Jason Henderson - Highlander - The Element of Fire

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HIGHLANDER

-THE ELEMENT OF FIRE-

by Jason Henderson

PDF edition by Lived Orcen

Synopsis:

Duncan's eyes flew up the main mast to the crow's nest, and as lightning linked its way

across the sky he saw two women there, and by the strong presence, he knew they were

both Immortals.. "Amber!' shouted Duncan, but the wind would not carry his voice. He

saw the glint of steel. Who the other woman was, Duncan had no idea. But they were

fighting.

Lightning filled the sky and Duncan saw the mane of red hair, just like that of Khordas,

the Salamander. Duncan shouted out to Amber again and began to run for the main

mast, but now he saw Connor wrench one hand free from the wheel of the Rosemary

and thrash at him furiously.. "No!". "But. . .' Crashing waves. The two women were

pitched in battle in a space no wider than a tabletop.. "She's not ready!' . "No!' Connor

snarled again, over the elements.. "You may not interfere! It is forbidden!' Lightning

crackled once again, and the two female figures were silhouettes against the gray

clouds. Duncan heard the Salamander cry, "The God will be avenged, Highlander! I

own the elements and will not be denied my duel."

If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this

book may have been stolen property and reported as "unsold and

destroyed" to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the

publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

WARNER BOOKS EDMON

"Highlander" is a protected trademark of Gaumont Television. 0 1994 by

Gauniont Television and 0 Davis Panzer Productions, Inc. 1985.

Published by arrangement with Bohbot Entertainment, Inc.

Aspect is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.

Warner Books, Inc. 1271 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020

Time Warner Company

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing: October, 1995

10 9 8 7 6

PDF Version: 1.0 (February 10, 2006)

Prologue

In a year without number, because all years were alike, in a land that would one day be

called Scotland but was then called simply the World, the Children of the Salamander

sang: Khordas, we have come to please you, Khordas, we have come to serve....

The Time of the Return had come. With each beat of the dram the mud vibrated, with

each pellet of hard rain the surface splashed, and ripples moved in muddy rings around

the form of the god who slept. The god awakened in his sleeping place and opened his

eyes. His Children were calling.

Khordas, hear our prayer!

On the surface of the mud lay the mask of the god, and now it lifted from its resting

place, the form of the god bubbling up from below. The mud filtered away from the

god's eyes and he saw through the mask, and became the mask, as he rose from the holy

pit.

The Children of the Salamander danced, and now the god saw their forms, lit up by a

lightning chain that linked its way across the sky. All of them were painted deep blue,

like the mask of the Salamander. The rain ran along their muscles, heading on the paint,

their glistening bodies moving in answer to the drums, for Khordas was their god, and

they feared him.

Khordas threw out his arms to the beat of the drums and the clap of thunder, and mud

flew all around him, splattering on the blue dancers. The god chanted in the tongue of

the Children, answering their prayer:

"Fire and water are my domain! Who dares call Khordas, the Salamander?"

We are not puny, like our babes,

Nor weak, like our enemies acrogs the hills....

Khordas leapt from the pit with a hiss and landed in the middle, surrounded by the

dancers. The drums grew stronger.

We are your Children, Khordas,

And because we fear you, we are feared!

Khordas slithered before them, crouching, moving his head like the Salamander, and

now he reached into a pouch and drew out something the blue people did not see.

Khordas slapped his hands together, and between his palms something flared and

burned in the night, brighter than the lightning.

"ile water can kill the weakest of you, in great amounts, but you control it, for I am your

god.

"But fire is greater still, and even this, I use at my pleasure!"

Khordas, we have come to please you, Khordas, we have come to serve....

The fireball flew from Khordas' hands, and fell before him on the ground, and a ring of

fire grew, too strong even for the rain. And even the dancers, who had experienced this

since they were children, cowered at the sight. "Why," cried the god of fire and water,

the greatest of things, the elements of power, "I should destroy you for even thinking

you could serve me!"

