Bloodstone

by David Gemmell

  “God had no hand in it, then?” asked Meredith with a smile.

  “I don’t try to second-guess God, young man. If He created the Sipstrassi in the first place, then they are still miracles. If He gave one to Moses, you could still say that God’s power parted the waves. However, this is not the time for biblical debate. The stones make imagination reality. That’s all I know.”

  “Be nice to have one or two at this moment,” said Meredith. “With one thought we could kill all the wolves.”

  “Sipstrassi cannot kill,” Shannow told him.

  Meredith laughed. “That’s your problem, Deacon. You lack the very imagination you say the stones need.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Meredith stood. “Take this chair. It is of wood. Surely a stone could transform it into a bow and arrows. Then you could shoot something and kill it. Sipstrassi would have killed it, albeit once removed. And these gateways you speak of, well, perhaps there is no technique. Perhaps the woman you knew was not adept at all, merely imaginative.”

  Shannow thought about it. “You think she merely wished herself home?”

  “Quite possibly. However, it is all academic now.”

  “Yes,” agreed Shannow absently. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “It is a pleasure, Deacon.” Meredith moved to the window and leaned down to peer through the gap in the shutters. “Oh, God!” he said suddenly. “Oh, my dear God!”

  Isis floated back to consciousness on a warm sea of dreams, memories of childhood on the farm near Unity: her dog, Misha, unsuccessfully chasing rabbits across the meadow, barking furiously in his excitement. His enjoyment was so total that when Isis gently merged with his feelings, tears of joy flowed from her eyes. Misha knew a happiness no human except Isis could ever share. He was a mongrel, and his heritage could be seen in every line of his huge body. His head was wolflike, with wide tawny eyes. But his ears were long and floppy, his chest powerful. According to Isis’s father, Misha was quite possibly the worst guard dog ever born; when strangers approached, he would rush up to them with tail wagging and wait to be petted.

  Isis loved him.

  She had been almost grown when he had died. Isis had been walking by the stream when the bear had erupted out of the thicket. Isis had stood her ground and mentally reached out to the beast, using all her powers to calm its rage. She was failing, for the pain within it was colossal. The young girl had even had time to note the cancerous growth that was sending flames of agony through the bear’s belly even as it bore down on her.

  Misha had charged the bear, leaping to fasten his powerful jaws on the furred throat. The bear had been surprised by the ferocity of the attack but had recovered swiftly, turning on the hound and lashing out with its talons.

  A shot had rung out, then another and another. The bear had staggered and tried to lumber back into the thicket. A fourth shot had made it slump to the ground, and Isis’s father had run up, dropping his rifle and throwing his arms around his daughter. “My God, I thought you were going to die,” he had said, hugging her to him.

  Misha had whimpered then. Isis had torn herself loose from her father’s embrace and thrown herself down alongside the dying hound, stroking its head, trying to draw away its pain. Misha’s tail had wagged weakly even as he died.

  Isis had wept, but her father had drawn her upright. “He did his job, girl. And he did it well,” he said gently.

  “I know,” Isis had answered. “Misha knew it, too. He was happy as he died.”

  The sadness was still with her as she opened her eyes in the wagon. She blinked and found herself staring at the stars. Half the roof was missing, and she could see great tears in the wooden canopy. Her right side was warm, and she reached out, her hand touching fur. “Oh, Misha,” she said, “you mustn’t get on the bed. Daddy will scold me.”

  A low rumbling growl sounded, but Isis drifted off to sleep again, the terrible strength-sapping power of her illness draining her of energy. A weight came down over her chest, her eyes opened, and she saw a huge face above hers, a long lolling tongue and sharp fangs. Her hand was still touching the fur, and she could feel the warmth of flesh beneath it. “I can’t stroke you,” she whispered. “I’m too tired.”

  She sighed and tried to turn to her side. At least the pain is gone, she thought. Maybe death will not be so very bad, after all. Isis wanted to sit up but did not have the strength. Opening her eyes again, she saw that the side of the wagon was also partially destroyed. Something had happened! Some calamity.

