The Last Guardian

by David Gemmell

  Curiously, he realized, his words had been true: He did like Magellas. The giant had helped him many times when they had been growing in the war pens, when Lindian had been small and weak. And Magellas was easy company, unlike the arrogant Rhodaeul, who was always so sure of victory.

  He vaulted into the saddle and grinned at Magellas.

  It will be no pleasure to kill you, thought Lindian.

  But that was the real secret of the test. Smaller and weaker than the other hunters, Lindian had developed skills of the mind. He had watched and studied, learning the secrets of men. Pendarric loathed Rhodaeul and disliked Magellas. Yet each of them, in his own way, had the talent to succeed the Atlantean king. And that was the doom they carried. For with Sipstrassi a king needed no heirs, and the last talent a man should have developed in Pendarric’s presence was that of charismatic leadership.

  No, better to be like me, thought Lindian—efficient, careful, and undeniably loyal. I will make a good satrap of Akkady, he thought.

  The two hunters rode together for most of the morning. In the distance they saw lions, and they passed a small deserted settlement of tiny huts that aroused Magellas’ interest. He dismounted and ducked to his knees to enter a doorway. Moments later he emerged. “They must have seen us coming and scampered off to the trees. Fascinating.”

  They rode on, guiding their mounts up a steep slope and halting on the crest. The city lay before them.

  Lindian disguised the shock he felt, but the breath hissed from Magellas’ throat, turning into a foul obscenity. He studied the wall, the line of the docks, the distant spires of the temple.

  “Where is the sea?” he whispered.

  Lindian swung in the saddle, his eyes scanning the mountains and valleys. “It is all different. Everything!”

  “Then this is not Atlantis, and that … monstrosity … is merely a replica of Ad. But why would anyone build it? Look at the docks. Why?”

  “I have no idea, Brother,” said Lindian. “I suggest we complete our mission and return home. We must have passed a score of places where we could waylay Shannow.”

  Magellas could not tear his eyes from the city. “Why?” he asked again.

  “I am not a seer,” snapped Lindian. “Perhaps the king created it to disturb us. Perhaps this is all some dark game. I do not care, Magellas. I merely want to kill Shannow and return home, that is, if Rhodaeul does not beat us to the quarry.”

  At the sound of his enemy’s name, Magellas jerked his gaze from the white-marbled city. “Yes, yes, you are right, my brother. But Rhodaeul’s arrogance is, I think, misplaced this time. You recall the teachings of Locratis? First study your enemy, come to know him, learn of his strengths, and in them you will find his weaknesses. Rhodaeul has come to expect victory.”

  “Only because he is skillful,” Lindian pointed out.

  “Even so, he is becoming careless. It is the fault of these new weapons. A man can at least see an arrow in flight or hear the hissing of the air it cuts. Not so with these,” he said, drawing the pistol. “I do not like them.”

  “Rhodaeul does.”

  “Indeed he does. Though when has he faced an enemy as skilled in their use as the man Shannow?”

  “You are taking a great risk in allowing Rhodaeul to make the first move. How will you feel if he rides in and kills the Jerusalem Man?”

  Magellas chuckled. “I will bid him a fond farewell on his journey to Akkady. However, it is wise when hunting a lion to consider the kill, not where one will place the trophy. There is a stream yonder. I think it is time to locate our brother and watch his progress.”

  29

  NU-KHASISATRA FELT AWKWARD on the horse he had borrowed from Scayse. He had never enjoyed riding, and on every slope he closed his eyes and prayed as he swayed in the saddle, his stomach churning.

  “I would sooner ride a storm at sea than this … this creature.”

  Shannow chuckled. “I have seen sacks of carrots ride with more style,” he said. “Do not grip with your calves, just the thighs, letting the lower leg hang loose. And when going downhill, keep her head up.”

  “My spine is being crushed,” grumbled Nu.

  “Relax and settle down in the saddle. By heaven, I’ve never seen a worse rider. You’re unsettling the mare.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” said Nu.

  They rode on through a wide valley, leaving the wagons far behind. The sun was obscured by clouds, and the threat of rain hung in the air.

