Bloodstone

by David Gemmell

  “I know that he—and other men—shot an unarmed man in cold blood. And I will see him brought to justice.”

  The black man sighed. “I guess I may have been wrong about you, friend. But I’m not the only one who’s being foolish. I think you should just ride out now—far and fast.”

  “Why would I wish to do that?”

  The black man leaned in close. “Jack Dillon is the captain of the Crusaders. Appointed last month by the Apostle Saul himself.”

  “What kind of settlement is this?” asked Shannow. “Are there no honest men?”

  The black man laughed. “Where have you been living, friend? Who is going to speak against an anointed Crusader? There’s forty of them—and Jacob Moon and his riders. No one is going to go against them.”

  Shannow fell silent, and the black man heard the welcome sound of the pistol hammer being eased forward. “My name is Archer, Gareth Archer.” He extended his hand.

  “Leave me, boy. I have much to think on.”

  Archer moved away, and the waitress returned with a second mug of sweetened milk. This time she smiled. Shannow gazed out the window at the settlement’s main street. Beyond the buildings to the west he could see the mines on the distant hillsides, and beyond them the smoke from smelting houses and factories. So much dirt and darkness from the soot and smoke.

  A face leapt unbidden to his mind, a slender man in late middle age, balding and sharp-featured with soft brown eyes.

  “It’s progress, Preacher. Ever since the planes landed and we found out what once we were, things changed. The planes carried engineers and surgeons, all sorts of skilled people. Most of them died within the year, but they passed on a lot of knowledge. We’re building again. Soon we’ll have good hospitals and fine schools and factories that can manufacture machines to help us till the land and gather the harvest. Then there’ll be cities and roads to those cities. It will be a paradise.”

  “A paradise built on belching smoke and foul-smelling soot? I see the trees have all died around the canning plant, and there are no fish now in the Little River.”

  Shannow sipped the sweetened milk and sought a name for the face. Brown? Bream? Then it came to him: Broome. Josiah Broome. And with it came another face, strong female features surrounded by corn-blond hair.

  Beth.

  The memory struck him like a knife in the heart.

  “Jesus Christ! You used to be a man. Now you let scum like Shem Jackson strike you in front of a crowd. Knock you down in the dirt! God’s teeth, Jon, what have you become?”

  “The blow lessened him more than me. I have done with killing, Beth. I have done with the ways of violence. Can’t you understand that there must be a better way for men to live?”

  “What I understand is I don’t want you here anymore. I just don’t want you!”

  The sound of approaching horses jerked Shannow back to the present as four riders drew up in front of the Crusader offices. Shannow stood, left a half silver on the table, then walked to the door.

  Gareth Archer moved alongside him. “Don’t be a fool, man! Dillon is a dead shot, and those others with him are no angels.”

  “If thou faint in the day of adversity, thy strength is small,” said Shannow. Stepping out, he moved from the wooden sidewalk down the three short steps to the dusty street.

  “Jack Dillon!” he called. The four men dismounted, and the tallest of them, dark-bearded and powerfully built, swung around to face him.

  “Who wants me?” he replied. People who had been moving along the street stopped and watched the two men.

  “I am Jon Shannow, and I name you as a murderer and a brigand.” Shannow could hear the sharp intake of breath from the crowd and saw the bearded man redden.

  Dillon blinked and licked his lips, then recovered some of his bluster. “What? This is nonsense!”

  Shannow walked slowly toward him, and his voice carried to all the observers. “You shot down a farmer named Hankin, murdered him in cold blood. Then you hunted his children. How do you answer this accusation, villain?”

  “I don’t answer to you!”

  The big man’s hand swept down toward his pistol, and the crowd scattered. Dillon drew first, a bullet slashing past Shannow’s cheek. Shannow’s guns boomed in reply, and Dillon, struck in the chest and belly, staggered back, triggering his revolver into the dust. A second man loosed a shot at Shannow, the bullet passing high and wide. Sighting his right-hand pistol, Shannow shot the man in the chest; he fell back over a guardrail and did not move. The other two Crusaders were standing stock-still. Dillon was on his knees, blood drenching his vest.

