The Last Guardian

by David Gemmell

  They had talked for more than two hours, making plans and then Nu had gone to his tiny prayer room, where he had knelt until the dawn. He begged his god to release him, but as the dawn streaked the sky, he knew what he had to do …

  Go to the temple and speak against the king.

  Now he had—and death awaited him.

  “Are you eating or drinking, Highness?” asked the housekeeper.

  “What? Oh. Wine. The best you have.”

  “Indeed, Highness.” The man bowed and moved away. Nu did not notice his return or the jug and goblet he placed on the table. The housekeeper cleared his throat, and Nu jerked, then delved into his purse and dropped a large silver coin into the man’s hand. The housekeeper counted out Nu’s change and placed it on the table. Nu ignored the money and absently poured the wine; it was from the southwest, rich and heady. He drained the goblet and refilled it.

  Two Daggers moved into sight beyond the window, and the crowd parted for them, people jostling and pushing to avoid contact with the reptiles.

  Nu averted his eyes and drank more of the wine.

  A figure moved into the seat opposite him. “To know the future is to be assured of fortune,” he said as he spread out a series of stones on the table.

  “I do not need my future read,” replied Nu. But the seer swept up two small silver pieces from the change on the table. Then he scattered the stones.

  “Pick three,” he said.

  Nu was about to order the man away when the two Daggers entered the room. He swallowed hard. “What did you say?” he asked, turning to face the newcomer.

  “Pick three stones,” the seer repeated, and Nu did so, leaning forward so that his hood fell farther over his face. “Now give me your hand,” ordered the seer.

  The man’s fingers were long and slender, as cold as knifeblades as he studied Nu’s palm for several seconds.

  “You are a strong man, but then, I need no special skill to see that,” he said, grinning. He was young and hawk-faced, with deep-set brown eyes. “And you are worried.”

  “Not at all,” whispered Nu.

  “Curious,” said the man suddenly. “I see a journey but not over water, nor yet over land. I see a man with lightning in his hands and death in his dark fingers. I see water … rising …”

  Nu wrenched his hand away. “Keep the money,” he hissed. He looked into the seer’s eyes and saw the fear there. “How does a man travel and yet not move over land or water?” he asked, forcing a smile. “What kind of seer are you?”

  “A good one,” said the man softly. “And you can relax, for they have gone.”

  “Who?” Nu asked, not daring to look up.

  “The reptiles. You are in great danger, my friend. Death stalks you.”

  “Death stalks us all,” Nu replied. “No man avoids him forever.”

  “There is truth in that. I do not know where you are going—nor do I want to know. But I see a strange land and a gray rider. His hands hold great power. He is the man of thunder. He is the doom of worlds. I do not know if he is a friend or an enemy, but you are linked to him. Walk warily.”

  “Too late for that,” said Nu. “Will you join me in a drink?”

  “Your company is—I think—too perilous for me. Go with God.”

  5

  BETH MCADAM CLIMBED down from the wagon, gave the broken wheel a hard kick, and cursed long and fluently. Her two children sat in amused silence on the tailboard. “Wouldn’t you just know it?” said Beth. The wooden rim had split and torn free the metal edge; she kicked it again. Samuel tried to stifle the giggle with his fist, but it exploded from him in a high peal. Beth stormed around to the rear of the wagon, but the boy squirmed up over the piled furniture where she could not reach him.

  “You little snapper-gut!” she yelled. Then Mary began to laugh, and Beth swung on her.

  “You think it’s funny to be trapped out here with the wolves … and the enormous lions?”

  Mary’s face fell, and Beth was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, honey. There ain’t no lions. I was only joking.”

  “You promise?” said Mary, gazing out over the plain.

  “I do. And even if there was, he’d know better than to come anywhere near your ma when she’s angry. And you come down from there, Samuel, or I’ll rip out your arms and feed ’em to the wolves.”

  His blond head peeped over the chest of drawers. “You ain’t gonna whack me, Ma?”

  “I ain’t gonna whack you, snapper-gut. Help Mary get the pots unloaded. We’re going to have to camp here and figure a way to mend the wagon.”

