For almost an hour Selah worked on the wounds, finally pushing back the folds of skin on the man’s cheek and stitching them in place. Meanwhile, Shannow had dismounted and unsaddled their horses. He said nothing but prepared a fire within a circle of stones, having first ripped away the grass around it. Selah checked the wounded man’s pulse; it was weak but steady.
He joined Shannow by the fire, leaving the man wrapped in his blankets.
“Why?” asked Shannow.
“Why what?”
“Why did you save him?”
“I do not understand,” said Selah. “You saved him by killing the lion.”
“I did not then know what he was … what he is.”
“He is a man,” stated Selah.
“He is your enemy, boy. He may even have been the man who killed Curopet or nailed Karitas to the tree.”
“I shall ask him when he wakes.”
“And what will that tell you?”
“If he did attack my village, I shall tend him until he is well and then we will fight.”
“That is nonsense, boy.”
“Perhaps, but Karitas always taught us to follow our feelings, especially compassion. I want to kill the Hellborn—I said that on the day we found our people. But this is different. This is one brave man who fought a lion with only a knife. Who knows? He might have won without you.”
Shannow shook his head. “I don’t understand. You went into the Hellborn camp and slew them while they slept. Where is the difference?”
“I did that to save my people. I failed. I have no regrets about the men I slew, but I cannot slay this one—not yet.”
“Then step aside and I’ll put a bullet in his ear.”
“No,” said the boy forcefully. “His life is now mine, as mine is yours.”
“All right,” said Shannow. “I will argue no more. Maybe he will die in the night. Did you at least take his gun?”
“No, he did not,” said a voice, and Selah turned to see that the wounded man had raised himself on his elbow with his pistol pointed at Shannow. The Jerusalem Man lifted his head, his eyes glittering in the firelight, and Selah saw that he was about to draw his own weapons.
“No!” he shouted, stepping between them. “Put your pistol down,” he told the Hellborn.
Their eyes met, and the man managed a weak smile. “He’s right, boy. You are a fool,” he said as he slowly uncocked the pistol and lay back. Selah swung toward Shannow, but the Jerusalem Man was walking away to sit on a rock some distance from the fire, his Bible in his hands. Selah, who normally left him alone at such times, approached him warily, and Shannow looked up and smiled gently. Then, under the moon’s silver light, he began to read. At first Selah had difficulty understanding certain words, but overall the story fell into place. It seemed that a man was robbed and left for dead and that several people passed him by, offering no help. At last another man came and helped him, carrying him to a place of rest. This last man, Shannow explained, was from a people who were hated and despised.
“What does it mean, then?” Selah asked.
“I think it means that there is good in all men. Yet you have added a fresh twist to the parable, for you have rescued the Samaritan. I hope you do not come to regret it.”
“What is the Book?”
“It is the history of a people long dead, and it is the word of God through the ages.”
“Does it give you peace, Shannow?”
“No, it torments me.”
“Does it give you power?”
“No, it weakens me.”
“Then why do you read it?”
“Because without it there is nothing but a meaningless existence of pain and sorrow ending in death. For what would we strive?”
“To be happy, Shannow. To raise children and know joy.”
“There has been very little joy in my life, Selah. But one day soon I will taste it again.”
“Through your god?”
“No—through my woman.”
Batik lay back, feeling the pull of the stitches and the weakness he knew came from loss of blood. He had no idea why the boy wanted him saved or why the man had agreed to it. And yet he lived, and that was enough for now. His horse had reared when the lion had roared, and Batik had managed just one shot as it had leapt. The shot had creased its side, and then he had been catapulted from the saddle. He could not remember drawing his knife, but he recalled with brilliant clarity the arrival of the hard-eyed man on the steeldust gelding, and he had registered even as the gun was aimed that it was a Hellborn pistol.
Now, as he lay under the stars, it was no great work of the intellect to come up with the obvious answer: The man had been one of those who had attacked Cabrik’s feasters some weeks back, killing over eighty young men in a single night … which made his acquiescence in allowing Batik to live all the more curious.
