Bloodstone

CHAPTER FIVE

There was a wolf who slew the lambs, the goats and the geese. One day a holy man went to see the wolf and said to him: 'My son, you are a wicked beast, and a long way from God.' The wolf thought about this for a while, and realised that the man was right. He asked how he could come nearer to Heaven. The holy man told him to change his ways and pray. The wolf did so, and became known for his purity and the sweetness of his prayers. One summer the wolf was walking by the riverside when a goose mocked him.

The wolf turned and leapt, killing the goose with one bite from his terrible jaws. A sheep standing close by said: 'Why did you kill it?' The wolf replied: 'Geese should not cackle at a holy wolf.'

The Wisdom of the Deacon Chapter XI

Shannow stared into the oval mirror and wiped the last of the soap from his chin. He looked younger without the salt-and pepper beard, but the sight of his clean-shaven face brought back no new memories.

Disappointed, he stepped back, cleaned the razor and returned it to its carved wooden box.

He was tired. The journey through the mountains had been long and hard, for the land was unfamiliar to him. Once convinced that the pursuit had ended he had still to find a path through the peaks. He had tried many trails, but some of these had ended in box canyons, or had led up to treacherous, narrow ridges where only bighorn sheep or mountain-bred mules could walk with safety. City dwellers had no conception of the vastness of the wild lands, the endless mountains', ridges and hills stretching into eternity and beyond. On his journey Shannow had come across the rotted remains of a wagon, still packed with furniture and the beginnings of a home. It was in a boxed canyon, low down at the foot of a steep slope. Close to it he found a skull and a broken section of a thigh-bone. These people too had tried to cross the peaks, and had found only a lonely, unmarked grave beneath the sky.

Back in the main room Zerah Wheeler looked at him closely. 'Ye're not exactly a handsome lad,' she said, 'but it's a face that wouldn't curdle milk neither. Sit at the table and I'll bring ye some lunch. Cold ham and fresh onions.'

While he waited he looked around the room. Every piece of furniture was lovingly carved, giving the home a tranquil quality. There was a triangular corner cabinet, inset with leaded-glass windows, containing tiny cups and saucers beautifully painted and glazed. Shannow walked to the cabinet and peered inside. Zerah saw him there as she returned with the food.

'Zeb found them on a ship in the desert. Beautiful, ain't they?'

'Exquisite,' agreed Shannow.

'He liked beautiful things, did Zeb.'

'When did he die?'

'More than ten years ago now. We were sitting on the couch watching the sunset. It was Summer and we used to move the couch out on to the porch. He leaned back, put his arm round me, then rested his head on my shoulder. "Beautiful night," he said. Then he just died.' Zerah cleared her throat. 'Best tuck into that ham, Jon. I don't want to get all maudlin. Tell me about yourself.'

There's not a great deal to tell,' he said. 'I was wounded and some Wanderers found me. I know my name, but precious little else. I can ride, and I can shoot, and I know my Bible. Apart from that. .'he shrugged, and cut into the ham.

'You might have a wife somewhere, and children,' she said. 'Have you thought of that?'

‘I don't think so, Zerah.' But as she spoke he saw in his mind a brief glimpse of a blonde woman, and two children, a boy and a girl. . Samuel? Mary? Yes, that felt right. But they were not his children. He knew that.

'So what do you remember about the wound?' she asked.

There was a fire. I was. . trapped. I got out.' He shook his head. 'Gunshots. I remember riding up into the mountains. I think I found the men who caused the burning. .'

Were they ashamed when they had committed the abomination?

'You killed them?'

‘I believe so.' Finishing his meal, he made to rise.

'You sit there,' she said. ‘I've got some cakes in the oven. Long time since I made cakes, and they may not be so grand. But we'll see.'

So many brief memories lying in the dust of his mind, like pearls without a string to hold them together.

Zerah returned with the cakes; they were soft and moist, and filled with fruit preserve.

Shannow chuckled. 'You were wrong, Zerah. They are grand.'

She smiled, then her expression became thoughtful. 'If you're of a mind to stay awhile you'd be welcome,'

she said. The Lord knows I need help here.'

That is most kind,' he said, seeing her loneliness, 'but I must find out where I come from. I don't think it will come back to me here. But, if I may, I'd like to stay a few days more?'

The stream that feeds my vegetable patch is silted up. That could be dug out,' she said, rising and clearing away the dishes.

That would be my pleasure,' he told her.

As the dawn sun broke clear of the mountains, the Apostle Saul eased himself from the wide bed. One of the sisters stirred, the other remained deeply asleep. Saul rose and wrapped his robe about his shoulders.

