Bloodstone

CHAPTER ONE

The pain was too great to ignore, and nausea threatened to swamp him as he rode. But the Preacher clung to the saddle and steered the stallion up towards the Gap. The full moon was high in the clear sky, the distant mountain peaks sharp and glistening white against the skyline. The sleeve of the rider's black coat was still smouldering, and a gust of wind brought a tongue of flame. Fresh pain seared through him and he beat at the cloth with a smoke-blackened hand.

Where were they now, he thought, pale eyes scanning the moonlit mountains and the lower passes? His mouth was dry and he reined in the stallion. A canteen hung from the pommel and the Preacher hefted it, unscrewing the brass cap. Lifting it to his lips, he found it was filled not with water but with a fiery spirit.

He spat it out and hurled the canteen away.

Cowards! They needed the dark inspiration of alcohol to aid them on their road to murder. His anger flared, momentarily masking the pain. Far down the mountain, emerging from the timber line he saw a group of riders. His eyes narrowed. Five' men. In the clear air of the mountains he heard the distant sound of laughter.

The rider groaned and swayed in the saddle, the pounding in his temple increasing. He touched the wound on the right side of his head. The blood was congealing now, but there was a groove in the skull where the bullet had struck, and the flesh around it was hot and swollen.

He felt consciousness slipping from him, but fought back using the power of his rage.

Tugging the reins he guided the stallion up through the Gap, then angled it to the right, down the long wooded slope towards the road. The slope was treacherous and the stallion slipped twice, dropping to its haunches. But the rider kept the animal's head up and it righted itself, coming at last to level ground and the hard-packed earth of the trade road.

The Preacher halted his mount, then looped the reins around the pommel and drew his pistols. Both were long-barrelled, the cylinders engraved with swirls of silver. He shivered and saw that his hands were trembling. How long had it been since these weapons of death were last in use. Fifteen years? Twenty? I swore never to use them again. Never to take another life.

And you were a fool!

Love your enemy. Do good to him that hates you.

And see your loved ones slain.

If he strikes you upon the right cheek, offer him the left.

And see your loved ones burn.

He saw again the roaring flames, heard the screams of the terrified and the dying. . Nasha running for the blazing door as the roof timbers cracked and fell upon her, Dova kneeling beside the body of her husband Nolis, her fur ablaze, pulling open the burning door, only to be shot to ribbons by the jeering, drunken men outside. .

The riders came into sight and saw the lone figure waiting for them. It was clear that they recognised him, but there was no fear in them. This he found strange, but then he realised they could not see the pistols, which were hidden by the high pommel of the saddle. Nor could they know the hidden secret of the man who faced them. The riders urged their horses forward and he waited, silently, as they approached. All trembling was gone now, and he felt a great calm descend upon him.

'Well, well,' said one of the riders, a huge man wearing a double-shouldered canvas coat. 'The Devil looks after his own, eh? You made a bad mistake following us, Preacher. It would have been easier for you to die back there.' The man produced a double-edged knife. 'Now I'm going to skin you alive!'

For a moment he did not reply, then he looked the man in the eyes. 'Were they ashamed when they had committed the abomination?' he quoted. Wo, they were not ashamed, and could not blush.' The pistol in his right hand came up, the movement smooth, unhurried. For a fraction of a second the huge raider froze, then he scrabbled for his own pistol. It was too late. He did not hear the thunderous roar, for the heavy-calibre bullet smashed into his skull ahead of the sound and catapulted him from the saddle. The explosion terrified the horses, and all was suddenly chaos. The Preacher's stallion reared but he re-adjusted his position and fired twice, the first bullet ripping through the throat of a lean, bearded man, the second punching into the back of a rider who had swung his horse in a vain bid to escape the sudden battle. A fourth man took a bullet in the chest and fell screaming to the ground, where he began to crawl towards the low undergrowth at the side of the road. The last raider, managing to control his panicked mount, drew a long pistol and fired; the bullet came close, tugging at the collar of the Preacher's coat.

Twisting in the saddle, he fired his left-hand pistol twice, and his assailant's face disappeared as the bullets hammered into his head. Riderless horses galloped away into the night and he surveyed the bodies. Four men were dead; the fifth, wounded in the chest, was still trying to crawl away, and leaving a trail of blood behind him. Nudging the stallion forward, the rider came alongside the crawling man.

‘I will surely consume them, saith the Lord.' The crawling man rolled over.

'Jesus Christ, don't kill me! I didn't want to do it. I didn't kill any of them, I swear it!'

'By their works shall ye judge them,' said the rider.

The pistol levelled. The man on the ground threw up his hands, crossing them over his face. The bullet tore through his fingers and into his brain.

'It is over,' said the Preacher. Dropping the pistols into the scabbards at his hip, he turned the stallion and headed for home. Weariness and pain overtook him then, and he slumped forward over the horse's neck.

The stallion, with no guidance now from the man, halted. The rider had pointed him towards the south, but that was not the home the stallion knew. For a while it stood motionless, then it started to walk, heading east and out into the plains.

It plodded on for more than an hour, then caught the scent of wolves. Shapes moved to the right. The stallion whinnied and reared. The weight fell from its back. . and then it galloped away.

Jeremiah knelt by the sleeping man, examining the wound in the temple. He did not believe the skull to be cracked, but there was no way of being sure. The bleeding had stopped, but massive bruising extended up into the hairline and down across the cheekbone almost all the way to the jaw. Jeremiah gazed down at the man's face. It was lean and angular, the eyes deep-set. The mouth was thin-lipped, yet not, Jeremiah considered, cruel.

There was much to learn about a man by studying his face, Jeremiah knew, as if the experiences of life were mirrored there in code. Perhaps, he thought, every act of weakness or spite, bravery or kindness, made a tiny mark, added a line here and there, that could be read like script. Maybe this was God's way of allowing the holy to perceive wickedness in the handsome. It was a good thought. The sick man's face was strong, but there was little kindness there, Jeremiah decided, though equally there was no evil. Gently he bathed the head wound, then drew back the blanket. The burns to the man's arm and shoulder were healing well, though several blisters were still seeping pus.

Jeremiah turned his attention to the man's weapons. Revolvers made by the Hellborn, single-action pistols. Hefting the first he drew back the hammer into the half-cock position, then flipped the release, exposing the cylinder. Two shells had been fired. Jeremiah removed an empty cartridge case and examined it. The weapon was not new. In the years before the Second Satan Wars the Hellborn had produced double-action versions of the revolver, with slightly shorter barrels, and squat, rectangular automatic pistols and rifles that were far more accurate than these pieces. Such weapons had not saved them from annihilation. Jeremiah had seen the destruction of Babylon. The Deacon had ordered it razed, stone by stone, until nothing remained save a flat, barren plain. The old man shivered at the memory.

The injured man groaned and opened his eyes. Jeremiah felt the coldness of fear as he gazed into them.

The eyes were the misty grey-blue of a winter sky, piercing and sharp, as if they could read his soul.

