The Last Guardian (7 page)

Beth shook her head and stared up at the stars, her eyes misting with unaccustomed tears. She glanced back at the children as they spread their blankets on the warm ground beside the dead fire. Sean McAdam had not been a bad man, but she did not miss him as they did. He had learned early on that his wife did not love him, but he had doted on his children, played with them, taught them, helped them. So devoted had he been that he had not noticed his wife’s affection growing, not until close to the end, when he had lain almost paralyzed in the wagon.

“Sorry, Beth,” he had whispered.

“Nothin’ to be sorry for. Rest and get well.”

For an hour or more he had slept, then his eyes had opened and his hand had trembled and lifted from the blanket. She had taken hold of it, squeezing it firmly.

“I love you,” he said. “God’s truth.”

She stared at him hard. “I know. Sleep. Go to sleep.”

“I … didn’t do too bad … by you and the kids, did I?”

“Stop talkin’ like that,” she ordered. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

He shook his head. “It’s over, Beth. I’m hanging by a thread. Tell me. Please.”

“Tell you what?”

“Just tell me …” His eyes closed, and his breathing became shallow.

She held his hand to her breast and leaned in close. “I love you, Sean. I do. God knows I do. Now, please get well.”

He had slipped away in the night while the children were sleeping. Beth sat with him for some time but then considered the effect on the children of seeing their father’s corpse. So she had dragged the body from the wagon and dug a grave on the hillside while they slept.

Lost in her memories now, she did not hear Mary approach. The child laid her hand on her mother’s shoulder, and Beth turned and instinctively took her in her arms.

“Don’t fret, Mary love. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“I miss my pa. I wish we were still back home.”

“I know,” said Beth, stroking the child’s long auburn hair. “But if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. We just got to move on.” She pushed the girl from her. “Now, it’s important that you remember what I showed you today and do it. There’s no tellin’ how many bad men there are ’twixt here and Pilgrim’s Valley. And I need you, Mary. Can I trust you?”

“Sure you can, Ma.”

“Good girl. Now get to bed.”

Beth stayed awake for several hours, listening to the wind over the grass of the plain, watching the stars gliding by. Two hours before dawn she woke Mary. “Don’t fall asleep, girl. You watch for any riders and wake me if you see them.”

Then she lay down and fell into a dreamless sleep. It seemed to last for only a few moments before Mary was shaking her, but the sun was clearing the eastern horizon as Beth blinked and pushed one hand through her blond hair.

“Riders, Ma. I think it’s the same men.”

“Get in the wagon. And remember what I told you.”

Beth lifted the flintlock pistol and cocked both barrels; then she hid the gun once more in the folds of her skirt and scanned the group for a sign of Harry. He wasn’t with them. She took a deep breath and steadied herself as the horsemen thundered into the camp and the man she remembered as Quint leapt from the saddle.

“Now, missy,” he said, “we’ll have a little of what old Harry enjoyed.”

Beth raised the flintlock. Quint stopped in his tracks. She loosed the first barrel, and the ball took Quint just above his nose, plowing through his skull. He fell back into the dust with blood pumping from a fatal wound in his head as Beth stepped forward.

The sudden explosion had alarmed the horses, and the four remaining riders fought to settle them as Quint’s mount galloped out over the plain. In the silence that followed the men glanced at one another. Beth’s voice cut into them.

“You whoresons have two choices: ride or die. And make the choice fast. I start shooting when I stop speaking.” The gun rose and pointed at the nearest man.

“Whoa there, lady!” the rider shouted. “I’m leaving.”

“You can’t take all of us, bitch!” shouted another, spurring his horse. But a tremendous explosion came from the wagon, and the brigand was whipped from the saddle, half his head blown away.

“Any other doubters?” asked Beth. “Move!”

The three survivors dragged on the reins and galloped away. Beth ran to the wagon, took her powder horn, and reloaded the flintlock. Mary climbed down from the tailboard with the shortened rifle in her arms.

“You did well, Mary,” said Beth, ramming home the wad over the ball and charge. “I’m proud of you.”

She took the rifle and leaned it against the wagon, then cradled the trembling child in her arms. “There, there. It’s all right. Go and sit at the front; don’t look at them.” Beth guided Mary to the driving platform and helped her up, then walked back to the bodies. Unbuckling Quint’s pistol belt, she strapped it to her waist and then searched the body for powder and ammunition. She found a small hide sack of caps and transferred them to the wagon, then took a second pistol from the other body and hid it behind the driver’s seat. Sean McAdam had never been
able to afford a revolving pistol; now they had two. Beth gathered the oxen, hitched them to the wagon, and then walked to the brigand’s horse, a bay mare, and pulled herself into the saddle. Awkwardly she rode alongside where Mary sat.

“Take up the reins, child. And let’s move.”

Samuel clambered up beside Mary and grinned at his mother. “You look just like a brigand, Ma.”

Beth smiled back at him, then transferred her gaze to Mary, who was sitting white-faced, staring ahead.

“Take the reins, Mary, goddammit!” The girl flinched and unhooked them from the brake. “Now let’s go!” Mary flicked the reins, and Beth rode up alongside the lead ox and whacked her palm across its rump.

High above, the carrion birds had begun to circle.

8

N
U
-K
HASISATRA
REACHED
THE
old stone circle an hour before dawn. He waited, hidden in the trees, searching for any guards who might be patrolling there, but there were none he could see. Under the bright moonlight he studied the words on the parchment, memorizing them. Then, stone in hand, he ran from the trees onto the open ground before the circle.

