Arcanum (48 page)

Spears and swords and shields emerged, along with more advanced armour: helmets and chest pieces, mail and lorica. They were distributed with a good deal of nervous laughter, as they tried to fit chain coats over their clothes. In the end, most of them settled for the basics – something to fight with, something to hide behind and something to stop their brains being dashed out on the unforgiving pavements.

They weren’t fighting an army – neither were they an army, which became painfully apparent when they tried to line up in the semblance of a century.

All of this was done to the rhythmic battering of the library doors. When it stopped, the silence was chilling.

Braun tried to shout over the rabbi, “We have to hurry. They’ve broken in,” but it didn’t seem to do any good.

Sophia picked up a round shield with a metal rim, and struck at it with the flat of her sword. When the din had quietened everyone down, she shouted, “We go now, or not at all.”

Throwing the shield down, she started for the Hel Gate, Braun hurrying after her, trying not to trip over his spear-haft.

“Miss Morgenstern, you really aren’t supposed to be part of this.”

“Mr Braun, did the prince tell you explicitly that I wasn’t included in the call for all loyal Carinthians to rally to him?”

“No, but I’m sure he meant…”

She handed him her sword for as long as it took her to gather up her hair and tie it in a knot at her neck. “I’m sure he meant that too. However, in the absence of a direct order from him, to me?” She shook her head and took the sword back.

The start of the Sabbath was ruined already: they had worked, carried, and lit fires. Now they faced the prospect of fighting, killing, and perhaps dying, on the holy day. Atonement would have to be sought, and they would pray and fast and listen to the Torah until their sins were blotted out.

It wasn’t just Sophia who was considering the enormity of her actions: the mood spread from man to man. The novelty and playful heroism leaked away to be replaced by a quiet anger that their worship, their celebrations, their whole pattern of life had been broken.

By the time they reached the Chastity Gate, they no longer walked like they were out for a Saturday night: they almost marched in time.

Even Braun sensed the change, his eyes round with mounting dread.

“How do we do this, Mr Braun?” asked Sophia.

“I … don’t know.” He looked at the spear in his hands with a reaction close to surprise. “I’m a librarian. Books are almost all I know.”

“Books are almost all I know too. Has anything you’ve read got any relevance at all to what we’re about to do? Any Homer? Any of the Gallic War?”

“Not that I can remember. Bestiaries, mainly.” He drew in his lips. “And maps. I like maps.”

They marched on to the Wagon Gate. The guards weren’t quite sure what to make of them, but when they saw that Sophia was at the head of this suddenly large column of armed men, they automatically started to unlock the gate.

“Look at them. They don’t even question what we’re doing.” She called over her shoulder: “Father? Take charge here.”

“As you have?” asked Braun.

“Tomorrow I’ll go back to being plain Sophia Morgenstern. For now, I am HaShem’s chosen, just as Deborah was in her day. The hand of a woman delivered her people from the Caananites; so will it be tonight. Onwards.”

The left-hand door was off its hinges completely, and was leaning back against the pile of furniture that had been stacked behind it. The right-hand door was splintered at its furthest edge, but still grimly hung on to the wall, as it had done for the last thousand years.

Hands slipped around the side of the fallen door, trying to pull it away. It was too heavy for an uncoordinated mob to shift, which bought the library a few more seconds.

Felix, his back to the entrance, inspected his troops. They didn’t amount to much: pale men, the young too thin, the old too fat, more used to wielding a pen than parts of a banister. The only advantage he had was that they appeared more than willing to defend their library with their blood.

“Won’t be long now,” he said to Büber.

“No.” The huntmaster rested his sword against the upturned table he stood behind and cocked his crossbow. He held it out to the nearest black-robed man. “You. Come here.”

“Yes, Master?”

“What’s your name?”

“Erdlmann, sir.” The librarian stepped forward hesitantly.

“Can you point your finger, Mr Erdlmann?” asked Büber, laying a bolt on the bow.

“Yes. I think so.”

“Then you can aim and fire this.” Büber took a few moments to instruct the man in the rudimentary operation of the weapon. “First man past that door, kill him. Got that?”

