The Horns of Ruin

by Tim Akers

  "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.

  "This is the part where you tell me," I said.

  Nervous looks, and then Tomas waved a hand.

  "Follow me, child."

  Tomas went before me, Isabel behind. I couldn't help but feel that I should be carrying my bully, or at least a knife.

  They took me to the solarium. In our glory days, this space had doubled as a ballroom for formal events. Now it was just dusty, and a nice place to watch the stars. Night now, so the wide, domed ceiling of glass glittered with the diamond sky and the wash of alchemical light from the surrounding glass towers of the city. We were high in the Strength, above the fortified chambers, above even the terrace where Elias had fought his last. The solarium was a luxury of the Strength, not found in the other fortress monasteries of Morgan. Not that there were any left in the countryside still dedicated to their original purpose.

  Tomas paused by the door and spun up the broad frictionlamps that ringed the glass dome. The room filled with amber light. The marble floor was unevenly dusty, and the air was cold and stale. I waited for Tomas to finish his business with the lights, watching Isabel walk further into the room. She reached the center and then orbited the inlaid compass rose, very slowly.

  "No waiting around, girl," Tomas muttered as he passed me. "We've a lot of business tonight."

  We Joined Isabel at the center. He held up a hand for me to stop, just on the edge of the compass. Isabel came to stand beside me. Tomas kept his eyes on the floor, focusing on the dusty marble. Then, strangely, he raised his arms in benediction. And he danced.

  It was a slow step, heel and toe and careful forms that moved him around the compass rose to an unheard tune. The dust puffed around his feet and stained the hem of his robe. Isabel put a hand on my elbow and tugged me slowly back. One revolution he danced, and then the floor opened and a platform rose into the room, panels sliding and clicking like a magician's disappearing box.

  The platform was small and pyramidal, rising to waist height at the center. On the highest part there was a cylinder of banded iron, like a thousand pistons bundled together.

  "How many years of dances and balls held in this room, and no one just happened to step that path?" I asked, my voice a whisper.

  "It is an invokation," Tomas answered. He was out of breath, and a sheen of sweat beaded on his pale forehead. "Something you will learn, in time."

  "So. What is this thing that we have hidden behind our god's secret life as a dancer?" I asked. Steps led up the gentle slope to the platform. I ascended and put my hand on the cylinder. It was about the length of my arm, and four times as thick. Heavier than I anticipated when I picked it up.

  "You will need to invoke," Isabel said. There was a hint of amuseme
nt in her voice. I ignored her and hefted it to my shoulder, then tottered down the stairs. Isabel shook her head, then invoked under her breath and plucked the cylinder from my grasp. She set it on the ground, and we all stood around and stared at it.

  "We don't know," Tomas said eventually. "It arrived, unseen, in the Chamber of the Fist. Two weeks ago."

  I knelt beside it. The complicated bindings of my ceremonial doublet creaked as I looked the device over.

  "These are Amonite markings," I said, running my finger over a band of runes along one edge. "This is the language of the Scholar."

  Tomas took a deep breath and then exhaled a deeper sigh.

  "It is," he said.

  "Why is this in the Strength, then? It is the engine of a heretic. It should be taken to the Cult of the Healer and destroyed."

  "Yes," Isabel said darkly. "It should."

  "It should, but was not," Tomas answered, testily. "On the word of the Fratriarch."

  "And what came of that?" Isabel asked. They were starting their argument again, as if forgetting I was in the room. "You fought him, Tomas. It was your vote that we destroy it. Immediately."

  "Yes, it was. But the vote still stands."

  "What vote?" I asked. "What the hell are you people talking about?"

  Tomas and Isabel stared at each other, lost in old conversations. When they broke their stare, the tension in the room snapped.

  "There was a great deal of discussion on this subject. The Council voted." Tomas circled the cylinder, then placed a hand on its cap, running a finger around the Betrayer's runes. "And that vote still stands."

