Samuel Archer was not a religious man. If there was a G.o.d, he had long ago decided, he was either wilful or incompetent. Perhaps both. Yet Sam stood now on the crest of the hill and prayed. Not for himself, though survival would be more than pleasant, but for the last survivors of those who had followed him in the War against the Bloodstone. Behind him were the remaining rebels, twenty-two in all, counting the women. Before and below them on the plain were the h.e.l.lborn elite.

Two hundred warriors, their skills enhanced by the demonseeds embedded in their foreheads. Killers all! Sam glanced around him. The rebels had picked a fine setting for their last stand, high above the plain, the tree line and thick undergrowth forming a rough stockade. The h.e.l.lborn would be forced to advance up a steep slope in the face of withering volleys. With enough ammunition we might even have held, thought Sam. He glanced down at the twin ammunition belts draped across his broad chest; there were more empty loops than full. Idly he counted the remaining sh.e.l.ls. From the breast pocket of his torn grey shirt he drew a strip of dried beef, the last of his rations.

There would be no retreat from here, Sam knew. Two hundred yards behind them the mountains fell away into a deep gorge that opened out on to the edge of the Mardikh desert. Even if they could climb down, without horses they would die of thirst long before reaching the distant river.

Sam sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. For four years now he had fought the Bloodstone, gathering fighters, battling against h.e.l.lborn warriors and Devourers. All for nothing. His own small store of Sipstra.s.si was used up now, and without it they could not hope to hold off the killers. An ant crawled on to Sam's hand. He brushed it away.

That's what we are, he thought, ants standing defiantly before an avalanche.

Despair was a potent force, and one which Sam had resisted for most of these four years. It was not hard back at the beginning. The remnants of the Guardians had gathered against Sarento, and won three battles against the h.e.l.lborn. None had proved decisive. Then the Bloodstone had mutated the Wolvers and a new, terrible force was unleashed against the human race. Whole communities fled into the mountains to escape the beasts. The flight meant that the Guardian army, always small, was now without supplies as farming communities disappeared in the face of the Devourers. Ammunition became in short supply, and many fighters left the army in order to travel to their homes in a vain bid to protect their families.

Now twenty-two were left. Tomorrow there would be none.

A young, beautiful olive-skinned woman approached Sam. She was tall and wore two pistols in shoulder holsters over a faded red shirt. Her jet-black hair was drawn tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck. He smiled as he saw her. 'I guess we've come to the end of a long, sorrowful road, Shammy. I'm sorry I brought you to this.'

Shamshad Singh merely shrugged. 'Here or at home . . . what difference? You fight or you die.'

'Or do both,' said Sam wearily. She sat down beside him on the boulder, her short- barrelled shotgun resting on her slim thighs.

'Tell me of a happy time,' she said suddenly.

'Any particular theme?' he asked. 'I've lived for three hundred and fifty-six years, so there is a lot to choose from.'

Tell me about Amaziga.'

He gazed at her fondly. She was in love with him, and had made it plain for the two years she had been with the rebels. Yet Sam had never responded to her overtures. In all his long life there was only one woman who had opened the doors to his soul - and she was dead, shot down by the h.e.l.lborn in the first months of the War.

'You are an extraordinary woman, Shammy. I should have done better by you.'

'Bulls.h.i.t,' she said, with a wide smile. 'Now tell me about Amaziga.'

'Why?'

'Because it always cheers you up. And you need cheering.'

He shook his head. 'It has always struck me as particularly sad that there will come a point in a man's life where he has no second chances. When Napoleon saw his forces in full retreat at Waterloo, he knew there would never be another day when he would march out at the head of a great force. It was over. I always thought that must be hard to take. Now I know that it is. We have fought against a great evil, and we have been unable to defeat it.

And tomorrow we die. It is not a time for happy stories, Shammy.'

'You're wrong,' she said. 'At this moment I can still see the sky, feel the mountain breeze, smell the perfume of the pines. I am alive! And I luxuriate in that fact. Tomorrow is another day, Sam. We'll fight them. Who knows, maybe we'll win? Maybe G.o.d will open up a hole in the sky and send his thunderbolts down upon our enemies.'

He chuckled then. 'Most likely he'd miss and hit us.'

'Don't mock, Sam,' she chided him. 'It is not for us to know what G.o.d intends.'

'It baffles me, after all you've seen, how you can still believe in Him.'

'It baffles me how you can't,' she responded. The sun was dropping low on the horizon, bathing the mountains in crimson and gold.

Down in the valley the h.e.l.lborn had begun their camp-fires, and the sound of raucous songs echoed up in the mountains.

'Jered has scouted the gorge,' said Shamshad. 'The cliff face extends for around four miles.

He thinks some of us could make the descent.'

That's desert down there. We'd have no way of surviving,' said Sam.

'I agree. But it is an option.'

'At least there are no Devourers,' he said, returning his stare to the h.e.l.lborn camp.

'Yes, that is curious,' she replied. They all padded off late yesterday. I wonder where to?'

'I don't care, as long as it's not here,' he told her, with feeling. 'How many sh.e.l.ls do you have?'

