The Last Guardian Read online

  The injured man regained consciousness and was helped to a table. Beth brought him a cup of Baker’s, and he sipped it.

  “I’ll kill the whoreson,” he mumbled. “So help me God, I’ll kill him!”

  “Don’t even think like that, Meneer Thomas,” Broome urged. “What he did was appalling, but further violence will not eradicate it.”

  The man pushed himself to his feet. “Who’s with me?” he asked. Two men joined him, but the others hung back. Thomas pulled his pistol from his belt and checked the loads. “Where’d he go?”

  “He took the stallion back to the stable,” said a short lean man.

  “Thanks, Jack. Well, let’s find him.”

  “Please, Meneer …” began Broome, but Thomas pushed him aside. Beth eased her way back through the kitchen and out into the yard, then hitched up her long skirt and ran behind the buildings, cutting through an alleyway and onto the main street ahead of the three men. At the end of the street she saw Shannow talking to the hostler in the doorway of the stable. Quickly she crossed to him.

  “They are coming for you, Shannow,” she said. “Three of them.”

  He turned to her and smiled softly. “It was kind of you to think of me.”

  “Never mind kindness. Saddle up and move.”

  “My belongings are still in my room. I would suggest that you wait here.”

  “I said there are three of them.”

  “Is the man I struck among them?”

  “Yes,” she told him.

  Shannow nodded, removed his coat, and laid it across the stall beam. Then he moved out into the sunlight. Beth crossed to the doorway and watched him make his way to the center of the street. There he stood and waited with his arms hanging by his sides. The sun was high, shining in the faces of the three pistoleers. They came closer, the two on the outside angling themselves away from Thomas in the center. Beth felt the tension rise.

  “Now how do you feel, you whoreson?” shouted Thomas. Shannow said nothing. “Cat got your tongue?” Closer they came, until only about ten paces separated them. Then Shannow’s voice sounded low and clear.

  “Have you come here to die?” he asked. Beth saw the man on the right rub sweat from his face and glance at his friend. Thomas grabbed for his pistol, but a single shot punched him from his feet. His legs twitched in the dust, and a stain spread slowly on the front of his trousers.

  The other two men stood statue-still. “I would suggest,” said Shannow quietly, “that you carry him off the street.” They hurried to obey as he walked back to Beth and the hostler.

  “I thank you again, Frey McAdam. I am sorry that you needed to witness such an act.”

  “I’ve seen dead men before, Meneer Shannow. But he has a lot of friends, and I don’t think it will be safe for you here. Tell me, how did you know those others would not fight?”

  “I did not,” he told her. “But he was the man carrying the anger. Will you be going to the Parson’s gathering tomorrow?”

  “Might be.”

  “I would be privileged if you and your children would accompany me.”

  “I am sorry, Meneer,” said Beth. “I think you are now in some peril, and I will not allow my children to be in your dangerous company.”

  “I understand. You are correct, of course.”

  “Were I without children … the answer might have been different.”

  He bowed and walked out into the sunshine.

  “Damn, but he’s cool,” said the hostler. “Well, Thomas ain’t gonna be missed, not by a long shot.”

  Beth did not reply.

  The Jerusalem Man paused on the street, where only a dark patch of blood showed where a life had been taken. He felt no regret. The dead man had made his own decision, and Shannow recalled the words of Solomon: Such is the end of all who go after ill-gotten gain; it takes away the lives of those who get it.

  It was a long walk back to his rooms, and Shannow could feel the eyes of many on him as he strode along the dusty street. The former riders were now grouped around the eating house, but they did not speak as he passed. Clem Steiner was waiting inside the Traveler’s Rest; the young man rose as he entered.

  “I knew,” he said. “Something told me you were a fighter when I first seen you sitting in the long bar. What is your name, friend?”

  “Shannow.”

  “I should have guessed it: the Jerusalem Man. You’re a long way from home, Shannow. Who sent for you? Brisley? Fenner?”

