The Horns of Ruin s-9

by Tim Akers

  My pursuit took me deeper into the city, away from the harbor horns and to the opposite shore of Ash. These were the oldest buildings, the first structures the Fraterdom had raised after the defeat of the Feyr. I kept catching glimpses of the Spear of the Brothers, the marble tower that had served as the seat of power before the three Cults had split and settled into their own domains. After the betrayal of Amon, Alexander had returned to the Spear to build his throne, leaving his Cult's Healing Halls to the administration of his scions and declaring himself the godking of all mankind. When it was built, the Spear was the tallest structure in all Ash. Now, like the Strength of Morgan, the Spear was dwarfed by the glassand-steel towers of the modern metropolis. Ironic that Alexander sat humbled by the technology created by his policies toward the Scholars.

  We did not go to the Spear, however. The figure skirted the edge of the administrative district, keeping to the old town and transportation hubs, more than once ducking into shops and then out the back door without speaking to merchant or customer. People seemed unphased by his passing. There were a couple more instances of the disorientation, when it felt like the world was being squeezed through a tube and everything became unfamiliar. If my quarry was a scion of Morgan, he was reeling off invokations I had never heard of, much less learned. I felt the Betrayer's hand in this. My pace quickened, driven forward by curiosity as much as my warrior's training. I wanted this target, wanted to hunt him down and drive him to the ground.

  Our path began to orbit a cluster of buildings. I slowed down. The figure was looking for tails, checking and double checking his path. I had him well in sight now, but there was no getting any closer. We circled that cluster of buildings once, twice, and then he stopped in front of one particular place. White walls, plaster chipped and old, windows shuttered, but the iconography still maintained. One of the original missions of Alexander, its glory faded, its doors long closed. But not to this man. He crept silently to the door and laid a hand against it. Something happened, an invokation or a signal, and the door opened. Before he went inside, the figure looked up and down the street, then disappeared into the darkness. I saw his face.

  Elder Simeon, son of Hatheus, holy scion of Morgan.

  * * *

  Simeon walked slowly through the darkened hallway, discarding the invokations of stealth and speed that he had been wearing since he left the Strength. He was unarmed and unadorned, as the relics of the Cult would have too readily marked him as a scion of Morgan. His clothes were plain, and he wore no emblems around his neck or at his wrists. One of the most powerful men in the city of Ash looked like little more than a shopkeep, caught in the bad part of town.

  The hallway opened into a tall central room, a domed space off which various arched doorways led. Light came from a scattering of frictionlamps around the room, flickering under minimal power. A second-level terrace overlooked the main room. The floor here was a mosaic of tiny earthen tiles, but so many of the pieces were shattered that the picture was lost. Simeon scuffed his foot across the fragments, frowning. He looked around the room, then drew something from his pocket. A pendant. He held it aloft and incanted something under his breath. A pulse rippled through the air, and the shadows shifted.

  "We are here, Simeon of Morgan. There is no need to shout."

  The voice came from the terrace. Simeon turned to face the speaker, though he couldn't see him. He kept the pendant held high.

  "I didn't want to meet like this, Malachi. There are too many eyes."

  "Our eyes, Elder? Or your own?"

  "Both. Come out, Healer."

  A shadow detached itself from an archway and passed between two lamps. The man was trim and proper, white armor laced with gold and linen. He wore the armor well, a man accustomed to fighting as well as parade. A brace of daggers twinkled at his belt, and his gauntlets glowed with the subtle power of the Healer's icons. His face was smooth and young, though his eyes looked like the eyes of a doll. His lips were too big. Golden hair cascaded across his shoulders. His icons marked him as a High Elector of the Cult of Alexander. It was Nathaniel, who had early on been put in charge of the defense of the monastery, and whom the Elders had kicked out.

  "Is this better, Warrior? Both of us in the light."

  Simeon took a step back, breathing a curse. "I have had business with you, Elector, and put you aside. I am used to dealing with Malachi, of the House of Sutures. Where is he?"

  "This matter has been elevated, as have I. I am in charge of this investigation now. The Council of Blood is deeply concerned about the possibility of their brothers of Morgan acting behind their backs, and have asked me to take a hand to it. So, tell me." He leaned against the railing. "What news, Elder?"

  "They are not acting behind your back so much as acting in their own interest. You must understand their-"

  "They are hiding an abomination of Amon. That was your report, no? That is why you came to us originally?"

  "I came to Malachi because we are old friends, and things are getting out of hand. Your involvement is unwelcome."

  "My involvement is at the behest of the godking, Elder. Now, tell me, what is happening in the House of Morgan that you would call such an urgent meeting with your friend?"

  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 the
m 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.

  10

  'wen 'wen really had been sent to look after me by his boss. I wasn't _ sitting in the local station more than five minutes before he came rushing in. Like he was just in the area. Sure.

  "Gods, Forge. You look like hell."

  "Hell is filled with trite expressions," I said, wincing as I stood. "You my ride?"

  "I don't think you're going anywhere. Honestly, you're barely able to stand."

  "Yeah. That's why I called for a ride." Truth was, I had stumbled into this station to give them the word on my Elder. They had rushed out with medical bags and trauma machines, out to where I had told them Simeon was lying. They hadn't come back yet. In the meantime I had sat down, and just hadn't gotten around to standing up again. Long as Owen was here, though, I figured he could make himself useful. "Let's get going."