  Toward noon Shannow spotted a rider approaching them; he reined in and took out his long glass. At first he thought the man was elderly, for his hair was bone-white, but as he focused the glass, he saw that he had been mistaken. The rider was young and was wearing a black and silver tunic with dark leggings and high riding boots. He passed the glass to Nu, and the shipbuilder cursed.

  “It is one of Pendarric’s killers. They are the hunters. He is searching for me, Shannow—best you ride away.”

  “It is only one man, Nu.”

  “Maybe so, but such men you would not want to meet. They are reared in war pens; they fight and kill each other from their earliest days. They are bred for strength, speed, and stamina, and there are no fighting men to equal them. Believe me, Shannow, ride away while there is still time! Please—I do not want to see you come to any harm.”

  “We share that wish, my friend,” Shannow agreed, watching as the rider moved ever closer.

  Rhodaeul smiled as he saw the men waiting for him. Truly his rewards would be great, for the second rider was the traitor Nu-Khasisatra, a prophet of the One God and a man opposed to violence. He could not decide whether to kill him there or take him back to face Pendarric’s justice.

  He halted some twenty paces from the pair. “Jon Shannow, the king of kings has spoken the words of your death. I am Rhodaeul the hunter. Do you have anything to say before you die?”

  “No,” said Shannow, palming his gun and blasting Rhodaeul from the saddle. The Atlantean hit the ground hard, a hammering pain in his chest; he tried to draw his pistol, but Shannow rode forward and fired a second shot that smashed his skull.

  “Sweet Chronos!” exclaimed Nu. “I cannot believe it.”

  “Neither could he,” said Shannow. “Let us move on.”

  “But … what of the body?”

  “That’s why God made vultures,” answered Shannow, touching heels to his stallion.

  Two miles away Magellas opened his eyes and gave a deep, throaty chuckle. “Oh, joy,” he said. Lindian returned his stone to its pouch and shook his head, but Magellas laughed again, the sound rich with humor. “What I would have paid to see that scene! The satrapy of Akkady? That and ten more like it. Did you see the look on Rhodaeul’s face as Shannow fired? Was it not wonderful? Shannow, I am in your debt. I will light candles to your soul for a thousand years. Oh, Belial, how I wish I could see it again.”

  “Your grief for your brother is deeply touching,” said Lindian, “but I still do not understand what happened.”

  “That is because your eyes were on Rhodaeul. For myself I cannot—could not—stomach the man. Therefore, I watched Shannow. He drew his gun as he spoke; there was no sharp movement, and the weapon was almost clear before Rhodaeul realized he was in peril.”

  “But surely Rhodaeul must have known Shannow would attempt to fight?”

  “Of course, but that is where timing is all-important. He asked Shannow a question and was waiting for a response. How many times have we both done exactly that? It has never mattered, because we dealt with sword and knife. But these guns … they are sudden. Rhodaeul expected conversation, fear, nervousness … even pleading or flight. Shannow merely killed him.”

  Lindian nodded. “You guessed, didn’t you? You expected this?”

  “I did, but the outcome was beyond my greatest hopes. It is the guns, Lindian. We can master their use with ease, but not the great changes they create in man-to-man battles. It’s what I tried to say earlier. With the sword, the lance, or the
mace battle becomes ritualized. Opponents must circle one another, seeking openings, risking their lives. It all takes time. But the gun? A fraction of a heartbeat separates man from corpse. Shannow understands this; he has lived all his life with such weapons. There is no need for ritual or concepts of honor. An enemy is there to be shot down and forgotten. He will light no candles for Rhodaeul.”

  “Then how do we tackle him? We cannot kill him from ambush; we must face him.”

  “He will show us his weakness, Lindian. Tonight we will enter his dreams, and they will give us the key.”

  * * *

  Shannow and Nu made their camp in the lee of a hill. The Jerusalem Man said little and moved away to sit alone, staring at the city they would visit in the morning. His mood was dark and somber. A long time before he had told Donna Taybard, “Each death lessens me, lady.” But was it still true? The execution of Webber had been a first: an unarmed man made to stand, humiliated, in front of his peers and then gunned down. The other man in the crowd had done nothing but speak; for that he, too, was dead.