Khordas, we beg your mercy, Khordas, we wish to please....

"And what will you give me that I might not destroy you?

What will you give, that I might look fondly?"

We give you these baubles, poor though they are, but to us, they are great things.

And now they came, two at a time, all the Children of the Salamander, heads bowed,

with offerings held before them.

Each pair came to the edge of the fire circle and tossed the offering inside the circle, for

none would cross the barrier, and certainly, none would approach the god. Slain

animals, trophies of hunts, packages of meat and fish, even jewels-a great sacrifice,

made only by the greatest of the Children.

The god danced the dance of recognition of the offerings, and soon he stopped dancing,

and stooped low. "Your god is not happy."

The god is not happy, what have we done?

Fire rain down, tides wash us away!

"Your god lives in his pit and wants to know the deeds of his Children!

Through the mud he cannot see what his Children do!"

We serve you, Khordas.

Khordas, the Salamander.

"Khordas will join you for this year, and walk among you, his Children, that you may

do him reverence every day."

Every day we do Khordas reverence.

Every day is his, lest we be destroyed

"Join you I shall, walk among you I shall! Eat from your tables, sleep in your beds!"

Now the god twisted on his ankles, smiling, staring at his Children. The Children

danced back a bit and one of the priests sang:

Unfit are we, to be joined with the god,

Khordas would tire of our home.

The god grew angry, hearing these words, roared from the circle, and approached the

sacred hut near the pit. "Now before me I find this house, the home of one of my

Children. I ask for shelter and companionship and I am denied it, and I will mete

punishment!"

And the Children cowered, and sang of their fear, remembering the great destruction the

god had once seen fit to send them, as the god threw something at the hut, and it burst

into flames.

And now Khordas turned and sought out he who had been planned for, and this man he

seized.

"Lonely is your god, and angry. . .

The man looked like any other, painted blue as he was, and great was the fear in his

eyes. Khordas seized the man, and the Children of the Salamander danced and cried out

in terror, remembered and real, as Khordas tore the disciple apart with his hands, saying

as he did so, "But Khordas does not wish to be angry, he only wishes to be with his

Children," showering the mud across his body with the blood of the victim, and now he

returned to the ring of fire that surrounded the holy pit.

A priest emerged now, from the back of the congregation, and the sea of Children

parted to let him pass as he sang his part:

Take then, oh Khordas, this my daughter, Nerissa.

"Take as your Companion her lovely frame,

Her perfect soul, her worship is yours.

Khordas' blood rushed from his face as he felt her come near, her father pushing her into

the clearing. What was this?

What manner of ... in all the years Khordas had been god he had never seen so perfect a

portrayal of Nerissa, her hair such as he had never seen before, white as snow, skin

utterly without color, her eyes pink. The creature wore no paint, and the mud splashed

up and made holy images on the white skin of her bare feet. But more than this was a

feeling he had never had before, of the air getting thick, smoke on his brain, and the

pink-eyed creature looked at him, and sang with the Children.

This companion your god accepts," said Khordas, as always he said, as every year he

said again. But this time he knew there was something different, that made his

mudladen belly quiver, a force that bonded her as no sacrifice had ever bonded to him

before. "Your lives I spare, as I have before.

Khordas ... Khordas. .. Khordas ... Khordas ... the drums pounded

as the Children danced and the god took the girl by the hand, and led her backwards,

through the ring of fire, and into the pit of mud, and he covered her face with his hands

and pulled her below. Bubbles flew from her mouth as she pitched, and it was minutes

before she drowned, and he remained with her below the mud for the night, before

slinking away with the offerings in the morning.

Khordas did not know who the first Khordas had been, but his mind clouded at the

thought. He was Khordas, and so he always had been. The stories, the songs were

about him. The sacrifices were to him. And now he had been Khordas for three

generations of Children of the Salamander.

He was surely the god.

