Wolf in Shadow

by David Gemmell

  All around the camp people were looking to their animals, wiping the dust from the nostrils of their oxen and giving them precious water. Out there the animals were more than beasts of burden. They were life.

  Griffin’s driver, a taciturn oldster named Burke, had prepared a fire and was cooking a foul-smelling stew in a copper-bottomed pot. Griffin sat opposite the man. “Another long day,” he remarked.

  Burke grunted. “Worse tomorrow.”

  “I know.”

  “You won’t get much more out of these animals. They need a week at least and good grass.”

  “You see any grass today, Jim?”

  “I’m only saying what they need.”

  “According to the map, there should be good grass within the next three days,” said Griffin, removing his hat and wiping the sweat from his forehead.

  “Which map is that?” asked Burke, smiling knowingly.

  “Cardigan’s. It seems about the best of them.”

  “Yeah. Ain’t he the one that saw the body eaters at work? Didn’t they roast his companions alive?”

  “So he said, Jim. And keep your voice down.”

  Burke pointed to the fat figure of Aaron Phelps, the arcanist, who was making his way to the wagon of Ethan Peacock. “He’d make a good lunch for them brigands.”

  “Cardigan came through here twenty years ago. There’s no reason to believe the same brigands are still in the area. Most warmakers are movers,” said Griffin.

  “Expect you’re right, Mr. Griffin,” agreed Burke with a wicked grin. “Still, I should send Phelps out as our advance scout. He’d feed an entire tribe.”

  “I ought to send you, Jimmy; you’d put them off human flesh for life. You haven’t bathed in the five years I’ve known you!”

  “Water gives you wrinkles,” said Burke. “I remember that from when I was a yongen. It shrivels you up.”

  Griffin accepted the bowl of stew Burke passed him and tasted it. If anything it was more foul than its smell, but he ate it, following it with flatbread and salt.

  “I do not know how you come up with such appalling meals,” said Griffin at last, pushing his plate away.

  Burke grinned. “Nothing to work with. Now, if you gave me Phelps …”

  Griffin shook his head and stood. He was a tall man, red-haired and looking older than his thirty-two years. His shoulders were broad, and his belly pushed out over the top of his belt despite Burke’s culinary shortcomings.

  He wandered along the wagon line, chatting to the families as they gathered by their cook fires, and ignored the squabbling Phelps and Peacock. At the Taybard wagon he stopped.

  “A word with you, Mr. Taybard,” he said, and Jon Shannow set aside his plate and rose smoothly, following Griffin out onto the trail ahead of the wagons. The wagon master sat on a jutting rock, and Shannow sat facing him.

  “There could be difficult days ahead, Mr. Taybard,” began Griffin, breaking a silence that had become uncomfortable.

  “In what way?”

  “Some years ago there was a murderous brigand band in these parts. Now, when we come down from these mountains, we should find water and grass, and we will need to rest for at least a week. During that time we could come under attack.”

  “How may I help you?”

  “You are not a farmer, Mr. Taybard. I sense you are more of a hunter, and I want you to scout for us if you will.”

  Shannow shrugged. “Why not?”

  Griffin nodded. The man had asked nothing about the brigands or of their suspected armaments. “You are a strange man, Mr. Taybard.”

  “My name is not Taybard; it is Shannow.”

  “I have heard the name, Mr. Shannow. But I shall call you Taybard as long as you ride with us.”

  “As you please, Mr. Griffin.”

  “Why did you feel the need to tell me?”

  “I do not like living a lie.”

  “Most men find little difficulty in that respect,” said Griffin. “But then, you are not like most men. I heard of the work you did in Allion.”

  “It came to nothing; the brigands returned once I had gone.”

  “That is hardly the point, Mr. Shannow.”

  “What is?”

  “You can only show the way, and it is for others to follow the path. In Allion they were stupid; when you have dusted a room, you do not throw away the broom.”

  Shannow smiled, and Griffin watched him relax. “Are you a Bookman, Mr. Griffin?”

