Wolf in Shadow

by David Gemmell

  Karim fled for his body, arriving just as the second shell entered his skull. He twitched once and was still.

  Shannow fell to his knees and looked around him. Four corpses littered the grass, and two others were draped across two saddled horses. Shannow blinked.

  “Do I not hate them, O Lord, that hate thee? And am I not grieved with those that rise up against thee? I hate them with a perfect hatred. I count them mine enemies.”

  He gathered their weapons and ammunition and then searched the bodies. Each of the men carried a small stone, the size of a sparrow’s egg, in a pouch around his neck. The stones were red-gold in color and veined with black. Shannow pocketed them and then led the horses back to his own and returned to the campsite.

  Batik was huddled under his blankets as the rain doused the fire. Shannow called Selah to him.

  “Let us get back to the trees and out of this weather,” he said as the wind picked up and the sky darkened.

  Batik did not move. “What happened out there?” he called.

  “I killed them. Now, let’s get out of the rain.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Four. Two others were already dead.”

  “But how can I know that? How do I know you are still Shannow?” The blanket fell away, and Shannow found himself staring down the muzzle of the Hellborn’s pistol.

  “How can I prove it to you?”

  “Name your God.”

  “Jehovah, Lord of Hosts.”

  “And what of Satan?”

  “The fallen star, the Prince of Lies.”

  “I believe you, Shannow. No Hellborn could blaspheme like that!”

  Beneath the spreading pine on the hillside the strength of the rain lessened, and Shannow struggled to light a fire. He gave up after some minutes and placed his back against a tree.

  Batik sat nearby, his face gray, dark rings beneath his eyes. “You are in pain?” asked Selah.

  “A little. Tell me, Shannow, did you search the bodies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you find anything of interest?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Small leather pouches, containing stones.”

  “I took all six.”

  “Let me have them, would you?”

  “For what purpose, Batik?”

  “My own was taken from me before I escaped, and without it these wounds will take weeks to heal. It may be that I can use another.”

  Shannow took the pouches from his greatcoat pocket and dropped them into Batik’s lap. One by one the Hellborn took the stones in his hand, closing his eyes in concentration. Nothing happened until he reached the fifth stone; it glowed briefly, and Batik smiled.

  “It was worth a try,” he said. “But when you kill the man, you break the power. Still, it eased the pain before it faded.” He hurled the stones aside.

  “Where do you get those things?” asked Shannow.

  “They are birth gifts from Lord Abaddon; the size of the stone depends on your station. We call them Satanseeds.”

  “Where are they from?”

  “Who knows, Shannow? It is said that Satan delivers them to Abaddon at Walpurnacht, the Eve of Souls.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I disbelieve nothing. It’s usually safer that way.”

  Selah picked up a loose stone and twirled it in his hands.

  “It’s very pretty,” he said, “and it feels warm to the touch, but I would prefer a fire.”

  The wet kindling Shannow had set burst into flames, and Selah leapt back, dropping the stone, which glowed like a lantern.

  “Nicely done, boy,” said Batik. “Now take the stone and hold it over my wounds.” Selah did as he was told, but the glowing faded and the stone grew cold.

  “Still, we have a fire,” grunted Batik.

  Shannow awoke with a start, his heart pounding. He sat up and looked around him. The cave was warm and snug, and a fire blazed brightly against the far wall. He relaxed and settled back.

  Cave?

  He jerked upright and reached for his guns, but they were not with him. He had gone to sleep alongside Batik and Selah in a wood by a narrow stream. And he had awakened here, weaponless.

  A shadow moved, and a man approached the fire and sat down facing him.

  It was the handsome, silver-templed Abaddon, Lord of the Hellborn.

  “Do not be alarmed, Mr. Shannow. I merely wished to talk.”

  “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “Surely that is not true. With my hunters closing in?”

  “Let them come.”

  “Such arrogance, Mr. Shannow. Think you to slay all my men with your pitiful pistols?”

