Arcanum Part 78

His men would be eating. No reason for him not to. He cut off a round and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly.

Reinhardt put the parchment down with a sigh. "We've trained another two centuries of spears, and two of bows. Juvavum wants to know if we need them or not." He pulled at his moustache before reaching behind him for a jug and two mugs.

It was expensive to keep an army in the field. Sometimes it was all but impossible. "How many have you got out at the moment?" asked Buber.

"Six hundred spears, four hundred bows, who can also use spears when they're called to. What cavalry I have is posted up near the dwarvish wall. Three centuries are at Kufstein, and I swap them over for fresh every couple of weeks. It gives them something to do, at least."

"My man reckons around ten to twelve thousand dwarves are now camped in and around Enn valley," said Buber. "There are more arriving from Farduzes every day."

Reinhardt poured both of them a mug of beer, and they drank in silence.

"That's a lot of dwarves," he said finally.

"They mean to attack. That's certain. They've built covered wagons by the dozen, and they're still building them. The forges of Ennsbruck are busy at any hour, and they're using the forest up at a fearsome rate." Buber rasped his stubble. "They have a plan and they're getting ready. It seems stupid just to sit around and wait until it's ripe."

"Yet if we were to spend our soldiers on raids across the wall, it would hurt us more than it would hurt them." Reinhardt, like Buber, was a veteran of Obernsberg and of Gerhard's funeral, and neither of them was under any illusion as to how green the new men were.

"My lot though I could always do with more could harry them," said Buber. "All their supplies are coming from Farduzes, and the road from there's long. They've no idea about growing crops or things like that. If we can just keep them bottled up until the winter snows come, we've won. They'll have to retreat. Look, we don't even have to win every battle, just the last one."

"Put it to Felix," said Reinhardt.

Buber leant across the table. He and Reinhardt both answered to the prince, but neither knew who was in charge out here. "I'm putting it to you. Thirty men, mounted, with crossbows and swords. We'd cause havoc."

"I'm not denying that it's an interesting idea, but..."

"We can't just sit here darning our socks until twenty thousand dwarves decide that they're ready. G.o.ds, man. Attack them before that."

"Peter, what if you provoke them? What if they come across the wall early because of it?" Reinhardt flipped at Buber the piece of parchment he'd been reading, knowing full well that the huntmaster couldn't read. "We've got two thousand trained men, none of whom have been in a battle. We can dress another two, three thousand more with spears and tell them to stand there and look impressive. We can muster only a couple of dozen horse. We're less ready than the dwarves. All that we can hope for is that by the time they decide they're ready, we are too."

Buber threw himself back with a growl. "You didn't see them, working away, walking around like they own the place. They're cutting the trees down, Wolfgang. Clearing them completely. If they win, that's what they'll do to Carinthia."

"Then we have to be smart and not stupid. There are some things we can do now, things that'll buy us time to bring our forces up. See here." Reinhardt lifted up several sheets of paper on his desk, and slid a map out from underneath them.

It was crudely drawn, but it was accurate enough. There was the Enn valley, heading north-east, and doing a dog-leg when it reached Kufstein. It was incredibly narrow there, the mountains coming right down to the river's edge and permitting pa.s.sage only on the eastern bank.

Beyond that, the valley broadened, splitting into two. One went downstream, due north, straight at Rosenheim. The other headed east, up various tributaries and thereafter becoming lost in a maze of spurs and cols.

"They have to get past Kufstein with their main group. Even if they try to flank it, G.o.ds, you know what it's like up there. Some of those tracks are barely wide enough for a goat. There's one bridge from one side of the river to the other. That's below where the old Roman fort used to be. It's only so many stones piled on top of one another now, but the earthworks are still there. I've strengthened them a bit, but what if we dug them out and built them up, put a palisade up and a parapet? We could make the river run red." Reinhardt stabbed the point with his finger. "They do bleed red, don't they?"

"Yes," said Buber. "As red as yours and mine. But why would they cross at the most obvious point? They could build a bridge of their own, further up, and come at Kufstein on the south bank, take it, and that would be that." They're dwarves, not idiots, he almost added.

"There's a river that comes down from the south here, just before Kufstein," said Reinhardt. "The ..." he squinted at the map "Weissach. It cuts through the middle of two big hills, both heavily wooded. You could hide an army on them, and no one would know. If the dwarves sent a raiding party that way, we'd fall on them like wolves and push them into the river. If we were ready."

Buber pulled the map closer, and turned it so that he could look at it as if he was facing upstream. Reinhardt's idea wasn't as bad as he'd first thought.

