'. . and great noise, with storm and tempest and the flame of devouring fire.'
The cannibal raised his arms against the pistols, covering his eyes. Shannow fired twice, the shells smashing through the outstretched hands and into the face beyond, and the man pitched back. Shannow staggered and fell to his knees; his head was pounding and his vision blurred and swam. He took a deep breath, pushing back the nausea that threatened to swamp him. A movement to his right! He pointed his pistol and a child screamed.
'It's all right,' said Shannow groggily. 'I'll not harm you. "Suffer little children to come unto me."
Just give me a moment.'
He sat back and felt his head. The skin was split at the temple and blood was drenching his face and shirt. He sheathed his guns and crawled to the children, cutting them free.
The taller of the two sprinted away the moment the ropes were cut, but the other raised a hand and touched Shannow's face where the blood flowed. Shannow tried to smile, but the world spun madly before his eyes.
'Go, boy. You understand? GO!'
Shannow tried to stand, but fell heavily. He crawled for several yards and found himself lying next to a small clear pool of water. Watching his blood drip to the surface and flow away in red ribbons, Shannow chuckled.
'He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.'
The child came to him, tugging at his arm. 'More come!' he said. Shannow squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate.
'More Carns come. You go!' shouted the child.
Shannow slipped his pistols into his hands and knocked out the barrel wedges, sliding the cylinders from the weapons and replacing them with two fully loaded cylinders from his coat pocket. He fumbled the wedges into place and sheathed the pistols.
'Let them come,' he said.
'No. Many Carns.' The boy's fingers flashed before Shannow's face. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty…
'I get the message, lad. Help me up.' The boy did his best, but Shannow was a tall man and the two made slow progress into the woods. Angry yells and cries pierced the stillness and he could hear the sounds of many men crashing through the undergrowth. He tried to move faster but fell, dragging the child with him. Forcing himself to his feet, he stumbled on. A blue- and yellow-smeared body lunged through the bushes and Shannow's right hand dropped and rose, the pistol bucking in his hand. The warrior vanished back into the undergrowth. The boy ran on ahead and unhobbled Shannow's horse, leaping into the saddle. Shannow staggered forward, caught hold of the pommel and managed to step into the saddle behind the child.
Three men burst into view and the horse swerved and took off at a run. Shannow swayed in the saddle, but the boy reached back and grabbed him; he managed to sheathe his pistol and then darkness overtook him. He fell forward against the boy as the horse raced on towards the west.
The child risked a glance behind him. The Carns had given up the chase and were heading back into the trees. The boy slowed the gelding and hooked his fingers into Shannow's belt, holding him upright.
It was not easy, but Selah was strong and he owed this man his life.
Donna Taybard screamed once and sat up. Eric hauled on the reins and kicked the brake and the wagon stopped. The boy climbed over the back-rest and scrambled across the bulging food sacks to where his mother sat sobbing.
'What is it, Mother?' he cried.
Donna took a deep breath. 'Shannow,' she said. 'Oh my poor Jon.'
Con Griffin rode alongside and dismounted. He said nothing, but climbed into the wagon to kneel beside the weeping woman. Looking up into his powerful face, she saw the concern etched there.
'He is dead.'
'You were dreaming, Fray Taybard.'
'No. He rescued two children from the savages and now he is buried, deep in the ground.'
'A dream,' insisted Griffin, placing a huge hand on her shoulder.
'You don't understand, Mr Griffin. It is a Talent I have. We are going to a place where there are two lakes; it is surrounded by pine trees. There is a tribe who paint their bodies yellow and blue.
Shannow killed many of them and escaped with a child. Now he is dead. Believe me!'
'You are an Esper, Donna?'
'Yes… no. I can always see those close to me. Shannow is buried.'
Griffin patted her shoulder and stepped down from the wagon.
'What's happening, Con?' shouted Ethan Peacock. 'Why are we stopping?'
'Fray Taybard is unwell. We'll move on now,' he answered. Turning to Eric, he said, 'Leave her now, lad and get the oxen moving.' He stepped into the saddle and rode back along the convoy to his own wagons.
'What was the hold-up?' Burke asked him.
'It's nothing, Jim. Pass me my pistols.'
Burke clambered back into the wagon and opened a brass-edged walnut box. Within were two engraved double-barrelled flintlock pistols. Burke primed them both with powder from a bone horn and gathered the saddle holsters from a hook on the wagon wall.
Con Griffin slung the holsters across his pommel and thrust the pistols home. Touching his heel to the chestnut, he cantered back to Madden's wagon.
'Trouble?' queried the bearded fanner and Griffin nodded.
'Leave your son to take the reins and join me at the head.' Griffin swung his horse and rode back to the lead wagon. If Donna Taybard was right his convoy was in deep trouble. He cursed, for he knew without doubt that she would be proved correct.
Madden joined him within minutes, riding a slate-grey gelding of seventeen hands. A tall thin, angular man with a close-cropped black beard but no moustache, his mouth was a thin hard line and his eyes dark and deep-set. He carried a long rifle cradled in his left arm, and by his side was a bone-handled hunting knife.
Griffin told him of Donna's fear.
'You think she's right?'
'Has to be. Cardigan's diary spoke of the blue and yellow stripes.'
'What do we do?'
'We have no choice, Jacob. The animals need grass and rest — we must go in.'
The farmer nodded. 'Any idea how big a tribe?'
'No.'
'I don't like it, but I'm with you.'
'Alert all families — tell them to prime weapons.'
The wagons moved on and by late afternoon came to the end of the lava sand. The oxen, smelling water ahead, surged into the traces and the convoy picked up speed.
'Hold them back!' yelled Griffin, and drivers kicked hard on the brakes but to little avail. The wagons crested a green slope and spread out as they lurched and rumbled for the river below, and the wide lakes opening beside it. Griffin cantered alongside the leading wagon scanning the long grass for movement.
As the first wagon reached the water, a blue- and yellow-streaked body leapt to the driver's seat, plunging a flint dagger into Aaron Phelps' fleshy shoulder. The scholar lashed out and the attacker lost his balance and fell.
Suddenly warriors were all around them and Griffin pulled his pistols clear and cocked them. A man ran at him carrying a club. Griffin shot into his body and kicked his horse into a run.
Madden's long rifle boomed and a tribesman fell with a broken spine. Then the other guns opened up and the warriors fled.
Griffin joined Madden at the rear of the convoy.
'What do you think, Jacob?'
'I think they'll be back. Let's fill the barrels and move on to open ground.'
Two wagoners were injured in the brief raid. Aaron Phelps had a deep wound in his right shoulder and Maggie Ames' young son, Mose, had been gashed in the leg by a spear. Four tribesmen were killed outright. Others had been wounded, but had reached the sanctuary of the trees.