The Empire Stone (15 page)

The artillery barrage around the perimeter grew louder, and Peirol saw stirring in the lines as the troops readied themselves for another attack. Horsemen rode toward the battery, men in elaborate armor, horses richly caparisoned. The lords of the Beshkirian army, and their staff, had come to witness the firing. Some looked curiously at Peirol as they rode past, but no one queried. Peirol wondered why the damned Arzamanians didn’t see the lords and send in a barrage, guessed wizards had cast a spell of confusion or overlaid an illusion.

The artillerymen were assembled in front of the lords, and Niazbeck gave a brief speech. Peirol was too far away to hear what he said. Powder kegs were rolled to the forward gun and opened with rubber mallets, and the gun was loaded. Peirol couldn’t make out any details of the kegs. A gunner knelt and sighted along the barrel.

Magnate Niazbeck readied a slow match.

Peirol had the fat in his hand, rubbed his wrist in it. He pulled, making his hand small, as that thief had shown him, felt rough metal scrape, was stuck, pulled harder, not caring about tearing skin, had one arm free.

The familiar commands were shouted. Niazbeck touched the match to the hole, and the cannon boomed, bucked. The shot was not badly aimed, slamming into the wall about ten feet away from the crack. Stone tumbled, and Peirol imagined he could see the wall itself move.

Peirol had his other wrist greased, was pulling. This arm must have been slightly larger than the other, because he couldn’t get it free.

Again the gun was loaded and aimed. Niazbeck reached with the match, held it to the touchhole.

Peirol was never sure how much of what happened he actually saw and how much his trained mind told him what happened in that instant.

Flame shot up from the touchhole, searing Niazbeck. Peirol thought he heard him scream, saw him stagger back as the gun barrel opened like an evil flower, muzzle spreading, red fire, black smoke building to a ball, as that special powder he’d concocted blew up, the powder he’d asked Gulmit to load the cannon with, the blast swallowing the magnate.

Peirol saw Gulmit and the other gunners running hard, diving into ditches, saw the flames reach the powder kegs behind the gun, saw them catch. His hand was finally free, and he flattened as the gunpowder blew up.

Lords of the army were tossed here, there, hurled spinning as a kitten tosses a bit of yarn, attendants falling as the hot wind killed them. A vast, twisting ball of red, black, and gray boiled over the battery, and the shock washed over Peirol, knocked the tumbrel aside.

He saw no more, for he was on his feet, running back, back through the lines, running hard, as the army of Beshkirs milled in confusion, terror, some fleeing, some attacking, most numbly waiting for the orders that would never come.

Peirol paid no mind to men in his path, cut around them, ignored the shouts of warrants, officers, paid no heed to the musket ball that buried itself in the mud in front of him, fleeing the army of Beshkirs away from Arzamas, into the unknown lands between the armies.

Peirol ran on, small legs churning the ground, feeling no fatigue, no fear, breathing the sweet air of freedom.

Eventually fatigue came, fatigue and terror, for now Peirol found himself in a dangerous wasteland both armies had patrolled and raided through. He took stock, which only needed a minute. He had the brown-dyed uniform on his back, his boots, which were fortunately in good shape, and his hidden pack of jewels. Those were completely without value in this wilderness, for even if he found someone who wanted them, they’d simply put a sword at or through his throat.

His body reminded him of thirst, hunger. Peirol found a trickling stream, drank, kept thinking. His confidence was still strong. If all he had was his cunning, so be it. Food, warmth, weapons, all that could be acquired. He wished he’d grabbed a spear or sword from one of the corpses he’d passed in his mad flight, but he hadn’t. He found a stout, nearly straight stick that’d do for a walking staff and weapon.

In the distance, he heard what he thought at first was the moan of the wind; then he realized it was the baying of a wolf. He could always try to call it and its pack and hope they’d attack his attacker — if they didn’t devour him first. Wolves weren’t particular in that regard.

The desolate road suddenly looked like a place wolves
and
bears would appreciate, bears also quite fond of small men with tangled golden hair and scruffy beards. Without further ado, Peirol began his march south at a rapid trot.

The land had been picked clean by the foragers from the Beshkirian army, so he found nothing worth stealing. But at least the land wasn’t quite as ruined, with trees on either side beginning to bud. He had to hide once as a patrol of dragoons galloped up a side road. The dragoons, wearing a uniform that was neither Arzamanian nor Beshkirian, thundered past, intent on their own business. Peirol waited until they were gone, then went on.

After a while Peirol came to a crossroads, where there’d been six huts, now just burned shells. It was getting colder and darker, and he wanted a fire; he thought about taking shelter in those ruins. But he caught himself. Anyone else abroad in this desolation might think the same. When night came, he stopped by a brook, drank deeply, then found a hollow tree not occupied by anything slithery and settled in for the night. It was long and cold, and shivering woke him frequently. He paced back and forth, waving his arms vigorously until he convinced himself he was warm, went back, and dozed again. It was long after dawn when he awoke, frozen through, his legs aching from the unaccustomed running.

