Bloodstone (15 page)

She rose and walked to the door, watching him gather his guns from the hook and stroll to the paddock. And, not for the first time, she wondered who he was. Turning back into the house, she extinguished one of the lamps. Oil was short now, and soon she would have to ride into Domango for supplies. There had been a time when the farm had supported three hired men, when cattle had roamed in the pasturelands to the south. But those days were gone, just like the cattle. Now Zerah Wheeler survived by growing vegetables in the plot out back and by breeding a few pigs and many chickens.

Twice a year Padlock would visit, arriving in a wagon laden with boxes, tins of peaches canned in Unity, sacks of flour, salt and sugar, and—most precious of all—books. Most of them were Bible studies printed by the Deacon Press, but occasionally there were gems from the old world. One she had read a score of times, savoring every sentence over and over. It was the first part of a trilogy. Pad had not realized that when he had bought it for her; to him it was just an antique tome his mother might enjoy. And she had. At first she had been irritated by the fact that there was no record of any of the other books in the series. But during the last seven years she had thought and thought about the story, inventing her own endings, and this had given her immense pleasure in the long, lonely evenings.

She heard the soft sounds of sobbing begin in the bedroom and walked swiftly through to sit on the bed alongside the little girl. Esther was crying in her sleep. “Hush now, child; all is safe. All is well,” she crooned, stroking the child’s auburn
hair. “All is safe, all is well,” Esther murmured, then began sucking her thumb. Zerah was not a great believer in thumb sucking, but there was a time and a place for admonishments, and this was not it.

“Always wanted a girl-child,” whispered Zerah, still stroking the child’s head. Then she saw that Oswald was awake, his eyes wide and fearful. “Come join me for a glass of milk,” she said. “Always have one before sleeping. Move soft, now, so as not to wake little Esther.”

Oswald padded out after her. He was a strongly built boy, reminding her of Seth, with serious eyes and a good jaw. Pouring two glasses from the stone jug, she passed one to Oswald, who hunkered down by the dying fire.

“Having trouble sleeping, boy?”

He nodded. “I dreamed of Poppa. He was walking around the house calling for us. But he was all covered with blood, and his face wasn’t there anymore.”

“You’ve seen some hard, hard times, Oz. But you’re safe here.”

“They’ll come for us. You won’t be able to stop them.”

Zerah forced a chuckle. “Me and Betty will stop them, Oz. Count on it.” She walked to the fire and lifted the long rifle from its rack. “She fires four shots, and every shell is thicker than your thumb. And I’ll tell you a little secret: I ain’t missed with this gun for nigh on seventeen years.”

“There was more than four of them,” said Oz.

“I’m glad you mentioned that, Oz,” she said, laying aside the rifle and moving to a handsomely carved chest of drawers. From it she produced a small nickel-plated revolver and a box of shells. “This here pistol belonged to my son, Zak. She’s small, but she’s got stopping power. It was made by the Hellborn thirty years ago.” Flipping open the breech, she put the pistol on half cock, freeing the cylinder, and fed in five shells, lowering the hammer on the empty chamber. “I’m giving this to you, Oz. It is not to play with. This is a gun. It will kill people. You fool with it and it’s likely to kill you or your sister. Are you man enough to deal with that?”

“Yes, Frey Wheeler. I am man enough.”

“I didn’t doubt it. Now between us, Oz, we’re going to look after little Esther. And we’re going to see justice done. My man, Jon, is riding now to Domango to report the …” She hesitated as she saw the look of anguish in his eyes. “To report the crime to the Crusaders.”

Oswald’s face twisted then, and his eyes shone. “The man who first shot Poppa
was
a Crusader,” he said.

Zerah’s heart sank, but she kept her expression neutral. “We’ll work things out, Oz; you see if we don’t. Now you best get back to bed. I’ll need you fresh and clear of eye in the morning. Put the pistol by your bedside.”

The boy padded off, and Zerah returned to the chest of drawers. From the third drawer she pulled a scabbard and belt, then a short-barreled pistol. For some time she cleaned the weapon. Then she loaded it.

Despite the dangers, Shannow loved night riding. The air was crisp and clean, and the world slept. Moonlight gave the trees a shimmering quality, and every rock glistened with silver. He rode slowly, allowing the horse to pick its way carefully over the trail.

