Arcanum Part 59

"Boar, my lord."

"Whichever. You're wrong. If anything, the history I've learnt tells me we ignored everything that happened outside our borders because it didn't make any difference to us. So why do you hate us? Bavaria has been better off for having Carinthia as a neighbour."

Wiel breathed heavily, still straining against his iron chain. Spitzel roused himself and ordered the other man to sit back down.

"We hate you," he said, "because you've never had to struggle, never had to try. Everything's come easy to you Carinthians. Peace and the wealth to enjoy it are the only two things worth worrying about in life. When our harvests failed, or we were at war, or the Death came calling, you pa.s.sed us like a beggar in the street. Now that you're on the street with us, we're not going to forget."

Ullmann shook his head and walked out, and Felix unfolded his legs. "One of you hates us for interfering. The other hates us for leaving you alone. And you call me a child."

He got up and dusted himself down. His shoulder was still sore, but it wasn't too bad. He thought he might leave the sling off even if Sophia told him otherwise.

"Prince Felix?"

"Yes, Mr Spitzel?"

"Have you decided our fates yet?"

Felix rubbed his face and pinched at his nose. "No. It'd be easy enough just to have you pressed. That's what I'm expected to do, and don't think that my being twelve will save you from the stones. What could save you is that I'm not my father, or my grandfather, or his father either. Good day, gentlemen."

59.

His name was Thorsun Heavyhammer, in the usual dwarvish style that sounded more than slightly ridiculous to human ears. From Buber's limited experience, Heavyhammer was a dwarves' dwarf: dour when he wasn't being grim, full of fate and doom.

Despite the thinness of the air, Heavyhammer kept up an almost continuous monologue. About how they'd make Farduzes by nightfall, unless something ate them first. About how the sky terrified him and the rocks oppressed him. About how, ultimately, his people would be forgotten in a cruel and uncaring surface world. After two days in his company, Buber was left contemplating murder to make at least that part of the dwarf's wyrd come true.

They were in the high pa.s.ses, far beyond any human habitation, in a land locked in snow and haunted by wind. The path only the most optimistic would have called it a road gripped the valley bottom as if it were a lifeline, disappearing occasionally under a drift or a landslide for a hundred feet or more before carrying doggedly on westwards.

The trees had given out. The landscape was cold and dry and bare. Rock and snow, grey and white. Their breath that of man, horse and dwarf condensed in clouds ahead of them and beaded skin and hair with dewdrops that initially sparkled, then soaked in.

It was almost a relief to be interrupted by the howl of a giant. If there'd been any sign of it before, it had been lost in the low drone of the dwarf's voice. Buber reeled in the leading rein and held the horse's bridle close. The beast's ears swivelled and its eyes grew large.

Buber listened carefully, tracking the echoes from peak to peak to see if he could work out from where the sound originated. Poor dead Nadel had had problems with giants up here; perhaps it was one of the same group. A family, he'd said, like the one Buber had encountered to the east.

Heavyhammer opened his mouth to speak and Buber raised one of his remaining fingers in warning. Do not speak, it commanded. Make no sound. Don't even move.

The only reason a giant called like that was to communicate with other giants across the vast open s.p.a.ces of the mountain landscape. It had probably been left to watch from some vantage point the eyesight of giants was as legendary as their temper while the rest remained hidden beneath a drift or in a gorge.

He looked for a tell-tale sign: a flurry of snow, a rattle of rock. Nothing. He reached for his sword, nonetheless.

"They're not going to attack yet. Later, probably, and we won't get much warning." He wiped the moisture from around his nose and mouth with the back of his sword-filled hand. "I thought the giants were closer to Ennsbruck."

"Then you thought wrong, human."

"They must have wandered up here over the last month." Buber looked down at the dwarf. "You have less love for the b.a.s.t.a.r.d sp.a.w.n of the Jotun than we do. At least draw your axe. You won't get a second chance."

"Death in the ravening maw of a giant would be welcome compared to the living twilight of this misshapen body," answered the dwarf. But he put his pack down and freed the axe from its bindings.

"G.o.ds, I should have travelled alone."

The giant's single ululation had apparently served its purpose, whatever that was, for now the only sounds were the wind and those they made themselves: flapping cloth, sc.r.a.ping boots, crunching hooves.

"We'd better get going. I take it there's just one way we can go."

"Yes. Up here. To our certain slaughter."