'How are you feeling?' he asked, as his heart hammered. The man blinked and tried to sit. 'Lie still, my friend. You have been badly wounded.'

'How did I get here?' The voice was low, the words softly spoken.

'My people found you on the plains. You fell from your horse. But before that you were in a fire, and were shot.'

The man took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 'I don't remember,' he said, at last.

'It happens,' said Jeremiah. The trauma from the pain of your wounds. Who are you?'

‘I don't remem. .'the man hesitated. 'Shannow. I am Jon Shannow.'

'An infamous name, my friend. Rest now and I will come back this evening with some food for you.'

The injured man opened his eyes and reached out, taking Jeremiah's arm. 'Who are you, friend?'

'I am Jeremiah. A Wanderer.'

The wounded man sank back to the bed. 'Go and cry in the ears of Jerusalem, Jeremiah,' he whispered, then fell once more into a deep sleep.

Jeremiah climbed from the back of the wagon, pushing closed the wooden door. Isis had prepared a fire, and he could see her gathering herbs by the riverside, her short, blonde hair shining like new gold in the sunlight. He scratched at his white beard and wished he were twenty years younger. The other ten wagons had been drawn up in a half-circle around the river-bank and three other cook-fires were now lit. He saw Meredith kneeling by the first, slicing carrots into the pot that hung above" it.

Jeremiah strolled across the grass and hunkered down opposite the lean, young academic. 'A life under the sun and stars agrees with you, doctor,' he said amiably. Meredith gave a shy smile, and pushed back a lock of sandy hair that had fallen into his eyes.

'Indeed it does, Meneer Jeremiah. I feel myself growing stronger with each passing day. If more people from the city could see this land there would be less savagery, I am sure.'

Jeremiah said nothing and transferred his gaze to the fire. In his experience savagery always dwelt in the shadow of Man, and where Man walked evil was never far behind. But Meredith was a gentle soul, and it did a young man no harm to nurse gentle dreams. 'How is the wounded man?' Meredith asked.

'Recovering, I think, though he claims to remember nothing of the fight that caused his injuries. He says his name is Jon Shannow.'

Anger shone briefly in Meredith's eyes. 'A curse on that name!' he said.

Jeremiah shrugged. 'It is only a name.'

Isis knelt by the river-bank and stared down at the long, sleek fish just below the glittering surface of the water. It was a beautiful fish, she thought, reaching out with her mind. Instantly her thoughts blurred, then merged with the fish. She felt the cool of the water along her flanks and was filled with a haunting restlessness, a need to move, to push against the currents, to swim for home.

Withdrawing, she lay back. . and felt the approach of Jeremiah. Smiling, she sat up and turned towards the old man. 'How is he?' she asked, as Jeremiah eased himself down beside her.

'Getting stronger. I'd like you to sit with him.' The old man is troubled, but trying to hide it, she thought.

Resisting the urge to flow into his mind, she waited for him to speak again. 'He is a fighter, perhaps even a brigand. I just don't know. It was our duty to help him, but the question is: Will he prove a danger to us as he grows stronger? Is he a killer? Is he wanted by the Crusaders? Could we find ourselves in trouble for harbouring him? Will you help me?'

'Oh, Jeremiah,' said Isis, softly. 'Of course I will help you. Did you doubt it?'

He reddened. 'I know you don't like to use your talent on people. I'm sorry I had to ask.'

'You're a sweet man,' she said, rising. Dizziness swept over her and she stumbled. Jeremiah caught her, and she felt swamped by his concern. Slowly strength returned to her, but the pain had now started in her chest and stomach. Jeremiah lifted her into his arms and walked back towards the wagons where Dr Meredith ran to them. Jeremiah sat her down in the wide rocking-chair by the fire, while Meredith took her pulse. ‘I’m all right now,' she said. 'Truly.'

Meredith's slender hand rested on her brow, and it took all her concentration to blot out the intensity of his feelings for her. 'I'm all right!'

'And the pain?' he asked.

'Fading,' she lied. 'I just got up too quickly. It is nothing.'

'Get some salt,' Meredith told Jeremiah. When he returned Meredith poured it into her outstretched palm. 'Eat it,' he commanded.

'It makes me feel sick,' she protested, but he remained silent and she licked the salt from her hand.

Jeremiah passed her a mug of water, and she rinsed her mouth.

'You should rest now,' said Meredith.

'I will, soon,' she promised. Slowly she stood. Her legs took her weight and she thanked both men.

Anxious to be away from their caring glances she moved to Jeremiah's wagon and climbed inside, where the wounded man was still sleeping.

Isis pulled up a chair and sat down. Her illness was worsening, and she sensed the imminence of death.

Pushing such thoughts from her mind, she reached out, her small hand resting on the fingers of the sleeping man. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to fall into his memories, floating down and down through the layers of manhood and adolescence, absorbing nothing until she reached childhood.

Two boys, brothers. One shy and sensitive, the other bois-' terous and rough. Caring parents, farmers.

Then the brigands came. Bloodshed and murder, the boys escaping. Torment and tragedy affecting them both in different ways, the one becoming a brigand, the other. .

Isis jerked back to reality, all thoughts of her illness forgotten now as she stared down at the sleeping man. 'I am staring into the face of a legend,' she thought. Once more she merged with the man.

The Jerusalem Man, haunted by the past, tormented by thoughts of the future, riding through the wild lands, seeking. . a city? Yes, but much more. Seeking an answer, seeking a reason for being. And during his search stopping to fight brigands, tame towns, kill the ungodly. Riding endlessly through the lands, welcome only when his guns were needed, urged to move on when the killing was done.

Isis pulled back once more, dismayed and depressed — not just by the memories of constant death and battle, but by the anguish of the man himself. The shy, sensitive child had become the man of violence, feared and shunned, each killing adding yet another layer of ice upon his soul. Again she merged.

She/he was being attacked, men running from the shadows. Gunfire. A sound behind her/him. Cocking the pistol Isis/Shannow spun and fired in one motion. A child flung back, his chest torn open. Oh God!

Oh God! Oh God!

Isis clawed her way free of the memory, but did not fully withdraw. Instead she floated upwards, allowing time to pass, halting only when the Jerusalem Man rode up to the farm of Donna Taybard. This was different. Here was love.

The wagons were moving, and Isisi/Shannow rode out from them, scouting the land, heart full of joy and the promise of a better tomorrow. No more savagery and death. Dreams of farming and quiet companionship. Then came the Hellborn!

Isis withdrew and stood. 'You poor, dear man,' she whispered, brushing her hand over the sleeping man's brow. 'I'll come back tomorrow.'

Outside the wagon Dr Meredith approached her. 'What did you find out?' he asked.

'He is no danger to us,' she answered.

