The Last Guardian (8 page)

“Will he equip the army with them?”

“No. The king believes them to be vulgar. But my Daggers will prove their potency in war.”

Rhodaeul nodded. “And Nu-Khasisatra?”

“He is stranded in that strange land. He does not speak
the language, nor does he know a way back. I will find him.”

“So sure of yourself, Sharazad? Beware!”

“Do not mock me, Rhodaeul. If I am arrogant, it is with good cause. The king knows my talents.”

“We all know your talents, dear Sharazad. Some of us have even enjoyed them. But the king is right. These weapons are vulgar beyond description; there is no honor in dispatching an enemy with such a monstrosity.”

“You fool! You think there is more honor in an arrow or a lance? They are merely weapons of death.”

“A clever man can dodge an arrow, Sharazad, or sidestep a lance. But with these death strikes a man unaware. And their mastery takes no skill.” He walked to the window and stepped out into the courtyard beyond. Two prisoners were tied to stakes; wood had been piled around their feet and legs.

“Where is the skill?” asked Rhodaeul, cocking the pistol smoothly. Two shots rang out, and the victims at the stakes sagged against their ropes. “All a man needs is a good eye and a swift hand. But with the sword there are over forty different variations on the classic block and riposte, sixty if you count the saber. But if it is the king’s wish, I will learn how to handle the thing.”

“It is the king’s wish, Rhodaeul. Perhaps you will be able to polish your skills in my new world. There are men there who are legends because of their skill with such weapons. I will hunt them down for you and have them brought back for your … education.”

“How sweet of you, Sharazad. I will look forward to it. Can you give me a name to disturb my dreams?”

“There are several. Johnson is one, Crowe another. Then there is Daniel Cade. But above them all there is a man called Jon Shannow. They say he seeks a mythical city, and they call him the Jerusalem Man.”

“Bring them all, Sharazad. Since our conquests in the north we have been sadly lacking in good sport.”

9

S
HANNOW
KNEW
FROM
the moment he set off in pursuit that he would be too late to help the woman and her family, and anger burned in him. Even so he rode with care, for in the light of the moon he could not see the ground ahead clearly. It was dawn before he came upon the bodies; they had been disturbed by carrion eaters, the faces and hands stripped of flesh. Shannow sat his horse and stared down at them.

His respect for the unknown woman soared. Dismounting, he examined the ground, finding the spot from which Beth McAdam had fired. Judging by the angle at which the other corpse lay, the second shot must have come from the wagon. Shannow remounted and headed toward the mountains.

The land rose sharply, becoming thickly wooded with towering pine. The stallion was tired and stumbled twice; Shannow stepped down and led the horse up and into the trees. They came to a crest on the mountainside, and Shannow gazed down on a sprawling camp with six fires and a dozen tents. Men were working under torchlight in an immense pit from which jutted a towering structure of metal that was almost triangular but had one side slightly curved. There was a wide stream to the south of the camp and, beside it, a wagon. The Jerusalem Man led his mount down into the campsite, tethering him at a picket line and removing the saddle. A man approached him.

“You got word from Scayse?” the man asked, and Shannow turned.

“No. I’ve just come in from the north.” The man swore and walked away.

Shannow made his way to the largest tent and stepped into the lantern-lit interior. There were a dozen or so men inside, eating and drinking, while a large-boned, well-fleshed woman in a leather apron was ladling food into round wooden bowls. He joined the line and took a bowl of thick broth and a chunk of black bread, carrying it to a bench table near the tent opening. Two men made room for him, and he ate in silence.

“Looking for work?” asked a man across the table, and Shannow looked up. The speaker was around thirty years of age, slender and fair-haired.

“No … thank you. I am heading south,” Shannow replied. “Can I purchase supplies here?”

“You could see Deiker; he may have some spare. He’s on site at the moment; he should be in any time now.”

“What are you working on?”

“It’s an old metal building from before the Fall. We’ve found some interesting artifacts. Nothing of great value yet, but we’re hopeful. It has given us a great insight into the Dark Times; they must have been living in fear to build such a great iron fortress here.”

“Why in fear?” Shannow asked.

“Oh, you can only see a section of the building from here. It goes on and on. There are no windows or doors for over a hundred feet from the foundation base, and then, when you do find them, they are too small to allow anyone to climb through. They must have had terrible wars in those days. By the way, my name is Klaus Monet.” The young man thrust out his hand, and Shannow accepted the grip.

“Jon Shannow,” he said, watching for any response. There was none.

“And another thing,” Monet went on. “It is all built of
iron, and yet there are no significant iron ore deposits in these mountains or trace of any mines save the silver mines at Pilgrim’s Valley. So the inhabitants must have carted ore right across the Big Wide. Incredible, isn’t it?”

“Incredible,” agreed Shannow, finishing his meal and rising.

Outside the tent he walked to the edge of the pit and watched the men below; they were finishing their work and packing their tools away. He waited until they reached the upper level.

“Meneer Deiker!” Shannow called.

“Who wants him?” asked a thickset man with a black and silver beard.

“I do. I am looking to buy some supplies—grain, dried fruit, and meat. And some oats if you have them.”

“For how many?”

“Just myself.”

The man nodded. “I think I can accommodate you, but Pilgrim’s Valley is only two days away. You’d get better prices there.”

