The Last Guardian

by David Gemmell

  With the power of the Mother Stone he had reassembled the wreck of the Titanic as it lay broken on the mountainside over Atlantis. He had made it the home base for the Guardians. But his doom had been sealed when the Hellborn had taken Donna Taybard as a blood sacrifice, for that alone had led the Jerusalem Man to Balacris and the Titanic.

  Amaziga remembered that awful night when Sarento had used the Mother Stone to duplicate the first voyage. Though the ship remained on the mountain, those on board—under its glittering lights and beautiful saloons—could gaze out on a star-filled sky over a black and shining ocean.

  But Shannow had fought Sarento in the subterranean cavern of the Mother Stone, killing him and sealing off the power of the stone. The Titanic had once more struck the iceberg, and a sorcerous sea had filled the ship, destroying the Guardians and obliterating the knowledge of eons.

  And Amaziga had climbed down from the wreck and walked away without a backward glance.

  The Jerusalem Man had come to her.

  “I am sorry,” he had said. “I do not know if my actions were right, but they were just. I will lead you to a safe place.”

  They had parted at a small town hundreds of miles to the north, and Amaziga had journeyed with her son to the lands of the wall.

  She climbed higher and glanced down at the shimmering pool below. Her fingers were tired, and she hauled herself onto a ledge to rest. There was nothing harmful there that she could feel. You are getting old, she told herself. She had lived more than a century, her youth guaranteed by the Sipstrassi carried by the Guardians. But that was gone now, and silver flecks highlighted her tightly curled hair. How old are you in real terms, Amaziga? she asked herself. Thirty-five? Forty?

  Taking a deep breath, she rose and climbed on. It took her an hour to reach the ledge beneath the peak, and as she scrambled over it, her hand gripped a sharp stone that split the skin of her palm. She cursed and sat with her back to the rock face, heart hammering. She could detect nothing baleful in the rock of the peak. The climb had been a waste of time and had served only to bring her bitter memories and a painful wound. Settling herself down, preparing her body for the return journey, she thought of jumping to the pool far below but dismissed the idea; she had never been comfortable in the water. The sun bathed her, and she felt warm and curiously refreshed. Her pulse slowed. When she lifted her injured hand, ready to apply pressure to stop the bleeding, the cut had disappeared. She rubbed her fingers on the skin, but there was no mark. Reaching out, she picked up the stone with the serrated edge. Blood had stained it. Carefully she rose to her knees on the narrow ledge and turned to the rock face. Above her the overhang jutted from the peak, and above that were the Sword of God and the tiny crosses that surrounded it. She closed her eyes, her spirit flowing into the barnacled stone. Deeper she moved, coming at last to shaped marble and beyond that to a network of golden wire and crystals. She followed the network up to a silver bowl six feet in diameter. At its center lay a huge Sipstrassi Stone with golden threads inches wide.

  Her eyes snapped open. “Oh, God!” she whispered. “Oh, God!”

  The Chaos Peak was not a natural formation. It had become encrusted as it had lain beneath the ocean. It was a tower, and the Sipstrassi Stone was still pulsing its power after twelve thousand years. Amaziga gazed down at the sleeping Oshere—and understood.

  The healing powers of Sipstrassi!

  There had been no intention of harming the Dianae. The almost mechanical magic of the stone had bathed Shir-ran and the others—it had repaired them, eliminating the promoter genes and the carefully wrought genetic engineering. It had returned them to a state of perfection. “Dear God!”

  Amaziga rose and pushed her back to the rock face, then stared down at Oshere. Normally a wielder would need to touch a stone to direct its powers … but with something of this size? Her concentration grew, and far below Oshere stirred in his sleep. Pain lanced him, and he roared, his great head snapping at unseen enemies. His body twisted, and he sank back, his new fur shrinking, his limbs straightening. Amaziga pictured him as she remembered him, holding the vision before her eyes. Finally she relaxed and gazed down at the naked young man lying asleep in the sunshine.

