Wolf In Shadow (13 page)

 Without turning, Shannow lifted his hand and beckoned the boy to join him. It was all Selah needed to swing the balance and he kicked his horse into a run and rode alongside the Thunder-maker.

 Shannow grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. It was the first time Selah had seen him smile in weeks. Was it a form of madness, Selah wondered? Did the prospect of danger and death somehow bring this man to life?

 They rode along a deer trail that wound high into the hills where the air was fresh with the smell of pine and new grass. A lion roared in the near distance and Selah could picture it leaping upon its prey, for the roar had been the blood-freezing attack cry which paralysed the victim. Selah’s horse shied and he calmed it with soft words. A shot followed, echoing in the hills. Shannow’s Hellborn pistol appeared in his hand and he steered his gelding towards the sound. Selah tugged Shannow’s percussion pistol from his own belt and followed but he did not cock the pistol, nor had he handled it since Shannow gave it to him on the morning they left Karitas’ grave. The weapon terrified him and yet gave him strength, and he kept it in his belt more as a talisman than a death-dealing thunder-maker.

 Selah followed Shannow over a steep rise and down a slope towards a narrow glen. Ahead the boy could see a man on the ground, a black-maned lion straddling him. The man’s right hand was gripping the lion’s mane, holding its jaws from ripping his throat, while his left hand plunged a knife time and again into the beast’s side.

 Shannow galloped alongside, dragged on the reins and, as the gelding reared, fired a shot into the lion’s head. The animal slumped over the body of his intended victim and the man pulled himself clear. His black leather trousers were torn at the thigh and blood was seeping through; his face had been deeply cut and the flesh hung in a dripping fold over his right cheek. Pushing himself to his feet, he sheathed his knife. He was a powerful man with wide shoulders and a deep chest and he sported a forked black trident beard.

 Ignoring his rescuers, he staggered to a spot some yards away and retrieved his revolver, which he placed in a leather scabbard at his side. He stumbled, but recovered and turned at last to Shannow.

 ’It was a fine shot,’ he said, ‘though had it been a fraction off it would have killed me rather than the lion.’

 Shannow did not reply, and Selah saw his gun was still in his hand and trained on the wounded man. Then the boy saw why. To the man’s right was his helm, and upon it were the goat’s horns of the Hellborn.

 Suddenly the man staggered and pitched to the ground. Selah sprang from his horse and ran to him. The wound in the thigh was gushing blood and Selah drew his knife and cut away the trouser-leg, exposing a deep rip almost a foot long.

 ’We must stop this bleeding,’ he told Shannow, but the Jerusalem Man remained on his horse. ‘Give me needle and thread,’ said Selah. Shannow blinked, then reached into his saddlebag and passed a leather pouch to the boy.

 For almost an hour Selah worked on the wounds, finally pushing back the folds of skin on the man’s cheek and stitching them in place. Meanwhile Shannow had dismounted and unsaddled their horses. He said nothing, but prepared a fire within a circle of stones, having first ripped away the grass around it. Selah checked the wounded man’s pulse; it was weak, but steady.

 He joined Shannow by the fire, leaving the man wrapped in his blankets. ‘Why?’ asked Shannow. ‘Why what?’ ‘Why did you save him?’

 ’I do not understand,’ said Selah. ‘You saved him by killing the lion.’

 ’I did not then know what he was . . . what he is.’ ‘He is a man,’ stated Selah.

 ’He is your enemy, boy. He may even have been the man who killed Curopet, or nailed Karitas to the tree.’ ‘I shall ask him when he wakes.’ ‘And what will that tell you?’

 ’If he did attack my village, I shall tend him until he is well and then we will fight.’ ‘That is nonsense, boy.’

 ’Perhaps, but Karitas always taught us to follow our feelings, most especially compassion. I want to kill the Hellborn - I said that on the day we found our people. But this is different, this is one brave man who fought a lion with only a knife. Who knows, he might have won without you.’

 Shannow shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. You went Into the Hellborn camp and slew them while they slept. Where is the difference?’

 ’I did that to save my people. I failed. I have no regrets about the men I slew but I cannot slay this one - not yet.’

 ’Then step aside and I’ll put a bullet in his ear.’

 ’No,’ said the boy forcefully. ‘His life is now mine, as mine is yours.’

 ’All right,’ said Shannow. ‘I will argue no more. Maybe he will die in the night. Did you at least take his gun?’

