Bloodstone Page 6

  “It may be over, my friends, but another battle awaits us,” said the Apostle, his words jerking Nestor back to the present. “The forces of Satan are overthrown, but still there is peril in the land. For as it is written, the Devil is the great deceiver, the son of the morning star. Do not be misled, my brothers and sisters. The Devil is not an ugly beast. He is handsome and charming, and his words drip like honey. And many will be deceived by him. He is the voice of discontent whispering in your ears at night. He is the man—or woman—who speaks against the word of our Deacon and his holy quest to bring this tortured world back to the Lord.

  “For was it not written, by their works shall ye judge them? Then I ask you this, brethren: Who brought the truth to this benighted world? Tell me!” Raising his arms, he stared down from the podium at the crowd.

  “The Deacon!” they yelled.

  “And who descended from the heavens with the word of God?”

  “The Deacon!” Caught up in the hypnotic thrill of the moment, Nestor stood, his right fist punching the air with each answer. The voices of the crowd rolled like thunder, and Nestor found it hard to see the Apostle through the sea of waving arms. But he could hear him.

  “And who did God send through the vaults of time?”

  “The Deacon!”

  The Apostle Saul waited until the roar died down, then spread his hands for silence. “My friends, by his work have you judged him. He has built hospitals and schools and great cities, and once more the knowledge of our ancestors is being used by the children of God. We have machines that will plow the land and sail the seas and fly through the air. We have medicines and trained doctors and nurses. And this tortured land is growing again, at one with the Lord. And He is with us through His servant in Unity.

  “But everywhere sin waits to strike us down. That is why the Oath Takers move through the land. They are the gardeners of this new Eden, seeking out the weeds and the plants that do not bloom. No God-fearing family should fear the Oath Takers. Only those seduced by Satan should know the terror of discovery. Just as only brigands and lawbreakers should fear our new Crusaders, our fine young soldiers, like your own Captain Leon Evans.”

  Nestor cheered at the top of his voice, but it was lost within an ocean of sound.

  As it died down, the Apostle Saul raised his voice one last time. “My friends, Pilgrim’s Valley was the first settlement over which we flew when the Lord brought us from the sky. And for that reason the Oath Taker’s role shall be a special one. The Deacon has asked me to fulfill that role, and I shall do so, with your blessing. Now let us pray …”

  As the prayers were concluded, and the last hymn was sung, Nestor made his way back to the main street of Pilgrim’s Valley, moving slowly within the crowd. Most of the people were returning to their homes, but a select few, Nestor among them, had been invited to a reception at the Traveler’s Rest and the formal welcome for the new Oath Taker. Nestor felt especially privileged to be asked to attend, even though his role was only that of a waiter. History was being made there, and the young man could hardly believe that one of the Nine Apostles was actually going to live—if only for a month or two—among the people of Pilgrim’s Valley. It was a great honor.

  Josiah Broome, who now owned the Traveler’s Rest, was waiting at the back of the inn as Nestor arrived. Broome was in his late sixties, a slender, bird-boned man, balding and nearsighted. Despite his tendency toward pompous speech Broome was a man with a heart, and Nestor liked him.

  “Is that you, young Garrity?” asked Broome, leaning in close.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good boy. There is a clean white shirt in the upper back room. And a new black necktie. Put them on and help Wallace prepare the tables.”

  Nestor said that he would and moved on through the rear of the inn, climbing the stairs to the staff quarters. Wallace Nash was pulling on his white shirt as Nestor entered the back room.

  “Hi, Nes. What a day eh?” said the redheaded youngster. Two years younger than Nestor, he was an inch taller, standing almost six foot three and as thin as a stick.

  “You look like a strong wind could blow you down, Wallace.”

  The redhead grinned. “I’d outrun it afore it could.”

  Nestor chuckled. Wallace Nash was the fastest runner he had ever seen. The previous year on Resurrection Day, when he was just fifteen, Wallace had raced three times against Edric Scayse’s prize stallion, Rimfire, winning both short sprints and losing only a longer race. It had been a fine day. Nestor remembered it well, for it had been his first time drunk, an experience he had pledged to himself he would never repeat.