  “No one sent for me, Steiner. I ride where I please.”

  “You realize we may have to go up against one another?”

  Shannow stared at the young man for several seconds. “That would not be advisable,” he said softly.

  “Damn right there. You’d better remember that. Meneer Scayse would like a few words with you, Shannow. He’s in the long bar.”

  Shannow turned away and made for the stairs.

  “You hear what I said?” Steiner called, but Shannow ignored him and climbed to his room. He poured himself a cup of water from a stone jug and sat down to wait in a chair by the window.

  Edric Scayse stepped from the long bar. “He’s gone, Mr. Scayse,” said Steiner. “Want me to fetch him back?”

  “No. Wait here for me.”

  He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, his raven-black hair cut short and swept back over his head without a part. Clean-shaven, his face was strong and angular, the dark eyes deep-set, and he moved with smooth assurance. Reaching the door of Shannow’s room, he knocked once.

  “Come in. It is open,” came a voice from within.

  Scayse stepped inside. His eyes fastened on the man sitting in the chair by the window, and he reevaluated his plan. He had intended to offer Shannow employment, but this was now an option that would serve only to make the man before him more of an enemy.

  “May I sit, Mr. Shannow?”

  “I thought the term was Meneer in this part of the country.”

  “I am not from this part of the country.” He walked to the chair opposite the Jerusalem Man and lowered himself into it.

  “What is it that you want, Mr. Scayse?”

  “Merely to apologize, sir. The man who stole your horse worked for me. He was a hotheaded youngster. I wished to assure you that there will be no revenge attacks. I have made that clear to all my riders.”

  Shannow shrugged, but his expression did not change. “And?”

  Scayse felt a flicker of anger but suppressed it, forcing a smile instead. “There is no ‘and.’ It is merely a call of courtesy, sir. Do you intend staying long in Pilgrim’s Valley?”

  “No. It is my intention to ride farther south.”

  “To seek the wonders in the sky, no doubt. I envy you that. It will be at least three months before I have assembled a force to cross the wall.”

  “A force? For what purpose?” asked Shannow.

  “Out of his mouth comes a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations,” quoted Scayse. “He will rule them with an iron scepter.”

  He watched Shannow’s expression change from open hostility to wariness.

  “So you read your Scripture, sir. But what does it mean to you?”

  Scayse leaned forward, pressing home his advantage. “I have gathered information about the land beyond the wall and the wonders there. There are great signs in the sky. Of this there is no doubt. There is a shining sword surrounded by stars and crosses, and upon the sword is a name that no one can read. Exactly as the Scripture says. What is more, the land is peopled by beasts who walk like men and worship a dark goddess—a witch who performs obscene rites among them. Or as the Scripture has it, Mr. Shannow: ‘There I saw a woman sitting on a scarlet beast that was covered with blasphemous names.’ Or there again: ‘The Beast I saw resembled a leopard, but had feet like those of a bear and a mouth like that of a lion.’ All these things are beyond the wall, Mr. Shannow. I intend to go there and find the Sword of God.”

  “And for this you gather brigands and pistoleer
s?”

  “You would have me take farmers and teachers?”

  Shannow stood and moved to the window. “I am no debater, sir. Nor am I a judge.” Behind him Scayse masked a smile of triumph and remained silent. Shannow turned, his pale eyes fixing on Scayse. “But neither am I a fool, Mr. Scayse. You are a man who seeks power—domination over your fellows. You are not a seeker after truth. Down there your men are feared. But that is no business of mine.”

  “You are correct, Mr. Shannow, when you talk of the pursuit of power. But that is not an evil thing in itself, surely. Was not David the son of a farmer, and did he not rise to be king over Israel? Was not Moses the child of a slave? God gives a man talents, and therefore it is right that he should use them. I am no willful murderer or brigand. My men may be boisterous and rough, but they pay for their wares and treat the folk of this community with respect. Not one of them has been found guilty of murder or rape, and those who have been caught stealing have been dealt with by me. There will always be rulers, Mr. Shannow. It is not a sin to become one.”

