Wolf in Shadow

CHAPTER TWO

For several days the little farm received no visitors. The Committee undertook no revenge raid, and Shannow spent his days helping Donna and Eric gather the small corn harvest, or picking fruit from the orchard in the west meadow. In the late afternoons he would ride the gelding over the hills and through the high woods bordering the farm, to scan the distant skyline for signs of moving men.

At night Shannow would wait until Donna invited him to share her bed, and on each occasion he reacted as to an unexpected gift.

On the fifth day a rider approached the farm in the hour after noon. Shielding her eyes against the sunlight, Donna recognized the ambling gait of Ash Hurry's mule, even before identifying the portly saint.

'You will like him, Jon,' she told Shannow as the rider approached. 'He is another who follows the old ways. There are several saints in Rivervale.' Shannow merely nodded and watched warily as the tall, overweight man dismounted. He had wavy dark hair and a friendly open face.

Burry opened his arms and hugged Donna warmly. 'God's greeting, Donna. Peace be upon your house.' His blue eyes flickered to Shannow and he held out his hand. Shannow took it; the grip was not firm and the man's hands were soft.

'And greetings to you, brother,' said Burry, with only the trace of a smile.

'Let's not stand in the sun,' suggested Donna. 'Come inside. We have some apple juice cooling in the stone jug.'

Shannow remained outside for several minutes scanning the hills before joining them.

‘There is still no sign of Tomas, I understand?' remarked Burry. 'You must be very worried, Donna.'

'He is dead, Ash. Fletcher killed him.'

Burry looked away. 'Hard words, Donna. I have heard of your accusation and it is said to be unfounded. How can you be sure?'

'Trust me,' said Donna. 'You have known me all my life and I do not lie. I have a gift of always being able to see those close to me, wherever they are. I watched him die.'

'I know of your. . gift. But once you saw the old Prester lying dead at the foot of a canyon — you remember? Yet he was alive.'

‘That is not entirely just, Ash. I thought he was dead, for he fell a fair way — and I was right about that.'

Burry nodded. 'And yet not all gifts are from the Almighty, Donna. I cannot believe that Saul Fletcher would do such a thing.'

'He hanged Able Jarrett and some poor wanderer.'

‘The man was consorting with Brigands. . and it was a Committee decision. I do not condone the taking of life, Donna, but right or wrong it was in accordance with Rivervale law — the law laid down by Prester John.'

'I do not recall the Prester hanging a Landsman, Ash.’

Shannow pulled up a chair by the window, reversed it and sat facing the saint, his arms resting on the chair-bad

'Mr Ash, might I inquire the reason for your visit?' he said.

The name is Burry, sir, Ashley Burry, and I am a longtime friend of the Prester's family. I baptized Donna many years ago, and though she does not follow the faith I regard her as my godchild.'

'So this is merely a friendly visit?' asked Shannow.

'I hope that all my visits are friendly, and that all who know me regard them as such.'

'I am sure that they do, Mr Burry,' said Shannon, smiling, 'but it is a long ride from Rivervale on a hot day.’

'Meaning, sir?'

'Meaning that you have something to tell Fray Taybard Would you be more comfortable if I left you to speak with her?'

Burry rubbed at his chin and smiled to cover his embarrassment. His eyes met Shannow's and understanding passed between them.

Thank you for your frankness, Mr Shannow. Yes, that would indeed be courteous.'

After Shannow had gone, Burry and Donna sat in silence for several seconds. The saint refilled his pottery mug with apple juice and then walked around the room, idly examining the furniture he had seen so many times before.

'Well, Ash?' said Donna.

'He speaks well, Donna, but he is a Brigand — and a known Brigand. How could you allow him to stay?'

'He follows your ways, Ash.'

'No, that would be a blasphemy. I do not kill wantonly.'

'He rescued my son.'

'That is not as I have heard it. Bard and the others found the boy lost and were returning him to you when Shannow arrived and killed Pope and Miles.'

'Nonsense. My son was beaten and taken from the north meadow, and they were half-way to Rivervale with him. And that was the same day Fletcher tried to force me from my home. Are you blind, Ash?'

The man is a killer — they say his mind is unhinged.'

