Arcanum

by Simon Morden

  The burning building at the corner of the town swept dismal smoke across his view of what was beyond. Only when he pushed through could he see that they had actually won.

  What was left of the Carinthian horse had captured what was left of the Teutons. The spearmen he’d helped to rescue made their number fourteen in all. A drift of corpses lay across the road, twisted and soaked. The trampled soil oozed red. All across the muddy field, there were knots of bodies, dying where they’d fought.

  There was no sign of Allegretti or the boy Felix. And no sign of Gerhard in that fancy enchanted armour of his.

  He remembered that he’d last seen him charging the Teuton line, off to his right, and recalled roughly where the prince’s horse had sunk to its knees. He threw the spears to the ground and went to search for the prince.

  It was easy to find him, once he’d given it some thought. He just had to look for the largest pile of bodies, and in the centre there was the still-bright armour and the Sword of Carinthia.

  They must have stuck him a dozen times through the joints where the plate gave way to broken-linked mail. He’d lost his helmet at some point, and still he’d gone down with his teeth clenched and his eyes open.

  Büber waded into the circle, kicking away hacked limbs and ruined flesh until he could reach out and take the hilt of Gerhard’s sword. The prince was still holding on to it, and the huntsman had to pull hard to free it.

  His skin, his face. So pale, it shone. The flecks of blood only made it whiter. Büber edged closer and pressed his fingertips on first one eyelid, then the other, dragging them down, closing them to the world. He left pink smears behind.

  “My lord,” he said, and started to clamber back, up the bodies of the fallen Teutons and back down the other side. It was slippery.

  He walked across to where the Carinthians had gathered.

  “Master Büber,” said Reinhardt. He looked exhausted. They all did. And Reinhardt had lost almost the entire castle guard.

  “I …” He held out the sword. It was instantly recognisable, and the meaning of his holding it was instantly understood. “Has anyone seen Master Allegretti or Felix?”

  They’d all known that Gerhard had died. Not wanting to believe it before, they had no way of denying the fact now.

  “It was chaos, man. We barely rallied in time.”

  Büber understood. They’d been fighting for their lives, and a moment’s distraction, like looking for a kid who had no right to be on the battlefield, would have been one dangerous distraction too many.

  They’d done what had needed to be done. They’d persevered with the impossible task of hacking away at Teuton after Teuton until their sword-arms grew as tight as bowstrings and as heavy as lead, only realising there were no more enemies left when there was no one left to attack them.

  Eight horsemen. Four infantry. Himself, and …

  He turned and Nikoleta strode out through the smoke. It trailed after her like it loved her. Her hair, rain-slick and pushed back away from her face made her look even younger. Her face was radiant, serene.

  Büber shivered uncontrollably. Her shift was plastered to her body, holding to every lean curve, her breasts, her waist, her hips, her thighs. She looked like a goddess, Freyja herself. Behind her, Obernberg blazed wildly, the flames leaping above the level of the rooftops, and sooty smoke hissed in the wind and the rain.

  “The Teuton shaman,” she asked. “Is he here?”

  None of the Teutons would own up to being him, and none of the Carinthians knew enough to tell him from any other unkempt barbarian. Disarmed, unarmoured, kneeling in the mud, their hands on their heads, they looked wretched. Six of them, five men, one a woman disguised as a man: a deception that had so very nearly seen them overwhelmed and destroyed.

  “I don’t know. Some of them might have got away,” replied Büber. The prisoners, if they hadn’t lost control of their bowels already, did so now at the sight of her and the flowing ink on her arms.

  “Then we will have to find out.” She stopped next to Büber and inspected the prisoners one by one. “No. None of them. I hope he’s not dead already. You, man,” and she pointed, “stand up.”

  Even if he didn’t understand her words, her gestures made it plain. He got to his feet, although his legs could barely support him. He barely breathed, and looked solidly at the ground, as if even catching her eye for a moment might lead to his death.

