Arcanum Part 16

To his left was a field, its boundary marked only by a ditch. That was the way he'd have to go. He hammered his heels down hard and shouted at the lazy nag to get going.

Stung, the horse reared. He hung on, barely, and was abruptly off, over the ditch and across the ploughed earth. He bounced around like a sack of cabbages until he'd got the rhythm; then, once he realised he wasn't going to fall off, he checked behind him.

He counted four Teutons. Two were heading down the road, two were following him directly. Soil was flying in clods behind him, and already his horse was showing signs of slowing down.

"No, no, no, you lazy-a.r.s.ed animal." He kicked again. The ground sloped down to the grey-brown river, and lakes of standing water pocked the margins. He needed to avoid those, so he dug in with his left knee.

An arrow whistled by. At the speed they were going, the chances of them hitting him were low. But the mere fact they were firing at him, while riding, and getting anywhere near him was bad enough. If they hit the horse, the beast would throw him out here, in the middle of an open field with no cover whatsoever.

"Get a move on." He was out of the saddle, standing in the stirrups, crouching awkwardly over.

There was another field boundary coming up. Another ditch, but this time substantially wider.

"Ah, s.h.i.+t." He'd been surprised he'd cleared the first ditch. This one ... "Jump, you stupid nag, jump."

He closed his eyes, and was airborne. His heart stopped, and only restarted with the impact of the saddle into his crotch.

"f.u.c.k!" He could barely see. "Ah, my b.a.l.l.s. G.o.ds!"

And now, he heard one, then two horses landing behind him. Too close. He was being run down. If he turned to his right, he'd be in the marshy river bank. If he turned left, he'd be heading back to the road, and there were two Teutons waiting for him there.

Except, when he finally managed to blink away the tears and black spots before his eyes, there were more than two hors.e.m.e.n on the road. For a moment, he despaired of ever seeing another sunrise clear the dew off an alp, or ever feeling the first snowflake of winter cold against his palm again, but then he realised that those other horses were Carinthian.

He veered towards them.

The other Teutons had ridden straight into the head of the Carinthian column. One was already down, his mount wheeling free, and the other was trapped between the armoured Gerhard and another earl.

Something glowed in the distance, and grew brighter. Quickly. It was growing, and it wasn't moving either to one side or the other.

"s.h.i.+t."

He managed to get his feet clear and throw himself to the ground, just before the blinding, burning light roared past. He had a brief image of a churn of flame before his face dug a furrow in the sodden soil.

There were screams. By the time he had raised his head and spat the grit from his mouth, this ... thing was on fire, staggering, then stumbling onto its knees. It was vaguely recognisable as a horse, and the shape on its back as a rider, but the heat and smoke and coils of orange and red obscured all the detail.

It fell towards him, and Buber scrambled back.

The second of Buber's pursuers checked his advance. He was close enough for Buber to see his snaggle-toothed sneer, the wash of stubble on his face, his bloodshot eyes. His horse whiffled and stamped at the ground, while the man continued to hesitate. His hand was on his bow, an arrow nocked, but he made no attempt to draw.

The smell of burnt hair and charred flesh was sharp and urgent. The rain hissed as it fell on the bodies: the flames flickered and began to die.

Buber's own horse was looking at him over its shoulder. It was exhausted, and even the stench of freshly roasted horse couldn't make it move. Buber himself realised that almost everything hurt, but he'd be d.a.m.ned if he was going to just lie there. He pressed his hands into the soil and clambered to his feet.

Some of the Carinthians started picking their way across the field towards him. They moved slowly and purposefully, spreading out in a line. They all had swords drawn.

The Teuton decided that Buber wasn't worth it. He wheeled away with a grunt of frustration and started to put some distance between them. Buber spat again and watched him go for a moment, before realising that he could do something about it.

He ran, splay-footed, to his horse, and dragged his crossbow free of the saddle. He worked the lever, his filthy fingers slipping against the smooth metal, but such was his determination that he took a second bite and the bowstring locked in place. He grabbed a handful of quarrels, threw all but one to the ground and slapped the last one on the stock.

The Teuton was galloping away, and the target he presented was getting smaller. Buber raised the bow and sighted. His heartbeat, his breathing, the tiredness in his arms, the cold, the rain, the pain: everything militated against his shot. The receding figure was impossible to keep in his sights.

