Gemmell, David - Stones Of Power 5 - Shannow 3 - Bloodstone

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BLOODSTONE

DEDICATION

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.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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 from 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!

FOREWORD

There is something about the character and personality of Jon Shannow that leaves

people loving or loathing him. Sometimes both emotions are aroused simultaneously. It is

hard to pin down the reasons.

There is an iron quality about Jon Shannow that is admirable and worthy in a lone knight

riding through a savage world. The decisions he makes are based solely on what he sees

and experiences. He lives with a code of honour that refuses to allow evil to rage

unchecked. He will always seek to defend the weak against predators.

Offset against this is his capacity for violence, and his certainty that his actions are right.

It is just such certainty that can lead to horrors like the Spanish Inquisition, the butchery

of the Aztecs, the burning at the stake of Catholics and Protestants, and the vileness of the

Holocaust. When ruthless men are certain then the gulags and the concentration camps

follow.

I have tried to present Jon Shannow as a flawed man in a flawed world. There is more to

him than the nature of his deeds, just as I hope there is more to the stories than simple

adventures of good versus evil. The tales have a spiritual centre not based exclusively on

any recognised religion or creed. For me the message is simple, though I know from

conversation and correspondence with fans that the underlying sub-text is very often -

though not always -misunderstood.

But what is of enormous value to me is that Bloodstone sprang from the inter-action

between myself and the readers. For some years the weight of mail was light, and I was

able to respond to every fan who took the trouble to write. Increasing letters meant I

could reply only to first time writers. Now even that has become difficult. But every letter

is read by me, and often the points made will find their way into subsequent stories. This

is especially true of Bloodstone.

The questions from readers that prompted the novel were many. One young fan wrote to

ask whether Shannow was a symbol for the way I thought society should behave, as

Forrest Gump is said to be a symbol for America. Others talked of the nature of legends,

or the lack of a spiritual centre in politics. One wrote saying that, while he enjoyed the

novels, he hated Shannow because he was the epitome of men like the Ayatollah

Khomeini. Can you imagine, he asked, what any society would be like if a man like

Shannow ever had power?

Could I imagine that? Yes I could. Bloodstone is the result and concludes the story of Jon

Shannow.

I do not believe there will be another. Though I don't doubt there's a fan in Liverpool who

knows better.

David A. Gemmell Hastings, 1995614

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 towards 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, warm-hearted 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 towards the future. The sun was setting in glory as we waited for take-off. 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 now, and was hurtling towards 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 a low thundercloud was darkening the sky. But soon would come

the terrible realisation that the sea had risen to meet the sky, and was bearing down upon

them in a seething wall of death.

I turned my eyes away. The plane juddered, then rose and fell, twisting and helpless

against the awesome power of the winds. All of 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 colours 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.

CHAPTER ONE

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 towards 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 smouldering, and a gust of wind

brought a tongue of flame. Fresh pain seared through him and he beat at the cloth with a

smoke-blackened hand.

Where were they now, he thought, pale eyes scanning the moonlit 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 it was filled not with water but with a fiery spirit. He spat 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 timber line 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 now, 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 towards 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-barrelled, the cylinders engraved with swirls of silver. He

shivered and saw that his hands were trembling. How long had it been since these

weapons of death were last 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 upon 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

recognised him, but there was no fear in them. This he found strange, but then he realised

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 upon 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. Wo, 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 heavy-calibre 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 re-

adjusted his position and fired twice, the first bullet ripping through the throat of a lean,

bearded man, 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 towards 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 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 levelled. 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 hip, he turned

the stallion and headed for home. Weariness and pain overtook him then, and he slumped

forward over the horse's neck.

The stallion, with no guidance now from the man, halted. The rider had pointed him

towards 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 to be cracked, but there was no way of being 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 to 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-cock

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 grey-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 come 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, blonde

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 river-bank and three other cook-fires were now 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 dwelt in the shadow 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 river-bank 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 cool 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.

Withdrawing, she lay back . . . and felt the approach of Jeremiah. Smiling, she sat up and

turned towards the old man. 'How is he?' she asked, as Jeremiah eased himself down

beside her.

'Getting stronger. I'd like you to sit with him.' The old man is troubled, but trying to hide

it, she thought. Resisting the urge to flow into his mind, she waited for him to speak

again. 'He is a fighter, perhaps even a brigand. I just don't know. It was our duty to help

him, but the question is: Will he prove a danger to us as he grows stronger? Is he a killer?

Is he wanted by the Crusaders? Could we find ourselves in trouble for harbouring him?

Will you help me?'

'Oh, Jeremiah,' said Isis, softly. 'Of course I will help you. Did you doubt it?'

He reddened. 'I know you don't like to use your talent on people. I'm sorry I had to ask.'

'You're a sweet man,' she said, rising. Dizziness swept over her and she stumbled.

Jeremiah caught her, and she felt swamped by his concern. Slowly strength returned to

her, but the pain had now started in her chest and stomach. Jeremiah lifted her into his

arms and walked back towards the wagons where Dr Meredith ran to them. Jeremiah sat

her down in the wide rocking-chair by the fire, while Meredith took her pulse. ‘I’m all

right now,' she said. 'Truly.'

Meredith's slender hand rested on her brow, and it took all her concentration to blot out

the intensity of his feelings for her. 'I'm all right!'

'And the pain?' he asked.

'Fading,' she lied. 'I just got up too quickly. It is nothing.'