  The wagon master returned the smile and shook his head. “I tell people I cannot read, but yes, I have studied the Book, and there is much sense in it. But I am not a believer, Mr. Shannow, and I doubt that Jerusalem exists.”

  “A man must look for something in life, even if it is only a nonexistent city.”

  “You should speak to Peacock,” said Griffin. “He has a thousand scraps of Dark Age remnants. And now that his eyes are fading, he needs help to study them.”

  Griffin rose to leave, but Shannow stopped him. “I want to thank you, Mr. Griffin, for making me welcome.”

  “It is nothing. I am not a weak man, Mr. Shannow. Shadows do not frighten me, nor reputations such as yours. I will leave you with this thought, though: What point is there in seeking Jerusalem? You have a fine wife and a growing son who will need your talents at home, wherever home may lie.”

  Shannow said nothing, and Griffin wandered back into the firelight. Shannow remained apart, sitting beneath the stars, lost in thought. Donna found him there close to midnight and sat beside him, curling her arm around his waist.

  “Are you troubled, Jon?”

  “No. I was thinking of the past.”

  “The Prester used to say, ‘The past is dead, the future unborn. What we have is the now, and we abuse it.’ ”

  “I have done nothing to deserve you, lady. But believe me, I thank the Lord for you daily.”

  “What did Mr. Griffin want?” she asked, suddenly embarrassed by the intensity of his words.

  “He wants me to scout for him tomorrow.”

  “Why you? You do not know this land.”

  “Why not me, Donna?”

  “Will it be dangerous, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

  “Damn you, Jon. I wish you would learn to lie a little!”

  Shannow rode away from the wagons in the hour after dawn, and once they were lost to sight behind him, he removed the Bible from his saddlebag and allowed it to fall open in his hands. Glancing down, he read: “Behold I create new heavens and a new earthy and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind.”

  He closed the book and returned it to his saddlebag. Ahead of him stretched the black lava sand, and he set the gelding off at a canter, angling toward the north.

  For weeks now he had sat listening to the petty rows and squabbles of the two scholars, Phelps and Peacock, and though he had gleaned some food for thought, the two men made him think of the words of Solomon: “For in much wisdom is much grief, and he that increaseth wisdom increaseth sorrow.”

  The previous night the two men had argued for more than an hour concerning the word “train.” Phelps insisted it was a mechanized Dark Age means of conveyance, while Peacock maintained it was merely a generic term to cover a group of vehicles or wagons in convoy. Phelps argued that he had once owned a book that explained the mechanics of trains. Peacock responded by showing him an ancient scrap of paper that talked of rabbits and cats dressing for dinner with a rat.

  “What has that to do with it?” stormed Phelps, his fat face reddening.

  “Many books of the Dark Age are not true. They obviously loved to lie, or do you believe in a village of dressed-up rabbits?”

  “You old fool!” shouted Phelps. “It is simple to tell which are fictions. This book on trains was sound.”

  “How would you know? Because it was plausible? I saw a painting once of a man wearing a glass bowl on his head and waving a sword. He was said to be walking on the moon.”

>   “Another fiction, and it proves nothing,” said Phelps.

  And so it went on. Shannow found the whole argument pointless.

  Individually both men were persuasive. Phelps maintained that the Dark Age had lasted around a thousand years, during which time science had produced many wonders, among them trains and flying craft and also pistols and superior weapons of war. Peacock believed the Dark Age to be less than one hundred years, citing Christ’s promise to his disciples that some of them would still be alive when the end came.

  “If that promise was not true,” argued Peacock, “then the Bible would have to be dismissed as another Dark Age fiction.”

  Shannow instinctively leaned toward Peacock’s biblical view but found Phelps to be more open-minded and genuinely inquisitive.

  Shannow shook his mind clear of the foggy arguments and concentrated on the trail. Up ahead the lava sand was breaking, and he found himself riding up a green slope shaded by trees. At the top he paused and looked down on a verdant valley with glistening streams.

