Wolf in Shadow

by David Gemmell

  “What you said, Daniel, to impress him, was that God had told you to send him west to look for refugees.”

  “What’s the difference? I didn’t tell him they were there.”

  “For a man so sharp and quick-witted, you surprise me. You might send a man out on a half chance, but for God there are no half chances. In Sebastian’s mind the refugees had to be there, and they were. And he was needed. And he came through, Daniel. Shot to pieces, he came through.”

  “What’s happening to me, Lisa? It’s all going wrong.”

  “I don’t think so. What are you going to do about the prayer meeting?”

  “What prayer meeting?”

  “You didn’t hear it, did you? The farmer asked if he could be present, and there must have been fifty other men who showed agreement. They want to hear you speak; they want to be there when God talks through you.”

  “I can’t do it—you know that.”

  “I know it. But you have to. You began this charade, and you must live it. You’ve given them hope, Daniel. Now you have to find a way to nourish it.”

  Cade slammed his hand down on the chair arm. “I’m not a damned preacher. Christ! I don’t even believe in it.”

  “That hardly seems to matter now. You’re Daniel Cade the prophet, and you are about to bury your first martyr. There’s not a man or a woman in Yeager who will miss your funeral oration.”

  Lisa was right. That evening Gambion came to Cade and told him they would be burying Sebastian on a high hill overlooking the plain. He asked Cade to say a few words, and when the former brigand walked out onto the hillside, with the sun beginning to die in fire beyond the western mountains, some six hundred people were gathered silently on the grass around the newly dug grave. Cade carried his Bible to the graveside and took a deep breath.

  “Way back,” he said, “the Lord Jesus was asked about the last days when the sheep would be separated from the goats. And his reply was something that Sebastian would have liked to hear. For it don’t say a damned word about being good all your life—which is just as well, for he was a hot-tempered boy, and there’s some deeds behind him he’d just as soon have forgotten.

  “But when the Lord came to the people chosen for fire and damnation, he said, ‘Be on your way from me, you who have been cursed, into the everlasting fire prepared for the Devil and his angels. For I became hungry, but you gave me nothing to eat, and I got thirsty, but you gave me nothing to drink. I was a stranger, but you did not receive me hospitably; naked, but you did not clothe me; sick and in prison, but you did not look after me.’

  “Then they answered with the words, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger, or naked or sick and in prison, and did not minister to you?’ Then he answered them, ‘Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did not do it to one of these little ones, you did not do it to me.’

  “You want to know what that means?” asked Cade. “If you do, then ask it of your own hearts. Sebastian knew; he saw the little ones in danger, and he rode into hell to bring them back. He rode to the borders of death, and they couldn’t stop him. And right now, as we speak and as the sun sets, he’s riding on to glory.

  “And when he gets there and someone says, as they surely will, that this man has been evil, he has killed and stolen and caused grief, the Lord will put his arm around Sebastian’s shoulder and say, ‘This man is mine, for he took care of my little ones.’ ” Cade stopped for a moment and wiped the sweat from his face. He had finished the speech he had so carefully rehearsed, but he was aware that the men were still waiting and knew that something had been left unsaid. Raising his arms, he called out: “Let us pray!”

  The whole congregation sank to their knees, and Cade swallowed hard.

  “Tonight we bid farewell to our brother Sebastian and ask the Lord Almighty to take him into his house forever. And we ask that soon, when the dark days fall upon us, the memory of Sebastian’s courage will lift the heart of every man and woman among us. When fear strikes in the night, think of Sebastian. When the Hellborn charge, think of Sebastian, and when the dawn seems far away, think of a young man who gave his life so that others could live.

  “Lord, we are your army, and we live to do your bidding. Be with us all evermore. Amen.”

  Three men lifted Sebastian’s body on a blanket and laid him gently in the grave, covering his face with a linen towel. Cade stared down at the body, fighting back tears he could not understand. Gambion gripped his shoulder and smiled.

  “Where to now, Daniel?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The enemy is coming to us. In their thousands.”

  9

  SHANNOW’S IRRITATION GREW with the pain in his feet. Like most riding men, he abhorred walking, and his knee-length boots with their thick wedged heels made his journey a nightmare. By the end of the first day his right foot was blistered and bleeding. By the third day he felt as if both boots contained broken glass.

  He was heading north and west, angling toward the mountains, where he hoped to find Batik and Archer. His belly was empty, and the few roots and berries he had found did little more than increase his appetite. Despite his switching the saddlebags from shoulder to shoulder, the skin on his neck was being rubbed raw by the leather.

  His mood darkened by the hour, but he strode on. Occasionally herds of wild horses came into sight, grazing on the hills. He ignored them. Without a rope, any pursuit would be doomed to failure.

  The land was wide and empty, the surface creased and folded like a carelessly thrown blanket. Hidden gullies crossed his path—some quite steep—forcing him to take a parallel route, often for miles, before he could scramble down and go up the other side.

