The Last Guardian

by David Gemmell

“They call me Bull, though my name is rightly Ishmael Kovac.”

  “Bull it is,” she told him. “You carry on. I’ll fetch the wagon.”

  19

  THE FIRST TREMOR hit the city just after dawn. It was no more than an insistent vibration that rattled plates on shelves, and many slept through it; others awakened and rose, rubbing sleep from their eyes and wondering if a storm was due. The second tremor came at noon, and Chreena was working in the laboratory when it struck. The vibration was stronger now. Books fell from shelves, and she ran to the balcony to see people milling in the streets. A twelve-foot statue toppled near the main square, but no one was hurt. The tremor passed.

  Oshere limped into the laboratory. “A little excitement,” he said, his words more slurred than usual.

  “Yes,” said Chreena. “Have there been quakes before?”

  “Once, twelve years ago,” he told her. “It was not serious, though some farmers lost cattle and there were many stillborn calves. How is your work progressing?”

  “I’ll get there,” she replied, looking away.

  He squatted on the mosaic floor and looked up at her. “I wonder if we are tackling the problem in the right way,” he said.

  “What other way is there? If I can find out what causes the genetic structure to regress, I might be able to stop it.”

  “That’s what I mean, Chreena. You are staring into the heart of the problem, and you cannot see the whole. I have been looking at the records of the others who have gone through the Change before me. All were male and under twenty-five years of age.”

  “I know that. It is not a great help,” she snapped.

  “Bear with me. Almost all the changelings were about to be married. You did not know that, did you?”

  “No,” she admitted. “But how is that important?”

  He smiled, but she did not recognize the expression in his swollen leonine face. “Our custom is for the groom to take his lady to the southern mountains, there to pledge his love beneath the Sword of the One. Everyone does it.”

  “But the women go, too, and they are not affected.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I have given great thought to this. I do not understand your science, Chreena, but I understand how to solve a problem. First look for the deviation and then ask not where is the problem but where is not the problem. If all the changelings journey to the sword but the women are unaffected, then what do the men do that is different? What did Shir-ran do while you were there?”

  “Nothing that I did not,” she replied. “We ate, we drank, we slept, we made love. We came home.”

  “Did he not climb to the Chaos Peak and dive to the waters two hundred feet below?”

  “Yes. The custom, as I understand it, is for the men to purify themselves in the water of the Golden Pool before they pledge themselves. But all men do this, and not all are affected.”

  “This is true,” he agreed, “but some men merely bathe in an easily accessible part of the pool. Others dive from low rocks. But only the most foolhardy climb to the Chaos Peak and dive.”

  “I still do not understand what you are trying to say.”

  “Five of the last six changelings climbed that peak. Eleven others who were unaffected only bathed in the pool. That is the deviation: The greatest percentage of changelings comes from those who climb the peak.”

  “But what of you? You are not in love. You took no one to the sword.”

  “No, Chreena. I went alone. I climbed the peak, and I dived. Oshere flew and pledged himself.”

  “To what?”

  “To love. I was going to ask … a woman to accompany me, but I did not know if I would have the courage to dive. So I went alone. Two weeks later the Change began.”

  Chreena sat down and stared at the man-beast. “I have been a fool,” she whispered. “Can you come with me, back to the sword?”

  “I may not survive the journey as a man,” he said. “Do you still have the thundermaker you brought with you?”

  “Yes,” she answered, opening the drawer of her desk and removing the Hellborn pistol.

  “Best to bring it with you, Chreena.”

  “I could never kill you, Oshere. Never.”

  “And I believe I could never harm you. But neither of us knows, do we?”

  Shannow pulled on his boots and settled his gun scabbards in place at his hips. He was still weaker than he liked, but his strength had almost returned. Beth McAdam had filled his thoughts ever since the afternoon when she had shared his bed; she had not returned to him since then. Shannow sat by the window and recalled the joy of the day. He did not blame her for avoiding him. What did he have to offer? How many women would want to be tied to a man of his reputation? The days of his convalescence had given him a great deal of time for thought. Had his life been a waste? What had he done that would live after him? Yes, he had killed evil men, and it could be argued that in so doing he had saved innocent lives. Yet he had no sons or daughters to continue his line, and nowhere in this untamed world was he welcome for long.

