The ship shuddered, and Nu let out a cry of despair, for he believed they had struck the reef. But it was only the anchor biting hard into the coral below them. The ship bobbed, and the cliff that had been such a threat became a shelter from the ferocity of the storm.
The wind died down in the bay. “We’re still shipping water,” shouted the crewman Nu had rescued.
“Start the pump and see where the problem lies,” Nu ordered, and the man raced below. The two other crewmen followed him, and Nu sank to the wet deck. The moon broke clear of the storm clouds as he glanced to port. Rows of jagged rocks, black and gleaming, could be seen above the swell. Had the ship struck any of them, it would have been ripped open from prow to stern. Nu hauled himself upright and moved to the starboard side. There, too, the reef could be seen. Somehow—by some miracle—he had steered the vessel through a narrow channel between the reefs.
The crewman returned. “The level is dropping. The ship is sound, master.”
“You have earned a good bonus, Acrylla. I’ll see you get it.”
The man grinned, showing broken front teeth. “I thought we were finished. It looked so hopeless.”
Nu-Khasisatra’s fortune had been built on that first adventure, and his reply to Acrylla was now carved on the tiller of each of his ships:
“Nothing is ever hopeless—as long as courage endures.”
The memory of that night came flooding back to him, and he pushed himself to his feet. Despair, he realized, was as great an enemy as Sharazad or the king’s Daggers. His world was doomed, but that did not mean Pashad must die. He had a Sipstrassi Stone, and he was alive.
“I will come for you, my love,” he said. “Through the vaults of time or the valleys of the damned.” He glanced up at the sky. “Thank you for reminding me, Lord.”
Beth sat on the hillside under a spreading pine and watched the children playing on the makeshift swing boards and seesaw planks down by the stream. The high meadow was seething with townspeople, farmers and miners, enjoying the bright sunshine and the food at the stalls. Elsewhere there were games of strength or skill, knife and hatchet hurling, rifle shooting, wrestling and boxing. The miners held a jousting tourney where one man sat on the shoulders of another gripping a mock lance with a wooden ball at either end. A similar team would rush at them, and there was much shouting of encouragement as the riders proceeded to hammer their opponents to the ground. The barbecue fires were lit, and the smell of roasting beef—compliments of Edric Scayse—filled the air. Beth leaned her back to the tree and relaxed for the first time in days. Her small hoard of coin was swelling, and soon she would move her family out to the rich southland north of the wall and build a farm of her own on land leased from Scayse. It would be a hard life, but she would make it work.
A shadow fell across her, and she looked up to see John Shannow standing hat in hand.
“Good morning … Beth. Your children are far from us and in little danger. May I join you?”
“Please do,” she said, and he swung around and sat with his back to the tree. She moved out to sit in front of him. “I know who you are,” she told him. “The whole town knows.”
“Yes,” he said wearily. “I expect they do. It is a fine gathering, and people are enjoying themselves. That is good to see.”
“Why did you come here?” she pressed.
“It is only a stopping place, Beth. I shall not be staying. I was not summoned here; I have not come to deal death to all and sundry.”
“I did not think for one moment that you had. Is it true that you seek Jerusalem?”
“Not, perhaps, with the same fervor as once I had. But yes, I seek the Holy City.”
“Why?”
“Why not? There are worse ways for a man to live. When I was a child, I lived with my parents and my brother. Raiders came and slaughtered my family. My brother and I escaped and were taken in by another family, but the raiders hit them, too. I was older then, and I killed them. For a long time I was angry, filled with hate for all brigands. Then I found my God and wanted to see Him, to ask Him many things. I am a direct man. So I look for Him. Does that answer your question?”
“It would have, were you younger. How old are you? Forty? Fifty?”
“I am forty-four years old, and yes, I have been searching since before you were born. Does that make a difference?”
“Of course it does,” she told him. “Young men—like Clem Steiner—see themselves as adventurers. But surely with maturity a man would come to see that such a life is wasted.”
