The sun sank, and darkness covered Shannow like a blanket.
He opened his eyes and was once more within the ruined palace.
Batik was preparing a fire. “You look well rested,” said the Hellborn.
Shannow rubbed his eyes and threw aside his blankets. “I think I’ll scout for sign of the Zealots.”
“Archer says they headed west.”
“I don’t give a damn what Archer says!”
“You want company?”
“No.” Shannow tugged on his boots, then hefted his saddle to his shoulder and left the palace. Saddling the gelding, he rode from the city and for three hours scanned the lands bordering the mountains, but there was no trace of the hunters. Confused and uncertain, he returned to the city.
Batik had killed two rabbits and was roasting them on a spit when Shannow entered the palace. Archer was asleep by the far wall.
“Find anything?”
“No.”
Archer stirred and sat up. “Welcome back, Mr. Shannow.”
“Tell me of Pendarric,” said the Jerusalem Man, and Archer’s eyes widened.
“You are a man full of surprises. How did you come by the name?”
“What does it matter? Tell me.”
“He was the last recorded king, or at least the last I have found. It seems he was a warlord. He extended the Atlantean empire to the edges of South America in the west and up to England in the north; heaven knows how far south he went. Is there a reason for these questions?”
“I am becoming interested in history,” said Shannow, joining Batik at the fire.
The Hellborn sliced some meat from the cindering carcass and placed it on a half-crushed gold plate. “There you go, Shannow. Now you can eat like a king.”
Archer moved over and sat beside Shannow. “Tell me, please: how did you learn of Pendarric?”
“I dreamed the name and woke up with it on my mind.”
“That is a shame; he is my last great mystery. Ruth considers me obsessed.”
Outside the palace, the sky darkened and thunder rumbled. The winds picked up, and soon lashing rain scoured the dead city.
“Hardly worth traveling today,” observed Batik.
Shannow nodded and turned to Archer. “Tell me more about the Sipstrassi.”
“There is very little of certainty. The name means ‘stone from the sky,’ and the Rolynd took it to be a gift from God. I’ve discussed this with my leader, Sarento. He believes it could have been a meteor.”
“Meteor? What’s he talking about, Shannow?” asked Batik.
Shannow shrugged. “Archer has been studying the stones, the ones you call Satanseeds. And I’ve never heard of a meteor, either.”
“Put simply,” said Archer, “it is a giant rock spinning in space, among the stars if you like. For whatever reason, it crashed into the earth. Now, such a collision would cause an immense explosion, and the Rolynd legend says that the sky was dark as night for three days and there was no sun or moon. Sarento suggests that the impact would have hurled thousands of tons of dust up into the atmosphere, blocking the sun. The meteor itself would have burst into millions of fragments, and these are the Sipstrassi.
“Apart from obvious myths, there is no valid record of the first use of the stones. Even now, after much research, we understand little about them. With each use their power fades by a fraction, until at last they are merely small rocks. The black veins within the stones swell, obliterating the gold; when the stone becomes black, it is useless.”
“Unless you feed it blood,” put in Shannow.
“I’m not sure that’s true, Mr. Shannow. Blood-fed stones become dull red and cannot be used for healing or the creation of food. Sarento and I carried out experiments using small animals—rabbits, rats, and the like. The stones retain power, but they are altered. My own findings show that Blood Stones have a detrimental effect on their users. Take the Hellborn, for example; their ruthlessness grows, and their lust for blood cannot be sated. Tell me, Batik, when you lost your stone.”
“How do you know I lost it?”
“Carrying a Satanseed, you would never have been allowed into Sanctuary. So, when you lost the stone, how did you feel?”
“Angry, frightened. I could not sleep for almost a week.”
“How often did you feed the stone?”
“Every month, with my own blood.”
“And were I to offer you a stone now, would you take it?”
“I … yes.”
“And yet you hesitated.”
“I seem to feel more alive without one. But then again, the power …”.
“Yes, the power. In another year, Batik, if you live that long, you will not hesitate. And that, Mr. Shannow, is why I am fascinated by Pendarric. His laws were just in the early years, but he it was who discovered the obscene power of the Blood Stones. And within five years he was a merciless tyrant. But as yet I can find no end to his story. Did he succumb totally, or did he prevail? Or did the seas wash away all his deeds?”
Shannow was about to answer when he froze. An edge of fear touched him. “Get away from the fire,” he hissed.
Batik was already moving, but Archer remained. “What …?”
The door burst open, and two Zealots leapt inside, pistols blazing. Shannow dived to his right and rolled, shells shrieking around him.
Archer disappeared in a plume of red smoke. Another Zealot opened fire from the upper balcony, and the shell exploded shards of mosaic from the floor by Shannow’s head. His own pistol came up and fired, and the Zealot spun from sight.
Batik wounded the nearest Zealot and pinned down the other one behind a white statue. Shannow rolled to his back in an alcove and leveled both pistols at the door to the rear.
The door exploded inward and three men raced into sight, only to be cut down in the rolling thunder of Shannow’s guns. The one remaining Zealot made a run for the door but was pitched from his feet as Batik’s shell smashed a hole in his temple.
