The Horns of Ruin (16 page)

I grimaced, and put my hand on the artifact. It was cold
now, the skin stiff. I paced around it, examining it, running my hand across
it.

"The Feyr, huh? It's an interesting lead. Can't
imagine it has anything to do with the Fratriarch, though." I looked up to
see the Amonite's eyes still following me. Creepy bastard. I shrugged at him,
then motioned Owen's people over. "He's not being helpful. Get him out of
here."

They led him away, leaving me alone with Owen and the
artifact.

"This mean anything to you?" I asked him.
"That they had a Feyr device like this?"

"Like you said-probably something they just found. What
do you want me to do with it?"

"You guys probably have some kind of warehouse for
stuff like this, huh? Why don't you put it there?"

I paused as I heard footsteps hammering down the stairs
behind me. Some problem with the Amonite? Turning, I saw one of the whiteshirts
push aside the barrier tape and jump down onto the platform. When he saw me,
the guy's face went white and he averted his eyes, then made a beeline to the
Justicar.

"Something to report?" Owen asked. The man
nodded, then looked back at me. "Something private?"

"No, sir. Not private. Just ... she's not going to
like it."

"You think you can possibly tell me something that's
going to make my day any worse than it already is, son?" I asked.

Owen held up a hand. From the stairs there was a quiet peal
of sound, a clamoring that echoed down the steel and stone from the street
above.

Sirens. To hear it down here, the world must be screaming
with sirens.

has was a gardener. A strange
enough thing in the Cult of Morgan the Warrior, and stranger because he had
practiced this art since childhood. On campaign as a sergeant in the god's
army, the mud in front of his tent was groomed and raked, accented by potted
plants and lines of tumbled stone. His barrack post crawled with vines. Even on
watch, he took time to prune the hedges on his route. And now, as an Elder of
the god, he kept a terrace on the tall, wind-wracked heights of the monastery,
the stone floor crowded with loamy planters and ivy-covered trellises. He slept
between rows of dirt, his bed under a canvas roof, the mud under his nails
fresh.

When he woke up that morning, it was to stiffness and pain.
It had been a late night. Arguing with Tomas, arguing with Isabel. Trying to
get Simeon to take a side or at least express an opinion. Missing Barnabas.
Missing his voice in the argument, his leadership, his strength. Mostly,
though, just missing his old friend.

Outside his simple room, the wind whipped coldly over the
terrace. The sun was a white disk of hammered silver behind the clouds. It wouldn't
rain today, but it felt like it should. Like the air needed cleaning. Elias
shivered as he slipped from his morning robe, stretching strong, wrinkled arms
in the chill air as he assumed the poses of the warrior. When he was done with
the morning ritual, the old man put on loose pants and a leather jerkin, and
began the daily rite of weeding and tilling that would settle his mind and gird
his spirit.

He was there, kneeling beside a planter of herringheart,
trowel in one hand and a fist of dirt in the other, when they came for him.
That they would find him here was inevitable. It was where Elias was, at this
hour, on these days.

That they would strike him here, high up in the Strength of
Morgan, steps from the Chamber of the Fist, on the holy stones of the Warrior
god. That was unthinkable.

He fought. Even caught unawares, even unarmed, unarmored,
uninvoked. With nothing but the hammer-strength of his old, wrinkled hands,
hands that had planted and nurtured and struck stone and metal and bone. He
fought, and he killed. There was more blood here than belonged to an aging
Elder of the Cult. There was enough blood here for three men, soaking into the
mud of the crawling vines, slicking the water of the artificial pond. More than
enough blood. But only one body.

He lay where he had fallen, the trowel still in his hand.
Its edge was dull and nicked. Bloody. His fists were pulverized. The bones of
his face lay haphazardly under the skin. Deep cuts traced across his chest, his
arms, his legs. He had fought, and he had lost.

I knelt beside him. It had been hours before they found
him, and hours more until they had gotten word to me. Alexander's men stood
nervously around the monastery. They had failed. The other Elders gathered to
take the body into the quiet halls of the Warrior's Rest. I helped them carry,
along with a couple whiteshirts. Afterward, we met in the Chamber of the Fist.
Tomas was furious. Divinely furious.

"We agreed to stay because you said the Cult of
Alexander would protect us," he said, his voice a hammering monotone, the
fury just under the surface. "We agreed to stay because you said we would
be safe."

"Since when do Morganites do the safe thing?" I
asked, quietly. It wasn't my place, but there weren't many people left whose
place it was. "Why are we hiding under a blanket of white?"

Tomas didn't answer me directly, but Simeon and Isabel drew
back uncomfortably nonetheless. There were whiteshirts present: the two who had
helped carry Elias's body to the Rest, a couple patrol-level authority figures,
and the Elector of our district. Guy named Nathaniel. His armor was pearl white
and trimmed with gold and silver. He looked glorious, for a nursemaid. All of
them sat behind a table, the third side of the Council's usual triune
arrangement. There were enough empty seats, now, that we could afford the
space.

