She rose and dressed in silence. “Dark clothes,” said Karitas. “We must avoid the guards.” She could no longer see him, but his voice came as a cold whisper in her mind.
She slipped out of the door and into the shadows. Madden and Burke had their eyes fixed on the surrounding hills, and she moved away into the darkness unobserved. Moving from shrub to boulder to tree-shrouded hollows, she slowly climbed the rise. At the top she stopped.
“Over there,” said Karitas, “by that circle of rocks, you will find something to help you. Come.”
She moved to the rocks, and there, gleaming in the moonlight, lay five silver circlets.
“Place two over your ankles, two on your wrists, and the last on your brow. Quickly, now!”
She clipped them into place. “Now try to leave your body.”
She relaxed and tried to soar, but there was nothing: no movement, no dizzying flight.
“Now what, Karitas?”
Six Zealots moved out of hiding and approached her. She tried to run, but they caught her easily. She fought to tear the circlets from her wrist, but they pinned her arms. Then another voice entered her mind.
“You are mine, Donna Taybard, as I promised,” hissed Abaddon.
Sanity spun away from her, and the world faded into blessed darkness.
Griffin stumbled from the cabin, pistol in hand.
“Jacob!” he screamed, and Madden leapt to his feet.
“What is it, Con?”
“She’s gone. Donna. Oh, my God!”
Suddenly Burke shouted, and Madden’s gaze followed his pointing finger. The Hellborn army sat once more on the crest of the rise. A single trumpet blast shrieked out into the dawn air, and the riders swept toward the settlement. Men and women ran from their cabins with weapons at the ready and took up positions behind the log screens.
Madden called for Rachel to bring him his rifle, and she ducked into the house and came out cradling the Hellborn weapon. She ran toward him, but the first shot of the battle took her low in the chest. Madden saw her stumble and raced to her side, catching her as she fell.
“Something hit me, Jacob,” she whispered … and died.
Madden snatched up the rifle, levering a shell into the breech just as the rolling thunder of hooves was upon him. He swiveled and fired twice, pitching two riders from their saddles. A third fired a pistol, and dust mushroomed by Madden’s feet. His return shot all but tore the man’s head from his shoulders.
Griffin threw a rifle to Eric and ran from the cabin. He saw Madden down and riders sweeping toward him. Coolly Griffin leveled his pistol, sending six shots into the mass.
Burke and some twenty men managed to get to the eastern log screen, sending volley after volley into the riders. But the Hellborn rode through the field of fire and leapt from their horses to engage the settlers in hand-to-hand combat.
Griffin rammed fresh shells into his pistol and ran from the cabin toward Madden. A rider bore down on him, and he dived clear of the horse’s hooves. His gun thundered, the bullet taking the horse in the head; the beast went down, hurling the rider headfirst to the ground. Griffin was up and running when a bullet smashed into his back; he turned, but another shell caught him in the chest. Seeing Griffin’s plight, Madden swung his rifle and emptied two saddles. A shell struck his temple, and he fell face forward into the dust. As Griffin struggled to rise, he saw Eric move into the open with the rifle in his hands. He tried to wave the boy back. The rifle fired twice, then a score of guns were turned on the boy and blasted him from sight.
Aaron Phelps sat trembling in the back room of his cabin, listening to the shots and the screams and the thunder of hooves. His pistol was pointed at the door. Someone’s shoulder crashed against the wood, and Phelps fired. Then the door exploded inward. He did not see the Hellborn crowded there; he pushed the barrel of his pistol into his mouth and blew out his brains.
Outside the Hellborn had overcome all but one man. Jimmy Burke, blood seeping from a dozen wounds, had staggered into his cabin and slammed the door shut, dropping an oak bar in place. He reloaded his pistols and crawled to a chest by the rear wall, from which he took an old blunderbuss. He charged it with a double load, then poured a measure of tack nails into the barrel.
