'As you please, Mr Griffin.'

'Why did you feel the need to tell me?'

'I do not like living a lie.'

'Most men find little difficulty in that respect,' said Griffin. 'But then you are not as most men. I heard of the work you did in Allion.'

'It came to nothing; the Brigands returned once I had gone.'

'That is hardly the point, Mr Shannow.'

'What is?'

'You can only show the way and it is for others to follow the path. In Allion they were stupid; when you have dusted a room, you do not throw away the broom.'

Shannow smiled and Griffin watched him relax. 'Are you a Bookman, Mr Griffin?'

The wagon-master returned the smile and shook his head. 'I tell people I cannot read, but yes, I have studied the Book and there is much sense in it. But I am not a believer, Mr Shannow, and I doubt that Jerusalem exists.'

'A man must look for something in life, even if it is only a non-existent city.'

'You should speak to Peac.o.c.k,' said Griffin. 'He has a thousand sc.r.a.ps of Dark Age remnants. And now that his eyes are fading, he needs help to study them.'

Griffin rose to leave, but Shannow stopped him. 'I want to thank you, Mr Griffin, for making me welcome.'

'It is nothing. I am not a weak man, Mr Shannow. Shadows do not frighten me, nor reputations such as yours. I will leave you with this thought, though: What point is there in seeking Jerusalem? You have a fine wife and a growing son who will need your talents at home, wherever home may lie.'

Shannow said nothing and Griffin wandered back into the firelight. Shannow remained apart, sitting beneath the stars lost in thought. Donna found him there close to midnight and sat beside him, curling her arm around his waist.

'Are you troubled, Jon?'

'No. I was thinking of the past.'

'The Prester used to say, "The past is dead, the future unborn. What we have is the Now, and we abuse it."'

'I have done nothing to deserve you, Lady. But believe me I thank the Lord for you daily.'

'What did Mr Griffin want?' she asked, suddenly embarra.s.sed by the intensity of his words.

'He wants me to scout for him tomorrow.'

'Why you? You do not know this land.'

'Why not me, Donna?'

'Will it be dangerous, do you think?'

'I don't know. Perhaps.'

'd.a.m.n you, Jon. I wish you would learn to lie a little!'

Shannow rode away from the wagons in the hour after dawn and once they were lost to sight behind him he removed the Bible from his saddlebag and allowed it to fall open in his hands. Glancing down, he read: 'Behold I create new heavens and a new earth, and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind.' He closed the book and returned it to his saddlebag.

Ahead of him stretched the black lava sand and he set the gelding off at a canter, angling towards the north.

For weeks now he had sat listening to the petty rows and squabbles of the two scholars, Phelps and Peac.o.c.k, and though he had gleaned some food for thought the two men made him think of the words of Solomon: 'For in much wisdom is much grief, and he that increaseth wisdom increaseth sorrow.'

Last night the two men had argued for more than an hour concerning the word 'train'.

Phelps insisted it was a mechanized Dark Age means of conveyance, while Peac.o.c.k maintained it was merely a generic term to cover a group of vehicles, or wagons in convoy.

Phelps argued that he had once owned a book which explained the mechanics of trains.

Peac.o.c.k responded by showing him an ancient sc.r.a.p of paper that talked of rabbits and cats dressing for dinner with a rat.

'What has that to do with it?' stormed Phelps, his fat face reddening.

'Many books of the Dark Age are not true. They obviously loved to lie - or do you believe in a village of dressed-up rabbits?'

'You old fool!' shouted Phelps. 'It is simple to tell which are fictions. This book on trains was sound.'

'How would you know? Because it was plausible? I saw a painting once of a man wearing a gla.s.s bowl on his head and waving a sword. He was said to be walking on the moon.'

'Another fiction, and it proves nothing,' said Phelps.

And so it went on. Shannow found the whole argument pointless.

Individually both men were persuasive. Phelps maintained that the Dark Age had lasted around a thousand years, in which time science produced many wonders, among them trains and flying craft, and also pistols and superior weapons of war. Peac.o.c.k believed the Dark Age to be less than one hundred years, citing Christ's promise to his disciples that some of them would still be alive when the end came.

'If that promise was not true,' argued Peac.o.c.k, 'then the Bible would have to be dismissed as another Dark Age fiction.'

Shannow instinctively leaned towards Peac.o.c.k's biblical view, but found Phelps to be more open-minded and genuinely inquisitive.

Shannow shook his mind clear of the foggy arguments and concentrated on the trail. Up ahead the lava sand was breaking and he found himself riding up a green slope shaded by trees. At the top he paused and looked down on a verdant valley with glistening streams.

