Bloodstone

CHAPTER SEVEN

People say we no longer live in an age of miracles. It is not so. What has been lost is our ability to see them.

The Wisdom of the Deacon Introduction

Josiah Broome put aside his Bible. He had never been a believer, not in the fullest sense, but he valued those sections of the New Testament which dealt with love and forgiveness. It always amazed him how people could be so quick to hate and so slow to love. But then, he reasoned, the first seemed so much easier.

Else was out for the evening, at the Bible study group held every Friday at Frey Bailey's home on the outskirts of town, just beyond the meeting hall, and Josiah Broome was enjoying the unnatural silence.

Friday night produced an oasis of calm within his tidy home. Replacing the Bible on the bookshelf, he moved to the kitchen and filled the kettle. One mug of Baker's before retiring, heavily sweetened with honey, was his one luxury on a Friday night. He would carry it out on to the porch and sip it while watching the distant stars.

Tomorrow he would give Oath for Beth McAdam, and Else would scold him for the entire evening. But tonight he would enjoy the silence. The kettle began to vibrate. Taking a cloth from a peg on the wall, he wrapped it around the handle and lifted the kettle from the range. Filling the mug, he added the powdered Baker brew and three heaped spoonfuls of honey. As he was stirring it he heard a tapping at his front door. Annoyed by the interruption, he carried the drink through the kitchen and across the main room.

'Come in!' he called, for the door was never locked.

Daniel Cade eased his way inside, leaning heavily on his sticks, his face red from exertion. Josiah Broome hurried to his side, taking hold of the Prophet's arm and guiding him to a deep chair. Cade sank down gratefully, laying his sticks on the floor.

Leaning his head back, the Prophet took several deep breaths. Broome laid the mug of Baker's on a table to his visitor's right. 'Drink that, sir,' he said. 'It will help restore your strength.' Hurrying back to the kitchen, he made a second mug and returned to the fireside. Cade's breathing had eased, but the old man looked tired, worn out, dark circles beneath his eyes and an unhealthy pallor replacing the fiery red of his cheeks.

'I'm about all done in, son,' he wheezed.

'What brings you to my home, sir… not that you are unwelcome, you understand!'

Cade smiled. Lifting the Baker's with a trembling hand, he sipped the brew. 'By God, that is sweet!' he said.

'I could make you another,' offered Broome.

Cade shook his head. 'It will do, son. I came to talk, not to drink. Have you been noticing the new arrivals?'

Broome nodded. More than a score of riders had come in to Pilgrim's Valley during the past week, all of them tough men, heavily armed. 'Jerusalem Riders,' he said. 'They serve the Deacon.'

Cade grunted. 'Saul, more like. I don't like it, Broome. I know their kind. God's Blood, I am their kind.

Brigands, take my word for it. I don't know what game Saul is playing, but I don't like it, Broome.'

'I understand that Jacob Moon called them in after the murder of poor Bull Kovac,' said Broom.

Cade's pale eyes narrowed. 'Yes,' he said softly. 'The man you and Beth were to stand Oath for. Now two of those same Jerusalem Riders have moved in to Bull's house. There's something very wrong here.

But no one else can see it.'

'What do you mean?'

'It started with the burning of the church. Why were no Crusaders present? And how did the raiders know that there would be no one to stand against them? There were at least twenty masked killers around that building, yet only five left the town. Take away the dead man outside the church, and that leaves fourteen unaccounted for in the raid. Curiously that is the same number of Crusaders who rode out to the supposed attack on Shem Jackson's farm.'

'You're not suggesting. .?'

'I'm suggesting something is beginning to smell bad in Pilgrim's Valley.'

'I think… if you'll pardon my directness. . that you are over-reacting. I have spoken to the Apostle Saul, and he assures me that Jacob Moon and his Riders will soon.apprehend the brigands who murdered poor Bull. These men are carefully chosen for their skills and their dedication, as indeed are the Crusaders. I have known Leon Evans since he was a boy; I cannot believe he would have taken part in such a… such a dreadful business.'

