The Last Guardian (39 page)

Beth ran to him. “My God, Shannow. Look at you! What the hell happened up there?”

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You look young,” she said. “Your hair is dark, your skin … It’s incredible.”

A low groan came from the left, and Shannow and Beth walked to where the Parson lay, his body broken, blood seeping from his right ear, his left leg bent under him. Shannow knelt by the man.

“The sword …?” whispered the Parson.

Shannow cradled the man’s head. “It went where God intended.”

“I’m dying, Shannow. And He won’t appear to me. I failed Him …”

“Rest easy, Parson. You earned the right to make mistakes.”

“I failed Him.”

“We all fail Him,” said Shannow softly. “But He
doesn’t seem to mind much. You did your best, and you worked hard. You saved the town. You did a lot of good. He saw that, Parson. He knows.”

“I wanted … Him … to love me. Wanted … to earn …” His voice faded.

“I know. Rest easy. You’re going home, Parson. You’ll see the glory.”

“No. I’ve … been evil, Shannow. I’ve done such bad things.” Tears welled in the Parson’s eyes. “I’ll be in hell.”

“I don’t think so,” Shannow assured him. “If you hadn’t come to this peak, then maybe the world would have toppled again. None of us is perfect, Parson. At least you tried to walk the road.”

“Pray for … me … Shannow …”

“I’ll do that.”

“It wasn’t God … was it?”

“No. Rest easy.” The Parson’s eyes closed, and the last breath rattled from his throat. Shannow stood.

“Did you mean that?” Beth asked. “You think he won’t roast in hell?”

The Jerusalem Man shrugged. “I hope not. He was a tortured soul, and I like to think God looks kindly on such men.”

Amaziga Archer approached. “Why did you shoot at me?” asked Shannow.

“To try to change the past, Shannow. I read the gold scrolls.” Suddenly she laughed. “The circle of history, Jerusalem Man. Pendarric took over the mind of the Parson—or Godspeaker, as he was named in the scrolls of Araksis. Through him Pendarric learned that a great weapon would be hurled at Atlantis, that through this weapon the world would topple. Do you know what Pendarric did? He had Sipstrassi transferred to this tower and ordered Araksis to set the power to trap the sword when it came over Ad. Do you understand what I am saying? Twelve thousand years ago Pendarric set this stasis field
in operation in order to catch a missile. And it caught it—twelve thousand years later. Can you see?”

“No,” said Shannow.

“It’s so disgustingly perfect. If Pendarric had not learned of the missile and had made no effort to catch it, then it would not have been here at all. You can’t change the past, Shannow. You can’t.”

“But why did you try to kill me?”

“Because you just destroyed two worlds. If you had not sent that bomb into the past, our old world could not have been destroyed. You see, Pendarric was also responsible for the Second Fall. I thought I could change history … but no.” She looked at Shannow, and he saw the anguish and hatred in her eyes. “You’re not the Jerusalem Man anymore, Shannow. Oh, no. Now you are the Armageddon Man: the destroyer of worlds.”

Shannow did not reply, and Amaziga turned from him and strode to the ruins of the tower. The encrusted rocks had been dashed away, with the white marble showing through. There was a broken doorway, and Amaziga pushed her way inside. A dust-covered skeleton lay close to the Sipstrassi, which had fallen from its bowl; there were rings on the skeletal fingers, and a gold band still circled the brow. Then Shannow, Beth, and Steiner entered the chamber. Shannow led Steiner to the Sipstrassi and touched the pistoleer’s hand to it; the veins of gold were thin now, but still the power surged through him, healing his wounds.

Outside they could hear the roaring of engines as the once-trapped planes continued to circle, seeking places to land.

Amaziga knelt and lifted a scroll of golden foil. “The sword,” she read, “did not pass near Ad. But then a noise came, and a pillar of smoke. A strange phenomenon has just occurred. The sun, which was setting, has just risen again. And I can see dark storm clouds racing toward us. Dark, blacker than any storm of memory. No, not a
storm. The traitor was right. It is the sea!” Amaziga dropped the foil and stood. “The missile was the final touch to a world straining on its axis.” She turned to the skeleton. “I would guess this was Araksis. Even the Sipstrassi could not save him from the tidal wave he saw. God, Shannow, how I hate you!”

