The Last Guardian (27 page)

Chreena blanked such thoughts from her mind and drew from her memory everything she had been taught concerning water: the essence of life. In the Between Days it had covered 70.8 percent of the earth’s surface, but now the figure was 71.3 percent. Water made up two-thirds of total body weight. Man could survive months without food but only days without water.
Think! Think!
Two parts hydrogen to one part oxygen. She honed her concentration, adjusting her focus, shrinking, ever shrinking deeper into the search trance, analyzing the trace elements at the bottom of the pool. One by one she dismissed them: reactive silica, magnesium, sodium, potassium, iron, copper, zinc. There were minute traces of lead, but they could not have been harmful unless a person drank around sixty gallons a day for who knew how many years.

She returned to her body and leaned back exhausted. The sun had moved past the Chaos Peak, and her naked skin was burning. Moving several yards to her left, she looked around for Oshere. He was lying asleep in the shade; there was little of humanity left in him, and his voice was almost gone.

Not the water. What, then? She glanced up at the sky and the awesome Sword of God pointing to the heavens. She shivered. Not that!

Her eyes flicked to the peak. Was it something there? Chreena stood and stretched, then dressed swiftly and made her way to the base. There were many handholds in the heavily barnacled rock, and she began to climb slowly. Her mind fled back to the last time she had clung to a rock face, almost three years before, when the
Titanic
had been breached and she had carried her son,
Luke, from the doomed ghost ship and down the sheer face of the mountain above the ruins of Balacris.

Then she had been Amaziga Archer, widow of Samuel and a teacher to the children of the Guardians. Guardians? All the knowledge of the Betweeners had been held by them for future generations, yet the work had been ruined, corrupted by one man: Sarento. He had longed to see rebirth, the world back as it had been. His patience had worn thin, and he had begun, through the Mother Stone, to manipulate events. He had given Blood Stones to a growing nation that later became the Hellborn; he had encouraged their warlike tendencies, giving them the secrets of automatic weapons. “In war,” he had said, “man is at his most inventive. All great historical advances have come through the battlefield.”

With the power of the Mother Stone he had reassembled the wreck of the
Titanic
as it lay broken on the mountainside over Atlantis. He had made it the home base for the Guardians. But his doom had been sealed when the Hellborn had taken Donna Taybard as a blood sacrifice, for that alone had led the Jerusalem Man to Balacris and the
Titanic
.

Amaziga remembered that awful night when Sarento had used the Mother Stone to duplicate the first voyage. Though the ship remained on the mountain, those on board—under its glittering lights and beautiful saloons—could gaze out on a star-filled sky over a black and shining ocean.

But Shannow had fought Sarento in the subterranean cavern of the Mother Stone, killing him and sealing off the power of the stone. The
Titanic
had once more struck the iceberg, and a sorcerous sea had filled the ship, destroying the Guardians and obliterating the knowledge of eons.

And Amaziga had climbed down from the wreck and walked away without a backward glance.

The Jerusalem Man had come to her.

“I am sorry,” he had said. “I do not know if my actions were right, but they were just. I will lead you to a safe place.”

They had parted at a small town hundreds of miles to the north, and Amaziga had journeyed with her son to the lands of the wall.

She climbed higher and glanced down at the shimmering pool below. Her fingers were tired, and she hauled herself onto a ledge to rest. There was nothing harmful there that she could feel. You are getting old, she told herself. She had lived more than a century, her youth guaranteed by the Sipstrassi carried by the Guardians. But that was gone now, and silver flecks highlighted her tightly curled hair. How old are you in real terms, Amaziga? she asked herself. Thirty-five? Forty?

