Stones Of Power - The Complete Chronicles Of The Jerusalem Man Part 80

And then the colours came, vivid reds and purples washing over the fuselage, masking the windows. As if we had been swallowed by a rainbow. Then they were gone. Four seconds perhaps. Yet in those four seconds I alone knew that several hundred years had pa.s.sed.

'It has begun, Saul,' I said.

CHAPTER ONE.

The pain was too great to ignore, and nausea threatened to swamp him as he rode. But the Preacher clung to the saddle and steered the stallion up towards the Gap. The full moon was high in the clear sky, the distant mountain peaks sharp and glistening white against the skyline. The sleeve of the rider's black coat was still smouldering, and a gust of wind brought a tongue of flame. Fresh pain seared through him and he beat at the cloth with a smoke-blackened hand.

Where were they now, he thought, pale eyes scanning the moonlit mountains and the lower pa.s.ses? His mouth was dry and he reined in the stallion. A canteen hung from the pommel and the Preacher hefted it, uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the bra.s.s cap. Lifting it to his lips, he found it was filled not with water but with a fiery spirit. He spat it out and hurled the canteen away.

Cowards! They needed the dark inspiration of alcohol to aid them on their road to murder.

His anger flared, momentarily masking the pain. Far down the mountain, emerging from the timber line he saw a group of riders. His eyes narrowed. Five' men. In the clear air of the mountains he heard the distant sound of laughter.

The rider groaned and swayed in the saddle, the pounding in his temple increasing. He touched the wound on the right side of his head. The blood was congealing now, but there was a groove in the skull where the bullet had struck, and the flesh around it was hot and swollen.

He felt consciousness slipping from him, but fought back using the power of his rage.

Tugging the reins he guided the stallion up through the Gap, then angled it to the right, down the long wooded slope towards the road. The slope was treacherous and the stallion slipped twice, dropping to its haunches. But the rider kept the animal's head up and it righted itself, coming at last to level ground and the hard-packed earth of the trade road.

The Preacher halted his mount, then looped the reins around the pommel and drew his pistols. Both were long-barrelled, the cylinders engraved with swirls of silver. He shivered and saw that his hands were trembling. How long had it been since these weapons of death were last in use. Fifteen years? Twenty? I swore never to use them again. Never to take another life.

And you were a fool!

Love your enemy. Do good to him that hates you.

And see your loved ones slain.

If he strikes you upon the right cheek, offer him the left.

And see your loved ones burn.

He saw again the roaring flames, heard the screams of the terrified and the dying . . .

Nasha running for the blazing door as the roof timbers cracked and fell upon her, Dova kneeling beside the body of her husband Nolis, her fur ablaze, pulling open the burning door, only to be shot to ribbons by the jeering, drunken men outside . . .

The riders came into sight and saw the lone figure waiting for them. It was clear that they recognised him, but there was no fear in them. This he found strange, but then he realised they could not see the pistols, which were hidden by the high pommel of the saddle. Nor could they know the hidden secret of the man who faced them. The riders urged their horses forward and he waited, silently, as they approached. All trembling was gone now, and he felt a great calm descend upon him.

'Well, well,' said one of the riders, a huge man wearing a double-shouldered canvas coat.

'The Devil looks after his own, eh? You made a bad mistake following us, Preacher. It would have been easier for you to die back there.' The man produced a double-edged knife.

'Now I'm going to skin you alive!'

For a moment he did not reply, then he looked the man in the eyes. 'Were they ashamed when they had committed the abomination?' he quoted. Wo, they were not ashamed, and could not blush.' The pistol in his right hand came up, the movement smooth, unhurried.

For a fraction of a second the huge raider froze, then he scrabbled for his own pistol. It was too late. He did not hear the thunderous roar, for the heavy-calibre bullet smashed into his skull ahead of the sound and catapulted him from the saddle. The explosion terrified the horses, and all was suddenly chaos. The Preacher's stallion reared but he re-adjusted his position and fired twice, the first bullet ripping through the throat of a lean, bearded man, the second punching into the back of a rider who had swung his horse in a vain bid to escape the sudden battle. A fourth man took a bullet in the chest and fell screaming to the ground, where he began to crawl towards the low undergrowth at the side of the road. The last raider, managing to control his panicked mount, drew a long pistol and fired; the bullet came close, tugging at the collar of the Preacher's coat. Twisting in the saddle, he fired his left-hand pistol twice, and his a.s.sailant's face disappeared as the bullets hammered into his head. Riderless horses galloped away into the night and he surveyed the bodies. Four men were dead; the fifth, wounded in the chest, was still trying to crawl away, and leaving a trail of blood behind him. Nudging the stallion forward, the rider came alongside the crawling man.

