Bloodstone

by David Gemmell

  “You looked different the last time I saw you, sir,” said Padlock Wheeler. “You were thinner, I recall, and with less hair. Even your face seems now more … regular.”

  Saul was irritated. He did not like to be reminded of the man he once had been, the man he could become again if he ever lost the power of the stones.

  “What brings you so far?” he asked, fighting to remain civil.

  “Our Oath Taker has been shot dead,” said Wheeler. “He was a verminous rascal and by all accounts deserved his fate. But the man who shot him is a blasphemer and a heretic. You will forgive me, sir, for speaking bluntly, but he claimed to be the Jerusalem Man.”

  Moon rose. “You apprehended him?”

  Wheeler glanced at Moon and said nothing, appraising the man. “This is the Jerusalem Rider Jacob Moon,” said Saul.

  Wheeler nodded, but his dark eyes remained fixed on Moon for a moment. Finally he spoke. “No, we did not apprehend the man. Our Crusaders followed him but lost him in the mountains. He appeared to be heading into the wild lands near Domango.”

  Saul shook his head, his expression sorrowful. “You bring dreadful news, Brother Wheeler. But I am sure Brother Moon will know what to do.”

  “Indeed I do,” said Jacob Moon.

  * * *

  There were many things twelve-year-old Oswald Hankin did not know, but of one he was sure: There was no God.

  “I’m hungry, Oz,” said his little sister, Esther. “When can we go home?”

  Oz put his arm around the six-year-old’s shoulder. “Hush now, I’m trying to think.”

  What could he tell her? She’s watched Father being shot down, the bullets smashing into his head and chest, the blood exploding from his frame. Oz shut his eyes against the memory, but it remained locked in place in his mind’s eye, bleak and harsh and terribly savage.

  He and Esther had been playing in the long grass when the seven riders had come up to the house. There had been no indication of the murder to follow. The sky was clear, the sun was bright, and only that morning their father had read to them from an old leather-bound book with gold-edged pages. The tale of Lancelot and Guinevere.

  For some reason Oz had decided to remain in the long grass, though Esther had wanted to run out and see the riders close up. His father had walked from the house to greet them. He had been wearing a white shirt, and his long fair hair had been golden in the sunlight.

  “We told ye once,” the leading rider had said, a bald man with a black trident beard. “We’ll suffer no pagans around Domango.”

  “By what right do you call me a pagan?” his father had replied. “I do not accept your authority to judge me. I traveled far to buy this land, and where I came from I am well known as a man who loves the church. How can I be at fault here?”

  “You were warned to leave,” the rider had said. “What follows be on your own head, pagan.”

  “Get off my land!”

  They were the last words his father had spoken. The leading rider produced a pistol and fired a single shot that hammered into the unarmed man’s chest. Father staggered back. Then all the men began firing.

  “Find the young’uns,” shouted the trident-bearded leader.

  Esther was too shocked to cry, but Oswald virtually had to drag her back into the long grass. They crawled for some way, then cut into the pines and up along the mountain paths to the old cave. It was cold there, and they cowered together for warmth.

  What will I do? thought Oz. Where can we go?

  “I’m hungry, Oz,” said Esther again. She started to cry. He hugged her and kissed her hair. “Where’s Poppa?”

  “He’s dead, Esther. They killed him.”

  “When will he come for us?”

  “He’s dead,” Oz repeated wearily. “Come on, let’s walk a little. It’ll make you warmer and take your mind off your hunger.”

  Taking Esther’s hand, he walked to the mouth of the cave and peered out. Nothing moved on the mountain trails, and he listened for the sound of horses. Nothing. Nothing but the wind whispering through the trees.

  Leading Esther, he began to walk toward the east, away from his home.

  His mother had died back in Unity just a year after Esther had been born. Oz did not remember much about her except that she had had red hair and a wide, happy smile. His one clear memory was of a picnic by a lake when he had fallen in and swallowed some water. His mother had hurled herself in after him, dragging him back to the bank. He recalled her red hair, wet and dripping, and her green eyes so full of love and concern.

  When she had died he had cried a lot and had asked his father why God had killed her.

