'What does it mean, then?' Selah asked.

'I think it means that there is good in all men. Yet you have added a fresh twist to the parable, for you have rescued the Samaritan. I hope you do not come to regret it.'

'What is the Book?'

'It is the history of a people long dead, and it is the Word of G.o.d through the ages.'

'Does it give you peace, Shannow?'

'No, it torments me.'

'Does it give you power?'

'No, it weakens me.'

Then why do you read it?'

'Because without it there is nothing but a meaningless existence of pain and sorrow, ending in death. For what would we strive?'

'To be happy, Shannow. To raise children and know joy.'

'There has been very little joy in my life, Selah. But one day soon I will taste it again.'

'Through your G.o.d?'

'No - through my woman.'

Batik lay back, feeling the pull of the st.i.tches and the weakness he knew came from loss of blood. He had no idea why the boy wanted him saved, nor why the man had agreed to it.

And yet he lived, and that was enough for now. His horse had reared when the lion roared and Batik had managed just one shot as it leapt. The shot had creased its side and then he had been catapulted from the saddle. He could not remember drawing his knife, but he recalled with brilliant clarity the arrival of the hard-eyed man on the steeldust gelding, and he had registered even as the gun was aimed that it was a h.e.l.lborn pistol.

Now, as he lay under the stars, it was no great work of the intellect to come up with the obvious answer: the man had been one of those who attacked Cabrik's Feasters some weeks back, killing over eighty young men in a single night . . . Which made his acquiescence in allowing Batik to live all the more curious.

While he was thinking, the boy Selah approached him. 'How are your wounds?'

'You did well. They will heal.'

'I am preparing some broth. It will help make more blood for you.'

'Why? Why do you do this for me?'

Selah shrugged, unwilling to enter debate.

'I was not in the attack on your village,' said Batik, 'though I easily could have been.'

Then you tell me, h.e.l.lborn, why they wanted to kill my people?'

'Our priests could answer that better than I. We are the Chosen people. We are ordered to inhabit the lands and kill every man, woman and child we find. The priests say that this is to ensure the purity of our faith.'

'How can a babe in arms affect your faith?'

'I don't know. Truly. I never killed a babe or a child, though I saw it done. Ask our priests when you meet one.'

'It is a savagery beyond my understanding,' Selah said.

'My name is Batik,' said the man. 'And you?'

'Selah.'

'And your friend?'

'He is Shannow, the Thunder-maker.'

'Shannow. I have heard the name.'

'He is a great soul and a mighty warrior. He slew many of your people.'

'And now he is hunted in turn.'

'By you?'

'No,' said Batik. 'But the Lord Abaddon has declared him Unholy, and that means he must burn. Already the Zealots are riding - and they have great powers; they will find him.'

'When they do, Batik, he will slay them.'

Batik smiled. 'He is not a G.o.d, Selah. The Zealots will bring him down, even as they brought me down.'

'You are hunted?'

'I need some sleep. We will talk tomorrow.'

Batik awoke early, the pain from his wounds pulling him from a troubled sleep. Overhead the sky was clear and a black crow circled, banking and wheeling. He sat up, wincing as the st.i.tches pulled at the wound to his face. Shannow was awake, sitting still in the dawn light and reading from a leather-covered book with gold-trimmed pages. Batik saw the tension in the man, and the way that his right hand rested barely inches from the pistol which lay beside him on the rock. Batik resisted the urge to smile; the st.i.tches were too painful.

'You are awake early,' he said, lifting the blankets from his legs.

Shannow slowly closed the book and turned. His eyes met Batik's and the look was glacial.

Batik's face hardened.

'I was hoping,' said Shannow tonelessly, 'that you would die in the night.' .

Batik nodded. 'Before we enter into a prolonged debate on your views, perhaps you would care to know that we are being watched, and that within a short time we will be hunted.'

There is no one watching us,' said Shannow. 'I scouted earlier.'

Batik smiled, in spite of the pain. 'You have no conception, Shannow, of the nature of the hunters. We are not talking about mere men. Those who hunt us are the Zealots and they ride under the name of the Hounds of h.e.l.l. If you look up, you will see a crow. It does not land, nor scavenge for food; it merely circles us, directing those that follow.

'The lion yesterday was possessed by a Zealot. It is a talent they have; it is why they are deadly.'

'Why would you warn me?' asked Shannow, flicking his eyes to take in the crow's flight.

'Because they are hunting me also.'

'Why should they?'

'I am not religious, Shannow, and I tried to ruin the midwinter offering. But all that is past.

Just accept that I am- as you - an enemy to the Zealots.'

Selah groaned and sat up. On a rock, a reptilean creature with slavering jaws sat over the body of Shannow. Selah drew his pistol and c.o.c.ked it. The monster's eyes turned on him, red as blood, as he pointed the pistol.

'What are you doing?' asked Shannow.

