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

by Frances Mason

  “Who are you?” he snarled.

  The man looked confused for a moment, then offended, then he spoke again, and again Wulfstan could not understand. Sometimes it seemed as if more than one man was speaking, or as if the man had multiple voices, and they babbled separately and occasionally joined. When they did join the sound was almost musical, then the merged voices fragmented into babbling again, like echoes in a deep cave.

  “This is…strange,” Agmar said.

  “You understand this nonsense? What language does he speak?”

  “It’s not Seltic, or Fikish, or Kemetese, or Vrongwenese.”

  “Too many words, bard,” Wulfstan snapped impatiently, “I didn’t ask you what language it wasn’t. What language is it?”

  “None that I’ve heard any tale told in, but…”

  “What?”

  “There is something familiar about it. I seem to understand snatches of it, but I can’t recall any ordinary language that…but it can’t be…”

  “Cough it up, man.”

  “It’s no language ever spoken by men, not like this at least.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I mean, it’s no language ever fully articulated or comprehended by men.”

  “You’re not making much sense yourself.”

  “Let me question him, Your Grace.”

  Agmar addressed the man, and his voice was musical, but like a song with parts missing, and as he did so the others there felt suddenly puzzled, as if they had been about to ask a question but had forgotten it before it could reach their lips. The feeling faded as Agmar stopped talking to the stranger and turned to Wulfstan. “It seems he’s speaking a language only known by mages, priests and, in its more beautiful phrases, bards. But we know only fragments, which is why I can’t fully understand him. I wouldn’t have believed that any man could speak it fluently, yet here is a man, and he speaks the First Language, apparently fluently, though given my own limited…mortal knowledge I can’t be sure. Yet something is wrong. The Language of the Gods is a language of power, the language of power. His words have no power. It’s as if the very meaning of the words has changed. And yet…” Agmar sang a few words in the strange language, and the air hummed, and the men felt all worries swept away. He stopped and the feeling passed. “You see? When I voice mere fragments of that language the power remains, yet when he speaks it fluently it has none. How can that be?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “I’m asking the gods, but they don’t usually answer men’s questions. This man, however…” He asked him a question. The man answered. Agmar said, “he keeps asking…I’m not sure here…but I think he’s asking where he is, or maybe who he is. He doesn’t seem certain of himself.”

  “Or else he knows well to hide who his master is behind a mask of ignorance. I smell the hand of Amery in this.”

  “I don’t think so. I believe him. He seems confused. Perhaps that has something to do with the…but I don’t know…” Agmar hesitated a moment, then added, “but you’re right to be wary of Amery.”

  “Tie him up. We’ll deal with him later.”

  The man was dragged away, but he shouted back over his shoulder to Agmar, looking him in the eye. Agmar thought the man said, in the language of the gods, “The time has come,” then one of the soldiers smashed a fist into his head and he slumped forward.

  As the campfires burned low Agmar and others drifted off to their respective tents, while some settled down about the coals. Soon the mead and malmsey had lulled Agmar’s brain. Outside his tent horses whinnied or stamped and the armour of sentries clinked, while within dreams heralded the coming of sleep’s deeper oblivion.

  A man beckoned him to follow. He followed into darkness. Then a madman was dancing around him. “The gods are falling,” he sang, “the dead are rising.” And as he whirled he became a wind, and the wind sang in the leaves of the forest, but the birds were silent. Agmar blew toward the forest, but his feet sucked in the mud, and the mud came to his knees, then his hips. Then the forest fell down, and at its centre stood a man, but greater than a man. In the distance he saw him standing like a great tree, human sized to the eye because of distance, then he took a step, from the centre of the fallen trees to the mud, as he shrank down to human size, and he reached down and hauled Agmar from the mud. Agmar looked at him with amazement. He was sublimely beautiful, as if sculpted by the greatest artist, yet he lived. But what struck Agmar most was the man’s voice as he laughed, which was the sound of wind through river reeds at dawn, more beautiful than any singer’s art. But his smile faded and his laughing faltered, and with their departure all song seemed to die. He spoke but his voice was no longer melodic. “You must find me or I am forever lost,” he said, and turned sadly away. Agmar tried to follow but the man vanished.

