Ehyeh-asher-ehyeh (I am that I am)

EHYEH-ASHER-EHYEH

(I AM THAT I AM)
Disclaimers: Unfortunately, this is not our universe, so we have made no profit from it—just tons of fun! All persons, places and institutions in this tale—except those that are clearly part of the public domain—are fictitious, and the mention of characters, which are copyrighted by the HL franchise such as Connor, Duncan, Amanda, Methos, Cassandra, Grace Chandler, Ceirdwyn, Nakano, Ramírez, Silas, Caspian, Kronos & Darius—is not a challenge to the trademarks concerned. Vi Moreau copyrights the original characters of Elena Duran, Roderigo Rubio, Miyu, Sensei Hosokawa Hiroshi, and the fictional version of the historical characters Livia Drusilla, Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin, Tomas de Torquemada and Gaius Caesar Germanicus—Caligula. Julio Cesar copyrights Corazón Negro, Lilitu, Zarach Bal-Tagh, Aylón, Heru-sa-aset, Myrddin, Naema, Holy Bhaktivedanta, Cardinal Felucca, Abd al-Malik, Franciscan friar Devaney, Rabbi Benjamin bar-Joaquin and the fictional version of the historical characters Quetzalcóhuatl, Vlad Tepes, and Josephus Cartiphilus Longinus. This story follows Ha-Satan in our saga.
Any work the length of our saga requires the help, involvement and good will of many people. So,

we would like to thank the following whose help proved invaluable in this literary endeavor: Robert

Sacchi, first beta-reader of this story, an unconditional friend always ready to provide great tactical

ideas and notions about futuristic weapons, who went far beyond the call of friendship, as usually.

Lori Wright, an excellent writer, great partner and devoted mother, always willing to help. Ann

Tirnanog, Darius' greatest fan, very good friend, reader and teacher, who even without knowing,

helped us believe that all writing should sing the silent music of the soul. Pat Flores, Linda Bennett

& Rick Evans, whose relentless faith in our stories has brought us to still writing them. Janeen K.

Grohsmeyer, with our eternal gratitude for introducing Vi and me to each other. Ann Ford, whose

suggestions and personal notes about the Myrddin character were right on the mark, giving us

constant love and great dreams. Claudia 'Kimosabi', second beta-reader of this tale, mate-soul of

Corazón Negro, pillar on the very first draft of this narrative, and especially for her assistance and

support through this voyage.
Thanks to you, our friends, for providing us with excellent, ever-timely support—we just hope you

enjoyed reading this story as much as we did writing it! And of course, to anyone we might have

accidentally left out, we extend an apology and would like offer our heartfelt thanks as well.
Vi would like to thank Bridget Testa, Janeen Grohsmeyer, MacNair and the rest of the members of

the ConnorList for their help in the battle against the Berserkers. I always get a lot of strategic-

tactical help from my husband, Ken Moreau, thanks very much Ken. My greatest gratitude is to my

co-conspirator, Julio Cesar, who has brought his vision of this wonderful Aztec Immortal to life—

and mated him with my Immortal, Elena Duran. She's happy with him, as I am. I'd like to thank

God for His strength and inspiration. But this particular story I'd like to dedicate to my daughter

Michelle Moreau—welcome back, cookie!
Julio Cesar would like to dedicate this tale to Mom and Dad, my wife Laura, my brother Jorge

David, my comrades Salvador Garcia & Erick Fritsche and to my dearest friend, confessor, sister

and co-writer Vi Moreau. My gratitude to all of you for your love, support and encouragement in my

undertakings, and especially in the creation of these series, which I could very well dub my fictional

masterpiece. It is here where my Immortal creations have traveled through the pages of never-

ending sagas with powerful swords and tools of destruction toward adventure, prominence,

perpetuity and death. With undying affection, this one is for all of you.
And finally, of course, our special thanks to Mr. Gregory Widen, creator of Highlander, for starting

this whole wonderful adventure.

The journey that began with THE BLACK FLOWER, and continued through nineteen other tales over

the last year, will finish here—almost—and its ending will determine the fate of every Immortal in

the world. This tale stands on its own, but reading the previous ones will make this one much

clearer and easier to understand. This narrative uses the supernatural for its settings, characters

and themes. All mystical and paranormal elements are fictional and intended for entertainment

purposes only. And please remember: this story is set in a world disturbingly like our own, yet

harsher and darker. In here, our fears are more real. Our governments are more degenerate. Our

ecosystem dies a bit more each day. And Immortals are real. That's why reading discretion is

advised. Enjoy!

