Wolf in Shadow

by David Gemmell

  Shannow moved the gelding forward, and they rode with care to the crest of the hill. Below them the last section of the plain stretched to the foothills of the mountain range. There was no sign of the Zealots.

  “You know their methods,” said Shannow. “What would they have done once they lost us?”

  “They’re not used to losing trails, Shannow. They would have possessed an eagle or a hawk and quartered the land looking for a sign. Since they couldn’t see the buildings, they would have then perhaps split up into their own sections and spread out for a search.”

  “Then where are they?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  “I don’t like the idea of heading out into open ground.”

  “No. Let’s just sit here on the skyline until they spot us!”

  Shannow grinned and urged the gelding down the hill. They rode for an hour over the undulating plain, discovering deep gullies that scored the ground as if giant trowels had scooped away the earth. In one of those gullies they came across a huge curved bone some fifteen feet in length. Shannow dismounted and left the gelding grazing. The bone was at least eight inches in diameter; Batik joined him, and the two men lifted it.

  “I wouldn’t have wanted to meet the owner of this while he walked,” said the Hellborn.

  They dropped the bone and searched the ground. Jutting from the earth was a second bone, and then Batik found a third, just showing in the tall grass ten paces to the right.

  “It looks to be part of a rib cage,” said Shannow. Thirty paces ahead Batik found an even larger section with teeth attached. When the two men dug it clear, the bone was shaped like a colossal V.

  “Have you ever seen anything with a mouth that big?” asked Batik. “Or heard of such a thing?”

  “Selah said there were monsters here; he said his father had seen them.”

  Batik looked back. “It must be thirty feet from head to rib cage. Its legs must have been enormous.” They searched for some time but found no evidence of such limbs.

  “Maybe wolves took them,” suggested Batik.

  Shannow shook his head. “The leg bones would have been twice the thickness of the ribs; they must be here.”

  “It’s mostly buried; maybe the legs are way below ground.”

  “No. Look at the curve of the bone jutting from the grass. The creature died on its back; otherwise we would find the vertebrae on the surface.”

  “One of life’s mysteries,” said Batik. “Let’s move on.”

  Shannow dusted the dirt from his hands and mounted the gelding.

  “I hate mysteries,” he said, staring down at the remains. “There should be four legs. I wish I had time to examine it.”

  “If wishes were fishes, poor men wouldn’t starve,” said Batik. “Let’s go.”

  They rode up out of the gully, where Shannow dragged back on the reins and swung the gelding.

  “What now?” asked Batik.

  Shannow rode back to the edge and looked down. From there he could see the giant jaw and the ruined ribs of the creature. “I think you have answered the mystery, Batik. It is a fish.”

  “I am glad I didn’t hook it. Don’t be ridiculous, Shannow! First, it would be the great mother of all fishes, and second, how did it get into the middle of a plain?”

  “The Bible talks about a great fish that swallowed one of the prophets; he sat in the belly of it and lived. Ten men could sit inside that rib cage. And a fish has no legs.”

  “Very well; it’s a fish. Now that you’ve solved it, we can go.”

  “But as you said, how did it get here?”

  “I don’t know, Shannow. And I don’t care.”

  “Karitas told me that in the Fall of the World the seas rose and drowned many of the lands and cities. This fish could have been brought here by a tidal wave.”

  “Then where is the sea? Where did it go?”

  “Yes, that’s true. As you say, it is a mystery.”

  “I’m delighted we’ve solved that. Now can we go?”

  “Do you have no curiosity, Batik?”

  The Hellborn leaned forward on his saddle. “Indeed I have, my friend. I am curious as to the whereabouts of thirty-six trained killers; you probably find it strange that I seem so preoccupied.”

  Shannow lifted his hat and wiped the sweat from the brim. The sun was high overhead—it was just past noon—and the sky was cloudless. A speck caught his eye. It was an eagle circling high above them.

