The Last Guardian (3 page)

“No!” screamed Nu. “No!”

His body jerked, and once more he was sitting by the pool. Bright sunlight streamed above the temple, and doves circled the wooden parapets of the Wailing Tower. He stood, swept his sky-blue cloak over his shoulder, and
marched back to the courtyard of the Holy Circle. The crowd was milling now, and the priests were lifting the victim’s body from the flat gray sacrifice stone. Blood stained the surface and had run down the carved channels to disappear through the golden vents.

Nu-Khasisatra strode to the steps and walked slowly toward the sacrifice stone. At first no one made a move to stop him, but as he drew nearer to the stone, a red-robed priest intercepted him.

“You cannot approach the Holy Place,” said the priest.

“What holy place?” countered Nu. “You have corrupted it.” He thrust the man aside and walked to the stone. Some people in the crowd had watched the altercation and now began to whisper.

“What is he doing?”

“Did you see him strike the priest?”

“Is he a madman?”

All eyes turned to the broad-shouldered man at the stone as he removed his blue cloak; beneath it he wore the white robes of a priest of Chronos. Temple guards gathered at the foot of the steps, but it was forbidden to carry a weapon to the Holy Place and they stood their ground, uncertain.

Three priests approached the man at the sacrifice stone.

“What madness is this?” asked one. “Why do you desecrate this temple?”

“How dare you speak of desecration?” countered Nu-Khasisatra. “This temple was dedicated to Chronos, Lord of Light, Lord of Life. No blood sacrifice was ever made here.”

“The king is the living image of Chronos,” the priest argued. “The conqueror of worlds, the lord of heaven. All who deny this are traitors and heretics.”

“Then count me among them!” roared Nu, and his huge hands took hold of the sacrifice stone and wrenched it clear of its supports. Forcing his fingers under the stone,
he lifted it high above his head and hurled it out over the steps, where it shattered. An angry roar rose from the crowd.

Nu-Khasisatra leapt to stand on the altar base. “Faithless people!” he shouted. “The end of all days is upon you. You have mocked the Lord of Creation, and your doom will be terrible. The seas will rise against you, and not one stone will be left upon another. Your bodies will be dashed to the deep, and your dreams will be forgotten, even as you are forgotten. You have heard that the king is the living god. Blasphemy! Who brought the Rolynd Stones from the vault of heaven? Who led the chosen people to this bountiful land? Who dashed the hopes of the wicked in the Year of Dragons? It was Chronos, through his prophets. And where was the king? Unborn and unmade. He is a man, and his evil is colossal. He will destroy the world. You have wives and sons; you have loved ones. All will die. Not one of you listening to these words will be alive at the year’s end.”

“Drag him down!” shouted someone in the crowd.

“Kill him!” yelled another, and the cry was taken up by the mob.

The temple guards drew their swords and ran up the steps. Lightning seared among them, leaping from sword to sword, and the guards, their flesh blackened, toppled to the stone. A great silence settled on the crowd.

Smoke drifted up from the bodies of the guards as Nu-Khasisatra raised his hands to the heavens.

“There is no turning back now,” he said. “All will be as I have told it. The sun will rise in the west, and the oceans will thunder across the land. You will see the Sword of God in the heavens—and despair!”

He stepped down from the altar and walked slowly past the dead guards. The crowd parted before him as he marched from the temple.

“I recognize him,” said a man as he passed by. “That
was Nu-Khasisatra the shipbuilder. He lives in the south quarter.”

The name was whispered among the mob and carried from the temple, coming at last to the woman Sharazad.

And the hunt began.

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F
OR
THREE
DAYS
Shannow traveled south, the trails winding ever down into a long valley of half-frozen streams and tall stands of pine, wide meadows and rolling hills. He saw little game but came across the tracks of deer and elk. Each day around midmorning he would halt in a spot shielded from the wind and clear the snow from the grass, allowing the stallion to eat while Shannow himself sat by a small fire reading his Bible or thinking about the journey ahead.

His wounds were healing fast; Shir-ran had done a fine job on them. He thought of the strange man-beast often and came to the conclusion that Shir-ran had wanted his company for just the purpose it had served. The man-beast had stitched his wounds, then left his guns by his side. Yet within the sanctuary of the cave he had had no need of weapons. The doomed creature had spoken of the Change, and it had been awesome to witness—the move from humanity to bestiality. What could cause such a transformation Shannow had no idea, but in the strange world after Armageddon there were many mysteries.

Two years before, in a bid to rescue Samuel Archer and the reformed Hellborn Batik, Shannow had seen at first hand a new race of people called Wolvers, part man and part animal. Archer himself had spoken of other such creatures, though Shannow had yet to see them.

It was warmer here in the valley, and as he moved farther south, the snow thinned, great patches of verdant
grass shimmering on the hillsides. Every day Shannow scanned the skies, looking for the signs of wonder. But always the heavens remained blue and clear.