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In what is today Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire, England

At the end of the Dark Ages

It was dark, and at first nothing moved in the knoll. The gray shapes of the clouds were faceless

figures in the mist, moving slowly, as timeless sentries, misshaped and frozen. It was night, and

the shrieks of owls broke through the silence, the sounds mixing with the blowing wind to create a

wretched cacophony. The grasses waved in the breeze, as if trying to break free from their roots

and escape the hooves of the horse that threatened to squash them where new shadows were

stirring.

In the distance, a small bonfire was visible through the dimness.
The lone rider dismounted, staring about, feeling the protection offered by Holy Ground. His two-

colored eyes were bright, and his face reflected his enthusiasm, his excitement at being back in this

place. He was a man who loved to explore, to search out all that he had not yet seen, and he lived

for the unknown, even when he, Zarach bal-Tagh, was as ancient as any civilization that had

existed on earth, and there was little that was new to him. His life had taken him across the face of

the planet many times, teaching him more about it than any other living man could possibly yet

hope to know, even now when the world was changing again, and the old magic and its ways were

no more. Finally, the Catholic Church and its Inquisition were fading away, in a slow but constant

manner. The Renascence provided a new breed of people and ideologies for humankind, and the

old supernatural things were falling into darkness, perhaps forever.

Well, not all the magic. Zarach closed his eyes, feeling deep inside his soul the other Immortals

waiting for him. At last, the Ancient Gathering. Grinning, he tied his horse to a post set beside a

small camp of skin tents, were a young boy welcomed him.
"Welcome, milord," the boy said. "The others are waiting for you."
"I know," Zarach responded as he settled for straight ahead. His two sai—his Chinese trident-like

weapons—swung at his side, banging gently against his leg. For a moment, Zarach stopped to

ponder about this place.
Stonehenge and its purpose remained a mystery even now, more than 4,000 years after it was first

built. It could have been a temple, an astronomical calendar, or a guide to the heavens. Despite the

fact that mortal men did not know its purpose for certain, Stonehenge acted as a prehistoric

timepiece, allowing scholars to theorize about its origins and significance. It was as if it had become

an eternal enigma rapped in a timeless riddle. No one really knew what it had represented during a

prehistoric time, and who, how and why, had built this megalithic wonder.

But Zarach knew better.
Ancient people had decided to build a massive monument using earth, timber and eventually,

stones. The sacred place was as mysterious and holy as it must have been to the hundreds of

people who helped build the site. Under Zarach's guidance, construction took place in three phases,

over twenty-six generations, between 3000 and 1400 BCE. Most of it had been the result of human

muscle and physical strength and a system of ropes and wooden levers used to transport the

massive stones. Primitive tools, such as red deer antlers, were used to dig up the chalky

countryside, which was then taken away on ox shoulder blades. The stones of the main monument

appeared to form layers of circles and horseshoe patterns that slowly enclosed the site.

First there were two stone circles, an outer and an inner one. In the center of the Monument were

two pillar stones with the stone on top shaped as a horseshoe. Surrounded by this was another

smaller set of stones, also positioned in the shape of a horseshoe. But it was a monument made of

more than just rocks. There was the henge, or a ditch and bank, which surrounded the stone circle.

There was also a laneway that extended from the northeast side of the monument from the open

horseshoe to the River Avon, a few kilometers away. Several stones marked this laneway, just

outside the henge of the monument. Erosion, time and human invasion had worn it down, leaving

many of the stones in stumps similar to a set of baby teeth. Although the site was not as majestic

as it once had been, it still conveyed a sense of power that seemed to enclose people in its

mystery, allowing no one to escape from the question of its purpose.

It was the truest embodiment of Holy Ground. And tonight, the Standing Stones were, perhaps,

more sacred than ever. The perfect place for the Ancient Gathering to take place.

Zarach stepped inside the sacred circle, where, just as he knew, the others were waiting for him.

His gaze encompassed them, and with a little bow, he saluted them.

"You're late," Aylón, the Old Man of the Mountain said first with an angry tone.
"Nevertheless, I'm here," Zarach answered looking fearlessly at him. Aylón was shaggy and

unkempt as always. Wearing black Arabian robes that made him look like an ancient terror from the

past, his chiseled eyebrows exhibited an always-present rage on his bearded face, whose cheeks

were decorated with bizarre ritualistic blue tattoos. He was a huge, fierce-looking man. Zarach

shuddered inwardly as he remembered this Immortal's great powers, his eternal anger, and the

wisdom he seemed to possess.

Aylón's hand moved closer to the hilt of his huge scimitar. For a moment, Zarach narrowed his

gaze. One day, maybe he and Aylón would settle their differences. But not here, not tonight. "Are

we ready?" Zarach asked, trying to alleviate the situation.
"We are," Nakano answered, moving closer to him. "Put your quarrels aside, brothers," the

Japanese wizard suggested to both of them. "This is Holy Ground."