  Without a moment’s hesitation she stepped forward and dived, her lithe ebony frame falling like a spear to cleave the water below. She surfaced and swam to the edge, heaving herself up onto the rocks beside Oshere. Removing her wet clothes, she let the sun dry her skin.

  Oshere stirred and opened his golden eyes. “Is this a dream?” he asked.

  “No. This is the reality dreams are shaped of.”

  “You look so … young and beautiful.”

  “So do you,” she told him, smiling. He sat up and gazed in wonder at his bronzed body.

  “Truly this is no dream? I am returned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me. Tell me everything.”

  “Not yet,” she whispered, stroking his face. “Not now, Oshere. Not when I have just dived for you.”

  Clutching her Blood Stone to her breast, Sharazad stepped through the gateway. Her mind swam; her vision blurred with colors more vivid than any she had seen in life. She held herself steady until the whirling movement before her eyes ceased; she had moved from a star-filled night to a bright dawn, and for a moment or two she felt disoriented.

  The king was sitting by a window, staring out at his armies engaged in their training maneuvers on the far fields.

  “Welcome,” he said softly without turning.

  She dropped to her knees with head bent, golden hair falling over her face.

  “I cannot tell you how wondrous it is to be once more in your presence, lord.”

  The king swung around and smiled broadly. “Your flattery is well timed,” he said, “for I am not best pleased with you.” She looked up into his handsome face, seeing the sunlight glisten on his freshly curled golden beard and the warm, humorous—almost gentle—look in his eyes. Fear rose. She was not fooled by his easy manner or by the apparent lightness of his mood.

  “In what way have I earned your displeasure, Great One?” she whispered, averting her eyes and staring at the ornate rug on which she knelt.

  “Your attack on the barbarian village—it was badly timed and appallingly led. I took you for a woman with a mind, Sharazad. Yet you only attacked from one direction, giving the enemy room to flee. Where you should have delivered a crushing blow, you merely drove them into the woods to the south, there to plan and prepare a defense.”

  “But they cannot defend against us, Great One. They are merely barbarians; they have no organization, few weapons, and little skill.”

  “That may be so,” he agreed. “But if you are so bereft of ideas, strategies, and skills, why should I allow you to command?”

  “I am not bereft of ideas, lord, but it was my first engagement. All generals must learn. I will learn; I will do anything to please you.”

  He chuckled and stood. He was tall and well built, his movements easy and graceful as he raised her to her feet. “I know that you will. You always have. That is why I allow you your … small pleasures. Before I make love to you, Sharazad, I want you to see something. It may help you understand.”

  He lifted a Sipstrassi Stone from a gold-embroidered pouch at his belt and held it in the air. The far wall vanished, and she found herself gazing down on the Daggers’ encampment; their low, flat leather tents were bunched together on a rocky slope by a stream. There were guards posted all around the camp, and two sentries were on the rocky escarpment above.

  “I see nothing amiss,” she said.

  “I know. Watch … and listen.” The wind sighed across the hillside, and the whisper of bats’ wings could be heard. Then she caught the sound of lowing cattle; there was nothing else. “You still cannot sense it, can you?” said the king, laying his hand on her shoulder and unbuckling the straps of her golden breastplate.

  “No. They are natural sounds of the night, are they not?”

 
“They are not,” he said, lifting her breastplate clear and removing the belted dagger at her waist. “One of them is out of place.”

  “The cattle?”

  “Yes. They rarely move at night, Sharazad; therefore, they are being driven. And they are moving toward the Daggers. A gift, do you think? A peace offering?”

