Wolf in Shadow

CHAPTER ONE

The rider paused at the crest of a wooded hill and gazed down over the wide rolling empty lands beneath him.

There was no sign of Jerusalem, no dark road glittering with diamonds. But then Jerusalem was always ahead, beckoning in the dreams of night, taunting him to find her on the black umbilical road.

His disappointment was momentary and he lifted his gaze to the far mountains, grey and spectral.

Perhaps there he would find a sign? Or was the road covered now by the blown dust of centuries, disguised by the long grass of history?

He dismissed the doubt; if the city existed, Jon Shannow would find it. Removing his wide-brimmed leather hat, he wiped the sweat from his face. It was nearing noon and he dismounted.

The steeldust gelding stood motionless until he looped the reins over its head, then dipped its neck to crop at the long grass. The man delved into a saddlebag to pull clear his ancient Bible; he sat on the ground and idly opened the gold-edged pages.

'And Saul said to David, Thou art not able to go against this Philistine to fight with him, for thou art but a youth, and he is a man of war from his youth.'

Shannow felt sorry for Goliath, for the man had had no chance. A courageous giant, ready to face any warrior, found himself opposite a child without sword or armour. Had he won, he would have been derided. Shannow closed the Bible and carefully packed it away.

Time to move,' he told the gelding. He stepped into the saddle and swept up the reins. Slowly they made their way down the hillside, the rider's eyes watchful of every boulder and tree, bush and shrub. They entered the cool of the valley and Shannow drew back on the reins, turning his face to the north and breathing deeply.

A rabbit leapt from the brush, startling the gelding. Shannow saw the creature vanish into the undergrowth and then uncocked the long-barrelled pistol, sliding it back into the scabbard at his hip. He could not recall drawing it clear. Such was the legacy of the years of peril — fast hands, a sure eye and a body that reacted independently of the conscious mind.

Not always a good thing. . Shannow would never forget the look of blank incomprehension in the child's eyes as the lead ball clove his heart. Nor the way his frail body had crumpled lifeless to the earth. There had been three Brigands that day and one had shot Shannow's horse out from under him, while the other two ran forward with knife and axe. He had destroyed them all in scant seconds, but a movement behind caused him to swivel and fire. The child had died without a sound.

Would God ever forgive him?

Why should he, when Shannow could not forgive himself?

'You were better off losing, Goliath,' said Shannow.

The wind changed and a stomach-knotting aroma of frying bacon drifted to him from the east.

Shannow tugged the reins to the right. After a quarter of a mile the trail rose and fell and a narrow path opened on to a meadow and a stone-fronted farmhouse. Before the building was a vegetable garden and beyond it a paddock where several horses were penned.

There were no defence walls and the windows of the house were wide and open. To the left of the building the trees had been allowed to grow to within twenty yards of the wall, allowing no field of fire to repel Brigands. Shannow sat and stared for some time at this impossible dwelling. Then he saw a child carrying a bucket emerge from the barn beyond the paddock. A woman walked out to meet him and ruffled his blond hair.

Shannow scanned the fields and meadows for sign of a man. At last, satisfied that they were alone, he edged the gelding out on to open ground and approached the building. The boy saw him first and ran inside the house.

Donna Taybard's heart sank as she saw the rider and she fought down panic as she lifted the heavy crossbow from the wall. Placing her foot in the bronze stirrup she dragged back on the string, but could not notch it.

'Help me, Eric.' The boy joined her and together they cocked the weapon. She slid a bolt into place and stepped on to the porch. The rider had halted some thirty feet from the house and Donna's fear swelled as she took in the gaunt face and deep-set eyes, shadowed under the wide-brimmed hat. She had never seen a Brigand, but had anyone asked her to imagine one this man would have leapt from her nightmares. She lifted the crossbow, resting the heavy butt against her hip.

'Ride on,' she said. 'I have told Fletcher we shall not leave, and I will not be forced.'

The rider sat very still, then he removed his hat. His hair was shoulder-length and black, streaked with silver, and his beard showed a white fork at the chin.

'I am a stranger, Lady, and I do not know this Fletcher. I do not seek to harm you — I merely smelt the bacon and would trade for a little. I have Barta coin and. .'

'Leave us alone,' she shouted. The crossbow slipped in her grip, dropping the trigger bar against her palm. The bolt flashed into the air, sailing over the rider and dropping by the paddock fence.

Shannow walked his horse to the paddock and dismounted, retrieving the bolt. Leaving the gelding, he strolled back to the house.

Donna dropped the bow and pulled Eric into her side. The boy was trembling, but in his hand he held a long kitchen knife; she took it from him and waited as the man approached. As he walked he removed his heavy leather top-coat and draped it over his arm. It was then that she saw the heavy pistols at his side.

