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

by Frances Mason

  The assassin was nearly close enough to strike.

  Alex had to act, but he had to time it perfectly. His reflexes were quick, but he was no swordsman. The assassin was sure to be well trained in martial arts, and that would leave Alex at a disadvantage. Whether that disadvantage would be fatal he did not know. He heard the blade, in his head, and from there it seemed to seep down his spine and into his marrow. He felt the blade’s lust, and somehow that lust was his. He also wanted to taste blood. He had never felt like this before, and if his life had not depended on it he would have feared it, but he feared more the advancing hand of Death. Blood, the sword whispered, like a lover in his ear, caressing his mind, and like a lover he wanted to respond, to please the one that needed him, and he felt the intoxication of love too, that feeling that anything is possible, that all the darkness of the world, every thought of despair, misunderstands the true nature of things. His hand tingled, ready for the touch, a touch he feared and yet wanted even more. And now the tactics of war came to his mind, though beyond unarmed street brawling he had never learned those arts. If he grabbed the hilt he could block, with or without the blade exposed.

  But he had to act. Closer. He must act. Or die. Perhaps he would die, but if he did not act he certainly would.

  He prepared the muscles of his body. But the assassin was suddenly aware, as if realizing for the first time that his intended victim was awake and aware. As Alex’s hand shot out to grab the sword the shadow sped across the remaining distance and struck. Alex had the sword, but at the very moment his hand closed on the hilt a blade cut into his flesh. As he felt the sharp edge the sword sprang from its sheath, turned toward the assassin in a seemingly impossible movement, alive with its own power, screaming for blood. And it seemed that time was reversed, as if the sword struck at the same moment as the assassin’s blade, though it must have been sheathed at that moment. It did not block the blade, though it seemed it could have. Instead it probed the darkness for that blood for which it thirsted. The void of silence, no longer sucking all sound into it, suddenly gasped.

  Alex was on his feet and the blade hummed in his hand, a sound that could have been the ring of iron striking stone, or could have been the vibration of the beginning of the world. It no longer screamed for blood, but seemed rather to weep, denied the life it had sought. Alex looked down the blade, saw the blood seeping up its length, toward the hilt, though its tip pointed to the floor. As it oozed slowly up it seemed to be absorbed, sucked into the bone of the blade, and in his mind Alex thought he heard a sigh.

  “Not tonight, sword,” Alex said, “not tonight.”

  However unsavoury the sword’s tastes it had protected him, though perhaps not quickly enough. There was a gash in his forearm. The Dark Monks were known to use poison on their blades. Alex wondered for a moment how long he had to live, then realised he did not feel ill. If anything he felt stronger. The wound, strangely, did not bleed. And in his head he heard the voice. But it no longer spoke of blood. It moaned like a lover, caressing his mind. He shuddered. He tried to throw it aside. It would not release his hand. He could not uncurl his fingers, even when he pried at them with his other hand. He saw the sheath. It had been thrown across the room by the act of unsheathing. He crossed to it, and picked it up. It received the sword, though he thought he heard in his head a petulant whimper. Then his fingers uncurled. Perhaps the sheath had power too, he thought. That might be worth remembering. He sensed the sword’s disapproval of the thought, and leaned it beside his bed.

  Regardless what he felt he would keep it close to him now.

  Chapter 43: Raoul: Thedra

  It was a plain cell, like that of any novice monk.

  The Dark Abbot’s ambition was the ambition of Death, not the pathetic pursuit of wealth that denied his power. Raoul listened intently. He adjusted his breath to another, and even his heartbeat. Then he entered, as silently as he had approached. The abbot was facing the wall. Meditating. Praying. He could do it now. And with his master’s death he would become master, he would become the Dark Abbot, the hand of Death as the Dark Arkon was his mouth. He emptied his mind of intention, filling it with devotion, and moved slowly toward the abbot’s back. His breathing and heartbeat were already coordinated with those of the abbot. His feet moved slowly, patiently, each step taking several minutes. And as he crossed the floor his devotion brought forward the knife. He was close now, only one step and the extension of his arm. In a fluid motion which made of every part of his spirit, expressed as his body, a single, deadly weapon, he struck.

  But the abbot was not there. Raoul spun around. The abbot stood in front of him, laughing softly, silence banished for the pleasure of being heard by Raoul.

  Raoul threw down the knife between them. It clattered noisily on the stone floor.

  “So, it went well,” the abbot said, but there was mockery in his voice. The darkness faded from the abbot’s cowl, something that only happened when he wanted his face to be seen.

  “If the blade had been poisoned he’d be dead.”

  “If his blade had been poisoned you would be dead,” the abbot said, pointing to the gash across his forehead, and his eyes laughed at Raoul.

  “I was told he was a thief, not a swordsman,” Raoul grumbled.

  “He’s just a boy, however talented. To have such skill without training is impressive, don’t you agree?” He waited, as if for agreement, though Raoul knew it was only to make him uncomfortable, and more aware of his failure. Though he had tested the boy as was his task, in discovering the rumours of the boy’s skills to be well founded he had proven himself to be less than worthy. As he had a moment ago in failing to kill the abbot. “We were not deceived by the Lord of Law,” the abbot continued, “He will not join us yet?”