The Hellborn began pounding against the door, and an ax blade crashed through. Burke switched his gaze to the wooden shutters of the window; a shadow blocked the sunlight at the center and he sent a bullet punching through. A man screamed, and Burke grinned. More axes swung against the door, smashing a head-sized hole above the bar. An arm reached through, and Burke aimed the pistol and waited. As the man began to lift the bar, he exposed his neck; then Burke’s pistol bucked in his hand, and blood gushed to stain the wood of the door. Suddenly the window crashed inward. A bullet took Burke in the chest, and he winced as his lungs began to fill with blood. Taking up the blunderbuss, he swallowed hard and waited.
“Don’t take too long, you bastards,” he muttered. Another arm reached through the hole in the door, and Burke cocked his weapon. The bar slid clear, booted feet kicked open the door, and the Hellborn surged inside.
“Suck on this!” screamed the old man. The blunderbuss exploded with a deafening roar, and a half pound of nails ripped into their ranks, scything them down. Burke dropped the weapon and reached for his pistol, but two more shots from the window ended his defiance.
Silence fell on the valley, and the Hellborn collected their dead and rode from Avalon.
A westerly wind drove the storm clouds over the settlement, and lightning speared across the valley. As the rain began, Griffin groaned and tried to move, but pain ripped through him and he rolled to his side. His weapons were gone, and the ground below him was soaked with his blood.
“Come on, Griffin,” he told himself. “Find your strength.”
Pushing his arms beneath him, he forced himself to a sitting position. Dizziness swept over him, but he fought it back. Madden was lying twenty yards to his right, and he crawled through the rain to his friend’s body. Madden’s face was covered with blood, and beyond him lay Rachel, her dead eyes staring up at the lowering sky.
“I’m sorry, Jacob,” said Griffin. When he placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder, Madden moved. Griffin lifted his arm, feeling for a pulse. It was there and beating strongly. Examining the head wound, he found that the bullet had glanced off Madden’s temple, tearing the skin but not piercing the skull. He tried to lift the wounded man, but his own injuries had sapped him and he sat helpless in the rain.
The storm passed as he waited, the sun beaming down on the desolated settlement. Madden moaned and opened his eyes, seeing Griffin sitting beside him.
“Did we drive them off?” he whispered. Griffin shook his head.
“Rachel? The boys?”
“I think they killed everyone, Jacob.”
“Oh, God!”
Madden sat up and saw Rachel. He crawled to her and shut her eyes, leaning forward to kiss her cold lips.
“You deserved better than this, my girl,” he said. Griffin swayed and fell as Madden stood and stared at the skyline.
Somewhere out there the Hellborn were riding, and Madden sent his hatred out after them in one bloodcurdling scream of frustrated rage and despair. He moved to Griffin and half carried, half dragged him into the nearest cabin, where the body of Burke lay beside an open chest. Madden managed to maneuver Griffin to a bed and opened his shirt. There were two wounds, one high in the shoulder at the back and the second low on the left side of the chest, close to the heart. Neither showed an exit wound. Madden plugged the holes with linen and covered the unconscious man with a blanket.
Leaving the cabin, he found his boys together near the paddock behind his cabin. From the blood on the grass around them, they had made a fight of it. Pride and sorrow vied in Madden’s mind as he turned away from the corpses and moved through the settlement, checking body after body. All had been slain.
Back in his own cabin Madden pulled the bed from th
e wall and lifted the sack he had hidden there. Inside were two Hellborn pistols and around thirty shells. He loaded the pistols and strapped them to his side.
All dead. All the dreams gone down to dust.
“Well, you didn’t kill me, you sons of bitches! And I’ll be coming after you. You want hell? I’ll give you hell!”
10
SHANNOW STOOD OUTSIDE the store with his supply sack over his shoulder, gazing up at the white marble fortress. There were six cylindrical towers, two of them flanking the high arched gate. There appeared to be no sentries. The storekeeper, Baker, had locked the door and wandered away into the shadows, and Shannow stood alone, pondering his course of action.
Somewhere in or below that vast fortress Batik and Archer were prisoners. Yet was it any concern of his? What did he owe them? Would either of them come riding to his rescue? More to the point, could he rescue them?