  “I must get up,” she said. Lifting her hand, she looped her arm over Misha’s neck and pulled. He growled, but she succeeded in raising her body. Dizziness swamped her, and she fell toward Misha, resting her head on his shoulder.

  A second growl came from below the bed, and a monstrous creature loomed up from the floor of the cabin. Isis looked at it and yawned. Her head was spinning, and her thoughts were fragmented. Misha felt so warm. Reaching out, she touched his mind. There was anger there, a poisonous fury held in check only by … by what? Memories of a hollow by a lake, young Wolvers running around his feet. A … wife?

  “You’re not my Misha,” said Isis, “and you are in pain.” Softly she stroked the fur.

  The second beast lunged at her. The first hit it with a backhand blow, sending it smashing against the cabin wall.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” said Isis wearily. “You mustn’t fight.” She sagged against the beast. “I’m thirsty,” she said. “Help me up.” Pulling once more, she rose on trembling legs, pushing past the Devourer and stumbling to the rear of the cabin, where she almost fell down the steps and out into the yard.

  The moon was high, and she was almost at the end of her strength. There was no sign of Jeremiah, Meredith, or the others. No wagons camped in a circle. No fires burning. Her vision swam, and she swayed, catching hold of the left rear wheel.

  The yard was full of hounds, big hounds.

  She saw the house, bars of golden light showing through the closed shutters. Everyone must be there, she thought. But I can’t reach it.

  I must! I don’t want to die here, alone. Drawing in a deep breath, she let go of the wheel and took two faltering steps.

  Then she fell.

  * * *

  The Deacon saw Meredith stumble away from the window. Shannow stepped up to the shutters, peering out through the crack. He saw a young woman in a dress of faded blue, her blond hair shining white in the moonlight, lying stretched out on the ground. Before he could speak, he heard the door open. “No!” he hissed.

  But Meredith was already moving out into the yard.

  With a muttered curse Shannow followed him, drawing his pistols. The beasts were everywhere, most lying quietly under the stars, their bellies full, but a few prowling at the edge of the barn or gnawing on the bloody bones of the butchered horses, milk cows, and oxen. Shannow cocked the pistols and stood in the doorway, watching the young doctor make his way across to the fallen girl. Meredith was moving slowly, and for the moment the beasts seemed to be ignoring him.

  A Devourer moved from the rear of the wagon and saw the walking man. A deep growl sounded, and it ambled forward. Several others looked up. One stretched and howled, the sound chilling. Meredith faltered but then walked on and knelt beside Isis. Reaching down, he took hold of her wrist. The pulse was weak and fluttering. Pushing his hands under her shoulders, he hauled her into an upright position, then twisted down to lift her legs. Her head fell to his shoulder.

  A Devourer reared above him, saliva dripping from its fangs. Isis moaned as Meredith backed away, the beast following.

  In the doorway Shannow aimed his pistol, but now other beasts were closing in on the doctor. Meredith turned his back on them and started to walk back toward the house. Shannow’s mouth was dry, his palms greasy with sweat. The doctor stumbled but righted himself and walked on. Shannow stepped aside as he climbed the porch steps and entered the house. Swiftly Shannow followed him, slamming shut the door and dropping the
bar into place.

  Outside a great howl went up. The shutters on the window exploded inward, and a beast thrust its upper body through the frame. Shannow shot it through the head. Another clambered over the body of the first; Shannow fired twice into its huge chest, and it slumped forward, leaking blood to the dirt floor.

  The young mother lurched to her feet, screaming. “Don’t let them get me! Don’t let them get me!”

  Talons raked at the door, splintering the wood. Wallace Nash ran halfway down the stairs and leveled his shotgun. A section of timber on the door was torn away as a taloned arm lunged through. Wallace fired both barrels. The arm jerked as blood sprayed from it. Shannow shot through the door.

  The sounds of gunfire echoed away. Shannow moved to the window, seeing that the beasts had pulled back.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Wallace Nash. “Son of a bitch! Man, that took some nerve.”

  Meredith was not listening. He was kneeling over the unconscious Isis, his tears falling to her face.