'Don't kill my boy,' she said.

'Happily, Lady, I was speaking the truth: I mean you no harm. Will you trade a little bacon?' He picked up the bow and swiftly notched it, slipping the bolt into the gulley. 'Would you feel happier carrying this around?'

'You are truly not with the Committee?'

'I am a stranger.'

'We are about to take food. If you wish, you may join us.'

Shannow knelt before the boy. 'May I enter?' he asked.

'Could I stop you?' returned the boy bitterly.

'With just one word.'

‘Truly?'

'My faults are many, but I do not lie.'

'You can come in then,' said the boy and Shannow walked ahead with the child trailing behind.

He mounted the porch steps and entered the cool room beyond, which was spacious and well-constructed. A white stone hearth held a wood-stove and an iron oven; at the centre of the room was a handsomely carved table and a wooden dresser bearing earthenware plates and pottery mugs.

'My father carved the table,' said the boy. 'He is a skilled carpenter — the best in Rivervale — and his work is much sought after. He made the comfort chair, too, and cured the hides.' Shannow made a show of admiring the leather chair by the wood-stove, but his eyes followed the movements of the petite blonde woman as she prepared the table.

Thank you for allowing me into your home,' said Shannow gravely. She smiled for the first time and wiped her hand on her canvas apron.

'I am Donna Taybard,' she told him, offering her hand. He took it and kissed her fingers lightly.

'And I am Jon Shannow — a wanderer, Lady, in a strange land.'

'Be welcome then, Jon Shannow. We have some potatoes and mint to go with the bacon, and the meal will be ready within the hour.'

Shannow moved to the door, where pegs had been hammered home. He unbuckled his scabbard belt and hung his sidearms beside his coat. Turning back, he saw the fear once more in her eyes.

'Be not alarmed, Fray Taybard; a wandering man must protect himself. It does not change my promise; that may not be so with all men, but my spoken word is iron.'

There are few guns in Rivervale, Mr Shannow. This was. . is. .a peaceful land. If you would like to wash before eating, there is a pump behind the house.'

'Do you have an axe, Lady?'

'Yes. In the wood-shed.'

‘Then I shall work for my supper. Excuse me.'

He walked out into the fading light of dusk and unsaddled the gelding, leading him into the paddock and releasing him among the other three horses. Then he carried his saddle and bags to the porch before fetching the axe. He spent almost an hour preparing firewood before stripping to the waist and washing himself at the pump. The moon was up when Donna Taybard called him in. She and the boy sat at one end of the table, having set his place apart and facing the hearth. He moved his plate to the other side and seated himself facing the door.

'May I speak a word of thanks, Fray Taybard?' asked Shannow as she filled the plates. She nodded. 'Lord of Hosts, our thanks to thee for this food. Bless this dwelling and those who pass their lives here. Amen.'

'You follow the old ways, Mr Shannow?' asked Donna, passing a bowl of salt to the guest.

'Old? It is new to me, Fray Taybard. But, yes, it is older than any man knows and a mystery to this world of broken dreams.'

'Please do not call me Fray, it makes me feel ancient. You may call me Donna. This is my son, Eric.'

Shannow nodded towards Eric and smiled, but the boy looked away and continued to eat. The bearded stranger frightened him, though he was anxious not to show it. He glanced at the weapons hanging by the door.

'Are they hand pistols?' he asked.

'Yes,' said Shannow. 'I have had them for seventeen years, but they are much older than that.'

'Do you make your own powder?'

'Yes, I have casts for the loads and several hundred brass caps.'

'Have you killed anyone with them?'

'Eric!' snapped his mother. ‘That is no question to ask a guest — and certainly not at table.'

They finished the meal in silence and Shannow helped her clear away the dishes. At the back of the house was an indoor water pump, and together they cleaned the plates. Donna felt uncomfortable in the closeness of the pump-room and dropped a plate which shattered into a score of shards on the tiled wooden floor.

'Please do not be nervous,' he said, kneeling to collect the broken pieces.

'I trust you, Mr Shannow. But I have been wrong before.'

'I shall sleep outside and be gone in the morning. Thank you for the meal.'

'No,' she said, too hurriedly. ‘I mean — you can sleep in the comfort chair. Eric and I sleep in the back room.'

'And Mr Taybard?'

'Has been gone for ten days. I hope he will be back soon; I'm worried for him.'

'I could look for him, if you would like. He may have fallen from his horse.'

'He was driving our wagon. Stay and talk, Mr Shannow; it is so long since we had company. You can give us news of. . where have you come from?'

'From the south and east, across the grass prairies. Before that I was at sea for two years — trading with the Ice Settlements beyond Volcano Rim.'