The loss of memory no longer caused him irritation. It would come back or it would not. What did concern him were the problems such a loss could cause the Jerusalem Man. If his worst enemy of the last twenty years were to ride up in plain sight, Shannow feared he would not recognize the danger.

Then there was the question of aging. According to Jeremiah, the Jerusalem Man had ridden through the Plague Lands twenty years before and had then been a man in his late thirties or early forties. That would make him around sixty now. Yet his hair was still dark, his skin virtually unlined.

He rode for almost three hours, then made camp in a hollow. There was no water nearby, and Shannow did not bother with a fire but sat with his back to a tree, his blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The head wound gave him no pain now, but the scab itched.

Sitting in the moonlight, he traced over his life in his mind,
piecing together tiny fragments as they came to him.
I am Jon Shannow.

Then a face leapt to his memory, a thin, angular face with deep brooding eyes. A name came with it: Varey. Varey Shannow. Like a key slipping sweetly into a lock, he saw again the brigand slayer who had taken the young man under his wing.
I took his name when he was murdered.
And his own name slipped into his mind: Cade. Jon Cade. The name settled on his mind like water on a parched tongue.

The world had gone mad, with preachers everywhere talking of Armageddon. But if Armageddon was true, then the New Jerusalem would exist somewhere. The new Jon Shannow had set out to find it. The journey had been long, with many perils. Varey Shannow had taught him never to back away from evil:

“
Confront it wherever you find it, Jon. For it will thrive when men cease to fight it.
”

Shannow closed his eyes and remembered the conversations around many campfires. “
You are a strong man, Jon, and you have tremendous hand-eye coordination. You have speed, and yet you are cool under fire. Use those skills, Jon. This land is full of brigands, men who would lie, steal, and kill for gain. They must be fought, for they are evil.
” Shannow smiled at the memory. “
It used to be said that you can’t stop a man who keeps on going and knows he’s right. It just ain’t true, Jon. A bullet will stop any man. But that’s not the point. Winning is not the point. If a man only fought when he believed there was a chance to win, then evil would beat him every time. The brigand relies on the fact that when he rides in with his men, all armed to the teeth, the victim will—realizing he has no chance—just give in. Trust me, Jon, that’s the moment to walk out with guns blazing.
”

Just before the fateful day, as the two men had ridden into the small town, Varey Shannow had turned to the youngster beside him. “
Men will say many things about me when I’m gone. They could say I got angry too fast. They could say I wasn’t none too bright. They’ll certainly say that I was an ugly cuss. But no man ever will be able to say that I abused a
woman, stole or lied, or backed down in the face of evil. Ain’t too bad an epitaph, is it, Jon?
”

Varey Shannow had been cut down in his prime, backshot by villains who had feared he was hunting them.

Jon Shannow opened his eyes and gazed up at the stars. “You were a good man, Varey,” he said.

“Talking to yourself is a sure sign of madness, they say,” said Jake, “and I hope you don’t fire that pistol.” Shannow eased back the hammer and holstered the gun. At the first sound he had drawn and cocked the weapon in one swift, fluid move. Despite the speed of his response, he was nettled by the old man’s silent approach.

“A man could be killed approaching a camp that way,” he said.

“True, boy, but I reckoned you weren’t the type to shoot before looking.” Jake moved opposite Shannow and hunkered down. “Cold camp. You expecting trouble?”

“Trouble has a way of happening when you least expect it,” said Shannow.

“Ain’t it the truth.” The old man’s beard was shining silver in the moonlight. Shucking off his sheepskin topcoat, he gave a low whistle, and his mule came trotting into the camp. Swiftly Jake removed the saddle and blanket roll, then patted the beast’s rump. The mule moved out to stand alongside Shannow’s horse. “She’s an obedient girl,” Jake said fondly.

“How did you find me?”

“I didn’t. The mule must have picked up the scent of your stallion. You heading for Domango?”

Shannow nodded but said nothing.

“A sight of activity there in the last few days,” continued Jake. “Riders coming in from all over. Tough men, by the look of them. Ever heard of Jacob Moon?”

“No.”