'Around thirty. Another twenty for the pistol.'

'I guess it will be enough,' said Sam.

'I guess it will have to be,' she agreed.

Amaziga watched as Gareth lifted the coils of rope from his saddle. The cliff face was sheer and some six hundred feet high, but it rose in a series of three ledges - the first around eighty feet above them, its glistening edge shining silver in the bright moonlight.

'What do you thinly?' asked Amaziga.

Gareth smiled. 'Easy, Mother. Good hand and foot-holds all the way. The only problem area is that high overhang above the top ledge, but I don't doubt I can traverse it. Don't worry. I've soloed climbs that are ten times more difficult than this.' He turned to Shannow. 'I'll go for the first ledge, then lower a rope to you. We'll climb in stages. How is your head for heights, Mr Shannow?'

'I have no fear of heights,' said the Jerusalem Man.

Gareth looped two coils of rope over his head and shoulder and stepped up to the face. The climb was reasonably simple until he reached a point just below the ledge, where the rock was worn away by falling water. He considered traversing to the right, then saw a narrow vertical crack in the face some six feet to his left. Easing his way to it, Gareth pushed his right hand high into the crack, then made a fist, wedging his hand against the rock.

Tensing his arm, he pulled himself up another few feet. There was a good handhold to the left and he hauled himself higher. Releasing the hand-jam hold, he reached over the edge of the ledge and levered himself up. Swinging, he sat on the edge staring down at the small figures below. He waved.

Climbing was always so exhilarating. His first experience of it had been in Europe, in the Triffyn mountains of Wales. Lisa had taught him to climb, shown him friction holds and hand-jams, and he had marvelled at her ability to climb what appeared to be surfaces as smooth as polished marble. He remembered her with great affection, and sometimes wondered why he had left her for Eve.

Lisa wanted marriage, Eve wanted pleasure. The thought was absurd. Are you really so shallow, he wondered? Lisa would have been a fine wife, strong, loyal, supportive. But her love for him had been obsessive and, worse, possessive. Gareth had seen what such love could do, for he had watched his mother and lived with her single-minded determination all his life. I don't want that kind of love, he thought. Not ever!

Pushing such thoughts from his mind, Gareth stood and moved along the ledge. There was no jutting of rock to which he could belay the rope, allowing friction to a.s.sist him in helping Shannow make the climb, but there was a small vertical crack. From his belt he undipped a small claw-like object in shining steel. Pushing it into the crevice, he pulled the k.n.o.b at its centre. The claw flashed open, locking to the walls of the crack. Lifting one coil of rope clear, he slid the end through a ring of steel in the claw and lowered it to the waiting Shannow. Once the Jerusalem Man had begun the climb, Gareth looped the rope across his left shoulder and took in the slack.

But Shannow made the climb without incident and levered himself over the ledge. 'How did you find it?' whispered Gareth.

Shannow shrugged. 'I don't like the look of those clouds,' he replied, keeping his voice low.

Gareth tied the rope to his waist. Shannow was right. The sky was darkening, and they had still a fair way to go.

Lowering the rope once more, Gareth helped his mother make the climb. She was breathing heavily by the time she pushed herself up alongside them.

During the next hour the three climbers inched their way up to the last ledge. They were only forty feet from the top now, but darkness had closed in around them and a light drizzle had begun, making the rock-face slick and greasy. Gareth was worried now. It had not been possible to see from the ground the slight overhang at this point. Climbing it would be difficult at the best of times, but in darkness, with the rain increasing?

For the third time Gareth prowled along the ledge, gazing up, trying to judge the best route. Nothing he could see filled him with encouragement. The rain slowed. He glanced down at the tiny, insect-sized shapes of the hobbled horses. To come this far and not be able to complete his mission - Jesus, Amaziga would never forgive him. He had long known that his mother did not love him, and he accepted her pride in him as a reasonable subst.i.tute. She would -could - never love anyone as she did her husband. That love was all- encompa.s.sing, all-consuming. As a child this had hurt Gareth, but in manhood he had come to understand the complexities and the bewildering brilliance of the woman who had borne him. If her pride was all he could have, then it would have to suffice. He stepped up to the face and reached up for the first hand-hold; it was no more than a groove irUhe rock but fie found a small foot-hold and levered himself up. Friction holds were vital on an overhang, but the young man's fingers were tired now, the rock-face slippery. Gareth's mouth was dry as he struggled to climb another fifteen feet. His foot slipped! He locked the fingers of his right hand to a small jutting section of rock, and swung out over the six- hundred-foot drop. Panic touched him. He was hanging by one hand, and unable to reach a second hold. Worse, he had moved out on to the overhang - and if he fell now he would miss the first ledge. The drop to the second was more than eighty feet... he would be smashed to pulp. Gareth's heart was pounding so hard he could feel the pulse thudding at his temple. Twisting his body, he looked up at the face. There was a small hold around eighteen inches above the tiny jut of rock to .which he clung. Taking a long, deep breath he prepared himself for the surge of effort needed to reach it.

If you miss you will be dislodged! Christ! Don't think like that! But he couldn't help it. His mind flew back to the other Gareth, dead in a crushed jeep.