  The Jerusalem Man. The killer. The destroyer.

  “Where is love, Shannow?” he asked himself aloud.

  He wandered down the stairs, acknowledged Mason’s wave, and stepped out into the daylight. The sun was shining in a clear sky, and the breeze was lifting dust from the dried mud of the roadway.

  Shannow crossed the street and made his way to the gunsmith’s shop. Groves was not behind his counter, and he walked through the shop and found the man crouching over a workbench.

  Groves looked up and smiled. “You set me a fair task, Meneer Jerusalem Man. These aren’t rim-fire cartridges.”

  “No. Center-fire.”

  “They have heavy loads. A man needs to shoot straight with such ammunition. A stray bullet would pass through a house wall and kill an occupant sitting quietly in his chair.”

  “I tend to shoot straight,” said Shannow. “Have you completed my order?”

  “Is the sky blue? Of course I have. I also made some five hundred shells for Meneer Scayse to the same requirements. It seems his Hellborn pistols arrived—without ammunition.”

  Shannow paid the man and left his store. A sharp pebble under his foot made him remember how thin his boots were. The town store was across the street, and he bought a new pair of soft leather boots, two white woolen shirts, and a quantity of black powder.

  As the man was preparing his order, an earth tremor struck the town and from outside came the sound of screaming. Shannow gripped the counter to stop from falling, while all around him the store’s wares—pots, pans, knives, sacks of flour—began to tumble from the shelves.

  As quickly as it had come the tremor passed. Shannow moved back into the bright sunlight.

  “Will you look at that!” yelled a man, pointing to the sky. The sun was directly overhead, but way to the south a second sun shone brightly for several seconds before suddenly disappearing.

  “You ever seen the like, Shannow?” asked Clem Steiner, approaching him.

  “Never.”

  “What does it mean, do you think?”

  Shannow shrugged. “Maybe it was a mirage. I’ve heard of such things.”

  “It fair makes your skin crawl. I never heard of a mirage that could cast a shadow.”

  The storekeeper came out carrying Shannow’s order. The Jerusalem Man thanked him and tucked it under his arm, along with the package he had taken from Groves.

  “Fixing to leave us?” Steiner asked.

  “Yes. Tomorrow.”

  “Then maybe we should complete our business,” said the young pistoleer.

  “Steiner, you are a foolish boy. And yet I like you—I have no wish to bury you. You understand what I am saying? Stay clear of me, boy. Build your reputation another way.”

  Before the young man could answer, Shannow had walked away, climbing the steps of the Traveler’s Rest. A young woman stood in the doorway with her eyes fixed on something across the street. Easing past her, Shannow glanced bac
k to see that she was staring at a black-bearded man sitting on the sidewalk outside the Jolly Pilgrim. He looked up and saw her; his face lost all color, and he stood and ran back toward the tent town. Puzzled, Shannow studied the woman. She was tall and beautifully dressed in a shimmering skirt of golden yellow. A green shirt was loosely tucked into a wide leather belt, and she wore riding boots of the softest doeskin. Her hair was blond streaked with gold, and her eyes were sea green.

  She turned and saw him looking at her, and for a moment he felt like recoiling under the icy glare she gave him. Instead he smiled and bowed. Ignoring him, she swept past and approached Mason.

  “Is Scayse here?” she asked, her voice low, almost husky.

  Mason cleared his throat. “Not yet, Frey Sharazad. Would you like to wait in his rooms?”

  “No. Tell him we will meet in the usual place. Tonight.” She swung on her heel and stalked from the building.

  “A beautiful woman,” Shannow commented.

  “She makes my hair stand on end,” said Mason, grinning. “Beats me where she comes from. She rode in yesterday on a stallion that must have been all of eighteen hands. And those clothes … that skirt is a wonder. How do they make it shine so?”

  “Beats me,” said Shannow. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow. What do I owe you?”

  “I told you once, Shannow, that there’s no charge. And it’ll be that way if ever you return.”

