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  If you miss, you will be dislodged! Christ! Don’t think like that! But he could not help it. His mind flew back to the other Gareth, dead in a crushed jeep.

  And he knew he did not have the courage to make that last effort.

  Oh, God, he thought. I’m going to die here!

  Suddenly something pressed hard against the underside of his foot, taking the weight. Gareth looked down and saw that Shannow had climbed out onto the overhang. Now the two of them were out on the face, and if Gareth fell, he would carry the Jerusalem Man to his death.

  Shannow’s voice drifted up to him, calm and steady. “I can’t hold you like this all night, boy. So I suggest you make a move.”

  Gareth lunged up, catching the hold and swinging his foot to a small ridge in the stone. Above there the holds were infinitely easier, and he gratefully hauled himself over the summit.

  For a moment he lay back with eyes closed, feeling the rain on his face. Then he sat up, looped the rope over his shoulder, and tugged it twice, signaling Shannow to start the climb. The rope went tight. Gareth leaned back to take the strain.

  Something cold touched his temple.

  It was a pistol …

  A hand moved into sight. It held a razor-sharp knife, which sliced through the rope.

  Shem Jackson was sitting in the front room of his house, his booted feet resting on a table. His brother, Micah, idly shuffled a pack of dog-eared cards. “You wanna game, Shem?”

  “For what?” responded the older man, lifting a jug of spirits and swigging from it. “You lost everything you got.”

  “You could lend me some,” Micah said, reproachfully.

  Shem slammed the jug down on the tabletop. “What the hell is the point of that? You play cards when you got money—it’s that simple. Can’t you get it into your head?”

  “Well, what else is there to do?” whined Micah.

  “And whose fault is that?” snapped Shem, pushing a dirty hand through his greasy hair. “She wasn’t much to look at, but you had to go and thrash her, didn’t you?”

  “She asked for it!” replied Micah. “Called me names.”

  “Well, now she’s run off. And this time it’s for good, I’ll bet. You know the trouble with you, Micah? You never know when you’re well off.”

  Shem stood and stretched his lean frame. Rain could not be far away; his back was beginning to ache. Walking to the window, he stared out at the yard and the moonlit barn beyond. A flash of movement caught his eye, and, leaning forward, he rubbed at the grimy glass. It merely smeared, and Shem swore.

  “What is it?” asked Micah.

  Shem shrugged. “Thought I saw something out by the barn. It was probably nothing.” He squinted, caught a flash of silver-gray fur. “It’s Wolvers,” he said. “Goddamn Wolvers!” Striding across the room, he lifted the long rifle down from its pegs over the mantel and, grinning, swung on Micah. “Damn sight more fun than playing cards with a loser like you,” he said, pumping a shell into the breech. “Come on, get your weapon, man; there’s hunting to be had.”

  Good humor flowed back to him. Little bastards, he thought. They won’t get away this time. No Beth McAdam to save you now!

  Stepping to the front door, he wrenched it open and walked out into the moonlight. “Come on, you little beggars, show yourselves!” he called. The night was quiet, the moon unbearably bright to the eye, a hunter’s moon. Shem crept forward with the gun raised. He heard Micah move out behind him and stumble on the porch. Clumsy son of a bitch!

  On open ground now, Shem angled to the right, toward the vegetable patch and the corral. “Show yourselves!” he shouted. “Old Uncle Shem’s got a little present for you!”

  Behind him Micah made a gurgling sound, and Shem heard the clump of something striking the ground. Probably his rifle, Shem thought as he turned.

  But it was not a rifle. Micah’s head bounced twice on the hard-packed earth, the neck completely severed by a savage sweep from a long-taloned hand. Micah’s body toppled forward, but Shem was not looking at it. He was staring in paralyzed horror at the creature towering before him, its silver fur shining, its eyes golden, a bright red stone embedded in its forehead.

  Shem Jackson’s rifle came up, and he pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed into the creature’s chest, sending up a puff of dust. But it did not go down; it howled and leapt forward, its talons flashing down. Shem felt the blow on his shoulder and staggered back. The rifle was on the ground. He blinked and then felt a rush of blood from his shoulder. There was no pain, not even when his arm fell clear, thumping against the ground and draping across his boot.

  The Devourer lashed out once more …

  Shem Jackson’s face disappeared.

  From the shadows scores more of the beasts moved forward. Several stopped to feed.

  Most loped on toward the sleeping town of Pilgrim’s Valley.

  10

  The greatest folly is to believe that evil can be overcome by reason. Evil is like gravity, a force that is beyond argument.

  The Wisdom of the Deacon

  Chapter XXVII

  JACOB MOON WAS not given to hearing voices. Such gifts were for other men. No visions, no prophecies, no mystic dreams or revelations. Jacob Moon had only one real gift, if such it could be called: he could kill without emotion. When the voice did come, Moon was utterly astonished. He was sitting by his campfire in the lee of the Great Wall some twenty miles from Pilgrim’s Valley. Having heard nothing from the Apostle Saul, Moon had left Domango and made the long ride across the mountains. A flash flood had diverted him from his course, delaying him, but he was now less than a three-hour ride from the town. His horse was exhausted, and Moon made camp beside the Wall.

