Arcanum Part 92

Some places were greener than others, though, where the Enn slowed and started to meander as it flowed out onto the plain. The ground was marshy there, and the road north threaded between the river and the hill.

He looked closer, and wished for the distance-pipe Thaler had gifted him. The woods on the hill would be good for an ambush, but the land around it was clear. If his forces were chased out of the trees, they'd be vulnerable in the open. But with the other flank covered by marshland on the left, and a narrow front that could be held by a small number of troops to block the advance ...

It was probably the best they were going to get, and he hoped that Sophia had seen it in the same way. He'd dearly love to get a message to her, but they had no horses, and the only alternative was a runner.

He had six hundred men and women at his command. One of them ought to be able to run that distance and still remember a message. He headed along the ridge and caught up with the others.

"I need a runner," he said to those around him. "Someone with the sense to evade the dwarves and get to Rosenheim."

They all volunteered, every one of them, and he had no way of telling which might be best suited. Someone small and slight and fast. No lumbering oxen, or the plain of wit. He needed sharp and cunning and reliable.

"You," he said.

She'd armed herself with a dwarvish war hammer, its head tucked in her belt. She had a knife, too, one she'd brought with her, and she'd cut her skirts short with it. She looked shrewd and capable.

"Master?" she said.

"You have a name?" He wanted to check she'd not volunteered out of enthusiasm or duty.

"Aelinn, Master Buber," she said. Her expression was serious, but confident.

"Aelinn." He frowned. Did he know her? He looked at her again, leaning back slightly. He wasn't sure, and it didn't really matter. "Will you go?"

"If you send me," she said.

"Good." That was settled, then. "Can you repeat, word for word, what I tell you to say?"

"Yes."

"Then come with me."

He led her up the ridge while the others crossed onto the plain, to work their way up the Rosenheim road until they came to the via. Buber stood with Aelinn on the top while he pointed out the features of the landscape, and from there, with the extra light, the Carinthian camp was visible with its haze of wood smoke.

"The dwarves are directly below us. Go down and north. You'll need to put the hills near Rosenheim on your left. See the tower?" He pointed, and she nodded. "That's just before the bridge. We may have posted a watch there, and they may have twitchy fingers. Tell me why I chose a woman?"

"Because I look less like a dwarf, even from a distance." She took a couple of steps towards her destination, then stopped. "Aren't you going to wish me luck?"

"I don't trust luck where a sharp mind and a pair of strong legs will serve us better." He relented with a snort. "Good luck, Aelinn."

She was gone, skipping down the slope, over a rock, into the trees. Her shortened skirts rose and fell, revealing her well-muscled thighs and taut calves, and she held her arms out for balance, making her appear more a dancer than a warrior. Even when she had disappeared from view, he ruminated over the space where she'd been.

Not dead yet, then.

He rejoined his army, who were busy spreading out in the woods on either side of the cart track. Telling them to wait, he gathered up half a dozen pickets to come with him. The object was not to engage the dwarves, but to make absolutely certain they carried on towards Rosenheim. He could block their path if they tried to come his way; it wasn't as if the Carinthians lacked axes now, or the trees to use them on. After the dwarves' experience on the road down from Ennsbruck, Buber hoped that they'd want to take the easier route.

He slowed down, and waved at the others to halt. He could hear wagons approaching, and he stepped lightly into the undergrowth. The pale wooden planks of a wagon prow edged into view, and he stayed perfectly still. Even though he was in plain sight, he was certain they wouldn't see him. Their eyes hadn't adjusted to the shift and shadow of the day, just as their bodies hadn't finished changing to suit the overground.

The wagon stopped as it reached the turning. The dwarvish train could either go on up the via, or head east now. The Roman road was inviting, with its smooth, well-drained surface and solid construction; the cart track south of the lakes less so. It was pocked and pitted within feet of the junction, deep ruts holding out the promise of broken wheels and cloying mud if it rained.

He could hear the sound of dwarvish voices raised in argument. Their maps didn't say where this road led, as it hadn't existed a thousand years ago. It might be nothing more than a spur to a farm, a dead-end up some uncharted valley.

No, the via was a much better bet. They knew where it went, north of the lakes and back around to Juvavum.

Still they argued, the swell and timbre of their words strange and foreign in his ears.

Take the via. Take the fucking via. It was almost too tempting not to overturn the lead wagon and shout at the dwarves inside, pointing north and shaking them until they complied.

