Arcanum

by Simon Morden

  There wasn’t much meat on him, but giants weren’t particularly picky about their choice of game. If they caught him, they’d eat him: quite how they’d spotted him at such a distance was a mystery left for later.

  Time to go. If he turned around now, he’d just about beat them to the lower slopes, and at this time of year they wouldn’t venture much below the snow line. While one man out on his own was prey, a crowd of them with spears was a predator. Giants were just smart enough to care about the difference.

  Büber jerked out his walking-stick and took a last look around, just in case he’d missed something obvious. He was about to turn and follow his footsteps back when he saw a pack slowly sway into view. Then the ass it was strapped to. Then the man driving the ass on with a switch.

  It wasn’t him who’d attracted the giants’ attention. It was this idiot.

  And it wasn’t just one idiot, because as Büber ran forward, his boots sinking deep into the snow, he could see a whole line of men and beasts snaking up the pass from the south.

  He stopped again and stared. Maybe twenty donkeys, each with a pack tied high on their backs and roped together, and a dozen men at intervals down the chain, encouraging their charges to climb.

  “Hey!” Büber waved his arms. “Hey, you!”

  The lead driver raised his clean-shaven chin from his chest and looked uncertainly at Büber. He kept on coming though, switching the ass’s hindquarters as it struggled upwards with its load.

  “Giants,” called the huntmaster. “Over there.” He pointed.

  The driver looked behind him and shouted something in a language that sounded like Italian. Büber didn’t understand a word of it.

  “Ah, fuck it.” Büber squinted at the flanks of the mountain, but the snowy slopes were clear. “Fuck!”

  He knew he should have kept the giants in sight. They could be anywhere now: together, split up, ahead, or coming over the ridge behind them.

  “Giants,” he said again. He mimed their size by lifting his hands as far over his head as he could and stamped the ground. What was the word? Stupid foreigners: why couldn’t they speak German like civilised people? “Gigante. Si. Gigante.”

  Now he had their attention. The driver relayed the message down the line, and he definitely said “gigante” at some point. One man in particular took notice and slogged his way up the rise to Büber.

  His clothes showed he was rich in a way Büber would never be. But then again, Büber wasn’t about to see a substantial portion of his wealth eaten by giants, which was exactly what was going to happen if this man wasn’t careful.

  “Greetings in the name of the Doge, signore.”

  “Yes, that. Prince Gerhard, Carinthia, welcome. Giants, you Venetian cretin. Three of them, over to the east, though gods only know where they are now.” Büber looked very carefully at all the places a creature twice his height might hide. “You have to get off this mountain now. And what are you doing here anyway? Didn’t anyone tell you the pass is closed?”

  “Pah. You Carinthians. You do not own this pass.”

  “Yes. Yes, we do. We open it and we close it and between times we make sure that people like you don’t get butchered up here.” Büber’s head snapped around at something he thought he might have heard. “Save what you can and get ready to run.”

  “There are no giants,” said the Venetian, warm beneath his furs. “Are you sure it was not dwarves you saw?”

  “Oh, I’m sure.” The donkeys plodded on. The first one was past him, the second one going by now. Their breath made little clouds and frost sparkled on their brown coats. They were making too much noise, and even he could smell them. Their scent must be driving the giants into a frenzy.

  “You are a prince’s man?”

  “Yes.” Büber’s hand dropped to the pommel of his sword. It would be mostly useless against a foe whose reach was far longer – he carried a Norse-style blade, short and broad – but he felt better knowing it was there. “I’m the master of the hunt, and you need to listen to me.”

  “You wish for me to turn back because you think I should have waited for your permission.”

  “You should have waited until it was safe.” Where were they? Giants usually just waded in, fists swinging. One blow was enough. What were they waiting for?

  “Your ploy will not work. Besides, we have a little insurance of our own.” The Venetian nodded at a man walking by. Dressed head to toe in a long red hooded cloak, it was only the tip of a nose and a sly, confident smile that Büber saw. “You Carinthians do not have a monopoly on magic.”

