Last Guardian

by David Gemmell

  “Thank you, no. Another time, perhaps. Tell me, what do you know of Scayse?”

  Haimut shrugged. “Very little. He came here a year ago with a great deal of coin and a large herd of cattle. He is said to be from the far north. He is a clever man.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” said Shannow.

  Shannow returned to the settlement just before dusk. He left the stallion at the stable, paid the hostler to groom and feed him, and then walked to the Jolly Pilgrim. Beth McAdam smiled as he entered and moved across to greet him.

  “Haven’t seen much of you, Shannow,” she said. “Food not good enough?”

  “The food is fine. How are you faring?”

  “Can’t complain. You?”

  “Well enough,” Shannow replied, aware of a rising tension. “Would you bring me some food? Anything hot that you have.”

  “Sure,” she told him.

  He sat quietly facing the door and glanced around the room. There were eight other diners; they studiously avoided looking at him. Beth brought him a bowl of thick broth and some dark bread and cheese. He ate it slowly and considered ordering a Baker’s, but then he remembered Haimut’s warning about the drink being habit-forming and decided against it. Instead he asked for a glass of water.

  “Are you all right, Shannow?” asked Beth as she brought it to his table. “You seem a little … preoccupied.”

  “I have been studying the wall,” he told her, “looking for a way through. It looks as if I will have to climb it and proceed on foot. I do not like traveling that way.”

  “Then ride around it. It cannot stretch across the world, for goodness’ sake.”

  “That could take weeks.”

  “And you, of course, are a man with no time on his hands.”

  He grinned at her. “Will you join me?”

  “I can’t; I’m working. But tomorrow morning I get a free hour at noon. You could come then.”

  “Perhaps I will,” he said.

  “Maybe, if you do, you should consider getting that coat brushed and cleaning your other clothes. You smell of dust and horses. And that silver-forked beard makes you look like Methuselah.”

  Shannow scratched his chin and smiled. “We will see.”

  Just then Alain Fenner entered. He spotted Shannow and approached. “May I sit down, Meneer?” he asked.

  “I thought we had concluded our conversation,” said Shannow, annoyed that the interruption had caused Beth to leave.

  “It is only advice I am seeking.”

  Shannow gestured to the chair opposite himself. “How can I help you?”

  Fenner leaned forward, lowering his voice. “We are going to close down Webber tonight. As you suggested, there will be a group of us—Brisley, Broome, and a few others. But we are none of us men used to sudden violence. I would appreciate your thoughts.”

  Shannow looked into the man’s open, honest face and realized that he liked him. Fenner had courage, and he cared. “Who will be your spokesman?” he asked.

  “I will.”

  “Then it is you the ungodly will look to for action. Do not allow Webber or anyone else to take the lead. Do not enter into any discussion. Say what you want and make it happen. Do you understand me?”

  “I think so.”

  “Keep all talk to a minimum. Move in, get Webber out, and close the place. If there is the least suggestion of opposition, shoot someone. Keep the mob off balance. But it is Webber you must control. He is the head of the snake; cut him off, and the others will stand and wonder what to do, and while they are wondering, you will have won. Can you trust the men with you?”

  “Trust them? What do you mean?”

  “Are they closemouthed? Will Webber know of your plan before you arrive?”

  “I do not think so.”

  “I hope you are right. Your life depends on it. Are you married?”

  “I have a wife and four sons.”

  “Think of them, Fenner, when you walk in. If you make a mistake, it is they who will pay for it.”

  “Can it be done without shooting anyone?”

  “Perhaps. I did not say you should walk in with guns blazing. I am trying to tell you how to stay alive. If Webber starts to talk and you respond, his men will begin to gather themselves—and your men will start to waver. Be strong, be swift, and be direct. No shades of gray, Meneer Fenner. Black and white. Win or lose. Live or die.”

  Fenner took a deep breath. “I will try to follow your advice. Thank you for your time.”

  “It cost me nothing. If trouble starts—or even looks like starting—kill Webber.” But Shannow knew he would not, for even as he said it, the young man’s eyes wavered from his direct gaze. “Do your best, Meneer.”

