Bloodstone (22 page)

“And I’m supposed to understand that?” stormed Nestor. “All I know is that all my life I’ve been taught to believe something that was just made up by men. And I don’t intend to be fooled again. Not by the Deacon and not by you. Tomorrow I head for home. You can go to hell in a bucket!”

Nestor lay down, turning his back on the fire. Clem felt old and tired and decided to let the matter rest. The next day they would talk again.

Your kind never will!

The boy was sharp, no doubt about that. Over the years Clem had gathered a band of robbers to him, and their raids had been daring and brilliantly executed. Exciting times! Yet men had been killed or crippled, good men for the most part. Clem remembered the first of them, a young payroll guard who against all odds had refused to lay down his rifle. Instead he had fired a shot that had clipped the top of Clem’s shoulder and killed the man behind him. The guard had gone down in a
volley of fire. One shot had come from Clem’s gun. The young man haunted him now; he was only doing his duty, earning an honest day’s pay.

Your kind never will!

Clem sighed. You want to know
my kind
, boy? Weak men governed by their desires yet without the strength of purpose to work for them.

When the ambush had come, the bullets ripping into the gang, Clem had spurred his horse over a high cliff face and fallen a hundred feet into a raging torrent. He had survived, whereas all his men had died. With nowhere to go he had headed back to Pilgrim’s Valley, where any who remembered him would recall a gallant young man by the name of Clem Steiner, not a brigand who rode under the name Laton Duke. By what right do you preach to this boy? he wondered. How could you tell him to live his life the way he thinks is right? When did you do that, Clem?

And what had the stolen money bought him? A fine red waistcoat and a nickel-plated pistol, several hundred faceless whores in scores of nameless towns. Oh, yes, Clem, you’re a fine teacher!

Picking up a handful of twigs, he leaned toward the fire. The ground trembled, the little blaze spitting cinders into the air. The hobbled horses whinnied in fear, and a boulder was dislodged from the slopes above them, rolling and bouncing down into the valley below. Nestor came to his knees and tried to stand, but the ground shifted under his feet, hurling him off balance. A bright light shone on the hollow. Clem glanced up. Two moons hung in the sky, one full and the other like a crescent. Nestor saw it, too.

A jagged rip tore across a narrow hillside, swallowing trees. Then the full moon faded from sight, and an eerie silence settled on the land.

“What’s happening?” asked Nestor.

Clem sat back, the fire forgotten. All he could think of was the last time he had seen such a vision and felt the earth tremble beneath him, when the terror of the lizard warriors had been unleashed on the land.

Nestor scrambled across to him, grabbing his arm. “What’s happening?” he asked again.

“Someone just opened a door,” Clem said softly.

8

S
HANNOW AWOKE EARLY
and looked for his clothes. They were gone, but in their place he found a pair of black trousers of heavy twill and a thick woolen cream-colored shirt. His own boots were beside them. Dressing swiftly, he swung his guns around his hips and walked through to the main room. Amaziga was not there, but the machine had been switched on, with the calm, handsome face of the redheaded Lucas pictured on the screen.

“Good morning,” said the face. “Amaziga has driven into town to fetch some supplies. She should be back within the hour. There is coffee, should you desire it, or some cereal.” Shannow glanced suspiciously at the coffee maker and decided to wait.

“Would you care to listen to music?” asked Lucas. “I have over four thousand melodies on hand.”

“No, thank you.” Shannow sat down in a wide leather chair. “It is cold in here,” he said.

“I’ll adjust the AC,” said Lucas. The soft whirring ceased, and within moments the room began to feel warmer. “Are you comfortable with me here?” asked Lucas. “I can remove this visual and leave the screen blank if you prefer. It does not matter to me. Amaziga created it and finds it comforting, but I can understand how disconcerting it might be to a man from another time.”

“Yes,” agreed Shannow, “it is disconcerting. Are you a ghost?”

“An interesting question. The man from whom my memory and thought patterns were duplicated is now dead. I am therefore a copy, if you like, of his innermost being and one which can be seen though not touched. I would think my credentials as a ghost would be quite considerable. But since we coexisted, he and I, I am therefore more like a cerebral twin.”

Shannow smiled. “If you want me to understand you, Lucas, you’ll have to speak more slowly. Tell me, are you content?”

“Contentment is a word I can describe, but that does not necessarily mean that I understand it. I have no sense of discontent. The memories of Lucas the man contain many examples of his discontent, but they do not touch me as I summon them. I think that Amaziga would be better equipped to answer such questions. It was she who created me. I believe she chose to limit the input, eliminating unnecessary emotional concepts. Love, hate, testosteronal drives, fears, jealousies, pride, anger—these things are neither helpful nor useful in a machine. You understand?”

“I believe that I do,” Shannow told him. “Tell me of the Bloodstone and the world we are to enter.”

“What would you wish to know?”

“Start at the beginning. I usually find I can follow stories better that way.”

