He never took a backward step in the face of evil. It didn't matter what men said was right. And there isn't a man alive who could have dented his faith. Because he didn't hand that faith over to men. It was his. his alone. You understand? And as for the truth, well… I once asked him about that. I said,
"Supposing all that you believe in is just so much dust on the wind? Suppose it ain't true, how would you feel?" He just shrugged and smiled. You know what he said? "It wouldn't matter a damn — because it ought to be." '
'And I'm supposed to understand that?' stormed Nestor. 'All I know is that all my life I've been taught to believe something which was just made up by men. And I don't intend to be fooled again. Not by the Deacon, and not by you. Tomorrow I head for home. You can go to Hell in a bucket!'
Nestor lay down, turning his back on the fire. Clem felt old and tired and decided to let the matter rest.
Tomorrow they would talk again.
Your kind never will!
The boy was sharp, no doubt about that. Over the years Clem had gathered a band of robbers to him, and their raids were daring and brilliantly executed. Exciting times! Yet men were killed or crippled -
good men for the most part. Clem remembered the first of them, a young payroll guard who, against all the odds, had refused to lay down his rifle. Instead he had fired a shot that clipped the top of Clem's shoulder and killed the man behind him. The guard had gone down in a volley of fire. One shot had come from Clem's gun. The young man haunted him now; he was only doing his duty, earning an honest day's pay.
Your kind never will!
Clem sighed. You want to know my kind, boy? Weak men governed by their desires, yet without the strength of purpose to work for them.
When the ambush had come, the bullets ripping into the gang, Clem had spurred his horse over a high cliff-face and fallen a hundred feet into a raging torrent. He had survived, where all his men had died.
With nowhere to go he had headed back to Pilgrim's Valley, where any who remembered him would recall a gallant young man by the name of Clem Steiner, not a brigand who rode under the name Laton Duke. By what right do you preach to this boy, he wondered? How could you tell him to live his life the way he thinks is right? When did you do that, Clem?
And what had the stolen money brought him? A fine red waistcoat and a nickel-plated pistol, several hundred faceless whores in scores of nameless towns. Oh yes, Clem, you're a fine teacher!
Picking up a handful of twigs, he leaned towards the fire. The ground trembled, the little blaze spitting cinders into the air. The hobbled horses whinnied in fear and a boulder dislodged from the slopes above them, rolling and bouncing down into the valley below. Nestor came to his knees and tried to stand, but the ground shifted under his feet, hurling him off balance. A bright light shone on the hollow. Clem glanced up. Two moons hung in the sky, one full, the other like a crescent. Nestor saw it too.
A jagged rip tore across a narrow hillside, swallowing trees. Then the full moon faded from sight, and an eerie silence settled tefrthe land.
'What's happening?' asked Nestor.
Clem sat back, the fire forgotten. All he could think of was the last time he had seen such a vision, and felt the earth tremble beneath him, when the terror of the Lizard warriors had been unleashed upon the land.
Nestor scrambled across to him, grabbing his arm. 'What's happening?' he asked again.
'Someone just opened a door,' said Clem softly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Two wise men and a fool were walking in the forest when a ravening lion leapt out at them. The first wise man estimated the size of the charging lion as some eight feet from nose to the tip of its tail. The second wise man noted that the beast was favouring its left front leg, indicating that it was lame and thus had, through hunger, been forced to become a man-eater. As the beast reared the fool shot it. But then he didn't know any better.
The Wisdom of the Deacon Chapter XIV
Shannow awoke early and looked for his clothes. They were gone, but in their place he found a pair of black trousers of heavy twill and a thick woollen cream-coloured shirt. His own boots were beside them.
Dressing swiftly, he swung his guns around his hips and walked through to the main room. Amaziga was not there, but the machine was switched on, the calm, handsome face of the red-headed Lucas pictured on the screen.
'Good morning,' said the face. 'Amaziga has driven into town to fetch some supplies. She should be back within the hour. There is coffee, should you desire it, or some cereal.' Shannow glanced suspiciously at the coffee-maker and decided to wait.
'Would you care to listen to music?' asked Lucas. 'I have over four thousand melodies on hand.'
'No, thank you.' Shannow sat down in a wide leather chair. 'It is cold in here,' he said.
‘I’ll adjust the A.C.,' said Lucas. The soft whirring ceased and within moments the room began to feel warmer. 'Are you comfortable with me here?' asked Lucas. 'I cari remove this visual and leave the screen blank if you prefer. It does not matter to me. Amaziga created it, and finds it comforting, but I can understand how disconcerting it might be to a man from another time.'
'Yes,' agreed Shannow, 'it is disconcerting. Are you a ghost?'
'An interesting question. The man from whom my memory and thought patterns were duplicated is now dead. I am therefore a copy — if you like — of his innermost being, and one which can be seen, though not touched. I would think my credentials as a ghost would be quite considerable. But since we co-existed, he and I, I am therefore more like a cerebral twin.'
Shannow smiled. 'If you want me to understand you, Lucas, you'll have to speak more slowly. Tell me, are you content?'
'Contentment is a word I can describe, but that does not necessarily mean that I understand it. I have no sense of discontent. The memories of Lucas the man contain many examples of his discontent, but they do not touch me as I summon them. I think that Amaziga would be better equipped to answer such questions. It was she who created me. I believe she chose to limit the input, eliminating unnecessary emotional concepts. Love, hate, testosteronal drives, fears, jealousies, pride, anger — these things are neither helpful nor useful in a machine. You understand?'
'I believe that I do,' Shannow told him. 'Tell me of the Bloodstone and the world we are to enter.'
'What would you wish to know?'
'Start at the beginning. I usually find I can follow stories better that way.'
'The beginning? Very well. In your own world you fought the Guardian leader Sarento many years ago, destroying him in the catacombs beneath the mountains which held the broken ship. In the world to which Amaziga will take you there was no Jon Shannow. Sarento ruled. But then he was struck down with a crippling and terminal illness. Having corrupted the Sipstrassi boulder, creating a giant Bloodstone, he could no longer rely on its-lowers to heal him. He searched everywhere for a pure Stone that could take away the cancer. Time was against him and in desperation he turned to the Bloodstone; it could not heal, but it could reshape. He drew its power into himself, merging with the Stone, if you will. The energy flowed through his veins, changing him. His skin turned red, streaked with black veins. His power grew.
The cancer shrivelled and died. There was no going back, the change was irrevocable. He could no longer take in food and drink; all that could feed him was contained in blood: the life force of living creatures. He hungered for it. Lusted for it. The Guardians saw what he had become and turned against him, but he destroyed them, for he was now a living Bloodstone with immense power. With the Guardians slain or fled, he needed to feed and journeyed to the lands of the Hellborn. You know their beliefs, Mr Shannow. They worship the Devil. What better Devil could they find? He strode into Babylon and took the throne from Abaddon. And he fed. How he fed! Are you a student of ancient history, Mr Shannow?'