  “For much of my life, Batik,” he said, “I have been hunted. It is a fact of my existence. Brigands soon became aware of me, and my description was well circulated. I have never known when a bullet or an arrow or a knife might come at me from the shadows. After a while I became fatalistic. I am unlikely to die in my bed at a grand old age, for my life depends on my reflexes, my keen eyesight, and my strength. All will fade one day, but until that day I will retain an interest in things of this world, things that I do not understand but that I sense have a bearing on what we have become.”

  Batik shook his head. “Well, thank you for sharing your philosophy. Speaking for myself, I am still a young man, in my prime, and I have every desire to be the oldest man the world has ever seen. I am beginning to think that Ruth was right. If I stay in your company, I am sure to die. So I think this is the time to say farewell.”

  Shannow smiled. “You are probably right. But it seems a shame to part so swiftly. Up there looks to be a good campsite. Let’s share one last evening together.”

  Batik’s eyes followed Shannow’s pointing finger to where, high up on a slope, there was a circle of boulders. The Hellborn sighed and kicked his horse into a run. The ground within the circle was flat, and at the back of the ledge was a rock tank full of water. Batik dismounted and unsaddled his horse. Tomorrow, he decided, he would leave the Jerusalem Man to whatever fate his dark god intended.

  Just before dusk Shannow lit a fire despite Batik’s protestations concerning the smoke and brewed some tea. Then he wrapped himself in his blankets against a rock wall and laid his head on his saddle.

  “For this you wanted my company?” asked Batik.

  “Go to sleep. You’ve a long ride tomorrow.”

  Batik lifted his blanket around his shoulders and settled down beside the fire. A loose rock dug into his side, and he pried it loose. After a while he dropped into a light sleep.

  The moon rose over the hills, and a solitary owl swooped down over the camp and back up into the night. An hour passed, and six shadows moved slowly up the slope, pausing at the edge of the rocks. The leader stepped into the campsite, pointing to the far rock face. Three men crept silently forward while the others stealthily approached Batik at the fire.

  From his position twenty feet above the campsite, wedged behind a jutting finger of rock, Shannow watched the men approach. His pistols leveled on the two men closest to Batik, he squeezed the triggers, and flame blossomed, the guns bucking in his hands. The first of his targets was hurled from his feet, his lungs filling with blood; the second was slammed sideways as a bullet lodged in his brain.

  Batik rolled from his blankets, pistol in hand. The third attacker fired as he moved, the bullet kicking up dirt some inches to Batik’s right. His own pistol thundered a reply, and the man was lifted from his feet and thrown backward.

  Shannow, meanwhile, had turned his guns on the men by his own blanket. Two of them had fired into what they thought was his sleeping body, and a ricochet from one of the rocks hidden there had slashed a wound in a Zealot’s thigh. Now the man was kneeling and trying to stanch the blood gushing from the wound. Batik ran forward, dived, and rolled to come up on one knee, firing as he rose. Shannow killed one of the men, but the second sprinted for the slope. Batik fired twice, missing his target, then lunged to his feet and gave chase.

  The Zealot was almost to the foot of the slope when he heard Batik closing on him. He whirled and fired, the shell whistling past Batik’s ear. Batik took aim and pulled the trigger, but there was a dull c
lick. He cocked the pistol and tried again. It was empty. The Zealot grinned and raised his own pistol …

  A small hole appeared at the center of his forehead, and the back of his head exploded.

  As the Zealot tumbled to the ground, Batik spun around to see Shannow kneeling at the top of the slope, his pistol held two-handed. Batik cursed and ran back to the camp.

  “You son of a slut,” he stormed. “You left me like a sacrificial goat!”

  “I thought you needed your sleep.”

  “Don’t give me that, Shannow; you planned this. When did you climb that damned rock?”

  “About the time you started snoring.”

  “Don’t make jokes; they don’t become you. I could have died tonight.”

  Shannow moved forward, the moonlight glinting from his eyes, giving them a feral look.

