Bloodstone

CHAPTER NINE

A wise man and a fool were lost in the desert. The one knew nothing of desert life, and soon became thirsty and disorientated. The other grew up in the desert. He knew that often a man could find water by digging at the lowest point of the outside bend of a dry stream-bed. This he did, and the two drank.

The one who found the water said to his companion, 'Which of us is the wise man now?'

‘I am,' said the other. 'For I brought you with me into the desert, whereas you chose to travel with a fool.'

The Wisdom of the Deacon Chapter VI

Amaziga met her son at the cross-roads outside Domango. She smiled as he rode up and waved. He was a handsome man, more slender than his father, but with a natural grace and confidence that filled Amaziga's heart with pride.

'You have him safe?' asked Gareth, leaning across his saddle to kiss Amaziga's cheek.

'Yes. And ready.'

'You should have seen him, Mother, striding out on to the street and calling out Dillon. Amazing!'

'He's a killer. A savage,' snapped Amaziga, irritated by the admiration she saw in Gareth.

Gareth shrugged. 'Dillon was the savage. Now he's dead. Do not expect me to mourn for him.'

'I don't. What I also do not expect is for a son of mine to hero-worship a man like Jon Shannow. But then you are a strange boy, Gareth. Why, with your education in the modern world, would you choose to live here of all places?'

'It is exciting.'

She shook her head in exasperation and swung her horse. 'There's not much time,' she said. 'We had better be moving.'

They rode swiftly back to the stone circle. Amaziga lifted her Stone and violet light flared around them.

The house appeared, and the two riders moved down towards the paddock. Shannow was sitting on the fence as they approached. He looked up and nodded a greeting. Amaziga swung down and opened the paddock gate. 'Unsaddle the horses,' she ordered Gareth. ‘I’ll load up the jeep.'

'No jeep,' said Shannow, climbing down from the fence.

'What?'

'We will ride through.'

That jeep can move three times as fast as the horses. Nothing in the world of the Bloodstone can catch it.'

'Even so, we don't take it,' said the Jerusalem Man.

Amaziga's fury broke clear. 'Who the Hell do you think you are? I am in command here, and you will do as I say.'

Shannow shook his head. 'No,' he said softly, 'you are not in command here. If you wish me to accompany you, then saddle fresh horses. Otherwise be so kind as to return me to the world I know.'

Amaziga bit back an angry retort. She was no fool, she heard the iron in his voice and swiftly she changed tack. 'Listen, Shannow, I know you do not understand the workings of the. . vehicle, but trust me. We will be far safer with it than on horseback. And our mission is too vital to take unnecessary risks.'

Shannow stepped closer and gazed down into her dark brown eyes. 'This entire enterprise is an unnecessary risk,' he said, his voice cold, 'and were I not bound by my word I would leave you to it without a moment's hesitation. But understand this, woman. I will lead, you and your son will follow that lead. You will obey without question. . and that begins now. Choose your horses.'

Before Amaziga could respond Gareth spoke up. 'Is it all right if I keep this mount, Mr Shannow?' he asked. 'She's a stayer, and is still fresh.'

Shannow's eyes raked the buckskin, then he nodded. 'As you will,' he said, and without another word he moved away, walking towards the open desert.

Amaziga swung on her son. 'How could you side with him?'

'Why keep a dog if you are going to bark yourself?' answered Gareth, stepping down from the saddle.

'You say he is a killer and a savage. Everything I know about the Jerusalem Man tells me that he is a survivor. Yes, he is hard and ruthless, but where we are going we will need a man like that. No disrespect, Mother. You are a fine scientist and a wonderful dinner companion. But on this venture I guess I would sooner follow the tall man. Okay?'

Amaziga masked her anger and forced a smile. 'He's wrong about the jeep.'

'I'd sooner ride anyway,' said Gareth.

Amaziga strode into the house and on to her room. From a closet by the far wall she removed a shoulder rig to which two small silver and black boxes were attached. Swinging it over her shoulder she clipped it to her black leather belt, then attached two leads to the first box, which nestled against her waist on the left-hand side. Connecting the other ends of the leads into the second box, she clipped this to the back of her belt, alongside a leather scabbard containing four clips of ammunition for the nine-shot Beretta holstered at her hip. Returning to the outer room, she pulled a fresh set of leads from the drawer beneath the computer and attached them first to the back of the machine, then to the small box at her belt.

'You are angry,' said Lucas.

The batteries should last around five days. Long enough, I think,' she said, ignoring the question. 'Are you ready for transfer?'

'Yes. You are, of course, aware that I cannot load all my files into your portable? I will be of limited use.'

'I like your company,' she said, with a wide smile. 'Now, are you ready?'

