Horn of the River God: Book I of The Song of Agmar

by Frances Mason

  “That hurts more than any mangler’s boot, Rose.”

  She poked a nasty looking bruise over his ribs, and asked, “What this?”

  He winced. “No, well, yes, but I mean I’m the sneakiest thief in Thedra. No one else could…”

  “Could get beaten up by the guild manglers? That’s easy. Any idiotic thief could do that.”

  “I am sneaky,” he insisted, but he knew she was right; he had been careless. “Anyway, I wouldn’t miss the fun of you slopping that stuff all over my naked body. No way. You know there’s some bits you haven’t put it on yet.”

  “What, like this?” She gripped tightly. He winced, and she released him. “Sorry. They really didn’t miss much of you, did they?”

  “It’s just their way of being friendly.”

  “If that’s your idea of friendliness, maybe I should do more of this. She squeezed again, but more gently this time, then smeared the paste all over.”

  When she had gone he felt so much better he could even chew the bread the groom brought him on a wooden plate. It had the usual grit in it from the mills, and was several days stale with a slightly mouldy flavour, but he dipped it in the mug of watered down ale to soften it and take the edge off the flavour. The slab of cheese was about as fresh as anything served in this tavern, and he washed it and the bread down with large gulps of the ale. As he munched, his mind, previously preoccupied with pain, started to reflect on the events of the evening.

  The guild manglers had taken the sword. They had said something about Fulkthra. Brandon the blacksmith had thought the sword was of value. More than ordinary value. He had had the look of a religious fanatic. And bone or not the sword had cut through the iron of his anvil as though it were a slab of butter. Brandon had not been surprised. Therefore he knew something about the bone sword. Alex reasoned it had to be some kind of cult relic for the worshippers of Fulkthra, god of blacksmiths and fire and earthquakes. He had initially assumed the manglers had bashed him as a warning from the guild, but clearly it had been a paid job, and the blacksmith had been their customer. Alex would have to pay the man a visit, steal back the sword, and rob him blind. Teach him the difference between law and justice. Or, in all honesty, something any self-respecting thief should avoid like a puritan avoids brothels, he would rob the blacksmith of everything he had for the sheer thieving fun of it. Maybe he would leave him enough to feed his children. As much as he wanted to hurt the man, his children were not responsible for his treachery, but that was as far as his charity would go.

  Chapter 10: Agmar: Glede

  The other men with Agmar were runts, usually the best climbers, but a hard bitten lot who had seen a lot of war against the vicious Fiks. Each carried a short bow and a cloth satchel of arrows. They were halfway up the cliff face when the missiles struck. The soldier closest to Agmar lost his hold as he tried to wipe away the shit from his face. Agmar reached out a long arm and grabbed him by the ankle as he fell. The soldier’s body turned on the pivot and slammed his head into the rock face. He went limp. Aware that anyone sitting over a privy hole might hear them the rest slapped free hands over their mouths to silence the almost irrepressible laughter. Agmar lifted the man up, turned him right way up, and gently shook him. He remained limp. Shortly after, a light drizzle of piss wet their upturned faces and the man woke, spluttering until another soldier clapped a free hand over his mouth and motioned up with his face. The man nodded groggily, but gagged when the hand was removed, and wiped the rest of the shit off his face as well as he could before continuing the climb.

  There were no more misadventures before they reached the bottom of the garderobe projections, each a semicylinder against the flat of the walls. Those going up separate tubes would not be able to communicate until they emerged from the garderobes. Agmar had the advantage of height in the tube, stretching across the space from side to side and walking his way up through the muck. The two men behind him had to rely more on hand holds in shit and piss and mould encrusted mortar gaps. While it was dark outside, the nearly full moon hidden behind thick clouds, inside was pitch black except for a faint glow from above which Agmar’s body mostly blocked for the men below him, so they had to rely on feeling around. Fortunately the setting of stones here was more regular than handholds in the cliff face. At the top the hole was smaller, with a fixed wooden seat covering most of the space. There was light enough he could clearly see the hole.

