"Come on, you flighty fucker. We've been through all sorts of shit together, and I suddenly find that dying out here at the hands of those bastard dwarves is something I don't want to do. So ignore the horns, forget how steep this is, and concentrate on my voice."
Perhaps it was the familiarity that had grown between the two. Perhaps it was Buber's death-grip on the bridle. Or perhaps it was simply that the horse thought Buber was less likely than the dwarves to eat it. Whatever it was, the creature started moving again, with Buber keeping up a constant monologue in its ear. The slope began to flatten, and they ran the last few feet to level ground.
They both shook themselves down, and the horns sounded again, seeming to come from just back over the rise.
"Right." Buber took a second to make absolutely certain the girth strap was tight before getting his foot up to the stirrup. "This isn't going to be good for either of us."
His backside hit the saddle and he dug his heels in. The horns bellowed once more, and the dwarves appeared at the top of the rock face, looking stern and purposeful. At least Buber didn't need to kick the horse twice: it started at a high-stepping canter and settled into a gallop for a stadia or two.
The dwarves lost definition as they grew more distant. Soon they were no more than squat stick figures against the blue haze of the mountains behind them, and Buber slowed the horse back to a canter.
The path grew closer to the river. It would have been a relief to stop, to cool down, but they had to keep going, and at speed. The ground was softer less harsh at any rate and the clattering of the horse's hooves dulled to a rhythmic drum-beat.
As the trees started to climb above them, the dwarvish horns rolled their sound down the valley once again. If they attracted giants, it would be some sort of justice, though Buber doubted there would be any within earshot, given the number he'd killed the previous day. Their bodies had been crow-food when he'd passed them earlier.
He eased down to a walk, and then speeded up for a gallop, alternating between the two, eating up the miles, aware that the dwarves marched inexorably onwards behind him.
Their horns called periodically; an initial blast, a sustained note, a long trailing away. The dwarves in Ennsbruck would have heard that sound already, but what commands did the notes carry? Would the dwarves understand what was being asked of them? He had to assume they'd be waiting for him, and would stop him if they could.
He kept up the cycle of walking and running, or rather he forced the horse to. It might have been punishing on him, but it was exhausting the animal he was riding. Every time it walked, it did so for longer. Every time it galloped, it was for a shorter distance.
It was killing the horse, and he knew it. What was worse was that he meant to do so. At some point, it would die under him, heart given out and lungs burnt. Buber would get off, take the things he needed, and carry on on foot.
That was his plan: to get as far ahead as possible from the following pack, and surprise Ennsbruck's new residents with his sudden appearance. Encountering one or two, or even three at a push as he broke through their picket line was doable. What he didn't want was to give them time to be properly organised.
The sun swung behind his right shoulder and flickered between the trees. To his left, the flank of the mountain swelled. There was a pinch-point ahead, where the river twisted to the north up against the valley-side, and the path squeezed through the gap between water and rock.
Across the river, on the other side, was a patchwork of field-lines, but he gauged that the water was too deep, too quick and too cold to cross. If he was a dwarf, he'd have made the same calculations and posted at least a couple of guards on the road.
Buber slowed the horse, and it all but stopped: habit was the only thing keeping it going now. Reaching for his crossbow, he pulled the string back with the lever, and laid a bolt against the wire.
His wasn't a quiet approach the horse was making enough noise for two so this had to be done quickly instead. The horns sounded again, but for the first time since the pursuit began, they sounded distant and indistinct. He dug his heels in and hoped.
Just as he was predictable, so were they. They'd heard him coming, were poised, braced for his charge, teeth bared and axes ready.
Except he wasn't charging. When he was still a distance away, several blade lengths apart but close enough to make a bow-shot easy, he pulled up and sighted along his arm at one of the dwarves.
They abruptly realised their mistake, but one of them paid for it with his life. The bolt pierced his chest, leaving only the flights protruding, and the impact rocked him backwards on his heels. He staggered, sank to one knee, and finally fell.
All the while, Buber was reloading.
An enraged dwarf ran at Buber, mouth open, voice raised in a bellow of anger. He drew his axe back ready for his swing, and Buber fired the second bolt down his throat.