While he was thinking, the boy Selah approached him. “How are your wounds?”
“You did well. They will heal.”
“I am preparing some broth. It will help make more blood for you.”
“Why? Why do you do this for me?”
Selah shrugged, unwilling to enter a debate.
“I was not in the attack on your village,” said Batik, “though I easily could have been.”
“Then you tell me, Hellborn, why they wanted to kill my people.”
“Our priests could answer that better than I. We are the chosen people. We are ordered to inhabit the lands and kill every man, woman, and child we find. The priests say that this is to ensure the purity of our faith.”
“How can a babe in arms affect your faith?”
“I don’t know. Truly. I never killed a babe or a child, though I saw it done. Ask our priests when you meet one.”
“It is savagery beyond my understanding,” Selah said.
“My name is Batik,” said the man. “And you?”
“Selah.”
“And your friend?”
“He is Shannow, the Thundermaker.”
“Shannow. I have heard the name.”
“He is a great soul and a mighty warrior. He slew many of your people.”
“And now he is hunted in turn.”
“By you?”
“No,” said Batik. “But the Lord Abaddon has declared him unholy, and that means he must burn. Already the Zealots are riding, and they have great powers; they will find him.”
“When they do, Batik, he will slay them.”
Batik smiled. “He is not a god, Selah. The Zealots will bring him down even as they brought me down.”
“You are hunted?”
“I need some sleep. We will talk tomorrow.”
Batik awoke early, the pain from his wounds pulling him from a troubled sleep. Overhead the sky was clear, and a black crow circled, banking and wheeling. He sat up, wincing as the stitches pulled at the wound in his face. Shannow was awake, sitting still in the dawn light and reading from a leather-covered book with gold-trimmed pages. Batik saw the tension in the man and the way his right hand rested barely inches from the pistol that lay beside him on the rock. Batik resisted the urge to smile; the stitches were too painful.
“You are awake early,” he said, lifting the blankets from his legs.
Shannow slowly closed the book and turned. His eyes met Batik’s, and the look was glacial. Batik’s face hardened.
“I was hoping,” said Shannow tonelessly, “that you would die in the night.”
Batik nodded. “Before we enter into a prolonged debate on your views, perhaps you would care to know that we are being watched and that within a short time we will be hunted.”
“There is no one watching us,” said Shannow. “I scouted earlier.”
Batik smiled in spite of the pain. “You have no conception, Shannow, of the nature of the hunters. We are not talking about mere men. Those who hunt us are the Zealots, and they ride under the name of the Hounds of Hell. If you look up, you will see a crow. It does not land or scavenge f
or food; it merely circles us, directing those who follow.
“The lion yesterday was possessed by a Zealot. It is a talent they have; it is why they are deadly.”
“Why would you warn me?” asked Shannow, flicking his eyes to take in the crow’s flight.
“Because they are hunting me also.”
“Why should they?”
“I am not religious, Shannow, and I tried to ruin the midwinter offering. But all that is past. Just accept that I am—as you—an enemy to the Zealots.”
Selah groaned and sat up. On a rock a reptilian creature with slavering jaws sat over the body of Shannow. Selah drew his pistol and cocked it. The monster’s eyes turned on him, red as blood, as he pointed the pistol.
“What are you doing?” asked Shannow.
Selah blinked as the image shifted and blurred. His finger tightened on the trigger, but at the last second he twisted the barrel. The shot echoed in the hills, and a shell whistled past Shannow’s ear. Selah eased back the hammer for a second shot, but Batik had moved behind him. With a swift chop to the neck with the blade of his hand, Batik stunned the boy and retrieved the pistol.
Shannow had not moved. “Is he all right?” he asked.
“Yes. The Zealots work well with the young; their minds are more malleable.”
Shannow drew his pistol and cocked it, and Batik froze. The Jerusalem Man tipped back his head, his arm lifted, and he fired. The crow exploded in a burst of flesh and feathers.
