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

by Frances Mason

  “You don’t want to kill me, Alex, do you?” Charlotte’s voice was pleading now.

  He shook his head and took his hand from the pommel. He would escape through the window, and across the rooftops.

  Then he sensed the presence behind him, something in the way that sound echoed in the room, and the look in the glinting eyes from the door. He knew his way was barred. He sensed the thief dropping to the floor behind him. His hand went to the sword again. He shoved Charlotte away, and as he threw the dagger from one hand to the other the sword sprang out of its sheath. He could hear nothing now but the scream in his head, of his own rage mixed with the sword’s fury.

  The thief sensed his danger and barely avoided the sword, rolling into the room, beyond its reach. Alex’s path to freedom was open now. He held out dagger and sword, pointing them at anyone who dared to move toward him, and continued backing toward the window. The heavy footsteps arrived at the door, and Randy entered with several other manglers. Behind them came the blacksmith, Brandon. They all carried lamps and the room was now brightly lit.

  “If you run, we’ll find you again,” Randy said.

  “You’re too stupid to find your own dick when you’re holding it,” Alex retorted but he felt little of the confidence that his bravado projected. He knew that sooner or later they would corner him again if he fled. For all his skill and caution, he could not match the resources of the guild. Despite this, he felt no fear as the manglers and thieves drew a tight semicircle of sharp steel about him.

  “I should take that pigsticker off you and shove it up your arse, Alex Quickflicker.”

  “Watch out for the…”

  Randy strode confidently, arrogantly forward, and only avoided death when the blacksmith hauled him back by the shoulder.

  “Beware the blade,” the blacksmith said.

  “What, with him? That fucking little turd couldn’t beat cream.” He tried to attack Alex again but, as if without effort, the blacksmith held him firm. He looked back, amazed, not by the hand, but at the blacksmith’s strength.

  “He doesn’t fight with his own skill alone. He fights with the power of the gods.”

  “What?”

  The one who had come through the window whispered the truth of it to his associates. The others, more cautious than Randy, paid attention and kept out of range of the sword.

  “Who wants to die first?” Alex hissed, and with the sword in his hand he did not fear death. He felt strength coursing through him, and a bloodlust that clouded reason. He felt he could take on all of them and win. It was only a matter of who would die first. “Which one of you bastards murdered Rose?”

  Randy looked genuinely surprised. “What? Why would we kill Rose? Maybe slap her about a bit for fun, and fuck her arse sore to stop her running away. If I ever get my hands on her again…”

  “You’ll do nothing.” Randy turned surprised eyes to Charlotte, as though she had slapped him. “She lies in the arms of the goddess now.” Her features showed a hint of regret, as she said, “Would that the goddess was so kind to us all.” Then her eyes narrowed as she looked piercingly into Randy’s eyes. “And the children of Love have the protection of War. You will not bring the wrath of War’s Monks against Ilsa’s Inn.” Then more softly, “And you won’t bring our goddess’s displeasure against the House of Delight.” The goddess of love was, after all, the patroness of whores.

  “But…”

  “No,” she said, and her voice carried a threat which Randy, despite his thuggish arrogance, shrank from. Charlotte was the favourite whore of the master of the guild. She could whisper sweet nothings in his ear that would end a man’s life. “This matter is done with.” She turned to the blacksmith, who dropped a heavy purse in her waiting hand. She weighed it by feel then, satisfied, she left the room, the thieves and manglers following. Randy scowled at Alex from the door, then tromped down the corridor in his heavy booted way.

  Only Alex and the blacksmith remained. The blacksmith put down his lamp on the armoire with its looking glass, where Rose had used to make herself up. Knowing that Rose was safe in the convent of Love, the fire went out of Alex’s heart and eyes, but still he held both sword and dagger toward the blacksmith, ready to strike or bolt out of the window, depending on which promised to most extend his life.

  “Let’s talk,” Brandon said.

  Alex was surprised. “You’re going to talk me to death?”

  “No.”

  “The suspense is killing me. Is that your plan?”

  Alex looked back over his shoulder. The way to the window was clear. If he sheathed his weapons he could be out and up onto the roof quicker than Brandon could react, and from there make good his escape, by roof or shadowy street.

  “You could run,” the blacksmith said, guessing his intention, “or you could listen. I wouldn’t kill you now, even if I could…” He gestured to the sword.

  “Uh, but…your…friend…”

  “The will of Fulkthra be done. Do you know what you have? The sword, I mean.”

  Alex thought of the words of the enchanted Labyrinth of Leaves, of the book he had stolen…borrowed, in the pack on his back with his tools, and of the ancient twins who served duke Relyan. He knew something. He would know more soon enough. He nodded.

  “Ah, well…I doubt it,” Brandon said, “but know this: it is sacred to the followers of Fulkthra.”

  “You mean blacksmiths?”

  “That’s right. You’ve seen some of our mysteries? They are usually the preserve of initiates.”

  “You’re the arkon of the cult?”