  “God didn’t kill her, Son. A cancer did that.”

  “He’s supposed to work miracles,” argued the seven-year-old Oswald.

  “And he does, Oz. But they’re His miracles. He chooses. Everybody dies. I’ll die one day. It’s wrong to blame God for death. Maybe we should be thanking Him for the gift of what life we have.”

  Oz adored his father and put his lack of faith on hold.

  But today he knew the truth. There was no God—and his father was dead. Murdered.

  Esther stumbled over a jutting tree root, but Oz was holding her hand and hauled her up. She started to cry again and refused to go on. Oz sat with her on a fallen tree. He had not been that far along the mountain path before and had no idea where it led, but he had nowhere else to go. Behind them the killers would be searching.

  After a while Esther calmed down, and they walked on, coming to a steep trail that led down into a valley. In the distance Oz could see a house and a barn. He stopped and stared at the house.

  What if trident-beard lived there? Or one of the others?

  “I’m really very hungry, Oz,” said Esther.

  Oz took a deep breath. “Let’s go down, then,” he said.

  Zerah Wheeler sat in the chair by the fire and thought about her sons not as men but as the children they once had been. Oz Hankin and Esther were asleep now in the wide bed Zeb had built more than forty years earlier, their pain and loss shrouded in the bliss of sleep. Zerah sighed as she thought of Zachariah. In her mind he was always the laughing child, full of pranks and mischief that no amount of scolding could forbid. Seth and Padlock had always been so serious. Just like me, she thought, gazing at the world through cynical, suspicious eyes, ever wary and watchful.

  But not Zak. He gloried in the sunshine or the snow and gazed about him with a wide-eyed sense of wonder at the beauty of it all. Zerah sniffed and cleared her throat. “Did you believe them?” she asked her mysterious guest.

  He nodded solemnly. “Children can lie,” he said, “but not this time. They saw what they saw.”

  “I agree,” said Zerah. “They witnessed a murder. You’ll have to ride to Domango and inform the Crusaders. It was their territory. I’ll keep the children here with me.”

  Jon remained silent for a moment. “You’re a good woman, Frey Wheeler. But what if they come here when I’m gone?”

  Zerah’s gray eyes took on a frosty gleam. “Son, I’m a known woman. There have been those who sought to take advantage. I buried them out back. Don’t you worry none about this old girl.” She gave him directions to Domango, advising him of various landmarks to watch out for.

  “I’ll ride out now,” he said, rising from his chair. “I thank you for the meal.”

  “You don’t have to stay so formal, Jon,” she told him. “I’d look on it kindly if you stopped calling me Frey and started to use my given name.”

  He smiled then, and it was good to see, for his eyes seemed less cold. “As you wish … Zerah. Good night.”

  She rose and walked to the door, watching him gather his guns from the hook and stroll to the paddock. And, not for the first time, she wondered who he was. Turning back into the house, she extinguished one of the lamps. Oil was short now, and soon she would have to ride into Domango for supplies. There had been a time when the farm had supported three hired men, when cattle had
roamed in the pasturelands to the south. But those days were gone, just like the cattle. Now Zerah Wheeler survived by growing vegetables in the plot out back and by breeding a few pigs and many chickens.

  Twice a year Padlock would visit, arriving in a wagon laden with boxes, tins of peaches canned in Unity, sacks of flour, salt and sugar, and—most precious of all—books. Most of them were Bible studies printed by the Deacon Press, but occasionally there were gems from the old world. One she had read a score of times, savoring every sentence over and over. It was the first part of a trilogy. Pad had not realized that when he had bought it for her; to him it was just an antique tome his mother might enjoy. And she had. At first she had been irritated by the fact that there was no record of any of the other books in the series. But during the last seven years she had thought and thought about the story, inventing her own endings, and this had given her immense pleasure in the long, lonely evenings.

  She heard the soft sounds of sobbing begin in the bedroom and walked swiftly through to sit on the bed alongside the little girl. Esther was crying in her sleep. “Hush now, child; all is safe. All is well,” she crooned, stroking the child’s auburn hair. “All is safe, all is well,” Esther murmured, then began sucking her thumb. Zerah was not a great believer in thumb sucking, but there was a time and a place for admonishments, and this was not it.

