A golden face appeared before him, bearded and stern, pale-eyed and regal. The Parson’s heart began to hammer.
“Who calls on me?” came a voice in the Parson’s mind.
“I, Lord, the humblest of your servants,” the Parson whispered, falling forward and pressing his face to the ground. Miraculously the image remained before him, as if his eyes were still open.
“Open your mind to me,” said the voice.
“I do not know how.”
“Hold the stone to your breast.”
The Parson did so. Warmth enveloped him, and for a while there was peace and serenity; then the glow faded, and he felt alone once more.
“You have sinned greatly, my son,” said Pendarric. “How will you cleanse yourself?”
“I will do anything, Lord.”
“Mount your horse and ride a little way to the east. There you will find the survivors of the … reptiles. You will lift the stone and say to them: ‘Pendarric.’ They will follow you and do your bidding.”
“But they are creatures of the Devil, Lord.”
“Yes, but I will give them the opportunity to redeem their souls. Go to the city, enter the temple, then call for me again, and I will guide you.”
“But what of the Great Whore? She must be destroyed.”
“Do not seek to contradict me!” thundered Pendarric. “In my own time will I bring her down. Go to the temple, Nicodemus. Seek out the scrolls of gold hidden beneath the altar.”
“But if the whore tries to prevent me?”
“Then kill her and any who stand with her.”
“Yes, Lord. As you bid. And the sword?”
“We will speak again when you have accomplished your mission.” The face faded … the Parson rose.
All his anguish left him.
At last he had found his God.
30
BACK AT HER cabin Beth was happily surprised to find no damage from the earthquakes. In the fields below there were still pits and chasms, and several trees had fallen, but on the flat ledge of the hillside where Bull had chosen to place the McAdam home there was no evidence of movement at all.
The sandy-haired rider grinned at Beth. “If you say ‘I told you so,’ Bull, I’ll crack your skull,” Beth said to him.
“Me? The thought never crossed my mind.” He tethered his horse and helped Beth carry the wounded Steiner into the house.
“I can walk, dammit,” Steiner grumbled.
“I ain’t having those stitches opening again,” Beth told him. “Now keep quiet.”
Bull and the children manhandled the furniture from the wagon, while Beth fueled the iron stove and set a pot of Baker’s to simmer. As dusk stained the sky, Bull rose.
“Best be getting back to Meneer Scayse,” he said. “I reckon there’ll be enough to do there. You want me to bring you anything tomorrow?”
“If there’s anything left in the town, I wouldn’t mind some salt.”
“I’ll fetch it—and some dried beef. You’re looking mighty low on stores.”
“I’m short on Barta coin, Bull. I’ll have to owe you.”
“You do that,” he said.
She watched him ride off and shook her head, allowing a smile to show. Now, he wouldn’t make a bad husband, she thought. He’s caring and strong, and he likes the kids. But the face of Jon Shannow cut across the smiling image of Bull. “Damn you for a fool, Shannow!” whispered Beth.
Samuel and Mary were sitting by the stove, Samuel’s head resting against the wall, his eyes closed. Beth walked to him, lifting him from his feet. His eyes opened, and his head dropped to her shoulder. “It’s bed for you, snapper-gut,” she said, carrying him into the back room and laying him down. She didn’t bother to strip his clothes, but after removing his shoes, she covered him with a blanket.
Mary came in behind her. “I’m not tired, Ma. Can I sit up for a while?”
Beth looked into the child’s puffy eyes. “You can snuggle in next to your brother, and if you’re still awake in an hour, you can sit with me.” Mary grinned sheepishly and climbed under the blanket; she was asleep within minutes.
Beth returned to the main room and lit the fire, then walked out onto the porch, where Bull had erected a bench seat made from a planed and polished split log. She sat back and stared over the moonlit valley. The wall was down everywhere, although some sections still reared like broken teeth. She shivered.
“Nice night,” observed Steiner, limping out to sit beside her. His face was pale, dark rings staining the skin beneath his eyes.
