Wolf In Shadow (7 page)

 Back in Allion, a very small bear had staked out an enormous territory by coming out of hibernation in the middle of winter and scrambling up the snow banked against the trees, making his mark some three feet higher. Shannow had liked that bear.

 He scouted the perimeter of the pool and then took a different route back towards the wagons. At the top of a rise he smelt woodsmoke and paused, searching the surrounding skyline. The wind was easterly and he angled his horse back through the trees, walking him slowly and carefully.

 The smell was stronger now and Shannow dismounted and hobbled the gelding - making his way on foot through the thick bushes and shrubs. As he approached a circular clearing he heard the sound of voices and froze. The language was one he had never heard, though certain words seemed familiar. Dropping to his belly, he eased his way forward, waiting for the breeze to rustle the leaves above him and disguise the sound of his movements. After several minutes of soundless crawling he came to the edge of the clearing and squinted through a break in the leaves. Around a large fire sat seven men, near naked, their bodies stained with streaks of blue and yellow dye; by the side of one of the men was a severed human foot. Shannow blinked as sweat stung his eyes. Then a man stood and walked towards him, stopping some yards to his left where, pulling aside a deerskin loin-cloth, he urinated against a tree. Through the gap left by the man, Shannow could see the charred remains of a body spitted above the fire.

 Shannow felt his stomach heave and averted his gaze. By the trees on the other side of the clearing two captives were tied together. Both were children of around Eric’s age. They were dressed in buckskin tunics adorned with intricate patterns of shells and their hair was dark and braided. Both children seemed in a state of shock - their eyes wide, their faces blank and uncomprehending. Shannow forced himself to look at the corpse. It was short, and no doubt was another child. Shannow’s fury rose and his eyes took on an almost feral gleam.

 Desperately Shannow fought to hold the surging anger, but it engulfed him and he pushed himself to his feet, his hands curling around the butts of his pistols. He stepped into sight and the men scrambled to their feet, dragging knives and hatchets from their belts of rope and hide. Shannow’s guns came up and then he spoke.

 ’Thou shall be visited by the Lord of Hosts with thunder and with earthquake and great noise . . .’

 He triggered the pistols and two men flew backwards. The other five screamed and charged. One went down with a bullet in the brain, a second fell clutching his belly. A third reached Shannow and the man’s hatchet flashed for his head, but Shannow blocked the blow with his right arm and thrust the left-hand pistol under the attacker’s chin. The top of his head flowered like a scarlet bloom. A club caught Shannow on the side of the head and he fell awkwardly; his pistol fired, shattering a man’s knee. As a knife-blade rose above his face, Shannow rolled and shot the wielder in the chest. The man fell across him, but Shannow pushed the body clear and lurched to his feet. The man with the shattered knee was crawling backwards.

 ’. . . and great noise, with storm and tempest and the flame of devouring fire.’

 The cannibal raised his arms against the pistols, covering his eyes. Shannow fired twice, the shells smashing through the outstretched hands and into the face beyond, and the man pitched back. Shannow staggered and fell to his knees; his head was pounding and his vision blurred and swam. He took a deep breath, pushing back the nausea that threatened to swamp him. A movement to his right! He pointed his pistol and a child screamed.

 ’It’s all right,’ said Shannow groggily. ‘I’ll not harm you. “Suffer little children to come unto me.” Just give me a moment.’

 He sat back and felt his head. The skin was split at the temple and blood was drenching his face and shirt. He sheathed his guns and crawled to the children, cutting them free.

 The taller of the two sprinted away the moment the ropes were cut, but the other raised a hand and touched Shannow’s face where the blood flowed. Shannow tried to smile, but the world spun madly before his eyes.

 ’Go, boy. You understand? GO!’

 Shannow tried to stand, but fell heavily. He crawled for several yards and found himself lying next to a small clear pool of water. Watching his blood drip to the surface and flow away in red ribbons, Shannow chuckled.

 ’He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.’

 The child came to him, tugging at his arm. ‘More come!’ he said. Shannow squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate.

 ’More Carns come. You go!’ shouted the child.

 Shannow slipped his pistols into his hands and knocked out the barrel wedges, sliding the cylinders from the weapons and replacing them with two fully loaded cylinders from his coat pocket. He fumbled the wedges into place and sheathed the pistols.

 ’Let them come,’ he said.