'Did you find it so?'

That is not the point. He may be rational now, but he terrified Bard and the others. Did you know he shot off Bard's ear?'

'I wish it had been his head!'

'Donna!' said Burry, shocked. 'I think the man is possessed, and I believe that his evil power is affecting your judgement. Saul has spoken to me of you, and I know that he holds you dear. He has no wife, Donna, and he would be a good father to Eric.'

Donna laughed. 'We talk about judgement, Ash, and then you advise me to marry the man who probably murdered my father and certainly killed my husband! Let's talk of something else: how is Sara?'

'She is well, but she worries about you; we all do. The committee have passed sentence on Shannow and they mean to hang him.'

'I am going to prepare some food for you, Ash. And while I do it, I want you to find Jon and talk with him.'

'What could I say?'

'You can talk about your God, Ash. He at least will be able to understand.'

'You mock me, Donna,' he said sadly.

'Not by intention, Ash. Go and talk to him.'

Burry shook his head and rose from the table. Out in the sunlight he saw Shannow sitting on a white rock and watching the hills. The man was wearing the infernal pistols which had so brutally slain Pope and Miles and God knew how many others, he thought.

'May I join you, Mr Shannow?'

'Of course.'

'When will you be leaving Rivervale?'

'Soon, Mr Burry.'

'How soon?'

'I do not know.'

'What do you want?'

'I want for nothing, Mr Burry.'

'It is said that you seek Jerusalem?'

'Indeed I do.'

'Why?'

‘To answer all my questions. To satisfy me.'

'But the Book answers all questions, Mr Shannow.'

Shannow smiled. 'I have read the Book, Mr Burry — many many times. But there are no pistols mentioned. Twelve years ago I saw a picture which had not been painted. It was like a frozen moment in time. It was a city, but it took me a long time to realize it was a city for the picture was a view from the sky to the ground. There is nothing like it in the Bible, Mr Burry. I met an old man once who had a special book, very old. In it were drawings of machines with wheels and levers; there were seats in these machines and men could travel in them without horses. Why are these not in the Bible? The old man said he had once seen a picture of a metal machine that could fly. Why is this not in the Scriptures?'

'It is, Mr Shannow. You will recall that Elijah ascended to Heaven in a chariot of fire? You will also recall that there are many examples of angelic beings in strange machines.'

'But no pistols, Mr Burry. No guns.'

'Is that important? We know that Christ told his disciples that the end of the world was nigh, and we know that it happened. The oceans rose and the world was destroyed. Those of us now living are in the End-times.'

'But does it not also say, Mr Burry, that these are the times of the Anti-Christ, that men would wish they had never been born and that pestilence, plague and death would stalk the land?'

'Yes. And that has certainly come to pass.'

'And that a New Jerusalem would be built?'

'Yes.'

'Then I mean to find it.'

'Only God's servants will find Jerusalem, Mr Shannow. Do you honestly believe you serve the Almighty?'

'No, Mr Burry, I do not, though I have tried and will go on trying. I was taught that the world is young, and that Christ died three hundred years ago and his death caused the oceans to rise. Yet I have seen evidence that the Dark Age of our world lasted much longer than that. You know that there are some who believe that the Lord died two and a half thousand years ago?'

'Heretics,' declared Ashley Burry.

'I agree with you, yet I wonder if they are not closer to the truth than you or I. I have seen remnants of old maps which do not even show Israel, or Judah, or Babylon — or even Rome.

There are names unheard of in the Book. I need to know, Mr Burry.'

'For what purpose? Are we not advised to ignore the seeking of signs and portents?'

'And yet when the clouds darken, do we not reach for our oilskins?'

'Yes, Mr Shannow, but what does it matter if the Dark Age after our Lord was long or short? We are here now. Does it matter if machines once flew? They no longer do so. Does not Ecclesiastes say, "There is nothing new under the sun", and that everything that ever was will be again?'

'Have you ever heard of England, Mr Burry?'

'A Dark Age land, I believe. They preserved the Book.’

'Do you know where it might be?'

'No. Why is it important to you?'

'I once saw a scrap of paper with a printed verse that said, "And was Jerusalem builded here, in England's green an pleasant land."'

