Arcanum Part 80

Sophia almost fell off the tree-trunk. "That ... is a strange reason."

"Yes," said Aelinn pointedly. "I know. But that was what she said when I was young, and it's stayed with me. Max, he doesn't sleep well at all."

"Is it that he doesn't sleep, or that he does?"

"He sleeps, and he dreams. They're not good dreams, Mistress. If there was still magic, I'd call him hag-ridden and have him make sacrifices at the irminsul in order to drive it off." Aelinn lowered her head. "He moans and talks, and then, just before he wakes, he screams. It's..."

"Disconcerting?"

"More than that. I calm and comfort him, but he's scared to death in those first few moments. He clings to me. Then it's over, and he's back to his normal self again." She turned to Sophia. "It's not all the time, but it's often enough that I wonder what he saw, what he did, to give himself such terrors. He won't talk about it to me, denies he ever has them. Do you see, Mistress, why I won't consent to the handfasting?"

"Yes, I see. And I'm sorry I ever intruded. This isn't really anything to do with me: I thought I might help Felix, but all I've done is embarrass you."

"No, no, Mistress. It's a relief to finally tell someone. Even if it is the prince's consort." She made a face that suggested she wished it had been anyone else but her.

"What does he cry out?" Sophia blurted out. "What's he so afraid of?"

"Fire, Mistress. It's always fire." Aelinn shrugged. "I don't know why, because he hasn't got a mark on his body except for a few tiny ones on his chest, and he's not scared of flames in the hearth."

"Just in his dreams," Sophia said. She picked at the bark beneath her fingers. It peeled off easily in thick flakes, and beneath were a myriad of tiny crawling creatures. "These marks..."

"Just little silvery patches of skin. I asked about them, but he said he'd been born with them. Five there are, one for each finger." She stopped and blushed deeply.

"I've kept you long enough, Aelinn. You should go, before anyone misses you. And if, at any point, you want Master Ullmann to leave you alone, I find myself not without influence."

"Thank you, Mistress."

"That goes for any of the prince's men, or any of mine, for that matter. I won't have them abusing their positions for any reason. One last thing: can you read, Aelinn?"

"A little," she said, pushing herself up and away from the tree-trunk. "Enough to tell who a message is meant for."

"You should learn. Master Thaler's school shouldn't be just for the children."

"Perhaps, Mistress." Aelinn batted at her clothes to remove most of the lichen and wood fragments. "I'll be off, with your permission."

"You're freer than I am, and you don't need my permission." All the same, she nodded at the maid, and watched her leave the clearing, early summer seed-heads clinging to the swish of her skirt.

Their words concerning marriage set Sophia thinking about the possibility of her own, and the complications that might arise.

When if she and Felix married, and no matter what tradition said about his age, he was still a boy, their children would be Jews. So said the Mishnah. And she would raise them as Jews, meaning that, in time, a Jewish boy would inherit the throne of Carinthia. And then, this Jewish boy, this son of hers, would look down from the fortress wall, as she had so often done, and see the tops of the circle of trees in the town square, and the irminsul rising at their centre.

What would he do? Would he tolerate these northern gods, and bow his head to them as necessary? Or would he have the trees and the pole cut down and burnt, and in their place build a temple of white stone and a gold roof to rival Solomon's?

Would her own people accept him, or reject him as a mamzer? He could end up hated by both the Germans and the Jews.

It might be better for everyone if she simply slipped away in a year or two's time to somewhere well outside of Carinthia's reach and Felix's ability to call her back. Alexandria even, where there were both Jews and a library.

A Jewish queen anywhere was an anomaly. A Jewish prince anywhere but Jerusalem was unthinkable, and the Byzantines, Egyptians and Persians seemed to take it in turns to stir the rubble of that great city on a yearly basis.

Better that Felix should wed someone like Aelinn than someone like her. Doctor Kuppenheim was right: she should find some nice Jewish boy. Except, except.

And then she remembered what it was that had been bothering her all the while she'd been descending into self-doubt and pity. She had an idea where Max Ullmann might have encountered fire strong enough to breed such fear.

83.

"We should still destroy the bridge," said Reinhardt.

"But your plan requires that it remains standing so that we can retreat across it." Buber leant on his shovel for a moment's rest, while those around him dug and threw, dug and threw, in time to the slowed-down chorus of "The Rheinmaid's Daughter".

When they'd started that morning, they'd sung lustily and wielded their spades enthusiastically, but, despite regular breaks and a long rest at midday, they now worked with a dull monotony that spoke of exhaustion.

He turned back to his part of the earthwork. The task was simple enough: dig a ditch and use the soil as a rampart. The deeper the ditch, the higher the rise, which was why he was standing ankle-deep in a pool of water. It hadn't rained for two, three weeks, but this close to the river, the ground below was saturated.

On the finished part of the wall, men were tamping the lee side of the earth ridge with planks. They stamped in time with the singing, their weary feet driving the tune slower with each repeat.

