The Horns of Ruin s-9

by Tim Akers

  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.

  The corridors of the monastery twisted up, narrower and higher, the living chambers occasionally interrupted by empty defensive towers and unlit muster stations. The weapon racks were left empty. I wandered until my feet took me to the highest part of the egglike monastery. I went outside to stand on the Dominant, the narrow platform atop the egg that, in time of war, would serve as the Fratriarch's station.

  The Dominant was a smooth plane of stone, about fifteen feet in diameter. The edge was sheer, without even a low wall to protect its occupants from tumbling off. The platform was a fixture on all Morganite strongholds across the peninsula, most of which now stood empty or in ruin. From this place, the master of the stronghold would direct the defenses when the enemies of Morgan and the Fraterdom laid siege. Open to the field of battle, and with a perfect view of the armies below, the master would stand in clear sight of the enemy. The only things protecting him were the hard invokations of Morgan, incanted by his personal guard of Paladins. Such was their power that their words could turn away bullistic shot, clouds of arrows, even the early cannonades that were just seeing use near the end of Morgan's life.

  I sat on the edge of the platform and dangled my legs over, resting my heels against the smooth curve of the stone wall as it arched away. So easy to slide off. Slide off and down, to fly into the city without a sound. I leaned back on my palms and let the cold of the stone leech into my blood. The Strength of Morgan, safe in the city of Ash, had never seen siege. Probably never would. But the view from the Dominant was still spectacular.

  The monastery sloped out and away like a black moon. Few of the windows were lit, fewer of the chimneys curled smoke. The monastery sat like an eclipse in the middle of a city of light. All around, bright towers of glass reached starward, their surfaces shot through with the witchlight of the Amonites. Even at this hour the streets were alive with traffic. The golden rails of the mono shimmered as the trains sped by. Crowds moved below in silence, too far away to hear. Life went on. The city of Ash went on.

  I stood and stretched, pacing silently through the five stances of the Brother Betrayed. Circling the Dominant, the forms flowing through my arms like shadows flickering on a stage. I kept my eyes closed, my fists open, my breath coming in long, deep cycles. Muscles relaxed into the comfortable ritual of the forms.

  "You should be sleeping," a voice said from the center of the Dominant.

  My empty hands stopped inches from his throat, the strike rising up from my heels and through twisting hips, automatically snapping out what would have been a killing blow had my mind not recognized the voice.

  "Elder Simeon," I said, finally opening my eyes and looking at the old man over the stiff splay of my palm. I relaxed and stepped back. The Elder remained standing and still, as though he had never been in danger. As perhaps he hadn't. The Elders spoke the deepest secrets of the Cult of the Warrior. Even infirm, they had their powers. "Forgive me."

  "It is your forgiveness that must be given, Paladin. I checked your room, but you were gone. I came here to… collect my thoughts." He stepped away from the stairs, trailing out toward the edge of the platform. "And perhaps my memories. I did not seek to disturb you."

  I closed my stance and faced away from the Elder, putting some distance between us. Old men didn't climb that many stairs without a purpose. Especially this old man.

  "You treat me well, Simeon. Always have." I squatted down onto my heels, resting my arms on splayed knees. "So be honest with me. What was Elias's vote?"

  "His vote?" he asked. "On the archive?"

  "Yeah."

  "So they've told you about that, at least. What else?"

  "What else should I know, Elder?"

  He folded his arms into the wide sleeves of his robe and nodded toward the cityscape.

  "He was with Barnabas."

  "He wanted to reach out to the Amonites," I said, mostly to myself, mostly fitting the pieces together in my head. "To learn more about the device, without telling Alexander."

  "Yes." He nodded. "That was his hope."

  "Might not that be why he was killed?"

  He became very still. "These are dangerous suggestions, Eva." He turned toward me. "The Cult has enough enemies without digging them out of the monastery."

  "This is what I know, Elder. Someone delivered that artifact to the Strength. Someone kidnapped Barnabas and killed Elias. In every case, these unknown someones had pretty excellent knowledge of the business of the Strength. Who knew where the Fratriarch was going, and why? Who knew we had the artifact, or that a vote was taken to determine its fate? Who knew where those votes lay?"

  Simeon did not answer me. Did not need to answer.

  "And let me extend that thought. I know Tomas voted against it. Isabel made her will known. She has no tolerance for the artifacts of the Scholar. So, two against. Barnabas voted for investigating the artifact. As did Elias. Two votes to two. Leaving only you, Elder."

  "Aye. I was with Barnabas."

  "And now you fear for your life, as Elias should have feared for his. And now we must ask who held the knife. Who could be trusted, and now cannot?"

  "Surely you do not suspect the Elders?"

  "I am not threatening the Council of the Fist. I'm not accusing you, or Tomas, or Isabel, of anything. There are others in this monastery, other powers at work in the city. What I am saying, Elder, is that I will pursue this hunt wherever it takes me."

