David Gemmell - Bloodstone

'Well, what else is there to do?' whined Micah.

'And whose fault is that?' snapped Shem, pushing a dirty hand through his greasy hair. 'She wasn't much to look at, but you had to go and thrash her, didn't you?'

'She asked for it!' replied Micah. 'Called me names.'

'Well, now she's run off. And this time it's for good, I'll bet. You know the trouble with you, Micah? You never know when you're well-off.' Shem stood and stretched his lean frame. Rain couldn't be far away; his back was beginning to ache. Walking to the window, he stared out at the yard and the moonlit barn beyond. A flash of movement caught his eye and, leaning forward, he rubbed at the grimy glass. It merely smeared and Shem swore.

'What is it?' asked Micah. Shem shrugged.

'Thought I saw something out by the barn. It was probably nothing.' He squinted, caught a flash of silver-grey fur. 'It's Wolvers,' he said. 'God damn Wolvers!' Striding across the room, he lifted the long rifle down from its pegs over the mantel and, grinning, swung on Micah. 'Damn sight more fun than playing cards with a loser like you,' he said, pumping a shell into the breech. 'Come on, get your weapon, man, there's hunting to be had.'

Good humour flowed back to him. Little bastards, he thought. They won't get away this time. No Beth McAdam to save you now!

Stepping to the front door, he wrenched it open and walked out into the moonlight. 'Come on, you little beggars, show yourselves!' he called. The night was quiet, the moon unbearably bright to the eye A hunter's moon! Shem crept forward with gun raised. He heard Micah move out behind him and stumble on the porch. Clumsy son of a bitch!

On open ground now Shem angled to the right, towards the vegetable patch and the corral. 'Show yourselves!' he shouted. 'Old Uncle Shem's got a little present for you!'

Behind him Micah made a gurgling sound, and Shem heard the clump of something striking the ground.

Probably his rifle, thought Shem as he turned.

But it was not a rifle. Micah's head bounced twice on the hard-packed earth, the neck completely severed by a savage sweep of a long-taloned hand. Micah's body toppled forward, but Shem was not looking at it. He was staring in paralysed horror at the creature towering before him, its silver fur shining, its eyes golden, a bright red stone embedded in its forehead.

Shem Jackson's rifle came up and he pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed into the creature's chest, sending up a puff of dust. But it didn't go down; it howled and leapt forward, its talons flashing down.

Shem felt the blow on his shoulder and staggered back. The rifle was on the ground. He blinked and then felt a rush of blood from his shoulder. There was no pain — not even when his arm fell clear, thumping against the ground and draping across his boot.

The Devourer lashed out once more. .

Shem Jackson's face disappeared.

From the shadows, scores more of the beasts moved forward. Several stopped to feed.

Most loped on towards the sleeping town of Pilgrim's Valley.

The greatest folly is to believe that evil can be overcome by reason. Evil is like gravity, a force that is beyond argument.

The Wisdom of the Deacon Chapter XXVII

Jacob Moon was not given to hearing voices. Such gifts were for other men. No visions, no prophecies, no mystic dreams or revelations. Jacob Moon had only one real gift, if such it could be called: he could kill without emotion. So when the voice did come Moon was utterly astonished. He was sitting by his camp-fire in the lee of the Great Wall some twenty miles from Pilgrim's Valley. Having heard nothing from the Apostle Saul, Moon had left Domango and made the long ride across the mountains. A flash flood had diverted him from his course, delaying him, but he was now less than three hours' ride from the town. His horse was exhausted and Moon made camp beside the Wall.

The voice came to him just before midnight, as he was settling down to sleep. At first it was a whisper, like a breath of night winds. But then it grew. 'Jacob Moon! Jacob Moon!'

Moon sat up, pistol in hand. 'Who's there?'

'Behind you,' came the response and Moon spun. One of the great rectangular blocks had apparently disappeared and he found himself facing a red-skinned man, with what appeared to be painted black lines across his face and upper body. The man was seated on an ebony throne. Moon cocked his pistol.

'You will not need that,' said the man on the throne. The image drifted closer, until the strange face filled the hole in the wall: the eyes were the red of rubies, the whites bloodshot. 'I need you, Moon,' said the vision.

'Well, I don't need you,' was Moon's response as the pistol bucked in his hand, the bullet lancing through the red face.

There was no mark to show its passing and a wide smile appeared on the face.

'Save your ammunition, Moon, and listen to what I offer you — riches beyond your dreams, and life eternal. I can make you immortal, Moon. I can fulfil your wildest desires.'

Moon sat back and sheathed his pistol. This is a dream, isn't it? God damn it, I'm dreaming!'

'No dream, Moon,' the red man told him. 'Would you like to live for ever?'

'I'm listening.'

'My world is dying. I need another. A man known to you as Saul opened the Gateway for me, and I have now seen your world. It is to my liking. But it would help me to have a lieutenant here, to direct my.

. troops. From the few thoughts I could extract from the dying Saul, I gathered that you were that man.

Is that so?'

Tell me about the life eternal,' said Moon, ignoring the question.

That can begin now, Moon. Is it what you desire?'

'Aye.' Moon reeled back as a terrible burning sensation erupted on his forehead. He cried out and lifted his hand to his head. The pain subsided as suddenly as it had appeared, and now Moon could feel a small stone embedded in his brow.

'As long as you serve me, Moon, you will be immortal. Can you feel the new strength in your limbs, the power. .the life?'

Jacob Moon felt more than that. His long-held bitterness was unleashed, his anger primal. As the vision promised he felt strong, no longer tired from his journey, no longer aching from long hours in the saddle.

'I feel it,' he admitted. 'What do you want from me?'

'Ride to the ruined city north of Pilgrim's Valley. There I shall greet you.'

'I asked what you wanted from me,' said Moon.

'Blood,' responded the vision. 'Rivers of blood. Violence and death, hatred and war.'

'Are you the Devil?' asked Moon.

'I am better than the Devil, Moon. For I have won.'

Unbeknown to Gareth it was his mother who had chosen to climb next, leaving Shannow on the ledge.

When the rope suddenly gave she was dislodged from the face. Many people faced with such a moment would have panicked, screamed and fallen to their deaths. Amaziga was different.

She lived for only one prize — finding Sam.

In the moment the rope gave way and she slipped, her hand snaked out, fingers scrabbling against the wet stone. The first hold she grasped was not large enough to hold her and she slipped again. Her fingers scraped down the rock, one fingernail tearing away, then her hand clamped over a firm hold and the descent ceased. She was hanging now on the lower part of the overhang, her legs dangling below the curve of the rock. Her arm was tiring fast, and she could feel her grip loosening.

'Shannow!' she called. 'Help me!'

A hand grabbed at her belt just as her fingers lost their grip and she fell, but he dragged her back to the ledge. Slumping to her haunches, she leaned her head against the rock face and closed her eyes. The pain from her damaged hand was almost welcome: it told her she was alive.