  For a long time he sat his horse, studying the land. There was no sign of life, no evidence of human habitation. He rode on warily, coming at last to a deer trail, which he followed down to a wide pool of fresh water. The ground around the pool was studded with tracks of all kinds: goats, sheep, deer, buffalo, and even the spoor of lions and bears. Near the pool was a tall pine, and ten feet up from the ground were the claw marks that signified the brown bear’s territory. Bears were sensible animals. They did not fight each other for territory; they merely marked the trees. When a different bear arrived, he would rear up and try to match the scars. If he could outreach them, he would make his mark, and the smaller bear would depart once he had seen that his adversary was bigger and stronger. If he could not reach the scars, he would amble on in search of new territory. The idea appealed to Shannow, but even here a little trickery could be used.

  Back in Allion a very small bear had staked out an enormous territory by coming out of hibernation in the middle of winter and scrambling up the snow banked against the trees, making his mark some three feet higher. Shannow had liked that bear.

  He scouted the perimeter of the pool and then took a different route back toward the wagons. At the top of a rise he smelt wood smoke and paused, searching the surrounding skyline. The wind was easterly, and he angled his horse back through the trees, walking him slowly and carefully. The smell was stronger now, and Shannow dismounted and hobbled the gelding, making his way on foot through the thick bushes and shrubs. As he approached a circular clearing, he heard the sound of voices and froze. The language was one he had never heard, though certain words seemed familiar. Dropping to his belly, he eased his way forward, waiting for the breeze to rustle the leaves above him and disguise the sound of his movements. After several minutes of soundless crawling he came to the edge of the clearing and squinted through a break in the leaves. Around a large fire sat seven men, nearly naked, their bodies stained with streaks of blue and yellow dye; by the side of one of the men was a severed human foot. Shannow blinked as sweat stung his eyes. Then a man stood and walked toward him, stopping some yards to his left, where, pulling aside a deerskin loincloth, he urinated against a tree. Through the gap left by the man Shannow could see the charred remains of a body spitted above the fire.

  Shannow felt his stomach heave and averted his gaze. By the trees on the other side of the clearing two captives were tied together. Both were children around Eric’s age. They were dressed in buckskin tunics adorned with intricate patterns of shells, and their hair was dark and braided. Both children seemed in a state of shock—their eyes were wide, their faces blank and uncomprehending. Shannow forced himself to look at the corpse. It was short and no doubt was another child. Shannow’s fury rose, and his eyes took on an almost feral gleam.

  Desperately Shannow fought to hold the surging anger, but it engulfed him and he pushed himself to his feet, his hands curling around the butts of his pistols. He stepped into sight, and the men scrambled to their feet, dragging knives and hatchets from their belts of rope and hide. Shannow’s guns came up, and then he spoke:

  “Thou shalt be visited by the Lord of Hosts with thunder and with earthquake and great noise …”

  He triggered the pistols, and two men flew backward. The other five screamed and charged. One went down with a bullet in the brain, and a second fell clutching his belly. A third reached Shannow, and the man’s hatchet flashed for his head, but Shannow blocked the blow with his right arm and thrust the left-hand pistol under the attacker’s chin. The top of his head flowered like a scarlet bloom. A club caught Shannow on the side of the head, and he fell awkwardly; his pistol fired, shattering a man’s knee. As a knife blade rose above his face, Shannow rolled and shot the wielder in the chest. The man fell across him, but Shannow pushed the body clear and lurched to his feet. The man with the shattered knee was crawling backward.

  “… and great noise, with storm and tempest and the flame of devouring fire.”

  The cannibal raised his arms against the pistols, covering his eyes. Shannow fired twice, the shells smashing through the outstretched hands and into the face beyond, and the man pitched back. Shannow staggered and fell to his knees; his head was pounding, and his vision blurred and swam. He took a deep breath, pushing back the nausea that threatened to swamp him. A movement to his right! He pointed his pistol, and a child screamed.

  “It’s all right,” said Shannow groggily. “I’ll not harm you. ‘Suffer little children to come unto me.’ Just give me a moment.”

