Bloodstone

'What are we looking for?' asked Lucas.

'I am carrying a Sipstrassi Stone. There is little power left. She should have an identical Stone. Scan the ground.'

Slowly she turned her head. 'Can you see anything?'

'No. Nothing of interest. Traverse to the left… no… more slowly. Was it in the trouser pocket or the shirt?'

'Trouser.'

'There's not much left of the legs. Perhaps one of the beasts ate the Stone.'

'Just keep looking!' snapped Amaziga.

'All right. Move to the right…. Amaziga.’ The tone in his voice made her blood grow cold.

'Yes?'

‘I hope the weapon you are holding is primed and ready. There is a beast some fifteen metres to your right. He is around eight feet tall. .' Amaziga flipped the Uzi into position and spun. As a huge, grey form hurtled towards her the Uzi fired, a long thunderous roar of sound exploding into the silence of the night. Bullets smashed into the grey chest, blood sprayed from the wounds, but still it came on. Amaziga's finger tightened on the trigger, emptying the long clip. The Devourer was flung backwards, its chest torn open. 'Amaziga.r shouted Lucas. 'There are two more!'

The Uzi was empty and Amaziga scrabbled for the Beretta at her hip. Even as she did so the beasts charged.

And she knew she was too slow. .

'Down, woman!' bellowed Shannow. Amaziga dived to her right. The booming sound of Shannow's pistol was followed by a piercing howl from the first Devourer which pitched backwards with half its head blown away. The second swerved past Amaziga and ran directly at the tall man at the edge of the trees. Shannow fired once; the creature slowed. A second shot ripped into its skull and Amaziga was showered with blood and brains.

Shannow stepped forward, pistols raised.

Amaziga turned her head. 'Are there any more of them?' she whispered to Lucas. There was no answer, and she saw that one of the leads had pulled clear of the right-hand box. She swore softly and pressed it home.

'Are you all right?' Lucas asked.

'Yes. What can you see?' asked Amaziga, turning slowly through a full circle.

'There are riders some four kilometres to the north, heading away from us. I can see no beasts. But the cliff face is high; there may be others on the higher ground. Might I suggest you reload your weapon?'

Switching off the machine Amaziga rose unsteadily to her feet. Shannow handed her the Uzi just as Gareth came running on to the scene, his Desert Eagle automatic in his hand.

Thank you, Shannow,' said Amaziga. 'You got here very fast.'

'I was here all the time,' he told her. ‘I followed you across the stream.'

'Why?'

He shrugged. 'I felt uneasy. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you to your watch.'

'Son of a bitch,' said Gareth, staring down at the three dead beasts. They're huge!'

'And dead,' pointed out Shannow as he strode past.

Gareth moved alongside Amaziga, who was pressing a full clip into the butt of the Uzi. 'Jesus, but he's like an iceman He stopped speaking, and Amaziga saw his gaze fall on the moonlit head of the other Amaziga. 'Oh, my God! Sweet Jesus!'

His mother took him by the arm, leading him away. 'I'm alive, Gareth. So are you. Hold to that! You hear me?'

He nodded. 'I hear you. But, Christ. .'

'No buts, my son! They are dead — we are not. They came to rescue Sam. They failed; we will not. You understand?'

He took a long, deep breath. 'I won't let you down, Mother. You can trust me on that.'

'I know. Now go and get some sleep. I'll resume the watch.'

* * *

Samuel Archer was not a religious man. If there was a God, he had long ago decided, he was either wilful or incompetent. Perhaps both. Yet Sam stood now on the crest of the hill and prayed. Not for himself, though survival would be more than pleasant, but for the last survivors of those who had followed him in the War against the Bloodstone. Behind him were the remaining rebels, twenty-two in all, counting the women. Before and below them on the plain were the Hellborn elite.

Two hundred warriors, their skills enhanced by the demonseeds embedded in their foreheads. Killers all!

Sam glanced around him. The rebels had picked a fine setting for their last stand, high above the plain, the tree line and thick undergrowth forming a rough stockade. The Hellborn would be forced to advance up a steep slope in the face of withering volleys. With enough ammunition we might even have held, thought Sam. He glanced down at the twin ammunition belts draped across his broad chest; there were more empty loops than full. Idly he counted the remaining shells. From the breast pocket of his torn grey shirt he drew a strip of dried beef, the last of his rations.

There would be no retreat from here, Sam knew. Two hundred yards behind them the mountains fell away into a deep gorge that opened out on to the edge of the Mardikh desert. Even if they could climb down, without horses they would die of thirst long before reaching the distant river.

Sam sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. For four years now he had fought the Bloodstone, gathering fighters, battling against Hellborn warriors and Devourers. All for nothing. His own small store of Sipstrassi was used up now, and without it they could not hope to hold off the killers. An ant crawled on to Sam's hand. He brushed it away.

That's what we are, he thought, ants standing defiantly before an avalanche.

Despair was a potent force, and one which Sam had resisted for most of these four years. It was not hard back at the beginning. The remnants of the Guardians had gathered against Sarento, and won three battles against the Hellborn. None had proved decisive. Then the Bloodstone had mutated the Wolvers and a new, terrible force was unleashed against the human race. Whole communities fled into the mountains to escape the beasts. The flight meant that the Guardian army, always small, was now without supplies as farming communities disappeared in the face of the Devourers. Ammunition became in short supply, and many fighters left the army in order to travel to their homes in a vain bid to protect their families.

Now twenty-two were left. Tomorrow there would be none.

A young, beautiful olive-skinned woman approached Sam. She was tall and wore two pistols in shoulder holsters over a faded red shirt. Her jet-black hair was drawn tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck.

He smiled as he saw her. 'I guess we've come to the end of a long, sorrowful road, Shammy. I'm sorry I brought you to this.'

Shamshad Singh merely shrugged. 'Here or at home. . what difference? You fight or you die.'

'Or do both,' said Sam wearily. She sat down beside him on the boulder, her short-barrelled shotgun resting on her slim thighs.

'Tell me of a happy time,' she said suddenly.

'Any particular theme?' he asked. 'I've lived for three hundred and fifty-six years, so there is a lot to choose from.'

Tell me about Amaziga.'

He gazed at her fondly. She was in love with him, and had made it plain for the two years she had been with the rebels. Yet Sam had never responded to her overtures. In all his long life there was only one woman who had opened the doors to his soul — and she was dead, shot down by the Hellborn in the first months of the War.

'You are an extraordinary woman, Shammy. I should have done better by you.'

'Bullshit,' she said, with a wide smile. 'Now tell me about Amaziga.'

'Why?'

'Because it always cheers you up. And you need cheering.'

He shook his head. 'It has always struck me as particularly sad that there will come a point in a man's life where he has no second chances. When Napoleon saw his forces in full retreat at Waterloo, he knew there would never be another day when he would march out at the head of a great force. It was over. I always thought that must be hard to take. Now I know that it is. We have fought against a great evil, and we have been unable to defeat it. And tomorrow we die. It is not a time for happy stories, Shammy.'