'You've more faith than I have,' said Cade wearily. 'Something is happening, and I don't like it. And I don't like that Saul — can't understand what the Deacon sees in him, save that he's the only one of the Apostles still living.'

'I'm sure he is a fine man. I have spoken to him on many occasions and always found him to be courteous and caring,' said Broome, beginning to be uncomfortable. 'He knows all the Scriptures by heart, and he spends his day in prayer and communion with the Lord.'

Cade chuckled. 'Come, come, Broome, you don't need to pull no wool over these old eyes. You ain't a Christian — though" you're a damn sight closer to it than many others. But that's by the by. Jon told me that you were one of the few who knew of his past. He trusted you. . and I will too. I'm heading for Unity tomorrow. I'm going to try to see the Deacon and find out just what the Hell is happening.'

'Why come to me?'

'I think Saul knows how I feel and he may try to stop me reaching the capital. If I don't make it, Broome, I want you to tell Jonnie what I said. You understand?'

'But. . but he's dead. Lost in the desert.'

'He ain't dead. Don't you listen to the gossip? A man claiming to be the Jerusalem Man shot the Purity Oath Taker to death. He ain't dead, Broome. God damn, he's alive again! And he'll be back.'

A movement came from the doorway and Broome glanced up to see a tall, wide-shouldered man standing there, a gun in his hand. 'What do you want?' he asked, rising.

'Been told to kill you,' said the man amiably, 'but no one said a God damn thing about this old fart. Still, orders is orders.' The gunman smiled. His pistol thundered and Broome was smashed back against the wall. He fell heavily, pain flaring in his chest, and collided with the small table by his chair. It tipped and he felt the mug of Baker's strike his back, the hot liquid soaking through his shirt. Despite the pain, he stayed conscious and stared up at the man who had shot him.

'Why?' he asked, his voice clear.

The gunman shrugged. ‘I don't ask questions,' he said.

'Neither do I,' said Daniel Cade. Broome's eyes flickered to the Prophet. His voice sounded different, colder than the grave. The gunman swung his pistol — but he was too late and Cade shot him twice in the chest. The man fell back into the doorframe and tried to lift his weapon, but it fired into the floor. He sagged down, his fingers losing hold of the pistol.

'You're. . supposed to… be a… man of God,' said the gunman, coughing blood.

'Amen to that,' said Cade. His gun came up and a third shot smashed through the man's skull. 'Rot in Hell,' said the Prophet. Broome struggled to his knees, blood staining his shirt, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side.

'Come on, Jed,' shouted a voice from outside, 'what the Hell is keeping you?'

'If you can walk, Broome,' whispered Cade, 'I suggest you get out back. You'll find my buggy. Make for Beth McAdam's place.'

'What about you?'

'Go now, son. There's no more time for talk.' Cade had broken open his pistol and was feeding shells into the cylinder. Broome stood, staggered, then backed away through the kitchen. The glass of the front window shattered, and a man pushed the curtains aside. Cade shot him. Another gunman leapt through the doorway. Broome saw him fire twice, both bullets hammering into the Prophet. Cade's gun boomed and the gunman flew back, blood spraying to the wall behind him.

Broome staggered out into the night, hauling himself up on to Cade's buggy. Grabbing the reins with his good hand, he kicked free the brake and lashed the reins down on the horse's back. The beast lurched into the traces and the buggy picked up speed.

A shot sounded from behind him, then another. He heard a bullet thud into the wooden frame and ducked down. Then the buggy was clear and racing away into the night.

T'd like to know what is going on,' Nestor Garrity told Clem Steiner, once the two men were alone.

Clem looked away, and cut into his steak. 'Who is he? Really?' persisted Nestor.

Clem pushed away his plate and wiped his mouth with a napkin. 'He's who he says he is.'

The Jerusalem Man? He can't be! I know him! He's the Preacher, for God's sake!'

'Times change, Nestor. Men change. He fought the Daggers and he'd had enough. Think of it, boy. He was a sad, bitter man, searching for a city that didn't exist. Then he sent the Sword of God through time and destroyed a world. Maybe two worlds. He was in love with Beth. He wanted a different life. The last ounce of power in the Daniel Stone gave him back his youth. It was a new start. As far as I know, only two people recognised him when he came back from the Wall: Josiah Broome and Edric Scayse. Scayse took the secret to the grave — and Broome? He's a peaceful man and a dreamer. He liked what Shannow was trying to become. That's all, Nestor.'

