Wolf in Shadow

by David Gemmell

  “They’re going to sacrifice her, according to Shannow.”

  “We must get to her.”

  “Even if we did, how do we escape? Four people on two horses, and one of the escapers in a coma.”

  Griffin fell back and closed his eyes.

  Batik sat for a while. Then he touched Madden’s shoulder, and the farmer turned. “What is it?”

  “There is a festival around this time of year. I have lost track of the date recently, but it must be close. It is called Walpurnacht, and it is very holy; a great sacrifice is always made, there is dancing in the streets and wine, and all the pleasures of the flesh are sated. If it has not already passed, then that is the time when they will sacrifice her.”

  “How does that help us?”

  “They will not have hundreds of guards around her in the temple. We must hide in the city and then attempt a rescue before the festival.”

  “We’ll stand out like boils on a pig’s backside.”

  “I have several houses.”

  “How do we know they’re empty?”

  “Are you always this gloomy, Jacob?”

  “Yep.”

  “With horses we should reach the outer city just after first light. At least your friend can rest for a while and gather his strength.”

  Griffin reached up and gripped Madden’s arm. “He’s right, Jacob. Help me to my horse.”

  The journey took three hours, and Madden rode warily down the narrow streets of Babylon, waiting for a challenge, or a shot, or a sign of treachery. But the people they passed seemed little different from the settlers of Avalon. Women walked with children, men chatted on street corners, and few paid much attention to the riders or to Batik walking at the head of Griffin’s horse. The wagon master was wearing a leather coat to shield his wounds, and he fought to stay upright in the saddle.

  Batik stopped a young boy who was walking with a large gray wolfhound.

  “What date is it, boy?”

  “April twenty-eighth.”

  Batik walked on, leading them into a maze of foul-smelling tenement buildings and filth-choked alleyways to emerge at last by a high wall and a locked gate. He lifted the narrow chain and hooked his fingers around it, and Madden watched as the muscles in his forearms swelled. The central link stretched and then parted, and Batik opened the gate and led them inside. The house beyond was of white stone with arched doors and windows. Around the second story ran an open balcony beneath a slanted tile roof.

  “My sister lived here,” said Batik.

  At the back of the house was an empty stable, and there Batik unsaddled the horses and helped Griffin into the building. Dust was everywhere, but the house was untouched by recent human occupancy.

  The furniture was spartan, and Griffin was half carried to a wide firm divan by the wall beneath a window.

  “I will go out and get some food,” said Batik.

  “Has the festival happened yet?” asked Griffin.

  “No, we have two days.”

  “What is this holy night?” said Madden.

  “It is when the Devil walks among his children.”

  Shannow rode into the canyon at midnight, thirty-seven hours after watching Batik and Ruth vanish into the night. As he came in sight of the ruined city, he reined in his mount and stared in awe at the ghost ship. No longer was it a rotting wreck; now it sat in colossal glory, four immense angled funnels and six rows of lights strung like pearls along its decks.

  The night wind shifted, and the sound of music echoed in the canyon.

  An eerie blast reverberated around the mountains, causing Shannow’s horse to rear. He calmed it and watched as a trail of light shot into the sky, exploding in a cloud of colored stars that popped like distant gunshots. The sound of cheering came from the ship.

  Shannow slipped the thongs from his pistols and drew a deep, slow breath. Touching his heels to the stallion’s sides, he moved down toward the ruins.

  A dark shadow moved into his path …

  “It’s about time you showed yourself, Lewis,” he said. “Three times now you’ve had me in your sights.”

  “I don’t want to kill you, Shannow. Truly. Turn around and ride from here.”

  “Into the Zealots hidden in the woods?”

  “You are a skillful man; you can avoid them.”

  Shannow sat silently, staring into the muzzle of the black rifle and feeling the tension cast by the Guardian.

  “Was I wrong about you, Lewis? I took you to be a good man in the Archer mold. I did not see you as a butcher of women and children, as a bloodsucking vampire.”

  “I am a soldier. Don’t make me kill you.”

  “What happened to the Ark?”

