Highlander: Shadow of Obsession

by Rebecca Neason

  A few more feet and the wave of the stranger’s Immortality hit him, confirming what Darius already knew. He pulled back his lips, baring his teeth in a grin that looked like a mad wolf’s snarl.

  He kept walking, closing the gap between himself and this man who thought to bar his way. Foolish, so foolish; nothing would keep him from his goal.

  “Come no farther, Darius of the Goths,” the man called when Darius was ten feet away.

  “You know me?” Darius asked.

  “Yes, I know you, as I have known others like you since before the time of mortal memory.”

  “Then you know why I have come.”

  The man did not flinch as Darius took a step closer. He did not raise his sword; not a muscle of his body moved. He might have been carved of wood or stone, but for his eyes. They burned with internal fire. As they met and held Darius’s own, Darius knew that his four centuries were as a passing night to the time this Immortal had existed.

  “I have cared for my people through ages without number,” the holy man said, as if reading Darius’s thoughts—and still he did not raise his sword. “It was I who painted the walls of the caves in which we lived, holy pictures to guide my people’s hands in the hunt or their souls to the afterlife. I blessed them at their births and at their deaths and sought the guidance of the spirits for all their years in between.

  “It was at the ritual of Seeing that I died to my mortal life. I mixed the herbs for the sacred draught myself, but they were too strong that time. They did not bring me the Sight; they brought me death—and in that death, there was life.

  “I have never forsaken my shaman’s vows. I protected my people then and I protect them now. If I let you pass these gates, Darius of the Goths, you will plunge this world into an eternity of darkness. This I cannot allow. Though my way has been a way of peace, I learned to use a sword long before you were born—and I will use it now to stop you.”

  “What do they call you?” Darius asked. “I like to know the names of the Immortals I kill.”

  The holy man smiled mirthlessly. “I have been known by many names, words long forgotten to the human tongue. Among our kind, I am most often known as Emrys.”

  Darius nodded. He had heard the name and the legend of this man’s existence. Emrys, the oldest of the old; Emrys, whose very name meant Immortality.

  And of this Immortal other things were whispered, words of sanctity and of a holiness that outdistanced time itself. Darius had sneered at such reports before, and he dismissed them now. Holy men did not wield swords—and they died so very, very easily.

  Darius smiled. “Well, Emrys the Immortal,” he said. “I don’t care how long you have lived. Today you die.”

  Darius brought his sword en garde. He waited for the other Immortal to do the same. Still the man did not move. It was unnerving to see him without a muscle twitching anywhere. He stood with centuries, eons, of patience.

  Darius gave a mental shrug. He brought his sword up, down—and Emrys’s sword was there. His movement had been so swift and silent, Darius’s eyes had barely registered it.

  For a brief moment Darius was confused. He had no idea of the man’s weaknesses, his style of movement, his balance. Darius had never seen him walk, did not know if he was right-or left-handed. Emrys’s stillness had been a good defense, and a dangerous one if a man lacked skill or speed. Emrys, it appeared, lacked neither—and his stillness had allowed Emrys to take Darius’s measure while giving nothing of himself away.

  Darius gave his opponent a savage grin. “Well played, Emrys,” he said as he backed away slightly.

  Then, suddenly, he lunged again, his sword aimed at Emrys’s heart. The sword was deflected, but not quite enough. It pierced an arm.

  First blood.

  But this was no duel of honor to be ended with a wound. This was a fight to the death and both men knew it. As Emrys grunted in pain, Darius attacked again, bringing his sword low to sweep the legs and cut the tendons above the knee.

  Once more Emrys parried, but barely in time. He brought the hilt of his sword up, smashing it into Darius’s face. Pain exploded behind his eyes as the blood spurted from his broken nose. He staggered backward, giving Emrys the space he needed to attack.

  Both men ignored their wounds; Immortal flesh would heal and pain would subside. All that mattered now was survival.

