“You mentioned other principles?” said Zedeki.
“Indeed I did, old lad. You see, where we come from there is a custom that says the spoils of war belong to the victor. Therefore, most of the men here feel they have earned their new weapons. Second, there is the question of reparation. These raiders were your people—unless they also stole the clothes they were wearing. Therefore, my people might feel entitled to some compensation for the terror inflicted on their wives and children, not to mention the cost of the operation in terms of spent ammunition and hard work preparing the trip wires and other devices that happily were not needed.”
“So, you are saying that our property will not be returned?”
“No, not at all, Zedeki. I am merely outlining possible objections to such a move. Not being the leader, I can make no prediction as to their individual reactions.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I am saying that life is rarely simple. We like to be good neighbors, and we are hoping that we can trade with people living nearby. However, so far we have had few dealings with your people, so perhaps we should both sit back and study each other’s customs for a while.”
“And then the weapons will be returned?”
“And then we will talk some more,” said Griffin, smiling.
“Mr. Griffin, my people outnumber yours by perhaps a thousand to one. We are unaccustomed to being refused our desires.”
“But then, I have not refused, Mr. Zedeki. That would be presumptuous.”
Zedeki drained his tea and looked around the settlement. His soldier’s eye took in the placements of some twenty felled trees that were scattered on the open ground. Each was positioned to provide cover for marksmen and planned in such a way that any raiding force, no matter from which direction it attacked, would come under a murderous cross fire while the enemy would be firing from good cover.
“Did you organize these defensive positions?” asked Zedeki.
“No,” said Griffin. “I’m just a humble wagon master. We have several men here skilled in such matters, having dealt with all kinds of brigands.”
“Well, let me thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Griffin. I wonder if you would care to join me at my home. It is not a long ride, and perhaps we could discuss further the principles involved.”
Griffin’s eyes narrowed, but he smiled with apparent warmth. “That is indeed kind of you, and I am pleased to accept, but not at the moment. As you can see, we are currently building our own homes, and it would be impolite of me to accept your hospitality without being able to respond in kind. You see, it is one of our customs. We always respond in kind.”
Zedeki nodded and stood. “Very well. I will return when you are more … settled.”
“You will be welcome.”
Zedeki stepped into the saddle. “When I return, I will be demanding our property.”
“New friends should not speak in terms of demands,” replied Griffin. “If you return peacefully, we can negotiate. If not, then some of your property will be returned to you at a speed you might not appreciate.”
“I think that we understand one another, Mr. Griffin, but I do not believe you understand the strength of the Hellborn. We are not a few raiding brigands, as you call them. We are a nation.”
As he rode away, Madden, Burke, and a score of the other men clustered around Griffin.
“What did you make of it, Griff?” asked Mahler, a short balding farmer whom Griffin had known for twenty years.
“It is trouble whichever way we look at it. I think we should move on to the west.”
“But this is good land,” argued Mahler. “Just what we always wanted.”
“We wanted a home without brigands,” said Griffin. “What we have could be a hundred times worse. That man was right; we are outnumbered. You saw their armor—they are an army. They call themselves the Hellborn. Now, I am not a religious man, but I don’t like the name and I dread to think what it implies.”
“Well, I’m not running,” said Madden. “I have put my roots here.”
“Nor I,” said Mahler. Griffin glanced around the faces of the other men to see that all were nodding in agreement.
That night, as he sat with Donna Taybard under a bright moon, he felt despair settle on him like a cloak.
“I wanted Avalon to be a land of peace and plenty. I had a dream, Donna. And it is so close to being true. The Plague Lands—empty and open, rich and verdant. But now I’m beginning to see that the Plague Lands could earn their title.”
“You fought them off before, Griff.”
“I have a feeling they could return with a thousand men should they choose.”
Donna moved closer and sat on his lap, draping her arm around his neck. Absently he rested his hand on her swollen belly, and she kissed him lightly on the forehead.
“You’ll think of something.”
He chuckled. “You have great faith in—”
“—a humble wagon master,” she finished for him.
“Exactly.”
But the attack he feared did not come to pass, and as the weeks drew by, their homes neared completion. Yet every day the Hellborn riders crested the hills, sitting their dark mounts and watching the settlers. At first it was nerve-racking, but soon the families became used to the skylined riders.
A month had gone by before another incident alarmed the settlement. A young man named Carver had headed into the hills to hunt for fresh meat, but he did not return.
Madden found his body two days later. His eyes had been put out, and his horse slain; all his belongings had been left untouched, but his Hellborn rifle was missing.
The following day Zedeki had returned, this time alone.
“I understand one of your men was killed,” he said.
“Yes.”
“There are some raiders in the hills, and we are looking for them. It is best if your people stay in the valley for a time.”
“That will not be necessary,” stated Griffin.
“I should not like to see other deaths,” Zedeki said.
“Nor I.”
“I see your house is nearing completion. It is a fine dwelling.”
Griffin had built in the lee of a hill on a wall foundation of stone topped by timbers snugly fitted under a steep roof.
“You are welcome to join us for our midday meal,” invited Griffin.
“Thank you but no.”