  Shannow pushed closed the shutters. The locking bar had been snapped in half, but he wedged it by ramming a knife down into the windowsill. It would not hold against a Devourer, but it gave the illusion of security.

  He could scarcely believe what he had seen. Meredith, the man whose panic had killed Jeremiah, had just performed an act of complete heroism. Beth came downstairs. The baby was crying, and she lifted it from the crib. When the young mother snatched it away and fled upstairs, Beth moved alongside Meredith. There were no signs of wounds on the body of the young blond girl he was attending. “What’s the matter with her, Doctor?” Beth asked.

  “She has an illness which has corrupted her immune system. It is very rare; even in the old world it affected only a handful in every million.” He glanced up and saw that Beth did not understand him. Meredith sighed. “Our bodies are equipped with a … defense mechanism. When illness strikes, we make antibodies to fight it. Like measles. A child generally will succumb only once, because the body identifies the invading organism, then makes defenses to stop it from happening again. You understand? Well, in the case of Isis, her defense mechanism has targeted organs in her own body and is slowly destroying them. It was called Addison’s disease.”

  “And there is nothing that can be done?” asked Wallace.

  “Nothing. The elders used medicines called steroids, but we don’t know how they were made.”

  “Where did she come from?” asked Wallace. “How did she get here, through all them creatures?”

  “We brought her with us,” said Meredith. “She was in the wagon. We thought she was on the verge of death, and to my eternal shame I left her there.”

  “Jesus!” said Wallace. “But why didn’t they kill her? They was all over the wagon.”

  Meredith shrugged. “I have no answer to that.”

  “No, but she does,” said the Deacon softly. Kneeling beside her, he laid his hand on her brow. “Come back to us, Isis,” he said. Meredith watched amazed as color seeped back into the pale face. Beneath his fingers the pulse became steadier, stronger.

  Isis opened her eyes and smiled. “Hello, Jake,” she said.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Wonderful. Rested.” She sat up and looked around. “Where is this place?”

  “It’s a farm near Pilgrim’s Valley,” said Shannow.

  “Where’s Jeremiah?”

  Shannow helped her to her feet. “Do you remember the beasts in the wagon?” he asked, ignoring her question.

  “Yes. Big, aren’t they? Are they yours, Jake?”

  “No. They are savage. They killed Jeremiah and many others. The question is, Why did they not kill you?”

  “Jeremiah is dead?” Then she saw the blanket-covered body. “Oh, no, Jake!” Isis moved to the body, pulling back the blanket and gazing down on the old man’s face.

  Meredith moved alongside Shannow. “Is she … healed?”

  Shannow nodded. “Completely. But I must know about the beasts.”

  “Let it rest, for God’s sake,” protested Beth. “She’s been through enough.”

  “We cannot let it rest,” said Shannow. “When those beasts make a concerted attack, we will be dead. If Isis knows a way to control them or render them harmless, I must learn it. You hear me, child?” he asked the weeping Isis.

  She nodded and covered Jeremiah’s face once more. Rising, she faced the Deacon. “I don’t know why they didn’t harm me,” she said. “I can’t help you.”

  “I think you can, my love,” said Meredith. “Animals never attack you, do they? You once told me it was because you liked them. But it is more than that, isn’t it? You can … communicate with them. Remember when you told Jeremiah about the lung disease that was crippling his lead oxen?”

  “I … can’t talk to them or anything,” Isis told him. “I just … merge with their minds.”

  “What do you remember of their minds?” asked the Deacon, pointing toward the window.

  “It’s very hazy. It’s like their thoughts are full of angry wasps, stinging them all the time.”

  “Here they come!” yelled Wallace.

  Oz Hankin was more tired than frightened as they crossed the ridge and began the long descent into Pilgrim’s Valley. They had walked for most of the day, and there had been no sign of the wolf creatures. The wind had been at their backs for most of the journey, and it seemed now that they would escape the beasts. Esther was being carried by Frey Wheeler, and that annoyed Oz. Little girls always got the best treatment. It was the same back at the farm with Dad; if their room was a mess or if the chores were not completed, it was Oz who got it in the neck.