  Shannow returned to his chair and poured a mug of water, which he offered to Scayse, who refused it with a smile. “As I said, I am no judge. I will not be in this community for long. But I have seen other such communities. The violence will grow, and there will be many more deaths unless order is established. Why is it, sir, that with your quest for power you have not established such order?”

  “Because I am not a tyrant, Mr. Shannow. The gambling places in the eastern sector are not under my jurisdiction. I have a large farm and several herds of dairy and beef cattle, and I own the largest silver mine. My lands are patrolled by my men, but the town itself—though I have interests here—is not my concern.”

  Shannow nodded. “Did you find anything of interest in the wreck of the ship?”

  Scayse chuckled. “I heard about your … altercation. Yes, I did, Mr. Shannow. There were some gold bars and several interesting pieces of silver plate. But nothing as grand as you saw on the Titanic.”

  Shannow betrayed no surprise; he merely nodded, and Scayse went on: “Yes, I have seen the Titanic. I know of the Sipstrassi Demon Stone that resurrected it and of your battle with Sarento. I also am no fool, sir. I know that the world of the past contained wonders beyond our imaginings and that they are lost to us, perhaps forever. But this new world has power also. And I will find it beyond the wall.”

  “The Demon Stone was destroyed,” said Shannow. “If you know of Sarento, you know of his evil and of the Hellborn War he caused. Such power is not suited to men.”

  Scayse rose. “I have been honest with you, Mr. Shannow, because I respect you. I do not seek a confrontation with you. Do not misunderstand me; I do not speak from fear. But I want no unnecessary enemies. Sipstrassi is merely a power source, not unlike the guns you wear. In evil hands it will create evil. But I am not an evil man. Good day to you.”

  Scayse moved back into the hallway and continued down the stairs to where Steiner waited.

  “You want me to take him out, Mr. Scayse?”

  “Stay away from him, Clem. That man would kill you.”

  “Is that a joke, Mr. Scayse? There’s no one could take me with a pistol.”

  “I didn’t say he could beat you, Clem. I said he would kill you.”

  13

  FOR TWO LONG, hot days Nu-Khasisatra walked across the Great Wide. The mountains seemed no closer, but his strength was ebbing. As a shipbuilder and a craftsman he had long been proud of the enormous strength he could bring to bear, lifting great weights of wood or stone. But this seemingly endless walk called not for strength but for stamina, and on that count Nu realized he was lacking. He sat down in the shade of a shallow gully and took the Sipstrassi Stone from the deep pocket of his coat. He was loath to use its power, not knowing how much was left or how much was needed to allow him to return home to Pashad and his children. Unlike many from the city of Ad, Nu had taken only one wife, the daughter of Axin the sailmaker. He had loved her from the first moment their hands had touched, and he loved her still. There was little strength in Pashad, fragile as a spring flower, but there was a well of giving in her without which Nu felt lost.

  The last time Nu had been in possession of Sipstrassi, it had been a fragment, a sliver no bigger than a torn fingernail. Its power had been used up in a day, fueling his strength, forcing back the awesome power of time, turning his graying hair black, and filling his muscles with the strength of youth. But what he held now was twenty times larger, the gold veins thick and pulsing with power.

  Nu had escaped the Daggers, but he had not journeyed to Balacris. He had come to some foreign land far across the sea where men wore strange raiment. Use your mind, you fool! he told himself. How can you return home unless you first know from where you are starting? According to legend, the Elder priests had used Sipstrassi to free their spirits to fly the universe. If they could do it, so could Nu-Khasisatra. He moved to his knees and prayed to the Great One, using ten of the thousand names known to man; then he gripped the stone tightly and pictured himself rising through the gathering clouds above. His mind swam, and he felt suddenly free, like a ship whose anchor had fallen away. Opening his eyes, he found himself staring down at a white wilderness of mountains and valleys with not a trace of life. Above him the sky was blue and clear, but the landscape below was ghostly and silent. Fear swept through him. Where had he flown? He dropped toward the snow-covered world … and passed into the clouds.

