Highlander: Shadow of Obsession by Rebecca Neason

Author:Rebecca Neason [Neason, Rebecca]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780446565608
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2009-09-09T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

The army marched from Cremona to Ravenna, passing villas and farmsteads, temples and hovels. Everywhere they passed, the people fled before them. When the army turned no hand to destruction, the more overtly brave—or overtly curious—returned to watch their passage.

The attitude of the men changed as they neared Ravenna. Everyone, including the leaders, grew more watchful, more wary. Within the stone walls of the city, the Roman Legions and their first battle could be waiting.

The city gate was closed against them. Alaric called a halt five hundred yards from the walls; he and Darius would ride forward together while the men stayed in their formations, ready to spread out at the first signal.

Side by side the leaders rode, their great horses prancing with matching steps. They knew that, of themselves, they were a formidable sight and with the army at their backs they were enough to fill even the coldest heart with fear. As they neared the city, the gates opened slightly and a single rider emerged.

“Now we will hear Honorius’s reply to my terms,” Alaric said to Darius without taking his eyes off the approaching rider.

The Immortal made no reply. Let Alaric have his hopes, he thought. They will not last for long.

Darius’s eyes saw what Alaric’s did not. Darius saw the bundle that hung from one side of the messenger’s saddle, and he had no doubt of its content—he had sent many such gruesome replies himself.

The rider stopped a mere twenty feet away. For a moment there was silence. Alaric sat easy on his horse, still dreaming his dream of Roman citizenship. Darius kept his eyes on the messenger’s face, yet peripherally he watched the man’s sword arm and concentrated on noticing the slightest movement. It was a talent he had long ago trained in himself and it had saved his life on more than one occasion.

The man made no move. He waited for the Visigoth to speak.

“Hail, Roman,” Alaric said at last, shouting over the distance in his great rumble of a voice. “You bring a message to me, for I am Alaric, leader of the Visigoths. Speak—what words does the Emperor send to my people?”

“No words,” the man shouted back, his voice as clear as the summer air. “The great Honorius, Emperor of the Roman world, sends this to speak for him.”

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 Alaric’s ax bit deep into his flesh. His blood shot a crimson geyser that sprayed the Visigoth’s face like fierce war paint.

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