Last Guardian

  Shannow pulled the trigger. Webber’s brains mushroomed from his skull, and his body fell back to the earth with dark powder smoke streaming from the blackened mouth.

  “Now you listen to me!” Shannow roared into the stunned silence that followed. “I know many of you brigands. If you are in Pilgrim’s Valley come morning, I will hunt you down and kill you on sight. You may be sitting breaking your fast, or sleeping snug in a warm bed, or quietly playing Carnat with friends. But I will fall upon you with the wrath of God.

  “Those with ears to hear, let them understand. Tomorrow you die.…”

  By David Gemmell

  Published by Del Rey 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

  HERO IN THE SHADOWS

  WHITE WOLF

  THE SWORDS OF NIGHT AND DAY

  THE STONES OF POWER CIRCLE

  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 © 1989 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 1989 by Legend Books, Century Hutchinson Ltd.

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

  www.delreybooks.com

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79743-8

  v3.1

  This novel is

  dedicated with

  love to my children,

  Kathryn and Luke, who

  thankfully are still

  too young to know

  what fine people

  they are.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  1

  SOUTH OF THE PLAGUE LANDS—A.D. 2341

  BUT HE DID not die. The flesh around the bullet wound over his hip froze as the temperature dropped to thirty below zero, and the distant spires of Jerusalem blurred and changed, becoming snow-shrouded pine. Ice had formed on his beard, and his heavy black double-shouldered topcoat glistened white in the moonlight. Shannow swayed in the saddle, trying to focus on the city he had sought for so long, but it was gone. As his horse stumbled, Shannow’s right hand gripped the saddle pommel and the wound in his side flared with fresh pain.

  He turned the black stallion’s head, steering the beast downhill toward the valley.

  Images rushed through his mind: Karitas, Ruth, Donna; the hazardous journey across the Plague Lands and the battles with the Hellborn; the monstrous ghost ship wrecked on a mountain. Guns and gunfire, war and death.

  The blizzard found new life, and the wind whipped freezing snow into Shannow’s face. He could not see where he was heading, and his mind wandered. He knew that life was ebbing from his body with each passing second, but he had neither the strength nor the will to fight on.

  He remembered the farm and his first sight of Donna, standing in the doorway with an ancient crossbow in her hands. She had mistaken Shannow for a brigand and had feared for her life and that of her son, Eric. Shannow had never blamed her for that mistake. He knew what people saw when the Jerusalem Man came riding—a tall, gaunt figure in a flat-crowned leather hat, a man with cold, cold eyes that had seen too much of death and despair. Always it was the same. People would stand and stare at his expressionless face; then their eyes would be drawn down to his guns, the terrible weapons of the Thundermaker.

  Yet Donna Taybard had been different. She had taken Shannow into her hearth and her home, and for the first time in two weary decades the Jerusalem Man had known happiness.

  But then had come the brigands and the warmakers and finally the Hellborn. Shannow had gone against them all for the woman he loved, only to see her wed another.

  Now he was alone again, dying on a frozen mountain in an uncharted wilderness. And strangely, he did not care. The wind howled about horse and man, and Shannow fell forward across the stallion’s neck, lost in the siren song of the blizzard. The horse was mountain-bred; he did not like the howling wind or the biting snow. Now he angled his way through the trees into the lee of a rock face and followed a deer trail down to the mouth of a high lava tunnel that stretched through the ancient volcanic range. It was warmer there, and the stallion plodded on, aware of the dead weight across his back. This disturbed him, for his rider was always in balance and could signal his commands with the slightest pressure or flick of the reins.

  The stallion’s wide nostrils flared as the smell of smoke came to him. He halted and backed up, his iron hooves clattering on the rocky ground. A dark shadow moved in front of him … in panic he reared, and Shannow tumbled from the saddle. A huge taloned hand caught the reins, and the smell of lion filled the tunnel. The stallion tried to rear again, to lash out with iron-shod hooves, but he was held tight and a soft, deep voice whispered to him, a gentle hand stroking his neck. Calmed by the voice, he allowed himself to be led into a deep cave, where a campfire had been set within a circle of round flat stones. He waited calmly as he was tethered to a jutting stone at the far wall; then the figure was gone.

  Outside the cave Shannow groaned and tried to roll to his belly, but he was stricken by pain and deep cold. He opened his eyes to see a hideous face looming over him. Dark hair framed the head and face, and a pair of tawny eyes gazed down at him; the nose was wide and flat, the mouth a deep slash rimmed with sharp fangs. Shannow, unable to move, could only glare at the creature.

