The Last Guardian by David Gemmell Page B

way to the Traveler’s Rest, a three-story building to the west of the town. They had one room vacant, but the owner—a thin, sallow-faced individual called Mason—asked Shannow if he could wait for an hour while they “cleaned it up.”
    Shannow agreed and paid for a three-day stay. He left his saddlebags behind the counter and walked into the next room, where a long bar stretched some fifty feet. The barman smiled as he entered.
    “Name it, son,” he said.
    “Beer,” ordered Shannow. He paid for the drink and took the brimming jug to a corner table, where he sat with his back to the wall. He was tired and curiously on edge; his thoughts kept drifting to the woman with the wagon. Slowly the bar began to fill with workingmen, some straight from the mine, their clothes black and their faces streaked with grime and sweat. Shannow cast his eyes swiftly over each newcomer. Few wore pistols, but many carried knives or hatchets. He was ready to move to his room when a young man entered. He was wearing a white cotton shirt, dark trousers, and a fitted jacket of tanned leather, and he bore a pistol with a smooth white grip. Watching him move, Shannow felt his anger rise. He pulled his eyes from the newcomer and finished hisbeer. They always looked the same, bright-eyed and smooth as cats: the mark of the hunter, the killer, the warrior.
    Shannow left the bar, collected his belongings, and climbed the two flights to his room. It was larger than he had expected, with a brass-fitted double bed, two easy chairs, and a table on which sat an oil light. He dumped his bags behind the door and checked the window. Below it was a drop of around forty feet. Stripping off his clothes, he lay back on the bed and slept for twelve hours. He awoke ravenous, dressed swiftly, strapped on his guns, and returned to the ground floor. The owner, Mason, nodded to him as Shannow approached.
    “I could do with a hot bath,” he said.
    “Outside and turn to your left. About thirty paces. You can’t miss it.”
    The bathhouse was a dingy shed in which five metal tubs were separated by curtains hung on brass rings. Shannow moved to the end and waited while two men filled the bath with steaming water; then he stripped and climbed in. There was a bar of used soap and a hard brush. He lathered himself clean and stepped from the tub; the towel was coarse and gritty, but it served its purpose. He dressed, paid the attendants, and wandered across the main street, following the aroma of frying bacon.
    The eating house was situated in a long cabin under the sign of the Jolly Pilgrim. Shannow entered and found a table against the wall, where he sat facing the door.
    “What will you have?” asked Beth McAdam.
    Shannow glanced up and reddened. Then he stood and swept his hat from his head. “Good morning, Frey McAdam.”
    “The name’s Beth. And I asked what you wanted.”
    “Eggs, bacon … whatever there is.”
    “They’ve got a hot drink here made from nuts and tree bark; it’s good with sugar.”
    “Fine. I’ll try some. It did not take you long to find work.”
    “Needs must,” she said, and walked away.
    Shannow’s hunger had evaporated, but he waited for his meal and forced his way through it. The drink was bitter, even with the sugar, and black as the pit, but the aftertaste was good. He paid from his dwindling store of Barta coins and walked out into the sunshine. A crowd had gathered, and he saw the young man from the night before standing in the center of the street.
    “Hell, man, it’s easy,” he said. “You just stand there and drop the jug any time you’re ready.”
    “I don’t want to do this, Clem,” said the man he was addressing, a portly miner. “You might kill me, goddammit!”
    “Never killed no one yet with this trick,” said the pistoleer. “Still, there’s always a first time.” The crowd hooted with laughter. Shannow stood against the wall of the eating house and watched the crowd melt away before the two