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

by Frances Mason

  “So I’ve converted you,” the priest at her side said.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him with puzzlement. The expression on his face was ironic. “How so?” she asked.

  “You worship Sun with no thought of religion. Is that pleasure, or are you a fanatic?”

  “Oh, a fanatic for the pleasure of days like this.”

  “Then my work is done. I can die happy.”

  “Why not live happy?”

  “Hmm. You challenge me to a theological dispute?”

  “Perhaps I do. If the gods are everywhere, why must priests think so much on death? Why not celebrate the life around us, and in that worship the gods?”

  “It is a tedious preoccupation, isn’t it?”

  “And yet it’s yours. You joined a cult that devotes its time to prayers for the dead. Don’t we living deserve a few of those prayers?”

  “In life we only need to step into the sunlight to know His might. The dead are not so fortunate. The sunlight must be brought to them. That is what our prayers for the dead ask for.”

  “But it’s so morbid, to be forever thinking on death, especially when your god is as much the bringer of life as the earth. The followers of Dalthi don’t concern themselves with death.”

  “They concern themselves with the cycles of the seasons though. Winter is among the seasons. It is a kind of death of the Sun’s gifts. But without it there would be no buds blooming in the spring, none of the colours of autumn leaves, and the summer sun would only bring tedious heat, not the warming caress you feel on this beautiful day.”

  “So you’re obsessed with death because you want contrast? Would you submit to a torturer to know more truly the pleasure of eating a plum?”

  “Perhaps to a gentle torturer. If she would only cut me with her wit.”

  “You are definitely unlike any priest I’ve ever met.”

  “Your questions are natural, healthy. An enquiring mind is a boon of the god also. Is not Sun the source of sight? Is not sight the first knowledge?”

  “I prefer the sense of touch.”

  “Ah, a sensualist.”

  “Is that so terrible?”

  “No, of course not. You feel the touch of Sun, you feel his warmth, and in that you know him. Perhaps I speak too soon to identify Him with sight. He makes Himself known in many ways, even to those who don’t believe they know Him.”

  Sophie saw now that his charm was only a way to soften her for a sermon. He was subtle, she had to give him that. She affected a yawn, hoping he would return to his charming roguery. Instead, he sighed sadly, so she examined her bow. She had an arrow nocked.

  She looked to either side. The heavily armoured Yeomen sat on their destriers, ever ready for battle. While they were not strictly knights, few knights would dare to challenge them. Only the greatest free born common soldiers ever joined their ranks, and never, in all the centuries of their existence, had one been known to betray his king. Neither had any but the subtlest assassins ever won past them. It was said that those who failed in their duty were bound by honour to die by their own hand. Their armour gleamed, huge war-hammers hung by their sides, and they held their loaded crossbows at the ready. They scanned the verge of the forest continually for threats. Sophie gazed at their impassive faces. One noticed her gaze and she smiled at him, but his eyes slid away, continuing their disciplined watch. She took no offence. She knew his indifference was not rude. He was simply more concerned with her safety than her entertainment. His face was heavily scarred, as were the faces of so many fighting men. She wondered if he had a family, a wife who loved him, children who needed him.

  Behind her she could hear Kat telling Amelia sharply she should use a crossbow since she was so unskilled with the short bow. Amelia responded in her sweet, diplomatic way, trying to avoid conflict while resisting being pushed around by her haughty companion. In the distance a horn sounded, clubs struck shields and dogs bayed, leading the prey toward the clearing where the princess and her ladies waited. The remaining servants stood ready to attend the princess and her ladies, with assistance with their weapons, or with refreshments.

  Suddenly there was a crash from the trees. The flimsy thicket shuddered at the far end of the clearing and a boar burst into the sunlight. Boys with hounds baying on their leashes emerged from the trees to either side of the boar, through the gaps at the far end of the thick bushes, while the sound of the shield beaters grew louder behind it. The boar was huge, almost as large as a small pony. Its dark fur bristled, coated with dried mud and broken twigs. Its tusks were like two curving knives and its mouth foamed while its small black eyes glared ahead. It spun around, this way then that, forward then back, looking to either bunch of howling dogs, hearing the horn behind it and the crash of clubs against shields. It faced the princess, scraped the earth in indecision, then charged.

