Bloodstone

by David Gemmell

  Meredith said nothing, and Clem opened his eyes. “You want to tell me the good news?” he asked.

  “It isn’t good,” said Meredith softly.

  “There’s a surprise.” Clem was feeling light-headed and faint, but he clung on. There were not enough defenders, and he was not going to die just yet. He coughed. Blood rose in his throat and sprayed out onto Meredith’s pale shirt. Clem sank back. The sun was setting, the sky the color of burning copper. Clem levered himself to his feet, staggered, and righted himself by gripping the window frame.

  “What are you doing?” asked Josiah Broome, reaching out to grab Clem’s arm. Meredith took hold of Broome’s shoulder, drawing him back.

  “He’s dying,” whispered Meredith. “He has only minutes left.”

  Clem fell across the ruined window, then lifted his leg over the sill. The air was fresh and cool outside, not filled with the acrid smell of black powder. It was a good evening, the sky bright. Clem dropped to the ground and half fell. Blood filled his throat, and he thought he was suffocating, but he swallowed it down and staggered to the corpses, relieving them of their pistols and tossing the weapons through the window. One of the Hellborn was wearing a bandolier of shells. With difficulty, Clem tugged it loose and passed it to Broome.

  “Come back inside!” urged Broome.

  “I like … it … here,” whispered Clem, the effort of speaking bringing on a fresh bout of coughing.

  Clem staggered to the edge of the building. From there he could see the horse trough and the two men hiding behind it. As he stepped into sight, they saw him and tried to bring their rifles to bear. Clem shot them both. A third man rose from behind the paddock fence, and a bullet punched into Clem’s body, half spinning him. He returned the fire but missed.

  Falling to his knees, Clem reached into the pocket of his coat, pulling clear his last few shells. Another bullet struck him. The ground was hard against his cheek, and all pain floated away from him. Three Hellborn ran from hiding. Clem heard the pounding of their boots on the earth.

  With the last of his strength Clem rolled. There were two shots left in the pistol, and he triggered them both, the first shell slamming into the belly of the leading Hellborn and pitching him from his feet, the second tearing into an unprotected throat.

  A rifle boomed, and Clem saw the last Hellborn stagger to a stop, the top of his head blown away. The body crumpled to the ground.

  Clem lay on his back and stared up at the sky. It was unbearably bright for a moment, then the darkness closed in from the sides until at last he was staring at a tiny circle of light at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

  Then there was nothing.

  Nestor and Wallace watched him die. “He was a tough one,” said Wallace.

  “He was Laton Duke,” said Nestor softly.

  “Yeah? Well, don’t that beat all!” Wallace lifted his rifle to his shoulder and sighted on a man creeping along beneath the paddock fence. He fired, the bullet splintering wood above the man and causing him to dive for cover. “Damn it! Missed him. Laton Duke, you say? He was sure good with that pistol.”

  “He was good,” agreed Nestor sadly. Glancing up at the redheaded youngster, he asked, “You frightened, Wal?”

  “Yep.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  The youngster shrugged. “My folks were never much on showing stuff, you know, emotions and the like. Busted my arm once and cried. My dad set the bone, then whacked me alongside the head for blubbing.” He sniffed and chuckled. “I did love that old goat!” Wallace fired again. “Got him, by God!”

  Nestor glanced out to see the Hellborn warrior lying still in the gathering dusk.

  “You think they’ll attack us after dark?”

  “Bet on it,” said Wallace. “Let’s hope there’s a good clear sky and plenty of moonlight.”

  Movement in the distance caught Nestor’s eye. “Oh, no!” he whispered. Wallace saw them, too. Scores of Hellborn were riding down the hillside.

  Jacob Moon was with them.

  As they neared, Wallace tried a shot at the Jerusalem Rider but missed, his shot thumping into the shoulder of a rider to Moon’s left. The Hellborn dismounted and ran to the shelter of the barn. Wallace spit through the rifle slit but said nothing.

  Nestor backed from the room and called down the news to Beth McAdam.

  “We saw them,” she called back. “Clem threw in some pistols. Better come down here and help yourself, son.”

  Nestor moved swiftly downstairs. Isis and Meredith held pistols now, but Josiah Broome sat defiantly on the floor, his hands across his knees.

