The Horns of Ruin Read Free

surrendered my sword to its sheath,
then left the Amonites to struggle to their feet and disperse. There would be
words from Barnabas for that provocation.
    "Not my fault he's a jerk," I muttered. He
ignored me.
    The small corridors and tight stairways continued for a
while. I lost track of our turnings, though it felt like we were going higher.
Groups of Amonites watched us from the shadows, eyeing the heavily armed woman
and the old man with his fancy staff. The servitor they ignored. He hurried
ahead of us, opening doors and securing locks. Well, at least they used locks
sometimes.
    "How did that work?" I asked the Fratriarch as we
crossed a broad chamber. I kept my eyes on my feet, only daring to glance
quickly over at the still furious Fratriarch. "How did he do that to
them?"
    Barnabas did not answer immediately. When he did, it was
with a deep sigh and a quiet voice. "How does your armor work,
student?"
    I stumbled to a stop. Student. He had not addressed me in
that way since ... since I was a child. I hurried to catch up.
    "Master, I meant no-"
    "I asked a question, and I await an answer."
    "I ... Master. The symbol of the armor is the
armor."
    "The idea of the armor, you mean. The soul of the
armor," he corrected. He let out a long sigh and looked around at the
dingy walls. His eyes held distaste, even pity. "We draw on the noetic
power of Morgan's armor, and it protects us. We draw on the noetic power of his
strength, the greatness of his deeds, the collective memory of his
courage." He waved a dismissive hand. "This is the same. The Healer
has built a prison into each of them. Chains would bind the flesh. The noetic
power of chains, the memory and symbol of chains, thoughthat binds their
souls."
    I thought about that. It troubled me. The strength of
Morgan, his courage and his bravery, his victories in battle-these were the
things that gave us our power, our invokations. Each of our powers had its
basis in some part of Morgan's story. Everice, Mountain among Streams, for
example, is a defensive stance. When invoked, the scion of Morgan can face
multiple threats at once, her attention divided equally in all directions. It
draws its power from Morgan's actions at the Battle of Everice, when his line
had been overwhelmed by the Rethari hordes. Morgan had stood alone against
waves of scaled Rethari warriors for a full day, striking each of them down
with a single blow. To the rest of the army, heavily pressed and unable to
relieve their god, Morgan had looked like a mountain in a flood, battered from
all sides but unyielding.
    I wondered what bit of Alexander's history the power of the
chains came from. Nothing widely known, it would seem. All the gods had their
secrets, of course, revealed only to the highest scions. Still, it was a
strange power for Alexander the Healer.
    "Master Barnabas, I beg forgiveness for my actions.
The presence of so many of the Betrayer's scions-"
    "Forget it," he said wearily, and then smiled.
"There is a duty here, and a purpose. These people do not serve Amon the
Betrayer." He stopped and fixed me with his pale eyes. "He did many
things. It is by his hand that this city was raised, and by his servants' hands
that it still stands. His tools drove back the Feyr and forged the Fraterdom.
The Betrayal was one act, as horrible as it was. One act. They worship the god
that he was. Not the murderer he became."
    "Is that supposed to be enough?" I asked.
    "It must be. Amon is dead. Morgan is dead at his hand.
Of the three brothers, only Alexander remains. There is nothing more we can
do."
    We stared at each other, master and student, elder and
orphan. The Fratriarch sighed and turned to the servitor, who was waiting at
the foot of a staircase. I followed, as I always follow. The Cult of Morgan was
not mine to lead.
    We continued in tense silence up a tightly coiling spiral
staircase, dusty shelves of books on all sides, until we emerged into a much
larger room. The Fratriarch and I stumbled to a