Bloodstone

'Always wanted a girl-child,' whispered Zerah, still stroking the child's head. Then she saw that Oswald was awake, his eyes wide and fearful. 'Come join me for a glass of milk,' she said. 'Always have one before sleeping. Move soft now, so as not to wake little Esther.'

Oswald padded out after her. He was a strongly-built boy, reminding her of Seth, with serious eyes and a good jaw. Pouring two glasses from the stone jug she passed one to Oswald, who hunkered down by the dying fire.

'Having trouble sleeping, boy?'

He nodded. 'I dreamed of Poppa. He was walking around the house calling for us. But he was all covered with blood, and his face wasn't there any more.'

'You've seen some hard, hard times, Oz. But you're safe here.'

'They'll come for us. You won't be able to stop them.'

Zerah forced a chuckle. 'Me and Betty will stop them, Oz. Count on it.' She walked to the fire and lifted the long rifle from its rack. 'She fires four shots, and every shell is thicker than your thumb. And I'll tell you a little secret — I ain't missed with this gun for nigh on seventeen years.'

There was more than four of them,' said Oz.

'I'm glad you mentioned that, Oz,' she said, laying aside the rifle and moving to a handsomely carved chest of drawers. From it she produced a small, nickel-plated revolver and a box of shells. This here pistol belonged to my son, Zak. She's small, but she's got stopping power. It was made by the Hellborn thirty years ago.' Flipping open the breech she put the pistol on half-cock, freeing the cylinder, and fed in five shells, lowering the hammer on the empty chamber. 'I'm giving this to you, Oz. It is not to play with.

This is a gun. It will kill people. You fool with it and it's likely to kill you or your sister. Are you man enough to deal with that?'

'Yes, Frey Wheeler. I am man enough.'

'I didn't doubt it. Now between us, Oz, we're going to look after little Esther. And we're going to see justice done. My man, Jon, is riding now to Domango to report the. .' She hesitated as she saw the look of anguish in his eyes. To report the crime to the Crusaders.'

Oswald's face twisted then, and his eyes shone. The man who first shot Poppa was a Crusader,' he said.

Zerah's heart sank, but she kept her expression neutral. 'We'll work things out, Oz, you see if we don't.

Now you best get back to bed. I'll need you fresh and clear of eye in the morning. Put the pistol by your bedside.'

The boy padded off and Zerah returned to the chest of drawers. From the third drawer she pulled a scabbard and belt, then a short-barrelled pistol. For some time she cleaned the weapon. Then she loaded it.

* * *

Despite the dangers Shannow loved night riding. The air was crisp and clean and the world slept.

Moonlight gave the trees a shimmering quality, and every rock glistened with silver. He rode slowly, allowing the horse to pick its way carefully over the trail.

The loss of memory no longer caused him irritation. It would come back or it wouldn't. What did concern him was the problems such a loss could cause the Jerusalem Man. If his worst enemy of the last twenty years were to ride up in plain sight, Shannow feared he would not recognise the danger.

Then there was the question of ageing. According to Jeremiah, the Jerusalem Man had ridden through the Plague Lands twenty years before, and had then been a man in his late thirties or early forties. That would make him around sixty now. Yet his hair was still dark, his skin virtually unlined.

He rode for almost three hours, then made camp in a hollow. There was no water near by and Shannow did not bother with a fire but sat with his back to a tree, his blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The head wound gave him no pain now, but the scab itched.

Sitting in the moonlight, he traced over his life in his mind, piecing together tiny fragments as they came to him. I am Jon Shannow.

Then a face leapt to his memory, a thin, angular face with deep brooding eyes. A name came with it: Varey. Varey Shannow. Like a key slipping sweetly into a lock he saw again the brigand-slayer who had taken the young man under his wing. I took his name when he was murdered. And his own name slipped into his mind: Cade. Jon Cade. The name settled on his-mind like water on a parched tongue.

The world had gone mad, preachers everywhere talking of Armageddon. But if Armageddon was true, then the new Jerusalem would exist somewhere. The new Jon Shannow had set out to find it. The journey had been long, with many perils. Varey Shannow had taught him never to back away from eviclass="underline"

'Confront it wherever you find it, Jon. For it will thrive when men cease to fight it.'

Shannow closed his eyes and remembered the conversations around many camp-fires. 'You are a strong man, Jon, and you have tremendous hand-eye co-ordination. You have speed, and yet you are cool under fire. Use those skills, Jon. This land is full of brigands, men who would lie, steal and kill for gain.

They must be fought. For they are evil.' Shannow smiled at the memory. 'It used to be said that you can't stop a man who keeps on going and knows he's right. It just ain't true, Jon. A bullet will stop any man.

But that's not the point. Winning is not the point. If a man only fought when he believed there was a chance to win, then evil would beat him every time. The brigand relies on the fact that when he rides in with his men, all armed to the teeth, the victim will — realising he has no chance — just give in. Trust me, Jon, that's the moment to walk out with guns blazing.'

Just before the fateful day, as the two men rode into the small town, Varey Shannow had turned to the youngster beside him. 'Men will say many things about me when I'm gone. They could say I got angry too fast. They could say I wasn't none too bright. They'll certainly say that I was an ugly cuss. But no man ever will be able to say that I abused a woman, stole or lied, or backed down in the face of evil. Ain't too bad an epitaph, is it, Jon?'

Varey Shannow had been cut down in his prime, backshot by villains who feared he was hunting them.

Jon Shannow opened his eyes and gazed up at the stars. 'You were a good man, Varey,' he said.

Talking to yourself is a sure sign of madness, they say,' said Jake, 'and I hope you don't fire that pistol.'

Shannow eased back the hammer and holstered the gun. At the first sound he had drawn and cocked the weapon in one swift, fluid move. Despite the speed of his response, he was nettled by the old man's silent approach.

'A man could be killed approaching a camp that way,' he said.

'True, boy. But I reckoned you weren't the type to shoot before looking.' Jake moved opposite Shannow and hunkered down. 'Cold camp. You expecting trouble?'

'Trouble has a way of happening when you least expect it,' said Shannow.

'Ain't it the truth.' The old man's beard was shining silver in the moonlight. Shucking off his sheepskin topcoat, he gave a low whistle and his mule came trotting into the camp. Swiftly Jake removed the saddle and blanket roll, then patted the beast's rump. The mule moved out to stand alongside Shannow's horse.

'She's an obedient girl,' said Jake fondly.

'How did you find me?'

'I didn't. The mule must have picked up the scent of your stallion. You heading for Domango?'

Shannow nodded, but said nothing. 'A sight of activity there in the last few days,' continued Jake. 'Riders coming in from all over. Tough men, by the look of them. Ever heard of Jacob Moon?'

'No.'

'Jerusalem Rider. Killed fourteen men that I heard of. Can you guess who he's asking about?'

'Who are you, Jake?' countered Shannow.

'Just an old man, son. Nothing special. I take it you aren't interested in Moon?'

'At the moment I'm more interested in you. Where are you from?'

Jake chuckled. 'Here and there. Mostly there. I've been over the mountain a few times. You think I'm hunting you?'