The first three Apostles had died long before the Unity Wars, killed by the radiation and pestilential chemicals that filled the air of this new world. Then the Deacon had found the Stones, and given the eight survivors one each in order to strengthen their bodies against the poisons in the atmosphere. One each! Saul found his anger rising again, but fought it down. He had used his quite swiftly, not just making himself strong but also handsome.

And why not? He had lived for forty-three years with an ugly face and a short, twisted frame. Did he not deserve a new life? Was he not one of the Chosen?

Then the War had started. He and Alan were given command of two sections of the Jerusalem Riders. Fairfax Hill had been the turning point. But Alan had died, shot to pieces as he neared the summit. Saul had been the first to find the dying man.

'Help me!' Alan had whispered. Two of the shots had shattered his spine, cutting through his belt and separating it from his body. His Stone was in a leather pouch; Saul had pulled it clear. It was almost totally gold, with only the thinnest of black strands. To heal Alan would probably have exhausted it all. Indeed, the wounds were probably too great for his life to be saved. Saul had pocketed the Stone and walked away. When he returned an hour later Alan was dead.

One month later Saul had met Jacob Moon, an old, grizzled former brigand. The man was a killer, and Saul had seen instantly the value of such a man. In giving him back his youth, he made an ally that would take him all the way to power.

Moon had killed the others, one by one. And Saul had gathered the Stones of power. Most were almost dry of magic.

Then only the Deacon was left . . .

Saul dressed and moved down to the ground floor. Moon was sitting at the breakfast table, finishing a meal of bacon and eggs.

'You had a good night, brother Saul,' said Moon, with a sly grin. 'Such noise!'

'What news of the Preacher, Jacob?'

Moon shrugged. 'Be patient. I have men scouring the wild lands for news. I've also sent Witch.e.l.l to Domango. We'll find him.'

'He's a dangerous man.'

'He doesn't even know he's being hunted. That will make him careless.'

Saul poured a mug of fresh milk and was sipping it when he heard the sound of a walking horse in the yard outside. Going to the window, he saw a tall, square-bearded, broad- shouldered man in a long black coat dismount and walk towards the house. Moving to the door, Saul opened it.

'G.o.d's greetings, brother,' he said.

The man nodded. 'G.o.d's greetings to you, brother, and a blessing upon this fine house. I am Padlock Wheeler from Purity. Would you be the Apostle Saul?'

'Come in, brother,' said Saul, stepping aside. He remembered Wheeler as the Deacon's favourite general, a hard-riding martinet who drove his men to the edge of exhaustion and beyond. They followed him because he asked for nothing from them that he did not give himself. After the War, Saul recalled, Wheeler had returned to his own land and become a preacher. The man looked older, and two white streaks made a bright fork in his beard on either side of his chin. Wheeler removed his flat-crowned hat and stepped into the dining- room.

'You looked different the last time I saw you, sir,' said Padlock Wheeler. 'You were thinner, I recall, and with less hair. Even your face seems now more . . . regular.'

Saul was irritated. He didn't like to be reminded of the man he once was - the man he could become again if ever he lost the power of the Stones.

'What brings you so far?' he asked, fighting to remain civil.

'Our Oath Taker has been shot dead,' said Wheeler. 'He was a verminous rascal, and by all accounts deserved his fate. But the man who shot him is a blasphemer and a heretic. You will forgive me, sir, for speaking bluntly, but he claimed to be the Jerusalem Man.'

Moon rose. 'You apprehended him?'

Wheeler glanced at Moon and said nothing, appraising the man. This is the Jerusalem Rider Jacob Moon,' said Saul.

Wheeler nodded, but his dark eyes remained fixed on Moon for a moment. Finally he spoke. 'No, we did not apprehend the man. Our Crusaders followed him, but lost him in the mountains. He appeared to be heading into the wild lands near Domango,'

Saul shook his head, his expression sorrowful. 'You bring dreadful news, brother Wheeler.

But I am sure brother Moon will know what to do.'

'Indeed I do,' said Jacob Moon.

There were many things that twelve-year-old Oswald Hankin did not know, but of one he was sure: There was no G.o.d.

'I'm hungry, Oz,' said his little sister, Esther. 'When can we go home?'

Oz put his arm around the six-year-old's shoulder. 'Hush now, I'm trying to think.'

What could he tell her? She's watched father being shot down, the bullets smashing into his head and chest, the blood exploding from his frame. Oz shut his eyes against the memory, but it remained locked in place in his mind's eye', bleak and harsh, and terribly savage.

He and Esther had been playing in the long gra.s.s when the seven riders had come up to the house. There was no indication of the murder to follow. The sky was clear, the sun bright, and only this morning their father had read to them from an old leather-bound book with gold-edged pages. The tale of Lancelot and Guinevere.