"We could defend this," said Reinhardt. "Not easily, but it's better than meeting them out on the plain. A series of ditches and ramparts arranged across the valley floor. Spears and bows on each one, and we could retreat from one to the other as they pressed forward. We'd hold the high ground on both banks, and the bridge."

"We'd still be outnumbered," said Buber.

"If they come in the autumn, when we've trained everyone we can, it'll be two to one. If they come now, three, four, five or more to one." Reinhardt raised his eyebrows. "Pray to the G.o.ds they don't come now. If they knew how weak we are, they'd be all over us like the pox."

"I won't be telling them." Buber retrieved the note about the extra spear and bow centuries, and pa.s.sed it back to Reinhardt. "Say yes to this. Tell them all to bring a shovel and a bucket. How far away is Kufstein from the Ziller?"

"Fifteen miles, and no line of sight." Reinhardt took the parchment, and placed it in front of him. "Do you know how to build ditches and walls?"

"No. No idea. We've never needed to do anything like this before."

"I'll get the prince to send some builders. I'm not looking for a palace, just something that'll get in the way of whatever the dwarves have planned for us." Reinhardt poured more beer from the jug into the two mugs. It was empty when he'd finished, and he put it behind him. "I'm f.u.c.king terrified of this. This whole thing. We've nothing in our favour, Peter, and everything against."

The grumbling in Buber's stomach had no cause in either the beer or the sausage: he had his own fears. "They have to come down the valley. I suppose if we can't choose when, we can choose where. The dwarves: they don't fight like they used to. They've grown lanky like us, ungainly and unbalanced, while our men know the length of their own arms." He scratched at his face again. "I'll give up any idea of harrying them, at least until the defences are dug."

"Yes, that's good." Reinhardt drained his beer. "Then would be the right time to poke them with a stick until they lash out. Make them angry and careless. I'd drink to that, but I seem to have finished mine already."

Buber raised his mug. "To Carinthia, then."

"And may we still have it come Yule." Reinhardt clanked his empty mug against Buber's full one. "I'll write my response. Tell me about these covered wagons."

"Not covered as a carter would do, to stop his load getting wet. Enclosed. A wood roof, and a prow, and a stern. Like an upside-down boat, I suppose. Wheels. Big enough for ten at least." Buber shrugged. "They looked heavy."

"Rams for the gates used to be covered with a roof. But they'd be left open at the sides." Reinhardt's hands wandered across the table, looking for his pen and ink. "I'll put it in. Whether your friend Thaler can make anything of it, I don't know."

Buber was done, and he walked back out into the night. The guard made a point of looking alert, which was something, thought Buber: it might even help to keep him and Reinhardt alive. The fields beyond Rosenheim were now covered in sparks of light and the ghosts of tents.

He should have been hungry and thirsty. A couple of weeks in the high mountains, eating only cold dry food and drinking nothing but stream water, should have given him an appet.i.te for a good roast and some decent ale, followed up by sleeping warm and safe next to the fire.

All those things were already pale, and growing fainter by the day. The only experience which captured and held him was his rage. The prospect of sword in hand cutting at his enemies until his arm ached, until he was bloodied and bruised and still wanting more.

Everything else? He'd eat and drink when he needed to. Sleep when he had to. Ride and stalk, observe, command and report as necessary. But what he wanted, even as he feared it, was the hot rush of sweat as the change came over him.

He tramped through the perimeter of guards into the dispersed sea of tents, looking for his men. It was his duty to try and keep them alive, and it was their duty to do what they were told so that they didn't get themselves killed.

Also their duty not to p.i.s.s off their commander by suggesting he's f.u.c.king the princess consort.

He found them eventually, and they made room for him within their circle, pa.s.sing him the flask of schnapps that was doing the rounds. The fire in his mouth and belly was only temporary, and soon faded.

There were two chickens over the fire on a spit.

"So, will there be raiding?" asked one of his men.

"Yes," said Buber, "but later. Master Reinhardt has made the point that if we're too successful, the dwarves may decide they've nothing to lose by attacking early. Tell me whether you think this lot" he jerked his head at the rest of the sprawling camp "are capable of holding back ten thousand dwarves. No. We're going to dig in at Kufstein, and only then will we try to flush them out. Our hammer, Kufstein's anvil. If it works, we'll be heroes and our victory will be toasted for a thousand years."

"And if it doesn't?" The man tugged at his thick moustache. For Buber, who'd shaved, albeit sporadically and inexpertly, since his b.a.l.l.s had dropped, this sudden fashion for facial hair in the style of their ancestors bemused him.

"I doubt there'll be anyone left to worry about that. Least of all us. We're the dogs who protect the sheep. We win or we die. That's what I expect from each and every one of you. The dwarves won't take your surrender, and G.o.ds protect you if you run." He took another nip of schnapps and pa.s.sed the flask on. "Because, if you do that, I'll kill you myself."