The golden Stone lay on the bedside table. Gathering it up, he moved quickly from the room.

Back in his own quarters he stood before the long, oval mirror, surveying his square-chinned, handsome face and the flowing golden hair that hung to his broad shoulders. A far cry from the balding, slight, stoop-shouldered Saul Wilkins who had landed with the Deacon twenty years before. But then Saul had almost forgotten that man. Now he stared hard at the tiny lines around the eyes, the almost imperceptible web marks of ageing upon his cheeks and throat. Gazing down at the coin-sized Stone, he saw there were now only four slender lines of gold in the black. Yesterday there had been five.

The sisters had not been worth it, he thought. Under the influence of the Daniel Stone they had obeyed his every desire, performing acts that would shame them to their souls could they but remember them.

Inspiring their debauchery and then removing the memory had cost him a fifth of his power. Now in the dawn light it seemed a waste.

'Curse you, Deacon!' he hissed. Anger rose in him. The old fool knew where the Daniel Stones lay.

Indeed, he had a score of them hidden in his palace in Unity. But did he use them for himself? No. What kind of an idiot could hold such power and not keep his body young and vibrant? It was unfair and unjust. Where would he have been without me, thought Saul? Who formed the Jerusalem Riders and led the final charge up Fairfax Hill? Me! Who organised the books and the laws? Me! Who created the great legend of the Deacon and made his dreams reality? Me. Always me. And what does he give me? One tiny-Stone.

From his window he could see the blackened earth where the church had stood, and the sight eased his anger.

'Fetch me the Preacher from Pilgrim's Valley,' the Deacon had said.

'Why?'

'He's a very special man, Saul. The Wolvers respect him.'

'They're just beasts. Mutated creatures!'

'They have human genes. And they are not a threat. I have prayed long and hard about them, Saul, and every time I pray I see the Pillars of Fire. I believe the Wolvers could live in the lands beyond them. I believe that is where God intends them to be.'

'And you will empower this Preacher to lead them?'

'Yes. You and I are the only ones left now, Saul. I think this young man has a talent for leadership.'

'What does that mean, Deacon? I am your heir, you know that.'

The Deacon had shaken his head. 'I love you, Saul, like a son. But you are not the man to lead a people.

You follow the devices and desires of your heart. Look at you! Where is Saul Wilkins now? Where is the little man who loved God? You have used the Stone on yourself.'

'And why not? With them we can be immortal, Deacon. Why should we not live for ever, rule for ever?'

'We are not Gods, Saul. And I am tired. Fetch me the Preacher.'

Saul looked at the charred wood and the singed earth. Did the Deacon know that the anonymous Bible mouther was the Jerusalem Man? Saul doubted it. The one man on this new earth who could destroy the myth of the Deacon.

Well, that myth will only grow now you are dead, you old bastard!

Saul would like to have seen the killing, the moment when the bullet smashed home. I wonder, he thought, what last thought went through your mind, Deacon? Was it a prayer? If it was, you finished it in person. How long, he wondered, before the Church realises that its blessed Deacon will not be returning? Another ten days? Twenty?

Then they will send for me, for I am the last of the men from beyond the Gates of Time.

The first three Apostles had died long before the Unity Wars, killed by the radiation and pestilential chemicals that filled the air of this new world. Then the Deacon had found the Stones, and given the eight survivors one each in order to strengthen their bodies against the poisons in the atmosphere. One each!

Saul found his anger rising again, but fought it down. He had used his quite swiftly, not just making himself strong but also handsome. And why not? He had lived for forty-three years with an ugly face and a short, twisted frame. Did he not deserve a new life? Was he not one of the Chosen?

Then the War had started. He and Alan were given command of two sections of the Jerusalem Riders.

Fairfax Hill had been the turning point. But Alan had died, shot to pieces as he neared the summit. Saul had been the first to find the dying man.

'Help me!' Alan had whispered. Two of the shots had shattered his spine, cutting through his belt and separating it from his body. His Stone was in a leather pouch; Saul had pulled it clear. It was almost totally gold, with only the thinnest of black strands. To heal Alan would probably have exhausted it all.

Indeed, the wounds were probably too great for his life to be saved. Saul had pocketed the Stone and walked away. When he returned an hour later Alan was dead.

One month later Saul had met Jacob Moon, an old, grizzled former brigand. The man was a killer, and Saul had seen instantly the value of such a man. In giving him back his youth, he made an ally that would take him all the way to power.

Moon had killed the others, one by one. And Saul had gathered the Stones of power. Most were almost dry of magic.

