Bloodstone

  Shannow edged to the right to a break in the undergrowth and stepped out onto the walkway some fifteen yards from the Hellborn group. There were five in all, and each held a weapon pointed at his three companions. The Hellborn leader was still speaking. “Tonight we shall be in hell, with servants and women and fine food and drink. Your souls will carry us there.”

  “Why wait for tonight?” asked Shannow.

  The Hellborn swung to face him, and Shannow’s guns thundered. The Hellborn leader was hurled back, his face blown away; another man spun back, his shoulder shattered. Shannow stepped to his right and continued to fire. Only one answering shot came his way; it passed a few feet to his left, smashing into the stone head of a statue demon and shearing away a horn.

  The last echoes faded away. Amaziga was kneeling beside Gareth. “Jesus wept, Shannow!” whispered the young man. “You really are death on wheels …”

  By David Gemmell

  Published by Ballantine Books:

  LION OF MACEDON

  DARK PRINCE

  ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG

  KNIGHTS OF DARK RENOWN

  MORNINGSTAR

  DARK MOON

  IRONHAND’S DAUGHTER

  THE HAWK ETERNAL

  THE DRENAI SAGA

  LEGEND

  THE KING BEYOND THE GATE

  QUEST FOR LOST HEROES

  WAYLANDER

  IN THE REALM OF THE WOLF

  THE FIRST CHRONICLES OF DRUSS THE LEGEND

  THE LEGEND OF DEATHWALKER

  WINTER WARRIORS

  HERO IN THE SHADOWS

  WHITE WOLF

  THE SWORDS OF NIGHT AND DAY

  THE STONES OF POWER CYCLE

  GHOST KING

  LAST SWORD OF POWER

  WOLF IN SHADOW

  THE LAST GUARDIAN

  BLOODSTONE

  THE RIGANTE

  SWORD IN THE STORM

  MIDNIGHT FALCON

  RAVENHEART

  STORMRIDER

  TROY

  LORD OF THE SILVER BOW

  SHIELD OF THUNDER

  FALL OF KINGS

  A Del Rey® Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 1994 by David A. Gemmell

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Great Britain in 1994 by Legend Books, Random House UK Ltd.

  Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  www.delreybooks.com

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 97-91992

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79753-7

  v3.1

  Bloodstone is dedicated with love to Tim and Dorothy Lenton for the gift of friendship and for shining a light on the narrow way at a time when all I could see was darkness.

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to my editors John Jarrold at Random and Stella Graham in Hastings and to my copy editor Jean Maund and test reader Val Gemmell. I am also grateful for the help so freely offered by fellow writers Alan Fisher and Peter Ling. And to the many fans who have written during the years demanding more tales of Jon Shannow—my thanks!

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Trinity

  Prologue

  I HAVE SEEN the fall of worlds and the death of nations. From a place in the clouds I watched the colossal tidal wave sweep toward the coastline, swallowing the cities, drowning the multitudes.

  The day was calm at first, but I knew what was to be. The city by the sea was awakening, its roads choked with vehicles, its sidewalks full, the veins of its subways clotted with humanity.

  The last day was painful, for we had a congregation I had grown to love, peopled with godly folk, warmhearted and generous. It is hard to look down upon a sea of such faces and know that within a day they will be standing before their maker.

  So I felt a great sadness as I walked across to the silver and blue craft that would carry us high toward the future. The sun was setting in glory as we waited for takeoff. I buckled the seat belt and took out my Bible. There was no solace to be found.

  Saul was sitting beside me, gazing from the window. “A beautiful evening, Deacon,” he said.

  Indeed it was. But the winds of change were already stirring.

  We rose smoothly into the air, the pilot informing us that the weather was changing for the worse but that we would reach the Bahamas before the storm. I knew this would not be so.

  Higher and higher we flew, and it was Saul who first saw the portent.

  “How strange,” he said, tapping my arm. “The sun appears to be rising again.”

  “This is the last day, Saul,” I told him.

  Glancing down, I saw that he had unfastened his seat belt. I told him to buckle it. He had just done so when the first of those terrible winds struck the plane, almost flipping it. Cups, books, trays, bags all flew into the air, and there were screams of terror from our fellow passengers.

  Saul’s eyes were squeezed shut in prayer, but I was calm. I leaned to my right and stared from the window. The great wave had lifted and was hurtling toward the coast.

  I thought of the people of the city. There were those who were even now merely observing what they saw to be a miracle, the setting sun rising again. They would smile, perhaps, or clap their hands in wonder. Then their eyes would be drawn to the horizon. At first they would assume that a low thundercloud was darkening the sky. But soon would come the terrible realization that the sea had risen to meet the sky and was bearing down on them in a seething wall of death.

  I turned my eyes away. The plane shuddered, then rose and fell, twisting and helpless against the awesome power of the winds. All the passengers believed that death would soon follow. Except me. I knew.

  I took one last glance from the window. The city looked so small now, its mighty towers seemingly no longer than a child’s finger. Lights shone at the windows of the towers; cars still thronged the freeways.

  And then they were gone.

