Arcanum Part 91

She leant into him. He was bony and small and uncomfortable, and she didn't care. She was his. He even smelt of home. "What do I do now?"

He rumbled deep in his chest. "How about you listen to your old tateh for a while?"

She nodded, and he continued.

"Felix was a good boy, and he was a friend to us. That was your doing and I'm proud of you, whatever that fool doctor says. And look, you stayed strong when it mattered, you led the Germans into battle my girl, Sophia Morgenstern."

"We lost, Father."

"Hush. You don't know what you're saying. What would you do differently? Your army's intact, and all you've lost is ground. HaShem made plenty of it, so why should we care?" He gave a little grunt of satisfaction. "And this Ironmaker, you suppose he's sitting comfortably on his throne with half his soldiers dead and little to show for it? If he counts that a victory, then he's an idiot and we've nothing to fear. So far, you're better than Joshua, David and Gideon."

"But Felix is gone."

"Yes, but why are all these Germans around you? Why is Cohen Cohen, of all people following that goy Peter Buber through the forests? Do I have to spell it out for you like when you were a little pitseleh? Things will sort themselves out one way or another, but don't you think today has enough worries of its own? Why make more of them by insulting your friends and your own flesh and blood? They put you in charge, Sophia. It doesn't have to be forever, but it does have to be for now: don't make them curse the Jews all over again."

"I can't even sit Shiva for him."

"We'll get him back, and we'll ... well: they'll put him on a boat and set fire to it like the heathens they are, but we can mourn the way we know how. And we can say the Kaddish later. After you've eaten." He moved her aside and collected Thaler's half-eaten dinner. "Here."

She took it from him, and frowned at both it and him. "This is treif."

"Listen to the ungrateful girl. I made it myself. It's as kosher as you're going to get out here, and besides, you look like you need a meal or two."

"You made this? You?"

"Oy, what did I do to deserve this daughter? Yes. When Frederik devised this plan to get us all here and that's something that mamzer Ullmann never heard about he knew he couldn't get Germans to drive his wagons, because they were all busy catching up with good Jewish farming practice. So he went to the shtetls, and they came when we called. Jews grew this food, cooked this food, served this food. All you have to do is eat it." Morgenstern folded his arms and waited.

"I'm not hungry."

"Then I'll give it to someone who is." He made to take it away from her, but, despite everything, she hung on to the edges of the bowl. He relented and let her keep it. "They need you to be strong," he said.

She was still eating thirds, by her counting when a spearman came running.

"My lady, horses." He took a shuddering breath. "Lots of horses."

She put the food down by her feet and glanced at her father. "It can't be the dwarves. Do they have a banner?"

"It's too dark to see what's on it, my lady. They're coming from the west."

"Call the muster, sir. I won't be caught asleep." She patted her hip to check she still had her sword. "Pray it's not Teutons," she said, then half ran, half walked towards the black outline of Rosenheim's roofs, feeling the bright pain in her ankle with every jarring step she took.

She gathered as many as she could as she passed through the camp and they followed her out onto the Rosenheim road. Some carried lanterns with them, and the sparks of light they shed drew a shout from the distance.

She approached warily, making sure that her men were close behind her. With the lantern-light at her back, she could just about make out the outlines of Thaler's borrowed carts and the shadows of mounted figures.

"Who goes there?" Her voice was swallowed up by the night, but, after a delay, it was answered.

"Prince Clovis for the Franks, Mistress. We're looking for Carinthia."

HaShem be praised. It wasn't more foemen, but friends.

"You've found it, my lord. Welcome."

"I was under the impression that Carinthia lay further to the east, beyond the Enn. My native guides have failed me." He laughed, and the sound was both kind and generous. She could hear him dismount, and his horse shake out its mane.

"Horst? Manfred?"

"Here, my lady. But what are you doing out here?"

"I ... the situation is complicated, sirs, and I'd much rather only explain once." She squinted into the night. "How many have you brought?"

"Two hundred horse," said Clovis. His blond moustache glittered with forming dew as much as his mail shirt and horse-head cloak clasp did.

"Two hundred." She felt numb. They couldn't have found two hundred horses, let alone two hundred riders, across the whole of Carinthia. "You are very welcome."

Clovis dragged his half-helm off and bowed. "You must be the Lady Sophia, My father, King Clovis, sends his fraternal greetings to his cousin Felix. Surely you didn't come out all this way to meet us, though."

"We've fought two battles today, and we'll be fighting a third here tomorrow. That, I think, will decide the fate of Carinthia one way or the other." She bowed her head briefly, then realised what she was doing and how she must look. She raised her chin again. "We've killed perhaps a third of the dwarves so far, and it maybe as many as half by the time they reach us. We're not defeated yet, but we are still outnumbered."

Clovis pulled at his moustache. "I see. I came with experienced men to help train your armies. I didn't expect to be in one."

Sophia looked to heaven for inspiration. "My prince, I'd say that a man skilled in teaching others should be an expert in what he taught."