Then only the Deacon was left. .

Saul dressed and moved down to the ground floor. Moon was sitting at the breakfast table, finishing a meal of bacon and eggs.

'You had a good night, brother Saul,' said Moon, with a sly grin. 'Such noise!'

'What news of the Preacher, Jacob?'

Moon shrugged. 'Be patient. I have men scouring the wild lands for news. I've also sent Witchell to Domango. We'll find him.'

'He's a dangerous man.'

'He doesn't even know he's being hunted. That will make him careless.'

Saul poured a mug of fresh milk and was sipping it when he heard the sound of a walking horse in the yard outside. Going to the window, he saw a tall, square-bearded, broad-shouldered man in a long black coat dismount and walk towards the house. Moving to the door, Saul opened it.

'God's greetings, brother,' he said.

The man nodded. 'God's greetings to you, brother, and a blessing upon this fine house. I am Padlock Wheeler from Purity. Would you be the Apostle Saul?'

'Come in, brother,' said Saul, stepping aside. He remembered Wheeler as the Deacon's favourite general, a hard-riding martinet who drove his men to the edge of exhaustion and beyond. They followed him because he asked for nothing from them that he did not give himself. After the War, Saul recalled, Wheeler had returned to his own land and become a preacher. The man looked older, and two white streaks made a bright fork in his beard on either side of his chin. Wheeler removed his flat-crowned hat and stepped into the dining-room.

'You looked different the last time I saw you, sir,' said Padlock Wheeler. 'You were thinner, I recall, and with less hair. Even your face seems now more. . regular.'

Saul was irritated. He didn't like to be reminded of the man he once was — the man he could become again if ever he lost the power of the Stones.

'What brings you so far?' he asked, fighting to remain civil.

'Our Oath Taker has been shot dead,' said Wheeler. 'He was a verminous rascal, and by all accounts deserved his fate. But the man who shot him is a blasphemer and a heretic. You will forgive me, sir, for speaking bluntly, but he claimed to be the Jerusalem Man.'

Moon rose. 'You apprehended him?'

Wheeler glanced at Moon and said nothing, appraising the man. This is the Jerusalem Rider Jacob Moon,' said Saul.

Wheeler nodded, but his dark eyes remained fixed on Moon for a moment. Finally he spoke. 'No, we did not apprehend the man. Our Crusaders followed him, but lost him in the mountains. He appeared to be heading into the wild lands near Domango,'

Saul shook his head, his expression sorrowful. 'You bring dreadful news, brother Wheeler. But I am sure brother Moon will know what to do.'

'Indeed I do,' said Jacob Moon.

There were many things that twelve-year-old Oswald Hankin did not know, but of one he was sure: There was no God.

‘I’m hungry, Oz,' said his little sister, Esther. 'When can we go home?'

Oz put his arm around the six-year-old's shoulder. 'Hush now, I'm trying to think.'

What could he tell her? She's watched father being shot down, the bullets smashing into his head and chest, the blood exploding from his frame. Oz shut his eyes against the memory, but it remained locked in place in his mind's eye', bleak and harsh, and terribly savage.

He and Esther had been playing in the long grass when the seven riders had come up to the house. There was no indication of the murder to follow. The sky was clear, the sun bright, and only this morning their father had read to them from an old leather-bound book with gold-edged pages. The tale of Lancelot and Guinevere.

For some reason Oz had decided to remain in the long grass, though Esther wanted to run out and see the riders close up. His father had walked from the house to greet them. He was wearing a white shirt, and his long fair hair was golden in the sunlight.

'We told ye once,' said the leading rider, a bald man with a black trident beard. 'We'll suffer no pagans around Domango.'

'By what right do you call me a pagan?' his father had replied. 'I do not accept your authority to judge me. I travelled far to buy this land, and where I came from I am well known as a man who loves the church. How can I be at fault here?'

'You were warned to leave,' said the rider. 'What follows be on your own head, pagan.'

'Get off my land!'

They were the last words his father spoke. The leading rider produced a pistol and fired a single shot that hammered into the unarmed man's chest. Father had staggered back. Then all the men began firing.

'Find the young'uns,' shouted the trident-bearded leader.

Esther was too shocked to cry, but Oswald virtually had to drag her back into the long grass. They crawled for some way, then cut into the pines and up along the mountain paths to the old cave. It was cold here, and they cowered together for warmth.

What will I do, thought Oz? Where can we go?

'I'm hungry, Oz,' said Esther again. She started to cry. He hugged her and kissed her hair. 'Where's Poppa?'

