Bloodstone

My thanks to my editors John Jarrold at Random and Stella Graham in Hastings and to my copy editor Jean Maund and test reader Val Gemmell. I am also grateful for the help so freely offered by fellow writers Alan Fisher and Peter Ling. And to the many fans who have written during the years demanding more tales of Jon Shannow—my thanks!

I
HAVE SEEN
the fall of worlds and the death of nations. From a place in the clouds I watched the colossal tidal wave sweep toward the coastline, swallowing the cities, drowning the multitudes.

The day was calm at first, but I knew what was to be. The city by the sea was awakening, its roads choked with vehicles, its sidewalks full, the veins of its subways clotted with humanity.

The last day was painful, for we had a congregation I had grown to love, peopled with godly folk, warmhearted and generous. It is hard to look down upon a sea of such faces and know that within a day they will be standing before their maker.

So I felt a great sadness as I walked across to the silver and blue craft that would carry us high toward the future. The sun was setting in glory as we waited for takeoff. I buckled the seat belt and took out my Bible. There was no solace to be found.

Saul was sitting beside me, gazing from the window. “A beautiful evening, Deacon,” he said.

Indeed it was. But the winds of change were already stirring.

We rose smoothly into the air, the pilot informing us that the weather was changing for the worse but that we would reach the Bahamas before the storm. I knew this would not be so.

Higher and higher we flew, and it was Saul who first saw the portent.

“How strange,” he said, tapping my arm. “The sun appears to be rising again.”

“This is the last day, Saul,” I told him.

Glancing down, I saw that he had unfastened his seat belt. I told him to buckle it. He had just done so when the first of those terrible winds struck the plane, almost flipping it. Cups, books, trays, bags all flew into the air, and there were screams of terror from our fellow passengers.

Saul’s eyes were squeezed shut in prayer, but I was calm. I leaned to my right and stared from the window. The great wave had lifted and was hurtling toward the coast.

I thought of the people of the city. There were those who were even now merely observing what they saw to be a miracle, the setting sun rising again. They would smile, perhaps, or clap their hands in wonder. Then their eyes would be drawn to the horizon. At first they would assume that a low thundercloud was darkening the sky. But soon would come the terrible realization that the sea had risen to meet the sky and was bearing down on them in a seething wall of death.

I turned my eyes away. The plane shuddered, then rose and fell, twisting and helpless against the awesome power of the winds. All the passengers believed that death would soon follow. Except me. I knew.

I took one last glance from the window. The city looked so small now, its mighty towers seemingly no longer than a child’s finger. Lights shone at the windows of the towers; cars still thronged the freeways.

And then they were gone.

Saul opened his eyes, and his terror was very great. “What is happening, Deacon?”

“The end of the world, Saul.”

“Are we to die?”

“No. Not yet. Soon you will see what the Lord has planned for us.”

Like a straw in a hurricane the plane hurtled through the sky.

And then the colors came, vivid reds and purples washing over the fuselage, masking the windows. As if we had been swallowed by a rainbow. Then they were gone. Four seconds,
perhaps. Yet in those four seconds I alone knew that several hundred years had passed.

“It has begun, Saul,” I said.

1

T
HE PAIN WAS
too great to ignore, and nausea threatened to swamp him as he rode, but the Preacher clung to the saddle and steered the stallion up toward the Gap. The full moon was high in the clear sky, the distant mountain peaks sharp and glistening white against the skyline. The sleeve of the rider’s black coat was still smoldering, and a gust of wind brought a tongue of flame. Fresh pain seared him, and he beat at the cloth with a smoke-blackened hand.

Where are they now? he thought, pale eyes scanning the moonlit mountains and the lower passes. His mouth was dry, and he reined in the stallion. A canteen hung from the pommel, and the Preacher hefted it, unscrewing the brass cap. Lifting it to his lips, he found that it was filled not with water but with a fiery spirit. He spit it out and hurled the canteen away.

Cowards! They needed the dark inspiration of alcohol to aid them on their road to murder. His anger flared, momentarily masking the pain. Far down the mountain, emerging from the timberline, he saw a group of riders. His eyes narrowed. Five men. In the clear air of the mountains he heard the distant sound of laughter.

The rider groaned and swayed in the saddle, the pounding in his temple increasing. He touched the wound on the right side of his head. The blood was congealing, but there was a groove in the skull where the bullet had struck, and the flesh around it was hot and swollen.

He felt consciousness slipping from him but fought back, using the power of his rage.

Tugging the reins, he guided the stallion up through the Gap, then angled it to the right, down the long wooded slope toward the road. The slope was treacherous, and the stallion slipped twice, dropping to its haunches. But the rider kept the animal’s head up, and it righted itself, coming at last to level ground and the hard-packed earth of the trade road.

The Preacher halted his mount, then looped the reins around the pommel and drew his pistols. Both were long-barreled, the cylinders engraved with swirls of silver. He shivered and saw that his hands were trembling. How long had it been since those weapons of death had last been in use? Fifteen years? Twenty?
I swore never to use them again. Never to take another life,

And you were a fool!

Love your enemy. Do good to him that hates you.

And see your loved ones slain.

If he strikes you upon the right cheek, offer him the left.

And see your loved ones burn.

He saw again the roaring flames, heard the screams of the terrified and the dying … Nasha running for the blazing door as the roof timbers cracked and fell on her, Dova kneeling beside the body of her husband, Nolis, her fur ablaze, pulling open the burning door, only to be shot to ribbons by the jeering, drunken men outside …