carrying towels in both hands. He saw the bloody body and the huge sword, and his mouth dropped open in wordless horror. Selura suddenly decided that she had better leave.
A spray of bullets ripped open the hotel employee and blew apart the door lintel, showering Selura with splinters of wood. She backed away from the door quickly, aware now that Wotan had not come alone. Apparently she would have to use the balcony exit after all. She turned towards the sliding door that led outside, pausing momentarily to drag her the point of her claymore across Wotan's remaining eye. It split like a cracked egg, and she smiled grimly. She might not be able to take his Quickening, but he would never bother her again.
Another spray of bullets quickened her pace, and she threw open the glass door to the balcony, stepping out onto the icy deck. Her breath steamed in the cold air, and from the looks of the heavy clouds in the sky, the present calm was but a prelude to more violent weather.
She could drop down to the balcony below, knowing that if Wotan had backup in the hall -- approaching rapidly, and armed with artillery, she reminded herself -- then he might have more henchmen scattered throughout the hotel, waiting to catch her. Or, she could attempt the fifteen foot jump across empty air to the parking garage.
She felt another Immortal behind her, and heard the sharp crack of automatic weapons fire. Pain blossomed across her shoulder as something hard crashed into her at high speed. She almost spun around form the impact, but caught herself on the balcony rail. Without glancing behind her to see who her attacker was, she vaulted to the top of the rail -- hoping she wouldn't catch another hail of bullets -- and leapt into space.
New Orleans was not isolated. The violence and despair that ruled its icy streets was not unique.
The Communist Chinese government was blaming the United States for what happened in Hong Kong; they claimed to have evidence that the nuclear weapon that detonated in the city had been U.S. owned. The American president, faced with pressure from the most powerful extant communist regime during an election year, decided to emulate his hero, Jack Kennedy. He would not back down, would not admit U.S. complicity in the destruction of Hong Kong. And the United States edged closer towards Armageddon.
In the United Kingdom, the cease-fire between the IRA and the English military ended brutally, and the streets of Belfast once more ran red with blood.
Guatemala, San Salvador, Ecuador... Central America exploded in an orgy of violence as guerrillas and stormtroopers went for eachother's throats.
In Africa, Rwanda, Burundi, Liberia, Nigeria, Angola, and even the Rift Valley in Kenya once more became hotbeds of violence. To the north and east, the West Bank in Israel erupted once more as well, as Palestinian sects expressed their dissatisfaction with the government of Israel.
The fragile peace between Serbia and Bosnia ended. The shelling of Sarajevo began again. Minority groups in Russia began raising their voices, and as the government continued to ignore them, hotter heads advocated revolution.
War stalked the globe, and his little brother Death followed close behind.
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