He had left soon afterward, and Griffin was concerned that he had not repeated his request for the weapons.
Three days later Griffin himself rode from the settlement, a rifle across his saddle and a pistol in his belt. He made for the high ground to the west, where bighorn sheep had been sighted. As he rode, he examined the rifle lent to him by Madden. It was a Hellborn weapon, short-barreled and heavy; the stock was spring-stressed, and Madden had explained that after each shot, when the stock was pulled back, a fresh shell would be slipped into the breech. Griffin disliked the feel and look of the weapon, preferring the clean graceful lines of his flintlock. But he could not argue with the practical applications of a repeating rifle and had accepted the loan readily.
He headed northwest and dismounted in a clearing on a wide ledge that overlooked the valley. To the left and right of him the undergrowth was thick around the base of tall pines, but here, out of the bright sunlight, Griffin looked out over the land and felt like a king. After a little while he heard horses approaching from the north. Picking up his rifle, he levered the stock, then placed the weapon against a rock and sat down.
Four Hellborn riders advanced into the clearing, pistols in their hands.
“Hunting raiders?” asked Griffin pleasantly.
“Move away from the weapon,” said a rider.
Griffin remained where he was and met the man’s eyes; he was black-bearded and powerfully built, and there was nothing of warmth or friendship in his expression.
“I take it,” said Griffin, “that you mean to kill me as you killed young Carver?”
The man smiled grimly. “He talked tough at the start, but he begged and pleaded at the end. So will you.”
“Possibly,” said Griffin. “But since I am to die anyway, would you mind telling me why?”
“Why what?”
“Why you are operating in this way. Zedeki told me you had an army. Could it be that my settlers frighten you?”
“I would like to tell you,” replied the man, “because I’d like to know myself. But the answer is that we are ordered not to attack … not yet. But any one of you that strays is fair game. You strayed.”
“Ah, well,” said Griffin, remaining seated. “It looks like it’s time to die.”
Shots exploded from the undergrowth, and two riders pitched from their saddles. Griffin snatched up the rifle and pumped three shots into the bearded rider’s chest. A shell ricocheted from the rock beside him, and he swung the rifle to cover the fourth rider, but another shot from the undergrowth punched a hole in that man’s temple. His horse reared, and he toppled from the saddle. Griffin’s ears rang in the silence that followed; then Madden, Burke, and Mahler rose from the undergrowth and joined him.
“You were right, Griff, we’re in a lot of trouble,” said Burke. “Maybe it’s time to leave.”
“I am not sure they would let us go,” said Griffin. “We’re caught between a rock and a hard place. The settlement is well positioned and easier to defend than moving wagons. Yet ultimately we can’t hold it.”
“Then what do you suggest?” asked Mahler.
“I’m sorry, old lad, but at the moment I’m bereft of ideas. Let us take one day at a time. Strip the ammunition and weapons from the bodies and hide them in the undergrowth. Lead the horses in and kill them, too. I don’t want the Hellborn knowing that we are aware of our danger.”
“We won’t fool them for long, Griff,” said Burke.
“I know.”
It was after midnight when Griffin slipped silently into the cabin. The fire was dead, but the large room retained the memory of the flames, and he removed his heavy woolen jacket. Moving across the timbered floor, he opened the door to Eric’s room; the boy was sleeping peacefully. Griffin returned to the hearth and sat back in the old leather chair he had carried across half the continent. He was tired, and his back ached. He tugged off his boots and stared at the dead fire; it was not cold in the room, but he knelt, prepared kindling, and lit the fire afresh.
“You will think of something,” Donna had told him.
But he couldn’t. And it galled him.
Con Griffin, the humble wagon master. He wore the title like a cloak, for it served many purposes. All his life he had seen leaders of men, and he had learned early to judge their strengths. Many relied on wit and charisma, which always seemed to be linked with luck. He had never been blessed with charisma and had turned his considerable intellect to creating a different kind of leader. Men who did not know Griffin would see a ponderous, powerful, slow-moving man: a humble wagon master. As the days passed, they would, if they were observant, notice that few problems troubled the big man; troubles seemed to disappear of their own volition as his plans progressed. They would see other men take problems to Griffin and watch their troubles shrink away like mist in a morning breeze. The truly intuitive watcher would then see that Griffin, unlike dashing leaders with golden oratory, commanded respect by being the still center, an oasis of calm amid the storms of the world: rarely provocative, never loud, always authoritative. It was a creation of which Con Griffin was very proud.
Yet now, when he needed it most, he could think of nothing.
He added fuel to the fire and leaned back in the chair.
Donna Taybard awoke from a troubled sleep to hear the cracking of the unseasoned wood on the fire. Swinging her legs from the broad bed, she covered herself in a woolen gown and moved silently into the main room. Griffin did not hear her, and she stopped for a moment, staring at him by the fire, his red hair highlighted by the flames.
“Con!”
“I am sorry; did I wake you?”
“No, I was dreaming. Such strange dreams. What happened out there?”
“The Hellborn killed young Carver—we found that out.”
“We heard shots.”
“Yes. None of us was hurt.”
