by Simon Morden
“What?” He started paying attention. The unarmed man was better dressed than his companions, with a floppy hat perched on his head. The others were just townsmen, older, grey haired, but lean and competent enough. “What is this?”
“Toll.”
“Fuck off.” He said it more out of surprise than belligerence. “Since when did I have to pay to use a Carinthian bridge?”
“Everyone has to pay,” said the man, ostentatiously adjusting his clothing to show the painted wooden plaque hung around his neck. “Earl’s orders.”
“Does Leopold know about this? More to the point, does the prince know you’re taxing his subjects?” Not for the first time, Büber wished he could make a horse walk backwards. He was too close. Yes, of course he could afford a toll: he had money, but didn’t see why he should part with a single red penny.
“Are you refusing to pay?”
Büber looked down at the men. “What’re you going to do if I don’t?”
From the look of confusion on the spear-carriers’ faces, the question hadn’t arisen before. They looked at each other, then to the man with the hat.
“We … will …” he started, and finally an idea came to him, “…take you before the earl.”
“Good,” said Büber. “Lead on.”
“What?”
“Take me to this earl of yours.” He leant back in his saddle and felt for his own royal seal. “I can find out why he’s charging for something we provided for nothing.”
He held up the token long enough for the man to inspect it, but not for so long that it was still there when a hand came up to take it from him.
The man wearing the plaque shrugged. “Show him the way.”
“Why don’t you show me the way?” asked Büber pointedly. “That way you won’t tax anyone crossing our bridge.”
“You’re not in Carinthia, I’m not a Carinthian.” He jerked his head in the vague direction of the town. “You arrogant bastards need to be taken down a peg or two. Now go and have it out with Fuchs.”
One of the spearmen rolled his eyes and started walking up the street, and Büber followed slowly behind on the horse.
“I said it was a stupid idea,” said the man over his shoulder, and Büber stopped his mount, swung himself off and took hold of the reins.
“What do you mean?”
“That. Charging a toll. Stupid. Gerhard was going to find out sooner or later.”
“So why is your earl doing it? Did Leopold tell him to?”
The man spat on the ground and looked around for eavesdroppers. There were enough people around to suggest he shouldn’t be so free with his words, but he decided he didn’t care. “Leopold’s an inbred, web-toed, six-fingered mouth-breather, and Fuchs is just cruel and spiteful. But they’re both broke. Neither have a penny to their names.”
Bavaria should be rich. It had farms and pastures and forests – all of it lowlands, not like Carinthia that was half mountains.
“Why not?” Büber had a flask somewhere in his saddlebags, a little metal one that contained something a bit stronger than water.
“Fuchs paid off the Teutons. Cleaned him out completely. That’s why we’re at the bridge.”
“But you had a thousand spears at their back, hustling them through the land as fast as they could go.” They were in the town square, where there was nothing as grand as Juvavum could offer: no fountains, no high houses, no rich merchants, no wide-skirted ladies. “What happened to the soldiers?”
“Leopold’s cash ran out as well, didn’t it? He’s built too many stupid castles to be able to afford an army. So they all went home.” The man leant on his spear and pointed to a three-storey timber-framed house. “That’s the Town Hall. You’ll find Earl Fuchs inside. Doesn’t bother me if you go in or not.”
“Let’s just get this straight,” said Büber. “There’s no one guarding the Teutons?”
The man shook his head. “Thank the gods they took the bribe instead of sacking the town. They’re going away east now.”
“I know where they’re going. Or I thought I did.” Büber chewed at his fingers. He looked at the Town Hall, and back down the road they’d just come along. The man with the spear pursed his lips and started to wander away.
“Where are you going?” asked Büber.
“All Fuchs told me to do was stand by the bridge and get some money.” The man disappeared into the crowd of townsfolk, the top of his spear marking his progress towards a beer cellar at one of the corners of the square.