Taking a deep breath, she rose and climbed on. It took her an hour to reach the ledge beneath the peak, and as she scrambled over it, her hand gripped a sharp stone that split the skin of her palm. She cursed and sat with her back to the rock face, heart hammering. She could detect nothing baleful in the rock of the peak. The climb had been a waste of time and had served only to bring her bitter memories and a painful wound. Settling herself down, preparing her body for the return journey, she thought of jumping to the pool far below but dismissed the idea; she had never been comfortable in the water. The sun bathed her, and she felt warm and curiously refreshed. Her pulse slowed. When she lifted her injured hand, ready to apply pressure to stop the bleeding, the cut had disappeared. She rubbed her fingers on the skin, but there was no mark. Reaching out, she picked up the stone with the serrated edge. Blood had stained it. Carefully she rose to her knees on the narrow ledge and turned to the rock face. Above her the overhang jutted from the peak, and above that were the Sword of God and the tiny crosses that surrounded it. She closed her eyes, her spirit flowing into the barnacled stone. Deeper she moved,
coming at last to shaped marble and beyond that to a network of golden wire and crystals. She followed the network up to a silver bowl six feet in diameter. At its center lay a huge Sipstrassi Stone with golden threads inches wide.

Her eyes snapped open. “Oh, God!” she whispered. “Oh, God!”

The Chaos Peak was not a natural formation. It had become encrusted as it had lain beneath the ocean. It was a tower, and the Sipstrassi Stone was still pulsing its power after twelve thousand years. Amaziga gazed down at the sleeping Oshere—and understood.

The healing powers of Sipstrassi!

There had been no intention of harming the Dianae. The almost mechanical magic of the stone had bathed Shir-ran and the others—it had repaired them, eliminating the promoter genes and the carefully wrought genetic engineering. It had returned them to a state of perfection. “Dear God!”

Amaziga rose and pushed her back to the rock face, then stared down at Oshere. Normally a wielder would need to touch a stone to direct its powers … but with something of this size? Her concentration grew, and far below Oshere stirred in his sleep. Pain lanced him, and he roared, his great head snapping at unseen enemies. His body twisted, and he sank back, his new fur shrinking, his limbs straightening. Amaziga pictured him as she remembered him, holding the vision before her eyes. Finally she relaxed and gazed down at the naked young man lying asleep in the sunshine.

Without a moment’s hesitation she stepped forward and dived, her lithe ebony frame falling like a spear to cleave the water below. She surfaced and swam to the edge, heaving herself up onto the rocks beside Oshere. Removing her wet clothes, she let the sun dry her skin.

Oshere stirred and opened his golden eyes. “Is this a dream?” he asked.

“No. This is the reality dreams are shaped of.”

“You look so … young and beautiful.”

“So do you,” she told him, smiling. He sat up and gazed in wonder at his bronzed body.

“Truly this is no dream? I am returned?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me. Tell me everything.”

“Not yet,” she whispered, stroking his face. “Not now, Oshere. Not when I have just dived for you.”

Clutching her Blood Stone to her breast, Sharazad stepped through the gateway. Her mind swam; her vision blurred with colors more vivid than any she had seen in life. She held herself steady until the whirling movement before her eyes ceased; she had moved from a star-filled night to a bright dawn, and for a moment or two she felt disoriented.

The king was sitting by a window, staring out at his armies engaged in their training maneuvers on the far fields.

“Welcome,” he said softly without turning.

She dropped to her knees with head bent, golden hair falling over her face.

“I cannot tell you how wondrous it is to be once more in your presence, lord.”

The king swung around and smiled broadly. “Your flattery is well timed,” he said, “for I am not best pleased with you.” She looked up into his handsome face, seeing the sunlight glisten on his freshly curled golden beard and the warm, humorous—almost gentle—look in his eyes. Fear rose. She was not fooled by his easy manner or by the apparent lightness of his mood.

“In what way have I earned your displeasure, Great One?” she whispered, averting her eyes and staring at the ornate rug on which she knelt.

“Your attack on the barbarian village—it was badly timed and appallingly led. I took you for a woman with a mind, Sharazad. Yet you only attacked from one direction, giving the enemy room to flee. Where you should have delivered a crushing blow, you merely drove them into the woods to the south, there to plan and prepare a defense.”

“But they cannot defend against us, Great One. They are merely barbarians; they have no organization, few weapons, and little skill.”

“That may be so,” he agreed. “But if you are so bereft of ideas, strategies, and skills, why should I allow you to command?”

“I am not bereft of ideas, lord, but it was my first engagement. All generals must learn. I will learn; I will do anything to please you.”

He chuckled and stood. He was tall and well built, his movements easy and graceful as he raised her to her feet. “I know that you will. You always have. That is why I allow you your … small pleasures. Before I make love to you, Sharazad, I want you to see something. It may help you understand.”

