The Last Guardian (28 page)

Fresh conquests meant little to him now. All that mattered was that his name would ring like a clashing shield down through the ages of history. He smiled. Why should it not? With Sipstrassi he was immortal and therefore would be ever present when his continuing story was sung by the bards.

A second tremor struck. They were beginning to worry him, they had increased so much of late. Clutching his stone, he closed his eyes.

And disappeared …

He opened them to find himself standing in the same room overlooking an identical view. There were the marble walls, beyond them the city, and the docks silent and waiting. It was perhaps his greatest artistic achievement: He had created an exact replica of Ad in a world unpeopled by man. Here there were no earthquakes, only an abundance of deer, elk, and all the other wondrous creatures of nature.

Soon he would transfer the inhabitants there and build a new Atlantis where no enemies could ever conquer them, for there would be no other nations.

He returned to his room and considered waking
Sharazad for an hour of lovemaking, then dismissed the thought, still angry at her stupidity. He did not mind the deaths of the Daggers; the reptiles were merely tools and, as Sharazad had so rightly pointed out, could be replaced with ease. But he hated undisciplined thought, loathed those who could not see or understand the simplest strategies. Many of his generals dismayed him. They could not comprehend that the object of war was to win, not merely to engage in huge and costly battles with a plethora of heroics on either side. Defeat the enemy from within. First convince him of the hopelessness of his cause and then strike him down while he sits demoralized. But in victory be magnanimous, for a defeated and humiliated enemy will live only for the day when he can be revenged. Blame the war on the defeated leaders and court the people. But did the generals understand?

Now a new dawn was beginning for Atlantis. The king had seen a world of flying machines and great wonders. So far the links had been tentative, but soon he would open the gateway wider and send out scouts to learn about the new enemy.

His thoughts returned to Sharazad. The world she had discovered was not worthy of their attention save for the weapons known as guns. But now that they had seen them, they could duplicate them—improve on them. There was nothing there of interest. Yet he would allow Sharazad to play out her game to the end; there was the faintest glimmer of hope that she would learn something of value. And if she did not, there was always the whip and her deliciously satisfying screams.

The man Shannow, at least, was of transient interest. The hunters would kill him, of course, but not before he had provided great sport. How many to send? Five would ensure success. One would give Shannow a chance. Then let it be three, thought the king. But which three?

Magellas must be one; haughty and proud, he needed a tough task. Lindian? Cold, that one, and lethal—not a
man to allow into one’s presence with a weapon of any kind. Yes, Lindian. And to complete the mixture, Rhodaeul. He and Magellas hated each other, constantly vying for supremacy. It should be a fascinating mission for them. They had mastered the new guns with rare brilliance.

Now it was time to see if they could use them to good purpose against an enemy of great skill.

The king lifted his stone and concentrated on Shannow’s face. The air rippled before him, and he saw the Jerusalem Man heaving a sack across the back of his saddle.

“You are in great danger, Jon Shannow,” said the king. “Best to be on your guard!”

Shannow swung as the eerie voice filled his mind. His gun swept up, but there was no target in sight.

The sound of mocking laughter drifted away into echoes.

25

T
HE
WITHDRAWAL
TOOK
place just after dawn. The Parson and twenty of the men moved out to flank the straggling column as it headed across the valley toward the great gash the quake had ripped into the ancient wall. The Parson carried a short-barreled rifle, his pistols jutting from the belt of his black cassock. The rescued wagons carried some of the children, but most of the three hundred survivors of the raid—reinforced by farmers and settlers from outlying regions—walked in silence, casting nervous glances around them. Everyone expected the reptiles to attack, and the Parson had been hard-pressed to convince the refugees of the need to move from the seeming sanctuary of the woods.

Edric Scayse had returned in the night with two wagons loaded with food and spare guns. He had volunteered with thirty others to man the defensive trench in the woods.

“This is partly my fault,” he had told the Parson before the column had moved out. “Those demons are carrying guns I supplied, may God forgive me.”

“He has a habit of forgiving people,” the Parson assured him.

As he walked, the Parson prayed earnestly. “Lord, as you saved your chosen people from the clutches of the Egyptians, so be with us now as we walk across the valley of the shadow. And be with us when we enter the realm of the Great Whore, who, with your blessing, I
will cut down and destroy with all the beasts of hell over whom she reigns.”

The wagons were raising dust, and the Parson ran back to the column, organizing children to scatter water around the wheels. In the distance the wall loomed, but if they were found here, there would be no defense. He loped back to the flanking men.

“You see anything?” he asked Bull.

“Not a movement, Parson. But I feel like I’m sitting on the anvil with the hammer over me—know what I mean? If it ain’t the reptiles, we’ve still got to walk into the land of the lion-men.”

“God will be with us,” said the Parson, forcing sincerity into his voice.

“Hope so,” muttered the man. “Surely do need some edge. Look there! More survivors.”

The Parson followed his gaze and saw a wagon moving down to join them. He recognized Beth McAdam at the reins, a black-bearded man beside her. Waving them into the column, he strode across.

“I am pleased to see you are well, Beth,” he said.

“This ain’t well, Parson. I just built my goddamn house, and now I’m being run out by a bunch of lizards. What’s worse, I got a sick man in the back, and this bumping around is doing him no good at all.”

