One day I'll be a Crusader, he thought. I'll serve the Deacon and the Lord. He rode on.

Where was the Preacher? It shouldn't take this long to find him. The tracks were easy to follow to the Gap. But where was he going? Why did he ride out in the first place? Nestor liked the Preacher. He was a quiet man, and throughout Nestor's youth he had treated him with kindness and understanding. Especially when Nestor's parents had been killed that Summer ten years ago. Drowned in a flash flood. Nestor shivered at the memory. Seven years old - and an orphan. Frey McAdam had come to him then, the Preacher with her. He had sat at the bedside and taken Nestor's hand.

'Why did they die?' asked the bewildered child. 'Why did they leave me?'

'I guess it was their time, only they didn't know it.'

'I want to be dead too,' wailed the seven-year-old.

The Preacher had sat with him then, quietly talking about the boy's parents, of their goodness, and their lives. Just for a while the anguish and the numbing sense of loneliness had left Nestor, and he had fallen asleep.

Last night the Preacher had escaped out of the church, despite the flames and the bullets.

And he had run away to hide. Nestor would find him, tell him that everything was all right now and it was safe to come home.

Then he saw the bodies, the flies buzzing around the terrible wounds. Nestor forced himself to dismount and approach them. Sweat broke out on his face, and the desert breeze felt cold upon his skin. He couldn't look directly at them, so he studied the ground for tracks.

One horse had headed back towards Pilgrim's Valley, then turned and walked out into the wild lands. Nestor risked a swift, stomach-churning glance at the dead men. He knew none of them. More importantly, none of them was the Preacher.

Remounting, he set off after the lone horseman.

People were moving on the main street of Pilgrim's Valley as Nestor Garrity rode in, leading the black stallion. It was almost noon and the children were leaving the two school buildings and heading out into the fields to eat the lunches their mothers had packed for them. The stores and the town's three restaurants were open, and the sun was shining down from a clear sky.

But a half-mile to the north smoke still spiralled lazily into the blue. Nestor could see Beth McAdam standing amid the blackened timbers as the undertakers moved around the debris, gathering the charred bodies of the Wolvers. Nestor didn't relish facing Beth with the news. She had been the headmistress of the Lower School when Nestor was a boy, and no one ever enjoyed the thought of being sent to her study. He grinned, remembering the day he had fought with Charlie Wills. They had been dragged apart and then taken to Mrs McAdam; she had stood in front of her desk, tapping her fingers with the three-foot bamboo cane.

'How many should you receive, Nestor?' she had asked him.

'I didn't start the fight,' the boy replied.

That is no answer to my question.'

Nestor thought about it for a moment. 'Four,' he said.

'Why four?'

'Fighting in the yard is four strokes,' he told her. That's the rule.'

'But did you not also take a swing at Mr Carstairs when he dragged you off the hapless Charlie?'

That was a mistake,' said Nestor.

'Such mistakes are costly, boy. It shall be six for you and four for Charlie. Does that sound fair?'

'Nothing is fair when you're thirteen,' said Nestor. But he had accepted the six strokes, three on each hand, and had made no sound.

He rode slowly towards the charred remains of the little' church, the stallion meekly following his bay mare. Beth McAdam was standing with her hands on her ample hips, staring out towards the Wall. Her blonde hair was braided at the back, but a part of the braid had come loose and was fluttering in the wind at her cheek. She turned at the sound of the approaching horse and gazed up at Nestor, her face expressionless. He dismounted and removed his hat.

'I found the raiders,' he said. They was all dead.'

'I expected that,' she said. 'Where is the Preacher?'

'No sign of him. His horse headed east and I caught up with it; there was blood on the saddle. I backtracked and found signs of wolves and bears, but I couldn't find him.'

'He is not dead, Nestor,' she said. 'I would know. I would feel it here,' she told him, hitting her chest with a clenched fist.

'How did he manage to kill five men? They were all armed. All killers. I mean, I never saw the Preacher ever carry a gun.'

'Five men, you say?' she replied, ignoring the question. 'There were more than twenty surrounding the church according to those who saw the ma.s.sacre. But then I expect there were some from our own . . . loving . . . community.'

Nestor had no wish to become involved in the dispute. Wolvers in a church was hardly decent anyhow, and it was no surprise to the youngster that tempers had flared. Even so, if the Crusaders hadn't been called out to a brigand raid on Shem Jackson's farm there would have been no violence.

'Anything more you want me to do, Mrs McAdam?'

She shook her head. 'It was plain murder,' she said. 'Nothing short.'

'You can't murder Wolvers,' said Nestor, without thinking. 'I mean they ain't human, are they? They're animals.'

Anger shone in Beth's eyes, but she merely sniffed and turned aside.