"We had the exits covered, my lords, and regular
patrols. The Elder wouldn't have a guard. He refused us," Nathaniel said,
his gauntleted hands folded casually on the table. "There is only so much we
can do for you."

"Aye, and you've done it," Simeon said.
"We've had enough of your help, highness. You may take your leave."

"Your pardon?" the Elector asked, cocking his
head to one side like a schoolchild. "We are here to guard you, Elders. If
this can happen with us here, what will happen if we were to leave?"

"I can't imagine it being much worse than this,"
Tomas said. "An Elder of the Cult was murdered today, sir. Your presence
did not prevent it. Therefore, it is no longer necessary."

"There's no need to be stubborn," Elector
Nathaniel said. "There's enough trouble without you getting
stubborn."

"There's enough trouble without you strutting down our
hallways and mucking up our relics," Isabel answered. Her voice was calm,
but she sounded like a mother correcting a child. "We've had well enough
of that. Eva had the right of it, I think. You will not take the necessary
actions. We must see to ourselves."

"I will not-" the Elector began, standing.

"You will not tell us our business, nor make any
claims to our safety," Tomas said, standing, yelling, hunched forward with
both strong, wrinkled hands flat on the table, and the Council stood with him.
Even old men and women can stand strong when the need is great. Especially
then. "The Sword of Morgan cut a path for this city. It was on his steel
that the Fraterdom was built. I'd thank you to remember where you are, and to
whom you are speaking."

"I'm speaking to a dead man, if you kick us out!"

Tomas raised his eyebrows and leaned back.

"I have decided to take that as a threat, sir. You
will vacate these premises immediately, or you will face me in challenge. Do
you accept?"

"This is ... it's a circus," the Elector huffed.
He gathered the paperwork he had brought with him, the sheets rattling in his
hand as he clenched them angrily. "A circus. A farce. A mummer's play. You
have left your senses."

"And you have still not left the building," Tomas
answered, then drew a short, flat blade. Its surface was black, and did not
reflect light at all. He balanced the tip on the table and worked his thin,
bony fingers over the hilt. "There is little time left, child."

"Gods! Gods in heaven and water, and whatever's in
between." The Elector snapped a salute to his men, then motioned them out.
The evacuation was precise.

"Boys," Tomas called, as the two who had helped
carry Elias followed their lord out. "A moment."

The two paused, nervously. Tomas nodded to them, though he
was still fingering that awful blade.

"You bore the weight of my brother, Elias. For this I
thank you. The Sword of Morgan go with you, and carry you through the battle
that is to come."

They stared at him in silence, then looked at each other
with wide eyes.

"The Sword of Morgan," they intoned, then hurried
out.

"Still recruiting?" Isabel asked.

"Hm. Well. Brother knows we could use the help,"
Tomas said. He hid the knife away and turned to his fellow Elders. "We
must see to our defenses, and then pray our brother down. Eva, if you would
take first stance?"

"I have things to do, Elder. I'd like to catch the
bastards who are doing this."

"And catch them you will," he said, looking at me
with narrowed eyes. "But first you will honor your brother Elias. Or are
the rites of Morgan lost to you?"

"They are not," I answered. I wasn't looking
forward to hours of meditation in the Rest, but I had no choice.

"I thought not. Elders," he said, looking back to
the two remaining members of the Council of the Fist. "We have much to
discuss. I will have food brought."

I left them to it, returning to my room to don the ceremonial
garb of the Cult. The rest of my day was spent in quiet contemplation of the
rites of Morgan, and the passing of his brother, Elias. The world went on
without me. I hoped Barnabas would forgive me, and swore to honor him, when his
time came.

They had argued for hours. It was the kind of argument
where everyone knows that none of them is going to win. The room was quiet. No
one was looking at anyone else.

"I have served the watch," I intoned, holding out
the gold-etched ceremonial sword. "I pass you my brother's sword, that the
watch may continue."

Tomas and Isabel didn't move. Simeon moved further away,
turning his back to me and futzing with some fruit on the Council's triune
table. I sighed and took a step into the room.

"Come on, folks, someone has to stand the next watch.
Elias can't hold this sword."

Tomas sighed and stuffed his fists into his robe, then
turned to Isabel. She nodded.

"Elder Simeon," Tomas said, trying his best for
Barnabas's commanding voice. It wasn't a bad try. "I believe that this is
your watch to stand."

"She has to know, Elder," Simeon said without
turning around. "You can't expect her to continue like this."

"She will know."

Simeon turned and faced the smaller man. "When?"

"Stand your watch, Elder. For Elias."

"And Barnabas, if we keep this up," Simeon said
under his breath. He marched to me and took the sword, not once meeting my
eyes. When he was gone I tried to get Tomas to look me in the eye, then Isabel.