The Last Guardian (25 page)

“So they wanted to kill you? That’s always the way with prophets, my friend. Tell me about your god.”

“Not my god, Shannow. Just God. The Lord Chronos, creator of heaven and earth. One god. And you, what do you believe?”

For an hour or more the two men discussed their faiths and were delighted to find great similarities between the two religions. Shannow liked the big shipbuilder and listened as he talked of his gentle wife, Pashad, and his sons, of the ships he had built and the voyages he had sailed. But when Nu asked about Shannow and his life, the Jerusalem Man merely smiled and returned to questions about Atlantis and the distant past.

“I would like to read your Bible,” said Nu. “Would that be permissible?”

“Of course. I am surprised that the ancients of Atlantis speak our language.”

“I’m not sure that we do, Shannow. When first I came here, I could not understand a word of it. But when I touched the stone to the brow of a woman in need of healing, all the words became clear inside my head.” He chuckled. “Perhaps when I return I will not be able to speak the language of my fathers.”

“Return? You say your world is about to fall. Why would you go back?”

“Pashad is there. I cannot leave her.”

“But you might go back merely to die with her.”

“What would you do, Shannow?”

“I would go back,” he replied without hesitation. “But then, I have always been considered less than sane.”

Nu clapped his hand on Shannow’s shoulder. “Not insanity, Shannow. Love—the greatest gift God can bestow. Where will you go from here?”

“South, across the Wall. There are signs there in the sky. I’d like to see them.”

“What sort of signs?”

“The Sword of God is there, floating in the clouds. Perhaps Jerusalem is close by.”

Nu fell silent for a while. Then he said: “I will travel with you. I, too, must see these signs.”

“It is said to be a land of great peril. How will it help you return home?”

“I have no idea my friend. But the Lord has commanded me to find the sword, and I do not question His will.”

“I can lend you a gun or two.”

“I do not need one. If the Lord has me marked for death, I will die. Your thundermakers will not alter the situation.”

“That is too fatalistic for me, Nu,” Shannow told him. “Trust in God but keep your pistols cocked. I have found He likes a man who stays ready.”

“Does He talk to you, Shannow? Do you hear His voice?”

“No, but I see Him in the prairies and on the mountains. I feel His presence in the night breezes. I see His glory in the dawn.”

“We are lucky men, you and I. I spent fifty years learning the thousand names of God known to man and another thirty absorbing the 999 names known to the prophets. One day I will know the thousand that are sung only by angels. But all this knowledge is as nothing compared
with the sense of knowing you describe. Few men experience it; I pity those who do not.”

A shadow flickered out in the valley, and Shannow held up his hand for silence. He watched for several minutes but saw nothing further.

“I think you should go inside, Nu. I need to be alone.”

“Have I offended you?”

“Not at all. But I need to concentrate—to feel the presence of my enemies. I need all my strength, Nu. And that only happens when I am alone. If you cannot sleep, take one of my Bibles from the saddlebag by the door. I will see you come the dawn.”

When the man had gone, Shannow stood and moved silently into the trees. The shadow could have been a wolf or a dog, a fox or a badger.

But equally it could have been a Dagger …

Shannow loosened the guns in their scabbards and waited.

Shannow remained alert until an hour before sunrise. Then his feeling of unease drifted away, his muscles relaxing; he put his back to a broad pine and slept.

Beth McAdam walked out into the early morning light and gazed at the sky. Dawn was always special to her, those few precious minutes when the sky was blue yet the stars still shone. She glanced up to the wooded hillside and walked toward where Shannow slept. He did not hear her approach, and for some minutes she sat down beside him, staring intently at his weather-beaten face. His beard was growing again, silver at the chin, yet his features seemed strangely youthful in sleep.

After a while he awoke and saw her. He did not jump or start but merely smiled lazily.

“They were out there,” he said, “but they passed us by.”

She nodded. “You look rested. How long did you sleep?”

He glanced at the sky. “Less than an hour. I do not need much. I have been having curious dreams. I see myself trapped within a crystal dome in a huge cross that hangs in the sky; I am wearing a leather helmet, and there is a voice in my ear. It is someone called Tower giving me directions. But I cannot escape or move.” He took a deep breath and stretched. “Are the children still asleep?”

“Yes. In each other’s arms.”

“And Steiner?”

“His pulse is stronger, but he is not yet awake. Do you believe Nu? That he came from the past?”

“I believe him, Beth. The Daniel Stones are incredibly powerful. I once stood on the wreck of a ship beached on a mountain, but by the power of a great stone it sailed again. They can give a man immortality, cure any disease. Once I ate a honey cake that had been a rock; a Daniel Stone had reshaped it. I think there is nothing such power cannot achieve.”

“Tell me about it.”

Shannow told her about the Hellborn and their crazed leader, Abaddon, then about the Guardians of the Past and the rebirth of the
Titanic
. And finally he spoke of the Mother Stone, the colossal Sipstrassi meteorite that had been corrupted by blood and sacrifice.

“So there are two kinds of stones?” she said.

“No, just one. Sipstrassi is the pure power, but the more it is used, the sooner it fades. If fed with blood, it swells again, but it can no longer heal or make food. Also, it affects the mind of the user, bringing with it a lust for pain and violence. The Hellborn all had Blood Stones, but their power was drained during the war.”

“How did you survive, Jon Shannow, against such odds?”

