The Last Guardian (4 page)

N
U
-K
HASISATRA
RAN
FROM
the temple, out onto the broad steps, and down into the teeming multitudes that thronged the city thoroughfares. His courage was exhausted, and reaction had set in; his limbs were trembling as he pushed his way through the crowds, trying to lose himself among the thousands who packed the market streets.

“Are you a priest?” a man asked him, clutching his sleeve.

“No,” snapped Nu. “Leave me alone!”

“But you wear the robes,” the man persisted.

“Leave me!” roared Nu, wrenching the man’s hand from him. Once more swallowed by the throng, he cut left into an alleyway and walked swiftly through to the Street of Merchants. There he bought a heavy cloak; it had a deep hood, which he pulled over his dark hair.

He stopped at an eating house on the crossroads corner, taking a table by the east window, where he sat staring out onto the street, overwhelmed by the enormity of his deed. He was a traitor and a heretic. There was nowhere in the empire to hide from the wrath of the king. Even now the Daggers would be hunting him.

“Why you?” Pashad had demanded the previous night. “Why can your god not use someone else? Why must you throw away your life?”

“I do not know, Pashad. What can I say?”

“You can give up this foolishness. We will move to Balacris, put this nonsense behind us.”

“It is not nonsense. Without God I am nothing. And the king’s evil must be opposed.”

“If your Lord Chronos is so powerful, why does he not strike the king dead with a thunderbolt? Why does he need a shipbuilder?”

Nu shrugged. “It is not for me to question Him. All I have is His. All the world is His. I have been a temple student all my life—never good enough to be a priest. And I have broken many of His laws. But I cannot refuse when He calls upon me. What kind of a man would I be? Answer me that.”

“You would be a live man,” she said.

“Away from God there is no life.” He saw the defeat in her dark eyes, saw it in the bright tears that welled and fell to her cheeks.

“What of me and the children? A traitor’s wife suffers his fate—have you thought of that? Do you wish to see your own children burning in the fires?”

“No!” The word was torn from him in a cry of anguish. “You must get away from here, beloved. You must! I spoke to Bali this afternoon, and he says you can go to him tomorrow night; he has something for you.”

They had talked for more than two hours, making plans and then Nu had gone to his tiny prayer room, where he had knelt until the dawn. He begged his god to release him, but as the dawn streaked the sky, he knew what he had to do …

Go to the temple and speak against the king.

Now he had—and death awaited him.

“Are you eating or drinking, Highness?” asked the housekeeper.

“What? Oh. Wine. The best you have.”

“Indeed, Highness.” The man bowed and moved away. Nu did not notice his return or the jug and goblet he placed on the table. The housekeeper cleared his throat,
and Nu jerked, then delved into his purse and dropped a large silver coin into the man’s hand. The housekeeper counted out Nu’s change and placed it on the table. Nu ignored the money and absently poured the wine; it was from the southwest, rich and heady. He drained the goblet and refilled it.

Two Daggers moved into sight beyond the window, and the crowd parted for them, people jostling and pushing to avoid contact with the reptiles.

Nu averted his eyes and drank more of the wine.

A figure moved into the seat opposite him. “To know the future is to be assured of fortune,” he said as he spread out a series of stones on the table.

“I do not need my future read,” replied Nu. But the seer swept up two small silver pieces from the change on the table. Then he scattered the stones.

“Pick three,” he said.

Nu was about to order the man away when the two Daggers entered the room. He swallowed hard. “What did you say?” he asked, turning to face the newcomer.

“Pick three stones,” the seer repeated, and Nu did so, leaning forward so that his hood fell farther over his face. “Now give me your hand,” ordered the seer.

The man’s fingers were long and slender, as cold as knifeblades as he studied Nu’s palm for several seconds.

“You are a strong man, but then, I need no special skill to see that,” he said, grinning. He was young and hawk-faced, with deep-set brown eyes. “And you are worried.”

“Not at all,” whispered Nu.

“Curious,” said the man suddenly. “I see a journey but not over water, nor yet over land. I see a man with lightning in his hands and death in his dark fingers. I see water … rising …”

Nu wrenched his hand away. “Keep the money,” he hissed. He looked into the seer’s eyes and saw the fear there. “How does a man travel and yet not move over
land or water?” he asked, forcing a smile. “What kind of seer are you?”

“A good one,” said the man softly. “And you can relax, for they have gone.”

“Who?” Nu asked, not daring to look up.

“The reptiles. You are in great danger, my friend. Death stalks you.”

“Death stalks us all,” Nu replied. “No man avoids him forever.”

“There is truth in that. I do not know where you are going—nor do I want to know. But I see a strange land and a gray rider. His hands hold great power. He is the man of thunder. He is the doom of worlds. I do not know if he is a friend or an enemy, but you are linked to him. Walk warily.”

“Too late for that,” said Nu. “Will you join me in a drink?”

“Your company is—I think—too perilous for me. Go with God.”

5

B
ETH
M
C
A
DAM
CLIMBED
down from the wagon, gave the broken wheel a hard kick, and cursed long and fluently. Her two children sat in amused silence on the tailboard. “Wouldn’t you just know it?” said Beth. The wooden rim had split and torn free the metal edge; she kicked it again. Samuel tried to stifle the giggle with his fist, but it exploded from him in a high peal. Beth stormed around to the rear of the wagon, but the boy squirmed up over the piled furniture where she could not reach him.

