Wolf in Shadow

by David Gemmell

  A tree nearby exploded with a tremendous crack as lightning ripped through it, and Shannow tried to ignore the weight of the metal he carried in his pistols and knives. Batik turned in the saddle and shouted to him, but the words were torn away and lost in the wind.

  The trail wound slowly upward, narrowing to a rocky ledge. Riding at the rear, Shannow found his left stirrup grazing the cliff face while his right hung over the edge. There was no going back now, for there was nowhere for a horse to turn.

  Lightning flashed nearby, the gelding reared, and Shannow fought to calm it. In the eerie light of the lightning’s afterglow the Jerusalem Man glanced down to the raging torrent some two hundred feet below, where white water raced over jagged rocks. Lightning flashed again, and some instinct made him turn in the saddle and look back down the trail.

  Behind him six lions were charging out of the storm like demons. His cold hand dropped to his pistol, but it was too late and the lead lion—a giant beast with a red-gold mane—leapt to land with terrible force on the gelding’s back, its talons raking through flesh and muscle. Shannow’s pistol pressed against the lion’s head, and the bullet entered its eye just as the gelding leapt from the ledge in pain and terror.

  The pistol shot alerted Batik; he drew his weapon and emptied it at the remaining beasts, which turned and ran. With no room to dismount, the Hellborn leaned in the saddle and stared down into the torrent far below.

  There was no sign of the Jerusalem Man.

  As Shannow’s gelding leapt, the Jerusalem Man kicked himself from the saddle and spread his arms to steady his fall. Below him the rocks waited like spear points, and he tumbled through the air, unable to control his movements. Down, down he fell, bringing his arms over his head, struggling to stop the dizzying spin. He hit the water at a deep section between rocks, and the air was smashed from his lungs. He fought his way to the surface, sucked in a deep breath, and was swept below the water once more. His heavy coat and pistol belt dragged him down; rocks cracked against his legs and arms as he battled the dreadful pull of the swollen river. Time and again, as he felt his lungs had reached the bursting point, his head cleared the surface, only to be dragged below once more.

  Grimly he fought for life until he was hurled out into the air over a waterfall some thirty feet high. This time he controlled his dive and entered the water cleanly. The river there swirled without violence, and he struck out for the shore, dragging himself from the water with the last of his strength. He grasped a tree root and hung on, gasping for breath, his legs still under water. Then, having rested for some minutes, he eased his way up into thick undergrowth. Exhausted, he slept for over an hour and then awoke cold and shivering, his arms cramped and painful. Forcing himself to a sitting position, he checked his weapons. His left-hand pistol had been torn from his grasp after he had killed the lion, but the other gun was still in its scabbard, the thong over the hammer saving it. His gelding lay dead some forty paces to his right, and he staggered to the body, pulling clear his saddlebags and looping them over his shoulder.

  A dead lion floated by, half-submerged, and Shannow smiled grimly, hoping that the Zealot who had possessed it had died with the beast.

  With the storm still venting its fury over the mountain, Shannow had no idea in which direction to travel, so he found a limited shelter in the lee of a rock face and huddled out of the wind.

  He could feel bruises beginning to swell on his arms and legs and was grateful for the heat the throbbing caused in his limbs. Fumbling inside his saddlebags for his oilskin pouch, he removed six shells, then emptied his pistol and reloaded it. Looking around, he gathered some twigs from the ground close to the rocks. It was drier there, and he carefully built a pyramid of tiny sticks. Breaking open the shells he had discarded, he emptied the black powder from the brass casings into the base of the pyramid and then reached into his shirt pocket to take out his tinderbox; the tinder within was drenched, and he threw it aside, but wiped the flint clean and worked the lever several times until white sparks flashed. Holding the box close to the base of the pyramid, he ignited the powder. Two sticks caught, and he crouched down, blowing gently and coaxing the flame to life. Once the fragile blaze had taken, he gathered thicker branches and sat beside the fire, feeding it constantly until the heat drove him back. Then he pulled off his coat and laid it over a nearby rock to dry.