  Now it was Esther who was being carried. The fact that he was ten pounds heavier than Esther and three inches taller made little difference to the twelve-year-old. Life just was not fair.

  And he was hungry. As he walked, he remembered the taste of apple pie and powdered sugar and the sweet honey cakes his father had made after they had found the hive in the woods.

  Frey Wheeler halted and swung Esther to the ground. “Need to rest a mite, child,” she said. The woods were close, and Oz saw Zerah studying them. She sniffed, then spit. It surprised Oz; ladies were not supposed to spit. Esther immediately copied her, and Zerah laughed. “Don’t imitate me, Esther,” she warned. “There’s things people will tolerate in the old that they won’t in the young.”

  “Why?” Esther asked.

  “It just ain’t done, child.” She turned toward Oz. “You got sharp eyes, young Oz. What can you see in the trees yonder?”

  “Nothing, Frey. Looks clear.”

  “Then we’ll chance it,” she said, hefting her rifle. Slowly the trio set off across the last stretch of open ground. The land dropped sharply to their right, and as they walked they saw a trail leading west across the mountains. “Logging road,” said Zerah as they scrambled down it. At the foot Zerah stopped again, her ancient face showing purple streaks under the eyes and beside the mouth. She was breathing heavily, and Oz became concerned.

  “You feeling okay, Frey?” asked Oz. The old lady was sweating, and her eyes seemed more sunken than usual, lacking their normal brightness. She smiled, but Oz could see the effort behind it.

  “Just tired, boy. But I ain’t done yet. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.”

  Oz sat back on a rock, while Esther ran off into the bushes at the side of the road.

  The sound of horses’ hooves came to him. Oz was about to warn Esther, but the riders appeared around a bend in the road. At first Oz was pleased, for if they were men from Pilgrim’s Valley, it would mean a pleasant ride in comparative safety. His joy was short-lived as he recognized the man on the lead horse: he was one of those who had shot his father. The men saw them and spurred their horses forward. There were seven in the group, but Oz recognized only the first as they reined in before Zerah.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” asked the lead rider, a thin man with long sideburns and deep-
set dark eyes. In his hands was a squat, black pistol that was pointed at Zerah. Oz saw that Zerah’s rifle was still resting against the rock. There would be no time to lift it and fire. And even if she could, there were only two shots left.

  “Don’t harm these children,” the old lady said wearily.

  “Where’s the girl?” asked the leader.

  Oz slipped his hand in his pocket, curling it around the butt of the little pistol. Only the lead rider had a gun in his hand; the rest were merely sitting on their horses, watching the exchange.

  “You should just ride on,” said Zerah. “Killing children is no work for grown men.”

  “Don’t lecture me, you hag! We was told to find them and get rid of them. That’s what we aim to do. Now tell me where the girl is and I’ll kill you clean. One shot. Otherwise I’ll blow away your kneecaps and make you scream for an hour or two.”

  “You always was a low creature, Bell,” said a voice. “But by God, I swear you could walk under a door without bending your knees.”

  Oz looked to the right, where two riders had arrived unnoticed. The man who spoke was wide-shouldered, wearing a dust-stained black coat and a red brocade waistcoat. His hair was dark, though there was silver at the temples. Beside him was a younger man.

  “By heaven,” said Bell, “you’re a long way from home, aren’t you, Laton? Heard that they butchered your gang and that you ran off with your tail between your legs. I always knew you weren’t so salty. Now be on your way; we’ve business here.”

  “Threatening women?” taunted the rider. “That’s about all you’re worth, Bell.”

  Bell laughed and shook his head. “Always one for words, Laton,” he said.

  Oz saw the killer suddenly swing the black pistol toward the rider. Laton swayed to the side, a nickel-plated pistol seeming to leap into his hand. Bell fired and missed. Laton returned the shot, and Bell pitched from his saddle. Seizing the chance, Oz pulled the little pistol clear and fired at the closest man. He saw the shot strike home as a puff of dust came from the man’s jacket and he sagged in the saddle. Horses reared, and shots exploded all around him. Oz tried to aim, but Zerah dived at him, dragging him down and covering him with her body.