The Last Guardian Read Free Page B

ahead.
    His wounds were healing fast; Shir-ran had done a fine job on them. He thought of the strange man-beast often and came to the conclusion that Shir-ran had wanted his company for just the purpose it had served. The man-beast had stitched his wounds, then left his guns by his side. Yet within the sanctuary of the cave he had had no need of weapons. The doomed creature had spoken of the Change, and it had been awesome to witness—the move from humanity to bestiality. What could cause such a transformation Shannow had no idea, but in the strange world after Armageddon there were many mysteries.
    Two years before, in a bid to rescue Samuel Archer and the reformed Hellborn Batik, Shannow had seen at first hand a new race of people called Wolvers, part man and part animal. Archer himself had spoken of other such creatures, though Shannow had yet to see them.
    It was warmer here in the valley, and as he moved farther south, the snow thinned, great patches of verdantgrass shimmering on the hillsides. Every day Shannow scanned the skies, looking for the signs of wonder. But always the heavens remained blue and clear.
    On the fourth day, as dusk gathered, Shannow guided the stallion into a wood, seeking a campsite. Ahead, through the tall trees, he glimpsed a glittering fire.
    “Hello, the camp!” he yelled. At first there was no answer, then a gruff voice called out, beckoning him in. Shannow waited for a moment and then delved into his pack, bringing out the short-nosed percussion pistol and tucking it into his belt just inside the flap of his long coat. Then he rode forward.
    There were four men sitting around the fire and five horses tethered to a picket line. Shannow stepped from the saddle and tied his stallion’s reins to a jutting root. On the fire a large black pot was hanging from a tripod, and within it Shannow could smell a simmering broth. Casually he moved to the fire and squatted down, his eyes sweeping the group. They were hard men, for the most part lean and wolflike; Shannow had known men like them all his life. His gaze halted on a burly, round-shouldered man with a short-cropped salt-and-pepper beard and eyes that were merely slits under heavy lids.
    There was tension in the air, but it did not affect the Jerusalem Man, though he acknowledged it. His eyes locked to the burly man, and he waited.
    “Eat,” said the man at last, his voice low.
    “After you,” said Shannow. “I would not wish to be impolite.”
    The man smiled, showing stained teeth. “The wilderness is no place for manners.” He reached out and ladled some broth into a metal dish, and the others followed suit.
    As the tension grew, Shannow took a dish with his left hand and placed it before the fire. Then, still with his left hand, he lifted the ladle and filled the bowl, drawing it to him. Slowly he finished the meal and pushed the plate from him.
    “Thank you,” he said into the silence. “It was most welcome.”
    “Help yourself to more,” offered the leader.
    “No, thank you. There will not be enough left for your scout.”
    The leader swung around. “Come in, Zak; supper’s waitin’!” he called.
    Across from the fire a young man rose from the bushes, a long rifle in his hands. He walked slowly to the fire, avoiding Shannow’s gaze, and sat beside the leader with the rifle by his side.
    Shannow rose and moved to his stallion, untying his blanket roll and spreading his bed beside the horse. Loosening the cinch, he lifted the saddle and dropped it to the ground; then, taking a brush from his saddlebag, he ducked under the stallion’s neck and groomed the horse with smooth even strokes. He did not look at the men around the fire, but the silence grew. The Jerusalem Man had been tempted to finish his meal and ride on, to be clear of the immediate danger, but such a move would have been foolish, he knew. These men were brigands and killers, and to ride on would display weakness like the scent of blood to a wolfpack. He