Bloodstone (41 page)

Beth turned to Clem. “You’re not saying much.”

Clem shrugged. “I don’t think there’s much to say. I don’t know where these Hellborn came from, but if they’re anything like the warriors of the first war, they’re murdering savages: they’ll rape and torture the women and mutilate the men. And I’m not surrendering my weapons to the likes of them.”

“You’re crazy!” screamed Ruth. “You’ll condemn us all to death!”

“Shut your mouth!” stormed Beth. “I won’t have it! This is no time for hysterics. What do you think, Zerah?”

Zerah put her arm around Esther’s shoulders. Oz moved in close, and she ruffled his hair. “I got less to lose than the rest of you, being old and worn out. But I’ve also been trying to keep these children alive, and I’m kind of torn. You look to me, Frey McAdam, like a woman who’s been over the mountain a few times. What do you think?”

“I don’t like threats,” said Beth, “and I don’t like men who make them. They want us alive. I don’t know why; I don’t much care.”

“I can tell you why,” said Isis softly. “When I went out to the wolf-beasts, I felt the power of the Bloodstone. He is hungry, and he feeds on souls. To go to him would mean death.”

“What do you mean, feeds on souls?” sneered Ruth. “That’s insane. You’re making it up!”

Isis shook her head. “He was linked to the wolves. Every time they killed, part of the life was fed back through the
stones in their heads. He is a creature of blood and death. All we are to him is food. The Deacon knew that.”

“And where is he?” hissed Ruth. “Gone and left us days ago. Run away! Well, I’m not dying here. No matter what any of you say.”

“I think we should vote on it,” said Clem. “It’s getting close to noon.”

Beth called out to Wallace, and he stood at the top of the stairs, rifle in hand. “You called the vote, Clem, so what’s your view?” she asked.

“Fight,” said Clem.

“Wallace?”

“I ain’t going with them,” said the redheaded youngster.

“Nestor?”

The young man hesitated. “Fight,” he said.

“Isis?”

“I’m not going with them.”

“Doctor?”

Meredith shrugged. “I’ll go with the majority view,” he said.

“Zerah?”

The old woman kissed Esther on the cheek. “Fight,” she said.

“I think that about settles it,” said Beth.

Ruth stared at them all. “You are all crazy!”

“They’re coming back,” shouted Wallace.

Beth moved to the dresser and pulled clear three boxes of shells. “Help yourselves,” she said. “You youngsters stay down low on the floor.”

Esther and Oz scrambled down below the table. Zerah stood and took up her rifle as Beth walked to the door.

“You’re not going out there again?” asked Clem.

Beth pulled open the door and stood leaning against the frame, her rifle cocked and ready and held across her body.

The Hellborn rode, fanning out as before.

Ruth ran across the room, brushing past Beth and sprinting out into the yard. “I’ll pay homage,” she shouted. “Let me go with you!”

Shorak ignored her and looked at Beth. “What is your decision, woman?” he asked.

“We stay here,” she said.

“It is all of you or none,” said Shorak.

Smoothly he drew his pistol and shot Ruth in the head. The young woman was poleaxed to the ground. Beth swung her rifle and fired, the bullet screaming past Shorak to punch into the chest of the rider beside him and pitch him from the saddle. Clem grabbed Beth, hauling her back inside as bullets smashed into the door frame and screamed through the room. Nestor kicked shut the door, and Clem dropped the bar into place.

Zerah fired three shots through the window, then a bullet took her high in the shoulder, spinning her to the floor. A Hellborn warrior ran to the window. Clem shot him through the face. The door shuddered as men hurled themselves against it.

Beth scrambled to her feet. Several more Hellborn reached the window, firing into the room. Zerah, blood drenching her shirt, rolled against the wall beneath the sill. Beth fired, taking a man in the chest. He pitched forward. Another warrior hurled himself against the window, smashing the frame and rolling into the room. Nestor shot him twice. The Hellborn hit the floor face first, twitched, then was still.

Clem ran across the room, tipping the pine table to its side. Shots ripped into the walls of the house and ricocheted around the room. The door began to splinter. Beth pumped three shots through it and heard a man scream and fall to the porch.

Nestor ran for the stairs, climbing them two at a time. Bullets struck the wall around him, but he made it to the top and moved to help Wallace. Meredith lay on the floor, holding tightly to Isis, trying to shield her with his body. The two children were crouched down behind the upturned table. In the back of the house the baby started to cry, the sound thin and piercing.