'He's dead, Esther. They killed him.'

'When will he come for us?'

'He's dead,' repeated Oz wearily. 'Come on, let's walk a little. It'll make you warmer and take your mind off your hunger.'

Taking Esther's hand, he walked to the mouth of the cave and peered out. Nothing moved on the mountain trails, and he listened for the sound of horses. Nothing. Nothing but the wind whispering through the trees.

Leading Esther, he began to walk towards the east, away from his home.

His mother had died back in Unity, just a year after Esther was born. Oz didn't remember much about her, save that she had red hair and a wide, happy smile. His one clear memory was of a picnic by a lake when he had fallen in, and swallowed some water. His mother had hurled herself in after him, dragging him back to the bank. He recalled her red hair, wet and dripping, and her green eyes so full of love and concern.

When she died he had cried a lot, and had asked his father why God had killed her.

'God didn't kill her, son. A cancer did that.'

'He's supposed to work miracles,' argued the seven-year-old Oswald.

'And he does, Oz. But they're His miracles. He chooses. Everybody dies. I'll die one day. It's wrong to blame God for death. Maybe we should be thanking Him for the gift of what life we have.'

Oz adored his father, and put his lack of faith on hold.

But today he knew the truth. There was no God — and his father was dead. Murdered.

Esther stumbled over a jutting tree-root, but Oz was holding her hand and hauled her up. She started to cry again, and refused to go on. Oz sat with her on a fallen tree. He had not' been this far along the mountain path before, and had no idea where it led. But equally he had nowhere else to go. Behind them the killers would be searching.

After a while Esther calmed down and they walked on, coming to a steep trail that led down into a valley.

In the distance Oz could see a house and a barn. He stopped and stared at the house.

What if trident-beard lived there? Or one of the others?

'I'm really very hungry, Oz,' said Esther.

Oz took a deep breath. 'Let's go down then,' he said.

Zerah Wheeler sat in the chair by the fire and thought about her sons. Not as men, but as the children they once had been. Oz Hankin and Esther were asleep now in the wide bed that Zeb had built more than forty years ago, their pain and their loss shrouded in the bliss of sleep. Zerah sighed as she thought of Zachariah. In her mind he was always the laughing child, full of pranks and mischief that no amount of scolding could forbid. Seth and Padlock had always been so serious. Just like me, she thought — gazing at the world through cynical, suspicious eyes, ever wary and watchful.

But not Zak. He gloried in the sunshine or the snow, and gazed about him with a wide-eyed sense of wonder at the beauty of it all. Zerah sniffed and cleared her throat. 'Did you believe them?' she asked her mysterious guest.

He nodded solemnly. 'Children can lie,' he said, 'but not this time. They saw what they saw.'

'I agree,' said Zerah. 'They witnessed a murder. You'll have to ride to Domango and inform the Crusaders. It was their territory. I'll keep the children here with me.'

Jon remained silent for a moment. 'You're a good woman, Frey Wheeler. But what if they come here when I'm gone?'

Zerah's grey eyes took on a frosty gleam. 'Son, I'm a known woman. There have been those who sought to take advantage. I buried them out back. Don't you worry none about this old girl.' She gave him directions to Domango, advising him of various landmarks he should watch out for.

‘I’ll ride out now,' he said, rising from his chair. 'I thank you for the meal.'

'You don't have to stay so formal, Jon,' she told him. 'I'd look on it kindly if you stopped calling me Frey and started to use my given name.'

He smiled then, and it was good to see, for his eyes seemed less cold. 'As you wish. . Zerah. Good night.'

She rose and walked to the door, watching him gather his guns from the hook and stroll to the paddock.

And, not for the first time, she wondered who he was. Turning back into the house, she extinguished one of the lamps. Oil was short now, and soon she would have to ride into Domango for supplies. There was a time when the farm had supported three hired men, when cattle had roamed in the pasture lands to the south. But those days were gone now, just like the cattle. Now Zerah Wheeler survived by growing vegetables in the plot out back, and by breeding a few pigs and many chickens.

Twice a year Padlock would visit, arriving in a wagon laden with boxes, tins of peaches canned in Unity, sacks of flour, salt and sugar, and — most precious of all — books. Most of them were Bible studies, printed by the Deacon Press, but occasionally there were gems from the old world. One she had read a score of times, savouring every sentence overhand over. It was the first part of a trilogy. Pad hadn't realised that when he bought it for her; to him it was just an antique tome his mother might enjoy. And she had. At first she had been irritated by the fact that there was no record of any of the other books in the series. But during the last seven years, she had thought and thought about the story, inventing her own endings, and this had given her immense pleasure in the long, lonely evenings.