  “You want to carry the drinks or the eats?” Wallace asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Nestor, pulling off his faded red shirt and lifting a clean white one from the dresser drawer.

  “You take the drinks, then,” said Wallace. “My hands ain’t too steady today. Lord, who would have believed that an Apostle would come to our town?”

  Nestor pulled on his shirt and tucked it into his black trousers. For a minute or so he fumbled with the necktie, then he moved to the mirror to see if the knot was in place.

  “You think he’ll perform any miracles?” asked Wallace.

  “Like what?”

  “Well, I guess he could try to raise the Preacher from the dead.” The redhead laughed.

  “That ain’t funny, Wallace. The Preacher was a good man.”

  “That’s not so, Nes. He spoke out against the Deacon during one of his sermons. Can you believe that? Right there in a church. It’s a wonder God didn’t strike him dead there and then.”

  “As I recall hearing it, he just said he thought it weren’t necessary to have Oath Takers. That’s all.”

  “Are you saying the Apostle Saul ain’t necessary?” asked Wallace.

  Nestor was about to make a lighthearted remark, but then he saw the shining glint in Wallace’s eyes.

  “Of course I’m not, Wallace. He’s a great man,” he said carefully. “Now come on, we’d better get to work.”

  The evening was long, and Nestor found his back aching as he stood against the wall holding the brass tray in his hands. Few were drinking now, and the Apostle Saul was sitting by the fire with Captain Leon Evans and Daniel Cade. The old prophet had been late arriving; most of the members of the welcoming party had long since gone to their homes before the old man had made his entrance. The Apostle had welcomed him warmly, but it seemed to Nestor that Daniel Cade was ill at ease.

  “It is a privilege to meet you at last,” said Saul. “Obviously I have read of your exploits against the Hellborn in the first war. Vile times, calling for men of iron, much as now. I am sorry to see that you have such difficulty with your movements. You should come to Unity; our hospital is performing miracles daily, thanks to the discoveries of our medical teams.”

  “The Daniel Stones, you mean,” said Cade.

  “You are well informed, sir. Yes, the fragments have been most helpful. We are still seeking larger stones.”

  “Blood and death is all they’ll bring,” Cade said. “Just like before.”

  “In the hands of the godly all things are pure,” said Saul.

  Excited as he had been earlier in the evening, Nestor was now tired and becoming bored. He was due at the lumber site soon after dawn to collate the orders for timber and issue working instructions to the men at the sawmill. Uncle Joseph was not an easy man to serve, and one yawn from Nestor would earn an hour’s lecture at the end of the day.

  “You knew the Jerusalem Man, I understand,” remarked Saul to Cade. Instantly Nestor’s weariness was forgotten.

  “I knew him,” grunted the old man. “And I never heard him say a word of prophecy, I don’t reckon he’d be pleased to read what’s said of him now.”

  “He was a holy man,” said Saul, showing no sign of irritation, “and the words he spoke have been carefully gathered from sources all over the land. Men who knew him. Men who heard him. I regard it as a personal
tragedy that I never met him.”

  Cade nodded solemnly. “Well, I did, Saul. He was a lonely man, heartsick and bitter, seeking a city he knew could not exist. As to his prophesying … as I said, I never heard it. But it’s true to say that he brought you and the Deacon into this world when he sent the Sword of God thundering through the gates of time. We all know that’s true.”

  “The ways of the Lord are sometimes mystifying,” Saul said with a tight smile. “The world we left was a cesspool, owned by the Devil. The world we found had the potential for Eden, if only men would return to God. And by His grace we have conquered. Tell me, sir, why you have refused all invitations to travel to Unity and be honored for your work in the Lord’s name.”

  “I don’t need honors,” Cade told him. “I lived most of my life, after the Hellborn War, in Rivervale. Had me a good woman and raised two tall sons. Both died in your wars. Lisa was buried last autumn, and I came here to wait for death. Honors? What are they worth?”