“Fuck,” said Büber under his breath. Earl Fuchs and his explanation would have to wait.
He spent a little time and money – Carinthian coin being good in most places – on some bread and sausage and cheese, and some beer.
Then he turned and rode back to the river.
The man with the hat was still there with his guards, still extracting tolls.
“Hey, Carinthian. I thought you were going to see the earl?”
“I changed my mind,” said Büber. He dug his heels in, and the horse trotted over the long span of the bridge. Once he had honest-to-gods Carinthian soil underfoot again, he turned east.
10
For anyone else, Nadel would have been hard to find. But Büber wasn’t anyone, and a man on a horse left tracks that a man on his own would not. Neither was Nadel trying to hide, not from him at least.
Büber followed the riverside at a distance, stopping every so often to listen, and after a while he got down and led his mount on foot. The southern bank was steep and wooded before it flattened out into the farmed plain between the water course and the hills behind. He was shielded from sight and could still move more or less freely.
Shod hooves stopped leaving marks in the soft dark earth, and the ferns at the side of the path were trampled. He bent down and peered into the shifting greens and browns. After a few moments, the outline of a horse resolved against the shadows, and Büber carefully led his own horse into the gap.
He tied it to a branch, and crept down the bank to where Nadel sat, motionless, behind a screen of milk parsley.
“That was quick,” murmured Nadel. He didn’t take his eyes off the opposite bank.
Büber lowered himself to the ground and looked through the green stems and broad leaves. On the north bank, where the slope was more gentle, and the soil had partially collapsed into the river, a chain of women were filling buckets.
He looked further inland and could make out the carts and horses of the Teutons, scattered through the thin woodland. Carinthian carts didn’t need draught animals, and it still surprised Büber that anyone else’s did.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said.
“What sort of problem?”
“Those Bavarian spearmen have gone home. No money to pay for them, so I’m told.”
“That’ll make things interesting. Have you seen some of these Teuton women? Faces like a robber’s dog chewing a wasp.”
“They’ll be more used to fighting than you.”
A Teuton mercenary rode slowly by the line of buckets and shouted something: encouragement or an insult, it sounded the same. The women took the opportunity to belittle his manhood, his bravery and his horse, in that order. That much Büber could make out from the gestures.
“And that,” said Nadel, “is why they’re barbarians, and we’re civilised men. Our women just don’t behave like that. Thank the gods they don’t look like that either.”
Büber gnawed at a finger. “They’ve got Simbach’s money. The earl there paid them off.”
“Really? Why would he do that?”
“Without the spearmen, maybe he thought he had to. The man I spoke to said it was either empty the purses or they’d tear up the town.” The horseman had ridden on, and the women resumed their bucket-chain. “I know they’ve got a shaman stashed somewhere, but I’m told just one of our hexmasters would be enough to take not only his skin off, but all the others too.”
“Where are they heading?”
“South
, somewhere. I know the Doge is spoiling for a fight with Milano. Plenty of coin to pay for three hundred heavy horse on either side. And if Bavaria has given them enough money, they could get there without having to take one of the alpine passes.”
“All the way to the Adriatic,” said Nadel. “Horses hate travel by boat, but I can’t see that bothering this lot.”
“This … this should have been simple, right?”
“Nothing’s ever simple, Master Büber.” Nadel leant forward slightly, tilting his head. “Barge?”
Büber listened for himself, and could make out the rhythmic wash of water against the upstream-pointed bow of a river barge.
“At least the Teutons seem to be back on the road.” Nadel nodded at the direction of the women, who struggled up the bank with the last of their loads and disappeared back into the trees.
“We’d better get going ourselves.” Büber stared across the river. “I’m wondering if one of us shouldn’t go and tell the prince about the Bavarians being broke. I mean, apart from castles, what the Hel have they been spending it on?”
“Frankish wine? They’ve got this stuff called brandy. Very moreish.”