He remained motionless, only the blink of his eyes to give him away.

The wheels started to turn again, and the cart continued north.

Buber could breathe again. Everything was in place. No matter how many of them there were, there had to be an end to it now. He twirled his finger, and slipped away with his troops.

97.

Thaler kicked the mound of earth to make sure it was solid, and was satisfied. He stepped back to allow the pot to be lowered slowly on top of the flattened base, and when the carrying poles had been removed, he gave it a good shake.

Nothing moved that shouldn't.

"Very good," he said. The smith didn't like being called either master or mister he regarded all titles with suspicion. "Bastian, would you be so kind as to join this fire team? They'll give you a role."

Bastian, mud smeared and sweaty, nodded and heaved a crate of shot off the back of the nearby cart, carrying it by himself to behind the black iron pot. "Are they coming now, Thaler?"

"It won't be long. I'll check."

They'd set up a table for Morgenstern, and built a somewhat rickety tower next to it. Thaler didn't dare climb it, but he'd positioned the boy Agathos on top, carrying his distance-pipe.

"Agathos? Any sign of movement?"

The boy rested the tube against one of the unfinished uprights and, with a practised eye, he looked south.

"Ochi," he said. Then, "Nai! They come."

In the absence of anything else, Thaler had a bell on Morgenstern's desk, and he gave it a vigorous ring.

"Do stop that, Frederik," said Morgenstern, clapping his hands over his ears, "you're like a child with that thing."

Thaler ignored the complaint. "Places everyone. Load."

He watched with satisfaction as his crew went about their work: placing the charge in the barrel, tamping it down, rolling the ball into the muzzle, fixing it in place with another piece of cloth, priming the touch-hole.

Behind him, Morgenstern opened his books up and made a few practice calculations on his brass wheel calculator. "I'm ready, too, if you're at all interested."

"I had no doubt, Aaron. If you could lay in an angle for the pots, I'd be grateful. Do you think Gunnhilde and her sisters are almost too close?"

"We're three stadia from the road. Eighteen hundred feet."

"The trajectory is almost flat," said Thaler.

"Why don't we find something more difficult for us to shoot at later? For now, the dwarves are going to parade a series of targets before us that we can barely miss. I know I complain a lot, Frederik, but honestly. This is war." He huffed at the surface of his calculator and rubbed at it with his sleeve.

All Thaler could see of it were the little cogs and gears on the back surface. "You're right, of course."

"Yes," said Morgenstern, peering over the top. "There are an awful lot of them, though."

The line of wagons was being added to. Each time one came wholly into view, another started to grow after it. They were twenty, thirty wagons so far, and there seemed to be no end in sight.

"We could hit them from here." Thaler picked up the cross-staff from the table and sighted down it, adjusting the crosspiece until he'd found the angle. "Eight stadia. Well within range."

"And you're just as likely to kill Buber and his men hiding in the wood. Sophia gave us our orders and, for once, I'm going to do what the girl tells me."

Thaler looked up at the tower, where Agathos was almost hanging off the platform, agog at the sight of so many enemies. "Careful, boy. Especially careful with the distance-pipe."

The boy glanced down and grinned.

"He thinks it's all a game," said Thaler sadly. "For him, it probably is. He's used to being part of the spoils rather than one of the victims. I've tried, the gods know I've tried, to explain he's not a slave any more. He seems to think apprentice is just another word for it. We are ready, aren't we?"

"We're ready. This is what you wanted, yes? To make a difference? Then stop kvetching and light some fuses, or something." Morgenstern put down the brass disc and flexed his fingers. "They're almost where they need to be."

They were. The road cut off the bend in the river and ran right next to the water opposite their position, raised on an embankment to lift it clear of the marshy ground, which meant that they could see everything: sides, wheels, even the shadows of feet underneath.

"Thank you for talking to Sophia for me. I ... well, none of us behaved perfectly last night." He fetched out the library seal and placed it on the table in front of Morgenstern. "I'll just put this here for safe keeping."

Morgenstern waved him away. "Light the fuses, Frederik. The horns will sound soon enough."

With one last anxious eye on Agathos, Thaler collected the lengths of slow fuse from the back of one of the now-oxless carts and opened the door on the single, lit lantern. He held the cut end of a fuse against the flame, and it began to smoke. He did the same with the other fuses, and then walked to each widely spaced position in turn and handed one over to the crew's leader.