'But the books? The chariot to Heaven. Is it all lies?'

'Mostly,' said Clem, with a wry grin. 'But then legends are like that, son. We misremember them. We don't do it intentionally most of the time. Take me, for example. When I was a kid I had a teacher who told me that I would be a brigand or a war-maker. He expelled me from school and told my folks there was no good in me. Now I own three hundred thousand acres and I'm a rich, powerful man. I saw that teacher last year, he came to live in Pernum. Know what he said? "Clem, I always knew you had the seeds of greatness in you." He wasn't lying. Understand?'

The young man shook his head. ‘I don't understand any of it.

‘It's all built on lies. The Deacon, everything. It's all lies! All that Bible shit. All the studying. Lies!'

'Whoa, son! Don't lump it all in together!' warned Clem. 'We all need heroes — and Shannow was… is…

a good man. No matter what other people may write about him, he always did what he thought was right, and he would never pass by and let evil have its way. And some of the things he did can't be disputed.

He fought the Hellborn, and he destroyed the Guardians who were behind the War. Nestor, he is a good man; it is not his fault that others — of a more political mind — chose to take his name in vain.'

'I want to go home,' said Nestor. 'I don't want to do this any more.'

'Sure, son,' said Clem. 'I understand that.'

Clem paid for the meal and stood. Nestor rose also, his shoulders hunched, his eyes distant. Clem felt for the boy. The iron hooves of reality had ground his dreams to dust. 'Let's go,' said the older man, and together they walked out on to the street. A shot sounded, and shards of wood exploded from the post beside Clem's head; he ducked, drew his pistol and dived forward. A rifleman stepped into sight and Clem fired, the bullet striking the man in the shoulder and spinning him, the rifle falling from his hands.

Nestor stood transfixed; then he saw the man from the tavern.

Sachs was aiming a pistol at Clem's back. Without thinking Nestor drew his pistol and triggered it, the shell hammering home into Sachs' chest. Suddenly all of Nestor's anger welled up and, walking towards the wounded man, he fired again. And again. Each shot thundered home and Sachs was hurled back against the wall of a building.

'You bastard!' screamed Nestor, continuing to pull the trigger even after the gun was long empty and the lifeless would-be assassin was dead at his feet. Clem came alongside him, gently pulling the pistol clear.

Nestor was crying, his body racked by deep, convulsive sobs. 'It's all lies!' he said.

'I know,' said Clem.

Seth Wheeler appeared, a long-barrelled pistol in his hands. 'What in Hades is happening here?' he asked Clem.

'We had an argument earlier with. . him,' he said, pointing down at the corpse. 'When we left the eating-house they opened fire on us. There's a man back there with a busted shoulder; I guess he'll tell you more.'

'Well,' said Wheeler, 'it's for damned sure that Sachs ain't going to tell us anything. You boys better walk with me to the office. I'll need to make a report for the town elders.'

'He was a damn fool,' said Clem bitterly. 'He's dead over a spilled beer.'

'He's killed others for less, I reckon,' muttered Wheeler. 'But there was never any proof.'

Later, when Seth Wheeler had painstakingly written out his report, he put down his pen and looked up at Nestor. The young man's face had a ghostly pallor and his eyes were distant. 'You all right, son?' asked the Crusader. Nestor nodded, but said nothing and Wheeler looked at him closely. 'I guess you've never been in a killing fight before?' Nestor just stared at the floor. Wheeler turned his attention to Clem. 'I think you should both ride out. Sachs wasn't popular, but he had drinking friends. Tough men. They may feel the need to… well. . you know.'

Clem nodded. 'We were leaving anyway in the morning. But now's as good a time as any.'

Wheeler nodded. 'I take it you'll be travelling towards Domango? It's where your friend was last seen.'

'I guess so,' agreed Clem.

