Arcanum

by Simon Morden

  Kehle leant in with another objection, before realising it was futile. Their path was set and he was one of the reluctant revolutionaries. He turned to face his neighbours, and started to organise them into groups.

  73

  Ullmann looked over the wrecked beer cellar, the broken furniture, the sharp shards of pottery and crystals of glass. The odour was of blood and beer, and both had soaked into the wooden boards.

  They hadn’t surrendered. Quite the opposite: they’d come out fighting drunk and, being more used to casual violence than the spear-holders, had caused a number of casualties. Only weight of numbers and rising anger had driven them back inside, and then, of course, they’d had to go in and get them.

  It had been disconcertingly messy, a brawl in a bar with lethal consequences. It turned out that Vulfar’s bargees were actually very good at that sort of combat, where a spear had limited use, but a cosh, a cudgel or a fist came into its own.

  Gods knew what the survivors from Fuchs’s over-merry band would be like when they sobered up. All Ullmann knew was that they weren’t going to be his problem. When they’d finally been subdued, they’d been trussed up like boars, knots tight and straining tighter.

  He kicked half a stoneware mug aside and watched it spin into an overturned table, as Horst clumped down the stairs from the street.

  “That’s the last of them. They’re in the barge, with Vulfar’s lot staring down at them.” He pursed his mouth and looked around him. “Bastards put up a struggle, didn’t they?”

  “It’s difficult to say how much of their courage was found in the bottom of a bottle,” said Ullmann, “and how much will remain in the morning. The Bavarians are blooded now, though. They know they can win against Fuchs.”

  “You might be confident, Max, but they’re a bit flaky for my liking.” Horst glanced back up the steps. “Speaking of morning, the sky’s lightening. Won’t be long now.”

  “Then we need to get ready.” Ullmann turned his back on the cellar and climbed back to street level. The townsfolk were milling about, talking to each other in hushed voices about what they’d done, what they’d seen, and what would happen next. There was very little preparation for that and even less organisation: the one thing they couldn’t afford to do was let Fuchs know of the uprising before they’d trapped him; nor could they let him escape once they had.

  Ullmann could see that clearly. Why couldn’t they?

  “Horst? Get Manfred and go to the edge of town on the north road. If you see horsemen in the distance, one of you run to the town square and tell me. The other has to keep an eye on Fuchs. And don’t be seen.” Ullmann scanned the crowds. “Mr Kehle? Mrs Kehle?”

  It took a little while, and he had to resort to pushing his way through the forest of spears in order to find them. Juli Kehle’s weapon was dark and stained.

  “It’s time you went to get your husband and the other hostages. Take fifty people, go the long way around. If you can find someone who knows the inside of the manor house, then all the better.” He wagged his finger. “Do not attack as soon as Fuchs leaves. Give him enough time to get to town, otherwise he might ride back and you’ll be on your own.”

  Ullmann appointed marshals more or less at random, and got them to herd the townsfolk into the market square, opposite the Town Hall that Fuchs had co-opted as his headquarters.

  There was a cart – a magic-powered one that had been abandoned against a wall and forgotten since. He climbed up on it and stared down. They were a mob, nothing more: the scene could have come from a hundred different stories where villagers gathered in a muddy main street with pitchforks and torches. Could Carinthia do any better at the moment? Perhaps not, and maybe he should lower his expectations. Then again, the stories always had the brave, good-hearted hero lead his kith and kin to victory over the lurking horror that terrorised them.

  “People of Simbach,” he started, “friends. A good night’s work so far, but you’re not done yet. There’s Fuchs to bring down, ending his perverse rule over you. If you worked his land today, you’ll work your own land tomorrow. If you paid taxes to him today, your purse will be heavier by morning. All it needs is for you to keep your heads and remember that you’re stronger together than you are apart: that’s what’s brought you to this point. A single spear needs both luck and skill, but a forest of spears needs neither. By relying on your neighbour for your protection, just as they rely on you for theirs, you only have to stand your ground. We’ll entice Fuchs into town, block his retreat and trap him right here. And this is where he’ll answer for his thieving and plundering and kidnapping. He’ll answer to you, and to no one else.”