81.

Felix felt useless, despite all the things he managed to cram into a day. Perhaps his father had had days like this, when he was busy with trivia but not actually doing anything important. Perhaps his father's whole life had been like that, which was why he'd been so rash and thrown himself heedlessly into his first and last battle.

At the age of thirteen, Felix had seen more fighting than Gerhard ever had. Not that this was any great feat: Sophia had seen more fighting than Gerhard, too. Yet now, thought Felix, he had an army in the field of sorts, anyway but he wasn't at the head of it.

That's what princes of Carinthia were meant to do: they led their armies from the front, even if in the past that had always entailed simply standing by and letting the hexmasters blast the opposition with fire and ice, rock and wind, blinding lights and utter darkness. The prince led them out and brought them back.

The Armour of Carinthia had been charmed. No sword or axe could part its skin or its plates, and no arrow could pierce the shield so he'd been told, though that had never been tested in anger until Gerhard had worn it to Obernberg. By then it had been too late, and it had been battered and broken under the blows of the Teutons. He had his own armour. It fitted, and he knew how to move in it. The Sword of Carinthia was a fraction too big for him, a little too heavy. He'd still carry it, though, and he'd use it as well.

Sophia wasn't going to like the idea. She kept him close. Tried to keep him safe, even. The fortress walls weren't a prison except for, that is, the two spies from Simbach but it was where he returned every day, no matter what he was doing elsewhere. He'd not seen Over-Carinthia, or Styria, or stood by the banks of the Donau to view the towers of Wien.

Ullmann a.s.sured him that everything was going well. His other army, the one with pens rather than spears, had calmly and efficiently divided up the land and made records of those divisions. They'd put mayors in place to run the towns and their surrounding farms, given the foresters the right to live in and off the forests forever. No one had complained, except those earls who'd survived or had inherited after Gerhard.

Felix had unashamedly bought them off. He had gold, and that was no use sitting there in a chest. Better to hand money out generously than grasp after every last copper, and it wasn't as if he lacked coin. The sheer amount of wealth that had poured out of the White Tower had astonished everyone. A suspicious man would have suspected the Order of keeping the palatinate just too poor to keep a standing army.

He called for his arms, and went to find Sophia.

She was on the Bell Tower, staring out over Juvavum, and specifically at the field across the river where Master Thaler was conducting his tests. Her father was there, of course, and the elf, and the growling, angry smith from Simbach.

A pall of smoke hung low over the river, drifting idly towards the quays. Felix had had complaints about the smell, not least from the Frank Vulfar, whose boatyards were on the opposite bank. The last time he'd been down to inspect the bones of the barges he made, the whole place had stunk of boiling pitch. Any alchemical odours were merely notes to its overpowering bouquet.

"He used to be so pa.s.sionate about books," she said.

Felix wasn't sure whether she meant Thaler or her father. At least they were doing something. Making holes in the ground and creating a lot of noise, perhaps, but they were so incredibly keen in the way they went about it. He couldn't quite see what they were currently up to, and he'd left his distance-pipe back in the solar, but they seemed to be busy arranging ribbon-decked poles at various distances from a rampart of earth.

"They still are. They just know that when war comes, pleasures are put aside for a season."

When she looked down at him, it was with that expression of hers. "Those are Frederik's words, not yours."

"Yes. Well. He's right, though." He blushed a little at being so easily caught out. "And they have such..."

"Promise?" she finished for him. "That's his word, too. Now is not the time for weapons that we don't know will work. Spears and bows, cavalry and swords. If he wants to spend his time building machines, why doesn't he make siege engines we know will work: scorpions and ballistae, mangonels even?"

"Because we don't know how to make those things either, and it's not like we're besieging anything. We'd have to hire Byzantine or Italian engineers, and ... Oh, let Master Thaler be, Sophia. He's a good man trying to do his best for me." He leant over the parapet and looked down at the town. Everyone appeared properly busy, with not an idle hand in sight. "Master Thaler reminds everyone who thinks that war is far away and may never happen, that it's real and it's here."

The smoke had dispersed, and the poles had all been poked upright into the ground, ribbons fluttering. The tiny figures had retreated back to the maze of sacking screens and rough sheds, and appeared to be waiting. The only activity came from around the mound of packed earth.

Sophia turned her back on the town and looked to the mountains. "And we're absolutely certain the dwarves don't ...?"

"So says Master Thaler. He supposes powder weapons are worse than useless underground. For the same reasons they don't ride, and don't use bows. We wouldn't have Master Buber with us if they did either." There was no point in putting it off any longer. "I want to go to Rosenheim," he said.