  He drew his sword, reached through to place it on the seat, then unknotted the satchel of arrows and short bow from his side and carefully placed them near his sword. He started to drag himself through. The tricky part was getting his broad shoulders past the hole, about as narrow as a man’s arse. Fortunately, your average Fik was a big man. Since Agmar’s body tapered from the shoulders down it would be easy after he got his shoulders through. With a silent grunt he twisted his shoulders diagonally to his spine and dragged his right shoulder through. Then he placed his forearm flat against the seat and levered himself up, pressing his left shoulder more and more tightly to his body. After a few failed attempts his left shoulder slid past the seat, tearing at his skin through his tunic. While the other men wore light armour, because of his size Agmar had decided not to wear any armour at all. It made it riskier once up here, but he would not have got through otherwise. He reflected that it had been the right decision, though he might regret it if he found a sword in his gut.

  As he turned to help the other two through he heard a voice behind. The man was speaking in the Fik tongue. Fortunately, like many bards, Agmar knew many languages. Over years of contact he had learned enough to bluff his way past a drunken Fik warrior.

  “’Sthat u Elfraaack? Maick wiy fer the isle taaap.”

  The slurring made it trickier to understand, but he thought he heard “Make way for the ale tap.” He picked up his sword and kept his back to the Fick as he shoved past, then turned and stabbed him through the neck, which was exposed above the chain mail shirt. There was a gargling sound and the body slumped to the floor. He poked his head over the garderobe hole and only just twisted aside in time to avoid the blade thrusting up.

  “It’s me, you twat!” he hissed down the hole.

  “Sorry, Agmar. I thought it was a Fik arse,” the man said as he dragged himself through the hole. “I wasn’t going to cop another face load of shit.”

  “Are you calling me an arse face?”

  “I’ve still got shit in my eye; everything looks like an arse ready to shit on me.”

  Agmar reached through and helped the last man through. While he was stripping the dead man of his chain mail shirt and putting it on he said, “We better join up with the others right quick.” The chain mail shirt was broad enough in the shoulders but only came to his waist and had no arms. “Better than nothing, but it won’t stop much.” He picked up the bow and arrows and handed them to the man behind him.

  When they were together Agmar counted. Nineteen. “We’re missing one.”

  “That’s Roddy,” said one of the men, “he fell. Bloody slimy tubes to crawl up. I’d say we’re lucky we didn’t lose more.” This time no one laughed about a man losing his grip.

  “Shit! Nothing to be done. Rest in peace, Roddy. We’ll raise a horn of mead and sing a song of heroes in your memory. Let’s get going.” Those who hadn’t yet now drew their swords.

  They climbed a staircase, not meeting anyone along the way, and emerged at the end of the rampart, near the keep.

  There was a guard patrolling the rampart. He was casually walking the other way, and Agmar motioned the men back out of the torchlight, looked out to see where the guard on the other rampart was, and backed out of the torchlight to wait. When the Fik had completed his circuit back to the doorway he turned his back on it, and stopped. Agmar had noticed this one was only wearing a quilted gambeson without a covering of chain mail. The climbers waited, breathing carefully, just out of sight behind a bend in the stair. Agmar peered around the corner as the guard spat over the edge then tur
ned back to look across the ward. He rested his spear against the crenellations, faced away from the battlements and undid his codpiece, pulled out his dick and pissed on the roof of the hall below. As he tied the codpiece back in place his face registered surprise to see the sword point protruding from his chest. Agmar had placed his hand over the man’s mouth as he stabbed him, but the body slumped silently and without struggle. Agmar dragged the body back to the doorway, keeping an eye on the guard on the opposite battlement, who had almost reached the far end of his patrol.

  Out on the rampart was now quiet. On the opposite, southern, rampart only that one man patrolled. They waited for him to come back and turn the other way, then crept along the northern rampart. A spear could be seen above the crenellations of the high keep tower, which was to their left, against the adjacent wall, opposite the castle gatehouse. The spear passed back and forth behind the tower keep crenellations as the guard marched his rounds. Down in the ward, between gatehouse and keep tower, the shadows shifted as the torches by the keep doors guttered. Smoke spiralled languidly from the roof of the kitchens by their side of the ward. They crept along the rampart and reached the point of intersection with the front of the castle.