It could only get harder from now on. He holstered the crossbow and took up the reins again, trying to coax one last effort from his horse. It responded feebly, only picking up speed when he kicked his hardest. The beast was trembling with effort, and clearly couldn't continue much longer.
The trees ended as the river swung away to the right. The black walls of Ennsbruck were closer than he'd anticipated, and the surrounding land was a maze of fields and gates.
He couldn't see any other dwarves, even though he knew they had to be there. They could have ducked down behind the rough dry-stone walls, but that would have made it hard for them to ambush him.
Buber hesitated. He ought to dismount, scout the way ahead, check for tracks and spoors all the things that he knew how to do. Instead he drove the horse on, and that was when they sprang their trap.
It was nothing more sophisticated than a rope pulled taut across the road, but it didn't need to be fancy to bring the horse down and send Buber flying. The ditches either side were abruptly full of dwarves, swarming out, covered in soil and sacking and fountaining water as they emerged.
He hit the gravel face-first. It hadn't been his best feature, so he didn't give it a moment's thought. He flipped over onto his back, and skidded to a halt.
He was bleeding. Of course he was. And there were a dozen dwarves, filthy and stinking of sulphurous mud, running up behind him, weapons ready to make him bleed some more.
As they passed the horse, they hit it twice, breaking its neck and skull. It hadn't even tried to rise.
Gods, he was tired. He'd been going hard all day. If he chose to lie there, he could rest forever. Nikoleta might even be wherever it was he ended up. And yet the fight hadn't completely left him.
Buber hauled his lanky frame upright, and realised that he'd fallen between the dwarves and the town. He put his head down and started to run towards Ennsbruck.
He felt and heard the air cutting at his back. The axe-blade sang as it swung, and the draught caught his cloak. He was a hair's breadth from disaster, and somehow, despite his exhaustion, he managed to stay one step ahead. Then two. Then more. His long legs took great gulps out of the road, while the dwarves, with their much shorter limbs, struggled to keep up.
His heart pounded and his lungs burned. He was running on empty, with nothing left to fuel him except his pain and anger. They'd killed his damn horse as if they were swatting a fly, and that stupid kid he'd left in Ennsbruck the one who tried to steal from him was now hanging from the town wall, tied upside down by his feet with his hands cut off in case he should try to climb back up.
He had to escape from them, because this was what Carinthia could become, every town like Obernberg, their inhabitants nailed to the outsides of their houses. Worse than the Teutons, and that had been bad enough.
They were throwing their axes and hammers in an effort to stop him, but none hit their mark.
The gap between them widened as he put everything into his effort. No half-measures, no holding something back for later. There'd be no later otherwise. They were fresh, he was spent. They'd run him down before he'd gone a mile: but he didn't have to run a mile.
Only to the bridge.
The river was turning back towards him, and there was the twin-piered bridge. What he needed was not on the other side, behind the walls, but in the river itself.
He threw himself down the bank and into the water. Freezing, unspeakably cold. He plunged his arms below the surface to grab the edge of one of the submerged boats.
He had his knife and then he didn't. No use worrying now; he couldn't fight them all, and never could. Instead, he concentrated on the one thing that might save him. The effort just to get the boat moving was incredible. The water sucked at it, and his feet churned in the soft sand and loose pebbles.
The stones that kept it pinned to the riverbed rolled free as he turned it, and it rose. He lifted it above his head and the water poured out of it in a cataract over his head. He was blind and stung, gasping for air. One last act, born of desperation, because there were a hundred things he could have done differently but this was the only one he could think of: he threw the boat into the fast-flowing meltwater of the midstream, and himself after it.
His part-fingers clamped to the bulwark of the boat, which started to fill with water almost instantly, but the current had both it and him. He was being washed away, and no matter how long and far the dwarves ran, they weren't going to catch him if he only could keep himself afloat.
But he'd freeze to death if he didn't do something about that, and quickly. The little boat sank lower in the water, and he tried to pull himself into it.
He couldn't get enough purchase. His few-fingered hands slipped against the wet wood, and he fell back each time. There were shallows, though, and he kicked out to try and guide his salvage towards them.
The dwarves weren't giving up. The hoom of distant horns, and close-by shouts of their strange words made that clear. He had bare moments to fix the situation.