  While the children busied themselves preparing a campfire, Beth sat on a boulder and stared hard at the wheel. They would need to unload everything, then try to lever up the empty wagon while she manhandled the spare wheel into place. She was sure she could do it, but could the children handle the lever? Samuel was big for a seven-year-old, but he lacked the concentration necessary for such a task, and Mary, at eight, was wand-thin and would never muster the power needed. But there had to be a way … there always was.

  Ten years earlier, when her mother had been beaten to death by a drunken father, the twelve-year-old Beth Newson had taken a carving knife and cut his throat in his sleep. Then, with seven silver Barta coins, she had walked seventy miles to Seeka Settlement and spun a terrible tale of brigands and killers raiding the farm. For three years the Committee had made her live with Seth Reid and his wife, and she had been treated like a slave. At fifteen she had set her cap at the powerful logger Sean McAdam. The poor man had no chance against her wide blue eyes, long blond hair, and hip-swinging walk. Beth Newson was no beauty, with her heavy brows and large nose, but by heaven, she knew what to do with what God had given her. Sean McAdam fell like a poleaxed bull, and they were wed three months later. Seven months after that Mary had been born, and a year later Samuel. The previous fall Sean had decided to move his family south, and they had purchased a wagon from Meneer Grimm and set off with high hopes. But the first town they reached had been hit by the Red Death. They had left swiftly, but within days Sean’s huge body had been covered with red weeping sores; the glands under his arms had swelled, and all movement had brought pain. They had camped in a high meadow, and Beth had tended him day and night, but despite his awesome strength Sean McAdam had lost the fight for life, and Beth had buried him on the hillside. Before they could move on, Samuel was struck down by the illness. Exhausted, Beth continued to nurse the boy, going without sleep and sitting by his bedside, dabbing at the sores with a damp cloth. The child had pulled through, and within two weeks the sores had vanished.

  Without the strength of Sean McAdam the family had pushed on through snow and ice, through spring floods, and once across a narrow cliff trail under threat of avalanche. Beth had twice driven wolves from the six oxen, shooting one great beast dead with a single shot from Sean’s double-barreled flintlock. Samuel’s pride in his mother’s achievement was colossal.

  Five days earlier he had found another source for pride when two brigands had accosted them on the road—sour-looking men, bearded and eagle-eyed. Beth had laid down the reins and took up the flintlock pistol.

  “Now, you scum-tars don’t look too bright to me, so I’ll speak slow. Give me the road or by God, I’ll send your pitiful souls straight to hell!”

  And they had. One had even swept his hat from his head in an elaborate bow as she passed.

  Beth smiled at the memory now, then returned her gaze to the wheel. Two problems faced her: finding a length of wood to use as a lever and figuring out how to do both jobs—levering and fitting the wheel—herself.

  Mary brought her some soup; it was thin but nourishing. Samuel made her a cup of herb tea; there was too much sugar in it, but she thanked him with a bright smile and ruffled his hair. “You’re a pair of good kids,” she said. “For a pair of snapper-guts, that is!”

  “Ma! Riders comin’!” cried Mary, and Beth stood and drew the flintlock from her wide belt. She eared back
the hammers and hid the weapon in the fold of her long woolen skirt. Her blue eyes narrowed as she took in the six men, and she swallowed hard, determined to show no fear.

  “Wait in the wagon,” she told the children. “Do it now!” They scrambled up the tailboard and hid behind the chest.

  Beth walked forward, her eyes moving from man to man, seeking the leader. He rode at the center of the group, a tall, thin-faced rider with short-cropped gray hair and a red scar running from brow to chin. Beth smiled up at him. “Will you not step down, sir?” she asked. The men chuckled, but she ignored them, keeping her eyes fixed to Scarface.

  “Oh, we’ll step down right enough,” he said. “I’d step down into hell for a woman with a body like yours.” Lifting his leg over the saddle pommel, he slid to the ground and advanced on her. Taking a swift step forward, she curled her left arm up over his shoulder, drawing him down to a passionate kiss. At the same time, her right hand slid up between them and the cold barrels of the flintlock pressed into his groin. Beth moved her head so that her mouth was close to his ear.