The young man was tall and slender, a shock of unruly black hair cut short above the ears but growing long over the nape of his neck. He was riding an old, sway-backed mare up and over the Gap, and stared with the pleasure of youth at the distant horizons, where the mountains reared up to challenge the sky. Nestor Garrity was seventeen, and this was an adventure. The Lord alone knew how rare adventures were in Pilgrim's Valley. His hand curled round the pistol butt at his hip, and he allowed the fantasies to sweep through his mind. He was no longer a clerk at the timber company. No, he was a Crusader hunting the legendary Laton Duke and his band of brigands. It didn't matter that Duke was feared as the deadliest pistoleer this side of the Plague Lands. For the hunter was Nestor Garrity, lethal and fast, the bane of war-makers everywhere, adored by women, respected and admired by men.

Adored by women. .

Nestor paused in his fantasy, wondering what it would be like to be adored by women. He'd walked out once with Ezra Feard's daughter, Mary, taken her to the Summer Dance. She'd led him outside into the moonlight and flirted with him.

'Should have kissed her,' he thought. 'Should have done some damn thing!' He blushed at the memory.

The dance had turned into a nightmare when she walked off with Samuel Klares. They'd kissed. Nestor saw them down by the creek. Now she was married to him, and had just delivered her first child.

The old mare almost stumbled on the scree slope. Jerked from his thoughts, Nestor steered her down the incline.

The fantasies loomed back into his mind. He was no longer Nestor Garrity, the fearless Crusader, but Jon Shannow, the famed Jerusalem Man, seeking the fabled city, and with no time for women — much as they adored him. Nestor narrowed his eyes, and lifted his hat from where it hung at his back. Settling it into place, he turned up the collar of his coat and sat straighter in the saddle.

Jon Shannow would never slouch. He pictured two brigands riding from behind the boulders. In his mind's eye he could see the fear on their faces. They went for their guns. Nestor's hand snapped down.

The pistol sight caught on the tip of his holster, twisting the weapon from his hands. It fell to the scree.

Carefully Nestor dismounted and retrieved the weapon.

The mare, pleased to be relieved of the boy's weight, walked on. 'Hey, wait!' called Nestor, scrambling towards her. But she ambled on, and the dejected youngster followed her all the way to the bottom, where she stopped to crop at the dry grass. Then Nestor remounted.

One day I'll be a Crusader, he thought. I'll serve the Deacon and the Lord. He rode on.

Where was the Preacher? It shouldn't take this long to find him. The tracks were easy to follow to the Gap. But where was he going? Why did he ride out in the first place? Nestor liked the Preacher. He was a quiet man, and throughout Nestor's youth he had treated him with kindness and understanding.

Especially when Nestor's parents had been killed that Summer ten years ago. Drowned in a flash flood.

Nestor shivered at the memory. Seven years old — and an orphan. Frey McAdam had come to him then, the Preacher with her. He had sat at the bedside and taken Nestor's hand.

'Why did they die?' asked the bewildered child. 'Why did they leave me?'

'I guess it was their time, only they didn't know it.'

'I want to be dead too,' wailed the seven-year-old.

The Preacher had sat with him then, quietly talking about the boy's parents, of their goodness, and their lives. Just for a while the anguish and the numbing sense of loneliness had left Nestor, and he had fallen asleep.

Last night the Preacher had escaped out of the church, despite the flames and the bullets. And he had run away to hide. Nestor would find him, tell him that everything was all right now and it was safe to come home.

Then he saw the bodies, the flies buzzing around the terrible wounds. Nestor forced himself to dismount and approach them. Sweat broke out on his face, and the desert breeze felt cold upon his skin. He couldn't look directly at them, so he studied the ground for tracks.

One horse had headed back towards Pilgrim's Valley, then turned and walked out into the wild lands.

Nestor risked a swift, stomach-churning glance at the dead men. He knew none of them. More importantly, none of them was the Preacher.

Remounting, he set off after the lone horseman.

People were moving on the main street of Pilgrim's Valley as Nestor Garrity rode in, leading the black stallion. It was almost noon and the children were leaving the two school buildings and heading out into the fields to eat the lunches their mothers had packed for them. The stores and the town's three restaurants were open, and the sun was shining down from a clear sky.

But a half-mile to the north smoke still spiralled lazily into the blue. Nestor could see Beth McAdam standing amid the blackened timbers as the undertakers moved around the debris, gathering the charred bodies of the Wolvers. Nestor didn't relish facing Beth with the news. She had been the headmistress of the Lower School when Nestor was a boy, and no one ever enjoyed the thought of being sent to her study. He grinned, remembering the day he had fought with Charlie Wills. They had been dragged apart and then taken to Mrs McAdam; she had stood in front of her desk, tapping her fingers with the three-foot bamboo cane.

'How many should you receive, Nestor?' she had asked him.

'I didn't start the fight,' the boy replied.

That is no answer to my question.'

Nestor thought about it for a moment. 'Four,' he said.

'Why four?'

'Fighting in the yard is four strokes,' he told her. That's the rule.'

'But did you not also take a swing at Mr Carstairs when he dragged you off the hapless Charlie?'

That was a mistake,' said Nestor.

'Such mistakes are costly, boy. It shall be six for you and four for Charlie. Does that sound fair?'

'Nothing is fair when you're thirteen,' said Nestor. But he had accepted the six strokes, three on each hand, and had made no sound.

He rode slowly towards the charred remains of the little' church, the stallion meekly following his bay mare. Beth McAdam was standing with her hands on her ample hips, staring out towards the Wall. Her blonde hair was braided at the back, but a part of the braid had come loose and was fluttering in the wind at her cheek. She turned at the sound of the approaching horse and gazed up at Nestor, her face expressionless. He dismounted and removed his hat.

'I found the raiders,' he said. They was all dead.'

'I expected that,' she said. 'Where is the Preacher?'

'No sign of him. His horse headed east and I caught up with it; there was blood on the saddle. I backtracked and found signs of wolves and bears, but I couldn't find him.'

'He is not dead, Nestor,' she said. 'I would know. I would feel it here,' she told him, hitting her chest with a clenched fist.

'How did he manage to kill five men? They were all armed. All killers. I mean, I never saw the Preacher ever carry a gun.'

'Five men, you say?' she replied, ignoring the question. 'There were more than twenty surrounding the church according to those who saw the massacre. But then I expect there were some from our own. .

loving. . community.'

Nestor had no wish to become involved in the dispute. Wolvers in a church was hardly decent anyhow, and it was no surprise to the youngster that tempers had flared. Even so, if the Crusaders hadn't been called out to a brigand raid on Shem Jackson's farm there would have been no violence.

'Anything more you want me to do, Mrs McAdam?'

She shook her head. 'It was plain murder,' she said. 'Nothing short.'

'You can't murder Wolvers,' said Nestor, without thinking. 'I mean they ain't human, are they? They're animals.'

Anger shone in Beth's eyes, but she merely sniffed and turned aside.

‘Thank you, Nestor, for your help. But I expect you have chores to do and I'll not keep you from them.'

Relieved, he turned away and remounted. 'What do you want me to do with this stallion?' he called.

'Give it to the Crusaders. It wasn't ours and I don't want it.'

Nestor rode away to the stone-built barracks at the south of town, dismounting and hitching both horses to the rail outside. The door was open and Captain Leon Evans was sitting at a rough-built desk.

'Good morning, sir,' said Nestor.

