Bloodstone (35 page)

Sarento walked across the corpses, which cracked underfoot like long-dead twigs.

His hunger was almost gone.

But the seed of it remained.

His Devourers were roaming the countryside, and he could feel the steady trickle of sustenance. Not enough to satisfy yet adequate for the present. Reaching out, he sought other Wolvers, ready to draw them to him for the Change. But there were none within the range of his power. Curious, he thought, for he knew such beasts existed in this world; he had plucked their image from the dying memories of Saul Wilkins and read them again in the sadistic mind of Jacob Moon. A tiny flicker of concern touched him. Without new Devourers his task in this new world would be more difficult. Then he thought again of the gateway. If there was one, there must be more.

He pictured the teeming cities of the old world: Los Angeles, New York, London, Paris.

In such places he would never know hunger again.

Beth covered the dead man with a blanket and took hold of the weeping Meredith’s shoulders. “Come on,” she said gently. “Come away.”

“It’s my fault,” he said. “I don’t know why I shouted. I just … panicked.”

“Damn right!” said the Deacon.

“Leave it alone,” Beth told him icily. “Not everyone is like you, and thank God for it. Yes, he panicked. He was frightened. But even his friend told him not to blame himself.” She patted Meredith’s shoulder and stepped in closer to the Deacon. “Blood and death is all you know, Deacon. Murder and pain. Now leave it be!”

At that moment there was a splintering of wood upstairs and the sound of a rifle booming. “Are you all right, Wallace?” shouted Beth.

The young man appeared at the head of the stairs. “One of them jumped up to the window. It’s all right now. There’s more coming across the meadows, Frey McAdam. Maybe fifty of them.”

“The shutters won’t hold them,” said the Deacon. He drew a pistol, then winced and fell against the wall. Beth moved alongside him. His face was gray with exhaustion and pain. Reaching out, she put her arm around him and led him to a chair. As he sat, she saw that her hand was smeared with blood.

“You’re hurt,” she said.

“I’ve been hurt before.”

“Let me see it.” He half turned in the chair. The back of his old sheepskin coat had been ripped open, the flesh beneath it gashed and torn, and she remembered the snapping of the fence rail as his frail body had been hurled against it. “You may have broken a rib or two,” she said.

“I’ll live. I have to.”

Meredith leaned over her. “Let me look to it,” he said. “I am a doctor.” Together they helped the Deacon rise, removing his coat and torn shirt. Gently Meredith probed the wound. The old man made no sound. “Two ribs at least,” said Meredith. In the background the baby began to cry.

“Needs feeding,” said Beth, but the young woman slouched in the chair made no movement. Beth moved to her and saw that her eyes were vacant. She undid the buttons of the girl’s
sweat-stained blouse, then lifted the baby to the swollen breast. As it began to suck, the girl moaned and started to cry. “There, there,” said Beth. “Everything is all right now. Look at her feed. She was real hungry.”

“He’s a boy,” whispered the mother.

“Of course he is. What a fool I am!” Beth told her. “And a handsome boy he is. Strong, too.”

“My Josh was strong,” said the girl. “They tore his head off.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she began to tremble.

“You just think of the babe,” said Beth swiftly. “He’s all that matters now. You understand?” The girl nodded, but Beth saw that she was once more drifting away, and with a sigh she returned to Meredith and the Deacon. The young doctor had cut up a tablecloth to make bandages. The old man reached up as Meredith completed his work.

“I am sorry, Son,” he said. “I hope you’ll forgive my harsh words.”

Meredith nodded wearily. “It’s easier to forgive you than to forgive myself. I have never been more frightened, and I am ashamed of my actions.”

“It’s in the past, boy. You’ve been to the edge and looked in the pit. Now you can be either stronger or weaker. It’s a choice, but it’s your choice. In life a man has to learn to be strong in the broken places.”

“They’re moving on the barn,” Wallace shouted.

“Keep your voice down!” ordered Beth.

From across the yard came the sound of wood being splintered and broken, followed by the terrified neighing of horses. In the chair by the fire the young mother began to weep.

Beth lit two more lanterns, hanging them on hooks by the wall. “It is going to be a long night,” she said. The screaming of the trapped animals went on for some minutes, then there was silence. Beth sent Meredith through to the back room to check on Josiah Broome. The girl in the chair had fallen asleep, and Beth lifted the babe from her arms and sat with it on the old rocker.