  Shannow strode to where the dying man waited. “Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein, and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him.”

  “Who … are … you?” Dillon fell sideways, but his pain-filled eyes continued to stare up at his killer.

  “I am retribution,” Shannow told him. Kicking away the man’s pistol, he scanned the crowd. “You have allowed evil to prosper here,” he said, “and that is a shame upon you all.” To his left he saw Gareth Archer move into sight, leading Shannow’s horse.

  Keeping the two remaining Crusaders in sight, Shannow mounted.

  “Ride southeast for an hour,” Archer whispered, “then turn west by the fork in the stream.”

  “She is there?”

  Archer was shocked, but he nodded. “You knew?”

  “I see her in you,” said Shannow.

  And turning the horse, he rode slowly from the town.

  Amaziga Archer was waiting for him by the stream. The black woman had changed little since Shannow had last seen her, and like himself, she seemed untouched by the passage of the decades. Her hair was still jet-black, her face unlined, her almond-shaped eyes dark and lustrous. She was wearing a gray shield shirt and a riding skirt of leather. Her horse was a gray gelding of some sixteen hands.

  “Follow me,” she ordered him, then headed up over rocky ground, her mount splashing along the shallow stream. They rode in the water for almost half an hour before she turned the gelding to the right, urging him up a steep bank. Shannow followed, his mount struggling on the greasy slope.

  “They will see where we emerged,” he said. “A skilled tracker will not be fooled by our route. The stream is not swiftrunning, and the hoof marks will be there for some days.”

  “I am aware of that, Shannow,” she said. “Grant me a little respect. I spent the last hour before your arrival moving back and forth in the water, emerging at no fewer than seven banks. Added to that, where we are about to go no man—save one—could follow.”

  Without another word she rode on, heading toward a high wall of rock. The ground was hard, and glancing down, Shannow saw that they were moving along an ancient road paved with slabs of granite.

  “This was the road to Pisaecuris,” she told him, “a major city of the Akkadians. They were descended from the peoples of the Atlantean empire and flourished thousands of years ago.”

  Ahead of them was a series of ruined buildings, and beyond that a circle of great stones. Amaziga Archer rode through the ruins and dismounted at the center of the circle. Shannow stepped from the saddle. “What now?” he asked.

  “Now we go home,” she said. From a deep pocket in her skirt she took a small golden stone. The air shimmered with violet light, and Shannow’s horse reared, but he calmed him swiftly. The light faded. Beyond the circle there was now a two-story house built of red brick and painted timbers with a slanted roof of black slate. Before it was a garishly painted and highly elaborate carriage; it had windows all around and rested on four thick black wheels.

  “This is home,” she said coldly, interrupting his examination of the object. “I wish I could say you were welcome, but you are not. There is a paddock behind the house. Release the horses there. I will prepare some food.” Tossing him the reins to her gray, she walked into the house. Shannow led the horses to the rear of the building, unsaddled them, and freed them in the paddock. Th
en he returned to the front door and tapped lightly on the wood. “For God’s sake,” she said, “you don’t need to observe the niceties here.”

  Stepping inside, he saw a remarkable room. It was fully carpeted in thick gray wool on which stood four padded armchairs and a couch covered with soft black leather. From the ceiling hung a curious lamp of glass, no larger than a wine goblet, from which came a light so bright that it hurt his eyes to stare at it. There was a fire blazing in a stone hearth, but the coals, though they glowed, did not burn. On a desk by the far wall was a curious contraption, a box, gray on three sides but with one black side facing a chair. Wires extended from the rear, running down to a small block set in the wall.

  “What is this place?” asked Shannow.

  “My study,” said Amaziga. “You should be honored, Shannow. You are only the third man to see it. The first was my second husband; the second was my son, Gareth.”

  “You married again. That is good.”

  “What would you know about it?” she snapped. “My first husband died because of you. He was the love of my life, Shannow. I don’t suppose you’d understand that, would you? And because of you and your demented faith, my home was destroyed and I lost my first son. I didn’t think there was much more you could do to hurt me. Yet here you are, large as life. The new Elijah, no less, and your twisted values have become enshrined in the laws of your bizarre new world.”