  “But you didn’t, Batik. And if you want the lesson spelled out for you, it is this: While you were berating me, you failed to notice an eagle circling above us for over an hour. You also missed the reflection of sunlight on metal west of us before we found the bones, which is one of the reasons I was happy to stay hidden in the gully. You are a strong man, Batik, and a brave warrior, but you have never been hunted. You talk too much and see too little. Dead if you remain with me? You won’t live a day without me!”

  Batik’s eyes blazed, and he raised his pistol.

  “Load it first, boy,” Shannow told him, moving toward his saddle and blankets.

  7

  JACOB MADDEN CROUCHED on the hillside above the Hellborn camp and watched the men below getting in line for the evening meal. There were almost two hundred men already in the camp, and over the last two days he had estimated that a further fifty were scattered over the surrounding countryside.

  Griffin had asked him to study the discipline in the camp, and Madden had to accept that it was good. There were twenty-eight tents set in two rows on the banks of the river. A latrine trench had been dug downwind, and earthworks had been thrown up around the camp to a height of around four feet; they were patrolled at night by six sentries working four-hour shifts. The horses were picketed in three lines north of the latrine trench, while the cooks’ tents were set at the other end of the camp. Madden was impressed by the organization.

  A skilled hunter himself, Madden had had no problems avoiding contact. His horse was well hidden, and the bearded farmer had never approached within sixty yards of the camp. His scouting had been conducted with patience and care.

  But this morning six men had ridden into the camp, and from the moment of their arrival Madden had felt an increasing sense of disquiet. In appearance they seemed little different from the other Hellborn riders, with dark armor emblazoned with a goat’s head, black leather cloaks, and high riding boots. But on their heads they wore dark helms that covered their faces, all but the eyes. For some reason Madden could not pinpoint they had made his flesh crawl, and he was filled with an unreasonably burning desire to move to their tent and find out more about them.

  With infinite patience Madden bellied down and dragged his long, lean frame into a tight circle of bushes to wait for nightfall. As he lay overlooking the camp, he worried about the riders. One of them had swung his head and seemed to be staring up at the hidden farmer. Madden had frozen in place, allowing not a flicker of movement, yet he was convinced the man had seen him. Common sense—a commodity Madden possessed in quantity—told him he must have been virtually invisible, but still …

  He had waited for the inevitable pursuit, but nothing had happened. The man could not have seen him, yet the notion would not desert him.

  He ignored the growing discomfort as the damp soil seeped into his clothing and thought back to his farm near Allion. It had been a good site, and his wife, Rachel, had given birth to their first son there. But brigands had driven them out, just as they had from his other four homes.

  Jacob Madden was a tough man, but strength was not enough against the wandering bands of killers that moved across the lands like locusts. Two of his homes had been burned out, and the third had been taken over by Daniel Cade and his men. Burning with shame, Madden had packed his belongings in an old wagon and headed north.

  He would have taken to the hills for a guerrilla war, but he had had Rachel and the boys to consider. So he had run and had tried not to notice the disappointment in the eyes of his sons.

  Now he would run no more. Griffin had sold him on the idea of Avalon, a land without brigands, a land rich and verdant, with soil so fertile that the seeds would spring to life as they touched the ground. His boys were older now, almost ready to stand alone against the savage world, and Madden felt it was time to be a man again.

  The moon rose, bathing the hillside with silver light. Madden looked to his left, where a rabbit was sitting staring at him. He grinned and snapped his fingers, but the rabbit did not move. Madden turned his attention back to the camp, where the sentries were out now, patrolling the earthworks. He eased himself into a sitting position and stretched his back. The rabbit remained, and Madden picked up a small stone and flicked it at the little creature. It jumped aside, blinked, saw him, and scampered away into the bushes.

  A rustling in the tree branches over his head caused him to look up. A brown owl was sitting on a branch above. No wonder the rabbit had run, thought Madden.

  It was close to midnight, and he eased himself from the bushes, ready for the descent to the river camp. Suddenly a shimmering figure appeared before him. Madden leapt back. The figure became a small man dressed in white, his face round and kindly, his teeth almost too perfect.

  Madden drew his pistol and cocked it. The figure pointed at Madden, looked at the camp, then shook its head.

