Wolf in Shadow

by David Gemmell

  “Say good-bye, Riggs,” he hissed, then wrenched the chin up and to the right. The sound of the snapping neck made Shannow wince. Batik staggered to his feet, then moved to a nearby table, where Shannow joined him.

  “You smell awful,” said Shannow, “and you look worse!”

  “Always words of comfort from you just when they’re needed.”

  Shannow smiled. “I’m glad you are alive, my friend.”

  “You know, Shannow, after you went over that ledge and Archer and I raced clear of the lions, he talked about you. He said you were a man to move mountains.”

  “Then he was wrong.”

  “I don’t think so. He said you would just walk up to a mountain and start lifting it a rock at a time, never seeing just how big it was.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m glad he lived long enough to see you attack a castle single-handed. He would have enjoyed that. Did he tell you about Sir Galahad?”

  “Yes.”

  “And his quest for the Grail?”

  “Yes. What of it?”

  “Are you still planning to kill Abaddon?”

  “That is my intention.”

  “Then I’ll come with you.”

  “Why?” Shannow asked, surprised.

  “You might need a hand lifting all those rocks!”

  Ruth floated above the fabled palaces of Atlantis, gazing in wonder at the broken spires and fractured terraces. From her position just below the clouds she could even see the outlines of wide roads beneath the soil of the rolling prairies. Around the center of the city was a flat uninspired wasteland that once must have housed the poorer quarters of Atlantis, where the homes were built of inferior stone long since eroded by the awesome might of the Atlantic Ocean. But now, once more, the gleaming marble of the palaces glistened beneath a silver moon.

  She wondered what the city must have been like in the days of its glory, with its terraced gardens and vineyards, its wide statue-lined ways, its parks and colosseums. Part of the city to the north had been destroyed by a volcanic upheaval, and now a jagged mountain range reared above the ruins.

  Wishing herself downward, she floated gently to an open terrace before a gaunt and shadowed shell that once had been the palace of Pendarric. Wild grass and weeds grew everywhere, and a tree had taken root against a high wall, its roots questing like skeletal fingers for a hold in the cracked marble.

  She stopped before a ten-foot statue of the king, recognizing him despite the artificially curled beard and the high, plumed helm. A strong man—too strong to see his weakness before it was too late.

  A sparrow settled on the helm and then flew off between the marble pillars of a civilization that once had stretched from the shores of Peru to the gold mines of Cornwall. The land of fable!

  But even the fable would fade. For Ruth knew that in centuries to come her own age of technology and space travel would become embroiled in myth and legend to which few would give credence.

  New York, London, Paris … all synonymous with the fiction of Atlantis.

  Then one day the world would topple once more, and the survivors would stumble upon the Statue of Liberty protruding from the mud, or Big Ben, or the pyramids. And they would wonder, even as she did, what the future held now.

  She turned her gaze to the mountains and the golden ship lodged in the black basaltic rock five hundred feet above the ruins.

  The Ark. Rust-covered and immense and strangely beautiful, it lay broken-backed on a wide ledge. Within its thousand-foot length the Guardians labored, but Ruth would not go among them. She wanted no part of the old world or the knowledge they so zealously guarded.

  Ruth returned to Sanctuary and her room. As always, when her mood was somber, she created a study without doors or windows, lit only by candles that did not flicker.

  For a while she sat and remembered Sam Archer, praying silently for the soul of the man. Then she called for Pendarric.

  He came almost at once and stood by the far wall, which opened to become a window looking out on Atlantis in its glory. People thronged the winding streets and marketplaces. Chariots drawn by white horses clattered along the statue-lined main avenue.

  Ruth joined him. “As it was?” she asked.

  “As it is,” he answered. “There are many worlds that overlap our own and many gateways to them. In the last days before the oceans drank my empire I led my people through. But there are other gateways, Ruth, to darker worlds. These Abaddon has discovered; they must be closed.”

