“We’ll see.”
“Well, I ain’t staying,” said the man. “I done my share.”
“We’ve all done our share, Isaac. You want to run out on God?”
“Run out on him? He ain’t doing us no favors here, is he? There must be four, five hundred more of them sons of bitches, and we ain’t even got enough shells for them all.”
“He’s right, Ephram,” said Janus. “Send a rider to Cade. Tell him he’s got less than a day and he’d better speed up.”
“I’ll go,” said Isaac, “and glad to be out of it.”
The two wounded men were carried back into the pass, and Janus touched Gambion’s arm. “We ought to move back, Ephram. We can’t do any good here.”
“We can thin them a little.”
“They can afford to lose more than we can.”
“You want to run, then run!” snarled Gambion. “I’m staying.”
“Here they come!” yelled a defender, pumping a shell into the breech. Gambion wiped sweat from his eyes and peered out into the canyon. Then blinked and squinted into the sunlight.
“Hold your fire!” he shouted. The lead rider came closer, and Gambion waved, a broad smile breaking out on his face.
“Jesus,” whispered Isaac. “They’re southerners!”
The troop cantered past the bodies of the Hellborn, and the leader drew rein before Gambion. He was a short, stocky man with a red mustache.
“Well, Gambion, I swore to hang you, and now I’m going to have to fight alongside you. There’s no justice left in the world!”
“I never thought to be pleased to see you, Simmonds, but I could kiss your boots.”
The man stepped down from the saddle. “We’ve had refugees streaming south for a while now, telling tales a sane man couldn’t believe. Do these bastards really worship the Devil and drink blood?”
“They do and more,” said Gambion.
“Where are they from?”
“The Plague Lands,” Gambion replied, as if that explained everything.
“Is it true that Cade’s become a prophet?”
“As true as I’m standing here. You still carrying muskets?”
“It’s all we’ve got.”
“Not anymore. We didn’t have a chance to collect all the weapons from them Hellborn. You help yourself. They carry repeating rifles—damn good weapons. Ten-shot, some of them; the others is eight.”
Simmonds sent some of his men to search the dead, while the rest rode back into the pass to make camp. He himself wandered up the ridge with Gambion and Janus.
“This your boy?” he asked.
“No, this is our general. And don’t make jokes, Simmonds; he’s done us proud the last six days.”
“You shaving yet, son?”
“No, sir, but I’m two inches taller than you, so I guess that makes us even.”
Simmonds’ eyebrows raised. “You a brigand?”
“No. My father was a farmer, and the Hellborn killed him.”
“The world’s changing too fast for my liking,” said Simmonds. “Repeating rifles, boy generals, brigand prophets, and Devil worshipers from the Plague Lands! I’m too old for this.”
“Can we leave a hundred of your men here?” asked Gambion. “Then I’ll take you to Cade.”
“Sure. Is your general staying?”
“He is,” said Janus. “For four more days. Then we make for Sweetwater.”
“All right. What happened to your head, Gambion?”
“Horse kicked it.”
“I expect you had to shoot the horse,” said Simmonds.
Shannow and Batik were camped in a shaded spot near a waterfall when Ruth appeared. Batik dropped his mug of water and leapt backward, tripping over a rock and sprawling beside the fire. Shannow smiled.
“You must excuse my friend, Ruth. He is very nervous these days.”
“How are you, Batik?” she asked.
“Well, lady. Yourself?”
She seemed older than when they had last seen her; dark rings circled her eyes, and her cheeks were sunken. Her iron-gray hair had lost its sheen, and her eyes were listless.
“I am as you see me,” she said softly.
“Are you truly here with us?” asked Shannow.
“I am here and there,” she answered.
“Can you eat? Drink? If you can, you are welcome to share what we have.”
She shook her head and remained silent. Shannow was at a loss and moved to the fire. Wrapping his hand in a cloth, he lifted the small copper pot from the flames and mixed some herbs into the water; then he stirred the tea with a stick before pouring it into a mug. Batik spread his blankets and removed his boots. Ruth remained statue-still, regarding them both.
“How goes your quest?” she asked, and Shannow shrugged, aware that her question was merely the precursor of heavier words. “What did you make of the Guardians?”
“I liked Archer. Lewis seemed a good man.”
“Who leads them?” she asked.
“You do not know?”
“A long time ago Karitas urged me to respect their privacy.”
“It is a man called Sarento.”
“Did you like him?”
“An odd question, Ruth. What does it matter?”
“It matters, Mr. Shannow. For you are a man of talent. You are a sensitive, and you have not stayed alive this long merely by being skillful with weapons. You have a knack of being in the right place at the right time. You judge men too shrewdly. In a way your powers in this respect are greater than mine. For mine have been cultivated over the centuries, while yours are latent, unchanneled. Did you like him?”
“No.”
“Did you judge him to be … ungodly?”
“He reminded me of Abaddon—the same arrogance.”
“And he offered you weapons?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you refuse?”
“War is a vile game, Ruth, and the innocent die along with the guilty. I want nothing to do with the war itself; my only interest is in avenging Donna.”
“Avenging? She is not dead yet.”
