Arcanum

by Simon Morden

  A far cry and years ago: the memory of cracking the mirror-calm of a mountain lake, blue sky above and black water below, before crawling onto sun-warm stones to dry. Now it felt all so serious, but it was only his experience that had changed his perceptions. It always had been serious.

  He kicked out, arms and legs, and made for the surface. As he filled his lungs with air, he remembered why he was there. The rope was paying out as he trod water, and the barge was sailing further away with every stroke of his hands.

  He set off for the bank. Ahead was a sandbank, and the back of the barge was heading straight for it.

  Swimming as fast as he could, he suddenly ran out of depth. His fingers plunged into the silt riverbed, and, using his hands and knees, he hauled himself up, streaming water.

  The barge had grounded. The bow was swinging around, and the grinding noise as the hull scraped along the stones sounded more than ominous. Ullmann ran across the saturated sand and onto the riverbank just as the barge started to drift again.

  He didn’t bother to untie the rope. He chose the thickest tree he could find and ran around it once, twice, three times.

  The hemp rope tightened, rising across the river to make a straight line between tree and barge. It creaked and growled, and started to slip, stripping the bark in one big sheet as the coils shrank and bit deep.

  Ullmann felt himself dragged inexorably backwards. His numb fingers pulled clumsily at the knot at his waist, trying with his nails to unpick the sodden fibrous mass. He was pulled ever closer to the tree, even as it made snipping and snapping sounds. The upper branches started to curl over towards the river.

  With one last tug, the rope fell from around him, and he took what was left of the slack, jamming it between the trunk and the taut line. He leant against it, trapping it in position. As the barge pulled harder, the rope bit down against the free end. The tree shook, and Ullmann felt the ground quake as its shallow roots started to buckle and tear.

  Either this would work, or it wouldn’t. He closed his eyes and held on.

  When he opened them again, the barge was up against the bank, and two of the bargees were leaping off, extra rope in their hands to secure the craft.

  His hands were slick with blood, and when he tried to let go, he found that he couldn’t.

  He had, however, saved the cargo, and the barge. He grimaced and stretched out his fingers. The pain was exquisite.

  Manfred came running up the bank and through the trees towards him. “Max, you really are a mad bastard, aren’t you?”

  71

  He could see them, a mile or so behind him. It wasn’t the kind of margin he was happy with, and he wasn’t even certain it was the same group he was seeing each time.

  There was no cover this far up the pass, so it was foolish to hope that he could stay out of sight and then duck down behind a boulder – his horse as well – and watch his pursuers pass by.

  And even if that somehow succeeded, they’d then be ahead of him.

  Any other time of year, he might have risked going over the top of the peaks to either the north or south. But with them still draped in slowly melting snows, he’d be dead under an avalanche before he ever made the summit. There was only one way out, and that was downhill all the way to Rosenheim.

  At least he knew where they were, the little dark shapes picking their way down the path next to the river. They had no horses; dwarves were strictly, religiously, on their feet or not at all, though whether that taboo continued, given their changed circumstances, was anyone’s guess. Their stamina, though, was legendary. He’d already witnessed Heavyhammer’s ability to keep going over the roughest terrain, and still have the strength left to trick him at the last moment.

  What was really getting to him, and worried him the most, were their horns.

  Every so often, just when he thought they’d stopped blowing the damn things, a deep, sonorous note would echo from valley-side to valley-side, slowly fading away before sounding again. Two blasts, each time, then silence.

  It meant that, as they got closer to Ennsbruck, the dwarves he’d sent there – like an idiot – would be waiting for him.

  The tree line would start soon, but the chasing pack were simply too close. They were driving him on, knowing that he’d get caught further down. They didn’t have to catch him up. They just had to keep him moving.

  It meant that Büber had to think of something different, something unexpected, and he wasn’t good at that. He knew what he knew. Nikoleta would have been able to come up with a plan. She’d been smart and ruthless, and she’d never shied away from what needed to be done, no matter the cost.

