The Last Guardian (34 page)

“Dear Father,” he began, “lead me to the paths of righteousness. Take my body and soul. Show me the road I must walk to do your work, fulfill your word.” The stone grew hot in his hand, and his mind blurred.

A golden face appeared before him, bearded and stern, pale-eyed and regal. The Parson’s heart began to hammer.

“Who calls on me?” came a voice in the Parson’s mind.

“I, Lord, the humblest of your servants,” the Parson whispered, falling forward and pressing his face to the ground. Miraculously the image remained before him, as if his eyes were still open.

“Open your mind to me,” said the voice.

“I do not know how.”

“Hold the stone to your breast.”

The Parson did so. Warmth enveloped him, and for a while there was peace and serenity; then the glow faded, and he felt alone once more.

“You have sinned greatly, my son,” said Pendarric. “How will you cleanse yourself?”

“I will do anything, Lord.”

“Mount your horse and ride a little way to the east. There you will find the survivors of the … reptiles. You will lift the stone and say to them: ‘Pendarric.’ They will follow you and do your bidding.”

“But they are creatures of the Devil, Lord.”

“Yes, but I will give them the opportunity to redeem their souls. Go to the city, enter the temple, then call for me again, and I will guide you.”

“But what of the Great Whore? She must be destroyed.”

“Do not seek to contradict me!” thundered Pendarric. “In my own time will I bring her down. Go to the temple, Nicodemus. Seek out the scrolls of gold hidden beneath the altar.”

“But if the whore tries to prevent me?”

“Then kill her and any who stand with her.”

“Yes, Lord. As you bid. And the sword?”

“We will speak again when you have accomplished your mission.” The face faded … the Parson rose.

All his anguish left him.

At last he had found his God.

30

B
ACK
AT
HER
cabin Beth was happily surprised to find no damage from the earthquakes. In the fields below there were still pits and chasms, and several trees had fallen, but on the flat ledge of the hillside where Bull had chosen to place the McAdam home there was no evidence of movement at all.

The sandy-haired rider grinned at Beth. “If you say ‘I told you so,’ Bull, I’ll crack your skull,” Beth said to him.

“Me? The thought never crossed my mind.” He tethered his horse and helped Beth carry the wounded Steiner into the house.

“I can walk, dammit,” Steiner grumbled.

“I ain’t having those stitches opening again,” Beth told him. “Now keep quiet.”

Bull and the children manhandled the furniture from the wagon, while Beth fueled the iron stove and set a pot of Baker’s to simmer. As dusk stained the sky, Bull rose.

“Best be getting back to Meneer Scayse,” he said. “I reckon there’ll be enough to do there. You want me to bring you anything tomorrow?”

“If there’s anything left in the town, I wouldn’t mind some salt.”

“I’ll fetch it—and some dried beef. You’re looking mighty low on stores.”

“I’m short on Barta coin, Bull. I’ll have to owe you.”

“You do that,” he said.

She watched him ride off and shook her head, allowing a
smile to show. Now, he wouldn’t make a bad husband, she thought. He’s caring and strong, and he likes the kids. But the face of Jon Shannow cut across the smiling image of Bull. “Damn you for a fool, Shannow!” whispered Beth.

Samuel and Mary were sitting by the stove, Samuel’s head resting against the wall, his eyes closed. Beth walked to him, lifting him from his feet. His eyes opened, and his head dropped to her shoulder. “It’s bed for you, snapper-gut,” she said, carrying him into the back room and laying him down. She didn’t bother to strip his clothes, but after removing his shoes, she covered him with a blanket.

Mary came in behind her. “I’m not tired, Ma. Can I sit up for a while?”

Beth looked into the child’s puffy eyes. “You can snuggle in next to your brother, and if you’re still awake in an hour, you can sit with me.” Mary grinned sheepishly and climbed under the blanket; she was asleep within minutes.

Beth returned to the main room and lit the fire, then walked out onto the porch, where Bull had erected a bench seat made from a planed and polished split log. She sat back and stared over the moonlit valley. The wall was down everywhere, although some sections still reared like broken teeth. She shivered.

“Nice night,” observed Steiner, limping out to sit beside her. His face was pale, dark rings staining the skin beneath his eyes.

“You’re a damn fool,” said Beth.

“And you’re as pretty as a picture under moonlight,” he told her.

“Except for the nose,” she replied. “And it’s no good making up to me, Clem Steiner. Even if I let you, it would kill you for certain.”

“There’s truth in that,” he admitted. Beth continued to stare at the horizon. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

“I was thinking about Shannow—not that it’s any of your business.”

“You in love with him?”

“You’re a prying sort of fella, Steiner.”

“You are, then. You could do worse, I guess, except I don’t see you traveling the world looking for some city that don’t exist.”

“You’re right. Maybe I should marry you.”

“That’s not a bad thought, Frey McAdam,” he responded, smiling. “I can be right good company.”

“You’ve been hiding that light under a bushel,” she said sharply.

He chuckled. “Come to think of it, that
is
a pretty big nose.” She laughed, and her tension eased. Clem stretched his wounded leg out in front of him and rubbed at it. “Does Shannow know how you feel?” he asked, his voice low and serious.

Beth cut off a sharp retort. “I told him—in a way. But he won’t change. He’s like you.”

