Shannow shook his head. 'Perhaps. Perhaps not. But you are hunting something, Jake.'
'Nothing that need worry you, son.' Shaking loose his blanket, Jake wrapped it around his shoulders and stretched out on the earth. 'By the way, those Wanderers you helped- they're on the way to Domango too. You'll probably see them.'
'You do get around, old man,' said Shannow, closing his-eyes.
Shannow awoke with the dawn to find that the old man had gone. He sat up and yawned. He had never known anyone who could move as quietly as Jake. Saddling his horse, he rode out on to a broad plain.
There were ruins to his left, huge pillars of stone, shattered and fallen, and the horse's hooves clattered in the remains of a wide stone road. The city must have been vast, Shannow considered, stretching for several miles to the west.
He had seen many such on his travels, cold stone'epitaphs to the glory that was once Atlantis.
Another memory came to him then, of a man with a golden beard and eyes the colour of a clear summer sky.
Pendarric. The King.
And he recalled with great clarity the day when the Sword of God had torn across the curtain of time.
Reining in his horse, he gazed with fresh eyes on the ruins.
'I destroyed you,' he said aloud.
Time's portals had been opened by Pendarric, the ruler of Atlantis, and Shannow had closed them by sending a missile through the Gateway. The world had toppled, tidal waves roaring across the continent.
The words of Amaziga Archer floated up from the hidden depths.
'You are not the Jerusalem Man any longer, Shannow. You're the Armageddon Man!'
Shannow turned his back on the ancient city and headed south-west. It was not long before he saw the Hankin house. There was no body outside, but there was fresh blood on the dust of the yard. As he rode in, a tall man with a sandy beard came walking from the house, a rifle cradled in his arms.
'What do you want here?' he asked.
'Nothing, friend. I am on my way to Domango and thought I'd stop for a little water, if it is not inconvenient to you.' Shannow could not see the second man at the window, but he saw a rifle barrel showing at the edge of the curtain.
'Well, be quick about it. We don't like Movers here.'
'Is that so? When last I stopped here, there was a man with two children. Has he moved on?'
The man's eyes narrowed. 'Yes,' he said, at last. 'He moved on.'
'Do you own the property now?'
'No, I just been told to watch over it. Now get your drink and be gone.'
Shannow dismounted and led his horse to a trough by the well. Loosening the saddle girth, he wandered back to where the man stood. 'It is a fine place,' he said. 'A man could raise a family here and never tire of looking at the mountains.'
The sandy-haired rifleman hawked and spat. 'One place is pretty much like another.'
'So where did he move on to. . my friend with his children?' asked Shannow.
'I don't know anything about it,' said the rifleman, growing more uneasy.
Shannow glanced down at the dust, and the stains that peppered the ground. 'Slaughtered a pig,' said the man swiftly. The second man moved from the house. He was powerfully built, with a bull-like neck and massive shoulders.
'Who the Hell is he, Ben?' asked the newcomer, his right hand resting on the butt of his scabbarded pistol.
'Stranger riding for Domango. He's just watering his horse.'
'Well, you've done that,' he told Shannow. 'Now be on your way.'
Shannow stood silently for a moment, holding back his anger. There was no movement in the house now, and he guessed that these two men alone had been left to guard the property. All his life he had known such men — hard, cruel killers, with no understanding of love or compassion. 'Were either of you party to the murder?' he asked softly.
'What?' responded the rifleman, eyes widening. The big-shouldered man took a step back and made a grab for his pistol. Shannow shot him in the head; he stood for a moment, eyes wide in shock, then he toppled to the bloodstained earth. The Jerusalem Man's pistol swung, the black eye of the barrel halting directly before the other man's face.
'Jesus Christ!' said the rifleman, dropping his weapon and raising his hands.
'Answer the question,' said Shannow. 'Were you party to the-murder of Meneer Hankin?'
'No… I never shot him, I swear to God. It was the others.'
'Who led the killers?'
'Jack Dillon. But Hankin, he never had no Oath papers and no one would stand up and speak for him. It was the law. He was told to leave, he brung it on himself. If he'd just gone, none of this would have happened. Don't you see?'
'And this Dillon has now laid claim to the property?'
'No. It's held for Jacob Moon. Please, you're not going to kill me, are you?' The man fell to his knees and began to weep.
'Did Meneer Hankin weep and beg?' asked Shannow. He knew he should kill this man. More than that, he knew that the old Jon Shannow would have done so without a second thought. Holstering his pistol, he moved to his horse.
'You son of a bitch!' screamed the man, and Shannow turned to see that he had gathered up his rifle, which was now pointed in Shannow's direction. 'You bastard! Think you're so tough? Think you can just ride in here and do as you like? Let's see how tough you act with a bullet in your guts.'
Smoothly Shannow stepped to the right, palming his pistol as he moved. The rifle shot slashed past him on the left, cutting through his coat. Shannow fired and the rifleman pitched backwards, the weapon flying from his hands. Hitting the ground hard the man grunted once, then his leg twitched and he was still.
'You have become a fool, Shannow,' said the Jerusalem Man.
The land to the east was vast and empty, the plain dry, the grass yellow-brown. He could see where once there had been rivers and streams, but they were long gone now, evaporated by the searing heat of the sun. After an hour of riding he saw the broken hull of a rusted ship jutting from the desert that stretched away to the horizon and beyond, grim evidence that this had once been the ocean floor.
Shannow skirted the edge of the desert and, after another hour, began the long climb up into the higher country. Here there were green trees, and grass, and a wide, well-used road that angled down towards the distant town of Domango.
The sun was high in the sky, and Clem was enjoying the freedom of the ride. Meg was a gentle woman and a fine wife, but he had felt trapped at the ranch in Pernum. The thought made him feel guilty. His life at the ranch had brought him everything he thought he had ever wanted: security, status and love. So why had it not been enough? When the locusts had wiped out his crop five years ago he could have worked on, labouring through the long hours of daylight. The merchants in town all liked him and they would have extended his credit. Instead, he had run away and taken to the road.
The first robbery had been easy: two men carrying a shipment of Barta notes to Pernum. Clem had ambushed them on the mountain road, shooting the first through the shoulder. The second had thrown away his gun. Twelve thousand he had made that day.
After that everything had gone to Hell in a bucket. Half of the cash was sent to the banker in Pernum, who held the mortgage on the farm. The rest had gone to Meg.
Nothing had been easy from that moment on.
'What was he like?' asked Nestor, the words cutting through Clem's thoughts. They were no more than an hour's ride from the settlement of Purity, and Clern could already see the smoke from the town's factories drifting lazily into the blue sky.
'What's that lad? Did you say something?'
The Jerusalem Man. What was he like?'
Clem thought about the question. 'He was grim, Nestor. Mighty grim. Unpredictable and deadly.