Then I'd take it as a kindness if you'd stop by and see that my mother is well. She has a farm just over the mountains. You take the Domango trail and you won't miss it. An old place in a valley east of the trail.

She'll fix you a good meal and give you a roof for the night.'

'Any message?'

Wheeler shrugged, and gave a boyish grin. 'Just tell her that Seth and Pad are fine, and we'll be coming by at summer's end.'

Wheeler lifted Nestor's empty pistol and opened the side drawer of his desk, taking out a box of shells.

Swiftly he loaded the revolver and handed it to Nestor. 'An empty gun is no good to anyone,' he said.

'And you might as well keep these,' he added, tossing the box to Clem.

'It might be better if all the guns were empty,' replied Clem, reaching out to shake the Crusader's hand.

'Amen to that,' said Seth Wheeler.

Shannow lay awake in the spare bedroom, staring out of the window at the bright stars. He and Amaziga had talked into the early hours, then she had shown him through to this curious room. The bed had a metal frame and a thick mattress, but instead of blankets there was a single, down-filled covering. Beside the bed was a small table, on which sat one of the strange lamps that burned brightly without oil. It was lit, and extinguished, by what appeared to be a coat button attached to the base. Beside this was a small box, which at first bore the glowing numbers 03. 14. When Shannow next glanced at it the numbers had changed: 03. 21. He watched it, and soon worked out that it changed at regular intervals. A timing device!

Climbing from his bed, he walked naked to the window and opened it. The night air was fresh, but not cool. Indeed, it was considerably warmer outside than in. A humming sound began, coming from the wall by his bed. There was a metal grille there and he moved to it. Cold air was spilling from the vent.

Shannow walked across the room and entered the second room Amaziga had shown him. Stepping inside the tall glass box, he turned the small steel wheel as she had demonstrated. Cold water streamed from a dish above him. Taking a tablet of soap, he began to scrub the dust of travel from his body. But the water grew steadily more hot until at last he had to leap from the box. Kneeling down, he examined the wheel. There were painted arrows upon it pointing to two coloured circles, one blue, one red. The coloured circles were repeated on the faucets at the sink beside the glass box. Shannow pressed each: one hot, the other cold.

Returning to the shower, he twisted the metal wheel back towards the blue. Gradually the steam subsided and the water cooled. Satisfied, he stepped back into the box and rinsed the soap from his body.

Refreshed, he towelled himself down and wandered back to his bed. The humming was still sounding from above him and he found the noise irritating, like making camp close to a beehive. Standing on the bed he stared into the vent, seeking some way of closing it. There was a lever, and just as he was about to press it he heard Lucas's voice echoing in the vent. '. . too dangerous, Amaziga. It has already all but destroyed a world. Why take such a terrible risk?'

Shannow could not hear her response, but Lucas cut in swiftly, 'Nothing, as you know, is certain. But the probabilities are too high. Let me show you the data.'

Stepping down from the bed, Shannow waked to the door, easing it open and moving into the carpeted hallway. Now the voices were louder and he could hear Amaziga: '. . probabilities are high; they are bound to be. But they would be high regardless of whatever action I take. Sarento has become the Bloodstone, and with the power it gives him, and with his extraordinary intelligence, he is almost bound to discover Gateways. Is that not so?'

'That is not the point,' came the reasoned voice of the machine-man. 'By your actions you will increase the probabilities.'

'By a fraction,' said Amaziga.

'And what of Shannow? The risks to him are great. He might die on this quest of yours.'

'Hardly the greatest loss to the culture of a planet,' sneered Amaziga. 'He is a killer, a man of violence.

Whereas the rescue of Sam would mean so much. He was… is… a scientist, and a humanitarian.

Together we may even be able to stop this world from falling. You understand? At least on this version of earth we might prevent the apocalypse. That alone is worth the risk to Shannow's life.'

The Jerusalem Man stepped back into his room and lay down.

There was truth in the harsh words he had heard. From somewhere deep in his memory he remembered Josiah Broome saying: ‘I dread to think of people who look up to men like Jon Shannow. What do they give to the world? Nothing, I tell you.'

His guns were hanging over the back of a chair. The weapons of the Thundermaker.

