9
A wise man and a fool were lost in the desert. The one knew nothing of desert life and soon became thirsty and disoriented. The other had grown up in the desert. He knew that often a man could find water by digging at the lowest point of the outside bend of a dry streambed. This he did, and the two drank.
The one who had found the water said to his companion, “Which of us is the wise man now?”
“I am,” said the other. “For I brought you with me into the desert, whereas you chose to travel with a fool.”
The Wisdom of the Deacon
Chapter VI
AMAZIGA MET HER son at the crossroads outside Domango. She smiled as he rode up and waved. He was a handsome man, more slender than his father but with a natural grace and confidence that filled Amaziga’s heart with pride.
“You have him safe?” asked Gareth, leaning across his saddle to kiss Amaziga’s cheek.
“Yes. And ready.”
“You should have seen him, Mother, striding out onto the street and calling out Dillon. Amazing!”
“He’s a killer. A savage,” snapped Amaziga, irritated by the admiration she saw in Gareth.
Gareth shrugged. “Dillon was the savage. Now he’s dead. Do not expect me to mourn for him.”
“I don’t. What I also do not expect is for a son of mine to hero-worship a man like Jon Shannow. But then, you are a strange boy, Gareth. Why, with your education in the modern world, would you choose to live here of all places?”
“It is exciting.”
She shook her head in exasperation and swung her horse. “There’s not much time,” she said. “We had better get moving.”
They rode swiftly back to the stone circle. Amaziga lifted her stone, and violet light flared around them.
The house appeared, and the two riders moved down toward the paddock. Shannow was sitting on the fence as they approached. He looked up and nodded a greeting.
Amaziga swung down and opened the paddock gate. “Unsaddle the horses,” she ordered Gareth. “I’ll load up the jeep.”
“No jeep,” said Shannow, climbing down from the fence.
“What?”
“We will ride through.”
“That jeep can move three times as fast as the horses. Nothing in the world of the Bloodstone can catch it.”
“Even so, we don’t take it,” said the Jerusalem Man.
Amaziga’s fury broke clear. “Who the hell do you think you are? I am in command here, and you will do as I say.”
Shannow shook his head. “No,” he said softly, “you are not in command here. If you wish me to accompany you, then saddle fresh horses. Otherwise be so kind as to return me to the world I know.”
Amaziga bit back an angry retort. She was no fool; she heard the iron in his voice and swiftly changed tack. “Listen, Shannow, I know you do not understand the workings of the … vehicle, but trust me. We will be far safer with it than on horseback. And our mission is too vital to take unnecessary risks.”
Shannow stepped closer and gazed down into her dark brown eyes. “This entire enterprise is an unnecessary risk,” he said, his voice cold, “and were I not bound by my word, I would leave you to it without a moment’s hesitation. But understand this, woman. I will lead; you and your son will follow that lead. You will obey without question … and that begins now. Choose your horses.”
Before Amaziga could respond, Gareth spoke up. “Is it all right if I keep this mount, Mr. Shannow?” he asked. “She’s a stayer and is still fresh.”
Shannow’s eyes raked the buckskin, then he nodded. “As you will,” he said, and without another word he moved away, walking toward the open desert.
Amaziga swung on her son. “How could you side with him?”
“Why keep a dog if you are going to bark yourself?” answered Gareth, stepping down from the saddle. “You say he is a killer and a savage. Everything I know about the Jerusalem Man tells me that he is a survivor. Yes, he is hard and ruthless, but where we are going we will need a man like that. No disrespect, Mother. You are a fine scientist and a wonderful dinner companion. But on this venture I guess I would sooner follow the tall man. Okay?”
Amaziga masked her anger and forced a smile. “He’s wrong about the jeep.”
“I’d sooner ride, anyway,” said Gareth.