For some reason Oz had decided to remain in the long gra.s.s, though Esther wanted to run out and see the riders close up. His father had walked from the house to greet them. He was wearing a white shirt, and his long fair hair was golden in the sunlight.

'We told ye once,' said the leading rider, a bald man with a black trident beard. 'We'll suffer no pagans around Domango.'

'By what right do you call me a pagan?' his father had replied. 'I do not accept your authority to judge me. I travelled far to buy this land, and where I came from I am well known as a man who loves the church. How can I be at fault here?'

'You were warned to leave,' said the rider. 'What follows be on your own head, pagan.'

'Get off my land!'

They were the last words his father spoke. The leading rider produced a pistol and fired a single shot that hammered into the unarmed man's chest. Father had staggered back.

Then all the men began firing.

'Find the young'uns,' shouted the trident-bearded leader.

Esther was too shocked to cry, but Oswald virtually had to drag her back into the long gra.s.s. They crawled for some way, then cut into the pines and up along the mountain paths to the old cave. It was cold here, and they cowered together for warmth.

What will I do, thought Oz? Where can we go?

'I'm hungry, Oz,' said Esther again. She started to cry. He hugged her and kissed her hair.

'Where's Poppa?'

'He's dead, Esther. They killed him.'

'When will he come for us?'

'He's dead,' repeated Oz wearily. 'Come on, let's walk a little. It'll make you warmer and take your mind off your hunger.'

Taking Esther's hand, he walked to the mouth of the cave and peered out. Nothing moved on the mountain trails, and he listened for the sound of horses. Nothing. Nothing but the wind whispering through the trees.

Leading Esther, he began to walk towards the east, away from his home.

His mother had died back in Unity, just a year after Esther was born. Oz didn't remember much about her, save that she had red hair and a wide, happy smile. His one clear memory was of a picnic by a lake when he had fallen in, and swallowed some water. His mother had hurled herself in after him, dragging him back to the bank. He recalled her red hair, wet and dripping, and her green eyes so full of love and concern.

When she died he had cried a lot, and had asked his father why G.o.d had killed her.

'G.o.d didn't kill her, son. A cancer did that.'

'He's supposed to work miracles,' argued the seven-year-old Oswald.

'And he does, Oz. But they're His miracles. He chooses. Everybody dies. I'll die one day.

It's wrong to blame G.o.d for death. Maybe we should be thanking Him for the gift of what life we have.'

Oz adored his father, and put his lack of faith on hold.

But today he knew the truth. There was no G.o.d - and his father was dead. Murdered.

Esther stumbled over a jutting tree-root, but Oz was holding her hand and hauled her up.

She started to cry again, and refused to go on. Oz sat with her on a fallen tree. He had not'

been this far along the mountain path before, and had no idea where it led. But equally he had nowhere else to go. Behind them the killers would be searching.

After a while Esther calmed down and they walked on, coming to a steep trail that led down into a valley. In the distance Oz could see a house and a barn. He stopped and stared at the house.

What if trident-beard lived there? Or one of the others?

'I'm really very hungry, Oz,' said Esther.

Oz took a deep breath. 'Let's go down then,' he said.

Zerah Wheeler sat in the chair by the fire and thought about her sons. Not as men, but as the children they once had been. Oz Hankin and Esther were asleep now in the wide bed that Zeb had built more than forty years ago, their pain and their loss shrouded in the bliss of sleep. Zerah sighed as she thought of Zachariah. In her mind he was always the laughing child, full of pranks and mischief that no amount of scolding could forbid. Seth and Padlock had always been so serious. Just like me, she thought - gazing at the world through cynical, suspicious eyes, ever wary and watchful.

But not Zak. He gloried in the sunshine or the snow, and gazed about him with a wide- eyed sense of wonder at the beauty of it all. Zerah sniffed and cleared her throat. 'Did you believe them?' she asked her mysterious guest.

He nodded solemnly. 'Children can lie,' he said, 'but not this time. They saw what they saw.'

'I agree,' said Zerah. 'They witnessed a murder. You'll have to ride to Domango and inform the Crusaders. It was their territory. I'll keep the children here with me.'

Jon remained silent for a moment. 'You're a good woman, Frey Wheeler. But what if they come here when I'm gone?'

Zerah's grey eyes took on a frosty gleam. 'Son, I'm a known woman. There have been those who sought to take advantage. I buried them out back. Don't you worry none about this old girl.' She gave him directions to Domango, advising him of various landmarks he should watch out for.

'I'll ride out now,' he said, rising from his chair. 'I thank you for the meal.'

'You don't have to stay so formal, Jon,' she told him. 'I'd look on it kindly if you stopped calling me Frey and started to use my given name.'

He smiled then, and it was good to see, for his eyes seemed less cold. 'As you wish . . .

Zerah. Good night.'

