“You are a very astute woman, Beth McAdam. Yes, I fear it.”
“Then you are a weaker man than you know,” she said. “Most men fear dying. You just fear living.” She rose and walked back to the cabin.
23
JOSIAH BROOME CLOSED the front door of his small house and wandered along the street toward the Jolly Pilgrim. The sun was shining brightly, but Broome did not notice it. For days he had been seething over the departure of Beth McAdam and the hurtful untrue words she had hurled at him like knives.
How could she not see it? Men like Jon Shannow were no help to civilization. Violence and despair followed him, giving birth to more of the same. Only men of reason could change the world. But how the words stung! She had called him a fool and a coward; she had blamed him for Fenner’s death.
Could one blame a man for a summer storm or a winter flood? It was so unfair. Yes, Fenner would still be alive if they had walked into Webber’s establishment and shot him down. But what would that have achieved? What would it have taught the youngsters of the community? That in certain situations murder was acceptable?
He remembered Shannow shooting down the man in the street just after he had executed Webber. The man’s name had been Lomax. He had been a tough, arrogant man, but he had helped the Parson build his church and had worked hard for Meneer Scayse to support a wife and two children. Those children were now orphans who would grow up knowing that their father had been gunned down in the street to make a point. Who would blame them if they turned bad? But Beth McAdam did not see that.
Broome crossed the street and heard the sound of gunfire coming from the west. More troublemakers, he thought, swinging to see the cause of the disturbance. His jaw dropped open when he saw hundreds of black-armored warriors advancing with their guns blazing. Men and women were running and screaming. A shell whistled past Broome, and he ducked instinctively and ran to an alley between two buildings. A man sprinted past; his chest exploded, and he fell face forward in the dirt.
Broome turned and cut down the alley, arms pumping. He scaled a fence and ran out over the fields toward the newly built church in the meadow.
At the Traveler’s Rest Mason glanced out of his window to see the reptiles advancing down the main street, killing all in their sights. He swore and took down his Hellborn rifle from its rack on the wall. Swiftly he fed shells into the side gate, then pumped one into the breech. He heard sounds of booted feet on the stairs, and as the door exploded inward, he swiveled and fired. One reptile hurtled back into the hallway, but several more ran in. Mason’s gun jumped in his hands as he pumped shell after shell into them, then a bullet took him high in the chest, spinning him against the window. Two more shells ripped into his belly, and he plunged out the window, toppling to the street below.
At the gunsmith’s shop Groves grabbed two pistols, but he was shot to death before he could loose a single round.
Hundreds of reptiles surged through the town. Here and there men returned their fire, but the attack was so sudden that there was no organized defense.
At the church the Parson had been delivering an impassioned sermon about the Whore of Babylon and the beasts beyond the wall. When the sounds of the battle had reached them, men and women had streamed from the building. The Parson pushed his way through them and stared in horror at the flames beginning to spring from the town buildings. Josiah Broome staggered toward the milling crowd.
“Beasts from hell!” he shouted. “There are thousands of them!”
Men began to run, but the Parson’s voice stopped them cold. “Brethren! To run is to die.” He looked around at the gathering. More than two hundred people were present, two-thirds of them women and children. The men had left their guns on the front porch. “Gather your weapons,” he ordered. “Broome, you and Hendricks lead the women and children to the south. There are woods there. Find hiding places, and we will join you later. Go now!” He swung toward the men who had gathered rifles and pistols. “Follow me,” he said, striding off toward the town. For a moment they hesitated, then one by one they joined him. He stopped at the edge of the meadow, where a shallow ditch had been built for drainage. “Line up here,” he said, “and do not open fire until I give the word.”
The fifty-six men who had joined him settled down in the dirt, their weapons held before them. The Parson stood, listening to the screams from the town; he would have liked to have charged in, bringing the vengeance of God on the killers, but he fought down the impulse and waited.
A large group of Daggers came into sight. Seeing the Parson, they lifted their rifles, but just before they fired, he jumped down into the ditch and the shots whistled harmlessly overhead. Twenty of the reptiles ran across the open ground.
“Now!” yelled the Parson.
A ragged volley swept through them, and only one was left standing; the Parson took up a pistol and shot the creature in the head. Scores more of the reptiles came surging through the alleyways. Glancing back, the Parson could see Broome and Hendricks leading the women and children to safety, but they were not sufficiently clear to allow the defenders to withdraw. The reptiles charged. There were no screams from them, no terrible battle cries; they ran forward with incredible speed, firing as they came. Three volleys smashed into their ranks, and the charge broke.
“I’m out of ammunition,” shouted one of the men in the ditch. Someone else passed him a handful of shells. The Parson glanced to his right and saw more than a hundred reptiles running to outflank them.
Just then Edric Scayse and thirty riders came thundering from the east. The reptiles opened fire, and horses and men fell. Scayse, two pistols in his hand, galloped in among the enemy, firing coolly. The surviving riders followed. The carnage was awful, but Scayse and seventeen men made it through to leap from their horses and clamber into the ditch.
“You’re a welcome sight, man,” said the Parson, thumping Scayse’s shoulder.
