Arcanum (19 page)

“Because we owe our lord as much? If he is Carinthia, and it is Carinthia we are sworn to protect, then it is us who are best placed to accomplish such a task.”

“We are?”

Allegretti shrugged. “Who else? Signorina, can you protect the prince?”

“I don’t know. I can try, but he’ll be at the very front, won’t he?” She frowned. “But I’ll be busy. I don’t see anyone else around here who can cast spells.”

“There is always the Teuton shaman.”

“I’m certain he won’t be able to cast, and the prince has his earls to protect him, anyway.”

“I have yet to see,” said the Italian, “twenty horsemen win against three hundred. Especially when those twenty are on heavy horse but are essentially unarmoured. Signore Büber, do you know where the Teutons are?”

Büber scratched at his head. “I left Torsten Nadel to keep track of them. When we see him, they won’t be far away.” He chewed at his lip. “No, then. I don’t know where the Teutons are. We could get no warning at all.”

“All the more reason to make a plan now. Signorina, you cannot protect the prince. Neither can I.”

“No?” she said.

“No. Felix is my first concern. Those are my orders from the prince himself. I will not save the man at the expense of the boy.” Allegretti seemed content with his role, and looked across to Büber. “That leaves you, huntmaster.”

“I can ride well enough,” he said, “but I’m not a trained cavalryman. Are you honestly expecting me to charge the Teuton horse with the others?”

“No. Which leads us to one conclusion, does it not?” Allegretti waited for the others to mentally catch up.

“It means …” Büber screwed up his face with the effort.

“Gods, man,” said the adept. “He means to let the prince die if he’s so determined to carry on with this madness.”

“We can’t do that!”

“We can’t prevent it, Büber. All we can do is plan for the inevitable disaster.”

“But …” He was spluttering. He had no answer.

“The signorina is quite correct,” said Allegretti. “If it comes to it, and we pray to the gods that it does not, if we are faced with defeat, what would you rather do? See Carinthia annihilated, or salvage something from the flames? Shall we fight to the last man – or woman – or shall we save the heir to the throne? The prince has not thought of this. We, his loyal subjects, must be ready.”

Büber’s throat was dry, despite the rain. He sucked at his sleeve to wet his mouth. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Your task is simple. The new prince will need a hexmaster. Since we only have one, you must protect her with your life. I will be Felix’s shield. You will be hers.”

“This is crazy. This is almost treason.” Büber shook his head.

“It would be treasonous not to do this, signore. We serve the Prince of Carinthia to the very end.”

“And from the very beginning,” said the witch.

“We cannot tell anyone what we have agreed here. But we must be ready.” Allegretti wiped the rain from his face, then dug under his clothes for a small silver flask. “Shall we drink to seal our fortunes?”

He unstoppered the container and swigged from its contents, before passing it across to the adept. She sniffed cautiously and took the smallest taste before leaning sideways to hand it to Büber.

“I don’t drink spirits,” she said. “It ruins my concentration.”

Büber was more than happy to make up the difference. He tipped the flask skyward and drank deeply. The schnapps burnt on the way down, and put a fire in his belly, at least for the moment.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want any part of it. Allegretti’s plans felt wrong, yet were right enough to be convincing. What if they ran straight into the pack of howling Teutons? How long would they last? Long enough to grab the boy and run?

Someone needed to have the presence of mind to act in that moment. He gave the flask back to the witch, who passed it on without imbibing further. Allegretti had another nip before closing it up and hiding it away.

“I should be scouting ahead, not skulking behind,” said Büber. “Obernberg is only a mile or two away.”

“And yet the prince demands you stay at the rear.” Allegretti bent his head, and a drop of water collected at the end of his nose. He curled his lip and blew it away. “He is a hard man to help.”

“Well, I’m going to try. We’re sleepwalking into this, and no one else seems to care.” Büber nudged his sodden horse forward, and slowly made his way back up the line.

Büber was given grudging permission to ride ahead. His horse, cold and stiff, was equally reluctant to do anything but plod: it would trot for a short while, then subside into a heavy-footed walk. Büber was getting frustrated with the beast.

