Wolf in Shadow

Jerrik was approaching fifty and felt it was tune to settle down and raise children; he had his eye on a farm in Rivervale, and the young widow who owned it. With the Barta coins he expected for the Jerusalem Man he would have some woollen clothes made, and pay court to the widow. She would have to treat him seriously, as a Committee man.

The trio followed Shannow's tracks high into the pine forest and it was coming to dusk when they spotted his camp-fire.

The three dismounted and hobbled their horses, creeping through the undergrowth towards the small blaze. Some fifty feet from the fire Jerrik saw the shadowy outline of the Jerusalem Man sitting with his back against a tree, his wide-brimmed hat tipped down over his eyes.

'You just sit there and think,' whispered Jerrik, hunkering down and priming his musket. He directed Pearson and Swallow to the left and right, ready to rush in once the mortal shot was fired. Then the two crept off into the trees.

Jerrik cocked the musket and sat back, resting his elbow on his knee. The gun was levelled on the seated figure. .

Something cold touched Jerrik's temple.

And his head exploded.

At the sound of the shot Pearson loosed his crossbow bolt. It flashed across the clearing, slicing through Shannow's coat and the bush inside it. Swallow ran up, hurdling the camp-fire, and his knife followed Pearson's bolt. The coat fell from the bush, the hat toppling with it, and Swallow's mouth fell open. Something hit him a wicked blow in the back and a hole the size of a man's fist appeared in his chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Pearson backed away from the carnage and sprinted to his pony. Loosing the hobble, he leapt to the saddle and booted the animal into a run. The boom of Jerrik's musket came just as Pearson's pony had reached a gallop; the animal fell headlong and Pearson flew over its neck to land on his back against a tree. He rolled and came up with a knife in his hand.

'Show yourself!' he screamed.

The Jerusalem Man stepped from the screen of trees and moved into Pearson's view. In his hand was the ivory-handled percussion pistol.

'You don't have to kill me,' said Pearson, eyes locked on the pistol. 'I won't come back — I'll just ride away.'

'Who sent you?'

'Fletcher.'

'How many others has he sent?'

'None. We didn't think we'd need any more.'

'What is your name?'

'Why?'

'So that I can mark your grave. It would be unseemly otherwise.'

The knife fell from his fingers. 'My name is Pearson. Alan Pearson.'

'And the others?'

'Al Jerrik and Zephus Swallow.'

Turn around, Mr Pearson.'

Pearson closed his eyes and began to turn.

He did not even hear the shot that killed him.

Jon Shannow rode into the yard as the moon broke clear of the screen of clouds. He was leading two ponies and he carried a long rifle across his saddle. Donna stood in the doorway wearing a white blouse of fine wool and a homespun skirt dyed red. Her hair was freshly brushed and glowed almost white in the moonlight. Shannow waved as he rode past and led the ponies into the pen. He unsaddled the gelding and brushed him down.

Donna walked across the yard and took Shannow's arm. He leaned down and kissed her lightly.

'Are you well, Jon?'

'Aye.'

'What are you thinking?'

'I was thinking that when I am with you, I understand something which has long escaped me.' He lifted her hand and kissed it gently, reverently.

'What? What do you understand?'

'It is a quotation from the Book.'

Tell me.'

‘ "Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.

‘ "And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing." There is more, but I would need the Book to read it.'

'It is beautiful, Jon. Who wrote it?'

'A man named Paul.'

'Did he write it for a woman?'

'No, he wrote it for everyone. How is Eric?'

'He got upset when he heard the guns.'

'There was no danger, Donna,' he said softly. 'And we have several days together before anyone realizes they have failed.'

'You look tired, Jon. Come in and rest.'

'Each death lessens me, Lady. But still they come.'

She led him in to the house and trimmed down the wicks in the oil-lamp. He sat in the comfort chair and his head dropped back. Gently she removed his boots and covered him with a heavy blanket.

'Sleep well, Jon. Sweet dreams.' She kissed him and moved towards her room. Eric's door opened and he stood there rubbing sleep from his eyes. 'Is he back, Mother?' he whispered.

'Yes. He is all right.'

'Did he kill all the men?'

'I expect so, Eric. Go to bed.'

'Will you come in with me?'

She smiled and led him back to the narrow bed, where she lay beside him. Within minutes he was asleep. But Donna Taybard could not sleep. Outside was a man who in the space of a few days had killed five others — a man living on the edge of sanity, chasing the impossible. He was seeking a city that no longer existed in a land no one could find, in search of a god few believed in — a relic of a world which had passed into myth.

And he loved her — or thought that he did, which was the same thing to a man, Donna knew. And now he was trapped, forced to remain like a magnet drawing death to him, unable to run or hide.

And he would lose. There would be no Jerusalem for Jon Shannow, and no home with Donna Taybard. The Committee would hunt him down and Donna would be Fletcher's woman — until he tired of her. Yet, even knowing this, Donna could not send Jon Shannow away. She closed her eyes and his face came unbidden to her mind, and she found herself staring at him as he slept in the comfort chair, his face so peaceful now and almost boyish in the lamplight.

Donna opened her eyes back in Eric's room and wished, not for the first time, that the Prester was alive. He always seemed to know what to do. And before advancing years sapped his judgement he could read men — and women. But he was gone and there was no one to turn to. She thought of Shannow's fierce god and, remembering Ash Burry's gentle loving Lord, found it incomprehensible that both men worshipped the same deity.

The two men were fleece and flint, and so was their God.

'Are you there, Shannow's God?' she whispered. 'Can you hear me? What are you doing to the man? Why do you drive him so hard? Help him. Please help him.'

Eric stirred and mumbled in his sleep and she kissed him, lifting the blanket around his chin. His eyes opened dreamily.

'I love you, Mother. Truly.'

'And I love you, Eric. More than anything.'

'Daddy never loved me.'

'Of course he did,’ whispered Donna, but Eric was asleep once more.

Shannow awoke in the hour before dawn and opened the door to Donna's room. The bed was still made and he smiled ruefully. He moved to the pump-room and found himself staring once more at his reflection.

'Quo vadis, Shannow?' he asked the grim grey man in the mirror.

The sound of horses in the yard made him stiffen and he checked his pistols and slipped out of die back door, keeping in the moon shadows until he reached the front of the house. Five long wagons drawn by oxen stretched in a line back to the meadow, and a tall man on a dark horse was dismounting by the water trough.

'Good morning,' said Shannow, sheathing his pistol.

'Do you mind if we water our animals?' asked the man. The sun was just clearing the eastern peaks and Shannow saw that he was in his thirties and strongly built. He wore a black leather riding jacket cut high at the waist and a hat sporting a single peacock feather.