The Empire Stone (13 page)

Arzamanian cavalry trotted out on the flank, coming steadily through the mire, ordered to wipe out these insolent cannoneers before they could do any damage.

Trumpets blared from behind, and the Beshkirian army marched forward, into the attack. The two gunners, paying no mind, intent on their duty, shouted readiness.

“Stand back from your guns…. Fire!” Peirol shouted.

The guns bellowed, and white smoke gouted from their barrels. Peirol rode forward a little into clear air, saw men down to the side of the magicians.

“Right a trifle,” he shouted, wondering if that was any sort of military order. Men were swabbing out the guns, pouring powder down the muzzle, putting the wad down, and ramming the ball home.

“Aim right,” a gunner shouted.

“Ready! … Ready!”

“Stand back from your guns…. Fire!”

This time the guns struck home. The sorcerers’ tiny canvas enclaves were slashed to bits, and the stone balls hit boulders, spraying fragments. Wizards in mid-spell, their acolytes, and their attendants, were broken, torn apart.

Something moved in the corner of Peirol’s vision, and he turned, caught only a flash of something awful, something red. Men cried as they, too, saw the demons. Then the demons were gone as if they’d never been. The cannon crashed, again on target, and more men died, and the magic Peirol felt swirling about him vanished.

“Gunners … new target … attacking horsemen to our right … load grapeshot …”

“Ready … ready …”

“
FIRE!
”

The stone balls, more than three dozen to a cannon, scythed through the cavalry, not fifty yards distant. Horses reared, screaming like women, multicolored guts coiling across the muck, men falling, dying, screaming louder than their mounts. Then the infantry was past the guns, attacking into the smashing fire of the Arzamanian heavy guns, but Peirol and the battery were safe. Creaking toward them was Niazbeck’s carriage, the battery’s other two guns behind them. Niazbeck leaned out, shrilly shouting patriotic nonsense.

The army hit the enemy lines at a walk, and the Arzamanians fell back a little and regrouped just as the Beshkirians shouted for the charge. The walk became a trot became an unstoppable run, and the Arzamas lines broke, curling back. Again the battery took up firing positions, blasting any enemy formation they saw.

Peirol found himself shouting victory, that the war was over, as the Beshkirian juggernaut went up that hill. He rode past dead men in starry robes and their assistants. Braziers, cases of gear, were being smashed open and ruined by vengeful infantrymen, the air thick with perfumed powders. Arzamas’s magic had been broken, and now the Arzamanians must be finally defeated. But the Arzamanian officers regained control, and their army retreated slowly, stubbornly, in spite of suicidal attacks by the Beshkirian cavalry. The gates of their city swallowed them, leaving only a rear guard to bravely die where they stood. The Arzamanian army was safe.

In spite of Peirol’s plan, Beshkirs had failed. The great city of Arzamas, well supplied, well guarded, almost impregnable, was now under siege, and soldiers wondered how many would die under its walls.

By midwinter, Peirol was an experienced soldier — not in killing, but in surviving a mad world where everyone seemed intent on killing him. The soldiers dug elaborate earthworks surrounding Arzamas, sealing it from relief. But the walls of the city overhung the besiegers, and any soldier who dared step above ground would be obliterated by the huge murtherers on the battlements, guns with a bore bigger than a man’s head, hurling stone balls weighing more than a hundred pounds.

Magic also stalked the soldiers. An innocent root in a trench wall might reach out and strangle a passerby. Weird creatures haunted the night, creatures found in no bestiary but in a wizard’s fever dreams. Sometimes they were innocent nightmares; other times, when a more potent spell eluded the countersorcery of Beshkirian wizards, they killed with their fangs and talons.

Even the lords of Beshkirs wanted to kill Peirol. Half a dozen times futile attacks had been mounted, suicidal frontal attacks shattered even before scaling ladders could be emplaced. Mines had been dug, and countermined, so the sappers far underground were buried alive. Peirol shuddered at that death, although he’d seen none that were exactly appetizing.

Disease raked the men. More than fifteen of the battery, including young Poolvash, died thrashing in delirium. Others’ minds broke, and those men were taken away, babbling or silent in a lost world of their own. A sign of the times was that the casualties were replaced not by free men, who’d originally formed the battery, but by slaves freshly bought by Magnate Niazbeck or taken from his estates, who of course made indifferent warriors.

Everyone seemed content to allow the slave and dwarf Peirol to actually command the unit. No noble officer was interested in coming this far forward and chancing death, even though, as always, the cannoneers were far safer than the infantry in the very front lines. The battery was positioned on the southern side of Arzamas, far distant from the supply lines to the landing port and home. There were Arzamanian units outside the city to their south, but they’d done nothing more than mount occasional ambushes and keep the Beshkirians from marching farther south. Niazbeck had commandeered a small hut, refitted it into luxury, and lolled far behind the battery’s position with a staff of servants. Peirol didn’t grudge him that — the winter had brought gout to cripple the magnate, although Peirol wondered if he’d be healthier if he lost some weight. But delicacies continued to arrive for him by the cartload from Beshkirs. At least, unlike some of the other lords, Niazbeck sent some of this bounty to his men.