  Lewis licked his lips. “Tonight we are celebrating rebirth. Every year at this time we bring some aspect of the past to life to show that what we guard is real and solid and not just a memory. Tonight the Ark sails once more in all her glory. Now leave, for God’s sake!”

  “God, Lewis? The lords of the Hellborn speak of God? Tell it to the wind. Tell it to the farmers nailed to trees and to the women spread-eagled and butchered. But don’t tell it to me!”

  “We did not create wars, Shannow. For centuries we have tried to steer mankind back to civilization, but it hasn’t worked. There was no unity. Sarento says that without unity there is no order, without order there is no law, and without law no civilization. All great advances have come as a result of war. It will be different soon, Shannow. We are going to rebuild cities, and we will make the world a garden. Please ride away.”

  “I know nothing of your lost civilization, Lewis,” said Shannow softly. “Karitas would never tell me. I don’t know whether it was beautiful, but if that gun you are holding is an example of what they had then, I doubt it. Did some version of the Hellborn exist even then, sweeping across the land to bring death to thousands? Or were there weapons even more terrible than that monstrosity? Perhaps whole cities were wiped out. And you want to bring this back? Some time ago I was wounded, and I was taken to a small village. Peaceful people, Lewis, happy people. They were led by a man who once had been a Guardian, but they’re not alive now. The women were raped, and then their throats were cut. And Karitas? He was crucified. I don’t doubt that if their spirits were still here, they would applaud your dream. But then, their souls aren’t here, are they? They were sucked into your Blood Stone to fuel more death and despair.”

  “That’s enough! I was told to kill you, and I’ve disobeyed that order. If you leave now, you’ll live, Shannow. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “Of course it does, Lewis. No man wants to die, and that’s why I am talking to you. I don’t want to kill you, but I must find the stone.”

  Lewis lifted the rifle to his shoulder. “If you do not turn this instant, I will send you to hell.”

  “But that’s where I want to go, Lewis. That’s where it is,” answered Shannow, pointing to the Ark.

  In the bright moonlight Shannow saw Lewis tense, the rifle butt being drawn more tightly into his shoulder. The Jerusalem Man hurled himself from the saddle just as the rifle exploded in a thundering roar of shells. He hit the ground hard and rolled behind a boulder as chips and fragments screamed around him. Then he came to his knees with his pistol in his hand. His horse was down, thrashing its legs in the air, and a coldness settled on Shannow as he cocked the pistol and dived to the left, rolling on his shoulder. Lewis spun, the rifle bucking in his hands, shells sending spurts of earth and stone to Shannow’s right. The pistol leveled, and a single shot punched Lewis from his feet. Shannow moved to the body: Lewis was dead. The Jerusalem Man walked to the dying horse and shot it through the head, then reloaded his pistol and began the long walk to the ruins.

  “No man wants to die, Lewis.” The words came back to him, and he felt the truth of them. Shannow didn’t want to die; he wanted to find Jerusalem and know peace. He looked up at the Ark and the glowing lights, listening to the music. Then he glanced back at Lewis’
body, which was merging with the moon shadows.

  He walked to the rock doorway and there, drawing his pistol, stepped to the side. As the door opened, Shannow’s pistol came up, but the steel tunnel beyond was empty. Keeping to the wall, he stepped inside, and the door closed behind him. There were no stairs leading down, no doorways that he could see, and he cursed softly.

  The elevator door whispered open, beckoning him. Sheathing his pistol, he stepped inside.

  The doors closed, and the elevator lurched slightly; when they opened again, he saw what he had expected to see: armed guards with pistols pointed at his chest. They were dressed strangely in flat dark blue peaked caps and doubled-breasted serge jackets. In their midst stood the giant Sarento in a similar suit, but white, with brass buttons and blue epaulets each bearing three gold bars.

  “You really are a disappointing man, Mr. Shannow,” Sarento greeted him.

  The guards moved in and disarmed the Jerusalem Man, who offered no resistance. He was led out and found himself not in the shining hallway he remembered but in an enormous room filled with extravagantly carved furniture, luxurious carpets, and stained glass windows.

