Shannow's voice drifted up to him, calm and steady. ‘I can't hold you like this all night, boy. So I suggest you make a move.'
Gareth lunged up, catching the hold and swinging his foot to a small ridge in the stone. Above this the holds were infinitely easier and he gratefully hauled himself over the summit.
For a moment he lay back with eyes closed, feeling the rain on his face. Then he sat up, looped the rope over his shoulder and tugged it twice, signalling Shannow to start the climb. The rope went tight. Gareth leaned back to take the strain.
Something cold touched his temple.
It was a pistol. .
A hand moved into sight. It held a razor-sharp knife, which sliced through the rope.
Shem Jackson was sitting in the front room of his house, his booted feet resting on a table. His brother, Micah, idly shuffled a pack of dog-eared cards. 'You wanna game, Shem?'
'For what?' responded the older man, lifting a jug of spirit and swigging from it. 'You lost everything you got.'
'You could lend me some,' said Micah, reproachfully.
Shem slammed the jug down on the table-top. 'What the Hell is the point of that? You play cards when you got money — it's that simple. Can't you get it into your head?'
'Well, what else is there to do?' whined Micah.
'And whose fault is that?' snapped Shem, pushing a dirty hand through his greasy hair. 'She wasn't much to look at, but you had to go and thrash her, didn't you?'
'She asked for it!' replied Micah. 'Called me names.'
'Well, now she's run off. And this time it's for good, I'll bet. You know the trouble with you, Micah? You never know when you're well-off.' Shem stood and stretched his lean frame. Rain couldn't be far away; his back was beginning to ache. Walking to the window, he stared out at the yard and the moonlit barn beyond. A flash of movement caught his eye and, leaning forward, he rubbed at the grimy glass. It merely smeared and Shem swore.
'What is it?' asked Micah. Shem shrugged.
'Thought I saw something out by the barn. It was probably nothing.' He squinted, caught a flash of silver-grey fur. 'It's Wolvers,' he said. 'God damn Wolvers!' Striding across the room, he lifted the long rifle down from its pegs over the mantel and, grinning, swung on Micah. 'Damn sight more fun than playing cards with a loser like you,' he said, pumping a shell into the breech. 'Come on, get your weapon, man, there's hunting to be had.'
Good humour flowed back to him. Little bastards, he thought. They won't get away this time. No Beth McAdam to save you now!
Stepping to the front door, he wrenched it open and walked out into the moonlight. 'Come on, you little beggars, show yourselves!' he called. The night was quiet, the moon unbearably bright to the eye A hunter's moon! Shem crept forward with gun raised. He heard Micah move out behind him and stumble on the porch. Clumsy son of a bitch!
On open ground now Shem angled to the right, towards the vegetable patch and the corral. 'Show yourselves!' he shouted. 'Old Uncle Shem's got a little present for you!'
Behind him Micah made a gurgling sound, and Shem heard the clump of something striking the ground.
Probably his rifle, thought Shem as he turned.
But it was not a rifle. Micah's head bounced twice on the hard-packed earth, the neck completely severed by a savage sweep of a long-taloned hand. Micah's body toppled forward, but Shem was not looking at it. He was staring in paralysed horror at the creature towering before him, its silver fur shining, its eyes golden, a bright red stone embedded in its forehead.
Shem Jackson's rifle came up and he pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed into the creature's chest, sending up a puff of dust. But it didn't go down; it howled and leapt forward, its talons flashing down.
Shem felt the blow on his shoulder and staggered back. The rifle was on the ground. He blinked and then felt a rush of blood from his shoulder. There was no pain — not even when his arm fell clear, thumping against the ground and draping across his boot.
The Devourer lashed out once more. .
Shem Jackson's face disappeared.
From the shadows, scores more of the beasts moved forward. Several stopped to feed.
Most loped on towards the sleeping town of Pilgrim's Valley.
CHAPTER TEN
The greatest folly is to believe that evil can be overcome by reason. Evil is like gravity, a force that is beyond argument.
The Wisdom of the Deacon Chapter XXVII
Jacob Moon was not given to hearing voices. Such gifts were for other men. No visions, no prophecies, no mystic dreams or revelations. Jacob Moon had only one real gift, if such it could be called: he could kill without emotion. So when the voice did come Moon was utterly astonished. He was sitting by his camp-fire in the lee of the Great Wall some twenty miles from Pilgrim's Valley. Having heard nothing from the Apostle Saul, Moon had left Domango and made the long ride across the mountains. A flash flood had diverted him from his course, delaying him, but he was now less than three hours' ride from the town. His horse was exhausted and Moon made camp beside the Wall.
The voice came to him just before midnight, as he was settling down to sleep. At first it was a whisper, like a breath of night winds. But then it grew. 'Jacob Moon! Jacob Moon!'
Moon sat up, pistol in hand. 'Who's there?'
'Behind you,' came the response and Moon spun. One of the great rectangular blocks had apparently disappeared and he found himself facing a red-skinned man, with what appeared to be painted black lines across his face and upper body. The man was seated on an ebony throne. Moon cocked his pistol.
'You will not need that,' said the man on the throne. The image drifted closer, until the strange face filled the hole in the walclass="underline" the eyes were the red of rubies, the whites bloodshot. 'I need you, Moon,' said the vision.
'Well, I don't need you,' was Moon's response as the pistol bucked in his hand, the bullet lancing through the red face.
There was no mark to show its passing and a wide smile appeared on the face.
'Save your ammunition, Moon, and listen to what I offer you — riches beyond your dreams, and life eternal. I can make you immortal, Moon. I can fulfil your wildest desires.'
Moon sat back and sheathed his pistol. This is a dream, isn't it? God damn it, I'm dreaming!'
'No dream, Moon,' the red man told him. 'Would you like to live for ever?'
'I'm listening.'
'My world is dying. I need another. A man known to you as Saul opened the Gateway for me, and I have now seen your world. It is to my liking. But it would help me to have a lieutenant here, to direct my.
. troops. From the few thoughts I could extract from the dying Saul, I gathered that you were that man.
Is that so?'
Tell me about the life eternal,' said Moon, ignoring the question.
That can begin now, Moon. Is it what you desire?'
'Aye.' Moon reeled back as a terrible burning sensation erupted on his forehead. He cried out and lifted his hand to his head. The pain subsided as suddenly as it had appeared, and now Moon could feel a small stone embedded in his brow.
'As long as you serve me, Moon, you will be immortal. Can you feel the new strength in your limbs, the power. .the life?'
Jacob Moon felt more than that. His long-held bitterness was unleashed, his anger primal. As the vision promised he felt strong, no longer tired from his journey, no longer aching from long hours in the saddle.
'I feel it,' he admitted. 'What do you want from me?'
'Ride to the ruined city north of Pilgrim's Valley. There I shall greet you.'
'I asked what you wanted from me,' said Moon.
'Blood,' responded the vision. 'Rivers of blood. Violence and death, hatred and war.'