Wolf in Shadow

by David Gemmell

  “That is not entirely just, Ash. I thought he was dead, for he fell a fair way—and I was right about that.”

  Burry nodded. “And yet not all gifts are from the Almighty, Donna. I cannot believe that Saul Fletcher would do such a thing.”

  “He hanged Able Jarrett and some poor wanderer.”

  “The man was consorting with brigands … and it was a Committee decision. I do not condone the taking of life, Donna, but right or wrong, it was in accordance with Rivervale law, the law laid down by Prester John.”

  “I do not recall the Prester hanging a landsman, Ash.”

  Shannow pulled up a chair by the window, reversed it, and sat facing the saint, his arms resting on the chair back.

  “Mr. Ash, might I inquire the reason for your visit?” he said.

  “The name is Burry, sir, Ashley Burry, and I am a longtime friend of the Prester’s family. I baptized Donna many years ago, and though she does not follow the faith, I regard her as my godchild.”

  “So this is merely a friendly visit?” asked Shannow.

  “I hope that all my visits are friendly and that all who know me regard them as such.”

  “I am sure that they do, Mr. Burry,” said Shannow, smiling, “but it is a long ride from Rivervale on a hot day.”

  “Meaning, sir?”

  “Meaning that you have something to tell Fray Taybard. Would you be more comfortable if I left you to speak with her?”

  Burry rubbed at his chin and smiled to cover his embarrassment. His eyes met Shannow’s, and understanding passed between them.

  “Thank you for your frankness, Mr. Shannow. Yes, that would indeed be courteous.”

  After Shannow had gone, Burry and Donna sat in silence for several seconds. The saint refilled his pottery mug with apple juice and then walked around the room, idly examining the furniture he had seen so many times before.

  “Well, Ash?” said Donna.

  “He speaks well, Donna, but he is a brigand—and a known brigand. How could you allow him to stay?”

  “He follows your ways, Ash.”

  “No, that would be blasphemy. I do not kill wantonly.”

  “He rescued my son.”

  “That is not as I have heard it. Bard and the others found the boy lost and were returning him to you when Shannow arrived and killed Pope and Miles.”

  “Nonsense. My son was beaten and taken from the north meadow, and they were halfway to Rivervale with him. And that was the same day Fletcher tried to force me from my home. Are you blind, Ash?”

  “The man is a killer. They say his mind is unhinged.”

  “Did you find it so?”

  “That is not the point. He may be rational now, but he terrified Bard and the others. Did you know he shot off Bard’s ear?”

  “I wish it had been his head!”

  “Donna!” said Burry, shocked. “I think the man is possessed, and I believe that his evil power is affecting your judgment. Saul has spoken to me of you, and I know that he holds you dear. He has no wife, Donna, and he would be a good father to Eric.”

  Donna laughed. “We talk about judgment, Ash, and then you advise me to marry the man who probably murdered my father and certainly killed my husband! Let’s talk of something else. How is Sara?”

  “She is well, but she worries about you; we all do. The Committee has passed sentence on Shannow, and they mean to hang him.”

  “I am going to prepare some food for you, Ash. And while I do it, I want you to find Jon and talk with him.”

  “What could I say?”

  “You can talk about your god, Ash. He at least will be able to understand.”

  “You mock me, Donna,” he said sadly.

  “Not by intention, Ash. Go and talk to him.”

  Burry shook his head and rose from the table. Out in the sunlight he saw Shannow sitting on a white rock and watching the hills. The man was wearing the infernal pistols that had so brutally slain Pope and Miles and God knew how many others, he thought.

  “May I join you, Mr. Shannow?”

  “Of course.”

  “When will you be leaving Rivervale?”

  “Soon, Mr. Burry.”

  “How soon?”

  “I do not know.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want for nothing, Mr. Burry.”

  “It is said that you seek Jerusalem.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “Why?”

  “To answer all my questions. To satisfy me.”

  “But the Book answers all questions, Mr. Shannow.”