'May I offer you some advice, Mr Shannow?'

'Why not? Most people do.'

'Leave this place. Continue your search. If you remain, you bring only death and despair to this house. The Committee has declared you a Brigand and a war-maker they will hang you, sir.'

'When I was a child, Mr Burry, my parents built a home for my brother and myself. It was by the banks of a beautiful river, and the land was rich and open and wild as sin. My father tamed that land, and it brought forth crops and it fed our cattle. Then some men came who wanted fertile land. They killed my father. My mother they abused before cutting her throat. My brother and I escaped, though I was speared and bleeding badly. My brother dragged me to the river and we swam downstream. We were taken in by a neighboring farmer — a strong man, with four strapping sons. No one reproached the Brigands who had killed my parents. That was the way life was.'

'It is a familiar story,' admitted Burry, 'but times change.'

'Men change them. But I have not finished, Mr Burry. Both my brother and I were brought up to believe in love and forgiveness. We tried, but the same raiders — growing fat and yet strong -

decided they wanted more land. One night they attacked our new home. My brother killed one of them with an axe and I slew another with an old musket. But still they won. This time it was I who rescued my brother and we escaped on an old stallion. My brother lost his faith then. Mine became stronger. Two years later I returned to the farm and put the Brigands to death.

'Since then I have killed many. I have never stolen, or cheated, or lied. Nor have I broken the Commandment: Thou shall not do murder. I am not a Brigand, but I am a war-maker. I make my war upon the evil, and I am no danger to honest Landsmen. Only the ungodly need fear me, Mr Burry, or those who serve the ungodly.'

'What happened to your brother, Mr Shannow? Did he find his faith?'

'We both learned to hate. I hated the Brigands and the death dealers, but he came to despise the Landsmen who stood by and allowed the Brigands to prosper. No, Mr Burry, he did not find his faith.'

'You are a bitter man, Mr Shannow.'

'Indeed I am. But I am content with what I am and I do not compromise my principles. Now you, Mr Burry, are a man of God. Yet you come to this house to defend murderers, and you align yourself with the ungodly. Fletcher killed Fray Taybard's husband. His men are a pack of cut-throats. And even now, Mr Burry, you sit here as the Judas goat and death is waiting as we speak.'

'What do you mean? You are speaking nonsense.'

'Am I indeed?'

'Explain yourself.'

Shannow shook his head and smiled. ‘There are three men hiding in the trees to the north. Did they come with you?'

'No, Mr Shannow, they did not, but you must realize that a sum of fifty Barta coins will be paid to anyone who brings in the body of a known Brigand.'

'I should have taken the corpses to Rivervale,' said Shannow. 'Both Miles and Pope were known murderers; they killed a travelling family in Sertace two years ago, and they also rode with Daniel Cade when he was raiding the south-west.'

'I do not believe, you Mr Shannow.'

'It is better for your conscience that you do not, Mr Burry.'

The meal was eaten in silence and Burry left soon after. Eric said nothing as the saint rode away but went to his room, shutting the door behind him.

'I am worried about him,' said Donna as she and Shannow cleared away the dishes and plates.

'He fears me, Donna. I do not blame him.'

'He is not eating, and his dreams are bad.'

'I think your friend Burry is right and I should be moving. But I fear for you — when I am gone, Fletcher will return.'

'Then do not go, Jon. Stay with us.'

'I do not think you understand the danger. I am not a man any longer, I am a walking bag of Barta coins for any who feel they can collect on me. Even now there are three men in the hills building their nerve to come for me.'

'I do not want you to go,' she said.

He reached out and lightly touched her cheek. 'I want only what you want, but I know what must happen.'

He left her then and walked to Eric's room. He tapped on the door, but there was no reply; he tapped again.

'Yes?'

'It is Jon Shannow. May I come in?'

A pause. Then, 'All right.'

Eric was lying on his bed facing the door. He looked up at the tall figure and saw that Shannow was wearing his father's shirt; he had not noticed that before.

'May I sit down, Eric?'

'You can do what you like. I can't stop you,' said the boy miserably.