  “What you are feeling, pig breath, is a gun,” she whispered. “Now tell your men to change the wheel on the wagon. And touch nothing in it.”

  “Ain’t ya gonna share her, Harry?” called one rider.

  For a moment Scarface toyed with the idea of making a grab for the pistol, but he glanced down into Beth’s steely blue eyes and changed his mind.

  “We’ll talk about it later, Quint,” he said. “First, you boys change that wheel.”

  “Change … we didn’t ride in here to change no damned wheel!” roared Quint.

  “Do it!” hissed Scarface. “Or I’ll rip your guts out.”

  The men swung down from their mounts and set to work, four of them taking the weight of the wagon and the fifth, Quint, hammering loose the wheel pin and manhandling the broken wheel free. Beth walked Scarface to the edge of the camp, where she ordered him to sit on a round boulder. She sat to the right of him, leaving his body between her and the working men; out of sight, the flintlock remained pressed to his ribs.

  “You’re a smart bitch,” said Scarface, “and—except for that big nose—a pretty one. Would you really shoot me?”

  “Sooner than spit,” she assured him. “Now, when those men have finished their chore, you’ll send them back to wherever your camp is. Am I making myself clear, dung brain?”

  “It’s done, Harry. Now do we get down to it?” called Quint.

  “Ride back to camp. I’ll see you there in a couple of hours.”

  “Now wait a goddamn minute! You ain’t keepin’ the whore to yourself. No way!” Quint turned to look to the others for support, but the men shifted nervously. Then two of them mounted their horses, and the others followed.

  “Dammit, Harry. It ain’t fair!” protested Quint, but he backed to his mount and stepped into the saddle nevertheless.

  As they rode from the camp, Beth lifted the heavy pistol from the scabbard at Scarface’s hip. Then she stood and moved away from him. The children climbed out of the wagon.

  “What you going to do now, Ma?” asked Samuel. “You gonna kill him?”

  Beth passed the brigand’s gun to Mary; it was a cap and ball percussion revolver. “Get the pliers and pull off the brass caps, girl,” she said. Mary carried the gun to the wagon and opened the toolbox; one by one she stripped the caps from the weapon, then returned it to her mother. Beth threw it to Scarface, and he caught it deftly and slid it home in its scabbard.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “Now we wait for a while, and then you go back to your men.”

  “You think I won’t come back?”

  “You’ll think about it,” she admitted. “Then you’ll realize just how they’ll laugh when you tell them I held a gun to your instrument and forced you to mend my wagon. No, you’ll tell them I was one hell of a lay and you let me ride on.”

  “They’ll be fightin’ mad,” he said. Then he grinned. “Sweet Jesus, but you’re a woman worth fightin’ over! Where you headed?”

  “Pilgrim’s Valley,” she told him. There was no point lying; the wagon tracks would be easy to follow.

  “See those peaks yonder? Cut to the right of them. There’s a trail there—it’s high and narrow, but it will save you four days. You can’t miss it. A long time ago someone placed out a stone arrow and cut signs into the trees. Follow it through and you’ll find that Pilgrim’s Valley is around two days beyond.”

  “I may just take your advice, Harry,” she said. “Mary, prepare some herb tea for our guest. But don’t get too close to him; I’d like a clear shot if necessary.”

  Mary stoked up the fire and boiled a kettle of water. She asked Harry if he took sugar, added three measures, and then carried a steaming mug to within six feet of him. “Put it on the ground,” ordered Beth. Mary did so, and Harry moved to it cautiously.

  He sipped the tea slowly. “If I’m ever in Pilgrim’s Valley, would you object if I called on you?” Harry asked.

  “Ask me when you see me in Pilgrim’s Valley,” she told him.

  “Who would I ask for?”

  “Beth McAdam.”

  “Greatly pleased to meet you, ma’am. Harry Cooper is my name. Late of Allion and points north.”

  He went to his horse and mounted. Beth watched as he rode east, then uncocked the flintlock.