“Always take food where you can find it,” Shannow said.

“There’s wisdom in that,” Deiker agreed. He led Shannow to the store tents and filled several small sacks. “You want sugar and salt?”

“If you can spare it. How long have you been working on this site?”

“About a month; it’s one of the best. There will be a lot of answers here, mark my words.”

“And you think it is a building?”

“What else can it be?” Deiker asked, with a broad grin.

“It is a ship,” Shannow told him.

“I like a man with a sense of humor, Meneer. I estimate that it is over three hundred feet long—most of it still buried. And it is made of iron. Did you ever see anyone float a piece of iron?”

“No, but I have seen an iron ship before—and considerably bigger than this one.”

Deiker shook his head. “I am an arcanist, Meneer. I know my business. I also know you do not get ships at the center of a landmass. That will be three full silvers.”

Shannow said no more but paid for the food with Barta coin and carried it back to his saddle, stowing it in his cavernous bags. Then he walked back through the camp toward the wagon by the stream. He saw a woman sitting by a blazing fire with her two children asleep in blankets by her feet.

She looked up as he approached, and he watched her hand slide toward the pistol scabbard on her belt.

Beth McAdam looked long at the tall newcomer. His hair was shoulder-length and dark with silver streaks at the temples, and a white fork at the chin showed in the closely trimmed beard he wore. His face was angular and strong, his blue eyes cold. By his side were two pistols in oiled leather scabbards.

He sat down opposite her. “You coped well with a perilous journey. I congratulate you. Very few people would have dared to cross the Big Wide without the protection of a wagon convoy.”

“You get straight to it, don’t you?” she said.

“I do not understand you.”

“Well, I do not need a guide, or a helper, or a man around me. Thank you for your offer. And good night.”

“Have I offended you?” Shannow asked softly, his blue eyes locked to her own.

“I don’t offend easily. Neither do you, it seems.”

He scratched at his beard and smiled; in that moment his face lost some of its harshness. “No, I do not. If you would prefer me to leave, I will do so.”

“Help yourself to some tea,” she said. “After that I would like some privacy.”

“That is kind of you.” As he leaned forward to lift the
kettle, he froze, then stood, turning to face the darkness. Two men walked into the firelight; Beth eased her hand around the butt of her pistol.

“Meneer Shannow, do you have a moment?” asked Klaus Monet. “There is someone I would like you to meet.” He gestured to his companion, a small balding figure with a sparse white beard. “This is Boris Haimut; he is a leading arcanist.” The man dropped his head in a short bow and offered his hand. Shannow took it.

“Meneer Deiker told me of your conversation,” said Haimut. “I was fascinated. I have thought for some time that we were studying a vessel of some kind, but it seemed so improbable. We have only excavated some one-fifth of the … the ship. Do you have an explanation as to how it got here?”

“Yes,” replied Shannow. “But I fear we are intruding on the lady’s privacy.”

“But of course,” agreed Haimut. “My apologies, Frey …”

“McAdam. And Meneer Shannow is correct; I do not wish the sleep of my children disturbed.”

The three men bowed and silently left the campsite. Beth watched them vanish into the shadows and then reappear on the torch-lit slopes of the site.

She poured herself some tea and sipped it, Shannow’s face hovering in her mind. Was he brigand or landsman? She shook her thoughts clear of him. What difference did it make? She would not see him again. Throwing the remains of her tea to the ground, she settled down under her blankets.

But sleep did not come easily.

“You have to understand, Meneer Shannow,” said Boris Haimut with an apologetic smile, “that Meneer Deiker is Oldview. He is a biblical man and believes the world is currently enduring the Last Days. To him Armageddon was a reality that began—to the best of our knowledge—317
years ago. For myself, I am a Longview scholar. It is my belief that we have seen at least a thousand years of civilization following the death of the man Jesus, that civilization knew wonders that are now lost to us. This find has already cast great doubts on the Oldview. If it is a ship … the doubts could become certainties.”

Shannow sat silently, uncomfortable within the small tent and acutely aware that the bright lantern was casting shadows on the canvas. He knew he should be in little danger here, but years of being both hunter and hunted left him uneasy when sitting in exposed places.

“I can tell you little, Meneer,” he said. “More than a thousand miles from here is a tall mountain. High on a ledge there is a rotting vessel of iron, around a thousand feet long. It was a ship—I learned this from people who lived close by it and knew its history. It seems this land-mass was once at the bottom of an ocean, and many ships sank during storms.”

“But the ancient cities we have found?” questioned Haimut. “There are even ruins less than two miles from here. How is it they were built at the bottom of an ocean?”

“I, too, wondered about this. Then I met a man named Samuel Archer—a scholar like yourself. He proved to me that the world had toppled not once but twice. The cities themselves are indeed ancient, from an empire called Atlantis that sank below the oceans before the time of Christ.”

“Revolutionary words, Meneer. In some areas you could be stoned to death for saying them.”

“I am aware of that,” said Shannow. “However, when you excavate more of the ship, you will find the great engines that powered it and a wheelhouse from where it was steered. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to rest.”

“A moment, sir,” put in Klaus Monet, who had been sitting in silence as the two older men spoke. “Would you stay with us—become part of the team?”