  “No. We just have the best.” Büber had had enough. He’d seen the giants, he’d warned the merchant. He couldn’t force them to turn back, or to abandon their cargo, or to sacrifice half the donkeys in order to try and save the other half, and themselves into the bargain. And besides, magicians gave him the fear in a way even a fully grown dragon didn’t. “I’ve got my duty to do, and it’s not to you. Good luck.”

  With all that donkey flesh available, the giants weren’t going to bother with him, just as long as he got clear. When it was all over, when he’d got back down into the valley and made his report, he could come back with a squad of spear-armed soldiers and a hexmaster or two. And there might be something of the merchant’s cargo worth salvaging.

  The line of the train occupied the lowest point of the valley, so Büber turned perpendicular to it, and scaled the lower slopes of the mountain on the west side. He could keep them in sight, and put them between himself and the giants. Who were still nowhere to be seen. It concerned him that something that big could hide in plain sight. He had a commanding view over the whole of the upper pass.

  He hadn’t imagined them. He’d swear any number of oaths, to the gods, on his honour, on his parents’ graves, that he’d seen those three long shadows shambling down towards him.

  The lead driver tapped his jenny onwards towards the next cairn, and suddenly, from over the brow of the hill, came an immense rushing. When they wanted to, giants could move fast, using their long, tree-trunk-sized legs to devour the ground. Snow, knee-deep for a man, was simply kicked out of the way. They came in an arrowhead, the biggest one in the lead, the smaller two flanking.

  The driver was rooted to the spot for far too long, and started running far too late. He was enveloped in a blizzard-like wall of white, along with his charge. He re-emerged, flying, limbs tangled, propelled like he’d been shot from a catapult. The donkey went straight up: giants did that, throwing their victims high in the air so that they would land, broken, behind them.

  The animals were still tied together. The second one in line was jerked over and dragged before the rope snapped. The giants didn’t stop. They thundered down the now-static formation, smashing their hands down like hammers and stamping on anything fallen.

  And there was nothing Büber could do to help. The men at the back of the line ran more or less in the same direction, back to the south. The merchant, screaming uselessly at the wanton destruction of his property, and equally pointlessly for his guards to stand and fight, was knocked casually aside with enough force to shatter his ribcage, even with the cushioning effect of all his fine furs and padded coats.

  The only one who looked like he was going to take the giants on was the Venetian sorcerer. He’d dodged to one side to avoid the initial onslaught: now he planted his feet and lifted his arms.

  Three donkeys remained, still tied on to at least four or five of their dead or dying stablemates. They panicked and brayed and pulled, they rolled and twisted. The first giant slowed to a walk and reached down with its horny fingers splayed wide, catching a donkey’s head and crushing it by making a fist.

  With the animal still in its grasp, it turned to look at the magician.

  The man had crossed to Büber’s side of the valley, so the hunter had a good view, and despite both the urge to run and a clear path to take now the giants had gone past, he hesitated.

  If this red-cloaked magician was
any good, Büber might not have to run after all.

  The giant dropped the donkey in a wet heap, and bared its long yellow peg teeth. It opened its mouth wide, wider than it had any reason to go, and roared out a geyser of white breath, spit and green mucus. The other giants – a female with pendulous dugs, and a juvenile already her height – stopped tearing chunks of bloody flesh and slippery entrails to view the scene.

  The man in red rocked back on his heels and steadied himself. Büber had never seen such confidence, and he waited for the fireworks to begin.

  The big giant was ugly even for its kind. Its face was more battered and scarred than even Büber’s, and its hair was matted and growing in tufts. Old and angry, it glared down with its coal-black eyes at this weakling stick-thin figure that had the temerity to defy it.

  The magician raised his hands, and the ink of his tattoos started to flow.

  Nothing happened, and the giant charged.