“Within a couple of hours, God willing, we should be behind the wall. Then we can defend ourselves.”

“Yeah, against the reptiles. What about the other beasts?”

The Parson shrugged. “As God wishes. Will you introduce me to your friend?”

“This is Nu, Parson. He healed the convoy; he’s another man of God—getting to be so I feel hip-deep in them.”

Nu climbed down from the wagon and stretched. The Parson offered his hand, which Nu shook, and the two men strolled together.

“Are you new to this country, Meneer?” the Parson asked.

“Yes and no,” replied Nu. “I was here … a long time ago. Much has changed.”

“Do you know of the lands beyond the wall?”

“Not much, I am afraid. There is a city there—a very old city. It used to be called Ad. There are temples and palaces.”

“It is inhabited now by beasts of the Devil,” said the Parson. “Their evil keeps the Sword of God trapped in the sky. It is my dream to destroy their evil and release the sword.”

Nu said nothing. He had seen the city in his spirit search, but there had been no signs of beasts or demons. The two men walked together with the flanking gunmen, and soon the Parson, tiring of the silence, moved away. Nu strode on, lost in thought. How, he wondered, could a man who professed to believe in the supreme power of God be so convinced that such an awesome power would need his help? Trapped in the sky? What kind of petty creature did this man believe God to be?

The convoy moved slowly across the landscape.

A horseman came galloping across the valley. The Parson and his flankers ran to intercept him; the man was one of Scayse’s riders.

“Better move fast, Parson,” he said, leaning over the saddle of his lathered mount. “There’s two groups of the creatures. One is moving on Meneer Scayse in the woods; the second and larger one is coming to intercept you. They’re not far behind.”

The Parson swung to gauge the distance to the wall—it was over a mile. “Ride in and get the wagons moving at speed. Tell everyone to run.” The horseman dug his heels into the flanks of his weary horse and cantered down to the leading wagons. Whips cracked, and the oxen strained into the traces.

The Parson gathered his men. “We can’t hold them,”
he said, “but we’ll keep together at the rear of the convoy. When we see them, we can at least slow their advance. Let’s go.”

The morning sun blazed down on them as they ran into the dust cloud left by the fleeing convoy.

As the mocking laughter faded, Shannow stepped into the saddle. He cast his eyes around the silent street. There in the dust by the Traveler’s Rest lay Mason, his body riddled with bullet holes. Some yards to the left was Boris Haimut, who would now never find the answers to his questions. The crippled hostler lay in the street by the livery stable with an old shotgun in his hands. Elsewhere were the bodies of men, women, and children Shannow had never known in life, yet all must have nurtured their own dreams and ambitions. He turned the stallion’s head and rode out into the valley.

He had been lucky at the gunsmith’s store. As he had hoped, Groves had made more of the Hellborn shells, obviously planning on larger orders from Scayse. Shannow now had more than a hundred bullets. He had also gathered a short rifle, three sacks of black powder, and various other items from the debris of the general store.

As he rode, he thought back to the voice that had whispered in his mind:
Be on your guard
. When in the last two decades had he not been on his guard or in peril? Neither the voice nor the implied threat worried him unduly. A man lived, a man died. What could frighten a man who understood those truths?

For some time Shannow rode in sight of the wagons, but there was no pursuit, and he cut his trail at right angles and rode for the hills to the east. If the Parson took his advice and moved his people, the valley would become the place of greatest danger.

Shannow rode warily, altering his direction often, allowing no hidden observer to plot his path. The ground
rose, and he guided the stallion up into the boulder-strewn hills, dismounting and tethering him. Then he lifted the sack and opened it, spreading the contents on the ground before him. There were seven clay pots with narrow necks stopped with corks, six packets of small nails, and a coil of fuse wire. He filled each pot with black powder mixed with nails, tamping them down firmly. With a long nail he pierced each of the corks and fed lengths of fuse wire into them. Satisfied with his handiwork, he returned the pots to the sack and sat down to wait. With his long glass he studied the valley below. In the far distance he saw the wagons reach the woods; then he watched as the convoy began its slow progress toward the wall.

For an hour he sat, and then the first of the Daggers came into view, running toward the woods. Shannow focused the glass and watched the enemy closing in on the makeshift fortifications. Another movement caught his eye; several hundred of the reptiles were running toward the south. A horseman cut across them and thundered away. Shannow stood and heaved the sack over the back of his saddle. Taking the reins, he mounted and steered the stallion through the trees toward the eastern slopes. Shielded by the hills, he rode at speed, ignoring the danger of potholes or rocks. The stallion was surefooted and strong, and he loved to run. Twice Shannow was forced to duck under overhanging branches that would have swept him from the saddle, and once the stallion stumbled over a fallen tree. As the hills leveled out, Shannow swung his mount to the west, into a shallow gulley that led out onto the plain. Shots whistled by him, and he could see the reptiles closing fast as he leapt from the saddle, dragging the sack with him and pulling one of the pots clear. He struck a match and applied it to the fuse, which crackled and spit. Shannow heaved it over the gully edge and then lit another. The explosion was deafening, and red-hot nails screamed overhead. Three
more pots sailed into the advancing ranks of the Daggers before Shannow grabbed the pommel of his saddle and vaulted to the stallion’s back.