Part 101 (1/2)

The Deacon moved on warily, leading the mule and glancing back often at the wounded man. Broome was semi-delirious now, and the man called Jake had lashed his wrists to the pommel of the saddle. The day was bright and clear, and there was no discernible breeze.

The Deacon was thankful for that. The pack was heavy, as was the rifle, and he was mortally tired. The descent into the valley was slow and he paused often, listening, scanning the trees.

Death stalked these mountains now, and he knew the Devourers were fast and lethal. He would have little time to bring the rifle to bear. Every now and then the Deacon glanced at the mule. She was a canny beast and would pick up their scent much faster than he. At the moment she was moving easily, head down, ears up, contentedly following his lead.

With luck they would make Beth McAdam's farm by sunset. But what then?

How do you defeat a G.o.d of blood?

The Deacon didn't know. What he did know was that the pain in his chest was intense, and that his old and weary body was operating at the outer edge of its limits. For the first time in years he was tempted to use the Stone on himself, rejuvenating his ancient muscles, repairing the time-damaged heart.

It would be so good to feel young again, full of energy and purpose, infused with the pa.s.sion and belief of youth. And the speed, he realised. That could be vital.

The mule stopped suddenly, jerking the Deacon back. He swung and saw her head come up, her eyes widen in fear. Slipping the pack from his shoulders, he hefted the rifle and moved back to stand beside the mule's head. 'It's all right, girl,' he said, his voice soft and soothing. 'Steady, now!'

He noticed that an easterly breeze had picked up. The mule had caught the scent of the man-wolves. Leaving the pack where it lay, the Deacon scrambled up behind Broome and kicked the mule into a run. She needed no further encouragement and set off down the slope at breakneck speed. As Broome swayed to his left, the Deacon's left arm caught him, hauling him upright.

The mule thundered on. When a grey shape reared from the right of the trail, the Deacon lifted the rifle like a pistol and loosed a shot which caught the beast high on the shoulder, spinning it. Then the mule was past and on to level ground, racing out into the valley.

They crossed the Gateway at midnight, the air cool, the stars glittering above them, and emerged seconds later into the bright suns.h.i.+ne of an Autumn morning. The stone circle into which they had travelled was almost completely overgrown by dense bush, and the trio were forced to dismount and force a way through to open ground some fifty yards to the left.

Amaziga spoke softly into the microphone. Shannow could not hear the words, but he saw her lift the time-piece on her wrist and make adjustments. She saw him watching her.

'Lucas says it is 8.45 a.m., and we have two days to reach the Mardikh mountains where Sam and his group are holding out. It is forty-two miles from here, but the ground is mostly level.'

Shannow nodded and stepped into the saddle. Gareth rode alongside him. 'I am grateful to you, Mr Shannow,' he said. 'It is not every day that a man is given the opportunity to bring his father back from the dead.'

'As I understand it,' said Shannow, 'he is not your father, merely a man who carries the same face and name.'

'And an identical genetic structure. Why did you come?'

Shannow ignored the question and rode towards the north, Amaziga and Gareth falling in behind. They pushed on through the day, stopping only once to eat a cold meal. The land was vast and empty, the distant blue mountains seeming no nearer. Twice they pa.s.sed deserted homes, and in the distance, towards dusk, Shannow saw a cl.u.s.ter of buildings that had once made up a small town on the eastern slopes of a narrow valley. There was no sign of life, no lanterns burning, no movement.

As the light began to fail Shannow turned off the trail and up into a stand of pine, seeking a place to camp. The land rose sharply, and ahead of them a cliff face ran south to north. A narrow waterfall gushed over basaltic rock, the fading sunlight casting rainbows through the spray and a rippling stream flowing on towards the plain.

Shannow dismounted and loosened the saddle cinch. 'We could make at least another five miles,' said Amaziga but he ignored her, his keen eyes picking up a flash of red in the undergrowth some sixty yards beyond the falls. Leaving the horse with trailing reins, he waded across the narrow stream and climbed the steep bank beyond. Gareth followed him.

'Jesus Christ!' whispered Gareth as he saw the crushed and ruined remains of a red jeep.

