The Last Guardian (5 page)

The men swung down from their mounts and set to work, four of them taking the weight of the wagon and the fifth, Quint, hammering loose the wheel pin and manhandling the broken wheel free. Beth walked Scarface to the edge of the camp, where she ordered him to sit on a round boulder. She sat to the right of him, leaving his
body between her and the working men; out of sight, the flintlock remained pressed to his ribs.

“You’re a smart bitch,” said Scarface, “and—except for that big nose—a pretty one. Would you really shoot me?”

“Sooner than spit,” she assured him. “Now, when those men have finished their chore, you’ll send them back to wherever your camp is. Am I making myself clear, dung brain?”

“It’s done, Harry. Now do we get down to it?” called Quint.

“Ride back to camp. I’ll see you there in a couple of hours.”

“Now wait a goddamn minute! You ain’t keepin’ the whore to yourself. No way!” Quint turned to look to the others for support, but the men shifted nervously. Then two of them mounted their horses, and the others followed.

“Dammit, Harry. It ain’t fair!” protested Quint, but he backed to his mount and stepped into the saddle nevertheless.

As they rode from the camp, Beth lifted the heavy pistol from the scabbard at Scarface’s hip. Then she stood and moved away from him. The children climbed out of the wagon.

“What you going to do now, Ma?” asked Samuel. “You gonna kill him?”

Beth passed the brigand’s gun to Mary; it was a cap and ball percussion revolver. “Get the pliers and pull off the brass caps, girl,” she said. Mary carried the gun to the wagon and opened the toolbox; one by one she stripped the caps from the weapon, then returned it to her mother. Beth threw it to Scarface, and he caught it deftly and slid it home in its scabbard.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Now we wait for a while, and then you go back to your men.”

“You think I won’t come back?”

“You’ll think about it,” she admitted. “Then you’ll realize just how they’ll laugh when you tell them I held a gun to your instrument and forced you to mend my wagon. No, you’ll tell them I was one hell of a lay and you let me ride on.”

“They’ll be fightin’ mad,” he said. Then he grinned. “Sweet Jesus, but you’re a woman worth fightin’ over! Where you headed?”

“Pilgrim’s Valley,” she told him. There was no point lying; the wagon tracks would be easy to follow.

“See those peaks yonder? Cut to the right of them. There’s a trail there—it’s high and narrow, but it will save you four days. You can’t miss it. A long time ago someone placed out a stone arrow and cut signs into the trees. Follow it through and you’ll find that Pilgrim’s Valley is around two days beyond.”

“I may just take your advice, Harry,” she said. “Mary, prepare some herb tea for our guest. But don’t get too close to him; I’d like a clear shot if necessary.”

Mary stoked up the fire and boiled a kettle of water. She asked Harry if he took sugar, added three measures, and then carried a steaming mug to within six feet of him. “Put it on the ground,” ordered Beth. Mary did so, and Harry moved to it cautiously.

He sipped the tea slowly. “If I’m ever in Pilgrim’s Valley, would you object if I called on you?” Harry asked.

“Ask me when you see me in Pilgrim’s Valley,” she told him.

“Who would I ask for?”

“Beth McAdam.”

“Greatly pleased to meet you, ma’am. Harry Cooper is my name. Late of Allion and points north.”

He went to his horse and mounted. Beth watched as he rode east, then uncocked the flintlock.

Harry rode the four miles to the camp, his mind aflame with thoughts of the spirited woman. He saw the campfire
and cantered in, ready with his tale of satisfied lust. Tying his horse to the picket line, he walked to the fire …

Something struck him in the back, and he heard the thunder of a shot. He swung, dragging his pistol clear and cocking it. Quint rose from behind a bush and shot him a second time in the chest. Harry leveled his gun, but the hammer clicked down on the empty nipple. Two more shots punched him from his feet, and he fell back into the fire that blazed around his hair.

“Now,” said Quint.
“Now
we all share.”

6

N
U
-K
HASISATRA
EASED
HIS
huge frame into the shadows of a doorway, pulling his dark cloak over his head and holding his breath. His fear rose, and he could feel his heart beating in his chest. A cloud obscured the moon, and the burly shipbuilder welcomed the darkness. The Daggers were patrolling the streets, and if he was caught, he would be dragged to the prison buildings at the center of the city and tortured. He would be dead by dawn, his head impaled on a spike above the gates. Nu shivered. The sound of distant thunder rumbled above the city of Ad, and a jagged spear of lightning threw momentary shadows across the cobbled street.

Nu waited for several seconds, calming himself. His faith had carried him this far, but his courage was nearly exhausted.

“Be with me, Lord Chronos,” he prayed. “Strengthen my failing limbs.”

He stepped out onto the street, ears straining for any sound that might warn him of the approach of the Daggers. He swallowed hard; the night was silent, the curfew complete. He moved on as silently as he could until he reached Bali’s high-towered home. The gate was locked, and he waited in the shadows, watching the moon rise. At the prearranged hour he heard the bolt slide open. Stepping into the courtyard beyond, he sank to a seat as his friend shut the gate, locking it tight.

Bali touched a finger to his lips and led the dark-cloaked
Nu into the house. The shutters were closed, and curtains had been hung over the windows. Bali lit a lantern and placed it on an oval table.

“Peace be upon this house,” said Nu.

The smaller Bali nodded his bald head and smiled. “And the Lord bless my guest and friend,” he answered.

