Bloodstone

by David Gemmell

  Sam grabbed the rope and slithered over the edge as Gareth moved alongside his mother. “You have any more clips for the Uzi?”

  “One more,” she said, handing it to him.

  A Hellborn moved into sight with his rifle aimed. Shannow shot him twice through the body. Gareth glanced back at the rope. “Come on, man!” he whispered. As if obedient to his thoughts, the unseen Sam reached the ledge and the rope flicked twice. “You next, Mother,” he said. “Give the Uzi to Shannow.” Tossing the weapon to the Jerusalem Man, she moved to the rope and disappeared from sight.

  Shots sliced the air around them. Shannow fired the Uzi, and all was suddenly silent.

  The rope flicked. “Now you, Shannow!”

  “I’ll come last,” he said. “Get yourself down.” Gareth handed his Uzi to Shammy and moved to the edge.

  There was silence for a while, then Shannow saw the rope jerk twice. “Better join them,” he told the young woman.

  She smiled and shrugged. “Lost too much blood, friend. No strength left. You go. I’ll hold them for a while.”

  “I’ll carry you,” he announced.

  “No. The artery is cut in the groin. I’m bleeding to death. I’ve probably only minutes left. Save yourself—and Sam. Get Sam away.”

  Two Hellborn reared up. A bullet ricocheted from the tree by Shannow’s head. Twisting, he emptied the Uzi, then cast it aside. Shammy was lying down now, a second wound in her chest. Shannow crawled to her.

  “Well,” she whispered, “that one took the pain away.”

  “You are a brave woman. You deserved better.”

  “You’d better go,” she said. “Sit me up first. I may yet get off another few rounds.”

  Shannow lifted her to a sitting position with her back to a tree, the Uzi in her hands. Then he slithered back to the edge and dropped from sight.

  As he reached the ledge, he heard a burst of firing.

  Then silence …

  Sam sat on the hillside above the small cluster of deserted buildings, his mind still reeling from the shocks of the day. Shammy was dead. They were all dead: Jered, Marcia, Caleb … And Amaziga was alive. He was filled with a sense of unreality, a pervading numbness that blocked all emotion. They had climbed down to the foot of the cliff, the Hellborn firing down on them, the bullets kicking up puffs of dust but none coming near. He and Amaziga had shared the lead horse, the young black man and the grim warrior following behind. They had ridden for hours, stopping at last at this deserted hamlet, its residents long since slain by the forces of the Bloodstone, the few homes empty, dust-filled reminders of a community that had vanished forever.

  Amaziga had led him into one of the houses, sitting him down and kneeling before him. There she had explained it all. But her words had drifted around in his mind without meaning. He had reached out and touched her face; she had leaned in to him and kissed his fingers, just as she had always done. His tears flowed then, and he rose and staggered from the house, brushing past the young man and breaking into a run that carried him far up the hill.

  Shammy was dead. Loyal, steadfast Shammy who asked for nothing except to fight beside him.

  Yet where was the grief? Amaziga, whom he had loved more than life, was back. Not his Amaziga, she said, but another woman from another world. It made no sense, and it made no difference. On the ride he had sat behind her, the scent of her hair filling his nostrils, the feel of her body against him.

  Samuel Archer struggled to marshal his thoughts. He had studied the principle of multiple universes back at the Guardian Center, had indeed theorized that other Samuel Archers might exist. Then Sarento had mutated into the Blood Beast, and all Sam’s studies had been forgotten in the savage wars that had followed.

  Amaziga had died, cut down by a hail of bullets, her beautiful face shattered and torn.

  Amaziga was alive!

  Oh, God!

  It was all too much. Sam stared up at the sky. Not a single bird flew, and as far as the eye could see not one living creature roamed the land. The Bloodstone had sucked the world dry. The sun was shining, the sky powder-blue and dappled with clouds. Sam lay back on the grass, his thoughts haphazard, chaotic. Amaziga came walking up toward him, and his eyes drank in her lithe movements, the swaying, unselfconscious sexuality, the lightness of step. God, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever known.

  I don’t know her!