  The clash of their swords rang out, hushing the songs of the birds and the cries of the waterfowl on the river. The breeze died and the afternoon sun beat down on them like a third weapon. In the sudden stillness it felt as if time itself was holding its breath, waiting on the outcome of this battle.

  Darius was taller, with greater reach, but Emrys had shoulders that were massive with the strength he had built throughout the ages, and a speed such as Darius had never before encountered. Every time he swung his sword, Emrys’s weapon was already there, waiting for him. It was a good match, a more even match than Darius had ever before faced.

  Time was measured not in seconds and heartbeats, but in lunges and parries, in upward cuts, diagonal slices, and spinning blocks. Strike upon strike, the moments built and vanished. Darius felt his arms growing weary. His body was bathed in sweat and in blood from a dozen small wounds. He was slowing—and he knew it.

  But so was Emrys. That amazing speed could last for only so long.

  There, the opening was a little wider this time. Darius almost smiled, but he would not waste even that much movement. He reached down into himself, down deep where that last vestige of blood lust and battle fever might reside; he called upon every reservoir of strength his Immortal body held and began to rain down blows. There was no style, no finesse or skill, just blow upon blow meant to drive an opponent into the ground.

  Darius felt Emrys’s knees buckle. He went down. Then, even as Darius raised his sword for what they both knew was the final cut, the ancient Immortal turned his face toward Darius—and he smiled.

  Darius’s sword came down.

  The Quickening began even before the body hit the ground. Tendrils of power shot through Darius, gripped his soul and held it in unmerciful fingers, as all that Emrys had been came crashing in upon him. This was a Quickening such as Darius had never felt before, for here was Age incalculable; here were time and humanity held captive in a single soul.

  Above all, here was holiness.

  It came not as ivory-tower brightness, a thing unsullied by the ways of the world. Here was holiness that had walked each path of the human heart, in joys and sorrows that mingled in patterns of dark and light. They played through Darius’s brain and burrowed themselves deep into his spirit. Even as his body continued to be buffeted by Immortal winds, his mind swirled in the experiences that were Emrys’s, and humanity’s, past.

  In scenes that shifted more quickly than the flicker of an eagle’s eye, Darius saw humankind change with the ages. Through Emrys’s eyes, he saw them huddled around fires in darkened caves, faces painted with ocher and soot. He felt their fear of the night, their fear of the seasons, their fear of life and of death—and in all things they looked to Emrys for their guidance.

  Darius felt Emrys’s fear, too, for these were the years of his mortality. But he was their shaman and it was his calling to walk the holy paths. He loved his people with a love that was greater than his fear; for their sakes, he sought the way through the darkness.

  Carried on the fire of the Quickening, the life and power that had been Emrys continued—building, pouring into Darius until he felt his mind must surely burst. Lightning tore at his body; lightning-fast the scenes came of Emrys’s first death and reawakening.

  For years he did not know what his Immortality meant. But his body did not change and death did not claim him. He could be forever with his people now and his love for them grew without bounds.

  The ages sped past. Emrys’s tribe grew and joined with others. Spiritual expressions changed from animal totems to the Mother Goddess, to a pantheon of gods, and still Emrys was there, seeking to g
ive the heart of the Divine to all those around him. Finally came the teachings of the Christian Church and these, too, Emrys embraced, finding in those words of brotherhood and forgiveness an expression of all the ages had created him to be.

  From distant places, other Immortals found Emrys—teachers who brought him the rules of The Game, disciples who sought the path of love he walked, and a few who came to destroy. But against these Emrys prevailed so that he could continue to protect and to guide, to keep his timeless vows.

  He lived through famines, plagues, and wars—and now Darius lived them too. In each breath he took, in each beating of his heart, Darius felt the pain every human death caused in Emrys’s soul.

