“THEIR PASSION WILL CARRY
THEM TO VICTORY.”
The messenger loosened the bundle from his saddle and threw it. It landed with a sickening thud. As it rolled toward Alaric’s horse, its covering fell away, and staring up was the severed head and sightless eyes of the man Alaric had sent to Rome.
The Visigoth gave a cry that was half anger, half anguish. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. As the animal shot forward, he drew his ax and began to swing. He was on the Roman before the man knew what was coming. The Roman barely had time to raise an arm, no time at all to draw his sword, before Alarics ax bit deep into his flesh. His blood shot a crimson geyser that sprayed the Visigoth’s face like fierce war paint.
Alaric paid no heed. He hacked again and again. Behind Darius, a slow rumble grew as the men saw their leader attacking. The sound mounted. It became a shrill cry as, to a man, the army surged forward to besiege the city.
ALSO IN THIS SERIES:
Highlander: The Element of Fire
Highlander: Scimitar
Highlander: Scotland the Brave
Highlander: Measure of a Man
Highlander: The Path
Highlander: Zealot
Available from
WARNER ASPECT
Copyright
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1998 by Warner Books, Inc.
All rights reserved.
“Highlander” is a protected trademark of Gaumont Television. © 1994 by Gaumont Television and © Davis Panzer Productions, Inc. 1985.
Aspect is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.
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Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
By soul’s immensity…
On whom those truths do rest
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day; a master or a slave
A presence which is not to be put by.
—William Wordsworth, “Intimations of Immortality”
Chapter One
Present day, Sudan, Africa
Four hundred years after his birth, Duncan MacLeod was still the chieftain’s son; four hundred years and he was still bound by honor and duty to answer a call for help—if the cause be worthy.
And this cause certainly was.
The hot desert winds of Sudan felt like gritty fingers scratching across MacLeod’s face as he motioned his companions into the shadows. It was not much farther to their destination, but if distance was measured in safety, they still had miles to go.
The country of Sudan was the quintessential Africa, at least to the movie-fed Western mind. The largest country in Africa, it had wide vegetation belts, alluvial plains and areas of high mountains bordering vast arid expanses. All the wildlife that came quickly to mind when the “dark continent” was mentioned—lion, cheetah, rhino, elephant, gazelle—could be found within Sudan’s borders. And it was hot. There were few places in Sudan that could not reach one hundred degrees at any time of the year.
But what might once have been a beautiful country, ancient in its glory and its wildness, was now a land that had been torn apart by famine and civil wars—and lately by something much, much worse.
Jihad.
Duncan MacLeod had long ago recognized the word—often translated as “holy war”—for what it was: Obsession. Under the blanket of jihad, countless atrocities were sanctioned for religious, cultural, or racial purities. And it was not a thing of centuries past, or even decades. It was happening now. Here.
In 1956, British rule had ended in Sudan, and for the next twenty-five years various factions vied for power. Then, in 1982, a somewhat stable government had been established, but those who now ran the country owed their allegiance farther north—to the heart of Islam. Fundamental Muslims, they had slowly repealed all laws and statutes of religious tolerance, dividing the country into a Muslim north whose Islamic influences had filtered down through Egypt, and the “black, south,” where Christian missionaries and followers of the ancient African religions had been able to live in relative safety.
Until recently. Now, under unspoken governmental support, Muslim raiders were pushing their presence farther and farther south and all semblance of safety was disappearing. Atrocities were mounting daily. Non-Muslim men were put to death, whether lay people, missionaries, or clergy. The lucky ones were killed outright; some were shot or beheaded, others were crucified as their captors jeered retort to their professed faith. The unlucky ones were imprisoned, starved and tortured first.
For the women and children, concubinage and slavery to Muslim masters awaited. In the past decade, over three hundred thousand followers of the Christian faith had been killed and the slave trade, which had been quietly internal, was now more boldly setting up external routes to other Muslim-dominated countries.
Many relief organizations, some of them religious, others of non-affiliated origins like Amnesty International and the United Nations, were doing all they could. But it was not enough, and the jihad continued.
One such organization was led by Victor Paulus. He had come to the country bringing food and medical supplies; he had stayed to help establish a series of “safe houses,” a network reminiscent of the Underground Railroad of America’s Civil War era, to try and get those in danger out of the country.
Duncan MacLeod had long been an anonymous supporter of Paulus’s organization and as such he received regular reports on the foundation’s efforts around the world. He followed the work of Darius’s protégé with admiration. When news reached MacLeod of Paulus’s work in Sudan and the reason for it, MacLeod felt compelled to help.
Now, slowly, he ventured from the shadows in which he and his companions were hiding, inching forward until he could see around the corner of the low, sand-brick building. The street was empty—for now. But that did not fill MacLeod with a sense of security. Gone were the days when raids were accomplished from horseback, with swords and war cries as weapons. Today, it was Ouzies and automobiles, and the enemy could strike from a great distance and without warning.