 ’No, he did not,’ said a voice and Selah turned to see that the wounded man had raised himself on his elbow and his pistol was pointed at Shannow. The Jerusalem Man lifted his head, his eyes glittering in the firelight, and Selah saw that he was about to draw his own weapons.

 ’No!’ he shouted, stepping between them. ‘Put your pistol down,’ he told the Hellborn.

 Their eyes met and the man managed a weak smile. ‘He’s right, boy. You are a fool,’ he said as slowly he uncocked the pistol and lay back. Selah swung towards Shannow, but the Jerusalem Man was walking away to sit on a rock some distance from the fire, his Bible in his hands. Selah, who normally left him alone at such times, approached him warily and Shannow looked up and smiled gently. Then, under the moon’s silver light, he began to read. At first Selah had difficulty in understanding certain words, but overall the story fell into place. It seemed that a man was robbed and left for dead and that several people passed him by, offering no help. At last another man came and helped him, carrying him to a place of rest. This last man, Shannow explained, was from a people who were hated and despised.

 ’What does it mean, then?’ Selah asked.

 ’I think it means that there is good in all men. Yet you have added a fresh twist to the parable, for you have rescued the Samaritan. I hope you do not come to regret it.’

 ’What is the Book?’

 ’It is the history of a people long dead, and it is the Word of God through the ages.’

 ’Does it give you peace, Shannow?’

 ’No, it torments me.’

 ’Does it give you power?’

 ’No, it weakens me.’

 Then why do you read it?’

 ’Because without it there is nothing but a meaningless existence of pain and sorrow, ending in death. For what would we strive?’

 ’To be happy, Shannow. To raise children and know joy.’

 ’There has been very little joy in my life, Selah. But one day soon I will taste it again.’

 ’Through your god?’

 ’No - through my woman.’

 Batik lay back, feeling the pull of the stitches and the weakness he knew came from loss of blood. He had no idea why the boy wanted him saved, nor why the man had agreed to it. And yet he lived, and that was enough for now. His horse had reared when the lion roared and Batik had managed just one shot as it leapt. The shot had creased its side and then he had been catapulted from the saddle. He could not remember drawing his knife, but he recalled with brilliant clarity the arrival of the hard-eyed man on the steeldust gelding, and he had registered even as the gun was aimed that it was a Hellborn pistol.

 Now, as he lay under the stars, it was no great work of the intellect to come up with the obvious answer: the man had been one of those who attacked Cabrik’s Feasters some weeks back, killing over eighty young men in a single night . . . Which made his acquiescence in allowing Batik to live all the more curious.

 While he was thinking, the boy Selah approached him. ‘How are your wounds?’

 ’You did well. They will heal.’

 ’I am preparing some broth. It will help make more blood for you.’

 ’Why? Why do you do this for me?’

 Selah shrugged, unwilling to enter debate.

 ’I was not in the attack on your village,’ said Batik, ‘though I easily could have been.’

 Then you tell me, Hellborn, why they wanted to kill my people?’

 ’Our priests could answer that better than I. We are the Chosen people. We are ordered to inhabit the lands and kill every man, woman and child we find. The priests say that this is to ensure the purity of our faith.’

 ’How can a babe in arms affect your faith?’

 ’I don’t know. Truly. I never killed a babe or a child, though I saw it done. Ask our priests when you meet one.’

 ’It is a savagery beyond my understanding,’ Selah said.

 ’My name is Batik,’ said the man. ‘And you?’

 ’Selah.’

 ’And your friend?’

 ’He is Shannow, the Thunder-maker.’

 ’Shannow. I have heard the name.’

 ’He is a great soul and a mighty warrior. He slew many of your people.’

 ’And now he is hunted in turn.’

 ’By you?’

 ’No,’ said Batik. ‘But the Lord Abaddon has declared him Unholy, and that means he must burn. Already the Zealots are riding - and they have great powers; they will find him.’

 ’When they do, Batik, he will slay them.’

 Batik smiled. ‘He is not a god, Selah. The Zealots will bring him down, even as they brought me down.’

 ’You are hunted?’

 ’I need some sleep. We will talk tomorrow.’

 Batik awoke early, the pain from his wounds pulling him from a troubled sleep. Overhead the sky was clear and a black crow circled, banking and wheeling. He sat up, wincing as the stitches pulled at the wound to his face. Shannow was awake, sitting still in the dawn light and reading from a leather-covered book with gold-trimmed pages. Batik saw the tension in the man, and the way that his right hand rested barely inches from the pistol which lay beside him on the rock. Batik resisted the urge to smile; the stitches were too painful.