  It took a mere four steps to close the space between them and a perfectly timed duck-and-lift to scoop the man into the air. The cloak billowed as he flew: arms and legs flapped hopelessly against his useless scarlet wings.

  He landed at the giant’s feet, spread-eagled and on his back. He looked more surprised than hurt, but only because his surprise was very great.

  The giant raised its foot, and a vast pale slab with curling toenails the colour of bone broke free of the snow. It brought it down hard on the magician, and then leant forward to apply extra pressure.

  Büber heard the crack, and suddenly realised he was alone, up a mountain, miles from home, with only three pissed-off giants for company.

  “Shit.”

  Now he started running.

  There was a moment when he thought one of them would chase him: actually several moments, because every time he glanced fearfully over his shoulder, the baby of the group was looking at him even while it gathered up another handful of donkey – or man, he couldn’t tell and didn’t want to tell – and crammed it into its already red-stained maw.

  When he thought he was far enough away, he slithered down the icy slope to the line of cairns, and kept his pace up until his lungs burnt, his vision swam and he could taste blood.

  He leant his back against a cairn, hauling thin alpine air, and coughing like he had the plague. The sweat started to freeze on him, chilling his body and making him shiver. He knew what that would mean: he had to keep moving, but he still gave himself a few more moments to rest his hands on his knees as he tried to get his breathing under control.

  There was a sound, stone on stone. Not right behind him, but too close all the same. He crouched down in the lee of the cairn and slowly, slowly, drew his sword. He stayed as still as he could, trying to trust his abilities to keep him hidden, but after a while, the waiting became unbearable.

  He leant out ever so slightly. The giants’ child was at the next cairn along, dragging some bloody morsel behind it, but searching for him. Büber ducked back, and prayed to the gods he hadn’t been seen.

  When he looked again, the giant had gone, and just a circle of red-spattered snow marked where it had been standing.

  Büber hurried away, down the slope, to where spring was waiting for him.

  2

  Frederik Thaler was already sitting down in a quiet corner, his stoneware mug placed squarely on the table in front of him, when Büber arrived outside.

  He only had to turn his head to see the light flicker at the windows, the image of boots and legs and torso warping as they moved behind the imperfect glass, a man in green and brown tripping down the steps from street level to the beer cellar’s door. Then Thaler lost sight of him behind the heavy wood. The moment stretched out, beyond what could be expected of someone in need of a drink to turn the latch and push.

  Thaler was almost resigned to getting up and seeing if the door was stuck when it finally opened. He sagged back down and waved.

  “Peter, over here.”

  Not that there were many other drinkers in the cellar at that time in the morning; just a couple of old sots in opposite corners. Thaler knew them both, and their stories. They were harmless enough, and even at their drunken worst neither was fool enough to mess with one of the prince’s men.

  Büber didn’t seem to agree with Thaler’s judgement. He ducked his head under the black oak beams and looked hard at the cellar’s patrons. It was a far from casual glance: he had a hunter’s eye and he was looking for predators.

  Thaler frowned and unnecessarily moved his drink a fraction to the left. Then back to the right.

  With a grunt that might have signalled either grim satisfaction or unsettling compromise, Büber turned to Thaler’s table and dragged a chair aside. As he sat down, he unhooked his satchel and placed it in front of him.

  “Peter?”

  “We’re supposed to be alone.” Büber twisted around and scowled at the host, idly wiping out washed mugs with a piece of stained linen. “Hey. Liquor. Now.”

  Thaler leant forward slightly and raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to get me barred?”

  “We have bigger problems than you finding a new drinking hole that meets your exacting standards.” Büber scraped his stubbled chin with a hand that still had three fingers. He nodded at his satchel, and took another careful look around.

  The host brought a platter with two short pewter cups, and a stone bottle of spirit. He was bandy-legged and rolled as he walked. But give credit to the man, he never spilt a drop, even when he was juggling half a dozen beers.

