Arcanum

by Simon Morden

  He raised his finger: wait. They looked back at him. Scared as they were, they nodded, and they waited.

  The bridge had gone when he returned. Taube had his spear, and something else besides: he part-carried a long, thin tree, its branches lopped.

  “Are you ready to ransom yourselves?” asked Büber.

  “It’s not often a man’s given a second chance,” said Taube.

  “We take them when they’re offered. Let’s send these bloody dwarves back to their caves.”

  They carried three trees in all, the ends already tied with thick rope, and there were three half-logs too. Büber had eaten crayfish on occasion, and supposed that winkling the dwarves out from under their wagons was going to be as difficult as shucking one of those sharp-shelled creatures.

  Büber positioned the Crossed in knots of ten alongside the track, poles ready, blocks ready, encouraging them to cover their white faces with forest dirt and lie down in the undergrowth with green branches over them. When he looked up the slope, he couldn’t see either his spears or his bowmen. Then one of them moved, just a leg to shift position. When he’d finished, he vanished again.

  The trap was set. All they needed now was prey.

  Büber cocked his head to one side, listening again. The low rumble of wheels, the break of a stick under foot, the incoherent bark of voices, the rushing water hissing down to his left.

  He lifted the crossbow off his back. Not as good as the one he’d lost, but decent all the same. He worked the lever and the arms of the bow creaked. The string clicked into place. He slid the quiver around so that it was in easy reach, and plucked a bolt out. Laying it carefully on the stock, he raised the tiller to his shoulder.

  He was one man, standing in the road. That was what they saw. A dwarf reached out and banged on the side of the lead wagon. It stopped, and the dwarf shouted to whoever was inside.

  He was well within range, and Büber killed him, punching the quarrel straight through his breastplate. While the rest of the clearing party took cover, he reloaded.

  The wagon started to roll forward again, with dwarves behind it, huddled to its rear axle so as not to show any part of themselves.

  But it wasn’t Büber they should have been worried about.

  Most of them took two or three bolts, which was wasteful and their centurion should have prevented that, but gods, it was quick. A single volley and they were all down, most of them dead, the few who weren’t left shrieking and trying to drag themselves away.

  The wagons stopped, then started again, rumbling towards him. There was only so much he could do now, but what he could do was this: he walked towards the lead one, right up to the narrow eye-slit in the front of its angled face, and loosed his bolt through it.

  He hit someone for certain, and he stepped aside as the wagon faltered, then carried on past him.

  From the undergrowth, three long poles clattered out, pushing right beneath the hem of the wagon’s wooden skirt. Men leapt out and, as the poles lifted up high, they slid semicircular blocks underneath them.

  Then the poles were hauled down again, aided by the ropes that the men had tied to the ends. The poles caught the rim, raised it up so that the wheels all along one side spun uselessly to a halt, and still they kept lifting. The levers opened up a gap of two feet, three feet, more, tipping the wagon up to expose the dwarves inside.

  The Crossed rushed the wagon. They jabbed furiously with their spears, roaring out of their own pain, and again, within moments, every dwarf was down, dead or dying. The levers loosed their hold and the wagon banged back down, partly breaking in the process, the green, unseasoned timber and crude construction failing at the first test.

  Limbs sprawled out from underneath, and the mud and stones of the track were stained red.

  “The next one,” ordered Büber.

  The teams with the poles briskly picked up their equipment and moved to the next in line. There were a full century of wagons, and it would take the better part of the day to work their way through them at this rate. Not that the dwarves were going to let them do that, sitting mutely and meekly until it was their turn.

  They had the second one over in short order, being more confident now in their lifting, certain of the weight. They cut down the dwarves inside, and, with a final shove, sent the wagon crashing down off the track and half into the river below.

  The third wagon beckoned. The doors at the back opened, and the dwarves spilt out. A score in each, guessed Büber, as bowstrings hummed and bolts hissed. The Crossed hung back, waiting for the arrows to do their work. Some of the dwarves tried to retreat, others to attack. None made it more than a pace or two.

