David Gemmell: Bloodstone

Jeremiah strolled across the grass 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 passing 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 passed 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 ungodly. 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. Cocking the pistol Isis/Shannow spun and fired in one motion. A child flung back, his chest torn open. Oh God!

Oh God! Oh God!

Isis clawed her way free of the memory, but did not fully withdraw. Instead she floated upwards, allowing time to pass, 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 Hellborn!

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 butt 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 damn 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.