Shannow pulled up a chair and reversed it. 'Do you wan to talk about it?'

'About what?'

'I don't know, Eric. I only know that you are troubled Do you want to talk about your father? Or Fletcher? O me?'

'I expect Mother wishes I wasn't here,' said the boy sitting up and hugging his knees. 'Then she could be with you all the time.'

'She has not said that to me.'

'Mr Burry doesn't like you and I don't like you either.'

'Sometimes I don't like myself,' said Shannow. That keeps me in the majority.'

'Everything was all right until you came,' said Eric, tears starting as he bit his lip and looked away. 'Mother and me were fine. She slept in here and I didn't have bad dreams. And Mr Fletcher was my friend — and everything was fine.'

‘I’ll be gone soon,' Shannow told him softly, and the truth of the words hit him like a blow. The pool settles, and the ripples fade, and everything returns to the way it was.

'It won't be the same,' said Eric, and Shannow could offer no argument.

'You are very wise, Eric. Life changes — and not always for the better. It is the mark of a man how he copes with that fact. I think you will cope well, for you are strong; stronger than you think.'

'But I won't be able to stop them taking our house.'

'No.'

'And Mr Fletcher will force mother to live with him?'

'Yes,' said Shannow, swallowing hard and keeping the awful images from his mind.

'I think you had better stay for a little while, Mr Shannow,' said Eric.

'I think perhaps I had. It would be nice if we could be friends, Eric.'

'I don't want to be your friend.'

'Why?'

'Because you took my mother away from me, and now I am all alone.'

'You are not alone, but I cannot convince you of that, even though I probably know more about loneliness than any man alive. I have never had a friend, Eric. When I was your age, my father and mother were killed. I was raised for some time by a neighbour called Claude Vurrow; then he too was killed and since then I have been alone. People do not like me. I am the Jerusalem Man, the Shadow, the Brigand-slayer. Wherever I am I will be hated and hunted — or used by "better"

men. That is loneliness, Eric — sitting with a frightened child, and not being able to reach out and convince even him — that is loneliness.

'When I die, Eric, no one will mourn for me. It will be as if I never was. Would you like to be that lonely, boy?'

Eric said nothing and Shannow left the room.

The three men watched Shannow ride from the farmhouse heading east towards the forests of pine. Swiftly they saddled their ponies and rode after him.

Jerrik took the lead, for he was the man with the long rifle, a muzzle-loading flintlock a mere thirty-five years old. It was a fine gun which had seen three owners murdered for owning it.

Jerrik had acquired it as settlement for a gambling debt two years before, and had then used it to kill the former owner who was tracking him to steal it back. It seemed poetic, somehow, though Jerrik could not verbalize the reason.

Behind him rode Pearson and Swallow, men Jerrik could rely on… so long as all three were poor.

The trio had arrived only recently in Rivervale, but had swiftly come under Bard's watchful eye.

He had recommended them to Fletcher, and this task was their entry to the Committee.

'Hunt down and kill the Jerusalem Man.' The long rifle could handle that, given a fixed target, and Swallow was an expert crossbowman. Pearson was more of a knife expert, but he could hurl a blade with uncanny accuracy. Jerrik was confident that the deed could be completed without tears.

'Do you think he's leaving the area?' asked Swallow. Jerrik showed his contempt at the question by ignoring it but Pearson grinned, showing broken teeth.

'No saddlebags,' he said.

'Why don't we wait and hit him when he comes back?' asked Swallow.

'What if he comes back at night?' answered Jerrik.

Swallow lapsed into silence. Younger than the others, he felt a need to be heard with respect, yet every time he spoke he left himself open to mockery. Pearson slapped the blond youngster on the shoulder and grinned at him. He knew what the lad was thinking, as he knew also the cause of his problem. Swallow was too stupid to know that he was stupid. But Pearson liked him and they were well-matched in many ways. Both disliked the company of women, both enjoyed the power that came from a lack of conscience and the god-like joy of holding a life in their hands before snuffing it out. The only difference lay in the fact that Swallow enjoyed killing men, whereas Pearson found the torture of women to be an exquisite pleasure.