  Saul shrugged. “A worthy point from a worthy man, Mr. Cade. Now tell me, do you think Pilgrim’s Valley is a Godfearing community?”

  “There are good people here, Saul. Some better than others. I don’t think you can judge a man merely because three of his friends say he’s a believer. We got farmers on the outskirts, newcomers who wouldn’t be able to raise three men who know them that well. It doesn’t make ’em pagans.”

  “You also had a church that welcomed Wolvers,” Saul pointed out, “and a preacher who offered them the word of God. That was an obscenity, Mr. Cade. And it took outsiders to put an end to it. That does not reflect well on the community.”

  “What have you got against Wolvers?” Cade asked.

  Saul’s eyes narrowed. “They are not true creations, Mr. Cade. In the world I came from, animals were being genetically engineered to resemble people. This was done for medical reasons; it was possible then for a man with a diseased heart or lungs to have them removed and replaced. That was an abomination, Mr. Cade. Animals have no souls, not in the strictest sense of eternal life. These mutated creatures are like plague germs, reminding us all of the dangers and disasters of the past. We must not repeat the errors that led God to destroy the old world. Not ever. We are on the verge of a new Eden, Mr. Cade. Nothing must be allowed to halt our progress.”

  “And we’re going to find this new Eden by hounding people from their homes, by killing Wolvers and anyone who doesn’t agree with us?”

  “Not the Deacon or any of his Apostles take any joy in killing, Mr. Cade. But you know your Bible. The Lord God does not tolerate evil in the midst of his people.”

  Cade reached for his sticks and slowly, painfully pushed himself to his feet. “And the next war, Saul? Who is that going to be with?”

  “The ungodly wherever we find them,” answered Saul.

  “It’s late, and I’m tired,” said Cade. “I’ll bid you good night.”

  “May God be with you,” said Saul, rising.

  Cade did not reply as, leaning heavily on his sticks, he made his way to the door. Nestor stifled a yawn and was about to ask if he could be excused from his duties, when Saul spoke to Captain Evans.

  “A dangerous man, Captain. I fear we may have to deal with him.”

  Nestor blinked in surprise. At that moment Leon Evans looked up and saw him, and the captain grinned. “Go on home, Nestor,” he said, “otherwise you’re going to keel over like a felled tree.”

  Nestor thanked him, bowed to the Apostle, and walked out into the night, where the old prophet was leaning against his buggy, unable to mount the steps. Nestor moved alongside him and took his arm. With an effort, he half lifted Cade to the seat. “Thank you, boy,” grunted Cade, his face red from the exertion.

  “It was a pleasure, sir.”

  “Beware the words of brass and iron, boy,” whispered the prophet. He flicked the reins, and Nestor watched as the buggy trundled off into the night.

  Alone now, Shannow waited among the rocks, his horse tethered some fifty paces to the north in a small stand of trees. Glancing to the east, he could make out the last of the wagons as they traveled farther into the mountains. The sky was lightening. Dawn was close.

  Shannow settled down with his back against a rock and stared to the west. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe the white-haired Oath Taker had decided against a punitive raid. He hoped so. The night was cool, and he breathed deeply of the crisp mountain air. Glad to be alone, he let his mind wander.

  Twenty years had passed since his name had been feared among the ungodly. Twenty years! Where have I been? he wondered. How did I live? Idly he began to review what he remembered of his life, the gunfights and the battles, the towns and settlements.

  Yes, I remember Allion, he thought, and saw again the day Daniel Cade had led his brigands into the town. In the blaze of gunfire that had followed several of Cade’s men had been shot from their saddles, while Cade himself had taken a bullet in the knee. Daniel Cade. Brother Daniel. For some reason that Shannow could never fathom, God had chosen Daniel to lead the war against the Hellborn.

  But what then? Hazy pictures drifted into his mind, then vanished like mist in the breeze. A blond woman, tall and strong, and a young fighter, lightning-fast with a pistol … Cram? Glen?

  “No,” Shannow said aloud. “Clem. Clem Steiner.”