  “Are you some sort of coward?” asked Nestor. “Haven’t you even got the guts to fight for your life?”

  “That’s enough of that!” stormed Beth. “Sometimes it takes more courage to stick by what you believe in. Now get back upstairs and stay with Wallace.”

  “Yes, Frey,” he said meekly.

  Beth knelt by Josiah Broome, resting her hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Sad, Beth,” he told her, patting her hand. “We never learn, do we? We never change. Always killing and causing pain.”

  “Not all of us. Some of us just fight to stay alive. When it starts, stay low.”

  “I’m ashamed to admit that I wish he was here now,” said Josiah.

  Beth nodded, remembering Shannow in his prime. There was a force and a power about him that made him appear unbeatable, unstoppable. “So do I, Josiah. So do I.” Beth called the children to her and told them to sit with Josiah. Esther snuggled down and buried her face in the old man’s shoulder. Broome put his arm around her.

  Oz pulled clear his small pistol. “I’m going to fight,” said the child.

  Beth nodded. “Wait till they’re inside,” she said.

  “They’re coming!” Nestor yelled.

  Beth ran to the window. Zerah, blood seeping from her shoulder wound, stood to the left of the window with her pistol ready. Beth risked a glance. The Hellborn were coming in a solid wedge of men, racing across the yard.

  The few defenders could never stop them.

  There was no need to aim, and Beth and Zerah triggered their pistols into the advancing wedge of attackers. Bullets smashed into the room, ricocheting around the walls.

  Upstairs Nestor levered shells into the rifle, sending shot after shot into the charging Hellborn.

  They were halfway to the house when Wallace gave a whoop. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled.

  More riders were thundering down the hillside, but they were not Hellborn. Many wore the gray shield shirts of the Crusaders.

  As they rode, they opened fire, a volley of shots ripping through the ranks of the charging men. The Hellborn slowed, then swung to meet their attackers. Nestor saw several horses go down, but the rest came on, surging into the yard.

  “Son of a bitch!” yelled Wallace again.

  The Hellborn scattered but were shot down as they ran.

  Wallace and Nestor continued to fire until their bullets ran out. Then they raced downstairs.

  Beth staggered to a chair and sat down, the pistol suddenly heavy in her tired hand. A face appeared at the window. It was Tobe Harris.

  “Good to see you, Tobe,” said Beth. “I swear to God you have the handsomest face I ever did see.”

  Nestor gathered up Beth’s pistol and ran out into the yard, where bodies lay everywhere, twisted in death. The Crusaders from Purity had moved on into the fields, chasing down the fleeing Hellborn. Nestor could not believe it. He was going to live! Death had seemed so certain, unavoidable and inevitable. The sun was sinking behind the mountains, and Nestor felt tears well into his eyes. He could smell the gun smoke and through it the fresh, sweet scent of the moisture on the grass.

  “Oh, God!” he whispered.

  Horsemen came riding back into the yard, led by a tall, square-shouldered man in a black coat. The man lifted his flat-crowned hat from his head and produced a handkerchief from his pocke
t, wiping his face and beard.

  “By the Lord, you fought well here, boy,” he said. “I am Padlock Wheeler. The Deacon sent for me.”

  “I’m Nestor Garrity, sir.”

  “You look all in, Son,” said Wheeler, dismounting and tethering his horse to a rail. Around him other Crusaders moved among the dead. Occasionally a pistol shot would sound as they found wounded Hellborn. Nestor looked away; it was so cold, so merciless. Padlock Wheeler moved alongside him, patting his shoulder. “I need to know what is happening here, Son. The man Tobe told us of the giant Wolvers, but we’ve now had two run-ins with Hellborn warriors. Where are they from?”

  Isis walked from the doorway. Padlock Wheeler bowed, and the blond girl smiled wearily. “They are from beyond the gates of time, Meneer. The Deacon told me that. And their leader is a soul stealer, a taker of life.”

  Wheeler nodded. “We’ll deal with him, young lady. But where is the Deacon?”

  “He vanished through one of the gateways. He has gone seeking help.”

  Nestor stood silently by, his thoughts confused. The Deacon was a liar and a fraud. It was all lies and death and violence. His mouth tasted of bile, and he found himself shivering, his stomach churning with nausea.