  “We need to talk, Sam,” she said softly, sitting beside him.

  “Let’s talk about our shared memories,” he said, more harshly than he had intended. “You recall the summer in Lost Hawk, near the lake?”

  She shook her head sadly. “You and I have shared no summers, though I don’t doubt that some of our memories will be linked. That’s not the point, Sam. I crossed the universe to find you and save you from death. I could not save my own Sam any more than you could protect the Amaziga you knew. But we are each the identical copies of the originals. Everything I loved about my Sam you share, and that is why I can say—without fear of contradiction—that I love you, Sam. I love you, and I need you.”

  “Who is the boy?” asked Sam, knowing the answer but needing the confirmation.

  “Your son, the son you would have sired. Whichever.”

  “He’s a fine man, brave and steady. I could be proud of a son like that.”

  “Then be proud, Sam,” she urged him. “Come with us. Together we can try to stop a world from falling. It won’t be our own, but it will be a world just like the one that almost died. We can save it, Sam. We can fulfill the dreams of the Guardians.”

  “And what of the Bloodstone?”

  She spread her hands. “What of him, Sam? He has killed a world. He will not be able to feed. He is finished, anyway.”

  Sam shook his head. “Sarento was no fool. What is to stop him from finding other worlds? No, I have pledged myself to destroy him, and that I must do.”

  Amaziga was silent for a moment. “This is foolish, Sam; we both know it. His powers are beyond us. You have a plan? Or is this just a quixotic impulse that will not allow you to know when you are beaten?”

  “My Amaziga would not have asked that,” he said.

  “Yes, she would, Sam, and you know it. You are a romantic and an idealist. She never was. Was she?”

  He sighed and turned his face away from her, staring down at the small cluster of buildings and the two men who waited there. “Who is the cold killer?” he asked, avoiding the question.

  “His name is Shannow. In his own world they call him the Jerusalem Man. He, too, had an impossible dream, but he learned the folly of such fantasies.”

  “He does not look like a dreamer. Nor does he look like a man who has lost hope.” Swinging back toward her, he smiled. “You are right: my Ziga would have asked the same question. What interests me is how you will react to what I am about to say. Or can you predict it?”

  “Oh, I can predict it, Sam,” she told him. “You are going to say that running away would destroy you, for it would mean turning your back on everything you believe in. Or something like it. You are going to tell me that you will continue the battle against the Bloodstone even if I say we will leave without you. Am I right?”

  “I can’t deny it.”

  “And you are wrong, Sam. Oh, I admire you for your courage, but you are wrong. Before coming here we studied the Bloodstone. Sarento cannot be harmed by any weapon in our possession. He is invulnerable. We cannot shoot him, starve him, or burn him. We could pack him in a thousand tons of ice, and it would have no effect on him. So tell me, Sam, how will you fight this monster?”

  Sam looked away. “There has to be a way. God knows, there has to be.”

  “If there is, my love, we will not find it here. Perhaps in the world before the Fall we can find something—and then come back.”

  Sam thought about it for a while, then slowly nodded. “You are right, as always. How do we get to your world?”

  Amaziga laughed. “Don’t look so crestfallen. Ther
e is so much we can do together for the good of all mankind. You are alive, Sam! And we are together.”

  “And the Bloodstone is triumphant,” he whispered.

  “Only for now,” she assured him.

  Shannow glanced up at the two of them, watching their embrace.

  Gareth moved alongside him. “Well, we did it, Mr. Shannow. We brought the lovers back together.”

  Shannow nodded but said nothing, turning his gaze to the distant mountains and the fringe of the desert to the north.

  “You think they will follow us?” asked Gareth.

  “Count on it,” Shannow told him. “According to Lucas, it would take them most of a day to find a path down for their horses. Even so, I don’t like the idea of sitting here and waiting. Four people with three tired horses? We won’t outrun them, that’s for sure.” He stood and wandered back to a brick-built well to the rear of the first house. Lowering the bucket, he dunked it below the surface, then hauled it back to the top. The water was cool and clear, and he drank deeply. The death of the olive-skinned girl had touched him: she had been so young, with untold paths lying before her. Now she would walk none of them, her life snuffed out by a murdering band of killers serving an abomination.

