The Last Guardian

by David Gemmell

  The Parson followed his gaze and saw a wagon moving down to join them. He recognized Beth McAdam at the reins, a black-bearded man beside her. Waving them into the column, he strode across.

  “I am pleased to see you are well, Beth,” he said.

  “This ain’t well, Parson. I just built my goddamn house, and now I’m being run out by a bunch of lizards. What’s worse, I got a sick man in the back, and this bumping around is doing him no good at all.”

  “Within a couple of hours, God willing, we should be behind the wall. Then we can defend ourselves.”

  “Yeah, against the reptiles. What about the other beasts?”

  The Parson shrugged. “As God wishes. Will you introduce me to your friend?”

  “This is Nu, Parson. He healed the convoy; he’s another man of God—getting to be so I feel hip-deep in them.”

  Nu climbed down from the wagon and stretched. The Parson offered his hand, which Nu shook, and the two men strolled together.

  “Are you new to this country, Meneer?” the Parson asked.

  “Yes and no,” replied Nu. “I was here … a long time ago. Much has changed.”

  “Do you know of the lands beyond the wall?”

  “Not much, I am afraid. There is a city there—a very old city. It used to be called Ad. There are temples and palaces.”

  “It is inhabited now by beasts of the Devil,” said the Parson. “Their evil keeps the Sword of God trapped in the sky. It is my dream to destroy their evil and release the sword.”

  Nu said nothing. He had seen the city in his spirit search, but there had been no signs of beasts or demons. The two men walked together with the flanking gunmen, and soon the Parson, tiring of the silence, moved away. Nu strode on, lost in thought. How, he wondered, could a man who professed to believe in the supreme power of God be so convinced that such an awesome power would need his help? Trapped in the sky? What kind of petty creature did this man believe God to be?

  The convoy moved slowly across the landscape.

  A horseman came galloping across the valley. The Parson and his flankers ran to intercept him; the man was one of Scayse’s riders.

  “Better move fast, Parson,” he said, leaning over the saddle of his lathered mount. “There’s two groups of the creatures. One is moving on Meneer Scayse in the woods; the second and larger one is coming to intercept you. They’re not far behind.”

  The Parson swung to gauge the distance to the wall—it was over a mile. “Ride in and get the wagons moving at speed. Tell everyone to run.” The horseman dug his heels into the flanks of his weary horse and cantered down to the leading wagons. Whips cracked, and the oxen strained into the traces.

  The Parson gathered his men. “We can’t hold them,” he said, “but we’ll keep together at the rear of the convoy. When we see them, we can at least slow their advance. Let’s go.”

  The morning sun blazed down on them as they ran into the dust cloud left by the fleeing convoy.

  As the mocking laughter faded, Shannow stepped into the saddle. He cast his eyes around the silent street. There in the dust by the Traveler’s Rest lay Mason, his body riddled with bullet holes. Some yards to the left was Boris Haimut, who would now never find the answers to his questions. The crippled hostler lay in the street by the livery stable with an old shotgun in his hands. Elsewhere were the bodies of men, women, and children Shannow had never known in life, yet all must have nurtured their own dreams and ambitions. He turned the stallion’s head and rode out into the valley.

  He had been lucky at the gunsmith’s store. As he had hoped, Groves had made more of the Hellborn shells, obviously planning on larger orders from Scayse. Shannow now had more than a hundred bullets. He had also gathered a short rifle, three sacks of black powder, and various other items from the debris of the general store.

  As he rode, he thought back to the voice that had whispered in his mind: Be on your guard. When in the last two decades had he not been on his guard or in peril? Neither the voice nor the implied threat worried him unduly. A man lived, a man died. What could frighten a man who understood those truths?

  For some time Shannow rode in sight of the wagons, but there was no pursuit, and he cut his trail at right angles and rode for the hills to the east. If the Parson took his advice and moved his people, the valley would become the place of greatest danger.