  “Magnificent, is it not?” said Sarento.

  Shannow said nothing. He stared in silent wonder at the stained glass depicting sailing ships and biblical saints, surrounded by gilded panels of exquisite carpentry.

  “Why did you come back, Mr. Shannow?”

  “To destroy you.”

  “Did you really believe you could work one of your brigand-killing miracles among the Guardians? Surely not.”

  People started to filter into the room; all were dressed in a curious fashion. The women wore long elaborate dresses; the men had on black coats and white shirts.

  “Take him below,” said Sarento. “I’ll see him later.”

  The four guards walked Shannow to a carpeted staircase and on to a door bearing a brass plaque: B-59. Inside was a four-poster bed with velvet curtains and a small writing table inlaid with gold.

  “Sit down,” said one of the guards, a young man with short-cropped blond hair. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  They waited in uneasy silence until Sarento joined them. He removed his white cap and dropped it on the table.

  “Tell me about the ship,” said Shannow, and Sarento chuckled.

  “You are a cool man, Mr. Shannow. I like you.”

  The giant sat back on the bed, and peeled off his white gloves. “Are you impressed by rebirth?”

  “Of course,” admitted Shannow.

  “And so you should be. This was one of the largest ships ever made. It was 882 feet long and weighed 46,000 tons. It was a miracle of engineering and one of the wonders of the ancient world.”

  Shannow suddenly laughed.

  “What is amusing you, sir?”

  “Do you like parables, Sarento? It seems to me that this ship mirrors your lunatic dreams: opulent and civilized and buried by the sea.”

  “Except that we have brought it back,” snapped Sarento.

  “Yes, to sit on a mountain above the ruins of a civilization you did not know even existed. A ship on a mountain, huge and useless, like your ambition.”

  “A ship on a mountain? Come with me, Mr. Shannow. I would like to show you what real power is.”

  With the guards around him, Sarento led Shannow to the upper promenade and out onto the boat deck. The sea stretched out to a distant horizon, and the Ark glided majestically on a star-speckled ocean. Shannow could smell the salt in the air, while gulls wheeled and dived above the giant funnels.

  “Stunning, is it not?” asked Sarento.

  Shannow shivered. “This is not possible.”

  “All things are possible with the Mother Stone.”

  “And we are truly at sea?”

  “No. The Ark sits as always on her mountain. What you are seeing and feeling is an image projected by magic. However, were you to cut a hole in the ship’s side, water would pour in—salt water. For the stone would carry on the charade. And if you were to jump over the side, you would hit the sea, ice-cold and deadly. But then you would pass through it and plummet to the ruins of Atlantis. This is power, Mr. Shannow, just a fraction of the power the stone can hold. Had I wished it, the Ark would sail on a real sea. One day it will, and then I will sail it into the harbor of New York.”

  “How many souls will that cost?” asked Shannow.

  “You have a small mind, Shannow.” Sarento shook his head. “What are a few lives compared with a golden future?”

  “Can we go back inside?” said Shannow. “It’s a little cold out here.”

  “We can, Shannow. You, I’m afraid, are leaving the ship here.”

  “Just when I was beginning to enjoy it,” said Shannow. Then, as Sarento signaled the guards forward, he crouched and whipped the double-edged hunting knife from his boot. The first guard died as the blade slashed across his throat; Shannow snatched the man’s pistol from his hand and leapt at Sarento. As the big man dived to the deck, Shannow followed him, dropping the knife and hauling at Sarento’s collar. The pistol was cocked, its barrel pushing under Sarento’s chin.

  “Be so kind as to tell your guards to put up their weapons,” hissed Shannow, hauling Sarento to his feet.

  The three remaining guards looked to their leader.

  “Do it,” he said. “I shall end this farce in my own way.”

  “Take me to the stone,” said Shannow.

  “But of course. Your infantile heroics have earned you that, at the very least.”

  “I congratulate you on your calm.”

  Sarento’s eyes met his. “You may feel you have the upper hand, Mr. Shannow, but the magic that raised the Ark from the sea floor will not be undone by a madman with a Hellborn revolver.”

