The Horns of Ruin

by Tim Akers

  "Talk later. He's been taken."

  "Taken? Who?" He dropped his cigarette and ground it out with an old, oil-stained boot. "The Fratriarch?"

  I brushed past him, not sparing a glance toward the open door of the Chamber. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the upturned faces of the rest of the Elders. There was a relic of armament next to the Chamber. I threw back the cowl and began rummaging through the offerings.

  "They came at us after we left ..." How much did he know about our business? What had the Fratriarch told him? Barnabas had said nothing to me of our business, and I was his guard. But these were the Elders. "After we left the Library Desolate. There were two guys, following us, and then-"

  My hand strayed to the dark wood tray of bullets. I hadn't seen those two again, I realized. The two bulky men with their metal cowls and tattooed cheeks. They had been following us, for sure, but they hadn't been in on the attack.

  "Then?" Isabel asked. I looked up. The whole Fist of Elders was standing around me, eyes wide. Only Simeon, his dark face impassive, seemed to have gotten past the shock. He shouldered Tomas aside and began gathering bullets from the tray. I snapped out of it and joined him, pinching them into the empty cylinder of my bully.

  "Then we were attacked. Strange guys ... metal faces, goggle eyes. Never seen them before. They fought me off and took the Fratriarch."

  "The Rethari have struck us here, in the city?" Tomas said, his voice trembling with rage.

  "Not Rethari. Forget the field reports, Elder. I know those war drums have been beating for months, but these guys weren't the scaled bastards. They were men." I sighted the weapon, and made sure there hadn't been any damage in the fight. "They were machines."

  "And the scholar?" Isabel asked.

  I stopped what I was doing and looked at her. "The girl?" I asked.

  "Yes, the Amonite. What became of the Amonite?"

  I stood there, silently, watching Simeon load shot into his antique revolver. The rest of the Elders were clustered tight, nearly trembling.

  "The hell with the Amonite," I hissed. "Barnabas is gone, Isabel. Your Fratriarch has been taken."

  That broke the spell. They stepped back, Isabel nearly fluttering with anger.

  "I am an Elder of this Cult, Eva, and your sworn master. You will not-"

  "Next time, Izzy." I slapped the cylinder of my revolver shut and holstered it, then walked briskly to an anointing tub and dipped my sword into the water. It came out shimmering, the remaining dead, cold blood of the Fratriarch's kidnappers rolling off in clumps. "We can have this spat next time, when I have a day or so to listen to your holy nonsense. Today, right now, while we're talking, Barnabas is in enemy hands."

  "Of course," Tomas said. "There is no time. We will convene the Fist and contact Alexander's representatives. The city must be mobilized."

  "Sure thing," I said, then all but ran out into the street. The giant wooden door, carved with the histories of the scions of Morgan, greasy and worn with time and neglect, slammed closed behind me.

  Felt good to be on the move again. To be mobilized.

  The representatives of Alexander. The Healers, the whiteshirts, the nurses. Alexians. They had to be contacted, right, because they wouldn't otherwise notice the gunfight that just broke out in the middle of their city? Sure. It was a whiteshirt patrol that had given me a ride from the crash site back to the Strength of Morgan, and another patrol that was tearing hell to the godking's palace. Probably to amp up their own security.

  I love my Elders, honest to Brothers, but they've gotten old. Even Elias, hard as stone, isn't going to do much more than carry that revolver tucked into his belt while he putters around his highgarden. Doing things was up to the Paladins, and these days, that was me. Just me.

  I swung into the whiteshirts' wagon, crouching on the bench so my sword wouldn't bang against the wall. The Justicar sat across from me. His head was wreathed in a communications rig. I tapped the shiny iron band across his eyes and leaned in.

  "Any word?" I yelled.

  He opened the rig and gave me an angry glare. "It wasn't on, lady. You don't have to yell."

  I slapped the rig, knocking it fully off his head, then grabbed his collar and put my lungs into it.

  "Any! Word!"