  Harry rode the four miles to the camp, his mind aflame with thoughts of the spirited woman. He saw the campfire and cantered in, ready with his tale of satisfied lust. Tying his horse to the picket line, he walked to the fire …

  Something struck him in the back, and he heard the thunder of a shot. He swung, dragging his pistol clear and cocking it. Quint rose from behind a bush and shot him a second time in the chest. Harry leveled his gun, but the hammer clicked down on the empty nipple. Two more shots punched him from his feet, and he fell back into the fire that blazed around his hair.

  “Now,” said Quint. “Now we all share.”

  6

  NU-KHASISATRA EASED HIS huge frame into the shadows of a doorway, pulling his dark cloak over his head and holding his breath. His fear rose, and he could feel his heart beating in his chest. A cloud obscured the moon, and the burly shipbuilder welcomed the darkness. The Daggers were patrolling the streets, and if he was caught, he would be dragged to the prison buildings at the center of the city and tortured. He would be dead by dawn, his head impaled on a spike above the gates. Nu shivered. The sound of distant thunder rumbled above the city of Ad, and a jagged spear of lightning threw momentary shadows across the cobbled street.

  Nu waited for several seconds, calming himself. His faith had carried him this far, but his courage was nearly exhausted.

  “Be with me, Lord Chronos,” he prayed. “Strengthen my failing limbs.”

  He stepped out onto the street, ears straining for any sound that might warn him of the approach of the Daggers. He swallowed hard; the night was silent, the curfew complete. He moved on as silently as he could until he reached Bali’s high-towered home. The gate was locked, and he waited in the shadows, watching the moon rise. At the prearranged hour he heard the bolt slide open. Stepping into the courtyard beyond, he sank to a seat as his friend shut the gate, locking it tight.

  Bali touched a finger to his lips and led the dark-cloaked Nu into the house. The shutters were closed, and curtains had been hung over the windows. Bali lit a lantern and placed it on an oval table.

  “Peace be upon this house,” said Nu.

  The smaller Bali nodded his bald head and smiled. “And the Lord bless my guest and friend,” he answered.

  The two men sat at the table and drank a little wine; then Bali leaned back and gazed at his friend of twenty years. Nu-Khasisatra had not changed in that time. His beard was still rich and black, his eyes bright blue and ageless beneath thick jutting brows. Both men had managed to purchase Sipstrassi fragments at least twice to restore their youth and health. But Bali had fallen on hard times, his wealth disappe
aring with the loss in storms at sea of three of his prize ships, and now he was beginning to show the signs of age. He appeared to be in his sixties, though he was in fact 80 years older than Nu, who was 110. Nu had tried to acquire more Sipstrassi, but the king had gathered almost all the stones to himself, and even a fragment would now cost all of Nu’s wealth.

  “You must leave the city,” Bali said, breaking the silence. “The king has signed a warrant for your immediate arrest.”

  “I know. I was foolish to speak against him in the temple, but I have prayed hard and I know the Great One was speaking through me.”

  “The Law of One is no more, my friend. The sons of Belial have the ears of the king. How is Pashad?”

  “I ordered her to denounce me this morning and seek the severing of the knot. She at least will be safe, as will my sons.”

  “No one is safe, Nu. No one. The king is insane, the slaughter has begun … even as you prophesied it. There is madness in the streets, and these Daggers fill me with terror.”

  “There is worse to come,” Nu told him sadly. “In my prayer dreams I have seen terrible sights: three suns in the sky at one time, the heavens tearing, and the seas rising to swamp the clouds. I know it is close, Bali, and I am powerless to prevent it.”

  “Many men have dreams that do not presage evil days,” said Bali.

  Nu shook his head. “I know this. But my dreams have all come true so far. The Lord of All Things is sending these visions. I know he has ordered me to warn the people, and I know also that they will ignore me. But it is not for me to question His purpose.”

  Bali poured another goblet of wine and said nothing. Nu-Khasisatra had always been a man of iron principles and faith, devout and honest. Bali liked and respected him. He did not share his principles, but he had come to know his god, and for that gift alone he would give his life for the shipbuilder.

  Opening a hidden drawer below the table, he removed a small purse of embroidered deerskin. For a moment he held it, reluctant to part with it; then he smiled and pushed it across the table.