“They’re at the back of the house!” Wallace bellowed from upstairs.

Beth looked at Clem and pointed to Josiah Broome’s room. “The back window!” she shouted.

Clem ducked down and crawled across the floor. As he reached the doorway, he saw the shutters of the window explode inward. Rearing up, he shot the first man through the throat, catapulting him back into his comrades. Broome was unconscious but lying directly in the line of fire. Clem dived across to the bed, dragging the wounded man to the floor. Shots exploded all around him, searing through the down-filled quilt and sending feathers into the air. A shot scorched across Clem’s neck, tearing the skin. He fired, his bullet entering under the man’s chin and moving up through the brain.

Ducking below the level of the bed, Clem reloaded. A bullet slashed through the mattress to smash into his thigh, glancing from the bone and ripping across the flesh. Clem hurled himself back and fired three quick shots into the bodies massed at the window. The Hellborn ducked from sight. Clem glanced down at his leg to see blood pouring from the wound. He swore softly.

A man leapt at the window. Clem shot him as he was clambering through, and the body fell across the frame, the dead man’s pistol clattering to the floor. Rolling to his belly, Clem crawled across to the weapon, snatching it up.

Then all was silence.

Josiah Broome came awake, his mind floating above the fever dream. He was lying on the floor of the bedroom, and young Clem Steiner was sitting some four feet away, two pistols in his hands, blood staining his leg.

“What’s happening, Clem?” he whispered.

“Hellborn,” answered the shootist.

I’m still dreaming, thought Broome. The Hellborn are all gone, destroyed by the Deacon in the bloodiest massacre ever seen in this new world. A shot clipped wood from the window frame and smashed into a framed embroidery on the far wall. Josiah Broome chuckled. It was the damnedest dream. The embroidery tilted, and the center ripped away. Broome could still read the words: “The works of man shall perish, the love of the Lord abideth always.”

He tried to stand. “Get down!” ordered Steiner.

“Just a dream, Clem,” said Josiah, getting his knees under him. Steiner launched himself across the floor, his shoulder cannoning into Broome’s legs as the older man straightened. Shots smashed into the far wall, and the embroidery fell to the floor, the pine frame splitting.

“No dream. You understand? This is no dream!”

Josiah felt the breath forced from his lungs, and his chest wound flared, pain ripping through him.

“But … but they can’t be Hellborn!”

“Maybe so,” agreed Clem, “but trust me, Josiah, if they’re not originals, they are giving a passable fair impression.” The younger man groaned as he twisted up into a sitting position, guns cocked. “If you feel strong enough, you might think of getting a tourniquet on this wound of mine. Don’t want to bleed to death and miss all the fun.”

A shadow crossed the window. Clem’s guns roared, and Josiah saw a man smashed from his feet.

“Why are they doing this?” Josiah asked.

“I don’t feel up to asking them,” Clem told him. “Rip up a sheet and make some bandages.”

Josiah glanced down at the wound in Clem’s thigh. Blood was flowing steadily, drenching the black broadcloth pants. His own clothes were laid over the back of a chair. Crawling to them, Josiah pulled the belt clear and returned to Clem. Then he broke off a section of the pine frame that had encased the embroidery. Clem wrapped the belt around his thigh above the wound, stretching the leather tight against the skin. He tried to use the pine to twist the belt tighter, but the wood snapped. The bleeding slowed but did not stop.

“You better take one of these pistols, Josiah,” said Clem. “I might pass out.”

Broome shook his head. “I couldn’t kill, not even to save my life. I don’t believe in violence.”

“I do so like to meet a man of principle at times like these,” Clem said wearily. Shots sounded from above, and outside a man screamed.

Clem crawled across to the doorway and glanced into the
main room. Beth was behind the table, rifle in hand. The old woman, Zerah, was below the window, a pistol in her fist. Dr. Meredith was lying by the western wall, the children and Isis close to him. “Everyone all right?” called Clem.

“Bastards broke my shoulder,” Zerah told him. “Hurts like hell.”

Meredith left the children and crawled across to Zerah. Swiftly he examined her. “The bullet broke your collarbone and ripped up and out through the top of your shoulder. It’s bleeding freely, but no vital organs were hit. I’ll get some bandages.”