'That is said to be the edge of the world.'

'I think it is where Hell begins. You can see the fires lighting the horizon for a thousand miles.'

Donna eased past him into the main room. Eric was yawning and his mother ordered him to bed.

He argued as all young people do, but finally obeyed her, leaving his bedroom door ajar.

Shannow lowered himself into the comfort chair, stretching his long legs out before the stove. His eyes burned with fatigue.

'Why do you wander, Mr Shannow?' asked Donna, sitting on the goatskin rug in front of him.

'I am seeking a dream. A city on a hill.'

'I have heard of cities to the south.'

'They are settlements, though some of them are large. But no, my city has been around for much longer, it was built, destroyed and rebuilt thousands of years ago. It is called Jerusalem and there is a road leading to it — a black road, with glittering diamonds in the centre that shine in the night.'

‘The Bible city?'

'The very same.'

'It is not about here, Mr Shannow. Why do you seek it?'

He smiled. 'I have been asked that question many, many times and I cannot answer it. It is a need I carry — an obsession, if you will. When the earth toppled and the oceans swelled, all became chaos. Our history is lost to us and we no longer know from whence we come, nor where we are going. In Jerusalem there will be answers, and my soul will rest.'

'It is very dangerous to wander, Mr Shannow. Especially in the wild lands beyond Rivervale.'

The lands are not wild, Lady — at least, not for a man who knows their ways. Men are wild and they create the wild lands wherever they are. But I am a known man and I am rarely troubled.'

'Are you known as a war-maker?'

'I am known as a man war-makers should avoid.'

'You are playing with words.'

'No, I am a man who loves peace.'

'My husband was a man of peace.'

‘Was?’

Donna opened the stove door and added several chunks of wood. She sat for some time staring into the flames, and Shannow did not disturb the silence. At last she looked up at him.

'My husband is dead,' she said. 'Murdered.'

'By Brigands?'

'No, by the Committee. They. .'

'No!' screamed Eric, standing in the bedroom doorway in his white cotton nightshirt. 'It's not true.

He's alive! He's coming home — I know he's coming home.'

Donna Taybard ran to her son, burying his weeping face against her breast. Then she led him back into the bedroom and Shannow was alone. He strolled into the night. The sky was without stars, but the moon shone bright through a break in the clouds. Shannow scratched his head, feeling the dust and grit on his scalp. He removed his woollen jerkin and undershirt and washed in a barrel of clear water, scrubbing the dirt from his hair.

Donna walked out to stand on the porch and watch him. His shoulders seemed unnaturally broad against the slim-ness of his waist and hips. Silently she moved away from the house to the stream at the bottom of the hill. Here she slipped out of her clothes and bathed in the moonlight, rubbing lemon mint leaves across her skin.

When she returned Jon Shannow was asleep in the comfort chair, his guns once more belted to his waist. She moved silently past him to her room and locked the door. As the key turned, Shannow opened his eyes and smiled.

Where to tomorrow, Shannow, he asked himself?

Where else?

Jerusalem.

Shannow awoke soon after dawn and sat listening to the sounds of morning. He was thirsty and moved to the pump-room for a mug of water. Behind the door was an oval mirror framed in golden pine and he stood staring at his reflection. The eyes were deep-set and dark blue, the face triangular above a square jaw. As he had feared, his hair was showing grey, though his beard was still dark on the cheeks with a silver fork at the chin.

He finished his drink and moved outside to the porch and his saddlebags. Having found his razor and stropped it for several minutes, he returned to the mirror and cut away his beard. Donna Taybard found him there and watched in mild amusement as he tried to trim his long hair.

'Sit out on the porch, Mr Shannow. I am expecting some friends today, and I think I should make you look presentable.'

With long-handled scissors and a bone comb she worked expertly at the tangled mess, complimenting him on the absence of lice.

'I move too fast for them, and I swim when I can.'

'Is that short enough for you?' she asked, stepping back to admire her handiwork. He ran his hand through his hair and grinned — almost boyishly, she thought.

‘That will suffice, Fray Taybard. . Donna. Thank you. You said you were expecting friends?'

'Yes, some neighbours are coming over to celebrate Harvest. It was arranged before Tomas. .

disappeared, but I told them to come anyway. I'm hoping they will be able to help me with the Committee — but I doubt they will… all have their own problems. You are welcome to stay. There will be a barbecue, and I have made some cakes.'

‘Thank you, I will.'

'But, Mr Shannow, please do not wear your guns. This is still, in the main, a peaceful community.'

'As you wish. Is Eric still sleeping?'

'No, he is in the long meadow gathering wood for the fire. And then he must milk the cows.'

'Do you have any trouble with wolves or lions?'