  She could see the herd now, a dark shifting mass moving slowly across the plain toward the camp. Several of the sentries stopped their pacing to watch it approach. Suddenly a shot sounded from behind the herd, and a series of hair-raising screams followed. The cattle broke into a run, thundering toward the camp. Sharazad watched with growing horror as the sentries opened fire on the lead beasts; she saw the bulls fall, but the herd plowed on. Daggers slithered from their tents and ran, diving into the stream or sprinting up the scree-covered slope. Then the stampeding cattle swept through the camp and were gone. As the dust settled, Sharazad gazed down on the ruins, where some thirty bodies lay crushed and torn.

  The king’s hands moved to her silk tunic, untying the laces and sliding the garment down over her shoulders, but she could not tear her eyes from the carnage.

  “Look and learn, Sharazad,” he whispered, his fingers sliding over the skin of her hips. The scene shifted to a gully some three hundred paces from the camp, where a man was sitting on a tall black horse. The rider leaned back in the saddle and removed his hat. Under the moonlight she could see his features clearly and remembered the man who had bowed to her in the Traveler’s Rest.

  “One man, Sharazad, one special man. His name is Shannow. He is respected and feared among these barbarians; they call him the Jerusalem Man, for he seeks a mythical city. One man.”

  “The camp is nothing,” she said. “And thirty Daggers can be replaced.”

  “Still you do not see. Why did he stampede those cattle? Petty revenge? That man is above that.”

  “What other reason could there be?”

  “You have patrols out?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where are they now?”

  She scanned the plain. The three patrols, each with twenty warriors, were hurrying back toward the ruined camp. Once more the scene shimmered, and she found herself looking at the town.

  “Of course you searched the town and destroyed anything that might be of use to the enemy?”

  “No. I … did not …”

  “You did not think, Sharazad—that is your great crime.” She saw the men at work, loading wagons with food, tools, spare rifles from the gunsmith’s store, and other weapons that were still lying beside the dead Daggers. The king moved away from her, but she did not notice, for she saw the man Shannow riding slowly along the main street, watched him dismount before the gunsmith’s store. Hatred surged through her blood like a fever.

  “Can I have the hunters?” she asked. “I want that man.”

  “You can have anything you want,” said the king, “for I love you.”

  His whip snaked out, lashing across her buttocks. She screamed once but did not move.

  And the long day of pain began.

  The king gazed down on Sharazad’s sleeping form as she lay facedown on the white silk sheets with her long legs drawn up to her body. She looked like a babe, all innocence and purity, thought the king. He had whipped her until she had collapsed, the blood flowing to stain the rug beneath her feet. Then he had healed her.

  “Foolish, foolish woman,” he said.

  A tremor shook the city, but the power of the Sipstrassi Mother Stone beneath the temple cut in, repairing cracks in the masonry and shielding the inhabitants from the quakes that rippled across the surrounding countryside.

  The king wandered to the window. Below the palace, beyond the tall marble walls, the people of Ad were moving about their business. Six hundred thousand souls born in the greatest nation the earth had ever seen—or ever would see, he thought. Through the power of the stone from heaven the king had conquered all the civilized world and had opened gates to wonders beyond imagination.

  Fresh conquests meant little to him now. All that mattered was that his name would ring like a clashing shield down through the ages of history. He smiled. Why should it not? With Sipstrassi he was immortal and therefore would be ever present when his continuing story was sung by the bards.

  A second tremor struck. They were beginning to worry him, they had increased so much of late. Clutching his stone, he closed his eyes.

  And disappeared …

  He opened them to find himself standing in the same room overlooking an identical view. There were the marble walls, beyond them the city, and the docks silent and waiting. It was perhaps his greatest artistic achievement: He had created an exact replica of Ad in a world unpeopled by man. Here there were no earthquakes, only an abundance of deer, elk, and all the other wondrous creatures of nature.

  Soon he would transfer the inhabitants there and build a new Atlantis where no enemies could ever conquer them, for there would be no other nations.