  For a time he was blind; then he broke through the gray-white mist and saw the land far below, green and lush, sectioned by snow-topped mountains and ribbon rivers, great valleys and dales, forests and plains. He scanned the horizon for signs of life, for cities or towns, but there was nothing save the vastness of nature. Nu’s spirit swooped closer to the plain. Now he could see his own tiny figure in the gully below and, some miles to the west, a camp of wagons with white canvas covers and oxen feeding on the hillside.

  He ventured farther, over the mountains, and saw an ugly township with squat wooden buildings and a large gathering of people in a meadow. Passing over them, he continued south. A great wall, similar in structure to the seawall at Ad, met his eyes, and he dropped toward it. The stones were hewn in the same way, but they were far older than Pendarric’s Wall. He moved on, wondering how a nation that could erect such a wall could have regressed to creating such hideous buildings as he had seen in the small town. Then he saw the city—and his heart sank.

  There was the domed palace, the marble terraces, the long statue-lined Road of Kings—and to the south the curving line of the dock. But beyond it there was no glittering ocean, only fields and meadows. Nu hovered, scanning the people strolling the streets. Everything was as he remembered, yet nothing was the same. He sped to the temple and halted by the statue of Derarch the Prophet. The prophet’s face was worn away, the holy scrolls in his hands reduced to no more than white sticks.

  Shaken beyond endurance, Nu fled back to the sky.

  What he had seen was like a vision from the fires of Belial.

  And he knew the truth. This was not some strange, distant land; this was home, the city of Ad. He recalled his vision of the sea roaring up and the three suns in the sky. This was the world of the future.

  He returned to his body and wept for all that had been lost: for Pashad and his sons, for Bali and his friends, and for all the people of a world soon to die … a world that had already died.

  Nu-Khasisatra wept for Atlantis.

  At last his tears dried, and he lay back against a rock, his body aching, his heart heavy. What point was there in his warnings to the people? Why had the Lord Chronos used him if there was no hope?

  No hope? You of all men should know the folly of that thought.

  His first ship had been caught in a terrible storm. All his money had been tied into the venture and more. He had borrowed heavily, pushing himself and his family into awesome debt. As the voyage had been nearing completion with the cargo secure in the ho
ld and his fortune assured, the winds had turned foul, the sea had roared; great waves had pummeled the vessel, hurling it toward the black cliffs poised like a hammer above them.

  Most of his crew members had panicked, flinging themselves over the side and risking almost certain death in the raging sea. Not so Nu-Khasisatra. Holding on to the tiller, straining with all the power in his formidable frame, he had locked his gaze to the black monstrosity looming over him. At first there had been no response, but then the sleek craft had begun to turn. Nu’s muscles had been stretched to the tearing point, but his ship had missed the cliff and raced on toward the peril of a hidden reef.

  Only three of thirty crew members remained with him, and they clung to the timbers, unable to aid their master for fear of being washed overboard.

  “The anchor!” yelled Nu into the teeth of the storm. Salt spray lashed his face, hurling the words back at him. Lifting one arm from the tiller, he pointed at the rope brake by the iron anchor, and one of his crewmen began to haul himself back to the stern. A huge wave hit him, and he lost hold; his body slid down the deck. Nu released the tiller and dived for the man, catching his tunic just as he was about to topple over the side. Clamping his right hand to a stay, Nu hauled the seaman to safety. The ship sped toward the reefs hidden like the fangs of a monster below the foaming waves. Nu staggered upright and forced a path to the tiller. The seaman struggled with the anchor brake. Suddenly it gave, and the iron weight hissed over the side.