David Gemmell - Bloodstone

There is something about the character and personality of Jon Shannow that leaves people loving or loathing him. Sometimes both emotions are aroused simultaneously. It is hard to pin down the reasons.

There is an iron quality about Jon Shannow that is admirable and worthy in a lone knight riding through a savage world. The decisions he makes are based solely on what he sees and experiences. He lives with a code of honour that refuses to allow evil to rage unchecked. He will always seek to defend the weak against predators.

Offset against this is his capacity for violence, and his certainty that his actions are right. It is just such certainty that can lead to horrors like the Spanish Inquisition, the butchery of the Aztecs, the burning at the stake of Catholics and Protestants, and the vileness of the Holocaust. When ruthless men are certain then the gulags and the concentration camps follow.

I have tried to present Jon Shannow as a flawed man in a flawed world. There is more to him than the nature of his deeds, just as I hope there is more to the stories than simple adventures of good versus evil.

The tales have a spiritual centre not based exclusively on any recognised religion or creed. For me the message is simple, though I know from conversation and correspondence with fans that the underlying sub-text is very often though not always misunderstood.

But what is of enormous value to me is that Bloodstone sprang from the inter-action between myself and the readers. For some years the weight of mail was light, and I was able to respond to every fan who took the trouble to write. Increasing letters meant I could reply only to first time writers. Now even that has become difficult. But every letter is read by me, and often the points made will find their way into subsequent stories. This is especially true of Bloodstone.

The questions from readers that prompted the novel were many. One young fan wrote to ask whether Shannow was a symbol for the way I thought society should behave, as Forrest Gump is said to be a symbol for America. Others talked of the nature of legends, or the lack of a spiritual centre in politics.

One wrote saying that, while he enjoyed the novels, he hated Shannow because he was the epitome of men like the Ayatollah Khomeini. Can you imagine, he asked, what any society would be like if a man like Shannow ever had power?

Could I imagine that? Yes I could. Bloodstone is the result and concludes the story of Jon Shannow.

I do not believe there will be another. Though I don't doubt there's a fan in Liverpool who knows better.

David A. Gemmell

Hastings, 1995

I have seen the fall of worlds and the death of nations. From a place in the clouds I watched the colossal tidal wave sweep towards the coastline, swallowing the cities, drowning the multitudes.

The day was calm at first, but I knew what was to be. The city by the sea was awakening, its roads choked with vehicles, its sidewalks full, the veins of its subways clotted with humanity.

The last day was painful, for we had a congregation I had grown to love, peopled with Godly folk, warm-hearted and generous. It is hard to look down upon a sea of such faces and know that within a day they will be standing before their Maker.

So I felt a great sadness as I walked across to the silver and blue craft that would carry us high towards the future. The sun was setting in glory as we waited for take-off. I buckled the seat-belt and took out my Bible. There was no solace to be found.

Saul was sitting beside me, gazing from the window. 'A beautiful evening, Deacon,' he said.

Indeed it was. But the winds of change were already stirring. -

We rose smoothly into the air, the pilot informing us that the weather was changing for the worse, but that we would reach the Bahamas before the storm. I knew this would not be so.

Higher and higher we flew, and it was Saul who first saw the portent.

'How strange,' he said, tapping my arm. 'The sun appears to be rising again.'

'This is the last day, Saul,' I told him. Glancing down I saw that he had unfastened his seat-belt. I told him to buckle it. He had just done so when the first of those terrible winds struck the plane, almost flipping it.

Cups, books, trays, bags all flew into the air, and there were screams of terror from our fellow passengers.

Saul's eyes were squeezed shut in prayer, but I was calm. I leaned to my right and stared from the window. The great wave had lifted now, and was hurtling towards the coast.

I thought of the people of the city. There were those who were even now merely observing what they saw to be a miracle, the setting sun rising again. They would smile perhaps, or clap their hands in wonder.

Then their eyes would be drawn to the horizon. At first they would assume a low thundercloud was darkening the sky. But soon would come the terrible realisation that the sea had risen to meet the sky, and was bearing down upon them in a seething wall of death.

I turned my eyes away. The plane juddered, then rose and fell, twisting and helpless against the awesome power of the winds. All of the passengers believed that death would soon follow. Except me.

I knew.

I took one last glance from the window. The city looked so small now, its mighty towers seemingly no longer than a child's finger. Lights shone at the windows of the towers, cars still thronged the freeways.

And then they were gone.

Saul opened his eyes, and his terror was very great. 'What is happening, Deacon?'

'The end of the world, Saul.'

'Are we to die?'

'No. Not yet. Soon you will see what the Lord has planned for us.'

Like a straw in a hurricane the plane hurtled through the sky.

And then the colours came, vivid reds and purples washing over the fuselage, masking the windows. As if we had been swallowed by a rainbow. Then they were gone. Four seconds perhaps. Yet in those four seconds I alone knew that several hundred years had passed.

'It has begun, Saul,' I said.

The pain was too great to ignore, and nausea threatened to swamp him as he rode. But the Preacher clung to the saddle and steered the stallion up towards the Gap. The full moon was high in the clear sky, the distant mountain peaks sharp and glistening white against the skyline. The sleeve of the rider's black coat was still smouldering, and a gust of wind brought a tongue of flame. Fresh pain seared through him and he beat at the cloth with a smoke-blackened hand.

Where were they now, he thought, pale eyes scanning the moonlit mountains and the lower passes? His mouth was dry and he reined in the stallion. A canteen hung from the pommel and the Preacher hefted it, unscrewing the brass cap. Lifting it to his lips, he found it was filled not with water but with a fiery spirit.

He spat it out and hurled the canteen away.

Cowards! They needed the dark inspiration of alcohol to aid them on their road to murder. His anger flared, momentarily masking the pain. Far down the mountain, emerging from the timber line he saw a group of riders. His eyes narrowed. Five' men. In the clear air of the mountains he heard the distant sound of laughter.

The rider groaned and swayed in the saddle, the pounding in his temple increasing. He touched the wound on the right side of his head. The blood was congealing now, but there was a groove in the skull where the bullet had struck, and the flesh around it was hot and swollen.

He felt consciousness slipping from him, but fought back using the power of his rage.

Tugging the reins he guided the stallion up through the Gap, then angled it to the right, down the long wooded slope towards the road. The slope was treacherous and the stallion slipped twice, dropping to its haunches. But the rider kept the animal's head up and it righted itself, coming at last to level ground and the hard-packed earth of the trade road.