“You’re a damn fool,” said Beth.
“And you’re as pretty as a picture under moonlight,” he told her.
“Except for the nose,” she replied. “And it’s no good making up to me, Clem Steiner. Even if I let you, it would kill you for certain.”
“There’s truth in that,” he admitted. Beth continued to stare at the horizon. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I was thinking about Shannow—not that it’s any of your business.”
“You in love with him?”
“You’re a prying sort of fella, Steiner.”
“You are, then. You could do worse, I guess, except I don’t see you traveling the world looking for some city that don’t exist.”
“You’re right. Maybe I should marry you.”
“That’s not a bad thought, Frey McAdam,” he responded, smiling. “I can be right good company.”
“You’ve been hiding that light under a bushel,” she said sharply.
He chuckled. “Come to think of it, that is a pretty big nose.” She laughed, and her tension eased. Clem stretched his wounded leg out in front of him and rubbed at it. “Does Shannow know how you feel?” he asked, his voice low and serious.
Beth cut off a sharp retort. “I told him—in a way. But he won’t change. He’s like you.”
“I’ve changed,” he said. “I don’t want to be a pistoleer; I couldn’t give a damn about reputations. I had a father who beat the hell out of me. He said I’d never make anything of my life, and I guess I’ve been trying to prove him wrong. Now I don’t care about that no more.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll find a woman. I’ll raise kids and corn.”
“There’s some hope for you yet, Clem Steiner.” He was about to answer when he spotted two riders angling up toward the house.
“Strange-looking pair,” said Beth. “Look how the moonlight makes their hair seem white.”
Shannow was ill at ease as they rode. The dreams had unnerved him, but worse than that, he had the constant feeling he was being watched. Time and again he would turn in the saddle and study the skyline or alter the direction in which they traveled, dismounting before the crest of every hill.
But now the city was ahead of them, and still the feeling would not pass.
“What is troubling you?” Nu asked. “We should have been at the city hours ago.”
“I don’t know,” admitted Shannow. “I feel uncomfortable.”
“No more than I feel, perched on this horse,” responded Nu.
A rabbit darted across their path, and Shannow’s guns swept up. He cursed softly, then flicked the stallion’s flanks with his heels.
The city was protected by a great wall, but the recent earthquakes had scored it with cracks. There were no gates, but as they entered the city, Shannow could see deep holes in the stones where hinges had once been placed.
“The gates,” Nu told him, “were of wood and bronze, emblazoned with the head of a lion. And this entrance would take you through the Street of Silversmiths and on to the Sculptors’ Quarter. My home was close by.”
People in the streets stopped and stared at the riders. There was no animosity, only curious gazes. There were more women than men, Shannow noticed, and they were tall and well formed, their clothes mainly hide, beautifully embroidered.
He halted his horse. “I seek the Dark Lady,” he said, removing his hat and bowing. The nearest w
oman smiled and pointed to the east.
“She is in the high tower with Oshere,” she answered.
“God’s peace upon you,” Shannow told her.
“The Law of the One be with you,” she replied.
The horses’ hooves clattered on the cobbled street. “In my time no beasts were allowed into this quarter,” said Nu. “The residents found the smell of manure less than appealing.”
A bent and crippled shape loomed before them, and Shannow’s mind was hurled back to Shir-ran. His stallion reared, but he calmed it with soft words. The man-beast ambled past, not able to lift his huge, misshapen head.
“Poor soul,” said Nu as they walked their horses on.
The street widened into a statue-lined road that stretched, arrow-straight toward a tall palace of white marble. “Pendarric’s summer home,” explained Nu. “It also houses the temple.” The road ended at a colossal stairway more than a hundred paces wide, slowly rising to an enormous archway.
“The steps of the king,” said Nu. Like the road, the steps were lined with statues, each one carved from marble and bearing a sword and a scepter. Shannow urged on the stallion and rode the steps; Nu dismounted and led the mare after him. As the Jerusalem Man reached the archway, a slender black woman moved from the shadows to greet him. Shannow recalled the moment he had first seen her, carrying her son from the wreck of the resurrected Titanic. “Amaziga? You are the Dark Lady?” he said as he climbed down from the saddle.