He knew this, also, because the Nerissa whom he took into the pit, the pink-eyed girl

who had affected him so, rose the following morning from the dead as he did. And thus

Khordas knew that he was the real god, and she the real Nerissa.

Gods of fire and water. Gods of power. The oldest gods.

And every year for generations Khordas and Nerissa received their sacrifices, and they

danced in the blood, and her pink eyes shone under the offering.

And when all the Children of the Salamander were gone, there was no one left to

worship them.

And Khordas and Nerissa were very sad.

And very, very angry.

1625

There are beings in the world known as Immortals. Nomenclature aside, dying is not

impossible for them. Each dies twice-the first death is practice-but the next death, the

final one, head torn from shoulders and all years poured out on the ground, is difficult.

Most avoid it vigorously. The Immortals skim along the surface of the years like stones

on a stream, now and again halted, the stone tumbling to the depths, the Immortal

journey complete. In second death, the years stop skimming by; epitaphs can be carved

again. Dying is difficult, though some wish for it.

Dreaming is easy.

Where do I come from? Duncan cried, but his father would not listen. He cried again,

pleading, Where do I come from?

Father was staring at him from atop his horse, and he looked at Duncan as if Duncan

were not his son, and said as much: On the night my lady wife gave birth to our only

son, stillborn, there was brought to her chamber by a peasant woman a boy

child to replace ...

No!

... to replace that which was lost ...

No! I do not believe you, no, it cannot be ...

... and the midwife looked into your eyes, and said you were a changeling child!

But Father, if what you say is true ...

... you are no bairn of mine! You're not my son!

But where did I come from?

"Where did I come from!" Duncan cried again, and then something had him by the

shoulders, shaking him briskly, and he awoke.

"You're a bunk-mate from hell, that's where you come from," said the dark form that

stood over him. Duncan could hear the crackle of the fire nearby. He had awakened

Connor.

Duncan rubbed his eyes for a second and pushed his hair out of the way. "I'm sorry,

really. It won't happen again."

Connor shrugged and sat down by the fire, leaning back against the mossy stones of the

crumbling castle wall. Over Connors head the wall stopped, jutting here and there with

a rotting post. The stars shone bright where once there would have been tapestries

instead.

The flames cast an eerie glow on the teacher's ruddy face, and the Immortal looked

every bit the Connor MacLeod of legend. Connor, who had died in battle generations

ago, and who some said rose from the grave like the Phoenix, like Christ-and, some

said, walked the hills to this very day ... Duncan had once laughed at those stories, and

shuddered, and dreamt of the hmnortal MacLeod. Here he was.

And he had flesh, and he had blood.

"We are the same, Duncan MacLeod," the Elder Highlander told him, that first day.

Connor had found Duncan like Prometheus waiting in vain for death, wedged between

the rocks on the shore, as if he could drown. "We are brothers!"

And now Duncan sat up and looked at Connor, who had become his teacher, and who

was trying not to be annoyed with him. Connor picked up his sword and began to run it

across a whetstone. "You say it won't happen again, Dun can," said Connor, "but you

lie. You dream the same dream each night, and I am forced to listen to it."

Duncan felt his cheeks flush. He hated embarrassment. He had endured more

punishment from this new "brother" of his than he had ever received in his thirty years

of natural life, and he still felt abused by Conner's every word. "I cannot help what I

dream."

"Perhaps not," Connor closed his eyes and nodded, the sword scraping against the stone

in long, even strokes. Connor seemed to be listening to the sound of his sword before

he said, "Have I told you how I came to leave Glenfinnan?"

Duncan leaned on an elbow and grabbed a folded skin, unwrapped it and retrieved a

piece of bread. He tore into it with his teeth and chewed.

"Close your mouth," said Connor.

"What?"

"Your mouth. Close it. My God, we're pigs, aren't we?

Just trust me on this one, close your mouth when you chew.

