Highlander: Shadow of Obsession

by Rebecca Neason

  Darius turned to look at Grayson when he did not answer. His expression was hard and shut, but his eyes betrayed the inner battle he waged over whether or not to speak.

  It was always thus with Grayson, Darius thought. The younger Immortal had a tendency to imbue Darius with almost godlike qualities, to grant him a wisdom and infallibility he did not possess. It was useful, this near worship, but it made Grayson hesitate to say anything that might be construed as correcting his mentor—a trait Darius sometimes found irritating when he wanted to get to the point of their conversation.

  Still, as he had said, tools must be handled carefully—even Immortal ones.

  Darius smiled. “Out with it, my friend,” he said pleasantly, almost gently.

  Still Grayson hesitated. Darius watched his hands tighten on the high pommel of his saddle.

  “She loves you, you know,” Grayson said at last.

  “Callestina?” Darius nearly laughed. “I suppose she thinks she does. It will pass in time.”

  “She’s not like Alaric and the others. She’s one of us—Immortal. She deserves to be treated better.”

  Little by little the anger was coming out in Grayson’s voice. It amused Darius to hear it.

  “My friend, women of any kind are of even less importance than mortal warriors. They are playthings—pleasurable, certainly, but of no real use. If you want Callestina, take her. She means nothing to me.”

  “She doesn’t want me,” Grayson answered.

  “Ah, well, that is a problem, then. But don’t worry, my friend—she has years, maybe centuries ahead of her. Women are petty, fickle creatures. She’ll no doubt change her mind. And when she does, she will come to you well taught in the arts of love. I promise you,” Darius added with a laugh, “it will be worth the wait.”

  Grayson said nothing and Darius let him brood for a moment. Then Darius smiled and slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Come, my friend, and put these thoughts away. Women are passing, much the same whether mortal or Immortal, but a good hunt—ah, there is something worthy of your attention. Surely there must be a stag or two in these woods.”

  It took another moment, but finally Grayson returned his grin. The expression was a bit strained, but Darius accepted it for what it was and what it symbolized. Darius slapped him again on the shoulder and pointed to a stand of birch trees in the distance.

  “A race?” he said. “Give the horses a chance to stretch their legs.”

  Grayson’s smile turned earnest now. With a nod, he urged his horse forward. It crashed through the trees, lengthening its stride with each step, answering with well-trained precision the silent commands of Grayson’s hands and knees.

  Darius followed, but he did not push his horse as hard or as fast as Grayson. The greater contest, the one for Grayson’s unswerving loyalty, he knew he had already won. But as he bent low over his horse’s neck, to avoid the slap of branches, he knew he had not told his companion the whole truth about his feelings for Callestina.

  He did not love her; love was something for which he had no time in his life. It was a weakness he would not allow himself. In the centuries he had been alive, he had seen too much of the damage love could do; he had seen otherwise strong men turn into mewling babies at the thought of losing a woman’s touch. No, that was not for him. It would never be for him. As he had told Grayson, women were merely instruments of passing pleasure. Nothing more.

  But he had not tired of Callestina yet and he would have been sorry to see her go. Her passion and her lack of virginal inhibition had given him a pleasant surprise that first night. Since then, she had only grown more skilled. Darius knew he looked forward each night to their hours together.

  What was more, it amused him to lie with Alaric’s sister in the mortal leader’s own camp and to have him unaware. Alaric, who was a follower of the Aryan branch of the Christian faith, demanded a certain morality among his people Darius found contradictory in a man so skilled at killing.

  Darius himself paid little homage to any god, Christian or otherwise. The tribal totems of his youth were slowly disappearing, and Darius’s own faith had died with his mortality. There was only one will by which he lived—the will of Darius, and that was divine enough for him.

  He urged his horse a little faster, drawing up close to Grayson’s. It would not do to let the other man think he had won too easily; Darius must keep all his playthings happy—at least while he had need of them.

  Grayson’s mind, too, was far from silent as his horse shot forward beneath the trees. He had smiled at Darius, signaling his acceptance, his acquiescence to all his mentor had said. But there was a part of him that whispered Darius was wrong. Not all women were the same. Some were worth more than passing attention.

  Callestina was worth more.

  But Grayson would not argue with Darius—Darius, who had taught him everything, had made him who he was. Before Darius’s army had attacked his village, Grayson had been a farmer and the son of a farmer. His world had been made up of crops and soil, an iron plow and the back end of an ox. Glory was something scarcely dreamed of on long winter nights.

  Then Darius had come and taught him the truth of who he was and all that he could be. Grayson had abandoned all he had known before, all he had believed before, and put his faith in his sword—and in Darius. Together, the world he had only imagined stretched before him, waiting to be taken.

  Surely that was worth even the woman whose name his heart whispered in the night. Even Callestina.

  Wasn’t it?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Winter deepened. The long night of the solstice passed and little by little the days crept toward spring. As the hours of light slowly lengthened. Darius found the restlessness in him increasing. He began to spend less time with Alaric and more time drilling his army, checking their weapons or leading them in groups to take their horses out for exercise. They were already formidable warriors, but by the time they crossed over the pass into Italy, Darius wanted his army to be a killing machine against which no legion of Roman troops could stand.