For a long time he sat his horse, studying the land. There was no sign of life, no evidence of human habitation. He rode on warily, coming at last to a deer trail which he followed down to a wide pool of fresh water. The ground around the pool was studded with tracks of all kinds - goats, sheep, deer, buffalo and even the spoor of lions and bears. Near the pool was a tall pine and ten feet up from the ground were the claw-marks which signified the brown bear's territory. Bears were sensible animals; they did not fight each other for territory, they merely marked the trees. When a different bear arrived, he would rear up and try to match the scars. If he could outreach them he would make his mark, and the smaller bear would depart once he had seen his adversary was bigger and stronger. If he could not reach the scars he would amble on in search of new territory. The idea appealed to Shannow. . . but even here a little trickery could be used.

Back in Allion, a very small bear had staked out an enormous territory by coming out of hibernation in the middle of winter and scrambling up the snow banked against the trees, making his mark some three feet higher. Shannow had liked that bear.

He scouted the perimeter of the pool and then took a different route back towards the wagons. At the top of a rise he smelt woodsmoke and paused, searching the surrounding skyline. The wind was easterly and he angled his horse back through the trees, walking him slowly and carefully.

The smell was stronger now and Shannow dismounted and hobbled the gelding - making his way on foot through the thick bushes and shrubs. As he approached a circular clearing he heard the sound of voices and froze. The language was one he had never heard, though certain words seemed familiar. Dropping to his belly, he eased his way forward, waiting for the breeze to rustle the leaves above him and disguise the sound of his movements. After several minutes of soundless crawling he came to the edge of the clearing and squinted through a break in the leaves. Around a large fire sat seven men, near naked, their bodies stained with streaks of blue and yellow dye; by the side of one of the men was a severed human foot. Shannow blinked as sweat stung his eyes. Then a man stood and walked towards him, stopping some yards to his left where, pulling aside a deerskin loin-cloth, he urinated against a tree. Through the gap left by the man, Shannow could see the charred remains of a body spitted above the fire.

Shannow felt his stomach heave and averted his gaze. By the trees on the other side of the clearing two captives were tied together. Both were children of around Eric's age. They were dressed in buckskin tunics adorned with intricate patterns of sh.e.l.ls and their hair was dark and braided. Both children seemed in a state of shock - their eyes wide, their faces blank and uncomprehending. Shannow forced himself to look at the corpse. It was short, and no doubt was another child. Shannow's fury rose and his eyes took on an almost feral gleam.

Desperately Shannow fought to hold the surging anger, but it engulfed him and he pushed himself to his feet, his hands curling around the b.u.t.ts of his pistols. He stepped into sight and the men scrambled to their feet, dragging knives and hatchets from their belts of rope and hide. Shannow's guns came up and then he spoke.

'Thou shall be visited by the Lord of Hosts with thunder and with earthquake and great noise . . .'

He triggered the pistols and two men flew backwards. The other five screamed and charged. One went down with a bullet in the brain, a second fell clutching his belly. A third reached Shannow and the man's hatchet flashed for his head, but Shannow blocked the blow with his right arm and thrust the left-hand pistol under the attacker's chin. The top of his head flowered like a scarlet bloom. A club caught Shannow on the side of the head and he fell awkwardly; his pistol fired, shattering a man's knee. As a knife-blade rose above his face, Shannow rolled and shot the wielder in the chest. The man fell across him, but Shannow pushed the body clear and lurched to his feet. The man with the shattered knee was crawling backwards.

'. . . and great noise, with storm and tempest and the flame of devouring fire.'

The cannibal raised his arms against the pistols, covering his eyes. Shannow fired twice, the sh.e.l.ls smashing through the outstretched hands and into the face beyond, and the man pitched back. Shannow staggered and fell to his knees; his head was pounding and his vision blurred and swam. He took a deep breath, pushing back the nausea that threatened to swamp him. A movement to his right! He pointed his pistol and a child screamed.

'It's all right,' said Shannow groggily. 'I'll not harm you. "Suffer little children to come unto me." Just give me a moment.'

He sat back and felt his head. The skin was split at the temple and blood was drenching his face and shirt. He sheathed his guns and crawled to the children, cutting them free.

The taller of the two sprinted away the moment the ropes were cut, but the other raised a hand and touched Shannow's face where the blood flowed. Shannow tried to smile, but the world spun madly before his eyes.

'Go, boy. You understand? GO!'

Shannow tried to stand, but fell heavily. He crawled for several yards and found himself lying next to a small clear pool of water. Watching his blood drip to the surface and flow away in red ribbons, Shannow chuckled.

'He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.'

The child came to him, tugging at his arm. 'More come!' he said. Shannow squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate.

'More Carns come. You go!' shouted the child.

