Sirens. To hear it down here, the world must be screaming with sirens.
8
has was a gardener. A strange enough thing in the Cult of Morgan the Warrior, and stranger because he had practiced this art since childhood. On campaign as a sergeant in the god's army, the mud in front of his tent was groomed and raked, accented by potted plants and lines of tumbled stone. His barrack post crawled with vines. Even on watch, he took time to prune the hedges on his route. And now, as an Elder of the god, he kept a terrace on the tall, wind-wracked heights of the monastery, the stone floor crowded with loamy planters and ivy-covered trellises. He slept between rows of dirt, his bed under a canvas roof, the mud under his nails fresh.
When he woke up that morning, it was to stiffness and pain. It had been a late night. Arguing with Tomas, arguing with Isabel. Trying to get Simeon to take a side or at least express an opinion. Missing Barnabas. Missing his voice in the argument, his leadership, his strength. Mostly, though, just missing his old friend.
Outside his simple room, the wind whipped coldly over the terrace. The sun was a white disk of hammered silver behind the clouds. It wouldn't rain today, but it felt like it should. Like the air needed cleaning. Elias shivered as he slipped from his morning robe, stretching strong, wrinkled arms in the chill air as he assumed the poses of the warrior. When he was done with the morning ritual, the old man put on loose pants and a leather jerkin, and began the daily rite of weeding and tilling that would settle his mind and gird his spirit.
He was there, kneeling beside a planter of herringheart, trowel in one hand and a fist of dirt in the other, when they came for him. That they would find him here was inevitable. It was where Elias was, at this hour, on these days.
That they would strike him here, high up in the Strength of Morgan, steps from the Chamber of the Fist, on the holy stones of the Warrior god. That was unthinkable.
He fought. Even caught unawares, even unarmed, unarmored, uninvoked. With nothing but the hammer-strength of his old, wrinkled hands, hands that had planted and nurtured and struck stone and metal and bone. He fought, and he killed. There was more blood here than belonged to an aging Elder of the Cult. There was enough blood here for three men, soaking into the mud of the crawling vines, slicking the water of the artificial pond. More than enough blood. But only one body.
He lay where he had fallen, the trowel still in his hand. Its edge was dull and nicked. Bloody. His fists were pulverized. The bones of his face lay haphazardly under the skin. Deep cuts traced across his chest, his arms, his legs. He had fought, and he had lost.
I knelt beside him. It had been hours before they found him, and hours more until they had gotten word to me. Alexander's men stood nervously around the monastery. They had failed. The other Elders gathered to take the body into the quiet halls of the Warrior's Rest. I helped them carry, along with a couple whiteshirts. Afterward, we met in the Chamber of the Fist. Tomas was furious. Divinely furious.
"We agreed to stay because you said the Cult of Alexander would protect us," he said, his voice a hammering monotone, the fury just under the surface. "We agreed to stay because you said we would be safe."
"Since when do Morganites do the safe thing?" I asked, quietly. It wasn't my place, but there weren't many people left whose place it was. "Why are we hiding under a blanket of white?"
Tomas didn't answer me directly, but Simeon and Isabel drew back uncomfortably nonetheless. There were whiteshirts present: the two who had helped carry Elias's body to the Rest, a couple patrol-level authority figures, and the Elector of our district. Guy named Nathaniel. His armor was pearl white and trimmed with gold and silver. He looked glorious, for a nursemaid. All of them sat behind a table, the third side of the Council's usual triune arrangement. There were enough empty seats, now, that we could afford the space.
"We had the exits covered, my lords, and regular patrols. The Elder wouldn't have a guard. He refused us," Nathaniel said, his gauntleted hands folded casually on the table. "There is only so much we can do for you."
"Aye, and you've done it," Simeon said. "We've had enough of your help, highness. You may take your leave."
"Your pardon?" the Elector asked, cocking his head to one side like a schoolchild. "We are here to guard you, Elders. If this can happen with us here, what will happen if we were to leave?"
"I can't imagine it being much worse than this," Tomas said. "An Elder of the Cult was murdered today, sir. Your presence did not prevent it. Therefore, it is no longer necessary."
"There's no need to be stubborn," Elector Nathaniel said. "There's enough trouble without you getting stubborn."
"There's enough trouble without you strutting down our hallways and mucking up our relics," Isabel answered. Her voice was calm, but she sounded like a mother correcting a child. "We've had well enough of that. Eva had the right of it, I think. You will not take the necessary actions. We must see to ourselves."
"I will not-" the Elector began, standing.
"You will not tell us our business, nor make any claims to our safety," Tomas said, standing, yelling, hunched forward with both strong, wrinkled hands flat on the table, and the Council stood with him. Even old men and women can stand strong when the need is great. Especially then. "The Sword of Morgan cut a path for this city. It was on his steel that the Fraterdom was built. I'd thank you to remember where you are, and to whom you are speaking."
"I'm speaking to a dead man, if you kick us out!"
Tomas raised his eyebrows and leaned back.
"I have decided to take that as a threat, sir. You will vacate these premises immediately, or you will face me in challenge. Do you accept?"
"This is… it's a circus," the Elector huffed. He gathered the paperwork he had brought with him, the sheets rattling in his hand as he clenched them angrily. "A circus. A farce. A mummer's play. You have left your senses."
"And you have still not left the building," Tomas answered, then drew a short, flat blade. Its surface was black, and did not reflect light at all. He balanced the tip on the table and worked his thin, bony fingers over the hilt. "There is little time left, child."
"Gods! Gods in heaven and water, and whatever's in between." The Elector snapped a salute to his men, then motioned them out. The evacuation was precise.
"Boys," Tomas called, as the two who had helped carry Elias followed their lord out. "A moment."
The two paused, nervously. Tomas nodded to them, though he was still fingering that awful blade.
"You bore the weight of my brother, Elias. For this I thank you. The Sword of Morgan go with you, and carry you through the battle that is to come."
They stared at him in silence, then looked at each other with wide eyes.
"The Sword of Morgan," they intoned, then hurried out.
"Still recruiting?" Isabel asked.
"Hm. Well. Brother knows we could use the help," Tomas said. He hid the knife away and turned to his fellow Elders. "We must see to our defenses, and then pray our brother down. Eva, if you would take first stance?"
"I have things to do, Elder. I'd like to catch the bastards who are doing this."
"And catch them you will," he said, looking at me with narrowed eyes. "But first you will honor your brother Elias. Or are the rites of Morgan lost to you?"
"They are not," I answered. I wasn't looking forward to hours of meditation in the Rest, but I had no choice.
"I thought not. Elders," he said, looking back to the two remaining members of the Council of the Fist. "We have much to discuss. I will have food brought."
I left them to it, returning to my room to don the ceremonial garb of the Cult. The rest of my day was spent in quiet contemplation of the rites of Morgan, and the passing of his brother, Elias. The world went on without me. I hoped Barnabas would forgive me, and swore to honor him, when his time came.