Jerrik was unlike them in that regard. He neither enjoyed nor abhorred killing. It was merely a task — like weeding, or felling trees, or skinning rabbits; something to be done swiftly. Watching Pearson and Swallow at their work only bored him, and the screams always kept him awake.

Jerrik was approaching fifty and felt it was tune to settle down and raise children; he had his eye on a farm in Rivervale, and the young widow who owned it. With the Barta coins he expected for the Jerusalem Man he would have some woollen clothes made, and pay court to the widow. She would have to treat him seriously, as a Committee man.

The trio followed Shannow's tracks high into the pine forest and it was coming to dusk when they spotted his camp-fire.

The three dismounted and hobbled their horses, creeping through the undergrowth towards the small blaze. Some fifty feet from the fire Jerrik saw the shadowy outline of the Jerusalem Man sitting with his back against a tree, his wide-brimmed hat tipped down over his eyes.

'You just sit there and think,' whispered Jerrik, hunkering down and priming his musket. He directed Pearson and Swallow to the left and right, ready to rush in once the mortal shot was fired. Then the two crept off into the trees.

Jerrik cocked the musket and sat back, resting his elbow on his knee. The gun was levelled on the seated figure. .

Something cold touched Jerrik's temple.

And his head exploded.

At the sound of the shot Pearson loosed his crossbow bolt. It flashed across the clearing, slicing through Shannow's coat and the bush inside it. Swallow ran up, hurdling the camp-fire, and his knife followed Pearson's bolt. The coat fell from the bush, the hat toppling with it, and Swallow's mouth fell open. Something hit him a wicked blow in the back and a hole the size of a man's fist appeared in his chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Pearson backed away from the carnage and sprinted to his pony. Loosing the hobble, he leapt to the saddle and booted the animal into a run. The boom of Jerrik's musket came just as Pearson's pony had reached a gallop; the animal fell headlong and Pearson flew over its neck to land on his back against a tree. He rolled and came up with a knife in his hand.

'Show yourself!' he screamed.

The Jerusalem Man stepped from the screen of trees and moved into Pearson's view. In his hand was the ivory-handled percussion pistol.

'You don't have to kill me,' said Pearson, eyes locked on the pistol. 'I won't come back — I'll just ride away.'

'Who sent you?'

'Fletcher.'

'How many others has he sent?'

'None. We didn't think we'd need any more.'

'What is your name?'

'Why?'

'So that I can mark your grave. It would be unseemly otherwise.'

The knife fell from his fingers. 'My name is Pearson. Alan Pearson.'

'And the others?'

'Al Jerrik and Zephus Swallow.'

Turn around, Mr Pearson.'

Pearson closed his eyes and began to turn.

He did not even hear the shot that killed him.

Jon Shannow rode into the yard as the moon broke clear of the screen of clouds. He was leading two ponies and he carried a long rifle across his saddle. Donna stood in the doorway wearing a white blouse of fine wool and a homespun skirt dyed red. Her hair was freshly brushed and glowed almost white in the moonlight. Shannow waved as he rode past and led the ponies into the pen. He unsaddled the gelding and brushed him down.

Donna walked across the yard and took Shannow's arm. He leaned down and kissed her lightly.

'Are you well, Jon?'

'Aye.'

'What are you thinking?'

'I was thinking that when I am with you, I understand something which has long escaped me.' He lifted her hand and kissed it gently, reverently.

'What? What do you understand?'

'It is a quotation from the Book.'

Tell me.'

‘ "Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.

‘ "And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing." There is more, but I would need the Book to read it.'

'It is beautiful, Jon. Who wrote it?'

'A man named Paul.'

'Did he write it for a woman?'

'No, he wrote it for everyone. How is Eric?'

'He got upset when he heard the guns.'

'There was no danger, Donna,' he said softly. 'And we have several days together before anyone realizes they have failed.'

'You look tired, Jon. Come in and rest.'

'Each death lessens me, Lady. But still they come.'

She led him in to the house and trimmed down the wicks in the oil-lamp. He sat in the comfort chair and his head dropped back. Gently she removed his boots and covered him with a heavy blanket.