  The next wagon. Fourth? What did he care? He needed to see to them all. Above him, on the slope, the bowmen were moving, getting into position for the next volley, while below, they picked up their poles.

  Now word had reached the nearest wagons down the line that there were men outside, attacking with impunity. The rear doors burst open, dwarves rushed out. Some were brought down. Others took shelter behind the wagons, but the Crossed formed up in squads and flushed them out.

  Wagon after wagon emptied and was abandoned, its occupants killed or chased away. Behind them all stood Peter Büber, crossbow in hand, urging his men onwards. He could feel himself grow bolder at the scent of blood in his nose, the sound of a grunt a man makes when he pushes a spear deep into the stomach of another, the gasp he makes as he takes the blow. The dwarves didn’t look so different from men now, though they were short and stocky, they had beards and long braided hair, they wore armour too tight for them and held weapons a fraction too small. Call them men and have done with it.

  He reached down and touched the pommel of his sword. Not yet, not yet. But soon.

  The whole line seethed. Dwarves poured out and ran back, far enough to be out of range, to regroup, to form ranks and files. Büber called his Crossed back, and they trickled towards him, reluctant to break off from their duties. Carpenters, bakers, butchers and vintners they may once have been; killers was what they’d become.

  The dwarvish army had formed up, and they began to advance.

  “Into the woods. Get to your positions.” He shooed them up the hill, and was the last up behind them. He climbed strongly, taking big strides; when he judged he was halfway up, he turned and sat down, bracing his legs against a tree-trunk. The rest of the Crossed crouched, waiting.

  Their enemy couldn’t pass them by; their rear would be insecure and vulnerable. Neither could they split their force into two, with one half carrying on towards Kufstein, because they had no idea how many Carinthians there were.

  They hesitated. The forests were alien to them, and wild things lurked there. They’d much rather put their axes to the trees. But here, on the hills outside Kufstein, there were far too many of them to clear; they’d have to go into the woods, and try to find the men hiding under their vast green canopies.

  89

  “Sophia, you have to leave now,” said Felix. He’d put his armour on, mounted his horse, and collected his shield.

  “Do I?”

  For a moment, he was nonplussed. “Yes. You can’t stay here.”

  “Why not? You are.”

  “But I’m the prince. It’s my duty, my people, my palatinate.” He checked that everything was buckled on tight. It’d come loose soon enough if it wasn’t, and getting killed because his helmet had slipped over his eyes at the wrong moment wasn’t how he wanted to be remembered.

  He didn’t want to get killed at all, but he realised he might not have a choice.

  “It’s my duty too, Felix. And my people.” She unsheathed her spatha, tried a few practice swings and rested it on her shoulder. “I’ll stay on the crag if you prefer, but I will stay.”

  She planted her feet and looked determined as only she could.

  “If the last wall falls, I want you to ride back to Rosenheim.”

  “And what will be waiting for me there? You won’t. Unless you hav
e another army you’re not telling me about, I can’t see how running away will help.”

  Felix leant low from his saddle. “Gather the survivors together, see them safe back to Carinthia. Something might happen between now and then. München and Augsburg might come to our side. Or my Frankish cousins. Promise me you’ll do that.”

  She swallowed, and looked down at the ground for a moment.

  “You can’t promise me anything,” she said, and it was true. He couldn’t; only that he’d spend his short life of thirteen years as expensively as possible.

  “We can win,” he said, “and it’s not like we want to lose.”

  “No one takes the field wanting to lose, Felix, but, more often than not, one side does.”

  “I thought that if your HaShem is for us, none could stand against us.” That was what she’d told him last night. He had his doubts, but she seemed to believe it.

  “I’d rather we won, and you lived.” She looked up again and reached for his hand. “I want them both.”