'No, the Committee shot the last lion during the winter and the wolves have moved to the high country. They sometimes forage in winter, but they are not a great problem.'

'Life here seems. . settled,' he said, rising and brushing the hair from his shirt.

'It has been — it certainly was when my father was Prester. But now there is Fletcher; we will not call him Prester, and I know that does not sit well with him.'

'You said last night that your husband was dead. Is that a fear or a reality?'

She stood in the doorway, her hand on the frame. 'I have a talent, Mr Shannow, for seeing faraway things. I had it as child and it has not deserted me. As we speak, I can see Eric in the far meadow. He has stopped gathering wood and has climbed a tall pine; he is pretending to be a great hunter. Yes, Mr Shannow, my husband is dead. He was killed by Fletcher and there were three with him: the big man, Bard, and two others whose names I do not know. Tomas's body lies in an arroyo, hastily buried.'

'Fletcher desires your lands?'

'And me. He is a man used to obtaining his desires.'

'Perhaps he will be good for you.'

Her eyes blazed. 'You think I will suffer myself to be taken by my husband's killer?'

Shannow shrugged. The world is a hard place, Donna. I have seen settlements where women are not allowed to pair-bond with a single man, where they are communal property. And it is not strange in other areas for men to kill for what they want. What a man can take and hold, he owns.'

'Not in Rivervale, sir,' she told him. 'Not yet, at least.'

'Good luck, Donna. I hope you find a man willing to stand against this Fletcher. If not I hope he is, as I said, good for you.'

She moved back into the house without a word.

Some time later the boy Eric came into view, towing a small hand-cart loaded with dead wood.

He was a slim boy, his hair so fair it seemed white. His face was set and serious, his eyes sad and knowing.

He walked past Shannow without speaking and the man wandered to the paddock where the steeldust gelding trotted to him, nuzzling his hand. There was grass in the pen, but Shannow would have liked to give him grain. The beast could run for miles without effort, but fed on grain he could run for ever. Five years ago Shannow had won 2, 000 Barta coins in three races, but the gelding was too old now for such ventures. Shannow returned to his saddlebags and removed the oilskin gun-pouch.

Pulling the left-hand pistol from its scabbard, he tapped out the barrel pin and released the cylinder, placing it carefully on the porch beside him. Then he ran an oiled cloth through the barrel and cleaned dust from the trigger mechanism. The pistol was nine inches long and weighed several pounds, but Shannow had long since ceased to notice the weight. He checked the cylinder for dust and then slipped it back into place, pressing home the wedge bar and replacing the weapon in its scabbard. The right-hand pistol was two inches shorter and brass-mounted with butt plates of polished ivory, unlike the dark apple-wood of the longer weapon. Despite the difference in barrel length it was this weapon that fired true, the other kicking to the left and unreliable at anything but close quarters. Shannow cleaned the pistol lovingly and looked up to see Eric watching him closely, his eyes fixed on the gun.

'Will you shoot it?' asked the boy.

‘There is nothing to shoot at,' said Shannow.

'Does it make a loud noise?'

'Yes — and the smoke smells like the Devil, Have you never heard a gun fire?'

'Once when the Prester shot a lion — but I was only five. Mr Fletcher has a pistol, and several of the Committee have long rifles; they are more powerful now than any war-maker.’

'You like Mr Fletcher, Eric?'

'He has always been nice to me. He's a great man; he's the Prester now.'

‘Then why is your mother afraid of him and his Committee?'

'Oh, that's just women,' said Eric. 'Mr Fletcher and my father had an argument and Mr Fletcher said the carpenter should live in Rivervale where the work was needed. The Committee voted on it. Mr Fletcher wanted to buy the farm but Father said no, I don't know why. It would be nice to live in Rivervale where all the people are. And Mr Fletcher really likes mother; he told me that, he said she was a fine lady. I like him.'

'Did. . does your father like him?'

'Father doesn't like anybody. He likes me sometimes, when I do my chores well or when I help him without dropping anything.'

'Is he the only carpenter in Rivervale?'

'He was, but Mr Fletcher has a man working for him who says he's a carpenter. Father laughs about him; he says the man thinks a dove joint is found on a pigeon's leg!'

Shannow grinned. The boy looked younger when he smiled.

'Are you a war-maker, Mr Shannow? Truly?'

'No, Eric. As I told your mother, I am a man who loves peace.'

'But you have guns?'

'I travel through the wild lands, Eric; they are necessary.'

Two wagons crested the skyline. ‘That will be the Janus family and the McGravens,' said Eric.

Shannow replaced his guns in their scabbards and moved into the house, hanging the weapons on the hook inside the door.