Buber dug down into the watery sludge, loosened the soil, then flung it at the crest. Some of it ran down again, splashing in the puddle. The rampart was as high as it was going to go, and it was time to move on; he found another place in the line, close to the crag of Kufstein itself.

The ground here was untouched. He looked across to his left to make sure of his mark. Then, he put his boot on the shovel, and turned the first sod.

The singing was a necessary distraction, but he could have done without the talking. Everyone knew what needed to be done that day. Perhaps tomorrow, they'd do something different make stakes and build walls of stone. The day after that, there'd be more digging for certain.

Reinhardt followed him up the ditch. His shovel was barely used, his boots free of sticky mud and trampled grass.

"If you've come to bend my ear again, direct some of that effort into spadework. If you've breath enough to talk, at least dig at the same time." Buber fell into the rhythm: thrust, lift, throw, return.

"We're done with that, Peter. You're as stubborn as the mountains themselves." Reinhardt plunged his shovel into the soft ground. "Just tell me that you'll keep the bridge in mind, if it comes to it."

"I don't know why Felix decided to put me in charge all of a sudden; just that he did. It's not as if I know more about battles than you do." There was rock a spade-length down, and Buber's foot now ached with the jarring impact. He took a step back to dig a fresh patch of earth. "But it was your plan we agreed on, and it's a little late to change it now. We've more than enough work for all of us."

There was. While a century toiled east of the river, there was another on the west, digging across from the hill that the locals called Zellerberg towards the valley-side. The ground was marshy there, and the ditch was forming quickly. The embankment was more disappointing, but it couldn't be helped: the men building it were amateurs, and had no expectation of being feted for their siegeworks. Another group was piling stones on top of each other at the top of the col, making a barrier that they could use both to hide behind and to sortie from.

On Kufstein itself, walls were being built up and rammed with earth. The Romans had built defences here, but they were a thousand years in their graves, and the tower was now little more than a ring of soil on top of an isolated rock. There was no time to build a new stone structure, but the crag still managed to dominate the bridge crossing, and importantly it was within bow-shot of it.

The picket line up near the Ziller hadn't seen any dwarves beyond their valley-spanning fence. Buber's scouts patrolling the neighbouring peaks reported there'd been no attempts at infiltrating. It seemed the height of arrogance, over-confidence and complacency for the dwarves not to have at least tried to see what the humans were up to. Yet their very failure to do so concerned Buber more than if there'd been a flood of spies.

He worked himself hard, on the premise that men far younger and with more fingers than him would be shamed into putting in as much effort. He grew tired and sore and sweaty and dirty. He forgot, for a while.

The sun slid around in the sky, and as it dipped below the first distant mountain peak, he called for the horn to sound. There was plenty of daylight left, but there were tents to pitch, firewood to gather and meals to cook. And gods, his bones ached.

Upstream of Kufstein was a sandbank, where the Weissach joined the Enn, and Buber made his way there, pulling off his clothing as he walked. By the time he reached the grey shingle slope, he had only his breeks left on. He dropped his boots and waded in, still holding his shirt and necker. The water was cold, though not cold enough to take toes as it had been in spring. When he'd reached waist-deep, he ducked down and let the water flow over and through him.

He opened his eyes. Everything was green and glassy. Light flashed bright on the surface above his head, and the riverbed as dappled as a forest floor. Silver fish scattered from him like birds, and fronds of weed danced in the wind above.

He rose with a shout, and started back to shore.

There was a man on a horse watching him. Buber wiped at his face with his clothes. No, not a man. Not yet.

"My lord," said Buber. "If I'd known you were joining us, I'd have found something more suitable to wear."

Felix, leaning over the front of his saddle, grinned. "I'll take honest sweat over Byzantine robes, Master Buber."

"Have you brought more men?"

"Three centuries. I left them at Rosenheim they walked while I rode. There was time enough for me to get here, but not them."

"As long as we have them in the morning." Buber wrung out his shirt and used it to dry his hair. "Did they bring shovels?"

"By the cart-load. Good iron ones, too." Felix's horse seemed interested in the water. The prince dismounted and led it down, where it dipped its head and drank deep. "Did Master Reinhardt mind that I put you over him."

"Mind? I think he'll get over the disappointment, and I still haven't managed the trick of being in two places at once." He squeezed his shirt out again and struggled into it, covering up his scars. "He'll have plenty to be in charge of, and once the battle starts? I don't know of any plan that survives meeting the enemy."

"I wanted someone who knows what fighting dwarves is like," said Felix, his hand on his horse's bridle. "That's why I chose you. Master Reinhardt's a good man, but-"

"I know why, my lord." Buber tied his necker back on. "But we were both at Obernberg." He looked away. He would have to go and remember it all over again, wouldn't he?

"And you've done more than that, Master Buber: giants and monsters, too. Sometimes I think you're the only veteran we have." Felix pulled at the horse's reins, and led him round in a broad circle.