  Shannow rode warily, altering his direction often, allowing no hidden observer to plot his path. The ground rose, and he guided the stallion up into the boulder-strewn hills, dismounting and tethering him. Then he lifted the sack and opened it, spreading the contents on the ground before him. There were seven clay pots with narrow necks stopped with corks, six packets of small nails, and a coil of fuse wire. He filled each pot with black powder mixed with nails, tamping them down firmly. With a long nail he pierced each of the corks and fed lengths of fuse wire into them. Satisfied with his handiwork, he returned the pots to the sack and sat down to wait. With his long glass he studied the valley below. In the far distance he saw the wagons reach the woods; then he watched as the convoy began its slow progress toward the wall.

  For an hour he sat, and then the first of the Daggers came into view, running toward the woods. Shannow focused the glass and watched the enemy closing in on the makeshift fortifications. Another movement caught his eye; several hundred of the reptiles were running toward the south. A horseman cut across them and thundered away. Shannow stood and heaved the sack over the back of his saddle. Taking the reins, he mounted and steered the stallion through the trees toward the eastern slopes. Shielded by the hills, he rode at speed, ignoring the danger of potholes or rocks. The stallion was surefooted and strong, and he loved to run. Twice Shannow was forced to duck under overhanging branches that would have swept him from the saddle, and once the stallion stumbled over a fallen tree. As the hills leveled out, Shannow swung his mount to the west, into a shallow gulley that led out onto the plain. Shots whistled by him, and he could see the reptiles closing fast as he leapt from the saddle, dragging the sack with him and pulling one of the pots clear. He struck a match and applied it to the fuse, which crackled and spit. Shannow heaved it over the gully edge and then lit another. The explosion was deafening, and red-hot nails screamed overhead. Three more pots sailed into the advancing ranks of the Daggers before Shannow grabbed the pommel of his saddle and vaulted to the stallion’s back.

  Kicking the beast into a run, he headed west, glancing back once to see the Daggers regrouping. There were many bodies lying on the long grass, but many more were still standing.

  Shells came close, but the speed of the stallion soon carried the Jerusalem Man out of range.

  Edric Scayse reloaded his rifle. The reptiles had charged the slope just once, but the withering volley fire from the defenders had scythed through their ranks. Now they were more cautious, creeping forward and waiting until the defenders skylined themselves. Eleven men were down, and Scayse knew that the position was hopeless.

  He was angry with himself. All his dreams were ashes now, and all because of the gold supplied by the woman Sharazad. She had first come to him three months before, claiming to be from a community far to the east. Could he get her weapons? Of course he could if the price was right. And the gold was of spectacular quality. Now he was pinned down in a wood, his silver mine deserted, his town destroyed, the people who would have made him their leader decimated and scattered. He reared up and pumped three shots down the hill before dropping back behind the earthworks.

  A man to his left screamed and fell, a ghastly wound in his temple. “We’d best be thinking about leaving,” said another man beside him.

  “Seems like a good time,” Scayse agreed.

  Word was passed along the line, and the eighteen survivors moved back from the ditch into the woods. Shots screamed into them from the trees, and Scayse dived for cover, his wide hat ripped from his head. He rolled into the bushes and sprinted off to the right as shells ricocheted from the trees around him. One struck
the butt of his rifle, spinning it from his numbed hand, but he drew his pistol and ran on. A reptile reared up before him with a serrated dagger in its hand, but Scayse triggered the pistol point-blank, and the creature fell. Hurdling the body, he ran on. Behind him came the screams of the dying. He looked back once to see that the dark, scaled forms of the reptiles were giving chase. He loosed two shots in their direction but hit nothing. Ducking behind a tree, Scayse fed shells into the cylinder of his pistol and waited.

  “Get down, Scayse,” came a voice, “and cover your ears.” A clay pot soared overhead and exploded in the path of the hunters. A second followed it. Scayse dived for the ground as the explosion ripped into the woods, then he was up and running.

  Shannow rode into his path, offering his hand. Scayse swung up behind him, and the stallion cantered away through the woods.

  They rode for two miles before Shannow halted to allow the stallion to rest; its breathing was labored, its flanks covered with lather. Scayse climbed down and patted the beast. “Some horse, Shannow. If ever you feel like selling, I’ll buy.”

