Last Guardian

by David Gemmell

  “Sure you can, Ma.”

  “Good girl. Now get to bed.”

  Beth stayed awake for several hours, listening to the wind over the grass of the plain, watching the stars gliding by. Two hours before dawn she woke Mary. “Don’t fall asleep, girl. You watch for any riders and wake me if you see them.”

  Then she lay down and fell into a dreamless sleep. It seemed to last for only a few moments before Mary was shaking her, but the sun was clearing the eastern horizon as Beth blinked and pushed one hand through her blond hair.

  “Riders, Ma. I think it’s the same men.”

  “Get in the wagon. And remember what I told you.”

  Beth lifted the flintlock pistol and cocked both barrels; then she hid the gun once more in the folds of her skirt and scanned the group for a sign of Harry. He wasn’t with them. She took a deep breath and steadied herself as the horsemen thundered into the camp and the man she remembered as Quint leapt from the saddle.

  “Now, missy,” he said, “we’ll have a little of what old Harry enjoyed.”

  Beth raised the flintlock. Quint stopped in his tracks. She loosed the first barrel, and the ball took Quint just above his nose, plowing through his skull. He fell back into the dust with blood pumping from a fatal wound in his head as Beth stepped forward.

  The sudden explosion had alarmed the horses, and the four remaining riders fought to settle them as Quint’s mount galloped out over the plain. In the silence that followed the men glanced at one another. Beth’s voice cut into them.

  “You whoresons have two choices: ride or die. And make the choice fast. I start shooting when I stop speaking.” The gun rose and pointed at the nearest man.

  “Whoa there, lady!” the rider shouted. “I’m leaving.”

  “You can’t take all of us, bitch!” shouted another, spurring his horse. But a tremendous explosion came from the wagon, and the brigand was whipped from the saddle, half his head blown away.

  “Any other doubters?” asked Beth. “Move!”

  The three survivors dragged on the reins and galloped away. Beth ran to the wagon, took her powder horn, and reloaded the flintlock. Mary climbed down from the tailboard with the shortened rifle in her arms.

  “You did well, Mary,” said Beth, ramming home the wad over the ball and charge. “I’m proud of you.”

  She took the rifle and leaned it against the wagon, then cradled the trembling child in her arms. “There, there. It’s all right. Go and sit at the front; don’t look at them.” Beth guided Mary to the driving platform and helped her up, then walked back to the bodies. Unbuckling Quint’s pistol belt, she strapped it to her waist and then searched the body for powder and ammunition. She found a small hide sack of caps and transferred them to the wagon, then took a second pistol from the other body and hid it behind the driver’s seat. Sean McAdam had never been able to afford a revolving pistol; now they had two. Beth gathered the oxen, hitched them to the wagon, and then walked to the brigand’s horse, a bay mare, and pulled herself into the saddle. Awkwardly she rode alongside where Mary sat.

  “Take up the reins, child. And let’s move.”

  Samuel clambered up beside Mary and grinned at his mother. “You look just like a brigand, Ma.”

  Beth smiled back at him, then transferred her gaze to Mary, who was sitting white-faced, staring ahead.

  “Take the reins, Mary, goddammit!” The girl flinched and unhooked them from the brake. “Now let’s go!” Mary flicked the reins, and Beth rode up alongside the lead ox and whacked her palm across its rump.

  High above, the carrion birds had begun to circle.

  8

  NU-KHASISATRA REACHED THE old stone circle an hour before dawn. He waited, hidden in the trees, searching for any guards who might be patrolling there, but there were none he could see. Under the bright moonlight he studied the words on the parchment, memorizing them. Then, stone in hand, he ran from the trees onto the open ground before the circle.

  At once there was a thin piercing whistle. Shadows darted for him, and a woman’s voice cried out: “Alive! Take him alive!”

  Nu sprinted for the stone circle, its tall gray slabs promising sanctuary. A reptilian figure in black armor ran into his path, but Nu swung his huge fist into the creature’s face, dashing him to the grass. Hurdling the falling body, he made it to the shadows of the stones. Once there, he swung to see more Daggers closing on him.