She heard the soft sounds of sobbing begin in the bedroom and walked swiftly through to sit on the bed alongside the little girl. Esther was crying in her sleep. 'Hush now, child, all is safe. As is well,' she crooned, stroking the child's auburn hair. 'All is safe, all is well,' Esther murmured, then began sucking at her thumb. Zerah was not a great believer in thumb-sucking, but there was a time and a place for admonishments and this was not it.

'Always wanted a girl-child,' whispered Zerah, still stroking the child's head. Then she saw that Oswald was awake, his eyes wide and fearful. 'Come join me for a glass of milk,' she said. 'Always have one before sleeping. Move soft now, so as not to wake little Esther.'

Oswald padded out after her. He was a strongly-built boy, reminding her of Seth, with serious eyes and a good jaw. Pouring two glasses from the stone jug she passed one to Oswald, who hunkered down by the dying fire.

'Having trouble sleeping, boy?'

He nodded. 'I dreamed of Poppa. He was walking around the house calling for us. But he was all covered with blood, and his face wasn't there any more.'

'You've seen some hard, hard times, Oz. But you're safe here.'

'They'll come for us. You won't be able to stop them.'

Zerah forced a chuckle. 'Me and Betty will stop them, Oz. Count on it.' She walked to the fire and lifted the long rifle from its rack. 'She fires four shots, and every shell is thicker than your thumb. And I'll tell you a little secret — I ain't missed with this gun for nigh on seventeen years.'

There was more than four of them,' said Oz.

'I'm glad you mentioned that, Oz,' she said, laying aside the rifle and moving to a handsomely carved chest of drawers. From it she produced a small, nickel-plated revolver and a box of shells. This here pistol belonged to my son, Zak. She's small, but she's got stopping power. It was made by the Hellborn thirty years ago.' Flipping open the breech she put the pistol on half-cock, freeing the cylinder, and fed in five shells, lowering the hammer on the empty chamber. 'I'm giving this to you, Oz. It is not to play with.

This is a gun. It will kill people. You fool with it and it's likely to kill you or your sister. Are you man enough to deal with that?'

'Yes, Frey Wheeler. I am man enough.'

'I didn't doubt it. Now between us, Oz, we're going to look after little Esther. And we're going to see justice done. My man, Jon, is riding now to Domango to report the. .' She hesitated as she saw the look of anguish in his eyes. To report the crime to the Crusaders.'

Oswald's face twisted then, and his eyes shone. The man who first shot Poppa was a Crusader,' he said.

Zerah's heart sank, but she kept her expression neutral. 'We'll work things out, Oz, you see if we don't.

Now you best get back to bed. I'll need you fresh and clear of eye in the morning. Put the pistol by your bedside.'

The boy padded off and Zerah returned to the chest of drawers. From the third drawer she pulled a scabbard and belt, then a short-barrelled pistol. For some time she cleaned the weapon. Then she loaded it.

Despite the dangers Shannow loved night riding. The air was crisp and clean and the world slept.

Moonlight gave the trees a shimmering quality, and every rock glistened with silver. He rode slowly, allowing the horse to pick its way carefully over the trail.

The loss of memory no longer caused him irritation. It would come back or it wouldn't. What did concern him was the problems such a loss could cause the Jerusalem Man. If his worst enemy of the last twenty years were to ride up in plain sight, Shannow feared he would not recognise the danger.

Then there was the question of ageing. According to Jeremiah, the Jerusalem Man had ridden through the Plague Lands twenty years before, and had then been a man in his late thirties or early forties. That would make him around sixty now. Yet his hair was still dark, his skin virtually unlined.

He rode for almost three hours, then made camp in a hollow. There was no water near by and Shannow did not bother with a fire but sat with his back to a tree, his blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The head wound gave him no pain now, but the scab itched.

Sitting in the moonlight, he traced over his life in his mind, piecing together tiny fragments as they came to him. I am Jon Shannow.

Then a face leapt to his memory, a thin, angular face with deep brooding eyes. A name came with it: Varey. Varey Shannow. Like a key slipping sweetly into a lock he saw again the brigand-slayer who had taken the young man under his wing. I took his name when he was murdered. And his own name slipped into his mind: Cade. Jon Cade. The name settled on his-mind like water on a parched tongue.