'Thank you, Nestor, for your help. But I expect you have ch.o.r.es to do and I'll not keep you from them.'

Relieved, he turned away and remounted. 'What do you want me to do with this stallion?'

he called.

'Give it to the Crusaders. It wasn't ours and I don't want it.'

Nestor rode away to the stone-built barracks at the south of town, dismounting and hitching both horses to the rail outside. The door was open and Captain Leon Evans was sitting at a rough-built desk.

'Good morning, sir,' said Nestor.

Evans looked up and grinned. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with an easy smile.

'Still looking to sign up, boy?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Been reading your Bible?'

'I have, sir. Every day.'

'I'll put you in for the test on the first of next month. If you pa.s.s I'll make you a cadet.'

'I'll pa.s.s, sir. I promise.'

'You're a good lad, Nestor. I see you found the stallion. Any sign of the Preacher?'

'No, sir. But he killed five of the raiders.'

The smile faded from Captain Evans's face. 'Did he, by G.o.d?' He shook his head. 'As they say, you can't judge a man by the coat he wears. Did you recognise any of the dead men?'

'Not a one, sir. But three of them had their faces shot away. Looks like he just rode down the hill and blasted 'em to h.e.l.l and gone. Five men!'

'Six,' said the Captain. 'I was checking the church this morning, there was a corpse there. It looks like when the fire was at its worst the Preacher managed to smash his way out at the rear. There was a man waiting. The Preacher must have surprised him, there was a fight and the Preacher managed to get the man's gun. Then he killed him and took his horse.

Jack Shale says he saw the Preacher riding from town; said his coat and hair were ablaze.'

Nestor shivered. 'Who'd have thought it?' he said. 'All his sermons were about G.o.d's love and forgiveness. Then he guns down six raiders. Who'd have thought it?'

'I would, boy,' came a voice from the doorway and Nestor turned to see the old prophet making his slow way inside. Leaning on two sticks, his long white beard hanging to his chest, Daniel Cade inched his way to a seat by the wall. He was breathing heavily as he sank to the chair.

Captain Evans stood and filled a mug with water, pa.s.sing it to the prophet. Cade thanked the man.

Nestor faded back to the far wall, but his eyes remained fixed "to the ancient legend sipping the water. Daniel Cade, the former brigand turned prophet, who had fought off the h.e.l.lborn in the Great War. Everyone knew that G.o.d spoke to the old man, and Nestor's parents had been two of the many people saved when Cade's brigands took on the might of the h.e.l.lborn army.

'Who burned the church?' asked Cade, the voice still strong and firm, oddly in contrast to the arthritic and frail body.

'They were raiders from outside Pilgrim's Valley,' the captain told him.

'Not all of them,' said Cade. 'There were townsfolk among the crowd. Shem Jackson was seen. Now that disturbs me - for isn't that why the Crusaders were not here to protect the church? Weren't you called to Jackson's farm?'

'Aye, we were,' said the captain. 'Brigands stole some of his stock and he rode in to alert us.'

'And then stayed on to watch the murders. Curious.' 'I do not condone the burning of the church, sir,' said the captain. 'But it must be remembered that the Preacher was told - repeatedly - that Wolvers were not welcome in Pilgrim's Valley. They are not creatures of G.o.d, not made in his image, nor true creations. They are things of the Devil. They have no place in a church, nor in any habitat of decent folk. The Preacher ignored all warnings. It was inevitable that some . . . tragedy . . . would befall. I can only hope that the Preacher is still alive. It would be sad . . . if a good man - though misguided - were to die.'

'Oh, I reckon he's alive,' said Cade. 'So you'll be taking no action against the townspeople who helped the raiders?'

'I don't believe anyone helped them. They merely observed them.'

Cade nodded. 'Does it not strike you as strange that men from outside Pilgrim's Valley should choose to ride in to lance our boil?'

The work of G.o.d is often mysterious,' said Evans, 'as you yourself well know, sir. But tell me, why were you not surprised that the Preacher should tackle - and destroy - six armed men? He shares your name and it is said he is your nephew, or was once one of your men in the h.e.l.lborn War? If the latter is true, he must have been very young indeed.'

Cade did not smile, but Nestor saw the humour in his eyes. 'He is older than he looks, Captain, and, no, he was never one of my men. Nor is he my nephew - despite his name.'

With a grunt the prophet pushed himself to his feet. Captain Evans took his arm and Nestor ran forward to gather his sticks.

'I'm all right. Don't fuss about me!'

Slowly, and with great dignity, the old man left the room and climbed to the driving seat of a small wagon. Evans and Nestor watched as Cade flicked the reins.

'A great man,' said Evans. 'A legend. He knew the Jerusalem Man. Rode with him, some say.'