The Teutons seemed to have vanished completely. The cart Büber had made out earlier wasn’t there, but neither had he seen it move. Perhaps he’d been distracted.
The barge came into view, tracking the centre of the river. The painted prow and the decorated panels on the sides were a contrast to the natural browns and greens: eyes on the front, as tradition demanded, and a series of scenes of dwarves mining and forging metals down to the rudder, all flame and spark.
Büber was just wondering when he’d last seen a dwarf when the first arrow hit the bargemaster. It transfixed his tattooed arm, the broad head sticking out one side, the flights the other.
The man barely had time to look down and register the pain. He was struck half a dozen times in the torso, and one pierced his neck. More arrows had been loosed, and they looped across the water, their trajectories flat.
“Shit.” Büber flattened himself against the damp earth and motioned for Nadel to do the same. The barge had almost drawn level with them, and with its master slumped on the deck, it was starting to slow and turn.
Feeling the change of pace, and hearing the odd banging noises on the hull, a bargee half-emerged through the little doors and stopped. He saw that his employer, colleague, friend even, was dead.
Another swarm of arrows flashed out of the undergrowth on the far bank. One hit the thin wooden door right by the bargee’s head. The point scratched him and he fell backwards.
“Torsten, we have to do something.” Büber raised his head enough to see that the barge was almost sideways across the river. Three men, dressed in Teuton-style chain shirts and half-helmets, stepped out into plain sight and judged the distance. Too far to jump, and the current was starting to carry the boat to the Carinthian side. They shouted instructions behind them.
“Hooks. They’re calling for rope and hooks.” Nadel knelt up. “If they get hold of it, they’ll butcher what’s left of the crew.”
“It’s coming our way first.” Büber made up his mind. “Crossbow?”
“On my saddle.”
Büber made a crouching run, only straightening up when he was almost at the horses. His heart was banging in his chest so hard it felt like it might knock its way through his ribs. Fear and anger both. He found Nadel’s crossbow, and a bag of short bolts in the saddlebags, then he found his own.
Rattling, he ran back. Nadel held out his hands, and Büber threw him his weapon, then skidded to a halt beside him.
“Spread out. Two different angles,” said Nadel. He heaved at the bow’s steel lever, cocking it, and shook out a pile of bolts by his side.
“And keep moving. If they spot us …” said Büber, then he shut up. Nadel knew as well as he did. Keeping low, he moved a dozen paces downstream, slinging his bag of bolts over his shoulder. He put his back to a tree and looked for a target.
The Teutons had got their rope and hooks, and were fishing for barges. One threw too short. The iron hook at the end fell into the water, and he quickly reeled it in.
A stupid time to be having such thoughts, but perhaps Thaler was right: he should take an apprentice. If he lived through this, he’d consider it more carefully.
He worried a bolt out and laid it in the groove. He glanced to his left and saw Nadel watching him, impatiently waiting for him to be ready.
Of the three men on the opposite bank he could see, he had an uninterrupted view of just one, who was trotting down the river-bank to get ahead of the drifting barge. Büber raised the stock to his shoulder and sighted down it. The Teutons didn’t know he was there, but they were about to find out – now was his last chance to change his mind and stay hidden.
His fingers curled around the trigger and squeezed. The bolt spiralled away, a flash of bright feathers making a rainbow blur. It buried itself in the man’s chest, waving aside the metal links as if they were a matter of no consequence. The Teuton managed one last cry before his lungs filled up with blood.
Nadel caught one of the others in the leg. It broke against his bone, and he went down screaming.
Time for both of them to move. Büber ducked around a tree to reload, and the wood was suddenly alive with sharp black blurs. He felt a double concussion as two arrows smacked into the bark he’d put at his back. They were firing wild, though, with no idea where he was. And no Teuton hedge wizard would find him either; he was indistinguishable from the forest that hid him.
He ducked down again and scrabbled for the next tree-trunk. The leaves above him rattled and flicked. It was going to be blind chance whether they hit him or not, and he had to accept that or run away.