'Your guests have begun to arrive,' he told Donna. The house smelt of fresh-baked bread and cakes. 'Is there anything I can do?'

'Help Eric prepare the barbecue fires.'

All morning wagons arrived, until more than twenty formed several lines inside the pasture. With three barbecue fires burning and almost fifty people moving about, Shannow felt uncomfortable.

He wandered to the barn for a little solitude and found two young people holding hands in the shadows.

'I am sorry to disturb you,' he said, turning to leave.

'It's all right,' said the young man. 'My name is Janus, Stefan Janus. This is Susan McGraven.'

Shannow shook hands with them and moved outside.

As he stood by the paddock, the steeldust gelding ran to him and Shannow stroked his neck.

'Almost time to leave,' he told the horse.

A woman's voice rang out. 'Susan! Where are you?' The young girl ran from the barn.

'I'm coming,' she answered. The young man joined Shannow; he was tall and fair-haired and his eyes were serious, his face intelligent.

'Are you staying in Rivervale?'

'No, I am a traveller.'

'A traveller who is uncomfortable with crowds,' observed Janus.

'Even so.'

'You will find the crowd less hostile when the people are known to you. Come, I will introduce you to some friendly faces.'

He took Shannow into the throng, and there followed much shaking of hands and a bewildering series of names which Shannow could not absorb — but the lad was right, and he began to feel more comfortable.

'And what do you do, Mr Shannow?' came the inevitable question, this time from a burly farmer named Evanson.

'Mr Shannow is searching for a city,' said Donna Taybard, joining them. 'He is a historian.'

'Oh,' responded Evanson, his face portraying his lack of interest. 'And how are you, Donna? Any sign of Tomas?'

'No. Is Anne with you?'

'I am afraid not. She stayed with Ash Burry; his wife is not well.'

Shannow slipped away, leaving them to their conversation. Children were playing near the paddock and he sat on the porch watching them. Everyone here seemed different from the people of the south; their faces were ruddy and healthy and they laughed often. Elsewhere, where Brigands rode, there was always a tension — a wariness in the eyes. Shannow felt apart from the people of Rivervale.

Towards the afternoon a group of riders came down the hill, six men riding directly towards the house. Shannow drifted back into the main room and watched them from a window. Donna Taybard saw them at the same time and wandered over, followed by a dozen or so of her neighbours.

The riders reined in and a tall man in a white woollen shirt stepped from the saddle. He was around thirty years old and his hair was black and close-cropped, his face dark and handsome.

'Good day, Donna.'

'And to you, Mr Fletcher.'

'I am glad to see you enjoying yourself. Any word from Tomas?'

'No. I am thinking of going to the arroyo where you left him and marking his grave.'

The man flushed deep red. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Go away, Saul. I do not want you here.'

People were gathering around the riders and a silence settled over the scene.

Fletcher licked his lips. 'Donna, it is no longer safe to be so close to the edge of the wild lands.

Daniel Cade has been sighted only eight miles south. You must come in to Rivervale.'

'This is my home and I will remain here,' she said.

'I am sorry, but I must insist. The Committee has voted on this. You will be paid handsomely for your home and comfortable quarters have been set aside for you and Eric. Do not make this any more difficult. Your friends here have offered to help you with your furniture and belongings.'

As Donna's eyes swept the group, Evanson looked away and many others were staring at the ground. Only Stefan Janus moved forward.

'Why should she go if she does not wish to?' he said.

Saul Fletcher ignored him and moved closer to Donna.

‘There is no sense in this, Donna. The Committee has the right to make laws to protect its people.

You must leave — and you will leave. Now!' Fletcher turned to a huge, barrel-chested figure on a large black gelding. 'Bard, give Donna a hand with her belongings.' As the big man moved to dismount, Jon Shannow stepped from the shadowed doorway and stood on the porch overlooking the crowd. Bard settled back in the saddle, and all eyes turned to Shannow and the guns he now wore. In turn he studied the men who had just arrived. He had seen men like these all his life -

chancers, Brigands, war-makers. They all had that look — that stamp of cruelty, of callous arrogance.

'If Fray Taybard wishes to stay,' said Shannow, 'then that is the end of the argument.'

'And who are you, sir?' asked Fletcher, his eyes on the pistols at Shannow's side.

Shannow ignored him and turned to the riders, recognizing two of them.

'How are you, Miles?' he called. 'And you, Pope? You are a long way from Allion.' The two men sat very still, saying nothing.

'I asked you who you were,' said Fletcher, his hand resting on the walnut grip of a double-barrelled flintlock sheathed at his waist.

'He's the Jerusalem Man,' said Miles, and Fletcher froze.

'I have heard of you, sir. You are a killer and a war-maker. We will not suffer your kind in Rivervale.'