“Wasted? Yes, I suppose it has been. I have no wife, no children, no home. But for all people, Beth McAdam, life is like a river. One man steps into it and finds it is cool and sweet and gentle. Another enters and finds it shallow and cold and unwelcoming. Still another finds it a rushing torrent that bears him on to many perils; this last man cannot easily change his course.”
“Just words, Mr. Shannow, and well you know it. A strong man can do anything he pleases, live any life he chooses.”
“Then perhaps I am not strong,” he conceded. “I had a wife once. I put aside my dreams of the Holy City, and I rode with her, seeking a new life. She had a son, Eric, a shy boy who was frightened of me. And we rode unknowingly into the heart of the Hellborn War … and I lost her.”
“Did you look for her? Or did she die?” Beth asked.
“She was taken by the Hellborn. I fought to save her. And—with the help of a fine friend—I did. She married another man—a good man. I am what I am, Beth. I cannot change. The world we live in will not allow me to change.”
“You could marry. Start a farm. Raise children.”
“And how long before someone recognizes me? How long before the brigands gather? How long before an old enemy hunts me or my children? How long? No, I will find Jerusalem.”
“I think you are a sad man, Jon Shannow.” She opened the basket by her side and produced two apples, offering one to the Jerusalem Man. He took it and smiled.
“Less sad in your company, lady. For which I thank you.”
Angry words instantly gathered in her mind, but she saw the expression on his face and swallowed them. This was no clumsy attempt to bed her or the opening shot in a campaign to woo her. It was merely a moment of genuine honesty from a lonely fellow traveler.
“Why me?” she whispered. “I sense you do not allow yourself many friends.”
He shrugged. “I came to know you when I rode in your tracks. You are strong and caring; you do not panic. In some ways we are very alike. When I found the dying brigand, I knew I would be too late to help you. I expected to find you and your children murdered, and my joy was great when I found your courage had saved you.”
“They murdered Harry,” she said. “That is a shame. He asked if he could call on me in Pilgrim’s Valley.” Beth lay down, resting on her elbow, and told Shannow the story of the brigands. He listened in silence until she had finished.
“Some women have that effect on a man,” he said. “Harry respected your courage and hung on to life long enough to send me to help you. For that I think the Almighty will look kindly on him.”
“You and I have different thoughts on that subject.” She looked down the hill and saw Samuel and Mary making their way up toward them. “My children are returning,” she said softly.
“And I will leave you,” he replied.
“Will you take part in the pistol contest?” she asked. “It is being held after the Parson gives his sermon. There is a prize of a hundred Bartas.”
He shrugged. “I do not think so.” He bowed, and she watched him walk away.
“Damn you, Beth,” she whispered. “Don’t let him get to you.”
The Parson knelt deep in prayer on the hillside as the crowd gathered. He opened his eyes and looked out over the throng, and a deep warmth flowed within him. He had walked for two months to reach Pilgrim’s Valley, crossing desert and plain, mountain and valley. He had preached at farms and settlements, had performed marriages,
christenings, and funerals at isolated homes. He had prayed for the sick and had been welcomed wherever he walked. Once he had delivered a sermon at a brigand camp, and they had fed him and given him supplies of food and water to enable him to continue his journey. Now he was here, looking out over two thousand eager faces. He ran his hand through his thick red hair and stood.
He was home.
Lifting his borrowed pistols, he cocked them and fired two shots in the air. Into the silence that followed his voice rang out.
“Brothers and Sisters, welcome to God’s holy day! Look at the sun shining in the clear blue heavens. Feel the warmth on your faces. That is but a poor reflection of the love of God when it flows into your hearts and your minds.
“We spend our days, brethren, grubbing in the dirt for wealth. Yet true wealth is here. Right here! I want each one of you to turn to the person beside you and take their hand in friendship. Do it now! Touch. Feel. Welcome. For the person beside you is your brother today, or your sister. Or your son. Or your daughter. Do it now! Do it now in love.”
A ripple ran through the crowd as people turned, mostly in embarrassment, to grasp and swiftly release the hands of the strangers beside them.