“Kill, Master Büber?”

“Gods, man, yes.” Büber looked roofwards. “You’ll get something worse if they take you.”

Felix slapped the librarian on the back. He’d intended to say something about his being the first of his profession in Valhalla, but the instant he touched the man, Erdlmann’s nervous finger twitched against the hair trigger.

The bowstring snapped taut and the bolt became a blur in the lantern-light. The unaimed shot ricochetted off the wall and into the back of the door with a thud. That it also managed to fix someone’s hand to the wood was an entirely unintended consequence.

The screams came to them, high-pitched and urgent, rising in volume when the owner of the hand tried to pull free and found himself trapped.

Büber took the bow from Erdlmann’s sweat-soaked grip and recocked it.

“A silver florin if you can do that again,” said Felix, “in fact, a silver florin for every man here. Mr Trommler says Carinthia’s rich, so I might as well spend it on those who deserve it.”

The door – impaled hand and all – was pulled out of the way. The screaming kept on, and there was something about its tone that made Felix want to climb the barricade, find a path through the deliberately strewn furniture, and end that gods-awful noise once and for all.

He resisted, and urged everyone to do the same. “Hold. Remember the plan. Think as one, act as one.”

At the far end of the entrance, still under the portico, the shadows moved. The light from inside the library reflected off their eyes and little else. There were hints of steel, but mostly the dark bulk of clubs and swags of sacking and rope. They were there to take, not to kill. Eckhardt wasn’t going to reward them for a life-bled corpse.

“My lord?” said Büber.

“Yes, huntmaster, I know.” Felix stepped up on a chair to the flat of a table and cleared his throat. “Carinthians. You have rioted, murdered, and rebelled against me, your rightful prince. The traitor Eckhardt is under sentence of death for treason. If you don’t want to share his fate, then go home, lock your doors and stay inside. The library is under my special protection. Anyone entering here will pay the price for their disobedience, and no mercy will be shown.” He climbed back down.

If some in the mob had thought they’d only be facing librarians – terrified, disorganised, weak – they now realised they’d face the Prince of Carinthia too, and whoever he might have in there with him. Those with clearer heads, who preferred easier prey, slipped away. Many hung back, waiting for others to be first. But those who immediately needed what Eckhardt offered, or thought they did – a healing, a boon, an advantage over others – they were the ones who pressed forward slowly and cautiously, hoping that the prince’s threats were nothing but bluster and bluff.

And a few were fanatics who would follow Eckhardt unquestioningly.

A man, bare-chested and holding a hatchet over his head burst through the advancing mass and tried quickly to close on the defenders. As he ran through the strewn furniture, he hit a chair with his shins, causing him to stumble into another which had its legs sticking in the air. He fell, and when he rose again, it was without his axe.

That he blinked and was possibly regretting his folly was moot, because a moment later he took Erdlmann’s bolt square in the chest. Flecks of foam from his mouth spun away in the lantern-light as his head snapped back. He dropped, but the others pushed on, stepping over and on him, as if he were now no more than another discarded piece of furniture.

Felix drew his sword and placed himself front and centre. Büber stood to his right. Erdlmann ducked down and cranked the crossbow lever like he’d been shown. He came back up again just as the front of the mob reached them.

He fired at point-blank range into them, threw the bow behind him, and picked up his baluster.

Felix had organised the defences into a deep and narrowing horseshoe shape. Tables turned on their sides and wedged against more furniture stopped any easy access over the top, and allowed the librarians to batter anyone attempting to clamber across. The prince and Büber had positioned themselves at the narrowest point of the arc, where the pressure of the crowd would naturally propel people.

The arrangement was the best they could do with the limited forces they had. As long as everyone stuck to the plan, it might work. If any section was left undefended for so much as a moment? They’d be overwhelmed.

The time for hoping he’d done enough was over. Büber lunged with a simple thrust against a man pinned against the barricade. The sword-point smashed the bridge of the man’s nose and kept going until it hit the back of his skull. Jerking it free, Büber found another easy target and thrust again.

