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

by Frances Mason

  He was not attracted to killing but, whatever his qualms, the last few days had taught him he had to defend himself more viciously. You could not avoid every confrontation. That meant he needed a weapon. The knife in his boot was too small to scare even a timid child, let alone a jaded adult thug. He took out the dusty rag. Unwrapped it. Inside was a knife in a gem encrusted scabbard, with a jewelled pommel and gold plated hand guard. He drew it from its scabbard, admired the length of the blade and carefully tested its edge with his thumb. More than a foot long. Very sharp. Made for the battlefield, for some wealthy noble to stab through the chinks in his enemy’s heavy armour. The scabbard was too ostentatious though, and if he left that behind the pommel and hand guard would draw just as much attention. Every thief who passed him in the street would try to steal it. The sheath that Brandon had found for the bone sword was battered and old. The sword hilt was plain, and its pommel stone was missing. Its hand guard was functional, not fancy. No one would bother with that, and few would be willing to test whether the boy carrying a longsword knew how to use it. He hoped. If he did draw it he guessed it would kill again, regardless his own limited skills with the blade. But if Randy Barber and his mates got hold of him again he might not survive without a weapon. Better a killer than dead at eighteen. And Randy’s corpse would trouble him a lot less than the blacksmith’s. He re-sheathed the dagger, rewrapped it in the dusty rag then returned it to the hiding place, took the sword back out and strapped its belt back around his waist. Then he replaced the tiles, checking carefully that the looseness would not result in unassisted slippage. When he was sure it would take more than a thief’s light tread to dislodge them he recrossed the roofs.

  He decided if he was going to continue carrying this strange sword around he had to learn more about it. And he thought he knew just the person.

  Chapter 24: Conner Mac Naught: East of Es Wol

  The cart rolled down the dirt road, hauled by two oxen. It was full of wheat, and two riders in long cloaks came close behind. Further back a flock followed with their shepherd, nipped at by a yapping sheep dog if they strayed too far. A strongly built, tall man stepped out onto the dirt road in front of the cart and raised his hand. The carter reined in his oxen.

  “What is it?” The carter, a large bellied, fat faced man, looked at the stranger suspiciously.

  “That’s a mighty fine load you have there,” the man said in a deep, powerful voice. For all his peasant garb, he had the physique of a soldier and the manner of an experienced commander of men. Flaming red hair framed a freckled face from which hazel eyes looked with confidence, even arrogance.

  The carter narrowed his small eyes, almost making them disappear in his fat face. “Relief. At the king’s command. This load is requisitioned for the village of Tulethorpe. You’re preventing the king’s business. Step out of the road.” He raised his long goad as if to strike the man.

  “Why would I do that?”

  The carter signalled to the two following riders and they drew back their cloaks to reveal swords and armour.

  “Ah, you want some fun. So be it. Men!”

  From all quarters men appeared, from the brush, from behind rocks, from the trees and the hollows. Soon the cart and its soldiers and the drover and his sheep were surrounded by three hundred armed men. Despite being outnumbered one of the soldiers reached for the crossbow that hung from his saddle, and the other drew his sword. The carter shook his head and they put up their weapons.

  “So you’re the con man.”

  “Conner Mac Naught I am.”

  “You say you fight for the peasants, but if you take this the peasants will starve.”

  “No war is fought on an empty stomach. Right lads?”

  The men cheered their agreement.

  “Let them take it, lads. Our king’s charity doesn’t end here.”

  “All the better for us. And your oxen look tired, we’ll unyoke them soon. They’ll look well turning on spits. Mutton and beef tonight, lads.” Another load cheer.

  “Damn you all. May Sun never shine on your faces in Death’s kingdom.”

  “What has death to do with us? Tonight we feast, eh lads?” Another cheer went up. He sized up the two soldiers. “Want to join, boys?” The soldiers looked at each other. If they returned to town their lord might have more than words to punish them. One nodded to the other, and the other returned the nod.

  “Good, I can always use good men.” The truth was, there had always been more professional soldiers in his ranks than genuine peasants.