  Of Alaric’s army, he did not care. Their skill—and their survival—were not his responsibility. But the mortal leader, either inspired or shamed by Darius’s example, began to drill his warriors as well. Soon a healthy competition grew up among the men to see who could endure more, fight longer, or wield a weapon with greater accuracy.

  Darius did not share this competitive spirit. With centuries more experience than anyone else in the camp, including Grayson, he had no need to prove his prowess. The fact that he was still alive after three hundred sixty-five years of The Game was proof enough. He was surprised, therefore, when one afternoon Alaric challenged him.

  “It’s all in sport,” the mortal leader said, grinning at him. “Good for the men to see us joining in. It reminds them what kind of fighters they’re following.”

  Darius was tempted to say that his men needed no such reminders, but he did not. Perhaps, he thought, Alaric himself needed the lesson, the reminder of just who he was facing when he drew sword on Darius.

  The Immortal glanced at Grayson, noting that his own amusement over Alaric’s challenge shone clearly on his friend’s face. Then Darius turned back to Alaric.

  “Very well,” he said. “For sport only.”

  Darius unfastened the silver broach that held the wolfskin cloak around him. He carefully folded the fur and handed it to Grayson.

  “Are you sure this is wise?” Grayson asked him softly. “If you are injured and they see you heal—”

  Darius grinned at him. “You worry too much, my friend. If I am cut, it takes only a bit of cloth to hide the truth from mortal eyes.”

  “What about Callestina’s eyes—later?”

  Darius remained unconcerned. He gave a slight shrug. “Callestina will know the truth soon enough. Quit worrying, Grayson. I’ve no intention of letting Alaric close enough to draw blood. It’s just sport, remember?”

  “Even sport can be da
ngerous.”

  Darius laughed and clapped Grayson on the shoulder. Then he drew his sword and turned to face Alaric. The mortal leader, too, had removed his outer cloak and stood waiting, sword in hand. Although Darius knew that in battle Alaric’s preferred weapon was an ax, he did not make the mistake of assuming the mortal lacked proficiency with a sword as well.

  The men had drawn back, clearing a battlefield on which the two leaders could fight. They began to circle each other. Alaric crouched low and Darius watched his footwork, the way he shifted his balance, the grip of his sword, the way he moved his eyes, his shoulders, his hips, his hands.

  Darius walked casually upright, swinging his sword with seeming nonchalance. But, in fact, this stance was as calculated a defense as Alaric’s low crouch. Darius knew it threw an opponent off and weakened his first blow with overconfidence. As he walked, he counted the seconds, watched Alaric’s muscles for that sudden, betraying tension, and prepared.

  There—Darius saw the slight shift of weight in the lead leg and the fingers tightening on the sword. Alaric’s arm lifted and swung, and Darius’s sword was there to meet it as the Immortal twisted easily from harm’s way.

  Darius brought the hilt of his sword around and tapped Alaric lightly in the kidneys. A cheer went up from Darius’s men. They knew, as did Alaric, that in real combat that could have been a death blow. Alaric took the strike in good spirit. He grinned at Darius, acknowledging a foray well played—and as Darius inclined his head in a slight bow, he knew there would be no such blatant opening again.

  They circled each other once more. Then, as if a spark burst suddenly into flame, their swords began to flash in the bright sun. The clash rang over the mounting cheers of the men as they shouted encouragement to their leaders.

  While Darius fought, Grayson watched the faces of the crowd. This was a friendly competition, true, but still the blood lust was there. The men looked on with their eyes shining, their faces flushed, their mouths all but slavering.

  And Grayson watched them, fascinated. They wanted destruction; they breathed it, tasted it, lived for it.

  The women, too, were gathering around, drawn by the sounds of excitement. Grayson watched their faces as they began to add their voices to the general clamor. A few, not many, watched for a moment then turned away. They quickly went back to their duties of hearth and home with a calm certainty that, for now at least, their man, their mate, was safe.

  But Grayson was not fooled. He knew that in each of them was the heart of a she-bear who would kill if pushed far enough or in the right way. They were far more deadly than their sisters who stood shouting beside the men, for they hid their claws until the moment came to strike.

  It was then Grayson saw Callestina push her way through the crowd. Inside the circle, the two combatants slashed at each other, grinning amidst their battle. Grayson knew that Darius was toying with Alaric and that he could have ended the contest in two or three moves. This certainty was there in his mentor’s eyes.

  But Callestina did not know. Mock battle though this was, her face was a gray mask of terror as she watched her brother and her lover strike and parry, lunge and counterlunge.

  For whom is she more afraid? Grayson could not help but wonder. Is she afraid Darius’s control will slip and he will kill her brother? Then her knowledge of Darius is small, his thoughts turned almost to a sneer. His control never slips. Never.

  Does she fear for Darius? Grayson nearly laughed aloud. He had yet to see the man, mortal or Immortal, who had the skill to best Darius in a fight. And that man was certainly not Alaric the Visigoth.

  Unconsciously, Grayson stroked the wolf’s fur draped over his arm. His eyes narrowed slightly as he continued to stare at Callestina. There were high spots of color on her cheeks and her eyes were bright, as if with fever.

