Arcanum (3 page)

The animals were still tied together. The second one in line was jerked over and dragged before the rope snapped. The giants didn’t stop. They thundered down the now-static formation, smashing their hands down like hammers and stamping on anything fallen.

And there was nothing Büber could do to help. The men at the back of the line ran more or less in the same direction, back to the south. The merchant, screaming uselessly at the wanton destruction of his property, and equally pointlessly for his guards to stand and fight, was knocked casually aside with enough force to shatter his ribcage, even with the cushioning effect of all his fine furs and padded coats.

The only one who looked like he was going to take the giants on was the Venetian sorcerer. He’d dodged to one side to avoid the initial onslaught: now he planted his feet and lifted his arms.

Three donkeys remained, still tied on to at least four or five of their dead or dying stablemates. They panicked and brayed and pulled, they rolled and twisted. The first giant slowed to a walk and reached down with its horny fingers splayed wide, catching a donkey’s head and crushing it by making a fist.

With the animal still in its grasp, it turned to look at the magician.

The man had crossed to Büber’s side of the valley, so the hunter had a good view, and despite both the urge to run and a clear path to take now the giants had gone past, he hesitated.

If this red-cloaked magician was any good, Büber might not have to run after all.

The giant dropped the donkey in a wet heap, and bared its long yellow peg teeth. It opened its mouth wide, wider than it had any reason to go, and roared out a geyser of white breath, spit and green mucus. The other giants – a female with pendulous dugs, and a juvenile already her height – stopped tearing chunks of bloody flesh and slippery entrails to view the scene.

The man in red rocked back on his heels and steadied himself. Büber had never seen such confidence, and he waited for the fireworks to begin.

The big giant was ugly even for its kind. Its face was more battered and scarred than even Büber’s, and its hair was matted and growing in tufts. Old and angry, it glared down with its coal-black eyes at this weakling stick-thin figure that had the temerity to defy it.

The magician raised his hands, and the ink of his tattoos started to flow.

Nothing happened, and the giant charged.

It took a mere four steps to close the space between them and a perfectly timed duck-and-lift to scoop the man into the air. The cloak billowed as he flew: arms and legs flapped hopelessly against his useless scarlet wings.

He landed at the giant’s feet, spread-eagled and on his back. He looked more surprised than hurt, but only because his surprise was very great.

The giant raised its foot, and a vast pale slab with curling toenails the colour of bone broke free of the snow. It brought it down hard on the magician, and then leant forward to apply extra pressure.

Büber heard the crack, and suddenly realised he was alone, up a mountain, miles from home, with only three pissed-off giants for company.

“Shit.”

Now he started running.

There was a moment when he thought one of them would chase him: actually several moments, because every time he glanced fearfully over his shoulder, the baby of the group was looking at him even while it gathered up another handful of donkey – or man, he couldn’t tell and didn’t want to tell – and crammed it into its already red-stained maw.

When he thought he was far enough away, he slithered down the icy slope to the line of cairns, and kept his pace up until his lungs burnt, his vision swam and he could taste blood.

He leant his back against a cairn, hauling thin alpine air, and coughing like he had the plague. The sweat started to freeze on him, chilling his body and making him shiver. He knew what that would mean: he had to keep moving, but he still gave himself a few more moments to rest his hands on his knees as he tried to get his breathing under control.

There was a sound, stone on stone. Not right behind him, but too close all the same. He crouched down in the lee of the cairn and slowly, slowly, drew his sword. He stayed as still as he could, trying to trust his abilities to keep him hidden, but after a while, the waiting became unbearable.

He leant out ever so slightly. The giants’ child was at the next cairn along, dragging some bloody morsel behind it, but searching for him. Büber ducked back, and prayed to the gods he hadn’t been seen.

When he looked again, the giant had gone, and just a circle of red-spattered snow marked where it had been standing.

Büber hurried away, down the slope, to where spring was waiting for him.

Frederik Thaler was already sitting down in a quiet corner, his stoneware mug placed squarely on the table in front of him, when Büber arrived outside.

