He rode for almost three hours, then made camp in a hollow. There was no water near by and Shannow did not bother with a fire but sat with his back to a tree, his blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The head wound gave him no pain now, but the scab itched.

Sitting in the moonlight, he traced over his life in his mind, piecing together tiny fragments as they came to him. I am Jon Shannow.

Then a face leapt to his memory, a thin, angular face with deep brooding eyes. A name came with it: Varey. Varey Shannow. Like a key slipping sweetly into a lock he saw again the brigand-slayer who had taken the young man under his wing. I took his name when he was murdered. And his own name slipped into his mind: Cade. Jon Cade. The name settled on his-mind like water on a parched tongue.

The world had gone mad, preachers everywhere talking of Armageddon. But if Armageddon was true, then the new Jerusalem would exist somewhere. The new Jon Shannow had set out to find it. The journey had been long, with many perils. Varey Shannow had taught him never to back away from evil: 'Confront it wherever you find it, Jon. For it will thrive when men cease to fight it.'

Shannow closed his eyes and remembered the conversations around many camp-fires.

'You are a strong man, Jon, and you have tremendous hand-eye co-ordination. You have speed, and yet you are cool under fire. Use those skills, Jon. This land is full of brigands, men who would lie, steal and kill for gain. They must be fought. For they are evil.'

Shannow smiled at the memory. 'It used to be said that you can't stop a man who keeps on going and knows he's right. It just ain't true, Jon. A bullet will stop any man. But that's not the point. Winning is not the point. If a man only fought when he believed there was a chance to win, then evil would beat him every time. The brigand relies on the fact that when he rides in with his men, all armed to the teeth, the victim will - realising he has no chance - just give in. Trust me, Jon, that's the moment to walk out with guns blazing.'

Just before the fateful day, as the two men rode into the small town, Varey Shannow had turned to the youngster beside him. 'Men will say many things about me when I'm gone.

They could say I got angry too fast. They could say I wasn't none too bright. They'll certainly say that I was an ugly cuss. But no man ever will be able to say that I abused a woman, stole or lied, or backed down in the face of evil. Ain't too bad an epitaph, is it, Jon?'

Varey Shannow had been cut down in his prime, backshot by villains who feared he was hunting them.

Jon Shannow opened his eyes and gazed up at the stars. 'You were a good man, Varey,' he said.

Talking to yourself is a sure sign of madness, they say,' said Jake, 'and I hope you don't fire that pistol.' Shannow eased back the hammer and holstered the gun. At the first sound he had drawn and c.o.c.ked the weapon in one swift, fluid move. Despite the speed of his response, he was nettled by the old man's silent approach.

'A man could be killed approaching a camp that way,' he said.

'True, boy. But I reckoned you weren't the type to shoot before looking.' Jake moved opposite Shannow and hunkered down. 'Cold camp. You expecting trouble?'

'Trouble has a way of happening when you least expect it,' said Shannow.

'Ain't it the truth.' The old man's beard was shining silver in the moonlight. Shucking off his sheepskin topcoat, he gave a low whistle and his mule came trotting into the camp.

Swiftly Jake removed the saddle and blanket roll, then patted the beast's rump. The mule moved out to stand alongside Shannow's horse. 'She's an obedient girl,' said Jake fondly.

'How did you find me?'

'I didn't. The mule must have picked up the scent of your stallion. You heading for Domango?'

Shannow nodded, but said nothing. 'A sight of activity there in the last few days,'

continued Jake. 'Riders coming in from all over. Tough men, by the look of them. Ever heard of Jacob Moon?'

'No.'

'Jerusalem Rider. Killed fourteen men that I heard of. Can you guess who he's asking about?'

'Who are you, Jake?' countered Shannow.

'Just an old man, son. Nothing special. I take it you aren't interested in Moon?'

'At the moment I'm more interested in you. Where are you from?'

Jake chuckled. 'Here and there. Mostly there. I've been over the mountain a few times. You think I'm hunting you?'

Shannow shook his head. 'Perhaps. Perhaps not. But you are hunting something, Jake.'

'Nothing that need worry you, son.' Shaking loose his blanket, Jake wrapped it around his shoulders and stretched out on the earth. 'By the way, those Wanderers you helped- they're on the way to Domango too. You'll probably see them.'

'You do get around, old man,' said Shannow, closing his-eyes.

Shannow awoke with the dawn to find that the old man had gone. He sat up and yawned.

He had never known anyone who could move as quietly as Jake. Saddling his horse, he rode out on to a broad plain. There were ruins to his left, huge pillars of stone, shattered and fallen, and the horse's hooves clattered in the remains of a wide stone road. The city must have been vast, Shannow considered, stretching for several miles to the west.

