Arcanum (86 page)

Gods, they made a racket with all their industry. It was as if all the metal-workers on Coin Alley had taken their forges and set them up next to the saw pits and lathes of the carpenters. The noise, previously useful, was now a hazard. He might stumble into an individual dwarf, or a whole group of them, and not have any warning at all.

The light between the tree-trunks grew brighter, and he could start to see shapes through the gaps. He twisted his head to try and make sense of what he saw: a wheel here, a wall of planks there – such things were outside his experience. He risked going forward another few feet to get a clearer view.

Now he could see better. There were lines of wagons, too many to count. Some had four wheels like carts; some longer ones had six. Each was completely covered – sides, front, roof – with a gently pitched roof and a pointed front. There were doors at the back.

Büber wondered what they might be for, and what might pull them. Dwarves didn’t use horses. They couldn’t be mobile barracks, surely, because tents were easier to carry and more versatile.

They were big, too. What were they meant to carry?

Perhaps Thaler would be able to make more sense of them. Whatever their intended use, the dwarves’ unstinting labour and resources were being poured into making as many of them as they could. They were clearly important, so it was vital to Carinthia to understand what they were.

Closer still, then. He ducked down and crept to the last tree. Beyond that was clear ground, then a stone-and-turf wall. There seemed to be no gate or gap in this for him to slip through, and the grass in front of the wall showed evident signs of wear. Booted feet had passed that way, and often.

He might have got past it at night, but not by day. It was time to go. He edged backwards, keeping a wary eye on the wall. A group of dwarves ambled past, speaking casually, making no attempt to look for intruders. They seemed to be craftsmen; one carried a bucket, and they all had hammers.

They passed without so much as glancing in Büber’s direction, though, had they done so, what would they have seen? Just another shadow in the trees, green and brown, perfectly still, perfectly silent.

He watched their backs recede, then started up again.

Felix’s forebears had faced down the might of the Roman legions with nothing more than their courage, a stout spear, and sufficient drilling to make them stand in line and face the enemy. That and their priest-kings’ wild magic.

A thousand years of peace, and Felix knew nothing of magic, while his subjects seemed to have lost the ability to even stand in line.

Sophia pretended not to look, keeping her face down at the pages of the book in her lap, but she could see the problems. The sergeant had them ten abreast, eight deep, with their spears resting upright on their shoulders, except that they were ragged and disorderly. When they lowered their weapons, they hit each other rather than forming a wall of spear-points.

“Again,” Felix said wearily to the sergeant, who was newly promoted to his post after Reinhardt had gone to command the troops at Rosenheim. As the man shouted and swore his way back to the start line, Felix walked over to where Sophia sat. She wedged her tongue between her teeth and pretended to concentrate on the words in front of her.

“It’s hopeless. They all have two left feet and two left thumbs.” He sat on the chair beside her. “If we have to take the field now, we’ll be slaughtered.”

She looked up absently, “They’re good men. Remember that.”

“They’ll be dead men soon enough if we can’t get them to keep a formation.” Felix snatched up his mug of small beer, only to find it empty. “We lost what martial strength we had at Obernberg. No one knows how to do this any more.”

“Hire soldiers. We’ve got the coin.”

“I refuse to hire mercenaries. They’ll be on us like wolves.”

She turned the page. The vellum was old and crisp, and the binding creaked. “Just enough to train our militias, Felix. Send to Milano, or Lutetia. Your cousins will help.”

“We don’t have time.”

She made that noise, with her tongue behind her teeth, that he didn’t like.

“Don’t tut me.”

She couldn’t deny it. “Have none of the stories you’ve heard ended with, ‘So the brave prince, having previously gone with a sack of gold to his neighbours to beg for veterans, was able to defeat his foe’s army so thoroughly that they all lived happily ever after’?”

Sophia could tell by the look he gave her that they hadn’t. She closed her copy of Tacitus’s
Germania
, and passed it to Felix.

“Neither have I. My stories depend on the faithfulness of the people of Israel to HaShem. That doesn’t always end well, either.” She got up, adjusted her clothing and strode out into the courtyard. She walked along the line of men, and they grew silent under her gaze.