 ’No. Many Carns.’ The boy’s fingers flashed before Shannow’s face. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty …

 ’I get the message, lad. Help me up.’ The boy did his best, but Shannow was a tall man and the two made slow progress into the woods. Angry yells and cries pierced the stillness and he could hear the sounds of many men crashing through the undergrowth. He tried to move faster but fell, dragging the child with him. Forcing himself to his feet, he stumbled on. A blue- and yellow-smeared body lunged through the bushes and Shannow’s right hand dropped and rose, the pistol bucking in his hand. The warrior vanished back into the undergrowth. The boy ran on ahead and unhobbled Shannow’s horse, leaping into the saddle. Shannow staggered forward, caught hold of the pommel and managed to step into the saddle behind the child.

 Three men burst into view and the horse swerved and took off at a run. Shannow swayed in the saddle, but the boy reached back and grabbed him; he managed to sheathe his pistol and then darkness overtook him. He fell forward against the boy as the horse raced on towards the west. The child risked a glance behind him. The Carns had given up the chase and were heading back into the trees. The boy slowed the gelding and hooked his fingers into Shannow’s belt, holding him upright.

 It was not easy, but Selah was strong and he owed this man his life.

 Donna Taybard screamed once and sat up. Eric hauled on the reins and kicked the brake and the wagon stopped. The boy climbed over the back-rest and scrambled across the bulging food sacks to where his mother sat sobbing.

 ’What is it, Mother?’ he cried.

 Donna took a deep breath. ‘Shannow,’ she said. ‘Oh my poor Jon.’

 Con Griffin rode alongside and dismounted. He said nothing, but climbed into the wagon to kneel beside the weeping woman. Looking up into his powerful face, she saw the concern etched there.

 ’He is dead.’

 ’You were dreaming, Fray Taybard.’

 ’No. He rescued two children from the savages and now he is buried, deep in the ground.’

 ’A dream,’ insisted Griffin, placing a huge hand on her shoulder.

 ’You don’t understand, Mr Griffin. It is a Talent I have. We are going to a place where there are two lakes; it is surrounded by pine trees. There is a tribe who paint their bodies yellow and blue. Shannow killed many of them and escaped with a child. Now he is dead. Believe me!’

 ’You are an Esper, Donna?’

 ’Yes… no. I can always see those close to me. Shannow is buried.’

 Griffin patted her shoulder and stepped down from the wagon.

 ’What’s happening, Con?’ shouted Ethan Peacock. ‘Why are we stopping?’

 ’Fray Taybard is unwell. We’ll move on now,’ he answered. Turning to Eric, he said, ‘Leave her now, lad and get the oxen moving.’ He stepped into the saddle and rode back along the convoy to his own wagons.

 ’What was the hold-up?’ Burke asked him.

 ’It’s nothing, Jim. Pass me my pistols.’

 Burke clambered back into the wagon and opened a brass-edged walnut box. Within were two engraved double-barrelled flintlock pistols. Burke primed them both with powder from a bone horn and gathered the saddle holsters from a hook on the wagon wall.

 Con Griffin slung the holsters across his pommel and thrust the pistols home. Touching his heel to the chestnut, he cantered back to Madden’s wagon.

 ’Trouble?’ queried the bearded fanner and Griffin nodded.

 ’Leave your son to take the reins and join me at the head.’ Griffin swung his horse and rode back to the lead wagon. If Donna Taybard was right his convoy was in deep trouble. He cursed, for he knew without doubt that she would be proved correct.

 Madden joined him within minutes, riding a slate-grey gelding of seventeen hands. A tall thin, angular man with a close-cropped black beard but no moustache, his mouth was a thin hard line and his eyes dark and deep-set. He carried a long rifle cradled in his left arm, and by his side was a bone-handled hunting knife.

 Griffin told him of Donna’s fear.

 ’You think she’s right?’

 ’Has to be. Cardigan’s diary spoke of the blue and yellow stripes.’

 ’What do we do?’

 ’We have no choice, Jacob. The animals need grass and rest - we must go in.’

 The farmer nodded. ‘Any idea how big a tribe?’

 ’No.’

 ’I don’t like it, but I’m with you.’

 ’Alert all families - tell them to prime weapons.’

 The wagons moved on and by late afternoon came to the end of the lava sand. The oxen, smelling water ahead, surged into the traces and the convoy picked up speed.

 ’Hold them back!’ yelled Griffin, and drivers kicked hard on the brakes but to little avail. The wagons crested a green slope and spread out as they lurched and rumbled for the river below, and the wide lakes opening beside it. Griffin cantered alongside the leading wagon scanning the long grass for movement.