  This pain, born of compassion and tenderness, suffused Darius. It was bright and hot, the fire of the sun burning away the darkness of his heart; it was new and soft, the miracle of birth, replacing apathy with gentleness and selfishness with joy; it was the laughter of an infant, the selfless sacrifice of a parent, the innocence of a child and the patient wisdom of the aged.

  Above all, it was love. Unsullied. Undemanding. Immeasurable. It was love that did not seek return.

  Love.

  The Quickening loosed its grip on Darius. Like a stone plummeting to the earth, he fell to the ground, his face in the dirt, lacking the strength to move himself. The images and memories of Emrys’s life were gone—but the love remained.

  Darius dragged himself to his knees, shaking his head slowly from side to side. For a moment he did not know where he was—who he was. He felt like a delicate mosaic that had been shattered into pieces until no hint of the original pattern remained.

  He hunted deep within himself for the feelings that had guided him for so long. They were not there. Gone were the confidence, the arrogance and amusement that had tinged each thought and every action. But who was he now? What was he to be?

  Then, in a sudden flash, it crashed in upon his soul, filling him—and he knew. He was forever changed; never again would he walk the path of war.

  Darius dragged himself to his knees and looked around. It was like seeing the world for the first time. He felt himself newly created and a part of everything around him.

  Is this why you smiled, ancient one? Darius thought as his eyes touched Emrys’s body in both grief and gratitude. Did you know what your Quickening would do to me?

  Darius looked at the sword he had dropped. He would keep it, at least for a time, for to deny what he had been was to deny what he had become—and the sight of the weapon that had caused so many deaths would keep him humble.

  But he would not use it. Never again. From this day forward he would work for peace; from holy ground, he would continue the ageless and unending struggle against the darkness. All that Emrys had been, Darius had become and all that Emrys had done, Darius would continue. The chain of love that now bound his heart to the world and people around him, mortal and Immortal alike, was eternally unbroken.

  Darius stood. He bent slowly and picked up the sword. Then, after giving a final salute to Emrys’s lifeless form, he turned toward where Grayson awaited him. Darius hoped he could make his friend understand. He wanted Grayson by his side in this new life, working with him for peace as he had always worked with him for war. Together.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Grayson was waiting anxiously. He had seen the lightning of the Quickening, and although he wanted to believe nothing could harm Darius, a sense of foreboding filled him. It whispered to him that this opponent was like none other his mentor had ever faced.

  When at last the lightning ceased, Grayson wanted to run toward the city gates and see who was left standing. But his fears stayed his feet—his fears and his loyalty. Darius had told him to remain where he was and remain he would, until either Darius gave him further orders or he knew for certain Darius was dead.

  If it was the latter, nothing but death would keep him from revenge.

  Grayson saw a figure walking toward him with unsteady steps. Even as he watched, the steps grew more certain as strength returned to the body fatigued by a Quickening’s force. He stood taller, straightening his shoulders—and with the movement, so familiar, Grayson knew that it was Darius.

  Grayson’s heart soared with a pride that bordered on worship. Darius lived—Darius the Undefeated. There was nothing, no one, that could stop them now; Grayson knew it as surely as he breathed.

  He leaned against his horse and smiled.

  He waited until Darius was only a few yards away before taking up the reins of the horses and walking out to meet him.

  “Are the gates of the city open yet?” he called as he neared. “Do we enter Paris today, or make camp and ride through the city tomorrow?”

  Grayson found it curious when Darius did not answer. He furrowed his brow and looked sharply at the older Immortal.

  Something’s different, Grayson thought, but there was nothing he could see, nothing he could name. It was a feeling that grew stronger with every step until, when at last he looked into Darius’s eyes, Grayson knew the man before him was not the man who had left his side so short a time ago.

  “Darius?” Grayson said, making that single word ask a hundred questions.

  Darius smiled at him, and it was in that smile that Grayson knew the change had not been imagined. Gone was the wry amusement, the dark humor, the superior air that had been the greatest part of Darius’s smile. This expression was gentle, even tender; it was a smile such as a mortal might wear.