Shannow sat very still. “Truly?”
“Would I lie?”
“No. Can I reach her before they kill her?”
“No, Mr. Shannow, but I can.”
“Will you?”
“I am not sure. Something has been troubling me for some time now, and yesterday I made a discovery that frightened me, that rocked all my long-built security. The Hellborn are not the enemy. We are not dealing with an evil race; they are pawns in a game I cannot understand.”
“Are you saying that the Hellborn are not at war?” asked Shannow. “That they are not butchering their way across the continent?”
“Of course not. But why are they doing it?”
“To conquer,” answered Batik. “Why else?”
“I thought that before yesterday, but believe me, my friends, I have been very stupid. You are a Bible-reading man, Mr. Shannow, and you have read of possession. Demons? The Hellborn are possessed, and the power emanates from Abaddon. He is the center, but even he does not understand the source of his power; he is being used.”
“By the Devil?” said Shannow.
“No … or perhaps yes, in another form. There is a force that I have traced that focuses on Abaddon and is dispersed by him throughout the Hellborn lands, touching the Blood Stone of every man, woman, and child. Quite simply it is hatred, lust, greed. It covers the land like an invisible fog, and it travels with his armies, bloated like a great slug.”
“It will be gone, then, when I kill him,” said Shannow.
“That is not the point, Mr. Shannow. The source is where the evil lies … and I have traced that source, and the power there is incredible.”
“You speak of the Guardians,” said Shannow.
“Indeed I do.”
“You say you traced the source?” asked Batik.
“It is a giant stone. It feeds, if that is the word, on soul power—ESPer talents,
call them what you will.”
“Where is this stone?” said Shannow.
“It is lodged beneath the mountain of the Ark, and from there it draws power from every Blood Stone in the Hellborn empire. It must be destroyed, Mr. Shannow; its power must be ended or a new dark age will fall upon the world, if not the destruction of the world itself.”
“Why do you come to me? I cannot defeat magic with a pistol.”
“Nor can I approach the stone. It resists my power. But there is a way. The Atlanteans found a method of harnessing the energies of their stones, trapping the power. The secret is in the monolith circles around the altars. They built the Standing Stones as conduits of power that transmit and receive the energy. The Mother Stone was so powerful that special monoliths were constructed. Inset into each structure is a spool of golden wire. If the conduits are linked by gold, no energy can pass to the stone at the center. It will become drained and eventually useless.”
“Why should the gold still be there?” asked Shannow. “Does Sarento not know its danger?”
“The spools are hidden within the monoliths. But yes, he may have discovered their use and removed them. That you must find out.”
“I? This is not my war, Ruth.”
“Do you not care that the world may die?”
“I care that Donna Taybard lives.”
“Are you bargaining with me?”
“Call it what you will.”
“I cannot kill, and rescuing her may take just that.”
“Then you destroy the Mother Stone.”
“How could you ask this of me?”
“Let me understand you, lady. You want me to risk my life against the Guardians? And yet you know they will try to stop me and that I will kill all who come against me. Apparently that sits all right with your principles. But to save a woman and perhaps kill the ungodly to do it—that is against your principles?”
“I will not argue, Mr. Shannow. I have neither the strength nor the time. What I can do is to take Batik to Donna. Will that suffice?”
Shannow shook his head. “I have no right to ask Batik to put himself in danger.”
“I wish I knew what you two were babbling about,” said Batik, “and I’m fascinated to know at what point you’ll bring me into this conversation.”
“It does not concern you,” said Shannow.
“What are you, my mother?” snapped Batik. “You don’t make decisions for me. Saving the world may be a horse I can’t saddle, but pulling one wench from a dungeon in Babylon? Who knows? Perhaps I can tackle that without falling over.”
“You know damned well it’s more than that,” said Shannow. “You owe Donna nothing. Why should you put your life at risk?”
“If you’re looking for selfish reasons, my friend, tell me this: Ruth says the world could perish if the Mother Stone is not destroyed. If that is the case, where would you suggest I hide?”
“Let me think on it,” said Shannow.
“What is to think about?” asked the Hellborn. “You want to avenge Karitas? Sarento is the man responsible. Abaddon is a pawn in his game, and you don’t win wars by killing pawns.”
“I will deal with Abaddon,” said Ruth. “I promise you that.”
“And how will you get Batik to Babylon?”
“With my own magic.”
“I asked how.”
“I shall dismantle his molecular structure, absorb it into my own, and reassemble him when I arrive.”
“Reassemble—what’s she talking about, Shannow?”
“There is little danger to you, Batik,” declared Ruth. “It is how I travel.”
“But you have done this before, with other people, yes?” asked Shannow.
“No,” she admitted.
“Why did you have to ask her, Shannow? I preferred it when she said by magic.”
“You still want to go?” asked the Jerusalem Man.
“I said so, didn’t I?”
“Try not to get yourself killed,” said Shannow, offering his hand.
Batik took it and shrugged. “I’ll do my best. Tell me, Ruth, can you reassemble me without scars and with a less prominent nose?”
“No. Shall we go?”
“I’m ready,” said Batik. “Good luck, Shannow.”
