"Terry McConnel - Highlander - Scimitar" - читать интересную книгу автора (McConnel Terry)

fond of some of them, in a remote sort of way. He'd never been friends
with one before.
The gift of the sword still nagged at him. To an Immortal, it had to
carry special meaning; he wondered what sort of memories it might
represent.

His eyes narrowed as he looked at the records again.

An Arab sword.

Three hundred and fifty years.

Where was Duncan MacLeod three hundred and fifty years ago? He'd barely
been Immortal a single lifetime, back then. He'd been-just where had he
been, that he could have crossed paths with an Arab sword, belonging to
one of his first teachers?

Thoughtfully, he reached for one of the first books, one worn and
battered, the leather dry and dusty. He opened it carefully, thinking
he should take better care of the record of a life, and began to read,
puzzling out the awkward, faded writing, the words in old and unfamiliar
languages.

Chapter One

Somewhere in the Mediterranean, 1653 ...

In the year of Our Lord 1653, in the Doge's blessed city of Venice. The
Scots Immortal has parted company from this city in peace, for which God
be thanked. MacLeod takes ship from Venice for Spain.

It is an ill time to travel; the Turks are insolent. I shall send
messages by pigeon to my fellows along the way. In the meantime,
prepare to accompany MacLeod. Never let it be said that I have failed
my calling and betrayed my oath. -Ignatius Bell'domo For the first time
since he had died thirty years before, Duncan MacLeod wished,
profoundly, that he had stayed dead. Doubled over the side of a Venetian
sailing ship, he tried once again to bring forth something, anything,
out of his queasy stomach, but there was nothing left except nausea.

Meanwhile the life and business of the Sancta Innocents continued
unconcernedly about him. The sailors had long since lost interest in
making jokes about the tall, welldressed man with the dreadful accent
and no sea legs. The other passengers, fortunately, still eyed him with
some sympathy.

"You know, people do get used to it," said one, slapping him on the back
in friendly fashion.

MacLeod looked around at him blearily. He was too weak, at the moment,