  Gods, he was enjoying this. He’d always had a head full of tales, and now he was in one. His voice, despite its country-bumpkin burr, carried clear and far across the square, and they were listening to him.

  “Each of you play your part, and you’ll be free, just as the hostages Fuchs has taken will be. Three groups to guard the north, east and west of the town. When Fuchs goes past you, close in behind him, drive him on, and he’ll meet another group coming the other way. There’ll be no escape, though he’ll try. You’ve already shown yourself equal to the fight. Down with Fuchs, up with Simbach.”

  It gained him a ragged cheer, and it was enough for now. Ullmann jumped down off the cart and started to divide the hundred and fifty or so people with spears into three half-centuries – he was tempted to send the unarmed people home, but they had as much right as anyone to be there.

  Just as long as they didn’t get in the way of the front ranks. He thought of a way to keep them out of trouble, and told them to find stones – tear up the cobbles on the streets if they had to – and use them as missiles over the heads of the spears.

  Were they ready now? The sky was a dirty grey, and there’d be no sun to seal their triumph, just a cold east wind and the threat of rain. The last of the Bavarians trailed from the square, and he was alone.

  There was nothing more he could do. Either the townspeople could manage not to trip over their weapons or each other, or they’d rout at the first sign of trouble and he, Horst and Manfred would have to swim the river to Carinthia.

  Perhaps there was one thing he could do. He drew his sword and followed the north road. There he found his countrymen, and Mr Metz, trying to hide fifty Bavarians up the side streets leading directly off the main road.

  Horst shrugged at the futility of their efforts, and Manfred laughed nervously.

  “Mr Metz, we have to do better than this. Whose houses are these?” Ullmann pointed to the four buildings on the corner of the junction.

  “I … I don’t know,” stammered Metz.

  “They’re your houses, Mr Metz,” said Ullmann, exasperated. “Open the doors, get a decade of men in each of them, and the rest of us will hide in that smithy there. There are windows through which you’ll be able to see Fuchs pass by. When he does, form up here.”

  The sky was light. It was almost time.

  Metz split his troops, as Ullmann had instructed, and hammered on the doors of the four houses until they were admitted. Those who were left, Ullmann led into the forge.

  It was warm and dark inside, with the shuttered windows closed and only slits between the ill-fitting panels for illumination. The coals in the fire glowed a deep, charnel red that hurt the eyes. There were plenty of hidden obstacles to fall over, too.

  “Just sit down where you can. Horst, can you see the road, or do we need to open one of the shutters?”

  Horst worked his way over to the window, stubbing his toe on something that clanged. “Fuck. Piss. Shit. That hurts.” He finally pressed himself against the crack of light and rested his hands on the frame.

  “Well.”

  “My fucking foot. Yes, I can see, but we won’t exactly be able to turn out quickly if we’re half killed by the crap that’s lying on the floor.”

  “It’s not crap. It’s work.”

  The voice was low and rough, and gave Ullmann some i
dea of the size of the man who owned it, which was confirmed a moment later when Horst unlatched the shutters and nudged one open.

  Smiths tended to come in two sizes: short and barrel-like, and tall and barrel-like. This one, Ullmann reckoned, was half as tall again as anyone else in the room.

  One of the Bavarians called him Bastian, though the way he said it, it may as well have been “bastard”. He loomed into the half-light, moving his head from side to side to stop it knocking against the objects hung from the rafters.

  “Who are you, and why are you here?”

  It wasn’t as if they’d been particularly quiet. They’d already had a pitched battle that night only two streets away. But smiths tended to be a little on the deaf side.

  “We’re getting rid of Fuchs,” said Ullmann, and the smith slowly turned towards him.

  “You’re not from around here.”

  “No.” Ullmann had his sword in his hand, but he needed more than a couple of lessons on defensive parries for it to be anything but an actor’s prop. “We brought spears from Juvavum’s armoury as a gift to the people of Simbach.”