  Shannow said nothing, and Abaddon warmed his hands at the fire. He was wearing a dazzling white robe that glistened gold in the firelight.

  “A man, a boy, and a traitor,” whispered Abaddon, “set against a newborn nation of lusty warriors. It is almost comic.” His eyes met Shannow’s. “You know, I have lived for almost as long as your friend Karitas, and I have seen many things both in my old world and in this new, squalling infant. There are no heroes, Mr. Shannow. Ultimately we all compromise and secure for ourselves a little immortality, or a little wealth, or a little pleasure. There are no longer any Galahads; indeed, I wonder if there ever were.”

  “I’ve never heard of a Galahad,” said Shannow.

  “He was a knight, Mr. Shannow, a warrior who was said to fight for God. He never succumbed to women or any pleasures of the flesh, and he was allowed to find the Holy Grail. It is a pleasant tale for children, though not Hellborn children.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to die, Mr. Shannow. To cease to be.”

  “Why?”

  “On a whim, perhaps. It has been said that you are a danger to me. I cannot see it, but I accept that the evidence suggests some truth to the fear.”

  “You do not interest me,” said Shannow. “You have nothing that I want. Where is the danger?”

  “Who knows?” replied Abaddon, smiling smoothly. “You are a thorn in my side, and I need to pluck it out and throw it on the fire.”

  “Then bring on your demons,” said Shannow, rising to his feet.

  Abaddon chuckled and shook his head. “I tried that, Mr. Shannow, and you hurt me. Truly. But then, what are my demons compared with yours?”

  “I have no demons.”

  “No? What drives you to seek a buried city? Why do you cling to your superstitions? Why do you fight your lonely battles?”

  “I will find Jerusalem,” said Shannow softly. “Alive or dead, I will find my way home.”

  “Home? What did you say to the delightful Fray Taybard? A rock in a lake? The ripples fade, and all is as it was. Yes, you need to find a way home.” Abaddon lifted a stick and laid it gently on the fire. “You know, Mr. Shannow, many of my men are just like you, especially among the Zealots. They worship their god with a pure heart, and they would die gladly for him. Men like you are as leaves in the autumn. You are a Bible-reading man. I am surprised you have not yet seen it.”

  “This is nothing like the Hellborn in my Bible,” whispered Shannow.

  “Mr. Shannow! Is not lying a sin? I refer you to Joshua and the Israelite invasion of Canaan. Every man, woman, and child in thirty-two cities was slain under the express orders of your god. How are the Hellborn different? Don’t bother to answer; there is no difference. I founded the Hellborn two and a half centuries ago, and I have built the nation along the same lines as Israel. I now have a fanatic army and a people fired with a zeal you could not imagine. And they have had their miracles, their parting of the Red Sea, the healings, and the unimaginable wonders of magic.

  “In some ways your position is amusing. You are the man of God among a nation of devil worshipers. And yet you are the unholy one; you are the vampire in the night. Stories of you will one day be told to Hellborn children to keep them quiet in their beds.”

  Sha
nnow scowled. “Everything you say is an obscenity.”

  “Indeed it is—by your lights. By the way, did you know that Donna Taybard is now living on the edge of my lands?”

  Shannow sat very still.

  “She and her husband—a worthy man by the name of Griffin—have settled on the lands to the west. Good farmland. They could even prosper.”

  “Why do you lie?” asked Shannow. “Is it because your master is unable to face truth?”

  “I do not need to lie, Mr. Shannow. Donna Taybard, believing you dead, bedded down with Con Griffin. She is now pregnant, though she will not live to see her daughter born.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “Of course you do, Mr. Shannow. I gain no advantage by lying to you. Far from it. Had I left her as your white lady, you would have raced to her side … and into my lands. Now you may decide to leave her be, and then I would have a merry job tracking you down.”

  “Then why tell me?”

  “To cause you pain.”

  “I have been hurt before.”

  “Of course you have, Mr. Shannow. You are a loser, and they always suffer. It is their lot in this world, as it was in mine. Your god does not bring you many gifts, does he? Have you not realized, Mr. Shannow, that you follow a dead deity? That despite his propaganda and his awful book, he lost?”