  Not for the first time he wondered how men could descend to such barbarism. He remembered the words of Varey Shannow: “Jon, man is capable of greatness, love, nobility, compassion. Yet never forget that his capacity for evil is infinite. It is a sad truth, boy, that if you sit now and think of the worst tortures that could ever be inflicted on another human being, they will already have been practiced somewhere. If there is one sound that follows the march of humanity, it is the scream.”

  Gareth led the horses to the well and filled a second bucket. “You look far away, Mr. Shannow,” said the young man. “What were you thinking?”

  Shannow did not reply. Turning, he saw Amaziga and Sam approaching hand in hand.

  “We’re ready to go,” she said.

  “The horses will need to rest for tonight,” said Shannow. “They’re worn out. We’ll make use of one of these houses and leave at first light. I’ll take the first watch.”

  To his surprise, Amaziga offered no argument. Removing the headband and silver boxes that contained Lucas, she handed them to him, pointing out how to engage the machine and warning him of the need to limit the use to conserve the energy.

  Sam and Amaziga went into the first house. Gareth remained for a moment with Shannow; he grinned. “I think I’ll sleep in the next house,” he said. “I’ll relieve you in four hours.”

  Removing his hat, Shannow slid the headband into place and then looped the shoulder rig across his right shoulder and pressed the button on the first box. Seconds later he heard Lucas’s soft voice. “Is everyone safe?”

  “Yes,” said Shannow.

  “I can’t hear you, Mr. Shannow. Engage the microphone. It eases from the headband. Once in position, it will activate automatically.”

  Shannow twisted the slender rod into place. “Yes, we are safe. Amaziga has Sam.”

  “There is sadness in your voice. I take it there was some tragedy?”

  “Many people died, Lucas.”

  “Ah, yes … I see her now. Young and beautiful. You did not want to leave her. Oh, Mr. Shannow. The world can be so savage.” Lucas was silent for a moment. “What a lonely place this is,” he said at last. “No birds, no animals. Nothing. Would you turn your head, Mr. Shannow? There is a camera in the headband. I will scan the countryside.” Shannow did as he was asked. “Nothing,” said Lucas. “Not even an insect. Truly this is a dead place. Wait … I am picking up something …”

  “What? Riders?”

  “Shhh. Wait, please.” Shannow scanned the distant mountains, seeking any sign of movement, but there was nothing that he could see in the fading light. Finally the voice of Lucas drifted back. “Tell Amaziga that we will be traveling back through the stone circle in Babylon; it is closer.”

  “You want us to ride to the Hellborn city?” asked Shannow, astonished.

  “It will save half a day.”

  “There is the matter of an enemy nation to consider,” observed Shannow.

  “Trust me,” said Lucas. “Ride northeast tomorrow. Now, Mr. Shannow, please cut the power. I have seen all I want to see.”

  Shannow flicked the switch, then removed the headband.

  Else Broome could not sleep. Her enormous body tossed and turned on the rickety bed, the springs creaking in protest at the weight. She was angry. Her husband had lost his mind and shot down the Prophet, ending in one miserable moment all her dreams of status and respect. He had always been useless, weak, and spineless, she thought. I should never have married him. And she would not have if Edric Scayse had not rejected her. Men! Scayse would have been a considerable catch: rich, handsome, respected. He had also died young, which would have left Else as the grieving widow, heir to his fortune and able to live a life of luxury, perhaps even in Unity. The widow Scayse. It was a delicious thought. Yet despite every inducement she could offer, Scayse had remained immune to her advances, and she had been forced to settle for second best. Second best? She almost laughed at the thought. Josiah Broome was the runt of the litter. But through good fortune—and the benefit of a sensible wife—he had risen to a place of eminence among the people of Pilgrim’s Valley.

  Now even that small gain was gone for good. Today, on the main street, in front of everyone, several women had crossed the road to avoid Else Broome. Eyes had been downcast as she had passed—all except for Ezra Feard, Josiah’s main competitor. He had smiled broadly, and his thin witch of a wife had hurried out to stand beside him, gloating in Else’s downfall.

