Bloodstone

‘I would, boy,' came a voice from the doorway and Nestor turned to see the old prophet making his slow way inside. Leaning on two sticks, his long white beard hanging to his chest, Daniel Cade inched his way to a seat by the wall. He was breathing heavily as he sank to the chair.

Captain Evans stood and filled a mug with water, passing it to the prophet. Cade thanked the man.

Nestor faded back to the far wall, but his eyes remained fixed "to the ancient legend sipping the water.

Daniel Cade, the former brigand turned prophet, who had fought off the Hellborn in the Great War.

Everyone knew that God spoke to the old man, and Nestor's parents had been two of the many people saved when Cade's brigands took on the might of the Hellborn army.

'Who burned the church?' asked Cade, the voice still strong and firm, oddly in contrast to the arthritic and frail body.

'They were raiders from outside Pilgrim's Valley,' the captain told him.

'Not all of them,' said Cade. 'There were townsfolk among the crowd. Shem Jackson was seen. Now that disturbs me — for isn't that why the Crusaders were not here to protect the church? Weren't you called to Jackson's farm?'

'Aye, we were,' said the captain. 'Brigands stole some of his stock and he rode in to alert us.'

'And then stayed on to watch the murders. Curious.' 'I do not condone the burning of the church, sir,'

said the captain. 'But it must be remembered that the Preacher was told

— repeatedly — that Wolvers were not welcome in Pilgrim's Valley. They are not creatures of God, not made in his image, nor true creations. They are things of the Devil. They have no place in a church, nor in any habitat of decent folk. The Preacher ignored all warnings. It was inevitable that some. . tragedy. .

would befall. I can only hope that the Preacher is still alive. It would be sad. . if a good man — though misguided — were to die.'

'Oh, I reckon he's alive,' said Cade. 'So you'll be taking no action against the townspeople who helped the raiders?'

'I don't believe anyone helped them. They merely observed them.'

Cade nodded. 'Does it not strike you as strange that men from outside Pilgrim's Valley should choose to ride in to lance our boil?'

The work of God is often mysterious,' said Evans, 'as you yourself well know, sir. But tell me, why were you not surprised that the Preacher should tackle — and destroy — six armed men? He shares your name and it is said he is your nephew, or was once one of your men in the Hellborn War? If the latter is true, he must have been very young indeed.'

Cade did not smile, but Nestor saw the humour in his eyes. 'He is older than he looks, Captain, and, no, he was never one of my men. Nor is he my nephew — despite his name.' With a grunt the prophet pushed himself to his feet. Captain Evans took his arm and Nestor ran forward to gather his sticks.

'I'm all right. Don't fuss about me!'

Slowly, and with great dignity, the old man left the room and climbed to the driving seat of a small wagon.

Evans and Nestor watched as Cade flicked the reins.

'A great man,' said Evans. 'A legend. He knew the Jerusalem Man. Rode with him, some say.'

'I heard he was the Jerusalem Man,' said Nestor.

Evans shook his head. ‘I heard that too. But it is not true. My father knew a man who fought alongside Cade. He was a brigand, a killer. But God shone the great light upon him.'

* * *

The Deacon stood on the wide balcony, his silver-white beard rippling in the morning breeze. From this high vantage point he gazed affectionately out over the high walls and down on the busy streets of Unity.

Overhead a bi-plane lumbered across the blue sky, heading east towards the mining settlements, carrying letters and possibly the new Barta notes that were slowly replacing the large silver coins used to pay the miners.

The city was prospering. Crime was low and women could walk without risk, even at night, along the well-lit thoroughfares.

'I've done the best I could,' whispered the old man.

'What's that, Deacon?' asked a slender, round-shouldered man, with wispy white hair.

'Talking to myself, Geoffrey. Not a good sign.' Turning from the balcony he re-entered the study. 'Where were we?'

The thin man lifted a sheet of paper and peered at it. There is a petition here asking for mercy for Cameron Sikes. You may recall he's the man who found his wife in bed with a neighbour. He shot them both to death. He is due to hang tomorrow.'

The old man shook his head. 'I feel for him, Geoffrey, but you cannot make exceptions. Those who murder must die. What else?'

'The Apostle Saul would like to see you before setting off for Pilgrim's Valley.'

'Am I free this afternoon?'

Geoffrey consulted a black, leather-bound diary. 'Four-thirty to five is clear. Shall I arrange it?'

'Yes. I still don't know why he asked for that assignment. Perhaps he is tired of the city. Or perhaps the city is tired of him. What else?'

For half an hour the two men worked through the details of the day, until finally the Deacon called a halt and strolled through to the vast library beyond the study. There were armed guards on the doors, and the Deacon remembered with sadness the young man who had hidden here two years before. The shot had sounded like thunder within the domed building, striking the Deacon just above the right hip and spinning him to the floor. The assailant had screamed and charged across the huge room, firing as he ran. Bullets ricocheted from the stone floor. The Deacon had rolled over and drawn the small, two-shot pistol from his pocket. As the young man came closer the old man had fired, the bullet striking the assassin just above the bridge of the nose. The youngster stood for a moment, his own pistol dropping to the floor.

Then he had fallen to his knees, and toppled on to his face.

The Deacon sighed at the memory. The boy's father had been hanged the day before, after shooting a man following an argument over a card game.

Now the library and the municipal buildings were patrolled by armed guards.

The Deacon sat at a long oak table and stared at the banks of shelves while he waited for the woman.

Sixty-eight thousand books, or fragments of books, cross-indexed; the last remnants of the history of mankind, contained in novels, textbooks, philosophical tomes, instruction manuals, diaries and volumes of poetry. And what have we come to, he thought? A ruined world, bastardised by science and haunted by magic. His thoughts were dark and sombre, his mind weary. No one is right all the time, he told himself; you can only follow your heart. A guard ushered the woman in. Despite her great age she still walked with a straight back, her face showing more than a trace of the beauty she had possessed as a younger woman.

'Welcome, Frey Masters,' said the Deacon, rising. 'God's blessing to you, and to your family.' Her hair was silver, the lights from the ornate arched and stained-glass windows creating soft highlights of gold and red. Her eyes were blue, and startlingly clear. She smiled thinly and accepted his hand, then she sat opposite him.

'God's greeting to you also, Deacon,' she said. 'And I trust he will allow you to learn compassion before much longer.'

'Let us hope so,' said the Deacon. 'Now, what is the news?'

The dreams remain the same, only they are more powerful,' she said. 'Betsy saw a man with crimson skin and black veins. His eyes were red. Thousands of corpses lay around him, and he was bathing in the blood of children. Samantha also dreamed of a demon from another world. She was hysterical upon wakening, and claimed that the Devil was about to be loosed upon us. What does it mean, Deacon? Are the visions symbolic?'

'No,' he said sadly. The Beast exists.'