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

by Frances Mason

  “You’ll pay,” they screamed as they ran, “just you wait and see. This isn’t over yet.”

  The two cloaked men grinned at each other.

  “I hope they come back, Oly,” said the taller man, “a bit of fun for once in my life. So much duty. I’d forgotten what fun was like.”

  “I would too if I was as old as you, Arty,” the other quipped.

  They went to the end of the street and looked up the crossing avenue. The two thugs were a hundred yards along, talking to a group of other men.

  “Shall we say hello?” Oly asked Arty.

  “Do you want to kill someone tonight?”

  “Not really.”

  “Because with that many of them there won’t be much choice. Unless they run away. Do you want to see if they run away?”

  “On second thoughts, lets avoid them.”

  “If we cross over here they’ll see us.”

  “Here they come.”

  “I have an idea.”

  “I’ll follow your wisdom, oh wise old one. Lead the way.”

  They turned back into the street, and a little way further back came to another narrow alley.

  “Up here. We’ll find our way back to the street somewhere behind them after they’ve passed.”

  “Sure it’s not a dead end?”

  “Trust me. Like you said, I’m the wise one.”

  “I think I said old. Can also mean senile.”

  “Just shut up and follow.”

  It was not a dead end, but turned back toward the avenue the thugs were on. The pack went past as the two men in the alley ducked into the deepest shadows. A cat screeched. A dog barked in the distance. One of the thugs looked up the alley, and stopped, signalling to his friends.

  “You’re too big. They can see you.”

  The taller man put a finger to his lips. The thug moved on. They could hear running and shouting.

  “Let’s get going.”

  As they neared the end of the alley, the thug that had stopped appeared again, and this time there could be no doubt he had seen them. Several more thugs came back and crowded around him. The sound of running feet came from the other end of the valley.

  “Ok,” said the taller man, “they think they’ve cornered us. Back to back.”

  Arty and Oly faced opposite ways up the alley with the Arty, the taller, facing the way they had been going. It was narrow enough to make it hard for the thugs to come at them more than single file, but it meant they couldn’t swing their own blades wide either. “Keep your back to me but advance with me the way we were going. If we can drive them back into the street maybe we can force the ones I haven’t skewered back in on their buddies. Trap them in a their own trap.”

  “Or we can run.”

  “You want to run away?”

  “No, I want to see you running. See how much of it your old legs can take.”

  The thugs were on them now. All were armoured with light gambesons and most had short swords or spears. A spear thrust through at Oly’s face, its owner leering, and he deflected it into a wall, where it stuck. The man tried to yank it out, and while he was preoccupied with that Oly thrust his sword into his face. It entered his mouth and severed his spine. Oly kicked him off his sword into the next man, keeping his sword up while he yanked the spear out of the wall and thrust with his sword from above into the next man before he could disentangle himself from his now dead friend. The sword point was stopped by the gambeson. But the spear point went into his eye. He staggered back, dragging the spear with him, screaming, into the man behind him, who did not withdraw his sword in time, and so sliced into his thigh.

  “Come on, what are you waiting for,” Arty called out, and Oly looked over his shoulder to see his friend at the end of the street, a line of corpses in his wake. He turned and ran. He heard a whistling sound and dropped onto one of the corpses as the spear whizzed by, hitting Arty in the chest. Oly looked back and saw the others advancing, jumped up and ran to the end of the alley. The men who were not dead were running down the street in both directions. He looked back down the alley, and saw that they had stopped advancing, the front most man looking panicked at the sight of so many corpses. He turned and ran back into his friends. A general panic ensued.

  Oly looked back at Arty, who was yanking the spear out of his armour, then throwing it. A man screamed. There was a sound of confusion in the alley, but all they could see was a dark shadow of tangled arms and legs. The many limbed beast retreated down the alley, shouting and cursing and screaming and crying as it went, and dissolved into the indeterminate darkness.

  “Well, that’ll be a feast for the dogs and kites,” Oly said, “or maybe the refuse carters will find them.”

  “Or maybe the tenants.”

  “You think there are tenants? I didn’t hear a single complaint.”

  “Sensible to mind your business with men like that around.”

  “This area has a serious law and order problem. We should do something about it.”

  “We already have. But you’re right. The people who live out in these parts suffer too much from our neglect.”

  “What’s the world coming to when an honest bribe can’t satisfy a corrupt guard?”

  They continued on their way.

  In a street difficult to find, beside a palace more decayed than most, just outside the boundary of the ring of affluence, and duke Relyan’s influence, around South Gate, stood the Leopard Rampant Inn, its sign board rotting, paint flaked off so much that the leopards looked like dancing headless cats, and the writing read “Lepar Ram Inn” in the flickering light of the lantern above the door. The taller man opened the door and stepped inside, followed by his friend.