  Shannow smiled. “I have read the Book, Mr. Burry—many, many times. But there are no pistols mentioned. Twelve years ago I saw a picture that had not been painted. It was like a frozen moment in time. It was a city, but it took me a long time to realize it was a city, for the picture was a view from the sky to the ground. There is nothing like it in the Bible, Mr. Burry. I met an old man once who had a special book, very old. In it were drawings of machines with wheels and levers; there were seats in these machines, and men could travel in them without horses. Why are these not in the Bible? The old man said he had once seen a picture of a metal machine that could fly. Why is this not in the Scriptures?”

  “It is, Mr. Shannow. You will recall that Elijah ascended to heaven in a chariot of fire. You will also recall that there are many examples of angelic beings in strange machines.”

  “But no pistols, Mr. Burry. No guns.”

  “Is that important? We know that Christ told his disciples that the end of the world was nigh, and we know that it happened. The oceans rose, and the world was destroyed. Those of us now living are in the end times.”

  “But does it not also say, Mr. Burry, that these are the times of the Antichrist, that men would wish they had never been born, and that pestilence, plague, and death would stalk the land?”

  “Yes. And that has certainly come to pass.”

  “And that a New Jerusalem would be built?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I mean to find it.”

  “Only God’s servants will find Jerusalem, Mr. Shannow. Do you honestly believe you serve the Almighty?”

  “No, Mr. Burry, I do not, though I have tried and will go on trying. I was taught that the world is young and that Christ died three hundred years ago and his death caused the oceans to rise. Yet I have seen evidence that the Dark Age of our world lasted much longer than that. You know that there are some who believe that the Lord died two and a half thousand years ago?”

  “Heretics,” declared Ashley Burry.

  “I agree with you, yet I wonder if they are not closer to the truth than you or I. I have seen remnants of old maps that do not even show Israel, or Judah, or Babylon—or even Rome. There are names unheard of in the Book. I need to know, Mr. Burry.”

  “For what purpose? Are we not advised to ignore the seeking of signs and portents?”

  “And yet when the clouds darken, do we not reach for our oilskins?”

  “Yes, Mr. Shannow, but what does it matter if the Dark Age after our Lord was long or short? We are here now. Does it matter if machines once flew? They no longer do so. Does not Ecclesiastes say that ‘There is nothing new under the sun’ and that everything that ever was will be again?”

  “Have you ever heard of England, Mr. Burry?”

  “A Dark Age land, I believe. They preserved the Book.”

  “Do you know where it might be?”

  “No. Why is it important to you?”

  “I once saw a scrap of paper with a printed verse that said, ‘And was Jerusalem builded here, in England’s green and pleasant land.’ ”

  “May I offer you some advice, Mr. Shannow?”

  “Why not? Most people do.”

  “Leave this place. Continue your search. If you remain, you will bring only death and despair to this house. The Committee has declared you a brigand and a warmaker; they will hang you, sir.”

  “When I was a child, Mr. Burry, my parents bui
lt a home for my brother and myself. It was by the banks of a beautiful river, and the land was rich and open and wild as sin. My father tamed that land, and it brought forth crops and fed our cattle. Then some men came who wanted fertile land. They killed my father. My mother they abused before cutting her throat. My brother and I escaped, though I was speared and bleeding badly. My brother dragged me to the river, and we swam downstream. We were taken in by a neighboring farmer, a strong man with four strapping sons. No one reproached the brigands who had killed my parents. That was the way life was.”

  “It is a familiar story,” admitted Burry, “but times change.”

  “Men change them. But I have not finished, Mr. Burry. Both my brother and I were brought up to believe in love and forgiveness. We tried, but the same raiders—growing fat and yet strong—decided they wanted more land. One night they attacked our new home. My brother killed one of them with an ax, and I slew another with an old musket. But still they won. This time it was I who rescued my brother, and we escaped on an old stallion. My brother lost his faith then. Mine became stronger. Two years later I returned to the farm and put the brigands to death.