He lifted a Sipstrassi Stone from a gold-embroidered pouch at his belt and held it in the air. The far wall vanished, and she found herself gazing down on the Daggers’ encampment; their low, flat leather tents were bunched together on a rocky slope by a stream. There were guards posted all around the camp, and two sentries were on the rocky escarpment above.

“I see nothing amiss,” she said.

“I know. Watch … and listen.” The wind sighed across the hillside, and the whisper of bats’ wings could be heard. Then she caught the sound of lowing cattle; there was nothing else. “You still cannot sense it, can you?” said the king, laying his hand on her shoulder and unbuckling the straps of her golden breastplate.

“No. They are natural sounds of the night, are they not?”

“They are not,” he said, lifting her breastplate clear and removing the belted dagger at her waist. “One of them is out of place.”

“The cattle?”

“Yes. They rarely move at night, Sharazad; therefore, they are being driven. And they are moving toward the Daggers. A gift, do you think? A peace offering?”

She could see the herd now, a dark shifting mass moving slowly across the plain toward the camp. Several of the sentries stopped their pacing to watch it approach. Suddenly a shot sounded from behind the herd, and a series of hair-raising screams followed. The cattle broke into a run, thundering toward the camp. Sharazad watched with growing horror as the sentries opened fire on the lead beasts; she saw the bulls fall, but the herd plowed on. Daggers slithered from their tents and ran, diving into the stream or sprinting up the scree-covered slope. Then the stampeding cattle swept through the camp and were gone. As the dust settled, Sharazad gazed down on the ruins, where some thirty bodies lay crushed and torn.

The king’s hands moved to her silk tunic, untying the laces and sliding the garment down over her shoulders, but she could not tear her eyes from the carnage.

“Look and learn, Sharazad,” he whispered, his fingers sliding over the skin of her hips. The scene shifted to a gully some three hundred paces from the camp, where a man was sitting on a tall black horse. The rider leaned back in the saddle and removed his hat. Under the moonlight she could see his features clearly and remembered the man who had bowed to her in the Traveler’s Rest.

“One man, Sharazad, one special man. His name is Shannow. He is respected and feared among these barbarians; they call him the Jerusalem Man, for he seeks a mythical city.
One man.”

“The camp is nothing,” she said. “And thirty Daggers can be replaced.”

“Still you do not see. Why did he stampede those cattle? Petty revenge? That man is above that.”

“What other reason could there be?”

“You have patrols out?”

“Of course.”

“Where are they now?”

She scanned the plain. The three patrols, each with twenty warriors, were hurrying back toward the ruined camp. Once more the scene shimmered, and she found herself looking at the town.

“Of course you searched the town and destroyed anything that might be of use to the enemy?”

“No. I … did not …”

“You did not think, Sharazad—that is your great crime.” She saw the men at work, loading wagons with food, tools, spare rifles from the gunsmith’s store, and other weapons that were still lying beside the dead Daggers. The king moved away from her, but she did not notice, for she saw the man Shannow riding slowly along the main street, watched him dismount before the gunsmith’s store. Hatred surged through her blood like a fever.

“Can I have the hunters?” she asked. “I want that man.”

“You can have anything you want,” said the king, “for I love you.”

His whip snaked out, lashing across her buttocks. She screamed once but did not move.

And the long day of pain began.

The king gazed down on Sharazad’s sleeping form as she lay facedown on the white silk sheets with her long legs drawn up to her body. She looked like a babe, all innocence and purity, thought the king. He had whipped her
until she had collapsed, the blood flowing to stain the rug beneath her feet. Then he had healed her.

“Foolish, foolish woman,” he said.

A tremor shook the city, but the power of the Sipstrassi Mother Stone beneath the temple cut in, repairing cracks in the masonry and shielding the inhabitants from the quakes that rippled across the surrounding countryside.

The king wandered to the window. Below the palace, beyond the tall marble walls, the people of Ad were moving about their business. Six hundred thousand souls born in the greatest nation the earth had ever seen—or ever would see, he thought. Through the power of the stone from heaven the king had conquered all the civilized world and had opened gates to wonders beyond imagination.