“And to you. Tell Donna I wish her joy.”
“Don’t give up on her; her new husband’s probably dead.”
Before Shannow could answer, Batik and Ruth faded from sight.
And the Jerusalem Man was alone.
Batik felt no sensation of movement. One moment he was looking at Shannow, and the next he was lying facedown in the grass on a hillside west of Babylon. Ruth was nowhere in sight as he stood and took a deep breath.
He wandered to the hilltop and gazed at the city, which lay squat and dark in the distance. Covered by a pall of black smoke, it had improved little since he had fled it, and he realized at that moment that he had missed the place not at all.
Ruth appeared beside him, and this time he did not react.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Well. But you look tired.”
“I am weary,” she admitted. “You have no idea of the energy I expend holding this body image in place. And as for carrying you across eight hundred miles …”
“Sadly I recall nothing of the journey. Is Donna here yet?”
“No; the wagon is half a day due west. If you start now, you should sight their camp before dawn.”
“How many in the party?”
“Two hundred.”
“I’m carrying only eighteen shells, Ruth.”
“I am hoping you will use your brain, young man, and that there will be no need for killing.”
“I might be able to get to her and untie her. Together we could run, I suppose.”
“There is something else you should know, Batik.”
“I don’t think I want to hear it.”
“She is pregnant and in a coma.”
“I knew I didn’t want to hear it.”
“I shall pray for you, Batik.”
“That will be nice, I’m sure. I suppose you couldn’t conjure up one of Sarento’s guns as well?”
“Good-bye, Batik.”
“Farewell, Ruth,” he said, and watched as she became ever more transparent.
As he set off toward the west with a jaunty stride, he pushed the problem of the rescue from his mind. The whole mission was palpably hopeless, and he decided to relax and enjoy the stroll. Wondering what Shannow would have done, he chuckled as he pictured the Jerusalem Man riding up to the army and demanding the release of his lady. And he’d probably get away with it, thought Batik. Clouds scudded across the moon, and an old badger ran across his path, stopping to squint at the tall man with the broad shoulders. Then it was gone into the undergrowth.
He came across the campsite an hour before dawn. They were camped in a hollow, having erected tents in a circle around the wagon. Batik knelt behind a screen of bushes and watched them for a while until he was sure he had placed all the sentries. Then, just as he was getting ready to move, he saw a dark shadow creep across his line of vision. Pulling his pistol into his hand, he crept out behind the watcher, moving slowly down until he was almost alongside him. The man was lean and bearded and dressed in clothes of dark homespun wool. So intent was he on the campsite that he failed to hear the approach of the Hellborn.
Batik cocked his pistol, and the noise made the man freeze, but his body tensed, and Batik knew he was about to do something rash.
“Don’t be a fool,” he whispered. “I only want to talk.”
“You’ve got the gun. Talk all you want,” hissed the man.
“You’re obviously not Hellborn, so I wondered what you wanted from them.”
“None of your business. You finished now?”
“Probably. But I do have business here, and I don’t want you spoiling it.”
“Well, there’s a shame, sonny.”
“Are you from Do
nna’s settlement?”
The man rolled slowly to his side and gazed into Batik’s eyes.
“What do you know of Donna?”
“I’m a friend of Jon Shannow. He asked me to help her.”
“Why isn’t he here himself?”
“He would be if he could. Why are you here?”
“Why do you think?”
“You want to rescue her?”
“That’s the general idea, but there’s a sight too many of the bastards. There’s no way to sneak in; they’ve got seven sentries and a man inside the wagon.”
“I only counted six sentries.”
“There’s one in that tall oak. He’s got a long rifle, and I don’t doubt he knows how to use it.”
Batik uncocked his pistol and slid it into its scabbard.
“My name is Batik,” he said, offering his hand.
“Jacob Madden,” responded the other, sitting up and uncocking his own pistol, which had been concealed beneath his coat. The two men shook hands.
“We came very close to killing one another,” remarked Batik.
“You came very close to dying,” observed Madden. “Let’s pull back to where we can talk more freely.” Together they eased their way into the undergrowth and back over the brow of the hill.
There, hidden in a grove of trees, were two horses. On the ground nearby Batik saw a man lying on his side, a pistol in his hand. His face was waxen and haggard, and blood was seeping through the front of his shirt.
Madden knelt beside him. “Can’t get to her, Griff. There’s too many.”
Griffin struggled to rise, then fell back.
“Who is he?” asked Batik.
“Donna is his woman.”
Batik’s eyebrows rose, and he leaned over the injured man.
“Looks like he’s dying,” he said conversationally.
Madden swore. “Nobody asked for your opinion,” he snapped.
Griffin took a deep breath and forced himself to a sitting position. “Well, I don’t feel too great,” he remarked. “Who’s your friend?”
“His name’s Batik, and he’s a friend of Shannow’s. Says he’s been sent to help Donna.”
“Do you trust him?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Griff. He ain’t killed no one yet, and he sure as Hades could have gotten me.”
Griffin beckoned Batik to sit beside him and looked long and hard into the Hellborn’s face. “What do they plan for Donna?”