'Of course. And you have not connected the microphone.'

'It's like living with a maiden aunt,' said Amaziga, looping a set of headphones around her neck. The transfer of files took just under two minutes. Lifting the headphones into place, she flipped out the curved stick of the microphone. 'Can you hear me?' she asked.

‘I dislike not being able to see,' came Lucas's voice, as if from a great distance.

Amaziga adjusted the volume. 'One thing at a time, dear heart,' she said. The fibre-optic camera had been designed to fit neatly into a black headband, the leads connected to a set of tiny batteries contained in the shoulder rig. Settling it into place, she engaged the batteries.

'Better,' said Lucas. 'Move your head to left and right.' Amaziga did so. 'Excellent. Now will you tell me why you are angry?'

'Why should I tell you something you already know.'

'Gareth was correct,' said Lucas. 'Shannow is a survivor. He is an untutored clairvoyant. His gift is in reading signs of danger before that danger has materialised.'

'I know about his skills, Lucas. That's why I am using him.'

'Look down,' Lucas told her.

'What? Why?'

'I want to see your feet.'

Amaziga chuckled and bent her head low. 'Aha,' said Lucas. 'As I thought, trainers. You would be advised to wear boots.'

'I am already hip-deep in wires and leads. The trainers are comfortable. Now, do you have any other requests?'

'It would be nice if you were to walk to the saguaro where the Elf Owl is nesting. The camera on the roof cannot quite traverse far enough for a good study.'

'When we get back,' she promised. 'For now I'd like you to concentrate on the lands of the Bloodstone -

if it is not too much trouble? You'll need to re-think the route and the place and time of entry. Without the jeep it'll take a damn sight longer.'

'I never liked jeeps,' said Lucas.

Josiah Broome awoke to see the old man cleaning two long-barrelled pistols. Pain lanced through Broome's chest and he groaned.

Jake glanced up. 'Despite how you feel, you will live, Josiah,' he said.

'It wasn't a dream?' whispered Broome.

'It surely wasn't. Jersualem Riders tried to kill you, and shot Daniel Cade in the process. Now you are a wanted man. Shoot on sight, they've been told.' Broome struggled to a sitting position. Dizziness swamped him. 'Don't do too much now, Josiah,' insisted Jake. 'You've lost a lot of blood. Take it slow and easy. Here. .' Jake laid aside the pistol and lifted a steaming jug from the coals of the fire. Filling a tin mug he passed it to Broome, who took it with his left hand. The old man returned to his place and lifted the pistol, flipping out the cylinder and loading it.

'What am I going to do?' asked Broome. IWho will believe me?'

'It won't matter, son,' said Jake. 'Trust me on that.'

'How can you say that?' asked Broome, astonished. Jake returned the pistols to two deep shoulder holsters and reached for a short-barrelled rifle which he also began to load, pressing shell after shell into the side gate. When he had finished he pumped the action and laid the weapon aside.

'Sometime soon,' he said, his voice low, 'people will forget all about the shooting; they'll be too concerned with just staying alive. And against what's coming that won't be easy. You were there when the Daggers invaded. But they were an army of soldiers. They had orders. They were disciplined. But a terror is about to be unleashed that is almost beyond understanding. That's why I'm here, Josiah. To fight it.'

Josiah Broome understood none of it. All he could think of was the terrible events of yesterday, the murder of Daniel Cade and the pain-filled flight into the night. Was the old man insane, he wondered? He seemed rational. The pain in his chest settled to a dull, throbbing ache and the dawn breeze chilled his upper body. He shivered. The bandages around his thin chest were caked with dried blood, and any movement of his right arm sent waves of nausea through him.

'Who are you?' he asked the old man.

‘I am the Deacon,' said Jake, emptying out the jug and stowing it in a cavernous pack.

For a moment all Broome's pain was forgotten, and he stared at the man with undisguised astonishment.

'You can't be,' was all he could say, taking in the man's threadbare trousers and worn boots, the ragged sheepskin coat and the matted white hair and beard.

Jake smiled. 'Don't be deceived by appearances, son. I am who I say I am. Now, we've got to get you to Beth McAdam's place. I need to speak to the lady.' Jake hoisted the pack to his shoulders, hefted his rifle, then moved over to Broome and helped him to his feet. Wrapping a blanket around the wounded man's upper body, Jake steered him out into the open where the mule was hobbled. 'You ride, I'll lead,'

said the old man. With great difficulty Broome climbed to the saddle.

An eerie howl echoed in the trees and Jake stiffened. It was answered by another some way to the east.

then another.

Broome noted the sound, but compared with the pain from his chest wound and the pounding that had begun in his head, it seemed unimportant. Then he heard two gunshots in the distance, followed by a piercing scream of terror, and he jerked in the saddle. 'What was that?' he asked.