  He returned to his room and considered waking Sharazad for an hour of lovemaking, then dismissed the thought, still angry at her stupidity. He did not mind the deaths of the Daggers; the reptiles were merely tools and, as Sharazad had so rightly pointed out, could be replaced with ease. But he hated undisciplined thought, loathed those who could not see or understand the simplest strategies. Many of his generals dismayed him. They could not comprehend that the object of war was to win, not merely to engage in huge and costly battles with a plethora of heroics on either side. Defeat the enemy from within. First convince him of the hopelessness of his cause and then strike him down while he sits demoralized. But in victory be magnanimous, for a defeated and humiliated enemy will live only for the day when he can be revenged. Blame the war on the defeated leaders and court the people. But did the generals understand?

  Now a new dawn was beginning for Atlantis. The king had seen a world of flying machines and great wonders. So far the links had been tentative, but soon he would open the gateway wider and send out scouts to learn about the new enemy.

  His thoughts returned to Sharazad. The world she had discovered was not worthy of their attention save for the weapons known as guns. But now that they had seen them, they could duplicate them—improve on them. There was nothing there of interest. Yet he would allow Sharazad to play out her game to the end; there was the faintest glimmer of hope that she would learn something of value. And if she did not, there was always the whip and her deliciously satisfying screams.

  The man Shannow, at least, was of transient interest. The hunters would kill him, of course, but not before he had provided great sport. How many to send? Five would ensure success. One would give Shannow a chance. Then let it be three, thought the king. But which three?

  Magellas must be one; haughty and proud, he needed a tough task. Lindian? Cold, that one, and lethal—not a man to allow into one’s presence with a weapon of any kind. Yes, Lindian. And to complete the mixture, Rhodaeul. He and Magellas hated each other, constantly vying for supremacy. It should be a fascinating mission for them. They had mastered the new guns with rare brilliance.

  Now it was time to see if they could use them to good purpose against an enemy of great skill.

  The king lifted his stone and concentrated on Shannow’s face. The air rippled before him, and he saw the Jerusalem Man heaving a sack across the back of his saddle.

  “You are in great danger, Jon Shannow,” said the king. “Best to be on your guard!”

  Shannow swung as the eerie voice filled his mind. His gun swept up, but there was no target in sight.

  The sound of mocking laughter drifted away into echoes.

  25

  THE WITHDRAWAL TOOK place just after dawn. The Parson and twenty of the men moved out to flank the straggling column as it headed across the valley toward the great gash the quake had ripped into the ancient wall. The Parson carried a short-barreled rifle, his pistols jutting from the belt of his black cassock. The rescued wagons carried some of the ch
ildren, but most of the three hundred survivors of the raid—reinforced by farmers and settlers from outlying regions—walked in silence, casting nervous glances around them. Everyone expected the reptiles to attack, and the Parson had been hard-pressed to convince the refugees of the need to move from the seeming sanctuary of the woods.

  Edric Scayse had returned in the night with two wagons loaded with food and spare guns. He had volunteered with thirty others to man the defensive trench in the woods.

  “This is partly my fault,” he had told the Parson before the column had moved out. “Those demons are carrying guns I supplied, may God forgive me.”

  “He has a habit of forgiving people,” the Parson assured him.

  As he walked, the Parson prayed earnestly. “Lord, as you saved your chosen people from the clutches of the Egyptians, so be with us now as we walk across the valley of the shadow. And be with us when we enter the realm of the Great Whore, who, with your blessing, I will cut down and destroy with all the beasts of hell over whom she reigns.”

  The wagons were raising dust, and the Parson ran back to the column, organizing children to scatter water around the wheels. In the distance the wall loomed, but if they were found here, there would be no defense. He loped back to the flanking men.

  “You see anything?” he asked Bull.

  “Not a movement, Parson. But I feel like I’m sitting on the anvil with the hammer over me—know what I mean? If it ain’t the reptiles, we’ve still got to walk into the land of the lion-men.”

  “God will be with us,” said the Parson, forcing sincerity into his voice.

  “Hope so,” muttered the man. “Surely do need some edge. Look there! More survivors.”