Altar of Fallen Gods

By Frances Mason

The port-city of Gleda is under siege. Agmar, bard of Seltica, is one of a band of Selts who have joined the Ropeuan army of the lord Wulfstan as he closes a ring of steel about the city of his forefathers, lost nearly a century before to the grim Fiks when their dragon longships sailed out of the icy north on a wave of brutal conquest. While the horrors of the siege play out, far beneath the city an ancient power stirs, calling across the centuries to one who might take what it holds and see the destiny of the very gods.

Altar of Fallen Gods is the second of the Song of Agmar Tales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frances Mason
• Release date: Jun 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463524343

Frances Mason

Alright, before my usual paragraph I have to say something current and coviddy. Today is Sunday 5 April 2020. Coronavirus is sweeping its scythe across the world. More than a million infections worldwide, and that's only the ones we know about. I'm hiding in my home as much as I can (the more things change the more they stay the same - don't you love cliches?). When I have to go out I'm holding my breath whenever I walk past other people, walking in wide loops around them, looking suspiciously whenever I hear a cough and glaring when someone wanders too close to me. Phrase of the year, 2020: social distancing. Learn it. Do it. Live (or at very least don't kill me - you see how altruistic I am?). When I come home I'm taking my shoes off at the door, and washing my hands more than I ever have in my life. Am I nuts? Probably. But at least I won't get COVID-19. Cough.Now follows my usual paragraph (mostly).Frances Mason is a resident of sunny Australia (consequently is too much i' the sun - ok, we're heading towards winter now, so not so much sun), loves great literature, especially Chaucer, Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Dawn Powell, Iris Murdoch, Anthony Burgess, James Joyce and Joyce Cary, and is currently writing a fictional life of Shakespeare, fictional lives of a number of other Elizabethan playwrights, a collection of Elizabethan picaresque tales, a fictional memoir (based very loosely on a much loved brother, who's recently deceased and therefore can't sue for libel), and too many short stories to list. Recent hobbies include, avoiding quality time with relatives (successfully), solving the Rubik's cube (slowly), juggling (poorly), and being paranoid about COVID-19 (without stocking up on toilet paper - don't you miss the days of the daily newspaper, when you always had a steady supply with which to print the day's headlines on your bum?).

Book preview

ALTAR OF FALLEN GODS

FRANCES MASON

Copyright © 2018 Frances Mason

All rights reserved.

This one’s for Aidan and Deklyn.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

1: The Gods Will Fall

2: Old Friends

3: Battle Plan

4: The Cliff

5: Siege

6: Digging for Adventure

7: When Pigs Burn

8: The Dead Will Walk

9: Altar of Fallen Gods

10: Trapped Rats

11: Out of the Frying Pan

12: With Friends Like These

13: A Storm Approaches

14: Seedcake and Mule

15: The Beat of Oars

16: A Final Drop

17: Harp of the Wind

18: The Rising Tide

About the Author

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Above all others I would like to thank my editor, Marc Fanesson. Even as some characters seem but the rearrangement of the author’s parts into new wholes, the best editor, true as only fiction can be, writes the writer as though arranging his truest self.

1: THE GODS WILL FALL

The rider came out of the east. His stirrup straps were extended because of the great length of his legs. His six and a half feet of height gave the palfrey the appearance of a small pony underneath him. He wasn’t hugely built for his height, though his shoulders were broad and his arms and legs well-muscled. Despite the discomfort of riding too small a horse, he sat with the casual confidence of a warrior, a profession attested by the hard leather armour that showed between the folds of the cloak he wore to protect his fair skin from the burning summer sun and the huge, two handed sword that was slung across his back. Under his hood long auburn hair fell past his shoulders, his face was freckled and his chin darkened by a slight red stubble. But the feature that would have struck most strangers was his eyes. They literally glittered. In irises of deep blue swam silver motes like stars in a clear dark night.

As he rode he guided his horse with his knees, leaving the reins loose across its mane because his hands were preoccupied. In one he held a small harp and with long, elegant fingers he played an incomplete tune, trying his voice against it, shaking his head periodically as he composed, gradually discovering the true shape of the song. For this was Agmar, bard of Seltica, refugee of the land of his forefathers, warrior poet, friend of both great princes and lowly thieves, and lover of ladies of exquisite morals – some would not make love when their husbands were away, only when they were excitingly, and dangerously, near. He had been sent west by the great Ropeuan duke, Augustyn of Relyan, to aid Wulfstan, the lord of the March of Glede, who even now was besieging the castles of the inner march of Glede, which provided the last line of defence before the walls of the city Gleda. As always though Agmar’s motives were many, and inscrutable to most men, and he considered himself bound to no lord or king, even when he did their bidding.

The river stretched east to west, and Agmar rode close to its north bank. To the south of the river, beyond a thin line of trees, the peat bogs stretched all the way to the distant foothills of the Dividing Range, that great mountain range which nearly bisects the great southward extending peninsula of Ropeua. Here, on the north side of the river, was marshy terrain scattered with tangled copses, their dark green canopies more like louring earth bound clouds than the bright green augers of festive nature that were more natural at this time of year. Beyond the copses, clusters of dark, jagged leaved, prickly bushes clotted all the higher ground.