  The front room looked like exactly the kind of disreputable bar the frontage suggested, with a surly looking man behind the bar defiantly glaring at them while spitting in a mug and wiping it with a dirty rag before putting it back on the shelf next to the other “clean” mugs. A few men and women, ancient soldiers or criminals and decayed whores, transacted what business such people do in such places, tossing loaded dice or examining marked cards, mumbling about what glories of their youth they could remember or fabricate, exchanging spit flavoured with tooth decay, or drinking from their mugs without regard to the bar tender’s hygiene. One woman lay slumped over a table, snoring, oblivious to the man who had lifted her skirts from behind, whether or not with her formerly conscious consent was unclear, and was trying to slide his cock into her without falling over. She spluttered awake and, without moving head or torso, reached back to guide him in, then fell asleep again as he satisfied himself, drooling over her back as he barely retained his balance and thrust and wobbled and thrust.

  They went past the bar and through a dark passageway to a curtained door. Brushing aside the curtain and stepping through they saw a brightly lit room with expensive furnishings and tapestries and painted cloths on the walls, contrasting markedly with the front bar, and beyond any wealth that business could possibly generate. On the table was silverware, trays and knives and jugs, and an elegant terracotta vase printed with tournament scenes and filled with fresh flowers.

  Prince Arthur and Oliver, the younger brother of Amery, duke Vrong Veld, flung back their hoods and greeted the clean, neatly dressed couple who had been sitting at the table, and now rose to bow to their noble guests.

  “Margery, Thomas,” Arthur said, nodding at both but indicating with a wave they should sit. Margery was a still attractive woman in early middle age, taller than her husband, shapely but slim, with striking blue eyes and long raven black plaited hair. Her husband, of average height, had a bulldog build, strong and compact, but had bowed with as much formal precision as his wife, indicating he also was well accustomed to the company of nobles.

  “Sneaking out like a couple of boys,” Arthur said, grinning, “brings back memories.”

  “Memories?” Oliver retorted, “Speak for yourself, old man. I’m only twenty two. When I’m thirty six years o
ld and don’t know any embraces except those of whatever wife my brother has made me marry to advance his ambitions I’ll dwell on memories too.”

  Arthur laughed and clapped Oliver on the back. Margery smiled warmly, especially at Arthur.

  “Speaking of boys,” Arthur said, “where are your own strapping lads?”

  Thomas called out, and in came two boys, one a teenager, taller than his mother, the other a few years younger and still shorter than his father.

  “Pay respect to your prince, boys,” Thomas said.

  The boys bowed formally.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, boys,” Arthur said, “we’re all friends here.”

  Margery introduced her sons to Oliver. “This,” she said, with evident pride, “is my eldest, William. And this,” She looked protectively at the other, “is Sam.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Oliver said, “no one ever bows to me. You can bow to me as much as you want.”

  The younger boy bowed seriously to Oliver. The elder bowed with a mocking smile and exaggerated flourish.

  “I think I’m going to enjoy myself tonight, I mean other than gutting the rogues on the way.”

  “You got in a fight?” William said, barely able to restrain his eagerness.

  “Oh, just a scuffle,” Arthur said.

  “A scuffle?” Oliver objected. “It was a great battle, in which I fought heroically. The prince would have fallen more than once if not for my bravery. I have saved the realm from a terrible tragedy.”

  Margery smiled warmly at Oliver now. “For that we must all thank you.”

  “Tell me more.” William demanded, all courtesy lost in his eagerness.

  “What more is there to tell?” Oliver asked.

  “Blow by blow. Were you injured? Did you kill them? What weapons did they have? What armour? What tactics did you use?”

  “What do you know about fighting?”

  “I’m to be a squire.”

  “That’s true,” Margery said, sadly, “we’re to lose you to the Northern Reaches.”

  “You won’t lose me, Mother. And I’ll write. But Sir Marl is going to join the garrison at Fort Unger and I must go with him.”

  “I don’t know why you couldn’t have been squire to a knight who remained closer to home.”

  “It’s a great honour for a common boy to be accepted as any knight’s squire,” Thomas said.

  “And he’s not just a knight,” William said, “he’s a knight banneret. He commands two hundred men.”

  “Sir Marl is a brave and honourable knight,” Arthur said, “you’re right to feel honoured by his favour. You’ll learn a lot with him, and the Northern Reaches are a wild place. You’ll see a lot of action there.”

  “Action,” Margery said with undisguised dread.

  “Don’t fear,” Arthur tried to reassure her, “Sir Marl wouldn’t expose a young, untrained man to unnecessary risk. He’ll train him well. He’ll be hard on the boy, and when he’s ready he won’t be thrown into any situation without support. The Pecta hill tribes are a fierce people, but with a skilled strategist like Sir Marl the danger won’t be too great. He’ll learn more up there in a month than he could learn here in years under a weapons master. It’ll be a great adventure. I wish I could go with him. I haven’t seen serious action in too many years.”

  “You tell me not to fear with one breath,” she said, smiling again, “but with the next say there will be serious action.”

  “Ah, Margery. Sharp as usual. With your wits and his father’s strength he’ll do well. Be sure of that.”

  She looked proudly at her son. “You will write?”

  “As often as my duties allow, Mother.”

  “Leave the boy alone, woman,” Thomas said, “He’ll do his duty. But he needs to grow up like any boy. He needs to learn to be a man, and he won’t do that with you always hanging at his shoulder to wipe his nose. Anyway, the scum around this part of the city are as vicious as any Pecta.”

