The Last Guardian (2 page)

“I am sorry,” she told him. “My mother distrusts all men. I am so sorry.”

“Get away from him, girl!” shouted the older woman, and she fell back
.

Shannow nodded. “She probably has good reason,” he said. “I am sorry I cannot stay and help you bury these vermin.”

“You are wounded. Let me help you.”

“No. There is a city near here, I am sure. It has white spires and gates of burnished gold. There they will tend me.”

“There are no cities,” she said
.

“I will find it.” He touched his heels to the stallion’s flanks and rode from the farmyard
.

A hand touched him, and he awoke. The bestial face was leaning over him.

“How are you feeling?” The voice was deep and slow and slurred, and the question had to be repeated twice before Shannow could understand it.

“I am alive thanks to you. Who are you?”

The creature’s great head tilted. “Good. Usually the question is,
What
are you. My name is Shir-ran. You are a strong man to live so long with such a wound.”

“The ball passed through me,” said Shannow. “Can you help me sit up?”

“No. Lie there. I have stitched the wounds front and back, but my fingers are not what they were. Lie still and rest tonight. We will talk in the morning.”

“My horse?”

“Safe. He was a little frightened of me, but we understand each other now. I fed him the grain you carried in your saddlebags. Sleep, man.”

Shannow relaxed and moved his hand under the blankets to rest on the wound over his right hip. He could feel the tightness of the stitches and the clumsy knots. There was no bleeding, but he was worried about the fibers from his coat that had been driven into his flesh. It was these that killed more often than ball or shell, aiding gangrene and poisoning the blood.

“It is a good wound,” said Shir-ran softly, as if reading his mind. “The issue of blood cleansed it, I think. But here in the mountains wounds heal well. The air is clean. Bacteria find it hard to survive at thirty below.”

“Bacteria?” whispered Shannow, his eyes closing.

“Germs … the filth that causes wounds to fester.”

“I see. Thank you, Shir-ran.”

And Shannow slept without dreams.

Shannow awoke hungry and eased himself to a sitting position. The fire was burning brightly, and he could see a large store of wood stacked against the far wall. Gazing around the cave, he saw that it was some fifty feet across at the widest point and that the high domed ceiling was pitted with fissures through which the smoke from the fire drifted lazily. Beside Shannow’s blankets were his water canteen, his leather-bound Bible, and his guns, still sheathed in their oiled leather scabbards. Taking the canteen, he pulled clear the brass-topped cork and drank deeply. Then, in the bright firelight, he examined the bullet wound in his hip; the flesh around it was angry, bruised, and inflamed, but it looked clean and there was no bleeding. Slowly and carefully he stood, scanning the cave for his clothes. They were dry and casually folded atop a boulder on the other side of the fire. Dried blood still caked the white woolen shirt, but he slipped it on and climbed into his black woolen trousers. He could not buckle his belt on the usual notch, for the leather bit into his wound, bringing a grunt of pain. Still, he felt more human now that he was clothed. He pulled on socks and high riding boots and walked to where his stallion was tethered at the far wall. Shannow stroked his neck, and the horse dropped his head and nuzzled him in the chest. “Careful, boy, I’m still tender.” He half filled the feed bag with grain and settled it over the stallion’s head. Of Shir-ran there was no sign.

Near the wood store was a bank of rough-hewn shelves. Some carried books, others small sacks of salt, sugar, dried fruit, and meat. Shannow ate some of the fruit and returned to the fire. The cave was warm, and he lay back in his blankets and took up his guns, cleaning them with care. Both were Hellborn pistols, single- or
double-action side-feed weapons. He opened his saddlebag and checked his shells. He still had forty-seven, but when they were gone, the beautifully balanced pistols would be useless. Delving deep into the saddlebag, he found his own guns, cap and ball percussion pistols that had served him well for twenty years. For these he could make his own powder and mold ammunition. Having cleaned them, he wrapped them in oilskin and returned them to the depths of the saddlebag. Only then did he take up his Bible.

It was a well-thumbed book, the pages thin and gold-edged, the leather cover as supple as silk. He banked up the fire and opened the pages at the Book of Habbakuk. He read the section aloud, his voice deep and resonant.

“How long, O Lord, must I call for help, but you do not listen? Or cry out to you, ‘Violence,’ but you do not save? Why do you make me look at injustice? Why do you tolerate wrong? Destruction and violence are before me, there is strife, and conflict abounds. Therefore the law is paralyzed and justice never prevails. The wicked hem in the righteous so that justice is perverted.”

“And how does your god answer, Jon Shannow?” asked Shir-ran.

“In his own way,” Shannow answered. “How is it you know my name?”

The huge creature ambled forward, his great shoulders bowed under the weight of the enormous head. He sank to the floor by the fire, and Shannow noticed that his breathing was ragged. A thin trickle of blood could be seen coming from his right ear, matting the dark hair of his mane. “Are you hurt?” asked Shannow.

“No. It is the Change, that is all. You found food?”

“Yes. Some dried fruit in crystallized honey. It was good.”

“Take it all. I can no longer stomach it. How is your wound?”

“Healing well, as you promised. You seem in pain, Shir-ran. Is there anything I can do?”

“Nothing, Shannow, save perhaps to offer me a little company.”

“That will be a pleasure. It is too long since I sat by a fire, secure and at peace. Tell me how you know me.”

“Of you, Shannow. The Dark Lady speaks of you—and your deeds against the Hellborn. You are a strong man. A brave friend, I think.”

“Who is this Dark Lady?” countered Shannow, uncomfortable with the compliments.