  “Then pray for both,” he said. Her fingers were cold, as if she were dead already. He couldn’t countenance that thought, no matter what. “I have to go. I’ll leave orders so that if it looks as though things are going badly, you’re to be taken to Rosenheim first, then Juvavum. By force if necessary.”

  He dragged his hand back and, before she could answer, rode for the gate. If he couldn’t save her, who could he save?

  Through and round and across, gates, earthworks, bridge. Master Büber had already marched away with his small force towards the Weissach. Whether any of them would come back was something only time would tell: there were lookouts in place, but no reserves to call on, not yet. Master Ullmann was marching from the north with the reinforcements. The dwarves on the west bank were just broaching the edge of the forest. They’d reach the first earthwork soon enough.

  The camp had been roughly put down. There were piles of tents, and the pale, trampled rectangles of where they’d been. The men who’d slept in them were already in position, spear and bow ready.

  He rode up to the rear of the two earthworks they had in the way of the main advance, squeezed between valley-side and wooded hill. Four centuries of spears stood nervously behind it, watching him from under the iron brims of their helmets. He ought to have prepared some stirring words before the battle, something to stiffen the resolve of his ill-trained troops.

  He had nothing beyond what they already knew: that if they lost, Carinthia would be lost, and, along with it, their homes, their land, their livelihoods and their kin.

  Felix drew the Sword of Carinthia, and held it high as he rode by. If a boy of thirteen was at the very front, then his troops might consider proving themselves at least his equal in courage.

  The forward earthwork was manned by spear and bowmen. Master Reinhardt was already there, standing on top, with his horse below held by a spearman. Felix dismounted and joined him. There was little point in opening up his distance-pipe, as the trees obscured everything.

  “How far away are they?”

  Reinhardt peered down the road, turned into a green tunnel by the over-reaching trees. “Four, five stadia. We’ve killed a good number, but there always seem to be more to take their place.” He pulled at his moustache. “Any news from Master Büber?”

  “I’m sure he’s got better things to do than send us messages, Master Reinhardt. He’ll hold the line, even if he has to do it all on his own.” Felix saw movement ahead, and he stiffened, but it was only Carinthian horsemen tracking back. “I’ve no intention of letting him down on this side.”

  More horses trotted out into the cleared area, almost a stadia deep and deliberately covered with rooted, knee-high tree stumps. The road was covered with logs, all the way to the ditch in front of them.

  “This looks like it,” said Reinhardt. He raised his voice. “Don’t waste your shots on the wagons. Make every bolt count. Listen to the horns and the drums. Remember, we want to pull back to the next defence, and the one after that. When the time comes, we retreat in good order and leave time for our bowmen to cut the bastards down. Stay with your century. Act as one. We’re going to grind this one out, so no stupid heroics: your spear and your bow, with you behind them, are more important to us than killing that beardy fucker right in front of you. He’ll die soon enough.”

  A bowman laughed, braced his bow and cranked the lever. “Back to Svartalfheim with you, Master Dwarf. Midgard’s no place for you.”

  “That’s right,” called Reinhardt, “sound the horns and bang the drums. Let them know we’re here. Carinthia!”

  The Carinthian lines burst with noise, so loud that Felix could barely hear himself say to Reinhardt, “Get the horses back over here and leave the field clear. You have command.”

  Boy and man clasped arms, and Reinhardt pulled him closer.

  “You’ve done more in a year than your father did in ten, my lord, and what’s more, you’re the better man. Gods’ speed.”

  Felix struggled for something to say. “Master Reinhardt. Rather you here than any number of earls. Make them pay for every foot of ground they take. Make them pay dearly.”

  “My lord,” he said. “It’ll be an honour.” He went back for his horse, and left Felix with the men on top of the earthwork, watching the first wagon roll sluggishly into view.