  “I chose not to ask.”

  “I see your choice was not forced.”

  The abbot’s mockery riled him, and he knew it was as much for his failure here as there.

  “Your ambition is great, my son,” the abbot said, “but ambition is no substitute for devotion.”

  “My devotion is not sufficient?” Raoul was surprised.

  “Nor is devotion a substitute for skill,” the abbot said, and the smile was gone from his face.

  “But…is not devotion…”

  “No. Skill is devotion. But devotion is not skill. It is a paradox of faith, but must be understood, else you will not serve our Lord well. You pray so fervently that you reek of it. You wish to see Death and forget that He is to be seen in every death. You blind yourself with the Universal and so see not the particular.”

  “Is not the destruction of all particulars the essence of the Universal?”

  “We are finite beings. We only see the Universal if he grants us that grace. He is the Universal, and does not need us to be what He is. All that we do is an offering, not a claim. We do not create him in killing. That is your mistake. You believe you can become him in your finite acts of murder, that you are Death incarnate. None are special. All die, with or without our aid. Every murder is a sacrament, not a meal on which to grow fat.”

  Raoul bowed his head. “I am unworthy.”

  “We are all unworthy. Be still we can serve.”

  Raoul looked up. The abbot’s eyes were not mocking him. But they became stern in response to his undisguised hope. The abbot added, “With cognizance of our flaws.”

  “Nethra gathers all with equal kindness in the end,” Raoul said, and ran a finger across the gash in his forehead, “let this be a reminder to me. I must be a vessel for Nethra’s will.” Sourly, he added, “One day I will render what the god is owed.”

  “All render what the god is owed in the end. Never forget that. As for the boy, he is not to be harmed, at least for now.”

  “Because he will be recruited in the future?”

  “No, that is not his path.”

  “Why was I sent to test him then?”

  “There are purposes I was not aware of before. And now there is a diff
erent task.”

  “I will harvest the souls and the great miller will grind the bones to make the bread for Death’s table.”

  “This time you must save a life, not take it.”

  Raoul was surprised. “That is not our way,” he spluttered.

  The abbot’s tone was sharp, as he said, “Our way is not that of petty murderers.” He observed Raoul carefully, as if evaluating whether he was suited to the coming task, then relented, offering an explanation, “Sometimes a single life saved may render many to our Lord.”

  Raoul smiled, and wiped away the blood that had rolled down from the wound to sting his eye. “And there will be many?”

  The abbot reached out, touching Raoul’s trapezius. Raoul felt the weakness in his legs before sensing the nerve end being probed by the abbot’s thumb. He collapsed to his knees.

  “Death…?” The abbot pulled out a curved needle. Raoul watched with fascination, wondering what poison would be used to kill him. He had not expected to die slowly, but rather with a quick plunge of a blade into his heart, or severing his carotid artery, or snapping of his spine. He wondered whether the cruelty was because of his attempt on the abbot’s life. Not that there was anything unusual in that. Every Dark Monk was expected to try, and all who did knew the prize for success, though none knew for certain the consequences of failure. The current abbot himself had murdered the last, though before that act he had not been a monk, only a priest. Raoul had wondered whether the former abbot had fallen easily because he had not expected a priest to kill him. But he knew now the abbot’s skill. He was not undeserving of the abbacy.

  Raoul now realised his hands were not paralysed. He could still strike, but to what effect? Even with full function he could not best the abbot.

  The abbot pulled out a skein of thread from his habit, bit off a length, and fed it through the head of the needle. He crossed over to a small table. Picking up a bottle of spirits, he poured over the needle, then came back to Raoul, pushed back his cowl, and used the spirits to wash the wound on his forehead. Then he held the wound closed and began sewing it together.

  “Death…?” the abbot said, completing the earlier thought, “death will feast with the kites.”

  “May Nethra bless the life that gives so much death.”

  “And you will be his vessel. Hold still or I’ll poison the needle.” The abbot smiled, as if at a private joke. Raoul wondered whether the abbot had read his thoughts.

  “I’m too transparent?”

  “You are. But with practice comes skill.”

  “And skill is devotion.”

  “At least you now understand the form of words. Don’t repeat it like a parrot, or you’ll learn nothing.”

  Chapter 44: Agmar: Peat Bogs

  Agmar rode in the van, beside a small cart, stuffed with cushions and covered with cloth, in which Wulfstan travelled, resting his leg. Behind them, the army and its servants stretched back for several miles like the scales of a great mud coloured snake. Their progress had been slow. To the south of the river, beyond a thin line of trees, the peat bogs stretched all the way to the distant foothills of the Dividing Range, that great mountain range which nearly bisects the great southward extending peninsula of Ropeua. Here, on the north side of the river, was marshy terrain scattered with tangled copses, their dark green canopies more like louring earth bound clouds than the bright green augers of festive nature that were more natural at this time of year. Beyond the copses, clusters of dark, jagged leaved, prickly bushes clotted all the higher ground.