  “I will close them if I can.”

  “Shannow will close them—if he lives.”

  “And what can I do?”

  “I told you, lady. Take the swan’s path.”

  “I am not ready to die. I am afraid.”

  “Donna Taybard has been taken. Her settlement is destroyed; her son is dead. Believe me, Ruth, if the woman is sacrificed, the gateways will be ripped asunder. Worlds within worlds will be drawn together, and the resulting catastrophe will be cosmic in scale.”

  “How would my dying aid the world?”

  “Think on it, Ruth. Find the answer.”

  Madden prepared a grave for Rachel and the boys, laying them side by side and covering them with wildflowers of purple and yellow. For a long while he sat by the grave, not having the energy or the inclination to fill it. Robert’s arm had flopped across his mother’s breast, and it seemed to Madden that he was hugging her. He had always been her favorite, and now they would lie together for eternity.

  His eyes misted, and he swung his gaze to the mountains, recalling the joy he had felt as he had stood near this spot on their first day in Avalon. Rachel had been fussing about the size of cabin they would need, and the boys had charged off into the woods above the valley. Everything had been peaceful then, and the dream had seemed as solid as the rocks around them.

  Madden’s wounds still pained him and the right side of his face was heavily bruised, but he stood and lifted the shovel and slowly filled the grave. He had intended to cover it with more flowers, but he was too tired to gather them and returned to the cabin to check on Griffin.

  The man was asleep, and Madden fueled the woodstove and prepared some herb tea. He sat in a wide chair staring at the dusty floor, his mind drifting back to all the times when he had quarreled with Rachel or caused her to cry. She had deserved so much more than he could ever offer her, yet she had stuck by him through savage winters and dry summers, failed crops and brigand raids. It was she who had convinced him they should follow Griffin’s dream. Now the wagoner was probably dying, and Madden would be alone in a strange land.

  He sipped his tea and moved to the bedside. Griffin’s pulse was erratic and weak; he was lying facedown, and Madden cut away the bandages to examine his wounds. About to turn him, he noticed a bulge near the swollen purple bruise on Griffin’s side and touched it with his finger. It was hard, and it moved as he felt it. Removing his knife from its sheath, Madden pressed the razor edge to the skin, which parted easily, spurting blood on his fingers as the misshapen shell popped into his hand. It must have hit one of Griffin’s ribs and been redirected to his back, whereas Madden had feared the bullet was lodged in Griffin’s stomach. Moving to the other side of the bed, he examined the second wound in Griffin’s back; it was healing well, but there was no sign of the bullet. He stitched the knife cut and returned to his chair.

  The wagon master would either live or die, and there was nothing more the bearded farmer could do for him. Madden ate some food—a little bacon and some stale bread—and left the cabin. Bodies littered the ground, but he ignored them and walked on toward the foothills of the mountains. There he picked flowers until dusk. Then he returned to the graveside, where he sprinkled the blooms over the freshly turned earth and dropped to his knees.

  “I don’t know if you’re there, God, or what a man has to do to have the right to talk to you. I keep being told there’s a paradise for them that believes, but I’m sort of hoping there’s a paradise for them that
don’t know. She wasn’t a bad girl, my Rachel; she never done evil to anybody, ever. And my boys didn’t live long enough to learn what evil was, not until it killed them. So maybe you’ll just overlook their disbelief and let ’em in, anyway.

  “I ain’t asking nothing for myself, you understand. I ain’t got much time for a God who allows this sort of thing to happen in his world. But I’m asking for them, because I don’t want to think about my girl just being food for worms and suchlike.

  “She deserves better than that, God. So do my boys.”

  He pushed himself to his feet and turned. There, at the edge of the paddock, was Ethan Peacock’s dapple-gray mare, and Madden walked slowly over to her, speaking in a soft gentle voice. The mare’s ears pricked up, and she wandered toward him. He stroked her neck and led her into the paddock; she must have jumped the fence when the shooting started.