He tried to remember what Obernberg was like: a market square, maybe even as big as the one at Simbach, but the houses around it were pretty much all there was. The town was on top of the hill overlooking the river. There was a sacred grove, too, which he thought he’d have to pass on the way to the square. Then there was a big stone building, constructed from the remains of the old Roman fort. That was on the highest point, and it had commanding views of the bridge. In fact, there’d be very little about the place that a Roman wouldn’t still have recognised if he’d stepped from his grave and looked around.

Farm tracks led left and right to squat collections of roofs. The light was piss-poor, and the rain was sheeting, coming across his vision in bands stretched from cloud to ground. The tops of the trees swayed hard.

Then he stopped. There were people ahead, sheltering next
to a wall by the side of the road, and enough of them that they spilt out onto the road itself.

They had horses, he could see that much. He blinked away the rain and pressed his hand to his forehead to divert the water away from his eyes.

No, they
all
had horses. And they were all men, now moving from a close-packed knot where they’d huddled for warmth into a loose mass of arms and legs. It was as if he’d kicked an ants’ nest.

The first man swung up on horseback and started towards him. Quickly.

“Shit. Shit shit shit.”

Büber was facing the wrong way for a quick escape. In the time it would take him to turn, the Teuton would be on him, and moments later all his friends would be there, too.

To his left was a field, its boundary marked only by a ditch. That was the way he’d have to go. He hammered his heels down hard and shouted at the lazy nag to get going.

Stung, the horse reared. He hung on, barely, and was abruptly off, over the ditch and across the ploughed earth. He bounced around like a sack of cabbages until he’d got the rhythm; then, once he realised he wasn’t going to fall off, he checked behind him.

He counted four Teutons. Two were heading down the road, two were following him directly. Soil was flying in clods behind him, and already his horse was showing signs of slowing down.

“No, no, no, you lazy-arsed animal.” He kicked again. The ground sloped down to the grey-brown river, and lakes of standing water pocked the margins. He needed to avoid those, so he dug in with his left knee.

An arrow whistled by. At the speed they were going, the chances of them hitting him were low. But the mere fact they were firing at him, while riding, and getting anywhere near him was bad enough. If they hit the horse, the beast would throw him out here, in the middle of an open field with no cover whatsoever.

“Get a move on.” He was out of the saddle, standing in the stirrups, crouching awkwardly over.

There was another field boundary coming up. Another ditch, but this time substantially wider.

“Ah, shit.” He’d been surprised he’d cleared the first ditch. This one … “Jump, you stupid nag, jump.”

He closed his eyes, and was airborne. His heart stopped, and only restarted with the impact of the saddle into his crotch.

“Fuck!” He could barely see. “Ah, my balls. Gods!”

And now, he heard one, then two horses landing behind him. Too close. He was being run down. If he turned to his right, he’d be in the marshy river bank. If he turned left, he’d be heading back to the road, and there were two Teutons waiting for him there.

Except, when he finally managed to blink away the tears and black spots before his eyes, there were more than two horsemen on the road. For a moment, he despaired of ever seeing another sunrise clear the dew off an alp, or ever feeling the first snowflake of winter cold against his palm again, but then he realised that those other horses were Carinthian.

He veered towards them.

The other Teutons had ridden straight into the head of the Carinthian column. One was already down, his mount wheeling free, and the other was trapped between the armoured Gerhard and another earl.

Something glowed in the distance, and grew brighter. Quickly. It was growing, and it wasn’t moving either to one side or the other.

“Shit.”

He managed to get his feet clear and throw himself to the ground, just before the blinding, burning light roared past. He had a brief image of a churn of flame before his face dug a furrow in the sodden soil.

There were screams. By the time he had raised his head and spat the grit from his mouth, this … thing was on fire, staggering, then stumbling onto its knees. It was vaguely recognisable as a horse, and the shape on its back as a rider, but the heat and smoke and coils of orange and red obscured all the detail.

It fell towards him, and Büber scrambled back.

The second of Büber’s pursuers checked his advance. He was close enough for Büber to see his snaggle-toothed sneer, the wash of stubble on his face, his bloodshot eyes. His horse whiffled and stamped at the ground, while the man continued to hesitate. His hand was on his bow, an arrow nocked, but he made no attempt to draw.