"All the same," said Clovis, shifting his weight and looking past her and her spearmen at the camp stretching out across the fields of Rosenheim, "I have no authority to go to war. The King of the Franks takes his responsibilities seriously, and our land borders Farduzes. I'll need to speak to Felix about this."

Her stomach shrinking to a knot, she steeled herself. "Felix is dead."

Clovis thinned his lips and stared for a moment at the reflections in his burnished helmet. "Then who leads?"

"I do," she said. "I am strategos and war-leader of Carinthia, by divine fiat and popular acclaim. Does the prince have to inspect my sword for battle damage, or will he accept my command on my word?"

The Frank struggled to contain his surprise. "Your command?"

"My lord Clovis, I've no time for fine words, an exchange of gifts or other diplomatic niceties. I have a battle to fight in the morning, with or without you. I'll just say this: would you rather be known by your subjects as Clovis, Hammer of the Dwarves, or Clovis Pissbreeks?"

He reached for his sword, and so did she. The spearmen behind her lowered their spears around her, forming a wall of defensive blades.

Clovis let his half-drawn sword fall back into its scabbard. "My lady presumes an awful lot."

She sheathed her own spatha and waved the spears back. "We can argue into the small hours about this, but we both know by your finely waxed moustache that your Frankish pride will prevent you from leaving for home in the morning. You can claim the victory, have a triumphal column raised on this spot in your name, and loot Farduzes of all its fabled gold and gemstones. Everything is yours. All I want is to win, and in order to do that, I need your cavalry."

"I should, by rights, turn around," he said.

"I've offered you everything you could possibly want, my lord, and for that, you'll stay. Rosenheim is deserted: there are rooms for your men, and there's grass for your horses. I'll send someone before dawn: we'll need to discuss tactics before we fight."

Clovis reached up and pulled at his moustache again. "Discuss tactics? With a woman?"

Again, she didn't need to say anything. The spears bristled like a hedgehog around her. She waited.

"Apologies, my lady."

"Accepted," she said. "You're very gracious, my lord."

He pulled a face, but he knew he'd been thoroughly beaten. "In the morning, then."

He bowed to her, and she to him; then he went back to his horse, muttering under his breath.

She cleared her throat. "Horst, Manfred. To me."

They came towards her, leading their horses, uncertain of their reception. She hugged them both, with a whispered thank-you in their ears.

"My lady, we just did as we were told," said Horst.

"And you were faithful in your service to your prince, for which I'm profoundly grateful." Sophia rested her hands on their shoulders. "Stay with the Franks tonight. If they look like moving out, come and tell me straight away. I won't have a Clovis Pissbreeks on my conscience."

"My lady. We're sorry about Felix."

"Thank you," she said. She genuinely needed to tell them, and wondered if it was the right time: they'd find out, sooner or later, and it was probably better done now. "The Black Company lost half its number in the rearguard at Kufstein, but it was their sacrifice that meant we could all escape. Master Ullmann was ... killed."

"Oh," said Manfred.

She wanted to sit them down and explain exactly why. What she'd found out about him, and how she'd confronted him with it, and how, despite that, she'd ridden repeatedly behind him to keep the dwarves off his back. How he'd slashed at her horse's hamstrings and left her for dead. How she'd miraculously survived the fall and brought him down instead.

Not the right time for that, she decided.

"Go on, gentlemen. I'll see you both in the morning, too." She was tired, and there was still much to do. She limped away, and the spearmen parted for her, forming an escort to take her back to the camp.

96.

Cohen crouched down next to Buber, said nothing, and gestured with his hand. Three, to the front and right, a little way off but not so far. Buber nodded, and circled one of his maimed fingers in the air, gathering together the little band of Jews around him, and pointing so that half would go straight forward, and the other half go hard right, then come around.

They moved out as silently as they could manage, making only the sounds they couldn't avoid: the soft hiss of a branch, the dull snap of a buried twig. Buber had always thought when he'd given them any thought at all of the Jews as a peaceable people, the first to apologise in any argument, the ones who'd always back down and retreat.

He'd been wrong. Or at least, there were two sides to them. He didn't know if Cohen was a good priest, but he was a good soldier and a decent leader.

When they were in position, indicated by the slightest of signals, Buber levelled his crossbow and crept forward. The forest canopy leaked the grey light of dawn, but, beneath, the shadows were still as black as night. There was a wind-felled tree, its roots making a woven earth and wood shield, and in the hollow beneath it were three figures. One was standing, the other two were lying down, and while all he could see was the contrast between black beard and white cheeks, it was enough.

He aimed, and the bowstring slapped as he pulled the trigger.

The dwarf heard, his head snapping around to look in completely the wrong direction. He took the bolt in his chest, and gave a gargling cry that woke the other two.

The forest was full of rushing, and they lasted only moments longer than their dead colleague.

Buber had been doing this all night, taking out small groups to hunt down and kill more of the fractured dwarvish rearguard. By his unreliable count, he'd seen off several centuries, and, more importantly, kept them all moving and afraid while he rested his own men in shifts.