  He lifted his hand. “Barak naizi tor lemmes!” he shouted. Lightning flashed across his eyes, blinding him, and his mind was filled with whirling colors. All sense of weight and strength left him, and he tumbled like a windblown feather into a storm. With a sickening lurch he felt the ground under his feet, stumbled, and fell. His eyes opened, but at first he could see nothing save flickering lights. Then his vision cleared, and he found himself in a small clearing. Close by was a dead man, his face hideously burned. Nu got to his feet and moved to the body. The man was wearing strange apparel, and Nu studied it; the clothing was unlike anything he had ever encountered. He walked out of the clearing and stared at the surrounding landscape. There was no city of Balacris, no view of a distant ocean. Grasslands drifted to a blurred horizon where jagged mountains soared to meet the sky.

  Returning to the clearing, Nu sat and examined his stone. The black veins in the gold had swelled. He had no way of knowing how much power the journey had sucked from the Sipstrassi.

  Dropping to his knees, Nu-Khasisatra began to pray. For some time he gave thanks for his deliverance from the hands of Sharazad and her Daggers; then he asked that his family be protected. Finally he sought the silence in which the voice of God could be heard.

  The wind whispered about him, but he heard no words within it. Sunlight bathed his face, but no visions came. At last he stood. It would be safer, he knew, if his clothing matched that of the people of this land. The stone glowed warm in his hand, and his robes and cloak shimmered and changed. Now he was wearing trousers and boots, shirt and long jacket identical to those of the dead man.

  “Be careful, Nu,” he warned himself aloud. “Do not waste the power.”

  He recalled the words of Bali: “Seek the Sword of God.” He had no idea in which direction to travel, but looking down at the ground, he saw the tracks of a horse heading toward the mountains. With no other omen to guide him, Nu-Khasisatra followed them.

  Sharazad sat at an ornate table, her ice-blue eyes locked to the face of Pashad, wife of the traitor Nu-Khasisatra.

  “You denounced your husband yesterday. Why?”

  “I discovered he was plotting against the king,” she answered, averting her eyes and gazing at the surface of the desk, on which lay a curious white-handled ornament of silver.

  “With whom was he plotting?”

  “The merchant Bali, Highness. He was the only one I knew.”

  “You know that the family of a traitor shares his sentence?” whispered the golden-haired inquisitor, and Pashad nodded.

  “Yet he had not been declared a traitor when I denounced him, Highness. Also, I am no longer of his family, for after denouncing him I divorced him.”

  “So you did. Where is he hiding?”

  “I do not know, Highness. The list of our property was taken this morning. There are only five houses and three store buildings by the dock. Other than that, I cannot help you.”

  Sharazad smiled. Then, reaching into the pocket of her pearl-embroidered tunic, she drew out a red-gold stone and placed it on the desk. Three words of power she uttered. “Place your hand over the stone,” she told the slim, dark-haired girl before her. Pashad did so.

  “Now I will ask you some more questions, but I want you to be aware that if you lie, the stone will kill you instantly. Do you understand this?”

  Pashad nodded calmly, but her eyes showed her fear.

  “Do you know the whereabouts of the man Nu-Khasisatra?”

  “I do not.”

  “Do you know the names of any of his friends who may have been involved in the
plot?”

  “That is difficult to answer,” said Pashad, sweat glistening on her brow. “I know some of his … friends, but I would have no way of knowing whether they shared his treason.”

  “Do you share his treason?”

  “No. I do not understand any of it. How can I tell if the king is a god? My life has been spent in making my husband happy and raising his children. What should it matter to us whether the king is a god or not?”

  “If you did know the whereabouts of the man Nu-Khasisatra, would you tell me?”

  “Yes,” answered Pashad. “Instantly.”

  Sharazad’s surprise was genuine. Lifting Pashad’s hand, she took the stone and replaced it in her pocket.

  “You are free to go,” she said. “If you hear any news of the traitor, then make sure I know of it.”