  He’s gone, Agmar thought, and awoke.

  “He’s gone, my lord,” a man at arms was saying to Wulfstan outside Agmar’s tent.

  Agmar had fallen asleep with his head on his cloak, his head resting against his saddle. His neck ached and he itched all over from mosquito bites despite the purple flowered herb smouldering beside him in a ceramic bowl.

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “He’s just…gone.”

  Wulfstan roared, “How could he have escaped? You bloody pus filled shit from a whore’s diseased hole.”

  “I see him,” another man at arms yelled, pointing to the river.

  Agmar came out of his tent, scratching at his arms, and followed Wulfstan down to the river. In the middle of the river, despite overcast skies and his bleary eyes, Agmar could clearly see a human shape, swimming, bright against the dark water. Perhaps, he thought, the light of the campfires make him shimmer. The swimmer turned, and seemed to look at Agmar, then continued with steady, confident strokes.

  “Where are the boats?” Wulfstan demanded of the men at arms nearest the shore.

  “We’ve only got some small boats we’ve carried for fishing in the river.”

  “Get one of them in the water. Get across there and bring him back.”

  “They’re across the other side of the camp, Your Grace. He’ll be long gone before we can…”

  “Do I look like a philosopher monk?” Wulfstan asked with cold anger.

  The soldier was stumped by the question. “Uh…uh…my lord?”

  Wulfstan screamed, spittle flying from his mouth, and his eyes bulging from their sockets, “I’m not debating the number of hairs on a god’s arse. I’m giving you an order.”

  The man ran off toward a circle of carts at the opposite end of the camp.

  “He’ll probably drown,” Agmar said. The swimming man had vanished, “has drowned.”

  Wulfstan muttered, “Spies, bloody spies.”

  “Whatever this man was, there are sure to be spies in the camp. Spies of Amery’s.”

  The man at arms was coming back with two others, rubbing sleep from their eyes with their spare hands, dragging a small boat. They dropped it by the shore. “Where is he?”

  “Drowned,” Agmar said, then saw a shape shimmer on the distant shore. It was a good mile across the river at this point, so Agmar was sure it could not have been the swimmer, who only a moment before had been only half way across. Though the shape shimmered, at this distance Agmar could see it was not from the fires of the camp. The bushes that lined the opposite bank were barely visible shapes of darker darkness, except those right beside the man. The light seemed to come from within the man’s naked body, like a ghostly skin, an unnatural, or supernatural, light. The man turned as if to look back at the camp. Only now did Agmar realise that to be seen so clearly the man must be unusually large, larger than the swimmer the guards had caught earlier. Beside the man was what Agmar had mistaken for a bush, faintly outlined by the emanation of the man’s skin. But now he realised it was a tall tree, and the man was still taller. Agmar felt the man was looking right at him. Then the man vanished.

  “Did you see…,” Agmar
started.

  “What?” Wulfstan grumbled, still staring, along with the men at arms, at the place they had first seen the man swimming.

  Agmar realised the others had not seen the giant on the opposite shore. Though the existence of giants was indisputable, he had never heard of a glowing giant. And he was sure the glowing giant had the same features as the escaped prisoner. Either he had hallucinated, or there was magic here and, given the prisoner’s strange use of the first language, he suspected the latter. “I’ll go and see if I can fish his body out of the drink.”

  He took a lantern from a man at arms, hauled the boat down to the water, launched it, climbed in, set its oars, and rowed toward where he had last seen the shimmering shape. The water flowed slowly here, even sluggishly. With his long, powerful strokes, it was not long before he reached the place where the giant had emerged from the river. As he hauled the boat up on shore, he could see the fires and torches and lamps of the camp opposite, and men tiny with distance scurrying about near the shore. He could not make out which one was Wulfstan, but was sure he was there, muttering about spies. Agmar smiled.