Batik reloaded his pistol and crept through the shadows toward the man he had wounded.
“Down!” yelled Shannow, and Batik dived to the floor as the Zealot’s pistol was leveled. The Jerusalem Man fired twice, and the would-be assassin slumped back. Shannow reloaded his pistols and waited, but only silence surrounded them.
“How the Devil did you do that, Shannow?” asked Batik, moving across the mosaic floor. “I heard nothing.”
“I used to think it was instinct, but now I am not sure. Where is Archer?”
“Here,” said the black man. He was sitting by the fire, staring at a small black pebble in his palm. “All used up. Shame! I was rather fond of that little stone.”
“They were supposed to be far from here,” snapped Batik.
“Put not your faith in magic, boy,” Shannow told him, smiling. Together the two men searched the bodies, gathering ammunition, while Archer added wood to the blaze.
“I don’t think we should stay much longer,” said Shannow. “I hate to sit here like a target.”
“I’ll take you to the Ark,” said Archer. “You’ll be safe there.”
“I need to be heading southwest, to Babylon.”
“To kill the Satanlord?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think that’s what Ruth has in mind for you.”
“Archer, it doesn’t matter what she has in mind; I am not her servant. And despite her beliefs, surely she can see that the world would be a better place without him.”
“Perhaps. But then, in the case of Abaddon, there is a link between them that is stronger than blood.”
“What link?”
“Ruth is Abaddon’s wife.”
8
SAMUEL ARCHER STOOD in the doorway as the two warriors dragged the corpses out into the open, dumping them by a low wall. There was no dignity in death, he realized, seeing that the dead had fouled themselves and that the stench carried even through the rain.
There were some among the Guardians who were considered
soldiers, men of action. Yet none whom Archer could bring to mind could match the chilling quality possessed by the Jerusalem Man. How he had heard the approach of the assassins amid a storm baffled Archer. And without the stone to mask him with invisibility, Archer himself would have died sitting at the fire. Neither Shannow nor Batik had mentioned the plume of red smoke, which Archer had been quite proud of—a distraction for the Zealots, giving the warriors time to react. He decided he would mention it himself when the opportunity arose.
The palace hall smelled of cordite and death, and Archer wandered up the long steps to the balcony. There was a pool of blood by the rail, and the black man recalled how Batik had walked there earlier and heaved the body to the stones below, where it had landed with a crunching thud.
Shannow came in out of the rain and removed his leather coat. He knelt for a few seconds at the fire, warming his hands, then took his Bible from his saddlebag.
“Clues as to the whereabouts of Jerusalem?” asked Archer, sitting beside him.
“No, I find reading eases my mind.” He shut the Bible. “I saw Pendarric in a dream last night. He said he caused the world to drown by using Blood Stones, and he warned me that it is about to happen again.”
“Through the Hellborn?”
“Yes, I believe so. Do you have anything in the Ark that could help me bring down Abaddon?”
“It’s not my field, Mr. Shannow. I am a researcher into things arcane. But there are weapons there.”
“And knowledge?”
“Indeed, there is knowledge.”
“I will ride with you, Archer. Now leave me to read in peace.”
Archer wandered to the door and looked out into the rain. Batik joined him.
“You can’t talk to him when the dark moods are upon him, and for a religious man he is in no hurry to share his God.”
“He has much on his mind, Batik.”
“I don’t care about that, just so long as he hears the killers in the night. He’s a remarkable man. All my life I have been taught to fear the Zealots as the greatest warriors in the world, but they are like children compared with him.”
“Will you stay with him?”
“For a little while, Archer. I have no intention of returning to Babylon and following Shannow as he charges the palace single-handed.”
“A strange attitude for a friend to take.”
“We are not friends, Archer. He has no friends—he does not need friends. Look at him, sitting there like a rock. I am a warrior, yet I am still shaking over the attack. I wonder how many other enemies are closing on us as we speak. Him? He reads his Bible.”
“But if he needed you, would you go?”
“No. What do I care if Abaddon conquers the world? I made one mistake, Archer, when I tried to save my sister. Otherwise I would probably now command a company and be invading the southlands myself.”
“You think he will succeed alone?”
“I don’t know. But I tell you this: I would not want him hunting me even if I sat in a fortress surrounded by guards. There is something inhuman about him; he is unable to recognize impossible odds. You should have seen him when the Zealots attacked just now; he turned and trained his guns on the rear door long before the other three came in. He knew they were coming, but all I could hear was gunfire and all I could see were the men before me. If I were Abaddon, I would not be sleeping well.”
“He does not know Shannow as you do.”
“No, but he will be counting the bodies.”
Archer glanced back. Shannow was no longer reading; his head was on his saddle, his blankets drawn around him, but his right arm was uncovered.
And in his hand was a pistol.
“Fine way to sleep,” said Batik. “Whatever you do, don’t make a sudden noise in the night!”
Shannow was awake, and the words of the two men carried to him like whispers on the wind. How little Batik understood him. But then, why should he? Shannow had long since learned that in loneliness there was strength. A man who needed to rely on others left a gap in his defenses. A lonely man sat within walls.