Jake did not reply. Slipping the hobble from the mule's forelegs, he took the reins in his left hand and began the long descent down into the wooded valley.

The Deacon moved on warily, leading the mule and glancing back often at the wounded man. Broome was semi-delirious now, and the man called Jake had lashed his wrists to the pommel of the saddle. The day was bright and clear, and there was no discernible breeze. The Deacon was thankful for that. The pack was heavy, as was the rifle, and he was mortally tired. The descent into the valley was slow and he paused often, listening, scanning the trees.

Death stalked these mountains now, and he knew the Devourers were fast and lethal. He would have little time to bring the rifle to bear. Every now and then the Deacon glanced at the mule. She was a canny beast and would pick up their scent much faster than he. At the moment she was moving easily, head down, ears up, contentedly following his lead.

With luck they would make Beth McAdam's farm by sunset. But what then?

How do you defeat a god of blood?

The Deacon didn't know. What he did know was that the pain in his chest was intense, and that his old and weary body was operating at the outer edge of its limits. For the first time in years he was tempted to use the Stone on himself, rejuvenating his ancient muscles, repairing the time-damaged heart.

It would be so good to feel young again, full of energy and purpose, infused with the passion and belief of youth. And the speed, he realised. That could be vital.

The mule stopped suddenly, jerking the Deacon back. He swung and saw her head come up, her eyes widen in fear. Slipping the pack from his shoulders, he hefted the rifle and moved back to stand beside the mule's head. 'It's all right, girl,' he said, his voice soft and soothing. 'Steady, now!'

He noticed that an easterly breeze had picked up. The mule had caught the scent of the man-wolves.

Leaving the pack where it lay, the Deacon scrambled up behind Broome and kicked the mule into a run.

She needed no further encouragement and set off down the slope at breakneck speed. As Broome swayed to his left, the Deacon's left arm caught him, hauling him upright.

The mule thundered on. When a grey shape reared from the right of the trail, the Deacon lifted the rifle like a pistol and loosed a shot which caught the beast high on the shoulder, spinning it. Then the mule was past and on to level ground, racing out into the valley.

They crossed the Gateway at midnight, the air cool, the stars glittering above them, and emerged seconds later into the bright sunshine of an Autumn morning. The stone circle into which they had travelled was almost completely overgrown by dense bush, and the trio were forced to dismount and force a way through to open ground some fifty yards to the left.

Amaziga spoke softly into the microphone. Shannow could not hear the words, but he saw her lift the time-piece on her wrist and make adjustments. She saw him watching her. 'Lucas says it is 8.45 a.m., and we have two days to reach the Mardikh mountains where Sam and his group are holding out. It is forty-two miles from here, but the ground is mostly level.'

Shannow nodded and stepped into the saddle. Gareth rode alongside him. 'I am grateful to you, Mr Shannow,' he said. 'It is not every day that a man is given the opportunity to bring his father back from the dead.'

'As I understand it,' said Shannow, 'he is not your father, merely a man who carries the same face and name.'

'And an identical genetic structure. Why did you come?'

Shannow ignored the question and rode towards the north, Amaziga and Gareth falling in behind. They pushed on through the day, stopping only once to eat a cold meal. The land was vast and empty, the distant blue mountains seeming no nearer. Twice they passed deserted homes, and in the distance, towards dusk, Shannow saw a cluster of buildings that had once made up a small town on the eastern slopes of a narrow valley. There was no sign of life, no lanterns burning, no movement.

As the light began to fail Shannow turned off the trail and up into a stand of pine, seeking a place to camp. The land rose sharply, and ahead of them a cliff face ran south to north. A narrow waterfall gushed over basaltic rock, the fading sunlight casting rainbows through the spray and a rippling stream flowing on towards the plain.

Shannow dismounted and loosened the saddle cinch. 'We could make at least another five miles,' said Amaziga but he ignored her, his keen eyes picking up a flash of red in the undergrowth some sixty yards beyond the falls. Leaving the horse with trailing reins, he waded across the narrow stream and climbed the steep bank beyond. Gareth followed him.

'Jesus Christ!' whispered Gareth as he saw the crushed and ruined remains of a red jeep.

'Do not take His name in vain,' said Shannow. 'I do not like profanity.' The jeep was lying on its back, the roof twisted and bent. One door had been ripped clear, and Shannow could see the marks of talons scoring through the red paint and the thin steel beneath. He glanced up. Torn and broken foliage on the cliff above the jeep showed that it had fallen from the cliff-top and bounced several times against sharp outcrops before landing here. Ducking down, he pulled aside the bracken and peered into the interior.

