Bloodstone

'That is not the point,' came the reasoned voice of the machine-man. 'By your actions you will increase the probabilities.'

'By a fraction,' said Amaziga.

'And what of Shannow? The risks to him are great. He might die on this quest of yours.'

'Hardly the greatest loss to the culture of a planet,' sneered Amaziga. 'He is a killer, a man of violence.

Whereas the rescue of Sam would mean so much. He was… is… a scientist, and a humanitarian.

Together we may even be able to stop this world from falling. You understand? At least on this version of earth we might prevent the apocalypse. That alone is worth the risk to Shannow's life.'

The Jerusalem Man stepped back into his room and lay down.

There was truth in the harsh words he had heard. From somewhere deep in his memory he remembered Josiah Broome saying: ‘I dread to think of people who look up to men like Jon Shannow. What do they give to the world? Nothing, I tell you.'

His guns were hanging over the back of a chair. The weapons of the Thundermaker.

What peace have they ever brought, he wondered? What good have you ever done?

It was not a question he could answer, and he fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

'Lie back and rest,' the voice told him, but Josiah Broome could not obey it. His shoulder ached abominably, and he felt a painful throbbing in the fingers of his left hand. Nausea swept over him in waves, and tears squeezed through his closed eyelids, flowing to his thin cheeks. Opening his eyes, he saw an old man with a long white beard.

'I've been shot,' he said. They shot me!' Even as he spoke he realised how stupid it must sound. Of course the man knew he'd been shot. Broome could feel the bandage around his chest and up over his shoulder. 'I'm sorry,' said Broome, weeping, and not knowing what he was apologising for. The pain flared in his wound and he groaned.

'The bullet glanced up from a rib,' said the old man softly, 'then broke your collar-bone before digging deep to rest under your shoulder-blade. It's nasty — but not fatal.' Broome felt the man's warm hand on his brow. 'Now rest like I told you. We'll talk in the morning.'

Broome took a deep breath. 'Why did they do it?' he asked. 'I have no enemies.'

'If that's true,' said the old man, his voice dry, 'then at least one of your friends doesn't like you too much.'

The humour was lost on Josiah Broome and he drifted into a nervous and disturbed sleep, punctuated by appalling nightmares. He was being chased across a burning desert by riders with eyes of fire. They kept shooting at him, every bullet smashing into his frail body. But he did not die, and the pain was terrible. He awoke with a start, and fresh agony bloomed in the wound. Broome cried out and instantly the old man was beside him. 'Best you sit up, son,' he said. 'Here, I'll give you a hand.' The old man was stronger than he looked and Broome was hoisted to a sitting position, his back against the cave wall. There was a small fire, and meat was cooking in a black iron pot. 'How did I get here?' asked Broome.

'You fell off a buggy, son. You were lucky — the wheel just missed you.'

'Who are you?'

'You can call me Jake.'

Broome stared hard at the man. There was something familiar about him, but he could not find the connection. ‘I am Josiah Broome. Tell me, do I know you, Jake?'

'You do now, Josiah Broome.' Jake moved to the cook-fire and stirred the broth with a long wooden spoon. 'Coming along nicely,' he said.

Broome gave a weak smile. 'You look like one of the Prophets,' he said. 'Moses. I had a book once, and there was a picture of Moses parting the Red Sea. You look just like him.'

'Well, I ain't Moses,' said Jake. As he shrugged off his coat, Broome saw the butts of two pistols scabbarded at the old man's hips. Jake glanced up. 'Did you recognise any of the men?'

'I think so… but I'd hate to be right.'

'Jerusalem Riders?'

Broome was surprised. 'How did you know?'

'They followed you and found the buggy. Then they backtracked. I listened to them talking. They were mad fit to bust, I can tell you.'

They didn't… see you?'

'Nobody sees me unless I want them to,' Jake told him. 'It's a talent I have. Also, you'll be relieved to hear, I know a little about healing. Where were you heading?'

'Heading?'

'Last night, in the buggy?'

'Oh, that was Daniel Cade's vehicle. He… Oh, dear God. .'

'What is it?'

Broome sighed. 'He was killed last night. He saved me by shooting the… the assassin. But there were others. They rushed the house and killed him.'

Jake nodded. 'Daniel would have taken at least two of them with him. Tough man.' He chuckled. 'No one ever wants to leave this life, son, but old Daniel — given a choice — would have plumped for a fight against the ungodly.'

'You knew him?'

'Back in the old days,' said Jake. 'Not a man to cross.'

'He was a brigand and a killer,' said Broome sternly. 'Worthless scum. But he saw the Light.'

Jake laughed, the sound rich and merry. 'Indeed he did, Meneer Broome. A regular Damascus Road miracle.'

'Are you mocking him?' asked Broome, as Jake spooned the broth into a wooden bowl and passed it to the wounded man.

'I don't mock, son. But I don't judge either. Not any more. That's for the young. Now eat your broth. It'll help replace some of that lost fluid.'

'I must get word to Else,' said Broome. 'She'll be worried.'

'She certainly will,' agreed Jake. 'From what I heard of the riders' conversations, she thinks you killed the Prophet.'

'What?'

That's the word, son. He was found dead in your house, and when the Jerusalem Riders went to find out what the shooting was about you shot two of them dead. You're a dangerous man.'

'But no one would believe that. I have stood against violence all my life.'

'You'd be amazed what people will believe. Now finish the broth.'

‘I’ll go back,' said Broome suddenly. ‘I’ll see the Apostle Saul. He knows me; he has the Gift of Discernment; he'll listen.'

Jake shook his head. 'You're not a fast learner, are you, Broome?'

The man called Jake sat quietly at the mouth of the cave as the wounded man groaned in his sleep. He was tired himself, but this was no time to enjoy the bliss of a dark, dreamless sleep. The killers were still out there, and a greater evil was waiting to seep into this tortured world. Jake felt a great sadness flow over him and rubbing his eyes, he stood and stretched his weary legs. A little to the left, on a stretch of open ground, the mule raised her head and glanced at him. An owl swooped overhead, banking and turning, seeking its rodent prey. Jake took a deep breath of the mountain air, then sat again, stretching out his long legs.

His mind wandered back over the long, long years, but his eyes remained alert, scanning the tree line for signs of movement. It was unlikely that the killers were closing in; they would be camped somewhere, waiting to follow the tracks in the morning. Jake drew one of his pistols and idly spun the chamber. How long since you fired it, he wondered? Thirty-eight years? Forty?

Returning the pistol to its scabbard, he dipped a hand into the wide pocket of his sheepskin coat and drew out a small golden Stone. With its power he could be young again. Flexing his knee, he felt the arthritic pain flare up. Use the Stone, you old fool, he told himself.

But he did not. The time was coming when the power would be needed, and it would need to serve a far greater purpose than to repair an age-eroded joint.

Could I have stopped the evil, he thought? Probably, if only I'd known how.

But I didn't — and I don't. All I can do is fight it when it arrives.