So I was telling you about how I left Glenfinnan." Connor laughed, then, that strange

staccato laugh of his. Nearly a hundred years old, Connor must have been strange even

when he was mortal. Now, there was something downright alien about him. The light

glinted in Connor's brown eyes and sank into his dirty-brown hair in such a way that he

seemed like a walking storage, hoarding energy and giving off little, saving the energy

until it erupted in a violent burst.

Duncan was glad Connor seemed to have decided to like him, because there was

something fearful about him. Something dangerously efficient, as if Connor were on a

plotted course and had no intention of allowing divergence.

Duncan watched his mentor and wondered how Connor had come to be this way.

Perhaps it was the time Connor had spent with his mentor, Ramirez. Duncan had heard

little about Rarrrez, but he knew that the Egyptian-cum-Spanish Immortal was one of

the truly old ones. Yet Connor MacLeod was a kinsman, Duncan could tell, by his

harshness, his brogue, his familiarity with the land of their fathers.

And so Duncan would listen to what the Elder Highlander had to say. After all, without

Connor, he was alone.

"How you left . Duncan clamped shut his lips, of which he was now painfully aware.

Close them while you eat. You have to open them to speak, though, right?

"So ask me."

"Oh," said Duncan, after swallowing hard. He sat up straight and imitated a clansman

asking the advice of a proud chieftain. "Connor, how is it that you left Glenfinnan?"

"I am glad that you asked. I was driven out."

Duncan only stared. He had never heard this before, although a few things Connor had

said over the weeks they had been together had given him an inkling. "But you're a

legend. . ."

Connor leaned in and stared back. "The Scots, the MacLeods, are a fine and proud

people. I say that first so that you may understand that although they drove me out,

stripped me legally of my name, called me a child of Satan and a devil's servant,

strapped a great plank to my shoulders, and threw rocks and dung at me as I forced my

tortured legs to walk out of the only place I had ever called home, although they did

these things, I forgive them, for they could do no other. It was their way."

Duncan had no response to this.

"You are racked by the pain of your separation, are you not? You died in battle and

there was great wailing and gnashing of teeth. The women tore their clothing, all of

them.

Then, oh! You've come back to life. Different story, then. Get out. Unnatural. Go."

Connor peered deeply into the shining steel of the katana, Ramirez's legacy to him.

Duncan could tell Connor saw something not unlike salvation in that sword.

"Yes," said Duncan. "Exactly."

"They know no other way. And do you know something?

They're right."

"What on earth do you mean?"

Connor lay his sword in front of him. "What I mean, brother Duncan, is that these

things work out in roughly the way that they are supposed to. What if you had stayed in

your village rather than being forced out?"

"I'd still be at home," said Duncan. "I'd like to be at home."

"T do apologize for my lack of proper accommodations," said Connor, regarding the

lean-to hut that Duncan and he

had been sleeping in. The lean-to was supported by the bricks of a kiln, the sole

standing part of the rain that surrounded them. "She was an old forge by the time I

found her, and I fear she couldn't take a powerful Quickening. But in Scotland," he

sighed, "there is no better place for me." He seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then

the warrior's eyes glazed over and refocused on Duncan. "We would all like to be at

home. But what would that do? So the whole town accepts that you came back from

the dead. Big trouble for the priests.

And what do you learn? Nothing about the Game, I assure you. Everything has a

purpose. By casting you out they can remain themselves, and you can learn what you

are."

"But why can't they accept that we're not like them and let us live with them anyway?"

"Be careful, Duncan. This is humanity you're talking about."

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HIGHLANDER-THEELEMENTOFFIRE-byJasonHendersonPDFeditionbyLivedOrcenSynopsis:Duncan'seyesflewupthemainmasttothecrow'snest,andaslightninglinkeditswayacrosstheskyhesawtwowomenthere,andbythestrongpresence,heknewtheywerebothImmortals.."Amber!'shoutedDuncan,butthewindwouldnotcarryhisvoice.Hesawtheglintofst...

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Jason Henderson - Highlander - The Element of Fire

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