  An hour before dusk on the third day Shannow came upon the tracks of shod horses. He scanned the land around him and then dropped to one knee to examine them more closely. The edges were frayed and cracked, and the imprints were crisscrossed with insect traces. Several days had passed since the horses had ridden this way. Slowly he examined all the imprints until he was satisfied there were seven horses. This gave him some small relief; he had dreaded the thought that there might be six and that the Zealots were once more on his trail.

  He walked on and made a dry camp in a shallow arroyo out of the wind. He slept fitfully and set off again soon after dawn. By midday he had reached the foothills of the mountain range but was forced to move northeast, looking for a pass.

  Three riders approached him as he angled back down toward the flatlands.

  They were young men dressed in homespun cloth, and they carried no guns that he could see.

  “Lost your horse?” asked the first, a heavily built man with sandy hair.

  “Yes. How far from your settlement am I?”

  “Walking? I’d say about two hours.”

  “Is there a welcome for strangers?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What is this area called?”

  “Castlemine. You’ll see when you get there. Is that a gun?”

  “Yes,” said Shannow, aware that all three were staring at his weapon intently.

  “Best keep it hidden. Ridder allows no guns in Castlemine except those he keeps for his men.”

  “Thank you for the warning. Is he the leader there?”

  “Yes, he owns the mine and was the first to settle the ruins. He’s not a bad man, but he’s run things for so long, he kind of thinks he’s a king or a baron, or whatever they had in the old days.”

  “I’ll keep out of his way.”

  “Be lucky if you do. Are you carrying coin?”

  “Some,” Shannow said warily.

  “Good. Keep most of that hidden, too, but keep three silver coins handy for the inspection.”

  “Inspection?”

  “Ridder has a law about strangers. Anyone with less than three coins is a vagrant and subject to indenture, that is, ten days’ work in the mine. But it ends up more like six months when they add o
n the transgressions.”

  “I think I get the message,” said Shannow. “Are you always so free with advice for strangers?”

  “Mostly. My name is Barkett, and I run a small meat farm north of here. If you are looking for work, I can use you.”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Good luck to you.”

  “And to you, Mr. Barkett.”

  “You’re from way south, I see. Out here it is Meneer Barkett.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Shannow watched them ride on and relaxed. Lifting his saddlebag to a rock, he removed his gun scabbards and hid them alongside his Bible. Then he removed his small sack of Barta coins, looped the thong over his head, and swung the sack down behind his collar. He glanced back along the way Barkett and the other two had ridden, made one more adjustment, and walked on with his hands thrust deep into his coat pockets.

  Hoofbeats made him turn once more to see that Barkett was returning alone.

  Shannow waited for him; the man was smiling as he approached.

  “There was one other thing now that you’ve removed your guns,” said Barkett, producing a small, black single-shot pistol. “I’ll relieve you of the Barta coins.”

  “Are you sure this is wise?” asked Shannow.

  “Wise? They’ll only strip it from you in Castlemine. You’ll soon earn it back working in Ridder’s mine—well, in a year or three.”

  “I’d like you to reconsider,” said Shannow. “I’d like you to put the gun away and ride on. I do not think you are an evil man, just a little greedy—and you deserve a chance to live.”

  “I do?” said Barkett, grinning. “And why is that?”

  “Because you obviously intend only to rob me; otherwise you would have shot me down without a word.”

  “True. Now hand me your money and let’s make an end to this.”

  “Do your friends know you are engaged in this venture?”

  “I didn’t come here to debate with you,” said Barkett, cocking the flintlock. “Give me the saddlebag.”

  “Listen to me, man; this is your last chance. I have a gun in my pocket, and it is trained on you. Do not proceed with this foolishness.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “No,” said Shannow sadly, pulling the trigger. Barkett crumpled and pitched sideways, hitting the ground hard, his flintlock firing a shot that ricocheted from the rocks. Shannow moved closer, hoping that the wound was not fatal, but Barkett was dead, shot through the heart.

  “Damn you!” said Shannow. “I gave you more chances than you deserved. Why did you take none of them?”

  Barkett’s two companions came riding into view, both carrying hand weapons. Shannow drew the Hellborn pistol from his coat pocket and cocked it.

  “One man is dead,” he called. “Do you wish to join him?”

  They drew their reins and stared down at the fallen man, then pocketed their weapons and rode forward.

  “He was a damned fool,” said the first rider, a dark-eyed young man with a slender tanned face. “We had no part in it.”

  “Put him across the horse and take him home,” said Shannow.

  “You are not going to take the horse?”

  “I’ll buy one in Castlemine.”

  “Don’t go there,” said the man. “Most of what he told you was true, except the part about the three coins. It no longer matters what you are carrying; they’ll take it as tax and make you work the mine, anyway. It’s Ridder’s way.”

  “How many men does he have?” asked Shannow.

  “Twenty.”

  “Then I’ll take your advice, but I’ll buy the horse. What is the going rate?”

  “It’s not my horse.”

  “Then give the money to his family.”

  “It’s not that easy. Just take the beast and go,” said the young man, his face reddening.

  Shannow understood. He nodded, slung his saddlebags across the horse’s back, and stepped into the saddle.

  If the riders returned with cash, that would mean they had faced the killer of their friend without exacting revenge and would brand them as cowards.

  “I did not desire to kill him,” said Shannow.