  He put the cups down and unerringly filled them from the unstoppered bottle.

  “Thank you, Mr Lodel,” said Thaler, and he smiled weakly. His efforts were returned with blank-faced disdain. When the host had gone again, he thumbed the lid of his mug open and took a pull of the short beer inside.

  “Look in the damn bag,” said Büber. “But carefully.”

  Thaler put his mug back down in the exact position it had previously occupied, and put his hand out for the leather strap.

  Büber’s other hand – the one with only two fingers and a thumb, which made it look like a claw – shot out and gripped his forearm hard enough to bruise. “Don’t let anyone else see.”

  “Peter, you’re hurting me.” Thaler tried to shake free, but he was far too weak and the hunter far too strong.

  Then, like he was breaking a hex, Büber shook his head violently and let go. “Sorry. I’m … just look in the bag.”

  Thaler started to undo the buckles, and noticed that whatever was inside was too long to be contained properly. Its cloth-wrapped end was poking out. He frowned again and continued pulling the straps through the metal rings.

  The top of the bag flopped open, and he held the sides apart. The only thing inside was the wrapped object, just a little longer than his forearm.

  “It’s not going to bite me, is it?”

  “Oh, it’s dead. Very dead.” Büber had taken hold of his liquor but hadn’t raised it to his lips yet. He looked down at the trembling surface. “You’ll be wanting something a sight stronger than beer once you’ve seen it.”

  Keeping most of it in the bag, Thaler teased aside the cloth with his fingers. They came into contact with fine, white ivory, still with a dusting of leaf-mould fragments. He stopped. He put both his hands down by his side to push his plump body more upright. His palms were moist. No, more than that: actually wet, and they weren’t going to dry out in the smoky heat of last night’s fire.

  Unlike his mouth, which was suddenly parched, such that he had to force his tongue away from his palate.

  He wiped his hands on his breeches and went back into the bag for a second go. He grasped one corner of the cloth and tugged it so that it unwound just a little.

  The ivory was straight, conical, with a slight spiral at the point. The groove wound around the shaft, deepening with each turn.

  He stared at the unicorn’s horn for a while, then carefully rewrapped it and pushed the bag closed.

  As soon
as his hands were free, he snatched at his liquor and tossed it back in one throat-searing gulp. Nothing was quite in focus. Then everything slipped back into place, and he was able to speak again.

  “What have you done?” he said.

  Büber took a measured sip, the cup looking tiny in his fist. “Done? I’ve done nothing.”

  “If they catch you with that.” Thaler looked down, and realised the bag was closer to him than it was to Büber. He pushed it pointedly back across the table. “If they catch you with that, they’ll press you for sure.”

  The hunter checked he had enough digits for what he needed, and held up the two fingers of his two-fingered hand. “This isn’t the first I’ve found.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Does this look like the face of a man who’s joking?”

  “Your face never looks like you’re joking. Even though I know otherwise.” Thaler remembered his beer and flipped the lid again. “Peter. It’s a…”

  Büber held a finger to his lips, then beckoned Thaler closer.

  “With the first one, I did what anyone in my position would do. Mark where it was, tell the Order and lead them to it. I didn’t even touch it.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They turned out mob-handed and spirited it away. I got …” – he shrugged – “…not exactly a sack of cash, but enough for some decent whoring down Gentlemen’s Alley.”

  Thaler chewed the tip of his tongue between his teeth, then said: “Is it real?”

  “What? The money, the whores or the … that?”

  Thaler scowled and nodded at the satchel. “That. Is that one real? I didn’t feel anything when I touched it. Oh gods, I touched it.” He hurriedly checked his hands for any spreading stain or erupting pustules.

  They were already marked with ink, dark lines in the creases and folds of his flesh that only served to make the paleness that surrounded them stand out more. His nails were neat and whole, fingertips soft and sensitive. No creeping black rot or green decay. For now.