“Where the hell are they from?” shouted Scayse.
“Beyond the wall … sent by the Great Whore,” the Parson replied.
“I think we’d best get out of here,” Scayse urged.
“No, we must protect the women and children. I have sent more than a hundred of them to the south. We must hold these beasts for a while.”
“We can’t do it here, Parson; it’s too easy for them to go around us. I suggest we back off to the church and hold them there.”
The reptiles charged again. Bullets shredded their ranks, but four got through to leap in among the defenders. Scayse hammered his pistol into a gray scaled head, then fired at point-blank range into the beast’s body. The others were dispatched with knives, but not before they had killed three of the defenders.
“Fall back in two lines,” shouted the Parson. “Every second man get back thirty paces, then cover the second group.”
The ground began to tremble violently. Men were pitched from their feet as a great, jagged crack opened in the meadow, snaking across the front of the ditch like the jaws of a giant beast. In the town, buildings buckled and a second quake scored the earth. The Daggers fled toward open ground, the battle forgotten.
“Now’s the time, Parson,” said Scayse, and the defenders rose and sprinted back across the meadow. Clouds of dust obscured their passing, but the earth opened and two men fell into the depths of a vast pit. The rest managed to reach the church, which was sagging in the center. The Parson stood and watched as the building slowly tore itself apart. “Back to the woods,” he said. “The wrath of God is upon us.”
Josiah Broome sat and watched as the Parson organized the digging of a trench across the north side of the woods. Earth was being thrown up to form a rampart, with the labor carried out in grim silence. Without tools the workers dug into the soft clay with their bare hands, casting nervous eyes to the north for the expected attack. Broome was in a state of shock; he sat gray-faced as people bustled around him.
It was all gone. The town was ruined, the community decimated, the survivors trapp
ed in the woods with no food, no shelter, and precious little ammunition for the few guns they carried. All that remained was to wait for death at the hands of the beasts. Broome blinked back tears.
Edric Scayse had rounded up three horses and had ridden to his own lands, where extra rifles were stored. Two men had been sent to outlying farms to warn other settlers of the invasion. Broome cared nothing for any of it.
A child approached him and stood with her head tilted, staring at him. He looked down at her.
“What do you want?”
“Are you crying?” she asked.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Why?”
The question was so ludicrous that Broome began to giggle. The child laughed with him, but when his eyes filled with tears and racking sobs shook his spare frame, she backed away and ran to the Parson. His face streaked with mud, the redheaded preacher moved to Broome’s side.
“It does not look good, Meneer,” he said. “You are frightening the children. Now stand like a man and do some work; there’s a good fellow.”
“We are all going to die,” whispered Broome through his tears. “I don’t want to die.”
“Death comes to all men—and then they face the Almighty. Do not be afraid, Meneer Broome. It is unlikely that a maker of breakfasts has done much to offend Him.” The Parson put his arm around Broome’s shoulder. “We are not dead yet, Josiah. Come now; help the men with the ditch.”
Broome allowed himself to be led to the ramparts; he stared out over the valley. “When will they come, do you think?”
“When they are ready,” said the Parson grimly.
Work ceased as the sound of a walking horse was heard in the woods behind them; then they heard the lowing of cattle. Three milk cows were herded into the clearing, their calves beside them. Jon Shannow rode his stallion up to the ditch and stepped down from the saddle.
“I thought these might be of use,” he said. “If you slaughter the calves for meat, you’ll be able to milk the cows to feed the children.”
“Where did you find them?” the Parson asked.
“I heard the shooting this morning and watched your flight. I rode to a farm and cut these from the herd there. The owner was dead—with his whole family.”
“We are grateful, Shannow,” said the Parson. “Now, if you could come up with around a thousand shells and a couple of hundred rifles, I would kiss your feet.”
Shannow grinned and reached into his saddlebag. “These are all the shells I have; they’re for Hellborn rifles or pistols. But I’ll fetch some weapons for you; I hid them yesterday about four miles from here.”
“Walk with me a ways,” said the Parson, leading him through the camp. They stopped by a stream and sat. “How many of them are there?” he asked.
“As near as I could see, more than a thousand. They are led by a woman.”
“The black whore,” the Parson hissed.
“She’s not black; she had golden hair, and she looks like an angel,” Shannow told him. “And they are not from beyond the wall.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know it. Speaking of the wall, the last earthquake ripped a hole in it. I would think we would have more chance of survival if we could get there and go through it. A few men would then be able to hold the gap, allowing the rest of the community to find a safe camping place.”
“We have around three hundred people here, Shannow. Everything they had has been taken from them. We have no food, no spare clothing, no canvas for tents, no shovels, axes, or hammers. Where can we go that is safe?”
“Then what is your plan?”
“Wait here, hit them hard, and pray for success.”
“I agree with the praying,” said Shannow. “Look, Parson, I don’t know much about warfare on this scale, but I do know that we’re not going to beat these reptiles by sitting and waiting for them. You say we need supplies—axes, hammers, and the like. Then let’s get them. And at the same time let’s pick up a few guns.”
“Where?”