“Not good enough, brethren,” shouted the Parson. “Is this how you would greet a long-lost brother or sister? I will show you.” He strode down among them and took an elderly woman in a deep hug, kissing both her cheeks. “God’s love upon you, Mother,” he said. He seized a man’s arm and swung him to face a young woman. “Embrace her,” he ordered. “And say the words with meaning. With belief. With love.”
Slowly he moved through the crowd, forcing people together. Some of the miners began to follow him, taking women in their arms and kissing them soundly on the cheeks. “That is it, brethren!” shouted the Parson. “Today is God’s day. Today is love!” He moved back to the hillside.
“Not that much love!” he shouted at a miner who had lifted a struggling woman from her feet. The crowd bellowed with laughter, and the tension eased.
“Look at us, Lord!” The Parson raised his arms and face to the heavens. “Look down on your people. Today there is no killing. No violence. No greed. Today we are a family in your sight.”
Then he launched into a powerful sermon about the sins of the many and the joys of the few. He had them then, as his powerful voice rolled over them. He talked of greed and cruelty, the mindless pursuit of wealth and the loss of joy it created.
“For what does it profit a man if he gain the world and yet lose his soul? What is wealth without love? Three hundred years ago the Lord brought Armageddon to the world of sin, toppling the earth, destroying Babylon the Great. For in those days evil had spread across the earth like a deadly plague, and the Lord washed away their sins even as Isaiah had prophesied. The sun rose in the west, the seas tipped from their bowls, and not one stone was left upon another. But what did we learn, brethren? Did we come to love one another? Did we turn to the Almighty? No. We threw our noses into the mud, and we scrabbled for gold and silver. We lusted and we fought, we hated and slew.
“And why? Why?” he roared. “Because we are men. Sinful, lustful men. But not today, brethren. We stand here in God’s sunshine, and we know peace. We know love. And tomorrow I will build me a church on this meadow, where the love and peace of today will be sanctified, where it will be planted like a seed. And those of you who wish to see God’s love remain in this community will come to me here, bringing wood and hammers and nails and saws, and we will build a church of love. And now let us pray.”
The crowd knelt, and he blessed them. He allowed the silence to grow for more than a minute, then announced, “Up, my brethren. The fatted calf is waiting; the fun and the joy are here for all. Up and be happy. Up and laugh!”
People surged away to the tents and stalls, the children racing down the hill to the swing boards and the mud around the stream. The Parson walked down into the throng, accepting a jug of water from a woman selling cakes. He drank deeply.
“That was well spoken,” said a voice, and the Parson turned to see a tall man with silver-streaked shoulder-length hair and a graying beard. The man was wearing a flat-brimmed hat and a black coat, and two pistols hung from scabbards at his hips.
“Thank you, Brother. Did you feel moved to repent?”
“You make me think deeply. That, I hope, is a beginning.”
“Indeed it is. Do you have a farm here?”
“No, I am a traveling man. Good luck with your church.” He moved away into the crowd.
“That was the Jerusalem Man,” said the woman selling cakes. “He killed a man yesterday. They say he’s come to destroy the wicked.”
“Vengeance is mine, says the Lord. But let us not talk of violence and death, Sister. Cut me a slice of your cake.”
14
SHANNOW WATCHED THE pistol-shooting contest with interest. The competitors, twenty-two of them, lined up facing open ground and loosed shots at targets thirty paces away. Gradually the field was whittled down to three men, one of them Clem Steiner. Each was obliged to fire at plates that were hurled in the air by children standing to the right of the range. Steiner won the competition and collected his prize of a hundred Bartas from Edric Scayse. As the crowd was beginning to disperse, Scayse’s voice rang out.