  What separates you from the brigand now, Shannow?

  There was no answer. He was older, slower, more reliant on skill than on speed. And worse, he had cocooned himself within his reputation, allowing the legend to awe lesser men into bending to his will.

  “For what?” he whispered. “Is the world a better place? Is Jerusalem any closer?”

  He thought back to the white-haired young man who had accosted them on the trail. Was that a duel? he asked himself. No, it was a murder. The young warrior had had no chance. You could have waited and met him on equal terms. Why? Honor? Fair play?

  Why not? You used to believe in such virtues. He rubbed at his tired eyes as Nu strode over to him.

  “Do you wish to remain alone?”

  “I will be alone whether you join me or not. But sit anyway.”

  “Talk of it, Shannow. Let the words bring out the bile inside.”

  “There is no bile. I was thinking about the hunter.”

  “Yes. He was Rhodaeul, and he had killed many. I was surprised at the ease with which you sent him to the grave.”

  “Yes, it was easy. They are all easy.”

  “Yet it troubles you?”

  “Sometimes, in the dark of the night. I killed a child once, ended his life by mistake. He troubles me, haunts my dreams. I have killed so many men, and it is all becoming so easy.”

  “God did not make man to be alone, Shannow. Think on it.”

  “You think I have not? I tried once to settle down, but I knew before I lost her that it was not for me. I am not a man made for happiness. I carry such guilt over that child, Nu.”

  “Not guilt, my friend. Grief. There is a difference. Yours is a skill I would not wish to acquire, yet it is necessary. In my own time there were wild tribes bordering our lands; they would raid and kill. Pendarric destroyed them, and we all slept easier in our beds. As long as man remains the hunter-killer, there will be a need for warriors like you. I can wear my white robes and pray in peace. The evil can dress in black. But there must always be the gray riders to patrol the border between good and evil.”

  “We are playing with words, Nu. Gray is only a lighter shade of black.”

  “Or a darker shade of white? You are not evil, Shannow; you are plagued by self-doubt. That is what saves you. That is where the Parson is in peril. He has no doubts and therefore is capable of enormous evil. It was the downfall of Pendarric. No, you are safe, gray rider.”

  “Safe?” repeated Shannow. “Who is safe?”

  “He who walks with God. How long since you sought His word in your Bible?”

  “Too long.”

  Nu stretched out his hand, holding Shannow’s leather-covered Bible. “No man of God should be lonely.”

  Shannow took the book. “Maybe I should have devoted myself to a life of prayer.”

  “You have followed the path set for you. God uses both warrior and priest, and it is not for us to judge His purposes. Read a little, then sleep. I will pray for you, Shannow.”

  “Pray for the dead, my friend.”

  * * *

  As the horse reared and died, Shannow leapt from the saddle. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and came to his knees with guns in hand. The roaring of the pistols and the screams of his attackers faded. A sound from behind! Shannow swiveled and fired. The boy was hurled from his feet. A small dog began yapping; it ran to the boy, licking his dead face.

  “What a vile man you are,” came a voice, and Shannow blinked and turned. Two young men stood close by, their hair white, their eyes cold.

  “It was an accident,” said Shannow. “I was being attacked … I didn’t realize.”

  “A child killer, Lindian. What should we do with him?”

  “He deserves to die,” said the smaller of the two. “There is no question of that.”

  “I never meant to kill the child,” Shannow repeated.

  The tall man in the black and silver tunic stepped forward, his hand hovering over the gun butt. “The king of kings has spoken the words of your death, Jon Shannow. Do you have anything to say before you die?”

  “No,” said Shannow, palming his pistol smoothly. A bullet smashed into Shannow’s chest, the pain incredible as his own gun dropped from his twitching fingers and he sank to his knees.

  “You should not try the same trick twice, old man,” whispered his killer.

  Shannow died …

  And awoke beside the fire on the hillside. Nu was sleeping soundly beside him, and the night breeze was cool. Shannow built up the fire and returned to his blankets.