Wallace Nash came down the stairs and stood in front of her.

“What is it, Wallace?”

The redheaded youngster was ill at ease. “I’m sorry, Frey McAdam. There’s no other way to tell it but to go at it straight out. Samuel, well, he died saving the girl yonder and the child. Jumped from a window as one of them creatures was bearing down on her. Calm as you like. He killed it sure enough, but it got him, too. I’m terrible sorry, Frey.”

“Best get back upstairs, Wallace,” she said, hugging the baby to her. “Best keep a good watch.”

“I’ll do that,” he said softly. “You can rely on me, Frey.”

Beth closed her eyes. She could smell the burning oil in the lamps, the seasoned cedarwood on the fire, and the milky, newborn scent of the child in her arms.

Outside a beast howled.

Shannow reached into his pocket, his arthritic fingers curling around the golden stone. I don’t want to live forever, he thought. I don’t want to be young again. The pain in his chest was intensifying, linking and merging with the agony of his fractured ribs. You have no choice, he told himself. Gripping the stone, he willed away the pain in his heart and felt new strength and vitality pounding through his veins. The ribs, too, he healed, drawing on the strength of the stone.

Opening his hand, he gazed down at the golden pebble. Only the faintest thread of black showed where the power had been leached. Rising, he moved to the window. The aching pain was gone from his shoulder and knees, and he moved with a spring in his step. Glancing through the gap in the shutters, he saw Devourers clambering over Jeremiah’s wagon, moving into the cabin and up through the hatches. The barn was silent, but he could see gray shapes lying on the hard-baked dirt of the yard or squatting near the fence.

Stepping back, he looked at the shutters. The wood was less than an inch thick; it could not withstand the explosive power in the taloned arms of the Devourers. Delving into his coat, he produced a box of shells, which he tipped onto the tabletop. Twenty-three remained, plus the twelve in his pistols.

Meredith returned. “The wounded man is sleeping,” said the doctor. “His color is good, and his pulse is steady.”

“He’s tougher than he knows,” said Shannow.

“Where did these creatures come from?” Meredith asked. “I have never heard of anything like them.”

“They’re Wolvers,” answered Shannow, “but they’ve been changed by … sorcery, if you will.” He started to speak but became aware that the young man was staring at him with what Shannow took to be blank disbelief. “I know it is hard to understand,” he said. “Just take me on trust, Son. There is a creature—”

“Beth called you Deacon,” Meredith said, interrupting him, and Shannow realized that the young man had not been listening to a word of his explanation.

“Yes,” he said, his voice weary. “I am the Deacon.”

“I have always hated you,” said Meredith. “You have been the cause of great evil.”

Shannow nodded. “I don’t argue with that, Son. The butchery in the lands of the Hellborn was unforgivable.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Because he’s a killer and a savage,” said Beth, her voice flat and without anger. “Some men are like that, Doctor. He came to power by deceit and held on to it by fear. All who opposed him were killed; it was all he knew.”

Meredith swung to Shannow. “Is that how it was?”

Shannow did not answer. Rising, he moved back through the house, pausing at Josiah Broome’s bedside.

Is that how it was?

Broome stirred and opened his eyes. “Hello, Jake,” he said sleepily.

Shannow sat on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” said the wounded man.

“That’s good. You rest now.” Broome closed his eyes.

Shannow remained where he was, remembering the two armies converging on the lands of the Hellborn, remembering his fury at the Hellborn betrayal and his fears about the coming of the Bloodstone. Many of the men who had fought
under him had lost family and friends to the Hellborn, and hatred ran strong in their veins. And in mine, he thought sadly.

Padlock Wheeler and the other officers had come to him on that fateful morning outside Babylon, when the Hellborn leaders were begging to be allowed to surrender.

“What orders, Deacon?”

There were many things he could have said in that moment about the nature of evil or the wisdom of forgiveness. As he had stared at them he could think only of the terror that was coming and the fact that in his previous world the Bloodstone had used the Hellborn to wreak destruction and death. And in the space of a single heartbeat he had made a decision that still haunted him.

“Well, Deacon?”