  One of the Crusaders shouted to Wheeler and pointed to the east. Three riders were coming. Nestor leaned against the porch rail and watched them approach. In the lead was a white-bearded old man; behind him came a black woman, her head bandaged. Beside her rode a black man, blood staining his white shirt.

  “The Deacon!” said Padlock Wheeler, his voice exultant. Leaving the porch, Wheeler stepped down to the yard, raising his arm in greeting.

  At that moment a body moved beside his feet, springing up with gun in hand. An arm encircled Wheeler’s neck, and a pistol barrel was thrust under his chin. No one moved.

  The gunman was Jacob Moon. “Stay back, you bastards!” shouted the Jerusalem Rider. All was still except for the slow walking horse the Deacon rode. Nestor’s gaze flicked from the rider to Moon and his victim and back again. The Deacon wore a long black coat and a pale shirt. His beard shone silver in the moonlight, and his deep-set eyes were focused on Moon. Slowly he dismounted. The black woman and her companion remained where they were, sitting motionless on their horses.

  “Let him go,” said the Deacon, his voice deep and steady.

  “I want a horse and a chance to ride free from here,” said Moon.

  “No,” said the Deacon simply. “What I will give you is an opportunity to live. Let Padlock go free and you may face me man to man. Should you triumph, not a man here will stop you.”

  “In a pig’s eye!” stormed Moon. “As soon as I let him go, you’ll gun me down.”

  “I am the Deacon, and I do not lie!”

  Moon dragged Padlock farther back toward the wall. “You’re not the Deacon!” he screamed. “I killed him at his summer cabin.”

  “You killed an old man who served me well. The man you are holding is Padlock Wheeler, one of my generals in the Unity Wars. He knows me, as do several of these riders. Now, do you have the nerve to face me?”

  “Nerve?” snorted Moon. “You think it takes nerve to shoot down an old goat?”

  Nestor blinked. The old man could not know who he was threatening. It was madness. “He’s Jacob Moon!” he shouted. “Don’t do it!”

  Darkness had fallen, and the moon was bright in the sky. The Deacon appeared not to hear the youngster’s words. “Well?” he said, removing his coat. Nestor saw that he was wearing two guns.

  “I’ll go free?” asked Moon. “I have your word on that? Your oath?”

  “Let every man here understand,” said the Deacon. “Should I die, this man rides free.”

  Moon threw Padlock Wheeler aside and stood for a moment, gun in hand. Then he laughed and moved out into the open. Behind him men opened up a space, moving out of the line of fire.

  “I don’t know why you want to die, old man, but I’ll oblige you. You should have listened to the boy. I am Jacob Moon, the Jerusalem Rider, and I’ve never been beat.” He holstered his pistol.

  “And I,” said the Deacon, “am Jon Shannow, the Jerusalem Man.”

  As he spoke, the Deacon smoothly palmed his pistol. There was no sudden jerk, no indication of tension or drama. The words froze Moon momentarily, but his hand flashed for his pistol. He was infinitely faster than the old man, but his reaction time was dulled by the words the Deacon had spoken. A bullet smashed into his belly, and he staggered back a pace. His own gun boomed, but then three shots thundered into him, spinning him from his feet.

  The world continued to spin as Moon struggled to his knees. He tried to raise his pistol, but his hand was empty. He blinked sweat from his eyes and stared up at the deadly old man, who was now walking toward him.

  “The wages of sin is death, Moon” were the last words he heard.

  Padlock Wheeler rushed to the Deacon’s side. The old man fell into his arms. Nestor saw the blood on the Deacon’s shirt. Two men ran forward, and they half carried the Deacon into the house. Nestor followed them.

  The first person he saw was Beth. Her face was unnaturally pale, and she stood with eyes wide, hand over her mouth, as they laid the Deacon on the floor.

  “Oh, Christ!” she whispered. “Oh, dear Christ!” Falling to her knees beside him, she stroked a hand through his gray hair. “How can it be you, Jon? You are so old!”

  The man smiled weakly, his head resting in Padlock Wheeler’s lap. “Long story,” he said, his voice distant.

  The black woman entered the room and knelt by Shannow. “Use the stone,” she commanded.

  “Not enough power.”

  “Of course there is!”