MacLeod, the Immortal, was safe from permanent damage, and it was not for himself he worried. His companions were five nuns who had run an orphanage in a small village twelve miles north and the eight children who were currently in their care.
So far, thanks largely to the skills MacLeod had acquired in the last four centuries, they were unharmed. But they still had to make it to the other end of the village, where Victor Paulus—and escape—were waiting.
MacLeod had been here for almost two months; Paulus, he knew, had been here for nearly six. MacLeod admired the mortal’s stamina and his dedication. Now their funding and supplies were almost gone. MacLeod would be traveling with this group of refugees, taking them to the relative safety of Zaire, where they would either continue their mission work or go on to less dangerous fields in accordance with the decision of their order. MacLeod himself would be returning to the States. He planned to spend the next weeks using his many contacts to raise money and get whatever help he could for the rescue efforts here.
Victor Paulus would be following a few days after MacLeod with much the same purpose—and MacLeod knew Paulus would be successful on a much larger scale. The work here in Sudan would continue in his absence, and Victor’s presence in the States would make certain the
media attention would get the news out. There were already a series of meetings with the representatives of several world relief organizations and a public rally, the first of many, was scheduled to take place in Seacouver a week from today.
The road in front of MacLeod remained quiet. Almost too quiet, he thought, listening to his instincts, the internal warning system that had been well-honed by centuries of use. This village, too small to be even a name on a map, had once been a point of safety in the long trek south. But that had changed. Before he left Sudan, MacLeod would make certain that Victor Paulus and his people moved their headquarters farther south, though they would begrudge every inch they had to yield to raiders, oppressors, and terrorists.
Still it would do no one any good if Paulus or the members of his small rescue team were captured. For MacLeod, it was easier to pass unnoticed. Over the last two months his skin had darkened with exposure to the sun, and his familiarity with Middle Eastern languages and customs, including those of Islam, helped him move more freely about the countryside.
He would use that advantage now, he decided. Taking a deep breath, MacLeod stepped boldly out from the shadows. He walked down the road, forcing his muscles to stay relaxed, while his eyes darted left and right. The village remained quiet; not even a dog barked.
I dan’t like this, he thought. I don ‘t like this at all. If the people of the village had gone into hiding like this, they must know something that MacLeod had not heard.
He casually turned the corner of another building that was little more than a hut made out of the same sand-brick used in constructing all the buildings in this part of the country. Once around the corner, he quickly slipped again into the shadows and turned back toward where his charges were hiding.
The shadows were deep with the bright sun and he kept to them, trying to ignore the breathless heat of the afternoon that wanted to sap his muscles of their strength and turn his mind to fog. On another day, he might have looked for a place where the refugees could wait until evening dropped a veil of darkness over their movements. But MacLeod’s instincts whispered again and he knew they must move on.
Sister Mary Patrick inched forward to whisper in his ear. “How much longer must we travel, Mr. MacLeod?” she asked. Even her whisper was husky with her heat-dried throat. “The children are very tired.”
“I know,” MacLeod agreed. His gaze swept back across the little group, their sad, frightened eyes making small patches of brightness in the shadows, the soft darkness hiding the worst of their weariness. “It’s not much farther.”
He wished he could tell them that their travels were over and that as soon as they reached the safe house they would be able to rest for a few days before moving on. But he had a feeling that “safe house” had become a misnomer.
Still, they had to get moving, and they had to move now. “Keep the children together and stay close,” he whispered, once more turning his attention to the street.
MacLeod counted to ten as he carefully watched the scene before him. Then he gave a small signal. Herding the children like errant chicks, the nuns broke from their hiding place and dashed across the road. MacLeod followed them, hoping to keep his body between them and any possible danger.
They made it across the road and into the shadows again, then began working their way around the low houses to the next road they must cross. They repeated the process three more times before MacLeod heard it—the sound of an automobile. It was still distant, but in the afternoon stillness its noise was as unmistakable as an elephant’s trumpet.
And they were still several minutes away from the house where Victor Paulus awaited them. The time for stealth was past.
“Keep as close to the buildings as possible,” MacLeod told the nuns, “but run. Now.”
They moved out. MacLeod went with them, sometimes running ahead and checking the route, sometimes letting them pass him while he made certain they were not yet being followed. All the while, he was listening to the growing rumble of automobiles in the distance.
Finally, the safe house was only a few yards away. Duncan darted ahead to open the door and get his charges inside, but Victor Paulus was already waiting. Before Duncan could reach the door, it flew open and Victor stood ready to usher the women and children inside.
