She closed her eyes once more and thought of Con Griffin, but Jon Shannow's face came to her mind. She shut him out and saw the red-headed Griffin sitting beside her sleeping form. He had her hand in his and his face was troubled. She closed on the scene and opened the eyes of her body.
'Con,' she whispered.
'Are you well?'
'I am fine.' She lifted her hand to touch his face and he recoiled.
Both her hands were in her lap, and she had touched him with her spirit. Tears welled in her eyes.
'I cannot control it,' she said. There are no chains any more, holding me to my body.'
'I don't understand. Are you sick?'
'No.' She concentrated on standing and felt loose inside her body, as if her soul were liquid and her flesh a sponge that could not contain it. He helped her to her bed. In the other room Madden's wife, Rachel, sat by him as he slept.
Madden stirred. He had lost a great deal of blood, but his strength was returning. He opened his eyes to see Rachel's careworn face.
'Don't worry about me, lass. I'll be back on my feet in no time.'
'I know that,' she said, patting his hand.
He fell asleep once more and Rachel lifted the blankets to his chin and left him for a while, moving to sit beside Griffin at the wood-stove.
'What's happening to us, Con?' she asked. He looked at her lined, troubled face and pictured her as she must have been a decade before — a slim pretty woman with huge brown eyes that belied the strength hidden behind them. Now her hair was greying, her skin had the texture of worn leather and dark rings circled her eyes.
'These are not the best of times, Rachel. But we are still alive, and there's plenty of fight left in us.'
'But we didn't come here to fight, Con. You promised us Avalon.'
'I am sorry.'
'So am I.'
He poured her some tea. 'Are you hungry?'
'No.' she said. 'I'd best be going. How soon do you think we can move him home?'
'In a day or two.'
'How is Donna?'
'Sleeping.'
'Be careful with her, Con. Pregnancy often disturbs a woman's mind.'
'Often?'
She looked away. 'Well, no, not often, but I have heard of it before.'
'There is nothing wrong with her mind, Rachel. Had it not been for Donna's powers, Jacob would now be dead.'
'Had it not been for you, Jacob would not have been shot at all!'
'I cannot deny that, but I wish you wouldn't hate me for it.'
'I don't hate you, Con,' said Rachel, standing and smoothing her heavy skirt. 'I just see you as less of a friend.'
He saw her to the door and returned to the fire.
Events seemed to be moving out of control, leaving Griffin feeling like a leaf in a storm. Donna was caught in the grip of something Griffin could not begin to understand, and the Hellborn had sealed the valley tighter than sin.
But why did they not attack? What did they want?
Griffin rammed his fist down on the arm of the chair.
He had offered the people Avalon. .
And he had brought them to Purgatory.
An hour out from the ruined city and a fresh storm broke over the riders. Driving rain lashed their faces and a howling wind raged before them like an invisible wall. Shannow dragged his long leather coat from behind his saddle and swung it over his shoulders; it billowed like a cape as he struggled to don it. The gelding ducked its head and pushed on into the fury of the storm. Shannow tied a long scarf over his hat as the winds continued to increase in power.
A tree nearby exploded with a tremendous crack as lightning ripped through it, and Shannow tried to ignore the weight of metal he carried in his pistols and knives. Batik turned in the saddle and shouted to him, but the words were torn away and lost in the wind. The trail wound slowly upwards, narrowing to a rocky ledge. Riding at the rear, Shannow found his left stirrup grazing the cliff-face while his right hung over the edge. There was no going back now, for there was nowhere for a horse to turn.
Lightning flashed nearby, the gelding reared and Shannow fought to calm it. In the eerie light of the lightning's afterglow, the Jerusalem Man glanced down to the raging torrent some two hundred feet below where white water raced over jagged rocks. Lightning flashed again and some instinct made him turn in the saddle and look back down the trail.
Behind him, six lions were charging out of the storm like demons. His cold hand dropped to his pistol, but it was too late and the lead lion — a giant beast with a red-gold mane — leapt to land with terrible force on the gelding's back, its talons raking through flesh and muscle. Shannow's pistol pressed against the lion's head and the bullet entered its eye just as the gelding, in pain and terror, leapt from the ledge.
The pistol shot alerted Batik; he drew his own weapon and emptied it at the remaining beasts, who turned and ran. With no room to dismount, the Hellborn leaned in the saddle and stared down into the torrent far below.
There was no sign of the Jerusalem Man.
As Shannow's gelding leapt, the Jerusalem Man kicked himself from the saddle and spread his arms to steady his fall. Below him the rocks waited like spear-points and he tumbled through the air unable to control his movements. Down, down he fell, bringing his arms over his head, struggling to stop his dizzying spin. He hit the water at a deep section between rocks and the air was smashed from his lungs. He fought his way to the surface, sucked in a deep breath and was swept once more below the water. His heavy coat and pistol belt dragged him down; rocks cracked against his legs and arms as he battled the dreadful pull of the swollen river. Time and again, as he felt his lungs had reached bursting point, his head cleared the surface — only to be dragged below once more.
Grimly he fought for life until he was hurled out into the air over a waterfall some thirty feet high. This time he controlled his dive and entered the water cleanly. The river here swirled without violence and he struck out for the shore, dragging himself from the water with the last of his strength. He grasped a tree root and hung on, gasping for breath, his legs still under water.
Then, having rested for some minutes, he eased his way up into thick undergrowth. Exhausted, he slept for over an hour and then awoke cold and shivering, his arms cramped and painful. Forcing himself to a sitting position, he checked his weapons. His left-hand pistol had been torn from his grasp after he killed the lion, but the other gun was still in his scabbard, the thong over the hammer saving it. His gelding lay dead some forty paces to his right, and he staggered to the body, pulling clear his saddlebags and looping them over his shoulder.
A dead lion floated by, half submerged, and Shannow smiled grimly, hoping that the Zealot who possessed it had died with the beast.
With the storm still venting its fury over the mountain Shannow had no idea in which direction to travel, so he found a limited shelter in the lee of a rock face and huddled out of the wind.
He could feel bruises beginning to swell on his arms and legs, and was grateful for the heat the throbbing caused in his limbs. Fumbling inside his saddlebags for his oilskin pouch, he removed six shells, then emptied his pistol and reloaded it. Looking round, he gathered some twigs from the ground close to the rocks. It was drier here and he carefully built a pyramid of tiny sticks.
Breaking open the shells he had discarded, he emptied the black powder from the brass casings into the base of the pyramid and then reached into his shirt pocket to take out his tinder box; the tinder within was drenched and he threw it aside, but wiped the flint clean and worked the lever several times until white sparks flashed. Holding the box close to the base of the pyramid, he ignited the powder. Two sticks caught and he crouched down, blowing gently and coaxing the flame to life. Once the fragile blaze had taken, he gathered thicker branches and sat beside the fire, feeding it constantly until the heat drove him back. Then he pulled off his coat and laid it over a nearby rock to dry.