  The Yeomen raised their crossbows, ready to fell the beast if it threatened to reach her. She aimed, drawing back the bowstring of the short bow to her chest, waited for the boar to come closer, then shot. The arrow struck the boar. Two more from the bows of Amelia and Kat missed. The single successful arrow did not stop the boar’s charge, only enraging it. It was nearly upon her. Sophie saw its movements as if time himself had slowed in his immutable path. She was not afraid, but fascinated. She wondered if she was going to die. Then the Yeomen had shot their crossbow bolts, and the boar’s head struck the earth, kicking up a cloud of dust.

  She looked toward the priest to make an ironic comment about her consummate skill. His bow was drawn. Its arrow pointed at her heart. She heard the twang of the bowstring’s release, but felt no pain. She wondered why she was not falling from her horse. Was this what it was like to die? The whole world suddenly silent. So peaceful! She looked to the Yeomen, who had thrown aside their crossbows. The one nearest her was standing in his stirrups, his body twisted toward her, one extended behind him, his war-hammer neither at his side nor in his other hand, which reached out to her. She thought that was funny, a Yeoman without his war-hammer. His hand seemed nearly close enough to caress her cheek. Or was this just a dream?

  Then she heard a scream. At first it was muffled in her ears, then it came through clearly. She turned and saw Amelia’s horse. Its saddle was empty. The screaming was not coming from Kat, who stared back at the ground beside the priest’s horse, white faced. It was the servants. They hurried toward the princess. She looked down at herself and saw no blood. She saw something bundled on the ground under Amelia’s horse. The bundle was seeping thick red wine. But they had not opened any bottles yet. They would eat after the hunt, and then…. Amelia clutched her arm, an arrow protruding from her shoulder. Sophie screamed at the servants to attend Amelia. When they continued toward the princess instead she screamed at them again, pointing angrily to Amelia. Finally they understood. Sophie was not sure she did.

  She looked back to the priest’s saddle. It was empty. On the ground nearby was a pulpy crimson mess. She had not thought the boar had got so close. But the mess was wrapped in the priest’s robes. A huge hammer was sunk into the middle of it. The unarmed Yeoman had thrown his great hammer. It must have spun the assassin around as he released the bow string, sending the arrow into Amelia’s arm. The priest was an assassin. The Yeoman who had thrown his war-hammer dismounted and kneeled beside the assassin. He had thrown his hammer with such force it had entirely pulped the assassin’s chest, despite the leather armour which was now revealed beneath the priest’s habit.

  The Yeoman pulled at the hammer and it came free with a sickening sucking sound, covered in bloody gore. He looked back at Amelia, then up to Sophie. “Are you harmed, Highness?” he asked. She shook her head, but started examining herself to be sure. Then she dismounted and ran back to Amelia.

  Amelia smiled. “It doesn’t hurt,” she said. “Am I going to die?”

  Sophie knelt down beside her friend. There was blood all over her clothes, but the arrow had only struck her arm. It had gone cleanly through. The Ye
oman fastened his hammer to his belt and knelt down next to the princess as the other dismounted and came over, his eyes watching suspiciously any servant who came near the princess.

  “I have some experience tending battlefield injuries, Highness, allow me,” the kneeling Yeoman said. He examined the wound. He snapped the arrow shaft on both sides of Amelia’s arm. “If we don’t deal with it quickly the wound might fester, and then you’ll be sorry. She’s in shock so she won’t feel this…much,” he said, and gripping the protruding shaft, swiftly pulled it out. Amelia screamed and fainted. Then the Yeoman told one of the servants to fetch strong wine, and poured it liberally over the wound. He pulled out a dagger, and cut and tore pieces off his own cloak, tying around the wound to limit the bleeding. Finally he poured more wine over the bandage, until it was soaked through.

  “Will she be alright?” Kat asked, still sitting her horse. The Yeoman nodded, then thought, and added, “unless the shaft was poisoned.”