  The voice came to him just before midnight, as he was settling down to sleep. At first it was a whisper, like a breath of night winds. But then it grew. “Jacob Moon! Jacob Moon!”

  Moon sat up, pistol in hand. “Who’s there?”

  “Behind you,” came the response, and Moon spun.

  One of the great rectangular blocks had apparently disappeared, and he found himself facing a red-skinned man with what appeared to be painted black lines across his face and upper body. The man was seated on an ebony throne. Moon cocked his pistol. “You will not need that,” said the man on the throne. The image drifted closer until the strange face filled the hole in the Wall: the eyes were the red of rubies, the whites bloodshot. “I need you, Moon,” said the vision.

  “Well, I don’t need you,” was Moon’s response as the pistol bucked in his hand, the bullet lancing through the red face. There was no mark to show its passing, and a wide smile appeared on the face.

  “Save your ammunition, Moon, and listen to what I offer you—riches beyond your dreams and life eternal. I can make you immortal, Moon. I can fulfill your wildest desires.”

  Moon sat back and sheathed his pistol. “This is a dream, isn’t it? Goddamn it, I’m dreaming!”

  “No dream, Moon,” the red man told him. “Would you like to live forever?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “My world is dying. I need another. A man known to you as Saul opened the gateway for me, and I have now seen your world. It is to my liking. But it would help me to have a lieutenant here to direct my … troops. From the few thoughts I could extract from the dying Saul, I gathered that you were that man. Is that so?”

  “Tell me about the life eternal,” said Moon, ignoring the question.

  “That can begin now, Moon. Is it what you desire?”

  “Aye.” Moon reeled back as a terrible burning sensation erupted on his forehead. He cried out and lifted his hand to his head. The pain subsided as suddenly as it had appeared, and Moon could feel a small stone embedded in his brow.

  “As long as you serve me, Moon, you will be immortal. Can you feel the new strength in your limbs, the power … the life?”

  Jacob Moon felt more than that. His long-held bitterness was unleashed, his anger primal. As the vision had promis
ed, he felt strong, no longer tired from his journey, no longer aching from long hours in the saddle. “I feel it,” he admitted. “What do you want from me?”

  “Ride to the ruined city north of Pilgrim’s Valley. There I shall greet you.”

  “I asked what you wanted from me,” said Moon.

  “Blood,” responded the vision. “Rivers of blood. Violence and death, hatred and war.”

  “Are you the Devil?” asked Moon.

  “I am better than the Devil, Moon. For I have won.”

  Unknown to Gareth, it was his mother who had chosen to climb next, leaving Shannow on the ledge. When the rope suddenly gave, she was dislodged from the face. Many people faced with such a moment would have panicked, screamed, and fallen to their deaths. Amaziga was different.

  She lived for only one prize—finding Sam.

  In the moment the rope gave way and she slipped, her hand snaked out, fingers scrabbling against the wet stone. The first hold she grasped was not large enough to hold her, and she slipped again. Her fingers scraped down the rock, one fingernail tearing away, then her hand clamped over a firm hold and the descent ceased. She was hanging on the lower part of the overhang, her legs dangling below the curve of the rock. Her arm was tiring fast, and she could feel her grip loosening.

  “Shannow!” she called. “Help me!”

  A hand grabbed at her belt just as her fingers lost their grip, and she fell, but he dragged her back to the ledge. Slumping to her haunches, she leaned her head against the rock face and closed her eyes. The pain from her damaged hand was almost welcome: it told her she was alive.

  Shannow hauled in the rope and examined the end.

  “Someone cut it,” he said.

  Fear coursed through her. “Gareth!” she whispered.

  “Maybe they took him alive,” said Shannow, keeping his voice low. “The question is, What do we do now? We have enemies above and horses below.”

  “If they look over the edge, they will not be able to see us,” she said. “They will assume we have fallen. I think we should make the climb.” She saw Shannow smile.

  “I don’t know if I can, lady. I know you cannot—not with that injured hand.”

  “We can’t just leave Gareth.” She glanced at her watch. “And there is only an hour left before they will kill Sam. We have no time to climb down and go around.”

  Shannow stood and prowled along the ledge. There was nowhere that he could climb. Amaziga joined him, and together they examined the face. Long minutes passed; then the sound of gunfire came from above them, heavy and sustained.

  “You are right,” she said at last, her voice heavy with despair. “There is nothing we can do.”

  “Wait,” said Shannow. Lifting a pistol from his belt, he pushed the end of the rope through the trigger guard and tied it in place. Stepping to the edge of the ledge, he let out the rope, then began to swing it around and around. Amaziga looked up. Some twenty-five feet above them, at the narrowest point of the overhang, there was a jutting finger of stone. Shannow let out more rope and continued to swing the weighted end. Finally he sent it sailing up; the pistol clattered against the rock face, then dropped, looping the rope over the stone. Shannow lowered it, removed the pistol, and holstered it.

  “You think it will take your weight?” asked Amaziga.