In the dark forests, dwarves froze. He almost felt compassion for them, but they were both there to see each other to the afterlife, and gods, they'd started it. They could finish it just as easily by marching back up the valley and leaving Carinthia the fuck alone.

The main force was ahead, but he'd niggled and niggled at the rear until, more in desperation than anything else, part of the dwarvish army had split off to deal with his skirmishing.

And, once they'd separated, Buber had split them, then split them again, and chased them up blind valleys and against cliff faces and broken them. When night finally came, he started picking off the remnants.

He brought his men together by the base of the fallen tree.

"We need to get back. Ironmaker will be on the move soon, and we need to be there to make it difficult."

They left the bodies, unburied and unremembered, where they lay, and tracked downhill, following the course of one of the mountain streams that flowed into the Enn. The dwarves were north of it, his army to the south, though they'd raided across it during the hours of darkness, killing the watch with bows and blowing the Jewish ram's horns before vanishing back into the night.

Buber was certain the dwarves were far from comfortable with their lot.

When he was back in his rough camp, he told those already awake to rouse the sleepers, then went to look for himself at what was happening.

The stream was sharp and cold: there was a bridge, a simple stone one with a narrow arch, but he ignored it and waded across further upstream. His picket line watched as he emptied his boots on the far bank and sat down to put them on again. There was no corresponding dwarvish line those that had been posted there had met their ends under the green canopy, so, after a while, the dwarves had stopped sending replacements. The only remaining guards stood on top of the circle of wagons, in an open space barely large enough for them all. They were crammed in like cattle, and it would take them time to extricate themselves.

He could almost reach out and touch the sides of one of the wagons before he had to stop. It was difficult to see inside the corral, but he could hear the great weary mass of them rumbling into life there.

If they wanted to roll along the Roman via, then they'd have to go past Rosenheim. Otherwise, there was the cart track to the south of the lake. He didn't want the dwarves to take that route. It cut off before Rosenheim, and Sophia would have to leave the town and chase after them across open, flat ground.

He'd have to force them north, then. If he could get his army in front, and block the track, then north would be the only direction they could go. Bounded by the Enn on one side, and the hills and Buber on the other, the dwarves would join the via to Juvavum where it crossed the Rosenheim bridge.

He knew a way around that his enemies didn't. The dwarves were marching blind. They'd shown no sign of scouting ahead, and all their maps dated from Roman times.

Good enough. He took one last look at the dwarvish sentries, then slipped away, stepping over the small corpses of dwarves who'd ventured outside the circle.

Back across the river and, with his legs goose-bumped with cold, he gathered everyone to him. They'd found a natural bowl in the land, and it acted like an amphitheatre. Six centuries sat close by, or stood nearer the lip, while he occupied the stage.

He studied them all, men and women from all walks of life and position, from stablehands to guildsmen. As difficult as he found it, he felt a belonging that he'd never encountered before. When magic had reigned, he and his fellow hunters had been the bastard offspring kept isolated beyond the gates of civilisation.

"One last push," he said. "We need to put them on the field at Rosenheim, and make sure they don't try and strike across the foothills. That means a bit of marching: up this valley to the head of it, then around to the north and down the next. It's not difficult, nor is it long, but we need to get there before they do. They're breaking camp, but they have their bloody carts to push. We don't even have to hurry if we leave now."

He scratched at his stubble and searched for the Jews among the sea of faces; they were less recognisable in their armour than they were on the street.

"Rabbi. Not you. You've shown you're more than worthy of this: keep at them. Make them think the whole army is still snapping at their heels. I want them looking over their shoulders every step they take, so that they're not looking ahead at what the rest of us are doing."

Cohen nodded, and that was the end of what Buber wanted to say. People stood up, gathered up anything they might have left on the ground, and started walking uphill. Barely moments from receiving his orders, they were gone: that was something the dwarves couldn't match, even if they tried.

The Jews formed up below. As Buber climbed through the empty, open forest, their shapes merged with their surroundings, and he lost sight of them. He gradually overtook the rest of his troops, and was soon out in front, following the river upstream. To the north was a particularly steep and savage hill, with scree and bare rock on the lee side, but it was compact and straightforward to go around. They'd meet it on the east side, and follow the low ridge for a while before dropping down onto the plain.

He went on ahead, and doubled back on himself, going to the end of the ridge where it overlooked the Enn. There was the Flintsbachs' farm on the opposite side of the valley, where he'd washed up and been cared for by Gretchen. He had a fleeting memory of her, and of her warm, strong hands that seemed to not mind his scars and deformities. She'd gone, of course, with her parents, well away from there. Perhaps they'd come back when the fighting was over, and he could thank her ... well, he could thank her, at least.

The dwarves were below him, struggling through the forest, harried by Cohen. He traced the route they'd have to take, to where the trees ended and the farmland began. There were still stands and strips of the old forest, especially on the low line of hills that faced across the river from Rosenheim, but much of the land had been cleared and turned over to grass.

Chapter end