Amaziga strode into the house and on to her room. From a closet by the far wall she removed a shoulder rig to which two small silver and black boxes were attached. Swinging it over her shoulder, she clipped it to her black leather belt, then attached two leads to the first box, which nestled against her waist on the left-hand side. Connecting the other ends of the leads into the second box, she clipped this to the back of her belt, alongside a leather scabbard containing four clips of ammunition for the nine-shot Beretta holstered at her hip. Returning to the outer room, she pulled a fresh set of leads from the drawer beneath the computer and attached them first to the back of the machine and then to the small box at her belt.
“You are angry,” said Lucas.
“The batteries should last around five days. Long enough, I think,” she said, ignoring the question. “Are you ready for transfer?”
“Yes. You are of course aware that I cannot load all my files into your portable? I will be of limited use.”
“I like your company,” she said with a wide smile. “Now, are you ready?”
“Of course. And you have not connected the microphone.”
“It’s like living with a maiden aunt,” said Amaziga, looping a set of headphones around her neck. The transfer of files took just under two minutes. Lifting the headphones into place, she flipped out the curved stick of the microphone. “Can you hear me?” she asked.
“I dislike not being able to see,” came Lucas’s voice, as if from a great distance.
Amaziga adjusted the volume. “One thing at a time, dear heart,” she said. The fiber-optic camera had been designed to fit neatly into a black headband; the leads connected to a set of tiny batteries contained in the shoulder rig. Settling it into place, she engaged the batteries.
“Better,” said Lucas. “Move your head to the left and right.” Amaziga did so. “Excellent. Now, will you tell me why you are angry?”
“Why should I tell you something you already know?”
“Gareth was correct,” said Lucas. “Shannow is a survivor. He is an untutored clairvoyant. His gift lies in reading signs of danger before that danger has materialized.”
“I know about his skills, Lucas. That’s why I am using him.”
“Look down,” Lucas told her.
“What? Why?”
“I want to see your feet.”
Amaziga chuckled and bent her head low. “Aha,” said Lucas. “As I thought, trainers. You would be advised to wear boots.”
“I am already hip-deep in wires and leads. The trainers are comfortable. Now, do you have any other requests?”
“It would be nice if you were to walk to the saguaro where the elf owl is nesting. The camera on the roof cannot quite traverse far enough for a good study.”
“When we get back,” she promised. “For now I’d like you to concentrate on the lands of the Bloodstone—if it is not too much trouble. You’ll need to rethink the route and the place and the time of entry. Without the jeep it’ll take a damn sight longer.”
“I never liked jeeps,” said Lucas.
Josiah Broome awoke to see the old man cleaning two long-barreled pistols. Pain lanced through Broome’s chest, and he groaned.
Jake glanced up. “Despite how you feel, you will live, Josiah,” he said.
“It wasn’t a dream?” whispered Broome.
“It surely wasn’t. Jersualem Riders tried to kill you and shot Daniel Cade in the process. Now you are a wanted man. Shoot on sight, they’ve been told.” Broome struggled to a sitting position. Dizziness swamped him. “Don’t do too much now, Josiah,” insisted Jake. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. Take it slow and easy. Here …” Jake laid aside the pis
tol and lifted a steaming jug from the coals of the fire. Filling a tin mug, he passed it to Broome, who took it with his left hand. The old man returned to his place and lifted the pistol, flipping out the cylinder and loading it.
“What am I going to do?” asked Broome. “Who will believe me?”
“It won’t matter, Son,” said Jake. “Trust me on that.”
“How can you say that?” asked Broome, astonished.
Jake returned the pistols to two deep shoulder holsters and reached for a short-barreled rifle, which he also began to load, pressing shell after shell into the side gate. When he had finished, he pumped the action and laid the weapon aside.
“Sometime soon,” he said, his voice low, “people will forget all about the shooting; they’ll be too concerned with just staying alive. And against what’s coming that won’t be easy. You were there when the Daggers invaded. But they were an army of soldiers. They had orders. They were disciplined. But a terror is about to be unleashed that is almost beyond understanding. That’s why I’m here, Josiah. To fight it.”