Shannow slipped his pistols into his hands and knocked out the barrel wedges, sliding the cylinders from the weapons and replacing them with two fully loaded cylinders from his coat pocket. He fumbled the wedges into place and sheathed the pistols.

'Let them come,' he said.

'No. Many Carns.' The boy's fingers flashed before Shannow's face. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty ...

'I get the message, lad. Help me up.' The boy did his best, but Shannow was a tall man and the two made slow progress into the woods. Angry yells and cries pierced the stillness and he could hear the sounds of many men crashing through the undergrowth. He tried to move faster but fell, dragging the child with him. Forcing himself to his feet, he stumbled on. A blue- and yellow-smeared body lunged through the bushes and Shannow's right hand dropped and rose, the pistol bucking in his hand. The warrior vanished back into the undergrowth. The boy ran on ahead and unhobbled Shannow's horse, leaping into the saddle. Shannow staggered forward, caught hold of the pommel and managed to step into the saddle behind the child.

Three men burst into view and the horse swerved and took off at a run. Shannow swayed in the saddle, but the boy reached back and grabbed him; he managed to sheathe his pistol and then darkness overtook him. He fell forward against the boy as the horse raced on towards the west. The child risked a glance behind him. The Carns had given up the chase and were heading back into the trees. The boy slowed the gelding and hooked his fingers into Shannow's belt, holding him upright.

It was not easy, but Selah was strong and he owed this man his life.

Donna Taybard screamed once and sat up. Eric hauled on the reins and kicked the brake and the wagon stopped. The boy climbed over the back-rest and scrambled across the bulging food sacks to where his mother sat sobbing.

'What is it, Mother?' he cried.

Donna took a deep breath. 'Shannow,' she said. 'Oh my poor Jon.'

Con Griffin rode alongside and dismounted. He said nothing, but climbed into the wagon to kneel beside the weeping woman. Looking up into his powerful face, she saw the concern etched there.

'He is dead.'

'You were dreaming, Fray Taybard.'

'No. He rescued two children from the savages and now he is buried, deep in the ground.'

'A dream,' insisted Griffin, placing a huge hand on her shoulder.

'You don't understand, Mr Griffin. It is a Talent I have. We are going to a place where there are two lakes; it is surrounded by pine trees. There is a tribe who paint their bodies yellow and blue. Shannow killed many of them and escaped with a child. Now he is dead. Believe me!'

'You are an Esper, Donna?'

'Yes... no. I can always see those close to me. Shannow is buried.'

Griffin patted her shoulder and stepped down from the wagon.

'What's happening, Con?' shouted Ethan Peac.o.c.k. 'Why are we stopping?'

'Fray Taybard is unwell. We'll move on now,' he answered. Turning to Eric, he said, 'Leave her now, lad and get the oxen moving.' He stepped into the saddle and rode back along the convoy to his own wagons.

'What was the hold-up?' Burke asked him.

'It's nothing, Jim. Pa.s.s me my pistols.'

Burke clambered back into the wagon and opened a bra.s.s-edged walnut box. Within were two engraved double-barrelled flintlock pistols. Burke primed them both with powder from a bone horn and gathered the saddle holsters from a hook on the wagon wall.

Con Griffin slung the holsters across his pommel and thrust the pistols home. Touching his heel to the chestnut, he cantered back to Madden's wagon.

'Trouble?' queried the bearded fanner and Griffin nodded.

'Leave your son to take the reins and join me at the head.' Griffin swung his horse and rode back to the lead wagon. If Donna Taybard was right his convoy was in deep trouble. He cursed, for he knew without doubt that she would be proved correct.

Madden joined him within minutes, riding a slate-grey gelding of seventeen hands. A tall thin, angular man with a close-cropped black beard but no moustache, his mouth was a thin hard line and his eyes dark and deep-set. He carried a long rifle cradled in his left arm, and by his side was a bone-handled hunting knife.

Griffin told him of Donna's fear.

'You think she's right?'

'Has to be. Cardigan's diary spoke of the blue and yellow stripes.'

'What do we do?'

'We have no choice, Jacob. The animals need gra.s.s and rest - we must go in.'

The farmer nodded. 'Any idea how big a tribe?'

'No.'

'I don't like it, but I'm with you.'

'Alert all families - tell them to prime weapons.'

The wagons moved on and by late afternoon came to the end of the lava sand. The oxen, smelling water ahead, surged into the traces and the convoy picked up speed.

'Hold them back!' yelled Griffin, and drivers kicked hard on the brakes but to little avail.

The wagons crested a green slope and spread out as they lurched and rumbled for the river below, and the wide lakes opening beside it. Griffin cantered alongside the leading wagon scanning the long gra.s.s for movement.