Evans looked up and grinned. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with an easy smile. 'Still looking to sign up, boy?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Been reading your Bible?'

'I have, sir. Every day.'

‘I’ll put you in for the test on the first of next month. If you pass I'll make you a cadet.'

'I'll pass, sir. I promise.'

'You're a good lad, Nestor. I see you found the stallion. Any sign of the Preacher?'

'No, sir. But he killed five of the raiders.'

The smile faded from Captain Evans's face. 'Did he, by God?' He shook his head. 'As they say, you can't judge a man by the coat he wears. Did you recognise any of the dead men?'

'Not a one, sir. But three of them had their faces shot away. Looks like he just rode down the hill and blasted 'em to Hell and gone. Five men!'

'Six,' said the Captain. 'I was checking the church this morning, there was a corpse there. It looks like when the fire was at its worst the Preacher managed to smash his way out at the rear. There was a man waiting. The Preacher must have surprised him, there was a fight and the Preacher managed to get the man's gun. Then he killed him and took his horse. Jack Shale says he saw the Preacher riding from town; said his coat and hair were ablaze.'

Nestor shivered. 'Who'd have thought it?' he said. 'All his sermons were about God's love and forgiveness. Then he guns down six raiders. Who'd have thought it?'

‘I would, boy,' came a voice from the doorway and Nestor turned to see the old prophet making his slow way inside. Leaning on two sticks, his long white beard hanging to his chest, Daniel Cade inched his way to a seat by the wall. He was breathing heavily as he sank to the chair.

Captain Evans stood and filled a mug with water, passing it to the prophet. Cade thanked the man.

Nestor faded back to the far wall, but his eyes remained fixed "to the ancient legend sipping the water.

Daniel Cade, the former brigand turned prophet, who had fought off the Hellborn in the Great War.

Everyone knew that God spoke to the old man, and Nestor's parents had been two of the many people saved when Cade's brigands took on the might of the Hellborn army.

'Who burned the church?' asked Cade, the voice still strong and firm, oddly in contrast to the arthritic and frail body.

'They were raiders from outside Pilgrim's Valley,' the captain told him.

'Not all of them,' said Cade. 'There were townsfolk among the crowd. Shem Jackson was seen. Now that disturbs me — for isn't that why the Crusaders were not here to protect the church? Weren't you called to Jackson's farm?'

'Aye, we were,' said the captain. 'Brigands stole some of his stock and he rode in to alert us.'

'And then stayed on to watch the murders. Curious.' 'I do not condone the burning of the church, sir,'

said the captain. 'But it must be remembered that the Preacher was told

— repeatedly — that Wolvers were not welcome in Pilgrim's Valley. They are not creatures of God, not made in his image, nor true creations. They are things of the Devil. They have no place in a church, nor in any habitat of decent folk. The Preacher ignored all warnings. It was inevitable that some. . tragedy. .

would befall. I can only hope that the Preacher is still alive. It would be sad. . if a good man — though misguided — were to die.'

'Oh, I reckon he's alive,' said Cade. 'So you'll be taking no action against the townspeople who helped the raiders?'

'I don't believe anyone helped them. They merely observed them.'

Cade nodded. 'Does it not strike you as strange that men from outside Pilgrim's Valley should choose to ride in to lance our boil?'

The work of God is often mysterious,' said Evans, 'as you yourself well know, sir. But tell me, why were you not surprised that the Preacher should tackle — and destroy — six armed men? He shares your name and it is said he is your nephew, or was once one of your men in the Hellborn War? If the latter is true, he must have been very young indeed.'

Cade did not smile, but Nestor saw the humour in his eyes. 'He is older than he looks, Captain, and, no, he was never one of my men. Nor is he my nephew — despite his name.' With a grunt the prophet pushed himself to his feet. Captain Evans took his arm and Nestor ran forward to gather his sticks.

'I'm all right. Don't fuss about me!'

Slowly, and with great dignity, the old man left the room and climbed to the driving seat of a small wagon.

Evans and Nestor watched as Cade flicked the reins.

'A great man,' said Evans. 'A legend. He knew the Jerusalem Man. Rode with him, some say.'

'I heard he was the Jerusalem Man,' said Nestor.

Evans shook his head. ‘I heard that too. But it is not true. My father knew a man who fought alongside Cade. He was a brigand, a killer. But God shone the great light upon him.'

The Deacon stood on the wide balcony, his silver-white beard rippling in the morning breeze. From this high vantage point he gazed affectionately out over the high walls and down on the busy streets of Unity.

Overhead a bi-plane lumbered across the blue sky, heading east towards the mining settlements, carrying letters and possibly the new Barta notes that were slowly replacing the large silver coins used to pay the miners.

The city was prospering. Crime was low and women could walk without risk, even at night, along the well-lit thoroughfares.

'I've done the best I could,' whispered the old man.

'What's that, Deacon?' asked a slender, round-shouldered man, with wispy white hair.

'Talking to myself, Geoffrey. Not a good sign.' Turning from the balcony he re-entered the study. 'Where were we?'

The thin man lifted a sheet of paper and peered at it. There is a petition here asking for mercy for Cameron Sikes. You may recall he's the man who found his wife in bed with a neighbour. He shot them both to death. He is due to hang tomorrow.'

The old man shook his head. 'I feel for him, Geoffrey, but you cannot make exceptions. Those who murder must die. What else?'

'The Apostle Saul would like to see you before setting off for Pilgrim's Valley.'

'Am I free this afternoon?'

Geoffrey consulted a black, leather-bound diary. 'Four-thirty to five is clear. Shall I arrange it?'

'Yes. I still don't know why he asked for that assignment. Perhaps he is tired of the city. Or perhaps the city is tired of him. What else?'

For half an hour the two men worked through the details of the day, until finally the Deacon called a halt and strolled through to the vast library beyond the study. There were armed guards on the doors, and the Deacon remembered with sadness the young man who had hidden here two years before. The shot had sounded like thunder within the domed building, striking the Deacon just above the right hip and spinning him to the floor. The assailant had screamed and charged across the huge room, firing as he ran. Bullets ricocheted from the stone floor. The Deacon had rolled over and drawn the small, two-shot pistol from his pocket. As the young man came closer the old man had fired, the bullet striking the assassin just above the bridge of the nose. The youngster stood for a moment, his own pistol dropping to the floor.

Then he had fallen to his knees, and toppled on to his face.

The Deacon sighed at the memory. The boy's father had been hanged the day before, after shooting a man following an argument over a card game.

Now the library and the municipal buildings were patrolled by armed guards.

The Deacon sat at a long oak table and stared at the banks of shelves while he waited for the woman.

Sixty-eight thousand books, or fragments of books, cross-indexed; the last remnants of the history of mankind, contained in novels, textbooks, philosophical tomes, instruction manuals, diaries and volumes of poetry. And what have we come to, he thought? A ruined world, bastardised by science and haunted by magic. His thoughts were dark and sombre, his mind weary. No one is right all the time, he told himself; you can only follow your heart. A guard ushered the woman in. Despite her great age she still walked with a straight back, her face showing more than a trace of the beauty she had possessed as a younger woman.