  “Not for me … and the Bloodstone. Don’t worry about me, lady. I’ll live long enough to do what must be done. Where is Meredith?”

  “I’m here, sir,” said the sandy-haired young man.

  “Get me into the back room. Check the wound. Strap it. Whatever.”

  Wheeler and Meredith carried him through the house. Beth rose and turned to face the black woman. “It’s been a long time, Amaziga.”

  “Three hundred years and more,” said Amaziga. “This is my husband, Sam.”

  The black man smiled and offered his left hand; the right was strapped to his chest.

  Beth shook hands. “You’ve been in the wars, too, I see.”

  Amaziga nodded. “We came through a gateway north of here. We walked for a while, but we were surprised by some Hellborn warriors. There were four of them. Sam took a bullet in the shoulder. I got this graze,” she said, lightly touching the bandage on her brow. “Shannow killed them. It’s what he’s good at.”

  “He’s good at a damn sight more than that,” said Beth, reddening, “but then, that’s something you’ve never been capable of understanding.”

  Turning on her heel, she followed the others into the bedroom. Shannow was in the bed, Meredith examining the wound, while Josiah Broome sat to the left, holding Shannow’s hand. Wheeler stood at the foot of the bed. Beth moved alongside the doctor. The wound was low and had ripped through the flesh above the hipbone to emerge in a jagged tear on Shannow’s side. Blood was flowing freely, and Shannow’s face was gray, his eyes closed.

  “I need to stop the flow,” said Meredith. “Get me a needle and thread.”

  Outside Nestor introduced himself to Amaziga Archer and her husband. The woman was astonishingly beautiful, he thought, despite the gray streaks in her hair. “Is he really the Jerusalem Man?” asked Nestor.

  “Really,” said Amaziga, moving away to the kitchen. Sam smiled at the boy.

  “A living legend, Nestor.”

  “I can’t believe he beat Jacob Moon. I just can’t believe it! And him so old.”

  “I expect Moon found it even harder to believe. Now excuse me, Son, but I’m weary and I need to rest. Is there a bed somewhere?”

  “Yes, sir. Upstairs. I’ll show you.”

  “No need, Son. I may be
wounded, but I believe I still have the strength to find a bed.”

  As Sam moved away, Nestor saw Wallace sitting by the window with Zerah Wheeler. The redhead was chatting to the children. Esther was giggling, and young Oz was staring at Wallace with undisguised admiration.

  Nestor walked from the house.

  Outside the Crusaders were clearing away the corpses, dragging them to the field beyond the buildings. Several campfires had been lit in the lee of the barn, and men were sitting quietly, talking in groups.

  Isis was sitting by the paddock fence, staring out over the moonlit hills. When Nestor joined her, she looked up and smiled. “It is a wonderful night,” she said.

  Nestor glanced up at the glittering stars. “Yes,” he agreed. “It’s good to be alive.”

  Beth sat beside Shannow’s bed, with Padlock Wheeler standing beside her. “By God, Deacon, I never thought to hear you lie,” said Wheeler. “But it did the trick; it threw him right enough.”

  Shannow smiled weakly. “It was no lie, Pad.” Slowly and with great effort he told the story of his travels, beginning with the attack on his church, his rescue by the Wanderers, the fight with Aaron Crane and his men, and finally his meeting with Amaziga beyond the town of Domango.

  “It really was you, then, in my church!” said Wheeler. “By heaven, Deacon, you never cease to amaze me.”

  “There’s more, Pad,” said Shannow. He closed his eyes and spoke of the Bloodstone and the ruined world from which it came.

  “How do we fight such a beast?” asked Padlock Wheeler.

  “I have a plan,” said Shannow. “Not much of one, I’ll grant you, but with the grace of God it’ll give us a chance.”

  Zerah Wheeler entered the room, her shoulder bandaged and her arm bound across her chest. “Leave the wounded man be,” she said, “and say hello to your mother.”

  Padlock spun, jaw agape. “Jesus wept, Mother! I did not know you were here. And you’re wounded!” Moving to her side, he threw his arm around her shoulder.

  “Whisht, you lummox! You’ll set it bleeding again,” she scolded, knocking his hand away. “Now come outside and leave the man to rest. You, too, Beth.”