  It will all come back, he promised himself. Just give it time.

  Then came the sound of horses moving slowly through the darkness, the creak of leather saddles, the soft clopping of hooves on the dry plain. Shannow drew his pistols and eased himself farther down into the rocks as the horses came closer. Removing his wide-brimmed hat, he risked a glance to the west; he could see them now, but not well enough to count them.

  I don’t want to kill again.

  Aiming high, he loosed a shot. Some of the horses reared in fright, and several others stampeded. Shannow saw one man thrown from the saddle, and another jumped clear of his bucking mount. Several shots were fired in his direction, but the bullets struck the rocks and screamed off into the night.

  Dropping to his belly, Shannow peered around the rocks. The riders had dismounted and were advancing on his position. From the east he heard the distant sound of gunfire.

  The wagons! In that instant he knew that there were two groups and that the bloodletting had already begun. Anger surged within him.

  Swiftly he pushed himself to his feet and stepped out from the rocks. A man reared up … Shannow shot him through the chest. Another moved to his right, and again his pistol boomed.

  He walked in among the men, guns blazing. Stunned by this sudden attack, the raiders broke and ran. A man to Shannow’s right groaned as the Jerusalem Man strode past him. A bullet whipped by Shannow’s face, so close that he felt its passing, the sound ringing in his ears like an angry bee. Twisting, he triggered both pistols, and a rifleman was punched from his feet.

  Two horses were standing close by. Shannow strode to the first and vaulted to the saddle. A man reared up from the undergrowth. Shannow shot him twice, then, kicking the animal into a run, headed east, reloading his pistols as the horse thundered across the plain. Anger was strong upon him now, a deep, boiling rage that threatened to engulf him. He did nothing to quell it.

  Always it was the same, the evil strong preying on the weak, violence and death, lust and destruction. When will it end? he wondered. Dear God, when will it end?

  The full moon bathed the land in silver, and in the distance the red of fire could be seen as one of the wagons blazed. The firing was sporadic now, but at least it suggested that some of the Wanderers were still fighting.

  Closer still he came and saw five men kneeling behind a group of boulders; one of them had long white hair. A rifleman rose up, aiming at the wagons. Shannow loosed a shot that missed the man but ricocheted from the boulder, making the rifleman jerk back. The white-haired Oath Taker swung around, saw Shannow, and began to run. Ignoring him, Shannow trained his guns on the riflemen.

  “
Put down your weapons,” he ordered them. “Do it now—or die!”

  Three of the four remaining men did exactly as they were told and then raised their hands, but the last—the thickset man he had spoken to earlier—suddenly swung his rifle to bear. Shannow put a bullet into his brain.

  “Jeremiah! It’s me, Shannow,” shouted the Jerusalem Man. “Can you hear me?”

  “He’s been shot,” came the answering call. “We’ve wounded here—three dead, two badly hit.”

  Gesturing to the captured men, Shannow ordered them toward the wagons. Once inside, he gazed around. The pregnant Clara was dead, half her head blown away. A burly man named Chalmers was lying beside her. By Jeremiah’s wagon lay the body of a child in a faded blue dress: one of Clara’s two daughters. Shannow dismounted and moved to where Dr. Meredith was kneeling beside the wounded Jeremiah. The old man had taken two shots, one to the upper chest and a second to the thigh. His face was gray in the moonlight.

  “I’ll live,” the old man whispered.

  The wagons had been formed into a rough circle, and several of the horses were down. Isis and two of the men were battling to put out a fire in the last wagon. Guns in hand, Shannow strode back to the captured men, who were standing together at the center of the camp.

  “The bellows are burned, the land is consumed of the fire; the founder melteth in vain, for the wicked are not plucked away.” His guns leveled, and he eased back the hammers.

  “Shannow, no!” screamed Jeremiah. “Let them be! Christ, man, there’s been enough killing already.”

  Shannow took a deep, slow breath. “Help put out the fire,” he ordered the men. They obeyed him instantly, and without another word he walked to his horse and stepped into the saddle.