  “I doubt I’ll come back, but thanks for the offer.”

  “You hear about the healer? Came in with the wagons this afternoon?”

  “No.”

  “Seems like the Red Plague hit the convoy, and this man walked out of the wilderness with a Daniel Stone. He healed everybody. I’d like to have seen that. I’ve heard of Daniels before, but I never touched one. You?”

  “I’ve seen them,” said Shannow. “What did he look like, this healer?”

  “Big man with the blackest beard you ever saw. Big hands, too. Like a fighter.”

  Shannow returned to his room and sat once more at the chair by the window. The golden-haired woman had been staring with naked hatred at just such a man. He shook his head.

  Nothing to do with you, Shannow.

  Tomorrow you put Pilgrim’s Valley far behind you.

  20

  SHARAZAD SAT, SEEMINGLY alone, on a flat rock under the moonlight. The day had brought an unexpected pleasure: Nu-Khasisatra was here in this cursed land of barbarians. It had been a source of constant fury that he had escaped from Ad, and the king had been most displeased. Seven of her Daggers had been flayed and impaled, and she herself had lost ground in the king’s affections. But now—great be the glory of Belial—the shipbuilder was within her reach once more. Her mind wandered back to the man she had seen staring at her in the hovel that passed for a resting place. Something about him disturbed her. He was not handsome, nor was he ugly, but his eyes were striking. A long time before she had enjoyed a lover with just such eyes. The man had been a gladiator, a superb killer of men. Was that it? Was the barbarian a danger?

  She heard the rumble of the wagon coming through the trees and wandered to the crest of the hill, gazing down at the two men who drove it. One was young and handsome, the other older and balding. She waited until they came closer, then stepped out onto the path.

  The older man heaved on the reins and applied the clumsy brake. “Good evening, Frey,” he said, climbing down and stretching his back. “You sure you want to unload here?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Just here. Where is Scayse?”

  “He couldn’t come,” said the younger man. “I represent him. The name’s Steiner.”

  What do I care what your name is? thought Sharazad. “Unload the wagon and open the first box,” she said aloud.

  Steiner loosened the reins of a saddled horse that was tied to the rear of the wagon and led the beast back a few paces. Then both men struggled with the heavy boxes, manhandling them to the ground. The older man drew a hunting knife and prized open a lid. Sharazad stepped closer and leaned forward, pulling back the greased paper and lifting a short-barreled rifle clear of the box.

  “Show me how it works,” she ordered.

  The older man opened a packet of shells and slid two into the side gate. “They slide in here—up to ten shells; there’s a spring that keeps the pressure on. You take hold here,” he said, gripping a molded section under the barrel, “and pump once. Now there’s a shell in the breech, and the rifle is cocked. Pull the trigger and pump the action, and the spent shell is ejected and a fresh one slides home.”

  “Ingenious,” admitted Sharazad. “But sadly, after this load we will need no more. We will make our own.”

  “Ain’t sad to me,” said the man. “Don’t make no difference to me.”

  “Ah, but it does,” she said, smiling, and she raised her hand. From the bushes all around them rose a score of Daggers, pistols in their hands.

  “Sweet Jesus, what the hell are they?” the man whispered as the reptiles moved forward. At the back of the wagon Clem stood horror-struck as the demonic creatures appeared; then he backed away toward his horse.

  “Kill them,” ordered Sharazad. Clem dived for the ground, rolled, and came up firing. Two of the reptiles were hurled from their feet. More gunfire shattered the night, spurts of dust spitting up around Clem’s prone body. His horse panicked and ran, but Clem dived for the saddle, grabbing the pommel as it passed. He was half carried, half dragged into the trees, shells whistling about him.

  “Find him,” ordered Sharazad, and six of the reptiles loped away into the darkness. She turned on the older man, who had stood stock-still throughout the battle. Her hand dipped into the pocket of her golden skirt, and she lifted out a small stone, dark red and veined with black.

  “Do you know what this is?” she asked. He shook his head. “This is a Blood Stone. It can do amazing things, but it needs to be fed. Will you feed my Blood Stone?”