“Back in the town. There are still wagons, and there are oxen and horses aplenty wandering the meadows. Not all of the buildings were destroyed, Parson. I studied the town through a long glass. Groves’ shop still stands; he had powder there and lead for ammunition. Then there’s the smithy, and the whole of the tent town is untouched.”
“But what of the reptiles?”
“They’re camped just south of the town. I think they’re afraid of another quake.”
“How many men will you need?”
“Let’s say a dozen. We’ll swing around to the west and come in by night.”
“And you expect to load up wagons and drive them away under the noses of the enemy?”
“I don’t know, Parson. But it’s surely better than sitting here and starving to death.”
The Parson was silent for a while, then he chuckled and shook his head. “Do you ever think of defeat, Shannow?”
“Not while I breathe,” said the Jerusalem Man. “You get these people to the hole in the wall. I’ll fetch the tools you need and some supplies. Can I choose my own men?”
“If they’ll go with you.”
Shannow followed the Parson back to the camp and waited as the preacher gathered the men together. When he outlined Shannow’s plan and called for volunteers, twenty men stepped forward. Shannow summoned them all and led them from the gathering to a small clearing, where he addressed them.
“I need only twelve,” he said. “How many have wives here?” Fifteen raised their hands. “How many with children?” he asked the fifteen. Nine hands went up. “Then you men get back; the rest gather around and I’ll tell you what we need to do.” For over an hour Shannow listed the kinds of supplies they would require and ways to obtain them. Some men offered good advice; others remained silent, taking it all in. Finally Shannow gave them a warning.
“No futile heroics. The most important thing is to get the supplies back. If you are attacked and you see friends in trouble, do not under any circumstances ride back to help. Now you will not see me, but I will be close. You will hear a commotion in the enemy camp—that is when you will move.”
“What are you going to do, Shannow?” asked Bull.
“I’m going to read to them from the Book,” said the Jerusalem Man.
24
FOR TWO DAYS Chreena had studied the Pledging Pool, analyzing the crystal-clear water that flowed away beneath the cliffs to underground streams and rivers. She sat now in the shade of the Chaos Peak, a tall spear-straight tower of jagged rocks and natural platforms from which the more reckless of the Dianae men would dive.
Shir-ran had climbed almost to a point just below the crest of the peak. He would have gone farther had the crown of the rock not jutted from the column, creating an overhang no man could negotiate. His dive had been flawless, and Chreena remembered him rising from the water with his dark hair gleaming, the light of triumph in his golden eyes.
She pushed back the memory. There had to be something in the pool that had affected Shir-ran’s genetic structure. Diving from such a height meant that he would have plunged deep into the water … perhaps the problem was there. Chreena closed her eyes and let her spirit flow over the rocks of the pool and down, down into the darker depths. She knew what she was seeking—some toxic legacy from the Between Times: drums of chemical waste, nerve gases, plague germs. The Betweeners had rarely given any thought to the future, dumping their hideous war-refined poisons into the depths of the ocean. One theory back at the home base had been that the Betweeners must have known their time was short. Why else would they poison their rivers and streams, strip away the forests that gave them air, and pollute their own bodies with toxins and carcinogens? But the theory was offered more as a debating point for children than as a serious topic for study.
Chreena blanked such thoughts from her mind and drew from her memory everything she had been taught concerning water: the essence of life. In the Between Days it had cov
ered 70.8 percent of the earth’s surface, but now the figure was 71.3 percent. Water made up two-thirds of total body weight. Man could survive months without food but only days without water. Think! Think! Two parts hydrogen to one part oxygen. She honed her concentration, adjusting her focus, shrinking, ever shrinking deeper into the search trance, analyzing the trace elements at the bottom of the pool. One by one she dismissed them: reactive silica, magnesium, sodium, potassium, iron, copper, zinc. There were minute traces of lead, but they could not have been harmful unless a person drank around sixty gallons a day for who knew how many years.
She returned to her body and leaned back exhausted. The sun had moved past the Chaos Peak, and her naked skin was burning. Moving several yards to her left, she looked around for Oshere. He was lying asleep in the shade; there was little of humanity left in him, and his voice was almost gone.
Not the water. What, then? She glanced up at the sky and the awesome Sword of God pointing to the heavens. She shivered. Not that!
Her eyes flicked to the peak. Was it something there? Chreena stood and stretched, then dressed swiftly and made her way to the base. There were many handholds in the heavily barnacled rock, and she began to climb slowly. Her mind fled back to the last time she had clung to a rock face, almost three years before, when the Titanic had been breached and she had carried her son, Luke, from the doomed ghost ship and down the sheer face of the mountain above the ruins of Balacris.
Then she had been Amaziga Archer, widow of Samuel and a teacher to the children of the Guardians. Guardians? All the knowledge of the Betweeners had been held by them for future generations, yet the work had been ruined, corrupted by one man: Sarento. He had longed to see rebirth, the world back as it had been. His patience had worn thin, and he had begun, through the Mother Stone, to manipulate events. He had given Blood Stones to a growing nation that later became the Hellborn; he had encouraged their warlike tendencies, giving them the secrets of automatic weapons. “In war,” he had said, “man is at his most inventive. All great historical advances have come through the battlefield.”
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