'Do not take His name in vain,' said Shannow. 'I do not like profanity.' The jeep was lying on its back, the roof twisted and bent. One door had been ripped clear, and Shannow could see the marks of talons scoring through the red paint and the thin steel beneath. He glanced up. Torn and broken foliage on the cliff above the jeep showed that it had fallen from the cliff-top and bounced several times against sharp outcrops before landing here.

Ducking down, he pulled aside the bracken and peered into the interior. Gareth knelt alongside him.

Inside the jeep was a crushed and twisted body. All that could be seen was an outflung arm, half severed. The arm was black, the blood-soaked s.h.i.+rt sleeve olive-green with a thin grey stripe. Gareth's s.h.i.+rt was identical. 'It's me,' said Gareth. 'It's me!'

Shannow rose and moved to the other side of the wreck.

Glancing down, he saw huge paw-prints in the soft earth, and a trail of dried blood leading into the undergrowth. Drawing a pistol and c.o.c.king it, he followed the trail and twenty yards further on found the remains of a grisly feast. Lying to the left was a small box, twisted, torn wires leading from it. Easing the hammer forward, he holstered his pistol, then he picked up the blood-spattered box and walked back to where Gareth was still staring down at the body.

'Let's go,' said the Jerusalem Man.

'We've got to bury him.'

'No.'

'I can't just leave him there!'

Hearing the anguish in the young man's voice, Shannow moved alongside him, laying a hand on his shoulder. There are hoof-marks around the vehicle, as well as signs of the Devourers. If any of the riders return and find the corpses buried, they will know that others have pa.s.sed this way. You understand? We must leave them as they are.'

Gareth nodded, then his head flicked up. 'Corpses? There is only one, surely?'

Shannow shook his head and showed Gareth the blood-spattered box. 'I don't understand .

. .' the young man whispered.

'Your mother will,' said Shannow, as Amaziga strode to join them. He watched her as she examined the jeep, her face impa.s.sive. Then she saw the box, identical to the one she had strapped to her belt, and her dark eyes met Shannow's gaze.

'Where is her body?' she asked.

There is not much of a body left. The Devourers lived up to their name. A part of the head remains, enough to identify it.'

'Is it safe to remain here?'

'Nowhere in this land is safe, lady. But it offers concealment for the night.'

'I take it the twin of your body is not here, Mr Shannow?'

'No,' he said.

She nodded. Then she chose to undertake the mission without you - obviously a mistake which she paid for dearly.'

Amaziga turned away and returned to the horses as Gareth approached Shannow. That's the closest she'll ever come to saying you were right about the jeep,' said the young man, attempting a smile. 'You're a wise man, Shannow.'

The Jerusalem Man shook his head. 'The wise man was the Jon Shannow who didn't travel with them.'

Gareth took the first watch, a thick blanket round his shoulders against the cool night breeze. He was sitting on a wide branch that must have snapped in a recent storm. The sight of the body in the jeep had unnerved him as nothing else had in his young life. He knew the dead man better than he knew anyone, understood the hopes and dreams and fears the man had entertained or endured. And he couldn't help but wonder what had gone through his twin's mind as the jeep had crashed over the cliff. Despair? Terror? Anger?

Had he been alive after the fall? Had the Devourers forced their way in and torn at his helpless body?

The young black man s.h.i.+vered and glanced to where Shannow slept peacefully beneath a spreading elm. This quest had seemed like an adventure to Gareth Archer, yet another exciting experience in his rich, full young life. The prospect of danger had been enticing.

But to see his own corpse! Death was something that happened to other people . . . not to him. Nervously he glanced across at the ruined jeep.

The night was cold, and he noticed that his hands were trembling. He glanced at his watch: two more hours before he woke his mother. She had seemed unfazed by the tragedy that had befallen their twins and, just for a moment, Gareth found himself envious of her calm.

Amaziga had spread out her blanket, removed the boxes and headphones and pa.s.sed them to her son. 'Lucas's camera has an infra-red capacity,' she said. 'Don't leave it on for long.

We must conserve the batteries. Two minutes every half-hour should be sufficient.' Now she too seemed to be sleeping.