He smiled and pointed to the sky. “Who knows? I ask myself that question often—not just about the Hellborn Zealots but about all the perils I have faced. Much is timing; more is luck or the will of God. But I have seen
strong men cut down by enemies, or disease, or accident. When I was young, I had another name; I was Jon Cade. I met a town tamer called Varey Shannow who taught me about people and the ways of evil men. He could stand alone against a mob, and they would turn away from his eyes. But one day a young man—no more than a boy—walked up to him as he was having breakfast. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, holding out his hand. Varey took it. At the same time the boy produced a pistol in his left hand and shot Varey through the head. When they asked him later why he had done it, he said he wanted to be remembered. Varey was a man to walk the mountains with; he helped people settle this wild land of ours. The boy? Well, he was remembered. They hanged him and put a marker on his grave that said, ‘Here lies the killer of Varey Shannow.’ ”

“So you took his name? Why?”

Shannow shrugged. “I didn’t want to see it die. And also my brother, Daniel, had become a brigand and a killer. I was ashamed.”

“But did not Daniel become a prophet? Did he not fight the Hellborn?”

“Yes. That pleased me.”

“So a man can change, Jon Shannow? He can make a new life for himself?”

“I guess he can—if he has the strength. But I do not.”

Beth sat silently for a moment, then reached out and touched his arm. He did not pull away. “You know why I never came back to you?”

“I think so.”

“But if you made the decision to change your life, my hearth
would
be open to you.”

He looked away at the far wall and the lands rolling out beyond it. “I know,” he said sadly. “I have always been lonely, Beth. There is an emptiness in my life that has been there ever since my parents were murdered. But look at Steiner. Until yesterday the boy wanted nothing
more than to kill me, to be the man who beat Jon Shannow. How long before some boy comes to me at breakfast and says, ‘Pleased to meet you’? How long? And could I sit at night at your table, wondering if your children will intercept a bullet meant for me? I do not have that kind of strength, Beth.”

“Change your name,” she said. “Shave your head. Whatever it takes. I’d travel with you, and we could build a home somewhere where no one has ever heard of you.” He said nothing, but she looked into his eyes and saw the answer. “I’m sorry for you, Shannow,” she whispered. “You don’t know what you’re missing. But I hope you are not fooling yourself. I hope you are not in love with what you are: the Jerusalem Man, proud and alone, bane of the wicked. Is there something to that? Do you fear putting aside your reputation and your name? Do you fear anonymity?”

“You are a very astute woman, Beth McAdam. Yes, I fear it.”

“Then you are a weaker man than you know,” she said. “Most men fear dying. You just fear living.” She rose and walked back to the cabin.

23

J
OSIAH
B
ROOME
CLOSED
the front door of his small house and wandered along the street toward the Jolly Pilgrim. The sun was shining brightly, but Broome did not notice it. For days he had been seething over the departure of Beth McAdam and the hurtful untrue words she had hurled at him like knives.

How could she not see it? Men like Jon Shannow were no help to civilization. Violence and despair followed him, giving birth to more of the same. Only men of reason could change the world. But how the words stung! She had called him a fool and a coward; she had blamed him for Fenner’s death.

Could one blame a man for a summer storm or a winter flood? It was so unfair. Yes, Fenner would still be alive if they had walked into Webber’s establishment and shot him down. But what would that have achieved? What would it have taught the youngsters of the community? That in certain situations murder was acceptable?

He remembered Shannow shooting down the man in the street just after he had executed Webber. The man’s name had been Lomax. He had been a tough, arrogant man, but he had helped the Parson build his church and had worked hard for Meneer Scayse to support a wife and two children. Those children were now orphans who would grow up knowing that their father had been gunned down in the street to make a point. Who would
blame them if they turned bad? But Beth McAdam did not see that.

Broome crossed the street and heard the sound of gunfire coming from the west. More troublemakers, he thought, swinging to see the cause of the disturbance. His jaw dropped open when he saw hundreds of black-armored warriors advancing with their guns blazing. Men and women were running and screaming. A shell whistled past Broome, and he ducked instinctively and ran to an alley between two buildings. A man sprinted past; his chest exploded, and he fell face forward in the dirt.

Broome turned and cut down the alley, arms pumping. He scaled a fence and ran out over the fields toward the newly built church in the meadow.

At the Traveler’s Rest Mason glanced out of his window to see the reptiles advancing down the main street, killing all in their sights. He swore and took down his Hellborn rifle from its rack on the wall. Swiftly he fed shells into the side gate, then pumped one into the breech. He heard sounds of booted feet on the stairs, and as the door exploded inward, he swiveled and fired. One reptile hurtled back into the hallway, but several more ran in. Mason’s gun jumped in his hands as he pumped shell after shell into them, then a bullet took him high in the chest, spinning him against the window. Two more shells ripped into his belly, and he plunged out the window, toppling to the street below.

At the gunsmith’s shop Groves grabbed two pistols, but he was shot to death before he could loose a single round.

Hundreds of reptiles surged through the town. Here and there men returned their fire, but the attack was so sudden that there was no organized defense.

At the church the Parson had been delivering an impassioned sermon about the Whore of Babylon and the beasts beyond the wall. When the sounds of the battle had
reached them, men and women had streamed from the building. The Parson pushed his way through them and stared in horror at the flames beginning to spring from the town buildings. Josiah Broome staggered toward the milling crowd.