  Not that they could expect a long life, not after what they’d done. Carinthia was civilised, but there was still the press if Nikoleta didn’t turn him into a candle.

  “Your shaman,” she said slowly, emphasising every syllable.

  The Teuton shook his head, all the time staring at his feet. He said something that could have been “no”, or “not here”, but it was difficult to tell.

  She walked right up to the man and levered his chin up with her fingers. He resisted, briefly, but she was strong and he was terrified. He wouldn’t meet her gaze.

  “Where is he?”

  He shook his head again – short, sharp movements, frantic and servile.

  “Don’t you know?” She tutted. “Then I’ve no use for you.”

  She let go of his chin only to press her palm against his forehead. Contact was only for a moment: it looked like she was gently pushing him away. It shouldn’t have sent him crashing backwards into the churned mud, but it did.

  Smoke was coming from his all-white eyes, and hot blood was bubbling from his ears. He didn’t move again.

  “Who’s next?” she said simply.

  Büber blurted out, “Stop”, before he knew he was doing it.

  Everyone, Carinthian and Teuton looked at him. Especially Nikoleta.

  “Don’t you want to find the enemy sorcerer?” she asked. “To see if he can do anything?”

  “Yes, but not this way.” It sounded feeble. What did it matter if the Teutons died like this, rather than some other, more painful and public way? He couldn’t understand why he was protesting. Certainly not out of mercy.

  Perhaps he’d just had enough for one day. Everything hurt, and he simply wanted it to be over.

  “It’s not for us to decide,” he said. He held up the Sword of Carinthia in both hands by way of explanation.

  It took her a moment, but eventually she realised. “Oh,” she said. “He’s dead, then. Where’s the boy?”

  “We don’t know. He and Allegretti have vanished.”

  “He was supposed to keep Felix safe. It’d be a shame …” Her voice trailed away, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Then she span on her heel and pointed. “There.”

  At the furthest edge of the field, beyond which the boundary wall marked out the road, two figures appeared. They were both leading horses, and it was apparent that one pair was smaller than the other.

  “Is that—”

  “Yes,” she interrupted. “How well do you know Felix?”

  “Not very. Why?”

  “I wonder how he’s going to react to being told he’s now the Prince of Carinthia.” She furrowed her brow. “That is how it works, isn’t it? Father to eldest son?”

  Büber looked down at the sword in his hands. He noticed that it had lost its shine. It was supposed to glow, but the finely ground edges were as lifeless as its previous owner. He wondered if the armour had gone the same way, its enchantment fading as the battle wore on until it had turned from an impregnable fortress into little more than cheap, thin tin.

  “It’s gone. Look.” He held it out to her to inspect, and she took it from him. She didn’t hold it right, finding both its weight and its balance foreign.

  “Is it still a good sword?” she asked.

  “It’s a fine sword.” He took it back, glad of having distracted her from killing the prisoners by turning the contents of their skulls to fine ash.

  “Then we should give it to Felix rather than throw it away.”

  “My lady,” said Reinhardt, “that’s the Sword of Carinthia. It’s the symbol o
f our sovereign, of our land.”

  “Why don’t we ask Gerhard how much that symbol was worth?” She smiled at him, and the captain visibly winced. “We can’t, because he’s dead. Gentlemen, if symbols are all we have, we’re lost.”

  “Symbol or not, it belongs to the prince of the palatinate.” Reinhardt turned away. “Let him decide.”

  So they waited. The rain continued to fall, and from the colour and height of the sky, it would carry on for the rest of the day, mourning for poor, lost Carinthia and her orphaned prince.

  Allegretti’s Italianate armour gave him the air of a Roman cavalry officer. His helmet lacked the plume, but that was all. He’d collected a few more dents that would need hammering out, and his right-hand sword had gained a notch halfway to the hilt that was going to be a bastard to grind out.

  Felix was plastered in mud. His eyes were two white holes in a brown smear. He no longer carried a sword, and his right arm was tied across his body in a makeshift sling. Büber couldn’t tell whether the boy behind the filth was Felix or not. It wasn’t just his appearance that had changed, but his whole demeanour.