Gareth knelt alongside him.

Inside the jeep was a crushed and twisted body. All that could be seen was an outflung arm, half severed. The arm was black, the blood-soaked shirt sleeve olive-green with a thin grey stripe. Gareth's shirt was identical. 'It's me,' said Gareth. 'It's me!'

Shannow rose and moved to the other side of the wreck.

Glancing down, he saw huge paw-prints in the soft earth, and a trail of dried blood leading into the undergrowth. Drawing a pistol and cocking it, he followed the trail and twenty yards further on found the remains of a grisly feast. Lying to the left was a small box, twisted, torn wires leading from it. Easing the hammer forward, he holstered his pistol, then he picked up the blood-spattered box and walked back to where Gareth was still staring down at the body.

'Let's go,' said the Jerusalem Man.

'We've got to bury him.'

'No.'

'I can't just leave him there!'

Hearing the anguish in the young man's voice, Shannow moved alongside him, laying a hand on his shoulder. There are hoof-marks around the vehicle, as well as signs of the Devourers. If any of the riders return and find the corpses buried, they will know that others have passed this way. You understand?

We must leave them as they are.'

Gareth nodded, then his head flicked up. 'Corpses? There is only one, surely?'

Shannow shook his head and showed Gareth the blood-spattered box. 'I don't understand. .' the young man whispered.

'Your mother will,' said Shannow, as Amaziga strode to join them. He watched her as she examined the jeep, her face impassive. Then she saw the box, identical to the one she had strapped to her belt, and her dark eyes met Shannow's gaze.

'Where is her body?' she asked.

There is not much of a body left. The Devourers lived up to their name. A part of the head remains, enough to identify it.'

'Is it safe to remain here?'

'Nowhere in this land is safe, lady. But it offers concealment for the night.'

‘I take it the twin of your body is not here, Mr Shannow?'

'No,' he said.

She nodded. Then she chose to undertake the mission without you — obviously a mistake which she paid for dearly.'

Amaziga turned away and returned to the horses as Gareth approached Shannow. That's the closest she'll ever come to saying you were right about the jeep,' said the young man, attempting a smile. 'You're a wise man, Shannow.'

The Jerusalem Man shook his head. 'The wise man was the Jon Shannow who didn't travel with them.'

Gareth took the first watch, a thick blanket round his shoulders against the cool night breeze. He was sitting on a wide branch that must have snapped in a recent storm. The sight of the body in the jeep had unnerved him as nothing else had in his young life. He knew the dead man better than he knew anyone, understood the hopes and dreams and fears the man had entertained or endured. And he couldn't help but wonder what had gone through his twin's mind as the jeep had crashed over the cliff. Despair?

Terror? Anger? Had he been alive after the fall? Had the Devourers forced their way in and torn at his helpless body?

The young black man shivered and glanced to where Shannow slept peacefully beneath a spreading elm.

This quest had seemed like an adventure to Gareth Archer, yet another exciting experience in his rich, full young life. The prospect of danger had been enticing. But to see his own corpse! Death was something that happened to other people. . not to him. Nervously he glanced across at the ruined jeep.

The night was cold, and he noticed that his hands were trembling. He glanced at his watch: two more hours before he woke his mother. She had seemed unfazed by the tragedy that had befallen their twins and, just for a moment, Gareth found himself envious of her calm. Amaziga had spread out her blanket, removed the boxes and headphones and passed them to her son. 'Lucas's camera has an infra-red capacity,' she said. 'Don't leave it on for long. We must conserve the batteries. Two minutes every half-hour should be sufficient.' Now she too seemed to be sleeping.

Gareth pressed the button on the box. 'You are troubled,' whispered Lucas's voice, sounding tinny and small through the earphones. Gareth flipped the microphone into place.

'What can you see?' he asked, turning his head slowly, allowing the tiny camera on the headband a view of the plain below.

'Move your head to the right — about an inch,' ordered Lucas.

'What is it?' Gareth's heart began to pound, and he slipped his Desert Eagle automatic from its shoulder holster.

'A beautiful spotted owl,' said Lucas. 'It's just caught a small lizard,' Gareth swore. 'There is nothing on the plain to concern you,' the machine chided him. 'Calm yourself.'

'Easy for you to say, Lucas. You haven't seen your own corpse.'

'As a matter of fact, I have. I watched the original Lucas collapse with a heart attack. However, that is beside the point. Your resting heartbeat is currently one hundred and thirty-three beats per minute. That is very close to panic, Gareth. Take some long, slow, deep breaths.'

'It is a hundred and thirty-three beats faster than the poor son of a bitch in the jeep,' snapped the young man. 'And it is not panic. I've never panicked in my life. I won't start now.'

