The Last Guardian (22 page)

Mason cleared his throat. “Not yet, Frey Sharazad. Would you like to wait in his rooms?”

“No. Tell him we will meet in the usual place. Tonight.” She swung on her heel and stalked from the building.

“A beautiful woman,” Shannow commented.

“She makes my hair stand on end,” said Mason, grinning. “Beats me where she comes from. She rode in yesterday on a stallion that must have been all of eighteen hands. And those clothes … that skirt is a wonder. How do they make it shine so?”

“Beats me,” said Shannow. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow. What do I owe you?”

“I told you once, Shannow, that there’s no charge. And it’ll be that way if ever you return.”

“I doubt I’ll come back, but thanks for the offer.”

“You hear about the healer? Came in with the wagons this afternoon?”

“No.”

“Seems like the Red Plague hit the convoy, and this man walked out of the wilderness with a Daniel Stone. He healed everybody. I’d like to have seen that. I’ve heard of Daniels before, but I never touched one. You?”

“I’ve seen them,” said Shannow. “What did he look like, this healer?”

“Big man with the blackest beard you ever saw. Big hands, too. Like a fighter.”

Shannow returned to his room and sat once more at the chair by the window. The golden-haired woman had been staring with naked hatred at just such a man. He shook his head.

Nothing to do with you, Shannow.

Tomorrow you put Pilgrim’s Valley far behind you.

20

S
HARAZAD
SAT
,
SEEMINGLY
alone, on a flat rock under the moonlight. The day had brought an unexpected pleasure: Nu-Khasisatra was here in this cursed land of barbarians. It had been a source of constant fury that he had escaped from Ad, and the king had been most displeased. Seven of her Daggers had been flayed and impaled, and she herself had lost ground in the king’s affections. But now—great be the glory of Belial—the shipbuilder was within her reach once more. Her mind wandered back to the man she had seen staring at her in the hovel that passed for a resting place. Something about him disturbed her. He was not handsome, nor was he ugly, but his eyes were striking. A long time before she had enjoyed a lover with just such eyes. The man had been a gladiator, a superb killer of men. Was that it? Was the barbarian a danger?

She heard the rumble of the wagon coming through the trees and wandered to the crest of the hill, gazing down at the two men who drove it. One was young and handsome, the other older and balding. She waited until they came closer, then stepped out onto the path.

The older man heaved on the reins and applied the clumsy brake. “Good evening, Frey,” he said, climbing down and stretching his back. “You sure you want to unload here?”

“Yes,” she said. “Just here. Where is Scayse?”

“He couldn’t come,” said the younger man. “I represent him. The name’s Steiner.”

What do I care what your name is? thought Sharazad. “Unload the wagon and open the first box,” she said aloud.

Steiner loosened the reins of a saddled horse that was tied to the rear of the wagon and led the beast back a few paces. Then both men struggled with the heavy boxes, manhandling them to the ground. The older man drew a hunting knife and prized open a lid. Sharazad stepped closer and leaned forward, pulling back the greased paper and lifting a short-barreled rifle clear of the box.

“Show me how it works,” she ordered.

The older man opened a packet of shells and slid two into the side gate. “They slide in here—up to ten shells; there’s a spring that keeps the pressure on. You take hold here,” he said, gripping a molded section under the barrel, “and pump once. Now there’s a shell in the breech, and the rifle is cocked. Pull the trigger and pump the action, and the spent shell is ejected and a fresh one slides home.”

“Ingenious,” admitted Sharazad. “But sadly, after this load we will need no more. We will make our own.”

“Ain’t sad to me,” said the man. “Don’t make no difference to me.”

“Ah, but it does,” she said, smiling, and she raised her hand. From the bushes all around them rose a score of Daggers, pistols in their hands.

“Sweet Jesus, what the hell are they?” the man whispered as the reptiles moved forward. At the back of the wagon Clem stood horror-struck as the demonic creatures appeared; then he backed away toward his horse.

“Kill them,” ordered Sharazad. Clem dived for the ground, rolled, and came up firing. Two of the reptiles were hurled from their feet. More gunfire shattered the night, spurts of dust spitting up around Clem’s prone body. His horse panicked and ran, but Clem dived for the saddle, grabbing the pommel as it passed. He was
half carried, half dragged into the trees, shells whistling about him.

“Find him,” ordered Sharazad, and six of the reptiles loped away into the darkness. She turned on the older man, who had stood stock-still throughout the battle. Her hand dipped into the pocket of her golden skirt, and she lifted out a small stone, dark red and veined with black.

“Do you know what this is?” she asked. He shook his head. “This is a Blood Stone. It can do amazing things, but it needs to be fed. Will you feed my Blood Stone?”

“Oh, my God,” he whispered, backing away as Sharazad drew a silver pistol and stared down at it.

“I am surprised that the greatest minds of Atlantis never discovered such a sweet toy. It is so clean, so lethal, so final.”

“Please, Frey. I have a wife … children. I never harmed you.”

“You offend me, barbarian, merely by being.” The pistol came up, and the shell hammered through his heart; he fell to his knees, then toppled to his face. She turned him over with the toe of her boot and laid the Blood Stone on his chest. The black veins dwindled to nothing.