  Taloned hands moved under his body, lifting him easily, and he was carried like a child into a cave and laid gently by the fire. The creature fumbled at the ties on Shannow’s coat, but the thick pawlike hands could not cope with the frozen knots. Talons hissed out to sever the leather thongs, and Shannow felt his coat being eased from him. Slowly but with great care the
creature removed his frozen clothing and covered him with a warm blanket. The Jerusalem Man faded into sleep—and his dreams were pain-filled.

  Once more he fought the Guardian lord, Sarento, while the Titanic sailed on a ghostly sea and the Devil walked in Babylon. But this time Shannow could not win, and he struggled to survive as the sea poured into the stricken ship, engulfing him. He could hear the cries of drowning men, women, and children but could not save them. He awoke sweating and tried to sit. Pain ripped at his wounded side, and he groaned and sank back into his fever dreams.

  He was riding toward the mountains when he heard a shot; he rode to the crest of a hill and gazed down on a farmyard where three men were dragging two women from their home. Drawing a pistol, Shannow kicked his stallion into a run and thundered toward the scene. When the men saw him, they flung the women aside and two of them drew flintlocks from their belts; the third ran at him with a knife. He dragged on the reins, and the stallion reared. Shannow timed his first shot well, and a brigand was punched from his feet. The knife man leapt, but Shannow swung in the saddle and fired point-blank, the bullet entering the man’s forehead and exiting from the neck in a bloody spray. The third man loosed a shot that ricocheted from the pommel of Shannow’s saddle to tear into his hip. Ignoring the sudden pain, the Jerusalem Man fired twice. The first shell took the brigand high in the shoulder, spinning him; the second hammered into his skull.

  In the sudden silence Shannow sat his stallion, gazing at the women. The elder of the two approached him, and he could see the fear in her eyes. Blood was seeping from his wound and dripping to the saddle, but he sat upright as she neared.

  “What do you want of us?” she asked.

  “Nothing, lady, save to help you.”

  “Well,” she said, her eyes hard, “you have done that, and we thank you.” She backed away, still staring at him. He knew she could see the blood, but he could not—would not—beg for aid.

  “Good day to you,” he said, swinging the stallion and heading away.

  The younger girl ran after him. She was blond and pretty, and her face was leathered by the sunlight and the hardship of wilderness farming. She gazed up at him with large blue eyes.

  “I am sorry,” she told him. “My mother distrusts all men. I am so sorry.”

  “Get away from him, girl!” shouted the older woman, and she fell back.

  Shannow nodded. “She probably has good reason,” he said. “I am sorry I cannot stay and help you bury these vermin.”

  “You are wounded. Let me help you.”

  “No. There is a city near here, I am sure. It has white spires and gates of burnished gold. There they will tend me.”

  “There are no cities,” she said.

  “I will find it.” He touched his heels to the stallion’s flanks and rode from the farmyard.

  A hand touched him, and he awoke. The bestial face was leaning over him.

  “How are you feeling?” The voice was deep and slow and slurred, and the question had to be repeated twice before Shannow could understand it.

  “I am alive thanks to you. Who are you?”

  The creature’s great head tilted. “Good. Usually the question is, What are you. My name is Shir-ran. You are a strong man to live so long with such a wound.”

  “The ball passed through me,” said Shannow. “Can you help me sit up?”

  “No. Lie there. I have stitched the wounds front and back, but my fingers are not what they were. Lie still and rest tonight. We will talk in the morning.”

  “My horse?”

  “Safe. He was a little frightened of me, but we understand each other now. I fed him the grain you carried in your saddlebags. Sleep, man.”

  Shannow relaxed and moved his hand under the blankets to rest on the wound over his right hip. He could feel the tightness of the stitches and the clumsy knots. There was no bleeding, but he was worried about the fibers from his coat that had been driven into his flesh. It was these that killed more often than ball or shell, aiding gangrene and poisoning the blood.

  “It is a good wound,” said Shir-ran softly, as if reading his mind. “The issue of blood cleansed it, I think. But here in the mountains wounds heal well. The air is clean. Bacteria find it hard to survive at thirty below.”

  “Bacteria?” whispered Shannow, his eyes closing.

  “Germs … the filth that causes wounds to fester.”

  “I see. Thank you, Shir-ran.”

  And Shannow slept without dreams.

  Shannow awoke hungry and eased himself to a sitting position. The fire was burning brightly, and he could see a large store of wood stacked against the far wall. Gazing around the cave, he saw that it was some fifty feet across at the widest point and that the high domed ceiling was pitted with fissures through which the smoke from the fire drifted lazily. Beside Shannow’s blankets were his water canteen, his leather-bound Bible, and his guns, still sheathed in their oiled leather scabbards. Taking the canteen, he pulled clear the brass-topped cork and drank deeply. Then, in the bright firelight, he examined the bullet wound in his hip; the flesh around it was angry, bruised, and inflamed, but it looked clean and there was no bleeding. Slowly and carefully he stood, scanning the cave for his clothes. They were dry and casually folded atop a boulder on the other side of the fire. Dried blood still caked the white woolen shirt, but he slipped it on and climbed into his black woolen trousers. He could not buckle his belt on the usual notch, for the leather bit into his wound, bringing a grunt of pain. Still, he felt more human now that he was clothed. He pulled on socks and high riding boots and walked to where his stallion was tethered at the far wall. Shannow stroked his neck, and the horse dropped his head and nuzzled him in the chest. “Careful, boy, I’m still tender.” He half filled the feed bag with grain and settled it over the stallion’s head. Of Shir-ran there was no sign.