  "Gods, okay, okay. It's not like ... Okay, it's exactly like that. Hold on." He picked up the rig and spun it up. "There's been some kind of interference today. Something wrong with the channels. But no. Your Fratriarch hasn't been seen. Not him, not the convoy of flying corpses that you say took him. Just one wrecked train and a lot of scared citizens."

  "This is why you were late? Why I had to fight off the whole stinking pile of them myself? Your ... channels were interfered with?"

  "Yeah, that's part of it. These things go out, sometimes. Bad timing."

  "Terrible timing. The worst timing." I leaned back in my seat and cursed as my articulated sheath rattled against some gear, knocking it to the ground. "Can we go somewhere, already? Can we just ... just turn that siren on and let's go?"

  "Where are we supposed to-"

  "Go," I howled, then leaned forward and slapped the siren on. The rest of the patrol piled into the wagon and hauled the doors shut. We sat there in the wailing of the siren, the Justicar and I looking daggers at each other. Finally, he sighed and turned to the driver.

  "Get us to the Harrington Square station. We'll check in with the land line there, see where we should deploy."

  The wagon lurched forward.

  I smiled at the Justicar. "It's a good start, sir. A good start."

  "Glad you're happy with it."

  "Happy enough. Your name's Arron, right?"

  "Owen," he said.

  "Owen. You're doing fine, Owen. Alexander would be very proud."

  "To hell with that," he said, then twisted back to the driver. "And turn that damn siren off."

  he station was a squat brick building, sprouting a crown of heavy communication wires that crisscrossed the city like a spider's web. Inside it was hot and crowded, everything painted a dull, chipped white, the paint applied sloppily and thick. The air smelled like kitchen cleaner.

  We checked in with Owen's patrol coordinator and were told there was no news. We checked in with headquarters. No news. A runner came from the Strength, specifically to tell us that there was no news.

  The Fratriarch of the Cult of Morgan was missing, and no one knew anything more than that. I gave my interview to one of the representatives from the palace of Alexander, a real efficient-looking guy in a suit who asked brief questions and got brief answers. When we were done he folded up his notes and walked out of the station. Everyone seemed relieved when he was gone.

  The city was busy enough, that's for sure. The printsheets were stuttering out of the vendors splashed with big, black letters: FRATRIARCH OF MORGAN KIDNAPPED. Every time I got up to pace to the door, one of the whiteshirts would put a hand on my shoulder to say that their boys were on the case, they had people working leads, that it was best if I stayed put and let them do their work. I felt caged. I felt like those Amonites in the Library Desolate must feel, only I hadn't signed up for it. It was well past noon when I gave up being patient and kind, and decided to go ahead and be a Paladin of Morgan. It was my nature.

  "I'm going," I told Owen as I marched to the door for the fifth time that hour. They had tried to take my sword and bully when I got there. They settled for the bullets on my belt, and a promise not to draw steel. More for their own good, I think. Owen followed me to the guard station and tapped his foot while I checked out the ammo. I examined the bullets. All in order.

  "You can't do any good," he said. "We've got people. Let them do their thing."

  "What thing are they doing?" I asked.

  "Interviewing people. Searching the scene of the crime."

  "Scene of the crime. Like someone's precious bike was stolen." I slapped the cylinder shut, opened it again, spun it, slapped it shut. Nervous. "This isn't stolen property. This is
n't even a murder. It's an act of war, Justicar."

  "We don't know that. Honestly, we don't know much of anything. This stuff takes time, Eva."

  "Time. Right. We're just awash with time. Probably a whole twenty-four hours before they kill him, right? Isn't that what the statistics say?"

  "For a normal kidnapping, yes. But this isn't a normal kidnapping-"

  "That's what I've been saying! Brother-damn hell, Justicar, we should be turning this city inside out."

  "There's ... we don't want to upset the populace." He looked back to the den, to the bunch of officers milling about desks and talking into clockgeists. "We don't want to scare anyone."

  I sighed, like a steam engine bleeding off pressure.

  "I'm going out."