  “Since then I have killed many. I have never stolen or cheated or lied. Nor have I broken the commandment: Thou shalt not do murder. I am not a brigand, but I am a warmaker. I make my war on the evil, and I am no danger to honest landsmen. Only the ungodly need fear me, Mr. Burry, or those who serve the ungodly.”

  “What happened to your brother, Mr. Shannow? Did he find his faith?”

  “We both learned to hate. I hated the brigands and the death dealers, but he came to despise the landsmen who stood by and allowed the brigands to prosper. No, Mr. Burry, he did not find his faith.”

  “You are a bitter man, Mr. Shannow.”

  “Indeed I am. But I am content with what I am, and I do not compromise my principles. Now you, Mr. Burry, are a man of God. Yet you come to this house to defend murderers, and you align yourself with the ungodly. Fletcher killed Fray Taybard’s husband. His men are a pack of cutthroats. And even now, Mr. Burry, you sit here like the Judas goat, and death is waiting as we speak.”

  “What do you mean? You are speaking nonsense.”

  “Am I indeed?”

  “Explain yourself.”

  Shannow shook his head and smiled. “There are three men hiding in the trees to the north. Did they come with you?”

  “No, Mr. Shannow, they did not, but you must realize that a sum of fifty Barta coins will be paid to anyone who brings in the body of a known brigand.”

  “I should have taken the corpses to Rivervale,” said Shannow. “Both Miles and Pope were known murderers; they killed a traveling family in Sertace two years ago, and they also rode with Daniel Cade when he was raiding the southwest.”

  “I do not believe you, Mr. Shannow.”

  “It is better for your conscience that you do not, Mr. Burry.”

  * * *

  The meal was eaten in silence, and Burry left soon afterward. Eric said nothing as the saint rode away but went to his room, shutting the door behind him.

  “I am worried about him,” said Donna as she and Shannow cleared away the dishes and plates.

  “He fears me, Donna. I do not blame him.”

  “He is not eating, and his dreams are bad.”

  “I think your friend Burry is right and I should be moving. But I fear for you. When I am gone, Fletcher will return.”

  “Then do not go, Jon. Stay with us.”

  “I do not think you understand the danger. I am not a man any longer; I am a walking bag of Barta coins for any who feel they can collect on me. Even now there are three men in the hills building their nerve to come for me.”

  “I do not want you to go,” she said.

  He reached out and lightly touched her cheek. “I want only what you want, but I know what must happen.”

  He left her then and walked to Eric’s room. He tapped on the door, but there was no reply; he tapped again.

  “Yes?”

  “It is Jon Shannow. May I come in?”

  A pause. Then, “All right.”

  Eric was lying on his bed, facing the door. He looked up at the tall figure and saw that Shannow was wearing his father’s shirt; he had not noticed that before.

  “May I sit down, Eric?”

  “You can do what you like. I can’t stop you,” said the boy miserably.

  Shannow pulled up a chair and reversed it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know, Eric. I only know that you are troubled. Do you want to talk about your father? Or Fletcher? Or me?”

  “I expect Mother wishes I wasn’t here,” said the boy, sitting up and hugging his knees. “Then she could be with you all the time.”

  “She has not said that to me.”

  “Mr. Burry doesn’t like you, and I don’t like you, either.”

  “Sometimes I don’t like myself,” said Shannow. “That keeps me in the majority.”

  “Everything was all right until you came,” said Eric, tears starting as he bit his lip and looked away. “Mother and me were fine. She slept in here, and I didn’t have bad dreams. And Mr. Fletcher was my friend—and everything was fine.”

  “I’ll be gone soon,” Shannow told him softly, and the truth of the words hit him like a blow. The pool settled, and the ripples faded, and everything returned to the way it had been.

  “It won’t be the same,” said Eric, and Shannow could offer no argument.

  “You are very wise, Eric. Life changes, and not always for the better. It is the mark of a man how he copes with that fact. I think you will cope well, for you are strong, stronger than you think.”

  “But I won’t be able to stop them from taking our house.”

  “No.”

  “And Mr. Fletcher will force Mother to live with him?”