'No?' said Shannow mildly. 'My understanding is that you are no stranger to murder — and Miles and Pope were riding with Cade only a year ago.'

'That is a lie.'

'Whatever you say, Mr Fletcher. I have neither the time nor the inclination to argue with you.

You may leave now.'

'Just say the word, Saul,' shouted Bard. 'I'll cut him down to size.'

'Yes,' agreed Shannow. 'Do say the word, Mr Fletcher.'

'Don't, for God's sake!' shouted Miles. 'You've never seen him.'

Fletcher was far from being a foolish man and he heard the terror in Miles' voice. He swallowed hard and then moved to his horse, mounting swiftly.

‘Too many innocent people could suffer here,' he said, 'but there will be another day.'

'I hope so,' Shannow told him and the riders galloped from the yard.

The crowd remained and Shannow ran his eyes over them. Gone was the open friendliness, replaced now by fear bordering on hostility. Only young Janus approached him.

'Thank you, Mr Shannow. I hope you will not suffer for your kindness.'

'If I do I will not suffer alone, Stefan,' he said and walked back into the house.

The last wagon left just before dusk and Donna found Shannow sitting in the comfort chair.

'You shouldn't have done that for me,' she said, 'but I am grateful.'

Eric came in behind her. 'What did you mean about father's grave?' he asked.

'I'm sorry, Eric, but it's true. Fletcher had him killed. I'm sorry.'

'It's a lie,' he shouted, tears falling freely. 'You hated him! And I hate you!' He turned and fled the house.

'Eric! Eric!' she called and then began to weep.

Shannow went to her, and held her close until the tears and the sobbing eased. He could find no words to comfort her, and Jerusalem seemed so far away.

Shannow sat at the pine dinner-table watching Donna Taybard kneeling at the wood-stove, as she raked out the ash with even, thoughtless strokes. She was a beautiful woman, and he could see why Fletcher desired her. Her face was strong and finely-boned, her mouth full and made for laughter. It was a face of character, of strength in adversity.

This talent,' he said, 'of seeing faraway things — how did you come by it?'

'I don't know. My father thought it was the Stone, but I'm not sure.'

‘The Stone?'

‘The Prester called it the Daniel Stone. It was from the Plague Lands and when held in the hand it glowed like sunlight behind ice. And it was warm. I played with it often as a child.'

'Why should he think the Stone caused your talents?'

She brushed ash from her hands and sat back. 'Do you believe in magic, Mr Shannow?'

'No.'

'Then you would not understand the Stone. When my father held it the sick would be healed.

Wounds would close within seconds, with no scar. It was one of the reasons he became Prester.'

'Why was it called the Daniel Stone?'

'I don't know. But one day it refused to glow, and that was an end to it. It is still in my father's old house, where Fletcher now lives. Ash Burry tells me that Fletcher is always toying with it — but it will never work again. The Prester told me its power had departed for ever.'

'But now you have powers.'

'Not of healing, or prophecy, or any real magic. But I can see those close to me, even when they are far away.'

For a while they sat in silence. Donna added kindling to the stove and lit a fire. Once the blaze was roaring she closed the iron door and turned to Shannow.

'May I ask you a question?'

'Of course.'

'Why did you risk your life with all those men?'

'It was not a great risk, Lady. There was only one man.'

'I do not understand.'

'Where there is a group, there is a leader. Nullify him and the rest count for nothing. Fletcher was not prepared to die.'

'But you were?'

'All things die, Donna. And I was pleased to repay your hospitality. Perhaps Fletcher will reconsider his plans for you. I hope so.'

'But you doubt it.'

'Yes.'

'Have you ever had a wife, Mr Shannow?'

'It is getting late,' he said, standing. 'Eric should be home — shall I look for him?'

'I am sorry. Did I offend you?'

'No, Lady. My discomfort is my own and no fault of yours. Can you see the boy?'

She closed her eyes. 'Oh, God,' she said. 'They have taken him!'

'Who?'

'Bard and some others.'

'Where are they?'

‘They are traveling north-west, towards the settlement. They have hurt him and his face is bleeding.'

Gently he pulled her to her feet, then took her hands in his.

'I will find him and bring him home. Rely on it.'

Shannow left the house and saddled the gelding, heading him north at a canter. He avoided skylining himself on the crests of the hills, but still he rode with uncustomary speed. He had neglected to ask Donna how many men rode with Bard, but then the information was immaterial.

Two or twenty, the plan would be the same.

