The Horns of Ruin Read Free Page B

'way sealed and your access
suspended until such time-"
    "Are you here to add anything of value to these
proceedings, or is your sole purpose in this matter to run your mouth and lose
your temper and make pointless threats that you have no ability to carry
out?" he snapped. He left the open cabinet and stuck one pale, thin finger
in my face. "Because I'm beginning to suspect that you're nothing but a
good sword and a great rack!"
    "Yeah," I said, thoughtful. "Yeah. That's
all of your wisdom I'm going to take."
    I flared invokations: the Sundering Stone, the Wall of the
World, Hunter's Heart. My sword was in my hands, bleeding light and smoke and
fire. The Alexian took a step back, and his form was fraying at the edges as he
chanted the defensive invokations of the Healer. Barnabas stepped between us,
then cracked me across the head with his staff. My invokations dropped.
    "Child," he said, and nothing more. Over his
shoulder, the servitor of Alexander looked on with amusement. I returned the
sword to the tiny, clasping hands of the sheath and took a stance of
meditation.
    "You should teach your children better, Fratriarch. A
servant of Alexander knows his place in the presence of Elders." The
servitor whipped his hands and the invokation fell, his body snapping back to
wholeness like a spring. Barnabas rounded on him.
    "A servant of Alexander should know his place,"
he snarled. He poked the pale man in the sternum with the staff. "Wet
nurse, or bed maid, or hearth servant." Poke. "Not provoking the
scions of Morgan." The Fratriarch crowded the servitor, stepping in too
close and then following him as he retreated. "God of War. Champion of the
Field. Heart of the Hunter. Do you understand?"
    "That woman is ... she is-"
    "She is a warrior, an anointed Paladin, a scion of
Morgan. She is a dangerous person." He put an old hand against the
servitor's chest and gave him a slow, powerful push. The pale man stumbled
back. "As are we all, dangerous people."
    The servitor trembled against the cabinet, staring at the
Fratriarch. He looked between us, then picked up the chained dowel that had
tumbled from his hand.
    "We have business, Fratriarch. There's no need for
this to get complicated."
    "It always is, servitor," Barnabas said. His
voice was tired. "It always is."
    The bald man scowled but returned to the cabinet. He
fingered the dowel, then unclasped a length of chain and handed it to Barnabas.
    "Some of the chains express an aura of restraint,
drawing on the souls of any who have been bound. We use those for crowd
control. Other sets are attuned to specific individuals. Since your request was
for a single subject, this is probably the best."
    Barnabas took the chain. It was a narrow loop, not more
than six inches in loose diameter. He twined it around his fingers and
squinted. "How does it ... Ah." The old man looked disoriented for a
moment. Startled, I stepped forward and put a protective hand on his elbow.
Slowly he regained his bearings. He looked at the servitor. "You didn't
have to hurt them at all, did you?"
    The bald man shrugged.
    "Well, where is he?" Barnabas looked around, then
stopped. "She. Yes, I see. Like this."
    He raised the chain, his fist clenching around the flat,
dull links. A figure rose from a table on a nearby terrace and crossed over to
join us. She was a young woman, a girl really. The dark robes of the Cult of
Amon hung loosely on her frame, but she had her hood down. Her hair stuck out
in thick, black curls, startling against her pale skin. She kept her eyes
lowered. The chains that hung around her shoulders looked very new.
    "A child? Did our request not stress the importance of
our need?" Barnabas asked.
    "This one is ... gifted. Unique. Have faith in
Alexander, my friends."
    "My knee will bend to him, sir," I said,
"but my faith belongs to Morgan."
    The servitor shrugged again, laughter dancing in his eyes.
"As you say. If this girl will not serve, I'm sure we could reprocess your
request. It would