David Gemmell - Bloodstone

'What is this. .garbage?'

'It's not garbage, Deacon. Everything in that book is fact. We got most of it from primary sources, men who knew the Jerusalem Man, who heard his words. I would have thought you would have been pleased. He predicted your coming.'

'He did no such thing, Saul. And half of the names in the first chapter never came within a hundred miles of Shannow. Several others have let their imaginations run riot.'

'But. . how would you know that, Deacon?'

‘I know. How is no concern of yours. How many have been printed?'

Saul smiled. 'Forty thousand, Deacon. And they've sold so fast we're going for a second printing.'

'No, we are not! Let it go, Saul.'

Shannow lifted the book from the shelf and flipped it open. In the centre was a black and white engraving showing a handsome man on a rearing black stallion, silver pistols in the rider's hands, and upon his head a sleek black hat. All around him were dead Hellborn. 'At least they didn't say I killed ten thousand with the jawbone of an ass,' whispered Shannow, tossing the book to the pine bed.

Carefully he opened the shutter and leaned out. Below him was Jeremiah's wagon, the roof ripped apart.

Several Wolvers were asleep within it, others were stretched out by the ruined barn.

What are you going to do, Shannow? he asked himself.

How do you plan to stop the Beast?

Fear touched him then, but he fought it down.

'What are you doing here?' asked Beth. This is my son's room.'

Shannow sat upon the bed, remembering the times he had read to the boy. ‘I don't need your hatred, Beth,' he said softly.

'I don't hate you, Deacon. I despise you. There is a difference.'

Wearily he stood. 'You ought to make up your mind, woman. You despise me because I gave no ground and saw my enemies slain; you despised your lover, Jon Cade, because he wouldn't slay his enemies.

What exactly do you require from the men in your life?'

'I don't need to debate with you,' she said stonily.

'Really? Then why did you follow me here?'

'I don't know. Wish I hadn't.' But she made no move to leave. Instead she walked further into the room and sat down on an old wicker chair by the window. 'How come you knew about me and Jon? You have spies here?'

'No… no spies. I knew because I was here, Beth. I was here.'

'I never saw you.'

'You still don't see me,' he said sadly, rising and walking past her. The pine steps creaked under his weight and Dr Meredith turned as Shannow approached.

'It's terribly quiet,' said the younger man.

'It won't stay that way, Doctor. You should ask if Frey McAdam has a spare weapon for you.'

‘I am not very good with guns, Deacon. I never wanted to be, either.'

'That's fine, Doctor, as long as there is someone else to do your hunting for you. However, you won't need to be good. The targets will be close enough to rip off your face. Get a gun.'

'What does it take to make a man like you, Deacon?' asked Meredith, his face reddening.

'Pain, boy. Suffering, sorrow and loss.' Shannow pointed at Jeremiah's blanket-covered corpse. 'Today you had a tiny taste of it. By tomorrow you'll know more. I don't mind you judging me, boy. You couldn't be harder on me than I am on myself. For now, though, I suggest we work together to survive.'

Meredith nodded. 'I guess that is true,' he said. 'You were starting to tell me about the Gateways. Who made them, and why?'

Shannow moved to the armchair and gazed down at the sleeping woman. Beth had found a small, beautifully carved crib and had placed the babe in it, beside the chair. 'No one knows,' he said, keeping his voice soft. 'A long time ago I met a man who claimed they were created in Atlantis, twelve thousand years before the Second Fall. But they may be older. The old world was full of stories about Gateways, and old straight paths, dragon trails and ley lines. There are few facts, but scores of speculative theories.'

'How are they opened?'

Shannow moved silently away from the mother and child and stood by the door. 'I couldn't tell you. I knew a woman who was adept at such matters. But she remained behind on the day of the Fall, and I guess was killed with the rest of the world. She once took me through to her home in a place called Arizona. Beautiful land. But how she did it. .?'He shrugged.'She had a piece of Sipstrassi, a Daniel Stone. There was a burst of violet light, and then we were there.'

'Ah, yes,' said Meredith, 'the Stones. I've heard of them but never seen one. A hospital in Unity used them to cure cancer and the like. Astonishing.'

'Amen to that,' said Shannow. 'They can make an old man young, or heal the sick, or create food from molecules in the air. It is my belief that Moses used them to part the Red Sea — but I cannot prove it.'

'God had no hand in it, then?' asked Meredith, with a smile.

'I don't try to second-guess God, young man. If He created the Sipstrassi in the first place, then they are still miracles. If He gave one to Moses, you could still say that God's power parted the waves. However, this is not the time for Biblical debate. The Stones make imagination reality. That's all I know.'

'Be nice to have one or two at this moment,' said Meredith. 'With one thought we could kill all the wolves.'

'Sipstrassi cannot kill,' Shannow told him.

Meredith laughed. That's your problem, Deacon. You lack the very imagination you say the Stones need.'

'What do you mean?'

Meredith stood. 'Take this chair. It is of wood. Surely a Stone could transform it into a bow and arrows?

Then you could shoot something and kill it. Sipstrassi would have killed it, albeit once removed. And these Gateways you speak of, well, perhaps there is no technique. Perhaps the woman you knew was not adept at all — merely imaginative.'

Shannow thought about it. 'You think she merely wished herself home?'

'Quite possibly. However, it is all academic now.'

'Yes,' agreed Shannow absently. 'Thank you, Doctor.'

'It is a pleasure, Deacon.' Meredith moved to the window and leaned down to peer through the gap in the shutters. 'Oh, God!' he said suddenly. 'Oh, my dear God!'

Isis floated back to consciousness on a warm sea of dreams, memories of childhood on the farm near Unity — her dog, Misha, unsuccessfully chasing rabbits across the meadow, barking furiously in his excitement. His enjoyment was so total that when Isis gently merged with his feelings tears of joy flowed from her eyes. Misha knew a happiness no human — bar Isis — could ever share. He was a mongrel, and his heritage could be seen in every line of his huge body. His head was wolf-like, with wide tawny eyes.

But his ears were long and floppy, his chest powerful. According to Isis's father, Misha was quite possibly the worst guard-dog ever born; when strangers approached he would rush up to them with tail wagging, and wait to be petted. Isis loved him.

She was almost grown when he died. Isis had been walking by the stream when the bear erupted out of the thicket. Isis stood her ground and mentally reached out to the beast, using all her powers to calm its rage. She was failing, for the pain within it was colossal. The young girl even had time to note the cancerous growth that was sending flames of agony through the bear's belly, even as it bore down on her.

Misha had charged the bear, leaping to fasten his powerful jaws on the furred throat. The bear had been surprised by the ferocity of the attack but had recovered swiftly, turning on the hound and lashing out with its talons.

A shot rang out, then another, and another. The bear had staggered and tried to lumber back into the thicket. A fourth shot saw it slump to the ground and Isis's father had run up, dropping his rifle and throwing his arms around his daughter. 'My God, I thought you were going to die,' he said, hugging her to him.