“The same, Shannow. What are you doing here?” He noted the tension in her voice, the lack of warmth in her eyes.
“Am I such an unwelcome visitor?”
“There are no evils here for you to slay, I promise you that.”
“I am not here to kill. Do you think me such a villain?”
“Then tell me why you are here.”
Shannow saw a movement behind her, deep in the shadows of the archway. A young man appeared; once he must have been strikingly handsome, but now his face was distended and his shoulders bowed. Guiltily Shannow averted his eyes from the man’s deformities.
“I asked you a question, Shannow,” said Amaziga Archer.
“I came to warn you of impending perils and also to see the Sword of God. But it would be pleasant if we could talk inside somewhere.” Nu reached the archway, saw Amaziga, and bowed low. “This is my companion, Nu-Khasisatra. He is from Atlantis, Amaziga, and I think you should hear what he has to say.”
“Follow me,” she said, turning on her heel and striding back through the archway.
The deformed man followed her silently, Nu and Shannow bringing up the rear. They found themselves in a wide, square courtyard; Amaziga crossed it, passed a circular fountain, and continued on through a huge hallway. Shannow tethered his stallion and Nu’s mare in the courtyard and entered the building. It was ghostly quiet within, and their footsteps created eerie echoes.
They mounted a long circular staircase and emerged into a room where Amaziga had already seated herself behind a mahogany desk on which papers, scrolls, and books were scattered. She looked younger than Shannow remembered, but her eyes seemed full of sorrow.
“Say what you want to say, Jerusalem Man. Then leave us in whatever peace remains.”
Shannow took a deep breath, stilling the rise of anger he felt. Slowly he told her of the attack on the township of Pilgrim’s Valley and their flight beyond the fractured wall. He spoke of the woman Sharazad and the Parson and his fear that she was an evil goddess. And he told her of Pendarric. She listened without comment, but her interest grew when Nu began his tale; she questioned him sharply, but his soft-spoken answers seemed to satisfy her. At last, when both men had finished, she asked the deformed man to fetch some drink. Neither Shannow nor Nu had stared at him, and after he had gone, Amaziga fixed her eyes on the Jerusalem Man.
“Do you know what is happening to him?” she asked.
“He is turning into a lion,” Shannow answered, holding her gaze.
“How did you know?”
“I met a man named Shir-ran who suffered the same horror. He rescued me, gave me aid when I needed it, healed my wounds.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died.”
“I said what happened to him?” Amaziga snapped.
“I killed him,” said Shannow.
Her eyes grew cold, and her smile chilled Nu. “Now that has a familiar ring, Shannow. After all, how many stories are there concerning the Jerusalem Man in which he doesn’t kill something—or someone? Have you destroyed any communities lately?”
“I did not destroy your home base; Sarento did that when he sailed the Titanic. I merely blocked the power of the Mother Stone. But I will not argue with you, lady, or debate my deeds. I will leave now and seek the sword.”
“You must not, Shannow! You must not go near it.” The words hissed from her. “You do not understand.”
“I understand that the gateway between past and present must be closed. Perhaps the Sword of God will close it. If not, when the disaster befalls Atlantis, we could be dragged down with it.”
“The Sword of God is not the answer you seek. Believe me.”
“I will not know until I have seen it,” Shannow told her.
Amaziga’s hand came up from below the desk, and in it was a Hellborn pistol. She cocked it and pointed the barrel at Shannow. “You will promise me to stay away from the sword or you will die here,” she said.
“Chreena!” came a voice from the doorway. “Stop it! Put the pistol away.”
“You don’t understand, Oshere. Stay out of this!”
“I understand enough,” said the man-beast, moving clumsily forward and placing the silver tray on the desk. His deformed hand closed over the pistol, gently removing it from her grasp. “Nothing you have told me about this man suggests he is evil. Why would you wish to harm him?”