Ridder had twenty men, and Shannow did not know their disposition or the layout inside the fortress. Riding inside would be a futile gesture, achieving nothing. He returned to his horse and mounted, riding out into the main street and up toward the black-shadowed gateway.
The white towers loomed over him, and he had the feeling that he was riding into a massive tomb, never to see the sun rise again. A man stepped into his path; he was carrying an old rifle.
“What’s your business?” he asked.
“I’ve come to see Ridder.”
“He expecting you?”
“Can you think of another reason I should be here at this time of night?”
The man shrugged. “I’m just told to watch for runaway Wolvers; nobody tells me anything else. Still, it’s better than the mine, by God.”
Shannow nodded and touched his heels to the horse, riding on as if he knew where he was going. The gate arch led to a cobbled courtyard; straight ahead was a wide set of marble steps leading to a double door of oak, while to the right lay a narrow alleyway. Shannow chose the alley and soon found himself in a yard housing a row of stables. A young lad moved out of the shadows, scratching his head, and Shannow dismounted and handed him the reins.
“Don’t unsaddle him. I’m leaving shortly.”
“All right,” said the boy, yawning.
Shannow slipped him a silver coin. “Give him some oats and a rubdown.”
“I will,” promised the lad, the brightness of the silver dispelling all thoughts of sleep.
“Where will I find Meneer Ridder?”
“In his rooms this time of night.”
“How do I get there?”
“You new?”
“Yes.”
“Go back out into the courtyard, past the steps, and you’ll see a staircase on the outside of the wall. Climb that, pass the first two doors, and go in through the third. The sentry there will take you the rest of the way.”
“Thank you.”
Shannow left the boy and returned to the main courtyard, waving to the sentry as he passed. He found the spiral stair and climbed to the third story, pausing outside the timber door. Then he removed his coat and folded it across his arm before opening the door. Inside was a corridor hung with rugs and lit by oil lamps. Stepping into the light, Shannow forced a smile for the sentry who was sitting with his feet on a small marble statue of a snarling dog. The man swung his legs clear and stood.
“What do you want?” he whispered. “You ain’t my relief.”
“True,” said Shannow, moving casually toward him. The coat slipped from his arm to reveal the black muzzle of the Hellborn pistol. He cocked it, and the noise seemed to echo in the corridor like cracking bones. The man’s eyes widened as Shannow moved closer, pushing the muzzle up under his chin.
“Which room is Ridder’s?” he whispered.
The sentry pointed over Shannow’s shoulder.
“Tell me,” Shannow said, without following the man’s shaking finger.
“Two doors down on the left.”
“And where are the prisoners who were brought in today?”
“I’ve no idea. I’ve only just come on. I’ve been asleep all day.”
“Would they be kept in the mine?”
“Probably.”
“How do I get there?”
“Jesus, man, I couldn’t tell you that. There’s a score of staircases and corridors and a pulley lift. You could lose yourself in this place.”
“What’s through the door behind you?”
“It’s a storeroom.”
“Be so kind as to open it.”
“Don’t kill me—I’ve a wife … children.”
“Get inside.” The man turned and opened the door; Shannow followed him in and struck him savagely on the back of the neck, and the sentry fell forward without a sound. Shannow searched the room for cord but found none, so he removed the man’s belt and tied his hands behind his back. Then he gagged him with a linen kerchief, which he stuffed into his mouth, binding it with a piece of torn curtain.
Stepping out into the corridor, he moved silently to Ridder’s room, cursing softly when he saw a light showing under the door. He opened it and stepped inside, finding himself facing a small altar before which knelt a slim man with a shock of white hair. The man turned. He was around fifty years old, with round dark eyes and a hatchet face that bore no trace of humor.
“Who in God’s name are you, sir?” exclaimed Ridder, surging to his feet, his thin face reddening.
“You can ask him yourself,” said Shannow, leveling the pistol.
All color fled from Ridder’s face. “You can’t mean to kill me.”