“My lady,” said the sergeant. “Do you wish to address the troops?”

“Troops?” She pursed her lips. “Yes.”

“At ease, lads. M’lady wants a word.”

“A word?” she said under her breath. “I’ll give them more than a word.” She unsheathed the sword on her belt and held it point-down on the flags. Now she had their attention. “Tacitus tells me that in the days when the Romans fought your grandfathers’ grandfathers, the wives and mothers of the tribe used to go into battle with their menfolk. Perhaps we should revive this tradition. Perhaps we should put them in the vanguard of the Wild Boar’s Head instead of you, because, despite your sergeant’s clear instruction, you’re all determined to be worm-food come battle.”

She was shaming them, and she didn’t care.

“Your homes, your families, your land – you can say that now, your land – will be taken from you if you carry on like this. Once you pick up that spear, you’re no longer a farmer or a carter or a cook or a butcher. You’re a soldier. Act like one. Have some discipline. ” She dragged her spatha up and onto her shoulder, and paced to the end of the line. “Tacitus also said that the German tribes were renowned for their ferocity. So be fierce. I’m standing in front of you, and I’m not scared. First rank, hold your spears out.”

Some complied quickly. Others hesitated and presented their arms slowly. She dropped her shoulder and swung her sword, hitting with the flat against the spear-haft of the nearest man in range. His spear flew out of his hands and clattered away. He was left with stinging palms and still she went at them.

“If that had been a dwarvish axe, you’d be dead by now. That spear is there to protect you and the men either side of you. They’ll be killed next, and the whole line will fail because
you
can’t keep hold of your weapon.” Her sword went back to her shoulder. “You’re not a phalanx either: you’re not carrying a sarissa, and you’ve no shields. You’re too deep. The men at the back can do nothing but watch the men at the front die.” She pushed through the formation. “Back four rows, form up next to the front four.”

Sophia had to push and slap the tardy ones into position. They stretched from one side of the inner courtyard to the other now. It made them look twice as many.

“Front row, put the butt of your spear under your foot. Now crouch down. Second row, two-handed grip over the shoulders of the men in front. Third row, over the shoulders of the men in front. Fourth row, the same.” She walked the line again, picking on the man she’d disarmed before.

This time, with his spear properly held and braced, the spear shivered but didn’t fall. He smiled grimly at her, and she nodded her satisfaction.

“Now I’m scared.” The men had transformed themselves into a hedge of spear-points. They were still static, vulnerable from the sides, but with what little time they had they could do something about that. “As you were, sergeant.”

She sheathed her sword and sat back in her chair. She’d have to move in a little while, chasing the sunlight around the enclosed courtyard, but for now it was bright enough to read by.

“What else does Tacitus say?” asked Felix.

“It’d be more encouraging if he didn’t keep on about what superb individual fighters the Germanic tribesmen were in the same breath as decrying their lack of unit cohesion.” She took the book from him and found her place again. “He was Roman. The dwarves aren’t going to be using Roman tactics to fight us any more than we’re going to use Greek phalanx tactics to fight them.”

“Does anyone know what tactics they
will
be using?” Felix was momentarily distracted by the upheaval in the yard as the line dissolved and reformed as a marching column.

“The last people to fight dwarves were the Gauls, during Julius Caesar’s campaign. The library has copies of
De Bello Gallico
, but the caesar was a consummate liar and self-propagandist. How much we’ll learn from him is debatable.” Sophia turned her attention back to Tacitus, despite the noise. “This is a better history, written by a better historian.”

The column marched the length of the courtyard, then back again. It took them a little while to replicate the spear wall, but they were better the second time than they’d been the first.

“You said something about a boar’s head,” said Felix.

“Wild Boar’s Head. You put your elite troops in the vanguard and pile them a hundred deep, then bend the rest around either side like the limbs of a bow. Your weakest soldiers aren’t even meant to fight, simply discourage flanking attacks on the main thrust.”

“Except,” said Felix, “we don’t have any elite troops. All we have are bakers and butchers.”

“Either it’ll be enough, or it won’t. If you won’t hire anyone—”

“I will not.”