  He hoped that by the time he got within earshot of Ennsbruck, he’d have his brilliant idea. For now, all there was was the chase.

  In his more forgiving moments, Büber acknowledged that his escape from Farduzes had bordered on the heroic, the sort of story that as a young, barely civilised wild thing he’d have drawn closer to the fire to hear.

  No one would ever know of it, though, if it didn’t come from his own lips. The thought made him bitter and determined, and he kept up his punishing pace, switching his horse across the rough terrain, reassuring it when the horns sounded and cajoling it during the silences.

  A few miles later, with the sun in the south and air smoky with early insects, he came to the lip of rock that marked the junction between mountaintop and high alp. There were stunted trees and low scrub below him, and further east, forest filled the whole valley floor.

  The grey of the rock gave way to the green of leaf. It marked the edge of what the dwarves behind him knew, and what he, Peter Büber, knew. The path down was steep and narrow, but once there, it became shallow and broad. The subtle shift of advantages swung imperceptibly towards him. He might even stand a slim chance of escaping.

  He took hold of the bridle, knitting his fingers between it and the horse’s head, and curved his other arm under its neck to hold it fast against his body.

  “Come on, then. Going down is much harder than coming up, but we can do this.” He backed down the first part of the slope, and, by instinct, the horse resisted, trying to shake Büber off.

  Dragging it wasn’t going to work, and he had to persuade it down, step by hesitant step.

  They were halfway when the horns began again. It could have been just a coincidence, but more likely it was planned: the dwarves were trying to spook the horse.

  Büber kept tight hold, whispering in its ear all the time, trying to calm it. The beast rolled its wide eyes and foam dribbled from its mouth. The echo carried on, and seemed to come from every side. They were getting closer.

  “Come on, you flighty fucker. We’ve been through all sorts of shit together, and I suddenly find that dying out here at the hands of those bastard dwarves is something I don’t want to do. So ignore the horns, forget how steep this is, and concentrate on my voice.”

  Perhaps it was the familiarity that had grown between the two. Perhaps it was Büber’s death-grip on the bridle. Or perhaps it was simply that the horse thought Büber was less likely than the dwarves to eat it. Whatever it was, the creature started moving again, with Büber keeping up a constant monologue in its ear. The slope began to flatten, and they ran the last few feet to level ground.

  They both shook themselves down, and the horns sounded again, seeming to come from just back over the rise.

  “Right.” Büber took a second to make absolutely certain the girth strap was tight before getting his foot up to the stirrup. “This isn’t going to be good for either of us.”

  His backside hit the saddle and he dug his heels in. The horns bellowed once more, and the dwarves appeared at the top of the rock face, looking stern and purposeful. At least Büber didn’t need to kick the horse twice: it started at a high-stepping canter and settled into a gallop for a stadia or two.

  The dwarves lost definition as they grew more distant. Soon they were no more than squat stick figures against the blue haze of the mountains b
ehind them, and Büber slowed the horse back to a canter.

  The path grew closer to the river. It would have been a relief to stop, to cool down, but they had to keep going, and at speed. The ground was softer – less harsh at any rate – and the clattering of the horse’s hooves dulled to a rhythmic drum-beat.

  As the trees started to climb above them, the dwarvish horns rolled their sound down the valley once again. If they attracted giants, it would be some sort of justice, though Büber doubted there would be any within earshot, given the number he’d killed the previous day. Their bodies had been crow-food when he’d passed them earlier.

  He eased down to a walk, and then speeded up for a gallop, alternating between the two, eating up the miles, aware that the dwarves marched inexorably onwards behind him.

  Their horns called periodically; an initial blast, a sustained note, a long trailing away. The dwarves in Ennsbruck would have heard that sound already, but what commands did the notes carry? Would the dwarves understand what was being asked of them? He had to assume they’d be waiting for him, and would stop him if they could.