  Even from here he could see that her slender body trembled. For an instant he wanted to go to her, to put his arms around her and lead her away. The feeling was unwelcome. It whispered of another emotion Grayson refused to acknowledge. He had loved only once in his life, years before his first death.

  He had been eighteen and the woman—his wife—had died of a fever during the first winter they were together. Nothing he had done had saved her. He had vowed then he would not love again.

  And he had kept that vow; the only devotion he felt was to his sword—and to Darius.

  But now, with Callestina, love threatened again. It was more than the hot spark of desire that seared through him each time he looked at her. In the past, such lusts as gripped him were quickly satisfied with women toward whom he felt nothing. He had, over the last weeks, tried to eradicate his desire for Callestina by lying with any woman in camp who made herself available to him—and there had been many. None of them satisfied him. The momentary lust was gone, but the desire, and the emptiness, remained.

  As he continued to stare at Callestina, he struggled to draw indifference like a protective cloak around his heart. When indifference would not come, he turned to anger.

  She does not truly fear for Darius’s life, he told himself, or for Alaric s either. She just does not want to lose the lover she takes each night to her bed. You need not fear, Callestina. You will not lose the stallion that you ride.

  A shout went up around him. Grayson quickly shifted his eyes back to the center of the circle, grateful to draw his thoughts away from the dangerous ground on which they were treading.

  Darius stood over Alaric, sword to his throat. “I yield,” the mortal cried with a smile, holding up his sword.

  Darius, also grinning, stepped back. He transferred his weapon to his left hand and held out his right to help his opponent to stand.

  “Well fought,” he said to Alaric when the Visigoth was again on his feet.

  Alaric nodded. “A good fight,” he agreed, somewhat breathlessly. “But remind me not to make you an enemy.”

  Darius laughed. He slapped Alaric companionably on the shoulder. “I’ll do that,” he said as he walked across the circle, back to where Grayson was standing.

  “You see, my friend,” he said softly, lifting his wolfskin cloak from Grayson’s hands and setting it once more across his shoulders. “Your worries were for nothing and everyone is happy. It takes so little to please them, Grayson.”

  Darius turned. He put an arm casually around Grayson’s shoulders as he gestured toward the slowly dispersing throng.

  “You see how they smile, my friend? They have just been reminded of the skill of their leaders. In battle, they will remember and fight with greater confidence. It is a little thing that has great rewards.”

  “Your warriors need no such reminders.”

  “Oh, indeed they do. We have fought many battles together, that is true. But you must always remember, my friend, that mortal memories are short—and weakness of the body comes so quickly to them. It is because of their own weaknesses that they need to know their leaders are still strong. Alaric, for all his annoying habits, understands his men. He is not a better fighter than you are—but he is a better leader. You would do well to learn from him.”

  Before Grayson could respond, Darius turned away. “Alaric, my friend,” he called out, striding toward the Visigoth with his arms outstretched. “Such a fight is thirsty work. Let us rind some wine and talk of battles to come.”

  As the two leaders walked off together, Grayson looked again at the men. Many of them stood laughing and talking—many more had taken up their own weapons and renewed their drills with increased vigor.

  Darius is right, Grayson thought. They are happier now.

  Then Grayson noticed that Callestina still stood where she had before. She watched the departing figures of her brother and her lover. The expression on her face and in every line of her body shouted how much the sight hurt her. Darius, for whom she had run here, fearing for his safety, had passed her by without a look, a word, a gesture. He had walked past as if she did not exist.

  It seems, little Callestina, he thought, ech
oing Darius’s name for her, we have both learned a lesson this day. I wonder if you will remember yours us well as I will remember mine

  Chapter Seventeen

  The snow began to fall less often, then warmed and fell as rain. Streams and rivers swelled. The frozen ground began to thaw, turning the roads to ribbons of mud that refroze each night, more slick and treacherous than before.

  Spring had come.

  Each day riders were sent from the camp up into the mountains; each night they returned with reports on the conditions of the routes the armies might take into Italy. The date of the invasion drew closer.

  Callestina saw less and less of Darius. His hours with his army increased, as did the time he spent with her brother. They were together each evening, examining Alaric’s precious maps, discussing the merits of various routes, arguing over which cities to capture for the best advantage during their long march toward Rome. Darius’s interests were purely military, while Alaric was looking for lands on which to settle his people.

  Callestina heard their voices, raised and strident, cutting through the stillness of the night while she sat alone in her tent waiting for the time when she and Darius could be together. Often sleep claimed her before that time arrived. Her body, and her heart, began to ache with the need for his touch.

  It seemed to Callestina that Darius hardly noticed their separation. He appeared happiest during the hours he was with his men. Callestina often watched him from a distance and she saw the way his face glowed as he called out orders or encouragement.

  When, in the evenings, she brought food and drink to her brother’s tent, Darius hardly spared her a glance. There were no caressing looks, no gentle words she longed to hear; no silent signals passed between them. As the snow melted in the outside world, the ice transferred itself to Callestina’s heart and gripped her with unrelenting fingers.