'Welcome, Frey Masters,' said the Deacon, rising. 'God's blessing to you, and to your family.' Her hair was silver, the lights from the ornate arched and stained-glass windows creating soft highlights of gold and red. Her eyes were blue, and startlingly clear. She smiled thinly and accepted his hand, then she sat opposite him.

'God's greeting to you also, Deacon,' she said. 'And I trust he will allow you to learn compassion before much longer.'

'Let us hope so,' said the Deacon. 'Now, what is the news?'

The dreams remain the same, only they are more powerful,' she said. 'Betsy saw a man with crimson skin and black veins. His eyes were red. Thousands of corpses lay around him, and he was bathing in the blood of children. Samantha also dreamed of a demon from another world. She was hysterical upon wakening, and claimed that the Devil was about to be loosed upon us. What does it mean, Deacon? Are the visions symbolic?'

'No,' he said sadly. The Beast exists.'

The woman sighed. ‘I too have been dreaming more of late. I saw a great wolf, walking upright. Its hands held hollow talons, and I watched as it sank them into a man, saw the blood drawn out of him. The Beast and the Wolf are linked, aren't they?' He nodded, but did not answer. 'And you know far more than you are telling me.'

'Has anyone else dreamed of wolves?' he asked, ignoring the comment.

'Alice has seen visions of them, Deacon,' said Frey Masters. 'She says she saw a crimson light bathing a camp of Wolvers. The little creatures began to writhe and scream; then they changed, becoming beasts like those in my dream.'

'I need to know when,' said the Deacon. 'And where.' From his pocket he took a small golden Stone, which he twirled against his fingertips.

'You should use the power on yourself,' said the woman sternly. 'You know that your heart is failing.'

'I've lived too long anyway. No, I'll save its power for the Beast. This is the last of them, you know. My little hoard. Soon the world will have to forget magic and concentrate once more on science and discovery.' His expression changed. 'If it survives.'

'It'll survive, Deacon,' she said. 'God must be stronger than any demon.'

'If He wants it to survive. We humans have hardly made the earth a garden now, have we?'

She shook her head and gave a weary smile. 'Yet there are still good people, even though we know that the path of evil offers many rewards. Don't give in to despair, Deacon. If the Beast comes, there will be those who will battle against it. Another Jerusalem Man, perhaps. Or a Daniel Cade.'

'Come the moment, come the man,' said the Deacon, with a dry chuckle.

Frey Masters rose. 'I'll go back to my Dreamers. What would you have me tell them?'

'Get them to memorise landscapes, seasons. When it conies, I need to be there to fight it. And I will need help.' Standing, he held out his hand and she shook it briefly. 'You have said nothing of your own dreams, Frey.'

'My powers have faded over the years. But, yes, I have seen the Beast. I fear you will not be strong enough to withstand it.'

He shrugged. 'I have fought many battles in my life. I'm still here.'

'But you're old now. We are old. Strength fails, Deacon. All things pass away. . even legends.'

He sighed. 'You have done a wonderful job here,' he said. 'All these fragments of a lost civilisation. I would like to think that after I am dead men and women will come here and learn from the best of what the old ones left us.'

'Don't change the subject,' she admonished him.

'You want me to spare the man who killed his wife and her lover?'

'Of course — and you are still changing the subject.'

'Why should I spare him?'

'Because I ask it, Deacon,' she said, simply.

'I see. No moral arguments, no scriptural examples, no appeal to my better nature?'

She shook her head, and he smiled. 'Very well, he will live.'

'You're a strange man, Deacon. And you are still avoiding the point. Once you could have stood against the Beast. Not any longer.'

He grinned and winked at her. 'I may just surprise you yet,' he said.

‘I’ll grant you that. You are a surprising man.'

Shannow dreamed of the sea, the groaning of the ship's timbers almost human, the waves like moving mountains, beating against the hull. He awoke, and saw the lantern above his bed gently swaying on its hook. For a moment the dream and the reality seemed to blend. Then he realised he was in the cabin of a prairie wagon and he remembered the man. . Jeremiah?. . ancient and white-bearded, with but a single, long tooth in his upper mouth. Shannow took a deep, slow breath, and the pounding pain in his temples eased slightly. With a groan he sat up. His left forearm and his shoulder were bandaged, and he could feel the tightness of the burnt skin beneath.

A fire? He searched his memory, but could find nothing. It doesn't matter, he told himself; the memory will come back. What is important is that I know who I am.

Jon Shannow. The Jerusalem Man.

And yet. . Even as the thought struck him he felt uneasy, as if the name was. . what? Wrong? No. His guns were hanging from the headboard of the bed. Reaching out, he drew a pistol. It felt both familiar and yet strange in his hand. Flicking the release he broke open the pistol. Two shells had been fired.

Instantly, momentarily, he saw a man fall back from his horse, his throat erupting in a crimson spray. Then the memory vanished.

A fight with brigands? Yes, that must have been it, he thought. There was a small hand mirror on a shelf to his right. He took it down and examined the wound in his temple. The bruising was yellowing now, fading fast, and the groove in his skull was covered by a thick scab. His hair had been trimmed close to his head, but he could still see where the fire had scorched the scalp.

Fire.

Another flash of memory! Planks ablaze, and Shannow hurling his body at the timbers time and again until they gave. A man beyond with pistol raised. The shot, hitting his head like a hammer. Then that vision also faded.

He had been in a church. Why? Listening to a sermon perhaps.

Easing himself from the bed, he saw that his clothes were folded neatly on a chair by a small window, the burned coat having been cleaned and patched with black cloth. As he dressed he looked around the cabin of the wagon. The bed was narrow, but well made of polished pine, and there were two pine chairs and a small table by the window. The walls were painted green, there were elaborate carvings around the window in the shape of vine leaves, and a strange motif had been carved above the door- two overlapping triangles making a star. A bookshelf sat upon two brackets above the bed.

Buckling his gun scabbards to his hips Shannow scanned the books. There was a Bible, of course, and several fictions, but at the end was a tall, thin volume with dry, yellowed pages. Shannow pulled it clear and carried it to the window. The sun was setting and he could just make out the title in faded gold leaf.

The Chronicle of Western Costume by John Peacock. With great care he turned the pages. Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Tudor, Stuart, Cromwellian. . Every page showed men and women dressed in different clothing, and each page carried dates. It was fascinating. Until the coming of the planes many men had believed that only three hundred years had passed since the death of Christ. But the men and women travelling in those great ships of the sky had changed all that, consigning the previous theories to the dust of history. Shannow paused. How do I know that? He replaced the book, then moved to the rear of the cabin, opening the door and climbing unsteadily down the three steps to the ground.

A young woman with short blonde hair was walking towards him carrying a dish of stew. 'You should still be in bed,' she admonished him. In truth he felt weak and breathless, and sat back on the wagon steps, accepting the stew.

Thank you, lady.' She was extraordinarily pretty, her eyes blue-green, her skin pale tan.