“They’re coming,” MacLeod said as he stepped past the other man and into the dim room. He left Victor to the work behind him, as he quickly crossed to the table in the center of the floor and began to pull it aside. Other hands joined his and he glanced up with a smile of acknowledgment to the two other workers in the cause.
One was a young man named Azziz, a native Sudanese and a recent convert from Islam whose knowledge and guidance had been invaluable in their efforts. The other was Cynthia VanDervane, Victor Paulus’s fiancee. With her long blond hair, blue eyes, and fair skin, she would be a prime target for the raiders sweeping through the village, a prize on the market of slavery and concubinage.
She would have to hide with the others; MacLeod hoped he could convince Victor Paulus to hide himself as well.
This house had been chosen largely because of its wooden floor, which was moderately uncommon in this part of the world, a sign of the previous owner’s affluence. In that floor, a trap door had been cut and below, a room dug into the ground. It was not a basement by any means, but it was a hole large enough to contain several people. Its presence had already saved lives; MacLeod hoped it would do so again today.
The table was moved and the rug beneath pulled up as the nuns and the children scurried through the door. MacLeod began waving them down. Sister Mary Patrick went first as Cynthia and Azziz began to grab the children and lower them down. They worked with silent, well-practiced precision. The only sounds were the scuffling of feet, the grumble of automobiles in the distance, and the assurances the nuns were whispering to the children.
Sister Mary Patrick, Sister Raphael. Sister Elizabeth, Sister Teresa—MacLeod looked up. Victor was starting to close the door.
“Where is Sister Anne?” he asked sharply.
“I don’t see her,” Paulus replied, his voice just as tense.
MacLeod heard a sharp intake of breath from the other sisters below. “Oh, Jesus and Mary, protect her,” he heard one of them whisper.
MacLeod took a step toward the door, but Victor Paulus was already out and running. MacLeod looked at his co-workers and saw the concern on Azziz’s face, the determination on Cynthia’s, and he knew his next words would be unwelcome.
“You, too, Cynthia,” he said, motioning with his head toward the hole.
“No,” she answered. “Victor—”
“I’ll get Victor—you get inside. Don’t give him something else to worry about.”
“MacLeod, you know they can’t—”
“Inside,” he snapped, cutting her words off again. He knew what she was going to say; he knew what Victor and Azziz did not.
Cynthia VanDervane was Immortal.
As such, the physical threat to her was minimal compared to the dangers a mortal woman might face. But slavery and concubinage were the same, regardless of mortality, and MacLeod was not willing to take the chance of that happening.
He looked at Azziz. The Sudanese man nodded. “Do not worry, MacLeod,” he said. “She will be hidden. You go.”
MacLeod darted one more warning look in Cynthia’s direction. Then he turned and rushed through the door, following Victor Paulus with the hope of bringing both him and Sister Anne back—alive.
Chapter Two
Victor Paulus dashed quickly across the road and into the shadow of the nearest building. He was not as experienced as MacLeod nor, he knew, did he cut quite as dashing a figure. But in spite of his far less muscular build and the thick glasses that gave him a bookish appearance, these last six months had awakened the hero that had always waited in Paulus’s soul.
It was true he had spent years traveling to war-torn areas of the globe, bringing famine relief and medical supplies. But it was also t
rue that he spent even more of his time at rallies and conferences, raising public awareness and support, dealing with politicians and philanthropists, raising funding, and otherwise running the business of world relief.
Here in Sudan, his help was “hands-on” and immediate, and Victor Paulus found the experience quite extraordinary. It was not that he was unafraid; fear was a companion he lived with every day and with whom he had become quite intimately familiar. But each time it closed in upon him yet again, he reminded himself of the daily fears and dangers of the people he was here to help. That gave him courage to continue his efforts.
Fear was a snake coiling now in the pit of his stomach as he wove his way around the low sun-baked buildings. He listened to the growing rumble of automobiles in the distance, knowing that those automobiles canned men who wanted the death of himself and all others like him. Almost frantically his eyes searched the shadows for the crouching figure of the missing nun. Intent upon his mission, he did not hear MacLeod’s swift, balanced footfalls until the man was almost upon him.
Then he spun swiftly around. He knew his fear was obvious on his face, but he did not have time to mask it. Relief flooded him when he recognized MacLeod. There was something about the man that inspired confidence, in him and in oneself, and Paulus was glad that in these last two months of working together, their friendship had deepened. He could well understand why, despite their differences, Darius had liked and trusted Duncan MacLeod.
A few seconds later, Duncan reached Paulus’s side. “I don’t see her and I’m not quite sure where to look,” Victor said, keeping his voice low. It would make it much easier if he could just call Sister Anne’s name and wait for a reply, but he could not take the chance of his voice carrying in the still, heated air.
“We came from that direction.” MacLeod pointed to his left.
Highlander: Shadow of Obsession Page 1
