The Last Guardian

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

For two days Chreena had studied the Pledging Pool, analysing the crystal-clear water that flowed away beneath the cliffs to underground streams and rivers. She sat now in the shade of the Chaos Peak, a tall, spear-straight tower of jagged rocks and natural platforms from which the more reckless of the Dianae men would dive.

Shir-ran had climbed almost to a point just below the crest of the Peak. He would have gone further had the crown of the rock not jutted from the column, creating an overhang no man could negotiate. His dive had been flawless and Chreena remembered him rising from the water with his dark hair gleaming, the light of triumph in his golden eyes.

She pushed back the memory. There had to be something in the Pool that had affected Shir-ran's genetic structure. To dive from such a height meant that he would have plunged deep into the water… perhaps the problem was there. Chreena closed her eyes and let her spirit flow over the rocks of the Pool and down, down into the darker depths. She knew what she was seeking — some toxic legacy from the Between Times. Drums of chemical waste, nerve gases, plague germs. The Betweeners had rarely given any thought to the future, dumping their hideous war-refined poisons into the depths of the ocean. One theory back at Home Base had been that the Betweeners must have known their time was short. Why else would they poison their rivers and streams, strip away the forests that gave them air and pollute their own bodies with toxins and carcinogens? But the theory was offered more as a debating point for children than a serious topic for study.

Now Chreena blanked such thoughts from her mind and drew from her memories everything she had been taught concerning water: the essence of life. In the Between Days it had covered 70. 8

per cent of the earth's surface, but now the figure was 71. 3. Water made up two-thirds of total body weight. Man could survive months without food, but only days without water. Think!

Think! Two parts hydrogen to one part oxygen. She honed her concentration, adjusting her focus, shrinking, ever shrinking deeper into the Search-trance, analysing the trace elements at the bottom of the Pool. One by one she dismissed them — reactive silica, magnesium, sodium, potassium, iron, copper, zinc. There were minute traces of lead, but these could not have been harmful unless a person drank around sixty gallons a day for who knew what number of years.

She returned to her body and leaned back exhausted. The sun had moved past the Chaos Peak and her naked skin was burning. Moving several yards to her left, she looked around for Oshere. He was lying asleep in the shade; there was little of humanity left in him, and his voice was almost gone.

Not the water. What then? She glanced up at the sky and the awesome Sword of God pointing to the heavens. She shivered. Not that!

Her eyes flicked to the Peak. Was it something there? Chreena stood and stretched, then dressed swiftly and made her way to the base. There were many handholds in the heavily barnacled rock and she began to climb slowly. Her mind fled back to the last time she had clung to a rock face, almost three years before, when the Titanic had been breached and she had carried her son Luke from the doomed ghost ship and down the sheer face of the mountain above the ruins of Balacris.

Then she had been Amaziga Archer, widow of Samuel and a teacher to the children of the Guardians. Guardians? All the knowledge of the Betweeners had been held by them for future generations, yet the work had been ruined, corrupted by one man: Sarento. He had longed to see Rebirth, the world back as it was. His patience had worn thin and he had begun, through the Motherstone, to manipulate events. He had given Bloodstones to a growing nation that became the Hellborn; he had encouraged their warlike tendencies, giving them the secrets of automatic weapons. 'In war,' he said, 'man is at his most inventive. All great historical advances have come through the battlefield.'

With the power of the Motherstone he had reassembled the wreck of the Titanic as it lay broken upon the mountainside over Atlantis. He had made it Home Base for the Guardians. But his doom had been sealed when the Hellborn took Donna Taybard as a blood sacrifice, for that alone had led the Jerusalem Man to Balacris and the Titanic.

Amaziga remembered that awful night when Sarento used the Motherstone to duplicate the first voyage. Though the ship remained on the mountain, those on board — under its glittering lights and beautiful saloons — could gaze out on a star-filled sky over a black and shining ocean.

But Shannow had fought Sarento in the subterranean cavern of the Motherstone, killing him and sealing off the power of the Stone. The Titanic had once more struck the iceberg and a sorcerous sea filled the ship, destroying the Guardians and obliterating the knowledge of eons.

And Amaziga had climbed down from the wreck and walked away without a backward glance.

The Jerusalem Man had come to her.