  A shimmering light grew before him, coalescing into the form of Ruth. At first she was translucent, but then her flesh became solid and she sat beside him.

  “I have searched for you for hours,” she said. “You are a tough man.”

  “Are the others all right?”

  “Yes, they are sheltering in a cave twelve miles from here. The Zealots fled after you went over the ledge. I think their main purpose was to kill you; Batik is a much lesser prize.”

  “Well, they failed, but not by much,” said Shannow, shivering as he added wood to the blaze. “My horse is dead, poor beast. Best I ever had. He could run from yesterday into tomorrow. And he had heart. If he could have turned, he would have driven the lions away with his hooves.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “I’ll find the Ark and then Abaddon.”

  “And you will try to kill him?”

  “Yes, God willing.”

  “How can you mention God in the same breath as murder?”

  “Don’t preach at me, woman,” he snapped. “This is not Sanctuary, where your magic fills a man’s mind with flowers and love. This is the world, the real world—violent and uncertain. Abaddon is an obscenity to both God and man. Murder? You cannot murder vermin, Ruth. He has forsaken all rights to mercy.”

  “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord?”

  “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life,” Shannow countered. “Do not seek to debate with me. He chose to visit death and destruction upon the woman I loved. He taunted me with it. I cannot stop him, Ruth; a nation separates us. But if the Lord is with me, I shall rid the world of him.”

  “Who are you to judge when a man’s life is forfeit?”

  “What are you to judge when it is not? There is not this debate when a mad dog kills a child. You kill the dog. But when a man commits the blackest sins, why must we sermonize and rationalize? I am sick of it, Ruth. I’ve lost count of the number of towns and settlements that have called for me to rid them of brigands. And when I do, what do I hear? ‘Did you have to kill them, Mr. Shannow?’ ‘Was there a need for so much violence, Mr. Shannow?’ It is a question of balance, Ruth. If a man throws his food on the fire, who will have pity on him when he runs around shouting ‘I’m starving’? So it is with the brigand. He deals in violence and death, theft and pillage. And I give them no pity. I don’t blame you, woman; you’re arguing for your husband. But I’m not listening.”

  “Do not patronize me, Mr. Shannow,” Ruth said without anger. “Your arguments are simplistic, but they carry weight. I am not, however, arguing for my husband. I have not seen him in two and a half centuries, and he does not know I am alive, nor would he care greatly if he did. I am more concerned with you. I am not a prophet, yet I feel that some terrible catastrophe looms, and I sense that you should not pursue this current course.”

  Shannow leaned back. “If I am not mad, Ruth, and it was not just a dream, then I can tell you the danger that awaits. The world is about to fall again.”

  He told of his dream of Pendarric and the doom the Blood Stones carried. She listened in silence, her face set; when he had finished, she looked away and remained silent for some minutes.

  “I am not omnipotent, Mr. Shannow, but there is something missing. The catastrophe fits with my fears. But the Blood Stones of the Hellborn? Small fragments of minuscule power. To tear the fabric of the universe would require a mountain of Sipstrassi and a colossal evil.”

  “Do not seek to fit the facts to your theories, Ruth. Examine the facts as they stand. Pendarric says blood and death unleashed the power of the stones. Abaddon has sent his
armies into the south. Where else can the evil lie?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I only know I feel very old. I was married eighteen years before the Fall, and I was not a young bride. I had such dreams, such romantic dreams. And Lawrence was not evil then.

  “He was an occultist, but he was witty and urbane and very welcome at select parties. We had a daughter, Sarah. Oh, Shannow, she was a lovely child.” She lapsed into a silence Shannow did not disturb. “She was killed at the age of five in an accident, and it broke Lawrence, cut him so deeply that no one could see the scar. I just cried out my pain and learned to live with it. He delved more deeply into occult matters, finding Satanism just before the Fall.