What peace have they ever brought, he wondered? What good have you ever done?

It was not a question he could answer, and he fell into an uneasy sleep.

'Lie back and rest,' the voice told him, but Josiah Broome could not obey it. His shoulder ached abominably, and he felt a painful throbbing in the fingers of his left hand. Nausea swept over him in waves, and tears squeezed through his closed eyelids, flowing to his thin cheeks. Opening his eyes, he saw an old man with a long white beard.

'I've been shot,' he said. They shot me!' Even as he spoke he realised how stupid it must sound. Of course the man knew he'd been shot. Broome could feel the bandage around his chest and up over his shoulder. 'I'm sorry,' said Broome, weeping, and not knowing what he was apologising for. The pain flared in his wound and he groaned.

'The bullet glanced up from a rib,' said the old man softly, 'then broke your collar-bone before digging deep to rest under your shoulder-blade. It's nasty — but not fatal.' Broome felt the man's warm hand on his brow. 'Now rest like I told you. We'll talk in the morning.'

Broome took a deep breath. 'Why did they do it?' he asked. 'I have no enemies.'

'If that's true,' said the old man, his voice dry, 'then at least one of your friends doesn't like you too much.'

The humour was lost on Josiah Broome and he drifted into a nervous and disturbed sleep, punctuated by appalling nightmares. He was being chased across a burning desert by riders with eyes of fire. They kept shooting at him, every bullet smashing into his frail body. But he did not die, and the pain was terrible. He awoke with a start, and fresh agony bloomed in the wound. Broome cried out and instantly the old man was beside him. 'Best you sit up, son,' he said. 'Here, I'll give you a hand.' The old man was stronger than he looked and Broome was hoisted to a sitting position, his back against the cave wall. There was a small fire, and meat was cooking in a black iron pot. 'How did I get here?' asked Broome.

'You fell off a buggy, son. You were lucky — the wheel just missed you.'

'Who are you?'

'You can call me Jake.'

Broome stared hard at the man. There was something familiar about him, but he could not find the connection. ‘I am Josiah Broome. Tell me, do I know you, Jake?'

'You do now, Josiah Broome.' Jake moved to the cook-fire and stirred the broth with a long wooden spoon. 'Coming along nicely,' he said.

Broome gave a weak smile. 'You look like one of the Prophets,' he said. 'Moses. I had a book once, and there was a picture of Moses parting the Red Sea. You look just like him.'

'Well, I ain't Moses,' said Jake. As he shrugged off his coat, Broome saw the butts of two pistols scabbarded at the old man's hips. Jake glanced up. 'Did you recognise any of the men?'

'I think so… but I'd hate to be right.'

'Jerusalem Riders?'

Broome was surprised. 'How did you know?'

'They followed you and found the buggy. Then they backtracked. I listened to them talking. They were mad fit to bust, I can tell you.'

They didn't… see you?'

'Nobody sees me unless I want them to,' Jake told him. 'It's a talent I have. Also, you'll be relieved to hear, I know a little about healing. Where were you heading?'

'Heading?'

'Last night, in the buggy?'

'Oh, that was Daniel Cade's vehicle. He… Oh, dear God. .'

'What is it?'

Broome sighed. 'He was killed last night. He saved me by shooting the… the assassin. But there were others. They rushed the house and killed him.'

Jake nodded. 'Daniel would have taken at least two of them with him. Tough man.' He chuckled. 'No one ever wants to leave this life, son, but old Daniel — given a choice — would have plumped for a fight against the ungodly.'

'You knew him?'

'Back in the old days,' said Jake. 'Not a man to cross.'

'He was a brigand and a killer,' said Broome sternly. 'Worthless scum. But he saw the Light.'

Jake laughed, the sound rich and merry. 'Indeed he did, Meneer Broome. A regular Damascus Road miracle.'

'Are you mocking him?' asked Broome, as Jake spooned the broth into a wooden bowl and passed it to the wounded man.

'I don't mock, son. But I don't judge either. Not any more. That's for the young. Now eat your broth. It'll help replace some of that lost fluid.'