  “With what?” asked Shannow, stepping down. “All you own is what you’re wearing.”

  “I’ll get it back. Somehow I’ll find a way to beat those creatures—and that damned woman.”

  “You should be grateful to her,” said Shannow. “She’s surely not a general. With a hundred well-armed, well-mounted men we could destroy them in a day.”

  “Maybe,” Scayse agreed. “But I’d say she has the upper hand around now. Wouldn’t you?”

  Shannow did not answer, and the two men walked on for some time. Finally Shannow turned the horse onto a narrow side trail leading up to a cave. The opening was less than four feet wide, but inside the cave itself was huge and almost circular. Shannow unsaddled the stallion and rubbed him down. “We’ll stay here for an hour or two, then I guess we should find a way to get over the wall.”

  “Easier said, Shannow. By now those reptiles will be swarming over it like bees on honey. By the way, thanks for the timely rescue. I’ll pay you back one day.”

  “That’s an interesting thought,” answered Shannow, taking his blankets and spreading them for a bed. “Wake me in an hour.”

  “We could be trapped in here. Shouldn’t we move on?”

  “It’s unlikely they’ll hunt for long. Having removed your force, they’ll congregate at the wall.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  “Then we’ll both be dead. Wake me in an hour.”

  The great wall had been torn asunder by the quake, a huge gash appearing more than twenty feet across it. On either side massive stone blocks hung precariously, looking as if a breath of wind would tumble them down on the rumbling wagons.

  The Parson watched the column inch its perilous way along the stone-strewn pathway. Behind them the explosions had stopped, as had the headlong advance of the enemy.

  “Shannow?” asked Bull, and the Parson nodded. “He don’t give up, do he?”

  When the last wagon had passed through the gap, the Parson sent a group of men to scale the wall and lever down the hanging blocks. They crashed to the ground, sending up clouds of dust.

  “We should be able to hold them here for a while,” said Bull. “Mind you, I think them beasts could climb over anywheres they chose.”

  “We’ll head south,” said the Parson. “But I’d like you and a dozen others to hold this breach for a day … if you’re willing.”

  Bull chuckled and ran his fingers through his long sandy hair. “Given the choice between this and having boils lanced, I’d surely plump for the knife, Parson. But I reckon it needs doing. Anyways, I think it would be neighborly to wait for Meneer Scayse and the others.”

  “You’re a good man, Bull.”

  “I know it, Parson. And don’t you forget to tell the Almighty!”

  Bull sauntered among the men, choosing those he felt he could trust in a tight spot. They unloaded extra ammunition, filled their canteens from the barrels on the wagons, and took up positions on the wall or behind fallen blocks to await the enemy.

  From the north came the sound of gunfire and two more muted explosions.

  “He surely does get around,” observed Bull to a young rider named Faird.

  “Who?”

  “The Jerusalem Man. Hope to God he makes it.”

  “I hope to God we make it,” said Faird with feeling. “Goddammit, there’s that second sun again.”

  The brilliance was overpowering, and Bull shielded his eyes. He felt the rumble beneath his feet. “Get back from the wall!” he bellowed.

  Men started to run, the the tremor struck and they were hurled from their feet. Jagged lines scored the surface of the wall, blocks shifting and falling. A chasm opened across the valley, and a great roaring filled the air as flames spewed from the pit.

  “Son of a bitch!” whispered Bull as the smell of sulfur blew across him. He pushed himself to his knees. Another massive section of the wall had collapsed, and from out of the dust storm walked a tall reptile, his right hand held before him. Faird leveled his rifle. “Hold it,” said Bull, and he rose and walked out to meet the beast, halting three paces short of it.

  The creature snorted dust from its slitted nostrils, then fixed Bull with its golden eyes.

  “Speak your mind,” said Bull, his hand resting on the pistol butt at his side.

  “Yess. Sspeak. Thiss war no good, u-man. Much death. No point.”

  “You began it.”

  “Yess. Great sstupidity. We only soldierss. You undersstand? No choicess. Now Goldenhair ssays talk. We talk.”

  “Who is this Goldenhair?”

  “Sharassad. Leader. She ssays to give uss the man Nu and we will leave you in peace.”