  He kept up the cycle of walking and running, or rather he forced the horse to. It might have been punishing on him, but it was exhausting the animal he was riding. Every time it walked, it did so for longer. Every time it galloped, it was for a shorter distance.

  It was killing the horse, and he knew it. What was worse was that he meant to do so. At some point, it would die under him, heart given out and lungs burnt. Büber would get off, take the things he needed, and carry on on foot.

  That was his plan: to get as far ahead as possible from the following pack, and surprise Ennsbruck’s new residents with his sudden appearance. Encountering one or two, or even three at a push as he broke through their picket line was doable. What he didn’t want was to give them time to be properly organised.

  The sun swung behind his right shoulder and flickered between the trees. To his left, the flank of the mountain swelled. There was a pinch-point ahead, where the river twisted to the north up against the valley-side, and the path squeezed through the gap between water and rock.

  Across the river, on the other side, was a patchwork of field-lines, but he gauged that the water was too deep, too quick and too cold to cross. If he was a dwarf, he’d have made the same calculations and posted at least a couple of guards on the road.

  Büber slowed the horse, and it all but stopped: habit was the only thing keeping it going now. Reaching for his crossbow, he pulled the string back with the lever, and laid a bolt against the wire.

  His wasn’t a quiet approach – the horse was making enough noise for two – so this had to be done quickly instead. The horns sounded again, but for the first time since the pursuit began, they sounded distant and indistinct. He dug his heels in and hoped.

  Just as he was predictable, so were they. They’d heard him coming, were poised, braced for his charge, teeth bared and axes ready.

  Except he wasn’t charging. When he was still a distance away, several blade lengths apart but close enough to make a bow-shot easy, he pulled up and sighted along his arm at one of the dwarves.

  They abruptly realised their mistake, but one of them paid for it with his life. The bolt pierced his chest, leaving only the flights protruding, and the impact rocked him backwards on his heels. He staggered, sank to one knee, and finally fell.

  All the while, Büber was reloading.

  An enraged dwarf ran at Büber, mouth open, voice raised in a bellow of anger. He drew his axe back ready for his swing, and Büber fired the second bolt down his throat.

  It could only get harder from now on. He holstered the crossbow and took up the reins again, trying to coax one last effort from his horse. It responded feebly, only picking up speed when he kicked his hardest. The beast was trembling with effort, and clearly couldn’t continue much longer.

  The trees ended as the river swung away to the right. The black walls of Ennsbruck were closer than he’d anticipated, and the surrounding land was a maze of fields and gates.

  He couldn’t see any other dwarves, even though he knew they had to be there. They could have ducked down behind the rough dry-stone walls, but that would have made it hard for them to ambush him.

  Büber hesitated. He ought to dismount, scout the way ahead, check for tracks and spoors – all the things that he knew how to do. Instead he drove the horse on, and that was when they sprang their trap.

  It was nothing more sophisticated than a rope pulled taut across the road, but it didn’t need to be fancy to bring the horse down and send Büber flying. The ditches either side were abruptly full of dwarves, swarming out, covered in soil and sacking and fountaining water as they emerged.

  He hit the gravel face-first. It hadn’t been his best feature, so he didn’t give it a moment’s thought. He flipped over onto his back, and skidded to a halt.

  He was bleeding. Of course he was. And there were a dozen dwarves, filthy and stinking of sulphurous mud, running up behind him, weapons ready to make him bleed some more.

  As they passed the horse, they hit it twice, breaking its neck and skull. It hadn’t even tried to rise.

  Gods, he was tired. He’d been going hard all day. If he chose to lie there, he could rest forever. Nikoleta might even be wherever it was he ended up. And yet the fight hadn’t completely left him.

  Büber hauled his lanky frame upright, and realised that he’d fallen between the dwarves and the town. He put his head down and started to run towards Ennsbruck.