'I will surely consume them, saith the Lord.' The crawling man rolled over.

'Jesus Christ, don't kill me! I didn't want to do it. I didn't kill any of them, I swear it!'

'By their works shall ye judge them,' said the rider.

The pistol levelled. The man on the ground threw up his hands, crossing them over his face. The bullet tore through his fingers and into his brain.

'It is over,' said the Preacher. Dropping the pistols into the scabbards at his hip, he turned the stallion and headed for home. Weariness and pain overtook him then, and he slumped forward over the horse's neck.

The stallion, with no guidance now from the man, halted. The rider had pointed him towards the south, but that was not the home the stallion knew. For a while it stood motionless, then it started to walk, heading east and out into the plains.

It plodded on for more than an hour, then caught the scent of wolves. Shapes moved to the right. The stallion whinnied and reared. The weight fell from its back . . . and then it galloped away.

Jeremiah knelt by the sleeping man, examining the wound in the temple. He did not believe the skull to be cracked, but there was no way of being sure. The bleeding had stopped, but ma.s.sive bruising extended up into the hairline and down across the cheekbone almost all the way to the jaw. Jeremiah gazed down at the man's face. It was lean and angular, the eyes deep-set. The mouth was thin-lipped, yet not, Jeremiah considered, cruel.

There was much to learn about a man by studying his face, Jeremiah knew, as if the experiences of life were mirrored there in code. Perhaps, he thought, every act of weakness or spite, bravery or kindness, made a tiny mark, added a line here and there, that could be read like script. Maybe this was G.o.d's way of allowing the holy to perceive wickedness in the handsome. It was a good thought. The sick man's face was strong, but there was little kindness there, Jeremiah decided, though equally there was no evil. Gently he bathed the head wound, then drew back the blanket. The burns to the man's arm and shoulder were healing well, though several blisters were still seeping pus.

Jeremiah turned his attention to the man's weapons. Revolvers made by the h.e.l.lborn, single-action pistols. Hefting the first he drew back the hammer into the half-c.o.c.k position, then flipped the release, exposing the cylinder. Two sh.e.l.ls had been fired.

Jeremiah removed an empty cartridge case and examined it. The weapon was not new. In the years before the Second Satan Wars the h.e.l.lborn had produced double-action versions of the revolver, with slightly shorter barrels, and squat, rectangular automatic pistols and rifles that were far more accurate than these pieces. Such weapons had not saved them from annihilation. Jeremiah had seen the destruction of Babylon. The Deacon had ordered it razed, stone by stone, until nothing remained save a flat, barren plain. The old man shivered at the memory.

The injured man groaned and opened his eyes. Jeremiah felt the coldness of fear as he gazed into them. The eyes were the misty grey-blue of a winter sky, piercing and sharp, as if they could read his soul. 'How are you feeling?' he asked, as his heart hammered. The man blinked and tried to sit. 'Lie still, my friend. You have been badly wounded.'

'How did I get here?' The voice was low, the words softly spoken.

'My people found you on the plains. You fell from your horse. But before that you were in a fire, and were shot.'

The man took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 'I don't remember,' he said, at last.

'It happens,' said Jeremiah. The trauma from the pain of your wounds. Who are you?'

'I don't remem . . .'the man hesitated. 'Shannow. I am Jon Shannow.'

'An infamous name, my friend. Rest now and I will come back this evening with some food for you.'

The injured man opened his eyes and reached out, taking Jeremiah's arm. 'Who are you, friend?'

'I am Jeremiah. A Wanderer.'

The wounded man sank back to the bed. 'Go and cry in the ears of Jerusalem, Jeremiah,'

he whispered, then fell once more into a deep sleep.