The world had gone mad, preachers everywhere talking of Armageddon. But if Armageddon was true, then the new Jerusalem would exist somewhere. The new Jon Shannow had set out to find it. The journey had been long, with many perils. Varey Shannow had taught him never to back away from evil:

'Confront it wherever you find it, Jon. For it will thrive when men cease to fight it.'

Shannow closed his eyes and remembered the conversations around many camp-fires. 'You are a strong man, Jon, and you have tremendous hand-eye co-ordination. You have speed, and yet you are cool under fire. Use those skills, Jon. This land is full of brigands, men who would lie, steal and kill for gain.

They must be fought. For they are evil.' Shannow smiled at the memory. 'It used to be said that you can't stop a man who keeps on going and knows he's right. It just ain't true, Jon. A bullet will stop any man.

But that's not the point. Winning is not the point. If a man only fought when he believed there was a chance to win, then evil would beat him every time. The brigand relies on the fact that when he rides in with his men, all armed to the teeth, the victim will — realising he has no chance — just give in. Trust me, Jon, that's the moment to walk out with guns blazing.'

Just before the fateful day, as the two men rode into the small town, Varey Shannow had turned to the youngster beside him. 'Men will say many things about me when I'm gone. They could say I got angry too fast. They could say I wasn't none too bright. They'll certainly say that I was an ugly cuss. But no man ever will be able to say that I abused a woman, stole or lied, or backed down in the face of evil. Ain't too bad an epitaph, is it, Jon?'

Varey Shannow had been cut down in his prime, backshot by villains who feared he was hunting them.

Jon Shannow opened his eyes and gazed up at the stars. 'You were a good man, Varey,' he said.

Talking to yourself is a sure sign of madness, they say,' said Jake, 'and I hope you don't fire that pistol.'

Shannow eased back the hammer and holstered the gun. At the first sound he had drawn and cocked the weapon in one swift, fluid move. Despite the speed of his response, he was nettled by the old man's silent approach.

'A man could be killed approaching a camp that way,' he said.

'True, boy. But I reckoned you weren't the type to shoot before looking.' Jake moved opposite Shannow and hunkered down. 'Cold camp. You expecting trouble?'

'Trouble has a way of happening when you least expect it,' said Shannow.

'Ain't it the truth.' The old man's beard was shining silver in the moonlight. Shucking off his sheepskin topcoat, he gave a low whistle and his mule came trotting into the camp. Swiftly Jake removed the saddle and blanket roll, then patted the beast's rump. The mule moved out to stand alongside Shannow's horse.

'She's an obedient girl,' said Jake fondly.

'How did you find me?'

'I didn't. The mule must have picked up the scent of your stallion. You heading for Domango?'

Shannow nodded, but said nothing. 'A sight of activity there in the last few days,' continued Jake. 'Riders coming in from all over. Tough men, by the look of them. Ever heard of Jacob Moon?'

'No.'

'Jerusalem Rider. Killed fourteen men that I heard of. Can you guess who he's asking about?'

'Who are you, Jake?' countered Shannow.

'Just an old man, son. Nothing special. I take it you aren't interested in Moon?'

'At the moment I'm more interested in you. Where are you from?'

Jake chuckled. 'Here and there. Mostly there. I've been over the mountain a few times. You think I'm hunting you?'

Shannow shook his head. 'Perhaps. Perhaps not. But you are hunting something, Jake.'

'Nothing that need worry you, son.' Shaking loose his blanket, Jake wrapped it around his shoulders and stretched out on the earth. 'By the way, those Wanderers you helped- they're on the way to Domango too. You'll probably see them.'

'You do get around, old man,' said Shannow, closing his-eyes.

Shannow awoke with the dawn to find that the old man had gone. He sat up and yawned. He had never known anyone who could move as quietly as Jake. Saddling his horse, he rode out on to a broad plain.

There were ruins to his left, huge pillars of stone, shattered and fallen, and the horse's hooves clattered in the remains of a wide stone road. The city must have been vast, Shannow considered, stretching for several miles to the west.

He had seen many such on his travels, cold stone'epitaphs to the glory that was once Atlantis.

Another memory came to him then, of a man with a golden beard and eyes the colour of a clear summer sky.

Pendarric. The King.

And he recalled with great clarity the day when the Sword of God had torn across the curtain of time.

Reining in his horse, he gazed with fresh eyes on the ruins.

'I destroyed you,' he said aloud.

Time's portals had been opened by Pendarric, the ruler of Atlantis, and Shannow had closed them by sending a missile through the Gateway. The world had toppled, tidal waves roaring across the continent.

The words of Amaziga Archer floated up from the hidden depths.

'You are not the Jerusalem Man any longer, Shannow. You're the Armageddon Man!'