"That's a good idea," she said, after a moment's reflection.

"I ... yes. I thought so too."

"Did you expect an argument?" She wore a smile. "A prince should be with his army."

"Yes. He should." Was he missing something? "I thought I could go with Master Reinhardt's reinforcements."

"And their spades."

"I could be there in two days, and nothing will happen to me on the way."

"I know," she said. "Go, with my blessing. Talk to Peter Buber and Wolfgang Reinhardt, inspect the troops, and don't interfere. Spend a few days with them and then come back."

Thunder rolled across the river again, and a fresh cloud of smoke was billowing into the air. Felix squinted at the field, and couldn't make out anything different.

"I'll go and get ready then." He was discomforted. "Are you sure?"

"Felix. You're thirteen now. You're the Prince of Carinthia, and I have to stop mothering you. At least, that's what my father says. 'Don't mother the boy', he tells me, 'or he'll grow up farmisht.'" She tilted her face to the sun. "We can't have you growing up farmisht, can we?"

"No," said Felix with absolute certainty. "No, we can't. It'll take a day to get everyone and everything together. I'll leave tomorrow."

"Then go. Lots to do." She dragged him in and hugged him tight enough to leave him breathless and not a little dizzy, then released him, almost pushing him away.

With a last glance at Thaler's proving ground, he went to ready himself. He'd need his armour and his sword, and a horse, and ... what? What had his father taken with him? A tent. Servants. Food and drink. He had no idea how any of this worked. Trommler would have done: he knew everything that a prince had to do. For Felix, having to make it up as he went along was fantastically wearing.

There were a few people he could ask. The centurions, for a start, who were camped out to the west of the town wall with their men. He strapped on his sword and rode through the streets to find them.

The townsfolk stopped and stood aside as he pa.s.sed. They greeted him respectfully, offering up comments like "fine day, my lord", and "make way for the prince". Some rulers, like the false earl of Simbach, needed to a.s.semble a guard before they stepped from their keep. The prince of Carinthia didn't, and that was the difference between them.

No doubt, Master Ullmann would have raised his eyebrows and insisted that he was protected by his recently formed Black Company: men he'd drawn from the library ushers and elsewhere, and formed into a guard. Instead, the townsfolk were his guard, and they were everywhere.

He rode out of the gate and across the fields to the camp, and arranged with the centurions to travel with them to Rosenheim. Nothing was, apparently, going to be too much trouble. They would make sure that he'd be provided for: a tent of his own, a groom from amongst the men, his own cook.

Felix had been grooming his own horse since he'd been first able to ride, and more often than not, he'd eat kosher with Sophia and fill up on a variety of cooked pig products when she wasn't around. He agreed to the tent, and refused the rest. He'd eat with the men, whatever the men would be eating, and if they'd room for his kit on one of the wagons, then he'd not have to ride all the way in full armour.

He found himself winning their approval and respect, only recognising that as he rode away. Perhaps it would work out after all, small as he was. His father and the earls had ridden to war with great tents and banners and squires and servants. Felix would do it with as little fuss as he could manage.

And while he was out and day not yet over, he thought he might see what all that noise from Master Thaler had been about. He rode back along the quayside, past the first of Vulfar's new barges tied up beside it smaller, narrower, pointed at both ends and across the bridge.

The White Tower glistened in the sunlight above him. The tunnels beneath it had been mostly emptied, but even the most experienced of miners quailed at the prospect of exploring the few that went deeper.

Why didn't the stupid thing fall? The magic had gone, and still it remained. Oh, he knew the explanation, that people still believed in it. If only they didn't, it would be gone rather than looming over the town like some scabrous finger.

Then there was the bridge itself, from which he'd thrown the torch to light his father's funeral barge, and over which his ever-loving people had stampeded to see Eckhardt's brilliant light. They'd killed half his guard, his stepmother, half-brothers and sisters, together with Trommler and those few earls he'd had left.

That soured him. Perhaps Ullmann was right to be suspicious: while the gold was flowing and fresh marvels were coming out of the library seemingly every day, he was "Good Prince Felix", but he'd already seen what would happen if times turned difficult. He'd be bundled head-first into a sack and carried away for sacrifice.

He hoped those weren't the only two options open to princes.

By the time he arrived on the practice field, they were setting up again. Men and women were wrestling with the ribboned poles paired up this time with a screen of sacking between them taking them up the pasture towards the edge of the forest.

Sitting at a table, Aaron Morgenstern was engrossed in his calculations, clicking the beads across an abacus with practised agility and occasionally peering at a finely written table in a book. Thaler was at his side, writing down numbers, and Mistress Tuomanen was bringing a charge of powder out from behind one of the screens.