“We have with us today a legendary figure, possibly one of the greatest pistol shots on the continent. Ladies and gentlemen—Jon Shannow, the Jerusalem Man!” A ripple of applause ran through the spectators, and Shannow stood silently, crushing the anger welling up in him. “Come forward, Meneer Shannow,” called Scayse, and Shannow stepped up to the line. “The winner of our competition, Clement Steiner, feels that his prize cannot be truly won unless he defeats the finest competitors. Therefore, he has returned his prize until he has matched skills with the Jerusalem Man.”
The crowd roared its approval. “Do you accept the challenge, Jon Shannow?”
Shannow nodded and removed his coat and hat, laying them on the wooden rail that bordered the range. He drew his guns and checked his loads. Steiner stepped alongside him.
“Now they’ll see some real shooting,” said the young man, grinning. He drew his pistol. “Would you like to go first?” he asked. Shannow shook his head. “Okay. Throw, boy!” Steiner called, and a large clay plate sailed into the air. The crack of the pistol shot was followed by the shattering of the plate at the apex of its flight.
Shannow then cocked his pistol and nodded to the boy. Another plate flew up and disintegrated as Shannow fired. Plate after plate was blown to pieces until finally the Jerusalem Man called a halt.
“This could go on all day, boy,” he said. “Try two.” Steiner’s eyes narrowed.
Another boy was sent to join the first, and two plates were hurled high. Steiner hit the first, but the second fell to the ground, shattering on impact.
Shannow took his place, and both plates were exploded. “Four!” he called, and the crowd stood stock-still as two more boys joined the throwers. Shannow cocked both pistols and took a deep breath. Then he nodded to the boys, and as the plates soared into the air, his guns swept up. The shots rolled out like thunder, smashing three of the spinning plates before they had reached the top of their flight. The fourth was falling like a stone when the bullet smashed through it. The applause was thunderous as Shannow bowed to the crowd, reloaded his pistols, and sheathed them. He put on his coat and hat and collected the prize from Scayse.
The man smiled. “You did not enjoy that, Mr. Shannow. I am sorry. But the people will not forget it.”
“The coin will come in useful,” said Shannow. He turned to Steiner. “I think it would be right for us to share this prize,” he suggested. “For you had to work much harder for it.”
“Keep it!” snapped Steiner. “You won it. But it doesn’t make you a better man. We’ve still to decide that.”
“There is nothing to decide, Meneer Steiner. I can hit more plates, but you can draw and shoot accurately with far greater speed.”
“You know what I mean, Shannow. I’m talking about man to man.”
“Do not even think about it,” advised the Jerusalem Man.
It was almost midnight before Broome allowed Beth to leave the Jolly Pilgrim. The morning’s entertainment had spilled over into the evening, and Broome had wanted to stay open to cater to the late-night revelers. Beth was not concerned about the children, for Mary would have taken Samuel back to the wagon and prepared him some supper, but she was sorry to have missed an evening with them. They were growing so fast. She moved along the darkened sidewalk and down the three short steps to the street. A man stepped out in front of her from the shadows at the side of the building; two others joined him.
“Well, well,” he said, his face shadowed from the moonlight by the brim of his hat. “If it ain’t the whore who killed poor Thomas.”
“His stupidity killed him,” she said.
“Yeah? But you warned the Jerusalem Man, didn’t you? You went running to him. Are you his whore, bitch?”
Beth’s fist cracked against his chin, and he staggered; she followed that by crashing a second blow with her left that spun him from his feet. As he tried to rise, she lashed out with her foot, catching him under the chin. “Any other questions?” she asked. She walked on, but a man leapt at her, grabbing her arms; she struggled to turn and kick out, but another man grabbed her legs and she was hoisted from her feet.
They carried her toward the alley. “We’ll see what makes you so special,” grunted one of her attackers.
“I don’t think so,” said a man’s voice, and the attackers dropped Beth to the ground. She scrambled to her feet and looked up to see that the Parson was standing in the street.
“You keep your puking nose out of this,” said one of the men, while the other drew a pistol.
“I do not like to see any among the brethren behaving in such a manner toward a lady,” said the Parson. “And I do not like guns pointed at me. It is not polite. Go on about your business.”
The Last Guardian Page 10
