Arcanum

by Simon Morden

  Clovis let his half-drawn sword fall back into its scabbard. “My lady presumes an awful lot.”

  She sheathed her own spatha and waved the spears back. “We can argue into the small hours about this, but we both know by your finely waxed moustache that your Frankish pride will prevent you from leaving for home in the morning. You can claim the victory, have a triumphal column raised on this spot in your name, and loot Farduzes of all its fabled gold and gemstones. Everything is yours. All I want is to win, and in order to do that, I need your cavalry.”

  “I should, by rights, turn around,” he said.

  “I’ve offered you everything you could possibly want, my lord, and for that, you’ll stay. Rosenheim is deserted: there are rooms for your men, and there’s grass for your horses. I’ll send someone before dawn: we’ll need to discuss tactics before we fight.”

  Clovis reached up and pulled at his moustache again. “Discuss tactics? With a woman?”

  Again, she didn’t need to say anything. The spears bristled like a hedgehog around her. She waited.

  “Apologies, my lady.”

  “Accepted,” she said. “You’re very gracious, my lord.”

  He pulled a face, but he knew he’d been thoroughly beaten. “In the morning, then.”

  He bowed to her, and she to him; then he went back to his horse, muttering under his breath.

  She cleared her throat. “Horst, Manfred. To me.”

  They came towards her, leading their horses, uncertain of their reception. She hugged them both, with a whispered thank-you in their ears.

  “My lady, we just did as we were told,” said Horst.

  “And you were faithful in your service to your prince, for which I’m profoundly grateful.” Sophia rested her hands on their shoulders. “Stay with the Franks tonight. If they look like moving out, come and tell me straight away. I won’t have a Clovis Pissbreeks on my conscience.”

  “My lady. We’re sorry about Felix.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She genuinely needed to tell them, and wondered if it was the right time: they’d find out, sooner or later, and it was probably better done now. “The Black Company lost half its number in the rearguard at Kufstein, but it was their sacrifice that meant we could all escape. Master Ullmann was … killed.”

  “Oh,” said Manfred.

  She wanted to sit them down and explain exactly why. What she’d found out about him, and how she’d confronted him with it, and how, despite that, she’d ridden repeatedly behind him to keep the dwarves off his back. How he’d slashed at her horse’s hamstrings and left her for dead. How she’d miraculously survived the fall and brought him down instead.

  Not the right time for that, she decided.

  “Go on, gentlemen. I’ll see you both in the morning, too.” She was tired, and there was still much to do. She limped away, and the spearmen parted for her, forming an escort to take her back to the camp.

  96

  Cohen crouched down next to Büber, said nothing, and gestured with his hand. Three, to the front and right, a little way off but not so far. Büber nodded, and circled one of his maimed fingers in the air, gathering together the little band of Jews around him, and pointing so that half would go straight forward, and the other half go hard right, then come around.

  They moved out as silently as they could manage, making only the sounds they couldn’t avoid: the soft hiss of a branch, the dull snap of a buried twig. Büber had always thought – when he’d given them any thought at all – of the Jews as a peaceable people, the first to apologise in any argument, the ones who’d always back down and retreat.

  He’d been wrong. Or at least, there were two sides to them. He didn’t know if Cohen was a good priest, but he was a good soldier and a decent leader.

  When they were in position, indicated by the slightest of signals, Büber levelled his crossbow and crept forward. The forest canopy leaked the grey light of dawn, but, beneath, the shadows were still as black as night. There was a wind-felled tree, its roots making a woven earth and wood shield, and in the hollow beneath it were three figures. One was standing, the other two were lying down, and while all he could see was the contrast between black beard and white cheeks, it was enough.

  He aimed, and the bowstring slapped as he pulled the trigger.

  The dwarf heard, his head snapping around to look in completely the wrong direction. He took the bolt in his chest, and gave a gargling cry that woke the other two.