  “Carinthian?” The wet slap was spit hitting the floor. “Since when did we need Carinthia to dig us up out of the pit we’ve made for ourselves?”

  “Since our Bavarian neighbours started hiding in Carinthian barns.”

  Bastian had massive fists. They looked even bigger when clenched.

  “You need to leave,” said the smith.

  Ullmann shook his head. “Why did no one tell me that coming in here was a stupid idea?”

  “Because we didn’t know Bastian slept with his anvil these days,” was the hasty reply.

  “We’re here to pick a fight with your earl, not you. If you support him, there are still thirteen of us and one of you. If you don’t, then you won’t mind us borrowing your forge until after he’s ridden past.” Whether Ullmann would have been so bold without the others was something he wasn’t going to think about too deeply. “There’ll be no harm done, and your fellow Bavarians will be grateful.”

  “Grateful? Grateful? They’ve never been grateful yet.” He took another step closer to Ullmann, who swore that the ground shivered. “I’ve asked you to leave. Do you want me to make you?”

  “What is that you value, Master Smith?” Ullmann was aware of Horst’s increasingly frantic gestures. He could hear horses. Fuchs was on his way. “If it’s not the gratitude of Simbach, what else? Wealth? Love? Fame?”

  Bastian bent low and breathed schnapps-flavoured breath over him. “If it were any of those, I would have had them by now. What I want, Carinthian, is a challenge. Something equal to my skill.”

  There were pots and pans and horseshoes and tools and hammers and vices and bars of raw iron all around; country-town fare, all of it. How often had Bastian moved his forge looking for his match?

  “Very well,” said Ullmann. “I’ll find you your challenge. In exchange, let’s all shut up, right now.”

  Horst shrank back from the window and pressed his back to the wall. Ullmann was very still, and the shadows flickered past the shutters. He counted them, each moment of darkness, reaching six before the light returned to constancy.

  Everyone held their breath. Horst leant forward slightly, and gave them the nod. It sounded momentarily like a windy night on an alp.

  Ullmann shifted from his perch.

  “Thank you, Master Bastian. Expect to hear from us soon. Men? Remember your spears.” He moved to the door and opened it a crack. The road was clear, and he tiptoed out.

  He ushered his group out and made sure they were all armed and facing the right way. The corner houses emptied rapidly once the men there saw the first phalanx forming up. Down the road, Fuchs and his troop were idly clopping along, unaware of what was happening behind them.

  “Tight packed,” he hissed, “shoulder to shoulder.” He pushed the spear-carriers forward, and let the stone-throwers arrange themselves behind. “Not,” he warned them, “until I say so.”

  When he’d finished, he found that the knot of spears weren’t advancing as he’d hoped – they were still fixed at the junction, looking severe but static. The trap would only work if they were moving.

  He turned himself sideways and eased through them, snagging Manfred’s collar as he went. The two of them popped out the far side, and he just kept walking. Horst nudged his immediate neighbours, and, slowly, the Bavarians caught on. They clattered and rattled, less a column and more of a rabble, but at least they were moving.

  Still neither Fuchs nor any of his entourage looked in their direction. But the townspeople’s now purposeful marching was faster than the ambling of the riders’ horses: they were catching them up.

  The trailing horseman glanced over his shoulder, looked back, pulled hard on his reins and wheeled around. His eyes were wide and white.

  Ullmann stared at the man, while Manfred lowered the point of his spear. Neither of them stopped their advance, and after a few broken steps of uncertainty, the Bavarians’ spears dropped to form an impenetrable, still-moving, barrier.

  “My lord,” shouted the man, “an ambush.”

  All six riders looked their way. The horses were big, and snorting, and they filled the street just as much as the spears did. If they’d have charged them there and then, it could have gone terribly wrong.

  “Stones!” called Ullmann. He raised his sword, and inaccurately thrown cobbles arced over his head, accompanied by grunts and cries of effort. Most of them missed their targets, falling short and clacking against walls and the road, but hitting Fuchs wasn’t what they were for.