'Is your memory returning, Mr Shannow?'

'No,' he said, then began to eat.

'It will in time,' she assured him. The outside of the wagon was painted in shades of green and red, and from where he sat Shannow could see ten other wagons similarly decorated.

'Where are you all going?' he asked.

'Where we like,' said the girl. 'My name is Isis.' She held out her hand and Shannow took it. Her handshake was firm and strong.

'You are a good cook, Isis. The stew is very fine.'

Ignoring the compliment, she sat down beside him. 'Doctor Meredith thinks you may have a cracked skull. Do you remember nothing at all?'

'Nothing I wish to talk about,' he said. 'Tell me about you.'

'There is little to tell,' she told him. 'We are what you see, Wanderers. We follow the sun and the wind. In Summer we dance, in Winter we freeze. It is a good way to be.'

'It has a certain charm,' said Shannow. 'Yet is there no destination?'

She looked at him in silence for a moment, her large blue eyes holding his gaze. 'Life is a journey with only one destination, Mr Shannow. Or do you see it otherwise?'

'It doesn't pay to argue with Isis,' said Jeremiah, moving into sight. Shannow looked up into the old man's grizzled face.

‘I think that is true,' he said, rising from the step. He felt unsteady and weak, and reached out to grasp the edge of the wagon. Taking a deep breath, Shannow moved into the open. Jeremiah stepped alongside, taking his arm.

'You are a tough man, Mr Shannow, but your wounds were severe.'

'Wounds heal, Jeremiah.' Shannow gazed at the mountains. The nearest were speckled with stands of timber, but further away, stretching into an infinite distance were other peaks, blue and indistinct. 'It is a beautiful land.' The sun was slowly sinking behind the western peaks, bathing them in golden light. Off to the right Shannow focused on a rearing butte, the sandstone seeming to glow from within.

'It is called Temple Mount,' said Jeremiah. 'Some say it is a holy place, where the old gods live. For myself I believe it to be a resting-place for eagles, nothing more.'

‘I have not heard the name,' Shannow told him.

'The loss of memory must cause you some anguish?' said Jeremiah.

'Not tonight,' Shannow answered. ‘I feel at peace. The memories you speak of hold only death and pain.

They will come back all too soon, I know this. But for now I can look at the sunset with great joy.'

The two men walked towards the river-bank. 'I thank you for saving my life, Jeremiah. You are a good man. How long have you lived like this?'

'About twelve years. I was a tailor, but I longed for the freedom of the big sky. Then came the Unifier Wars, and city life became even more grotesque. So I made a wagon and journeyed out into the wilderness.'

There were ducks and geese on the river, and Shannow saw the tracks of a fox. 'How long have you nursed me?'

'Twelve days. For a while the others thought you were going to die. I told them you wouldn't; you have too many scars. You've been shot three times in your life: once over the hip, once in the upper chest and once in the back. There are also two knife wounds, one in the leg and a second in the shoulder. As I said, you are a tough man. You won't die easy.'

Shannow smiled. That is a comforting thought. And I remember the hip wound.' He had been riding close to the lands of the Wall, and had seen a group of raiders dragging two women into the open. He had ridden in and killed the raiders, but one of them had managed a shot that clipped Shannow's hip-bone and ripped through his lower back. He would have died but for the help of the Man-Beast, Shir-ran, who had found him in the blizzard.

'You are miles away, Mr Shannow. What are you thinking?'

'I was thinking of a lion, Jeremiah.'

They strolled back up the river-bank and towards the camp-fires in the circle of wagons. Shannow was weary now and asked Jeremiah to loan him some blankets so that he could sleep under the stars. ‘I’ll not hear of it, man. You'll stay in that bed for another day or two, then we'll see.'

Too tired to argue, Shannow pulled himself up into the wagon. Jeremiah followed him.

Fully clothed, Shannow stretched out on the narrow bed. The old man gathered some books and made to leave but Shannow called out to him, 'Why did you say I had an infamous name?'

Jeremiah turned. 'The same name as the Jerusalem Man. He rode these parts some twenty years ago -

surely you have heard of him?'

Shannow closed his eyes.

Twenty years?

He heard the cabin door click shut, and lay for a while staring through the tiny window at the distant stars.

'How are you feeling — and do not lie to me!' said Dr Meredith. Isis smiled, but said nothing. If only, she thought, Meredith could be as assertive in his life as he was with his patients. Reaching up, she stroked his face. The young man blushed. 'I am still waiting for an answer,' he said, his voice softening.

'It is a beautiful night,' observed Isis, 'and I feel at peace.'

‘That is no answer,' he scolded.

'It will have to suffice,' she said. 'I do not want to concentrate on my. . debility. We both know where my journey will end. And there is nothing we can do to prevent it.'

Meredith sighed, his head dropping forward, a sandy lock of hair falling across his brow. Isis pushed it back. 'You are a gentle man,' she told him.

'A powerless man,' he said sadly. 'I know the name of your condition, as I know the names of the drugs that could overcome it. Hydro-cortisone, and Fludro-cortisone. I even know the amounts to be taken.

What I do not know is how these steroids were constructed, or from what.'

'It doesn't matter,' she assured him. The sky is beautiful, and I am alive. Let's talk about something else. I want to ask you about our. . guest.'

Meredith's face darkened. 'What about him? He is no farmer, that is for sure.'

'I know that,' she said. 'But why has his memory failed?'

Meredith shrugged. The blow to the head is the most likely cause, but there are many reasons for amnesia, Isis. To tell you more I would need to know the exact cause of the injury, and the events leading up to it.'

She nodded, and considered telling him all she had learned. 'First,' she said, 'tell me about the Jerusalem Man.'

He laughed, the sound harsh, his face hardening. 'I thank God that I never met him. He was a butchering savage who achieved some measure of fame vastly greater than he deserved. And this only because we are ruled by another merciless savage who reveres violence. Jon Shannow was a killer. Putting aside the ludicrous quasi-religious texts that are now being published, he was a wandering man who was drawn to violence as a fly is drawn to ox droppings. He built nothing, wrote nothing, sired nothing. He was like a wind blowing across a desert.'

'He fought the Hellborn,' said Isis, 'and destroyed the power of the Guardians.'

'Exactly,' said Meredith sharply. 'He fought and destroyed. And now he is seen as some kind of saviour -

a dark angel sent by God. I wonder, sometimes, if we will ever be free of men like Shannow.'

'You perceive him as evil, then?'

Meredith stood and added several sticks to the dying fire, then returned to his seat opposite Isis. 'That is a difficult question to answer. From all I know of the man he was not a murderer; he never killed for gain.

He fought and slew men he believed to be ungodly or wicked. But the point I would make Isis, is that he decided who was wicked, and he dispensed what he regarded as justice. In any civilised society such behaviour should be deemed abhorrent. It sets a precedent, you see, for other men to follow his line of argument and kill any who disagree. Once we revere a man like Shannow, we merely open the door to any other killer who wishes to follow his example. Men like the Deacon, for instance. When the Hellborn rose against us he destroyed not only their army, but their cities. He visited upon them a terrible destruction. And why? Because he decided they were an evil people. Thousands of ordinary Hellborn farmers and artisans were put to death. It was genocide, an entire race destroyed. That is the legacy of men like Jon Shannow. So tell me, what has this to do with our guest, as you call him?'