Shannow opened the pistol’s breech, removed the spent casing, and reloaded the weapon. Then he walked to Selah, kneeling by him and turning him over. The boy’s eyelids fluttered and opened; he saw Shannow and jerked.
“You are dead!” he said, struggling to rise.
“Lie still, boy. I am fine.”
“I saw a monster over your body. I tried to scare it away.”
“There was no monster,” Shannow tried to explain, but the boy could not comprehend and Batik stepped in.
“It was magic, Selah. You were fooled by the hunters.”
“Magic?”
“Yes. They cast a spell that confused your eyes. It is unlikely they will try again through you, but they may. Be wary and shoot at nothing.” He handed the pistol to the boy and then sagged back on the ground, his face gleaming with sweat.
Shannow watched him closely. “You are a powerful man,” he said, “but you lost a lot of blood. You need rest.”
“We cannot stay here,” said Batik.
“From which direction will they be coming?” asked Shannow.
“Northeast,” said Batik. “But do not go up against them, Shannow.”
“It is my way. How many are there?”
Batik shrugged. “There could be six or sixty. Whatever, they will travel in multiples of six; it is a mystic number.”
“Stay here and rest. I will return.”
Shannow walked to his saddle and hefted it, making his way toward the steeldust gelding, which was hobbled some thirty feet from the camp. As Shannow approached, he saw horseflies settling on the gelding’s hindquarters, yet the animal’s tail was still. Shannow slowed his walk, and the gelding dipped its head and watched him. Shannow approached the beast from the left and laid the saddle on its back, stooping to tighten the cinch. The gelding did not move, and Shannow was sweating now. Gripping the bridle tightly in his right hand, he loosed the slipknot hobbling the horse. As the rope fell away, the gelding bunched its muscles to rear and Shannow grabbed the pommel and vaulted into the saddle. The gelding reared up and set off at a dead run, but Shannow maneuvered his feet into the stirrups and held on. The gelding stopped and bucked furiously, but Shannow wrenched its head back toward the camp. Suddenly the horse rolled over; Shannow leapt from the saddle and, as the beast came upright, mounted swiftly.
At the camp Batik watched in admiration as the clash of wills continued. The horse bucked, jumped, twisted, and rolled time and again, but always Shannow held on. As suddenly as it had started, it was over and the gelding stopped, its head down and steam billowing from its nostrils. Shannow walked it back to the camp and dismounted, hobbling the animal once more. He unsaddled the beast and wiped it down, then stroked its neck and ears.
Hefting his saddle, he made his way to Selah’s horse and without drama saddled it and headed northeast.
Batik relaxed as Shannow crested the hill and lay back on the grass.
“Whatever else, he is a fine rider.”
“He is the Thundermaker,” said Selah with pride. “He will return.”
“It would be pleasant to think so,” replied Batik, “but he has never come up against the Zealots. I have seen their handiwork, and I am under no illusion as to their skill.”
Selah smiled and moved to the deer meat, hacking slices for the morning stew. Batik, he thought, was a clever man, but he had never seen Shannow in action.
Six miles to the northeast a small group of riders drew rein and studied the hills ahead. The leader—a slender young man, hawk-nosed and dark-eyed—turned to his companion.
“Are you recovered?” he asked.
“Yes, Donai, but I am exhausted. How could he remain in the saddle? I all but killed the horse.”
“He rides well. I wish I knew more about him and his connection with Batik.” Donai swiveled in the saddle, his gaze resting on the two corpses draped across their horses’ backs. Xenon had possessed the lion, and Cheros the crow. Both had been slain by the long-haired rider.
Donai dismounted. “I will seek guidance,” he said. The other three riders sat in silence as their leader knelt on the grass with a round red-gold stone cupped in his hands. For some time he remained motionless. Then he rose.
“Achnazzar says that the man is Shannow, the Jerusalem seeker. He is sending more men, and we are to wait here.”
The men dismounted and removed their cloaks of black leather and dark helms.