He emerged from the trees above the raiding party and sat back in the saddle. There were five men, including Bard — of Fletcher there was no sign. Eric's unconscious body was draped across Bard's saddle. Shannow breathed deeply, trying to stem the red rage swelling within, his hands trembling with the effort. As always he failed and his vision swam. His mouth was dry and the Bible text flowed into his mind:

'And David said unto Saul, Thy servant kept his father's sheep and there came a lion and a bear, and took a lamb out of the flock.'

Shannow rode down the hill and reined in ahead of the riders. They spread across the trail; two of them, Miles and Pope, were carrying crossbows cocked and ready. Shannow's hands swept up and smoke and flame thundered from the right-hand pistol. Pope flew from the saddle. The left-hand pistol fired a fraction of a second later and Miles pitched to the ground, the lower half of his face blown away.

'Step down, Bard,' said Shannow, both pistols leveled at the giant's face. Slowly the man dismounted. 'On your knees and on your belly.' The giant obeyed. 'Now eat grass like the mule you are.'

Bard's head shot up. ‘The Hell. . ' The left-hand pistol bucked in Shannow's hand and Bard's right ear disappeared in a bloody spray. The big man screamed and ducked his head to the ground, tearing at the grass with his teeth. The other two men sat motionless, their hands well away from their weapons.

Shannow watched them closely, then transferred his gaze to the two corpses.

Then he spoke: 'And I went out after him, and smote him, and delivered it out of his mouth: and when he rose against me I caught him by the beard and slew him.'

The two riders glanced at one another and said nothing. The Jerusalem Man was known to be insane, and neither of them had any wish to join their comrades, living or dead, upon the grass.

Shannow edged his horse towards them and they avoided his eyes, for his face was set and his fury touched them.

'You will put those your friends upon their horses, and you will take them to a place of burial.

You will not, at any time, cross my path, for I will cut you down as deadwood from the Tree of Life. Go collect your dead.'

He swung his horse, offering them his back, but neither man considered attacking him. They dismounted swiftly and bundled the corpses across the saddles of the horses standing quietly by.

Shannow rode alongside Bard, whose mouth was green and who was vomiting upon the grass.

'Stand and face me, Man of Gath.' Bard struggled to his feet and met Shannow's gaze. A cold dread settled on him as he saw the eyes and the fanatic gleam. He lowered his head and froze as he heard the click of a pistol hammer. His eyes flickered up and he saw with relief that Shannow had uncocked the weapons and returned them to their scabbards.

'My anger is gone, Bard. You may live today.'

The giant was close enough to pluck Shannow from the saddle and tear him apart bare-handed, but he could not, even though he recognized the opportunity. His shoulders sagged. Shannow nodded knowingly, and shame burned in Bard's heart.

Eric groaned and stirred on Bard's horse nearby.

And Shannow lifted him from the saddle and took him home.

Donna Taybard sat with Eric for over an hour. The boy was shaken by his ordeal. He had awakened to see Jon Shannow and two corpses, and the smell of death was in the air. The giant Bard had been shaking with fear and Shannow had looked an infinitely more menacing figure than Eric could have imagined. He had ridden home behind Shannow, his hands resting on the gun hilts as they jutted from their scabbards. All the way home Eric could see the two bodies, one with half a face missing, the other lying face-down with a huge ragged hole in his back where shards of bone had torn through his shirt.

Now he lay in bed, the after-shock making him sleepy. His mother stroked his brow and whispered soothing, loving words.

'Why did they kill Father?'

'I don't know, Eric,' lied Donna. 'They are evil men.'

'Mr Fletcher always seemed so nice.'

'I know. Sleep now; I'll be just outside.'

'Mother!'

'Yes, Eric?'

'Mr Shannow frightens me. I heard the men talking and they said he was insane — that he has killed more men than the plague. They said he pretends to be a Christ-person, but that all the real Christ-people shun him.'

'But he brought you home, Eric, and we still have our house.'

'Don't leave me alone, Mother.'

'You know that I won't. Sleep now. Rest.'

Leaning forward, she kissed his cheeks, then lifted the coal oil-lamp and left the room. He was asleep before the latch dropped home.

Shannow sat in the comfort chair staring at the ceiling. Donna placed the brass lamp on the table and moved to the stove, adding fresh wood to the blaze. As his head tipped forward and he caught her gaze, his eyes seemed unnaturally bright.

'Are you all right, Mr Shannow?'

'Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity. What profit hath a man of all his labours which he taketh under the sun?' Shannow blinked and leaned back.

'I am sorry,' she said, placing her hand over his, 'but I do not understand you.' He blinked once more, and smiled wearily, but his eyes lost their glitter and he seemed mortally tired.

'No, it is I who am sorry, Donna Taybard. I have brought death to your house.'

'You gave me back my son.'

