The Last Guardian (9 page)

“I do not think so,” answered Shannow, rising.

“It is just that …” Monet looked to the elderly Haimut for support, but the scholar shook his head, and Monet lapsed into embarrassed silence.

Shannow stepped from the tent and made his way to his horse. He fed the beast some grain, then spread his blankets on the ground beside it. He could have told them more: the glowing lights that burned without flame, the navigational devices—all the knowledge he had gained from the Guardians during the Hellborn War. But what would it serve? Shannow was caught in the no-man’s-land of the arcane debate.

Instinctively he longed for the Oldview to be correct, but events had forced a different understanding on him. The old world was gone. Shannow had no wish to see it rise from the ashes.

Just as he was drifting off to sleep, he heard a gentle footfall on the earth. He drew a pistol and waited.

The slender figure of Klaus Monet crouched beside him. “I am sorry to intrude on you, Meneer Shannow. But … you seem a man of action, sir. And we sorely need someone like you.”

Shannow sat up. “Explain yourself.”

Monet leaned in close. “This expedition was led by Boris; we won the finance from a group of Longviewers in the east. But since we have been here a man named Scayse has become involved in the project. He has put his own men—led by Deiker—in charge, and now some of the finds are being sent to him in Pilgrim’s Valley.”

“What kind of finds?”

“Gold bars, gems from steel boxes in one of the deep rooms. It is theft, Meneer Shannow.”

“Then put a stop to it,” Shannow advised.

“I am a scholar, sir.”

“Then study—and do not interfere with matters beyond your strength.”

“You would condone such thievery?”

Shannow chuckled. “Thievery? Who owns this ship? No one. Therefore, there is no theft. Two groups of men desire what is here. The strongest will take what he wishes. That is the way of life, Meneer Monet; strength always decides.”

“But with you we would be stronger.”

“Perhaps … but you will never know. I leave in the morning.”

“Are you afraid, Meneer Shannow, or do you just desire more coin? We can pay.”

“You could not afford me, sir. Now leave me to sleep.”

The morning sky was gray, and rain on his face woke Shannow soon after dawn. He rose from his blankets and rolled them into a tight bundle, tying them with strips of oiled hide. Then he put on his heavy double-shouldered topcoat and saddled the stallion. Two men came walking toward him through the misty rain, and Shannow turned and waited.

“Looks like you beat us to it,” said the first, a broad-shouldered man with a gaping gap where his front teeth should have been. His comrade was shorter and more lean; both were wearing pistols. “Well, don’t let us stop you,” continued the big man. “Be on your way.”

Shannow remained silent.

“Are you deficient in hearing?” the second man asked. “You are not wanted here.”

A small crowd had gathered in the background, and Shannow caught sight of Haimut and Klaus Monet. Of Deiker there was no sign.

“That’s it; let’s help him on his way,” said the big man, stepping in, but Shannow’s hand shot up with fingers extended and hammered into his throat. He fell back choking, then sank to his knees. Shannow’s eyes fixed on the second man.

“Be so kind as to tie my blanket roll to my saddle,” he said softly.

The man swallowed hard and licked his lips, his hand hovering over the pistol butt.

“Today,” stated Shannow, “is not a good day to die. A man should at least see the sun in the heavens.”

For several seconds the man stood tensely; then he cast a nervous glance at his comrade, who was kneeling and holding his throat, his breathing hoarse and ragged. He knew he should grab for his pistol but could not make his hand obey him. His eyes flicked up to meet Shannow’s.

“Damn you!” he whispered. His hand fell away from the gun, and he moved to the blanket roll, swinging it over the back of the saddle and tying it in place.

“Thank you,” said Shannow. “And now see to your friend.” He stepped into the saddle and swung the stallion toward the north. The crowd parted, and he resisted the urge to glance back. This was the moment of greatest danger. But there was no shot. He angled the stallion down to where Frey McAdam’s wagon had been camped; it was gone.

Shannow was angry with himself. There was no need to have shamed the men Deiker had obviously sent to see him on his way. He should have mounted and left as they had asked. Only pride had prevented him from doing just that, and pride was a sin in the eyes of the Almighty.

That is why you cannot find Jerusalem, Shannow, he told himself. Your sins burden you down.

There is no Jerusalem!

The thought leapt unbidden to his mind, and he shivered. He had seen so much in these last few years, and his doubts were many. But what choice do I have? he wondered. If there is no Jerusalem, then all is in vain. And so the search must go on.
For what purpose?
For me! For as long as I search, then Jerusalem exists—if only in my mind. And that is enough. I need no more.
You lie, Shannow!
Yes, yes, I lie. But what does that prove? I must search. I must know.
Where next will you search?
Beyond the Great Wall.
And if not there?
To the ends of the earth and the borders of hell!

Coming to the top of the rise, he turned west, seeking the pass through the mountains. He rode the deer trails for more than two hours before joining the main track, which was scarred by the rims of wagon wheels and the hooves of many horses. The rain had ceased, and the sun broke clear of the clouds. He rode more warily now, halting often and studying his surroundings. With the sun at its height, he stopped and rested in the shadow of a looming natural pillar of stone. It was cool there, and he read his Bible for an hour, enjoying the Song of Solomon. By midafternoon the Jerusalem Man had passed the mountains and was following a narrow track down into the valley beyond.