  "You must be very careful, girl. We do not wish to show weakness-"

  "Enough, Elder," I snapped, flushing at my own rashness. He took a step away from me. "I do not know what you are doing, but I do know that you are doing something. Tomas sent me to watch over Elias so he could talk to the other Elders. He sent you away so he could talk to me in Isabel's presence, and show me the artifact. And now you are here, to speak with me alone. Perhaps to speak against the Elders, perhaps to sway me in my decision regarding the artifact. It is a careful game, but I will not play it with you."

  "Paladin…" he hissed, then paused. Two long breaths we stood there before he gave a sharp nod, then retreated to the spiraling staircase.

  When he was well and truly gone, I relaxed from the fighting stance I had unwittingly assumed, then continued with my stances of meditation. I should not have spoken out to the Elder like that. But then again, he should not be trying to play games with the hunter on her trail.

  9

  y first glimpse of battle came on my tenth birthday. Tomas brought me to the train, and rode with me as far as it would go. We took the smaller elevated mono, in its unerring orbit, out of Ash and to the lakeside terminal. There we boarded a landlocked train, huffing and snuffling and groaning as it gained slow mo
mentum out of the station. Tomas bought me jerrycakes and soda that the vendor mixed right at the cart, and let me sit by the window. When we were close, he helped me get into the custom-fit steam suit, the pistons and boiler huffing like the train. I didn't have the noetics yet, and I was too young to wear a man's armor.

  There were ladies on the train with us, accompanied by their gentlemen. They wore silk dresses and carried picnic baskets. The Rethari Incursion was still a curiosity, like a page of history that had torn free and was rampaging among the peasants. Only we didn't really have peasants anymore. But the ladies boarded the train with their picnics, and their men carried folding chairs, and they sat in their leatherupholstered compartments and talked. Mostly they talked about me, in ways they thought I couldn't hear.

  I clambered out of the train and followed Tomas down to the field, and to Barnabas. People were already saying that he'd be the next Fratriarch. He would make a good one, I thought, though he was getting a little old. Something I didn't understand-why we waited until a man was old to make him Fratriarch. Best grab them while they're young and full of fire. Old men settled into patterns. They smelled. Fratriarch Hannas smelled, at least, and his bony hands were like the gnarled roots of trees. I hoped that making Barnabas Fratriarch wouldn't do that to him. I couldn't imagine him that way.

  The Rethari were gathered together, their scaly legions lined up in cohorts, their cohorts rallying to standards and champions. Just like any other army. I looked out across them and found the totem-men. Their gods. I laughed at such foolery, but Tomas hushed me. I picked out Barnabas. At the lead, of course. Without his helmet, of course. His great white mane of hair snapped in the wind, like a totem of winter snow trapped in a field of summer. His hair had always been white, long as I'd known him.

  The men followed him. I understood that. I would follow him, if Tomas let me. If I could get out of this ridiculous suit and wield the blade, if I knew the rites of armor and bullet. Someday.

  The Cult of Morgan carried the charge. As was our right. But we did not carry the day. It was glorious, down among the flashing swords and dancing warriors. It wasn't until later, when I stepped that dance myself, that I would learn of the grim filth of war. The death, the stink of men and women voiding themselves as blades burst guts, as bullets shattered teeth and opened skulls like ripe fruit. From here it was beautiful. Down there it was glorious too, but not in a way the ladies in their silk would understand.

  We carried the charge, but did not win the battle. The Rethari were driven back, then folded around the tight knot of the Cult of Morgan like a fist. Our legions fought, but the enemy were many. Their totem-men scythed into us. Living gods, or unliving. They cut into us. I watched the scions of Morgan fall back, drawing tighter and tighter to Barnabas's standard, to his wild crown of white hair and the swirling arc of his hammers. I stepped forward, but Tomas put a hand on my shoulder.

  "Sometimes there is loss, Eva," he whispered. "Perhaps that is today's lesson."

  But it was not. There was thunder, and the common levy advanced. Set shoulders lofted bullistic rifles like a bristling forest of metal and wood, which then erupted in fire and smoke. It was the greatest sound I had ever heard. The valkynkein swept forward on iron treads, tearing into the soft flank of the Rethari force. Thunder and lightning and the sharp stink of cordite as the conscripted warriors of the city of Ash advanced. Warriors. Farmers, fish sellers, tailors, beggars. But armed with the Scholar-crafted weapons of the Royal Armory. They were unstoppable. They put fire into the Rethari, and the scaly legions fled. Their totem-men tromped away, their heavy feet digging into the bloody mud of the field. The battle was carried by common men, and the weapons of Alexander and his pet Scholars.

  That was the lesson of the day.

  * * *

  I woke up, startled by the sound of the maid pushing dust down the hallway outside my door. I stood naked and shivering in my room, bullistic in hand, listening to her brush, brush, brush her way until she turned a corner and the sound faded. I had been sleeping, but I had not been sleeping well. Dreams of the Fratriarch, of Elias, both lying cold and dead in the Rest. Of them rising up and calling after me with static voices that scratched against my bones like the song of the impellors.