He listed all of the things he wanted, from his own castle with servants — not slaves, servants — and so on, down to a simple cup of hot water. No godlets materialized to offer him any of these, and so he set out once more.

It was a very lucky day. He’d gone no more than a league when he heard the creak of a cart. He found cover, and the vehicle, a shabby wreck high-piled with rags, rounded a bend. It carried one man, a bearded peasant looking perhaps ten years older than Peirol, although he could have been half that age in actuality, considering the way the world treated the poor. No one else appeared, nor did the man appear to have any weapons. As he closed, Peirol came out of the bushes.

“Sir,” he began. “I pray you — ”

The peasant screeched “
YAAAAAAH
,” leapt from his seat, and pelted back the way he’d come. Peirol knew he’d been living hard, but he didn’t think it showed
that
badly. Perhaps the peasant had a problem with dwarves. In any event, he jumped up into the cart and ransacked it. The rags might’ve been rags to him two years earlier, but now they were finery, especially since they didn’t look anything like a uniform. He found child’s breeches that looked as if they’d fit, a flannel shirt with only two rips, even a battered slouch hat. Better, there was a warm coat whose only sin was being baby-excrement yellow.

Peirol discovered the cart’s seat lifted. Inside was the peasant’s meal of bread, cheese, and an earthen bottle of beer. Next to it was a shabby leather purse. He opened it, saw one silver coin and half a dozen coppers. He thought about taking them, having no money at all, but stopped.

He looked at the cart horse, an uncurried old gray, who was looking back at him. “All right,” he muttered. “I know, I know.” He started to put the purse back, then took out his pouch and put a small stone into the purse. “You!” he shouted. Nothing but a slight echo came back. “You are honored for helping the, uh, God of Wit and Handsomeness, Hamma Salbamus, and have been rewarded!”

No movement. The horse nickered. Peirol left the horse and cart, feeling faintly virtuous for not being
that
great a thief and went on, seeing no signs of the peasant. He kept thinking about that huge packet of bread and cheese, letting his mind build it into a banquet until he could wait no more. Then he took to the bushes, telling himself he would only eat half of the bread and cheese and save the rest for dinner. He came back to himself as he was chasing crumbs around the package, a little tipsy on the strong home brew.

Two leagues later, he saw a sign, almost obscured by brush, its paint peeling. He peered at it, saw

then a third symbol he couldn’t make out, very wind- and weather-worn. “This way” and “water” were obvious. There might have been a path beside the sign — he scuffed dirt, saw cobbles, and followed them, pushing through brambles. A place to bathe and change, at the very least. It was more, much more: a long-abandoned hot springs, its wooden buildings sagging, smelling of rot. He disturbed various furry creatures, making sure there was nothing to loot, found a bathstone, took it to the hottest pool he could stomach, and began to soak.

He scrubbed, soaked, scrubbed and soaked, until he was pink and painful. Yawning, still full, he thought of a nap but forced himself to dress in his new finery and keep moving. Any day that began this well couldn’t help but end that way. At midafternoon he found his first sign of real life — a village, walled with thornbushes. With thoughts of an inn, a real bed, hot food, he turned off the track. Peirol was a dozen yards from the village’s gate — dead pricker-bushes tied to a wooden frame — when the voice came.

“Far enough.”

He stopped. “Good morrow,” he said cheerfully. “I’m Peirol of the Moorlands, seeking lodgings.”

“Seek on, Peirol. There’s nothing for you here.”

“But I’m but one, and small at that. I can pay. How can I harm you?”

“Maybe you’re magicked.”

“I vow I’m not.”

“We’ll not take the chance. Move on.”

“But — ”

An arrow thunked down two feet from him.

“Ah,” Peirol said. “And may the gods be as good to you as you were to me.” Not waiting for a response, he went on, mood not that spoiled. The country was improving. At least they hadn’t tried to hit him — he thought.

He passed three other villages that afternoon. One was walled with logs and made no response to his halloing; the other two were empty, abandoned and stripped bare.

In late afternoon he saw a man working in a field. He approached him cautiously, called. The man jerked in surprise.

“Sir,” he quavered. “I mean no one any harm. I’m but a poor farmer, working my barren fields to feed my six, no, seven children, with never a mother to take care of them, nor any horse to plow, but my own muscles — ”

“Stop,” Peirol said. “I mean no harm either. I’m a starving traveler, heading south, and wish only food or even whatever you’re growing. I’m willing to work.”

The man came up from his supplicating crouch. “Just one?”

“Just me,” Peirol said.

“You have no weapons?”

“You see me as I am, far worse than you are.”

“No, no,” the man muttered. “Not worse, never worse, for I’ve had everything taken, and have nothing.”

“What about your seven children?”