  “There will be no attack on Paris,” Darius said.

  Grayson felt himself go cold. “What do you mean?” he asked. His voice was clipped and hard, deadly as the sound of a knife slipping its sheath.

  “I mean that part of my life is over,” Darius replied. “There will be no more fighting—not for me. Oh, Grayson, my friend, how can I make you understand? I’ve seen and felt things that—”

  “No!” Grayson cried. He did not want to hear what Darius was saying. They had been together so long, ridden and planned and fought side by side. And now they were so close to making all he had dreamed for so long come true—

  But Darius was continuing, heedless of the knife-edge his words were plunging into Grayson’s heart.

  “I’ve been wrong, Grayson. Everything I’ve been and done for over three centuries has been wrong. Mortal and Immortal, we are not different, except in the span of our years. Our hearts are the same, our needs are the same.”

  Darius stepped closer. He put his hands on Grayson’s shoulders and looked deeply into his eyes. Grayson knew again that this was no longer the man in whom he had trusted—in whom he had believed. This Darius was a stranger who wore a familiar face.

  “That is the Immortal kingdom we will build together. It will be a kingdom of peace, a kingdom love will build. Only love lasts forever. I know that now.

  “Come with me,” this new Darius said in the voice that had ruled Grayson’s life for so long. “Walk by my side on this new path. We will build a kingdom just as we planned, but it will be built in a new way, a better way. Help me to right the wrongs that I’ve done. Help me to heal the wounds of this world.”

  For an instant, part of Grayson wanted to believe again. But the instant passed almost as it began. He did not want a new path or a new future. He wanted Darius back again—his Darius—as he had been, as they had been together.

  Suddenly, his sword was in his hand. He lunged at Darius, his sword swung in a wide arc aimed straight at his mentor’s head. He would make Darius fight, make him cast off the spell this Quickening had somehow cast over his soul. With blood and anger, he would make Darius remember who he was and who he had been born to be.

  Instinct moved Darius. The sword he carried, that he did not want to wield, came up in defense.

  “Grayson, don’t,” he said. “Listen to me. There’s another way, a better way, for us to live. I’ve seen it now—let me show it to you.”

  “No,” Grayson said again. “I won’t listen. Not anymore.”

&n
bsp; Grayson attacked savagely, using every trick the years had taught him. He fought with a desperation that lent strength to his blade. But Darius was better; Darius was always better and it took but a few swift moments before Darius’s blade was at Grayson’s throat.

  “Do it,” Grayson snarled. “Take my head. You’ve taken my hope—now take my Quickening. Let it change you back to who you were.”

  “No,” Darius said. He stepped back, dropping his blade to his side. “I won’t kill you. Can’t you understand? I don’t want to kill anymore. There’s been too much blood on my hands. Perhaps, with enough time, I can wash the stain away.

  “Come with me, Grayson,” Darius invited, pleaded, again. “Work by my side for peace instead of war. Together we can do so much good in the world.”

  Grayson felt as if the sword in Darius’s hand had pierced his heart. He backed away. One step. Two. He swung himself up onto his saddle.

  “This isn’t over,” he said. “You taught me many things over the years. You taught me about order, discipline, and purpose. Well, I have a new purpose now, Darius. I’ll be back—to destroy this thing you have become.”

  With that, Grayson dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and galloped away.

  “Wait, Grayson. Please,” Darius called after him. “Listen to me…”

  But Grayson did not turn around. After a moment, Darius hung his head in defeat, and in shame; if he could not even persuade the one person to whom he had been truly close for centuries, what help would he be able to give the world?

  With a deep sigh, Darius took up the reins of his own horse and turned back toward Paris. He would find someone who would give the animal a home.

  For himself, holy ground awaited, and the years of trying to undo all that he had done. He would teach peace now, where he had once taught war, and compassion instead of destruction. He did not think the years ahead would be easy, but he knew with certainty that this was the road he must walk.