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

by Frances Mason

  “Seltien has been lost for many an age,” Jared commented, “There are many other lost relics of the gods, of course. Perhaps even as many as there are gods.”

  “And the number of the gods is unknown to the wisest men. Hence the number of lost relics…”

  “When the lost are found the old age will end.”

  “If the lost are these divine relics from the time of creation…”

  “…then the end times have begun,” finished Jared, “or maybe not.”

  “Or maybe not,” Javid agreed.

  “So the world might end because I found a sword, but it might not?” Alex asked.

  “It is only one of the lost, if they even are the lost of the prophecy, and that is uncertain.”

  “But if they are?”

  “Then we must prepare for the end.”

  “That’s alright for you. You’re an old man. I’ve hardly lived yet.”

  “It isn’t necessarily a terrible doom.”

  “What, the end of the world isn’t a terrible doom? I don’t know that I agree.”

  “No, no,” said Jared, “it’s not the end of the world. It’s the end of an age.”

  Javid agreed, “And whether a new will begin is not said in the prophecy.”

  “But it might not,” said Alex.

  “Well, if evil forces were to acquire the power of the gods it might not.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly good, except at being bad. You’re not inspiring me.”

  “You’re a petty thief.”

  Alex was offended. “I am not petty. I’m an excellent…negotiator…what did you call me?”

  “Negotiator of enriching transactions.”

  “Yes, that.”

  “Your title aside I think the main thing is to keep the relics out of the hands of evil men, like the necromancer you negotiated with, or worse.”

  “Worse than him? He murdered and tortured people. I don’t even know what he was doing to the…the nymph. That’s what the Labyrinth called her.”

  “Yes, one of the daughters of the river god. That’s why he grieved. Why his cleansing power was withheld. He couldn’t find his daughter. The necromancer needed the power of Seltien to bind her so that he could work his dark magic on her, whatever his ends were. A goddess isn’t easily bound by the sorcery of mere men, no matter how might their arts. Anyway, there are powers in this world and beyond it that make that necromancer look like an innocent babe.”

  “He might even have been a servant of such a power,” Jared said, nodding sagely.

  “That’s encouraging. So, how do we keep these…relics…out of the hands of these…powers?”

  “We have to find them,” Javid said, though if Alex was any judge of character he seemed uncertain.

  “You said you don’t even know how many there are.”

  “True. It is a conundrum.”

  Alex thought the end of the world was a bit more than a neat scholarly problem. He asked impatiently, “And if we do find them all?”

  “Well, that’s hard to say.”

  “You’re inspiring my confidence more with each word.”

  “It certainly wouldn’t do to leave them lying around.”

  “Really, and I thought we should just hand them to the nearest evil wizard so he can end the world. Should we destroy them? Why don’t we melt down this sword?”

  Seltien murmured an inarticulate objection. They all glanced at it uneasily.

  “Isn’t it clear? This is no ordinary sword. You can’t just melt it down. Even dragon fire couldn’t do that.”

  “Except perhaps…,” said Jared.

  Javid looked at him. “Yes, except the fire of the Primal Dragon. It’s a divine relic, only a divine fire could harm it. But you couldn’t destroy any of the lost relics without damaging the fabric of the world, maybe of the universe.”

  “Or universes.”

  “So we have to find these relics, and…then what?”

  “Return them to the gods,” Javid said with a shrug that did little to reassure Alex.

  “How do we do that?”

  “We must reach the moon. It’s the home of the gods. No evil can walk there.”

  “Except evil gods,” Jared added wryly, “Anyway, no mortal can walk there.”

  Javid said, “None knows better than you, brother, that the time of the cusp is a time when the old rules don’t apply. Gods become as men and men as gods. Who knows what’s possible.” Javid looked to the now invisible Star-way, his eyes tracing its former spiral into the sky, as if pondering the limits of possibility, and planning to pass them.

  Alex suggested a solution that seemed so obvious to him that only a scholar lost in books and abstract thought could possibly overlook it. “Why don’t the gods find these relics and take them back themselves?”