  He felt and heard the air cutting at his back. The axe-blade sang as it swung, and the draught caught his cloak. He was a hair’s breadth from disaster, and somehow, despite his exhaustion, he managed to stay one step ahead. Then two. Then more. His long legs took great gulps out of the road, while the dwarves, with their much shorter limbs, struggled to keep up.

  His heart pounded and his lungs burned. He was running on empty, with nothing left to fuel him except his pain and anger. They’d killed his damn horse as if they were swatting a fly, and that stupid kid he’d left in Ennsbruck – the one who tried to steal from him – was now hanging from the town wall, tied upside down by his feet with his hands cut off in case he should try to climb back up.

  He had to escape from them, because this was what Carinthia could become, every town like Obernberg, their inhabitants nailed to the outsides of their houses. Worse than the Teutons, and that had been bad enough.

  They were throwing their axes and hammers in an effort to stop him, but none hit their mark.

  The gap between them widened as he put everything into his effort. No half-measures, no holding something back for later. There’d be no later otherwise. They were fresh, he was spent. They’d run him down before he’d gone a mile: but he didn’t have to run a mile.

  Only to the bridge.

  The river was turning back towards him, and there was the twin-piered bridge. What he needed was not on the other side, behind the walls, but in the river itself.

  He threw himself down the bank and into the water. Freezing, unspeakably cold. He plunged his arms below the surface to grab the edge of one of the submerged boats.

  He had his knife and then he didn’t. No use worrying now; he couldn’t fight them all, and never could. Instead, he concentrated on the one thing that might save him. The effort just to get the boat moving was incredible. The water sucked at it, and his feet churned in the soft sand and loose pebbles.

  The stones that kept it pinned to the riverbed rolled free as he turned it, and it rose. He lifted it above his head and the water poured out of it in a cataract over his head. He was blind and stung, gasping for air. One last act, born of desperation, because there were a hundred things he could have done differently but this was the only one he could think of: he threw the boat into the fast-flowing meltwater of the midstream, and himself after it.

  His part-fingers clamped to the bulwark of the boat, which started to fill with water almost instantly, but the current had both it a
nd him. He was being washed away, and no matter how long and far the dwarves ran, they weren’t going to catch him if he only could keep himself afloat.

  But he’d freeze to death if he didn’t do something about that, and quickly. The little boat sank lower in the water, and he tried to pull himself into it.

  He couldn’t get enough purchase. His few-fingered hands slipped against the wet wood, and he fell back each time. There were shallows, though, and he kicked out to try and guide his salvage towards them.

  The dwarves weren’t giving up. The hoom of distant horns, and close-by shouts of their strange words made that clear. He had bare moments to fix the situation.

  His feet touched the bottom, and he pushed the boat up against the bank. Emptying it of water, he dragged his sodden cloak off his back and jammed it into the hole in the bilges, working the cloth deep down with his fist. Then, with one foot in the boat, he pushed off from the side, paddling frantically with his hands to put as much distance as he could between himself and the snarling, bearded faces assembling on the riverbank.

  If any had been armed with a bow, he’d have been done for. Bows weren’t dwarvish weapons, though, not like the axe or hammer. Dwarves preferred to meet their foe face to face, killing him like an honest man should.

  Fuck that, thought Büber, as the river propelled him on. The bung he’d made of his rain-washed cloak leaked more than a little, and he bailed with his cupped hands.

  At some point in his journey downstream, he realised that he might be dying. By that time he was too cold to care.

  72

  They were barely in any state to invade a beer cellar and order a round of drinks, let alone do more, but at least they’d finally arrived: it was just beyond dusk, a couple of miles upstream of Simbach, just past where the Salzach and the Enn met.

  Ullmann had taken his turn tied to the barge like some draught animal, walking along the bank and helping to guide it along. Everyone had, except Vulfar who’d broken at least a couple of ribs and was lucky not to have pierced a lung. They’d laid him out in the cabin, and just got on with the job.