  Chapter 25: Rose: Thedra

  The convent tower rose in semi-circular terraces above the battlements of an ancient castle. The grounds of the castle and the surface of each terrace were planted with fantastic gardens, gravelled walks, fountains and canals running beneath bowers of whitewashed lattice and creeping vine. Ivy clothed the walls, down which small waterfalls flowed from the canals, and from which balconies projected, furnished with plush beds, seats or piles of down cushions covered with gaudy coloured silks. The lowest of the balconies was above the level of the battlements, which were higher than the city walls, so that mountain breezes refreshed the air within, scented in its passage by the flowers without. In the abbess’s cell, the highest room of the stepped convent tower, opening onto the highest terrace, a mountain breeze now lifted the gauze hangings. At the centre of the circular room was a large circular bed, covered in crimson silk sheets, clearly visible through the diaphanous hangings which shifted gently with the breeze. A grand mosaic ringed the bed, extending all the way to the walls, presenting many conquests of the goddess of love, from lustful gods of sea or sky or fire to stunned mortals, heroes and priests and priestesses, kings and queens, nobles, knights and peasants. All were subject to her rule. The lesson was continued on the tapestries hanging from the walls.

  The abbess was clothed in fabrics as translucent as the hangings. Rose could not tell her age. Her body was as firm and elegant as that of a teenage girl, but her eyes seemed ancient, as if she had seen many lives of men. She spoke softly, but it was a softness which Rose thought could command as surely as a warrior’s shout.

  “You’re very pretty. How old are you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “You needn’t lie to me, child. I’m not a customer.”

  “Eighteen.”

  “And you wish to join our order?”

  “Yes, Your Reverence.”

  “And why have you made this choice? Have you been compelled?”

  “I’m daily compelled to another life.”

  “The life of a common prostitute. Yes, we know your past. We know all who serve the goddess, in however humble a way.”

  “Does the goddess wish me to be enslaved and abused.”

  “No. The House of Delight is ruled by those who do not understand love, but within are many servants, if only they knew who truly loves them.”

  “Finusthi.”

  “Indeed. She loves all who love.”

  “I know nothing of love,” Rose said, and petulantly added, “I know how to fuck.” She was angry, despite the abbess’s apparent kindness. “Do you want me to fuck? I’m good at fucking.”

  “We don’t “fuck” here, dear, we…”

  “Make love?” Rose scoffed.

  “You scorn love in the House of Love?”

  “I…I….” Rose felt cornered. She had come here to escape brutal men. But was what Love’s Nuns did any different from what she had done since she was a child? When you stripped away all the pretty words about devotion, what remained? Prostitution. And would they even take her? The abbess seemed inclined to throw her out on the street. Then she would be dead. It had been a bad idea. Alex had been wrong. Whatever way she turned she would find only pain or humiliation or death.

  “Eliciting love is worship of the goddess, and we are truly devout.”

  “But how is that different from a brothel?”

  “No one is compelled here.”

  “But you take go
ld.”

  “The devout offer gold at the temple, it is true, and without a large offering few find their way to our chambers. But gold is not the true currency here.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No, but you will.” Rose felt a moment’s hope, but she would not allow it to wash away all doubt. “The true currency here is influence,” the abbess continued. “The love of the powerful is power itself.”

  That did not sound right, and Rose said so. “It’s their power though.”

  “We allow them to believe so. It wouldn’t do for them to doubt themselves. The goddess understands well the sensitivities of the hardest men.”

  Rose smiled at that, and the abbess smiled on her, kindly. So few had treated her with kindness. Her father had, but had died when she was little. Her own mother had sold her. Some of the men who had paid her in the brothel would be kind, but in the end all they wanted was sex. But didn’t the abbess want something? “I don’t know…I…”

  “You doubt. It is only through doubt we come to faith. Do not deny your doubts, but ask for the goddess’s grace. She will speak to you in your heart. Until then…. We don’t compel any here. That is not the way of Love.”

  Rose was afraid. Were they going to cast her out?