  Even at midsummer this road beside the river – used by the horses and oxen of the bargemen, to haul the sail propelled barges when the winds were too weak, or even the slave rowed galleys where the currents were too strong – was little more than a muddy conduit between the flowing river and the stagnant pools of the marsh; so the men, palfreys and sumpter horses were covered in sticking clayey mud. To make matters worse, from the marsh came swarms of angrily buzzing mosquitoes, hungry for human blood. The kingdom’s wide, stone sealed road, built for the rapid transit of merchants, royal messengers, and armies, extended in a great arc far to the north, completely avoiding the marshes of this region. Wulfstan, pigheadedly, Agmar thought while absently swatting a mosquito, had refused to travel that way, arguing that they would lose too much time, ignoring the advice of his bannerettes, many of whom knew the region well. Ordinarily it would be traversed on the river barges, which plied a steady trade between the Gledan estuary and Thedra, but the soldiers were too numerous to be cheaply transported that way. A Royal Writ would compel sufficient numbers of the bargemen to abandon more profitable business for the profitless transportation of an army, but Augustyn hadn’t thought to send one. Perhaps the king ignored his requests or, more likely, he didn’t want to give the paranoid king, or the all too competent prince Arthur, advance warning of a large force moving on the capital. Agmar could only smile at that thought, before frowning and squashing a blood bloated mosquito on his forearm. Because of the expense, only the warhorses had been taken by barge, since they were too valuable for any knight to risk their injury in this terrain. Many squires and grooms had gone along with the warhorses to care for them, accompanied by some of the knights. The divided forces would meet up again a day’s march from Thedra. The rest now marched along the churned up road, stopping frequently to extricate a cart from a bog.

  Behind Agmar and Wulfstan, several men now heaved at one, while others brought up two extra horses to help pull it free.

  “At this rate we’ll lose a week getting to Thedra,” Aedgar said, from his horse on the other side of Wulfstan’s cart, as he stopped and looked back. Some men were diverting their carts around the knot of struggling men and horses.

  Agmar looked forward. In the distance he could see a large muddy grey stone in the middle of the road. “The carts will have to be taken around that,” he said, pointing, “but the woods come close to the river there.”

  Wulfstan said, “Damn it! We’ll have to move it or go back and behind the wood. More wasted time. Why, by Morbuthra’s pock marked arse, and pus pissing cock,” he invocated the god of plague, “can’t the bargemen clear the bloody road.”

  “Maybe it would be easier to turn back and circle behind the wood,” suggested Aedgar.

  “No, we don’t know what the fuck is back there, and it’d take too long even if it was a clear path.”

  “Your Grace’s genius will find a solution,” Kalogh said, simpering on his horse, beside Edmer’s, behind Wulfstan’s cart.

  Agmar said, “It’d be easier to chop down a few of those trees close to the road to widen it there.”

  “Damn it! More wasted time.”

  “Did I tell you about the time…No, wait. Did you see that?”

  “What?”

  “It moved.”

  As they came nearer the boulder unfolded into the shape of a man. From his limbs hung the grey tatters of an ancient robe but, other than that, he was naked. As he stood he turned and started to dance, and his eyes were blank with madness.

  “A hermit of the forest, perhaps,” Agmar suggested, “I knew a man once, back in Seltica. Most likely to ever make a profit from selling his grandmother’s walking stick for kindling, or her bones when she died, or even before. Didn’t know anything but making money, no appreciation for the finer things in life, not a good song, or a fight, not even a decent taste for mead and other men’s wives. Left the wife he’d never cheated on, and the kids he taught frugality to with a finger thick birch stick, threw away everything but the clothes on his back, and made sure those were not much more than rags, and disappeared into the mountains. Said he was going to find his way to the gods, somewhere north of the clouds that crowned the peaks, and so he had to travel light. You can’t weigh too much if you want to walk on clouds.”

  “No man has ever made up so many false characters as Agmar,” Kalogh said, snorting derisively.

  “No true bard ever hated the telling of tales.”

&n
bsp; “You say you love truth but you’re full of lies.”

  “He’s sure full of something,” Aedgar said.

  Agmar shifted in his saddle and patted his gut. “It can’t be helped. With all these camp rations I haven’t had a good shit in days.”

  Wulfstan and Aedgar laughed.

  “Wait till you see the orchards of the capital. You’ll be shitting water for a month.”

  “Or maybe I’ll just listen to Kalogh’s singing. That’ll give me the shits quick enough.”

  Kalogh scowled, his overlarge mouth bunched together like a dried fig.

  As they drew closer to the hermit they could hear him cackling, “The dead are walking.” He danced in a small circle, waving his arms in the air, “and the gods are falling. The times are changing and water is burning and fire is flowing.” He looked to the heavens and screamed in mad laughter. Then he stared at Agmar. The hermit’s eyes were dark voids, full of meaning and madness. The smile fled his face and he screamed again, hiding beneath his own arms, the tatters of his robe hardly covering his mud streaked body. “The sky is falling and the earth is rising. The dead will rise from their graves. The dead…the dead…the dead are coming in the night. They hunger for the living. The dead live. The living die to feed dead hunger.” He beat his chest, then turned and ran into the forest, cackling and chanting, screaming and wailing.