  He sat back and felt his head. The skin was split at the temple, and blood was drenching his face and shirt. He sheathed his guns and crawled to the children, cutting them free.

  The taller of the two sprinted away the moment the ropes were cut, but the other raised a hand and touched Shannow’s face where the blood flowed. Shannow tried to smile, but the world spun madly before his eyes.

  “Go, boy. You understand! Go!”

  Shannow tried to stand but fell heavily. He crawled for several yards and found himself lying next to a small clear pool of water. Watching his blood drip to the surface and flow away in red ribbons, Shannow chuckled.

  “He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.”

  The child came to him, tugging at his arm. “More come!” he said. Shannow squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate.

  “More Carns come. You go!” shouted the child.

  Shannow slipped his pistols into his hands and knocked out the barrel wedges, sliding the cylinders from the weapons and replacing them with two fully loaded cylinders from his coat pocket. He fumbled the wedges into place and sheathed the pistols.

  “Let them come,” he said.

  “No. Many Carns.” The boy’s fingers flashed before Shannow’s face. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty …

  “I get the message, lad. Help me up.” The boy did his best, but Shannow was a tall man, and the two made slow progress into the woods. Angry yells and cries pierced the stillness, and he could hear the sounds of many men crashing through the undergrowth. He tried to move faster but fell, dragging the child with him. Forcing himself to his feet, he stumbled on. A blue-and-yellow-smeared body lunged through the bushes, and Shannow’s right hand dropped and rose, the pistol bucking in his hand. The warrior vanished back into the undergrowth. The boy ran on ahead and unhobbled Shannow’s horse, leaping into the saddle. Shannow staggered forward, caught hold of the pommel, and managed to step into the saddle behind the child.

  Three men burst into view, and the horse swerved and took off at a run. Shannow swayed in the saddle, but the boy reached back and grabbed him; he managed to sheathe his pistol, and then darkness overtook him. He fell forward against the boy as the horse raced on toward the west. The child risked a glance behind him. The Carns had given up the chase and were heading back into the trees. The boy slowed the gelding and hooked his fingers into Shannow’s belt, holding him upright.

  It was not easy,
but Selah was strong and owed this man his life.

  Donna Taybard screamed once and sat up. Eric hauled on the reins and kicked the brake, and the wagon stopped. The boy climbed over the backrest and scrambled across the bulging food sacks to where his mother sat sobbing.

  “What is it, Mother?” he cried.

  Donna took a deep breath. “Shannow,” she said. “Oh, my poor Jon.”

  Con Griffin rode alongside and dismounted. He said nothing but climbed into the wagon to kneel beside the weeping woman. Looking up into his powerful face, she saw the concern etched there.

  “He is dead.”

  “You were dreaming, Fray Taybard.”

  “No. He rescued two children from the savages, and now he is buried deep in the ground.”

  “A dream,” insisted Griffin, placing a huge hand on her shoulder.

  “You don’t understand, Mr. Griffin. It is a talent I have. We are going to a place where there are two lakes; it is surrounded by pine trees. There is a tribe who paint their bodies yellow and blue. Shannow killed many of them and escaped with a child. Now he is dead. Believe me!”

  “You are an ESPer, Donna?”

  “Yes … no. I can always see those close to me. Shannow is buried.”

  Griffin patted her shoulder and stepped down from the wagon.

  “What’s happening, Con?” shouted Ethan Peacock. “Why are we stopping?”

  “Fray Taybard is unwell. We’ll move on now,” he answered. Turning to Eric, he said, “Leave her now, lad, and get the oxen moving.” He stepped into the saddle and rode back along the convoy to his own wagons.

  “What was the holdup?” Burke asked him.

  “It’s nothing, Jim. Pass me my pistols.”

  Burke clambered back into the wagon and opened a brass-edged walnut box. Within were two engraved, double-barreled flintlock pistols. Burke primed them both with powder from a bone horn and gathered the saddle holsters from a hook on the wagon wall.

  Con Griffin slung the holsters across his pommel and thrust the pistols home. Touching his heel to the chestnut, he cantered back to Madden’s wagon.