But that didn’t improve matters much. The siege dragged on as storms raged. The countryside, once green and fair, was nothing but mud and misery. Men would die, sometimes be buried, and a barrage would, as likely as not, raise them from their shallow graves into the company of their former fellows. Men could complain, but the horses could only endure, eyes and coats dull, perhaps wondering what they’d done to deserve this mire, instead of green paddocks and sunshine.

Peirol no longer shuddered at bodies, pieces of bodies, nor the rats that dined on them. Now he truly wondered why some men prized this horror so greatly, told tales and sung epics about this catastrophe called war.

He vaguely remembered another life, a life of women’s voices, clean clothes, glistening jewels. Once in a while he took out the gems he still carried, rolled them about, tried to find comfort. But they were glistening rocks, no more, without value in this land of death. He remembered Abbas the wizard and Kima, doubted if he’d ever see them again, let alone continue his quest for the Empire Stone, a gem he now thought mythical. He thought of Ellena, of Reni, and was further discouraged to feel no particular lust. Of course, if someone had offered him a chance to go back to the estate, even with its perils, even continuing as a slave, he would have leapt eagerly. But he thought of those days but seldom, and they felt years, not Times, distant.

All that kept him together was the battery. Niazbeck might send foodstuffs, but no one cared how or whether the drummers, gunners, matrosses, carpenters, and the rest lived. Peirol spent his waking hours and deep into the night chivvying them, not letting them give up, making them hate him if that was what it took, checking their feet for sores, their fingers for frostbite when it snowed, not letting the cooks get lazy and dollop out swill, although the rations of unleavened bread, soup from dried meats and vegetables, leavened occasionally with half-cured bacon or beef about to go bad, were terrible material for the most talented chef.

He wondered why he did all this. The gods knew he was no soldier, no warrior, no leader, and his men were brutal thugs, little better than state-sanctioned murderers and bandits. Wondering, he continued leading them, day by day. It would have been better if they had tasks beyond digging trenches, improving their positions. But the guns were too light to punch through the stone walls of Arzamas, and so they remained hidden, waiting for a task to be assigned. But none came. Rumor had it that huge siege cannon were being built, would arrive any day. But the guns never appeared.

The only brightness Peirol could offer his men — and, perhaps, himself — was the slow, dragging approach of spring. Other than that, there was nothing.

• • •

A sense of disgust came after Peirol found himself learnedly discoursing with Gulmit, his senior gunner, about the various types of lice infesting them, the long gray louse with a spot on his back, the black fat one that squirmed in slimy knots, the more common head louse; and whether it might be possible to convince them to war on each other.

He had to do something to keep his mind alive, even if his body was likely to be destroyed in the next bombardment. He thought about making jewelry, but who would send him tools? Then he remembered the notes he’d taken from Abbas on what he could expect in his travels.

That gave him something. He found parchment, ink and pen, and dredged his memory for Abbas’s words. At first nothing came, then a flash, a phrase, here and there. He forced his mind into its corners, remembered more and more, sometimes starting awake with another instruction from the magician.

He kept the parchment rolled, close at hand, ready for any opportunity. But that wasn’t enough.

Another idea came, the one he’d already toyed with: Quipus saying the Sarissans’ gunpowder was supposedly steeped in seawater to gain potency. Of course the power of their cannon he’d witnessed came from magic, not salt water, which had been more of the madman’s driveling. Nevertheless, he acquired a small powder cask and began experimenting. Nothing happened except fizzles and saltpeter smells for a week. An empty cylinder, a finger in diameter, that once held spices was his testing machine, a cork his means of measuring the potency of powder. A tiny measure of normal, dry powder, compressed and lit, had power enough to blow the cork out of the cylinder and about an arm’s-length into the air. The saltwater powder almost never budged the cork at all.

Then, one night, he’d drenched powder with salt water, the salt carefully added to boiled water until it tasted like the ocean he remembered. But he’d been called for. There were problems with a quartermaster who’d found brandy and, instead of doling it out, had split it with his three best friends. Roaring drunk, he now wanted to unmask the cannon and duel with the great guns of Arzamas. By the time he and his drunken compatriots had been quelled and chained to wagon wheels to make them aware they’d committed some breach when they woke, Peirol was too tired to continue his experiment.

He awoke, remembered his experiment-in-the-making, examined the powder. It had dried into a cake, sitting not far from the lamp he’d left burning in his dugout. He thought about discarding it but decided to try it, rolling the cake back and forth until it broke into miniscule clumps about the size of peppercorns so the powder would fit into the cylinder. Expecting nothing but failure, he packed his cylinder, put in a wad, rammed it home, and stuck the cork in place. He lit a twig, held it to the touchhole he’d bored in the cylinder. There was an audible crack, and the cork exploded across the dugout and buried itself in the dirt wall. Peirol gaped, repeated the experiment. Again and again it worked. Quipus may have been mad, but he wasn’t crazy. This powder, probably because of the manner it was corned together in the drying and rolling rather than the presence of salt water, was markedly more powerful than before.