  Both brothers looked at him with the condescending pity of the learned for the illiterate. Jared said, “Now is the cusp. A time of change. Their powers are weak, and the closer we get to the celestial fulcrum the weaker they will become. When the fulcrum is reached, maybe even before, if the gods walked among us it would be as mortals. If a god died at such a time…”

  “They would be destroyed forever,” Javid completed his brother’s sentence.

  “Or at least until the next cycle begins,” Jared added optimistically.

  “The world might unravel. Perhaps it would be remade.”

  “Perhaps not. And even if it was…”

  “It would not be our world. Our time would be gone. The old gods would be gone, or changed beyond all recognition. All that we know would be lost.”

  “All knowledge would be lost,” the twins said in sad unison.

  “Actually,” Javid said reflectively, “nobody really knows what would happen if a god died. The gods are of the very fabric of creation, so perhaps the world would unravel, or perhaps the world would change, or perhaps another would take that god’s place.” He added more firmly, “But it isn’t a risk you want to take. Best to assume the worst.” Jared nodded his agreement.

  “So, we find the relics, return them to the gods, and then?”

  “Then maybe a new age will begin when the old ends.”

  “So it will be the end of an age but not of the world.”

  “Right.”

  “Ok, let’s do that.”

  “I can’t do that. I’m an old man,” Javid said, and the brothers both shook their heads.

  “You expect me to find these relics? You said yourself you don’t even know how many there are.”

  “You’re young, adventurous…skilful.”

  “And alive. I plan to stay that way for a long time. Maybe till I’m thirty, then I’ll die of old age.”

  “You’ll do it then?”

  “You have a strange way of taking my words.”

  “But you will. Just to prove how great a thief you are.”

  “Don’t try to play me.”

  “I’m not trying to play you.”

  “No, you’re succeeding. Damn! I should know better by my age.”

  “And by the time you’re mine you will. It’s a good thing you’re young.”

  “You mean stupid.”

  “I mean up for a challenge.”

  “There you go again, rubbing me the right way.”

  “You’ll need help, of course. We can’t send a Thedran thief out into the wilderness by himself. And we’ll provide the knowledge you need, at least as much as we have.”

  “By the grace of Pulmthra.”

  “And the light by which he writes so that men might not be lost to ignorance.”

  “So Thulathra lights the way, and Pulmthra reveals it to men.”

  “Thulathem.”

  “Thulathem.”

  “So where do I start?” Alex asked.

  “I don’t know,” Javid said.

  “That’s not going to help much.”

  “I’ll have to pursue more researches.”

  “You mean I have to borrow more books for y
ou.”

  “It might help. Unless you know someone else who is a good borrower.”

  “I could name one or two score, as long as it wasn’t to a constable of the watch.”

  Jared returned to trying to write the runes as they appeared.

  “You know it can’t be done, brother,” Javid said, shaking his head.

  “Yes, but….” Jared looked eagerly at Alex. “Seltien spoke to you. Perhaps…what language did he speak? Did you hear the words in your head or comprehend the meanings without hearing or…”

  “He spoke to me in the common tongue.”

  “Ah! The first language is all languages.”

  “And none,” said Javid.

  “And none,” Jared agreed. “What did he say?”

  “Not much. He only speaks of blood. ‘Blood, blood, blood,’ was just about it.”

  “You must speak to him. He has cloven to you. If he had not you would hear nothing. And he can speak of more than blood. He served the kings of Ropeua in times long lost to memory. He is a formidable weapon. Yet, he is more than a weapon and has a mind of his own.” Jared again attempted to inscribe a rune, again failed.

  “I’ve seen. He seems to seek the blood he speaks of, and always finds his mark, whether I want it or not. If I was a murderer it’d be a blessing. I’m not a murderer.”

  Jared ran his hand through his long white beard with a reflective look on his face, watching the flowing runes, then darted out a finger to inscribe, as if to outsmart the sword’s divine magic with mortal cunning.