Aylón sighed. "Another time then," he said to Zarach.
Zarach's eyes shone mysteriously. "Not until Mother dies."
"So be it," Ramirez spoke for the first time. Over his shoulders was a cloak of peacocks' feathers,

the colors of which flashed in the torchlight. Beside him, Roderigo Rubio, the Iberian, wearing a

shiny crusader's armor, shifted uncomfortably. He was one of the youngest of the group and felt

out of place—he was only here seconding his master, Ramirez.

Zarach looked briefly at them before his gaze rested on Naema, the only woman in the group.

Dressed in a red Massai dress, she had an elaborately carved wooden staff in her left hand. Her

stance seemed almost regal and the shadows of the night accentuated her high cheekbones and

ruby-red lips. Two long braids fell along her slim body nearly to her waist. Her honey eyes blazed

with an intense inner fire. With a small grin, she welcomed him. No words were needed between

them. Millennia before they had treated each other as brother and sister, in a time long gone, in a

time before Lilitu's Game.
Zarach then looked over at the Immortals near her. They were Darius, the warlord who had killed

Emrys at the gates of Paris long ago, and Zarach's own former protégé, Kadosh, the one known

nowadays as Methos.
"I'm glad to see you again," Darius said with a Germanic accent. By now he had converted to

Christianity. He wore a Catholic priest's robes. Methos, his long black hair moved by the soft breeze

and dressed like a peasant, said no word. Zarach simply nodded at them.
A small figure moved behind Zarach. "It's been a long time, old one," the smaller man said, with a

strange tone of voice Zarach knew too well. "But you always fulfill your promises."

Without turning, Zarach smiled openly this time. "Just like you, Quetzalcóhuatl, just like you," he

whispered. Slowly, he turned and embraced the little Immortal known as the Feather Snake.

Quetzalcóhuatl ethnic origins obviously hadn't been lost—he was still the quintessential dark Indio,

small, dark-complexioned, with down-sloping brown eyes reflecting deep intelligence, a strong jaw,

long black hair tied back neatly in a leather cord. The muscles in his shoulders and neck were well-

defined, and he moved with the grace of a dancer. There was much to talk about, and Zarach

hoped that after this campaign they would both have a chance to catch up on old times.
"Someday, Lilitu is going to try to destroy all Immortals on the earth," Myrddin's voice floated over

the breeze. He was unguarded and passive as always, dressed in a white Druid's robe. His ruddy,

bearded face shone by the light reflected from the fire and his long gray hair whipped across his

broad shoulders. His eyes were filled with the light of wisdom. "Maybe not all of us will be here to

face her when the time comes."
"Many have died because of this war so far," Heru-sa-aset, the forgotten Egyptian demigod-prince,

declared softly beside the Druid, as if pondering his thoughts. Dressed like an oriental king, this

Immortal had a strong chin, hawk-like nose, a shaved head, and skin the color of molten bronze.

His eyes blazed with intelligence.

Zarach looked at the Druid mage and at the Egyptian. "Perhaps, but even if we don't, others will

fight against her." He eyed the Ancient Gathering, waiting for their answers. "We have traveled

from all the corners of the world to meet here. Promise me, swear to me, that if we die, our

disciples will fight against Mother, no matter the odds."

"So be it," Nakano said. "If we die, our apprentices will fight in our stead."
"I swear to fight against her personally," Aylón declared with low tones. "I have to see her dead

with my own eyes."

"The same goes for me," Heru-sa-aset said. "Me and no other. No matter the odds."
Naema smiled, her white teeth flashing in the night. "I'll be there too, at the final Gathering."
Myrddin lowered his gaze. "I pray to the Gods never to have to fight her, but if it comes to that, I

will."
Ramirez looked at Roderigo. "I swear it too. And if I die, Roderigo here will take my place." The

proud looking Iberian nodded, but he didn't seem too happy. However, Zarach knew to trust both

Ramirez and his student.

Darius seemed sad when Zarach looked at him. "You know me. After that awful night long ago at

the gates of Paris, I abandoned the warpath." For a moment, the priest lowered his gaze, as if

recollecting his inner thoughts. "But if the time comes, I will take up my sword again against Lilitu.

I swear it."

Then Zarach looked over at Methos. Their eyes met without blinking. "You already know the

answer, old man," Methos simply said.

Zarach sighed. He knew some of them would die before Lilitu's Endgame. Trying to find hope, he

raised his gaze toward the sky. Above Stonehenge, the clouds moved, and for a brief moment,

moonlight illuminated the faces of the Ancient Gathering.

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