  Shannow hauled down on the doubled rope three times. “Let us hope so,” he said.

  And he began to climb.

  Gareth’s anger was mounting. The olive-skinned woman had cut the rope and then ordered him to rise with his hands on his head. “Listen to me,” he said, “I am here to—”

  “Shut it!” she snapped, and he heard the pistol being cocked. “Walk forward and be aware I’m right behind you and have killed before.” She did not rob him of his weapons, which spoke of either confidence or stupidity. Gareth guessed it to be confidence. He obeyed her and walked toward the clearing, where he could see around a score of men and women kneeling behind rocks or fallen trees, rifles in their hands. A tall black man turned as they approached.

  “I found this creature,” sneered the woman, “climbing the cliff face behind us. There were others, but I cut the rope.”

  “Indeed she did,” said Gareth, “and probably killed one of the few friends you had in this world, Sam.”

  The black man’s eyes widened. “Do I know you, boy?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” The sky was lightening with the predawn, and the rain had cleared. “Look at me closely, Sam. Who do I remind you of?”

  “Who are you?” asked Samuel Archer. “Speak plainly.”

  Gareth could tell by his surprised expression that he had, at least in part, guessed the truth. “My mother’s name is Amaziga,” he said.

  “You lie!” shouted Sam. “I’ve known Amaziga all her life. She had no other sons.”

  “My mother is stuck back there on that rock face. She crossed a world to find you, Sam. Ask her yourself.”

  At that moment a volley of shots came from Gareth’s right. Several men and a woman fell screaming. Then the Hellborn rushed the camp, firing as they came, tall men in tunics of black leather and ram-horned helms. Sam swung away, reaching for his pistol. Gareth flipped the Uzi into position, and the sound of rolling thunder exploded in the clearing. The first line of Hellborn warriors went down as if scythed. Gareth ran toward the rest with the machine pistol shuddering in his hands. Other shots sounded from all around him as the rebels opened fire. He snapped clear the empty clip and rammed home another. But the first attack having failed, the Hellborn had faded back into the trees and were firing from cover. A bullet slashed past Gareth’s head, and another kicked up dirt at his feet. Ducking, he sprinted to a boulder and crouched down behind it. A dead young woman lay to his left, a small dark hole oozing blood from her temple. A shot glanced from the boulder above Gareth’s head. Risking a glance, he saw a rifleman in the upper branches of a nearby tree. Lifting the Uzi, he squeezed off a quick burst. The sniper tipped back and fell through the tree, crashing into the undergrowth below.

  Across the clearing Sam was lying behind a fallen log. He cursed himself for a fool for not realizing that the Hellborn would try a sneak attack under cover of the dawn mist. The young man’s arrival with the multifiring rifle had saved them. He glanced at Gareth. In profile he could see even more clearly the resemblance to Amaziga, the fine high cheekbones, the pure sleek brow. Gareth saw him and grinned, and that was the final proof. Sam did not understand how such a thing was possible, but it was true!

  A volley came from the left, and some thirty Hellborn leapt from cover, firing as they came. Sam saw several of the rebels fall. The Uzi thundered, but the charge continued. Raising his pistol, Sam shot into the charging group. Bullets ripped the air around him, one grazing his skull and knocking him from his feet. He rolled and saw Shammy, a pistol in each hand, running toward the invaders. Her life seemed charmed until a shot caught her in the upper thigh, spinning her to the floor. Jered, firing his shotgun from the hip, leapt to her aid. Just as he reached her, his face disappeared in a spray of crimson.

  Sam came to his knees and emptied his pistol into the last of the attackers. Gareth’s Uzi fired again, and the clearing was still. Shammy crawled to where he lay. Blood was soaking her leggings. “I’ll get a tourniquet on that,” said Sam.

  “No point,” answered Shammy.

  Sam looked around. There were maybe 40 Hellborn dead, leaving at least another 150. But of the rebels only he and Shammy were still alive—and the young stranger.

  Gareth joined them, moving across the ground in a commando crawl. “My rope is still back there,” he said. “We’d at least have a chance if we pulled back.”

  “No time,” answered Shammy, lifting her reloaded pistols just as the next wave of Hellborn rushed them. Gareth rolled to his knees and emptied the last clip into the warriors. At least ten of them were hurled from their feet, but the others came on.

  Then a second roll of thunder scythed through the attac
kers, and Gareth saw Amaziga run forward, her own Uzi blazing. Behind her was Shannow, his long pistols firing steadily. The Hellborn broke and fled back into the undergrowth.

  “Let’s get out of here!” said Gareth. He and Sam lifted the injured Shamshad and staggered across the clearing. Shots sounded around them, but then they were into the cover of the trees. Swiftly Gareth tied his last rope to a slender tree trunk. “You first, Sam,” he said. “There’s a ledge below, and you’ll find another rope. There are horses at the foot of the cliff.” Sam seemed not to hear. He was staring at Amaziga. “Questions later, okay?” said Gareth, grabbing the man’s arm. “For now … the rope! When you are on the ledge, flick the rope twice. Then the next to come will follow you.”