  The forest was full of rushing, and they lasted only moments longer than their dead colleague.

  Büber had been doing this all night, taking out small groups to hunt down and kill more of the fractured dwarvish rearguard. By his unreliable count, he’d seen off several centuries, and, more importantly, kept them all moving and afraid while he rested his own men in shifts.

  In the dark forests, dwarves froze. He almost felt compassion for them, but they were both there to see each other to the afterlife, and gods, they’d started it. They could finish it just as easily by marching back up the valley and leaving Carinthia the fuck alone.

  The main force was ahead, but he’d niggled and niggled at the rear until, more in desperation than anything else, part of the dwarvish army had split off to deal with his skirmishing.

  And, once they’d separated, Büber had split them, then split them again, and chased them up blind valleys and against cliff faces and broken them. When night finally came, he started picking off the remnants.

  He brought his men together by the base of the fallen tree.

  “We need to get back. Ironmaker will be on the move soon, and we need to be there to make it difficult.”

  They left the bodies, unburied and unremembered, where they lay, and tracked downhill, following the course of one of the mountain streams that flowed into the Enn. The dwarves were north of it, his army to the south, though they’d raided across it during the hours of darkness, killing the watch with bows and blowing the Jewish ram’s horns before vanishing back into the night.

  Büber was certain the dwarves were far from comfortable with their lot.

  When he was back in his rough camp, he told those already awake to rouse the sleepers, then went to look for himself at what was happening.

  The stream was sharp and cold: there was a bridge, a simple stone one with a narrow arch, but he ignored it and waded across further upstream. His picket line watched as he emptied his boots on the far bank and sat down to put them on again. There was no corresponding dwarvish line – those that had been posted there had met their ends under the green canopy, so, after a while, the dwarves had stopped sending replacements. The only remaining guards stood on top of the circle of wagons, in an open space barely large enough for them all. They were crammed in like cattle, and it would take them time to extricate themselves.

  He could almost reach out and touch the sides of one of the wagons before he had to stop. It was difficult to see inside the corral, but he could hear the great weary mass of them rumbling into life there.

  If they wanted to roll along the Roman via, then they’d have to go past Rosenheim. Otherwise, there was the cart track to the south of the lake. He didn’t want the dwarves to take that route. It cut off before Rosenheim, and Sophia would have to leave the town and chase after them across open, flat ground.

  He’d have to force them north, then. If he could get his army in front, and block the track, then north would be the only direction they could go. Bounded by the Enn on one side, and the hills and Büber on the other, the dwarves would join the via to Juvavum where it crossed the Rosenheim bridge.

  He knew a way around that his enemies didn’t. The dwarves were marching blind. They’d shown no sign of scouting ahead, and all their maps dated from Roman times.

  Good enough. He took one last look at the dwarvish sentries, then slipped away, stepping over the small corpses of dwarves who’d ventured outside the circle.

  Back across the river and, with his legs goose-bumped with cold, he gathere
d everyone to him. They’d found a natural bowl in the land, and it acted like an amphitheatre. Six centuries sat close by, or stood nearer the lip, while he occupied the stage.

  He studied them all, men and women from all walks of life and position, from stablehands to guildsmen. As difficult as he found it, he felt a belonging that he’d never encountered before. When magic had reigned, he and his fellow hunters had been the bastard offspring kept isolated beyond the gates of civilisation.

  “One last push,” he said. “We need to put them on the field at Rosenheim, and make sure they don’t try and strike across the foothills. That means a bit of marching: up this valley to the head of it, then around to the north and down the next. It’s not difficult, nor is it long, but we need to get there before they do. They’re breaking camp, but they have their bloody carts to push. We don’t even have to hurry if we leave now.”

  He scratched at his stubble and searched for the Jews among the sea of faces; they were less recognisable in their armour than they were on the street.