'But for how long, Donna? All my life I have been the rock in the pool. I make a splash and the ripples rush out, but after that? The pool settles and is as it was. I cannot protect you from the Committee, nor Eric. I can make no difference to the evil of the world — indeed, sometimes I think I add to it.'

She held his hand tightly, forcing him to look at her.

There is no evil in you, Mr Shannow. Believe me, I know these things. When you first came I was frightened, but I have come to know you. You are kind and you are considerate, and you have taken no advantage of my situation. In fact the reverse is true; you have risked your life for Eric and me.'

There is nothing to that,' he said. 'My life is no great treasure; I do not value it. I have seen things in my life that would have cindered another man's soul — cannibals, savages, slavery and wanton murders. I have travelled far, Donna. And I am tired.

'Last summer I killed three men, and I vowed never to kill again. I have been hired to rid settlements of Brigands and war-makers — and I have succeeded. But then the eyes of those who sought me turn on me, and I see the fear in their eyes, and they are glad to see me ride on. They do not say, "Thank you Mr Shannow, stay among us and farm.” They do not say, "We are your friends, Mr Shannow, and we will never forget you." Instead they hand me the Barta coins and ask when I will be leaving.’

'And when I go, Donna, the Brigands return and all is as it was. The pool settles, the ripples die.'

Donna stood and pulled him to his feet. 'My poor Jon,’ she whispered. 'Come with me.' She led him to a room at the back of the house and in the darkness she undressed him, removed her own clothes and pulled back the blankets on a wide bed. He came to her hesitantly and where she expected him to cover her with fierce passion, instead he stroked her skin with surprising gentleness. Her arm moved around his neck, pulling his face down until their lips touched. He groaned then, and the fierceness followed.

He was an inexpert and almost clumsy lover, not at all as skilled as Tomas the Carpenter, yet Donna Taybard found a fulfillment with Shannow that transcended expertise, for he was giving everything of himself, holding nothing back — and at the end he wept, and his tears flowed on to Donna's face.

And she stroked his brow and whispered soothing, loving words — and realized these were the same words she had used to Eric an hour before. And Shannow slept, just as Eric slept.

Donna moved to the porch and washed the sweat from her body with a bucket of cool fresh water, then she dressed and wandered to the pen, enjoying the freshness of the night.

People would think her a slut for taking a man so soon after her husband's disappearance, but she had never felt less like a slut. Instead she felt as if she had just come home from a long journey to find all her friends and family waiting with open arms. The Committee could offer no terror tonight. Everything was in harmony.

Shannow's gelding wandered to her, thrusting his muzzle towards her hand. She stroked his face and neck, and wished she could saddle and ride him out over the hills; wished he had wings to carry her high in the sky under the moon and over the clouds. Her father had told her wondrous stories of a winged horse from Elder legends, and of a hero who rode him to slay demons.

Old John had kept the demons from Rivervale, and when the grateful people had wished to call him Leader he had opted instead for Prester, and no one knew its meaning, bar John, and he only smiled knowingly when they asked him. Prester John had gathered the men into a tight military unit, established watch beacons on all high hills, and soon the Brigands learnt to avoid the lands of Rivervale. Outside in the wild lands, amongst the wolves and lions, the new world endured a bloody birthing. But here there was peace.

But the Prester was only mortal, and though he had ruled for forty years his strength failed him and his wisdom fled, for he allowed men like Fletcher and Bard and Enas to join the Committee.

Tomas had once told Donna that the Prester had died broken-hearted, for in his last days he opened his eyes and saw at last the stamp of the men who would soon replace him. It was even rumoured that he tried to oust Fletcher, and that the young man killed him in his own home. That would never be proved now, but not one of the Landsmen would call him Prester and Rivervale was sliding inexorably back to merge with the wild lands.

Fletcher had recruited many strangers to work his shallow coal-mine, and some of these were brutal and versed in the ways of the Outside. These Fletcher promoted, and one day — in late Autumn the year before the people of Rivervale awoke to a new understanding.

Able Jarrett, a small farmer, was hanged by Fletcher and four of his men for consorting with Brigands. An old wanderer was hanged with him. At first farmers, ranchers and Landsmen got together to discuss ways of dealing with the Committee, but then Cleon Layner — a leading spokes man — was found beaten to death in an alley behind his home and the meetings ended.

The forty-year mission of Prester John had been undone in less than three seasons.

Donna clapped her hands and Shannow's gelding ran across the pen. If Shannow felt he was merely a stone in the pool, what would John have felt before he died, she wondered?

She pictured Shannow's gaunt bearded face and his haunted eyes, and compared him with her memories of Prester John. The old man had been tougher than Shannow and that made him less deadly, but otherwise there was much about Shannow that John would have liked.

'I miss you, Prester,' she whispered, remembering his stories of winged horses and heroes.