  Saul opened his eyes, and his terror was very great. “What is happening, Deacon?”

  “The end of the world, Saul.”

  “Are we to die?”

  “No. Not yet. Soon you will see what the Lord has planned for us.”

  Like a straw in a hurricane the plane hurtled through the sky.

  And then the colors came, vivid reds and purples washing over the fuselage, masking the windows. As if we had been swallowed by a rainbow. Then they were gone. Four seconds, perhaps. Yet in those four seconds I alone knew that several hundred years had passed.

  “It has begun, Saul,” I said.

  1

  THE PAIN WAS too great to ignore, and nausea threatened to swamp him as he rode, but the Preacher clung to the saddle and steered the stallion up toward the Gap. The full moon was high in the clear sky, the distant mountain peaks sharp and glistening white against the skyline. The sleeve of the rider’s black coat was still smoldering, and a gust of wind brought a tongue of flame. Fresh pain seared him, and he beat at the cloth with a smoke-blackened hand.

  Where are they now? he thought, pale eyes scanning the moonl
it mountains and the lower passes. His mouth was dry, and he reined in the stallion. A canteen hung from the pommel, and the Preacher hefted it, unscrewing the brass cap. Lifting it to his lips, he found that it was filled not with water but with a fiery spirit. He spit it out and hurled the canteen away.

  Cowards! They needed the dark inspiration of alcohol to aid them on their road to murder. His anger flared, momentarily masking the pain. Far down the mountain, emerging from the timberline, he saw a group of riders. His eyes narrowed. Five men. In the clear air of the mountains he heard the distant sound of laughter.

  The rider groaned and swayed in the saddle, the pounding in his temple increasing. He touched the wound on the right side of his head. The blood was congealing, but there was a groove in the skull where the bullet had struck, and the flesh around it was hot and swollen.

  He felt consciousness slipping from him but fought back, using the power of his rage.

  Tugging the reins, he guided the stallion up through the Gap, then angled it to the right, down the long wooded slope toward the road. The slope was treacherous, and the stallion slipped twice, dropping to its haunches. But the rider kept the animal’s head up, and it righted itself, coming at last to level ground and the hard-packed earth of the trade road.

  The Preacher halted his mount, then looped the reins around the pommel and drew his pistols. Both were long-barreled, the cylinders engraved with swirls of silver. He shivered and saw that his hands were trembling. How long had it been since those weapons of death had last been in use? Fifteen years? Twenty? I swore never to use them again. Never to take another life,

  And you were a fool!

  Love your enemy. Do good to him that hates you.

  And see your loved ones slain.

  If he strikes you upon the right cheek, offer him the left.

  And see your loved ones burn.

  He saw again the roaring flames, heard the screams of the terrified and the dying … Nasha running for the blazing door as the roof timbers cracked and fell on her, Dova kneeling beside the body of her husband, Nolis, her fur ablaze, pulling open the burning door, only to be shot to ribbons by the jeering, drunken men outside …

  The riders came into sight and saw the lone figure waiting for them. It was clear that they recognized him, but there was no fear in them. This he found strange, but then he realized they could not see the pistols, which were hidden by the high pommel of the saddle. Nor could they know the hidden secret of the man who faced them. The riders urged their horses forward, and he waited silently as they approached. All trembling was gone now, and he felt a great calm descend on him.

  “Well, well,” said one of the riders, a huge man wearing a double-shouldered canvas coat. “The Devil looks after his own, eh? You made a bad mistake following us, Preacher. It would have been easier for you to die back there.” The man produced a double-edged knife. “Now I’m going to skin you alive!”

  For a moment he did not reply; then he looked the man in the eyes. “Were they ashamed when they had committed the abomination?” he quoted. “No, they were not ashamed, and could not blush.” The pistol in his right hand came up, the movement smooth, unhurried. For a fraction of a second the huge raider froze, then he scrabbled for his own pistol. It was too late. He did not hear the thunderous roar, for the large-caliber bullet smashed into his skull ahead of the sound and catapulted him from the saddle. The explosion terrified the horses, and all was suddenly chaos. The Preacher’s stallion reared, but he readjusted his position and fired twice, the first bullet ripping through the throat of a lean, bearded man, and the second punching into the back of a rider who had swung his horse in a vain bid to escape the sudden battle. A fourth man took a bullet in the chest and fell screaming to the ground, where he began to crawl toward the low undergrowth at the side of the road. The last raider, managing to control his panicked mount, drew a long pistol and fired; the bullet came close, tugging at the collar of the Preacher’s coat. Twisting in the saddle, he fired his left-hand pistol twice, and his assailant’s face disappeared as the bullets hammered into his head. Riderless horses galloped away into the night, and he surveyed the bodies. Four men were dead; the fifth, wounded in the chest, was still trying to crawl away and was leaving a trail of blood behind him. Nudging the stallion forward, the rider came alongside the crawling man. “I will surely consume them, saith the Lord.” The crawling man rolled over.

  “Jesus Christ, don’t kill me! I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t kill any of them, I swear it!”

  “By their works shall ye judge them,” said the rider.