  Back in the cabin he found Griffin awake.

  “How you feeling?” he asked.

  “Weak as a day-old lamb.”

  Madden made some fresh tea and helped Griffin to a sitting position.

  “I’m sorry, Jacob. I brought you to this.”

  “Too late for sorries, Con. And I don’t blame you, so put it from your mind. We got us a horse and guns. I figure to go after them bastards and at least get Donna back.”

  “Give me a day, maybe two, and I’ll ride with you.”

  “I’ll find you a horse,” said Madden. “There must be more than one that the Hellborn didn’t take. I’ll scour the western valleys. You feel up to eating?”

  Madden lit two oil lamps and cooked bacon and the last three eggs on the griddle iron of the stove. The smell of the frying bacon made Griffin acutely aware of his hunger.

  “I reckon you might live,” said Madden, watching the wagon master wolfing the food. “No dying man would eat like that.”

  “I’ve no intention of dying, Jacob. Not yet, anyhow.”

  “Why did they do it, Con? Why did they hit us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did they gain? We must have killed a couple of hundred of them, and all they took was the guns. It don’t make no sense. It’s not as if they wanted the land; it was just killing for the sake of it.”

  “I don’t think there are answers for people like them,” said Griffin. “It’s like the brigands. Why don’t they farm? Why do Daniel Cade and others like him move around the land killing and burning? We can’t understand them or their motives.”

  “But it must be for something,” insisted Madden. “Even Cade could argue that he gains by his evil … stores, coins, weapons.”

  “There’s no point in even wondering at it,” said Griffin. “They are what they are: plain evil. Sooner or later someone is going to give it back to them.”

  “You ever hear of an army, Con? There ain’t nobody to stop them.”

  “There’s always somebody, Jacob. Even if it starts with you and me.”

  “Two wounded men, one horse, and a couple of pistols? I don’t think we’ll put much of a scare into them.”

  “We’ll see,” said Griffin.

  The grizzly had found the beehive in a rotting tree trunk and was busy tearing away the wood when the Zealot struck into its brain. The beast reared in anger and pain, settled down, and ambled away to the south, toward the wooden homes of the Yeager men.

  The bear was the undisputed monarch of the high country, weighing more than a thousand pounds, and even the lions crept from his path. Wisely he had avoided the haunts of man, and even more wisely the hunters of Yeager had steered clear of the grizzly, for it was well known that a large bear could soak up musket balls as if they were bee stings, and no one wanted any part of a wounded grizzly.

  It was an hour before dawn when the bear moved into the settlement, heading unerringly for the cabin of Daniel Cade. Mounting the porch, it reared up before the door; then its huge paw swept down, splintering the wood.

  Cade awoke and scrambled from his bed. His captured Hellborn pistol hung in its scabbard from the bedpost, and he whipped the gun clear. The bear moved into the room beyond, smashing a table. When it reached the bedroom door and crashed it inward, Lisa screamed and Cade cocked the pistol, aiming it at the bear’s head. The Zealot, his work all but done, fled the bear’s mind and returned to his own body in the camp before the pass.

  Back in the cabin Cade shielded Lisa with his body and watched as the grizzly dropped to all fours, shaking its great head. Cade reached slowly for the jar on the shelf by the bed. Inside were flat sugar biscuits Lisa had made the day before, and he tossed one to the floor. The bear growled and backed away, confused and uncertain. Then it sniffed at the biscuit, savoring the sweetness. Finally it licked out, lifting the biscuit to its mouth and noisily devouring it. Cade threw another and another, and the grizzly settled down on its haunches.

  “Climb out of the window,” Cade told Lisa. “But move slow—and don’t let any fool shoot the damned bear.”

  Lisa opened the catch and stood on the bed. The bear ignored her, its eyes on Cade and the jar. She climbed over the ledge and ran to the front of the house, where Gambion, Peck, and several others were waiting with rifles in their hands.