  “Not as tough, though,” Arthur said.

  “No. You and I know that well enough, Highness.”

  “Is he well equipped? You know you only have to ask for help and I’ll give it.”

  “He won’t ask for anything,” Margery said, “too proud.”

  “Pride isn’t a vice. And he has the right to pride. I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t fought so bravely.”

  “I only did what any man would do.”

  “Many men ran away that day. Many knights among them. You were one of the few. And you were the one who shielded me when I fell. I remember well.”

  “What happened?” William asked, his eyes bright with enthusiasm.

  “Hasn’t your father told you a thousand times?”

  “He hasn’t told me once.”

  Thomas said, “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Your wife calls you proud, Tom, but I think perhaps modesty is your fault.” Arthur considered for a moment. He had not wanted to talk about the deaths of a few thugs. But real war was different. And the boy should know what Thomas had done. He deserved greater acclaim than he had ever received. “It was 3687,” he began, “the wax was still soft on the seal for the Treaty of Sengra. As Warden of the North I’d been reviewing the forts along the river Vored where it borders the Juta Forests and the King’s Forest, just north of the lower Vored’s western arm. Good Tom was a carter’s boy for my household. I was hardly more than a boy myself, much of an age with Oly here.”

  “Not decrepit yet, you mean.”

  Arthur smiled and clapped Oliver on the back again, a friendly gesture which almost knocked the younger man off his feet and said better than words what the older thought of the comment.

  “I’d received intelligence that the Juta weren’t honouring the accord. They were launching small scale raids along the river into King’s Forest. That was to be expected, and as long as it was only guerrilla incursions it didn’t worry me. The forts are a strong chain, and the Summer Palace and the interior of the King’s Forest are well defended, but further south and east, in the angle of the Lower Vored, between the north reaches and Lake Selta, the swamp is hard to fortify and easy enough to cross on foot by lightly armoured men. The Hammer is the only substantial fortress there, and it’s formidable enough. It’s not called the Hammer for nothing. Many an invading force of Juta or Pecta has been crushed by its garrison. But it’s not easy to supply.

  “It turned out that the incursions further north were only a diversion, and a large Juta force had besieged the castle, cutting it off from supply or overland communication. Their archers had shot down all the messenger pigeons the castellan had sent. But apparently there was a fight within the tribes for supremacy, and one of their chiefs, seeing greater advantages in peace, or at least in his rival chief failing to capture the Hammer, let a foot-messenger through his lines unscathed. So I received the message. It seemed too late, for the castle had all but been starved out. We didn’t know if they’d made terms and abandoned the fort. But I had to try to save them. If the fort fell into Juta hands it would have been easier for them to supply, being close to their territory, and harder for us to take back, and they would have used it to raid the many hamlets that ring the swamp.

  “With the supply carts I took a strong force, more than two thousand men, including a thousand knights. The carters left their carts and carried their loads through the swamp on their backs in baskets. There’s no roads will support a cart. But like Tom here they’re sturdy men, their legs are strong, and their feet unerringly find the harder patches of ground. No cavalry can fight there, but I sent a force of five hundred knights around the swamp under the command of Sir Grey to cut off their retreat and entered with my unmounted men at arms and archers. It was hard going even then. My knights were heavily armoured and found it so hard to traverse the swamp many had removed their armour. I stripped my own armour off. We carried what we could, but as we went further more and more men simply dropped their heavy armour by the way. Some had the
sense to see the consequences of facing angry Juta unarmoured and deserted. By the time we were within striking distance of the fort only a thousand men remained. It would be enough though. Even when they join forces the Juta tribes rarely field more than a few hundred men.

  “We could see the fort and thanked the gods the Juta were still besieging it. It hadn’t fallen yet. We set sentries and lit many torches, so that they might think our force outmatched them even more than it truly did and flee, saving us the trouble of fighting. We could see their camp fires too, and estimated there were no more than two hundred. Before the sun rose we struck camp and were marching to save the castle. The Juta hadn’t fled, but their camp fires didn’t deceive like ours. There were only a couple of hundred.

  “I placed the knights who still had their armour in the vanguard, about two hundred men, and had the archers march close behind. The unarmoured knights and the lightly armoured auxiliaries followed. On the battlements the defenders were waving frantically. My archers stuck their arrows in the mud then sent a shower of death on the besieging Juta. It was a rout before we even reached them.

  “The gatehouse of the Hammer faces north east, away from our approach, toward a low hill that rises above the swamp, lesser brother of the hill on which the castle stands. The castle defenders were still gesturing frantically as we came round the castle’s hill. What we didn’t realise was that they could see from their elevation what we couldn’t. As we came round a horde of three thousand Northmen, Juta and Pecta in one of their ephemeral alliances, swarmed around the lower hill and fell on our rear, where our least well armoured men and our archers marched. My men panicked and many scattered, to be cut down by Jutish spears. Their bronze headed spears will bend harmlessly against good armour, but most of my remaining knights didn’t even wear the light armour of the auxiliaries and archers.