Jeremiah climbed from the back of the wagon, pushing closed the wooden door. Isis had prepared a fire, and he could see her gathering herbs by the riverside, her short, blonde hair shining like new gold in the sunlight. He scratched at his white beard and wished he were twenty years younger. The other ten wagons had been drawn up in a half-circle around the river-bank and three other cook-fires were now lit. He saw Meredith kneeling by the first, slicing carrots into the pot that hung above" it.

Jeremiah strolled across the gra.s.s and hunkered down opposite the lean, young academic.

'A life under the sun and stars agrees with you, doctor,' he said amiably. Meredith gave a shy smile, and pushed back a lock of sandy hair that had fallen into his eyes.

'Indeed it does, Meneer Jeremiah. I feel myself growing stronger with each pa.s.sing day. If more people from the city could see this land there would be less savagery, I am sure.'

Jeremiah said nothing and transferred his gaze to the fire. In his experience savagery always dwelt in the shadow of Man, and where Man walked evil was never far behind. But Meredith was a gentle soul, and it did a young man no harm to nurse gentle dreams. 'How is the wounded man?' Meredith asked.

'Recovering, I think, though he claims to remember nothing of the fight that caused his injuries. He says his name is Jon Shannow.'

Anger shone briefly in Meredith's eyes. 'A curse on that name!' he said.

Jeremiah shrugged. 'It is only a name.'

Isis knelt by the river-bank and stared down at the long, sleek fish just below the glittering surface of the water. It was a beautiful fish, she thought, reaching out with her mind.

Instantly her thoughts blurred, then merged with the fish. She felt the cool of the water along her flanks and was filled with a haunting restlessness, a need to move, to push against the currents, to swim for home.

Withdrawing, she lay back . . . and felt the approach of Jeremiah. Smiling, she sat up and turned towards the old man. 'How is he?' she asked, as Jeremiah eased himself down beside her.

'Getting stronger. I'd like you to sit with him.' The old man is troubled, but trying to hide it, she thought. Resisting the urge to flow into his mind, she waited for him to speak again.

'He is a fighter, perhaps even a brigand. I just don't know. It was our duty to help him, but the question is: Will he prove a danger to us as he grows stronger? Is he a killer? Is he wanted by the Crusaders? Could we find ourselves in trouble for harbouring him? Will you help me?'

'Oh, Jeremiah,' said Isis, softly. 'Of course I will help you. Did you doubt it?'

He reddened. 'I know you don't like to use your talent on people. I'm sorry I had to ask.'

'You're a sweet man,' she said, rising. Dizziness swept over her and she stumbled.

Jeremiah caught her, and she felt swamped by his concern. Slowly strength returned to her, but the pain had now started in her chest and stomach. Jeremiah lifted her into his arms and walked back towards the wagons where Dr Meredith ran to them. Jeremiah sat her down in the wide rocking-chair by the fire, while Meredith took her pulse. 'I'm all right now,' she said. 'Truly.'

Meredith's slender hand rested on her brow, and it took all her concentration to blot out the intensity of his feelings for her. 'I'm all right!'

'And the pain?' he asked.

'Fading,' she lied. 'I just got up too quickly. It is nothing.'

'Get some salt,' Meredith told Jeremiah. When he returned Meredith poured it into her outstretched palm. 'Eat it,' he commanded.

'It makes me feel sick,' she protested, but he remained silent and she licked the salt from her hand. Jeremiah pa.s.sed her a mug of water, and she rinsed her mouth.

'You should rest now,' said Meredith.

'I will, soon,' she promised. Slowly she stood. Her legs took her weight and she thanked both men. Anxious to be away from their caring glances she moved to Jeremiah's wagon and climbed inside, where the wounded man was still sleeping.

Isis pulled up a chair and sat down. Her illness was worsening, and she sensed the imminence of death.

Pushing such thoughts from her mind, she reached out, her small hand resting on the fingers of the sleeping man. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to fall into his memories, floating down and down through the layers of manhood and adolescence, absorbing nothing until she reached childhood.

Two boys, brothers. One shy and sensitive, the other bois-' terous and rough. Caring parents, farmers. Then the brigands came. Bloodshed and murder, the boys escaping.