At once there was a thin piercing whistle. Shadows darted for him, and a woman’s voice cried out: “Alive! Take him alive!”

Nu sprinted for the stone circle, its tall gray slabs promising sanctuary. A reptilian figure in black armor ran into his path, but Nu swung his huge fist into the creature’s face, dashing him to the grass. Hurdling the falling body, he made it to the shadows of the stones. Once there, he swung to see more Daggers closing on him.

He lifted his hand.
“Barak naizi tor lemmes!”
he shouted. Lightning flashed across his eyes, blinding him, and his mind was filled with whirling colors. All sense of weight and strength left him, and he tumbled like a windblown feather into a storm. With a sickening lurch he felt the ground under his feet, stumbled, and fell. His eyes opened, but at first he could see nothing save flickering lights. Then his vision cleared, and he found himself in a small clearing. Close by was a dead man, his face hideously burned. Nu got to his feet and moved to the body. The man was wearing strange apparel, and Nu
studied it; the clothing was unlike anything he had ever encountered. He walked out of the clearing and stared at the surrounding landscape. There was no city of Balacris, no view of a distant ocean. Grasslands drifted to a blurred horizon where jagged mountains soared to meet the sky.

Returning to the clearing, Nu sat and examined his stone. The black veins in the gold had swelled. He had no way of knowing how much power the journey had sucked from the Sipstrassi.

Dropping to his knees, Nu-Khasisatra began to pray. For some time he gave thanks for his deliverance from the hands of Sharazad and her Daggers; then he asked that his family be protected. Finally he sought the silence in which the voice of God could be heard.

The wind whispered about him, but he heard no words within it. Sunlight bathed his face, but no visions came. At last he stood. It would be safer, he knew, if his clothing matched that of the people of this land. The stone glowed warm in his hand, and his robes and cloak shimmered and changed. Now he was wearing trousers and boots, shirt and long jacket identical to those of the dead man.

“Be careful, Nu,” he warned himself aloud. “Do not waste the power.”

He recalled the words of Bali: “Seek the Sword of God.” He had no idea in which direction to travel, but looking down at the ground, he saw the tracks of a horse heading toward the mountains. With no other omen to guide him, Nu-Khasisatra followed them.

Sharazad sat at an ornate table, her ice-blue eyes locked to the face of Pashad, wife of the traitor Nu-Khasisatra.

“You denounced your husband yesterday. Why?”

“I discovered he was plotting against the king,” she answered, averting her eyes and gazing at the surface of
the desk, on which lay a curious white-handled ornament of silver.

“With whom was he plotting?”

“The merchant Bali, Highness. He was the only one I knew.”

“You know that the family of a traitor shares his sentence?” whispered the golden-haired inquisitor, and Pashad nodded.

“Yet he had not been declared a traitor when I denounced him, Highness. Also, I am no longer of his family, for after denouncing him I divorced him.”

“So you did. Where is he hiding?”

“I do not know, Highness. The list of our property was taken this morning. There are only five houses and three store buildings by the dock. Other than that, I cannot help you.”

Sharazad smiled. Then, reaching into the pocket of her pearl-embroidered tunic, she drew out a red-gold stone and placed it on the desk. Three words of power she uttered. “Place your hand over the stone,” she told the slim, dark-haired girl before her. Pashad did so.

“Now I will ask you some more questions, but I want you to be aware that if you lie, the stone will kill you instantly. Do you understand this?”

Pashad nodded calmly, but her eyes showed her fear.

“Do you know the whereabouts of the man Nu-Khasisatra?”

“I do not.”

“Do you know the names of any of his friends who may have been involved in the plot?”

“That is difficult to answer,” said Pashad, sweat glistening on her brow. “I know some of his … friends, but I would have no way of knowing whether they shared his treason.”

“Do you share his treason?”

“No. I do not understand any of it. How can I tell if the king is a god? My life has been spent in making my husband
happy and raising his children. What should it matter to us whether the king is a god or not?”

“If you did know the whereabouts of the man Nu-Khasisatra, would you tell me?”

“Yes,” answered Pashad. “Instantly.”

Sharazad’s surprise was genuine. Lifting Pashad’s hand, she took the stone and replaced it in her pocket.

“You are free to go,” she said. “If you hear any news of the traitor, then make sure I know of it.”

“I will, Highness.”

Sharazad watched the woman leave and then leaned back in her chair. A curtain by the left wall parted, and a young man stepped through, tall and wide-shouldered yet slim of hip. He grinned and sat down in a nearby chair, lifting his booted foot to rest on the table.

“You owe me,” he said. “I told you she would know nothing.”

“Always so smug, Rhodaeul,” she snapped. “But I am somewhat taken aback. From all I have heard of this shipbuilder, he adored his wife. I would have expected him to have taken her into his confidence.”

“He’s a careful man. Have you any idea where he has gone?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling, “as a matter of fact, I have. You see, the circle has been linked to the world we discovered two months ago. Nu-Khasisatra thought he was escaping, but instead he has traveled to our latest field of conquest. It is the land that has brought us these strange weapons.” She lifted the pistol from the desktop and tossed it to Rhodaeul; it was silver-plated with grips of carved white bone. “The king wishes you to become proficient with these … these guns.”