  “So you did see. Usually the penalty for an outsider seeing would be…but the circumstances are different. You’re not an initiate, but Seltien has chosen you…so it seems. Yes, I am arkon, high priest of Fulkthra, as the master of the guild always is. The master smiths are our priesthood, and all blacksmiths follow Him and endeavour to reveal but a fraction of His skill in their flawed, mortal work. His skill is divine, and so our attempts are always flawed by His standard. But sometimes He is kind to His followers. Sometimes He favours us, and we channel His skill through the sweat of our brows, our forges, our arms, our hammers, our anvils, and then our work reveals some of His skill in this world. How flawed is the work of our hands! How faintly are his perfections perceived! How we strive to please Him and how we fail! How we must fail in all but failing!”

  “Here endeth the lesson,” Alex said in a bored tone. Whatever the cult, priests were all one in their pompous blathering.

  A frown of disapproval passed across the blacksmith’s face. Then he sighed. “I forget, you are ignorant of our Lord’s blessings. You carry His work, yet know not His worth.”

  “His work?” Alex tried not to yawn.

  “Oh, but you know,” Brandon mocked him, then sternly continued, “Yes. Seltien is his creation. Forged in the fires of the beginning of the world, when gods fought with gods.”

  Alex nodded. “Of course.” He thought, the blacksmiths certainly seemed to venerate the sword as a holy relic so, no doubt, they have some nonsense myth about it, or some sword like it. But even as he had the thought he heard a voice, not quite articulate, but its tone irritated, disapproving. He thought of the murderous power of the sword, and its voice, this voice, crying for blood. It did not cry for blood now. Its terrifying lust was quiescent, as it seemed to listen with Alex’s ears. The idea was disturbing and Alex sheathed the sword. It protested but seemed drawn, against its will, into the sheath. Despite his scepticism he had to admit it was a strange sword. Perhaps the blacksmiths were right.

  “What about the sheath, there’s something…between them…”

  “The two are one. They were forged together, of the same substance. You can’t see that in the sheath because the outer material is of human manufacture. For long ages the sword was lost, but the sheath was kept safe in our shrine. Then you came to my shop.”

  “Then you paid the guild manglers to find me and murder me.”

 
; “What do you mean?”

  “Well, bash me, anyway.”

  “That wasn’t part of our agreement. I only wanted the sword. Now you understand why. That Randy doesn’t seem to like you much. I suppose he saw it as an opportunity to do what he wanted to do anyway.”

  “That’s probably true,” Alex had to agree. “So you’d like me to just hand back the sword and its sheath.”

  “I don’t wish to take Seltien from you. If you can wield it that’s the god’s will and it must be respected. I only ask that when you’ve done with it you return it to its rightful place. When fate has led you where the gods will, when the sword no longer speaks to you…”

  Alex started. He knew about that? “It speaks to you too?” he asked.

  “No,” he said regretfully, “and now I’m even more certain you’ve been chosen. I heard no voice, though the Tenets of Fulkthra’s Forge tell us that it has one. What does it speak of?”

  “Of blood.”

  Brandon frowned. “This is not what the tenets say. Perhaps…but no, you must discover for yourself. It’s not my path. But remember, when Seltien no longer speaks to you, I ask that you return it to its rightful place, so that the true rites may be practiced and the correct sacrifices made.”

  Alex held the blacksmith with a steady gaze, though he shuddered inwardly. Sacrifices. He wondered what they would sacrifice, or whom. Then he remembered the statue Brandon had cut to pieces down in the shrine. Perhaps he only meant sacrifices of that kind, chopping statues into bits. It seemed a harmless enough bit of silliness. Alex nodded acquiescence, though he was not sure he would ever return the sword to the blacksmiths.

  “Good,” Brandon said. He went to the door, then turned.

  “Though it is a great honour, I don’t envy you. None are so blessed without much suffering. Where great deeds must be done, the losses also must be great. But that is the way of the gods.”

  “I don’t have anything to lose.”

  “We all have something to lose.”

  Alex shook his head. “Maybe in your world. I’m the son of a beggar and some whore I never knew, nowhere to go in the world but up.” Or maybe down to the bottom of the lake he thought.

  “Perhaps, then, that’s why you were chosen.”

  Chapter 54: Oliver: Thedra

  Oliver reclined on his bed, alone.

  “You pray for the goddess’s blessings,” a voice whispered in his ear.

  He started, sitting upright, and looked around the room. There was no one there but himself. He heard footsteps on the stairs. Light. A woman. The young nun of Finusthi appeared at the door. She moved with grace across the room to his bed, wearing the usual habit of those nuns of the goddess of love, whores and caprice, a gossamer light dress, through which every detail of her shapely slim body could be seen, but which pretended to hide for modesty’s sake her perfection. Her eyes were brown, though he recalled them having been green. But he was not sure of the memory. Now that he thought of it, he remembered them being brown. He guessed it must be another of her enchantments.

  “Was that you?”

  “Pardon, my lord?”

  “The voice…”

  “This voice?” she asked.

  “Never mind.” He turned away from her, unwilling to be subject to her enchantments. He had seen too many beautiful women naked to be impressed, and yet, she had undeniable power. If he looked at her body, it seemed the most perfect possible female form, if he looked at her face he could not imagine greater beauty.