  And it would get worse. The Jerusalem Riders would bring her husband back, probably sniveling and crying, and lock him up in the Crusader jail before the public trial that would see him hang. Oh, the shame of it!

  Squeezing shut her eyes, she said a prayer aloud. “Oh, Lord, you know what trials I have been through with that wretched man. It is said that he was shot trying to escape. Let him die in the mountains. Let his body be devoured and never found.”

  Maybe, after a few years, the memory of her mad husband would diminish in the eyes of the townsfolk. Or she could marry again.

  A sudden noise downstairs caused her eyes to jerk open. Someone was moving around the house. “Dear God, don’t let it be Josiah! Anything but that!” she whispered.

  There was a small pistol in the bedside table. Else sat up. If she crept down and killed him, she would become a hero, all her status restored. Opening the drawer, she pulled out the weapon. It seemed tiny in her fat fist. Flicking open the revolver’s side gate, she checked that it was loaded; then, easing her vast bulk from the bed, she moved out to the doorway and the stairs beyond. The belt of her cavernous white flannel nightgown caught on the door handle. Shaking it loose, she stepped onto the first stair, which creaked loudly.

  “Is that you, Josiah, dear?” she called as she moved down into the darkness. Then she caught a flicker of movement to the left. Cocking the pistol, she stepped from the stairs. The moon emerged from behind the clouds, silver light streaming through the window and the open door. A huge shape reared up before her.

  Else Broome had time for one piercing scream …

  It was heard by the Crusader Captain Leon Evans as he made his nightly rounds. The sound chilled him. A figure moved from the shadows, and Leon spun, his gun flashing into his hand.

  “It’s only me, sir,” said Samuel McAdam, stepping out to join him. “Did you hear it?”

  “Damn right. It came from West Street.”

  “You want me to come with you?”

  Leon smiled and clapped the boy on the shoulder. “You’re not a Crusader yet, Sam. Wait until you get paid for it.” Holstering his pistol, he moved along the street. A silver shape ran at him from the shadows, but Leon was moving past the alleyway and failed to see it. Samuel blinked. He could not believe his eyes. No Wolver could possibly b
e that big.

  “Captain!” he shouted, at the same time dragging out his pistol. His first shot missed the beast. But Leon Evans swung, drew, and fired in one smooth motion. Samuel saw the beast stagger, its head snapping back as blood sprayed from a cut to the scalp. Samuel fired again. Dust kicked up from the beast’s hide just above the hip, and blood pumped from the wound. Leon Evans stepped in close and triggered two shots into the Devourer’s chest. With a terrible howl it sank to its haunches. Movement came from the far end of the street, and screaming began in several of the houses to Samuel’s right. High above, a window smashed and a man’s body hurtled down, smashing through the slanting wooden roof that protected the sidewalk. He landed headfirst. Leon ran to the body, Samuel following. It was Ezra Feard, his chest ripped open.

  People came running from their homes, converging at the center of the main street. A huge beast climbed from Ezra Feard’s window and leapt down among them. Samuel saw a woman dragged screaming to the ground. A man ran to her aid, but talons ripped into his chest. Panic swept through the crowd, and they began to run. From the far end of the street came a score more of the creatures, their howls echoing above the screams of the crowd.

  “Get to the Crusader building!” yelled Leon Evans, trying to make himself heard above the sounds of terror that were rending the night. Pistol in hand, Samuel forced his way through the crowd, trying to reach the law officer. The Crusader captain was standing his ground with arm extended, coolly firing at the charging beasts. The hammer clicked down on an empty chamber. Leon Evans broke open the pistol and began to reload, but a beast bore down on him and leapt. Samuel was some yards back. He fired and missed. Talons ripped into Leon Evans’s cheek, tearing his face away. The Crusader captain fell back, dropping his pistol. As the creature leapt again, the mortally wounded man drew a hunting knife and lunged out, but the blade did not even pierce the hide. Talons tore into his body, and he fell in a spray of blood. Samuel backed away, trembling, then turned and ran for his life.