'I must get word to Else,' said Broome. 'She'll be worried.'

'She certainly will,' agreed Jake. 'From what I heard of the riders' conversations, she thinks you killed the Prophet.'

'What?'

That's the word, son. He was found dead in your house, and when the Jerusalem Riders went to find out what the shooting was about you shot two of them dead. You're a dangerous man.'

'But no one would believe that. I have stood against violence all my life.'

'You'd be amazed what people will believe. Now finish the broth.'

‘I’ll go back,' said Broome suddenly. ‘I’ll see the Apostle Saul. He knows me; he has the Gift of Discernment; he'll listen.'

Jake shook his head. 'You're not a fast learner, are you, Broome?'

The man called Jake sat quietly at the mouth of the cave as the wounded man groaned in his sleep. He was tired himself, but this was no time to enjoy the bliss of a dark, dreamless sleep. The killers were still out there, and a greater evil was waiting to seep into this tortured world. Jake felt a great sadness flow over him and rubbing his eyes, he stood and stretched his weary legs. A little to the left, on a stretch of open ground, the mule raised her head and glanced at him. An owl swooped overhead, banking and turning, seeking its rodent prey. Jake took a deep breath of the mountain air, then sat again, stretching out his long legs.

His mind wandered back over the long, long years, but his eyes remained alert, scanning the tree line for signs of movement. It was unlikely that the killers were closing in; they would be camped somewhere, waiting to follow the tracks in the morning. Jake drew one of his pistols and idly spun the chamber. How long since you fired it, he wondered? Thirty-eight years? Forty?

Returning the pistol to its scabbard, he dipped a hand into the wide pocket of his sheepskin coat and drew out a small golden Stone. With its power he could be young again. Flexing his knee, he felt the arthritic pain flare up. Use the Stone, you old fool, he told himself.

But he did not. The time was coming when the power would be needed, and it would need to serve a far greater purpose than to repair an age-eroded joint.

Could I have stopped the evil, he thought? Probably, if only I'd known how.

But I didn't — and I don't. All I can do is fight it when it arrives.

If you have the time!

It had been weeks since the last paralysing chest pain, the dull ache in his right bicep and the pins and needles in his fingertips. He should have used the Stone then, but he hadn't. Against the power that was coming, even this pure and perfect fragment of Sipstrassi might not be enough.

The night was cool. Josiah Broome was sleeping more peacefully now as Jake walked silently back into the cave and added fuel to the dying fire. Broome's face was wet with perspiration, and streaked with the grey lines of pain and shock.

You're a good man, Broome, thought Jake. The world deserves more like you, with your hatred of violence and your faith in the ultimate nobility of Man. Returning to his sentry post, Jake felt the sorrow growing. Glancing up at the velvet sky, he gave a rueful smile. 'What do you see in us, Lord?' he asked.

'We build nothing and smother everything. We kill and we torture. For every man like Broome there are hundreds of Jacob Moons, scores of Sauls.' He shook his head. 'Poor Saul,' he whispered. Treat him gently when you see him, Lord, for he was once a man of prayer and goodness.'

Was he?

Jake remembered the balding, stooped little man who had organised the church's finances, arranging fetes and gatherings, fund-raisings and parties. There were thorns in his flesh even then, but he controlled them.

Nature helped him there, for he was short and ugly. Not now! I should have seen it, thought Jake, when he used the Stone to make himself golden and handsome. I should have stopped it then. But he hadn't. In fact he had been pleased that Saul Wilkins had, at last, found a form that brought him happiness.

But the joy had been so transient, and Saul had gone searching for the bodily pleasures his life, his ugliness and his faith had denied him for so long.

'I can't hate him, Lord,' said Jake. 'It's just not in me. And I'm to blame for putting the power in his hands. I tried to make a holy world — and I failed.' Jake stopped talking to himself and listened. The night breeze was low, whispering through the leaves of the near by trees. Closing his eyes, he drew in a long slow breath through his nostrils. There was the scent of grass — and something else.

'Come out, little Pakia,' he said, 'for I know you are there.' 'How do you know me?' came a small voice from the undergrowth.

'I am old, and I know many things. Come out and sit with me.'