  “Who are you?” whispered the farmer. In response the figure pointed to the east of the camp; Madden followed his direction and saw a black-cloaked man creeping into the woods. The little old man then pointed west, and Madden saw two other Hellborn warriors moving into the shadows.

  They were surrounding him. He had been right all along; they had seen him.

  The spectral figure vanished, and Madden moved back and started to run toward the hollow where he had hidden his horse. He leapt boulders and fallen trees, panic rising with every step.

  “Be calm!” said a voice whispering in his mind. He almost fell but righted himself and stopped by a thick oak tree, resting his hand on the bark. His breath came in great gulps. He could hear little above the beating of his heart and the roaring in his ears.

  “Be calm,” said the voice once more. “Panic will kill you.” He waited until his breathing steadied. His hat had fallen from his head, and he bent to retrieve it.

  A shot spattered wood splinters from the oak, and Madden dived to the ground and rolled into the bushes. He moved forward on his elbows to a safer position, hidden in the undergrowth. A second shot sliced his ear.

  “Kill the owl,” whispered the voice.

  Madden rolled to his back to see above him the brown owl perched on a tree branch. He pulled his pistol clear and aimed it, and the bird leapt into the air. Madden blinked. The bird had known! Another shot came close. Madden crawled to a tree trunk, anger rising in place of his panic and fear.

  He had been pushed around and threatened for years by brigands of every sort. Now they thought they had him, just another farmer to torture and kill. Madden moved around the tree, then ducked low and sprinted from cover. Two shots came from his left, and he hit the ground, rolled, and fired to the left and right of the gun flashes. A man screamed. Madden was up and moving even as other guns opened up. A wicked blow hit his thigh, and he went down. A black figure leapt from the undergrowth, but Madden shot him in the face and the attacker disappeared. Pushing himself to his feet, Madden dived into the undergrowth. Above him the owl silently swooped to a thick branch, but Madden had been waiting for it. His shot blew it apart, and feathers drifted down to where he lay.

  “Get to your horse,” whispered the voice. “You have less than a minute.”


  With a groan Madden levered himself upright. His thigh was bleeding badly, but the bone was not broken. He limped to the hollow and pulled himself into the saddle. Ripping the reins loose, he swung the horse and thundered from the hollow. Then a bullet took him low in the back, and pain seared him. Leaning forward over the saddle, he urged the horse into a full gallop toward the west.

  His eyes drifted closed.

  “Stay awake,” came the voice. “To sleep is to die.”

  He could not sit upright because of the pain in his back and could feel the blood drenching his back and leg. Doggedly he hung on until he crested the last hill, seeing the settlement spread out below him.

  The horse galloped on, and Madden passed into darkness.

  Shannow and Batik stripped the corpses of ammunition and supplies, but when the Jerusalem Man started to transfer the Zealots’ dried meat to his own saddlebags, Batik stopped him.

  “I do not think you would find it to your taste,” he said.

  “Meat is meat.”

  “Indeed, Shannow? Even if it is stripped from the bodies of young children?”

  Shannow hurled the meat aside and swung on Batik. “What kind of a society do you come from, Batik? How could this be allowed?”

  “It is meat from the sacrificial offerings. According to Holy Law, the flesh, when absorbed by the pure Zealots, brings harmony to the departed spirit of the victim.”

  “The Carns were at least more honest,” said Shannow.

  Taking his knife, he cut hair from the tails of the Hellborn horses and began twisting it into twine. Batik ignored him and moved to the outer circle of rocks, staring out over the plain.

  He felt humbled by Shannow’s outburst after the attack; he felt young and stupid. The Jerusalem Man was right; he had no experience of being hunted and would be easy prey for the Zealots. Yet if Ruth was right—and he believed she was—then to stay with Shannow meant death anyway. Foolish and arrogant he might have been, but Batik was not without intellect. At present his chances of survival rested with Shannow; the real trick would be timing the moment of their parting to give him a chance at life. Perhaps if he observed the Jerusalem Man long enough, some of his innate skill would rub off on the young Hellborn.