Josiah Broome understood none of it. All he could think of was the terrible events of the previous day, the murder of Daniel Cade, and the pain-filled flight into the night. Is the old man insane? he wondered. He seemed rational. The pain in his chest settled to a dull, throbbing ache, and the dawn breeze chilled his upper body. He shivered. The bandages around his thin chest were caked with dried blood, and any movement of his right arm sent waves of nausea through him.
“Who are you?” he asked the old man.
“I am the Deacon,” said Jake, emptying out the jug and stowing it in a cavernous pack.
For a moment all Broome’s pain was forgotten, and he stared at the man with undisguised astonishment. “You can’t be” was all he could say, taking in the man’s threadbare trousers and worn boots, the ragged sheepskin coat, and the matted white hair and beard.
Jake smiled. “Don’t be deceived by appearances, Son. I am who I say I am. Now, we’ve got to get you to Beth McAdam’s place. I need to speak to the lady.” Jake hoisted the pack to his shoulders, hefted his rifle, then moved over to Broome and helped him to his feet. Wrapping a blanket around the wounded man’s upper body, Jake steered him out into the open, where the mule was hobbled. “You ride, I’ll lead,” said the old man. With great difficulty Broome climbed to the saddle.
An eerie howl echoed in the trees, and Jake stiffened. It was answered by another some way to the east … then another.
Broome noted the sound, but compared with the pain from his chest wound and the pounding that had begun in his head, it seemed unimportant. Then he heard two gunshots in the distance, followed by a piercing scream of terror, and he jerked in the saddle. “What was that?” he asked.
Jake did not reply. Slipping the hobble from the mule’s forelegs, he took the reins in his left hand and began the long descent down into the wooded valley.
The Deacon moved on warily, leading the mule and glancing back often at the wounded man. Broome was semidelirious, and the man called Jake had lashed his wrists to the pommel of the saddle. The day was bright and clear, and there was no discernible breeze. The Deacon was thankful for that. The pack was heavy, as was the rifle, and he was mortally tired. The descent into the valley was slow, and he paused often, listening and scanning the trees.
Death stalked the mountains now, and he knew the Devourers were fast and lethal. He would have little time to bring the rifle to bear. Every now and then the Deacon glanced at the mule. She was a canny beast and would pick up their scent much faster than he could. At the moment she was moving easily, head down, ears up, contentedly following his lead.
With luck they would make Beth McAdam’s farm by sunset. But what then?
How do you defeat a god of blood?
The Deacon did not know. What he did know was that the pain in his chest was intense and that his old and weary body was operating at the outer edge of its limits. For the first time in years he was tempted to use the stone on himself, rejuvenating his ancient muscles, repairing the time-damaged heart.
It would be so good to feel young again, full of energy and purpose, infused with the passion and belief of youth. And the speed, he realized. That could be vital.
The mule stopped suddenly, jerking the Deacon back. He swung and saw her head come up, her eyes widen in fear. Slipping the pack from his shoulders, he hefted the rifle and moved back to stand beside the mule’s head. “It’s all right, girl,” he said, his voice soft and soothing. “Steady, now!”
He noticed that an easterly breeze had picked up. The mule had caught the scent of the man-wolves. Leaving the pack where it lay, the Deacon scrambled up behind Broome and kicked the mule into a run. She needed no further encouragement and set off down the slope at breakneck speed. As Broome swayed to his left, the Deacon’s left arm caught him, hauling him upright.
The mule thundered on. When a gray shape reared from the right of the trail, the Deacon lifted the rifle like a pistol and loosed a shot that caught the beast high on the shoulder, spinning it. Then the mule was past and onto level ground, racing out into the valley.
They crossed the gateway at midnight, the air cool, the stars glittering above them, and emerged seconds later into the bright sunshine of an autumn morning. The stone circle into which they had traveled was almost completely overgrown by dense bush, and they were forced to dismount and force a way through to open ground some fifty yards to the left.
