The Horns of Ruin (43 page)

I gathered the bodies myself. Cut each one down, carried
it, and laid it to rest in the charred ruins of the Chamber of the Fist. Tomas,
Isabel, and Simeon. Stories were being told of the walking Barnabas, seen
leaving the city shortly before the cataclysm of divinity. I swore to find him
later, and offer him the quiet of the grave. The Strength was a ruin, but the
stone still stood. The high halls were smoldering. It would be days before I
could walk them, and gather the rest of my brothers. And then I would stand
their watches, and lay them away in the Last Rest. Fire hadn't touched those
cold stone walls under the monastery.

A crowd gathered around the plaza. None getting too close,
but none going away, either. They watched me as I performed the duties that
were my burden. When it was done, I sat in the nave and cleaned my revolver and
my sword, clearing a space in the ash to lay out the rituals.

I went to the door and looked out at the sea of faces,
burned robes, charred faces, and bewildered eyes. Behind them the city smoked
in its ruin. The impellors were silent, burst in the might of their divine
siren. I stood in the doorway of the Strength of Morgan, and they waited for
me. They would continue to wait.

I turned away, closing the mighty doors of the Strength
behind me. I had a church to clean, and then a city, and then a godhood. There
was ash in our blood, ash deep in our flesh, a history of tragedy and betrayal
that could not be denied, but that we could not discard. It was our history;
they were our gods. A divinity of ashes and death, and we would have to burn
them clean. The Warrior stands.