She sat by the corpse and closed her eyes, concentrating on her victory. An image formed in her mind, and she saw Nu-Khasisatra waiting unarmed and ready to be taken. But a dark shadow stood between her and the revenge she desired. The face was blurred, but she focused her concentration and the shadow became recognizable. It was the man from the Traveler’s Rest, only now his eyes were flames and in his hands were serpents, sharp-fanged and deadly. Holding the image, she called out to her mentor, and his face appeared in her mind.

“What troubles you, Sharazad?”

“Look, lord, at the image. What does it mean?”

“The eyes of fire mean he is an implacable enemy; the
serpents show that in his hands he has power. Is that the renegade prophet behind him?”

“Yes, lord. He is here in this strange world.”

“Take him. I want him here before me. You understand, Sharazad?”

“I do, lord. But tell me, why are we no longer dealing with Scayse? I thought their guns would be of more use.”

“I have opened other gates to worlds with infinitely more power. Your barbaric kingdom offers little. You may take ten companies of Daggers if you wish and blood them on the barbarians. Yes, do it, Sharazad, if it would bring you pleasure.”

His face disappeared. Ten companies of Daggers! Never had she commanded so many. And yes, it would be good to plan a battle, to hear the thunder of gunfire, the screams of the dying. Perhaps, if she did well, she would be given a command of humans and not these disgusting scaled creatures from beyond the gates. Lost in her dreams, she ignored the sounds of distant gunfire.

Clem Steiner had been hit twice. Blood seeped from the wound in his chest, and his left leg burned as sweat mixed with the blood at the outer edges of the jagged wound. His horse had been shot from under him, but he had managed to hit at least one of the creatures giving pursuit.

What in the Devil’s name are they?

Clem hauled himself behind a rock and scrabbled farther up the wooded hillside. At first he had thought them men wearing masks, but now he was not so sure. And they were so fast … they had moved across his line of vision with a speed no human could match. Licking his lips, he held his breath, listening hard. He could hear the wind sighing in the leaves above him and the rushing of a mountain stream to his left. A dark shadow moved to his right, and he rolled and fired. The bullet took the reptile under the chin, exiting from the top of its skull, and it fell
alongside Clem, its legs twitching. He stared horror-struck at the gray, scaled skin and the black leather body armor. The creature’s hand had a triple-jointed thumb and three thick fingers.

Jesus God, they’re demons!
he thought.
I am being hunted by demons!

He fought for calm and reloaded his pistol with the last of his shells. Then he gathered up the reptile’s weapon and sank back against the rock. The wound in his chest was high, and he hoped it had missed his lung.
Of course it has, you fool! You’re not coughing bloody are you?

But he felt so weak. His eyes closed, but he jerked himself awake.
Got to move! Get safe!
He started to crawl, but loss of blood had weakened him terribly and he made only a few yards before his strength was spent. A rustling movement came from behind him, and he tried to roll, but a booted foot lashed into his side. His gun came up but was kicked from his hand. Then he felt himself being dragged from the hillside, but all pain passed and he slid into unconsciousness.

The pain awakened him, and he found he had been stripped naked and tied to a tree. Four of the reptiles were sitting together in a close circle around the body of the creature he had killed on the hillside. As he watched, one of the others took a serrated knife and cut into the chest of the corpse, ripping open the dead flesh and pulling clear the heart. Clem felt nausea overwhelming him, but he could not tear his eyes from the scene. The reptiles began to chant, their sibilant hissing echoing in the trees; then the first one cut the heart into four pieces, and the others all accepted a portion, which they ate.

Then they knelt around the corpse, and each touched his forehead to the body. Finally they rose and turned to face the bound man. Clem looked into their golden, slitted eyes, then down at the serrated knives they all held.

No glittering reputation for Clem Steiner, no admiring glances. No treasure would be his, no adoring women.
Anger flooded him, and he struggled at the ropes that bit into his flesh as the reptiles advanced.

“Behold,” said a voice, and Clem glanced to his right to see Jon Shannow standing with the sun behind him, his face in silhouette. The voice was low and compelling, and the reptiles stood and stared at the newcomer.
“Behold, the whirlwind of the Lord goeth forth in fury, a continuing whirlwind: it shall fall with pain upon the heads of the wicked.”

Then there was silence as Shannow stood calmly, the morning breeze flapping at his long coat.

One of the reptiles lowered his knife. He stepped forward, his voice a sibilant hiss.

“You sspirit or man?”

Shannow said nothing, and the reptiles gathered together, whispering. Then the leader moved away from them, approaching the Jerusalem Man.

“I can ssmell your blood,” hissed the Dagger. “You are man.”

“I am death,” Shannow replied.

“You are a truthsspeaker,” said the reptile at last. “We have no fear, but we undersstand much that men do not. You are what you ssay you are, and your power iss felt by uss. Thiss day is yourss. But other dayss will dawn. Walk warily, man of death.”

The leader gestured to the other Daggers, then turned on his heel and loped away.

Time stood still for Clem, and it seemed that Shannow had become a statue. “Help me,” called the wounded man, and the Jerusalem Man walked slowly to the tree and squatted down. Clem looked into his eyes. “I owe you my life,” he said.

“You owe me nothing,” said Shannow. He cut Clem’s bonds and plugged the wounds in his chest and leg; then he helped him dress and led him to the black stallion.

“There’re more of them, Shannow. I don’t know where they are.”

“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,”
said the Jerusalem Man, lifting Steiner into the saddle. He mounted behind him and rode from the hills.

Sharazad watched as Szshark and his three companions loped into the clearing. She lifted a hand and waved the tall reptile to her; he approached and gave a short bow.