“She is who she is, dark and beautiful. She labors among the Dianae—my people—and the Wolvers. The Bears will not receive her, for their humanity is all gone. They are beasts—now and forever. I am tired, Shannow. I will rest … sleep.” He settled down on his belly, taloned hands supporting his head. His tawny eyes closed and then opened. “If … when … you can no longer understand me, then saddle your stallion and ride on. You understand?”

“No,” replied Shannow.

“You will,” said Shir-ran.

Shannow ate some more fruit and returned to his Bible; Habbakuk had long been a favorite. Short and bittersweet were his words, but they echoed the doubts and the fears in Shannow’s heart and, by reflecting them, calmed them.

For three days Shannow sat with Shir-ran, but although they talked often, the Jerusalem Man learned little of the Dianae. What meager information the creature did impart told Shannow of a land where men were slowly changing into beasts. There were the people of the Lion, the Wolf, and the Bear. The Bears were finished, their culture gone. The Wolvers were dying out. Only the Lion people remained. Shir-ran spoke of the beauty of life, of its pains and its glories, and Shannow began to realize that the great creature was dying. They did not speak of it, but day
by day Shir-ran’s body changed, swelling, twisting, until he could not stand upright. Blood flowed from both ears now, and his speech was ever more slurred. At night in his sleep he would growl.

On the fourth morning Shannow awoke to hear his stallion whinnying in terror. He rolled from his bed, his hand sweeping out and gathering a pistol. Shir-ran was crouched before the horse, his head swaying.

“What is wrong?” called Shannow.

Shir-ran swung, and Shannow found himself staring into the tawny eyes of a huge lion. It advanced on him in a rush and leapt, but Shannow hurled himself to his right, hitting the ground hard. Pain lanced his side, but he swiveled as the lion surged at him, its roaring filling the cave.

“Shir-ran!” bellowed Shannow. The lion twisted its head, and for a moment Shannow saw the light of understanding in its eyes … then it was gone. Again the beast leapt. A pistol shot thundered in the cave.

The creature that had been Shir-ran sank to the floor and rolled to its side, eyes locked to Shannow’s own. The Jerusalem Man moved forward and knelt by the body, laying his hand on the black mane.

“I am sorry,” he said. The eyes closed, and all breathing ceased.

Shannow laid aside his pistol and took up his Bible. “You saved my life, Shir-ran, and I took yours. That is not just, yet I had no choice. I do not know how to pray for you, for I do not know if you were man or beast. But you were kind to me, and for that I commend your soul to the All-High.” He opened his Bible.

Laying his left hand on Shir-ran’s body, he read,
“The Earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it, the world, all who live in it, for he founded it upon the seas and established it upon the waters. Who may ascend the Hill of the Lord? Who may stand in his Holy Place? He who has
clean hands and a pure heart, who does not lift up his soul to an idol, or swear by what is false.”

He walked to the trembling stallion and saddled him. Then he gathered what remained of the food, stepped into the saddle, and rode from the cave.

Behind him the fire flickered … and died.

2

T
HE TEMPLE WAS
a place of great beauty still, with its white spires and golden domes, but the once-tranquil courtyards were now thronged with people baying for the blood sacrifice. The white tent at the entrance to the Holy Circle had been removed and in its place stood a marble statue of the king, regal and mighty, arms outstretched.

Nu-Khasisatra stood in the crowd, his limbs trembling. Three times the vision had come to him, and three times he had pushed it aside.

“I cannot do this, Lord,” he whispered. “I do not have the strength.”

He turned away from the spectacle as the victim was brought out and eased his way through the crowd. He heard the new high priest chant the opening lines of the ritual, but he did not look back. Tears stung his eyes as he stumbled along the corridors of white marble, emerging at last at the Pool of Silence. He sat at the pool’s edge; the roar of the crowd was muted there, yet still he heard the savage joy that heralded the death of another innocent.

“Forgive me,” he said. Gazing down into the pool, he looked at the fish swimming there and, above them, his own reflection. The face was strong and square, the eyes deep-set, the beard full. He had never considered it the face of a weak man. His hand snaked out, disturbing the water. The sleek silver and black fish scattered, carrying his reflection with them.

“What can one man do, Lord? You can see them. The king has brought them wealth and peace, prosperity and long life. They would tear me to pieces.” A sense of defeat settled upon him. In the past three months he had organized secret meetings, preaching against the excesses of the king. He had helped the outlawed priests of Chronos escape from the Daggers, smuggling them from the city. But now he shrank from the last commitment; he was ashamed that love of life was stronger than love of God.

His vision swam, the sky darkened, and Nu-Khasisatra felt himself torn from his body. He soared into the sky and hovered over the gleaming city below. In the distance a deeper darkness gathered, then a bright light shone beyond the darkness. A great wind blew, and Nu trembled as the sea roared up to meet the sky. The mighty city was like a toy now as the ocean thundered across the land. Huge trees disappeared under the waves like grass beneath a river flood. Mountains were swallowed whole. The stars flew across the sky, and the sun rose majestically in the west.

Looking down on the city of his birth, Nu-Khasisatra saw only the deep blue-gray of an angry sea. His spirit sank below the waves, deeper and deeper into the darkness. The Pool of Silence was truly silent now, and the black fish were gone. Bodies floated by him … men, women, tiny babes. Unencumbered by the water, Nu walked back to the central square. The statue of the king still stood with arms outstretched, but a huge black shark brushed against it. Slowly the statue toppled, striking a pillar. The head sheared off, and the body bounced against the mosaic tiles.