  “When the earth toppled, we survived with some three hundred others, and before long, in the sea of mud that was the new world, people started dying. It was Lawrence who bound the survivors together; he was wonderful, charismatic, understanding, strong, and caring.

  “For three years we were almost happy, and then the dreams began—the visions of Satan talking to him, making him promises. He left us for a while to go into the wilderness. Then he returned with a Daniel Stone, and the Hellborn age began.

  “I stayed for another eight years, but one day when Lawrence was away on some blood-filled raid, I walked from the settlement with eight other women. We never looked back. From time to time I heard of the new nation and the madman who called himself Abaddon. But the real disaster came eighty years ago, when Abaddon met a man who gave him the key to conquest. He was another survivor from before the Fall, and though his early years had been spent in another career, his abiding hobby had been weapons—pistols and rifles. Together he and Abaddon reconstructed the science of gun making.”

  “What happened to the gun maker?”

  “Sixty years ago he rivaled Abaddon in evil. But he repented, Mr. Shannow, and fled the vileness he had helped to create. He became Karitas and tried to build a new life among a peaceful people.”

  “And you think I should spare Abaddon in case he has just such a repentance? I think not.”

  “Why do you mock? You think God cannot change a man’s heart? You think his power so limited?”

  “I never question his power or his actions,” said Shannow. “It is not my place. I don’t care that he wiped out men, women, and children in Canaan or that he caused Armageddon. It is his world, and he is free to do as he likes without criticism from me. But I cannot see Abaddon walking the Damascus road, Ruth.”

  “What about Daniel Cade?”

  “What about him?”

  “Can you see him walking the Damascus road?”

  “Speak plainly, Ruth; this is no time for games.”

  “The brigand chief is now leading the people of the south against the Hellborn. He says he is being led by God, and he is performing miracles. People are flocking to him. What do you think of that?”

  “Of all the things you could have told me, lady, that gives me the most joy. But then, you do not know, do you? Daniel Cade is my elder brother. And believe me, he will not be preaching forgiveness; he’ll smite the Hellborn hip and thigh, as the Good Book says. By heaven, Ruth, they’ll find him harder to kill than me!”

  “It seems I am preaching a lost cause,” Ruth said sadly. “But then, throughout history love has taken second place. We will talk again, Mr. Shannow.”

  Ruth turned away from him …

  And vanished.

  Daniel Cade received a number of shocks in that early-spring campaign, the first being that he became a man apart. People would approach him with disquieting deference, even men he had known for years. When he approached campfires, bawdy tales would die in an instant and the tellers would look away embarrassed. When men swore in his presence, an apology would be instantaneous. At first he had been amused, thinking that such displays would cease after a few days or perhaps a week. But far from it.

  The second shock came from Sebastian.

  Cade was in his shack with Lisa when he heard the shouts and emerged into bright sunshine to see men streaming down the slope toward a small party of refugees. His knee was paining him, and he used his cane to help him as he limped toward them. In the lead was a middle-aged woman, followed by four adolescent girls and some dozen children. They were leading a horse, across the saddle of which lay a body.

  When the gray-haired woman saw him, she ran forward and threw herself to her knees. Around Cade the crowd drew back. Many were farmers who still retained some suspicion of the former brigand, and they fell silent as the woman wept at his feet. Cade stepped forward and self-consciously raised her, and her eyes met his.

  “You are free from trouble, Sister,” Cade told her.

  “But only through you and the hand of God,” she answered, her voice trembling.

  “What happened to you, Abigail?” asked a man, pushing forward.

  “It is you, Andrew?”

  “It is. We thought you were lost to us.”

  The woman sank to the ground, and the man knelt beside her. Cade felt lost and curiously alone standing at the center of the circle, but Lisa joined him and took his arm.

