Part 41 (1/2)

'No. My father was a farmer and the h.e.l.lborn killed him.'

The world's changing too fast for my liking,' said Simmonds. 'Repeating rifles, boy generals, Brigand prophets and Devil wors.h.i.+ppers from the Plague Lands! I'm too old for this.'

'Can we leave a hundred of your men here?' asked Gambion. Then I'll take you to Cade.'

'Sure. Is your general staying?'

'He is,' said Ja.n.u.s. 'For four more days. Then we make for Sweet.w.a.ter.'

'All right. What happened to your head, Gambion?'

'Horse kicked it.'

'I expect you had to shoot the horse,' said Simmonds.

Shannow and Batik were camped in a shaded spot near a waterfall when Ruth appeared.

Batik dropped his mug of water and leapt backwards, tripping over a rock and sprawling beside the fire. Shannow smiled.

'You must excuse my friend, Ruth. He is very nervous these days.'

'How are you, Batik?' she asked.

'Well, Lady. Yourself?'

She seemed older than when they had last seen her; dark rings circled her eyes and her cheeks were sunken. Her iron-grey hair had lost its sheen and the eyes themselves were listless.

'I am as you see me,' she said softly.

'Are you truly here with us?' asked Shannow.

'I am here and there,' she answered.

'Can you eat? Drink? If you can, you are welcome to share what we have.'

She shook her head and remained silent. Shannow was at a loss and moved to the fire.

Wrapping his hand in a cloth he lifted the small copper pot from the flames and mixed some herbs into the water; then he stirred the tea with a stick before pouring it into a mug.

Batik spread his blankets and removed his boots. Ruth remained statue-still, regarding them both.

'How goes your quest?' she asked and Shannow shrugged, aware that her question was merely the precursor of heavier words. 'What did you make of the Guardians?'

'I liked Archer. Lewis seemed a good man.'

'Who leads them?' she asked.

'You do not know?'

'A long time ago Karitas urged me to respect their privacy.'

'It is a man called Sarento.'

'Did you like him?'

'An odd question, Ruth. What does it matter?'

'It matters, Mr Shannow. For you are a man of Talent. You are a Sensitive and you have not stayed alive this long merely by being skilful with weapons. You have a knack of being in the right place at the right time. You judge men too shrewdly. In a way, your powers in this respect are greater than mine. For mine have been cultivated over the centuries while yours are latent, unchannelled. Did you like him?'

'No.'

'Did you judge him to be ... UnG.o.dly?'

'He reminded me of Abaddon - the same arrogance.'

'And he offered you weapons?'

'Yes.'

'Why did you refuse?'

'War is a vile game, Ruth, and the innocent die along with the guilty. I want nothing to do with the war itself; my only interest is in avenging Donna.'

'Avenging? She is not dead yet.'

Shannow sat very still. 'Truly?'

'Would I lie?'

'No. Can I reach her before they kill her?'

'No, Mr Shannow, but I can.'

'Will you?'

'I am not sure. Something has been troubling me for some time now, and yesterday I made a discovery that frightened me - that rocked all my long-built security. The h.e.l.lborn are not the enemy. We are not dealing with an evil race; they are p.a.w.ns in a game I cannot understand.'

'Are you saying that the h.e.l.lborn are not at war?' asked Shannow, That they are not butchering their way across the continent?'

'Of course not. But why are they doing it?'

'To conquer,' answered Batik. 'Why else?'

'I thought that before yesterday - but believe me, my friends, I have been very stupid. You are a Bible-reading man, Mr Shannow, and you have read of possession. Demons? The h.e.l.lborn are possessed and the power emanates from Abaddon. He is the centre, but even he does not understand the source of his power; he is being used.'

'By the Devil?' said Shannow.

'No... or perhaps yes, in another form. There is a force that I have traced which focuses on Abaddon and is dispersed by him throughout the h.e.l.lborn lands, touching the Blood Stone of every man, woman and child. Quite simply it is hatred, l.u.s.t, greed. It covers the land like an invisible fog and it travels with his armies, bloated like a great slug.'

'It will be gone then when I kill him,' said Shannow.