He only had to turn his head to see the light flicker at the windows, the image of boots and legs and torso warping as they moved behind the imperfect glass, a man in green and brown tripping down the steps from street level to the beer cellar’s door. Then Thaler lost sight of him behind the heavy wood. The moment stretched out, beyond what could be expected of someone in need of a drink to turn the latch and push.

Thaler was almost resigned to getting up and seeing if the door was stuck when it finally opened. He sagged back down and waved.

“Peter, over here.”

Not that there were many other drinkers in the cellar at that time in the morning; just a couple of old sots in opposite corners. Thaler knew them both, and their stories. They were harmless enough, and even at their drunken worst neither was fool enough to mess with one of the prince’s men.

Büber didn’t seem to agree with Thaler’s judgement. He ducked his head under the black oak beams and looked hard at the cellar’s patrons. It was a far from casual glance: he had a hunter’s eye and he was looking for predators.

Thaler frowned and unnecessarily moved his drink a fraction to the left. Then back to the right.

With a grunt that might have signalled either grim satisfaction or unsettling compromise, Büber turned to Thaler’s table and dragged a chair aside. As he sat down, he unhooked his satchel and placed it in front of him.

“Peter?”

“We’re supposed to be alone.” Büber twisted around and scowled at the host, idly wiping out washed mugs with a piece of stained linen. “Hey. Liquor. Now.”

Thaler leant forward slightly and raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to get me barred?”

“We have bigger problems than you finding a new drinking hole that meets your exacting standards.” Büber scraped his stubbled chin with a hand that still had three fingers. He nodded at his satchel, and took another careful look around.

The host brought a platter with two short pewter cups, and a stone bottle of spirit. He was bandy-legged and rolled as he walked. But give credit to the man, he never spilt a drop, even when he was juggling half a dozen beers.

He put the cups down and unerringly filled them from the unstoppered bottle.

“Thank you, Mr Lodel,” said Thaler, and he smiled weakly. His efforts were returned with blank-faced disdain. When the host had gone again, he thumbed the lid of his mug open and took a pull of the short beer inside.

“Look in the damn bag,” said Büber. “But carefully.”

Thaler put his mug back down in the exact position it had previously occupied, and put his hand out for the leather strap.

Büber’s other hand – the one with only two fingers and a thumb, which made it look like a claw – shot out and gripped his forearm hard enough to bruise. “Don’t let anyone else see.”

“Peter, you’re hurting me.” Thaler tried to shake free, but he was far too weak and the hunter far too strong.

Then, like he was breaking a hex, Büber shook his head violently and let go. “Sorry. I’m … just look in the bag.”

Thaler started to undo the buckles, and noticed that whatever was inside was too long to be contained properly. Its cloth-wrapped end was poking out. He frowned again and continued pulling the straps through the metal rings.

The top of the bag flopped open, and he held the sides apart. The only thing inside was the wrapped object, just a little longer than his forearm.

“It’s not going to bite me, is it?”

“Oh, it’s dead. Very dead.” Büber had taken hold of his liquor but hadn’t raised it to his lips yet. He looked down at the trembling surface. “You’ll be wanting something a sight stronger than beer once you’ve seen it.”

Keeping most of it in the bag, Thaler teased aside the cloth with his fingers. They came into contact with fine, white ivory, still with a dusting of leaf-mould fragments. He stopped. He put both his hands down by his side to push his plump body more upright. His palms were moist. No, more than that: actually wet, and they weren’t going to dry out in the smoky heat of last night’s fire.

Unlike his mouth, which was suddenly parched, such that he had to force his tongue away from his palate.

He wiped his hands on his breeches and went back into the bag for a second go. He grasped one corner of the cloth and tugged it so that it unwound just a little.

The ivory was straight, conical, with a slight spiral at the point. The groove wound around the shaft, deepening with each turn.

He stared at the unicorn’s horn for a while, then carefully rewrapped it and pushed the bag closed.

As soon as his hands were free, he snatched at his liquor and tossed it back in one throat-searing gulp. Nothing was quite in focus. Then everything slipped back into place, and he was able to speak again.