“…then you’re telling me and everyone else that Carinthia can defend itself. You’ve trained a hundred swords. They’re training hundreds more. These men, even after an hour, are on their way to becoming competent.” Sophia closed the book again. Clearly, she wasn’t going to get any more reading done. “If you don’t think we’re doing enough, what else do you think we should be doing?”

“I don’t know. There’s Master Thaler’s powder.”

“Which is tying up half the smiths in Juvavum, when they could be making war hammers and maces to batter dwarvish armour. And this insistence that we all piss into barrels.” She didn’t say what she thought about the witch Tuomanen, and her unhealthy influence on both Felix and Frederik. “The smith from Simbach, Bastian?”

“The giant?”

“Has used enough iron in one of his pots for a hundred swords.” She watched the would-be soldiers as they attempted to march forward in line, spears ready. She pulled a face. “The dwarves don’t ride, and they might throw axes, but they don’t use bows. We know that mixed spear and bow formations will work against them. Yes, we’re fortunate to have the library, and yes, there are great benefits to be gained by reading old books, but Master Thaler isn’t offering you a substitute for magic.”

“I know he’s not, but” – he screwed his face up – “I can’t just ignore him. He’s so enthusiastic.”

“And so are your boar hounds. I worry, Felix. I worry for the fate of the palatinate: you, my father, and everyone in it. Those powder weapons are a distraction. They need a drum.” She started to get out of her chair again.

“Who?”

“These,” and she waved her hand at the troops in the yard. “They can’t march in time. It’s unnatural, and there’s no reason why they should.”

She stopped a pot-boy on his way to the midden with a bucket of peelings, and told him to come straight back to her. The boy dodged away through the ranks and disappeared.

“They have promise, Sophia.”

“Who?”

It was Felix’s turn to tut. “Master Thaler’s powder weapons. And Mistress Tuomanen…”

“What about her? Has she still forsworn magic?” She frowned. “I’ve seen the fires in the jars that don’t go out.”

“It’s entirely natural. Master Thaler says so.” He looked petulant. “Your own father says so.”

“Yes, well. He’s had his head filled with all sorts of nonsense recently.”

They stared at each other. He might be the prince, but sometimes, she thought he should just listen to her. They didn’t need things that spurted fire and smelt like Sheol. They needed steel and enough men to wield it: HaShem would see to the rest. They were faithful, so they would be saved.

Felix slumped in his seat, looking away. “If I send to the Franks for help, will you let Master Thaler continue?”

“You’re in charge, you can do whatever you like.” That was just mean. Felix was in charge, and he had other advisers besides her. Thaler was like a child in a pastry-shop with his new-found knowledge, never quite knowing which sweetmeat to pick and taking a bite out of each in turn: but he did know what he was doing most of the time. “If Master Thaler thinks his investigations will produce something that works, then he can continue. Meanwhile, we’ll send a messenger to your cousin the Frankish king, asking for some people who know how to drill spearmen.”

The pot-boy ran up to her with his now-empty pail and presented it to her.

“Because otherwise,” she said, “I’ll be stuck banging on the bottom of a slops-bucket until winter.”

She got to her feet again and unsheathed her sword. The men thought they were going to get more schooling from the mad Jewish woman, and they were half right. She struck the wooden pail with her sword pommel in a steady rhythm, as though she were clapping in time with a song.

Effortlessly, the soldiers fell into step. It was that simple. Once they worked out which leg was which, they stopped looking like a rabble and started behaving like a strange creature with many heads, arms and legs, but one mind.

When the sergeant gave the order to turn, they mostly managed it in one movement. When he ordered them to speed up, she picked up the pace along with them. After another two circuits of the courtyard, she handed the bucket over to the sergeant with the suggestion that everyone needed a rest, a drink and something to eat.

She was tired, too, and she had to go riding with Felix later, because she still wasn’t very good at it and needed to get better.

“We need to recruit some drummers,” said Felix.

“One for every century. Those who can keep a beat would be a good choice.” She poked at the ground with her sword-point. “We’re not going to be ready, are we?”