“What can you see upstairs?” shouted Beth.

Nestor Garrity’s voice floated down to them. “They’ve taken shelter at the barn and behind the trough. We downed fourteen of them. Some crawled back to safety, but there’s nine bodies that ain’t moving. And I think Clem hit two more that we can’t see from up here.”

“You keep watch now,” Beth called, “and let us know when they move.”

“Yes, Frey.”

The baby began to cry, a thin pitiful sound that echoed in the building. Beth turned to Isis. “There’s a little milk left in the kitchen, girl. Be careful as you get it.”

Isis kept low as she crossed the room and went through the kitchen. The back door was barred, the shutters on the window closed tight. The milk was in a tall jug on the top shelf. Isis stood and lifted it down; then, moving back to the baby, she sat beside the crib. “How do I feed her?” she asked Beth.

Beth swore and moved from the table to a chest of drawers, laying down her rifle and removing a pair of fine leather gloves from the second drawer. They were the only gloves she had ever owned, given to her by her first husband, Sean, just before they were married. Never even worn them, thought Beth. From a sewing box on top of the chest she took a needle and made three small holes through the longest finger of the left-hand glove. Gathering up her rifle, she made her way to the crib. The baby was wailing, and she ordered Isis to lift the infant boy and hold him close. Beth half filled the glove, then
waited until milk began to seep through the needle holes. At first the baby had difficulty sucking on the glove and choked. Isis supported the back of his head, and he began to feed.

“They’re sneaking around the back!” shouted Nestor. “Can’t get a good shot!”

Clem lurched back into the rear bedroom and waited to the right of the window. Shadows moved on the ground outside, and Clem could make out the horns of a Hellborn helmet on the hard-baked earth. There was no way he could tell how many men were outside, and the only way to stop them was to frame himself in the window and open fire. Clem’s mouth was dry.

“Do it now,” he told himself aloud, “or you’ll never have the nerve to do it at all.”

Swiftly he spun around, guns blazing through the shattered window. Two men went down, and the third returned fire. Clem was hit hard in the chest, but he coolly put a shell through the Hellborn’s head. Then he slumped down and fell against the bed.

Josiah Broome crawled alongside him. “How bad is it?” asked the older man.

“I’ve had better days,” Clem told him as he struggled to reload. The Hellborn pistol took a larger caliber of shell than his own pistol, and it was empty now. Angrily he cast it aside. “Goddamn,” he said bitterly. “Those sons of bitches are really starting to get my goat!” His gun loaded, he leaned back, too frightened to check the chest wound. Broome moved out into the main room and called for Dr. Meredith. The sandy-haired young man made his way to Clem, and the shootist felt the man’s fingers probing.

Meredith said nothing, and Clem opened his eyes. “You want to tell me the good news?” he asked.

“It isn’t good,” said Meredith softly.

“There’s a surprise.” Clem was feeling light-headed and faint, but he clung on. There were not enough defenders, and he was not going to die just yet. He coughed. Blood rose in his throat and sprayed out onto Meredith’s pale shirt. Clem sank back. The sun was setting, the sky the color of burning copper.
Clem levered himself to his feet, staggered, and righted himself by gripping the window frame.

“What are you doing?” asked Josiah Broome, reaching out to grab Clem’s arm. Meredith took hold of Broome’s shoulder, drawing him back.

“He’s dying,” whispered Meredith. “He has only minutes left.”

Clem fell across the ruined window, then lifted his leg over the sill. The air was fresh and cool outside, not filled with the acrid smell of black powder. It was a good evening, the sky bright. Clem dropped to the ground and half fell. Blood filled his throat, and he thought he was suffocating, but he swallowed it down and staggered to the corpses, relieving them of their pistols and tossing the weapons through the window. One of the Hellborn was wearing a bandolier of shells. With difficulty, Clem tugged it loose and passed it to Broome.

“Come back inside!” urged Broome.

“I like … it … here,” whispered Clem, the effort of speaking bringing on a fresh bout of coughing.

Clem staggered to the edge of the building. From there he could see the horse trough and the two men hiding behind it. As he stepped into sight, they saw him and tried to bring their rifles to bear. Clem shot them both. A third man rose from behind the paddock fence, and a bullet punched into Clem’s body, half spinning him. He returned the fire but missed.