  When the young man had left, Beth returned to the table. “He’s a good man,” she said.

  “He may not live very long,” Shannow told her.

  There were eight armed men in the group that entered Webber’s gambling house. It was crowded with more than twenty tables and a long bar packed with customers. Webber sat at a Carnat table at the rear, and Fenner led the group through to him.

  “You will come with us, Meneer Webber,” he said, drawing his pistol and pointing it at the gambler. As the revelers realized what was happening, a silence fell on the room. Webber stood and folded his arms. He was a tall man, running to fat but powerfully built; his eyes were black and deep-set, and he smiled at Fenner. Gleaming gold flashed in his grin, and Fenner saw that the teeth on either side of his incisors had been molded from precious metal.

  “Why in the Devil’s name should I?” Webber asked.

  Fenner cocked the pistol. “Because you’ll be dead if you don’t,” he told him.

  “Is this fair?” Webber thundered. “What have I done? I run a gambling house. I have killed no one—save in fair battle.”

  “You are a thief and a scoundrel,” said Josiah Broome, pushing forward, “and we are closing you down.”

  “Who says I am a thief? Let him stand forward,” Webber shouted.

  Fenner waved Broome back, but the man pushed on. “People who win from you are killed. Do you deny any responsibility?”

  “Why is that my fault, Meneer? A man who wins a great deal of coin is seen by many other—unluckier—gamblers.”

  Fenner glanced around. The crowd had fallen back, and Webber’s men ringed the group. Brisley was sweating heavily, and two of the others were shifting uneasily. Fenner’s pistol was leveled at Webber’s chest.

  “You will move now, Meneer, or suffer the consequences.”

  “You would shoot me down? Murder me, Meneer? What sort of law is this you are proposing?”

  “He … he’s right, Alain,” whispered Broome. “We didn’t come here to kill anyone. But let this be a lesson to you, Webber! We’ll not stand for any more violence.”

  “I stand and quake in my shoes, Meneer bacon-server. Now all of you put down your weapons or my men will blow you into tiny pieces.” Brisley’s gun clattered to the floor, and the others followed … all save Alain Fenner’s. His eyes locked to Webber’s, and understanding flowed between them.

  But Fenner was no killer. He uncocked the pistol and thrust it deep into the scabbard at his hip, but as he did so, Webber drew his own pistol and shot Fenner twice in the chest. The young man scrabbled for his gun and fell to his knees, but a third shot struck his breastbone and spun him back to the floor.

  “Emily …” he whispered. Blood bubbled from his lips, and his body twitched.

  “Get that fool out of here,” ordered Webber. “There’s a game in progress.”

  Brisley and the others hauled Fenner out into the street and back past the Traveler’s Rest. Shannow was sitting on the porch; a great sadness weighed down on him as he stood and walked to the group.

  “He just shot him down,” said Broome. “Alain was putting away his gun, and Webber just shot him down.”

  Shannow leaned over and touched his hand to Fenner’s neck. “He’s dead. Put him down.”<
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  “Not in the street,” Broome protested.

  “Put him down!” stormed Shannow. “And wait here.” He took off his coat and left it by the body, then walked swiftly to Webber’s establishment. He entered and stalked across the room to where the gambler was drinking and joking with his men. Then he drew his pistol, cocked it, and slid it against Webber’s lips.

  “Open your mouth!” said Shannow. Webber blinked twice and saw the light of fury in Shannow’s eyes. He opened his mouth, and the barrel slid between his teeth. “Now stand!” Webber eased himself to his feet. Shannow walked him slowly back through the throng and out the door to the street. He did not need to look back to know that everyone in the gambling house had followed. Word spread to other establishments, and the crowd grew. Webber backed away, the gun almost making him choke. His pistol was still in its holster, but he kept his hands well away from it. Shannow halted by the body of Alain Fenner and turned slightly to look at the crowd.

