The Last Guardian

CHAPTER THREE

For three days Shannow travelled 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 tracks of deer and elk. Each day, around mid-morning 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 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 further 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 ever 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 wolf-like; Shannow had known men like these 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 a 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 round. '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, with smooth even strokes, groomed the horse. 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 be foolishness, he knew. These men were brigands and killers and to ride on would display weakness like the scent of blood to a wolf-pack. 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.'

Towards midnight, with all the men asleep in their blankets, the youth rose silently, a double-edged knife in one hand. He crept forward towards 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 bolstered 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 image 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.'