The librarians used their weapons to poke and bash. They set upon an attacker who was trying to haul himself across a table, the rise and fall of square-ended pieces of wood slowly reducing him to a bloody wreck of twisted limbs and unrecognisable features. He made it into the library proper, but only when he was dead, tossed aside by the red-handed staff.

The noise: Felix had thought it would be a howling, screaming, roaring cacophony. Instead, it was strangely subdued. The great dome echoed to grunts, strains and gasps of effort and concentration. To the crack and crunch of bones. The meaty hiss of a metal blade passing through skin and muscle. The hollow hammering of fists and feet. The scrape of wood on stone.

There was no room for the bodies to fall. The weight of those entering held them up. The length of the entrance became a funnel that led to inevitable death, and once caught up in it, there was no way back. Not that it stopped those in the second and third rank from trying to claw their way out of the range of Felix’s and Büber’s swords.

The prince’s arm was tiring. He glanced at Büber, who was sweating and gritting his teeth with every strike. His own blows were becoming less and less effective at reaching the living through the dead.

The barricade moved towards them. A foot nearer across the slick floor. A gap opened up between the tabletops. Corpses rolled and slid, filling the opening.

“Master Büber,” he called.

“Keep going. Break them.”

“They need to know they’re broken first.”

“The plan, my lord. Stick to the plan.” Büber plunged his sword into the guts of the man in front of him, twisted it, and heaved it out again.

The bodies were so thick on the ground that the attackers were rising above them. But it was an uncertain footing, and they were hopelessly exposed to thrusts and cuts at their abdomens, groins and legs. They fell even quicker than before, brought down and either run through or beaten mercilessly.

The relentless onslaught didn’t allow for a moment’s rest. Every time a target died, or was clubbed insensible, there was someone else to replace them. And there were casualties starting to appear in the ranks of the librarians. A cut here, a concussion there; it made a difference to the effectiveness of their defence. The tables kept being pushed back. Their previously compact perimeter was expanding. Weaknesses were appearing. They didn’t have enough reserves to plug the holes. Where defenders flagged through exhaustion or injury, there was no one left to take their place.

Felix found that he was taking a step backwards more often. And he couldn’t feel his left arm any more. Most of him was numb, except his shoulder, which was on fire. He had to force himself to fight on.

This is how it ends, he thought.

The line finally broke, not with a shout but with a sigh. They had no plan for this part. He raised his sword-hand high and brought it down on top of a man’s head. The blade stuck for a moment too long, and he couldn’t use it to chop at the next target.

Büber threw himself between them, his big hand closing around a throat and punching.

Chaos.

Knots of men were struggling at close-quarters. In some, the black robes outnumbered the townsfolk, and they forced the attackers down. In others, hard boots and fists beat a bloodied librarian into submission and started to drag him away.

Without his sword, Felix found he was useless. He was a twelve-year-old, taking on grown men, some of them strengthened by years of manual work, and while they were fresh, he was so tired he could cry.

Büber hacked and cut and swung. He put his head back and bellowed his defiance. “Carinthia! Carinthia!”

Even as Felix clattered into a bookcase, the huntmaster raged and foamed and finally disappeared under a melee of bodies pulling at him, trapping his arms, holding his legs.

Then he was up again, his tormentors hanging from him like burrs. Unarmed, he simply tore at them with his nails, gouging and rending, throwing them off one by one, scattering them like leaves. Ignoring his fallen sword, he ploughed into the next band, barely sparing the crumpled librarian he was supposed to be saving.

Felix darted forward, scooped up Büber’s sword, and swung at the bent shoulders of a man trying to rise.

“Carinthia, to me!” he called. He stabbed down, impaling a thigh, then cutting up as the body twisted away. Blood arced black in the orange light. “To me!”

But then Felix went down. He’d slipped. They were on him. He struggled, but their full weight was on his chest, crushing the breath out of him as though he were being pressed. He couldn’t move. No, he could move, but it had no effect. He couldn’t free himself. They were kneeling on his broken shoulder. The pain was incandescent, beyond feeling and sense.