The little Wolver emerged and shuffled nervously forward, squatting down some ten feet from the old man. Her fur shone silver in the moonlight and her dark eyes scanned the weather-beaten face and the white beard. There are men with guns in the woods. They found the trail of your mule. They will be here at first light.'

‘I know,' he said softly. 'It was good of you to seek me out.' 'Beth asked me to find Meneer Broome. I smell blood.' 'He is inside. . sleeping. I will bring him to Beth. Go and tell her.'

‘I know your scent,' she said, 'but I have no knowing of you.' 'But you know you can trust me, little one.

Is that not so?' The Wolver nodded. ‘I can read your heart. It is not gentle, but you do not lie.'

Jake smiled. 'Sadly you are right. I am not a gentle man. When you have seen Beth, I want you to go to your people. Tell them to move away from here with all haste. There is an evil coming that will tear through the land like a burning fire. The Wolvers must be far away.'

'Our Holy One has told us this,' said Pakia. The Beast is coming from beyond the Wall. The Spiller of Blood, the Feaster of Souls. But we cannot desert our friend Beth.'

'Sometimes,' said Jake sadly, 'the best thing we can do is to desert our friends. The Beast has many powers, Pakia. But the worst of them is to change that which is good into that which is evil. Tell your holy man that the beast can turn a heart to darkness, and cause a friend to rip out the throat of his brother. He can do this. And he is coming soon.'

'Who shall I say has spoken these words?' asked Pakia.

'You tell him they are the words of the Deacon.'

Clem Steiner was worried about the youngster. Nestor had said little since they rode from Purity, and had seemed unconcerned at the prospect of pursuit. Twice Clem had swung off the trail, studying the moonlit land, but there was no sign that they were being followed. Nestor rode with his head down, obviously lost in thought, and Clem did not try to pierce the silence until they were camped in a natural hollow with a small fire burning. Nestor sat with his back against a thick pine, his knees drawn up.

'It wasn't your fault, boy,' said Clem, misunderstanding the youngster's anguish. 'He came looking for us.'

Nestor nodded, but did not speak and Clem sighed. 'Speak to me, son. There's nothing to be gained by brooding.'

Nestor looked up. 'Didn't you ever believe in anything, Meneer Steiner?'

'I believe in the inevitability of death.'

'Yeah,' said Nestor, looking away. Clem cursed inwardly.

'Just tell me, Nestor. I never was much at guessing.'

'What's to tell? It's all just horse-shit.' Nestor laughed. 'I believed it all, you know. Jesus, what a fool!

The Deacon was sent by God, the Jerusalem Man was a prophet like in the Book.

We were God's chosen people! I've lived my life chasing a lie. Don't that beat all?' Nestor took up his blanket and spread it on the ground.

Clem stayed silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts, before he spoke. 'If you need to hear something sage, Nestor, you're camped out with the wrong man. I'm too old to even remember what it was like to be young. When I was your age, I just wanted to be known as the greatest shootist in the known world. I didn't give a cuss about God or history. Never thought about anything much — except maybe getting a little faster. So I can't advise you. But that doesn't mean that I don't know you're wrong. You can't change the world, son. There'll always be serpents. All you can do is to live your own life in the way you feel is right.'

'And what about the truth?' asked Nestor, his eyes angry.

The truth? What the Hell is the truth? We're born, we live and we die. Everything else is just shades of opinion.'

Nestor shook his head. 'You don't understand, do you? I guess your kind never will.'

The words stung Clem, but he tried to bite back his anger. 'Maybe you'd like to tell me what my kind is, boy?'

'Yeah, I'll do that. All your dreams have always been selfish. The fastest shootist. To make a name for yourself by killing the Jerusalem Man. To own land and be rich. So why would you care if the Deacon proves to be a fraud, or if hundreds of kids like me are lied to. It doesn't mean anything to you, does it?

You just act like all the rest. You lied to me. You didn't tell me the Preacher was Shannow — not until you had to.'

