'Sometimes, in the dark of the night. I killed a child once, ended his life by mistake. He troubles me, he haunts my dreams. I have killed so many men, and it is all becoming so easy.'
'God did not make Man to be alone, Shannow. Think on it.'
'You think I have not? I tried once to settle down, but I knew before I lost her that it was not for me. I am not a man made for happiness. I carry such guilt over that child, Nu.'
'Not guilt, my friend. Grief. There is a difference. Yours is a skill I would not wish to acquire -
yet it is necessary. In my own time there were wild tribes bordering our lands; they would raid and kill. Pendarric destroyed them, and we all slept easier in our beds. As long as Man remains the hunter-killer, there will be a need for warriors like you. I can wear my white robes and pray in peace. The evil can dress in black. But there must always be the grey riders to patrol the border between good and evil.'
'We are playing with words, Nu. Grey is only a lighter shade of black.'
'Or a darker shade of white? You are not evil, Shannow; you are plagued by self-doubt. That is what saves you. That is where the Parson is in peril. He has no doubts — and therefore is capable of enormous evil. It was the downfall of Pendarric. No, you are safe, Grey Rider.'
'Safe?' repeated Shannow. 'Who is safe?'
'He who walks with God. How long since you sought His word in your Bible?'
'Too long.'
Nu stretched out his hand, holding Shannow's leather-covered Bible. 'No man of God should be lonely.'
Shannow took the book. 'Maybe I should have devoted myself to a life of prayer.'
'You have followed the path set for you. God uses both warrior and priest and it is not for us to judge His purposes. Read a little, then sleep. I will pray for you, Shannow.'
'Pray for the dead, my friend.'
As the horse reared and died, Shannon? leapt from the saddle. He hit the ground hard, rolled and came to his knees with guns in hand. The roaring of the pistols and the screams of his attackers faded. A sound from behind! Shannon? swivelled and fired. The boy was hurled from his feet. A small dog began yapping; it ran to the boy, licking his dead face.
'What a vile man you are,' came a voice and Shannon? blinked and turned. Two young men stood close by — their hair white, their eyes cold.
'It was an accident,' said Shannon?. 'I was being attacked… I didn 't realise.'
'A child-killer, Lindian. What should we do with him?'
'He deserves to die,' said the smaller of the two. "There is no question of that.'
‘I never meant to kill the child,' Shannow repeated.
The tall man in the black and silver tunic stepped forward, his hand hovering over the gun butt.
'The King of Kings has spoken the words of your death, Jon Shannow. Do you have anything to say before you die?'
'No,' said Shannow, palming his pistol Smoothly. A bullet smashed into Shannow's chest, the pain incredible as his own gun dropped from his twitching fingers and he sank to his knees.
'You should not try the same trick twice, old man,' whispered his killer.
Shannow died…
And awoke beside the fire on the hillside. Nu was sleeping soundly beside him, the night breeze was cool. Shannow built up the fire and returned to his blankets.
He was standing at the centre of an arena. Seated all around him were men he had killed: Sarento, Webber, Thomas, Lomax, and so many others whose names he could not remember. The child was leaning back on a golden throne, blood dripping steadily to stain the breast of the white tunic he wore.
'These are your judges, Jon Shannow,' said a voice and the tall white-haired warrior stepped forward. "These are the souls of the slain.'
"They are evil men,' stated Shannow. 'Why should they have the right to judge me?'
'What gave you the right to judge them?'
'By their deeds,' answered the Jerusalem Man.
'And what was his crime?' stormed his accuser, pointing to the blood-drenched child.
'It was a mistake. An error!'
'And what price have you paid for that error, Jon Shannow?' 'Every day I have paid a price with the fire in my soul!' 'And what price for these?' shouted the warrior as down the central aisle came a score of children — some black, some white, toddlers and infants, young boys and girls.
‘I do not know them. This is trickery!' said Shannow.
'They were the children of the Guardians, drowned when you destroyed the Titanic. What price for these, Shannon?'
'I am not an evil man!' shouted the Jerusalem Man.
'By your deeds we judge you.' Shannon saw the warrior reach for his pistol.
His own gun flashed up, but at the moment he fired the man disappeared and the bullet smashed into the chest of the boy on the throne. 'Oh dear God, not again!' screamed the Jerusalem Man.
His body jerked and he came awake instantly. Beyond the fire sat a lioness and her cubs. As he sat up, the lioness growled and moved back, the cubs scampering after her. Shannow banked up the fire and Nu awoke and stretched.
'Did you sleep well?' he asked.
'Let's pack up and move on,' Shannow answered.
As always when the Parson needed to pray in solitude he headed for the high country, bordering the clouds. His route took him through the woods of the Bear-people, but he cared nothing for danger; a man on his way to speak with his Maker, he knew that nothing would keep him from that appointment.
His soul was heavy, for the people had rejected him. He should have expected that, he knew, for it was always the way with prophets. Did they not reject Elijah, Elisha, Samuel? Did they not spurn the Son of God himself?
The people were weak, thinking only of their bellies or their small needs. Just like the monastery, with their constant prayers and works of little good.
'The world is evil,', the Abbot had told him. 'We must turn our faces from it, and seek the greater glory of God through worship.'
'But God made the world, Abbot, and Jesus himself asked us to go among the people as yeast to dough.'
'No, He did not,' the Abbot answered. 'He asked His disciples to do that. But this is Armageddon, these are the End days. The people are not for saving; they have made their choices.'
He had left the monastery and taken a meagre living in a mining town, preaching in a bell-shaped tent. But the Devil had come to him there and found him wanting. Lucifer had led the girl to his sermon, and Lucifer had put the carnal thoughts in her mind. Oh, he had fought the desires of the flesh. But how weak is man!
His people — not understanding his temptations, nor the inner battles that went with them — had driven him from the town. It was not his fault! It was God's judgement when the girl hanged herself.
The Parson shook his head and looked around him, realising he had come deep into the woods.
He saw the dismembered body of a reptile, then another. Drawing the horse to a halt he looked around. Bodies lay everywhere. He dismounted and saw that by a bush, her corpse wedged beneath the jutting roots of an old oak, lay Sharazad. There were terrible rips and tears on her body, but her face was remarkably untouched.
'Shannow was right,' said the Parson. 'You do look like an angel.' By her hand lay a red-veined Stone and he lifted it; it was warm and soothing to the touch. He dropped it into the pocket of his black cassock and mounted his horse, but his hand seemed to miss the warmth of the Stone, and he drew it out once more. He rode on, ever rising, until he came out on to a clearing at the crest of the range. It was cold here, but the air was fresh and clean, the sky unbearably blue. Dismounting once more, he knelt in prayer.