  "You can't," he said, trying not to sound timid. Well. Trying to sound forceful, I guess.

  "I can't."

  "There are orders. I was trying to tell you, but ... it's complicated. We're supposed to keep you here."

  "Whose orders?" I asked, twisting the grip of my bullistic in cold, sweaty hands.

  "From the top office. From the god himself."

  "Alexander?"

  He nodded. "There have been threats. Warnings. Someone's saying they're going to kill off the Cult of Morgan."

  "Someone," I said. "Someone said that. And you're keeping me here, keeping me safe."

  Again, the nod. "Got word just after we reported in. The Strength of Morgan is on lockdown. Most of our men are focused on that, and finding out who made the threat."

  "And keeping Alexander safe, no doubt. People start bumping off his brother's Cult, can't be long before they come for him."

  Owen looked down and shrugged. "Security measures have been taken. Tightened. Sure, we're stepping up protection."

  "Between guarding Alexander's precious white ass and keeping the Strength on lockdown ... Owen, do you have anyone looking for the Fratriarch?"

  "We're prioritizing resources, Eva. We have to. There are people looking, sure, but-"

  I laughed, an angry laugh that cut the room to silence. He stood there looking at me, gaping, face white as his sloppy white desk. "I like the part where you were going to keep me here, Justicar," I said, shaking my head. "That's good."

  I turned and kicked the door open, splintering the lock some idiot had installed. The street beyond was mostly empty. People were home by now, getting ready for dinner. The first shades of dusk were starting to dust the city in gray.

  "That's real good," I said, and walked out into the city to find the old man.

  Owen took some liberties with his orders, modifying "keep her in the station" to "try to keep up with her," and came along. Members of his patrol, too, though not the whole group. I had the feeling that frantic calls were being made back at the station. Not my problem.

  "Where are we going?" he asked after we had walked the first five blocks at a brisk pace. These guys were used to rolling around in that stubby battle wagon of theirs. "I mean, are you following some kind of plan, or are we just going to kick in doors until we find your guy?"

  "You guys could do with some door-kicking practice," I said. Honestly, I didn't have a plan. I just didn't like the idea of sitting on my hands. Didn't want to admit that to these whiteshirts, though. I ambled to a halt and pretended to fuss with the hang of my holster while I thought about where we were and where we might be going. The patrol stood around me, looking nervously at the dark windows and shadowy alleys.

  "You don't have a plan, do you?" Owen asked.

  "I have a sense of direction," I answered, folding my arms across my chest. "A sense of purpose. And, as you've noted, I have some experience kicking in doors."

  "But no plan," he said.

  I grimaced. "Not yet. I prefer to develop these things organically. That way I don't have to fight my own presumptions when the situation changes."

  "Yeah," he said. "Don't think, just jump."

  "Look, if you'd rather be back at your desk, I'm not keeping you here."

  "Yeah."

  We smoldered at each other, then he shook his head and sighed.

  "We have to start somewhere. What was the first strange thing you noticed about that fight?"

  "That we were going to the Library Desolate. That we were talking to Amonites. That it was the Fratriarch doing all this, rather than some attendant or man-at-arms."

  "Or woman-at-arms," Owen said. His patrol was getting antsy. I was getting antsy.

  "Don't be smart. It was a weird bit of business."

  "I agree," he said, "but I don't think that'll help us find your man. Unless what he was doing might have something to do with why he was taken."

  And of course I hadn't considered that. To me, the business was bad but it was just business. In my mind, the enemies of the Fratriarch (and of the Cult of Morgan in general) didn't need a reason to do the things they did. They were crazy. They hated us. They looked for opportunities, not reasons. Consequently, I looked for ways to prevent those opportunities rather than debating the reasons behind them. I shrugged.

  "Maybe. You want me to list the dozens of factions and principalities who might have a grudge against the Cult of Morgan? We've killed a lot of people in our generations."

  "Might be easier to list your allies," he said.

  "I don't keep that list."