On the fourth day, as dusk gathered, Shannow guided the stallion into a wood, seeking a campsite. Ahead, through the tall trees, he glimpsed a glittering fire.

“Hello, the camp!” he yelled. At first there was no answer, then a gruff voice called out, beckoning him in. Shannow waited for a moment and then delved into his pack, bringing out the short-nosed percussion pistol and tucking it into his belt just inside the flap of his long coat. Then he rode forward.

There were four men sitting around the fire and five horses tethered to a picket line. Shannow stepped from the saddle and tied his stallion’s reins to a jutting root. On the fire a large black pot was hanging from a tripod, and within it Shannow could smell a simmering broth. Casually he moved to the fire and squatted down, his eyes sweeping the group. They were hard men, for the most part lean and wolflike; Shannow had known men like them all his life. His gaze halted on a burly, round-shouldered man with a short-cropped salt-and-pepper beard and eyes that were merely slits under heavy lids.

There was tension in the air, but it did not affect the Jerusalem Man, though he acknowledged it. His eyes locked to the burly man, and he waited.

“Eat,” said the man at last, his voice low.

“After you,” said Shannow. “I would not wish to be impolite.”

The man smiled, showing stained teeth. “The wilderness is no place for manners.” He reached out and ladled some broth into a metal dish, and the others followed suit.

As the tension grew, Shannow took a dish with his left hand and placed it before the fire. Then, still with his left hand, he lifted the ladle and filled the bowl, drawing it to him. Slowly he finished the meal and pushed the plate from him.

“Thank you,” he said into the silence. “It was most welcome.”

“Help yourself to more,” offered the leader.

“No, thank you. There will not be enough left for your scout.”

The leader swung around. “Come in, Zak; supper’s waitin’!” he called.

Across from the fire a young man rose from the bushes, a long rifle in his hands. He walked slowly to the fire, avoiding Shannow’s gaze, and sat beside the leader with the rifle by his side.

Shannow rose and moved to his stallion, untying his blanket roll and spreading his bed beside the horse. Loosening the cinch, he lifted the saddle and dropped it to the ground; then, taking a brush from his saddlebag, he ducked under the stallion’s neck and groomed the horse with smooth even strokes. He did not look at the men around the fire, but the silence grew. The Jerusalem Man had been tempted to finish his meal and ride on, to be clear of the immediate danger, but such a move would have been foolish, he knew. These men were brigands and killers, and to ride on would display weakness like the scent of blood to a wolfpack. He patted the stallion’s neck and returned to his bed. Without a word to the men he removed his hat and lay down, pulling a blanket over him and closing his eyes.

At the fire the young man reached for his rifle, but the leader gripped his arm and shook his head.

The youth pulled his arm clear. “What the Devil’s wrong with you?” he whispered. “Let’s take him now. That there is one hell of a horse, and his guns … you see them guns?”

“I saw,” answered the leader, “and I saw the man who wears ’em. You see how he rode in? Careful. He spotted you rightaways and hunkered down where you couldn’t get no shot. And all through the meal he only used his left hand. And where was his right? I’ll tell you where. It
was inside that long coat, and it weren’t scratching his belly. Now, you leave it be, boy. I’ll think on it.”

Toward midnight, with all the men asleep in their blankets, the youth rose silently, a double-edged knife in one hand. He crept forward toward where Shannow slept. A dark figure loomed behind him, and a pistol clubbed across the youth’s neck; he fell without a sound. The leader holstered his pistol and dragged the boy back to his blankets.

Twenty feet away Shannow smiled and returned his own gun to its scabbard.

The leader walked across to him. “I know you ain’t asleep,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

Shannow sat up. “That boy will have a sore head. I hope he has sense enough to thank you for it.”

“The name’s Lee Patterson,” the man answered, thrusting out his right hand. Shannow smiled at him but ignored the offer.

“Jon Shannow.”

“Jesus God Almighty! You hunting us?”

“No. I’m riding south.”

Lee grinned. “You wanna see them statues in the sky, eh? The Sword of God, Shannow?”

“You have seen them?”

“Not me, man. They call that the Wild Lands. There’s no settlements there, no way for a man to make a living. But I seen a man once who swore he’d stood under ’em; he said it gave him religion. Me, I don’t need no religion. You sure you’re not huntin’ us?”

“You have my word. Why did you save the boy?”

“A man don’t have too many sons, Shannow. I had three. One got killed when I lost my farm. Another was shot down after we … took to the road. He was hit in the leg; it went bad, and I had to cut it from him. Can you imagine that, Shannow, cutting the leg from your son? And he died anyway, ’cause I left it too long. It’s a hard life, and no mistake.”

“What happened to your wife?”

“She died. This is no land for women; it burns them out. You got a woman, Shannow?”

“No. I have no one.”

“I guess that’s what makes you dangerous.”

“I guess it does,” Shannow agreed.

Lee stood and stretched. He looked down. “You ever find Jerusalem, Shannow?”

“Not yet.”

“When you do, ask
Him
a question, will you? Ask Him what the hell is the point of it all.”

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