“Death follows wherever he rides. Destruction! I can feel it, Oshere.”
She stood and ran from the room, and Oshere laid the pistol on the desk. Shannow leaned forward and uncocked it. Oshere eased himself into the chair Amaziga had used, his dark eyes fixed on the Jerusalem Man.
“She is under great strain, Shannow,” he said. “She thought she had found a way to cure me, but it was only a temporary respite. Now she must suffer again. She loved my brother, Shir-ran, and he became a beast. Now …” He shrugged. “Now it is my turn. Your arrival made her distraught. But she will gather her strength and consider what you have said. Now, have some wine and rest. I will see that your horses are taken to a field nearby where there is good grass. Through that door you will find beds and blankets.”
“There is no time to rest,” said Nu. “The end is near; I can feel it.”
Shannow pushed himself wearily to his feet. “I had hoped for aid. I thought the Dark Lady would be a person of power.”
“She is, Shannow,” Oshere assured him. “She has great knowledge. Give her time.”
“You heard Nu. There is no time. We will ride on to the sword, but first Nu needs to search the temple sanctuary.”
“Why?” Oshere asked.
“There could be something there that will help me return home,” Nu told him.
The sound of gunshots came from close by, followed by screams of terror.
“You see!” shouted Amaziga Archer from the doorway, pointing at Shannow. “Where he rides, death always follows.”
31
THE PARSON RODE boldly into the clearing where twenty-three survivors of the Daggers’ force had gathered. Several were wounded, their scaled limbs bound. Others were keeping watch, rifles poised, for any attack from the bears. Holding the Blood Stone high, the Parson guided his mount in among his enemies and voiced the single word his God had commanded him to say.
“Pendarric,” he said as rifles were aimed at his chest; the guns were lowered instantly. “Follow me,” ordered the Parson, riding from the clearing. The reptiles took up their weapons, formed two lines, and marched out behind his ho
rse. The Parson was exultant.
“How mysterious are the ways of the Lord,” he told the morning air. “And how great are His wonders.” On the plain before the city lions gathered in great numbers, padding forward to stand in the Parson’s path. He lifted his stone. “Give way!” he bellowed. A black-maned beast reared up in pain, then ran to the left. The others followed it, leaving a path through which the Parson heeled his mount.
He led the reptiles to the northern gateway and then turned in the saddle. “All who resist the will of God must die,” he declared. Confident that the awesome power of the Creator was with him, he entered the gateway. Beyond it he saw many people. None stood in his way; they gazed with frank, open curiosity as the marching reptiles and the Parson rode on through white-walled streets.
A young woman with a child stood close by, holding the toddler’s hand. “The temple,” inquired the Parson. “How shall I reach it?” The woman pointed to a high domed building, and he approached it. The temple pillars were massive and close-set. He dismounted and walked up the long stairway with the reptiles behind him.
An old man moved out to stand before him. “Who seeks the wisdom of the Law of One?” he asked.
“Step aside for the warrior of God,” the Parson told him.
“You cannot enter,” the old man replied pleasantly. “The priests are at prayer. When the sun touches the western wall, then may your entreaties be heard.”
“Out of my way, old man,” the Parson ordered, drawing his pistol.
“Do you not understand?” asked the high priest. “It is not allowed.”
A shot echoed in the temple corridors, and the high priest fell back without a sound, blood pumping from a hole in his brow. The Parson ran into the temple, with the reptiles swarming after him. Taking their new master’s lead, they began firing on the priests, who ran for shelter. Ignoring the carnage, the Parson scanned the building, seeking the inner sanctum. There was a narrow doorway at the end of the long hall, and he ran to it, kicking it open. Within it was an altar, where another old man was hastily gathering scrolls of gold foil. He looked up and struggled to rise, but the pistol bucked in the Parson’s hand, and he fell. The Parson knelt by the scrolls and lifted his stone.