The stern of the barge was encroaching on the overhanging branches on his side of the bank, the bow drifting just beyond midstream. More of the Teutons had risked coming into view, with two of them scooping up the ropes of the fallen and another acting as spotter for the archers who stayed behind the tree line.
Büber needed to take him down. He uncoiled and straightened, aiming carefully.
His target shaded his eyes to see better. Perhaps he caught sight of a man-shaped figure, or a glimpse of coloured flights. He pointed, shouted and Büber fired all at the same time. Knowing he’d been seen, the hunter leapt away and found a fat sycamore to cringe behind as the ground around him sprouted a harvest of quarrels.
“Peter?”
“Keep away. They’ve got my range.”
“They’ve also got the barge.”
It was still too risky to even glance around. The barrage remained just as intense, and he was pinned down. Nothing for it, then.
“Hey, you on the barge. Now is the only chance you have. Tables, door, anything. You’re on the Carinthian side but not for long.”
He had no idea if they’d heard him, but he heard one of the Teutons get caught by Nadel’s next bolt. The storm of arrows switched its focus: Nadel had deliberately shown himself to give Büber respite.
The stern of the barge hovered close to the bank. It was the only opportunity he was going to get before the Teutons reeled it in. He knew it would be impossible to move silently; there was almost nowhere to put his feet where there wasn’t an arrow sticking out of the soft soil.
He turned and ran and jumped, landing next to the body of the bargemaster. The bulk of the barge protected him if he crouched down, which was a good thing as he’d attracted attention. All the arrows were coming in shallow, glancing off the hull, splashing in the water, but their noise made him cower.
“Wotan’s one eye, this is stupid.” He forced himself to bang on the hold doors. “If you’re coming, this is it.”
The door opened a crack and there was a faint reflection from a wide, white eye. Satisfied that Büber wasn’t a Teuton, the occupant opened the door a little further.
The boat jerked backwards. The gap between the last board and dry land widened visibly.
&n
bsp; “Now. Out.”
There were two of them, one young, one old, both equally terrified. They’d heard the arrows striking the boat, now they saw the reality.
“We can’t do that,” the older man stuttered.
“Then you’re going to die here.” Büber recocked his crossbow, and slotted another bolt. “Torsten?” he called out. “Now would be good.”
Nadel appeared upstream and killed one of the men pulling on the grappling hook. More willing hands took the dead man’s place, and as before, the Teuton bowmen switched targets.
“Run,” shouted Büber to the bargees. “Run and jump.”
The boy crawled out onto the deck and crouched down, uncertain whether to go or stay.
“I’ll leave you behind if you don’t go now.”
The boy nodded feverishly and managed to find his feet. It wasn’t far, but he almost didn’t make it. His first footing landed on the very edge of the undercut bank. It sank under his weight, but gave way completely only after he’d spilt face-first into the leaf litter and tree roots.
“You next.” Büber grabbed the man’s arm and hauled him into the open. The boy was just about starting to move, and was far too slow for the Carinthian’s liking. “Don’t just lie there, you arsehole!”
The rope connecting the boat to the far side of the river went taut with a crack, and the barge started to swing out into open water, away from the branches with their concealing leaves.
Büber stood up, put his hand to the bargee’s back and pushed hard. Even as the man flew through the air, Büber braced his foot against the cargo hold and took the short run-up as fast as he could.
He landed awkwardly on the bank. The bolt he’d carefully laid on the stock of his crossbow bounced off, and he felt suddenly naked in a way he hadn’t before. The bargee he’d pushed was struggling up the bank, and, almost without thinking, Büber reached down and grabbed a handful of the man’s clothing between his shoulders.
Like a mother cat, he picked him up and ran a few steps before he overbalanced and crashed down again. An arrow whistled past his face, stroking his cheek before it puffed up the debris on the ground next to his wide-staring eye.