  “This young man risked his life for many of you. And now he lies dead, and his wife is a widow, and his sons have been robbed of a father. And why? Because you have no courage. Because you allow the vermin to walk among you. This man died as a result of sin.” His eyes swept the crowd. “And as the Book says, ‘The Wages of Sin is death!’ ”

  Shannow pulled the trigger. Webber’s brains mushroomed from his skull, and his body fell back to the earth with dark powder smoke streaming from the blackened mouth.

  “Now you listen to me!” Shannow roared into the stunned silence that followed. “I know many of you brigands. If you are in Pilgrim’s Valley come morning, I will hunt you down and kill you on sight. You may be sitting breaking your fast, or sleeping snug in a warm bed, or quietly playing Carnat with friends. But I will fall upon you with the wrath of God. Those with ears to hear, let them understand. Tomorrow you die.”

  A stocky man stepped from the crowd, wearing two guns thrust into his belt. “You think you can tackle all of us?” he challenged.

  Shannow’s pistol boomed, and the man flew from his feet, his skull smashed.

  “There will be no questions,” declared the Jerusalem Man. “Tomorrow I will hunt you down.”

  16

  THE LONG NIGHT had begun. Shannow sat in his room with his Hellborn pistols on the table beside him, his trusted cap and ball weapons in the scabbards at his side. He had cleaned the old guns and reloaded them; he had only sixteen shells for the Hellborn revolvers, and if the night turned sour, he would need more than that. He had moved his chair away from the window and sat in the darkness of his room. The pillows of his bed had been rolled tight and placed under the blankets to imitate a sleeping form, and now the Jerusalem Man had nothing to do but wait for the inevitable.

  As the first hour crept by, he heard the sound of horsemen leaving the town. He did not look from the window to check the numbers. At least two-thirds of the brigands would be leaving before dawn, but it was not the runners who worried Shannow.

  He sat in the darkness, his fury gone, blaming himself for Fenner’s death; he had known deep in his soul that the young man could not survive, yet he had let him walk into the valley of the shadow.

  Am I my brother’s keeper? The answer should have been yes. He recalled the shocked looks on the faces of the mob as he had blown Webber to hell, and he knew what they had seen: the crazed fanatic the world knew as the Jerusalem Man taking one more helpless victim. They would forget that Webber had mercilessly murdered poor Alain Fenner, but they would remember the tormented Webber standing in the moonlight with a pistol barrel in his mouth.

  And so would Shannow. It had not been a good deed. He could convince himself of its necessity, but not of its virtue. There was a time when Jon Shannow would have fought Webber man to man, upright and fearless. But not now. His powers and speed were waning. He had seen that well enough when he had watched Clem Steiner shoot the jug. Once, maybe, the Jerusalem Man could have duplicated such a feat. Not anymore. Not even close.

  A floorboard creaked in the corridor outside. Shannow hefted a pistol, then heard a door open and close and the sound of a man sitting down on a mattress. He relaxed but left the pistol cocked.

  Rivervale. That was where his life had changed. He had ridden through the wild lands and found himself in a predominantly peaceful community. There he had met Donna Taybard. Her husband, Tomas the carpenter, had been murdered, and she herself was under threat. Shannow had helped her and had grown to love her. Together they had journeyed with Con Griffin to a hoped-for new life in a world without brigands and killers. Griffin had called it Avalon.

  Yet what had they found? Shannow had been wounded by the Carns, a strange race of cannibals, and rescued by the saintly Karitas, a survivor of the Fall of the world. Donna had believed Shannow dead and had married Griffin.

  And something in Jon Shannow had given up the ghost and died. He remembered his father once saying: “Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” But it was not true.

  He had been more content before he had met Donna. Perhaps not happy, but he had known who he was and what he was …

  The soft scuff of a boot sounded on the roof above his head.

  Come, then, my would-be killers. I am here. I am waiting. He heard the stretching groan of a rope and saw a booted foot in a loop easing down outside the window.

  Lower and lower it came until a man’s body appeared. He was holding the rope with his left hand while in his right was a long-barreled pistol. As his torso came level with the window, he sighted on the bed and fired twice. At the same time, the door to Shannow’s room was smashed open and two men rushed in.