  “How may I serve you, my lord?”

  “Don’t try that on me.”

  “What, my lord?”

  “Service. You don’t serve me. What do you want?” But her voice, like her body, was a disturbing combination of lascivious and innocent. It echoed in his ears and through his brain, and he felt a rush of pleasure. Once again, as he had the other day, without any physical contact, he felt he was going to come.

  “Stop it!” he yelled, turning his face angrily to look at her.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” she said, and suddenly the feeling was gone. And now that it was gone he longed for it again. “I’m very new to this,” she said, “Perhaps I try too hard to please.”

  Now he looked directly into her eyes. There was no beguiling magic, only the eyes of a young woman, barely more than a girl, confident in her allure but uncertain of herself all the same. There was pain there, only just beneath the surface. A short lifetime of pain, and his heart went out to her. Who had hurt her, or how many? He wanted to know, and he reached out to take her hand. He moved to the edge of the bed and she sat down beside him.

  “Do you want me, my lord?” she asked, and there was no teasing in her eyes. She was offering herself, sincerely.

  He felt disgusted with himself, and tried to force down the feeling. She watched him as he struggled with his feelings.

  “There’s nothing wrong in taking what’s given freely,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.

  “Nothing’s given freely in this world.”

  “Then let us make another.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do. I also have had to pay.”

  “So, a whore and a lecher. Could we ever truly love?”

  She smiled. “Perhaps I already do.”

  “Oh, come on!” he said, but she held his gaze. “Ah,” he realised, “you don’t mean me.”

  “Not yet, perhaps, but if a thief can love a whore and a whore can love a thief, then what love could be impossible.”

  “I thought you nuns didn’t like to be called whores.”

  “I wasn’t always a nun,” she said, and her tone was slightly mocking once again. There was nothing of seduction in it though.

  “Ah, a whore become a nun.”

  “Is it so extraordinary? I mean, if I became a puritan nun…”

  They both laughed at the thought.

  “So, who is this thief?”

  “You’re jealous?” She looked like nothing so much as a child pleading for a toy.

  “Not yet, but I like to plan ahead.”

  She gave him a wry look, then she sighed. “He’s my past.”

  “You don’t love him anymore? Or is he…?”

  “Dead? Oh, no. Alex is a survivor. At least, I don’t think he’s dead. I hope not. He will go and provoke the guild. I wish he would be more careful.”

  “The guild?”

  “You know.”

  “You mean a guild for thieves?”

  “They’re just as unpleasant as any guild when an artisan challenges their authority.”

  “I don’t know much about the underworld. I suppose you know quite a bit, having been a…well…”

  “A whore, yes. I could tell you things…but I’d rather not.”

  “Dangerous to tell?”

  “For a nun of Finusthi? No, not unless an assassin wants to commit suicide.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You really don’t know?” She was genuinely surprised. “But your family…you have such close ties with the Monks of War.”

  “You’re thinking of my brother. I’m not interested in politics.”

  “Which is why you spend so much time with prince Arthur.”

  “I think I begin to see the price of service.”

  “I am, after all, just a whore.”

  “Not just a whore. A pretty special whore, and believe me I’ve known more than a few. I don’t know how it is I never fucked you before though.”

  “Just unlucky, I guess.”

  “Must be. Anyhow, you’re barking up the wrong tree. My brother is the one committed to the Crimson Monks, and Arthur is just a…a drinking buddy.”

  “Drinking buddies know all sorts of things.”

  “I wouldn’t…”

  “No. I don’t expect you would ever betray a friend, especially not the prince, and I would never ask that of you.”

  “What, then?”

  “Perhaps I see an advantageous alliance.”

>   “What, between the prince and Amery? Everyone knows the prince goes out of his way to not align himself with either Vrong Veld or Relyan. I’m not about to try to interfere with that, even if I could.”

  “No, but the future is uncertain. If ever the prince should doubt the loyalty of Augustyn…”

  “Then you’d hope Arthur would look to the monks of War for aid.”

  She smiled and nodded slightly.

  “I think Arthur always doubts Augustyn…and Amery.”

  “But he would never doubt you.”

  “No, and I don’t plan to ever give him cause.”

  “I rely on it.”

  “How old are you?”

  She was surprised by the sudden question. “How old do you want me to be?”

  He gave her an impatient look, and she said, “sorry, old habits die hard. I’m eighteen, unless you want sixteen…or younger.”

  “Sweet sixteen?”

  “Would you prefer bitter fifteen?”

  “No, no. Just, you seem to understand a little too much politics for…”

  “A child? You grow up quickly with hundreds of smelly men fucking you every year in every hole they can find.”

  He frowned at the harshness, and she softened, “just putting things in perspective.” She smiled with genuine amusement. “Do I shock you, my lord? I thought you understood the ways of the world,” she said with a hint of mockery. “Anyway, my understanding of politics is pretty recent. I’ve been tutored by more subtle nuns about my sacred duties.”

  He recovered his composure then, and said “You mean, profane duties,” and kissed her. When they parted lips he said, “I hope I’m not too smelly for you.”