  “Always wanted a girl-child,” whispered Zerah, still stroking the child’s head. Then she saw that Oswald was awake, his eyes wide and fearful. “Come join me for a glass of milk,” she said. “Always have one before sleeping. Move soft, now, so as not to wake little Esther.”

  Oswald padded out after her. He was a strongly built boy, reminding her of Seth, with serious eyes and a good jaw. Pouring two glasses from the stone jug, she passed one to Oswald, who hunkered down by the dying fire.

  “Having trouble sleeping, boy?”

  He nodded. “I dreamed of Poppa. He was walking around the house calling for us. But he was all covered with blood, and his face wasn’t there anymore.”

  “You’ve seen some hard, hard times, Oz. But you’re safe here.”

  “They’ll come for us. You won’t be able to stop them.”

  Zerah forced a chuckle. “Me and Betty will stop them, Oz. Count on it.” She walked to the fire and lifted the long rifle from its rack. “She fires four shots, and every shell is thicker than your thumb. And I’ll tell you a little secret: I ain’t missed with this gun for nigh on seventeen years.”

  “There was more than four of them,” said Oz.

  “I’m glad you mentioned that, Oz,” she said, laying aside the rifle and moving to a handsomely carved chest of drawers. From it she produced a small nickel-plated revolver and a box of shells. “This here pistol belonged to my son, Zak. She’s small, but she’s got stopping power. It was made by the Hellborn thirty years ago.” Flipping open the breech, she put the pistol on half cock, freeing the cylinder, and fed in five shells, lowering the hammer on the empty chamber. “I’m giving this to you, Oz. It is not to play with. This is a gun. It will kill people. You fool with it and it’s likely to kill you or your sister. Are you man enough to deal with that?”

  “Yes, Frey Wheeler. I am man enough.”

  “I didn’t doubt it. Now between us, Oz, we’re going to look after little Esther. And we’re going to see justice done. My man, Jon, is riding now to Domango to report the …” She hesitated as she saw the look of anguish in his eyes. “To report the crime to the Crusaders.”

  Oswald’s face twisted then, and his eyes shone. “The man who first shot Poppa was a Crusader,” he said.

  Zerah’s heart sank, but she kept her expression neutral. “We’ll work things out, Oz; you see if we don’t. Now you best get back to bed. I’ll need you fresh and clear of eye in the morning. Put the pistol by your bedside.”

  The boy padded off, and Zerah returned to the chest of drawers. From the third drawer she pulled a scabbard and belt, then a short-barreled pistol. For some time she cleaned the weapon. Then she loaded it.

  Despite the dangers, Shannow loved night riding. The air was crisp and clean, and the world slept. Moonlight gave the trees a shimmering quality, and every rock glistened with silver. He rode slowly, allowing the horse to pick its way carefully over the trail.

  The loss of memory no longer caused him irritation. It would come back or it would not. What did concern him were the problems such a loss could cause the Jerusalem Man. If his worst enemy of the last twenty years were to ride up in plain sight, Shannow feared he would not recognize the danger.

  Then there was the question of aging. According to Jeremiah, the Jerusalem Man had ridden through the Plague Lands twenty years before and had then been a man in his late thirties or early forties. That would make him around sixty now. Yet his hair was still dark, his skin virtually unlined.

  He rode for almost three hours, then made camp in a hollow. There was no water nearby, and Shannow did not bother with a fire but sat with his back to a tree, his blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The head wound gave him no pain now, but the scab itched.

  Sitting in the moonlight, he traced over his life in his mind, piecing together tiny fragments as they came to him. I am Jon Shannow.

  Then a face leapt to his memory, a thin, angular face with deep brooding eyes. A name came with it: Varey. Varey Shannow. Like a key slipping sweetly into a lock, he saw again the brigand slayer who had taken the young man under his wing. I took his name when he was murdered. And his own name slipped into his mind: Cade. Jon Cade. The name settled on his mind like water on a parched tongue.