  “Why should we believe her?”

  “I don’t believe her,” said the reptile. “Treacherouss woman. But she ssays sspeak, so I sspeak.”

  “You’re telling me not to trust your own leader?” asked Bull, amazed. “Then why the hell come here in the first place?”

  “We are Ruazsh-Pa. Warriors. We fight good. We lie bad. She ssay come, talk, tell you words. I tell you words. What answer you?”

  “What answer would you give?”

  The reptile waved his hand. “Not for me to ssay.” He snorted once more, then began to cough.

  “You want some water?” asked Bull. He called Faird over.

  “Yess.” Faird brought a canteen and handed it gingerly to the creature, who lifted it high and poured the cool liquid over his face. Immediately the dry scaled skin took on a healthy glow. The reptile handed back the canteen, ignoring Faird.

  “Very much bad, thiss war,” he told Bull. “And these,” he added, patting the pistol at his hip, “no good. Battle sshould be fought close, daggerss and swordss. No win souls from sso far. I, Szshark, kill twenty-six enemies with dagger, face close, touch their eyess with my tongue. Now … bang … enemy fall. Very much very bad.”

  “You seem like a decent sort,” said Bull, aware that the others had gathered close by. “I … we … never seen nothing like you before. Shame we got to go on killing one another.”

  “Nothing wrong with killing,” hissed the creature, “but it musst be according to cusstom. What answer you give treacherouss woman?”

  “Tell her we need time to think about it.”

  “Why?”

  “To discuss it among ourselves.”

  “You have no leader? What of the redheaded one in black? Or the deathrider?”

  “It’s hard to explain. Our leaders need time to discuss it. Then maybe they’ll say yes, maybe no.”

  “It sshould be no,” said Szshark. “It would lack honor. Better to die than betray a friend. Yet I will take your words to Goldenhair. Water wass good. For that gift I will kill you the right way, with dagger.”

  “Thanks,” said Bull, grinning. “That’s nice to know.”

  Szshark bowed stiffly and loped back to the wall. With one leap he cleared a ten-foot block an
d was gone.

  “What the hell do you make of that?” Faird asked.

  “Damned if I know,” answered Bull. “Seemed a reasonable … thing, didn’t he?”

  “You could almost like him,” agreed Faird. “We’d better get back to the Parson, tell him about the offer.”

  “I don’t like the feel of it,” said Bull. “No way.”

  “Me neither. But my wife and children are with that convoy, and if it comes to a choice between a stranger and them, I know where my vote goes.”

  “He saved you and your wife on the trail, Faird. You surely don’t go too long on gratitude in your family.”

  “That was then, this is now,” snapped Faird, swinging away.

  26

  THE BODIES OF the three sacrificial victims were carried from the altars. The high priest lifted the three gleaming Blood Stones and placed them in a golden bowl.

  “By the spirit of Belial, by the blood of the innocent, by the law of the king,” he chanted. “Let these tokens carry you to victory.”

  The three men remained kneeling as the high priest brought the bowl to them. From his jewel-encrusted throne the king watched the ceremony with little interest. He could see the giant Magellas and feel the warrior’s discomfort as he knelt. The king smiled. Beside Magellas the slender Lindian showed no expression; his gray eyes were hooded, his face a taut mask. On the extreme right Rhodaeul waited with eyes closed, mind locked in prayer. All three looked like brothers with their snow-white hair and pale faces. The high priest gave them their stones, then blessed them with the horns of Belial. They rose smoothly and bowed to the king.

  He acknowledged their obeisance, gestured them to follow him, and strode to his rooms. Once there, he stood by the window and waited as the three warriors entered. Magellas was by far the largest, his black and silver tunic stretched by the enormous muscles of his shoulders and arms. Lindian looked almost boylike beside him. Rhodaeul moved a few paces to the right.

  “Come,” invited the king. “Meet your enemy.” He lifted his Sipstrassi, the wall shimmered and disappeared, and they saw a man standing beside a tall black horse. Another man was sitting close by. “That is the victim you seek,” said the king. “His name is Shannow.”