  Shannow raised his head, and their eyes met. “You are a fool, Abaddon, and I will not debate with you. You were right; Donna’s betrayal hurts me. Deeply. Despite it, I wish her only happiness, and if she has found it with Griffin, then so be it.”

  “Happiness?” Abaddon sneered. “I am going to kill her and her unborn child. She will be my sacrifice in two months. Her blood will flow on the Sipstrassi. How does that sit with you, Jerusalem Man?”

  “As I said, you are a fool. Look into my eyes, Abaddon, and read the truth. As of this moment you are dead. Send your Zealots, send your demons, send your God—they will avail you nothing, for I will find you.”

  “Just words,” said Abaddon, but the smile left his face. “Come to me as soon as you can.”

  “Count on it,” Shannow assured him.

  Shannow awoke once more, and this time he was back at the campsite by the stream. The fire had died to glowing ash, and Batik and Selah were still asleep. Shannow rose and added sticks to the embers, blowing the fire to life. Then he sat, staring into the flames and seeing only Donna.

  Vile as Abaddon undoubtedly was, there was no doubt in Shannow’s mind that he had spoken the truth about Donna Taybard and Con Griffin. But he had underestimated the Jerusalem Man’s capacity for pain. His love for Donna had been too good, too joyful. Nothing in Shannow’s life had ever been that easy. Other men mined pleasure as if it were an everlasting seam, their lives filled with smiles and easy happiness. Shannow panned in a pebble stream that yielded little and vanished swiftly.

  And yet he was torn. A part of him wanted to ride swiftly to her, kill Griffin, and take her by force. An even darker thought was to ride, guns in hand, toward the Hellborn and die in a furious battle.

  The sky lightened, and the birdsong began in the trees. Batik stirred but did not wake. Shannow stood and wandered up a steep slope to scan the nearing northern mountains. Jagged they were and tall, piercing the clouds, like pillars supporting the sky.

  Shannow could never have settled for farm life while the far mountains called him, while the lure of Jerusalem was hooked into his heart.

  “I love you, Donna,” he whispered.

  “It looks to be a fine day,” said Batik.

  “I did not hear you approach.”

  “It is a skill, Shannow. What are your plans?”

  “I’m not sure. I saw Abaddon last night; he has threatened someone close to me.”

  “Your woman?”

  “No, not mine.”

  “Then it is not your concern.”

  “Not in the Hellborn philosophy,” said Shannow.

  Batik sat down as Shannow outlined his conversation with the Hellborn king and the background to it. He listened intently, seeing far more than Shannow intended.

  “You cannot get to Abaddon, Shannow,” he said. “I myself have rarely seen him. He is guarded by the Zealots and only occasionally ventures among the people. And anyway, you say the caravan headed northwest, which puts the lands of the Hellborn between you and her. They are preparing for war, Shannow. The Hellborn army will not be turned aside by wagoners and farmers.”

  “I cannot save her,” said Shannow, “but I am pledged to destroy Abaddon.”

  “It is not possible.”

  “It may not be possible to succeed; it is certainly possible to try.”

  “For what purpose? Are you the soul of the world?”

  “I cannot explain it to you or to any man. I cannot suffer evil or watch the wicked strong destroy the weak.”

  “But the strong will always dominate the weak, Shannow. It is the nature of man and beast. You can be either the hunter or hunted. There is no other choice; there is no neutrality. I doubt there ever was, even before the Fall.”

  “I told you I could not explain it,” said Shannow, shrugging, but Batik was not to be diverted.

  “Nonsense! At some time in your life you made a decision and weighed up the reasons for your actions. Be honest, man!”

  “Honest? To a Hellborn? What do you know of honesty? Or love, or compassion? You were raised under Satan, and you have drunk the blood of innocence. Reasons? Why does a farmer weed his land or hunt wolves and lions? I hunt the wolves among men.”