  “What’s done is done. He has family, and they’ll hunt for you.”

  “Best for them that they do not find me.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  Shannow touched his heels to the horse and moved on. Turning in the saddle, he called back, “Tell them to look for Jon Shannow.”

  “The Jerusalem Man?”

  He nodded and pushed the horse into a canter. Behind him the young men dismounted, lifted the dead body of their erstwhile friend, and draped it across the back of one of the horses.

  Shannow did not glance back. The incident, like so many in his life, was filed and forgotten. Barkett had been given a chance at life and had spurned it. Shannow did not regret the deed.

  He carried only one burning regret …

  And that was for a child who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and who had touched the orbit of death around the Jerusalem Man.

  Shannow rode for an hour and his new horse showed no sign of fatigue. It was a chestnut stallion some two hands taller than his gelding and was built for strength and stamina. The horse had been well cared for and grain-fed. Shannow was tempted to run it hard to gauge the limits of its speed, but in hostile country that temptation had to be put aside.

  It was coming up to nightfall before Shannow saw the lights of Castlemine. There could be no doubt of the identity of the settlement, for it sprawled against the mountains beneath a granite fortress with six crenellated towers. It was an immense structure, the largest building Shannow had ever seen, and below it the shacks and cabins of the mining community seemed puny, like beetles beside an elephant. Some larger dwellings had been constructed on either side of a main street that ran to the castle’s arched main gate, and a mill had been built across a stream to the left of the fortress.

  Lights shone in many windows, and the community seemed friendly under the gentle moonlight. Shannow was rarely deceived by appearances, however, and he sat his horse, quietly weighing the options. The young rider had advised him to avoid Castlemine, and in daylight he would have done so. But he was also short on supplies and from his high vantage point could see the town’s store nestling beside a meeting hall or tavern house.

  He checked his pistols. The Hellborn revolver was fully loaded, as was his own ivory-handled percussion weapon. His mind made up, he rode down the hillside and tethered his horse behind the tavern house. There were few people on the streets, and those who were about ignored the tall man in the long coat. Keeping to the shadows, he moved to the front of the store, but it was bolted. Across the street was an eating house, and Shannow could see that it sported around a dozen tables, only half of which were in use. Swiftly he crossed the street and entered the building. The eight diners glanced up and then resumed their meals. Shannow sat by the window facing the door, and a middle-aged woman in a checkered apron brought him a jug of cool water and a pottery mug.

  “We have meat and sweet potatoes,” she told him.

  He looked up into her dull brown eyes and detected an edge of fear. “That sounds fine,” he told her. “What meat is it?”

  She seemed surprised. “Rabbit and pigeon,” she said.

  “I’ll have it. Where can I find the storekeeper?”

  “Baker spends most evenings in the tavern. There is a woman there who sings.”

  “How will I know him?”

  The woman glanced anxiously at the other diners and leaned close.

  “You are not with Ridder’s men?”

  “No, I am a stranger.”

  “I’ll fetch you a meal, but then you must move on. Ridder is short of workers since the lung fever massacred the Wolvers.”

  “How will I know Baker?”

  The woman sighed. “He’s a tall man who wears a mustache but no beard; it droops to his chin. His hair
is gray and parted at the center; you’ll not miss him. I’ll fetch your food.”

  Although the meal was probably not as fine as Shannow’s starved stomach told him it was, he ate with gusto. The gray-haired woman came to sit beside him as he finished the last of the gravy, mopping it with fresh-baked bread.

  “You look as though you needed that,” she said.

  “I did indeed. It was very fine. How much do I owe?”

  “Nothing—if you leave now.”

  “That is kind, but I came to Castlemine for supplies. I shall leave when I have seen Baker.”

  The woman shrugged and smiled. Years ago, thought Shannow, she must have been strikingly attractive. Now she was overweight and world-weary.

  “Do you have a death wish?” she asked him.

  “I don’t think so.”

  The other diners left, and soon Shannow found himself alone. The woman locked the door and cleared away the plates, and a thin man emerged from the kitchen, removing a stained apron. She thanked him and gave him two silver coins.

  “Good night, Flora,” he said, and nodded in Shannow’s direction.

  The woman let him out, then moved around the large room, extinguishing the lamps before rejoining Shannow. “Baker will be leaving the hall around midnight. You are welcome to sit here and wait.”

  “I am grateful. But why do you do this for me?”

  “Maybe I’m just getting old,” said Flora, “but I’m sick of Ridder and his ways. He was a good man once, but too many deaths have hardened him.”

  “He is a killer?”

  “No, although he has killed. I meant the mine. Ridder produces silver for the Barta coin. There is a river sixty miles north that goes to the sea, and he ships his silver to many settlements in exchange for grain, iron, salt, and weapons—whatever he needs. But that mine eats people. Ridder used to pay for miners, but they died or left. Then he began trapping Wolvers and using them. But they can’t live underground; they sicken and die.”

  “What are these Wolvers?”

  “You’ve never seen them? Then you must have traveled from a far place. They are a little people, covered in hair; their faces are stretched, their ears pointed. It is said that they once looked like us, but I do not believe it.”