“Oh. Oh, yes. Them. They’re starving too.” The man considered Peirol. “A traveler, willing to work. That’s rare, in these times. Do you have a name?”

“Peirol.”

“Peirol. That’s a good name. They call me Wym.”

“May I work with you for my meal?” Peirol was starting to think the man simple.

“Work, yes, you may work, help me, and I shall feed you, feed you with my children, I meant that not the way it sounded, but that we shall dine together, not that I am offering you a chance to dine on my own flesh and blood. I am seeking the potatoes in this field. You move just ahead of me and point to likely growths, they’ll be half-buried, and then we can share, or at least I shall give you a portion after my five children and I, starving we are, take what we must have.”

“Good,” Peirol said. “For I’m sure four eyes are better than two.” He wondered what a peasant with nothing was doing with a hoe, whether the field belonged to him or not, decided that wasn’t worth worrying about, any more than how many children the man actually had, and bent to work. He moved up the row ahead of Wym, half-kneeling, staff in one hand, found three, then four potatoes, rather unappetizing and somewhat shriveled tubers, but better than nothing, dug them out, and tossed them to one side, moving to another promising location.

He saw a blur out of the corner of his eye, reflexively rolled to the side, and Wym’s hoe buried itself in the dirt beside him. The man yanked it free, lifted it high in the air, its V-tip gleaming sharpness. Peirol rolled, spun the staff, and hit Wym hard on the knee. Wym howled, dropped the hoe, grabbed his knee, and fell. Peirol was up, staff end in both hands, struck down once, twice, and Wym was sprawled unconscious. He had to stop himself from striking until the man’s skull split, remembered his children, thought what it must be like, one man with everything stripped from him.

But he still knelt and searched the man’s pockets. He found flint, steel, a battered tin case with kindling inside, a comb, a folding knife, a dozen gold coins, one silver.

What was a man in a field by himself doing with gold? he wondered. If he had gold, why couldn’t he feed his children? Were there any children? Was Wym some kind of snare for bandits or such?

Peirol looked around the edges of the field, saw no movement. He pocketed the gold coins, felt a fool for leaving the silver for the children who couldn’t be real, grabbed Wym’s bag of potatoes, and ran to the road.

That night he slept warm, a small fire beside him, his belly full of roasted potatoes. For a time.

He dreamed, but knew it wasn’t a dream. He was in Abbas’s study, and the sorcerer was glowering at him. Behind the wizard was a window, and a storm shot lightning across the sky. “You please me but little,” Abbas rumbled.

“I’m sorry for that,” Peirol said. “What wrong have I done?”

“I dispatched you after the Empire Stone over a year ago, and my avatars tell me you are still on the Manoleon Peninsula! A snail could have crawled from Sennen to where you are by now!”

A primary rule in dealing with wizards is to always be respectful, if you wish to have a continued and placid life. Nevertheless Peirol exploded in anger.

“You’re talking like a godsdamned fool! Sir!”

Abbas’s brows gathered, and the storm raged harder. “I shall not destroy you until you explain.”

“A year? My year of slothful leisure as I lazed from palace to palace? I’ve been taken by pirates, enslaved on a galley, almost taken by demons, nearly drowned, enslaved once more as … as what it doesn’t matter! Then I’ve fought a war, almost gotten myself executed, and now I’m in the middle of a godsdamned wilderness with nothing but rags, a couple of potatoes and my cunning, and you chivvy me for being slow? You’re lucky I’m still here, still alive! I thought that was why you sent me that dream of encouragement Times ago, so I wouldn’t give up hope!”

“My granddaughter asked me to do that,” Abbas grumbled. “I had no idea where you were at the time.”

“This quest of yours is hardly going well,” Peirol said. “Everything you gave me has been lost, I’ve almost died a dozen times, and … and … and now you accuse me of laziness!” He broke off, almost in tears.

Abbas grunted, then grunted again. “Kima has often chided me for moving before I know all the details,” he said. “Although why I’m confessing that to you is beyond me. I do not apologize, do not ever go back on my words. But let us assume that I spoke not, that I inquired as to how I might help continue your quest. Assuming you haven’t lost heart and have given up.”

That thought
had
been in Peirol’s mind, but he hadn’t been able to come up with any other plan. He assumed wizards could take revenge over great distances.

“I haven’t given up,” Peirol said. “As to how you might help — I could use gold, a cavalry escort through these barbaric lands, an invisibility spell — almost anything.”

“And I’m afraid I see no way of giving you anything,” Abbas said. “I could strike you down, but help you — sorcery has its own limits.”

“Then why did you trouble me with this vision?” Peirol almost shouted.

Abbas stared hard. Without answering, he vanished, and Peirol woke beside a dying campfire. Excellent, he told himself. Now you’ve angered your only … friend? No, Abbas is hardly your friend. Kima? He couldn’t know, could only hope he still had
someone
wishing him luck.