  The enthusiasm had gone, literally beaten out of him. What was left was a sombre, serious child who might never find it easy to smile again.

  They stopped, teacher and pupil, at the edge of the ring of Carinthians.

  Felix scraped at his mouth with his left hand. “Huntmaster,” he said, “give me my father’s sword.”

  Büber staggered forward and lifted the hilt of the sword up to him. Felix took it, and held it in front of his face, tracing the patterns in the steel. Then he lowered it by his side. His gaze was unflinching as it tracked across the prisoners. “Why are they still alive when my father is dead?”

  The earl who’d taken the prisoners pursed his lips. “My lord, I…”

  “Kill them. Now.”

  No one moved. Not the five remaining Teutons, not the surrounding Carinthians.

  Allegretti glanced at Felix, then at the earl. “The prince of the palatinate of Carinthia has commanded you. Kill the Teutons.”

  Still no one moved. A horse shook its mane and its tack jingled.

  Nikoleta started towards the prisoners, and Büber couldn’t let that happen to them.

  “No. Wait.” He looked for his own sword, but he’d lost it at some point. He still had his knife, though; a knife he always kept more than sharp enough to dispatch and skin his dinner. He pulled it from his belt, and muttered, “I’ll do it.”

  They were all shorter and lighter than he was, but if they resisted, he had no idea what he’d do. Probably batter them senseless, then do what he was going to do anyway.

  He went behind the first man, held him by his collar and put one foot on the backs of his legs. He pulled back the prisoner’s head and pressed the knife-blade in like he’d done a thousand times before, into the sides of the neck, left and right, where the blood ran thick and fast in fat tubes. His hand came away coated in warmth.

  He let him go, and moved onto the next one. Then the next. Then the next. The last man was crying, but that didn’t stop Büber.

  Quite why he’d left the woman until the end was a mystery. Maybe he thought Felix would change his mind and commute the sentence. Even let her go.

  It became clear that wasn’t going to happen. He reached out for her, but she turned and faced him. She spat full in his face, and deliberately stood in front of him, neck arched, eyes fixed on Büber.

  He wasn’t going to execute her like that. He started to step around her. She grabbed his wrist, and such was the speed and surprise of her move that she had plunged the knife into her own chest before Büber could jerk away and break her grip.

  Her grip lessened. He pulled the knife free. She stared at him while she died, first one lung, then the other, filling with blood. A little welled from her mouth and she folded backwards on herself, her eyelids flickering and closing.

  All done, and in silence.

  Büber stepped back, dazed, his knife slipping from his fingers to stick in the mud of Obernberg.

  “Huntmaster.”

  He looked up at Felix.

  “My lord,” he finally managed.

  “Find the master and mistress horses,” ordered Felix. Some grit had found its way into his startlingly pink mouth, and he spat it out. “Get my father, and we can go home.” With adult irony, he raised his voice. “Carinthia rides.”

  PART 2

  Ragnarok

  21

  When the lights failed, the library was plunged into a profound, almost sacred darkness. Thaler, sitting at his desk, surrounded by books and scrolls, had just dipped his pen and was scratching out some notes when he noticed the letters he was writing were becoming indistinguishable from the parchment.

  He looked up to see the globes hanging from the ceiling fade like dying suns. Then it was night.

  He didn’t move.

  The lights – the perpetual lights that had illuminated his work for the whole of his life – had just gone out. He felt a cold rush in his stomach and his pulse surge. He was still holding his pen, in a grip tighter than death. He forced his fingers apart and let it clatter.

  It was perfectly black. He could see nothing.

  But he could still hear. Frozen in his seat, Thaler heard the first desk overturn, the first chair being knocked aside, the first bookcase tip in a drawn-out tumble of books and the final punctuating crash of shelves. Fleet footsteps came towards him, then away, and with an unmistakable creak and cry, whoever it was pitched over the railings and into the void below. A thin, reedy scream was abruptly blotted out.