  Amelia woozily revived from her faint, and said, “I’m going to die from poison,” then giggled. “Who would’ve thought?”

  “Don’t be silly, Amelia,” Kat snapped.

  “That’s right,” Sophie said, “if you’re going to die, be serious about it.” Amelia giggled again.

  “I think she’s going to be alright, Highness,” the Yeoman said, “if the shaft was poisoned, it would’ve got right quick into her blood. If she doesn’t usually giggle a lot it might be something.” He smiled wryly, the first time Sophie had ever seen a Yeoman of the Crown smile at all.

  Amelia gifted him a beatific smile. “My saviour,” she said, and giggled again.

  “My saviour,” Sophie said, more seriously, her eyes communicating as much gratitude as she could.

  “Duty and honour, Highness,” he said with stiff formality.

  “Duty and honour,” repeated the other Yeoman.

  Sophie thought again, the priest was an assassin, and wondered why that was so significant. Her eyes widened and she looked fearfully at the Yeoman. “The priest was an assassin. Assassins disguised as priests. Father! Mother!”

  The Yeomen both said, “the king!” The one aiding Amelia stood up, and said to the other, “Ride to the palace, as quick as the wind. I’ll stay to guard the princess. Warn the Yeomen. Beware the priests…perhaps the priestesses too.”

  The other mounted his steed, spun it about and spurred it hard, galloping off at a hectic pace toward the palace.

  Chapter 60: Arthur: Thedran Foothills

  “And now we march,” Arthur said when the forces of Augustyn and Amery were assembled within striking range. “Look.” He was pointing to the fields where, through the smoke, the rebels could be seen rushing together. “You see, Oly?”

  The rebel forces had assembled in an ordered host in the plain by the time all of the forces of the two dukes had arrived.

  “They are well organised, Arty. I doubt our own veterans could group together that quickly.”

  “We’ll head towards that copse east of the river and northwest of the Crimson monks.”

  “Their flank is to the river. Ours will be exposed before we reach that copse.”

  “You might be right, Oly.”

  Oliver threw Arthur a puzzled look.

  “You plan to draw them into a trap? Mind telling me what it is?”

  “I won’t spoil the surprise. Hold firm though. We’ll attack their right flank in a narrow front.”

  “They have a long front.”

  “I know,” Arthur grinned, and communicated his orders back through the Yeomen, the strongest of which were gathered around the prince and his banner, which was raised above a horse drawn cart. These Yeomen would guard the prince’s body and banner in the coming battle.

  The war-horns sounded and the drums began to beat, and soon the sound of hooves and marching feet echoed through the valley, as Arthur led his host down toward the plain. As they passed through the smoke to reach the neck of the valley he thought, the day has only started, and battle isn’t joined, and yet already I feel weary. Perhaps Oly is right to call me an old man.

  Chapter 61: Jasper: Thedran Foothills

  Jasper watched from atop the eastern hill, his visor raised. His destrier nickered and he patted his neck, mailed fist clanging against crimson painted barding. “Soon, Kythar, soon.” Kythar lifted a hoof impatiently and pawed the earth. Around Jasper the host of crimson armoured warrior monks waited for his command, their steel barded destriers whinnying with impatience. Marcos pointed to the prince’s host, now flowing north across the plain, a tide of gleaming armour and glinting lances. “The prince advances. Why do we wait? Are we going to be his reserve?”

  Jasper watched the opposite hill, where Wulfstan’s forces had assembled. “We wait for duke Relyan’s man.”

  “If he waits for us the prince will be surrounded.”

  “The outcome is now out of our hands.”

  “Not if we act.”

  Jasper’s expression was troubled, and he was silent for a moment, then he wiped all emotion from his face and said, “Honour before self.” But it was said stiffly, not with his usual conviction.

  “Duty before honour,” the monks around them replied, and soon the words were heard throughout the whole host.

  “And is the prince’s destruction our duty?” Marcos asked angrily. “Is the glory of War in the fall of the greatest knight?”

  “He’s beyond saving now.” His face was impassive except for his leering scar, but beneath that surface he was conflicted, and he silently prayed to his god for the prince. Of all knights outside the order Arthur was the one Jasper respected the most.