  “Is that why you brought me here, lady?” he asked softly. “So that you could blame me for all the evils of man? Your husband was killed by an evil man. But your people died because they followed Sarento, and he was behind the Hellborn War. It was he, not I, who turned the Daniel Stones to blood and brought destruction on the Guardians. But then, you know all this. So unless you want to blame me for every storm and drought, every plague and pestilence, pray tell me why you asked your son to guide me to you.”

  Amaziga closed her beautiful eyes and drew in a deep breath, which she released slowly. “Sit down, Shannow,” she said at last, her voice more mellow. “I’ll make some coffee, then we’ll talk.” She moved to a cupboard on the far wall and removed a brightly colored packet. Shannow watched as she tipped the contents—small dark stones—into a glass jug. She flicked a switch, and the jug whirred, grinding the stones to powder. This she poured into a paper container set atop a second, larger jug. Seeing him watching her, she smiled for the first time. “It’s a drink that is popular in this world,” she told him. “You may prefer it sweetened with milk and sugar. It will take a little time.”

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Arizona,” she said, leaving him none the wiser.

  Crossing the room, she sat opposite him. “I am sorry,” she said, “for my angry words. And I do know that you are not wholly at fault. But equally, had you not entered my life, my first husband would still be alive and so would Luke. And I cannot forget that I saw you destroy a world, perhaps two worlds. Millions upon millions of people. But Beth was right. You were not seeking to detonate the Sword of God; you did not even fully know what it was.” Hot water began bubbling into the jug, and Amaziga rose and stood by it. “I am not religious, Shannow. If there is a God, then he is capricious and willful and I want no part of him. So I find myself disliking you on too many counts to be able to handle.”

  The bubbling noises from the jug abruptly ceased, and Amaziga poured the black liquid into two ornate mugs. She passed one to Shannow, who sniffed it apprehensively. When he sipped it, the taste was acrid and bitter, similar to Baker’s but with more body. “I’ll get the sugar,” said Amaziga.

  Sweetened, the drink was almost bearable. “Tell me what you want of me, lady,” he said, putting aside the mug.

  “You are so sure I want something?”

  He nodded. “I am not seeking another angry dispute, but I already knew that you hold me in contempt. You have made that clear on a number of occasions. So the fact that I am here means you need me. The question is, For what purpose?”

  “Perhaps it was just to save your life.”

  He shook his head. “No, lady. You despise me and all that you believe I stand for. Why would you save me?”

  “All right!” she snapped. “There is something.”

  “Name it, and if it is possible, I will attempt it.”

  She rubbed her face and looked away. “You give your promises so easily,” she said, her voice low.

  “And when I do, I keep them, lady. I do not lie.”

  “I know that!” she said, her voice rising. “You are the Jerusalem Man! Oh, Christ …”

  “Just tell me what you want,” he urged her.

  “I will tell you what I need from you, Shannow. You will think I am mad, but you must hear me out. You promise that?” He nodded, and for a moment she said nothing. Then she looked directly into his eyes. “All right. I want you to bring Sam back from the dead.”

  He stared at her in silence.

  “It is not as crazy as it sounds,” Amaziga went on. “Trust me on that, Shannow. The past, the present, and the future all coexist, and we can visit them. You know that already, because Pendarric’s legions crossed the vault of time to invade our lands. They crossed twelve thousand years. It can be done.”

  “But Sam is dead, woman!”

  “Can you think only in straight lines?” she stormed. “Supposing you were to go back into the past and prevent them from killing him?”

  “But I didn’t. I do not understand the principles behind such journeys, but I do know that Sam Archer died, because that is what happened. If I went back and changed that, then it would already have happened and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  Suddenly she laughed and clapped her hands. “Bravo, Shannow. At last a little imagination! Good. Then think on this: If I journeyed back into the past and shot your father before he met your mother and then returned here, would I be alone? Would you have ceased to exist?”

  “One would suppose so,” he said.

  “No,” she said triumphantly. “You would still be here. That is the great discovery.”

