David Gemmell - Wolf in Shadow

The man hurled the table away and stood. Riggs was over six feet tall and powerfully muscled, his face flat and brutal, his eyes small and cold.

'Well?' he said. 'What's it to be?'

Batik handed the pistol to Shannow and moved forward unarmed.

'You must be insane,' said Riggs. Batik hit him with a crashing right-hand blow and he staggered and spat blood from his mouth. The fight began. Riggs was the heavier, but Batik moved with speed and landed more blows, yet the punishment each man took was appalling to Shannow's eyes.

Grabbing Batik in a bear-hug, Riggs lifted him from his feet, but Batik hammered his open palms into Riggs' ears and broke free. Riggs kicked Batik's legs from under him and then leapt feet-first at his head. The Hellborn rolled and rose to his feet; then, as Riggs rushed at him he ducked under a left hook and hammered a combination of punches to Riggs' belly. The big man grunted and backed away and Batik followed, thundering blows to Riggs' chin. Both men were bloodied now and Batik's shirt was in tatters. Riggs tried to grapple, but Batik swung him round and tripped him. The bigger man landed on his face and Batik leapt on his back, grabbing his hair and his chin.

'Say goodbye, Riggs,' he hissed, then wrenched the chin up and to the right. The sound of the snapping neck made Shannow wince. Batik staggered to his feet, then moved to a nearby table where Shannow joined him.

'You smell awful,' said Shannow, 'and you look worse!'

'Always words of comfort from you just when they're needed.'

Shannow smiled. 'I'm glad you are alive, my friend.'

'You know, Shannow, after you went over that ledge and Archer and I raced clear of the lions, he talked about you. He said you were a man to move mountains.'

‘Then he was wrong.'

'I don't think so. He said you would just walk up to a mountain and start lifting it a rock at a time, never seeing just how big it was.'

'Maybe.'

'I'm glad he lived long enough to see you attack a castle single-handed. He would have enjoyed that. Did he tell you about Sir Galahad?'

'Yes.'

'And his quest for the Grail?'

'Yes. What of it?'

'Are you still planning to kill Abaddon?'

'That is my intention.'

Then I'll come with you.'

'Why?' asked Shannow, surprised.

'You might need a hand lifting all those rocks!'

Ruth floated above the fabled palaces of Atlantis, gazing in wonder at the broken spires and fractured terraces. From her position just below the clouds, she could even see the outlines of wide roads beneath the soil of the rolling prairies. Around the centre of the city was a flat uninspired wasteland which must once have housed the poorer quarters of Atlantis, where the homes were built of inferior stone long since eroded by the awesome might of the Atlantic Ocean. But now, once more, the gleaming marble of the palaces glistened beneath a silver moon.

She wondered what the city must have been like in the days of its glory, with its terraced gardens and vineyards, its wide statue-lined ways, its parks and colosseums. Part of die city to the north had been destroyed by a volcanic upheaval, and now a jagged mountain range reared above the ruins.

Wishing herself downwards, she floated gently to an open terrace before a gaunt and shadowed shell which had once been the palace of Pendarric. Wild grass and weeds grew everywhere, and a tree had taken root against a high wall — its roots questing like skeletal fingers for a hold in the cracked marble.

She stopped before a ten-foot statue of the king, recognizing him despite the artificially curled beard and the high, plumed helm. A strong man — too strong to see his weakness before it was too late.

A sparrow settled on the helm and then flew off between the marble pillars of a civilization which once had stretched from the shores of Peru to the gold mines of Cornwall. The land of fable!

But even the fable would fade. For Ruth knew that hi centuries to come, her own age of technology and space travel would become embroiled in myth and legend to which few would give credence.

New York, London, Paris… all synonymous with the fiction of Atlantis.

Then one day the world would topple once more, and the survivors would stumble upon the statue of Liberty protruding from the mud, or Big Ben, or the Pyramids. And they would wonder, even as she did, what the future held now.

She turned her gaze to the mountains and the golden ship lodged in the black basaltic rock five hundred feet above the ruins.

The Ark. Rust-covered and immense, and strangely beautiful, she lay broken-backed on a wide ledge. Within her thousand-foot length the Guardians laboured, but Ruth would not go amongst them. She wanted no part of the old world, nor the knowledge so zealously guarded.

Ruth returned to Sanctuary and her room. As always when her mood was sombre, she created a study without doors or windows, lit only by candles that did not flicker.

For a while she sat and remembered Sam Archer, praying silently for the soul of the man. Then she called for Pendarric.

He came almost at once and stood by the far wall, which opened to become a window looking out on Atlantis in her glory. People thronged the winding streets and marketplaces. Chariots drawn by white horses clattered along the statue-lined main avenue.

Ruth joined him. 'As it was?' she asked.

'As it is,' he answered. There are many worlds which overlap our own, and many gateways to them. In the last days before the oceans drank my empire, I led my people through. But there are other gateways, Ruth, to darker worlds. These Abaddon has discovered — they must be closed.'

'I will close them, if I can.'

'Shannow will close them — if he lives.'

'And what can I do?'

'I told you, Lady. Take the swan's path.'

'I am not ready to die. I am afraid.'

'Donna Taybard has been taken. Her settlement is destroyed, her son is dead. Believe me, Ruth, if the woman is sacrificed the gateways will be ripped asunder. Worlds within worlds will be drawn together and the resulting catastrophe will be cosmic in scale.'

'How would my dying aid the world?'

'Think on it, Ruth. Find the answer.'

Madden prepared a grave for Rachel and the boys, laying them side by side and covering them with wild flowers of purple and yellow. For a long while he sat by the grave, not having the energy or the inclination to fill it. Robert's arm had flopped across his mother's breast and it seemed to Madden that he was hugging her. He had always been her favourite, and now they would lie together for eternity.

His eyes misted and he swung his gaze to the mountains, recalling the joy he had felt as he stood near this spot on their first day in Avalon. Rachel had been fussing about the size of cabin they would need and the boys had charged off into the woods above the valley. Everything had been peaceful then and the dream had seemed as solid as the rocks around them.

Madden's wounds still pained him and the right side of his face was heavily bruised, but he stood and lifted the shovel and slowly filled the grave. He had intended to cover it with more flowers, but he was too tired to gather them and returned to the cabin to check on Griffin.

The man was asleep and Madden fuelled the wood-stove and prepared some herb tea. He sat in a wide chair staring at the dusty floor, his mind drifting back to all the times when he had quarrelled with Rachel, or caused her to cry. She had deserved so much more than he could ever offer her, yet she had stuck by him through savage winters and dry summers, failed crops and Brigand raids. She it was who had convinced him they should follow Griffin's dream. Now the wagoner was probably dying and Madden would be alone in a strange land.

He sipped his tea and moved to the bedside. Griffin's pulse was erratic and weak; he was lying face down and Madden cut away the bandages to examine his wounds. About to turn him, he noticed a bulge near the swollen purple bruise on Griffin's side and touched it with his finger. It was hard, and it moved as he felt it. Removing his knife from its sheath, Madden pressed the razor-edge to the skin, which parted easily, spurting blood to his fingers as the misshapen shell popped into his hand. It must have hit one of Griffin's ribs and been redirected to his back, whereas Madden had feared the bullet was lodged in Griffin's stomach. Moving to the other side of the bed, he examined the second wound in Griffin's back; it was healing well, but there was no sign of the bullet. He stitched the knife-cut and returned to his chair.