'I am sorry,' he said. 'I do not know if my actions were right — but they were just. I will lead you to a safe place.'

They had parted at a small town hundreds of miles to the north, and Amaziga had journeyed with her son to the lands of the Wall.

She climbed higher and glanced down at the shimmering Pool below. Her fingers were tired and she hauled herself on to a ledge to rest. There was nothing harmful here that she could feel. 'You are getting old,' she told herself. She had lived more than a century, her youth guaranteed by the Sipstrassi carried by the Guardians. But that was gone now and silver flecks highlighted her tightly curled hair. How old are you in real terms, Amaziga? she asked herself. Thirty-five?

Forty?

Taking a deep breath, she rose and climbed on. It took her an hour to reach the ledge beneath the Peak and as she scrambled over it, her hand gripped a sharp stone which split the skin of her palm. She cursed and sat with her back to the rock-face, heart hammering. She could detect nothing baleful in the rock of the Peak. The climb had been a waste of time, and had served only to bring her bitter memories and a painful wound. Settling herself down, preparing her body for the return journey, she thought of jumping to the Pool far below, but dismissed the idea; she had never been comfortable in the water. The sun bathed her and she felt warm and curiously refreshed. Her pulse slowed. When she lifted her injured hand, ready to apply pressure to stop the bleeding, the cut had disappeared. She rubbed her fingers at the skin but there was no mark.

Reaching out, she picked up the stone with the serrated edge. Blood had stained it. Carefully she rose to her knees on the narrow ledge and turned to the rock-face. Above her the overhang jutted from the Peak, and above that the Sword of God and the tiny crosses that surrounded it. She closed her eyes, her spirit flowing into the barnacled stone. Deeper she moved, coming at last to shaped marble and beyond that to a network of golden wire and crystals. She followed the network up to a silver bowl, six feet in diameter. At the centre of this lay a huge Sipstrassi Stone with golden threads inches wide.

Her eyes snapped open. 'Oh God!' she whispered. 'Oh God!'

The Chaos Peak was not a natural formation. It had become encrusted as it lay beneath the ocean.

It was a tower, and the Sipstrassi Stone was still pulsing its power after 12, 000 years. Amaziga gazed down at the sleeping Oshere — and understood.

The healing powers of Sipstrassi!

There had been no intention of harming the Dianae. The almost mechanical magic of the Stone had bathed Shir-ran and the others — it had repaired them, eliminating the promoter genes and the carefully wrought genetic engineering. It had returned them to a state of perfection. 'Dear God!'

Amaziga rose and pushed her back to the face, then stared down at Oshere. Normally a wielder would need to touch a Stone to direct its powers… but with something of this size? Her concentration grew and far below Oshere stirred in his sleep. Pain lanced him and he roared, his great head snapping at unseen enemies. His body twisted and he sank back, his new fur shrinking, his limbs straightening. Amaziga pictured him as she remembered him, holding the vision before her eyes. Finally she relaxed and gazed down at the naked young man lying asleep in the sunshine.

Without a moment's hesitation she stepped forward and dived, her lithe ebony frame falling like a spear to cleave the water below. She surfaced and swam to the edge, heaving herself up on to the rocks beside Oshere. Removing her wet clothes, she let the sun dry her skin.

Oshere stirred and opened his golden eyes. 'Is this a dream?' he asked.

'No. This is the reality dreams are shaped of.'

'You look so… young and beautiful.'

'So do you,' she told him, smiling. He sat up and gazed in wonder at his bronzed body.

'Truly this is no dream? I am returned?'

'Yes.'

'Tell me. Tell me everything.'

'Not yet,' she whispered, stroking his face. 'Not now, Oshere. Not when I have just dived for you.'

Clutching her Bloodstone to her breast, Sharazad stepped through the gateway. Her mind swam, her vision blurred with colours more vivid dian any she had seen in life. She held herself steady until the whirling movement before her eyes ceased; she had moved from a star-filled night to a bright dawn and for a moment or two she felt disorientated. The King was sitting by a window, staring out at his armies engaged in their training manoeuvres on the far fields.

'Welcome,' he said softly, without turning.

She dropped to her knees with head bent, golden hair falling over her face.

'I cannot tell you how wondrous it is to be once more in your presence, Lord.'