Shannow turned his back on the ancient city and headed south-west. It was not long before he saw the Hankin house. There was no body outside, but there was fresh blood on the dust of the yard. As he rode in, a tall man with a sandy beard came walking from the house, a rifle cradled in his arms.

'What do you want here?' he asked.

'Nothing, friend. I am on my way to Domango and thought I'd stop for a little water, if it is not inconvenient to you.' Shannow could not see the second man at the window, but he saw a rifle barrel showing at the edge of the curtain.

'Well, be quick about it. We don't like Movers here.'

'Is that so? When last I stopped here, there was a man with two children. Has he moved on?'

The man's eyes narrowed. 'Yes,' he said, at last. 'He moved on.'

'Do you own the property now?'

'No, I just been told to watch over it. Now get your drink and be gone.'

Shannow dismounted and led his horse to a trough by the well. Loosening the saddle girth, he wandered back to where the man stood. 'It is a fine place,' he said. 'A man could raise a family here and never tire of looking at the mountains.'

The sandy-haired rifleman hawked and spat. 'One place is pretty much like another.'

'So where did he move on to. . my friend with his children?' asked Shannow.

'I don't know anything about it,' said the rifleman, growing more uneasy.

Shannow glanced down at the dust, and the stains that peppered the ground. 'Slaughtered a pig,' said the man swiftly. The second man moved from the house. He was powerfully built, with a bull-like neck and massive shoulders.

'Who the Hell is he, Ben?' asked the newcomer, his right hand resting on the butt of his scabbarded pistol.

'Stranger riding for Domango. He's just watering his horse.'

'Well, you've done that,' he told Shannow. 'Now be on your way.'

Shannow stood silently for a moment, holding back his anger. There was no movement in the house now, and he guessed that these two men alone had been left to guard the property. All his life he had known such men — hard, cruel killers, with no understanding of love or compassion. 'Were either of you party to the murder?' he asked softly.

'What?' responded the rifleman, eyes widening. The big-shouldered man took a step back and made a grab for his pistol. Shannow shot him in the head; he stood for a moment, eyes wide in shock, then he toppled to the bloodstained earth. The Jerusalem Man's pistol swung, the black eye of the barrel halting directly before the other man's face.

'Jesus Christ!' said the rifleman, dropping his weapon and raising his hands.

'Answer the question,' said Shannow. 'Were you party to the-murder of Meneer Hankin?'

'No… I never shot him, I swear to God. It was the others.'

'Who led the killers?'

'Jack Dillon. But Hankin, he never had no Oath papers and no one would stand up and speak for him. It was the law. He was told to leave, he brung it on himself. If he'd just gone, none of this would have happened. Don't you see?'

'And this Dillon has now laid claim to the property?'

'No. It's held for Jacob Moon. Please, you're not going to kill me, are you?' The man fell to his knees and began to weep.

'Did Meneer Hankin weep and beg?' asked Shannow. He knew he should kill this man. More than that, he knew that the old Jon Shannow would have done so without a second thought. Holstering his pistol, he moved to his horse.

'You son of a bitch!' screamed the man, and Shannow turned to see that he had gathered up his rifle, which was now pointed in Shannow's direction. 'You bastard! Think you're so tough? Think you can just ride in here and do as you like? Let's see how tough you act with a bullet in your guts.'

Smoothly Shannow stepped to the right, palming his pistol as he moved. The rifle shot slashed past him on the left, cutting through his coat. Shannow fired and the rifleman pitched backwards, the weapon flying from his hands. Hitting the ground hard the man grunted once, then his leg twitched and he was still.

'You have become a fool, Shannow,' said the Jerusalem Man.

The land to the east was vast and empty, the plain dry, the grass yellow-brown. He could see where once there had been rivers and streams, but they were long gone now, evaporated by the searing heat of the sun. After an hour of riding he saw the broken hull of a rusted ship jutting from the desert that stretched away to the horizon and beyond, grim evidence that this had once been the ocean floor.

Shannow skirted the edge of the desert and, after another hour, began the long climb up into the higher country. Here there were green trees, and grass, and a wide, well-used road that angled down towards the distant town of Domango.

The sun was high in the sky, and Clem was enjoying the freedom of the ride. Meg was a gentle woman and a fine wife, but he had felt trapped at the ranch in Pernum. The thought made him feel guilty. His life at the ranch had brought him everything he thought he had ever wanted: security, status and love. So why had it not been enough? When the locusts had wiped out his crop five years ago he could have worked on, labouring through the long hours of daylight. The merchants in town all liked him and they would have extended his credit. Instead, he had run away and taken to the road.