His feet touched the bottom, and he pushed the boat up against the bank. Emptying it of water, he dragged his sodden cloak off his back and jammed it into the hole in the bilges, working the cloth deep down with his fist. Then, with one foot in the boat, he pushed off from the side, paddling frantically with his hands to put as much distance as he could between himself and the snarling, bearded faces assembling on the riverbank.
If any had been armed with a bow, he'd have been done for. Bows weren't dwarvish weapons, though, not like the axe or hammer. Dwarves preferred to meet their foe face to face, killing him like an honest man should.
Fuck that, thought Buber, as the river propelled him on. The bung he'd made of his rain-washed cloak leaked more than a little, and he bailed with his cupped hands.
At some point in his journey downstream, he realised that he might be dying. By that time he was too cold to care.
72.
They were barely in any state to invade a beer cellar and order a round of drinks, let alone do more, but at least they'd finally arrived: it was just beyond dusk, a couple of miles upstream of Simbach, just past where the Salzach and the Enn met.
Ullmann had taken his turn tied to the barge like some draught animal, walking along the bank and helping to guide it along. Everyone had, except Vulfar who'd broken at least a couple of ribs and was lucky not to have pierced a lung. They'd laid him out in the cabin, and just got on with the job.
Ohlhauser had proved to be as strong as an ox, a lifetime of lifting and carrying, ploughing and reaping meant he thought little of wrapping a rope over his shoulders and leaning into the load. He reminded Ullmann of the father he'd left behind in Over-Carinthia, perhaps a little too much.
Crossing the Enn had proved difficult, but, once again, Ullmann had swum across and guided the barge to the other side.
With the boat safely tied up and not showing any lights, Vulfar felt he'd earned his florins. Ullmann wasn't so sure about the bargemaster, but his crew certainly had, as also had the Bavarians, and Manfred and Horst, who'd cheerfully done everything asked of them and more. He closed the hold doors, and lit one of the lanterns.
"Does everyone know their part?" asked Ullmann. "Mr Ohlhauser, you've already done your duty, and, if you wish, you're released."
"If you've something else in mind, Master Ullmann, I can lend an arm or two."
"Then stay with the barge and Manfred. The spears won't unload themselves, and we may have to do it quickly. If we can take the wharf, we'll do it there. If that's too risky, we'll send the townspeople to you. Be ready, and if you're attacked, cast off for Carinthia." He unfolded the map and pressed it flat with his hand. "Me, Mr Metz, Mr Kehle and Horst will enter the town from the north and go door to door. Fuchs never stays overnight in Simbach, but returns to his hall three miles to the north-east. He leaves some of his men behind, but if we gather enough townspeople, quickly enough, we can overwhelm and disarm them in whichever cellar they happen to be."
"That's clear enough," said Horst. "Are we taking spears with us?"
"As many as we can comfortably carry. If we can take the town without alerting Fuchs, we're half done." Ullmann counted out six spears to each man, and six for himself. "Our load'll soon get lighter."
They were ready, and Manfred asked: "What's the sign, then, that we're to come to the wharf?"
"Let's not get too pretty about this, Man. One of us'll run back and tell you. Just keep close watch, and if you see the town on fire, you'll know that things aren't going well for us."
"These are our homes you're talking about," murmured Metz in the darkness, "and our families and neighbours."
"Yes, Mr Metz, and if you didn't want our spears or our help, the time to say so would have been on the quay at Juvavum. Nothing's going to go wrong, and nothing's going to get burnt down as long as everyone plays their part." Ullmann blew the lantern out and opened one of the landward-side hold doors.
The gusty night wind blew in, and Ullmann stole out onto the running board, then jumped up onto the soft soil of the bank. Manfred passed him his bundle of spears, doing the same for each person as they scrabbled ashore.
"Right. Man, you sit at the bow and keep watch. If you feel yourself dropping off, for gods' sakes swap with someone else Mr Ohlhauser for preference." Ullmann slung his spears up on his shoulder, where they rattled against each other. "This should be straightforward, but it won't hurt to stay alert."
"The gods are on our side, Max," said Manfred. "Go on, get going."
Kehle took the lead, and they spaced themselves out, keeping track of each other in the dark by dint of tails of white cloth they'd tucked in the waist bands of their breeks.
