The Last Guardian (14 page)

For a time he was blind; then he broke through the gray-white mist and saw the land far below, green and lush, sectioned by snow-topped mountains and ribbon rivers, great valleys and dales, forests and plains. He scanned the horizon for signs of life, for cities or towns, but there was nothing save the vastness of nature. Nu’s spirit swooped closer to the plain. Now he could see his own tiny figure in the gully below and, some miles to the west, a camp of wagons with white canvas covers and oxen feeding on the hillside.

He ventured farther, over the mountains, and saw an ugly township with squat wooden buildings and a large gathering of people in a meadow. Passing over them, he continued south. A great wall, similar in structure to the seawall at Ad, met his eyes, and he dropped toward it. The stones were hewn in the same way, but they were far older than Pendarric’s Wall. He moved on, wondering how a nation that could erect such a wall could have regressed to creating such hideous buildings as he had
seen in the small town. Then he saw the city—and his heart sank.

There was the domed palace, the marble terraces, the long statue-lined Road of Kings—and to the south the curving line of the dock. But beyond it there was no glittering ocean, only fields and meadows. Nu hovered, scanning the people strolling the streets. Everything was as he remembered, yet nothing was the same. He sped to the temple and halted by the statue of Derarch the Prophet. The prophet’s face was worn away, the holy scrolls in his hands reduced to no more than white sticks.

Shaken beyond endurance, Nu fled back to the sky.

What he had seen was like a vision from the fires of Belial.

And he knew the truth. This was not some strange, distant land; this was home, the city of Ad. He recalled his vision of the sea roaring up and the three suns in the sky. This was the world of the future.

He returned to his body and wept for all that had been lost: for Pashad and his sons, for Bali and his friends, and for all the people of a world soon to die … a world that had already died.

Nu-Khasisatra wept for Atlantis.

At last his tears dried, and he lay back against a rock, his body aching, his heart heavy. What point was there in his warnings to the people? Why had the Lord Chronos used him if there was no hope?

No hope? You of all men should know the folly of that thought
.

His first ship had been caught in a terrible storm. All his money had been tied into the venture and more. He had borrowed heavily, pushing himself and his family into awesome debt. As the voyage had been nearing completion with the cargo secure in the hold and his fortune assured, the winds had turned foul, the sea had
roared; great waves had pummeled the vessel, hurling it toward the black cliffs poised like a hammer above them.

Most of his crew members had panicked, flinging themselves over the side and risking almost certain death in the raging sea. Not so Nu-Khasisatra. Holding on to the tiller, straining with all the power in his formidable frame, he had locked his gaze to the black monstrosity looming over him. At first there had been no response, but then the sleek craft had begun to turn. Nu’s muscles had been stretched to the tearing point, but his ship had missed the cliff and raced on toward the peril of a hidden reef.

Only three of thirty crew members remained with him, and they clung to the timbers, unable to aid their master for fear of being washed overboard.

“The anchor!” yelled Nu into the teeth of the storm. Salt spray lashed his face, hurling the words back at him. Lifting one arm from the tiller, he pointed at the rope brake by the iron anchor, and one of his crewmen began to haul himself back to the stern. A huge wave hit him, and he lost hold; his body slid down the deck. Nu released the tiller and dived for the man, catching his tunic just as he was about to topple over the side. Clamping his right hand to a stay, Nu hauled the seaman to safety. The ship sped toward the reefs hidden like the fangs of a monster below the foaming waves. Nu staggered upright and forced a path to the tiller. The seaman struggled with the anchor brake. Suddenly it gave, and the iron weight hissed over the side.

The ship shuddered, and Nu let out a cry of despair, for he believed they had struck the reef. But it was only the anchor biting hard into the coral below them. The ship bobbed, and the cliff that had been such a threat became a shelter from the ferocity of the storm.

The wind died down in the bay. “We’re still shipping water,” shouted the crewman Nu had rescued.

“Start the pump and see where the problem lies,” Nu
ordered, and the man raced below. The two other crewmen followed him, and Nu sank to the wet deck. The moon broke clear of the storm clouds as he glanced to port. Rows of jagged rocks, black and gleaming, could be seen above the swell. Had the ship struck any of them, it would have been ripped open from prow to stern. Nu hauled himself upright and moved to the starboard side. There, too, the reef could be seen. Somehow—by some miracle—he had steered the vessel through a narrow channel between the reefs.