  The abbess looked on her kindly. “Do not fear. Whatever you choose the goddess protects all her own. Here is sanctuary. The men who hurt you will never hurt you again.”

  “All her own?”

  “Whatever you think of yourself, you have always served her. It is easy to see.”

  “I don’t see.”

  “What of your thief?”

  “Alex?” How did she know about Alex? “He pays me well.”

  “He loves you.”

  “Customers always think they’re in love.”

  “Is that what you really believe?”

  “Of course,” she said with what she thought was confidence.

  The abbess smiled, as if she saw further into her heart than she could herself. “And what do you feel?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “No. You don’t understand yourself. How few of us do. For some it takes a lifetime. For some a lifetime is not long enough.”

  Rose wondered again how old the abbess was.

  “Perhaps you would be better suited to the priesthood. The priestesses follow their hearts in other ways. Some have not even offered themselves as temple prostitutes. You could love your thief, or whoever else you chose.”

  “No! I have so much to give.”

  The abbess’s face expressed surprise. Rose was surprised herself. A moment before what the abbess was offering would have been exactly what she had hoped for, but now, to not be a courtesan of the goddess of love seemed to not be all she could be.

  “I would not have to…elicit love…from men I chose not to…service?”

  “Never. Suggestions would be made. Suggestions which might lead to the greater glory of the goddess. But suggestions are not commands. She will reveal her love to you, and you will know in your heart if she does not.”

  Rose wondered though. The abbess, her voice so gentle, so tender, yet in that tenderness was such command. Would she be able to resist such commanding tenderness? She felt even now she wished to throw herself at her feet and serve her in any way she wished. The urge was so strong it took all her strength to resist it. She felt, she could not deny it, love. She had known the abbess only a few minutes, yet wanted to tell her everything, every harm she had suffered, every doubt she had ever experienced, every humiliating detail of her life. But most of all she wanted to cry out that she loved her. She wanted her to know. And she wanted to be loved by her. She held it back, but it made no difference. She could see in the abbess’s kind eyes that she knew. Only she knew Rose’s heart. And before she knew it she had thrown herself at her feet. She had thrown her arms around her knees, oblivious to decorum, and every feeling she had never expressed, every feeling she had held back, years of pain and humiliation and despair, burst out in tears. But this was not agony, like the night she had fled to the temple district when the manglers had closed in about her. This was not hopelessness as death loomed, the only escape from cruel fate. This was catharsis. She knew that the pain and humiliation and fear she had endured for so long were finally at an end. They poured from her body with her tears. The abbess did not push her away. She allowed her to cling to her and cry.

  “For some a lifetime is too short, but some accept Love’s blessings in a moment. Blessed be the loved. Blessed be the lovers.”

  Finally she stopped crying. “I’m sorry, Your Reverence.”

  The abbess placed a hand gently on her head. “Never be ashamed of love.”

  Chapter 26: Agmar: Glede

  Faar Utapes had been encircled.

  Wulfstan’s forces, their numbers reinforced since the battle below the castle, The Cliff, held the landward side, with their rear protected by the castles, now all captured, of the inner march. The ships of Suut Seltica blockaded the port. Wulfstan’s forces were now bivouacked around the walls, behind defensive palisades.

  The Fiks were effectively cut off from aid. Smugglers would occasionally try to run the port blockade, but the Seltic ships were quick. Few smugglers had got through, and those who had not were hanging from gallows on the nearby Dead Man’s Bluff as a warning to any who might think running the blockade a risk free venture. On the landward side, occasionally a party of Fik warriors would try to pass the palisades in the night so they could attack one of the surrounding castles which had protected the town before but were now held by small garrisons of Wulfstan’s men. Sometimes the Fiks would try to harry the rear of the besieging army or simply forage. Last night another party had tried, but the baron’s men had captured them. As the morning sun rose a single trebuchet had sent all their heads back over the town walls, their mouths stuffed with messages of inhospitable greeting. Dawn had revealed to the Fiks on the city walls the decapitated bodies, strung up by their ankles on butts just out of crossbow range from the wall but well within sight, and archers from Wulfstan’s camp had played at practicing their marksmanship.