  "For now," Isabel answered. "But Elias is dead, and Barnabas, most likely. The Council needs to be re-formed, a new Fratriarch ascended, a new vote-

  "Whoa, whoa, hang on. Barnabas isn't dead, not yet. Unless you've got his body in some chandelier or stuffed behind your wardrobe, he's still the Fratriarch. And I'm still his Paladin. Whatever the old man decided still stands." I looked angrily down at the cylinder. "Even if we don't like it."

  "We will see. This is a time of emergency, Eva." Isabel placed a hand on my shoulder. "We must take extraordinary measures in times such as these."

  "Or we could stand by our vows, and serve the Fratriarch." I fixed Tomas with my gaze. "As we swore."

  "Yes, yes. As we swore. Either way, you won't get a vote, Paladin. This is a matter for the Elders. And this," he said, motioning to the device, "is the heart of it."

  "This is what got Elias killed? Do we even know what it is?"

  "Not really. As you surmised, it is an Amonite artifact. Some kind of storage device, perhaps, or a map." Tomas took a step away from the thing and clasped his hands behind his back. "Amon was always fond of keeping knowledge in machines. But really, we don't know what it is, or where it came from."

  "And you didn't turn it over to the Alexians because ... ?"

  "Because we did not know where it came from. It was given to us, to the Cult of Morgan. Not Alexander."

  "So this is some kind of pissing match, Elder?"

  "Alexander abuses the knowledge of the Scholars, Eva," Isabel said, stepping into our conversation from where she had been observing from the side. "He keeps them as pets, milking them for whatever benefit he can manage. Whatever will further his power."

  "Are you feeling empathy for the Librarians Desolate, Lady Elder?" I asked, smirking. "Doesn't sound like you."

  "Not empathy. I don't think they should be kept at all. Alexander allows the worship of Amon, Morgan's murderer, to further his own needs. He speaks to us of justice, but only as far as is convenient for him. He promises us revenge, and then allows the scions of Amon to live in captivity, so that they might build him weapons, and grow him armies of peasants."

  "Weapons that have contributed to the downfall of our Cult, Elder? Is that your concern?"

  She stepped close to me, her breath a mix of spice and sweat. Her finger hammered into my chest, inches from Barnabas's pendant.

  "My concern is that the servants of the Betrayer are allowed to live, when our god Morgan lies dead."

  "Regardless of fault," Tomas said, "we do not wish to further Alexander's knowledge of the ways of Amon. Whatever knowledge this archive contains, it is for us, not him."

  "And that's why we were fetching the girl," I said. "In the hope that she would be able to decipher the device, and further the cause of Morgan."

  "That was the Fratriarch's hope," Tomas answered. "We were opposed to it, but ... he's the Fratriarch."

  "Was," Isabel said. I rounded on her, but she held up her hands in peace. "And shall always be. Settle, girl."

  "So why are you showing me this?"

  "You should know what caused all of this. Barnabas's kidnapping, the murder of our brother Elias. Whatever is to come. We all felt that you should be aware of the cause."

  I nodded to myself. That was the reason they were willing to tell me, at least. I suspected there was more going on, more that I wasn't being told. I would speak to Simeon, later, and get his side of their disagreement.

  "And why was Elias killed?" I asked. "Did he have some secret knowledge of this device, or something?"

  "We don't know," Tomas answered, shaking his head slowly. "Someone is warring against us. We assume they are aligned with the Betrayer. Perhaps trying to recover this device, or destroy it."

  "They're welcome to destroy it," Isabel spat. "I don't want this Scholar filth in my monastery."

  "If the Betrayer wants it destroyed, then isn't that reason enough to preserve it?" Tomas asked. Isabel took a step back, looking at him with confusion. He nodded at the question in her eyes. "This is not as simple a question as I would like to believe, Isabel. The more troubles develop, the more questions I have. The less sure I am of my earlier vote."