Occasionally Agmar would nudge his horse’s neck with his knees, riding up on the verge of the dirt road and allowing the teams of oxen to pass, hauling barges that had furled their sails because of the failing winds, or slave rowed galleys that negotiated too powerful currents.

Even at midsummer this road was little more than a muddy conduit between the flowing river and the stagnant pools of the marsh; so the ox teams were covered in sticking clayey mud. To make matters worse, from the marsh came swarms of angrily buzzing mosquitoes, hungry for human blood. The kingdom’s wide, stone sealed road, built for the rapid transit of merchants, royal messengers, and armies, extended in a great arc far to the north, completely avoiding the marshes of this region. Agmar had thought to take the scenic route to Gleda, and the view of the mountain range was indeed beautiful, but he was paying for his aesthetic tastes. He absently swatted at a mosquito, interrupting his song for the hundredth time.

In the distance, beyond an ox team, he could see a large muddy grey stone in the middle of the road. He wondered that the teamsters didn’t clear such an obstacle. It would be hard for them to go around. Then he saw it move. As he came nearer the boulder unfolded into the shape of a man. From his limbs hung the grey tatters of an ancient robe but, other than that, he was naked. As he stood he turned and started to dance, and his eyes were blank with madness.

A hermit of the forest, perhaps, Agmar thought. They weren’t uncommon in these parts. As he drew closer to the hermit he could hear him cackling, The dead are walking. He danced in a small circle, waving his arms in the air, and the gods are falling. The times are changing and water is burning and fire is flowing. He looked to the heavens and screamed in mad laughter. Then he stared at Agmar. The hermit’s eyes were dark voids, full of meaning and madness. The smile fled his face and he screamed again, hiding beneath his own arms, the tatters of his robe hardly covering his mud streaked body. The sky is falling and the earth is rising. The dead will rise from their graves. The dead…the dead…the dead are coming in the long night. They hunger for the living. The dead live. The living die to feed dead hunger. He beat his chest, then turned and ran into the forest, cackling and chanting, screaming and wailing.

The bard continued on his way, but he was troubled. He told himself the hermit was mad, but couldn’t shake the feeling that his appearance had been a portent. To chase away the feeling, he sang a festive song.

2: OLD FRIENDS

The camp sprawled around the manmade lake. Across a narrow causeway east of the palisades the soaring mount rose, cliff faces on three sides and a narrow winding path up the third, extending from the end of the causeway. Atop the cliffs squatted the formidable castle known simply as The Cliff, for it seemed an extension of those. The barriers to its conquest seemed insurmountable. But with this castle at their rear no army could safely besiege the city of Gleda.

Agmar rode up to the camp palisades, a long line of spiked wooden posts. At the gate torches burned, and fires lit the camp behind. Tents stood in clusters like mushrooms in the forest after the first autumn rains, some plain, some striped, some coloured to correspond to various western lords’ liveries. It being midsummer, many men hadn’t bothered to pitch their tents at all, sleeping instead under the stars and moon. Sparks floated into the sky and soldiers sang bawdy songs and chewed on half cooked or burnt mutton, taken in raids on Fik settlements or requisitioned from Ropeuan farmers, both equally unwilling contributors to the war effort.

Who goes there? A bored sentry, dressed in chain armour, with a surcoat bearing the coat of arms of Wulfstan, lord of the march of Glede, challenged Agmar, lowering his spear to point at the bard’s chest. Across the other side of the entrance gate another sentry in the same livery leaned lazily on his spear and shield and watched, not bothering to come forward to block Agmar’s path.

Agmar presented the writ of the duke Relyan, Augustyn, sealed with his mark. As Ear of the King, Augustyn was head of his own fiefdom of spies, saboteurs, and assassins, which sometimes even served the king’s interest. His seal design, of a crowned heart, was known throughout the kingdom and carried as much authority as that of the king himself. The sentry showed himself unimpressed by his harrumph but waved Agmar through.

Where is Wulfstan’s pavilion?

The sentry casually pointed his spear towards a large, colourful tent, with banners flying above it, bearing the same coat of arms as the sentry’s surcoat, a brown bear on a field of green. Discipline in the camp didn’t seem to be good, unlike the morale. Men danced around fires and swilled ale and the local wines and imported Kumese rum, singing and groping the camp whores and catamites, who laughed and groped them back.

A loud drunken voice roared, You bloody bastard bard. Your mother was a privy and your father was a shit.

Agmar stopped. The short stocky man addressing him leered from the darkness, the light of campfires showing teeth broken by many fights and a small goatee beneath a bulbous red nose and dark, wide set eyes.

Culain? Who could love such an ugly mug, other than your poor mother who pissed herself when she first saw you?