  “I will, Highness.”

  Sharazad watched the woman leave and then leaned back in her chair. A curtain by the left wall parted, and a young man stepped through, tall and wide-shouldered yet slim of hip. He grinned and sat down in a nearby chair, lifting his booted foot to rest on the table.

  “You owe me,” he said. “I told you she would know nothing.”

  “Always so smug, Rhodaeul,” she snapped. “But I am somewhat taken aback. From all I have heard of this shipbuilder, he adored his wife. I would have expected him to have taken her into his confidence.”

  “He’s a careful man. Have you any idea where he has gone?”

  “Yes,” she said, smiling, “as a matter of fact, I have. You see, the circle has been linked to the world we discovered two months ago. Nu-Khasisatra thought he was escaping, but instead he has traveled to our latest field of conquest. It is the land that has brought us these strange weapons.” She lifted the pistol from the desktop and tossed it to Rhodaeul; it was silver-plated with grips of carved white bone. “The king wishes you to become proficient with these … these guns.”

  “Will he equip the army with them?”

  “No. The king believes them to be vulgar. But my Daggers will prove their potency in war.”

  Rhodaeul nodded. “And Nu-Khasisatra?”

  “He is stranded in that strange land. He does not speak the language, nor does he know a way back. I will find him.”

  “So sure of yourself, Sharazad? Beware!”

  “Do not mock me, Rhodaeul. If I am arrogant, it is with good cause. The king knows my talents.”

  “We all know your talents, dear Sharazad. Some of us have even enjoyed them. But the king is right. These weapons are vulgar beyond description; there is no honor in dispatching an enemy with such a monstrosity.”

  “You fool! You think there is more honor in an arrow or a lance? They are merely weapons of death.”

  “A clever man can dodge an arrow, Sharazad, or sidestep a lance. But with these death strikes a man unaware. And their mastery takes no skill.” He walked to the window and stepped out into the courtyard beyond. Two prisoners were tied to stakes; wood had been piled around their feet and legs.

  “Where is the skill?” asked Rhodaeul, cocking the pistol smoothly. Two shots rang out, and the victims at the stakes sagged against their ropes. “All a man needs is a good eye and a swift hand. But with the sword there are over forty different variations on the classic block and riposte, sixty if you count the saber. But if it is the king’s wish, I will learn how to handle the thing.”

  “It is the king’s wish, Rhodaeul. Perhaps you will be able to polish your skills in my new world. There are men there who are legends because of their skill with such weapons. I will hunt them down for you and have them brought back for your … education.”

  “How sweet of you, Sharazad. I will look forward to it. Can you give me a name to disturb my dreams?”

  “There are several. Johnson is one, Crowe another. Then there is Daniel Cade. But above them all there is a man called Jon Shannow. They say he seeks a mythical city, and they call him the Jerusalem Man.”

  “Bring them all, Sharazad. Since our conquests in the north we have been sadly lacking in good sport.”

  9

  SHANNOW KNEW FROM the moment he set off in pursuit that he would be too late to help the woman and her family, and anger burned in him. Even so he rode with care, for in the light of the moon he could not see the ground ahead clearly. It was dawn before he came upon the bodies; they had been disturbed by carrion eaters, the faces and hands stripped of flesh. Shannow sat his horse and stared down at them.

  His respect for the unknown woman soared. Dismounting, he examined the ground, finding the spot from which Beth McAdam had fired. Judging by the angle at which the other corpse lay, the second shot must have come from the wagon. Shannow remounted and headed toward the mountains.

  The land rose sharply, becoming thickly wooded with towering pine. The stallion was tired and stumbled twice; Shannow stepped down and led the horse up and into the trees. They came to a crest on the mountainside, and Shannow gazed down on a sprawling camp with six fires and a dozen tents. Men were working under torchlight in an immense pit from which jutted a towering structure of metal that was almost triangular but had one side slightly curved. There was a wide stream to the south of the camp and, beside it, a wagon. The Jerusalem Man led his mount down into the campsite, tethering him at a picket line and removing the saddle. A man approached him.