The King swung round and smiled broadly."Your flattery is well timed,' he said, 'for I am not best pleased with you.' She looked up into his handsome face, seeing the sunlight glisten on his freshly curled golden beard and the warm, humorous — almost gentle — look in his eyes. Fear rose.

She was not fooled by his easy manner, nor the apparent lightness of his mood.

'In what way have I earned your displeasure, Great One?' she whispered, averting her eyes and staring at the ornate rug on which she knelt.

'Your attack on the barbarian village — it was badly timed, and appallingly led. I took you for a woman with a mind, Sharazad. Yet you only attacked from one direction, allowing the enemy room to flee. Where you should have delivered a crushing blow, you merely drove them into the woods to the south, there to plan and prepare a defence.'

'But they cannot defend against us, Great One. They are merely barbarians; they have no organisation, few weapons and little skill.'

'That may be so,' he agreed. 'But if you are so bereft of ideas, strategies and skills, why should I allow you to command?'

'I am not bereft of ideas, Lord, but it was my first engagement. All generals must learn. I will learn; I will do anything to please you.'

He chuckled and stood. He was tall and well-built, his movements easy and graceful as he raised her to her feet. 'I know that you will. You always have. That is why I allow you your… small pleasures. Before I make love to you, Sharazad, I want you to see something. It may help you to understand.'

He lifted a Sipstrassi Stone from a gold-embroidered pouch at his belt and held it in the air. The far wall vanished and she found herself gazing down on the Dagger encampment; their low, flat leather tents were bunched together on a rocky slope by a stream. There were guards posted all around the camp, and two sentries on the rocky escarpment above.

'I see nothing amiss,' she said.

'I know. Watch… and listen.' The wind sighed across the hillside and the whisper of bats' wings could be heard. Then she caught the sound of lowing cattle; there was nothing else. 'You still cannot sense it, can you?' said the King, laying his hand on her shoulder and unbuckling the straps of her golden breastplate.

'No. They are natural sounds of the night, are they not?'

'They are not,' he said, lifting her breastplate clear and removing the belted dagger at her waist.

'One of them is out of place.'

The cattle?'

'Yes. They rarely move at night, Sharazad, therefore they are being driven. And they are moving towards the Daggers. A gift, do you think? A peace offering?'

She could see the herd now — a dark, shirting mass moving slowly across the plain towards the camp. Several of the sentries stopped their pacing to watch them approach. Suddenly a shot sounded from behind the herd and a series of hair-raising screams followed. The cattle broke into a run, thundering towards the camp. Sharazad watched with growing horror as the sentries opened fire on the lead beasts; she saw the bulls fall, but the herd ploughed on. Daggers slithered from their tents and ran, diving into the stream or sprinting up the scree-covered slope. Then the stampeding cattle swept through the camp and were gone. As the dust settled, Sharazad gazed down on the ruins where some thirty bodies lay crushed and torn.

The King's hands moved to her silk tunic, untying the laces and sliding the garment down over her shoulders, but she could not tear her eyes from the carnage.

'Look and learn, Sharazad,' he whispered, his fingers sliding over the skin of her hips. The scene shifted to a gulley some three hundred paces from the camp where a man was sitting on a tall, black horse. The rider leaned back in the saddle and removed his hat. Under the moonlight she could see his features clearly, and remembered the man who had bowed to her in the Traveller's Rest.

'One man, Sharazad, one special man. His name is Shan-now. He is respected and feared among these barbarians; they call him the Jerusalem Man, for he seeks a mythical city. One man?

'The camp is nothing,' she said. 'And thirty Daggers can be replaced.'

'Still you do not see. Why did he stampede those cattle? Petty revenge? That man is above that.'

'What other reason could there be?'

'You have patrols out?'

'Of course.'

'Where are they now?'

She scanned the plain. The three patrols, each with twenty warriors, were hurrying back towards the ruined camp. Once more the scene shimmered and she found herself looking at the town.

'Of course you searched the town and destroyed anything that might be of use to the enemy?'

'No. I… did not…'

'You did not think, Sharazad — that is your great crime.' She saw the men at work, loading wagons with food, tools, spare rifles from the gunsmith's store and other weapons still lying beside the dead Daggers. The King moved away from her, but she did not notice, for she saw the man Shannow riding slowly along the main street, watched him dismount before the gunsmith's store.