  He turned toward the peat bogs. In the distance he saw the slightly glowing human shape, and he could no longer be sure of its dimensions as it strode across the flats. It stopped for a moment and turned to look at Agmar, then turned away and continued walking. He followed. As far as he could tell he kept pace with the man though the man, or giant, took long strides. As he made his way across the bog the figure would occasionally vanish. Agmar would continue in the same direction, and the figure would reappear, always distant, looking back then continuing on, but always close enough, or large enough, for his features to be clearly seen. They were without doubt the features of the man who spoke the language of the gods. Eventually the figure vanished without reappearing. Agmar walked for some time in the direction he had been heading, then stopped, and looked back toward the river. He could no longer see the campfires clearly, but they cast a slight glow on the horizon.

  He was considering whether to return when he thought he heard a moaning sound, but the moaning sounded strangely strangled, as if coming from the throat of a drowning man. He spun about. He saw no one. The bogs had been dug out in places, probably by local peasants to fuel their fires, or to sell the dried peat at one of the local market towns, and he realised now that he was in the middle of an especially pitted area. He had been lucky not to fall into any of the pits, so focussed on the distant figure he had been. He noticed something else too. There was a soft glow emanating from one of the holes. He crossed over to it, carefully picking his way among the other holes, holding the lantern low to the ground.

  Near the hole was a man flat on his face. Beside him was a spade. A little further away was a cart, piled high with slabs of peat, a donkey harnessed to it. Agmar knelt beside the man and examined him. He was fully clothed, in poor peasant clothes, with sturdy boots. Agmar turned the body over. The man had had his throat cut. The blood had seeped into the soil, but left a dark stain in a large circle. He did not look like one of the bandits who infested the swamps across the river, though perhaps he was one of their victims. Probably a peasant farmer. But why kill him? What bandit would be foolish enough to waste time on such a poor common farmer? And then leave the only things of value, the spade, cart and donkey, and the man’s clothes and boots? He walked around the cart to be sure that no one was waiting in ambush, and scratched between the donkey’s ears. It brayed loudly. He lifted the peasant into the cart and placed the spade beside him. When the donkey was hungry it would find its way home, taking the terrible knowledge in its cargo to the peasant’s family, if he had one, even poorer now for their loss. At least they would know he was dead. Agmar hoped that would be better for them than not knowing.

  He looked in the hole from which the glow had come and saw a human shape. It was withered, and even in the full glare of the lantern, brown. Its throat seemed to have been cut, whether in battle or as a sacrifice Agmar could not tell. One arm was flung wide, and the withered, leathery hand gripped a long rusted dirk. The other lay over its chest. Beneath that second hand was a shape unmistakable to the bard. It was covered in dirt and mud, but that could not obscure that it was a small harp.

  Agmar climbed down into the hole, placing the lantern at the edge. He tried to pry the fingers of the bog body loose. It sat up and its other arm swept the dirk across in a disembowelling cut. Agmar leapt back, and the dirk only just missed his side. The corpse leered through rotted cheeks, which hung like tattered fabric over its yellow teeth. Its eyes, as shapeless as sloppy pottage spilled on a trencher, oozed out of its sockets, seeming somehow to retain malignant intelligence as they oozed down its face. Agmar unsheathed his sword and struck down at the creature’s head. It was as mighty a blow as ever he had struck, so chilled he was by sight of the dead rising. The blow struck right in the centre of the corpse’s pate, but the sharp blade left no mark, though the corpse’s torso slouched under the blow. Then it rose to its feet and moaned. And the moaning sounded like the gurgling of liquid flesh in its throat, and the smell of long ages of decay were blown forth on the unnatural wind of its breath. It swung again, and Agmar leapt backwards out of the grave. He struck again, this time at the arm, but again the blade did not cut, only making the creature stagger.

  Agmar had never encountered anything like this. He would fight any man, though he made it a point of honour not to beat up a man he had cuckolded. He would push to the front in a battle line if needed, or fight against a closing circle of bandits if escape was impossible. But this? He cautiously backed away, careful not to fall into the nearest other hole.