'Get some salt,' Meredith told Jeremiah. When he returned Meredith poured it into her

outstretched palm. 'Eat it,' he commanded.

'It makes me feel sick,' she protested, but he remained silent and she licked the salt from

her hand. Jeremiah passed her a mug of water, and she rinsed her mouth.

'You should rest now,' said Meredith.

'I will, soon,' she promised. Slowly she stood. Her legs took her weight and she thanked

both men. Anxious to be away from their caring glances she moved to Jeremiah's wagon

and climbed inside, where the wounded man was still sleeping.

Isis pulled up a chair and sat down. Her illness was worsening, and she sensed the

imminence of death.

Pushing such thoughts from her mind, she reached out, her small hand resting on the

fingers of the sleeping man. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to fall into his

memories, floating down and down through the layers of manhood and adolescence,

absorbing nothing until she reached childhood.

Two boys, brothers. One shy and sensitive, the other bois-' terous and rough. Caring

parents, farmers. Then the brigands came. Bloodshed and murder, the boys escaping.

Torment and tragedy affecting them both in different ways, the one becoming a brigand,

the other . . .

Isis jerked back to reality, all thoughts of her illness forgotten now as she stared down at

the sleeping man. 'I am staring into the face of a legend,' she thought. Once more she

merged with the man.

The Jerusalem Man, haunted by the past, tormented by thoughts of the future, riding

through the wild lands, seeking. . . a city? Yes, but much more. Seeking an answer,

seeking a reason for being. And during his search stopping to fight brigands, tame towns,

kill the ungodly. Riding endlessly through the lands, welcome only when his guns were

needed, urged to move on when the killing was done.

Isis pulled back once more, dismayed and depressed - not just by the memories of

constant death and battle, but by the anguish of the man himself. The shy, sensitive child

had become the man of violence, feared and shunned, each killing adding yet another

layer of ice upon his soul. Again she merged.

She/he was being attacked, men running from the shadows. Gunfire. A sound behind

her/him. Cocking the pistol Isis/Shannow spun and fired in one motion. A child flung

back, his chest torn open. Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!

Isis clawed her way free of the memory, but did not fully withdraw. Instead she floated

upwards, allowing time to pass, halting only when the Jerusalem Man rode up to the farm

of Donna Taybard. This was different. Here was love.

The wagons were moving, and Isisi/Shannow rode out from them, scouting the land,

heart full of joy and the promise of a better tomorrow. No more savagery and death.

Dreams of farming and quiet companionship. Then came the Hellborn!

Isis withdrew and stood. 'You poor, dear man,' she whispered, brushing her hand over the

sleeping man's brow. 'I'll come back tomorrow.'

Outside the wagon Dr Meredith approached her. 'What did you find out?' he asked.

'He is no danger to us,' she answered.

The young man was tall and slender, a shock of unruly black hair cut short above the ears

but growing long over the nape of his neck. He was riding an old, sway-backed mare up

and over the Gap, and stared with the pleasure of youth at the distant horizons, where the

mountains reared up to challenge the sky. Nestor Garrity was seventeen, and this was an

adventure. The Lord alone knew how rare adventures were in Pilgrim's Valley. His hand

curled round the pistol butt at his hip, and he allowed the fantasies to sweep through his

mind. He was no longer a clerk at the timber company. No, he was a Crusader hunting

the legendary Laton Duke and his band of brigands. It didn't matter that Duke was feared

as the deadliest pistoleer this side of the Plague Lands. For the hunter was Nestor Garrity,

lethal and fast, the bane of war-makers everywhere, adored by women, respected and

admired by men.

Adored by women . . .

Nestor paused in his fantasy, wondering what it would be like to be adored by women.

He'd walked out once with Ezra Feard's daughter, Mary, taken her to the Summer Dance.

She'd led him outside into the moonlight and flirted with him.

'Should have kissed her,' he thought. 'Should have done some damn thing!' He blushed at

the memory. The dance had turned into a nightmare when she walked off with Samuel

Klares. They'd kissed. Nestor saw them down by the creek. Now she was married to him,

and had just delivered her first child.

The old mare almost stumbled on the scree slope. Jerked from his thoughts, Nestor

steered her down the incline.

The fantasies loomed back into his mind. He was no longer Nestor Garrity, the fearless

Crusader, but Jon Shannow, the famed Jerusalem Man, seeking the fabled city, and with

no time for women - much as they adored him. Nestor narrowed his eyes, and lifted his

hat from where it hung at his back. Settling it into place, he turned up the collar of his

coat and sat straighter in the saddle.

Jon Shannow would never slouch. He pictured two brigands riding from behind the

boulders. In his mind's eye he could see the fear on their faces. They went for their guns.

Nestor's hand snapped down. The pistol sight caught on the tip of his holster, twisting the

weapon from his hands. It fell to the scree. Carefully Nestor dismounted and retrieved the

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BLOODSTONEDEDICATIONBloodstoneisdedicatedwithlovetoTimandDorothyLentonforthegiftoffriendship,andforshiningalightonthenarrowwayatatimewhenallIcouldseewasdarkness.ACKNOWLEDGEMENTSMythankstomyeditorsJohnJarroldatRandomandStellaGrahaminHastings,andtomycopyeditorJeanMaund,andtestreaderValGemmell.Iamalsog...

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Gemmell, David - Stones Of Power 5 - Shannow 3 - Bloodstone

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