'Sleep well, Jon. Sweet dreams.' She kissed him and moved towards her room. Eric's door opened and he stood there rubbing sleep from his eyes. 'Is he back, Mother?' he whispered.

'Yes. He is all right.'

'Did he kill all the men?'

'I expect so, Eric. Go to bed.'

'Will you come in with me?'

She smiled and led him back to the narrow bed, where she lay beside him. Within minutes he was asleep. But Donna Taybard could not sleep. Outside was a man who in the space of a few days had killed five others — a man living on the edge of sanity, chasing the impossible. He was seeking a city that no longer existed in a land no one could find, in search of a god few believed in — a relic of a world which had passed into myth.

And he loved her — or thought that he did, which was the same thing to a man, Donna knew. And now he was trapped, forced to remain like a magnet drawing death to him, unable to run or hide.

And he would lose. There would be no Jerusalem for Jon Shannow, and no home with Donna Taybard. The Committee would hunt him down and Donna would be Fletcher's woman — until he tired of her. Yet, even knowing this, Donna could not send Jon Shannow away. She closed her eyes and his face came unbidden to her mind, and she found herself staring at him as he slept in the comfort chair, his face so peaceful now and almost boyish in the lamplight.

Donna opened her eyes back in Eric's room and wished, not for the first time, that the Prester was alive. He always seemed to know what to do. And before advancing years sapped his judgement he could read men — and women. But he was gone and there was no one to turn to. She thought of Shannow's fierce god and, remembering Ash Burry's gentle loving Lord, found it incomprehensible that both men worshipped the same deity.

The two men were fleece and flint, and so was their God.

'Are you there, Shannow's God?' she whispered. 'Can you hear me? What are you doing to the man? Why do you drive him so hard? Help him. Please help him.'

Eric stirred and mumbled in his sleep and she kissed him, lifting the blanket around his chin. His eyes opened dreamily.

'I love you, Mother. Truly.'

'And I love you, Eric. More than anything.'

'Daddy never loved me.'

'Of course he did,’ whispered Donna, but Eric was asleep once more.

Shannow awoke in the hour before dawn and opened the door to Donna's room. The bed was still made and he smiled ruefully. He moved to the pump-room and found himself staring once more at his reflection.

'Quo vadis, Shannow?' he asked the grim grey man in the mirror.

The sound of horses in the yard made him stiffen and he checked his pistols and slipped out of die back door, keeping in the moon shadows until he reached the front of the house. Five long wagons drawn by oxen stretched in a line back to the meadow, and a tall man on a dark horse was dismounting by the water trough.

'Good morning,' said Shannow, sheathing his pistol.

'Do you mind if we water our animals?' asked the man. The sun was just clearing the eastern peaks and Shannow saw that he was in his thirties and strongly built. He wore a black leather riding jacket cut high at the waist and a hat sporting a single peacock feather.

'As long as you replenish it from the well yonder,' Shannow told him. 'Where are you journeying?'

'North-west, through the mountains.'

'The Plague Lands?' asked Shannow. 'No one goes there. I saw a man once who had come from there — his hair fell out and his body was a mass of weeping sores that would not mend.'

'We do not believe it is the land. All sicknesses pass,' said the man.

'The man I knew said that the rocks gleamed in the night and that no animals could be found there.'

'My friend, I have heard tales of giant lizards, flying pillars and castles in clouds. I have yet to see any of them. Land is land, and I am sick of Brigands. Daniel Cade is raiding once more, and I have a yen for the far mountains where even brigands will not go. Now I myself have met a man who journeyed there — or said he did. He said that the grass grows green and the deer are plentiful, and much larger than elsewhere. He says he saw apples as big as melons, and in the distance a city the like of which he had never seen. Now I am a man who needs to travel, and I mean to see that city.'

Shannow's mouth was suddenly dry. 'I too would like to see that city,' he said.

'Then find yourself a wagon and travel with us, man! I take it those pistols are not mere ornaments?'

'I have no wagon, sir, nor enough Barta coin to raise one. And I have commitments here that must be fulfilled.'

The man nodded and then grinned. ‘That's why I want you. I'd take no footloose rider straight from the Outlands and I won't import Brigands into Avalon. You are a sturdy soul, by the look of you. Do you have a family?'