  "You're a real bright spot in my day, Eva Forge. So." He looked around at the dingy square where we were having our little head-tohead. "You want to pick a door to kick in, or shall I?"

  "We're not kicking in doors," I said. The idiot patrollers actually looked relieved. "Maybe you're right. Maybe it was related to what we were doing."

  "With the Amonite? Probably. I mean, you have to admit, it's kind of strange."

  "Yeah. And there was that tail, the two guys with the tattoos around their eyes."

  "The who?"

  "The two guys. I told your bureaucrat all about it, during the interview."

  "That wasn't in the report," he said, then started digging in one of his pouches, eventually producing a wrinkled square of paper. "`Subject picked up a tail shortly after leaving L-D,"' he read. "That's the Library Desolate."

  "Yeah. I remember being there."

  "Right. Anyway, picked up a tail, took flight, opted for the train out of consideration for the Fratriarch's health."

  I grabbed the paper and scanned it. It was a summary of our interview, leaving out a lot of the details. I gave it back to Owen.

  "Close enough. The tail was two guys, bulky, wearing cloaks. They had some kind of ... armored cowl over the lower half of their faces, and they had tattoos around their eyes."

  "You didn't think to mention that kind of detail in the interview?"

  "I did. It's just not in your report. I mean, how much detail does a patrol Justicar need, really?"

  "I guess. And those were the guys who attacked you later?"

  I shook my head. The report hadn't described my attackers, either. I didn't feel up to it, right now.

  "Different guys. I guess I never really thought about the disconnect. You think that's important?"

  He shrugged. "I think it's interesting."

  "You want to base your investigation of the disappearance of the Fratriarch on `interesting'?" I asked.

  "Well, interesting is all we've got. Where was this?"

  I told him, as best as I could remember. It wasn't close. At first the whiteshirts looked nervous, as they considered that kind of hike, but Owen spun up his rig and called in for a wagon. They were all very happy about that, and sat around talking about how happy they were until the wagon clattered into the square and we all piled in and made our way south, toward the Library Desolate and the place the Fratriarch and I had first run into those weird guys with their eye tattoos.

  The square where Barnabas and I had stopped with the girl looked less sinister when I wasn't being pursued. The fountain was still dry, and the dark windows of the surrounding buildings looked empty rather than menacing. The monot
rain rails that ran along the perimeter were quiet. All service had been stopped on this circle while the attack was being investigated and the tracks repaired. I sat on the edge of the fountain and looked around.

  "Only a few hours," I said. "You wouldn't think the place would look so different."

  "Perception colors reality," Owen said. "Looks the same to me."

  "You're familiar with this place?"

  "It's on our patrol route. It kind of always looks like this."

  "Hm. Could have used you this morning," I said.

  "It's a long route. We only get through here once a day, I guess. But yeah, sorry we weren't around."

  I shrugged and stood up. "Let's not pretend it would have made that much of a difference."

  I walked around the perimeter of the fountain, looking for anything out of place. Just cobbles and street trash. This was the last place we had rested before making the final push to the train. Last chance anyone following us would have had for an ambush. Either no one had been here, or we had moved before they pulled the trigger. I didn't think that likely. We probably lost our pursuers in our rush. Resting here had probably given them a chance to catch up, to figure out where we were going. The Library Desolate loomed darkly to our west. I turned that way and started walking. The whiteshirts followed.

  We had run this part of the route, and I didn't remember much of it. Twice I had to stop and backtrack, after taking lefts when I should have taken rights. I didn't remember making a lot of turns, but walking the path now, it was clear that we had been dodging around like a rabbit in the shadow of a hawk.

  "You plan your escape routes as thoroughly as you plan your rescues?" Owen asked at one point as we clumped back to the road we had just left. "Because this is either a very cleverly devised route, or you guys were just running scared."

  "The Fratriarch does not run scared," I said. "But no, we didn't plan this. We got spooked."

  "You should have gotten an escort," he said. "We would have walked you home."

  "That came up. Frat didn't want it."

  "That might have been a mistake."

  "One of many, Mr. Justicar. Just one of many."