Now or never. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then opened them again.

His finger twitched, and the bolt span away. It vanished into the distance, its bright flights lost in the heavy weather.

He thought he'd missed. No, he knew he'd missed. It was speculative at best, wasteful at worst. He might need that bolt and all the others he'd spilt.

The Teuton's horse mis-stepped and tried to kick back with its hind legs. Then it went down in a heap, and its rider barrelled over its head and into the mud. The Carinthian riders shouted and called, and gathered pace as the Teuton scrambled upright and started running.

The earls pa.s.sed Buber, and the ground shook. Clods of earth spattered at him, and left him even more sorry-looking than when he'd first fallen.

They caught up with the Teuton and surrounded him. He'd drawn his sword and was spinning in a circle, trying to keep his tormentors at bay. Taunts and jeers were raised against the man's curses and the attempts of his horse to regain its feet.

Gerhard swung down from his saddle, his own sword in his mailed fist.

"Do you yield?" His voice was clear, and it carried all the way back to Buber.

The Teuton either didn't know what the word meant, or decided that taking the Prince of Carinthia with him was an exchange worthy of his own death. He swung his sword up and jumped forward.

Presumably, he'd intended to bring it down on Gerhard's shoulder, cutting his neck and torso, scoring a quick kill. Gerhard brought his own blade up and guided the inexpert blow aside.

The Teuton had overstretched himself, doubling over as his momentum carried the tip of his sword into the earth. He had one last chance to look up before the edge of the Sword of Carinthia buried itself in his woefully exposed flank. It didn't stop moving until it grated against his spine, and by then he was past caring.

Blood and offal spilt out, and Gerhard whipped the sword away, opening him up further. He was dead before he dropped.

"Someone put that horse out of its misery," he ordered, and threw his sword hilt-first to a knight for cleaning. He mounted up again and rode towards Buber, skirting the still-smouldering pyre.

"I'll be surprised if they didn't hear you back in Juvavum, huntmaster."

"My lord. Sorry." Buber bowed stiffly, because his b.a.l.l.s still hurt.

There were flecks of blood mixed with those of soil on the prince's armour. "You have purged my memory of your earlier mistakes, huntmaster. A good shot. Heroic, almost."

"Just lucky, my lord."

"We make our own luck. Well done on not dying, too. Any more escapes like that and you'll be giving the rest of us a bad name." It was still raining, and it was running in ill-coloured rivers down Gerhard's breastplate. "The Teutons appear to have taken Obernberg."

"Yes, my lord." Buber was still cradling his crossbow. He'd very much have liked to stick his hand between his legs and ma.s.sage some life back into his bruised plums, but that was definitely not something to do in front of royalty. He gripped the stock of his bow tighter to take his mind off the ache. "There were six Teutons on the road, just after the rise. But they only know I was there, not who else is coming."

"It's a p.i.s.s-awful day, huntmaster, but we must strike sooner rather than later. We'll stop here. When the wagons catch us up, we'll arm ourselves and take back the town. When you have quite recovered," said Gerhard, snorting a short laugh, "I'll need you to scout ahead again."

"As my lord commands."

Gerhard went to ride on by, but he stopped again right next to Buber. "The other hunter: Nagel?"

"Nadel, my lord. No sign of him."

"The man better have a good excuse. I see no reason to be lenient with failure." The prince's smile soured to a frown. "We should have had more warning."

Gerhard flicked his heels, and the prince's horse extricated its hooves from the mud with a sucking noise.

Finally satisfied that he wasn't being watched closely, Buber slung the crossbow over his shoulder and gingerly cupped his b.a.l.l.s. He gasped and groaned, but from what he could feel, he still had two.

He picked up the fallen crossbow bolts and retrieved his horse before heading back to the road. Both of them, he decided, would be better off walking. It took a while.

The woman in white was waiting for him.

"You could have killed me, you witch," said Buber.

She looked amused. "But I didn't," she said.

"I had to jump out of the way. It was coming straight for me!"

She sighed, and decided that, as they weren't going anywhere, she may as well dismount.

"Yes. That would be because the Teuton was right behind you, waving his big sword at your exposed back." She squared up to him. That was difficult, since he had a lot of height on her, but it didn't deter her for a moment. "Perhaps I should have left you to get sliced open. But then again, you're not the only one who's a decent shot. At least I hit what I aim at."