Hatred surged through her blood like a fever.

'Can I have the Hunters?' she asked. 'I want that man.'

'You can have anything you want,' said the King, 'for I love you.'

His whip snaked out, lashing across her buttocks. She screamed once, but did not move. And the long day of pain began.

The King gazed down on Sharazad's sleeping form as she lay face down on the white silken sheets with her long legs drawn up to her body. She looked like a babe, all innocence and purity, thought the King. He had whipped her until she had collapsed, the blood flowing to stain the rug beneath her feet. Then he had healed her.

'Foolish, foolish woman,' he said. A tremor shook the city, but the power of the Sipstrassi Motherstone beneath the temple cut in, repairing cracks in the masonry and shielding the inhabitants from the quakes that rippled across the surrounding countryside.

The King wandered to the window. Below me palace, beyond the tall marble walls the people of Ad were moving about their business. Six hundred thousand souls born in the greatest nation the earth had ever seen — or ever would see, he thought. Through the power of the Stone from Heaven the King had conquered all the civilised world and opened gates to wonders beyond imagination.

Fresh conquests meant little to him now. All that mattered was that his name would ring like a clashing shield down through the ages of history. He smiled. Why should it not? With Sipstrassi he was immortal and therefore would be ever present when his continuing story was sung by the bards.

A second tremor struck. They were beginning to worry him, they had increased so much of late.

Clutching his Stone, he closed his eyes.

And disappeared…

He opened them to find himself standing in the same room overlooking an identical view. There were the marble walls, beyond them the city, and the docks silent and waiting. It was perhaps his greatest artistic achievement: he had created an exact replica of Ad in a world unpeopled by Man.

Here there were no earthquakes, only an abundance of deer, elk and all the other wondrous creatures of nature.

Soon he would transfer the inhabitants here and build a new Atlantis where no enemies could ever conquer them, for there would be no other nations.

He returned to his room and considered waking Sharazad for an hour of love-making, then dismissed the thought, still angry at her stupidity. He did not mind the deaths of the Daggers; the reptiles were merely tools and, as Sharazad so rightly pointed out, could be replaced with ease.

But he hated undisciplined thought, he loathed those who could not see or understand the simplest strategies. Many of his generals dismayed him. They could not comprehend that the object of war was to win, not merely to engage in huge and costly battles with a plethora of heroics on either side. Defeat the enemy from within. First convince him of the hopelessness of his cause and then strike him down while he sits demoralised. But in victory, be magnanimous, for a defeated and humiliated enemy will live only for the day when he can be revenged. Blame the war on the defeated leaders and court the people. But did the generals understand?

Now a new dawn was beginning for Atlantis. The King had seen a world of flying machines and great wonders. So far the links had been tentative, but soon he would open the gateway wider and send out scouts to learn of the new enemy.

His thoughts returned to Sharazad. The world she had discovered was not worthy of their attention — save for the weapons known as guns. But now they had seen them, they could duplicate them — improve on them. There was nothing there of interest. Yet he would allow Sharazad to play out her game to the end; there was the faintest glimmer of hope that she would learn something of value. And if she did not, there was always the whip and her deliciously satisfying screams.

The man Shannow, at least, was of transient interest. The Hunters would kill him, of course, but not before he had provided great sport. How many to send? Five would ensure success. One would give Shannow a chance. Then let it be three, thought the King. But which three?

Magellas must be one; haughty and proud, he needed a tough task. Lindian? Cold, that one, and lethal — not a man to allow into your presence with a weapon of any kind. Yes, Lindian. And to complete the mixture, Rhodaeul. He and Magellas hated one another, constantly vying for supremacy. It should be a fascinating mission for them. They had mastered the new guns with rare brilliance.

Now it was time to see if they could use them to good purpose against an enemy of great skill.

The King lifted his Stone and concentrated on Shan-now's face. The air rippled before him and he saw the Jerusalem Man heaving a sack across the back of his saddle.

'You are in great danger, Jon Shannow,' said the King. 'Best to be on your guard!'

Shannow swung as the eerie voice filled his mind. His gun swept up, but there was no target in sight.

The sound of mocking laughter drifted away into echoes.