'I don't know,' she lied. 'He claims to be Shannow, so I wondered if it would have a bearing on his…

What did you call it?'

'Amnesia.'

'Yes, his amnesia. You asked about the event that led to his being wounded.' Isis hesitated, preparing her story. 'He watched his friends being murdered, horribly murdered, some shot down, others burned alive.

His. . home. . was set ablaze. He escaped and took up weapons that he had put aside many years before. He was once a warrior, but had decided this was wrong. But in his pain he tracked the killers and fought them, killing them all. Does that help?'

Meredith sat back and let out a long breath. 'Poor man,' he said. 'I fear I have misjudged him. I saw the guns and assumed him to be a brigand, or a hired man. Yes, indeed it helps, Isis. The mind can be very delicate. I trust your talent and, taking everything you have told me as true, it means that our guest went to war against not only a vile enemy, but his own convictions. His mind has reeled from the enormity of anguish and loss, and closed itself against the memories. It is called protective amnesia.'

'Would it be wise for me to explain it to him?' she asked.

'Under no circumstances,' he told her. 'That is what is meant by protective. To tell him now could cause a complete disintegration. Let it come back slowly, in its own time. What is fascinating, however, is his choice of new identity. Why Jon Shannow? What was his occupation?'

'He was a preacher,' she said.

'That probably explains it,' said Meredith. 'A man of peace forced to become something he loathed.

What better identity to choose than a man who purported to be religious, but was actually a battle-hardened killer? Look after him, Isis. He will need that special care only you can supply.'

'Everyone is wrong and you're right; is that what you're saying, Mother?' The young man's face was flushed with anger as he rose from the dinner table and strode to the window, pushing it open and staring out over the tilled fields. Beth McAdam took a deep breath, struggling for calm.

'I am right, Samuel. And I don't care what everyone says, What is being done is no less than evil.'

Samuel McAdam rounded on her then. 'Evil, is it? Evil to do the work of God? You have a strange idea of what constitutes evil. How can you argue against the word of the Lord?'

Now it was Beth who became angry, her pale blue eyes narrowing. 'You call murder the work of God?

The Wolvers have never harmed anyone. And they didn't ask to be the way they are. God alone knows what caused them to.be, but they have souls, Samuel. They are gentle, and they are kind.'

'They are an abomination,' shouted Samuel. 'And as the Book says, Neither shah thou bring an abomination into thine house, lest thou be a cursed thing like it.'

'There is only one abomination in this house, Samuel. And I bore it. Get out! Go back to your murdering friends. And tell them from me, if they ride on to my lands for one of their Wolver hunts I'll meet them with death and fire.'

The young man's jaw dropped. 'Have you taken leave of your senses? These are our neighbours you're talking of killing.'

Beth walked to the far wall and lifted down the long-barrelled Hellborn rifle. Then she looked at her son, seeing not the tall, wide-shouldered man he had become but the small boy who once feared the dark, and wept when thunder sounded. She sighed. He was a handsome man now, his fair hair close-cropped, his chin strong. But like the child he once had been he was still easily led, a natural follower.

'You tell them, Samuel, exactly what I said. And if there are any who doubt my word, you put them right.

The first man to hunt down my friends dies.'

'You've been seduced by the Devil,' he said, then swung away and strode through the door. As Beth heard his horse galloping away into the night, a small form moved from the kitchen and stood behind her.

Beth turned and forced a smile. Reaching out, she stroked the soft fur of the creature's shoulder.

'I am sorry you heard that, Pakia,' Beth sighed. 'He has always been malleable, like clay in the hands of the potter. I blame myself for that. I was too hard on him. Never let him win. Now he is like a reed that bends with every breeze.'

The little Wolver tilted her head to one side. Her face was almost human, yet fur-covered and elongated, her eyes wide and oval, the colour of mixed gold, tawny with red flecks. 'When will the Preacher come back?' she asked, her long tongue slurring the words.

'I don't know, Pakia. Maybe never. He tried so hard to be a Christian, suffering all the taunts and the jeers.' Beth moved to the table and sat down. Now it was the slender Pakia who laid her long fingers on the woman's shoulder. Beth reached up and covered the soft, warm hand. ‘I loved him, you know, when he was a real man. But, I swear to God, you can't love a saint.' She shook her head. 'Wherever he is, he must be hurting. Twenty years of his life gone to dust and ashes.'

'It was not a waste,' said Pakia, 'and it is not dust and ashes. He gave us pride, and showed us the reality of God's love. That is no small gift, Beth.'

'Maybe so,' said Beth, without conviction. 'Now you must tell your people to head deep into the mountains. I fear there will be terrible violence before the month is out. There's talk of more hunts.'

'God will protect us,' said Pakia.

'Trust in God — but keep your gun loaded,' aaid Beth softly.

'We do not have guns,' said Pakia.

'It's a quote, little one. It just means that. . sometimes God requires us to look after ourselves.'

'Why do they hate us? Did not the Deacon say we were all God's children?' It was a simple question and Beth had no answer for it. Laying the gun on the table, she sat down and stared at the Wolver. No more than five feet tall, she was humanoid in shape, but her back was bent, her hands long and treble-jointed, ending in dark talons. Silver-grey fur covered her frame.

'I can't tell you why, Pakia, and I don't know why the Deacon changed his mind. The Unifiers now say you are abominations. I think they just mean "different". But, in my experience, men don't need too much of an excuse for hate. It just comes natural to them. You'd better go now. And don't come back for a time. I'll come into the mountains with some supplies in a little while, when things have cooled down a mite.'

'I wish the Preacher was here,' said Pakia.

'Amen to that. But I'd sooner have the man he once was.'

Nestor counted the last of the notes and slipped them into a paper packet, which he sealed and added to the pile. One hundred and forty-six lumber men and seven hauliers were to be paid today, and the Barta notes had only arrived late last night from Unity. Nestor glanced up at the armed guards outside the open doorway. 'I've finished,' he called.

Closing the account ledger, Nestor stood and straightened his back. The first of the guards, a round-shouldered former lumberjack named Leamis, stepped inside and leaned his rifle against the shack wall. Nestor placed the payment packets in a canvas sack and handed it to Leamis.

'A long night for you yongen,' said the guard. Nestor nodded. His eyes felt gritty and he yearned for sleep. The money was due yesterday morning,' he said wearily. 'We thought there'd been a raid.'

'They went the long way, up through the Gap,' Leamis told him. 'Thought they were being followed.'

'Were they?'

Leamis shrugged. 'Who knows? But Laton Duke is said to be in these parts, and that don't leave anyone feeling safe. Still, at least the money got here.'

