Bloodstone (27 page)

Shamshad Singh merely shrugged. “Here or at home … what difference? You fight or you die.”

“Or do both,” Sam said wearily.

She sat down beside him on the boulder, her short-barreled shotgun resting on her slim thighs. “Tell me of a happy time,” she said suddenly.

“Any particular theme?” he asked. “I’ve lived for 356 years, so there is a lot to choose from.”

“Tell me about Amaziga.”

He gazed at her fondly. She was in love with him and had made it plain for the two years she had been with the rebels. Yet Sam had never responded to her overtures. In all his long life there had been only one woman who had opened the doors to his soul, and she was dead, shot down by the Hellborn in the first months of the war.

“You are an extraordinary woman, Shammy. I should have done better by you.”

“Bullshit,” she said with a wide smile. “Now tell me about Amaziga.”

“Why?”

“Because it always cheers you up. And you need cheering.”

He shook his head. “It has always struck me as particularly sad that there will come a point in a man’s life where he has no second chances. When Napoleon saw his forces in full retreat at Waterloo, he knew there would never be another day when he would march out at the head of a great force. It was over. I always thought that must be hard to take. Now I know that it is. We have fought against a great evil, and we have been
unable to defeat it. And tomorrow we die. It is not a time for happy stories, Shammy.”

“You’re wrong,” she said. “At this moment I can still see the sky, feel the mountain breeze, smell the perfume of the pines. I am alive! And I luxuriate in that fact. Tomorrow is another day, Sam. We’ll fight them. Who knows? Maybe we’ll win. Maybe God will open up a hole in the sky and send His thunderbolts down on our enemies.”

He chuckled then. “Most likely he’d miss and hit us.”

“Don’t mock, Sam,” she chided him. “It is not for us to know what God intends.”

“It baffles me, after all you’ve seen, how you can still believe in Him.”

“It baffles me how you can’t,” she responded. The sun was dropping low on the horizon, bathing the mountains in crimson and gold.

Down in the valley the Hellborn had begun their campfires, and the sound of raucous songs echoed up in the mountains.

“Jered has scouted the gorge,” said Shamshad. “The cliff face extends for around four miles. He thinks some of us could make the descent.”

“That’s desert down there. We’d have no way of surviving,” said Sam.

“I agree. But it is an option.”

“At least there are no Devourers,” he said, returning his stare to the Hellborn camp.

“Yes, that is curious,” she replied. “They all padded off late yesterday. I wonder where to.”

“I don’t care as long as it’s not here,” he told her with feeling. “How many shells do you have?”

“Around thirty. Another twenty for the pistol.”

“I guess it will be enough,” said Sam.

“I guess it will have to be,” she agreed.

Amaziga watched as Gareth lifted the coils of rope from his saddle. The cliff face was sheer and some six hundred feet high, but it rose in a series of three ledges, the first around
eighty feet above them, its glistening edge shining silver in the bright moonlight.

“What do you think?” asked Amaziga.

Gareth smiled. “Easy, Mother. Good hand- and footholds all the way. The only problem area is that high overhang above the top ledge, but I don’t doubt I can traverse it. Don’t worry. I’ve soloed climbs that are ten times more difficult than this.” He turned to Shannow. “I’ll go for the first ledge, then lower a rope to you. We’ll climb in stages. How is your head for heights, Mr. Shannow?”

“I have no fear of heights,” said the Jerusalem Man.

Gareth looped two coils of rope over his head and shoulder and stepped up to the face. The climb was reasonably simple until he reached a point, just below the ledge, where the rock had been worn away by falling water. He considered traversing to the right, then saw a narrow vertical crack in the face some six feet to his left. Easing his way to it, Gareth pushed his right hand high into the crack, then made a fist, wedging his hand against the rock. Tensing his arm, he pulled himself up another few feet. There was a good handhold to the left, and he hauled himself higher. Releasing the hand jam hold, he reached over the edge of the ledge and levered himself up. Swinging, he sat on the edge staring down at the small figures below. He waved.

Climbing was always so exhilarating. His first experience of it had been in Europe, in the Triffyn mountains of Wales. Lisa had taught him to climb, shown him friction holds and hand jams, and he had marveled at her ability to climb what appeared to be surfaces as smooth as polished marble. He remembered her with great affection and sometimes wondered why he had left her for Eve.

Lisa wanted marriage; Eve wanted pleasure
. The thought was absurd. Are you really so shallow? he wondered. Lisa would have been a fine wife, strong, loyal, and supportive. But her love for him had been obsessive and, worse, possessive. Gareth had seen what such love could do, for he had watched his mother and lived with her single-minded determination all his life. I don’t want that kind of love, he thought. Not ever!