  My fingers shook as I got dressed. They shook as I cut my breakfast in the quiet mess hall, shook until I stuffed them into the pockets of my pants and hurried away from the Strength. This was before dawn. The sky was just barely light, and the streets were empty.

  It was a hell of a thing the Elders were asking me to do. The Cults of the Brothers Immortal had their differences, as the Brothers themselves had their differences. Petty things that brothers do, whether or not they are gods. More so for Morgan, Alexander, and Amon, since they were born human and became gods through their actions during the war against the Feyr. Petty things, and serious things, and in one case at least, murderous things. But ever since Amon had betrayed Morgan, since the Cults of Morgan and Alexander had hunted down their wayward Brother and put him to the torch, enslaved his Cult, and harnessed their wisdom… ever since then, Morgan and Alexander had stood close. Whatever grievances we had against each other were insignificant beside the Betrayal.

  So what were we doing now? Hiding an artifact of the Betrayer in our monastery, acting behind the Alexians' backs, risking the life of our Fratriarch to preserve that secrecy. These were the orders of the Elders. And now they were asking me to break into Alexander's palace and free an escaped Amonite. An Amonite who might know where Barnabas had been taken, who certainly knew something of what had happened to him. All to keep the scions of Alexander in the dark. It made me… uncomfortable. But that was my vow, reiterated to Tomas just yesterday, burned into my heart since I had been left at the door of the Strength.

  I wandered the city of Ash in quiet contemplation, wandered as the city unfolded around me, as the night fell to morning, and morning became day. I was wasting time. But my hands had stopped shaking, at least.

  I felt better, the closer I got to the Strength of Morgan. That old building always gave me peace, nestled darkly among the bright glassand-steel towers of the city. It was a place of dense power and ancient strength, like a foundation stone from which an entire world could be built. I had built my life on it. Easy to forget its majesty in my trouble.

  I paused along the wide boulevard that circled the Strength, resting beside a vendor cart at the edge of a stream of pedigears clattering over the cobblestones. The Strength rose above me, its egglike shape exaggerated by its height and width. The stone of its walls was intricately carved with friezes from the history of the Cult, its sides interrupted by terraces and gun platforms and wide glass windows on the higher levels that glittered in the sun. On the far side I could just make out the walled driveway where I had been turned over to the Cult as a child. And, facing me, the wide mouth of the recessed portal that led to the main door of the cathedral. Against the height of the Strength that door looked small, though it was ten feet tall and made of thick wood. The arched portal was easily thirty feet high, and bounded by statues of the warrior-saints. At our current strength, we couldn't afford the processional guard that traditionally stood at attention. That door remained closed but unlocked, even in this time of trouble.

  What was not unlocked, and never open, were the sally ports that ringed the monastery. Solid stone doors, hidden in the seams of the holy carvings, openable only with invokations and secret knowledge. Which is why it caught my attention when the farthest sally port I could see cracked open and a single figure slipped out. Whoever it was scurried across the mostly deserted boulevard and disappeared into the press of buildings on the other side.

  I was invoking before I fully understood I was moving, and moving before half a breath had left my mouth. The boulevard was never crowded these days, not since the Strength had lost its prominence as the spiritual center of the Fraterdom. Nothing got in the way as I sped along the edge of the buildings, each step faster with every invokation of
speed and the hunt. By the time I reached the place where the figure had disappeared I was flaring power in a coruscating aura of glory. I turned the corner and turned my Morgan-blessed senses on the trail.

  Whoever it was, he was running invokations, too. My senses were baffled by a muffled aura of misdirection. The street twisted under my feet, the buildings that should be so familiar fading from sight to be replaced by a nondescript facade of unknown houses and featureless walls. The sky closed in. Even my sense of balance took a tumble. I braced myself against a building that I'd never seen before and looked around. Behind me, the Strength was lost to sight. The average citizens who had the misfortune of traveling this street at this time stood dumbfounded in the road, unsure of where they were or where they were going. I passed them by, pushing through the subterfuge of the invokation with the burning eyes of the hunter. Faint hints of the figure's path called to me, disturbances of air and power that could only be detected by the sharpest of eyes. Morgan's eyes, blessed to me.

  After that initial surge of misdirection the trail settled down. Traces of invokations hung in the air where my target had jumped a fence or passed, ghostlike, through an intervening wall. A couple times I found myself following ghost tracks and had to walk back and pick the trail up again. Twice I spotted the figure. Nondescript robe, shuffling through the crowd that had gathered in front of a fish vendor. Once he was in the clear, there was some sort of commotion in front of the shop that drew everyone's attention but mine. With no one looking, the shuffling figure jumped gracefully up a fire escape and disappeared into the alleyway beyond.

  He was better than me. In a pure chase, speed against speed, invokation to invokation, he would have outdistanced me in a breath. It was only his apparent need for subterfuge and the occasional crowd that was slowing him down enough for me to keep in range.