David Gemmell: Bloodstone

His. . home. . was set ablaze. He escaped and took up weapons that he had put aside many years before. He was once a warrior, but had decided this was wrong. But in his pain he tracked the killers and fought them, killing them all. Does that help?'

Meredith sat back and let out a long breath. 'Poor man,' he said. 'I fear I have misjudged him. I saw the guns and assumed him to be a brigand, or a hired man. Yes, indeed it helps, Isis. The mind can be very delicate. I trust your talent and, taking everything you have told me as true, it means that our guest went to war against not only a vile enemy, but his own convictions. His mind has reeled from the enormity of anguish and loss, and closed itself against the memories. It is called protective amnesia.'

'Would it be wise for me to explain it to him?' she asked.

'Under no circumstances,' he told her. 'That is what is meant by protective. To tell him now could cause a complete disintegration. Let it come back slowly, in its own time. What is fascinating, however, is his choice of new identity. Why Jon Shannow? What was his occupation?'

'He was a preacher,' she said.

'That probably explains it,' said Meredith. 'A man of peace forced to become something he loathed.

What better identity to choose than a man who purported to be religious, but was actually a battle-hardened killer? Look after him, Isis. He will need that special care only you can supply.'

'Everyone is wrong and you're right; is that what you're saying, Mother?' The young man's face was flushed with anger as he rose from the dinner table and strode to the window, pushing it open and staring out over the tilled fields. Beth McAdam took a deep breath, struggling for calm.

'I am right, Samuel. And I don't care what everyone says, What is being done is no less than evil.'

Samuel McAdam rounded on her then. 'Evil, is it? Evil to do the work of God? You have a strange idea of what constitutes evil. How can you argue against the word of the Lord?'

Now it was Beth who became angry, her pale blue eyes narrowing. 'You call murder the work of God?

The Wolvers have never harmed anyone. And they didn't ask to be the way they are. God alone knows what caused them to.be, but they have souls, Samuel. They are gentle, and they are kind.'

'They are an abomination,' shouted Samuel. 'And as the Book says, Neither shah thou bring an abomination into thine house, lest thou be a cursed thing like it.'

'There is only one abomination in this house, Samuel. And I bore it. Get out! Go back to your murdering friends. And tell them from me, if they ride on to my lands for one of their Wolver hunts I'll meet them with death and fire.'

The young man's jaw dropped. 'Have you taken leave of your senses? These are our neighbours you're talking of killing.'

Beth walked to the far wall and lifted down the long-barrelled Hellborn rifle. Then she looked at her son, seeing not the tall, wide-shouldered man he had become but the small boy who once feared the dark, and wept when thunder sounded. She sighed. He was a handsome man now, his fair hair close-cropped, his chin strong. But like the child he once had been he was still easily led, a natural follower.

'You tell them, Samuel, exactly what I said. And if there are any who doubt my word, you put them right.

The first man to hunt down my friends dies.'

'You've been seduced by the Devil,' he said, then swung away and strode through the door. As Beth heard his horse galloping away into the night, a small form moved from the kitchen and stood behind her.

Beth turned and forced a smile. Reaching out, she stroked the soft fur of the creature's shoulder.

'I am sorry you heard that, Pakia,' Beth sighed. 'He has always been malleable, like clay in the hands of the potter. I blame myself for that. I was too hard on him. Never let him win. Now he is like a reed that bends with every breeze.'

The little Wolver tilted her head to one side. Her face was almost human, yet fur-covered and elongated, her eyes wide and oval, the colour of mixed gold, tawny with red flecks. 'When will the Preacher come back?' she asked, her long tongue slurring the words.

'I don't know, Pakia. Maybe never. He tried so hard to be a Christian, suffering all the taunts and the jeers.' Beth moved to the table and sat down. Now it was the slender Pakia who laid her long fingers on the woman's shoulder. Beth reached up and covered the soft, warm hand. ‘I loved him, you know, when he was a real man. But, I swear to God, you can't love a saint.' She shook her head. 'Wherever he is, he must be hurting. Twenty years of his life gone to dust and ashes.'

'It was not a waste,' said Pakia, 'and it is not dust and ashes. He gave us pride, and showed us the reality of God's love. That is no small gift, Beth.'

'Maybe so,' said Beth, without conviction. 'Now you must tell your people to head deep into the mountains. I fear there will be terrible violence before the month is out. There's talk of more hunts.'

'God will protect us,' said Pakia.

'Trust in God — but keep your gun loaded,' aaid Beth softly.

'We do not have guns,' said Pakia.

'It's a quote, little one. It just means that. . sometimes God requires us to look after ourselves.'

'Why do they hate us? Did not the Deacon say we were all God's children?' It was a simple question and Beth had no answer for it. Laying the gun on the table, she sat down and stared at the Wolver. No more than five feet tall, she was humanoid in shape, but her back was bent, her hands long and treble-jointed, ending in dark talons. Silver-grey fur covered her frame.

'I can't tell you why, Pakia, and I don't know why the Deacon changed his mind. The Unifiers now say you are abominations. I think they just mean "different". But, in my experience, men don't need too much of an excuse for hate. It just comes natural to them. You'd better go now. And don't come back for a time. I'll come into the mountains with some supplies in a little while, when things have cooled down a mite.'

'I wish the Preacher was here,' said Pakia.

'Amen to that. But I'd sooner have the man he once was.'

Nestor counted the last of the notes and slipped them into a paper packet, which he sealed and added to the pile. One hundred and forty-six lumber men and seven hauliers were to be paid today, and the Barta notes had only arrived late last night from Unity. Nestor glanced up at the armed guards outside the open doorway. 'I've finished,' he called.

Closing the account ledger, Nestor stood and straightened his back. The first of the guards, a round-shouldered former lumberjack named Leamis, stepped inside and leaned his rifle against the shack wall. Nestor placed the payment packets in a canvas sack and handed it to Leamis.

'A long night for you yongen,' said the guard. Nestor nodded. His eyes felt gritty and he yearned for sleep. The money was due yesterday morning,' he said wearily. 'We thought there'd been a raid.'

'They went the long way, up through the Gap,' Leamis told him. 'Thought they were being followed.'

'Were they?'

Leamis shrugged. 'Who knows? But Laton Duke is said to be in these parts, and that don't leave anyone feeling safe. Still, at least the money got here.'

Nestor moved to the doorway and pulled on his heavy topcoat. Outside the mountain air was chill, the wind picking up. There were three wagons beyond the shack, carrying trace chains to haul the timber.

The drivers were standing in a group chatting, waiting for their pay. Turning to Leamis, Nestor said his farewells and strolled to the paddock where the company horses were held. Taking a bridle from the tack box, he warmed the bridle bar under his coat; pushing a chilled bridle into a horse's warm mouth was a sure way of riling the beast. Choosing a buckskin gelding he bridled and saddled him and set off down the mountain, passing several more wagons carrying loggers and lumber men to their day's labour.