'Put not your faith in princes, Nestor,' said Clem, all too aware of the bitter truth in the boy's words.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

Clem sighed. There was an old man used to work for Edric Scayse. He read old books all the time -

some of them just fragments. He told me the line. And it's true, but we do it all the time. Some leader rises up and we swear to God that he's the best man since Jesus walked on water. It ain't so. Because he's human, and he makes mistakes, and we can't forgive that. I don't know the Deacon, but a lot of what he's done has been for the good. And maybe he truly believed Shannow was John the Baptist.

Seems to me a lot of would-be holy men gets led astray. It's got to be hard. You look up at the sky and you say, Lord, shall I go left or shall I go right? Then you see a bird flying left and you take it as a sign.

The Deacon and his people were held in time for three hundred years. The Jerusalem Man released them. Maybe God did send him, I don't know. But then, Nestor, the sum of all I don't know could cover these mountains. But you're right about me. I won't deny it — I can't deny it. But what I'm saying is that the truth — 'whatever the Hell it is — doesn't exist outside of a man. It exists in his heart. Jon Shannow never lied. He never claimed to be anything other than what he was. He fought all his life to defend the Light.

He never took a backward step in the face of evil. It didn't matter what men said was right. And there isn't a man alive who could have dented his faith. Because he didn't hand that faith over to men. It was his. his alone. You understand? And as for the truth, well… I once asked him about that. I said,

"Supposing all that you believe in is just so much dust on the wind? Suppose it ain't true, how would you feel?" He just shrugged and smiled. You know what he said? "It wouldn't matter a damn — because it ought to be." '

'And I'm supposed to understand that?' stormed Nestor. 'All I know is that all my life I've been taught to believe something which was just made up by men. And I don't intend to be fooled again. Not by the Deacon, and not by you. Tomorrow I head for home. You can go to Hell in a bucket!'

Nestor lay down, turning his back on the fire. Clem felt old and tired and decided to let the matter rest.

Tomorrow they would talk again.

Your kind never will!

The boy was sharp, no doubt about that. Over the years Clem had gathered a band of robbers to him, and their raids were daring and brilliantly executed. Exciting times! Yet men were killed or crippled -

good men for the most part. Clem remembered the first of them, a young payroll guard who, against all the odds, had refused to lay down his rifle. Instead he had fired a shot that clipped the top of Clem's shoulder and killed the man behind him. The guard had gone down in a volley of fire. One shot had come from Clem's gun. The young man haunted him now; he was only doing his duty, earning an honest day's pay.

Your kind never will!

Clem sighed. You want to know my kind, boy? Weak men governed by their desires, yet without the strength of purpose to work for them.

When the ambush had come, the bullets ripping into the gang, Clem had spurred his horse over a high cliff-face and fallen a hundred feet into a raging torrent. He had survived, where all his men had died.

With nowhere to go he had headed back to Pilgrim's Valley, where any who remembered him would recall a gallant young man by the name of Clem Steiner, not a brigand who rode under the name Laton Duke. By what right do you preach to this boy, he wondered? How could you tell him to live his life the way he thinks is right? When did you do that, Clem?

And what had the stolen money brought him? A fine red waistcoat and a nickel-plated pistol, several hundred faceless whores in scores of nameless towns. Oh yes, Clem, you're a fine teacher!

Picking up a handful of twigs, he leaned towards the fire. The ground trembled, the little blaze spitting cinders into the air. The hobbled horses whinnied in fear and a boulder dislodged from the slopes above them, rolling and bouncing down into the valley below. Nestor came to his knees and tried to stand, but the ground shifted under his feet, hurling him off balance. A bright light shone on the hollow. Clem glanced up. Two moons hung in the sky, one full, the other like a crescent. Nestor saw it too.

A jagged rip tore across a narrow hillside, swallowing trees. Then the full moon faded from sight, and an eerie silence settled tefrthe land.

'What's happening?' asked Nestor.

Clem sat back, the fire forgotten. All he could think of was the last time he had seen such a vision, and felt the earth tremble beneath him, when the terror of the Lizard warriors had been unleashed upon the land.

Nestor scrambled across to him, grabbing his arm. 'What's happening?' he asked again.

'Someone just opened a door,' said Clem softly.