The first robbery had been easy: two men carrying a shipment of Barta notes to Pernum. Clem had ambushed them on the mountain road, shooting the first through the shoulder. The second had thrown away his gun. Twelve thousand he had made that day.

After that everything had gone to Hell in a bucket. Half of the cash was sent to the banker in Pernum, who held the mortgage on the farm. The rest had gone to Meg.

Nothing had been easy from that moment on.

'What was he like?' asked Nestor, the words cutting through Clem's thoughts. They were no more than an hour's ride from the settlement of Purity, and Clern could already see the smoke from the town's factories drifting lazily into the blue sky.

'What's that lad? Did you say something?'

The Jerusalem Man. What was he like?'

Clem thought about the question. 'He was grim, Nestor. Mighty grim. Unpredictable and deadly.

Pilgrim's Valley was a new settlement then. There was no Deacon, no natural unified government. Settlers just headed out into uncharted lands and built their farms. Merchants followed them and soon there were towns. We stopped in Pilgrim's Valley just short of the Great Wall. Now that was a sight to behold.'

'I seen it,' said Nestor. 'But what about Jon Shannow?'

Clem laughed. 'By God, boy, I do so like the young. That wall was built twelve thousand years ago, and beyond it there was a city, where men became lions. And in the sky, shining bright, there was the Sword of God. Hell of a thing, Nestor. Anyways, the demons of the pit were released around then, walking Snake-men.'

'I seen one of those too,' said Nestor. They got one down in Unity, on display. And several skeletons.'

'I've seen that too,' mimicked Clem, growing irritated by the interruptions. 'But what you won't know is that the King of these demons sent three special men to kill Shannow. Great warriors, fearless and lightning-fast with pistols. Shannow killed the first, but the other two kidnapped Frey McAdam and took her to where the Sword was hanging in the sky.'

'Why'd they take the headmistress?'

'God's Blood, son, will you just listen?'

'I'm sorry, sir.'

‘They kidnapped Beth because she was close to Shannow. They wanted to bring him to them. And they did just that. But it didn't take 'em long to wish they hadn't. I'd been wounded, but I followed them anyway. I come on the scene just as Shannow had give himself up. Suddenly there was guns blazing. I took down one, but the best of them was facing up to the Jerusalem Man. Shannow just stood there like he didn't have a care in the world — calm, powerful. Then it was over. I tell you, boy, I wouldn't want to face him.'

'He was that fast?'

'Oh, it wasn't the speed. I'm faster than ever he was. It's the sureness. Strange man — holds himself in chains of iron.' He glanced at Nestor. 'You know why he hates brigands and killers?' The boy shook his head. 'Because deep down he is one. Anatural. You see, most men hesitate when it comes to killing. I think that's a good thing, generally. Life is precious, and you don't want to take it away from someone over a whim. I mean, even a brigand can change. Look at Daniel Cade. There wasn't a more murderous bastard than him, but he saw the Light, boy. And he fought the Hellborn. So, like I said, life is precious.

But Shannow? Cross him and you die. It's that simple. That's why brigands fear him. He deals with them just like they deal with others.'

'You talk about him like he's alive. But he ain't, is he? He went up to Heaven years back.'

Clem hesitated, anxious to share the secret he had kept hidden for twenty years. 'He is alive to me,' he said. 'I never saw him die, and I never saw no fiery chariot neither. But I watched him tame a wild town.

You've never seen the like.'

'Wish I had,' said Nestor. 'I'd love to have met him — just once.'

Clem laughed again. 'If wishes were fishes, poor men wouldn't starve. How long have you known the Preacher?'

'All my life. Quiet man. He used to live with Frey McAdam, but she threw him out. Then he had a little place behind the church. He gave some good sermons. . always kept you awake in church. Well, until he started letting Wolvers in, that is. Most people stopped going then. If he'd been a stronger man he'd have kicked those Wolvers out. Then there would've still been a church.'

'What's strength got to do with it?'

'Well, everybody in town got mighty sick of it and they told him so. But I guess he just didn't have the nerve to order the Wolvers away. Some men just don't take to confrontation.'

'I guess not,' said Clem. 'Did you like him?'

Nestor shrugged. 'Didn't like him or dislike him. Felt sorry for him mostly. Shem Jackson hit him once, knocked him into the mud. The Preacher just got up and went on his way. I was ashamed for him then. I still can't believe how he shot down all them raiders. Guess he must have surprised them.'

'A surprising man,' agreed Clem.