The Bavarians moved quickly and surely. Fuchs's band of robbers didn't bother with wasteful effort like patrols; when the sun went down they started drinking, and when the sun came up again, they'd look for more people to intimidate. Dusk, then, meant a welcome respite for the town, when those who had somewhere else to go might take the opportunity to steal away under cover of night.
The band crept into the outskirts of town. There was no stone wall, narrow bridge or looming castle to mark the boundary just buildings beginning to squash in next to each other. Glowing globes had hung suspended across a few of Simbach's major junctions, just as they had, in greater abundance, at Juvavum. Now the streets were dark, with most of the windows shuttered, and there was no edict in force, commanding that a light be shone from every house Ullmann watched Kehle turn a corner, then abruptly reappear. Working his way up the line, he pressed his mouth to the Bavarian's ear.
"What is it?"
"Fuchs's men. Beer cellar on Munchen Street."
Ullmann crouched down and took a peek for himself. Drunken noise and dirty yellow light spilt out from one of the basements, and, across the road, someone was pissing up against the wall of a tailor's.
"At least we know where they are now. Is there another way across?"
"We'll have to back up." They trotted back the way they'd come, and took another side street that led them out further along.
This time, the beer cellar was an indistinct glow, and the figures visible in front of it were blind to their presence. Ullmann and his men crossed the Munchen road calmly and quietly, Kehle leading the rest of the way to his brother's house, overlooking the market square not by the front way, but down a narrow alley and up a creaking flight of wooden steps, difficult to negotiate carrying half a dozen spears each.
"Give me a minute," Kehle said, and handed his load to Horst before trying the latch. It rose, and he slipped through the door. A sliver of warmth, then darkness again. Ullmann shivered and looked up. The night sky was breaking apart to show the stars and the rising horns of the moon, the light of which risked exposing them to view.
He motioned for them to get down as best they could, and hide their faces from the moon-glow.
From somewhere inside the house came the sound of a woman's shriek cut sharply off and the shattering of a pot. Then the light under the door went out, and Kehle was standing there, beckoning them in. Quickly gathering up their bundles, they climbed up and in. The door was closed, and the candle uncovered.
"Sorry about the noise. My brother's wife." Kehle lifted the candlestick. "They came for my brother yesterday, and Juli doesn't know where he's been taken. She thought I was him."
"Does Fuchs know you went to Carinthia?" asked Ullmann.
"No, but he's taken Gerd hostage anyway."
Metz grew agitated. "I need to find my parents, my sisters."
Ullmann rested his spears against the closed door and bowed his head. "Let's not complicate matters, gentlemen. Why don't we take a moment or two to work out what we want and how best to get it. I assume Fuchs is holding his prisoners in his manor?"
"That's what Juli heard," said Kehle. "There are others, too, taken in the last couple of days. In case there's trouble."
"He's a smart one, this earl of yours. Whole families start to disappear, and he's worried that they might band together into a force to challenge him. So he splits them every which way, even before they raise so much as a carving knife at him." Ullmann nodded at Horst. "Can you make sure the lady of the house isn't thinking of leaving for Fuchs's estates to try and trade her husband for his brother?"
Horst pursed his lips, piled all the spears he was carrying next to Ullmann's, and went through into the rest of the house.
"You see," said Ullmann, "that's where it leads. Divide and conquer, one part of the family against the other. You want rid of Fuchs, don't you?"
"Of course," said Metz, "but-"
"The cost." Kehle looked back at the door Horst had gone through. "It's too much to ask of anyone."
"We can get your brother back, Mr Kehle, and any relatives of yours whom Fuchs might have, Mr Metz. It's fear that's holding you prisoner just as surely as any chain." Ullmann looked at both the Bavarians. "How many men has Fuchs got?"
"Two dozen or so," said Metz. "Some will be with Fuchs, and when word reaches him that you're here, they'll kill the hostages."
Ullmann raised his finger. "How will word reach them?"
"One of Fuchs's men?" Doubt had already crept into Metz's voice.
"Not if we've captured them all. That part won't be difficult. They're steaming drunk, and even if they want to make a fight of it, my little sister could take two of them at once." He was bringing them around: the situation was difficult, yes, but not impossible. Far from it. "We can tie up any who don't want a scrap. I even know of a safe place to put them till morning."