  There was a wall dividing the perpendicular ramparts of the castle side, to the north, and front, to the west. It had not been on the old castle plan, despite that having been adequately modified after a tortured spy was made into an unwilling turncoat. Or so they had thought.

  Agmar muttered to himself. “You can always guarantee a man will talk with torture, but there’s no way of knowing whether what he said is gold or gilded crap.” He turned to the men and said, “Still, a little wall won’t stop us, will it, lads?” He thought he saw the white of nineteen grins. “Remember, keep it quiet. There might be fewer guards out than pimples on an old whore’s bum, but they’ll turn out quick enough once they’re warned. Best if we’re already in the gatehouse before that happens. These low rampart walls on the inside expose us to fire from the ward. If a half dozen archers get out of that hall or the keep before we make it to the gatehouse we’re going to make a pretty set of pin cushions for their wives.”

  “Fiks have wives?” asked one of the men.

  “It’s what they call their sheep in their more tender moments.”

  One of the men started imitating a panicked sheep bleating, but Agmar put his hand over the man’s mouth. The others grinned but held back their laughter.

  Only when atop the wall did Agmar see the guard on the other side, leaning lazily against his halberd. He motioned the others to wait, and crept within range. The Fik wore a helmet and a short chain mail shirt, with padded gambeson beneath. Unlike the one Agmar now wore this Fik’s chain shirt had a hood, which had been pulled up before pulling the helmet over it. A strong downward thrust from a sharp sword like Agmar’s might pierce the armour, driving down through the man’s spine into his heart. He might even be able to pierce the helmet, impaling the Fik’s brain, and because of his long arms Agmar was within reach. But it was not a certain thing, and if his blow was deflected by the armour the man would have time to call the other Fiks to arms.

  Agmar carefully placed his sword down on the stones and motioned one of his men to follow him quietly up to the wall. He indicated silently what the other should do. They both dropped noiselessly to the stones behind the man. Agmar stretched an arm around the man’s neck and hauled him up off his feet, gripping his other hand tightly over his mouth, while the man who had followed him grabbed the halberd to stop it falling loudly. The man was strongly built and heavy, despite being much shorter than Agmar, and kicked wildly and tried to reach back to Agmar’s face while Agmar crushed his windpipe. Agmar waited until the kicking stopped and carefully lowered the Fik to the rampart stones.

  When the men were all down on the rampart he pointed. “Our luck is better than I expected. If anyone’s patrolling the gatehouse towers I can’t see them, so they’re not looking in this direction. The only way to the gatehouse door from the bailey is up that stairway along the side of the gatehouse, up to this rampart. I didn’t see another stairway to the opposite rampart, and there was none on the plan, so it might only have an internal stairway at the south east end of the ramparts like the one we came up through from the privies. Move quick lads, there’s no telling how long our luck will last. When we get through, the last three through get that door shut and hold it while we fight our way through whoever’s in there to the other side and see if there’s another door there. If there is we’ll close it, and another three men, or maybe less, can hold it against the garrison. Then the rest will find our way down to the windlass to lift the portcullis. If we get the portcullis and drawbridge moving I’ll make my way back up and shoot off the signal. If I don’t make it, one of you take the naphtha arrows and signal the men on the lake. Make sure you shoot it high, so they’ll see it from where they’re hiding behind the rock outcrops at the base.” The others nodded and they were off.