  The Jerusalem Man shot them both with his left-hand pistol, then twisted his right and fired point-blank into the belly of the man on the rope, who screamed and pitched back out of sight. Shannow lifted his pistols high and blasted three shots through the ceiling. He heard a man yell; the rope sailed past the window, and he heard the thumping crash of the body splitting the planks of the sidewalk.

  Silence fell. The room stank of gunfire, and a fine mist of powder and cordite hung in the air.

  Outside in the corridor Shannow could hear whispered commands, but there was no movement.

  Swiftly he reloaded his pistols with the last of his shells.

  Two shots came from the corridor. A man screamed, and a body thudded against the wooden landing.

  “Hey, Shannow,” called Steiner. “It’s clear out here. Can I come in?”

  “Your hands better be empty,” Shannow replied.

  Steiner stepped across the bodies and entered the room. “There were only two of them,” he said, smiling. “Damn, but you do make life interesting. You know, at least thirty men have already left the settlement. What I wouldn’t give for a reputation like yours!”

  “Why did you help me?”

  “Hell, Shannow, I couldn’t take the risk of someone else killing you. Where in the world would I find an opponent like you?”

  Steiner eased his way to the side of the window and pulled the thick curtain across it; then he struck a match and lit the lantern on the table. “Mind if I move these bodies into the hall? They’re starting to stink up the place.” Without waiting for a response, he moved over to the corpses. “Both shot through the head. Pretty good. Pretty damn good!” He grabbed the collar of the first man and dragged him out into the hall. Shannow sat and watched as he pulled the second corpse after it. “Hey, Mason!” Steiner shouted. “Can you get some men up here to move this dead meat?”

  Stepping back inside, he wedged the broken door shut and returned to his seat. “Well, Shannow, you going to thank me or what?”

  “Why should I thank you?”

  “For taking out the two on the stairs. What would you have done without me? They had you trapped in here like snared game.”

  “Thank you,” said Shannow. “And now you should leave. I’m going to get some sleep.”

  “You want me to walk with you tomorrow, when the hunting starts?”<
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  “That will not be necessary.”

  “Man, you are crazy. There’re still twenty, maybe thirty men who won’t be run out. You can’t take them all.”

  “Good night, Meneer Steiner.”

  The following morning, after three hours sleep, Jon Shannow made his way down to the lobby and called Mason to him. “Send someone out to find me six children who can read. Have them brought here.”

  Then the Jerusalem Man sat down at a table with six large sheets of paper and a charcoal stub. Slowly and carefully he spelled out a simple message on each sheet.

  Shannow made the children read the message aloud and then sent them to the gambling and drinking houses in the eastern section with instructions to hand a notice to each of the owners or barmen. The message was simple:

  WARNING

  ANYONE CARRYING A GUN WITHIN THE TOWNSHIP OF PILGRIM’S VALLEY WILL BE CONSIDERED A BRIGAND AND A WARMAKER AND WILL BE DEALT WITH AS SUCH.

  SHANNOW

  When the children had left, Shannow sat back and waited patiently, emptying his mind of fear and tension. Mason brought him a cup of Baker’s and sat down opposite him.

  “For what it’s worth, Shannow, the room is free—and any food or drink you consume.”

  “That is kind of you, Meneer.”

  Mason shrugged. “You are a good man. This will make you no friends, however.”

  “I am aware of that.” He looked into the man’s cadaverous face. “I do not think you were always a room keeper.”

  Mason gave a thin smile. “You chased me out of Allion—put a bullet in my shoulder. When it rains, it hurts like the Devil.”

  Shannow nodded. “I remember you; you rode with Cade. I am glad you found something more productive.”

  “A man gets older,” said Mason. “Most of us took to the road because we were forced from our farms by raiders, or drought, or men with power. But it’s no life. Here I have a wife, two daughters, and a roof over my head. My meals are regular, and in the winter I have a large log fire to keep out the cold. What more can a man rightly ask for?”

  “Amen to that,” Shannow agreed.

  “What will you do now?”