A hand touched his shoulder and Gareth lurched upright. 'One hundred and sixty-five beats,' he heard Lucas whisper, and he spun round to see Amaziga standing calmly behind him.

'I said use the machine,' she told him, 'not get into an argument with it.' She held out her hand. 'Let me have Lucas, and then you can get some sleep.'

'I've another two hours yet.'

'I'm not tired. Now do as you're told.' He grinned sheepishly and carefully removed the headband and boxes. Amaziga laid aside her Uzi and clipped the machine to her shoulder rig. Gareth moved to his blanket and lay down. The Desert Eagle dug into his waist and, easing it clear, he laid it alongside him.

Amaziga turned off the machine and walked to the edge of the trees, staring out over the moonlit landscape. Nothing moved, and there were no sounds save for the rustling of leaves in the trees above her. She waited until Gareth was asleep and then waded back across the stream, past the ruined jeep and on to the scene of the feast. The body — or what was left of it — was in three parts. The head and neck were resting against a boulder, the face — thankfully — turned away. Amaziga flicked on the machine.

'What are we looking for?' asked Lucas.

'I am carrying a Sipstrassi Stone. There is little power left. She should have an identical Stone. Scan the ground.'

Slowly she turned her head. 'Can you see anything?'

'No. Nothing of interest. Traverse to the left… no… more slowly. Was it in the trouser pocket or the shirt?'

'Trouser.'

'There's not much left of the legs. Perhaps one of the beasts ate the Stone.'

'Just keep looking!' snapped Amaziga.

'All right. Move to the right…. Amaziga.’ The tone in his voice made her blood grow cold.

'Yes?'

‘I hope the weapon you are holding is primed and ready. There is a beast some fifteen metres to your right. He is around eight feet tall. .' Amaziga flipped the Uzi into position and spun. As a huge, grey form hurtled towards her the Uzi fired, a long thunderous roar of sound exploding into the silence of the night. Bullets smashed into the grey chest, blood sprayed from the wounds, but still it came on. Amaziga's finger tightened on the trigger, emptying the long clip. The Devourer was flung backwards, its chest torn open. 'Amaziga.r shouted Lucas. 'There are two more!'

The Uzi was empty and Amaziga scrabbled for the Beretta at her hip. Even as she did so the beasts charged.

And she knew she was too slow. .

'Down, woman!' bellowed Shannow. Amaziga dived to her right. The booming sound of Shannow's pistol was followed by a piercing howl from the first Devourer which pitched backwards with half its head blown away. The second swerved past Amaziga and ran directly at the tall man at the edge of the trees. Shannow fired once; the creature slowed. A second shot ripped into its skull and Amaziga was showered with blood and brains.

Shannow stepped forward, pistols raised.

Amaziga turned her head. 'Are there any more of them?' she whispered to Lucas. There was no answer, and she saw that one of the leads had pulled clear of the right-hand box. She swore softly and pressed it home.

'Are you all right?' Lucas asked.

'Yes. What can you see?' asked Amaziga, turning slowly through a full circle.

'There are riders some four kilometres to the north, heading away from us. I can see no beasts. But the cliff face is high; there may be others on the higher ground. Might I suggest you reload your weapon?'

Switching off the machine Amaziga rose unsteadily to her feet. Shannow handed her the Uzi just as Gareth came running on to the scene, his Desert Eagle automatic in his hand.

Thank you, Shannow,' said Amaziga. 'You got here very fast.'

'I was here all the time,' he told her. ‘I followed you across the stream.'

'Why?'

He shrugged. 'I felt uneasy. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you to your watch.'

'Son of a bitch,' said Gareth, staring down at the three dead beasts. They're huge!'

'And dead,' pointed out Shannow as he strode past.

Gareth moved alongside Amaziga, who was pressing a full clip into the butt of the Uzi. 'Jesus, but he's like an iceman He stopped speaking, and Amaziga saw his gaze fall on the moonlit head of the other Amaziga. 'Oh, my God! Sweet Jesus!'

His mother took him by the arm, leading him away. 'I'm alive, Gareth. So are you. Hold to that! You hear me?'

He nodded. 'I hear you. But, Christ. .'

'No buts, my son! They are dead — we are not. They came to rescue Sam. They failed; we will not. You understand?'

He took a long, deep breath. 'I won't let you down, Mother. You can trust me on that.'

'I know. Now go and get some sleep. I'll resume the watch.'

Samuel Archer was not a religious man. If there was a God, he had long ago decided, he was either wilful or incompetent. Perhaps both. Yet Sam stood now on the crest of the hill and prayed. Not for himself, though survival would be more than pleasant, but for the last survivors of those who had followed him in the War against the Bloodstone. Behind him were the remaining rebels, twenty-two in all, counting the women. Before and below them on the plain were the Hellborn elite.