  “Daniel says not to shoot the bear.”

  “What the hell is he doing in there?” asked Gambion.

  “He’s feeding it biscuits.”

  “Why don’t he climb out and let us kill it?” asked Peck. Lisa spread her hands and shrugged.

  Inside, Cade was down to the last four biscuits. Slowly he stood and tossed one of them over the bear’s head and into the room beyond. The grizzly sat looking at him.

  Cade grinned. “No more till you get that one,” he said. The bear growled, but Cade was beginning to enjoy himself. “No use you losing your temper.” He tossed another over the shaggy head, and the bear turned and ambled into the room. Cade followed and threw the third biscuit into the doorway. The bear lumbered after it and came face-to-face with the men beyond, who scattered in fear. Peck threw his rifle to his shoulder.

  “Don’t shoot it!” screamed Lisa.

  The bear moved to the porch. It was frightened by the sudden noise and moved off at an ambling run toward the hills as Cade appeared in the doorway.

  “What’s the matter with you people?” he asked. “Never seen a bear before?”

  “It’s no joke,” said Gambion.

  “You’re right about that. It only left me two biscuits!”

  Gambion climbed the porch. “I mean it, Daniel. A bear don’t just come out of the hills and smash its way into a man’s home. It’s not natural. I don’t know how, but the Hellborn are behind it; they were trying to kill you.”

  “I know. Come inside.”

  Cade sat down by the ruined table, and Gambion pulled up a chair.

  “They’ve tried frontal attacks on the pass, and they know it’s suicide,” said Cade. “Now they’ll be more cagey. They’ll be scouting north and south, and it won’t be long before they find Sadler’s Trail—and then they’ll be behind us.”

  “Did God tell you this?”

  “He didn’t need to; it’s plain common sense. We need the trail held. I’ve sent a rider south for help, but I don’t know if there’ll be any. I want you to take thirty men and hold Sadler’s.”

  “It’s pretty open, Daniel. Any big attack will win through in the end.”

  “You may be lucky. I only need ten days to get everyone back into the Sweetwater valley. Now, there’s only one way in there, and we can hold that for damn nigh a year.”

  “If we had supplies,” put in Gambion.

  “One day at a time. We’ve food enough for at least a couple of months, but we’re running low on ammunition. I’ll fix that. But you pick your men and hold Sadler’s Trail.”

  “Will God be with me, Daniel?”

  “He’ll be as much with you as he is with me,” promised Cade.

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  “Take care, Ephram. And no heroics. I d
on’t need another martyr. I just need ten days! With luck you won’t see any action at all.” The sound of distant gunfire came to them, but neither man was unduly alarmed. Every day the Hellborn tried some action in the pass, and always they were beaten back with losses.

  “Better be going,” said Gambion.

  “Evanson is already there, with Janus and Burgoyne—good men.”

  “We’re all good men now, Daniel.”

  “Damned right about that!”

  After Gambion had left, Cade dressed and rode to the rim of the pass, where down on the rocks there were four Hellborn corpses. Cade dismounted and limped to the first defender, a youngster called Deluth.

  “How we doing, boy?”

  “Pretty good, Mr. Cade. They tried just the once, and we burned ’em good. Must have hit five or six more, but they rode out.”

  “Where’s Williams?”

  Deluth pointed to a ledge some forty feet away.

  “Go get him for me. I don’t think I can make that climb.”

  The boy left his rifle, bent double, and ran along the rock line. Shots spattered close to him, but he moved too fast for the Hellborn snipers to catch him in their sights. Cade hefted the boy’s rifle and sent a shot toward the telltale powder clouds on the far side of the pass. He hit nothing, but it kept their minds from the running Deluth.

  Within minutes the maneuver was repeated with Williams running the gauntlet of shots; a short stocky man of forty-five, he was breathing hard as he slumped down beside Cade.

  “What is it, Daniel?”