  “No,” Javid said, “and you’re right to be wary of his power. All power is fraught with danger, none more so than magical or divine power, especially if a mortal holds it. The powers of far seeing gods were never meant for mortal men, and when ambition overleaps knowledge the result can be terrifying. See, even as my brother tries to read and write the runes of the language of the gods they thwart him, but he seeks knowledge, not power. He understands that all mortal magic is like this, grasping for mere traces of what the gods know wholly. Because of this he will not force the runes which exceed his knowledge. He is cautious. He despairs, seeing how flawed his knowledge is.”

  Jared muttered, “As is the knowledge of all men.” His eyes became distant.

  “Thulathem,” Javid said. Jared rubbed his pate, his eyes suddenly luminously sharp, and once more his finger darted out, this time only so far as the air in front of his face. Jared continued, “But whatever the sword’s behaviour it is not intrinsically malign. It may be it has been affected by the evil use to which it was put. It has been polluted.”

  “And I have to cleanse it,” Alex said, “I know. I have the means but haven’t used it yet.”

  Jared’s rune began to form, twin to one written briefly in the swirling substance of the sword. The fiery shape twisted, shrank, sprang back, its form well defined. Jared’s luminous blue eyes opened wide. Then the rune shivered, and vanished.

  “What do you mean?” Javid asked.

  Jared closed his eyes. With one hand he rubbed them. Then he pincered the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.

  “What is freely given will not pollute.”

  “Pardon?” Javid said, reaching out to grip his brother’s shoulder in sympathetic solidarity.

  “It’s something the nymph…goddess?...”

  “She’s a nymph. A nymph is a lesser goddess. She obeys her father, when he’s looking. I hear mortal daughters are much the same.”

  “Something the goddess said to me. Her tears.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “I am to myself. The Labyrinth would understand…before droning on about knowing all things.”

  “Perhaps you should travel to the Fountain of the Nymphs; at the headwaters of the river. It’s where the local girls and women purify themselves when it’s ritually necessary. Of course, it can be dangerous for a man. The nymphs have been known to drown men who trespass in their sanctum. But you’ve rescued one of them from an evil necromancer. I think she and her sisters will treat you kindly. Perhaps you won’t need to reach the moon. Perhaps you must return the sword to the river.”

  “She said, ‘not yet.’ I offered it to her and she said, ‘not yet.’”

  “Clearly your fate is tied to Seltien then. It’s a kind of gift if she refused to take it back. What I don’t understand is why she didn’t purify it herself. She has the power.”

  “Because she gave me the means.” Alex had hidden the flask of nymph’s tears – along with most of the valuables he had stolen from the necromancer’s tower – atop Thedra Bridge, in the roof of the bimateya carvers’ guildhall. He explained his thinking to the twins, “The nymph gave me her tears, after she blew over them. They cleansed the evil in the necromancer’s tower. I can use them to cleanse the sword.”

  “That may well be what she intended. You must try.”

  “And then the sword will be…less bloodthirsty?”

  “I should think so. But, even then, be careful. It may not have been made of the substance of the god of war or the god of death, but Seltathra is a mighty river, and like all such gods he can take life as well as give it. The sword, at least in legend, has much of the river’s nature, mighty, beneficent, but quick to anger, and sometimes merciless. But without the river Selta’s gifts where would the waters of this great city come from? Life giving waters. Cleansing waters. No city is more beautiful.”

  “Or more corrupt,” Jared added, opening his eyes, “it’s just as well it is cleansed by the river. It’s hard to imagine how corrupt it would be without.”

  Javid ignored his brother. “And this beauty depends on his bounty. And he gives, he gives so much. When you have purified it speak to it. Find where its fate flows, for yours flows with it now.”

  Chapter 56: Arthur: Thedra

  “The city levies are being prepared by the remaining contingent of the Crown’s Yeomen, and knights pour daily into the city from the outlying settlements. But if the reports are true it still won’t be enough,” Arthur had said, watching carefully the reactions of Augustyn and Amery for any hint of their true intentions.

