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

leaving behind the corpses of the Hunters. "Nice trick," Aylón said.

"Not so nice," Zarach said with tired voice. "I'm almost empty."
A sound like bolts dropping in a meat grinder was coming from the M-7 Chimera's rear end. Methos

looked at Aylón. "Sounds like a blown transaxle. We're just grinding metal."

Aylón nodded. "Get ready." The M-7 Chimera pulled to the edge of the complex. The crew door

opened. The Ancient Gathering hit the ground running and spread out. They dropped behind

immediate cover.
Zarach scanned the area. A spray of weapons fire overhead and everyone hit the ground. They

were caught in the torrent of bullets.

"Where the hell is Lilitu?" Methos yelled through the sound.
Zarach looked ahead. As if response to Methos' words, for a moment a figure of pure shadow took

shape ahead him where before there'd been nothing. It rose from the ground and took on human

form, but it was darkness through and through. Then the darkness coalesced, taking on more

identifiable hues and substance, and Lilitu appeared for a brief moment. Then she disappeared

again.
"We need to move forward!" Myrddin yelled. "I can't use my fire! The Hunters are wearing some

kind of armor!"

"Leave them to me!" Zarach answered as he walked toward the Hunters.
Normally, Zarach shielded that part of what he was really. Not now. As he walked through the yard,

his body blazed with unnatural energy. His anger and frustration made him deadly. As the bullets

hit him, his mind focused in his hate for Lilitu. More than likely he was going to die trying to kill her,

but he had faced death so many times already that it made very little difference to him. He had

promised, and he was going to do his best to keep that promise.
"Let's go!" Aylón said as Zarach started to kill the Hunters. "We can take this army!"
"They're not an army," corrected Methos, bristling slightly. "Soldiers have discipline and obey

orders. These bastards are mindless rabble. They are worthless cannon fodder!" he yelled opening

fire at the Hunters who surrounded Zarach.

====================================

Zarach was free. Aylón 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 Aylón, and they seemed to form a sort

of protective barrier which included the four Immortals. The shots fired by Aylón, 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 Aylón's lead. Not a word passed between the two, but they

covered one another without fail. Many times Aylón 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. Aylón 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!" Aylón 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.
Aylón and Zarach both ran toward Methos, but the Hunters tipped the barrels, and a fiery flood was

unleashed over the doors, down the steps. Aylón recognized the Greek fire, or some modern

equivalent that flowed like oil and scorched like molten lead.

Before Aylón 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.
Aylón 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.

Aylón 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," Aylón said.
"No! I can fight!" Methos gasped, but already he was losing consciousness.
Aylón ignored him. "Myrddin, take him out of here."
"Aylón 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.

Aylón 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 Aylón more than the

overwhelming grief from the moment before.
Aylón 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 Aylón

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. Aylón 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. Aylón 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.

Aylón 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 Aylón made sure not to push ahead of Zarach, to guard his flanks and

rear instead. Zarach in this state might not recognize Aylón. 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 Aylón. 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

Aylón's view.
"Wait! Where are you going?" Aylón 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. Aylón 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 Aylón!
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 Aylón 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 Aylón 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 Aylón's neater handiwork—but her former son and lover was as elusive

as smoke.

Fortunately, Aylón 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 Aylón. 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 Aylón 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 Aylón 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 Aylón 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 Aylón was her best course of action. She was powerful. She was omnipotent. She could

kill them both. Besides, Aylón occasionally had to deal with the various messes Zarach had not

quite finished.

Aylón 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, Aylón 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. Aylón 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.

====================================

Aylón 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, Aylón 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 Aylón

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 Aylón,

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 Aylón pounded past them in an effort to follow

Zarach. Lilitu's puppets were willing, and they were certainly loyal. One played dead until Aylón was

nearly upon him, then put two bullets into the Old Man of the Mountain's left arm. Aylón rolled to

cover and sent a tentacle of energy out from under his scimitar to crush the Hunter. Aylón 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. Aylón 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, Aylón 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 Aylón 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, Aylón wanted to be there. Like a madman, he ran.
====================================

Zarach looked around with a satisfied smile on his face. There were at least six dead Hunters

sprawled out before him. All six were in various states of dismemberment, and one was entirely

without limbs. They'd fought well; if nothing else, Lilitu inspired unquestioning loyalty. There was a

desperate, unreasoning ferocity about them, but they had never had a chance. One might as well

ask toddlers to fight a grizzly bear, than to ask even trained, skilled Hunters to tackle an ancient