“Which six are they sending?” asked Parin, the youngest of the riders.
“They are sending six sections; I did not ask which,” replied Donai.
“Thirty-six men!” queried Parin. “To tackle two men and a boy?”
“You wish to question Achnazzar’s judgment?” Donai asked softly.
“No,” Parin replied swiftly.
“No,” agreed Donai, “that is very wise. The man Shannow is a great evil, and always there is strength in that. He is unholy and a servant of the old dark god. He must be destroyed. Achnazzar says he carries a Bible.”
“It is said that to touch a Bible burns the hand and scars the soul,” put in another rider.
“It could be, Karim. I don’t know. Achnazzar says to kill the man and his horse and to burn his saddlebags without opening them.”
“I have often wondered,” said Parin, “how this book survived Armageddon.”
“There is evil everywhere,” replied Donai. “When the old dark god was destroyed, his body sundered and fell to the earth like rain, and where it touched, it polluted the land. Never be surprised at the places where evil dwells.”
“You can say that again,” said Karim, a lean middle-aged rider with a gray beard. “I would have staked my life on Batik; there was no finer warrior among the Hellborn.”
“Your use of the word ‘fine’ is questionable, Karim,” said Donai. “The man was unholy, but he hid the darkness within himself. But the Lord Satan has ways of illuminating the dark corners of the soul, and I think it was no coincidence that Batik’s sister was chosen for the midwinter sacrifice.”
“I believe that,” said Parin, “but what did he hope to gain by asking Shalea to flee with him?”
“A good question, Parin. He underestimated the holiness of his sister. She was naturally proud to be chosen, and when his evil touched her, she went straight to Achnazzar. A fine woman who now serves the Lord!”
“But how could he underestimate her holiness?” persisted Parin.
“Evil is not logical. He thought she desired an earthly life, and his blasphemy was his unbelief.
He thought her doomed and sought to save her.”
“And now he is with the Jerusalem Man,” remarked Karim.
“Evil invites evil,” said Donai.
Toward noon, as the four riders ate an early meal, the sky darkened as heavy black-edged clouds masked the sun. Lightning forked in the east, and thunder cannoned deafeningly across the heavens.
“Mount up!” shouted Donai. “We’ll head for the trees.”
The men scrambled to their feet, moving toward their horses. Then Donai lifted his cloak and froze. Standing at the edge of their camp, his long coat flapping in the storm winds, was the long-haired rider. Donai dragged his pistol clear of its scabbard, but a white-hot hammer smashed into his chest and drove him back against his horse. Karim, hearing the shot, dived for the ground, but Parin and the other rider died where they stood as Shannow’s pistols flowered in flame. Karim rolled and fired, his shot cutting Shannow’s collar. The Jerusalem Man dropped to the grass, and Karim fired twice more, but there was no return fire. Edging sideways, Karim hid behind Donai’s body and closed his eyes. His spirit rose and entered the mind of his horse. From this high vantage point Karim scanned the area, but there was no sign of the attacker. He moved the horse’s head and saw his own body lying behind Donai.
Shannow rose from the long grass behind Karim’s body, his pistol pointed. Karim’s spirit flew from the horse straight into Shannow’s mind, and the Jerusalem Man staggered as pain flooded his brain and bright lights exploded behind his eyes. Then darkness followed, and Shannow found himself in a tunnel deep in the earth. Scuffling noises came to him, and giant rats issued from gaping holes in the walls, their teeth as long as knives.
On the edge of panic Shannow closed his inner eyes, blocking the nightmare. He could feel the hot breath of the rats on his face, feel their teeth tearing at his skin. Slowly he opened his eyes, ignoring the huge rodents and looking beyond them. As if through a mist, he could see horses and before them two bodies. Shannow lifted his hand and aimed his pistol.
The pistol became a snake that reared back, sinking its teeth into his wrist. Shannow ignored the snake and tightened his grip on the pistol butt he no longer felt. The gun bucked in his hand.