Donna poured cold water into a large copper kettle and hung it over the fire.
“You are troubled?” she asked.
“I cannot see a way out of the danger. I feel like a rabbit in a snare, waiting for the hunter.”
Donna giggled suddenly, and Griffin looked at her face in the firelight. She seemed younger and altogether too beautiful.
“Why do you laugh?”
“I never knew a man less like a rabbit. You remind me of a bear—a great big soft brown bear.”
He chuckled, and they sat in silence for several minutes. Donna prepared some herb tea, and as they sipped it before the fire, the problems of the Hellborn seemed far away.
“How many of them are there?” asked Donna suddenly.
“The Hellborn? I don’t know. Jacob tried to attack them on the first night, but they spotted him and he rode away.”
“Then how can you plan against them? You don’t know the extent of the problem.”
“Damn!” Griffin said softly, and the weight lifted from his mind. “Zedeki said there were thousands, and I believed him. But that doesn’t mean they are all here. You are right, Donna, and I have been a fool.” Griffin tugged on his boots, lifted her to her feet, and kissed her.
“Where are you going?”
“We came back separately in case the watchers remain at night. Jacob should be home by now, and I need to see him.”
Slipping on his dark jacket, he stepped out into the night and crossed the open ground to Madden’s cabin. The windows were shuttered, but Griffin could see a gleam of golden light through the center of the shutters, and he tapped at the door.
The tall, bearded Madden opened it within seconds. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes. Sorry to bother you so late,” said Griffin, once more adopting the slow, ponderous method of speech his people expected. “But I think it’s time to consider our plans.”
“Come in,” said Madden. The room was less spacious than Griffin’s, but the layout was similar. A large table with bench seats was set in the center of the room, and to the right was a stone hearth and two heavy chairs, ornately carved.
The two men sat down, and Griffin leaned forward. “Jacob, I need to know how many Hellborn are close to us. It would also be a help to know something of the land and the situation of their camp and so on.”
“You want me to scout?”
Griffin hesitated. Both men knew the dangers involved in such an enterprise, and Griffin was acutely aware that he was asking Jacob Madden to put his life at risk.
“Yes,” he said. “It is important. Note everything they do, what kind of discipline they are under, everything.”
Madden nodded. “Who will do the work in my fields?”
“I’ll see that it’s done.”
“And my family?”
Griffin understood the unspoken question. “Like my own, Jacob. I’ll look after them.”
“All right.”
“There’s something else. How many guns did we take?”
Madden thought for a while. “Thirty-three rifles, twenty-seven—no, twenty-eight—pistols.”
“I’ll need to know how much ammunition we gathered, but I can check that tomorrow.”
“You won’t find much more than twenty shells per weapon.”
“No. Take care, Jacob.”
“You can count on that. I’ll leave tonight.”
“Good man.” Griffin stood and left the cabin. The moon was partially obscured by clouds, and he tripped over one of the defensive logs, bruising his shin. He continued on, passing Ethan Peacock’s ramshackle cabin; the little scholar was involved in a heated debate with Aaron Phelps. Griffin grinned; no matter what the p
erils were, some things never changed.
Back at his own home he found Donna still sitting by the fire, staring vacantly into the flames.
“You should get some sleep,” he said, but she did not hear him. “Donna?” He knelt beside her. Her eyes were wide open, the pupils huge, despite the bright firelight. He touched her shoulder, but she did not respond. Not knowing what to do, he remained where he was, gently holding her. After a while she sighed, and her head sagged forward. He caught her and lifted her to a chair; her eyes fluttered, then focused.
“Oh, hello, Con,” she said sleepily.
“Were you dreaming?”
“I … I don’t know. Strange.”
“Tell me.”
“Thirsty,” she said, leaning back her head and closing her eyes. He poured her a mug of water, and she sipped it for several seconds. “Ever since we came here,” she said, “I have had the strangest dreams. They grow more powerful with every day that passes, and now I don’t know if they are dreams at all. I just drift into them.”
“Tell me,” he repeated.
She sat up and finished the water.
“Well, tonight I saw Jon Shannow sitting on a mountainside with a Hellborn. They were talking, but the words blurred. Then I saw Jon draw his gun—and there was a bear. But then I seemed to tumble away to a huge building of stone. There were many Hellborn there, and at the center was a man, tall and handsome. He saw me, and smoke billowed from him and he became a monster, and he pursued me. Then I flew in terror, and someone came to me and told me not to worry. It was a little man—the man I saw with Jon at the village when he was wounded. His name is Karitas. It is an ancient name that once meant love, he told me, and the smoke monster could not find us. I drifted then and saw a great golden ship, but there was no sea. The ship was upon a mountain, and Karitas laughed and said it was the Ark. Then all my dreams tumbled on themselves, and I saw the Hellborn in their thousands riding south into Rivervale and Ash Burry nailed to a tree. It was terrible.”
“Is that all you saw?” asked Griffin.
“Almost. I saw Jacob creeping through bushes near some tents, but then I was inside the tent and there were six men seated in a circle—and they knew Jacob was coming, and they were waiting for him.”
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