“Just so, pastor.”
“But why?”
“On a whim,” snarled Shannow. “I have no time for brigands.”
“Nor I. I am a man of God.”
“I think not.” Shannow moved forward swiftly and with his left hand took hold of the lapels of Ridder’s black jacket, pulling the man to him. “Open your mouth.”
The terrified man did so, and Shannow slid the muzzle of the pistol between his teeth.
“Now listen to me, pastor, and note every word. You are going to take me to the two men you brought in here today, and then we are going to leave together, all four of us. It is your only chance for life. You understand?”
Ridder nodded.
“Now, in case you think that once we are away from here your men will help you, bear this in mind: I am not a man who is afraid to die, and I will take you on the journey to hell with me.”
Shannow withdrew the pistol and sheathed it. “Wipe the sweat from your face, pastor, and let us go.”
Together the two men walked into the corridor and down several flights of stairs. Shannow was soon lost within the maze of the building as they passed one shadow-haunted corridor after another. The air was musty, and several times they passed sentries who stood to attention as Ridder went by. At last they emerged into a dimly lit hall where six men sat at a table dicing for copper coins. All were armed with handguns and knives.
“Prepare the lift,” said Ridder, and the men moved swiftly to a series of pulleys and ropes beside an open shaft. A burly man with huge forearms cranked an iron handle, and after a few seconds a large box rose into view. Ridder stepped inside, and Shannow followed; within the box was a handbell on a rope. With a sickening lurch the box descended into darkness; Shannow blinked sweat from his eyes as the lift continued its descent.
After what seemed a lifetime they reached another level, and Ridder rang the handbell. The lift stopped, and the two men emerged into a dimly lit tunnel filled with the stench of human excrement.
Shannow gagged and swallowed hard. Ridder gestured toward a series of bolted doors.
“I don’t know which one they are in, but they’ll be here somewhere.”
“Open every door.”
“Are you mad? We’ll be torn limb from limb.”
“How many people are down here?”
“About fifty people. And maybe sixty Wolvers.”
Shannow’s jaw tightened, for t
here were only six doors. “You keep twenty people locked up in each of these? And you call yourself a man of God?” Shannow’s rage exploded, and he struck Ridder on the side of the head, hurtling the man from his feet. “Get up and open the doors—every God-cursed one of them!”
Ridder crawled to the first, then turned. “You don’t understand. This whole community needs the mine. They’re my responsibility—caring for my flock. I wouldn’t have used people if I hadn’t been forced to. I used Wolvers, but the lung fever killed scores of them.”
“Open the door, pastor. Let’s see your flock.”
Ridder pushed the bolt clear and swung the door open. Nothing moved in the darkness within.
“Now the others.”
“For God’s sake …”
“You talk of God down here?” shouted Shannow.
A dark shape moved into the half-light, and he stepped back in shock. The creature was maybe five feet in height and covered with fur; its face was long, caricaturing a wolf or dog, but its eyes were human. It was naked and covered with sores. More creatures came into sight, ignoring the two men. They limped to a chest by the far wall and stood apathetically, staring at nothing.
“What’s in the chest?” asked Shannow.
“Their tools. They think it’s work time.”
“All the doors, Ridder!” The white-haired pastor stumbled from one dungeon to the next. From the last room but one the bloodied face of Batik could be seen above the smaller Wolvers.
“Shannow?”
“Over here, man. Quickly!”
Batik pushed his way through the milling slaves, and Shannow handed him his percussion pistol.
“Stay down here with that creature,” he said, pointing at Ridder. “I’ll send the lift back. Try to get all of them to understand that they’re free.”
“They’ll only be rounded up again. Let’s get out while we can.”
“Do as I say, Batik, or I’ll leave you here. Where’s Archer?”
“Unconscious. They beat him badly, and we’ll have to carry him out.”
“Get something arranged,” said Shannow, stepping into the lift.
“Easy for you to say,” snapped Batik. “I’ll just stay down here with the wolf beasts and arrange a stretcher!”
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