  Chapter 62: Arthur: Thedran Plain

  At first Arthur had fought fiercely, encouraging the men around him, slaughtering first with lance and then with sword, but in his weariness he had withdrawn and allowed others to take the front. Now he sat his saddle at a calm point in the storm, Oliver at his side. Unmounted Yeomen of the Crown kept rebels at bay in front of them with layered ranks of lances, or stood ready further in with their great war-hammers. Occasionally the Yeomen with lances would part to allow a comrade to step through and crush an unwary rebel who had reached beyond the outmost rings of lance tips, then the hammer wielder would step back and the ranks would close again.

  Oliver pointed to the forces of Amery and Augustyn on the distant hills, and said, “Why don’t they engage, Arty?”

  “It’s as I suspected, but don’t worry, Oly.”

  “Are you alright?” he asked as the prince swayed slightly in his saddle.

  “Just weary.”

  “Old man.”

  Arthur grinned and said, “Impetuous child,” but his face seemed drawn. “Ride to the right flank with these Yeomen,” he said, pointing to a contingent that stood guard a small way to the north, “See that it holds.”

  Oliver nodded, took the indicated contingent of Yeomen and rode to the north.

  Chapter 63: Agmar: Thedran Foothills

  Agmar watched the prince’s men, who had descended from the distant hill, to the south, then crossed the plain to a position east of the rebels. The prince’s forces unleashed a storm of arrows, as thick as hail, but the rebels held firm, then surged forward, their own archers directing their fire to the rear of the prince’s host. The prince’s rear, nearly half his host, broke, scattering east toward the south end of the copse, or running south, back up to the valley through which they had earlier descended. But the core of Arthur’s host pivoted on the field in good order to face the rebel host, keeping a narrow front. Their right wing was short by a long distance as their left wing lined up with the rebels’ right, and Agmar wondered whether the prince could see that from the field. You need to spread your front, Arthur, he thought. It was unlike the prince to make such a tactical mistake. Arthur had had many years of combat and command experience, leading from the front against Pecta, Fik and Vrongwenes raiders, and rebellious Ropeuan dukes.

  Agmar saw now that the rebels had spo
tted the tempting chance. Quickly their left wing advanced, wrapping around the prince’s right. A reserve force of the rebels was then unleashed to the prince’s left, but did not engage, instead riding like the wind along the prince’s flank without pausing to engage, only leaving a narrow line which waited, taunting the prince’s host, tempting them to break formation, and raising shields against their arrows. Soon the rebels’ left wing had circled all the way behind. In a few minutes the reserve line from the opposite side had joined up with the others in the prince’s rear. Perhaps a thousand rebels now attacked the prince’s forces from the rear, with a hundred challenging from his left and many more from his right. No disorder seemed to have developed in the prince’s forces though, with the rear about facing and fighting in an ordered front, and archers turning their arrows against the thin line to the prince’s left, whose soldiers would ride within range, challenge, then ride back. The rebels at the prince’s rear, the swiftest of their mounted men, were now lending their numbers to that thin, ineffective line as their own numbers grew. Meanwhile the prince’s right fought hard against the inner edge of the flanking movement. Other than the auxiliaries who had already fled, the prince’s battle order held firm. But the line to the prince’s right swelled into a solid front, and their numbers still increased.

  Agmar said to Wulfstan, “Your Grace, the prince will be overwhelmed.”

  Wulfstan sat on a high, broad, cushioned seat, more like a throne, on a large cart so that he could be seen clearly by his men and command them. His banner bearers rode behind his cart, dressed in the green and brown livery of his household, raising his standard high on two long poles, the brown bear of Gleda on a green field. He winced as one of his large, calloused hands massaged his thick, muscular thigh near the break. He leaned forward, his forelock hanging across his dark, angry eyes, his broad thick shoulders almost twitching with frustration at the restraint his physician had demanded. He nodded at Agmar’s observation, and pointed to the opposite hill where the Crimson Monks waited. “Amery’s forces hold back, see?”