Two hundred warriors, their skills enhanced by the demonseeds embedded in their foreheads. Killers all!

Sam glanced around him. The rebels had picked a fine setting for their last stand, high above the plain, the tree line and thick undergrowth forming a rough stockade. The Hellborn would be forced to advance up a steep slope in the face of withering volleys. With enough ammunition we might even have held, thought Sam. He glanced down at the twin ammunition belts draped across his broad chest; there were more empty loops than full. Idly he counted the remaining shells. From the breast pocket of his torn grey shirt he drew a strip of dried beef, the last of his rations.

There would be no retreat from here, Sam knew. Two hundred yards behind them the mountains fell away into a deep gorge that opened out on to the edge of the Mardikh desert. Even if they could climb down, without horses they would die of thirst long before reaching the distant river.

Sam sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. For four years now he had fought the Bloodstone, gathering fighters, battling against Hellborn warriors and Devourers. All for nothing. His own small store of Sipstrassi was used up now, and without it they could not hope to hold off the killers. An ant crawled on to Sam's hand. He brushed it away.

That's what we are, he thought, ants standing defiantly before an avalanche.

Despair was a potent force, and one which Sam had resisted for most of these four years. It was not hard back at the beginning. The remnants of the Guardians had gathered against Sarento, and won three battles against the Hellborn. None had proved decisive. Then the Bloodstone had mutated the Wolvers and a new, terrible force was unleashed against the human race. Whole communities fled into the mountains to escape the beasts. The flight meant that the Guardian army, always small, was now without supplies as farming communities disappeared in the face of the Devourers. Ammunition became in short supply, and many fighters left the army in order to travel to their homes in a vain bid to protect their families.

Now twenty-two were left. Tomorrow there would be none.

A young, beautiful olive-skinned woman approached Sam. She was tall and wore two pistols in shoulder holsters over a faded red shirt. Her jet-black hair was drawn tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck.

He smiled as he saw her. 'I guess we've come to the end of a long, sorrowful road, Shammy. I'm sorry I brought you to this.'

Shamshad Singh merely shrugged. 'Here or at home. . what difference? You fight or you die.'

'Or do both,' said Sam wearily. She sat down beside him on the boulder, her short-barrelled shotgun resting on her slim thighs.

'Tell me of a happy time,' she said suddenly.

'Any particular theme?' he asked. 'I've lived for three hundred and fifty-six years, so there is a lot to choose from.'

Tell me about Amaziga.'

He gazed at her fondly. She was in love with him, and had made it plain for the two years she had been with the rebels. Yet Sam had never responded to her overtures. In all his long life there was only one woman who had opened the doors to his soul — and she was dead, shot down by the Hellborn in the first months of the War.

'You are an extraordinary woman, Shammy. I should have done better by you.'

'Bullshit,' she said, with a wide smile. 'Now tell me about Amaziga.'

'Why?'

'Because it always cheers you up. And you need cheering.'

He shook his head. 'It has always struck me as particularly sad that there will come a point in a man's life where he has no second chances. When Napoleon saw his forces in full retreat at Waterloo, he knew there would never be another day when he would march out at the head of a great force. It was over. I always thought that must be hard to take. Now I know that it is. We have fought against a great evil, and we have been unable to defeat it. And tomorrow we die. It is not a time for happy stories, Shammy.'

'You're wrong,' she said. 'At this moment I can still see the sky, feel the mountain breeze, smell the perfume of the pines. I am alive! And I luxuriate in that fact. Tomorrow is another day, Sam. We'll fight them. Who knows, maybe we'll win? Maybe God will open up a hole in the sky and send his thunderbolts down upon our enemies.'

He chuckled then. 'Most likely he'd miss and hit us.'

'Don't mock, Sam,' she chided him. 'It is not for us to know what God intends.'

'It baffles me, after all you've seen, how you can still believe in Him.'

'It baffles me how you can't,' she responded. The sun was dropping low on the horizon, bathing the mountains in crimson and gold.

Down in the valley the Hellborn had begun their camp-fires, and the sound of raucous songs echoed up in the mountains.

'Jered has scouted the gorge,' said Shamshad. 'The cliff face extends for around four miles. He thinks some of us could make the descent.'

That's desert down there. We'd have no way of surviving,' said Sam.

‘I agree. But it is an option.'

'At least there are no Devourers,' he said, returning his stare to the Hellborn camp.

'Yes, that is curious,' she replied. They all padded off late yesterday. I wonder where to?'