“Kill them all.”

Zerah awoke before dawn and groaned. A small stone was digging into her hip, and her shoulders ached abominably. Another groan followed her attempt to sit up, and she swore bitterly.

“That’s not nice,” said little Esther.

“Neither is the rheumatics,” grunted Zerah. “How long you been awake, child?”

“Ever since the howling,” said Esther, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. “There’s lots of wolves about.”

Zerah had heard nothing. Pushing herself to her feet, she stretched, then walked to the buckskin, lifting her water canteen from the saddle pommel. After a long drink she returned to the children and the dead fire. “Wolves won’t attack us,” she said. “Now you see if you can find a spark in them ashes, and I’ll cook us up some breakfast.”

With a yawn she stepped outside. The air was fresh and cool, and Zerah could smell the dew on the leaves and the musky scents of the forest. The sky was lightening in the east, and early birdsong greeted her as she walked under the trees. Despite the rheumatic pain in her back and shoulders, she felt good, glad to be alive.

It’s the youngsters, she thought; they make everything seem
fresh and new again. Zerah had not realized how much she missed company until the stranger had arrived. It saddened her that he had not come back. Jon was a good man and quiet company. But the young ones were a joy even when they squabbled. It brought back memories of her own children, back in the days of her youth, when the sky was more blue and the future was a golden mystery yet to be discovered.

Zeb had been a handsome man with a ready wit that had endeared him to everyone. And he had been kind and loving. Everybody had liked Zeb, because Zeb had liked everybody. “Never knew a man could see so much good in people,” she said aloud.

When he had died, she remembered Padlock coming home. He had put his arms around her and said, “You know, Ma, there’s no one in this world that he would ever need to say sorry to.”

Seemed like that was a good epitaph for a kind man.

Folks had come from far and wide for the funeral, and that had pleased Zerah. But after he had died, the visitors had stopped coming. I never was the popular one, she thought. Old Zerah with her sharp tongue and her sharper ways.

She glanced up at the sky. “Sometimes I wonder what you saw in me, Zeb,” she said.

Turning to go back to the cave, she saw a paw print in the soft earth. Kneeling, she ran her hand over it, opening her fingers to measure the span. It was enormous. Not a bear, though it was the right size. Not a lion. Her mouth was dry as she stood. It was a wolf print but larger than any she had ever seen.

Zerah hurried back to the cave. “What’s for breakfast?” asked Oz. “Esther’s got the fire going.”

“I think we’ll wait until we reach town,” said Zerah. “I think we should move on.”

“But I’m hungry,” complained Esther. “Really starving!”

Zerah chuckled. Good God, woman, she thought, why the panic? You have a fire and a good pistol. “All right,” she agreed. “We’ll eat first and then travel.”

Walking to the back of the cave, she approached the buck-skin.
The horse was trembling, its ears tucked flat against its skull. “It’s only me, girl,” said Zerah. “Calm down, now.” As she spoke, Esther screamed, and Zerah spun around.

In the mouth of the cave stood a monstrosity. Eight feet tall, with huge shoulders and long arms, the fingers ending in curved talons, the beast was covered with silver-gray fur. Its massive head was lowered, its tawny eyes fixed on the two children cowering by the small fire. The buckskin reared and whinnied, catching the creature’s attention.

Zerah Wheeler drew her old pistol and wondered whether a bullet could bring the giant Wolver down. “You stay calm, now, kids,” she said, her voice steady. Cocking the pistol, she walked forward. “I don’t know if you can understand me,” she said, keeping her eyes on the beast, “but this here pistol has six charges. And I hit what I goddamn aim at. So back off and we’ll all be happier.”

The beast howled, the sound reverberating like thunder in the cave. Zerah glanced at the fire. Beside it lay a thick branch festooned with long-dead leaves. Keeping the pistol steady, she reached down with her left hand and lifted the branch, touching the leaves to the little blaze. They caught instantly, flames searing out. Zerah stood and walked toward the creature. “Back off, you son of a bitch!” she said.

The beast backed up but then sprang forward. Zerah did not give an inch. Thrusting the flames into its face, she shot it in the throat. The huge Wolver went down and rolled. Zerah jumped to the mouth of the cave and shot it again as it tried to stand.