The question was, What to do with this discovery? He knew better than to use this water-powder in a one-to-one ratio to normal gunpowder. It’d likely explode his cannon, or at least sear out the touchhole. However, since they were always low on gunpowder, he’d be wise to make some up, so when supplies ran low, they could use less powder than normal and have a reserve to fall back on.

He decided to say nothing of his accidental discovery to anyone, not even Magnate Niazbeck, but set his men to mixing. Of course, they thought him deranged. But Peirol the dwarf was considered lucky — the battery hadn’t suffered nearly as many casualties as other units. So they obeyed, Peirol watching closely, and put the dry, kerneled powder into casks marked with black crosses.

• • •

Peirol stared, hypnotized, at a small yellow bird, singing on the log roof of his dugout. There might be a chance there would be a spring, and he might live to see it. Then Guallauc rode up through the ravine that kept the battery’s approaches from being seen and shelled.

“Magnate Niazbeck wishes you immediately!”

Peirol’s back prickled. He’d tried to warm up the officious little man, thought he was succeeding, but Guallauc’s voice was as imperious as it’d ever been.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“You delaying, when your master wishes your presence!”

• • •

“Do you remember this man?” Magnate Niazbeck said, almost crooning in his high voice.

Peirol looked at the man behind Niazbeck, thought him vaguely familiar, no more.

“This is Narack, formerly one of my house slaves, who arrived with the latest draft. He worked in the kitchens over the past two years, and has told me there were irregularities after I departed. Are you aware of any such?”

“Of what nature, sir?”

“I asked a question,” Niazbeck said. “I did not expect it to be met with another question.”

“I’m sorry, sir. No, I know of none. As far as my own small responsibility, concerning the purchase of — ”

“There are irregularities beyond the financial,” Niazbeck interrupted. “Some might find a more serious label for them, such as low treason.”

“I beg pardon, sir?”

“You heard me.”

Peirol pretended thought. “No, sir. I’m certainly not aware of any problems, least of all something serious enough to be called treason.”

“I thought
you
wouldn’t. You may go.”

Peirol bowed low, left hastily. He knew what treason was, knew it was generally applied to an act of disloyalty to a high lord or king. Low treason, he supposed, would be deeds committed against any lord, perhaps any householder. Among those deeds might be adultery. Peirol knew he was doomed.

The manner of his fate was announced a day later, in front of the assembled battery, by Magnate Niazbeck. It appeared an honor. Again, the magnate’s battery had been chosen for a heroic action, a way of breaking the stalemate. Not coincidentally, Niazbeck said, voice gloating, the hero of the first action, the slave Peirol, had been chosen to command this daring undertaking.

Peirol was ordered to take a single gun far forward, into positions he would prepare himself, and attack the walls of Arzamas. A ripple ran through the ranks, and silence was shouted for by Peirol and the warrants. Niazbeck caught one word from the rumble.

“Foolishness, you said? Not at all. This is the great subtlety of my plan, which the lords have approved. We’ve all seen woodpeckers tacking at a tree, and laughed. But peck by peck, a hole is made, enlarged. Since my battery is known for the precision of its shooting, there’ll be one gun, well hidden, firing at exactly the same point, time after time.

“Now you see it, don’t you? One gun, too small for the huge cannon on the parapets to seek out, can peck by peck, ball by ball, batter its way through any wall. When the wall is breached, my friends, my servants, my companions, then the war will be ended, and Arzamas will be ours within a day. Is that not a great plan?”

Some men, the newer soldiers, cheered, but their cheers broke off when they saw the still faces of the veterans.

“I knew you’d understand,” Niazbeck said, turning a truly malevolent smile on Peirol. “This venture shall ensure that you all will be rewarded as you deserve.”

The battery’s worst troublemakers and malcontents were detailed off with Peirol for the great honor. At least his best, most senior gunner, Gulmit, insisted on sharing Peirol’s fate.

A week later, Peirol was ready. He’d gotten permission to prepare the site where and as he wished, and further, to command the firing when and how he felt it to be most opportune. Niazbeck assented, almost giggling in glee. It tickled him well for his slave to squirm on the hook, knowing there was no way to escape.

But Peirol had decided there was no such thing as inevitability. In the long boredom of the siege, he’d watched musketeers as they crawled far forward, using every bit of cover to snipe, as they called it after the marsh birds that had to be carefully stalked. Once in position, the musketeers would lie patiently, weapon aimed, to make that single shot and kill their target on the battlements above. Generally they missed, but Peirol had noted successful shooters would make several kills in time, whereas the others made none. Some called it a hunter’s instinct. He’d talked to the successful snipers, heard how they measured their powder precisely, weighed their lead balls so they were all the same, discarded any with visible flaws. Now Peirol thought of himself as one of those snipers with a hunter’s instinct, but using an eleven-foot-long demi-culverin, a musket with a fist-sized bore, shooting at a target more than a bit larger than a man.