The crewman returned. “The level is dropping. The ship is sound, master.”

“You have earned a good bonus, Acrylla. I’ll see you get it.”

The man grinned, showing broken front teeth. “I thought we were finished. It looked so hopeless.”

Nu-Khasisatra’s fortune had been built on that first adventure, and his reply to Acrylla was now carved on the tiller of each of his ships:

“Nothing is ever hopeless—as long as courage endures.”

The memory of that night came flooding back to him, and he pushed himself to his feet. Despair, he realized, was as great an enemy as Sharazad or the king’s Daggers. His world was doomed, but that did not mean Pashad must die. He had a Sipstrassi Stone, and he was alive.

“I will come for you, my love,” he said. “Through the vaults of time or the valleys of the damned.” He glanced up at the sky. “Thank you for reminding me, Lord.”

Beth sat on the hillside under a spreading pine and watched the children playing on the makeshift swing boards and seesaw planks down by the stream. The high meadow was seething with townspeople, farmers and miners, enjoying the bright sunshine and the food at the stalls. Elsewhere there were games of strength or skill,
knife and hatchet hurling, rifle shooting, wrestling and boxing. The miners held a jousting tourney where one man sat on the shoulders of another gripping a mock lance with a wooden ball at either end. A similar team would rush at them, and there was much shouting of encouragement as the riders proceeded to hammer their opponents to the ground. The barbecue fires were lit, and the smell of roasting beef—compliments of Edric Scayse—filled the air. Beth leaned her back to the tree and relaxed for the first time in days. Her small hoard of coin was swelling, and soon she would move her family out to the rich southland north of the wall and build a farm of her own on land leased from Scayse. It would be a hard life, but she would make it work.

A shadow fell across her, and she looked up to see John Shannow standing hat in hand.

“Good morning … Beth. Your children are far from us and in little danger. May I join you?”

“Please do,” she said, and he swung around and sat with his back to the tree. She moved out to sit in front of him. “I know who you are,” she told him. “The whole town knows.”

“Yes,” he said wearily. “I expect they do. It is a fine gathering, and people are enjoying themselves. That is good to see.”

“Why did you come here?” she pressed.

“It is only a stopping place, Beth. I shall not be staying. I was not summoned here; I have not come to deal death to all and sundry.”

“I did not think for one moment that you had. Is it true that you seek Jerusalem?”

“Not, perhaps, with the same fervor as once I had. But yes, I seek the Holy City.”

“Why?”

“Why not? There are worse ways for a man to live. When I was a child, I lived with my parents and my brother. Raiders came and slaughtered my family. My
brother and I escaped and were taken in by another family, but the raiders hit them, too. I was older then, and I killed them. For a long time I was angry, filled with hate for all brigands. Then I found my God and wanted to see Him, to ask Him many things. I am a direct man. So I look for Him. Does that answer your question?”

“It would have, were you younger. How old are you? Forty? Fifty?”

“I am forty-four years old, and yes, I have been searching since before you were born. Does that make a difference?”

“Of course it does,” she told him. “Young men—like Clem Steiner—see themselves as adventurers. But surely with maturity a man would come to see that such a life is wasted.”

“Wasted? Yes, I suppose it has been. I have no wife, no children, no home. But for all people, Beth McAdam, life is like a river. One man steps into it and finds it is cool and sweet and gentle. Another enters and finds it shallow and cold and unwelcoming. Still another finds it a rushing torrent that bears him on to many perils; this last man cannot easily change his course.”

“Just words, Mr. Shannow, and well you know it. A strong man can do anything he pleases, live any life he chooses.”

“Then perhaps I am not strong,” he conceded. “I had a wife once. I put aside my dreams of the Holy City, and I rode with her, seeking a new life. She had a son, Eric, a shy boy who was frightened of me. And we rode unknowingly into the heart of the Hellborn War … and I lost her.”

“Did you look for her? Or did she die?” Beth asked.