  Sarento led the way below.

  And the Titanic sailed on through the ghostly sea …

  13

  ABADDON’S DREAMS WERE troubled, and he awoke clutching at the air. The black silk sheets were damp with sweat, and he rolled to his feet. He had felt so good three hours before, when Donna Taybard had been brought to Babylon. And tonight the reign of the Hellborn would begin in earnest; all the star charts had confirmed it. Donna was the sacrifice the Devil had been waiting for, and all the powers of hell would flow through Abaddon the moment he devoured her.

  Yet now the Hellborn king sat trembling on his bed, plagued by the nameless fears that had haunted his dreams. He had seen Jon Shannow deep in hell, battling Beelzebub with sword and pistol. And then the Jerusalem Man had turned his eyes on Abaddon, and in those eyes the king had seen death.

  The fear would not pass, and Abaddon moved to the cabinet by the window and poured a goblet of wine, sipping it until his nerves settled. He thought of summoning Achnazzar but dismissed that idea. The high priest had become increasingly nervous in the king’s presence these last few days.

  “Daddy!” The child’s cry jerked Abaddon from his reverie, and he swung around, but the room was empty. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a long rectangular mirror and stood, drawing in his belly to present a powerful profile.

  Abaddon, Lord of the Pit!

  “Daddy!” This time the sound came from the sitting room beyond. Abaddon ran through the open doorway only to be confronted by an empty desk and an open window. He blinked and wiped the sweat from his face.

  In the streets beyond the palace walls he could hear the chants of the mob: “Satan! Satan! Satan!”

  Walpurnacht was a night of beauty when the people could see their god walking among them, feel his presence in the air about them, see his image in the glow of their Blood Stones.

  But this night was special. This night would see the dawning era of the Hellborn, for when Donna Taybard’s powers flowed into the knives and her body was consumed by the master, the magic of hell would be unleashed on the world.

  The Lord of the Pit would become the King of the Earth.

  “I’m frightened, Daddy.”

  Abaddon
whirled around to see a blond child of seven hugging a threadbare doll.

  “Sarah?”

  The child ran away into the bedroom, and Abaddon followed, but the room was empty. He knew it was a hallucination, for Sarah had been dead for centuries. The wine was too strong.

  But so were the memories … He poured another glass and returned to the mirror, staring at the bloodshot gray eyes and the flowing hair that was now silver at the temples. The face was as it had been for decades—a middle-aged man, strong and in his prime.

  It was not Lawrence Welby who stared back at him. Welby was dead, as dead as his wife and daughter.

  “I am the king,” he whispered. “The Satanlord. Go away, Welby. Don’t stare at me. Who are you to judge?”

  “Read me a story, Daddy.”

  “Leave me alone!” he screamed, squeezing shut his eyes and refusing to see the apparition he knew lay on his bed.

  “Read her a story, Lawrence. You know she won’t sleep until you do.”

  Welby opened his eyes and drank in the sight of the golden-haired woman by the door.

  “Ruth?”

  “Have you forgotten how to read a story?”

  “This is a dream.”

  “Don’t forget us, Lawrence.”

  “Are you truly here?” he asked, stumbling forward. But the golden-haired woman vanished, and Welby sank to his knees.

  The door opened. “Ruth?”

  “No, my lord. Are you ill?”

  Abaddon pushed himself to his feet. “How dare you come here unannounced, Achnazzar!” said the king.

  “The guards came for me, sire. They said you sounded … distraught.”

  “I am well. What do the star charts show?”

  “Magelin says it is a time of great change, as one would expect at the dawn of an empire.”

  “And Cade?”

  “He is bottled up in a nowhere pass where he can neither escape nor conquer.”

  “That all sounds well, priest. Now tell me about Shannow. Tell me again how he died falling from a cliff.”

  Achnazzar bowed low. “It was an error, sire, but he is now a prisoner of the Guardians, and they mean to kill him. The Jerusalem Man is a danger no longer. After tonight he will seem as a gnat in the ear of the dragon.”