  Casually, Augustyn had said, “I have troops coming east from Gleda.”

  “And I have troops coming west from Vrong Veld,” Amery had said.

  “And with you leading our armies, Highness, they are sure to quickly prevail.”

  Around the chamber the lords had murmured their agreement.

  “And you can finally wear your fine new armour,” Amery added.

  The Privy Council Chamber was now empty except for Arthur and a few Yeomen of the Crown who stood erect along the walls. Through the windows came the distant sound of minstrels on the palace lake and the high pitched laughter of a lady, perhaps entertained by some gallant’s witticism. Untroubled pleasures in troubled times. The prince sat in his father’s chair and brooded. The suit of armour he had won at the tournament along with that magnificent destrier stood behind him. Arthur had given Sir Smiglon Woldby, who had died in the prince’s armour, an honourable funeral, dressed in the livery of the Crown Prince Household. He had provided Smiglon’s widow a generous pension. At very least her security and that of her children was ensured. But as much as he grieved for his long loyal servant and jousting companion of many years he had to attend to matters of state.

  It had been an unusual session of the Privy Council. Those two mortal enemies, Augustyn and Amery, seemed to have put aside their differences. He had not heard any of their usual accusation and counter accusation. Though it might seem useful in the current situation that they were willing to work together, it most likely meant they were plotting something, and as yet Arthur’s spies had not determined what. He knew that Augustyn had suddenly called Wulfstan’s troops from Gleda, but not to what end. Augustyn was not hiding the fact of their coming anymore, saying that it was to help put down the rebellion. Arthur’s spy would observe Wulfstan carefully and send word if he discovered anything new. Though the monks of War wer
e harder to penetrate, Arthur had his informers among that camp’s followers. So with Amery also, Arthur had known these forces were coming before their patron mentioned them. And Arthur did not know Amery’s true intentions any more than he knew Augustyn’s. Arthur was nearly certain now that Augustyn’s earlier accusations were correct; Amery was at least responsible for a core of professional soldiers among the rabble of the rebellion, though it might have taken on a life of its own, growing beyond its inciter’s control as such mobs frequently did. If the two dukes had fought each other as usual in council, he would have been as certain of Augustyn’s aid in the coming days as of Amery’s culpability. Whatever these two’s motivations, the rebellion was now a large problem that needed forces beyond those which he could quickly muster in the city. Even the knights from outlying lordships who swelled their ranks daily were not sufficient, and terrified peasants also poured up from the plains bringing tales of horrifying atrocities committed by a horde of improbable size.

  As he had suspected, the rebels that had been annihilated west of the forest the other day had been only a fraction of their army. Since then many more had poured out of the forest. Reports varied widely, from two to thirty thousand men, but however many there were it was enough to wreak havoc on the surrounding villages. Fields had been burnt, villages sacked, peasant populations terrorised; and local castellans, cowed by the rebel numbers and reports of massacred garrisons, had remained safely behind their high walls while the horde passed. Some of the hardier knights had defied their lords, left their castles, circled the rebel army at a safe distance and ridden for the city, where they could combine their numbers with those of Thedra.

  Arthur slammed his fist on the table. “Damn them!” The Yeomen stood stock still at attention, though their eyes strayed toward the prince. He needed the dukes’ aid, but he was damned if he would trust either of them.

  He stood, and walked to the windows, resting his hands on the sills and looking out over the royal lake. Strains of music floated over the waters, and the gondoliers paddled their noble customers about in circles. Round and round. Ever round, travelling but going nowhere. How much it seemed like his life, and like the life of this city of circles. The tunes were familiar, but seemed more subdued in the absence of the king’s court. He wished for a moment to throw off all princely cares like unwelcome clothes, to dive from these windows into that lake as he had as a boy when the sun went down and only the torches of the palace and the lanterns on the gondolas lit the waters. But he was no longer a boy. The health of the realm had depended on him putting aside the freedoms of childhood, and now, more than ever, with his father’s precipitous decline, he could not ignore his duties.