"I hit him," he objected.

"You hit his horse."

"Do you know how difficult that was?"

"No. Neither do I care, because what I did was much harder. I had to miss you as well."

"The f.u.c.k you did. I had to duck!"

"No, I had to count on you ducking at precisely the right moment. Which you did. Just." She folded her arms and smiled up at him. "Any later and I'd have ended up looking a complete idiot."

"But ... but ... That burnt thing out there could have been me."

"Good job you ducked then. Anything else you'd like to say?"

Buber's crossbow had started to slip off his shoulder, and he angrily pushed it back up. "Plenty. Do that again and I'll..."

"What? Not duck just to spite me?"

"Just to ... yes. And gladly."

"And how is your precious manhood? Hopefully some sense has been knocked into it, because clearly it's the organ you use to think with best."

"This," said Buber, "this is exactly why men do the fighting, and the women stay at home."

"If this woman had stayed at home, your headless corpse would be lying in the mud over there." She nodded towards the field, then looked him up and down. "We're all worth more alive than dead, Master Buber. You can thank me later."

She led her horse away, and left him fuming.

19.

Nikoleta watched the men with the wagons, saw how they laboured to keep their carts on the road, how they took every opportunity to rest on their steering polls, how hunched their backs were, how slow every necessary movement was. How tired they all were.

Even with the wagons parked propped up with a frame under the ever-turning front axle to keep it clear of the ground the men slopped and slipped about their duties.

The spearmen that accompanied them were in little better state. They had pushed and shoved and goaded for the miles between Simbach and Obernberg. It was nothing that a few hours' rest and a hot meal and chance to dry off wouldn't have cured, but they weren't going to get any of that.

Gerhard was determined to attack at once. A fool could see the lack of wisdom in such a decision. The Teutons were in a far better position than the Carinthians. In fact, they were in exactly the position the Carinthians should have been in. It should have been the Teutons cold and miserable on the road, shuffling nervously into their armour and fumbling with their weapons, dreading facing men who had turned out of a soft bed that morning and eaten a bellyful of meat.

For the first time, she found herself wondering if Gerhard was the best person to lead Carinthia in these new, interesting times.

"Signorina?"

"Signore Allegretti." He looked different now. Somehow, more business-like: the floppy hat and the rich clothes had gone, replaced with a plate-sewn coat and a half-helmet with nose-guard. Both looked well used.

He held out a rough linen tunic and a long canvas overcoat. "This was the best I could do, signorina. They have the benefit of being dry, but little else. Also this." He produced a brimmed leather hat and added it to the pile. It was wet, and clearly he'd taken it from someone else's head. "More important that you, rather than him, keep the rain from your eyes."

"Thank you," she said, and took them from him. There was nowhere private to change, just a few trees. For decency's sake, she ought to take herself away, but that would draw more, not less attention to herself. And it wasn't like any of the men here would so much as dare to comment on her nakedness, let alone try to take advantage of it.

Unlike the hexmasters, these mundanes were terrified of her. Good.

"Turn around, Master Allegretti." She put the clothes on the rail of a nearby wagon and shook the tunic out. It was a man's, but it would fall to past her knees. More importantly, it wasn't white.

She gripped the hem of her robes and peeled herself out of them, leaving them a soggy ma.s.s on the wagon. The cold rain on her tattooed skin made her s.h.i.+ver, and she dragged the tunic on over her head, quickly covering it with the coat. She wrung as much water as she could out of her hair, and topped it with the hat.

"Done."

Allegretti turned back to her. He said nothing.

"Well?"

"You look like a sorcerer in a long coat. But perhaps from a distance it will do."

"Is nothing ever good enough for you, Allegretti?"

"Nothing is ever perfect, signorina. No plan, no scheme, no deception is foolproof. The question is, will it serve its purpose? In our case, probably. I would prefer it if you cut your hair: it makes you obviously different."

Unconsciously, she reached up and touched her hair, tugging on it. She'd worn her hair short, back in Byzantium. That she could grow it out was a mark of her control over her own life.

Other things: her height she was shorter than most short men, but there were still some boys among the wagon train. Her shape but she'd bound her b.r.e.a.s.t.s tightly that morning, and she wasn't so top-heavy that the coat didn't disguise them.

Allegretti was worrying over nothing. She could easily pa.s.s as a boy if she tucked her hair up under her hat.