 ’You are awake early,’ he said, lifting the blankets from his legs.

 Shannow slowly closed the book and turned. His eyes met Batik’s and the look was glacial. Batik’s face hardened.

 ’I was hoping,’ said Shannow tonelessly, ‘that you would die in the night.’ .

 Batik nodded. ‘Before we enter into a prolonged debate on your views, perhaps you would care to know that we are being watched, and that within a short time we will be hunted.’

 There is no one watching us,’ said Shannow. ‘I scouted earlier.’

 Batik smiled, in spite of the pain. ‘You have no conception, Shannow, of the nature of the hunters. We are not talking about mere men. Those who hunt us are the Zealots and they ride under the name of the Hounds of Hell. If you look up, you will see a crow. It does not land, nor scavenge for food; it merely circles us, directing those that follow.

 ’The lion yesterday was possessed by a Zealot. It is a talent they have; it is why they are deadly.’

 ’Why would you warn me?’ asked Shannow, flicking his eyes to take in the crow’s flight.

 ’Because they are hunting me also.’

 ’Why should they?’

 ’I am not religious, Shannow, and I tried to ruin the midwinter offering. But all that is past. Just accept that I am- as you - an enemy to the Zealots.’

 Selah groaned and sat up. On a rock, a reptilean creature with slavering jaws sat over the body of Shannow. Selah drew his pistol and cocked it. The monster’s eyes turned on him, red as blood, as he pointed the pistol.

 ’What are you doing?’ asked Shannow.

 Selah blinked as the image shifted and blurred. His finger tightened on the trigger, but at the last second he twisted the barrel. The shot echoed in the hills and a shell whistled past Shannow’s ear. Selah eared back the hammer for a second shot, but Batik had moved behind him. With a swift chop to the neck with the blade of his hand, Batik stunned the boy and retrieved the pistol.

 Shannow had not moved. ‘Is he all right?’ he asked.

 ’Yes. The Zealots work well with the young, their minds are more malleable.’

 Shannow drew his pistol and cocked it and Batik froze. The Jerusalem Man tipped back his head, his arm lifted and he fired. The crow exploded in a burst of flesh and feathers.

 Shannow opened the pistol’s breech, removed the spent casing and reloaded the weapon. Then he walked to Selah, kneeling by him and turning him over. The boy’s eyelids fluttered and opened; he saw Shannow and jerked.

 ’You are dead!’ he said, struggling to rise.

 ’Lie still, boy. I am fine.’

 ’I saw a monster over your body. I tried to scare it away.’

 There was no monster.’ Shannow tried to explain, but the boy could not comprehend and Batik stepped in.

 ’It was magic, Selah. You were fooled by the hunters.’

 ’Magic?’

 ’Yes. They cast a spell that confused your eyes. It is unlikely they will try again through you - but they may. Be wary, and shoot at nothing.’ He handed the pistol to the boy and then sagged back on the ground, his face gleaming with sweat.

 Shannow watched him closely. ‘You are a powerful man,’ he said, ‘but you lost a lot of blood. You need rest.’

 ’We cannot stay here,’ said Batik.

 ’From which direction will they be coming?’ asked Shannow.

 ’North-east,’ said Batik. ‘But do not go up against them, Shannow.’

 ’It is my way. How many are there?’

 Batik shrugged. ‘There could be six, or sixty. Whatever, they will travel in multiples of six; it is a mystic number.’

 ’Stay here and rest. I will return.’

 Shannow walked to his saddle and hefted it, making his way towards the steeldust gelding which was hobbled some thirty feet from the camp. As Shannow approached he saw horse-flies settling on the gelding’s hind quarters, yet the animal’s tail was still. Shannow slowed his walk and the gelding dipped its head and watched him. Shannow approached the beast from the left and laid the saddle on its back, stooping to tighten the cinch. The gelding did not move and Shannow was sweating now. Gripping the bridle tightly in his right hand, he loosed the slip-knot hobbling the horse. As the rope fell away the gelding bunched its muscles to rear and Shannow grabbed the pommel and vaulted into the saddle. The gelding reared up and set off at a dead run, but Shannow manoeuvred his “feet into the stirrups and held on. The gelding stopped and bucked furiously, bus Shannow wrenched its head back towards the camp. Suddenly the horse rolled over; Shannow leapt from the saddle and, as the beast came upright, mounted swiftly.