Arcanum (12 page)

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.

“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.

He rolled away, and put some trees between him and the Teutons.

“Torsten? Pull back. I’ve got them!”

The arrow fire dropped away, but only when Büber reached the edge of the trees and the track that followed it did he stop.

The boy emerged, his shoulder under the older bargee’s arm, dragging him forward. The man cried out as the boy sank to his knees to drop his load to the ground. There was a thick black arrow in his buttocks. Then Nadel showed himself, face slick with sweat but pale as a ghost. His fingers were bleeding with the constant effort of cocking and recocking his bow.

“Peter? You crazy bastard.”

Büber felt like he was on fire. Every nerve, every sinew was tight and ready. He was so alive, he hadn’t noticed the blood dribbling in a fat stream down his face and neck.

He started to laugh with joy, with exhilaration and relief, and the others looked at him as if he were mad.

Gerhard was undecided. He customarily met his enemies in the throne room and his friends in his private chambers. He rarely met the men who worked for him anywhere, leaving the passing of orders to Trommler.

But here was Büber, master of the hunt, having ridden all night from Simbach. He had news of the Teutons, and the breathless messenger had said that half the man’s face was obscured with blood.

The sergeants’ quarters, then. Get him cleaned up and fed. Gerhard wrapped a cloak around himself and a servant opened the door for him. Trommler was already awake, up, and dressed.

“Good morning, my lord,” he said, and gave a short bow.

“Am I allowed to suggest it’s hardly morning?” Gerhard frowned at the greying sky outside.

“You are, my lord, but the gods decree that it is morning all the same.”

The prince didn’t often blaspheme against the Aesir, but he had to bite his tongue. Something told him that a day that started like this wasn’t going to get better by nightfall.

In the sergeants’ mess, Büber was cursing at a woman who was trying to mop his wound with diluted wine. He was sitting on a stool, his hands clamped on his thighs; she was standing next to him with a bowl and a bloodied cloth.

“Don’t be such a baby,” she scolded.

“Then stop scrubbing at it like it’s a stewpot, you old witch.” Büber turned and tried to grab the rag away from her. Then he saw the prince regarding him like a turd in the chamber pot. He batted the woman aside and stood unsteadily. “My lord.”

Gerhard walked slowly over and reached out for Büber’s chin. He moved it left, then right.

“Will you live?”

“Yes … yes, my lord.”

“Then sit down and let the goodwife get on with her duties, while you tell me what’s so important that my royal person is hauled from his bedchamber like a common labourer.” Gerhard kicked one of the bench seats out and sat opposite him.

“Yes, my lord.” Büber blushed under his dried blood crust. “The Bavarians have lost control of the Teuton horsemen. One of the Earl of Simbach’s men told me that Leopold is broke, and since there was no coin to pay the soldiers, they went back to their homes. The Earl of Simbach has imposed a toll on the bridge to raise some cash locally, because everything he had went to paying the Teutons not to raze the town.”

Gerhard’s face grew increasingly immobile until he looked like one of the old Roman statues. After a while, he motioned with his finger to Büber’s face.

“What happened there?”

“Me and Torsten Nadel were tracking the Teutons from the south bank of the Enn – they stopped to water the horses – when a barge came upstream. They attacked it, killed the bargemaster, and grappled the boat.” He chewed at his lip. “We got the crew off.”

“At some personal risk, I see.” Gerhard was furious, but he’d show that later and in private.

“It was … they didn’t care, my lord. Between us, me and Torsten put about six of them in the ground, and they just didn’t care. Like they were animals.”

“Perhaps, Master Chamberlain, we should have dealt with them all while we had the opportunity.” Gerhard looked at his own pink-stained fingers. “And perhaps our brother Leopold has some questions to answer, too.”

“Quite, my lord.” Trommler made a rumbling noise in his throat. “Shall I request the hexmasters’ pleasure?”

“Among other things, yes. But that’s where we’ll start. I want every one of those barbarian Teutons dead by dusk tomorrow.” The prince’s hand strayed unconsciously to where his sword-hilt normally was, but not even princes wore swords in bed. “Now, huntmaster.”

“My lord?”

“Two things. You did well saving the crew of the barge. I have no doubt they’re grateful for their lives and that you were exceptionally brave. Well done.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“And if you’d died, and Nadel also, I’d have absolutely none of the information you’ve just told me. Which makes you an exceptionally brave idiot. If you think I need to know something urgently enough to ride from one side of Carinthia to the other without stopping, you do that first. Then, and only then, do you risk your neck on some stupid and most likely suicidal rescue. Have I made myself quite clear, huntmaster?”

Büber swallowed. His Idun’s apple bobbed conspicuously. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Now get your face sewn up, eat something and get some sleep. I’ll be needing you sooner than you’d like.” Gerhard pulled a sour face and stood, with Büber struggling to follow suit.