Buber pulled his horse on, barging past Heavyhammer on the narrow path. He understood that the end of a whole way of life was a terrible thing to face, but they needed to get to Farduzes before nightfall. If they went too quickly, they might miss any ambush the giants had set, but conversely they'd be so much fresh meat in the dark. Best, then, to press on and hope.

He kept a watch out for hiding places, for trampled snow, for a sudden shift in the shadows on north-facing slopes. Nothing. Staying alert for such a length of time was immensely wearing; his head hurt with the strain of it.

He needed a drink of something, a bite to eat, a moment to rest his eyes, so he pulled up and turned to speak to Heavyhammer.

Two giants, a stadia distant, were padding up the path side by side, arms swinging loosely by their side. He looked the other way, only to see two more on the path ahead.

"s.h.i.t."

They'd appeared out of nowhere, just like giants always did. They'd probably pa.s.sed the two who were now behind them by no more than a few sword lengths.

Bow or sword? Sword. Giants would cover the distance quickly. Forward or back? Four giants at once was suicide. Two at once was scarcely better odds, with another pair roaring up behind him.

Forward then.

Heavyhammer dropped his pack, while Buber smacked the horse on its rump with the flat of his sword to scare it away. Then he started to run up the track.

He was closing fast. The giants were lumbering towards him. They'd meet sooner than he'd antic.i.p.ated. He'd thought they were further away, but they were right there, almost on top of him.

His reckless charge faltered as he suddenly realised they were tiny. Well, not tiny exactly. They were still taller than Buber, but for giants and they were indisputably those, with their peg teeth, filthy claws and shock-white skin hanging off in great flaps they were small. The first of them charged Buber, milling its fists as if they were still great clubs of flesh and bone.

G.o.ds, it was slow, thought Buber. Ponderous, even. He'd never thought of himself as agile, but even he danced easily between the flailing arms and drove his sword-point hard through the creature's stomach. When the blade grated against bone, he'd knew he'd gone in far enough, and he dragged it out at an angle.

His face was almost level with the giant's. Its mouth formed a circle and its yellow eyes bulged. Buber had seen only two expressions on a giant's face before: rage and hunger. Now, he'd found a third. Regret.

He turned to avoid the inevitable spew of guts, shoving the giant behind him as he spun. He'd pushed a giant, and the giant had fallen.

Watching the overgrown dwarf and the second shrunken giant batting at each other with ineffectual blows was like seeing two children sc.r.a.pping in the street. Their contest should have been epic and fierce, not embarra.s.sing, and Buber felt compelled to end it with a single swing that severed the giant's spine. It lost the use of its legs, and folded to the cold ground, bleeding to death.

These creatures were shadows of what they'd once been. This was what the world had lost, writ plain to see. He could feel himself well up inside. He'd killed two of them, and wasn't even breathing hard.

"Turn around, Master Dwarf," he called. "Here come the others."

The dwarf raised his axe, and Buber his sword. The chasing giants slowed, and came to a halt just out of reach.

"What are they waiting for?" asked Heavyhammer.

"For Death to take them. Look at them. They have no idea what's happening to them. They only know their old habits, and they have to obey them."

"Then why aren't they tearing at us?"

"Because somewhere deep inside there's a voice that tells them it's all for nothing." Buber looped his sword in front of him. "They'll attack though. It's all they know."

They stared at each other, and eventually one of the giants threw its head back and howled.

It was answered, plaintively, at a distance. The call echoed between the valley sides, and Buber wondered if that was the last time anyone would hear such a sound again.

Then the creatures started forward again, driven by their animalistic desires.

Heavyhammer lacked his former martial skills, but his courage was never in doubt. Though the giant was still twice his height, he swung his axe at the giant's thigh. It bit deep, even as the giant battered at the dwarf's head with its fists.

Buber faced his own opponent. Stepping out the way of its first swipe, he cut up against the giant's forearm, then slashed at the giant's pale neck. Air frothed out of the wound; there would be no getting up again after that.

The other giant was down on one knee, still trying to reach the dwarf, clawing at the air with its horn-coloured nails. It over-reached, and toppled forward with a groan. Heavyhammer's axe sliced its skull in two.

Buber lowered his guard. There was nothing else coming for them. The only movement was his horse picking its way across the scree further up the slope.

"Well, that was pointless," he said. "Stupid f.u.c.king idiots. They could have left us alone and lived."

The dwarf put his foot on the giant's head and worked his axe-blade out. If he'd looked grim before, now he was sepulchral. He rested on the haft as bits of brain and bone slid off the steel, and his mouth set into a thin line.

