Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children of Paris (83 page)

The back of the wagon sheered left and they tilted on two wheels and screams erupted behind him. A heave from Clementine’s mighty chest righted them and they crashed back down and she pulled on, trying to recover her stride, the wagon now faster than she, the swingletree chaffing her hocks. Grégoire still held the reins and Tannhauser grabbed them short and hauled. Whether from panic or courage, the great beast drove onwards. If she ran herself till she fell she’d upend them. He found the brake with his heel and threw his weight on it. Filth sprayed and the wheel smoked and the wagon slowed.

Clementine foundered in the traces and toppled onto her side with a groan.

Tannhauser let go of Grégoire and the reins and vaulted down. He unbolted and lowered the sideboard. Carla swung her legs down and stood up, the nightingale in her arms. Pascale pulled the Mice to their feet one by one and pushed them towards him. He lifted them down as Estelle jumped by herself. She reached back for her crossbow.

‘Leave it, take this lantern instead. Hugon, fetch the satchels and wallets.’

Pascale had slung the saddle holsters over one shoulder. She took the double-barrelled pistol and the larger of the food sacks and sat on the mattress to swing down.

Tannhauser saw Juste jump from the rear and run back into the dark.

Grymonde had disappeared.

Tannhauser spotted a damp black patch on the mattress where Carla had lain.

‘Can you walk, love?’

‘Yes.’

He didn’t know if she could. She couldn’t know either. Her body had taken more punishment than all but the dead. He guessed the quay at three hundred yards.

‘Pascale, with me. Drop the sack.’

They ran towards the back of a massive figure who stood in a swath of moonlight at the crossroad that had doomed the wagon. Grymonde bellowed defiance into the night, shaking the mace above his head. An arrow skipped from a wall. Juste stood ahead of Grymonde, in the same moonbeam and well within range of the mace, as he loosed a broadhead at the torches in the distance. Tannhauser clapped Grymonde on the back and grabbed the wrist that held the mace while shouting in his ear.

‘My Infant, are you feeling stout?’

The mace came down without disaster. The whited holes turned.

‘Have we reached the hell ship?’

‘Not yet. Give me the mace. Go with Pascale to the wagon.’

‘Will you teach me how to shoot a bow?’ asked Pascale.

‘On my word. Keep to the dark. Get the others ready to move.’

Tannhauser dropped the mace. Another arrow passed, better ranged. He grabbed Juste and pulled him from the moonlight to the wheel-splintered house this side of the crossing. He unslung his own bow. He grabbed four shafts and nocked. The torches ahead had retreated but there was moonlight at the main crossroads, too. He picked a black outline and winged a bodkin into it. Other shapes fled as it reeled and fell.

‘Stay in shadow. Pick your man. They will try to flank us down this street to your left. Keep them scared and let me know as soon as you see them.’

Another arrow sped by. Their archer was using the dark, too.

‘I’m going forward,’ said Tannhauser. ‘Don’t shoot me.’

Tannhauser ran low through the blackness. Shouts and oaths floated about the labyrinth, distance and location difficult to judge, consternation not so. None of the Pilgrims counted on dying tonight. Between this row of houses and the church was an open space. The archer stepped out thence and drew, his aim already chosen. Tannhauser pulled and shot him in the gut and knocked him onto his back.

Twenty feet more. Worth the trouble.

He nocked as he ran to the archer. He stooped to the quiver and snatched a fistful of arrows and the archer reached up for his throat. Tannhauser stabbed him in the face with a dozen broadheads. He turned left as a man ran at him from the church space, sword committed to a lunge. He let him come, sidestepped, warding lightly with the bow, and plunged the bundle of broadheads into his neck and left them there. A third man ran away and Tannhauser stepped aside and drew. The runner ran head-first into a fourth Pilgrim who rounded the corner of the church with a torch. As the arrow flew, the runner clasped the torchbearer’s waist and the bodkin drilled his face, cheek to cheek, and nailed him to the other’s chest. They shuffled from sight like apprentice dancers summoned to some ballet of the crazed, and Tannhauser turned to the erstwhile swordsman who knelt on his heels and gargled on his own gore. Tannhauser recovered the broadheads with the feeling of uprooting rushes from boggy ground.

He dashed back towards the wagon through the shadows by the wall.

‘Mattias coming in,’ he called.

Juste loosed. The arrow passed wide. Tannhauser heard a distant cry behind him.

