'What? Why?'
'I want to see your feet.'
Amaziga chuckled and bent her head low. 'Aha,' said Lucas. 'As I thought, trainers. You would be advised to wear boots.'
'I am already hip-deep in wires and leads. The trainers are comfortable. Now, do you have any other requests?'
'It would be nice if you were to walk to the saguaro where the Elf Owl is nesting. The camera on the roof cannot quite traverse far enough for a good study.'
'When we get back,' she promised. 'For now I'd like you to concentrate on the lands of the Bloodstone -
if it is not too much trouble? You'll need to re-think the route and the place and time of entry. Without the jeep it'll take a damn sight longer.'
'I never liked jeeps,' said Lucas.
Josiah Broome awoke to see the old man cleaning two long-barrelled pistols. Pain lanced through Broome's chest and he groaned.
Jake glanced up. 'Despite how you feel, you will live, Josiah,' he said.
'It wasn't a dream?' whispered Broome.
'It surely wasn't. Jersualem Riders tried to kill you, and shot Daniel Cade in the process. Now you are a wanted man. Shoot on sight, they've been told.' Broome struggled to a sitting position. Dizziness swamped him. 'Don't do too much now, Josiah,' insisted Jake. 'You've lost a lot of blood. Take it slow and easy. Here. .' Jake laid aside the pistol and lifted a steaming jug from the coals of the fire. Filling a tin mug he passed it to Broome, who took it with his left hand. The old man returned to his place and lifted the pistol, flipping out the cylinder and loading it.
'What am I going to do?' asked Broome. IWho will believe me?'
'It won't matter, son,' said Jake. 'Trust me on that.'
'How can you say that?' asked Broome, astonished. Jake returned the pistols to two deep shoulder holsters and reached for a short-barrelled rifle which he also began to load, pressing shell after shell into the side gate. When he had finished he pumped the action and laid the weapon aside.
'Sometime soon,' he said, his voice low, 'people will forget all about the shooting; they'll be too concerned with just staying alive. And against what's coming that won't be easy. You were there when the Daggers invaded. But they were an army of soldiers. They had orders. They were disciplined. But a terror is about to be unleashed that is almost beyond understanding. That's why I'm here, Josiah. To fight it.'
Josiah Broome understood none of it. All he could think of was the terrible events of yesterday, the murder of Daniel Cade and the pain-filled flight into the night. Was the old man insane, he wondered? He seemed rational. The pain in his chest settled to a dull, throbbing ache and the dawn breeze chilled his upper body. He shivered. The bandages around his thin chest were caked with dried blood, and any movement of his right arm sent waves of nausea through him.
'Who are you?' he asked the old man.
‘I am the Deacon,' said Jake, emptying out the jug and stowing it in a cavernous pack.
For a moment all Broome's pain was forgotten, and he stared at the man with undisguised astonishment.
'You can't be,' was all he could say, taking in the man's threadbare trousers and worn boots, the ragged sheepskin coat and the matted white hair and beard.
Jake smiled. 'Don't be deceived by appearances, son. I am who I say I am. Now, we've got to get you to Beth McAdam's place. I need to speak to the lady.' Jake hoisted the pack to his shoulders, hefted his rifle, then moved over to Broome and helped him to his feet. Wrapping a blanket around the wounded man's upper body, Jake steered him out into the open where the mule was hobbled. 'You ride, I'll lead,'
said the old man. With great difficulty Broome climbed to the saddle.
An eerie howl echoed in the trees and Jake stiffened. It was answered by another some way to the east.
then another.
Broome noted the sound, but compared with the pain from his chest wound and the pounding that had begun in his head, it seemed unimportant. Then he heard two gunshots in the distance, followed by a piercing scream of terror, and he jerked in the saddle. 'What was that?' he asked.
Jake did not reply. Slipping the hobble from the mule's forelegs, he took the reins in his left hand and began the long descent down into the wooded valley.
The Deacon moved on warily, leading the mule and glancing back often at the wounded man. Broome was semi-delirious now, and the man called Jake had lashed his wrists to the pommel of the saddle. The day was bright and clear, and there was no discernible breeze. The Deacon was thankful for that. The pack was heavy, as was the rifle, and he was mortally tired. The descent into the valley was slow and he paused often, listening, scanning the trees.
Death stalked these mountains now, and he knew the Devourers were fast and lethal. He would have little time to bring the rifle to bear. Every now and then the Deacon glanced at the mule. She was a canny beast and would pick up their scent much faster than he. At the moment she was moving easily, head down, ears up, contentedly following his lead.
With luck they would make Beth McAdam's farm by sunset. But what then?
How do you defeat a god of blood?
The Deacon didn't know. What he did know was that the pain in his chest was intense, and that his old and weary body was operating at the outer edge of its limits. For the first time in years he was tempted to use the Stone on himself, rejuvenating his ancient muscles, repairing the time-damaged heart.
It would be so good to feel young again, full of energy and purpose, infused with the passion and belief of youth. And the speed, he realised. That could be vital.
The mule stopped suddenly, jerking the Deacon back. He swung and saw her head come up, her eyes widen in fear. Slipping the pack from his shoulders, he hefted the rifle and moved back to stand beside the mule's head. 'It's all right, girl,' he said, his voice soft and soothing. 'Steady, now!'
He noticed that an easterly breeze had picked up. The mule had caught the scent of the man-wolves.
Leaving the pack where it lay, the Deacon scrambled up behind Broome and kicked the mule into a run.
She needed no further encouragement and set off down the slope at breakneck speed. As Broome swayed to his left, the Deacon's left arm caught him, hauling him upright.
The mule thundered on. When a grey shape reared from the right of the trail, the Deacon lifted the rifle like a pistol and loosed a shot which caught the beast high on the shoulder, spinning it. Then the mule was past and on to level ground, racing out into the valley.
They crossed the Gateway at midnight, the air cool, the stars glittering above them, and emerged seconds later into the bright sunshine of an Autumn morning. The stone circle into which they had travelled was almost completely overgrown by dense bush, and the trio were forced to dismount and force a way through to open ground some fifty yards to the left.
Amaziga spoke softly into the microphone. Shannow could not hear the words, but he saw her lift the time-piece on her wrist and make adjustments. She saw him watching her. 'Lucas says it is 8.45 a.m., and we have two days to reach the Mardikh mountains where Sam and his group are holding out. It is forty-two miles from here, but the ground is mostly level.'
Shannow nodded and stepped into the saddle. Gareth rode alongside him. 'I am grateful to you, Mr Shannow,' he said. 'It is not every day that a man is given the opportunity to bring his father back from the dead.'
'As I understand it,' said Shannow, 'he is not your father, merely a man who carries the same face and name.'
'And an identical genetic structure. Why did you come?'
Shannow ignored the question and rode towards the north, Amaziga and Gareth falling in behind. They pushed on through the day, stopping only once to eat a cold meal. The land was vast and empty, the distant blue mountains seeming no nearer. Twice they passed deserted homes, and in the distance, towards dusk, Shannow saw a cluster of buildings that had once made up a small town on the eastern slopes of a narrow valley. There was no sign of life, no lanterns burning, no movement.