'Yes.'

Then sell your farm and follow after us. There'll be land waiting.'

Shannow left him watering the oxen and walked inside, where Donna was awake and standing by the open door.

'You heard that?' asked Shannow.

'Yes. The Plague Lands.'

'What do you feel?'

'I do not want you to go. But if you do, we will go with you if you'll have us.'

He opened his arms and drew her to him, too full of wild joy to speak. Behind him the tall man from the yard politely cleared his throat and Shannow turned.

'My name is Cornelius Griffin, and I may have a proposition for you.'

'Come in, Mr Griffin,' said Donna. 'I am Donna Taybard and this is my husband, Jon.'

'A pleasure, Fray Taybard.'

'You spoke of a proposition,' said Shannow.

'Indeed I did. We have a family with us who are not desirous of a risky journey and it could be that they will part with their wagon and goods in return for your farm. Of course there will be an extra amount in Barta coin, should the prospect interest you.'

Jon Shannow rode his steeldust gelding down the main street of Rivervale settlement, his long leather coat flapping against the horse's flanks, his wide-brimmed hat shading his eyes. The houses were mostly timber near the roadside, early dwellings of some three or perhaps four decades. On outlying hills above the shallow coal-mine rose the new homes of stone and polished wood. Shannow rode past the mill and across the hump-back bridge, ignoring the stares of workmen and loafers who peered at him from the shadows. Several children were playing in a dusty side street and a barking dog caused his horse to jump sideways. Shannow sat unmoving in the saddle and rode on, reining in his mount at the steps to the alehouse.

He dismounted and tied the reins to a hitching rail, mounted the steps and entered the drinking hall. There were some twenty men sitting or standing at the long bar — among them the giant, Bard, his head bandaged. Beside him was Fletcher and both men gaped as Shannow moved towards them.

A stillness settled on the room.

'I am come to tell you, Mr Fletcher, that Fray Taybard has sold her farm to a young family from Ferns Crossing, a settlement some two months' journey to the south. She has given them a bond of sale that should satisfy the Committee.'

'Why tell me?' said Fletcher, aware of the spectators, many of whom were known Landsmen of integrity.

'Because you are a murderous savage and a Brigand, sir, who would lief as not kill the family and pretend they were usurpers.'

'How dare you?'

'I dare because it is the truth, and that will always be a bitter enemy to you, sir. I do not know how long the people of Rivervale will put up with you, but if they have sense it win not be long.'

'You cannot think to leave here alive, Shannow?' said Fletcher. 'You are a named Brigand.'

'Named by you! Jerrik, Swallow and Pearson are dead, Mr Fletcher. Before he died, Pearson told me you had offered him a place on your Committee. Strange that you now have places for known woman-killers!'

'Kill him!' screamed Fletcher and Shannow dived to his right as a crossbow bolt flashed from the doorway. His pistol boomed and a man staggered back from sight to fall down the steps beyond.

A pistol flamed in Fletcher's hand and something tugged at the collar of Shannow's coat. The right-hand pistol flowered in flame and smoke and Fletcher pitched back, clutching his belly. A second shot tore through his heart. Bard was running for the rear door and Shannow let him go, but the man twisted and fired a small pistol which hammered a shell into the wood beside Shannow's face. Splinters tore into his cheek and he pumped two bullets into the big man's throat; Bard collapsed in a fountain of blood.

Shannow climbed slowly to his feet and scanned the room, and the men lying face down and motionless.

'I am Jon Shannow, and have never been a Brigand.'

Turning his back he walked into the street. A shell whistled past his head and he turned and fired.

A man reared up from behind the water trough, clutching his shoulder — in his hand was a brass-mounted percussion pistol. Then Shannow shot him again and he fell without a sound. A musket boomed from a window across the street, snatching Shannow's hat from his head; he returned the fire, but hit nothing. Climbing into the saddle, he kicked the gelding into a run.

Several men raced to cut him off. One fired a pistol, but the gelding cannoned into the group and sent them sprawling to the dust — and Shannow was clear and over the hump-back bridge, heading west to join Donna and Eric. .

. . and the road to Jersualem.