“I’ve changed,” he said. “I don’t want to be a pistoleer; I couldn’t give a damn about reputations. I had a father who beat the hell out of me. He said I’d never make anything of my life, and I guess I’ve been trying to prove him wrong. Now I don’t care about that no more.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll find a woman. I’ll raise kids and corn.”

“There’s some hope for you yet, Clem Steiner.” He was about to answer when he spotted two riders angling up toward the house.

“Strange-looking pair,” said Beth. “Look how the moonlight makes their hair seem white.”

Shannow was ill at ease as they rode. The dreams had unnerved him, but worse than that, he had the constant feeling he was being watched. Time and again he would turn in the saddle and study the skyline or alter the direction in which they traveled, dismounting before the crest of every hill.

But now the city was ahead of them, and still the feeling would not pass.

“What is troubling you?” Nu asked. “We should have been at the city hours ago.”

“I don’t know,” admitted Shannow. “I feel uncomfortable.”

“No more than I feel, perched on this horse,” responded Nu.

A rabbit darted across their path, and Shannow’s guns swept up. He cursed softly, then flicked the stallion’s flanks with his heels.

The city was protected by a great wall, but the recent earthquakes had scored it with cracks. There were no gates, but as they entered the city, Shannow could see deep holes in the stones where hinges had once been placed.

“The gates,” Nu told him, “were of wood and bronze, emblazoned with the head of a lion. And this entrance would take you through the Street of Silversmiths and on to the Sculptors’ Quarter. My home was close by.”

People in the streets stopped and stared at the riders. There was no animosity, only curious gazes. There were more women than men, Shannow noticed, and they were tall and well formed, their clothes mainly hide, beautifully embroidered.

He halted his horse. “I seek the Dark Lady,” he said, removing his hat and bowing. The nearest woman smiled and pointed to the east.

“She is in the high tower with Oshere,” she answered.

“God’s peace upon you,” Shannow told her.

“The Law of the One be with you,” she replied.

The horses’ hooves clattered on the cobbled street. “In my time no beasts were allowed into this quarter,” said Nu. “The residents found the smell of manure less than appealing.”

A bent and crippled shape loomed before them, and Shannow’s mind was hurled back to Shir-ran. His stallion
reared, but he calmed it with soft words. The man-beast ambled past, not able to lift his huge, misshapen head.

“Poor soul,” said Nu as they walked their horses on.

The street widened into a statue-lined road that stretched, arrow-straight toward a tall palace of white marble. “Pendarric’s summer home,” explained Nu. “It also houses the temple.” The road ended at a colossal stairway more than a hundred paces wide, slowly rising to an enormous archway.

“The steps of the king,” said Nu. Like the road, the steps were lined with statues, each one carved from marble and bearing a sword and a scepter. Shannow urged on the stallion and rode the steps; Nu dismounted and led the mare after him. As the Jerusalem Man reached the archway, a slender black woman moved from the shadows to greet him. Shannow recalled the moment he had first seen her, carrying her son from the wreck of the resurrected
Titanic
. “Amaziga? You are the Dark Lady?” he said as he climbed down from the saddle.

“The same, Shannow. What are you doing here?” He noted the tension in her voice, the lack of warmth in her eyes.

“Am I such an unwelcome visitor?”

“There are no evils here for you to slay, I promise you that.”

“I am not here to kill. Do you think me such a villain?”

“Then tell me why you are here.”

Shannow saw a movement behind her, deep in the shadows of the archway. A young man appeared; once he must have been strikingly handsome, but now his face was distended and his shoulders bowed. Guiltily Shannow averted his eyes from the man’s deformities.

“I asked you a question, Shannow,” said Amaziga Archer.

“I came to warn you of impending perils and also to see the Sword of God. But it would be pleasant if we could talk inside somewhere.” Nu reached the archway,
saw Amaziga, and bowed low. “This is my companion, Nu-Khasisatra. He is from Atlantis, Amaziga, and I think you should hear what he has to say.”

“Follow me,” she said, turning on her heel and striding back through the archway.

The deformed man followed her silently, Nu and Shannow bringing up the rear. They found themselves in a wide, square courtyard; Amaziga crossed it, passed a circular fountain, and continued on through a huge hallway. Shannow tethered his stallion and Nu’s mare in the courtyard and entered the building. It was ghostly quiet within, and their footsteps created eerie echoes.

They mounted a long circular staircase and emerged into a room where Amaziga had already seated herself behind a mahogany desk on which papers, scrolls, and books were scattered. She looked younger than Shannow remembered, but her eyes seemed full of sorrow.

“Say what you want to say, Jerusalem Man. Then leave us in whatever peace remains.”

Shannow took a deep breath, stilling the rise of anger he felt. Slowly he told her of the attack on the township of Pilgrim’s Valley and their flight beyond the fractured wall. He spoke of the woman Sharazad and the Parson and his fear that she was an evil goddess. And he told her of Pendarric. She listened without comment, but her interest grew when Nu began his tale; she questioned him sharply, but his soft-spoken answers seemed to satisfy her. At last, when both men had finished, she asked the deformed man to fetch some drink. Neither Shannow nor Nu had stared at him, and after he had gone, Amaziga fixed her eyes on the Jerusalem Man.

“Do you know what is happening to him?” she asked.

“He is turning into a lion,” Shannow answered, holding her gaze.

“How did you know?”

“I met a man named Shir-ran who suffered the same
horror. He rescued me, gave me aid when I needed it, healed my wounds.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died.”

“I said what happened to him?” Amaziga snapped.