'I don't care, as long as it's not here,' he told her, with feeling. 'How many shells do you have?'

'Around thirty. Another twenty for the pistol.'

'I guess it will be enough,' said Sam.

'I guess it will have to be,' she agreed.

Amaziga watched as Gareth lifted the coils of rope from his saddle. The cliff face was sheer and some six hundred feet high, but it rose in a series of three ledges — the first around eighty feet above them, its glistening edge shining silver in the bright moonlight.

'What do you thinly?' asked Amaziga.

Gareth smiled. 'Easy, Mother. Good hand and foot-holds all the way. The only problem area is that high overhang above the top ledge, but I don't doubt I can traverse it. Don't worry. I've soloed climbs that are ten times more difficult than this.' He turned to Shannow. ‘I’ll go for the first ledge, then lower a rope to you. We'll climb in stages. How is your head for heights, Mr Shannow?'

'I have no fear of heights,' said the Jerusalem Man.

Gareth looped two coils of rope over his head and shoulder and stepped up to the face. The climb was reasonably simple until he reached a point just below the ledge, where the rock was worn away by falling water. He considered traversing to the right, then saw a narrow vertical crack in the face some six feet to his left. Easing his way to it, Gareth pushed his right hand high into the crack, then made a fist, wedging his hand against the rock. Tensing his arm, he pulled himself up another few feet. There was a good handhold to the left and he hauled himself higher. Releasing the hand-jam hold, he reached over the edge of the ledge and levered himself up. Swinging, he sat on the edge staring down at the small figures below.

He waved.

Climbing was always so exhilarating. His first experience of it had been in Europe, in the Triffyn mountains of Wales. Lisa had taught him to climb, shown him friction holds and hand-jams, and he had marvelled at her ability to climb what appeared to be surfaces as smooth as polished marble. He remembered her with great affection, and sometimes wondered why he had left her for Eve.

Lisa wanted marriage, Eve wanted pleasure. The thought was absurd. Are you really so shallow, he wondered? Lisa would have been a fine wife, strong, loyal, supportive. But her love for him had been obsessive and, worse, possessive. Gareth had seen what such love could do, for he had watched his mother and lived with her single-minded determination all his life. I don't want that kind of love, he thought. Not ever!

Pushing such thoughts from his mind, Gareth stood and moved along the ledge. There was no jutting of rock to which he could belay the rope, allowing friction to assist him in helping Shannow make the climb, but there was a small vertical crack. From his belt he undipped a small claw-like object in shining steel.

Pushing it into the crevice, he pulled the knob at its centre. The claw flashed open, locking to the walls of the crack. Lifting one coil of rope clear, he slid the end through a ring of steel in the claw and lowered it to the waiting Shannow. Once the Jerusalem Man had begun the climb, Gareth looped the rope across his left shoulder and took in the slack.

But Shannow made the climb without incident and levered himself over the ledge. 'How did you find it?'

whispered Gareth.

Shannow shrugged. 'I don't like the look of those clouds,' he replied, keeping his voice low. Gareth tied the rope to his waist. Shannow was right. The sky was darkening, and they had still a fair way to go.

Lowering the rope once more, Gareth helped his mother make the climb. She was breathing heavily by the time she pushed herself up alongside them.

During the next hour the three climbers inched their way up to the last ledge. They were only forty feet from the top now, but darkness had closed in around them and a light drizzle had begun, making the rock-face slick and greasy. Gareth was worried now. It had not been possible to see from the ground the slight overhang at this point. Climbing it would be difficult at the best of times, but in darkness, with the rain increasing?

For the third time Gareth prowled along the ledge, gazing up, trying to judge the best route. Nothing he could see filled him with encouragement. The rain slowed. He glanced down at the tiny, insect-sized shapes of the hobbled horses. To come this far and not be able to complete his mission — Jesus, Amaziga would never forgive him. He had long known that his mother did not love him, and he accepted her pride in him as a reasonable substitute. She would — could — never love anyone as she did her husband. That love was all-encompassing, all-consuming. As a child this had hurt Gareth, but in manhood he had come to understand the complexities and the bewildering brilliance of the woman who had borne him. If her pride was all he could have, then it would have to suffice. He stepped up to the face and reached up for the first hand-hold; it was no more than a groove irUhe rock but fie found a small foot-hold and levered himself up. Friction holds were vital on an overhang, but the young man's fingers were tired now, the rock-face slippery. Gareth's mouth was dry as he struggled to climb another fifteen feet. His foot slipped!

