Arcanum

by Simon Morden

  There was silence, then a voice piped up from the back. “Prince Felix. Do we try and take him back?”

  “Ah, lads. Would that we could, but don’t you see what a trap they’ve made for us, and what fools we’d be if we fell into it? I don’t like what they’ve done any more than you do, but we can all see why they’ve done it – to provoke us into doing something stupid. There’ll be other times, and yes, a bag of florins to the man who brings him back home. But not now. Let’s worry about the living, not the dead, as cold as that may seem.”

  The Carinthian horns sounded, the dwarvish horns answered.

  From where he stood behind the crag, Ullmann’s view was limited to the rear of the first earthwork. The spears had lined up to receive the lead wagon – with Felix’s head displayed banner-proud – as its front wheels fell into the ditch. The second would come up behind it, then the third, just like they’d seen earlier that day. The doors fore and aft would open, and there would be a ready-made tunnel stretching across the bridge all the way to beyond bow-shot where the dwarves were mustering.

  There came a roar, and the spears braced to receive the charge. They stood firm as dwarf after dwarf hurled themselves out of the narrow opening in the lead wagon, almost directly onto the Carinthian spears. It was insane to fight like that, sacrificing so many, but soon enough there was a bulge in the Carinthian line, where the dwarves had forced them back with the sheer press of their bodies and ferocity of their blows.

  Bows were useless at this stage, their bolts more likely to hit friend than foe, and, worse, more than half the spearmen at the earthwork weren’t even engaged. They were keeping their positions along the rampart rather than crowding the wagon’s opening.

  Reinhardt rode back and forth as before, exhorting his men to hold. To Ullmann’s mind it was exactly the worst thing he could have done.

  The line suddenly broke. A dwarf made it to the top of the embankment, was cut down, only to be replaced by two more, then several of them. The spears were were now split. And they were fighting not downhill but on the level.

  Reinhardt rode into the melee, slashing with his sword, rather than calling for the retreat. And without waiting for the order, those on the limits of the line started to run back. A trickle became a flood, and the Carinthian line burst asunder. Reinhardt looked for a moment like he’d lose his own head, but used his rearing horse to clear a path ahead of him before bolting to the temporary safety of the second and final earthwork.

  The bows all fired at once, and the battle suddenly flowed the other way. Dwarves were riddled with bolts, two and three to a body. Where there had been a score or more, now there were none, cut down by the hard rain from the crag above them.

  More took their place, though, and in the time it took the bowmen to reload and resight, the ground between the first and second embankments was lost. The dwarves ignored the spears on the earthwork. They turned and made straight for the crag.

  Of course they would. Getting rid of the bows was their priority. Ullmann barely had time to join the Black Company’s line and draw his sword before their fronts met.

  The dwarves threw themselves at the swords with the same delirious vigour as they had at the spears. Leaping, they held their axes and hammers high, then drove them down. Most of them died in the air, impaled, but their momentum carried them onwards, knocking men over, breaking the ranks, leaving undefended gaps that were impossible to close.

  Even though the bolts whirred and hissed, thinning the enemy, there were simply too many to withstand. The spears on the earthwork remained where they were, when they should have attacked. Reinhardt had it wrong again.

  Ullmann’s arm ached from the parry and thrust, and his legs from the continual backstepping over uneven terrain. They had started with four ranks; now they could barely muster two. No matter how many they killed – and the ground they were slowly yielding was thick with corpses – there was always another dwarf hurling himself at their line.

  The Black Company was being hacked to pieces, and soon there wouldn’t be enough of them to shield the crag, let alone to cover any retreat by the bowmen. Amid the forest of raised axe-blades and hammer-heads, he could see Felix’s head, still on its pole, bobbing and yawing, being passed from hand to hand.

  And still the spears didn’t engage. Gods, Reinhardt. Do something.

  It was Sophia who saw that the battle had tipped again. She came riding out behind the Black Company, ahead of a stream of men, each clutching their bows and running for the tree line.