And he knew he didn't have the courage to make that last effort.

Oh, G.o.d, he thought. I'm going to die here!

Suddenly something pressed hard against the underside of his foot, taking the weight.

Gareth looked down and saw that Shannow had climbed out on to the overhang. Now the two of them were out on the face, and if Gareth fell he would carry the Jerusalem Man to his death.

Shannow's voice drifted up to him, calm and steady. 'I can't hold you like this all night, boy. So I suggest you make a move.'

Gareth lunged up, catching the hold and swinging his foot to a small ridge in the stone.

Above this the holds were infinitely easier and he gratefully hauled himself over the summit.

For a moment he lay back with eyes closed, feeling the rain on his face. Then he sat up, looped the rope over his shoulder and tugged it twice, signalling Shannow to start the climb. The rope went tight. Gareth leaned back to take the strain.

Something cold touched his temple.

It was a pistol . . .

A hand moved into sight. It held a razor-sharp knife, which sliced through the rope.

Shem Jackson was sitting in the front room of his house, his booted feet resting on a table.

His brother, Micah, idly shuffled a pack of dog-eared cards. 'You wanna game, Shem?'

'For what?' responded the older man, lifting a jug of spirit and swigging from it. 'You lost everything you got.'

'You could lend me some,' said Micah, reproachfully.

Shem slammed the jug down on the table-top. 'What the h.e.l.l is the point of that? You play cards when you got money - it's that simple. Can't you get it into your head?'

'Well, what else is there to do?' whined Micah.

'And whose fault is that?' snapped Shem, pushing a dirty hand through his greasy hair.

'She wasn't much to look at, but you had to go and thrash her, didn't you?'

'She asked for it!' replied Micah. 'Called me names.'

'Well, now she's run off. And this time it's for good, I'll bet. You know the trouble with you, Micah? You never know when you're well-off.' Shem stood and stretched his lean frame.

Rain couldn't be far away; his back was beginning to ache. Walking to the window, he stared out at the yard and the moonlit barn beyond. A flash of movement caught his eye and, leaning forward, he rubbed at the grimy gla.s.s. It merely smeared and Shem swore.

'What is it?' asked Micah. Shem shrugged.

'Thought I saw something out by the barn. It was probably nothing.' He squinted, caught a flash of silver-grey fur. 'It's Wolvers,' he said. 'G.o.d d.a.m.n Wolvers!' Striding across the room, he lifted the long rifle down from its pegs over the mantel and, grinning, swung on Micah. 'd.a.m.n sight more fun than playing cards with a loser like you,' he said, pumping a sh.e.l.l into the breech. 'Come on, get your weapon, man, there's hunting to be had.'

Good humour flowed back to him. Little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, he thought. They won't get away this time. No Beth McAdam to save you now!

Stepping to the front door, he wrenched it open and walked out into the moonlight. 'Come on, you little beggars, show yourselves!' he called. The night was quiet, the moon unbearably bright to the eye A hunter's moon! Shem crept forward with gun raised. He heard Micah move out behind him and stumble on the porch. Clumsy son of a b.i.t.c.h!

On open ground now Shem angled to the right, towards the vegetable patch and the corral.

'Show yourselves!' he shouted. 'Old Uncle Shem's got a little present for you!'

Behind him Micah made a gurgling sound, and Shem heard the clump of something striking the ground. Probably his rifle, thought Shem as he turned.

But it was not a rifle. Micah's head bounced twice on the hard-packed earth, the neck completely severed by a savage sweep of a long-taloned hand. Micah's body toppled forward, but Shem was not looking at it. He was staring in paralysed horror at the creature towering before him, its silver fur shining, its eyes golden, a bright red stone embedded in its forehead.

Shem Jackson's rifle came up and he pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed into the creature's chest, sending up a puff of dust. But it didn't go down; it howled and leapt forward, its talons flashing down. Shem felt the blow on his shoulder and staggered back.

The rifle was on the ground. He blinked and then felt a rush of blood from his shoulder.

There was no pain -not even when his arm fell clear, thumping against the ground and draping across his boot.

The Devourer lashed out once more . . .

Shem Jackson's face disappeared.

From the shadows, scores more of the beasts moved forward. Several stopped to feed.

Most loped on towards the sleeping town of Pilgrim's Valley.

CHAPTER TEN.

The greatest folly is to believe that evil can be overcome by reason. Evil is like gravity, a force that is beyond argument.

The Wisdom of the Deacon Chapter xxvii * * *

Jacob Moon was not given to hearing voices. Such gifts were for other men. No visions, no prophecies, no mystic dreams or revelations. Jacob Moon had only one real gift, if such it could be called: he could kill without emotion. So when the voice did come Moon was utterly astonished. He was sitting by his camp-fire in the lee of the Great Wall some twenty miles from Pilgrim's Valley. Having heard nothing from the Apostle Saul, Moon had left Domango and made the long ride across the mountains. A flash flood had diverted him from his course, delaying him, but he was now less than three hours' ride from the town.

His horse was exhausted and Moon made camp beside the Wall.