  It was clear now what had happened to the man lying beside the grave. That one was, from the look of him, a poor man, hardened by labour not battle, a local villein, who had dug peat for his cottage fire or to sell. He had chanced upon this corpse, and tried to take the harp. That had animated the corpse, as it had done when Agmar tried to take it. The corpse had made short work of the villein, more used to the slow rhythm of ploughing than the quick cut and thrust of battle. Then the corpse had lain back in its grave, to sleep the sleep of the dead, or something like it, and wait for the next fool who tried to take the harp. Agmar knew he was the next fool, and a bigger fool for not running away, but the harp drew his eye, like the hearth draws the cat, and he knew he had to have it.

  Others would have turned and fled at this point, and made up a heroic story later. Stories had covered many a man’s failure. For a moment even Agmar thought it might be wiser to be a living braggart than a dead hero. That brought Kalogh to mind. And his contempt for that toadying coward drove away all trace of fear. To be a lying coward like Kalogh was a failure for which he would deserve the contempt of men and gods alike. And had he not said himself to Wulfstan that the better tales are coloured with truth?

  As with tales, so with men, he reasoned. He was not beyond lying to divert the suspicion of a lord on whom he was spying. He certainly would not hesitate to send a husband away on a false errand so that he could enjoy the embraces of the wife. But he would not pretend to a false courage. He would stand and fight, die or tell the tale of his survival.

  Even if he had not had these principles there was that damn harp. Dirt fell away from it as the creature lurched forward, still within the compass of its grave. It lunged toward Agmar with its rusted dirk. There was something odd about that harp, Agmar thought, something special; why else would the corpse cling to it and kill for it? It was valuable, or important, perhaps even magical. As exceptional as his own harp was – carved by the great artisan, Aiden, three centuries before, gifted by Aiden to his brother, Deklan of the dark fells, and handed down from father to son ever since – Agmar would not leave behind a magical harp.

  But how to kill what was already dead?

  Surely lore counted for more than might in a quandary like this, and lore was the hard earned treasure of bards. Though he had never met such a foe as this, he had heard many legends. Creatures
that once were men, brought back from the dead, and immune to mortal blades. In the old tales an enchanted blade would harm the creature. But he had no enchanted blade.

  He thought then of a song he had learned during his apprenticeship. His father had said it was merely a trick, an enchantment for a moment with no real value. No use in the midst of battle, where you would sacrifice more time than you would gain advantage. But he had learned it nonetheless, and had used it to chop wood, enchanting an axe so that it would slice more easily through the wood. The problem was, it would only last for one cut. His father had laughed when he saw what young Agmar had been doing, singing and cutting, singing and swinging, slowly over, again and again. “At last we’ve found a use for it,” he had said, clapping Agmar on the back. He had taken the axe from him and cast the same enchantment, and cut a piece of wood, and laughed until he could hardly breathe. They had passed the axe back and forward, and each time his father had cast the spell and cut the wood he had laughed, and Agmar had laughed with him.

  Now, perhaps, here was another use. He was not sure it would work, but the harp drew him bodily, like an opium den draws an addict. The corpse was awkwardly climbing out of the hole. Agmar sang the words of enchantment as he held the sword before his face. The blade hummed with the sound of the words, and began to glow.

  As the creature advanced Agmar realised that he would have to place his blow carefully. If he did not he might damage the harp. He could not cleave the monster in half from head to toe, as that would also cleave the harp. He thought of chopping off its head, but that would leave the dirk in its hand, and if a body could walk when dead there was no certainty it would not walk without its head.

  He chopped at the shoulder on the side that held the dirk, and the blade sliced cleanly through. The arm fell to the ground with its weapon. The creature still lurched toward him, its movement like the jerking of a poorly controlled puppet. Not only that, the severed arm still moved on the ground. It released its dirk to claw its way forward, digging dead fingers with yellowed, cracked, overgrown nails into the dirt, gripping, moving, releasing, gripping. Agmar kicked the dirk away. Once again he sang, and once again his blade glowed. The creature snapped its teeth, and breathed out foul air that smelled of forgotten centuries, of rot long settled; moist, but stagnant instead of teeming with life; of the dust of long dead leaves crushed to powder under feet oblivious to faded autumn beauty, of charnel houses where the bones and skulls were piled until no one any longer remembered the names that they once bore as surely as they wore their skin.