  Isabel grimaced, then hefted the device with her still-invoked strength and placed it back on the platform. Without a signal that I saw, the platform folded intricately back into the floor. When it was smoothed away, Isabel turned to Tomas, fire in her eyes.

  "Do not speak to me of complicated answers, Tomas. This course will see us all killed. Alexander fails us. Amon will lie to us. It is only in Morgan we can trust."

  "Morgan is dead, love," Tomas answered, quietly. Isabel spat, then whirled and marched out of the room.

  Tomas watched her go with sad eyes, then put a hand on my shoulder.

  "How will we stand, if not together?" His voice was very quiet. "We must speak of your duties, Paladin."

  "What would you have of me, Elder?"

  He turned to me, his clear blue eyes wet and bright.

  "The girl is in the hands of the Chanters," he said, very carefully. "What does she know?"

  "She can chant a hell of an Unmaking, Elder. Beyond that," I shrugged, "that's what the Chanters are for, aren't they?"

  "It matters to us, Eva. It is important. We cannot go back to the Library Desolate and simply withdraw another. Besides," he drew close to me, "this girl, she was with the Fratriarch when he was taken. Might have been involved in it."

  "Yes. I hope she can lead us to him."

  "Lead us? Perhaps. But we must know how it happened. Who is responsible. And worse, Eva ... what did he say, there at the end? What if she escaped, ignored by whoever it was that took Barnabas. What does she know of why we summoned her? She surrendered to you, did she not? Why would she do that?"

  "To preserve her fellow scions, I think. It isn't unreasonable."

  "That is not the action of a Scholar. Of a Betrayer. She must know something of the archive, something of Barnabas's reason for visiting the Library."

  "And if she does?" I asked.

  "The Chanters will know. And then Alexander will know."

  I crossed my arms.

  "Is it that important, Elder? That we endanger the search for the Fratriarch, perhaps cost him his life, to keep this thing hidden from Alexander? He is our god's brother, after all."

  "As was Amon." He pulled away from me, shuffling slow
ly to the center of the floor, his head down. He traced a pattern in the dust with the toe of his old boot. "It is important, Eva. It was the Fratriarch's will. He knew the danger, when he went to the Library alone, with only you as his guard. He knew, and accepted it."

  "What are you asking of me, Elder?"

  "To do the Fratriarch's will. To obey him, as you swore to obey him." He stopped his scuffling and looked up at me. His eyes were sad. "Alexander has the girl. Bring her to us."

  It didn't really matter what I thought. The Elders were going to do what they were going to do. I had never understood Cult politics, the secrets we kept, the secrets the Healers kept from us. Never understood why either of the Cults put up with the bloody Amonites, either. There must be other ways to keep the city running, besides the Betrayer's slick invokations. Again, not my decision. Not my business. The Elders were going to do what they were going to do. And I was going to do what I was going to do.

  I stopped in my rooms only long enough to shed the stiff ceremonial gear for a pair of jeans and a cotton T-shirt, boots for a loose pair of meditation slippers, then set out to roam the higher halls of the monastery. I was bone-tired, having been up all night searching the city for signs of the coldmen, then much of today standing watching over the dead body of Elias. But I couldn't sleep. Too much on my mind, and more on my heart.

  My feet shushed along the cold slate floors of the monastery. The corridors were spottily lit, and the rooms were quiet. The monastery had been built to house two strong Arms of Paladins of the Champion, five hundred men, plus four times that number of support staff and lesser initiate warriors. Add in the Father Elders, the Fraternal leadership, the holy seers and anointed champions ... nearly three thousand souls had called the monastery home, in comfort. Not a barracks, nor a mendicant's hovel, the monastery was the height of the holy order of Morgan's warrior church. Had been, and still was, though the Cult was dwindling.

  There were fifty of us left. And most of that corps were aging Elders and middle-aged initiates who had never achieved the status of the blade. There were warriors among them, brothers- and sisters-atarms who were fit to guard the doors and march in the hallways, maybe even carry a charge in the field. But of the Paladins there was one. Me.