  The effect was almost instant. The ground was covered in loose, spinning cobbles, and the one or two that covered the distance so rattled the rearguard rider’s horse that it bolted. And where one went, so did the others with only slightly more control.

  The spear wall started to break as some at the front started to run after them. Ullmann didn’t want that at all. “Hold. Keep the line. Think as one. Act as one.”

  They fell into line again, and were ready.

  “Forward.”

  The horses were regrouping at the end of the street, just where it joined the market square. They were wondering what had happened to the men they’d left behind, because they rode backwards and forwards, shouting names and getting no response.

  Fuchs – the man that had to be Fuchs, because he wore a polished breastplate and the fanciest red cloak, his hair in a Roman cut and his cheeks smooth – fought to keep control of his nervous, high-stepping horse. He looked straight at Ullmann, and the Carinthian felt a thrill.

  Even earls feared him now.

  There were four ways out of the square: one ended up in the river, leaving just three. They took the Passau road, and vanished out of sight, hooves sparking on the cobbles.

  Abruptly they were back, streaking across the square, stones flying after them, heading for the road that led to München. Fuchs, in the lead, pulled up hard, horse rearing up at the crowd facing him. He cast about wildly for somewhere, anywhere, to run to. The groups from the east and west burst into the square, and Ullmann aimed his vaguely disciplined spears at them, to press them from the north.

  More stones came over the top, and the throwers were so close now, they couldn’t avoid hitting something. One rider went down, caught on the crown of his head, and his horse backed away down the street towards the wharf.

  The Bavarians were spear-point to spear-point. Fuchs drew his sword, but did nothing with it but hold it high.

  “Do you surrender?” called Ullmann.

  Fuchs searched the faces for the one who addressed him. “Surrender? Your lives, your families, they’re all forfeit. I am your lord.”

  “The time of earls is over, Mr Fuchs, and the gods know you haven’t been an earl to these people for a while now.” Ullmann had Manfred by his side, spear angled, foot on the butt to brace it. “Put down your sword and order your men to do the same. There’s no help coming for you today. Just
us and those you’ve been robbing.”

  Fuchs’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a fucking Carinthian,” he said; then, louder: “You’re following a Carinthian spy.”

  A spear drove into his side, between breast and backplate, under his sword-arm. The leaf-shaped head went in halfway.

  “This is a Carinthian spear, so I’m told,” said the woman who’d thrust it there. “But this arm is all Bavarian.”

  She jerked the blade out, and blood welled up, down Fuchs’s side, staining his undershirt and the top of his breeks. His expression was not just of surprise but of incredulity. Perhaps he’d deluded himself that he could go forever.

  The sudden silence that followed his initial grunt of pain stretched on. Fuchs lowered his sword and pressed his forearm against the wound, staring with total concentration into the distance. It looked for a moment as though he might rally: the cut wasn’t deep and nothing vital had been pierced. Then a cobblestone smashed into his face. His nose broken, blood in his mouth and eyes, he lost his grip on both his saddle and his sword. He rolled off backwards with one foot still in the stirrup.

  There was no shortage of people to finish him off, and while they did their savage work, Fuchs’s men were dragged down screaming off their panicked mounts and butchered where they lay; trampled, stabbed, stamped on and crushed.

  Arms and feet rose and fell in a perverse parody of a wine press, rhythmic and deliberate, and it was over a long time before they stopped.

  Ullmann withdrew, along with Manfred and Horst, and stood a way off.

  “Gods, Max,” said Horst. “Gods.” He was at a loss for what to say.

  A loose horse skittered past, and Manfred hooked its bridle. He distracted himself with the act of calming it down. “What happens to the poor bastards we’ve got on the barge?”

  “It’s not up to me, is it?” Ullmann shrugged. “Whatever, it’s not like they don’t deserve it. You can’t go around kicking in people’s doors, beating them up, stealing their things, day after day, and expect there not be retribution at some point.”