The two men sat at the table and drank a little wine; then Bali leaned back and gazed at his friend of twenty years. Nu-Khasisatra had not changed in that time. His beard was still rich and black, his eyes bright blue and ageless beneath thick jutting brows. Both men had managed to purchase Sipstrassi fragments at least twice to restore their youth and health. But Bali had fallen on hard times, his wealth disappearing with the loss in storms at sea of three of his prize ships, and now he was beginning to show the signs of age. He appeared to be in his sixties, though he was in fact 80 years older than Nu, who was 110. Nu had tried to acquire more Sipstrassi, but the king had gathered almost all the stones to himself, and even a fragment would now cost all of Nu’s wealth.

“You must leave the city,” Bali said, breaking the silence. “The king has signed a warrant for your immediate arrest.”

“I know. I was foolish to speak against him in the temple, but I have prayed hard and I know the Great One was speaking through me.”

“The Law of One is no more, my friend. The sons of Belial have the ears of the king. How is Pashad?”

“I ordered her to denounce me this morning and seek the severing of the knot. She at least will be safe, as will my sons.”

“No one is safe, Nu. No one. The king is insane, the slaughter has begun … even as you prophesied it. There is madness in the streets, and these Daggers fill me with terror.”

“There is worse to come,” Nu told him sadly. “In my prayer dreams I have seen terrible sights: three suns in
the sky at one time, the heavens tearing, and the seas rising to swamp the clouds. I know it is close, Bali, and I am powerless to prevent it.”

“Many men have dreams that do not presage evil days,” said Bali.

Nu shook his head. “I know this. But my dreams have all come true so far. The Lord of All Things is sending these visions. I know he has ordered me to warn the people, and I know also that they will ignore me. But it is not for me to question His purpose.”

Bali poured another goblet of wine and said nothing. Nu-Khasisatra had always been a man of iron principles and faith, devout and honest. Bali liked and respected him. He did not share his principles, but he had come to know his god, and for that gift alone he would give his life for the shipbuilder.

Opening a hidden drawer below the table, he removed a small purse of embroidered deerskin. For a moment he held it, reluctant to part with it; then he smiled and pushed it across the table.

“For you, my friend,” he said.

Nu picked it up and felt the warmth emanating from within the purse. Then he opened it with trembling fingers and tipped out the stone within. It was not a fragment but a whole stone, round as if polished, golden with thin black veins. He closed his hand around it, feeling the power surging in him. Gently he placed it on the tabletop and gazed at the bald, elderly man before him.

“With this you could be young again, Bali. You could live for a thousand years. Why? Why would you give it to me?”

“Because you need it, Nu. And because I never had a friend before.”

“But it is worth perhaps ten times as much money as is contained in the entire city. I could not possibly accept it.”

“You must. It is life. The Daggers are seeking you, and you know what that means: torture and death. They have
closed the city, and you cannot escape, save by the journey. There is a gateway within the stone circle the princes used to use, to the north of the seventh square. You know it? By the crystal lake? Good. Go there. Use these words and hold the stone high.” He passed Nu a small square of parchment.

“The enchantment will take you to Balacris. From there you will be on your own.”

“I have funds in Balacris,” said Nu, “but the Lord wants me to stay and continue to warn the people.”

“You gave me the secret of the Great One,” Bali told him, “and I accept that His will overrides any wishes of our own. But similarly you have done as He commanded. You gave your warnings, but their ears were closed to you. Added to this, Nu, my friend, I prayed for a way in which I might help you, and now this stone has come into my possession. And yes, I wanted to keep it, but the Great One touched me and let me know it was for you.”

“How did you come by it?”

“An Achean trader brought it to my shop. He thought it was a gold nugget and wished to sell it to me in return for the money to buy a new sail.”

“A sail? With this you could buy a thousand sails, perhaps more.”

“I told him it was worth half the price of a sail, and he sold it to me for sixty pieces of silver.” Bali shrugged. “It was with such dealings that I first became rich. You must go now. The Daggers surely know we are friends.”

“Come with me, Bali,” Nu urged. “With this stone we could reach my new ship. We could sail far from the reach of the king and his Daggers.”

“No. My place is here. My life is here. My death will be here.” Bali rose and led the way to the gate. “One thing more,” he told his friend as they stood in the moonlight. “Last night, as I held the stone, I had a strange dream. I saw a man in golden armor. He came to me and sat beside me. He gave me a message for you; he said
you must seek the Sword of God. Does it mean anything to you?”

“Nothing. Did you recognize him?”

“No. His face shone like the sun, and I could not look at him.”

“The Great One will make it plain to me,” said Nu as he reached out to embrace the smaller man. “May He watch over you, Bali.”

“And you, my friend.”

Bali silently opened the gate and peered out into the shadows. “It is clear,” he whispered. “Go quickly.”

Nu embraced him once more, then stepped into the shadows and was gone. Bali rebolted the gate and returned to his room, where he sank into his chair and tried to repress his regrets. With the stone he could have rebuilt his empire and enjoyed eternal youth. Without it? Penury and death.

He moved back into the main house, stepping over the body of the Achean sailor who had brought him the stone. Bali had not even possessed the sixty silver pieces the man had requested, but he still owned a knife with a sharp blade.

The sound of crashing timber caused him to spin and run back toward the garden. He arrived to see the gate on its hinges and three dark-armored Daggers moving toward him, their reptilian eyes gleaming in the moonlight, their scaled skin glistening.