Selah blinked as the image shifted and blurred. His finger tightened on the trigger, but at the last second he twisted the barrel. The shot echoed in the hills and a sh.e.l.l whistled past Shannow's ear. Selah eared back the hammer for a second shot, but Batik had moved behind him. With a swift chop to the neck with the blade of his hand, Batik stunned the boy and retrieved the pistol.

Shannow had not moved. 'Is he all right?' he asked.

'Yes. The Zealots work well with the young, their minds are more malleable.'

Shannow drew his pistol and c.o.c.ked it and Batik froze. The Jerusalem Man tipped back his head, his arm lifted and he fired. The crow exploded in a burst of flesh and feathers.

Shannow opened the pistol's breech, removed the spent casing and reloaded the weapon.

Then he walked to Selah, kneeling by him and turning him over. The boy's eyelids fluttered and opened; he saw Shannow and jerked.

'You are dead!' he said, struggling to rise.

'Lie still, boy. I am fine.'

'I saw a monster over your body. I tried to scare it away.'

There was no monster.' Shannow tried to explain, but the boy could not comprehend and Batik stepped in.

'It was magic, Selah. You were fooled by the hunters.'

'Magic?'

'Yes. They cast a spell that confused your eyes. It is unlikely they will try again through you - but they may. Be wary, and shoot at nothing.' He handed the pistol to the boy and then sagged back on the ground, his face gleaming with sweat.

Shannow watched him closely. 'You are a powerful man,' he said, 'but you lost a lot of blood. You need rest.'

'We cannot stay here,' said Batik.

'From which direction will they be coming?' asked Shannow.

'North-east,' said Batik. 'But do not go up against them, Shannow.'

'It is my way. How many are there?'

Batik shrugged. 'There could be six, or sixty. Whatever, they will travel in multiples of six; it is a mystic number.'

'Stay here and rest. I will return.'

Shannow walked to his saddle and hefted it, making his way towards the steeldust gelding which was hobbled some thirty feet from the camp. As Shannow approached he saw horse- flies settling on the gelding's hind quarters, yet the animal's tail was still. Shannow slowed his walk and the gelding dipped its head and watched him. Shannow approached the beast from the left and laid the saddle on its back, stooping to tighten the cinch. The gelding did not move and Shannow was sweating now. Gripping the bridle tightly in his right hand, he loosed the slip-knot hobbling the horse. As the rope fell away the gelding bunched its muscles to rear and Shannow grabbed the pommel and vaulted into the saddle. The gelding reared up and set off at a dead run, but Shannow manoeuvred his "feet into the stirrups and held on. The gelding stopped and bucked furiously, bus Shannow wrenched its head back towards the camp. Suddenly the horse rolled over; Shannow leapt from the saddle and, as the beast came upright, mounted swiftly.

At the camp Batik watched in admiration as the clash of wills continued. The horse bucked, jumped, twisted and rolled time and again, but always Shannow held on. As suddenly as it had started it was over and the gelding stopped, its head down and steam billowing from its nostrils. Shannow walked it back to the camp and dismounted, hobbling the animal once more. He unsaddled the beast and wiped it down, then stroked its neck and ears.

Hefting his saddle, he made his way to Selah's horse and without drama, saddled it and headed north-east.

Batik relaxed as Shannow crested the hill, and lay back on the gra.s.s.

'Whatever else, he is a fine rider.'

'He is the Thunder-maker,' said Selah with pride. 'He will return.'

'It would be pleasant to think so,' replied Batik, 'but he has never come up against the Zealots. I have seen their handiwork, and I am under no illusion as to their skill.'

Selah smiled and moved to the deer meat, hacking slices for the morning stew. Batik, he thought, was a clever man. But he had never seen Shannow in action.

Six miles to the north-east, a small group of riders drew rein and studied the hills ahead.

The leader - a slender young man, hawk-nosed and dark-eyed - turned to his companion.

'Are you recovered?' he asked.

'Yes, Donai, but I am exhausted. How could he remain in the saddle? I all but killed the horse.'

'He rides well. I wish I knew more about him, and his connection with Batik.' Donai swivelled in the saddle, his gaze resting on the two corpses draped across their horses'

backs. Xenon had possessed the lion, Cheros the crow. Both had been slain by the long- haired rider.

Donai dismounted. 'I will seek guidance,' he said. The other three riders sat in silence as their leader knelt on the gra.s.s with a round red-gold stone cupped in his hands. For some time he remained motionless. Then he rose.

'Achnazzar says that the man is Shannow, the Jerusalem Seeker. He is sending more men and we are to wait here.'

The men dismounted and removed their cloaks of black leather and their dark helms.

'Which six are they sending?' asked Parin, the youngest of the riders.

'They are sending six sections; I did not ask which,' replied Donai.

'Thirty-six men!' queried Parin. 'To tackle two men and a boy?'

'You wish to question Achnazzar's judgement?' asked Donai softly.

'No,' replied Parin swiftly.

'No,' agreed Donai, 'that is very wise. The man Shannow is a Great Evil and always there is strength in that. He is Unholy, and a servant of the old dark G.o.d. He must be destroyed.