To the west he could see the McAdam wagon following the wider trail that led into the town. To the north, beyond the buildings, the valley stretched for miles, ending in a huge wall that vanished into the distance. Shannow drew a long glass from his bags and through it scanned the wall. It was massive, and even at that distance he could make out the flowers and lichens sprouting between its great blocks. He transferred his gaze to the sky, seeking the wonders beyond the wall, but only huge white clouds could be seen gently rolling across the vault of heaven. Hitching himself around in the saddle, he focused on the McAdam wagon. The woman was at the reins; he could see her honey-blond hair and the flesh of her right leg as it rested against the brake. The children were walking behind, leading the horse. They would be in the town long before Shannow. He studied the buildings below. Most were wood structures—some timber, some log—but three were stone dwellings of several stories, mostly at the eastern end. There appeared to be one main thoroughfare stretching for around four hundred paces, and then, in the shape of a T, buildings branched north and south of it. It was a thriving community
and many more dwellings were in the process of completion. Beyond the town was a meadow packed with tents, large and small, and Shannow could see more than a dozen cookfires. Families were moving in to settle the land, and soon Pilgrim’s Valley would house a city.

Shannow considered avoiding the town and riding on to the wall and beyond. But the stallion needed rest and grain feeding, and the Jerusalem Man had not slept in a bed in what seemed an age. He rubbed at his chin and imagined a long, hot bath and the feel of a razor on his face. His clothes, too, were way overdue for a cleaning, and his boots were leaf-thin. Flicking a glance at the wagon, he could no longer see the driver or the flesh of her leg at the brake.

10

O
SHERE
EASED
HIS
swollen, misshapen frame into the room and tried to sit down in a wide chair. The discomfort was supreme; the muscles of his back no longer stretched as they should have. He rose and squatted on his haunches, watching the Dark Lady as she sat statue-still at the huge desk. Her eyes were closed, her spirit absent from her body. Oshere knew where she flew. She was deep down inside the drying smear of his blood that stained the crystal on her desk. Oshere sat silently until Chreena stretched her back and opened her eyes. She cursed softly.

“You must not be impatient,” said Oshere.

The black woman turned and smiled. “Time races away from me,” she replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Not good, Chreena. Now I know how Shir-ran felt … and why he left. Perhaps I should go, too.”

“No! I will not hear such talk. I am close, Oshere; I know I am. All I need to find out is
why
the daughter molecules depart from the norm. They should not; it is against nature.”

Oshere chuckled. “Are we not against nature, my dear? Did God ever intend a lion to walk like a man?”

“I am not worthy to discuss God’s aims, Oshere. But your genetic structure was altered hundreds of years ago, and now it is reverting. There must be a way to halt it.”

“But that is what I am saying, Chreena. Perhaps God wants us back the way he created us.”

“I should never have told you the truth,” Chreena whispered.

His tawny eyes locked on her dark face. “We have left the others in the joy of their myths, but it is better for me to know the truth. Dear Lord, Chreena, I am a lion. I should be padding the forests and the mountains. And I will be.”

“You were born a human,” she told him, “and you grew into a man. A fine man, Oshere. You were not intended to prowl the wilds—I know it.”

“And Shir-ran was? No, Chreena. You are a fine scientist, and you have cared for the people of the Dianae. But I think your emotions are ruling your intellect. We always thought that we were the chosen people. We saw the statues in the cities and believed that man was once subservient to us. The truth may not be as palatable, but I can live with it. It will not change the Law of the One that Oshere becomes a lion.”

“Nor if he does not,” said Chreena. “Someone, a long time ago, began an experiment on chromosome engineering. The reasons I can only guess at. But the chain of life was altered in several species, and this was successful—until now. What could be done then can be done now. And I will find a way to reverse the process.”

“The Bears have all reverted,” he pointed out. “The Wolvers are dying. And did you not make the same promise to Shir-ran?”

“Yes, damn you, I did. And I’ll say it to the next unfortunate. I’ll keep saying it until I make it true.”

Oshere looked away. “Forgive me, Chreena. Do not be angry.”

“Dear God, I’m not angry with you, my dear. It is me. I have the books inside my head, and the knowledge. But the answer eludes me.”

“Take your mind from it for a while. Walk with me.”

“I can’t. I have no time.”

Oshere pushed himself painfully to his feet, his great
head lolling to one side. “We both know that a tired mind will find no answers. Come. Walk with me on the hillside.”

He put out his hand, sheathing the talons that leapt unbidden from the new sockets at the ends of his swollen fingers. She put her fingers into the black mane on his cheek and kissed him gently. “Just for a little while, then.”

Together they walked along the statue-lined hall and out into the bright sunlight blazing down on the terraced gardens. He stopped at a long marble bench and stretched himself along it. She sat beside him with his head resting on her lap.

“Tell me again of the Fall,” he said.

“Which one?”

“The disaster that destroyed Atlantis—the one with the ark.”

“Which ark?” she asked him. “During the Between Times there were more than five hundred legends involving great floods. The Hopi indians, the Arabs, the Assyrians, the Turks, the Norse, the Irish—all had their own racial memories of the day the world toppled. And each had its ark. For some it was gopherwood, for others reeds. Some were giant vessels, others huge rafts.”

“But the Between Times people did not believe the legends, did they?”