  Before they reached the gatehouse two Fiks staggered out of the hall. One turned bleary eyes toward the rampart and shouted something in Fik. Then the ward exploded in chaotic motion. Drunken Fiks staggered out of the hall while their sober brethren hurried out of the keep. Agmar turned to the men and shouted, “Run,” then sprinted toward the open door. Fiks peered over the crenellations of the high keep, and crossbow bolts and arrows were striking all around. A bolt struck the stone of the battlements in front of Agmar and ricocheted into him as he passed, cutting his face. In the moment he reflexively closed his eyes a Fik appeared at the door they were running to with two other men behind and Agmar and the Fiks went down in a tangle of limbs. Three of Agmar’s climbers went down, hit lethally or crippled by crossbow bolts, their comrades hurdling them as they fell. Another Fik desperately tried to slam the thick iron bound oak door shut, heaving against it with his shoulder as the remaining climbers slammed into it en masse, knocking him on top of the struggling mass of Agmar and Fiks. Agmar threw him off with an arching of his back and backward sweep of his arm then drew his dagger for close fighting.

  The first Fik under him felt the bite of the knife cutting from his unprotected groin up to his guts before he could free his own weapon. His guts poured onto the face of the Fik beneath him as Agmar rolled free, turning and pivoting from a kneeling position to drive his dagger into the man’s face as he shook his head to dislodge the guts from his face and blink away the blood. The last of the climbers to survive the rush across the rampart hurled himself through the doorway, a crossbow bolt hitting him in the calf as he pushed off, and he fell onto the knife of the last surviving Fik in the tangle as that man drew it. Both victor and vanquished wore a surprised expression, then the victor became the vanquished as another climber drove his dagger into the Fik’s throat. Shouts rang out outside as Fiks stomped up the narrow stairway, easy to defend from the top if you had the covering fire of the keep and adjacent rampart, but undefended by the climbers. Inside the Fik who had tried to close the door rose groggily to his feet and walked onto the sword of one of the climbers while the other climbers completed the Fik’s work and heaved the door closed, dropping in place the heavy wooden beam that barred it.

  “It’s better designed than the plan showed,” Agmar said, pointing, “look, they’ve sealed the passage between the towers. We can probably only get through by going down then up. Let’s hope the other tower has no door to the rampart. There’s no way to the battlements above from this side, but at least we know the windlass is in this tower. There’s no reason for them to have changed that. If we can defend this tower long enough we can open the gatehouse to our men.” He pointed to three of the remaining fifteen men to hold the door, drew his sword, and ran down the stairs. A Fik came running up, and lunged with a spear. Agmar parried and thrust his sword point into the man’s face.

  “Nethra’s poc marked bum,” a voice spluttered behind him. The spear had found a gap in the leather armour of the man behind and pushed into his guts, and he had sat
down on the stair, and looked with fascination as he pulled the spear point out. “Now look at that,” he said, throwing a rueful look at Agmar.

  “An honourable death,” Agmar muttered, and thought it stupid the moment he said it.

  The man agreed with his thought, not his words, “Fuck honour! Give me a mug of mead and the embraces of a woman of dubious morals.” He winced in pain.

  “Hold onto that thought,” Agmar said, “and hold onto your guts. You’re not done yet.”

  Agmar and eleven men continued down. The tower was empty except for a man at the windlass room, slumped over a small table with a lamp and a jug and mug, sleeping despite the raucous noise outside. Agmar struck off his head as he roused. It rolled across the floor before stopping at an angle of the room and staring with amazed eyes, as its body sat at the table, unmoved by the sudden separation.

  Agmar said, “Who are the best archers here?”

  Each of the men pointed at himself or said he was the best. Agmar pointed to six to stay and wind the windlass and defend it. “Whatever happens to the rest of us, that’s the most important thing. Give no quarter. You’re as brave a bunch of mongrels as ever bit the arse of a Fik bastard.” The men cheered and growled and three set to work turning the windlass while the other three guarded the door. The groan of metal against stone came up from below. Agmar led the remaining five men toward the front of the gatehouse tower where another stairwell led up. At the top they found the entrance to the centre of the gatehouse, over the gate. Torches guttered along a passage leading back toward the castle ward. There were large arrow loops in the front of the gatehouse. Agmar knelt and placed the bow and satchel near the wall, taking out two that had been specially prepared with naphtha. He lit one in the flame of the torch nearest him and nocked it, then aimed through the arrow loop. Even kneeling, because of his height and the low ceiling, he didn’t judge the angle high enough.