“Stop your whining!” snarled Beth McAdam. “It wasn’t Shannow who destroyed the worlds—it was Pendarric. He opened the gates; he set up whatever it was you called it to trap the Sword of God. And it destroyed him. What right have you to condemn a man who only fought to save his friends?”

“Leave her alone,” said Shannow softly.

“No,” answered Beth, her cold blue eyes locked to Amaziga. “She knows the truth. When a gun kills a man, it is not the weapon that goes on trial but the man whose finger is on the trigger. She knows that!”

“He is a bringer of death,” Amaziga hissed. “He destroyed my community. My husband died because of him; my son is dead. Now two worlds have toppled because of him.”

“Tell me, Shannow,” asked Beth, “why you came to the sword.”

“It does not matter,” answered the Jerusalem Man. “Let it rest, Beth.”

“No,” she said again. “While Magellas and Lindian held me captive, they used their Power Stones to observe you, and they let me see. It was
you,”
she said, swinging once more to Amaziga, “who urged Shannow—pleaded with him—to come here and stop the Parson. It was you who sent him scaling that peak and risking his life. So whose finger was on the trigger, you bitch?”

“It was not my fault,” shouted Amaziga. “I didn’t know!”

“And he did? Jon Shannow knew that if the sword passed through the gate, it would destroy two worlds? You make me sick. Carry your own guilt like the rest of
us. Don’t seek to palm it off on the man who just saved all our lives.”

Amaziga backed away from Beth’s anger and walked out into the sunlight.

Shannow followed her. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said. “Samuel Archer was a fine man. I don’t know what else to say to you.”

Amaziga sighed. “The woman is right in what she says, and you are just part of the circle of history. Forgive me, Shannow. Nu-Khasisatra said he was sent to find the Sword of God. He found it.”

“No, he didn’t,” said Shannow sadly. “There was no sword—only a foul instrument of mass death.”

She placed her hand on his arm. “He found the sword, Shannow, because he found you. You were the Sword of God.”

“I hope Nu survived,” said Shannow, changing the subject. “I liked the man.”

Amaziga laughed. “Oh, he survived, Jon Shannow. Be assured of that.”

“Is there something else in the scrolls, then?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Nu is the Arabic form, and Khasisatra the Assyrian name, for Noah. You remember what he said about the circle of God? Nu-Khasisatra came to the future and read of Noah’s survival in your Bible, Shannow. So he went home, rescued his family, and, I should imagine, with the aid of the Sipstrassi, created a ship that was stormproof. How’s that for a circle of God?” Her laughter was almost hysterical … then the weeping began.

“Come away,” said Beth McAdam, taking Shannow by the arm and leading him back toward the horses.

Some planes had already begun to land on the hard-baked sand of the desert. “What are they?” asked Beth.

“Nothing that I would see,” he told her as Flight 19 touched down four centuries after takeoff.

Together Shannow and Beth rode from the desolated pool.

“What will you do now, Shannow?” she asked. “Now that you are young again, I mean? Will you still seek Jerusalem?”

“I have spent half a lifetime pursuing that dream, Beth. It was a mistake. You don’t find God across a distant hill. There are no answers in stone.” Turning back in the saddle, he gazed at the broken peak and the forlorn figure of Amaziga Archer. Reaching out, he took Beth’s hand, lifting it to his lips. “If you’ll have me, I’d like to come home.”

Epilogue

U
NDER
THE
LEADERSHIP
of Edric Scayse and the Committee, now led by Josiah Broome, Pilgrim’s Valley prospered. The church was rebuilt, and for the want of a preacher, a young bearded farmer named Jon Cade took the position. If anyone noted the resemblance between Cade and a legendary killer called Shannow, nobody mentioned it.

Far to the south a beautiful black woman walked with a golden, black-maned lion at her side and climbed the last hill before the ocean. There she stood staring out to sea, feeling the cool of the ocean breeze, watching the sun’s broken reflection on the rippling waves.

Beside her the lion turned his head and focused on a herd of deer grazing on a distant hillside. He did not know why the woman had stopped there, but he was hungry and padded off in search of food.

Amaziga Archer watched him go, tears falling to her cheeks.

“Farewell, Oshere,” she said.

But the lion did not hear her …