  “Rabbi. Not you. You’ve shown you’re more than worthy of this: keep at them. Make them think the whole army is still snapping at their heels. I want them looking over their shoulders every step they take, so that they’re not looking ahead at what the rest of us are doing.”

  Cohen nodded, and that was the end of what Büber wanted to say. People stood up, gathered up anything they might have left on the ground, and started walking uphill. Barely moments from receiving his orders, they were gone: that was something the dwarves couldn’t match, even if they tried.

  The Jews formed up below. As Büber climbed through the empty, open forest, their shapes merged with their surroundings, and he lost sight of them. He gradually overtook the rest of his troops, and was soon out in front, following the river upstream. To the north was a particularly steep and savage hill, with scree and bare rock on the lee side, but it was compact and straightforward to go around. They’d meet it on the east side, and follow the low ridge for a while before dropping down onto the plain.

  He went on ahead, and doubled back on himself, going to the end of the ridge where it overlooked the Enn. There was the Flintsbachs’ farm on the opposite side of the valley, where he’d washed up and been cared for by Gretchen. He had a fleeting memory of her, and of her warm, strong hands that seemed to not mind his scars and deformities. She’d gone, of course, with her parents, well away from there. Perhaps they’d come back when the fighting was over, and he could thank her … well, he could thank her, at least.

  The dwarves were below him, struggling through the forest, harried by Cohen. He traced the route they’d have to take, to where the trees ended and the farmland began. There were still stands and strips of the old forest, especially on the low line of hills that faced across the river from Rosenheim, but much of the land had been cleared and turned over to grass.

  Some places were greener than others, though, where the Enn slowed and started to meander as it flowed out onto the plain. The ground was marshy there, and the road north threaded between the river and the hill.

  He looked closer, and wished for the distance-pipe Thaler had gifted him. The woods on the hill would be good for an ambush, but the land around it was clear. If his forces were chased out of the trees, they’d be vulnerable in the open. But with the other flank covered by marshland on the left, and a narrow front that could be held by a small number of troops to block the advance …

  It was probably the best they were going to get, and he hoped that Sophia had seen it in the same way. He’d dearly love to get a message to her, but they had no horses, and the only alternative was a runner.

  He had six hundred men and women at his command. One of them ought to be able to run that distance and still remember a message. He headed along the ridge and caught up with the others.

  “I need a runner,” he said to those around him. “Someone with the sense to evade the dwarves and get to Rosenheim.”

  They all volunteered, every one of them, and he had no way of telling which might be best suited. Someone small and slight and fast. No lumbering oxen, or the plain of wit. He needed sharp and cunning and reliable.

  “You,” he said.

  She’d armed herself with a dwarvish war hammer, its head tucked in her belt. She had a knife, too, one she’d brought with her, and she’d cut her skirts short with it. She looked shrewd and capable.

  “Master?” she said.

  “You have a name?” He wanted to check she’d not volunteered out of enthusiasm or duty.

  “Aelinn, Master Büber,” she said. Her expression was serious, but confident.

  “Aelinn.” He frowned. Did he know her? He looked at her again, leaning back slightly. He wasn’t sure, and it didn’t really matter. “Will you go?”

  “If you send me,” she said.

  “Good.” That was settled, then. “Can you repeat, word for word, what I tell you to say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then come with me.”

  He led her up the ridge while the others crossed onto the plain, to work their way up the Rosenheim road until they came to the via. Büber stood with Aelinn on the top while he pointed out the features of the landscape, and from there, with the extra light, the Carinthian camp was visible with its haze of wood smoke.

  “The dwarves are directly below us. Go down and north. You’ll need to put the hills near Rosenheim on your left. See the tower?” He pointed, and she nodded. “That’s just before the bridge. We may have posted a watch there, and they may have twitchy fingers. Tell me why I chose a woman?”

  “Because I look less like a dwarf, even from a distance.” She took a couple of steps towards her destination, then stopped. “Aren’t you going to wish me luck?”