  “God’s gardener?” Batik sneered. “A sorry mess he must be in if you are all the force he can muster in this broken world.”

  Shannow’s hand flashed down and up, and Batik found himself staring into the black, unwavering muzzle of a Hellborn revolver. He looked up into Shannow’s eyes and saw the edge of madness lurking there.

  “Insult me if you will,” hissed Shannow, “but you will not denigrate my God. This is the only warning I give. Your next foulness will be your last.”

  Batik grinned wolfishly. “That’s good, Shannow. That’s very Hellborn. Those who disagree with you die!”

  Shannow blinked and uncocked the pistol. “That is not the way I am,” he whispered, slumping down to sit beside Batik. “I am not good in debate. My tongue stumbles into my teeth, and then I get angry. I am trapped, Batik, in a religion I can scarcely comprehend. In the Bible there are many passages I can follow, yet I am not a Christian. My Bible teaches me to smite the enemy hip and thigh, destroy him with fire and sword … it also teaches me to love my enemy and do good to him who hates me.”

  “No wonder you are confused,” said Batik. “But then, I have long considered the possibility that man is essentially insane. I believe in no god, and I am happier for it. I don’t want eternal life. I want a little joy, a large amount of pleasure, and a swift death once I lose the appetite for either.”

  Shannow chuckled, and his tension passed. “I wish I could share that philosophy.”

  “You can, Shannow; there is no charge.”

  Shannow shook his head and looked toward the mountains.

  “I shall go there,” he said, “and then head west.”

  “I’ll stay with you as far as the mountains, then I head east.”

  “You think that will take you out of reach of the Zealots?”

  Before Batik could answer, the bushes to their left parted and a huge brown bear moved into the open. He saw the men sitting there and rose up on his hind legs, towering to almost eight feet. For some seconds he stood there, then he dropped to all fours and ambled away.

  The two men sheathed their pistols.

  “You are never out of reach of the Zealots, Shannow,” said Batik. Shannow let out a long shuddering breath.

  “I felt sure that they had possessed it.”

  “Next time they probably will,” Batik assured him.

  6

  CON GRIFFIN WAS troubled. For most of the day he had worked hard on the
new house, laying the foundation wall with care and measuring logs to interlace at the corners. Yet all the while he worked, his eyes would flick to the skyline and the eternal watchers.

  Since the first attack there had been no fresh violence, far from it, in fact. The following day six riders had approached the settlement. Once more Griffin had walked to meet them, covered by Madden, and Burke, Mahler, and five other men sporting rifles and guns taken from the dead raiders. The bodies had been removed to a field in the east and hastily buried.

  The riders had entered the settlement without apparent fear, and their leader, a slim young man with bright gray eyes, had approached Griffin, smiling warmly.

  “Good morning; my name is Zedeki.” He extended a hand. Griffin took it and engaged in a short perfunctory handshake.

  “Griffin.”

  “You are the leader here?”

  Griffin shrugged. “We don’t think of ourselves as needing leaders. We are a group of farming men.”

  Zedeki nodded and smiled. “Yes, I understand. However, you do speak for the community, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You were attacked last night by a group of renegades from our lands, and this grieves us greatly. We apprehended the survivors, who were put to death immediately. We have come to offer our apologies for the incident.”

  “No need for that,” Griffin told him. “We dealt with it at no loss to ourselves and gained greatly by it.”

  “You speak of the weapons,” said Zedeki. “In fact they were stolen from our city, and we would like them returned.”

  “That is understandable,” said Griffin smoothly.

  “Then you agree?”

  “With the principle, yes. Stolen property should be returned to its owners.”

  “Then we may take them?”

  “Unfortunately, there are other principles that must also be considered,” stated Griffin. “But perhaps we could sit down and take refreshment.”

  “Thank you.”

  Griffin sat down on a felled tree and beckoned Zedeki to join him. The two men sat in silence for some minutes as Donna and two other women brought copper mugs filled with honey-sweetened herb tea. The other riders did not dismount and looked to Zedeki before accepting refreshment.