Nestor moved to the doorway and pulled on his heavy topcoat. Outside the mountain air was chill, the wind picking up. There were three wagons beyond the shack, carrying trace chains to haul the timber.

The drivers were standing in a group chatting, waiting for their pay. Turning to Leamis, Nestor said his farewells and strolled to the paddock where the company horses were held. Taking a bridle from the tack box, he warmed the bridle bar under his coat; pushing a chilled bridle into a horse's warm mouth was a sure way of riling the beast. Choosing a buckskin gelding he bridled and saddled him and set off down the mountain, passing several more wagons carrying loggers and lumber men to their day's labour.

The sun was bright as Nestor turned off the mountain path and headed down towards Pilgrim's Valley.

Far to the north he could see the squat, ugly factory building where meat was canned for shipment to the growing cities, and a little to the east, beyond the peaks, smoke had already started to swirl up from the iron works — a dark spiral, like a distant cyclone, staining the sky.

He rode on, past the broken sign with its fading letters, welcoming travellers to Pi. gr. s Val. y, pop..

More than three thousand people now dwelt in the valley, and the demand for lumber for new homes meant stripping the mountainsides bare.

A low rumbling sound caused him to rein in the buckskin, and he glanced up to see the twin-winged flying machine moving ponderously through the air. It was canvas-coloured, with a heavy engine at the front and fixed wheels on wings and tail. Nestor hated it, loathed the noise and the intrusion on his thoughts. As the machine came closer the buckskin grew skittish. Nestor swiftly dismounted and took firm hold of the reins, stroking the gelding's head and blowing gently into its nostrils. The gelding began to tremble, but then the machine was past them, the sound disappearing over the valley.

Nestor remounted and headed for home.

As he rode into town Nestor tried not to look at the charred area where the little church had stood, but his eyes were drawn to it. The bodies had all been removed and workmen were busy clearing away the last of the blackened timbers. Nestor rode on, leaving his mount with the company ostler at the livery stable, and walking the last few hundred yards to his rooms above Josiah Broome's general store.

The rooms were small, a square lounge that led through to a tiny, windowless bedroom. Nestor peeled off his clothes and sat by the lounge window, too tired to sleep. Idly he picked up the book he had been studying. The cover was of cheap board, the title stamped in red: The New Elijah by Erskine Wright. The Crusader tests would be hard, he knew, and there was so little time to read. Rubbing his eyes, he leaned back and opened the book at the marked page and read of the travels of the Great Saint.

He fell asleep in the chair and awoke some three hours later. Yawning, he stood and rubbed his eyes. He heard sounds of shouting from the street below and moved to the window. A number of riders had drawn up and one of them was being helped from the saddle, blood seeping from a wound in his upper chest.

Dressing swiftly, Nestor ran down to the street in time to see Captain Leon Evans striding up to the group. The Crusader captain looked heroic in his grey, shield-fronted shirt and wide-brimmed black hat.

He wore two guns, belted high at his waist, gun butts reversed.

'The bitch shot him!' shouted Shem Jackson, his face ugly with rage. 'What you going to do about it?'

Evans knelt by the wounded man. 'Get him to Doctor Shivers. And be damn quick about it, otherwise he'll bleed to death.' Several men lifted the groaning man and bore him along the sidewalk, past Broome's store. Everyone began to speak at once, but Leon Evans raised his hands for silence. 'Just one,' he said, pointing to Jackson. Nestor didn't like the man, who was known for his surly manner when sober and his violent streak when drunk.

Jackson hawked and spat. 'We spotted some Wolvers on the edge of my property,' he said, rubbing a grimy hand across his thin lips. 'And me and the boys here rode out after 'em. We come near the McAdam place when she ups and shoots. Jack went down, then Miller's horse was shot out from under him. What you going to do about it?'

'You were on her property?' asked Evans.

'What's that got to do with anything?' argued Jackson. 'You can't just go round shooting folks.'

‘I’ll talk to her,' promised Evans, 'but from now on you boys stay clear of Beth McAdam. You got that?'

'We want more than talk,' said Jackson. 'She's got to be dealt with. That's the law.'

Evans smiled, but there was no humour in his expression. 'Don't tell me the law, Shem,' he said quietly. 'I know the law. Beth McAdam gave fair warning that armed men were not to hunt on her property. She also let it be known that she would shoot any man who trespassed on her land in order to hunt Wolvers.

You shouldn't have gone there. Now, as I said, I'll speak to her.'

'Yeah, you speak to her,' hissed Jackson. 'But I tell you this, woman or no woman, no one shoots at me and gets away with it.'

Evans ignored him. 'Get on back to your homes,' he said and the men moved away, but Nestor could see they were heading for the Mother of Pearl drinking-house. He stepped forward. The captain saw him and his dark eyes narrowed.

'I hope you weren't with those men,' said Evans.

'No, sir. I was sleeping up in my room. I just heard the commotion. I didn't think Mrs McAdam would shoot anybody.'

'She's one tough lady, Nestor. She was one of the first into Pilgrim's Valley; she fought the Lizard men, and since then there have been two brigand raids out on the farm. Five were killed in a gun battle there some ten years back.'

Nestor chuckled. 'She was certainly tough in school. I remember that.'

'So do I,' said Evans. 'How's the studying going?'

'Every time I try to read I fall asleep,' admitted Nestor.

'It must be done, Nestor. A man cannot follow God's path unless he studies God's word.'

'I get confused, sir. The Bible is so full of killing and revenging — hard to know what's right.'

That why the Lord sends prophets like Daniel Cade and Jon Shannow. You must study their words.

Then the ways that are hidden will become known to you. And don't concern yourself about the violence, Nestor. All life is violence. There is the violence of disease, the violence of hunger and poverty. Even birth is violent. A man must understand these things. Nothing good ever comes easy.'

Nestor was still confused, but he didn't want to look foolish before his hero. 'Yes, sir,' he said.

Evans smiled and patted the young man's shoulder. 'The Deacon is sending one of his Apostles to Pilgrim's Valley at the end of the month. Come and listen.'

'I will, sir. What will you do about Mrs McAdam?'

'She's under a lot of strain, what with the Preacher gone, and the burning. I think I'll just stop by and talk with her.'

'Samuel says he thinks the devil has got into her,' said Nestor. 'He told me she threw him out of the house and called him an abomination.'

'He's a weak man. Often happens to youngsters who have strong parents. But I hope he isn't right. Time will tell.'

'Is it true that Laton Duke and his men are near by?' asked Nestor.

'His gang were shot to pieces down near Pernum. So I doubt it,' said the Crusader. They tried to rob a Barta coach, heading for the mines.'

'Is he dead then?'

Evans laughed. 'Don't sound disappointed, boy. He's a brigand.'

Nestor reddened. 'Oh, I'm not disappointed, sir,' he lied. 'It's just that he's. . you know. . famous.

And kind of romantic.'

Evans shook his head. 'I never found anything romantic about a thief. He's a man who hasn't the heart or the strength for work, and steals from other, better men. Set your sights on heroes a little bigger than Laton Duke, Nestor.' 'Yes, sir,' promised the youngster.