  Near the wood store was a bank of rough-hewn shelves. Some carried books, others small sacks of salt, sugar, dried fruit, and meat. Shannow ate some of the fruit and returned to the fire. The cave was warm, and he lay back in his blankets and took up his guns, cleaning them with care. Both were Hellborn pistols, single- or double-action side-feed weapons. He opened his saddlebag and checked his shells. He still had forty-seven, but when they were gone, the beautifully balanced pistols would be useless. Delving deep into the saddlebag, he found his own guns, cap and ball percussion pistols that had served him well for twenty years. For these he could make his own powder and mold ammunition. Having cleaned them, he wrapped them in oilskin and returned them to the depths of the saddlebag. Only then did he take up his Bible.

  It was a well-thumbed book, the pages thin and gold-edged, the leather cover as supple as silk. He banked up the fire and opened the pages at the Book of Habbakuk. He read the section aloud, his voice deep and resonant.

  “How long, O Lord, must I call for help, but you do not listen? Or cry out to you, ‘Violence,’ but you do not save? Why do you make me look at injustice? Why do you tolerate wrong? Destruction and violence are before me, there is strife, and conflict abounds. Therefore the law is paralyzed and justice never prevails. The wicked hem in the righteous so that justice is perverted.”

  “And how does your god answer, Jon Shannow?” asked Shir-ran.

  “In his own way,” Shannow answered. “How is it you know my name?”

  The huge creature ambled forward, his great shoulders bowed under the weight of the enormous head. He sank to the floor by the fire, and Shannow noticed that his breathing was ragged. A thin trickle of blood could be seen coming from his right ear, matting the dark hair of his mane. “Are you hurt?” asked Shannow.

  “No. It is the Change, that is all. You found food?”

  “Yes. Some dried fruit in crystallized honey. It was good.”

  “Take it all. I can no longer stomach it. How is your wound?”

  “Healing well, as you promised. You seem in pain, Shir-ran. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Nothing, Shannow, save pe
rhaps to offer me a little company.”

  “That will be a pleasure. It is too long since I sat by a fire, secure and at peace. Tell me how you know me.”

  “Of you, Shannow. The Dark Lady speaks of you—and your deeds against the Hellborn. You are a strong man. A brave friend, I think.”

  “Who is this Dark Lady?” countered Shannow, uncomfortable with the compliments.

  “She is who she is, dark and beautiful. She labors among the Dianae—my people—and the Wolvers. The Bears will not receive her, for their humanity is all gone. They are beasts—now and forever. I am tired, Shannow. I will rest … sleep.” He settled down on his belly, taloned hands supporting his head. His tawny eyes closed and then opened. “If … when … you can no longer understand me, then saddle your stallion and ride on. You understand?”

  “No,” replied Shannow.

  “You will,” said Shir-ran.

  Shannow ate some more fruit and returned to his Bible; Habbakuk had long been a favorite. Short and bittersweet were his words, but they echoed the doubts and the fears in Shannow’s heart and, by reflecting them, calmed them.

  For three days Shannow sat with Shir-ran, but although they talked often, the Jerusalem Man learned little of the Dianae. What meager information the creature did impart told Shannow of a land where men were slowly changing into beasts. There were the people of the Lion, the Wolf, and the Bear. The Bears were finished, their culture gone. The Wolvers were dying out. Only the Lion people remained. Shir-ran spoke of the beauty of life, of its pains and its glories, and Shannow began to realize that the great creature was dying. They did not speak of it, but day by day Shir-ran’s body changed, swelling, twisting, until he could not stand upright. Blood flowed from both ears now, and his speech was ever more slurred. At night in his sleep he would growl.

  On the fourth morning Shannow awoke to hear his stallion whinnying in terror. He rolled from his bed, his hand sweeping out and gathering a pistol. Shir-ran was crouched before the horse, his head swaying.

  “What is wrong?” called Shannow.

  Shir-ran swung, and Shannow found himself staring into the tawny eyes of a huge lion. It advanced on him in a rush and leapt, but Shannow hurled himself to his right, hitting the ground hard. Pain lanced his side, but he swiveled as the lion surged at him, its roaring filling the cave.