The Horns of Ruin (20 page)

Simeon looked nervously around the room, then settled into
himself.

"They have tasked the Paladin to retrieve the girl in
your care. The Amonite. They believe she will be able to help them interpret
the artifact."

"And why don't they get another Amonite? There are
plenty."

"They do not wish to alert Alexander to their purpose.
They wish the artifact be kept a secret."

"Mm." Nathaniel paced the terrace slowly, hands
behind his back. "And the Paladin? How does she intend to retrieve this
Amonite?"

"I don't know. We give her a loose leash."

"You should tighten it. There are enough troubles in
the city without a Morganite kicking in doors and starting fights on the
monotrain."

"She was attacked. The Fratriarch was kidnapped!"

"Regardless." He stopped and looked down at
Simeon. "Control her."

"Two things, Elector. One, it doesn't work like that.
She doesn't work like that. Two, you must remember that I am an Elder of
Morgan. I will not be taking orders from your Cult, godking or no. I am here as
a courtesy, because I think things have gone off the tracks."

The Elector stared at him with a dead face, then
entertained the briefest of smiles. "Of course. Forgive me. I so rarely
meet another of my standing. So this ... Paladin. She will attack the Spear and
save the young girl?"

"Perhaps. Your best hope is to hide her. A Paladin of
Morgan is not something to be fought."

"We have our defenses. I am shocked that one of your
Cult would seriously consider attacking the throne of the godking." The
Elector flipped his hand in the air, as though dismissing a cloudy day.
"Strange times."

"She would, if that is the only way for her to protect
her Fratriarch. And your defenses? They are the defenses of a Healer. The
Warrior will find her way through."

The slightest of smiles again, and then the Elector
continued pacing.

"Of course. Additional precautions shall be taken. Any
insight on what happened to Elias? I assume you are running your own
investigations."

"I ... I think Eva may believe that it was an inside
job. That he was betrayed by one of our own."

"Really? You should be careful, then, Elder, sneaking
out of the Strength for shady meetings with the scions of Alexander. Does she
suspect us, then? You lot are always blaming someone for your troubles."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, for the decline of your order, the loss of your
Fratriarch. Like when you threw my detachment of guards out of the Strength. A
wise and deeply considered move, I am sure."

Simeon flushed and clenched his fists. The Elector was a
much younger man, but he wasn't familiar with the fury of Morgan. Either that,
or he was suicidal.

"I came here for your own good, Elector. For the good
of the Fraterdom. If you'd rather take your chances with the Paladin, or the
Amonite, then you are free to do so. But there is no cause to insult me."

"Insult you? No, no. That was not my intention."
He paused again and leaned lightly against the rail. "We will take care of
the girl. She will tell no secrets, either to Alexander or any of his children.
And as far as chances go, I think you will find that we are not prone to taking
them at all. Leash this one."

A shadow darted out from one of the passageways around the
central room, skipping over the shattered mosaic and striking the Elder before
he could raise his old hands. The shadow resolved into a man, bound in gray with
an iron mask across his face, crudely molded to give the impression of a nose,
eyes, a mouth. These features twitched as he attacked, as though laughing. He
held a knife in each hand; wide, flat blades that flashed across the Elder's
chest with such speed. Simeon gasped and stumbled back, then invoked a weak
shield that could not hold long against such an assault. As the Elector looked
on, another half-dozen figures entered the room from various doors and hidden
chambers, closing on the old man. They were all similarly dressed, and all bore
the icon of the Betrayer.

I intervened.

I had used a lot of energy keeping up with Elder Simeon. I
was tired. My reserves were ragged from three days on the hunt. It had been
like a long, running battle, a battle fought more in retreat than advance. So
when I saw that first knife go into Simeon's chest and draw back with the
Elder's blood all over its blade, I felt a moment of fatigued vertigo. Hadn't
been preparing for a battle. I was like a scout who found herself too far
behind enemy lines, suddenly thrust into the fight, without hope of relief.
Desperately in need of relief.

But the Cult of Morgan was out of reserves. There were no
more armored columns of Paladins waiting in the barracks, no more legions of
initiates of the Blade and Bullet filling the training grounds with the noise
of their practice. The battle was joined, and there was me. There was only me.

I drew my sword, incanted a scant few invokations of armor
and strength, then drove my blade through the skylight I had perched beside and
leapt to the Elder's aid. I hadn't been there for the Fratriarch. This was a
doomed battle, but I would be there for Simeon. And then there would be none to
take my place, but this is what warriors do. It is what we know.

I fell past the terrace, and was pleased to see a look of
distress on Nathaniel's face. The Elector, or whatever he was, whichever God he
was sworn to. Time for that later, if there was such a moment in my life. I
landed in the middle of the mosaic, shattering brittle tiles in a ripple of
sharded dust. The assassins stopped for a fraction of a breath, their murderous
attention drawn from the Elder to this new threat. Simeon made a sign with his
hands, a benediction of forgiveness, then collapsed against a pillar and used
the last of his strength to invoke something hard and impenetrable. I was
alone.

"One fewer that we have to hunt down, my
brothers," Nathaniel sneered. "End this one, and then finish
Simeon." He had drawn one of his daggers, a small, sharp thing of silver.
He pointed it at me and laughed. "It will be good to be rid of this
one."

They came at me in fluid attack. As soon as I engaged one
he would melt away and I would find a knife at my back, probing the defenses of
my sword forms. I had to be careful, never expending too much on offense so
that my defense could remain solid. It was a mobile battle. I was glad it was
my last. There was no need to hold anything back, no need for a reserve in
anticipation of the next fight. There would be no other fight. I would die with
the blood of a Betrayer on my sword, and that was enough for me.