The smell of burnt hair and charred flesh was sharp and urgent. The rain hissed as it fell on the bodies: the flames flickered and began to die.

Büber’s own horse was looking at him over its shoulder. It was exhausted, and even the stench of freshly roasted horse couldn’t make it move. Büber himself realised that almost everything hurt, but he’d be damned if he was going to just lie there. He pressed his hands into the soil and clambered to his feet.

Some of the Carinthians started picking their way across the field towards him. They moved slowly and purposefully, spreading out in a line. They all had swords drawn.

The Teuton decided that Büber wasn’t worth it. He wheeled away with a grunt of frustration and started to put some distance between them. Büber spat again and watched him go for a moment, before realising that he could do something about it.

He ran, splay-footed, to his horse, and dragged his crossbow free of the saddle. He worked the lever, his filthy fingers slipping against the smooth metal, but such was his determination that he took a second bite and the bowstring locked in place. He grabbed a handful of quarrels, threw all but one to the ground and slapped the last one on the stock.

The Teuton was galloping away, and the target he presented was getting smaller. Büber raised the bow and sighted. His heartbeat, his breathing, the tiredness in his arms, the cold, the rain, the pain: everything militated against his shot. The receding figure was impossible to keep in his sights.

Now or never. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then opened them again.

His finger twitched, and the bolt span away. It vanished into the distance, its bright flights lost in the heavy weather.

He thought he’d missed. No, he knew he’d missed. It was speculative at best, wasteful at worst. He might need that bolt and all the others he’d spilt.

The Teuton’s horse mis-stepped and tried to kick back with its hind legs. Then it went down in a heap, and its rider barrelled over its head and into the mud. The Carinthian riders shouted and called, and gathered pace as the Teuton scrambled upright and started running.

The earls passed Büber, and the ground shook. Clods of earth spattered at him, and left him even more sorry-looking than when he’d first fallen.

They caught up with the Teuton and surrounded him. He’d drawn his sword and was spinning in a circle, trying to keep his tormentors at bay. Taunts and jeers were raised against the man’s curses and the attempts of his horse to regain its feet.

Gerhard swung down from his saddle, his own sword in his mailed fist.

“Do you yield?” His voice was clear, and it carried all the way back to Büber.

The Teuton either didn’t know what the word meant, or decided that taking the Prince of Carinthia with him was an exchange worthy of his own death. He swung his sword up and jumped forward.

Presumably, he’d intended to bring it down on Gerhard’s shoulder, cutting his neck and torso, scoring a quick kill. Gerhard brought his own blade up and guided the inexpert blow aside.

The Teuton had overstretched himself, doubling over as his momentum carried the tip of his sword into the earth. He had one last chance to look up before the edge of the Sword of Carinthia buried itself in his woefully exposed flank. It didn’t stop moving until it grated against his spine, and by then he was past caring.

Blood and offal spilt out, and Gerhard whipped the sword away, opening him up further. He was dead before he dropped.

“Someone put that horse out of its misery,” he ordered, and threw his sword hilt-first to a knight for cleaning. He mounted up again and rode towards Büber, skirting the still-smouldering pyre.

“I’ll be surprised if they didn’t hear you back in Juvavum, huntmaster.”

“My lord. Sorry.” Büber bowed stiffly, because his balls still hurt.

There were flecks of blood mixed with those of soil on the prince’s armour. “You have purged my memory of your earlier mistakes, huntmaster. A good shot. Heroic, almost.”

“Just lucky, my lord.”

“We make our own luck. Well done on not dying, too. Any more escapes like that and you’ll be giving the rest of us a bad name.” It was still raining, and it was running in ill-coloured rivers down Gerhard’s breastplate. “The Teutons appear to have taken Obernberg.”

“Yes, my lord.” Büber was still cradling his crossbow. He’d very much have liked to stick his hand between his legs and massage some life back into his bruised plums, but that was definitely not something to do in front of royalty. He gripped the stock of his bow tighter to take his mind off the ache. “There were six Teutons on the road, just after the rise. But they only know I was there, not who else is coming.”