  The lights have gone out, he thought. He couldn’t even see himself blink. What do I do?

  He could try and get out. There was more than one door, and if he kept a lid on his fear like he did a lid on his mug of beer, he could find his way to any of them by fingertip. They all could. Everyone who worked there knew the library as if it were a lover’s skin. If they didn’t panic, but it was already too late for that.

  He stayed still. Someone made it to the front doors of the pantheon and eventually hauled them open. Weak light from the pig-awful day outside staggered in as far as the entrance hall, but no further. It wasn’t enough to navigate by, but at least he could make out the space of the reading room and where the balcony ended.

  He sat in his chair for what seemed like forever. When he finally shifted, it was mostly quiet; the occasional thump of a book, the creak of furniture. Someone was still moving down there, slowly picking their way towards the door.

  He should really leave, collect outside with the others and … what? Stand in stunned silence, staring up at the stone walls of the library, and try and work out what to do next?

  What to do next was straightforward enough: get a hexmaster with the appropriate spell, and relight the globes. It wasn’t as if many had travelled north with Gerhard to see off the Teutons – only one had been deemed necessary, such was their power. He was sure that someone, one of the other under-librarians perhaps, had already dispatched a message to Goat Mountain to come quickly.

  He frowned in the darkness, and carefully pushed his chair back. He felt the corners of his desk, and ran his fingers along one side, then another, until he’d shuffled himself to the other side of it and was facing the void.

  What he was seeing was confusing him. Grey shapes and patterns imprinted themselves against the gloom, a visible glamour that would lead to him having a really stupid but entirely avoidable accident. So he closed his eyes and counted out the footsteps to the railings.

  When he reached out, they were there, smooth and solid. But what if, he wondered, some of the hand-rails had been broken in the chaos he had so studiously avoided being part of.

  Best go carefully then. Rather than turning left to start towards the stairs, he turned right, deeper into the maze of ladders and shelves. His progress was tentative, but he found his navigation more than sufficient. Here was the steep ladder up, here the rail that curved tightl
y around the short-circumferenced gallery.

  He walked slowly, making sure of each footfall before taking it, and when he’d measured out enough steps to put him opposite and above his own desk, he stopped.

  “Master librarian? Are you there?”

  He listened, and was rewarded by the soft whisper of cloth. A divan creaked, and a throat coughed drily. “Who? Who’s there?”

  “Under-librarian Thaler, Master. I’ve come to help you outside.”

  “What’s that?”

  Thaler spoke louder and clearer. “Thaler, Master.”

  “I appear to have been struck blind, Under-librarian. Old age, eh? Bit of a bastard.”

  “You’re not blind, Master. The lights have gone out.”

  “What? I’m not blind?”

  “No, Master. You’re not blind. Or I’m as blind as you are.” Thaler took three paces towards the voice, and listened again.

  “You’re blind too? And you so young. A tragedy.”

  Thaler could hear the thin, reedy whistle of the librarian’s breathing now, and he dropped to his knees and shuffled the remaining distance. “Hold out your hand, Master.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for someone who can see, Under-librarian?”

  “It’s the lights, Master. The library lights have failed. Once we get to the porch, you’ll see what I mean.” He moved his own hands through the air in front of him until he knocked against the sleeve of the master librarian’s robe. He felt along it until he found cool, dry skin.

  “Is that you, Under-librarian?”

  “Yes, Master. I’ll put your hand on my shoulder, and we can go.”

  He placed the master librarian’s hand accordingly, and put his own on it. It was awkward, but it would have to do.

  “Did you say the lights have gone out?”

  “Yes, Master Librarian. Can you stand when I say?” Thaler got his feet under his body. “Now.”

  He ended up mostly dragging the man off his bed. He was shrunken and thin, whereas Thaler was big and more than just a little fat. The master was a weight that the under-librarian was used to, no more than a decent-sized folio.