Last of all, he passed one to Tuomanen.

"Mistress," he said, presenting it to her.

"Master Thaler." She took it from him and turned to watch proceedings on the far bank. "This will work, won't it?"

"The dwarves are irresistible as one horde. Divide them in two, and they are less than half as effective. The more we split them into parts, the weaker they become and the stronger, relatively speaking, we grow. The logic is quite sound, not just in theory but in practice. Did you hear that Simbach sent us two centuries of spears this morning?"

"But nothing else from Bavaria?" She looped the slow fuse around her neck and shoulders, the lit end leaving a white trail in the cool morning air.

"We have two centuries we didn't have last night. Then we have the Frankish horse, and there's still time for more. Munchen's not that far away." He patted himself down. "Now where did I put my walking-stick?"

"You left it in Mr Morgenstern's cart when we were setting up the calculating table." She blew on the fuse, not in case it might go out, but because she loved to see it spark. "You don't really need it, do you?"

"I wouldn't want to be without it when I do need it." He checked across the river. "I wonder what they're thinking?"

"Most likely? That we can't hit them from over here." Tuomanen moved slightly to her right. "The first wagon is passing in front of the Gunnhilde."

"A few of them have to go past before we fire." He patted his pockets again. "The speaking-trumpet?"

"In the wagon with the quick fuses," she said, and Thaler hurried off to find it. He moved a crate or two, and there it was, a great brass funnel with a little mouthpiece at its apex.

He heaved it up by its handle and pressed it against his face.

"Testing, testing." He swung it around. "Can you hear me, Aaron?"

Morgenstern clapped his hands over his ears and feigned violent death.

"I'll take that as a yes. Right, everyone." He swung it back to point towards the five pots and the four Gunnhildes. "Gunnhilde One?"

Tuomanen waved back.

"On my mark."

Gods, the speaking-trumpet was heavy. He ought to have a little pole, or better still, a tripod to balance it on. Thaler let it fall by his side while he waited. It had to be soon. More than a few dwarvish wagons had already passed, and they were still emerging from the forest to the south. He quickly counted them: fifty, sixty, seventy at least. How many did they have?

The horns set up on the Roman tower called, a single vibrating rasp echoing across the plain. The lead wagon was no more than a stadia from it, and too close to Carinthian troops to target. They had their arc of fire. They were going to stick to it.

"One," he called, then again, through the speaking-trumpet. "Sorry. One."

The crew around the first Gunnhilde swung into action, using crowbars to adjust the weapon's horizontal angle, and wooden wedges to change its vertical. They stepped back when the aimer was satisfied, and Tuomanen ran forward to poke the slow fuse into the touch-hole.

The powder smoked, and everyone held their breath.

There was a great crack of thunder and a billow of dirty white smoke. Almost instantaneously, the rear of one of the dwarvish wagons lifted up and slewed sideways. A cloud of splinters burst into the air behind it, and, on Thaler's side, one plank, then another, dropped away. As the wagon fell back to the road, its rear axle snapped, and the wheels pointed upward.

"Gods. It works." Thaler raised the trumpet. "Two, fire when ready."

Tuomanen's team were already busy dousing the barrel with water, scraping the soot from the inside, preparing a new charge and shot, when the second Gunnhilde spasmed. The shot punched through the side of a wagon three down from the first that they'd hit. It stopped instantly.

"Three! Fire!"

The third Gunnhilde was aimed too low, or the charge too light, or it had burnt too slow. The ball hit the marshland before the road, sending two sheets of mud and water flying into the sky. But before Thaler could even raise his foot to stamp in frustration, the ball bounced. It caught another wagon just under the roof, and the roof panel spun away in two pieces. The wagon itself was rocked on its wheels, lifting up, then crashing back down.

This was better than he'd hoped.

"Four."

The old iron Gunnhilde boomed. It had a lower muzzle velocity than the newer brass ones, but it was still at point-blank range. The wagon it was aimed at shattered disintegrating into chunks and sheets and boards and fixings with the pieces pinwheeling away.

Each firing position had a flag they'd raise while they were preparing for the next shot. He had four red pennants, but the pots were still ready. He turned the speaking trumpet towards them, a line of five emplacements fifty feet behind the Gunnhildes.

"A ranging shot from each of you, please."

Chapter end