  Wulfstan, wearing a tabard with the bear of Glede over a tunic, leaned on crutches outside the main camp palisade, east of the main gate of Gleda, flanked by Aedgar, Edmer and Agmar.

  “The belfry is nearly ready,” Wulfstan said, casting a glance over to where carpenters hammered away on a siege tower. It was taller than the city walls, and could be hauled or pushed forward on four huge wooden wheels. Inside were four tall stories with ladders between, where hundreds of soldiers could quickly climb to the top to cross to the battlements. Many of those soldiers now busied themselves weaving wattle screens and draping hides over them. The screens would be attached to the tower later, the hides drenched before attacking the walls, to defend the tower against flaming projectiles.

  Nearby, others were loading a huge tree trunk into a sling suspended from a framework on wheels. A cast iron bear lay beside it, ready to be mounted as the front of the battering ram. An unfriendly greeting to the Fiks from Wulfstan.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” Agmar said, watching soldiers carting stones for the mangonels and trebuchets. One mangonel was being repaired, carpenters busily hammering away at it. It had been taken within range of the catapults on the city walls and nearly destroyed by their fire the day before. Spear sized bolts were being piled next to ballistae, giant crossbow like catapults.

  “I can’t stand this waiting,” Wulfstan said. “We’ve waited seventy years too long already.”

  Agmar knew that was how long the Fiks had held the city. The Twice Crowned King, Robert VIII and IX, for all his strength, had compromised with the Fik raiders, thinking to slowly and peacefully absorb them into the kingdom, ceding to them the north western waste. Those wastes lay beyond the Forbidden Forest, where no sane man dared enter, and even the Seltic druids were wary, respectful of the mysterious power within its ancient trees. The Fiks called the distant icy land
they had settled Luntet Helter, Land of Heroes. When the strong king Robert had died they had seized their chance and launched their most daring attack, taking the powerful and wealthy port city of Gleda by surprise. They had used it since then as a southern base from which to raid the countryside, plying the rivers with their dragon prowed longboats, burning the land, sacking temples, murdering with impunity, taking as slaves those they did not kill to trade across the southern archipelagos and up to their northern cousins. It had been a profitable trade for decades, but persistent efforts to contain them had had their impact, and now their wealth and power were waning. They had been unable to mount a successful counterattack against Wulfstan’s forces as he took all the castles in the inner march of Gleda.

  “We’ll starve them out soon enough,” Aedgar said.

  “I don’t want their surrender,” he snarled viciously, “they’ll just crawl back to their kin in the north then return next spring with more longboats, more vermin to breed and plague us with. The only way to deal with vermin is to kill them before they can breed, every last one.”

  Agmar did not look at Wulfstan, instead staring into the distance. Wulfstan’s father and mother and sisters and brother had been murdered by Fiks in one of the great castles of the outer march, the only lands still held after Gleda had been lost. Only Wulfstan, an infant, had survived, found later suckling on his dead nursemaid’s dug. He had lost his inheritance too, and not to a Fik. Augustyn had been granted the boy’s wardship by king Richard. By the time Wulfstan had grown into a man, the outlying lands of his forebears had been granted outright to Augustyn. Augustyn claimed to be only a temporary protector, concerned by the vulnerability of his former ward’s lands, but no one who knew of his rise to power believed that. Wulfstan was the last surviving heir to the dukes of Glede, but was denied half of his inheritance by the Fiks’ possession of the great port city of Gleda, and the other by Augustyn’s possession of the march of Glede. Denied his rightful place by barbarians on the one hand, and on the other an upstart in league with a king who grew more mad by the year, Wulfstan had been reduced to a mere viscount, vassal to a subtle, politically astute thief. Wulfstan, proud of his ducal ancestry, frustrated by Augustyn’s courtly cunning, knew he could not challenge the duke, yet. So instead he directed all of his hatred at the murderers of his family. He seethed with a hatred for the Fiks so bloodthirsty that only their total annihilation, man, woman and child, would quench it.