  “I don’t trust luck where a sharp mind and a pair of strong legs will serve us better.” He relented with a snort. “Good luck, Aelinn.”

  She was gone, skipping down the slope, over a rock, into the trees. Her shortened skirts rose and fell, revealing her well-muscled thighs and taut calves, and she held her arms out for balance, making her appear more a dancer than a warrior. Even when she had disappeared from view, he ruminated over the space where she’d been.

  Not dead yet, then.

  He rejoined his army, who were busy spreading out in the woods on either side of the cart track. Telling them to wait, he gathered up half a dozen pickets to come with him. The object was not to engage the dwarves, but to make absolutely certain they carried on towards Rosenheim. He could block their path if they tried to come his way; it wasn’t as if the Carinthians lacked axes now, or the trees to use them on. After the dwarves’ experience on the road down from Ennsbruck, Büber hoped that they’d want to take the easier route.

  He slowed down, and waved at the others to halt. He could hear wagons approaching, and he stepped lightly into the undergrowth. The pale wooden planks of a wagon prow edged into view, and he stayed perfectly still. Even though he was in plain sight, he was certain they wouldn’t see him. Their eyes hadn’t adjusted to the shift and shadow of the day, just as their bodies hadn’t finished changing to suit the overground.

  The wagon stopped as it reached the turning. The dwarvish train could either go on up the via, or head east now. The Roman road was inviting, with its smooth, well-drained surface and solid construction; the cart track south of the lakes less so. It was pocked and pitted within feet of the junction, deep ruts holding out the promise of broken wheels and cloying mud if it rained.

  He could hear the sound of dwarvish voices raised in argument. Their maps didn’t say where this road led, as it hadn’t existed a thousand years ago. It might be nothing more than a spur to a farm, a dead-end up some uncharted valley.

  No, the via was a much better bet. They knew where it went, north of the lakes and back around to Juvavum.

  Still they argued, the swell and timbre of their words strange and foreign in his ears.

  Take the via. Take the fucking via. It was almost too tempting no
t to overturn the lead wagon and shout at the dwarves inside, pointing north and shaking them until they complied.

  He remained motionless, only the blink of his eyes to give him away.

  The wheels started to turn again, and the cart continued north.

  Büber could breathe again. Everything was in place. No matter how many of them there were, there had to be an end to it now. He twirled his finger, and slipped away with his troops.

  97

  Thaler kicked the mound of earth to make sure it was solid, and was satisfied. He stepped back to allow the pot to be lowered slowly on top of the flattened base, and when the carrying poles had been removed, he gave it a good shake.

  Nothing moved that shouldn’t.

  “Very good,” he said. The smith didn’t like being called either master or mister – he regarded all titles with suspicion. “Bastian, would you be so kind as to join this fire team? They’ll give you a role.”

  Bastian, mud smeared and sweaty, nodded and heaved a crate of shot off the back of the nearby cart, carrying it by himself to behind the black iron pot. “Are they coming now, Thaler?”

  “It won’t be long. I’ll check.”

  They’d set up a table for Morgenstern, and built a somewhat rickety tower next to it. Thaler didn’t dare climb it, but he’d positioned the boy Agathos on top, carrying his distance-pipe.

  “Agathos? Any sign of movement?”

  The boy rested the tube against one of the unfinished uprights and, with a practised eye, he looked south.

  “Ochi,” he said. Then, “Nai! They come.”

  In the absence of anything else, Thaler had a bell on Morgenstern’s desk, and he gave it a vigorous ring.

  “Do stop that, Frederik,” said Morgenstern, clapping his hands over his ears, “you’re like a child with that thing.”

  Thaler ignored the complaint. “Places everyone. Load.”

  He watched with satisfaction as his crew went about their work: placing the charge in the barrel, tamping it down, rolling the ball into the muzzle, fixing it in place with another piece of cloth, priming the touch-hole.