And shat herself too, Culain grinned, but I hear women always do when they pop one out. Yours must’ve soiled the whole village shitting you out, you big bastard.

Agmar gripped Culain’s arm. It’s been too long, old friend.

Aye, longer than the sky is wide.

Who’s here with you?

The usual legends of the muddy isle: Eoghann, Kendhal, Dyfed, Drem, and Gildas.

You mean the usual misfits, cutthroats, blowhards and drunkards.

Culain grinned. We Selts fight best when pickled.

I have to report to Wulfstan.

Have to? You forget your heritage.

The day I forget my homeland dogs will stop licking their balls. But alliances have to be made if we’re ever to rid Noot Seltica of these Fiks.

Culain spat at the mention of the hated raiders who in the last century had taken over the northern half of the island of Seltica with their dragon prowed longships. Having also added the city of Gleda to their sea empire seventy years ago they were a common enemy of the kingdom of Ropeua and the tribes of Seltica.

Agmar asked, Why else would you be here?

Culain grinned, his wide set eyes glinting darkly. Any chance to butcher Fiks is as good as a feast to a starving man.

A feast can kill a starving man, Agmar said, and I’d rather drive them out for good.

Aye, there’s that. If you’re looking for men for some suicide mission, remember us, though we’d rather kill than die. We’re in the middle of a drinking game now, so best wait for the morrow, maybe late. Kendhal thinks he can outdrink me. I don’t think he’ll wake up too early.

He’s a big man. You’re brave to challenge him.

He eats more than he drinks. I’ll best him yet.

Given how much he eats, I don’t like your chances.

Ye of little faith, Culain said with a winey cough. By the by, your old friend’s here.

Who?

Kalogh.

Kalogh! That slimy, perfumed, gutless little....

Aye, that’d be the one.

The songstress of Seltica. But I insult our good women.

And the bad ones. Bless their fiery hearts, Culain agreed, I’ve known many a rosy cheeked Selt maid braver than Kalogh.

And many a brave warrior who’ll run from their lashing tongues.

Culain gestured with his head. You’ll find him in Wulfstan’s tent.

Learning the lords the fine art of kissing arse, no doubt. He always did have a taste for shit.

He has a talent no man will question.

Just not as bard or soldier.

Agmar dismounted outside Wulfstan’s pavilion and, showing the seal of Augustyn’s writ to the liveried guards, entered.

Inside were several men, but Wulfstan’s presence dominated the room. He was a man of about six feet height, with a thickset build, thick broad shoulders, and large strong hands. His surcoat bore the same symbols as the banner that flew above his pavilion. Two of the other men were vassals of Wulfstan, the bannerets Aedgar and Edmer. Another, small, with long, perfectly combed hair, was a Selt, Kalogh, the bard, though Agmar thought little of his poetic talent and less of his voice.

Wulfstan greeted Agmar in his gruff, blunt way. He knew who had sent him, and despised him the more for it, though he had never had much love for any of the Selts, even when they fought for him. Now, in the hour of his need, he looked hopefully at Agmar.

What forces does Augustyn send? he demanded of the bard.

Though the duke had sent him east to aid Wulfstan, he had not provided him any men with which to do it. He had said rather that, You’ll provide a rallying point for other Selts who might aid Wulfstan. Given that most of the Selts who would fight with a Ropeuan lord were already here, other than the ships that were on their way, he didn’t see that his presence would change things much. All he could really add to the mix was long experience of war against the Fiks, though most of that had been at the level of skirmishing. The usual tactics of the Selts against the Fiks in Noot Seltica had been guerrilla action, attacking silently in the night then melting into the hills that divided Noot Seltica from Suut Seltica.

Agmar said, The duke’s forces are preoccupied in the east at this time. Though he knew it was true, he also knew it would be unwelcome news.

What of the prince? Arthur surely can’t doubt the value to the kingdom of Gleda returning to my hands. And it is his kingdom.

Agmar thought fondly of Arthur. The Prince of Norwalds, crown prince of the realm of Ropeua, was as close to a noble of noble character as ever he had met. But Arthur had many concerns, not least of which was his aged father, whose senility had degenerated into outright madness in recent years. Only a man as noble as Arthur in such a position would restrain from seizing the throne. He respected him for it, though he wondered what the ultimate consequences might be. Sometimes, it was true that less noble acts were necessary for the good of a kingdom.

To Wulfstan Agmar said, It will be his kingdom one day, but I regret that the prince, as ever in these sad days, struggles to balance all the interests in the kingdom as his father struggles against madness.

Aedgar, the foremost of Wulfstan’s vassals, echoed the common wisdom, The body of the king is his kingdom, and when his mind is disturbed the kingdom suffers for it.

Wulfstan looked anguished. Then there is no aid coming? We’re alone?

Agmar said, My countrymen are here in your army. They are a small group, but others cross the strait and will blockade the port.

Aedgar said, That at least is good to hear. Without a naval blockade a siege of the city would probably fail.

Agmar respected Aedgar. He knew him to be level minded, and often the only