Pushing such thoughts from his mind, Gareth stood and moved along the ledge. There was no jutting of rock to which he could belay the rope, providing friction to assist him in helping Shannow make the climb, but there was a small vertical crack. From his belt he unclipped a small clawlike object of shining steel. Pushing it into the crevice, he pulled the knob at its center. The claw flashed open, locking to the walls of the crack. Lifting one coil of rope clear, he slid the end through a ring of steel in the claw and lowered it to the waiting Shannow. Once the Jerusalem Man had begun the climb, Gareth looped the rope across his left shoulder and took in the slack.

Shannow made the climb without incident and levered himself over the ledge.

“How did you find it?” whispered Gareth.

Shannow shrugged. “I don’t like the look of those clouds,” he replied, keeping his voice low. Gareth tied the rope to his waist. Shannow was right. The sky was darkening, and they had still a fair way to go.

Lowering the rope once more, Gareth helped his mother make the climb. She was breathing heavily by the time she pushed herself up alongside them.

During the next hour the three climbers inched their way up to the last ledge. They were only forty feet from the top, but darkness had closed in around them and a light drizzle had begun, making the rock face slick and greasy. Gareth was worried. It had not been possible to see from the ground the slight overhang at this point. Climbing it would be difficult at the best of times, but in darkness, with the rain increasing?

For the third time Gareth prowled along the ledge, gazing up, trying to judge the best route. Nothing he could see filled him with encouragement. The rain slowed. He glanced down at the tiny, insect-sized shapes of the hobbled horses. To come this far and not be able to complete his mission—Jesus, Amaziga would never forgive him. He had long known that his mother did not love him, and he accepted her pride in him as a reasonable substitute. She would—could—never love anyone as she did her husband. That love was all-encompassing,
all-consuming. As a child this had hurt Gareth, but in manhood he had come to understand the complexities and the bewildering brilliance of the woman who had borne him. If her pride was all he could have, then it would have to suffice. He stepped up to the face and reached up for the first handhold; it was no more than a groove in the rock, but he found a small foothold and levered himself up. Friction holds were vital on an overhang, but the young man’s fingers were tired, the rock face slippery. Gareth’s mouth was dry as he struggled to climb another fifteen feet. His foot slipped. He locked the fingers of his right hand to a small jutting section of rock and swung out over the six-hundred-foot drop. Panic touched him. He was hanging by one hand and unable to reach a second hold. Worse, he had moved out onto the overhang, and if he fell now, he would miss the first ledge. The drop to the second was more than eighty feet … he would be smashed to pulp. Gareth’s heart was pounding so hard that he could feel the pulse thudding at his temple. Twisting his body, he looked up at the face. There was a small hold around eighteen inches above the tiny piece of rock to which he clung. Taking a long, deep breath, he prepared himself for the surge of effort needed to reach it.

If you miss, you will be dislodged!
Christ! Don’t think like that! But he could not help it. His mind flew back to the other Gareth, dead in a crushed jeep.

And he knew he did not have the courage to make that last effort.

Oh, God, he thought. I’m going to die here!

Suddenly something pressed hard against the underside of his foot, taking the weight. Gareth looked down and saw that Shannow had climbed out onto the overhang. Now the two of them were out on the face, and if Gareth fell, he would carry the Jerusalem Man to his death.

Shannow’s voice drifted up to him, calm and steady. “I can’t hold you like this all night, boy. So I suggest you make a move.”

Gareth lunged up, catching the hold and swinging his foot to a small ridge in the stone. Above there the holds were
infinitely easier, and he gratefully hauled himself over the summit.

For a moment he lay back with eyes closed, feeling the rain on his face. Then he sat up, looped the rope over his shoulder, and tugged it twice, signaling Shannow to start the climb. The rope went tight. Gareth leaned back to take the strain.

Something cold touched his temple.

It was a pistol …

A hand moved into sight. It held a razor-sharp knife, which sliced through the rope.

Shem Jackson was sitting in the front room of his house, his booted feet resting on a table. His brother, Micah, idly shuffled a pack of dog-eared cards. “You wanna game, Shem?”

“For what?” responded the older man, lifting a jug of spirits and swigging from it. “You lost everything you got.”

“You could lend me some,” Micah said, reproachfully.

Shem slammed the jug down on the tabletop. “What the hell is the point of that? You play cards when you got money—it’s that simple. Can’t you get it into your head?”

“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 could not 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-gray fur. “It’s Wolvers,” he said. “Goddamn 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 humor 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 the 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, toward 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, Shem thought 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 from a long-taloned hand. Micah’s body toppled forward, but Shem was not looking at it. He was staring in paralyzed 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 did not 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 toward the sleeping town of Pilgrim’s Valley.

10