  “Pull back,” grunted Ullmann, defending himself against an inexpert hammer-swing that would have nevertheless caved in his skull. “Pull back.”

  The call rippled up the line. The rush of bowmen trickled to nothing, and Ullmann checked the distance they had to cover. The remnants of the Black Company needed the right moment to break, or they’d be cut down to a man.

  Finally, and far too late, Carinthian horns blared and the spears surged forward, down the embankment, across the ditch, into the dwarvish flank. They struck hard, then pulled back at once.

  Heads turned, and Ullmann thought that might be the time, but they were still toe-to-toe. Again, the horns, again the charge, and the relentless advance on what was left of his men faltered.

  “Go. Run.”

  He’d have been a fool not to take his own advice, and Ullmann was no fool. He spun on his heel and started to put one foot in front of the next as quickly as he could. He daren’t look around, even though he knew that some of his men weren’t going to be as fast as he was, and were being brought down behind him.

  All he needed was a lead, a little bit of distance between him and them to get him to the point where their weapons couldn’t reach him and they’d have to chase after him on those stunted legs of theirs. Six feet, the height of a man, would do.

  Gods, the trees looked as far away as when he’d started, though that couldn’t possibly be true. To his left and right, men in black surcoats were running level with him, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see a dark swell, a grey metal wave, following him across the trampled pasture.

  It wasn’t easy. He’d already been tired. Now his chest was starting to burn and his mouth tasted acid. His sword was balanced and light, but his scabbard swung awkwardly, waggling like a tail. His mail coat could turn a blade, but he wasn’t facing blades now.

  He felt himself slowing down. He gritted his teeth and tried harder. He had to outrun the pack. He had to beat them to the trees. Halfway there.

  Sophia kept pace with them. She couldn’t ride that well, and she was on a horse that wasn’t a trained warhorse, more a half-bred carthorse suited to the learner she was rather than the warrior she pretended to be. She was there, though, a distraction, and more so as she angled her horse between the Black Company and the dwarves.

  The metal-shod hooves and her sword gained his men a few extra feet. It might be enough, and he risked turning his head to see just how far ahead he was.

  His eyes went wide.

  Not far enough. Thirty feet or so. If he could lose the mail, the sword, the scabbard, he’d make it for certain. With them, he wasn’t sure. He was starting to fall behind the rest of his men. But he was young, he was active; he shouldn’t be being beaten by his men, some of whom were twice his age.

  His breathing was ragged, his throat closing up. This wasn’t exhaustion: this was fear. He could do it. He could make the trees. They were closer. He was in front. The dwarves had to be more tired than he was. They had to be more unused to running on their strangely lengthened legs than he was on his that he’d had from birth.

  Sophia rode behind them again, tracking from right to left. Those dwarves that were closest to her tried to strike at her. They stumbled. Some of them fell. See, they were tired. They’d had enough. They’d stop soon and let him slow down.

  The acid in his mouth swelled suddenly, and he was vomiting even as he was running, spitting it out and hauling air before the next contraction of his stom
ach.

  It was her fault. That was it. It was her fault because he knew that it didn’t matter if he reached the tree line, even if he managed to evade the dwarves that would inevitably run in after him, she was going to have him pressed anyway. He was running towards one doom as fast as he ran away from the other.

  He had vomit down his front, stinging tears in his eyes, burning pain in his legs, agony in his chest. He was going to die like this.

  Then there were trees, right in front of him, and the heels of the men ahead were disappearing through the ferns. He’d run all that way, the Kufstein crag now small with distance, only to fail at the last.

  Sophia came galloping towards him, crouching low over the saddle, her head almost pressed against the white foam on the horse’s neck. She held her sword against her leg. She started to slow, to pull back on the reins, to rise up and raise her sword, ready to strike at dwarves at Ullmann’s back.

  And as she passed him, he slashed at the horse’s legs.

