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
"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
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