And he gathered himself. And Corin that was Blood-spate that was Seltien, fashioned from the horn of the river god, Selta, that was fire and water, mountain and river, volcanic depth and snow-capped height, raised Blood-spate that was Corin and struck them down as one into the flagstone at their feet. He called to his waters, felt them running through the earth like blood through his veins. And his veins pulsed with fire and steam, and his blood cooled the heat of the earth, condensed the steam that rode the lava stream, drew drops into trickles and trickles into runnels and runnels into snaking silvery life, and the streams grew and joined with others, and ever larger they grew, and again and again they joined, until the very ocean streams might wonder at the volume of their brother.
And the Lord of Law saw Blood-spate turn in Corin’s grasp and strike down into the flagstones. An aperture opened, first only a crack, then it spread, shooting across the room to where the manglers now cowered. The crack became a chasm beneath their feet and they fell screaming into it. Still the Lord of Law advanced, his features horribly lit by the shape of the fiery runes, and twisted by their changes and his own growing madness. For he heard the music of the language of the gods, and he knew its power, but its harmonies tore at his mind. He had reached, hoping to understand, but he had only seen a shattered image of himself, all his life’s ambitions, all the petty fragments being washed away by the stream of time before they could coalesce into recognizable forms. And with those forms went the last of his sanity, washed away like topsoil in a flood. Only an arrogant lust for power remained, rooted in his flesh, striving against the destructive power of two gods. Behind Corin the thieves screamed as the walls shook and the roof fell. The Lord of Law reached out for the sword. And from the chasm a roaring sounded. On Corin’s forearm droplets spattered, then a spray wet his face.
Blood-spate sang in the tones of that language known fully only to gods. And in Corin’s voice, which was changed yet somehow recognizable, like the young thief’s voice but roaring with the power of the river in spate, the Lord of Law heard, “I am here.”
And water roared out of the chasm, a torrent like a thousand geysers shooting up, tearing the roof apart, tearing through the storeys of the House of Delight, shattering all in its path, and at the centre of this Corin stood, standing on an ever shrinking, precariously balanced column of stone. On another such column the Lord of Law stood. He seemed oblivious to the ruin of all that he had ruled, intent only on possessing the sword. Then the column on which he stood shuddered and collapsed and he fell shrieking into the abyss. The rumbling of the ground faded and the waters stopped their upward flow, and began to fall in a gentle rain. The runes still flickered across the blade of Blood-spate, but the sound of its voice softened slowly into silence. Corin was standing on a tall column in the middle of a deep abyss.
Roberto stood at the edge of the crevice and he reached for the sheathes about his body. This time he didn’t fake fumbling. His hands dextrously found his remaining throwing knives. But before he could throw them Corin had thrown the poisoned knife he had taken from the vassal. Instead of throwing his own knives Roberto used them to swat away the dagger as a shadow rose behind him. Corin’s gaze was drawn to the dark shape there and the contortionist saw and spun around, his arms rising to throw the knives. But Agmar’s great sword thrust through his heart, and the knives flew off ineffectually. Agmar swiftly drew the sword out and with a horizontal cut, severed Rob’s head. The head rolled towards the chasm, stopping at the edge, staring at Corin as if in surprise, no hint of the amusement that had ruled the grey eyes in life.
Corin said, “I thought you were dead.”
Agmar grinned and said, “I’m not entirely talentless as an actor myself. I’m wearing padded leather armour, so the knives didn’t penetrate that far. When I felt them I realised this rubbery character,” He kicked Rubbery Roberto’s head into the chasm. “was a backstabbing bastard, so I played dead. To find out exactly what he was up to. I’m sorry I couldn’t save your real friend, the whore. May the gods make her tormentors her slaves in the land of endless dreams. I would’ve struck earlier, saved you the trouble of killing the other bastard, but these knives in my back make for a hell of an itch. When I tried to get up I just fell back down again.”
At that the bard fell to his knees. “I think I’m going to sleep for a bit.” He lay down, face first by the chasm.
A mob of North Bank residents were crossing the square now, gaping at the huge hole in the ground. The brothel was almost completely gone. The tavern below ground was flooded. At least the theatre was still intact. The actors would appreciate that.
“Ok, sword. How are you going to get me out of this mess? Nothing to say?”
“Some tasks are too trivial for the great, little thief,” he heard in his head.
Corin chuckled and sheathed Blood-spate. “King of thieves. Remember? Just as well I brought this.” He reached into his satchel and took out a grappling hook and cord.
Bloodspate: A Song of Agmar Tale Page 17