  It screamed in pain, and he heard it go down. He kept on running and choking, choking and running. Almost there. He tried to blink away his blurred vision, trying to pick a path into the forest before he reached it.

  He could hear footsteps behind him. Gods, so close behind him. He waved his sword again, a desperate effort to fend them off, and it sent him stumbling to his right. Somehow, he managed to keep his feet.

  Sophia appeared on his off-side, running strongly, her legs devouring the distance left between her and the first of the trees. Her old cavalry spatha was still in her hand, and she didn’t even break stride as she back-handed him in the face with the blade.

  His world went abruptly dark.

  94

  The first they saw of it was the old square Roman tower, a dilapidated shadow against the setting sun. Aaron Morgenstern called his wagon to a halt, and the rest of them slowly rumbled to a standstill in a long line behind.

  Thaler climbed stiffly from his wagon at the rear, and they met halfway.

  “Gods,” said Thaler, “my arse feels like I’ve sat on a wasps’ nest.”

  “You should worry,” said Morgenstern; “at least you have padding on your tusch. My bones have rattled free and the only thing holding them together is my skin.”

  “Yes, well: let’s not make it a competition, shall we?” Thaler put his hands on his hips and scanned the horizon to the south. The Enn valley was a deeply incised blue notch in the blade of the golden mountain peaks.

  There was no sign of battle, but it occurred to him that he had little real idea of what he should be looking for. He didn’t see smoke, and he didn’t see crows. That was about the limit of his knowledge.

  “Do we keep going south, or should we stay here tonight?” asked Morgenstern.

  “I have absolutely no idea.” Thaler frowned. “It all depends, doesn’t it? Do they need us now?”

  “And just how are we supposed to find out? Ride a bullock up to this, this place where they are –”

  “Kufstein,” said Thaler.

  “It’ll be the middle of the night by the time we get there. We may as well camp and start again in the morning.” Morgenstern, satisfied with his logic, stretched his spine and began to walk back to his wagon.

  Thaler, thoughts suddenly on bread and sausage and beer, shook his head. “Aaron, you’re right. It’ll take too long to see how the land lies. Which is why we must press on. It’s taken us two days to get here as it is, and we absolutely cannot delay any further. If we turn up and we’ve already won, we can join in the celebrations. If we turn up too late, well: that’s that, isn’t it? But what if we turn up exactly when they need us? The longer we wait, the more likely it is we’ll lose.”

  Morgenstern stopped. “And how do you make that calculation?”

  “Because if we assign a third to each probability, it’s quite clear that two-thirds of the time we haven’t won yet.”

  “But half of that two-thirds means we’ve lost already.”

  “Ah,” said Thaler. “If we carry on now, we’ll win two-thirds of the time.”

  “I …” Morgenstern stared at the ground, deep in concentration, then finally back at Thaler. “That’s drek and you know it.”

  Thaler smiled and gave a little bow. “Nevertheless, we’ll continue. Left, if you please, Mr Morgenstern.”

  Morgenstern muttered his way back to his wagon, and Thaler returned to the rear cart. Tuomanen had been asleep in the back, and she looked up over the side.

  “Where are we?”

  “Rosenheim,” said Thaler, bracing himself to mount up next to the teamster.

  “Are we stopping?”

  “No.” He heaved, and fell into the lap of old Kaleb. “Apologies.”

  She curled back up like a cat on the sacks of grain they’d bought as cattle feed. “Wake me when we get to wherever it is we’re going.”

  The line of carts started moving again, rattling and bouncing up the potholed track. Up ahead, Thaler could see Morgenstern’s wagon turn and plod away up the Ennsbruck road. It stopped after only a short distance, and Morgenstern stood, using the driver for support.

  “What now?” His own wagon shuddered to a halt.

  Morgenstern was waving at him, and pointing due south. Thaler leant back over the wagon to retrieve his bag, and found that Tuomanen was lying mostly on it.

  “Mistress, I need my distance-pipe.”