She rose and walked to the door, watching him gather his guns from the hook and stroll to the paddock. And, not for the first time, she wondered who he was. Turning back into the house, she extinguished one of the lamps. Oil was short now, and soon she would have to ride into Domango for supplies. There was a time when the farm had supported three hired men, when cattle had roamed in the pasture lands to the south. But those days were gone now, just like the cattle. Now Zerah Wheeler survived by growing vegetables in the plot out back, and by breeding a few pigs and many chickens.

Twice a year Padlock would visit, arriving in a wagon laden with boxes, tins of peaches canned in Unity, sacks of flour, salt and sugar, and - most precious of all - books. Most of them were Bible studies, printed by the Deacon Press, but occasionally there were gems from the old world. One she had read a score of times, savouring every sentence overhand over. It was the first part of a trilogy. Pad hadn't realised that when he bought it for her; to him it was just an antique tome his mother might enjoy. And she had. At first she had been irritated by the fact that there was no record of any of the other books in the series. But during the last seven years, she had thought and thought about the story, inventing her own endings, and this had given her immense pleasure in the long, lonely evenings.

She heard the soft sounds of sobbing begin in the bedroom and walked swiftly through to sit on the bed alongside the little girl. Esther was crying in her sleep. 'Hush now, child, all is safe. As is well,' she crooned, stroking the child's auburn hair. 'All is safe, all is well,'

Esther murmured, then began sucking at her thumb. Zerah was not a great believer in thumb-sucking, but there was a time and a place for admonishments and this was not it.

'Always wanted a girl-child,' whispered Zerah, still stroking the child's head. Then she saw that Oswald was awake, his eyes wide and fearful. 'Come join me for a gla.s.s of milk,' she said. 'Always have one before sleeping. Move soft now, so as not to wake little Esther.'

Oswald padded out after her. He was a strongly-built boy, reminding her of Seth, with serious eyes and a good jaw. Pouring two gla.s.ses from the stone jug she pa.s.sed one to Oswald, who hunkered down by the dying fire.

'Having trouble sleeping, boy?'

He nodded. 'I dreamed of Poppa. He was walking around the house calling for us. But he was all covered with blood, and his face wasn't there any more.'

'You've seen some hard, hard times, Oz. But you're safe here.'

'They'll come for us. You won't be able to stop them.'

Zerah forced a chuckle. 'Me and Betty will stop them, Oz. Count on it.' She walked to the fire and lifted the long rifle from its rack. 'She fires four shots, and every sh.e.l.l is thicker than your thumb. And I'll tell you a little secret - I ain't missed with this gun for nigh on seventeen years.'

There was more than four of them,' said Oz.

'I'm glad you mentioned that, Oz,' she said, laying aside the rifle and moving to a handsomely carved chest of drawers. From it she produced a small, nickel-plated revolver and a box of sh.e.l.ls. This here pistol belonged to my son, Zak. She's small, but she's got stopping power. It was made by the h.e.l.lborn thirty years ago.' Flipping open the breech she put the pistol on half-c.o.c.k, freeing the cylinder, and fed in five sh.e.l.ls, lowering the hammer on the empty chamber. 'I'm giving this to you, Oz. It is not to play with. This is a gun. It will kill people. You fool with it and it's likely to kill you or your sister. Are you man enough to deal with that?'

'Yes, Frey Wheeler. I am man enough.'

'I didn't doubt it. Now between us, Oz, we're going to look after little Esther. And we're going to see justice done. My man, Jon, is riding now to Domango to report the . . .' She hesitated as she saw the look of anguish in his eyes. To report the crime to the Crusaders.'

Oswald's face twisted then, and his eyes shone. The man who first shot Poppa was a Crusader,' he said.

Zerah's heart sank, but she kept her expression neutral. 'We'll work things out, Oz, you see if we don't. Now you best get back to bed. I'll need you fresh and clear of eye in the morning. Put the pistol by your bedside.'

The boy padded off and Zerah returned to the chest of drawers. From the third drawer she pulled a scabbard and belt, then a short-barrelled pistol. For some time she cleaned the weapon. Then she loaded it.

Despite the dangers Shannow loved night riding. The air was crisp and clean and the world slept. Moonlight gave the trees a shimmering quality, and every rock glistened with silver.

He rode slowly, allowing the horse to pick its way carefully over the trail.

The loss of memory no longer caused him irritation. It would come back or it wouldn't.

What did concern him was the problems such a loss could cause the Jerusalem Man. If his worst enemy of the last twenty years were to ride up in plain sight, Shannow feared he would not recognise the danger.

Then there was the question of ageing. According to Jeremiah, the Jerusalem Man had ridden through the Plague Lands twenty years before, and had then been a man in his late thirties or early forties. That would make him around sixty now. Yet his hair was still dark, his skin virtually unlined.