A need for friends? No man could have it all, Shannow knew. It was all a question of balance, and nature was always miserly with gifts. A long time earlier Shannow had known a runner. To maintain his strength the man forsook all the foods he desired and trained daily. It was so with Shannow the hunter. Alone, he was a rock, relying on nothing and no one to defend his back.
For a while he had tasted the other life with Donna. And it had been good …
Now he was back where he belonged.
And Jerusalem would have to wait.
He heard his companions settle in their blankets, then sat up.
“You think it advisable that we all sleep?” he asked Batik.
“You are suggesting that I stand watch?”
“Better than waking up dead.”
“I’ll not argue with that.”
Shannow closed his eyes once more and fell into a dreamless sleep, waking as Batik crept toward him three hours later.
“I swear you could hear an ant break wind,” said Batik. “It’s all quiet out there.”
Shannow sat up and stretched, then took his place by the door. The night was still, and the rain had passed. He walked from the palace, scanning deserted buildings that gleamed in the moonlight. In the distance he heard the coughing roar of a hunting lion and the far-off howl of a mountain wolf.
The whisper of leather on stone saw him swivel, his hand sweeping up and his pistol cocked. Archer spread his hands in alarm.
“It is only me,” he whispered. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Shannow eased the hammer into place and shook his head. “You are a fool, Archer. The difference between life and death for you just then was too small to be measured.”
“I apologize,” said Archer, “though I don’t know why. You were in no danger.”
“No, that is not true. I once killed someone who just happened to be behind me at the wrong moment. It is not something I wish to do again. But understand this: Had you been a Zealot, that fraction of hesitation would have killed me. And the next time I hear a noise, I might just wonder if it is you being stupid or an enemy coming closer. Then I might die. You understand that?”
“No need to belabor the point, Mr. Shannow. I shall never again approach you without warning.”
Shannow sat back on a low wall and sheathed his pistol. He grinned suddenly, his face becoming boyish. “Forgive me, Archer; that was terribly pompous. I am on edge, but it will pass. How long will it take us to reach the Ark?”
“Two days. Three. You can relax there, and I’ll show you a library that is not conjured from air.”
“Will it show me the way to Jerusalem?”
“Who knows?” replied Archer. “I can certainly show you images of the Jerusalem that once was. Then at least you’ll know it when you see it, that is, if God used the same architect.”
A flash of annoyance darkened Shannow’s features, but he forced it to pass. “I expect that he did, Mr. Archer.” His eyes swept the buildings and the land to the south and east.
“You think there are more of them out there?” asked the Guardian.
“Of course. We have been lucky this far. Their arrogance has betrayed them, but I think they will be more careful now.”
“I wish I had not lectured Batik about his stone. You have no idea how much I miss mine; I feel like a child in the dark.”
“There is a positive side to fear,” said Shannow. “It sharpens the senses, keeps you alert.”
“I think you rather enjoy the danger.”
“Do not be taken in by appearances. I am not inhuman, as Batik thinks. I, too, shook after the attack. That’s why I read my Bible—to take my mind from the fury and the fear. Now, get some sleep, Mr. Archer, and be assured that nothing will disturb your slumber. If you like, you can borrow one of my spare pistols.”
“No, thank you. I don’t believe I could ever kill a man.”
&
nbsp; “I wish more people felt like you. Good night.”
Soon after dawn the three men saddled their mounts and left the city, heading northwest. To the east of them a pride of lions was slumbering beneath a gnarled oak. Nearby the carcass of a buffalo was gathering flies. The lions were content and sleepy.
Suddenly the leader, a great beast with a red-gold mane, jerked as if stung. Then he stood and turned toward the west, and five other young males rose with him.
In the distance three horsemen were riding slowly toward the mountains.
The six lions padded silently after them.
Abaddon stood on the tower ramparts above his palace and stared out over the city below him, listening to the steady rhythmic pounding of the weapons factory machines and watching the thick black smoke belching from the three mud brick stacks above it.
Dressed in a black robe embroidered with a golden dragon, Abaddon felt almost at peace above the nation he had cultivated for so long.
Only one nagging doubt assailed his peace of mind.
The high priest, Achnazzar, approached, bowing low.
“They have located Shannow, sire, and the renegade Batik. They are traveling with a Guardian,” said the hawk-nosed priest, his bald head shining with sweat.
“I know this,” said Abaddon.
“Do you wish them all dead?”
“It is necessary.”
“You have said, sire, that we should leave the Guardians be.”
“I know what I have said, Achnazzar.”
“Very well, sire. It will be as you command.”
“It was you, priest, who brought me the first word on Shannow; you said he was a danger. He was to have been killed in Rivervale, but instead he killed our man there. He was to have died at the camp of Karitas, but no, he led a raid that saw scores of our young men butchered as they slept. And how many Zealots has he slain? No, don’t bother me with the arithmetic. But tell me this: If I cannot rely on you to kill one man, how can I rely on you to build me an empire?”
“Lord,” said Achnazzar, falling to his knees, “you can rely on me to death and beyond. I am your slave.”
“I have many slaves, priest. What I need from you is results.”
“You shall have them, sire. I promise on my life.”
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