Torment and tragedy affecting them both in different ways, the one becoming a brigand, the other . . .

Isis jerked back to reality, all thoughts of her illness forgotten now as she stared down at the sleeping man. 'I am staring into the face of a legend,' she thought. Once more she merged with the man.

The Jerusalem Man, haunted by the past, tormented by thoughts of the future, riding through the wild lands, seeking. . . a city? Yes, but much more. Seeking an answer, seeking a reason for being. And during his search stopping to fight brigands, tame towns, kill the unG.o.dly. Riding endlessly through the lands, welcome only when his guns were needed, urged to move on when the killing was done.

Isis pulled back once more, dismayed and depressed - not just by the memories of constant death and battle, but by the anguish of the man himself. The shy, sensitive child had become the man of violence, feared and shunned, each killing adding yet another layer of ice upon his soul. Again she merged.

She/he was being attacked, men running from the shadows. Gunfire. A sound behind her/him. c.o.c.king the pistol Isis/Shannow spun and fired in one motion. A child flung back, his chest torn open. Oh G.o.d! Oh G.o.d! Oh G.o.d!

Isis clawed her way free of the memory, but did not fully withdraw. Instead she floated upwards, allowing time to pa.s.s, halting only when the Jerusalem Man rode up to the farm of Donna Taybard. This was different. Here was love.

The wagons were moving, and Isisi/Shannow rode out from them, scouting the land, heart full of joy and the promise of a better tomorrow. No more savagery and death. Dreams of farming and quiet companionship. Then came the h.e.l.lborn!

Isis withdrew and stood. 'You poor, dear man,' she whispered, brushing her hand over the sleeping man's brow. 'I'll come back tomorrow.'

Outside the wagon Dr Meredith approached her. 'What did you find out?' he asked.

'He is no danger to us,' she answered.

The young man was tall and slender, a shock of unruly black hair cut short above the ears but growing long over the nape of his neck. He was riding an old, sway-backed mare up and over the Gap, and stared with the pleasure of youth at the distant horizons, where the mountains reared up to challenge the sky. Nestor Garrity was seventeen, and this was an adventure. The Lord alone knew how rare adventures were in Pilgrim's Valley. His hand curled round the pistol b.u.t.t at his hip, and he allowed the fantasies to sweep through his mind. He was no longer a clerk at the timber company. No, he was a Crusader hunting the legendary Laton Duke and his band of brigands. It didn't matter that Duke was feared as the deadliest pistoleer this side of the Plague Lands. For the hunter was Nestor Garrity, lethal and fast, the bane of war-makers everywhere, adored by women, respected and admired by men.

Adored by women . . .

Nestor paused in his fantasy, wondering what it would be like to be adored by women.

He'd walked out once with Ezra Feard's daughter, Mary, taken her to the Summer Dance.

She'd led him outside into the moonlight and flirted with him.

'Should have kissed her,' he thought. 'Should have done some d.a.m.n thing!' He blushed at the memory. The dance had turned into a nightmare when she walked off with Samuel Klares. They'd kissed. Nestor saw them down by the creek. Now she was married to him, and had just delivered her first child.

The old mare almost stumbled on the scree slope. Jerked from his thoughts, Nestor steered her down the incline.

The fantasies loomed back into his mind. He was no longer Nestor Garrity, the fearless Crusader, but Jon Shannow, the famed Jerusalem Man, seeking the fabled city, and with no time for women - much as they adored him. Nestor narrowed his eyes, and lifted his hat from where it hung at his back. Settling it into place, he turned up the collar of his coat and sat straighter in the saddle.

Jon Shannow would never slouch. He pictured two brigands riding from behind the boulders. In his mind's eye he could see the fear on their faces. They went for their guns.

Nestor's hand snapped down. The pistol sight caught on the tip of his holster, twisting the weapon from his hands. It fell to the scree. Carefully Nestor dismounted and retrieved the weapon.

The mare, pleased to be relieved of the boy's weight, walked on. 'Hey, wait!' called Nestor, scrambling towards her. But she ambled on, and the dejected youngster followed her all the way to the bottom, where she stopped to crop at the dry gra.s.s. Then Nestor remounted.