“You little snapper-gut!” she yelled. Then Mary began to laugh, and Beth swung on her.

“You think it’s funny to be trapped out here with the wolves … and the enormous lions?”

Mary’s face fell, and Beth was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, honey. There ain’t no lions. I was only joking.”

“You promise?” said Mary, gazing out over the plain.

“I do. And even if there was, he’d know better than to come anywhere near your ma when she’s angry. And you come down from there, Samuel, or I’ll rip out your arms and feed ’em to the wolves.”

His blond head peeped over the chest of drawers. “You ain’t gonna whack me, Ma?”

“I ain’t gonna whack you, snapper-gut. Help Mary get the pots unloaded. We’re going to have to camp here and figure a way to mend the wagon.”

While the children busied themselves preparing a
campfire, Beth sat on a boulder and stared hard at the wheel. They would need to unload everything, then try to lever up the empty wagon while she manhandled the spare wheel into place. She was sure she could do it, but could the children handle the lever? Samuel was big for a seven-year-old, but he lacked the concentration necessary for such a task, and Mary, at eight, was wand-thin and would never muster the power needed. But there had to be a way … there always was.

Ten years earlier, when her mother had been beaten to death by a drunken father, the twelve-year-old Beth Newson had taken a carving knife and cut his throat in his sleep. Then, with seven silver Barta coins, she had walked seventy miles to Seeka Settlement and spun a terrible tale of brigands and killers raiding the farm. For three years the Committee had made her live with Seth Reid and his wife, and she had been treated like a slave. At fifteen she had set her cap at the powerful logger Sean McAdam. The poor man had no chance against her wide blue eyes, long blond hair, and hip-swinging walk. Beth Newson was no beauty, with her heavy brows and large nose, but by heaven, she knew what to do with what God had given her. Sean McAdam fell like a poleaxed bull, and they were wed three months later. Seven months after that Mary had been born, and a year later Samuel. The previous fall Sean had decided to move his family south, and they had purchased a wagon from Meneer Grimm and set off with high hopes. But the first town they reached had been hit by the Red Death. They had left swiftly, but within days Sean’s huge body had been covered with red weeping sores; the glands under his arms had swelled, and all movement had brought pain. They had camped in a high meadow, and Beth had tended him day and night, but despite his awesome strength Sean McAdam had lost the fight for life, and Beth had buried him on the hillside. Before they could move on, Samuel was struck down by the illness. Exhausted,
Beth continued to nurse the boy, going without sleep and sitting by his bedside, dabbing at the sores with a damp cloth. The child had pulled through, and within two weeks the sores had vanished.

Without the strength of Sean McAdam the family had pushed on through snow and ice, through spring floods, and once across a narrow cliff trail under threat of avalanche. Beth had twice driven wolves from the six oxen, shooting one great beast dead with a single shot from Sean’s double-barreled flintlock. Samuel’s pride in his mother’s achievement was colossal.

Five days earlier he had found another source for pride when two brigands had accosted them on the road—sour-looking men, bearded and eagle-eyed. Beth had laid down the reins and took up the flintlock pistol.

“Now, you scum-tars don’t look too bright to me, so I’ll speak slow. Give me the road or by God, I’ll send your pitiful souls straight to hell!”

And they had. One had even swept his hat from his head in an elaborate bow as she passed.

Beth smiled at the memory now, then returned her gaze to the wheel. Two problems faced her: finding a length of wood to use as a lever and figuring out how to do both jobs—levering and fitting the wheel—herself.

Mary brought her some soup; it was thin but nourishing. Samuel made her a cup of herb tea; there was too much sugar in it, but she thanked him with a bright smile and ruffled his hair. “You’re a pair of good kids,” she said. “For a pair of snapper-guts, that is!”

“Ma! Riders comin’!” cried Mary, and Beth stood and drew the flintlock from her wide belt. She eared back the hammers and hid the weapon in the fold of her long woolen skirt. Her blue eyes narrowed as she took in the six men, and she swallowed hard, determined to show no fear.

“Wait in the wagon,” she told the children. “Do it
now!” They scrambled up the tailboard and hid behind the chest.

Beth walked forward, her eyes moving from man to man, seeking the leader. He rode at the center of the group, a tall, thin-faced rider with short-cropped gray hair and a red scar running from brow to chin. Beth smiled up at him. “Will you not step down, sir?” she asked. The men chuckled, but she ignored them, keeping her eyes fixed to Scarface.

“Oh, we’ll step down right enough,” he said. “I’d step down into hell for a woman with a body like yours.” Lifting his leg over the saddle pommel, he slid to the ground and advanced on her. Taking a swift step forward, she curled her left arm up over his shoulder, drawing him down to a passionate kiss. At the same time, her right hand slid up between them and the cold barrels of the flintlock pressed into his groin. Beth moved her head so that her mouth was close to his ear.

“What you are feeling, pig breath, is a gun,” she whispered. “Now tell your men to change the wheel on the wagon. And touch nothing in it.”

“Ain’t ya gonna share her, Harry?” called one rider.

For a moment Scarface toyed with the idea of making a grab for the pistol, but he glanced down into Beth’s steely blue eyes and changed his mind.

“We’ll talk about it later, Quint,” he said. “First, you boys change that wheel.”

“Change … we didn’t ride in here to change no damned wheel!” roared Quint.

“Do it!” hissed Scarface. “Or I’ll rip your guts out.”