  It trundled along, then banged up against the first log in its path. It stopped, then eased forward further. The log rolled a little way before clattering into the next. It was much harder to make progress now, with two tree-trunks to push along the ground. When the wagon hit the third, it stopped altogether. It was a hundred or so feet into the stadia. Within range. Felix waited to see what would happen next.

  The rear doors of the first wagon were thrown aside with a bang. Carinthian bowmen raised their weapons, and those who hadn’t already nocked a quarrel did so now in a whisper of hissing and clicking. The second wagon collided with the back of the first, its pointed prow lifting up to rest on the roof of the one in front. The third locked with the second, and so on, until there was an unbroken line of them all the way back to the trees.

  And if they hadn’t blocked the road, that line would have come right up to their defences. That was how they’d wanted to do it. Now they’d been thwarted.

  Felix walked along the top of the earthwork, waiting for the dwarves’ next move.

  “My lord,” asked one centurion, “I thought we’d come here to fight.”

  “So,” said Felix, “did I. Sound the horns again.”

  The low, vibrating roar of the animal-headed horns echoed across the field. They were answered by higher-pitched ram’s horns from down the valley. The Jews were coming, and with them the troops mustered by Sophia.

  Then came a sound like a slap in the face, harsh and uncompromising. The dwarvish horns bellowed, and emerging from the tree line, a trickle, a seep, then a flood of armoured dwarves. The nose of the front wagon popped, and the vanguard charged out.

  “Aim at the targets in front of you,” bellowed Reinhardt, wheeling his horse about. “Loose at will.”

  Three hundred crossbows all sounded at once, and the air hummed. The first row, the first two rows, were cut down. Those in the front of the vanguard fared particularly badly: every single one of them fell.

  Felix stared at the dwarves as they ran across the open ground, around the sawn trunks, their awkward strides slowly narrowing the distance. Weighed down by armour, axes and hammers, they got no further than halfway before the fastest bowmen were ready to shoot again.

  Those remaining in the vanguard had climbed over the bodies of their kin, and were closer still. And behind them, there were more. There was no let-up. They poured out of the forest like spilt water from a breached dam.

  “Spears,” called Reinhardt, and the drums beat urgently. “My lord, get your arse on your horse.”

  The crossbowmen stood their ground as the spears formed up in a wall in front and down-slope of them. The latter pointed t
heir weapons towards the ditch and braced themselves.

  “My lord. Your horse!”

  Felix turned to see the lone spearman still holding his horse’s reins, then glanced back at the dwarvish van as it struggled through the hail of bolts to get to the Carinthian lines. Gods, they were being slaughtered in their tens and hundreds, but there were so many of them it didn’t seem to make any difference.

  He ran down the reverse slope and took the reins for himself. “Stand with your brothers,” he said, sheathing his sword for the brief moment it took him to hoist himself up. Then he drew it again and galloped to join the other horses, gathered at the steep valley-side.

  Reinhardt rode up and down the line, roaring his orders, his defiance. The hum and slap of crossbows was constant. “Hold, you brave men, hold.”

  The groan as the front lines met was a ghastly sound. Spears jabbed forward as if hoeing the ground, and the formation the Carinthians had practised and practised again in the fortress courtyard stayed firm.

  Crossbowmen loosed their last shots. Horns called them back, and they slithered and slipped off their perches to run the half-stadia to the next earthwork in line.

  Felix held his sword in his shield-hand, and wiped the sweat away. “We have to time this charge right. Get ready.” He moved the sword back to his right and watched.

  Reinhardt judged it was time the spears pulled back. The crossbows were in position, ready and loaded. The horns sounded again, and each man peeled away up and over the top, down the slope, across the grassy pasture, looking for their century’s mark.

  Not everyone succeeded in withdrawing. Men gained the top of the embankment, only to be dragged down with a cry. Reinhardt raved and yelled at his troops, but it was now him who needed to get out of the way. The last man stumbled and fell at the base of the earth bank, and his commander hesitated.

  Dwarvish hands and heads rose above the ridge.