“Jerusalem Rider. Killed fourteen men that I heard of. Can you guess who he’s asking about?”

“Who are you, Jake?” countered Shannow.

“Just an old man, Son. Nothing special. I take it you aren’t interested in Moon.”

“At the moment I’m more interested in you. Where are you from?”

Jake chuckled. “Here and there. Mostly there. I’ve been over the mountain a few times. You think I’m hunting you?”

Shannow shook his head. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But you are hunting something, Jake.”

“Nothing that need worry you, Son.” Shaking loose his blanket, Jake wrapped it around his shoulders and stretched out on the earth. “By the way, those Wanderers you helped—they’re on the way to Domango, too. You’ll probably see them.”

“You do get around, old man,” said Shannow, closing his eyes.

Shannow awoke with the dawn to find that the old man had gone. He sat up and yawned. He had never known anyone who could move as quietly as Jake. Saddling his horse, he rode out onto a broad plain. There were ruins to his left—huge pillars of stone, shattered and fallen—and the horse’s hooves clattered in the remains of a wide stone road. The city must have been vast, Shannow considered, stretching for several miles to the west.

He had seen many such on his travels, cold stone epitaphs to the glory that once had been Atlantis.

Another memory came to him then, of a man with a golden beard and eyes the color of a clear summer sky.

Pendarric. The king.

And he recalled with great clarity the day when the Sword of God had torn across the curtain of time. Reining in his horse, he gazed with fresh eyes on the ruins.

“I destroyed you,” he said aloud.

Time’s portals had been opened by Pendarric, the ruler of Atlantis, and Shannow had closed them by sending a missile through the gateway. The world had toppled, tidal waves roaring across the continent. The words of Amaziga Archer floated up from the hidden depths.

“
You are not the Jerusalem Man any longer, Shannow. You’re the Armageddon Man!
”

Shannow turned his back on the ancient city and headed southwest. It was not long before he saw the Hankin house. There was no body outside, but there was fresh blood on the dust of the yard. As he rode in, a tall man with a sandy beard came walking from the house, a rifle cradled in his arms.

“What do you want here?” he asked.

“Nothing, friend. I am on my way to Domango and thought I’d stop for a little water, if it is not inconvenient to you.” Shannow could not see the second man at the window, but he saw a rifle barrel showing at the edge of the curtain.

“Well, be quick about it. We don’t like Movers here.”

“Is that so? When last I stopped here, there was a man with two children. Has he moved on?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he said at last. “He moved on.”

“Do you own the property now?”

“No, I just been told to watch over it. Now get your drink and be gone.”

Shannow dismounted and led his horse to a trough by the well. Loosening the saddle girth, he wandered back to where the man stood. “It is a fine place,” he said. “A man could raise a family here and never tire of looking at the mountains.”

The sandy-haired rifleman hawked and spit. “One place is pretty much like another.”

“So where did he move on to … my friend with his children?” asked Shannow.

“I don’t know anything about it,” said the rifleman, growing more uneasy.

Shannow glanced down at the dust and the stains that peppered the ground.

“Slaughtered a pig,” said the man swiftly. The second man moved from the house. He was powerfully built, with a bulllike neck and massive shoulders.

“Who the hell is he, Ben?” asked the newcomer, his right hand resting on the butt of his scabbarded pistol.

“Stranger riding for Domango. He’s just watering his horse.”

“Well, you’ve done that,” he told Shannow. “Now be on your way.”

Shannow stood silently for a moment, holding back his anger. There was no movement in the house, and he guessed that these two men alone had been left to guard the property. All his life he had known such men: hard, cruel killers with no understanding of love or compassion. “Were either of you party to the murder?” he asked softly.

“What?” responded the rifleman, eyes widening. The big-shouldered man took a step back and made a grab for his pistol. Shannow shot him in the head; he stood for a moment, eyes wide in shock, then toppled to the bloodstained earth. The Jerusalem Man’s pistol swung, the black eye of the barrel halting directly before the other man’s face.

“Jesus Christ!” said the rifleman, dropping his weapon and raising his hands.

“Answer the question,” said Shannow. “Were you party to the murder of Meneer Hankin?”

“No … I never shot him, I swear to God. It was the others.”