Amaziga spoke softly into the microphone. Shannow could not hear the words, but he saw her lift the timepiece on her wrist and make adjustments. She saw him watching her. “Lucas says it is 8:45 A.M., and we have two days to reach the Mardikh mountains, where Sam and his group are holding out. It is forty-two miles from here, but the ground is mostly level.”
Shannow nodded and stepped into the saddle. Gareth rode alongside him. “I am grateful to you, Mr. Shannow,” he said. “It is not every day that a man is given the opportunity to bring his father back from the dead.”
“As I understand it,” said Shannow, “he is not your father, merely a man who carries the same face and name.”
“And an identical genetic structure. Why did you come?”
Shannow ignored the question and rode toward the north, Amaziga and Gareth falling in behind. They pushed on through the day, stopping only once to eat a cold meal. The land was vast and empty, the distant blue mountains seeming no nearer. Twice they passed deserted homes, and in the distance, toward dusk, Shannow saw a cluster of buildings that had once made up a small town on the eastern slopes of a narrow valley. There was no sign of life, no lanterns burning, no movement.
As the light began to fade, Shannow turned off the trail and up into a stand of pine, seeking a place to camp. The land rose sharply, and ahead of them a cliff face ran south to north. A narrow waterfall gushed over basaltic rock, the fading sunlight casting rainbows through the spray and a rippling stream flowing on toward the plain.
Shannow dismounted and loosened the saddle cinch. “We could make at least another five miles,” said Amaziga, but he ignored her, his keen eyes picking up a flash of red in the undergrowth some sixty yards beyond the falls. Leaving the horse with trailing reins, he waded across the narrow stream and climbed the steep bank beyond. Gareth followed him.
“Jesus Christ!” whispered Gareth as he saw the crushed and ruined remains of a red jeep.
“Do not take His name in vain,” said Shannow. “I do not like profanity.”
The jeep was lying on its back, the roof twisted and bent. One door had been ripped clear, and Shannow could see the marks of talons scoring through the red paint and the thin steel beneath it. He glanced up. Torn and broken foliage on the cliff above the jeep showed that it had fallen from the cliff top and bounced several times against sharp outcrops before landing there. Ducking down, he pulled aside the bracken and peered into the interior. Gareth knelt alongside him.
Inside the jeep was a crushed and twisted body. All th
at could be seen was an outflung arm, half-severed. The arm was black, the blood-soaked shirtsleeve olive-green with a thin gray stripe. Gareth’s shirt was identical.
“It’s me,” said Gareth. “It’s me!”
Shannow rose and moved to the other side of the wreck. Glancing down, he saw huge paw prints in the soft earth and a trail of dried blood leading into the undergrowth. Drawing a pistol and cocking it, he followed the trail and twenty yards farther on found the remains of a grisly feast. Lying to the left was a small box, twisted, torn wires leading from it. Easing the hammer forward, he holstered his pistol, then picked up the blood-spattered box and walked back to where Gareth was still staring down at the body.
“Let’s go,” said the Jerusalem Man.
“We’ve got to bury him.”
“No.”
“I can’t just leave him there!”
Hearing the anguish in the young man’s voice, Shannow moved alongside him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “There are hoof marks around the vehicle as well as signs of the Devourers. If any of the riders return and find the corpses buried, they will know that others have passed this way. You understand? We must leave them as they are.”
Gareth nodded, then his head flicked up. “Corpses? There is only one, surely.”
Shannow shook his head and showed Gareth the blood-spattered box.
“I don’t understand …” the young man whispered.
“Your mother will,” Shannow said, as Amaziga strode to join them. He watched her as she examined the jeep, her face impassive. Then she saw the box, identical to the one she had strapped to her belt, and her dark eyes met Shannow’s gaze.
“Where is her body?” she asked.
“There is not much of a body left. The Devourers lived up to their name. A part of the head remains, enough to identify it.”
“Is it safe to remain here?”
Bloodstone Page 19