  She lifted her head, and Thaler pulled the bag free. Retrieving the instrument, he stood up to gain height, and held it to his eye.

  There was the swathe of forest in the valley’s mouth, cloaking its sides up to the bare rock. There was the pasture land east of the river, good grazing all of it. And there, in between, was the via. On it was a rider.

  At first, it seemed that the man was alone, but after a little tweak on the focus, Thaler could see a long, ragged line of figures on foot behind him. At least, he assumed it was a him. At this distance he couldn’t tell.

  “We have company,” he said, and Tuomanen was instantly on her feet. She took the distance-pipe from him and peered down it.

  “I can’t tell if that looks like a defeated army or a victorious one. One thing: they look tired.” She put her foot up on the side of the wagon and rested her elbow on her knee, seeking a steadier view.

  “There doesn’t seem to be that many of them, either.” Thaler groped for his walking-stick. “I appreciate that this suggestion is somewhat redundant, but would you be so kind as to stay here until I return?”

  He struggled down from the cart and walked along the via, apprehension rising in his craw. Morgenstern watched as the librarian passed the lead wagon, saying nothing but pursing his lips and frowning.

  Slowly, the approaching figure on horseback resolved in detail. Yes, it was a man. Yes, he was in armour with a sword at his waist. Yes, his expression was dour.

  “Gods, Master Thaler. What are you doing out here?”

  Reinhardt. “Good evening, Master. We’ve come to offer you our assistance, in whichever way we can.”

  “We?” Reinhardt shielded his eyes against the low sun to take in the line of ox-carts. “Are you quite mad, man?”

  “Never saner, Master Reinhardt. Tell me how the battle went. Or goes. You’re here, so there has to have been some sort of resolution.”

  “We’ve been …” he started, then chewed at his lip. “Ah, there’s bad news. Our lord Prince Felix has fallen.”

  Thaler steadied himself on his stick. “Oh.”

  “He died bravely, charging the foe repeatedly, but …” – he looked down sadly – “you’ll hear this from others, so I may as well tell you first. The dwarves mounted his head on a pole and carried it in their vanguard.”

  Thaler rummaged in a pocket for a handkerchief, and dabbed at his eyes. “Are we lost, then?”

  “No,” said Reinhardt, “and no one’s more surprised than I am at that. We held firm. We changed our tactics. Master Büber won a famous victory against their left flank, destroying it
utterly with few losses, but their main force managed to overwhelm our defences each time, no matter how many of them we killed. What you see here is a planned retreat. Master Büber still has a large part of our forces in the field, and will skirmish with the dwarves’ rear as they try to advance down the valley.”

  “So are you …” – Thaler struggled to find the words – “in charge now?”

  “The Lady Sophia is our war-leader. Assuming she’s still alive. And can make her way back here. She has the bowmen and Master Ullmann’s Black Company with her, so our hope’s not without foundation.” Reinhardt leant forward onto his saddle’s pommel. “Gods, Master Thaler, it’s a mess. We’re scattered to the four winds and no one knows where anyone is any more. After chasing us off, they may well have turned around and crushed Büber’s forces, and we won’t know until they come howling at us again and burn Rosenheim down around our ears.”

  Thaler blew his nose. “Sophia. I mean, Lady Sophia: was she there when they paraded Felix’s head?”

  “She had one of your distance-pipes. I imagine she’d have been among the first to see it.”

  “And?” wondered Thaler.

  “She held. She held like a true Carinthian. I was never for her, Master Thaler, not like some. I’d entertained thoughts of Felix choosing a German bride when the time came, and shooing these Jews out of the fortress and back into their own alley.” He shook his head. “But the woman has steel in her heart as well as in her hand, and as irregular as it might be to have a Jewess lead us into battle, I can’t think of anyone else from among our number more suitable than her.”

  Thaler was lost for a moment. There’d always been one of Alaric’s sons on the throne, no matter how tenuous the genealogy had sometimes been. “What will become of us?”