For a brief moment, Buber thought that Heavyhammer had finally run out of words. Then he started quoting poetry.

"Hrafn flgr sunnan, af ham meii, ok er eptir ar orn i sinni.

eim gef ek erni efstum brair.

Sa mun a bloi bergja minu."

Buber raised his eyes skywards, and unbidden, the dwarf offered a translation.

"The famished raven flies from the south, the fallow eagle flies with him, I shall feed them no more on the flesh of the fallen: on my body both will feast now."

"G.o.ds, please."

"They were once n.o.ble foes, and they are reduced to this pathetic state. The mighty fall, the kings of this world are humbled, the proud are laid low. This world is dull and lifeless and without joy." Heavyhammer snorted and drooped his head in dismay.

Buber inexplicably thought of Thaler. "You're wrong," he said. "And I doubt you've ever felt joy. I'm going to catch my horse now."

He clattered after it, whistling, and it not only acknowledged his presence, it came plodding back towards him. They met, and he patted its muzzle awkwardly, confessing that it managed better conversation than the dwarf.

He led it back to the path, retrieved his sword and, wanting for any vegetation, he found a rag in his saddlebags to wipe the gore away from the blade. When he was done, he tossed it to the ground next to Heavyhammer.

"Don't tell me it's a dwarfish custom to allow your weapons to remain caked in the brains of your enemies."

"Those creatures were not worthy enough to be considered enemies, Master Buber. They were like cattle to the slaughter, lowing even as their lifeblood drained into the rock below their still-shuddering carca.s.ses."

"Wipe your f.u.c.king axe, you miserable old sod, and let's get going. I'm not going to get caught out here at night with no fire or food." He sheathed his sword and led his horse past Heavyhammer, the path still heading inexorably upwards.

Buber wondered if he ought to strike out alone and find Farduzes himself. It couldn't be that hard, and it had been the original plan, as had blundering around and hoping to find the entrance to the underground city. But he'd been offered a personal introduction to the dwarvish king. He should take the crumbs that fate threw his way.

"Come on," he called back, a little more conciliatory. "We've miles to go. You swore an oath to me, Thorsun Heavyhammer. I thought that sort of thing was important to you."

"What is the point, human? We are doomed, you and me. We will pa.s.s from Midgard and no one will remember us. My oath?" He picked up the cloth Buber had thrown down and gave his axe a few desultory wipes before casting it onto the body of the nearest giant. "You would do better trusting Loki himself."

"That always works out well," said Buber. "But all I have is you."

Heavyhammer hauled his pack back on, staggered under its weight something a dwarf would never have done and carried his axe to where Buber was standing.

He strode past with a quick gait, and didn't look back.

60.

If Thaler had had his own way, the work of the library would have carried on, in shifts, throughout the night. How dare people get tired, hungry, irritable and bored? And even while he cursed the frailties of others, there was his own corruptible body that itself would succ.u.mb to his base instincts despite his best efforts.

Perhaps it was better to work from c.o.c.k-crow to nightjar's croak, but possible? No. Eyes that were sharp in the morning became blurred by mid-afternoon.

"Dismissed," he murmured from his position at the head of the long table.

"Master Thaler?" asked one of the librarians busy filling a barrow with catalogued books.

"Dismissed. Done. Finish for the day. Back to the dormitory, or wherever it is you intend to lay your head tonight. Eat, drink, rest, for tomorrow we do the same thing again. A Sisyphean task, gentlemen, but ours nevertheless."

He rubbed his slack, grey face, and pressed his knuckles against his closed eyelids. When he'd finished reaming, the seats around the table were empty except for his and Aaron Morgenstern's.

Thaler rested his elbows on the tabletop. "Thank you for your help today, Mr Morgenstern."

Morgenstern leant back in his seat and twisted his neck, first to the left and then to the right. Two cracks like falling slates rang out. "You've an impressive library. I didn't know just how many books you had."

"Neither did we, and indeed, we still don't. Quite what possessed my ill.u.s.trious forebears in putting off the cataloguing is anyone's guess. Extraordinary business. I suppose, if I was being generous, that at some point in the past the sheer volume of t.i.tles became simply too daunting and someone decided that it had reached the level of an impossibility."

Morgenstern cracked his knuckles next. "Did Sophia remind you she'd brought back the books Thomm stole?"

"You are, without doubt, a most generous and law-abiding Jew, and a credit to your people." Thaler endowed him with a beatific smile. "She also made reference to the pseudo-Euclid book you received by mistake."

"The one she gave to you."