  “And how would I be here without having had a father?”

  “There are infinite universes existing alongside our own, perhaps in the same space. Infinite. Without number, in other words. There are thousands of Jon Shannows, perhaps millions. When we step through the ancient gateways, we cross into parallel universes. Some are identical to our own, some fractionally different. With an infinite number it means that anything the mind can conceive must exist somewhere. So somewhere Sam Archer did not die in Castlemine. You see what I am saying?”

  “I hear the words, lady. Understanding is something else entirely.”

  “Think of it in terms of the grains of sand in a desert. No two are exactly identical. The odds against finding twin grains would be, say, a hundred million to one. But then, the number of grains is finite. It may be thirty trillion. But supposing there was no limit to the number of grains? Then a hundred million to one would be small odds. And within infinity there would be an infinite number of twins. That is a fact of life within the multiverse. I know. I have seen it.”

  Shannow finished his coffee. “So you are saying that in some world, somewhere, there is a Sam Archer waiting to be taken to Castlemine? Yes?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then why do you not go back and find him? Why is it necessary to send a messenger?”

  Amaziga moved to the jug and refilled the mugs. This time Shannow sipped the brew appreciatively. She sat down and leaned back in the leather chair. “I did go back,” she said, “and I found Sam and brought him home. We lived together here for almost a year.”

  “He died?”

  She shook her head. “I made a mistake. I told him everything, and one morning he was gone, searching for what he termed his own life. What he didn’t know was that I was already pregnant with Gareth. Perhaps that would have changed his mind. I don’t know. But this time I’ll get it right, Shannow. With your help.”

  �
��Your son must be around twenty years old. How is it you have waited this long to try again?”

  Amaziga sighed. “He is eighteen. It took me two years to find Sam again, and even in that I was lucky. I have spent the last decade in research, studying clairvoyance and mysticism. It came to me that clairvoyants cannot see the future, for it does not exist yet. What they can do is to glimpse other identical worlds, which is why some of their visions are so ludicrously wrong. They see a future that exists on another world and predict that it will happen here. But all kinds of events can change the possible futures. Finally I found a man whose powers were incredible. He lived in a place called Sedona—one of the most beautiful lands I have ever seen, red rock buttes set in a magnificent desert. For a time I lived with him. I used my Sipstrassi Stones to duplicate his powers and imprint them on a machine.” She stood and walked to the black-faced box on the desk by the wall. “This machine. It resembles a computer, but it is very special.” Amaziga pressed a button, and the screen flickered to life, becoming the face of a handsome man with red-gold hair and eyes of startling blue.

  “Welcome home, Amaziga,” it said, the voice low and smooth and infinitely human. “I see you found the man you were seeking.”

  “Yes, Lucas. This is Jon Shannow.”

  Shannow rose and approached the box. “You trapped the man in there?” he said, horrified.

  “No, not the man. He died. I was away on research, and he collapsed with a heart attack. Lucas is a creation that holds all the man’s memories. But he is also something different. He is self-aware in his own right. He operates as a kind of time-scope, using both the power of Sipstrassi and the magic of the ancient gateways. Through his talent we can view alternative worlds. Show him, Lucas.”

  “What would you like to see, Mr. Shannow?” asked Lucas.

  He wanted to say “Jerusalem,” but he could not. Shannow hesitated. “You choose,” he told the machine.

  The face disappeared, and Shannow found himself staring at a city on a hill, a great temple at the center. The sky above was deep blue, and the sun shone with unbearable brightness. A man was standing outside the temple, arms raised, and a great crowd was listening to him; he was dressed in golden armor with a burnished helm on his head. Sounds came from the machine, a language Shannow did not know, but the armored man’s voice was low and melodious. Lucas’s voice cut in: “The man is Solomon, and he is consecrating the great temple of Jerusalem.” The scene faded and was replaced instantly by another; this time the city was in ruins, and a dark-bearded figure stood brooding over the broken stones. Again Lucas cut in: “This is the king of the Assyrians. He has destroyed the city. Solomon was slain in a great battle. There is, as you can see, no temple. In this world he failed. Do you wish to see other variations?”