Bloodstone by David Gemmell

folks died I’ve been working for my uncle. But I think I could learn more from you, Mr. Steiner, than I ever could from him. And I’m sick of counting out Barta coin and docking wages for lost hours. I’m tired of counting timber and writing out orders. Will you let me ride with you?”
    “I’ll be riding into town to buy supplies, Nestor. You’ll need a blanket roll and a heavy coat. A rifle would be handy.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Nestor happily. “I’ve got a rifle. I’ll get the other gear from Mr. Broome.”
    “How old are you, Son?”
    “Seventeen, sir.”
    Clem Steiner smiled. “I can just remember what it was like to be seventeen. Let’s go.”
    Josiah Broome pushed out his bare feet toward the hearth, trying to concentrate on the warmth of the flames while ignoring the constant stream of words coming from the kitchen. It wasnot easy: Else Broome was not a woman to be ignored. Broome stared into the fire, his thoughts gloomy. He had helped build Pilgrim’s Valley back in the old days and then had been one of the leaders when the town had been rebuilt after the invasion from Atlantis. Josiah Broome had survived the assault by the scaled lizard warriors known as Daggers and had tried in his own small way to make Pilgrim’s Valley a decent place for the families that settled there.
    He abhorred men of violence, the hard-drinking, brawling warriors who had once peopled this land. And he loathed men like Jon Shannow, whose idea of justice was to slaughter any who crossed their path. Now, in these enlightened days, Jon Shannow was considered a saint, a holy man of God. Else’s voice droned on, and he noticed a lilt at the end of the sentence. “I am sorry, my dear, I didn’t catch that,” he said.
    Else Broome eased her vast bulk through the doorway. “I asked if you agreed that we should invite the Apostle Saul to the barbecue.”
    “Yes, dear. Whatever you think best.”
    “I was only saying to the widow Scayse the other day …”
    The words rolled on as she retreated to the kitchen, and Broome blanked them from his mind.
    Jon Shannow, the saint.
    The Preacher had laughed at it. Broome remembered their last evening together in the small vestry behind the church.
    “It is not important, Josiah,” said Jon Cade. “What I used to be is irrelevant now. What is important is that God’s word should not be corrupted. The Book speaks of love as well as judgment. And I’ll not be persuaded that the Wolvers are denied that love.”
    “I don’t disagree with you, Preacher. In fact, of all men I hold you in the highest regard. You turned your back on the ways of violence and have shown great courage during these last years. You are an inspiration to me. But the people of Pilgrim’s Valley are being seduced by the Deacon’s new teachings. And I fear for you and the church. Could you notminister to the Wolvers outside town? Would that not allow the anger to die down?”
    “I expect that it would,” agreed Cade. “But to do so would be like admitting to the ignorant and the prejudiced that they have a right to deny my congregation a service within my church. I cannot allow that. Why is it so hard for them to see the truth? The Wolvers did not seek to be the way they are; even the Deacon admits to that. And there is no more evil in them than in any race.”
    “I don’t know what the Deacon thinks. But I have read the words of his Apostle Saul, and he claims they are not of God and are therefore of the Devil. A pure land, he says, needs pure people.”
    Cade nodded. “I don’t disagree with that, and there is much good in what the Deacon has said in the past. I respect the man. He came from a world gone mad, depravity and lust, corruption and disease of the body and the spirit. And he seeks to make this world a better place. But no one knows better than I the dangers of living by iron rules.”
    “Come, come, my friend, are you not still living by those rules? This is but a building. If God—if