'I heard he was the Jerusalem Man,' said Nestor.

Evans shook his head. 'I heard that too. But it is not true. My father knew a man who fought alongside Cade. He was a brigand, a killer. But G.o.d shone the great light upon him.'

The Deacon stood on the wide balcony, his silver-white beard rippling in the morning breeze. From this high vantage point he gazed affectionately out over the high walls and down on the busy streets of Unity. Overhead a bi-plane lumbered across the blue sky, heading east towards the mining settlements, carrying letters and possibly the new Barta notes that were slowly replacing the large silver coins used to pay the miners.

The city was prospering. Crime was low and women could walk without risk, even at night, along the well-lit thoroughfares.

'I've done the best I could,' whispered the old man.

'What's that, Deacon?' asked a slender, round-shouldered man, with wispy white hair.

'Talking to myself, Geoffrey. Not a good sign.' Turning from the balcony he re-entered the study. 'Where were we?'

The thin man lifted a sheet of paper and peered at it. There is a pet.i.tion here asking for mercy for Cameron Sikes. You may recall he's the man who found his wife in bed with a neighbour. He shot them both to death. He is due to hang tomorrow.'

The old man shook his head. 'I feel for him, Geoffrey, but you cannot make exceptions.

Those who murder must die. What else?'

'The Apostle Saul would like to see you before setting off for Pilgrim's Valley.'

'Am I free this afternoon?'

Geoffrey consulted a black, leather-bound diary. 'Four-thirty to five is clear. Shall I arrange it?'

'Yes. I still don't know why he asked for that a.s.signment. Perhaps he is tired of the city. Or perhaps the city is tired of him. What else?'

For half an hour the two men worked through the details of the day, until finally the Deacon called a halt and strolled through to the vast library beyond the study. There were armed guards on the doors, and the Deacon remembered with sadness the young man who had hidden here two years before. The shot had sounded like thunder within the domed building, striking the Deacon just above the right hip and spinning him to the floor. The a.s.sailant had screamed and charged across the huge room, firing as he ran. Bullets ricocheted from the stone floor. The Deacon had rolled over and drawn the small, two-shot pistol from his pocket. As the young man came closer the old man had fired, the bullet striking the a.s.sa.s.sin just above the bridge of the nose. The youngster stood for a moment, his own pistol dropping to the floor. Then he had fallen to his knees, and toppled on to his face.

The Deacon sighed at the memory. The boy's father had been hanged the day before, after shooting a man following an argument over a card game.

Now the library and the munic.i.p.al buildings were patrolled by armed guards.

The Deacon sat at a long oak table and stared at the banks of shelves while he waited for the woman. Sixty-eight thousand books, or fragments of books, cross-indexed; the last remnants of the history of mankind, contained in novels, textbooks, philosophical tomes, instruction manuals, diaries and volumes of poetry. And what have we come to, he thought? A ruined world, b.a.s.t.a.r.dised by science and haunted by magic. His thoughts were dark and sombre, his mind weary. No one is right all the time, he told himself; you can only follow your heart. A guard ushered the woman in. Despite her great age she still walked with a straight back, her face showing more than a trace of the beauty she had possessed as a younger woman.

'Welcome, Frey Masters,' said the Deacon, rising. 'G.o.d's blessing to you, and to your family.' Her hair was silver, the lights from the ornate arched and stained-gla.s.s windows creating soft highlights of gold and red. Her eyes were blue, and startlingly clear. She smiled thinly and accepted his hand, then she sat opposite him.

'G.o.d's greeting to you also, Deacon,' she said. 'And I trust he will allow you to learn compa.s.sion before much longer.'

'Let us hope so,' said the Deacon. 'Now, what is the news?'

The dreams remain the same, only they are more powerful,' she said. 'Betsy saw a man with crimson skin and black veins. His eyes were red. Thousands of corpses lay around him, and he was bathing in the blood of children. Samantha also dreamed of a demon from another world. She was hysterical upon wakening, and claimed that the Devil was about to be loosed upon us. What does it mean, Deacon? Are the visions symbolic?'

'No,' he said sadly. The Beast exists.'

The woman sighed. 'I too have been dreaming more of late. I saw a great wolf, walking upright. Its hands held hollow talons, and I watched as it sank them into a man, saw the blood drawn out of him. The Beast and the Wolf are linked, aren't they?' He nodded, but did not answer. 'And you know far more than you are telling me.'

'Has anyone else dreamed of wolves?' he asked, ignoring the comment.

'Alice has seen visions of them, Deacon,' said Frey Masters. 'She says she saw a crimson light bathing a camp of Wolvers. The little creatures began to writhe and scream; then they changed, becoming beasts like those in my dream.'