“She was taken by the Hellborn. I fought to save her. And—with the help of a fine friend—I did. She married another man—a good man. I am what I am, Beth. I cannot change. The world we live in will not allow me to change.”

“You could marry. Start a farm. Raise children.”

“And how long before someone recognizes me? How long before the brigands gather? How long before an old enemy hunts me or my children? How long? No, I will find Jerusalem.”

“I think you are a sad man, Jon Shannow.” She opened the basket by her side and produced two apples, offering one to the Jerusalem Man. He took it and smiled.

“Less sad in your company, lady. For which I thank you.”

Angry words instantly gathered in her mind, but she saw the expression on his face and swallowed them. This was no clumsy attempt to bed her or the opening shot in a campaign to woo her. It was merely a moment of genuine honesty from a lonely fellow traveler.

“Why me?” she whispered. “I sense you do not allow yourself many friends.”

He shrugged. “I came to know you when I rode in your tracks. You are strong and caring; you do not panic. In some ways we are very alike. When I found the dying brigand, I knew I would be too late to help you. I expected to find you and your children murdered, and my joy was great when I found your courage had saved you.”

“They murdered Harry,” she said. “That is a shame. He asked if he could call on me in Pilgrim’s Valley.” Beth lay down, resting on her elbow, and told Shannow the story of the brigands. He listened in silence until she had finished.

“Some women have that effect on a man,” he said. “Harry respected your courage and hung on to life long enough to send me to help you. For that I think the Almighty will look kindly on him.”

“You and I have different thoughts on that subject.” She looked down the hill and saw Samuel and Mary making their way up toward them. “My children are returning,” she said softly.

“And I will leave you,” he replied.

“Will you take part in the pistol contest?” she asked. “It is being held after the Parson gives his sermon. There is a prize of a hundred Bartas.”

He shrugged. “I do not think so.” He bowed, and she watched him walk away.

“Damn you, Beth,” she whispered. “Don’t let him get to you.”

The Parson knelt deep in prayer on the hillside as the crowd gathered. He opened his eyes and looked out over the throng, and a deep warmth flowed within him. He had walked for two months to reach Pilgrim’s Valley, crossing desert and plain, mountain and valley. He had preached at farms and settlements, had performed marriages, christenings, and funerals at isolated homes. He had prayed for the sick and had been welcomed wherever he walked. Once he had delivered a sermon at a brigand camp, and they had fed him and given him supplies of food and water to enable him to continue his journey. Now he was here, looking out over two thousand eager faces. He ran his hand through his thick red hair and stood.

He was home.

Lifting his borrowed pistols, he cocked them and fired two shots in the air. Into the silence that followed his voice rang out.

“Brothers and Sisters, welcome to God’s holy day! Look at the sun shining in the clear blue heavens. Feel the warmth on your faces. That is but a poor reflection of the love of God when it flows into your hearts and your minds.

“We spend our days, brethren, grubbing in the dirt for wealth. Yet true wealth is here. Right here! I want each one of you to turn to the person beside you and take their hand in friendship. Do it now! Touch. Feel. Welcome. For the person beside you is your brother today, or your
sister. Or your son. Or your daughter. Do it now! Do it now in love.”

A ripple ran through the crowd as people turned, mostly in embarrassment, to grasp and swiftly release the hands of the strangers beside them.

“Not good enough, brethren,” shouted the Parson. “Is this how you would greet a long-lost brother or sister? I will show you.” He strode down among them and took an elderly woman in a deep hug, kissing both her cheeks. “God’s love upon you, Mother,” he said. He seized a man’s arm and swung him to face a young woman. “Embrace her,” he ordered. “And say the words with meaning. With belief. With love.”

Slowly he moved through the crowd, forcing people together. Some of the miners began to follow him, taking women in their arms and kissing them soundly on the cheeks. “That is it, brethren!” shouted the Parson. “Today is God’s day. Today is love!” He moved back to the hillside.

“Not that much love!” he shouted at a miner who had lifted a struggling woman from her feet. The crowd bellowed with laughter, and the tension eased.

“Look at us, Lord!” The Parson raised his arms and face to the heavens. “Look down on your people. Today there is no killing. No violence. No greed. Today we are a family in your sight.”