The boy was panting and his eyes were wild.

‘Easier than ducks, eh, lad?’

Juste nodded without conviction. Tannhauser divided the dripping bundle and recharged Juste’s quiver and shoved the rest into his own. He spotted the crossbow he’d dropped. The fall had triggered it. He toed the stirrup and drew the sinew and loaded it. He stacked it by Juste. Tannhauser squeezed the lad’s shoulder to calm him.

‘You are our rock. Watch for the flankers. If they rush you, fall back.’

Tannhauser ran back to the wagon. Hugon had loaded himself as told and added the violl to his burdens. The boy was calmer than he was. The Mice held hands, impassive as two matched pearls. Pascale had reclaimed the sack. Estelle had set down the lantern to hug Carla round the waist, it seemed for the latter’s benefit.

Carla had propped her hams against the wagon, as if it were all that kept her upright. In her face was an anguish he hadn’t seen before.

‘I left Antoinette,’ she said. ‘I forgot her.’

Antoinette? Who was Antoinette? It didn’t matter.

‘Left her where?’

‘In the cathedral.’

‘She’s a sight better off than we are, so be not fretful. My Infant.’

‘The Infant is stout,’ said Grymonde, ‘so you be not fretful either.’

‘Mattias,’ said Pascale.

Pascale pointed at Grymonde. He was holding onto the wagon bench. The feathers of an arrow jutted from his right flank and rose and fell with each shallow breath. If the broadhead had cut any vessels worth cutting, even he would have been down; but another ten paces would do the trick. The blade would slice his innards with every move.

Tannhauser looked at Carla for an opinion.

‘If the arrow stays,’ she said, ‘so must he.’

‘Will I get it out?’ he asked.

‘Find the head. If you can feel it, you can expose it and cut it off.’

‘My Infant, very slowly, turn to face me.’

Grymonde did so and Tannhauser pulled his shirt up and tugged it down through the neck to anchor it. The belly was thickly muscled.

‘Hold fast. Pascale, bring the lantern, watch.’

Tannhauser judged the angle and the length and put his right palm on Grymonde’s belly and his left on the nock of the arrow. He pushed. There was no easy give, as there would be through entrails. He chanced more pressure and felt the tip against his palm.

‘The tip is in the belly muscle,’ he said to Carla.

‘Good,’ she said.

‘Excellent,’ said Grymonde.

‘Don’t speak,’ said Tannhauser.

He pushed harder still and the skin tented against his hand. He marked the spot with a finger and released the nock and drew the dagger on his left hip.

‘Pascale, push the nock of the arrow, as I did. Hold when I say so.’

She did so without a squeam. The skin tented again.

‘Hold there.’

Tannhauser cut an X across the bulge, two inches to either arm. The leaves of skin bulged like a split fig and bled.

‘Why don’t you just push it right through?’ asked Pascale.

‘He’d resist. The shaft would likely snap short. Ease off a little. There.’

He put a finger in and felt the tip of the broadhead in the other side of the muscle. He cut alongside the finger. The steel head popped forth and the muscle retracted around the neck. He gave the dagger to Pascale.

‘Use both hands. Put the flat of the blade near the hilt against the nock. When I say so, give it a good shove. Two inches. Don’t snap the shaft. Don’t cut yourself.’

Tannhauser put both palms flat on either side of the wound to anchor the belly.

‘My Infant, lean on your arms and let your belly sag, as if you want to piss.’

‘I do want to piss.’

‘Excellent, then piss.’

‘I’ll not piss in my boots.’

He lowered a hand to release his cock. He sighed as he let go.

‘As before, Pascale,’ said Tannhauser. ‘Push just a little.’

He didn’t want to get stabbed. The arrowhead poked out between his hands.

‘Now shove.’

The broadhead slid three inches clear.

‘Enough. Give me the dagger. My Infant, stop pissing.’

‘Am I a dog?’

‘Is it beyond the King of Cockaigne? Try.’

Grymonde, so far mute through his ordeal, groaned with the effort.

The stream abated.

‘Harden your stomach tight and hold fast.’

‘What now? Do you want me to beshit myself?’

‘Only if you must.’

The arrow stiffened as if in a vice. Tannhauser gripped the head, finger and thumb, and whittled the shaft, above and below, deep into the fixing. He cut the head off.

‘Finish your piss.’ Tannhauser went behind him.