  “Oh, my God,” he whispered, backing away as Sharazad drew a silver pistol and stared down at it.

  “I am surprised that the greatest minds of Atlantis never discovered such a sweet toy. It is so clean, so lethal, so final.”

  “Please, Frey. I have a wife … children. I never harmed you.”

  “You offend me, barbarian, merely by being.” The pistol came up, and the shell hammered through his heart; he fell to his knees, then toppled to his face. She turned him over with the toe of her boot and laid the Blood Stone on his chest. The black veins dwindled to nothing.

  She sat by the corpse and closed her eyes, concentrating on her victory. An image formed in her mind, and she saw Nu-Khasisatra waiting unarmed and ready to be taken. But a dark shadow stood between her and the revenge she desired. The face was blurred, but she focused her concentration and the shadow became recognizable. It was the man from the Traveler’s Rest, only now his eyes were flames and in his hands were serpents, sharp-fanged and deadly. Holding the image, she called out to her mentor, and his face appeared in her mind.

  “What troubles you, Sharazad?”

  “Look, lord, at the image. What does it mean?”

  “The eyes of fire mean he is an implacable enemy; the serpents show that in his hands he has power. Is that the renegade prophet behind him?”

  “Yes, lord. He is here in this strange world.”

  “Take him. I want him here before me. You understand, Sharazad?”

  “I do, lord. But tell me, why are we no longer dealing with Scayse? I thought their guns would be of more use.”

  “I have opened other gates to worlds with infinitely more power. Your barbaric kingdom offers little. You may take ten companies of Daggers if you wish and blood them on the barbarians. Yes, do it, Sharazad, if it would bring you pleasure.”

  His face disappeared. Ten companies of Daggers! Never had she commanded so many. And yes, it would be good to plan a battle, to hear the thunder of gunfire, the screams of the dying. Perhaps, if she did well, she would be given a command of humans and
not these disgusting scaled creatures from beyond the gates. Lost in her dreams, she ignored the sounds of distant gunfire.

  Clem Steiner had been hit twice. Blood seeped from the wound in his chest, and his left leg burned as sweat mixed with the blood at the outer edges of the jagged wound. His horse had been shot from under him, but he had managed to hit at least one of the creatures giving pursuit.

  What in the Devil’s name are they?

  Clem hauled himself behind a rock and scrabbled farther up the wooded hillside. At first he had thought them men wearing masks, but now he was not so sure. And they were so fast … they had moved across his line of vision with a speed no human could match. Licking his lips, he held his breath, listening hard. He could hear the wind sighing in the leaves above him and the rushing of a mountain stream to his left. A dark shadow moved to his right, and he rolled and fired. The bullet took the reptile under the chin, exiting from the top of its skull, and it fell alongside Clem, its legs twitching. He stared horror-struck at the gray, scaled skin and the black leather body armor. The creature’s hand had a triple-jointed thumb and three thick fingers.

  Jesus God, they’re demons! he thought. I am being hunted by demons!

  He fought for calm and reloaded his pistol with the last of his shells. Then he gathered up the reptile’s weapon and sank back against the rock. The wound in his chest was high, and he hoped it had missed his lung. Of course it has, you fool! You’re not coughing bloody are you?

  But he felt so weak. His eyes closed, but he jerked himself awake. Got to move! Get safe! He started to crawl, but loss of blood had weakened him terribly and he made only a few yards before his strength was spent. A rustling movement came from behind him, and he tried to roll, but a booted foot lashed into his side. His gun came up but was kicked from his hand. Then he felt himself being dragged from the hillside, but all pain passed and he slid into unconsciousness.

  The pain awakened him, and he found he had been stripped naked and tied to a tree. Four of the reptiles were sitting together in a close circle around the body of the creature he had killed on the hillside. As he watched, one of the others took a serrated knife and cut into the chest of the corpse, ripping open the dead flesh and pulling clear the heart. Clem felt nausea overwhelming him, but he could not tear his eyes from the scene. The reptiles began to chant, their sibilant hissing echoing in the trees; then the first one cut the heart into four pieces, and the others all accepted a portion, which they ate.