Buber carried his boots to the bank and sat on the grass, pulling them on. "We're unprepared for war. I can't deny that. So are they. Some battle-hardened soldiers wouldn't go amiss, though. If the people of Augsburg and Munchen decided that fighting each other was mad and threw their lot in with us, I'd be a happier man."

"We've asked. We haven't had a reply from either side yet."

"A shame." Buber stamped his feet. "We're stretched thin."

"I know."

They both turned to look up the valley.

"Another month, or two," said Felix. "It'd make all the difference."

"Half these men are farmers or their sons. They'll be needed to get the crops in before the snows come. But if Ironmaker waits that long, he runs the risk of getting snowed in himself, no matter if we've made harvest home or not. No," said Buber, "he'll attack sooner than that."

"I read your report-"

"Reinhardt's report," said Buber.

"Your words, his pen. These carts of theirs. I'd like to see them for myself."

Now he was washed and wet, Buber felt the need for a fire and some food. With the sun occluded, the summer air was cooling down. He suppressed a shiver.

"It's a dangerous journey, my lord. They're on the south side of the town and there's no easy approach. You have to get right down into the valley, and that's full of dwarves."

"You're trying to put me off, Master Buber."

"I'm not going to lead my lord prince into the heart of the enemy's camp unless there's a very good reason for doing so. Sightseeing isn't a good reason." He kicked at a stone. "I didn't fight shoulder to shoulder with you at the library just so I could watch you throw your life away on a whim later."

That should have settled matters, but Felix still glanced up towards the dwarvish wall, hidden by distance, shadows and trees.

Buber shrugged. "We'll talk about it over dinner, such as it is."

Kufstein didn't have gates. It didn't even have a proper wall yet to fix them to. Buber showed Felix what the defences would look like when they'd finished; the earth ramparts, fronted by a palisade, which would command both banks of the river as well as the bridge. From the edge of the crag, he pointed down the river bank at the ditch they'd dug, and, a stadia further inland, where the next one would go.

Across the water were more works, all designed to keep the dwarves bottled up within range of their bows. The longer they had, the more defences they could build.

"I'd rather attack," said Buber. "Wolfgang's persuaded me not to, but I don't know that he's right. The dwarves' supply route's stretched tighter than a lyre string, but no one's strumming our tune on it."

"If you want me to take your side, you'll have to at least take me as far as the wall tomorrow."

"That might be possible." Buber worried at a knuckle. "My lord, you don't need me to remind you that you're the last of your line."

Felix turned away and looked at the scattering of tents and fires thrown up on the meadows below. "If something were to happen to me, then you'd choose another prince among those worthy of the honour, like in Alaric's time. It hasn't always been father-to-son, and there's no reason why it should be. For all I know, my sons might be idiots."

"I'd have to explain to Sophia how I lost you. That would be difficult." Talking about death and succession was difficult too. "I intend for you to live through this battle, this war."

"I don't intend to die, Master Buber. If we can manage that, and turn the dwarves back, then it'll be a job well done." When he turned away, he looked like his mother, just for a moment.

It had been thirteen years since the Order had killed Emma. Gods, she'd been dark and beautiful; he'd found himself almost incapable of speech the few times she'd talked to him. Thirteen years ago, Buber had been in his wild youth, leaping from mountain to mountain as though he had wings, running through the forests and diving into the lakes without pause or heed.

Now, this was her son, almost grown, and he was a man in charge of the prince's army "Master Buber?"

"My lord. Lost in the past for a moment."

"We need you in the present. If you can see into the future, all the better."

They left the Kufstein crag and walked among the tents for a while, and Buber could see the effect that Felix's presence had on the men. Whether Gerhard would have inspired them the same way was moot: he'd had one battle to fight, and had lost it.

Buber was chilled inside and out by the time they found Reinhardt's fire. Even while they sat around a pile of burning wood, eating mutton stew and discussing the best way to skin a rabbit, he thought they should be out there, digging by torch-light and praying to gods seemingly both deaf and blind that dawn would not reveal their inadequacies.

The sun would rise all the same: the dwarves would swarm out and overwhelm them. Carinthia would be broken, and its army swept away.

He found he'd lost his appetite, but shovelled in the food all the same. The beer tasted like piss, but he swallowed.

The problem was this: the prince of Carinthia had come to lead his troops.

No matter that Felix was due to go back to Juvavum in a few days, that there was no reason for an attack tomorrow nothing to separate it from yesterday or the day after. They might even get the couple of month's respite they wanted.

But the Prince of Carinthia had come to Kufstein. This was Fate. The Norns had spun their wyrd from before they were born, and the ends unravelled here.

Their only hope was that with the passing of magic, what might have been certain was no longer necessarily so. Their destiny was in their own hands. Buber realised with a snort that if there were any gods left, then he'd spit in their faces and defy them to do their worst.

"What's so amusing, Master Buber?" asked Reinhardt.

Chapter end