  “You got word from Scayse?” the man asked, and Shannow turned.

  “No. I’ve just come in from the north.” The man swore and walked away.

  Shannow made his way to the largest tent and stepped into the lantern-lit interior. There were a dozen or so men inside, eating and drinking, while a large-boned, well-fleshed woman in a leather apron was ladling food into round wooden bowls. He joined the line and took a bowl of thick broth and a chunk of black bread, carrying it to a bench table near the tent opening. Two men made room for him, and he ate in silence.

  “Looking for work?” asked a man across the table, and Shannow looked up. The speaker was around thirty years of age, slender and fair-haired.

  “No … thank you. I am heading south,” Shannow replied. “Can I purchase supplies here?”

  “You could see Deiker; he may have some spare. He’s on site at the moment; he should be in any time now.”

  “What are you working on?”

  “It’s an old metal building from before the Fall. We’ve found some interesting artifacts. Nothing of great value yet, but we’re hopeful. It has given us a great insight into the Dark Times; they must have been living in fear to build such a great iron fortress here.”

  “Why in fear?” Shannow asked.

  “Oh, you can only see a section of the building from here. It goes on and on. There are no windows or doors for over a hundred feet from the foundation base, and then, when you do find them, they are too small to allow anyone to climb through. They must have had terrible wars in those days. By the way, my name is Klaus Monet.” The young man thrust out his hand, and Shannow accepted the grip.

  “Jon Shannow,” he said, watching for any response. There was none.

  “And another thing,” Monet went on. “It is all built of iron, and yet there are no significant iron ore deposits in these mountains or trace of any mines save the silver mines at Pilgrim’s Valley. So the inhabitants must have carted ore right across the Big Wide. Incredible, isn’t it?”

  “Incredible,” agreed Shannow, finishing his meal and rising.

  Outside the tent he walked to the edge of the pit and watched the men below; they were finishing their work and packing their tools away. He waited until they reached the upper level.

  “Meneer Deiker!” Shannow called.

  “Who wants him?” asked a thickset man with a black and silver beard.

  “I do. I am looking to buy some supplies—grain, dried fruit, and meat. And some oats if you have them.”

  “For how many?”

  “Just myself.”

  The man nodded. “I think I can accommodate you, but Pilgrim’s Valley is
only two days away. You’d get better prices there.”

  “Always take food where you can find it,” Shannow said.

  “There’s wisdom in that,” Deiker agreed. He led Shannow to the store tents and filled several small sacks. “You want sugar and salt?”

  “If you can spare it. How long have you been working on this site?”

  “About a month; it’s one of the best. There will be a lot of answers here, mark my words.”

  “And you think it is a building?”

  “What else can it be?” Deiker asked, with a broad grin.

  “It is a ship,” Shannow told him.

  “I like a man with a sense of humor, Meneer. I estimate that it is over three hundred feet long—most of it still buried. And it is made of iron. Did you ever see anyone float a piece of iron?”

  “No, but I have seen an iron ship before—and considerably bigger than this one.”

  Deiker shook his head. “I am an arcanist, Meneer. I know my business. I also know you do not get ships at the center of a landmass. That will be three full silvers.”

  Shannow said no more but paid for the food with Barta coin and carried it back to his saddle, stowing it in his cavernous bags. Then he walked back through the camp toward the wagon by the stream. He saw a woman sitting by a blazing fire with her two children asleep in blankets by her feet.

  She looked up as he approached, and he watched her hand slide toward the pistol scabbard on her belt.

  Beth McAdam looked long at the tall newcomer. His hair was shoulder-length and dark with silver streaks at the temples, and a white fork at the chin showed in the closely trimmed beard he wore. His face was angular and strong, his blue eyes cold. By his side were two pistols in oiled leather scabbards.

  He sat down opposite her. “You coped well with a perilous journey. I congratulate you. Very few people would have dared to cross the Big Wide without the protection of a wagon convoy.”

  “You get straight to it, don’t you?” she said.