He had seen many such on his travels, cold stone'epitaphs to the glory that was once Atlantis.

Another memory came to him then, of a man with a golden beard and eyes the colour of a clear summer sky.

Pendarric. The King.

And he recalled with great clarity the day when the Sword of G.o.d had torn across the curtain of time. Reining in his horse, he gazed with fresh eyes on the ruins.

'I destroyed you,' he said aloud.

Time's portals had been opened by Pendarric, the ruler of Atlantis, and Shannow had closed them by sending a missile through the Gateway. The world had toppled, tidal waves roaring across the continent. The words of Amaziga Archer floated up from the hidden depths.

'You are not the Jerusalem Man any longer, Shannow. You're the Armageddon Man!'

Shannow turned his back on the ancient city and headed south-west. It was not long before he saw the Hankin house. There was no body outside, but there was fresh blood on the dust of the yard. As he rode in, a tall man with a sandy beard came walking from the house, a rifle cradled in his arms.

'What do you want here?' he asked.

'Nothing, friend. I am on my way to Domango and thought I'd stop for a little water, if it is not inconvenient to you.' Shannow could not see the second man at the window, but he saw a rifle barrel showing at the edge of the curtain.

'Well, be quick about it. We don't like Movers here.'

'Is that so? When last I stopped here, there was a man with two children. Has he moved on?'

The man's eyes narrowed. 'Yes,' he said, at last. 'He moved on.'

'Do you own the property now?'

'No, I just been told to watch over it. Now get your drink and be gone.'

Shannow dismounted and led his horse to a trough by the well. Loosening the saddle girth, he wandered back to where the man stood. 'It is a fine place,' he said. 'A man could raise a family here and never tire of looking at the mountains.'

The sandy-haired rifleman hawked and spat. 'One place is pretty much like another.'

'So where did he move on to . . . my friend with his children?' asked Shannow.

'I don't know anything about it,' said the rifleman, growing more uneasy.

Shannow glanced down at the dust, and the stains that peppered the ground. 'Slaughtered a pig,' said the man swiftly. The second man moved from the house. He was powerfully built, with a bull-like neck and ma.s.sive shoulders.

'Who the h.e.l.l is he, Ben?' asked the newcomer, his right hand resting on the b.u.t.t of his scabbarded pistol.

'Stranger riding for Domango. He's just watering his horse.'

'Well, you've done that,' he told Shannow. 'Now be on your way.'

Shannow stood silently for a moment, holding back his anger. There was no movement in the house now, and he guessed that these two men alone had been left to guard the property. All his life he had known such men - hard, cruel killers, with no understanding of love or compa.s.sion. 'Were either of you party to the murder?' he asked softly.

'What?' responded the rifleman, eyes widening. The big-shouldered man took a step back and made a grab for his pistol. Shannow shot him in the head; he stood for a moment, eyes wide in shock, then he toppled to the bloodstained earth. The Jerusalem Man's pistol swung, the black eye of the barrel halting directly before the other man's face.

'Jesus Christ!' said the rifleman, dropping his weapon and raising his hands.

'Answer the question,' said Shannow. 'Were you party to the-murder of Meneer Hankin?'

'No ... I never shot him, I swear to G.o.d. It was the others.'

'Who led the killers?'

'Jack Dillon. But Hankin, he never had no Oath papers and no one would stand up and speak for him. It was the law. He was told to leave, he brung it on himself. If he'd just gone, none of this would have happened. Don't you see?'

'And this Dillon has now laid claim to the property?'

'No. It's held for Jacob Moon. Please, you're not going to kill me, are you?' The man fell to his knees and began to weep.

'Did Meneer Hankin weep and beg?' asked Shannow. He knew he should kill this man.

More than that, he knew that the old Jon Shannow would have done so without a second thought. Holstering his pistol, he moved to his horse.

'You son of a b.i.t.c.h!' screamed the man, and Shannow turned to see that he had gathered up his rifle, which was now pointed in Shannow's direction. 'You b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Think you're so tough? Think you can just ride in here and do as you like? Let's see how tough you act with a bullet in your guts.'

Smoothly Shannow stepped to the right, palming his pistol as he moved. The rifle shot slashed past him on the left, cutting through his coat. Shannow fired and the rifleman pitched backwards, the weapon flying from his hands. Hitting the ground hard the man grunted once, then his leg twitched and he was still.

'You have become a fool, Shannow,' said the Jerusalem Man.

The land to the east was vast and empty, the plain dry, the gra.s.s yellow-brown. He could see where once there had been rivers and streams, but they were long gone now, evaporated by the searing heat of the sun. After an hour of riding he saw the broken hull of a rusted ship jutting from the desert that stretched away to the horizon and beyond, grim evidence that this had once been the ocean floor.