‘With pleasure. Does that mean we’re done?’

Tannhauser scrubbed his hands clean on Grymonde’s back, then braced one palm against Grymonde’s ribs and gripped the shaft beyond the fletching. He waited to hear the splashing and heaved. The shaft came eight inches clear before the muscles clenched and his hand slipped and the feathers scorched him.

Grymonde grunted. ‘That stopped my water quick enough.’

‘One more.’

Tannhauser stepped back and went for a foot and both hands. The muscles didn’t relax at all. He hauled the shaft free and dropped it. Grymonde sighed and put his cock away. Tannhauser scooped axle grease from the bucket hung under the bench and plugged the wounds back and front. He swabbed his hands on Grymonde’s shirt.

‘That was a song and dance from a man with three Immortals on board.’

‘Two, and a crumb that tasted like you plucked it from your nostrils.’

‘Your entrails leak from half a dozen holes. So answer me true.’

‘I could walk to your bloody hell ship on my hands.’

‘Can you carry Carla?’

He felt Carla’s hand on his arm. He held it but didn’t turn.

‘I’ll carry her to Heaven’s Gate if she wants me to.’

‘The hell ship will do for now.’

‘I want my eyes. My wings. I want La Rossa.’

Tannhauser looked at Estelle. She lifted her arms. He doubted the extra weight would tip the balance. Tannhauser took her by the waist and hoisted her onto Grymonde’s shoulders. His smile was horrible.

‘Can Amparo fly with me?’ asked Estelle.

‘Not this time,’ said Tannhauser

He turned and opened his arms to Carla. She hesitated.

‘If you fall, love, we all fall.’

The wildness passed between them. She nodded. He picked her up.

‘My Infant.’

Grymonde extended his enormous hands.

Tannhauser put Carla in his arms. He grinned at her.

‘They look more comfortable than mine.’

Carla smiled. ‘They are.’

‘Pascale, take them to the quays. Get them aboard the empty barge.’

‘Why don’t you come with us?’ asked Estelle.

‘They’re too close and too many not to come after us. Go.’

Tannhauser turned away so as not to delay them. He glanced at what was left in the wagon. Altan’s gear. A loaded crossbow. The armour. A skin of wine. Three pole arms. He took the two halberds and the skin of wine and turned to watch them leave.

The Infant stumped into the dark with his children and the woman he loved. Carla watched him from over the giant’s shoulder. She knew what he needed.

She turned away.

Tannhauser looked for Grégoire.

The boy had pulled the spear from Clementine’s flank and cut the traces, and dressed the wound with axle grease. He was trying to hoist the collar from Clementine’s neck. Tannhauser went over and set down the gear and helped him. Clementine laid her head down with a sigh. Shivers trembled beneath her hide. She was gored through the gut. Grégoire started sobbing. Tannhauser pulled him away.

‘Go with Grymonde and the others. Take these halberds.’

‘Will she suffer?’

‘No. Now go.’

Tannhauser turned and saw Juste running towards him with a Pilgrim in pursuit, a javelin cocked above his shoulder for the throw. Tannhauser ran to the wagon and snatched and levelled the crossbow. As the Pilgrim brought his arm over, Tannhauser shot him through the armpit. The spear faltered; but it flew.

Pilgrim and boy went down at the same time.

Tannhauser dropped the crossbow and ran behind the wagon. More men emerged from the side street and yelled at those waiting at the crossroads beyond the church.

Juste was pierced through the upper back and trying to get to his knees. The weight of the shaft caused the javelin to flop sideways and the pain drove him down.

Tannahuser drew his sword and laid it on the wagon and took the
spontone
.

A musket boomed. Too far away for smoke or pan flash. He heard screams.

Grégoire’s screams.

Tannahuser saw him squirming, in Clementine’s blood and his own.

Bone shards waved from beneath one leg of his new red breeches.

The spear in Juste was tipped with a long, thin, triangular head. It had skated up over his left shoulder blade and pierced the upper chest, maybe the lung; they’d see.

Tannhauser stooped and grabbed the shaft and put a foot on Juste’s back and drew the javelin out. He hefted it and caught it at the sweet spot and spun and cast it overarm, picking his man on the turn from among the three too slow to scatter. The javelin broached the burliest through the chest and the others turned tail.

Tannhauser dragged Juste to his feet. The boy’s eyes were glassy.

Tannhauser grabbed him by the jaw and bent over into his face.