Free Bloodstone by David Gemmell Page A

surged within him.
    Swiftly he pushed himself to his feet and stepped out from the rocks. A man reared up … Shannow shot him through the chest. Another moved to his right, and again his pistol boomed.
    He walked in among the men, guns blazing. Stunned by this sudden attack, the raiders broke and ran. A man to Shannow’s right groaned as the Jerusalem Man strode past him. A bullet whipped by Shannow’s face, so close that he felt its passing, the sound ringing in his ears like an angry bee. Twisting, he triggered both pistols, and a rifleman was punched from his feet.
    Two horses were standing close by. Shannow strode to the first and vaulted to the saddle. A man reared up from the undergrowth. Shannow shot him twice, then, kicking the animal into a run, headed east, reloading his pistols as the horse thundered across the plain. Anger was strong upon him now, a deep, boiling rage that threatened to engulf him. He did nothing to quell it.
    Always it was the same, the evil strong preying on the weak, violence and death, lust and destruction. When will it end? he wondered. Dear God, when will it end?
    The full moon bathed the land in silver, and in the distance the red of fire could be seen as one of the wagons blazed. The firing was sporadic now, but at least it suggested that some of the Wanderers were still fighting.
    Closer still he came and saw five men kneeling behind a group of boulders; one of them had long white hair. A rifleman rose up, aiming at the wagons. Shannow loosed a shot that missed the man but ricocheted from the boulder, making the rifleman jerk back. The white-haired Oath Taker swung around, saw Shannow, and began to run. Ignoring him, Shannow trained his guns on the riflemen.
    “Put down your weapons,” he ordered them. “Do it now—or die!”
    Three of the four remaining men did exactly as they were told and then raised their hands, but the last—the thickset man he had spoken to earlier—suddenly swung his rifle to bear. Shannow put a bullet into his brain.
    “Jeremiah! It’s me, Shannow,” shouted the Jerusalem Man. “Can you hear me?”
    “He’s been shot,” came the answering call. “We’ve wounded here—three dead, two badly hit.”
    Gesturing to the captured men, Shannow ordered them toward the wagons. Once inside, he gazed around. The pregnant Clara was dead, half her head blown away. A burly man named Chalmers was lying beside her. By Jeremiah’s wagon lay the body of a child in a faded blue dress: one of Clara’s two daughters. Shannow dismounted and moved to where Dr. Meredith was kneeling beside the wounded Jeremiah. The old man had taken two shots, one to the upper chest and a second to the thigh. His face was gray in the moonlight.
    “I’ll live,” the old man whispered.
    The wagons had been formed into a rough circle, and several of the horses were down. Isis and two of the men were battling to put out a fire in the last wagon. Guns in hand, Shannow strode back to the captured men, who were standing together at the center of the camp.
    “
The bellows are burned, the land is consumed of the fire; the founder melteth in vain, for the wicked are not plucked away.
” His guns leveled, and he eased back the hammers.
    “Shannow, no!” screamed Jeremiah. “Let them be! Christ, man, there’s been enough killing already.”
    Shannow took a deep, slow breath. “Help put out the fire,” he ordered the men. They obeyed him instantly, and without another word he walked to his horse and stepped into the saddle.
    “Where are you going?” called Dr. Meredith.
    Shannow did not answer.
    Aaron Crane and the survivors of the raid galloped into Purity and drew up before the long stone meeting hall. Crane, dust-covered and disheveled, dismounted and ran inside. The hallwas crowded, the prayer meeting under way. On the dais Padlock Wheeler was reaching the midpoint in his sermon concerning the path of the righteous. He stopped as he saw Crane and inwardly groaned, but it was not