  “Yes,” said Shannow, swallowing hard and keeping the awful images from his mind.

  “I think you had better stay for a little while, Mr. Shannow,” said Eric.

  “I think perhaps I had. It would be nice if we could be friends, Eric.”

  “I don’t want to be your friend.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you took my mother away from me, and now I am all alone.”

  “You are not alone, but I cannot convince you of that, even though I probably know more about loneliness than any man alive. I have never had a friend, Eric. When I was your age, my father and mother were killed. I was raised for some time by a neighbor called Claude Vurrow; then he, too, was killed, and since then I have been alone. People do not like me. I am the Jerusalem Man, the Shadow, the brigand slayer. Wherever I am I will be hated and hunted or used by ‘better’ men. That is loneliness, Eric—sitting with a frightened child and not being able to reach out and convince even him—that is loneliness.

  “When I die, Eric, no one will mourn for me. It will be as if I never was. Would you like to be that lonely, boy?”

  Eric said nothing, and Shannow left the room.

  The three men watched Shannow ride from the farmhouse, heading east toward the forests of pine. Swiftly they saddled their ponies and rode after him.

  Jerrik took the lead, for he was the man with the long rifle, a muzzle-loading flintlock a mere thirty-five years old. It was a fine gun that had seen three owners murdered for owning it. Jerrik had acquired it as settlement for a gambling debt two years before and had then used it to kill the former owner, who was tracking him to steal it back. It seemed poetic somehow, though Jerrik could not verbalize the reason.

  Behind him rode Pearson and Swallow, men Jerrik could rely on … so long as all three were poor. The trio had arrived only recently in Rivervale but had swiftly come under Bard’s watchful eye. He had recommended them to Fletcher, and this task was their entry to the Committee.

  “Hunt down and kill the Jerusalem Man.” The long rifle could handle that, given a fixed target, and Swallow was an expert crossbowm
an. Pearson was more of a knife expert, but he could hurl a blade with uncanny accuracy. Jerrik was confident that the deed could be completed without tears.

  “Do you think he’s leaving the area?” asked Swallow. Jerrik showed his contempt at the question by ignoring it, but Pearson grinned, showing broken teeth.

  “No saddlebags,” he said.

  “Why don’t we wait and hit him when he comes back?” asked Swallow.

  “What if he comes back at night?” answered Jerrik.

  Swallow lapsed into silence. Younger than the others, he felt a need to be heard with respect, yet every time he spoke, he left himself open to mockery. Pearson slapped the blond youngster on the shoulder and grinned at him. He knew what the lad was thinking, as he knew also the cause of his problem. Swallow was too stupid to know that he was stupid. But Pearson liked him, and they were well matched in many ways. Both disliked the company of women; both enjoyed the power that came from a lack of conscience and the godlike joy of holding a life in one’s hands before snuffing it out. The only difference lay in the fact that Swallow enjoyed killing men, whereas Pearson found the torture of women to be an exquisite pleasure.

  Jerrik was unlike them in that regard. He neither enjoyed nor abhorred killing. It was merely a task—like weeding or felling trees or skinning rabbits, something to be done swiftly. Watching Pearson and Swallow at their work only bored him, and the screams always kept him awake. Jerrik was approaching fifty and felt it was time to settle down and raise children; he had his eye on a farm in Rivervale and the young widow who owned it. With the Barta coins he expected for the Jerusalem Man he would have some woolen clothes made and pay court to the widow. She would have to treat him seriously as a Committee man.

  The trio followed Shannow’s tracks high into the pine forest, and it was getting toward dusk when they spotted his campfire.

  The three dismounted and hobbled their horses, creeping through the undergrowth toward the small blaze. Some fifty feet from the fire Jerrik saw the shadowy outline of the Jerusalem Man sitting with his back against a tree, his wide-brimmed hat tipped down over his eyes.

  “You just sit there and think,” whispered Jerrik, hunkering down and priming his musket. He directed Pearson and Swallow to the left and right, ready to rush in once the mortal shot was fired. Then the two crept off into the trees.