“What have you done?” he said.

Büber took a measured sip, the cup looking tiny in his fist. “Done? I’ve done nothing.”

“If they catch you with that.” Thaler looked down, and realised the bag was closer to him than it was to Büber. He pushed it pointedly back across the table. “If they catch you with that, they’ll press you for sure.”

The hunter checked he had enough digits for what he needed, and held up the two fingers of his two-fingered hand. “This isn’t the first I’ve found.”

“You’re joking.”

“Does this look like the face of a man who’s joking?”

“Your face never looks like you’re joking. Even though I know otherwise.” Thaler remembered his beer and flipped the lid again. “Peter. It’s a…”

Büber held a finger to his lips, then beckoned Thaler closer.

“With the first one, I did what anyone in my position would do. Mark where it was, tell the Order and lead them to it. I didn’t even touch it.”

“What did they do?”

“They turned out mob-handed and spirited it away. I got …” – he shrugged – “…not exactly a sack of cash, but enough for some decent whoring down Gentlemen’s Alley.”

Thaler chewed the tip of his tongue between his teeth, then said: “Is it real?”

“What? The money, the whores or the … that?”

Thaler scowled and nodded at the satchel. “That. Is that one real? I didn’t feel anything when I touched it. Oh gods, I touched it.” He hurriedly checked his hands for any spreading stain or erupting pustules.

They were already marked with ink, dark lines in the creases and folds of his flesh that only served to make the paleness that surrounded them stand out more. His nails were neat and whole, fingertips soft and sensitive. No creeping black rot or green decay. For now.

“You’re a virgin, Frederik, and a good man. You’re not going to die.” Büber saw off the rest of his liquor. “And, despite not being either, neither will I.”

“What happened to the … body?”

Büber shrugged again, like it was a thing of no consequence. “Wasn’t there. No blood, or hair. No signs of butchery. Or even a hunt. A bit of trampled undergrowth, a day old. And that, sitting in the middle. Like it was thrown away with the rubbish.”

Thaler leant back and looked over his shoulder out of the window. Everything seemed normal out there. Townsfolk were walking past, both ways. A small cart, over-enthusiastically guided by a boy and his steering pole, propelled itself the other way. Voices were raised between him and the owner of a foot he’d run over.

No, the Old Town seemed much as he’d left it. It was only in the beer cellar that things had changed.

“Do you know how much that’s worth?” asked Thaler.

“To the right sort of buyer? I’ve a fair idea.” Büber took control of the satchel and fastened it tight. He placed it on the floor against the leg of the table closest to Thaler.

“It’s worth more than either of our lives, that’s for certain.” Thaler knew that as contraband, a whole horn could empty a treasury. “Take it back to where you found it. Tell the Order and let them deal with it like before.”

“There might be a problem there.” Büber scraped his fingers at his cheeks, where the stubble was starting to show white. “Once. Yes, I can accept that. I’ve seen all sorts in the forest, some really strange shit that you only get to read about in your books. Twice? That’s starting to be a pattern. I might not be able to write, and can barely read my own name, but I know signs. I know the sun and the wind. I know the rocks and I know the rivers. I know the peaks and the plains and, above all, I know the forest. And the hexmasters know that much about me. Though they look down on me and pity me, if I tell them about this second one they will come and kill me to keep me quiet.”

Thaler had to concede that the huntmaster had a point, but still felt a duty to argue. “They wouldn’t. You’re a prince’s man.”

“The prince rules because it’s beneath the Order to rule. Come on, Frederik. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

He was right, and Thaler gave in with a slump of his shoulders. “So what – or who – is taking them?”

“I don’t know. I’ll tell you what it looked like: as if the animal had curled up to go to sleep, and then simply melted away like snow.”

“Leaving the most valuable part of it behind.” A whole beast, blood and skin, valuable of course, but dwarfed by the riches the horn commanded. It didn’t make sense.

“I’m scared, Frederik.” Büber looked across the table at Thaler. His eyes were big and bright and blue. “I’ve been scared before. By bigger beasts than this. But this is the Order.”