  He was standing at the center of an arena. Seated all around him were men he had killed: Sarento, Webber, Thomas, Lomax, and so many others whose names he could not remember. The child was leaning back on a golden throne, blood dripping steadily to stain the breast of the white tunic he wore.

  “These are your judges, Jon Shannow,” said a voice, and the tall white-haired warrior stepped forward. “These are the souls of the slain.”

  “They are evil men,” stated Shannow. “Why should they have the right to judge me?”

  “What gave you the right to judge them?”

  “By their deeds,” answered the Jerusalem Man.

  “And what was his crime?” stormed his accuser, pointing to the blood-drenched child.

  “It was a mistake. An error!”

  “And what price have you paid for that error, Jon Shannow?”

  “Every day I have paid a price with the fire in my soul!”

  “And what price for these?” shouted the warrior as down the central aisle came a score of children—some black, some white, toddlers and infants, young boys and girls.

  “I do not know them. This is trickery!” said Shannow.

  “They were the children of the Guardians, drowned when you destroyed the Titanic. What price for these, Shannow?”

  “I am not an evil man!” shouted the Jerusalem Man.

  “By your deeds we judge you.”

  Shannow saw the warrior reach for his pistol. His own gun flashed up, but at the moment he fired, the man disappeared and the bullet smashed into the chest of the boy on the throne. “Oh, dear God, not again!” screamed the Jerusalem Man.

  His body jerked, and he came awake instantly. Beyond the fire sat a lioness and her cubs. As he sat up, the lioness growled and moved back, the cubs scampering after her. Shannow banked up the fire, and Nu awoke and stretched.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked.

  “Let’s pack up and move on,” Shannow answered.

  As always, when the Parson needed to pray in solitude he headed for the high country bordering the clouds. His route took him through the woods of the bear people, but he cared nothing for danger; a man on his way to speak with his maker, he knew that nothing would keep him from that appointment.

  His soul was heavy, for the people had rejected him. He should have expected that, he knew, for it was always the way with prophets.
Did they not reject Elijah, Elisha, Samuel? Did they not spurn the son of God himself?

  The people were weak, thinking only of their bellies or their small needs. Just like the monastery, with their constant prayers and works of little good.

  “The world is evil,” the abbot had told him. “We must turn our faces from it and seek the greater glory of God through worship.”

  “But God made the world, Abbot, and Jesus himself asked us to go among the people as yeast to dough.”

  “No, He did not,” the abbot answered. “He asked His disciples to do that. But this is Armageddon; these are the end days. The people are not for saving; they have made their choices.”

  He had left the monastery and earned a meager living in a mining town, preaching in a bell-shaped tent. But the Devil had come to him there and found him wanting. Lucifer had led the girl to his sermon, and Lucifer had put the carnal thoughts in her mind. Oh, he had fought the desires of the flesh. But how weak is man!

  His people—not understanding his temptations or the inner battles that went with them—had driven him from the town. It was not his fault! It was God’s judgment when the girl hanged herself.

  The Parson shook his head and looked around him, realizing he had gone deep into the woods. He saw the dismembered body of a reptile, then another. Drawing the horse to a halt, he looked around. Bodies lay everywhere. He dismounted and saw that by a bush, her corpse wedged beneath the jutting roots of an old oak, lay Sharazad. There were terrible rips and tears on her body, but her face was remarkably untouched.

  “Shannow was right,” said the Parson. “You do look like an angel.” By her hand lay a red-veined stone, and he lifted it; it was warm and soothing to the touch. He dropped it into the pocket of his black cassock and mounted his horse, but his hand seemed to miss the warmth of the stone, and he drew it out once more. He rode on, ever rising, until he came out onto a clearing at the crest of the range. It was cold there, but the air was fresh and clean, the sky unbearably blue. Dismounting once more, he knelt in prayer.

  “Dear Father,” he began, “lead me to the paths of righteousness. Take my body and soul. Show me the road I must walk to do your work, fulfill your word.” The stone grew hot in his hand, and his mind blurred.