  The pistol leveled. The man on the ground threw up his hands, crossing them over his face. The bullet tore through his fingers and into his brain.

  “It is over,” said the Preacher. Dropping the pistols into the scabbards at his hips, he turned the stallion and headed for home. Weariness and pain overtook him, and he slumped forward over the horse’s neck.

  The stallion, with no guidance from the man, halted. The rider had pointed him toward the south, but that was not the home the stallion knew. For a while it stood motionless, then it started to walk, heading east and out into the plains.

  It plodded on for more than an hour, then caught the scent of wolves. Shapes moved to the right. The stallion whinnied and reared. The weight fell from its back … and then it galloped away.

  Jeremiah knelt by the sleeping man, examining the wound in the temple. He did not believe the skull was cracked, but there was no way to be sure. The bleeding had stopped, but massive bruising extended up into the hairline and down across the cheekbone almost all the way to the jaw. Jeremiah gazed down at the man’s face. It was lean and angular, the eyes deep-set. The mouth was thin-lipped yet not, Jeremiah considered, cruel.

  There was much to learn about a man by studying his face, Jeremiah knew, as if the experiences of life were mirrored there in code. Perhaps, he thought, every act of weakness or spite, bravery or kindness, made a tiny mark, added a line here and there that could be read like script. Maybe this was God’s way of allowing the holy to perceive wickedness in the handsome. It was a good thought. The sick man’s face was strong, but there was little kindness there, Jeremiah decided, though equally there was no evil. Gently he bathed the head wound, then drew back the blanket. The burns on the man’s arm and shoulder were healing well, though several blisters were still seeping pus.

  Jeremiah turned his attention to the man’s weapons: revolvers made by the Hellborn, single-action pistols. Hefting the first, he drew back the hammer into the half-cocked position, then flipped the release, exposing the cylinder. Two shells had been fired. Jeremiah removed an empty cartridge case and examined it. The weapon was not new. In the years before the Second Satan Wars the Hellborn had produced double-action versions of the revolver with slightly shorter barrels and squat rectangular automatic pistols and rifles that were far more accurate than these pieces. Such weapons had not saved them from annihilation. Jeremiah had seen the destruction of Babylon. The Deacon had ordered it razed, stone by stone, until nothing remained save a flat, barren plain. The old man shivered at the memory.

  The injured man groaned and opened his eyes. Jeremiah felt the coldness of fear as he gazed into them. The eyes were the misty gray-blue of a winter sky, piercing and sharp, as if they could read his soul. “How are you feeling?” he asked, as his heart hammered. The man blinked and tried to sit. “Lie still, my friend. You have been badly wounded.”

  “How did I get here?” The voice was low, the words softly spoken.

  “My people found you on the plains. You fell from your horse. But before that you were in a fire and were shot.”

  The man took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I don’t remember,” he said at last.

  “It happens,” said Jeremiah. “The trauma from the pain of your wounds. Who are you?”

  “I don’t remem …” the man hesitated. “Shannow. I am Jon Shannow.”

  “An infamous name, my friend. Rest now and I will co
me back this evening with some food for you.”

  The injured man opened his eyes and reached out, taking Jeremiah’s arm. “Who are you, friend?”

  “I am Jeremiah. A Wanderer.”

  The wounded man sank back to the bed. “Go and cry in the ears of Jerusalem, Jeremiah,” he whispered, then fell once more into a deep sleep.

  Jeremiah climbed from the back of the wagon, pushing closed the wooden door. Isis had prepared a fire, and he could see her gathering herbs by the riverside, her short, blond hair shining like new gold in the sunlight. He scratched at his white beard and wished he were twenty years younger. The other ten wagons had been drawn up in a half circle around the riverbank, and three other cookfires had been lit. He saw Meredith kneeling by the first, slicing carrots into the pot that hung above it.

  Jeremiah strolled across the grass and hunkered down opposite the lean young academic. “A life under the sun and stars agrees with you, Doctor,” he said amiably.

  Meredith gave a shy smile and pushed back a lock of sandy hair that had fallen into his eyes. “Indeed it does, Meneer Jeremiah. I feel myself growing stronger with each passing day. If more people from the city could see this land, there would be less savagery, I am sure.”

  Jeremiah said nothing and transferred his gaze to the fire. In his experience savagery always dwelled in the shadows of man, and where man walked evil was never far behind. But Meredith was a gentle soul, and it did a young man no harm to nurse gentle dreams.

  “How is the wounded man?” Meredith asked.

  “Recovering, I think, though he claims to remember nothing of the fight that caused his injuries. He says his name is Jon Shannow.”

  Anger shone briefly in Meredith’s eyes. “A curse on that name!” he said.

  Jeremiah shrugged. “It is only a name.”

  Isis knelt by the riverbank and stared down at the long, sleek fish just below the glittering surface of the water. It was a beautiful fish, she thought, reaching out with her mind. Instantly her thoughts blurred, then merged with the fish. She felt the coolness of the water along her flanks and was filled with a haunting restlessness, a need to move, to push against the currents, to swim for home.