“The beginning? Very well. In your own world you fought the Guardian leader Sarento many years ago, destroying him in the catacombs beneath the mountains which held the broken ship. In the world to which Amaziga will take you
there was no Jon Shannow. Sarento ruled, but then he was struck down with a crippling and terminal illness. Having corrupted the Sipstrassi boulder, creating a giant Bloodstone, he could no longer rely on its powers to heal him. He searched everywhere for a pure stone that could take away the cancer. Time was against him, and in desperation he turned to the Bloodstone; it could not heal, but it could reshape. He drew its power into himself, merging with the stone, if you will. The energy flowed through his veins, changing him. His skin turned red, streaked with black veins. His power grew. The cancer shriveled and died. There was no going back; the change was irrevocable. He could no longer take in food and drink; all that could feed him was contained in blood: the life force of living creatures. He hungered for it, lusted for it. The Guardians saw what he had become and turned against him, but he destroyed them, for he was now a living Bloodstone with immense power. With the Guardians slain or fled, he needed to feed and journeyed to the lands of the Hellborn. You know their beliefs, Mr. Shannow. They worship the Devil. What better Devil could they find? He strode into Babylon and took the throne from Abaddon. And he fed. How he fed! Are you a student of ancient history, Mr. Shannow?”

“No.”

“But you know your Bible?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Then you will recall the tales of Molech, the god fed by souls upon the fire. Citizens of cities where Molech was worshiped would carry their firstborn children to furnaces and hurl them alive into the searing depths. All for Molech. The Hellborn do that for Sarento, though there are no flames. The children are slaughtered, and at first Sarento would bathe in the blood of victims. Every citizen carried a small Bloodstone—a demonseed. These are corrupted Sipstrassi Stones, the pure power long used up. They are fed with blood and thereby acquire a different kind of power. They can no longer heal wounds or create food. Instead they give great strength and speed to their bearers while feeding the baser human instincts.
An angry man in possession of a Bloodstone becomes furious and psychopathic. Honest desire becomes lustful need. They are foul creations. Yet with them Sarento can control the people, swelling their lusts and desires, reducing their capacity for compassion and love. He rules a nation founded on hatred and selfishness.
Do as thou wilt is the whole of the law
. But his need for blood grows daily. Hence the war, where his legions sweep across the land. And before them go the Devourers. He has mutated the Wolvers, making them larger, more ferocious, huge beasts that move with great speed and kill without pity. He no longer needs to bathe in blood, Mr. Shannow. Every time a Devourer feeds, it swells a Bloodstone embedded in its skull. This transmits power to Sarento, the ultimate Bloodstone.

“Samuel Archer is—at the point where you will enter the story—one of the few rebels still alive. But he and his people are trapped in the high country, surrounded. Soon the Devourers will stalk them.”

Shannow stood and stretched his back. “Last night you and Amaziga spoke of probabilities. Would you explain them to me in a way that I might understand?”

“I hardly think so, yet I will try. It is a question of mathematics. There are doorways we can use to cross what has been believed to be the thresholds of time. But it is not really time we cross. There are millions of worlds. An infinite number. In the world of the Bloodstone no one yet knows of the gateways. By opening one, therefore, we increase the mathematical possibilities that our actions will alert the Bloodstone to their existence. You follow?”

“So far.”

“So then, by rescuing Sam Archer, we risk the Bloodstone finding other worlds. And that would be a disaster of colossal proportions. Do you know anything about hummingbirds, Mr. Shannow?”

“They’re small,” said the Jerusalem Man.

“Yes,” agreed the machine. “They are small, and their metabolism works at an astonishing rate. The smallest weighs less than a tenth of an ounce. They have the highest energy
output per body weight of any warm-blooded animal, and to survive they must consume half their body weight in nectar every day. Sixty meals a day, Mr. Shannow, just to survive. The need for a plentiful supply of food makes them extraordinarily aggressive in defending their areas. The Bloodstone is identical. It needs to feed; it
lives
to feed. Every second of its existence it suffers enormous pangs of hunger. And it is insatiable, Mr. Shannow. Insatiable and ultimately unstoppable. Any world it finds it will ultimately devour.”

“You do not think that saving Sam is a risk worth taking,” observed Shannow.

“No, I do not. And neither do you. Amaziga points out that Sarento is a man with high intelligence and that intelligence is now boosted by corrupted Sipstrassi power. She maintains, perhaps rightly, that he will discover the gateways regardless of any action on our part. Therefore, she is adamant that the quest will continue. But I fear she is guided by emotion, not by reason. Why are you helping her?”

“She would go without me. It may be arrogance on my part, but I believe she will have a better chance of success with me. When do we set out?”

“As soon as Amaziga returns. Are your pistols fully loaded?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I fear they will need to be.”

The roar of angry lions came from outside, and Shannow moved from the chair, his right-hand pistol pointing toward the door. “It is only Amaziga,” said Lucas, but the Jerusalem Man was already moving out onto the porch. There he saw the bright-red four-wheeled carriage swing from the dirt track to draw up outside the house in a trail of dust and noise. The noise subsided, then died.

Amaziga pushed open a side door and stepped out. “Help me with these boxes, Shannow!” she called, moving to the rear of the vehicle and opening another door. This one swung out and up, and Shannow watched her lean inside. Holstering the pistol, he walked toward her. A strange and unpleasant smell came from the vehicle, acrid and poisonous. It made his nostrils itch.