Shannow skirted the edge of the desert and, after another hour, began the long climb up into the higher country. Here there were green trees, and gra.s.s, and a wide, well-used road that angled down towards the distant town of Domango.

The sun was high in the sky, and Clem was enjoying the freedom of the ride. Meg was a gentle woman and a fine wife, but he had felt trapped at the ranch in Pernum. The thought made him feel guilty. His life at the ranch had brought him everything he thought he had ever wanted: security, status and love. So why had it not been enough? When the locusts had wiped out his crop five years ago he could have worked on, labouring through the long hours of daylight. The merchants in town all liked him and they would have extended his credit. Instead, he had run away and taken to the road.

The first robbery had been easy: two men carrying a shipment of Barta notes to Pernum.

Clem had ambushed them on the mountain road, shooting the first through the shoulder.

The second had thrown away his gun. Twelve thousand he had made that day.

After that everything had gone to h.e.l.l in a bucket. Half of the cash was sent to the banker in Pernum, who held the mortgage on the farm. The rest had gone to Meg.

Nothing had been easy from that moment on.

'What was he like?' asked Nestor, the words cutting through Clem's thoughts. They were no more than an hour's ride from the settlement of Purity, and Clern could already see the smoke from the town's factories drifting lazily into the blue sky.

'What's that lad? Did you say something?'

The Jerusalem Man. What was he like?'

Clem thought about the question. 'He was grim, Nestor. Mighty grim. Unpredictable and deadly. Pilgrim's Valley was a new settlement then. There was no Deacon, no natural unified government. Settlers just headed out into uncharted lands and built their farms.

Merchants followed them and soon there were towns. We stopped in Pilgrim's Valley just short of the Great Wall. Now that was a sight to behold.'

'I seen it,' said Nestor. 'But what about Jon Shannow?'

Clem laughed. 'By G.o.d, boy, I do so like the young. That wall was built twelve thousand years ago, and beyond it there was a city, where men became lions. And in the sky, shining bright, there was the Sword of G.o.d. h.e.l.l of a thing, Nestor. Anyways, the demons of the pit were released around then, walking Snake-men.'

'I seen one of those too,' said Nestor. They got one down in Unity, on display. And several skeletons.'

'I've seen that too,' mimicked Clem, growing irritated by the interruptions. 'But what you won't know is that the King of these demons sent three special men to kill Shannow. Great warriors, fearless and lightning-fast with pistols. Shannow killed the first, but the other two kidnapped Frey McAdam and took her to where the Sword was hanging in the sky.'

'Why'd they take the headmistress?'

'G.o.d's Blood, son, will you just listen?'

'I'm sorry, sir.'

'They kidnapped Beth because she was close to Shannow. They wanted to bring him to them. And they did just that. But it didn't take 'em long to wish they hadn't. I'd been wounded, but I followed them anyway. I come on the scene just as Shannow had give himself up. Suddenly there was guns blazing. I took down one, but the best of them was facing up to the Jerusalem Man. Shannow just stood there like he didn't have a care in the world - calm, powerful. Then it was over. I tell you, boy, I wouldn't want to face him.'

'He was that fast?'

'Oh, it wasn't the speed. I'm faster than ever he was. It's the sureness. Strange man - holds himself in chains of iron.' He glanced at Nestor. 'You know why he hates brigands and killers?' The boy shook his head. 'Because deep down he is one. Anatural. You see, most men hesitate when it comes to killing. I think that's a good thing, generally. Life is precious, and you don't want to take it away from someone over a whim. I mean, even a brigand can change. Look at Daniel Cade. There wasn't a more murderous b.a.s.t.a.r.d than him, but he saw the Light, boy. And he fought the h.e.l.lborn. So, like I said, life is precious.

But Shannow? Cross him and you die. It's that simple. That's why brigands fear him. He deals with them just like they deal with others.'

'You talk about him like he's alive. But he ain't, is he? He went up to Heaven years back.'

Clem hesitated, anxious to share the secret he had kept hidden for twenty years. 'He is alive to me,' he said. 'I never saw him die, and I never saw no fiery chariot neither. But I watched him tame a wild town. You've never seen the like.'

'Wish I had,' said Nestor. 'I'd love to have met him - just once.'

Clem laughed again. 'If wishes were fishes, poor men wouldn't starve. How long have you known the Preacher?'

'All my life. Quiet man. He used to live with Frey McAdam, but she threw him out. Then he had a little place behind the church. He gave some good sermons . . . always kept you awake in church. Well, until he started letting Wolvers in, that is. Most people stopped going then. If he'd been a stronger man he'd have kicked those Wolvers out. Then there would've still been a church.'