"Morgan stood against the thousands," I incanted,
leveling my sword against my foes. This is how the invokations of Morgan should
be sworn, I thought. In battle, with blood on your steel and adrenaline in your
lungs. We should burn down the monasteries and build a world of battlefields.
"Their spears struck at him, and he stood. Their shields defied him, and
he stood." One of them came at me, blades low and then high. His mask was
a twisted visage of glee and malice. I blocked the attack and swept my sword
back at the inevitable blindside attack. Metal found flesh, and I turned to see
one of the assassins crumple, his lifeblood pumping out over the holy forged
blade of my faith. "Their legions attacked him. He stood. Forever, on the
hill of Dre'Dai-mon, on the eve of Cuspus, against the forces of chaos. Morgan
stands. The Warrior stands."

The noetic power of Morgan wrapped around me, somehow
drawing from the frenetic energy of my final stand. Or so it felt, to me. For
years I had practiced a religion of forms and maps, studying the great battles
of my god and my brothers. That time was past. The time of battles was upon me,
and my faith was purified for it. Deep veils of power engulfed me, and the
strength of Morgan filled me. I laughed with heartfelt joy, with gleeful
abandon. My last battle, forever.

One down, but there were more. They were incanting their
own rites of power and strength. I knew nothing of the forms of the Betrayer.
The last time the Cult of Morgan had drawn steel against the scions of the
Assassin, Amon was still alive, and Morgan was only freshly murdered. There had
been pockets of resistance after the pogrom, but mostly we fought the enemies
of the Fraterdom. The Feyr, the Rethari, the Yongin. People whose gods were
waning, or had not yet fully ascended.

Best not to wait for them to find their forms. The closest
one was incanting some story about the secret places of the Assassin, ritually
invoking the hidden knife, the false partnership, the dark alley. It seemed to
me that their powers were limited to the unexpected strike. They were here. I
knew them, could see them. This was a battle now, not an assassination. While
he spoke with the power of his lungs, incanting ancient rites of betrayal, I
shuffled forward and brought the full weight of my double-handed sword against
his skull. The tip split his forehead, parted his eyes, and ended the business
of his mouth. He fell like a rag discarded by a servant. I exulted in the
directness of Morgan.

His fellows howled like scalded cats and rushed me.
Excellent, I thought. They abandon the shadows. This is the place of Morgan. In
the light, in the field, in the battle fully joined. I danced between them,
parting tendons from bone, opening flesh and revealing marrow. They hesitated,
and I brought them the glory of battle. Morgan surged through me, as though he
reached out from the grave to give his servant strength against the Betrayer.
Of course. This is what I worshipped, the fallen warrior, the betrayed god.
This is the battle I was consecrated to fight.

It was not enough. I ended two of them and maimed another.
Perhaps he would find a beggar god, that one. But there were too many. I
overextended. Too much offense, and one of their blades parted my armor and put
barbed steel against my bone. I staggered back, and another found its way into
my shield. They came at me like waves of hail, battering me and then falling
back. One of them circled the room, cracking open the frictionlamps and
snuffing each element. Soon, I was battling in the dark. The only light came
from the invokation of my armor, noetic runes flaring in the shadows. It was
not enough. They appeared before I could react, struck, disappeared. My defense
forms were not enough. I fell back to the Elder, where he huddled behind his
shield, comatose, blood seeping from his wounds. It would make a nice statue, I
thought. The Paladin, last of her kind, standing between the darkness and the
light. I would be content with that. They circled, and I invoked the last of my
strength, then began to write the ballad of my death.

They intervened. I did not know them, though they were
familiar to me. The two I had seen, just before the attack on the Fratriarch.
Bulky men in cloaks, armored cowls over half their faces, hoods down, tattoos
banding their eyes. They fell from the roof, just as I had. They carried
weapons, in each hand a punching dagger that folded out from hidden places,
expanding and growing even as I watched. Their eyes flared brilliant light as
they landed. Their incantations were of absolute power, spoken in the words of
ancient languages. Again, the Betrayers paused.

The first that stepped to the new attackers was cut down.
The second as well. There was no third attack. The rest jumped away, the
shadows swallowing them even as the newcomers lifted their arms and filled the
dome with light. The Elector was gone, the gold trim of his cloak flitting
around a corner even as his servants disappeared.

I stood in a guard position. They raised their hands to me,
then nodded in the direction Nathaniel had taken. I shook my head and went to
the Elder. His shield flickered and disappeared like a wisp of smoke under my
hand. His breath was ragged.

"Eva. I didn't know who they were. I didn't
realize."

"Enough, Elder. What has happened here?"

"The girl. They will end the girl. She must be
saved."

"From Alexander," I said, grimacing. "He
seems to have it in for us."

"I don't know," Simeon gasped. "I don't know
who these people are, or who they stand with. But the girl must be saved. We
have made so many mistakes, Eva. She must be saved."

"We've made nothing but mistakes, Elder." I
stood, wavering as the power of Morgan left me. "But I will do what I
can."

"What you must, Paladin. They have taken her to the
Chanter's Island."

I nodded and looked around. The men were gone. I turned to
the archway the Elector had taken, touched my sword to my forehead, and
remembered Morgan as he lay dying on the Fields of Erathis. I had found the
scions of the Betrayer. They would not escape me.