He locked the fingers of his right hand to a small jutting section of rock, and swung out over the six-hundred-foot drop. Panic touched him. He was hanging by one hand, and unable to reach a second hold. Worse, he had moved out on to the overhang — and if he fell now he would miss the first ledge. The drop to the second was more than eighty feet… he would be smashed to pulp. Gareth's heart was pounding so hard he could feel the pulse thudding at his temple. Twisting his body, he looked up at the face. There was a small hold around eighteen inches above the tiny jut of rock to.which he clung. Taking a long, deep breath he prepared himself for the surge of effort needed to reach it.

If you miss you will be dislodged! Christ! Don't think like that! But he couldn't help it. His mind flew back to the other Gareth, dead in a crushed jeep.

And he knew he didn't have the courage to make that last effort.

Oh, God, he thought. I'm going to die here!

Suddenly something pressed hard against the underside of his foot, taking the weight. Gareth looked down and saw that Shannow had climbed out on to the overhang. Now the two of them were out on the face, and if Gareth fell he would carry the Jerusalem Man to his death.

Shannow's voice drifted up to him, calm and steady. ‘I can't hold you like this all night, boy. So I suggest you make a move.'

Gareth lunged up, catching the hold and swinging his foot to a small ridge in the stone. Above this the holds were infinitely easier and he gratefully hauled himself over the summit.

For a moment he lay back with eyes closed, feeling the rain on his face. Then he sat up, looped the rope over his shoulder and tugged it twice, signalling Shannow to start the climb. The rope went tight. Gareth leaned back to take the strain.

Something cold touched his temple.

It was a pistol. .

A hand moved into sight. It held a razor-sharp knife, which sliced through the rope.

Shem Jackson was sitting in the front room of his house, his booted feet resting on a table. His brother, Micah, idly shuffled a pack of dog-eared cards. 'You wanna game, Shem?'

'For what?' responded the older man, lifting a jug of spirit and swigging from it. 'You lost everything you got.'

'You could lend me some,' said Micah, reproachfully.

Shem slammed the jug down on the table-top. 'What the Hell is the point of that? You play cards when you got money — it's that simple. Can't you get it into your head?'

'Well, what else is there to do?' whined Micah.

'And whose fault is that?' snapped Shem, pushing a dirty hand through his greasy hair. 'She wasn't much to look at, but you had to go and thrash her, didn't you?'

'She asked for it!' replied Micah. 'Called me names.'

'Well, now she's run off. And this time it's for good, I'll bet. You know the trouble with you, Micah? You never know when you're well-off.' Shem stood and stretched his lean frame. Rain couldn't be far away; his back was beginning to ache. Walking to the window, he stared out at the yard and the moonlit barn beyond. A flash of movement caught his eye and, leaning forward, he rubbed at the grimy glass. It merely smeared and Shem swore.

'What is it?' asked Micah. Shem shrugged.

'Thought I saw something out by the barn. It was probably nothing.' He squinted, caught a flash of silver-grey fur. 'It's Wolvers,' he said. 'God damn Wolvers!' Striding across the room, he lifted the long rifle down from its pegs over the mantel and, grinning, swung on Micah. 'Damn sight more fun than playing cards with a loser like you,' he said, pumping a shell into the breech. 'Come on, get your weapon, man, there's hunting to be had.'

Good humour flowed back to him. Little bastards, he thought. They won't get away this time. No Beth McAdam to save you now!

Stepping to the front door, he wrenched it open and walked out into the moonlight. 'Come on, you little beggars, show yourselves!' he called. The night was quiet, the moon unbearably bright to the eye A hunter's moon! Shem crept forward with gun raised. He heard Micah move out behind him and stumble on the porch. Clumsy son of a bitch!

On open ground now Shem angled to the right, towards the vegetable patch and the corral. 'Show yourselves!' he shouted. 'Old Uncle Shem's got a little present for you!'

Behind him Micah made a gurgling sound, and Shem heard the clump of something striking the ground.

Probably his rifle, thought Shem as he turned.

But it was not a rifle. Micah's head bounced twice on the hard-packed earth, the neck completely severed by a savage sweep of a long-taloned hand. Micah's body toppled forward, but Shem was not looking at it. He was staring in paralysed horror at the creature towering before him, its silver fur shining, its eyes golden, a bright red stone embedded in its forehead.

Shem Jackson's rifle came up and he pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed into the creature's chest, sending up a puff of dust. But it didn't go down; it howled and leapt forward, its talons flashing down.

Shem felt the blow on his shoulder and staggered back. The rifle was on the ground. He blinked and then felt a rush of blood from his shoulder. There was no pain — not even when his arm fell clear, thumping against the ground and draping across his boot.

The Devourer lashed out once more. .

Shem Jackson's face disappeared.

From the shadows, scores more of the beasts moved forward. Several stopped to feed.

Most loped on towards the sleeping town of Pilgrim's Valley.