 As the first wagon reached the water, a blue- and yellow-streaked body leapt to the driver’s seat, plunging a flint dagger into Aaron Phelps’ fleshy shoulder. The scholar lashed out and the attacker lost his balance and fell.

 Suddenly warriors were all around them and Griffin pulled his pistols clear and cocked them. A man ran at him carrying a club. Griffin shot into his body and kicked his horse into a run. Madden’s long rifle boomed and a tribesman fell with a broken spine. Then the other guns opened up and the warriors fled.

 Griffin joined Madden at the rear of the convoy.

 ’What do you think, Jacob?’

 ’I think they’ll be back. Let’s fill the barrels and move on to open ground.’

 Two wagoners were injured in the brief raid. Aaron Phelps had a deep wound in his right shoulder and Maggie Ames’ young son, Mose, had been gashed in the leg by a spear. Four tribesmen were killed outright. Others had been wounded, but had reached the sanctuary of the trees.

 Griffin dismounted next to one of the corpses.

 ’Look at those teeth,’ said Jacob Madden. They were filed to sharp points.

 Ethan Peacock came to stand beside Griffin and peered at the blue and yellow corpse.

 ’And idiots like Phelps expect us to agree with their theories of the Dark Age,’ he said. ‘Can you see that creature piloting a flying machine? It’s barely human.’

 ’Damn you, Ethan, this is no time for debate. Get your barrels filled.’

 Griffin moved on to Phelps’ wagon, where Donna Taybard was battling to staunch the bleeding. ‘It needs stitches, Donna,’ said Griffin. ‘I’ll get a needle and thread.

 ’I am going to die,’ said Phelps. ‘I know it.’

 ’Not from that, you won’t,’ Griffin told him. ‘But, by God, it will make you wish you had.’

 ’Will they come back?’ asked Donna.

 ’It depends on how big the tribe is,’ answered Griffin.’I would expect them to try once more. Is Eric gathering your water?’

 ’Yes.’

 Griffin fetched needle and thread, passing them to Donna, then he checked his pistols. He had fired all four barrels, yet could remember only one. Strange, he thought, how instinct could overcome reason. He gave the pistols to Burke to load and prime. Madden had taken six men to watch the woods for any sign of the savages and Griffin supervised the water-gathering.

 Towards dusk he ordered the wagons out and away from the trees to a flat meadow to the west. Here the oxen were unharnessed and a rope paddock set up to pen the beasts.

 Madden organized guards at the perimeter of the camp and the travelers settled down to wait for the next attack.

 Shannow’s dreams were bathed in blood and fire. He rode a skeleton horse across a desert of graves, coming at last to a white marble city and a gate of gold that hurt his eyes as he gazed upon it.

 ’Let me in,’ he called.

 ’No beasts may enter here,’ a voice told him.

 ’I am not a beast.’

 ’Then what are you?’

 Shannow looked down at his hands and saw they were mottled grey and black and scaled like a serpent. His head ached and he reached up to the wound.

 ’Let me in. I am hurt.’

 ’No beasts may enter here.’

 Shannow screamed as his hand touched his brow, for horns grew there, long and sharp, and they leaked blood that hissed and boiled as it touched the ground.

 ’At least tell me if this is Jerusalem.’

 There are no Brigands for you to slay, Shannow. Ride on.’

 ’I have nowhere to go.’

 ’You chose the path, Shannow. Follow it.’

 ’But I need Jerusalem.’

 ’Come back again when the wolf sits down with the lamb, and the lion eats grass like the cattle do.’

 Shannow awoke. . .he had been buried alive. He screamed once and a curtain to his left moved to show light in a room beyond. An elderly man crept in to sit beside him.

 ’You are well; you are in the Fever Hole. Do not concern yourself. You are free to leave when you feel well enough.’ Shannow tried to sit, but his head ached abominably. His hand went to his brow, fearing that horns would touch his fingers, but he found only linen bandage. He glanced around the tiny room. Apart from his pallet bed there was a fire built beneath white stones, and the heat was searing. ‘You had a fever,’ said the man. ‘I brought you out of it.’ Shannow lay back on the bed and fell asleep instantly. When he awoke, the old man was still sitting beside him; he was dressed in a buckskin jacket, free of adornments, and leather trousers as soft as cloth. He was almost bald, but the white hair above his ears was thick and wavy and grew to his shoulders. The face, thought Shannow, was kindly, and his teeth were remarkably white and even. ‘Who are you?’ asked Shannow. ‘I have long since put aside my name. Here they call me Karitas.’