  “We had taken the children into the high hills for a picnic,” said Abigail, “when the riders descended on the valley. We knew we could not return, so for days we hid in the caves on the north side, eating berries and roots and nettle soup. In the end young Mary suggested trying for the Yeager mountains.

  “For two days we moved only at night, but on the third we took a chance and struck out across the wide meadows. That’s where the riders found us—evil men, cold-eyed and vile. Six of them there were, and I swear they were not human.” The woman lapsed into silence; all the onlookers were seated around her in a wide circle, except for Cade, whose stiff knee prevented him from stretching out on the grass.

  “Our terror was great, too great even for tears. One of the children passed out in a faint. The riders climbed down from their horses and removed their black helms, but instead of lessening the fear, it increased it. For here were human faces so bestial that they froze the blood.

  “One of them struck me, and I fell to the ground. I will not tell you what they then did to certain of us, but I do tell you there was no shame in it for those who suffered, for we were incapable of fighting back.

  “Then one of them drew a long knife; he told me that they were going to cut the throats of the children and that if we wanted to live, we must drink the blood and swear an oath to their demon god. I knew they lied; it was in their faces.

  “I begged for the children’s lives, and they laughed at me. Then we heard hoofbeats. The six of them swung around, and we saw a rider thundering toward us. There were two loud explosions, and—blessed be God—both shots hit home and two of our attackers collapsed to the grass. Then the other four opened fire, and the rider was hit in the chest and hurled from the saddle.

  “You know, they did not even check their fallen comrades. The leader turned to me and said, ‘Your death will be very slow, you crone.’

  “But there was another shot, and the young man, blood pouring from his body, came staggering forward. The Hellborn shot him again and again, but still he fired back, and each shot claimed another victim. It was so swift, and yet in my mind’s eye I can see each second as if it were an hour—his young body pulled and torn, his teeth clenched against the pain, holding off death until we were safe. The Hellborn leader was the last to die, shot through the heart by the last bullet in the young man’s pistol.

  “I ran forward and had to close my eyes against the sight of the boy’s wounds. His back was open, his ribs had spread like broken wings, and blood was gurgling in his throat. But his eyes were clear, and he smiled at me like he was happy to be lying there like a torn doll.

  “It was hard to see through my tears as he spoke. ‘Daniel Cade sent me,’ he whispered.

  “ ‘How did he know we were here?’ ” I asked him.

  “ ‘We’re the army of God,’ he said, and he died there. And his face was so peaceful and fu
ll of joy. I counted his wounds and saw there were fourteen, and there was no way a man could have lived through that unless the Almighty had touched him.

  “We lifted him to his horse, and he weighed no more than a child. We came here then, as we had always planned, and not a soul opposed our path. We saw the dark riders on their patrols, but they did not see us although we did not hide. We all knew we were protected by the spirit of that young man; he rode with us, to be buried here among his folk.

  “But we don’t even know his name.” She stopped and looked at Cade.

  Cade cleared his throat. “His name was Sebastian, and he was nineteen.” He turned away and made as if to leave, but a farmer’s voice stopped him.

  “There’s more to tell than that,” he said, and Cade faced him, unable to speak. “The boy was a killer,” said the man, “a rapist and a thief. I knew his people, and I can tell you he never did an honest deed in his life.”

  “That cannot be so,” cried Abigail.

  “By God I swear it,” said the farmer, “but I’ll help dig his grave and be proud to lift the shovel.” He turned to the silent Cade. “I cannot explain all this, Cade, and I’ve never believed in gods or devils, but if a boy like Sebastian can give his life, there must be something in it. I’d be grateful if you’d have me at your next prayer meeting.”

  Cade nodded, and Lisa led him away to the cabin. He was shaking when they arrived, and she was surprised to see tears streaking his face.

  “Why?” he said softly. “Why did he do it?”

  “You heard her, Daniel. He was a part of God’s army.”

  “Don’t you start that,” he snapped. “I didn’t tell him there was a woman and children. I just told him to scout for refugees.”