  The world had gone mad, with preachers everywhere talking of Armageddon. But if Armageddon was true, then the New Jerusalem would exist somewhere. The new Jon Shannow had set out to find it. The journey had been long, with many perils. Varey Shannow had taught him never to back away from evil:

  “Confront it wherever you find it, Jon. For it will thrive when men cease to fight it.”

  Shannow closed his eyes and remembered the conversations around many campfires. “You are a strong man, Jon, and you have tremendous hand-eye coordination. You have speed, and yet you are cool under fire. Use those skills, Jon. This land is full of brigands, men who would lie, steal, and kill for gain. They must be fought, for they are evil.” Shannow smiled at the memory. “It used to be said that you can’t stop a man who keeps on going and knows he’s right. It just ain’t true, Jon. A bullet will stop any man. But that’s not the point. Winning is not the point. If a man only fought when he believed there was a chance to win, then evil would beat him every time. The brigand relies on the fact that when he rides in with his men, all armed to the teeth, the victim will—realizing he has no chance—just give in. Trust me, Jon, that’s the moment to walk out with guns blazing.”

  Just before the fateful day, as the two men had ridden into the small town, Varey Shannow had turned to the youngster beside him. “Men will say many things about me when I’m gone. They could say I got angry too fast. They could say I wasn’t none too bright. They’ll certainly say that I was an ugly cuss. But no man ever will be able to say that I abused a woman, stole or lied, or backed down in the face of evil. Ain’t too bad an epitaph, is it, Jon?”

  Varey Shannow had been cut down in his prime, backshot by villains who had feared he was hunting them.

  Jon Shannow opened his eyes and gazed up at the stars. “You were a good man, Varey,” he said.

  “Talking to yourself is a sure sign of madness, they say,” said Jake, “and I hope you don’t fire that pistol.” Shannow eased back the hammer and holstered the gun. At the first sound he had drawn and cocked the weapon in one swift, fluid move. Despite the speed of his response, he was nettled by the old man’s silent approach.

  “A man could be killed approaching a camp that way,” he said.

  “True, boy, but I reckoned you weren’t the type to shoot before looking.” Jake moved opposite Shannow and hunkered down. “Cold camp. You expecting trouble?”

&n
bsp; “Trouble has a way of happening when you least expect it,” said Shannow.

  “Ain’t it the truth.” The old man’s beard was shining silver in the moonlight. Shucking off his sheepskin topcoat, he gave a low whistle, and his mule came trotting into the camp. Swiftly Jake removed the saddle and blanket roll, then patted the beast’s rump. The mule moved out to stand alongside Shannow’s horse. “She’s an obedient girl,” Jake said fondly.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I didn’t. The mule must have picked up the scent of your stallion. You heading for Domango?”

  Shannow nodded but said nothing.

  “A sight of activity there in the last few days,” continued Jake. “Riders coming in from all over. Tough men, by the look of them. Ever heard of Jacob Moon?”

  “No.”

  “Jerusalem Rider. Killed fourteen men that I heard of. Can you guess who he’s asking about?”

  “Who are you, Jake?” countered Shannow.

  “Just an old man, Son. Nothing special. I take it you aren’t interested in Moon.”

  “At the moment I’m more interested in you. Where are you from?”

  Jake chuckled. “Here and there. Mostly there. I’ve been over the mountain a few times. You think I’m hunting you?”

  Shannow shook his head. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But you are hunting something, Jake.”

  “Nothing that need worry you, Son.” Shaking loose his blanket, Jake wrapped it around his shoulders and stretched out on the earth. “By the way, those Wanderers you helped—they’re on the way to Domango, too. You’ll probably see them.”

  “You do get around, old man,” said Shannow, closing his eyes.

  Shannow awoke with the dawn to find that the old man had gone. He sat up and yawned. He had never known anyone who could move as quietly as Jake. Saddling his horse, he rode out onto a broad plain. There were ruins to his left—huge pillars of stone, shattered and fallen—and the horse’s hooves clattered in the remains of a wide stone road. The city must have been vast, Shannow considered, stretching for several miles to the west.