by Chris Bunch
Peirol toured the entire perimeter with one of his pioneers, an experienced mason. Halfway around, the mason had pointed out a portion of the wall. “See how the rain’s run down the wall, into crevices, and how the stone’s discolored here and there? That’s from the mortar being washed loose and out. Sloppy workmanship. Or else the fiddle was the builder’s, mixing his mortar on the cheap, or using sandstone instead of granite.” He grinned, rubbed thumb and forefinger together. “Nice to see the Arzamanians’re no more honest than the rest of us.”
Rather than take a position directly in front of the hopefully vulnerable section, Peirol went to one side. He guessed the impact would be lessened if the ball struck at an angle, but his position would be less obvious, less likely to be instantly destroyed by the murtherers. He found a watercourse, knee deep in mud, about fifty yards in front of the infantry lines and had pioneers drain it by digging a ditch to the side, working at night. The walls of the course, good clay, were patted hard, and bags of sand piled up in front and to either side. The course was floored with more sandbags, and boards laid on either side of the gun’s position, these for the men to work from. Dry brush was positioned around the end of the course for camouflage. Gray stakes were pounded deep into the ground a yard on either side of the course’s end, just in front of where the gun was to go.
His carpenters built a special cradle for one of the cannon, a cradle set within a trough. In one night it was positioned, staked, and bagged in place. Over the next two nights the gun, which weighed more than a ton, was moved forward through the lines, thirty sweating men trying not to curse above a whisper or make noise and bring down death from the wall only two hundred yards to their front. The gun was slid into its cradle and lashed securely by its trunnions. Sorcerers in the front lines droned a bad weather spell as they worked, and the rain crashed around them, drowning sound.
Then they were ready. A dozen archers from the infantry had been grudgingly detailed, to keep an Arzamanian patrol from slipping out the gates and slaughtering the artillerymen while they were intent on their gun.
The cannon was loaded with a precise amount of gunpowder, previously weighed and sewn into cloth bags, the wad forced down on top of the bag, and a ball, again chosen to be exactly the same dimensions and weight as its mates, rammed home. The cannon’s cradle was slid forward to the end of the trough and aimed, in the dimness, at where the pioneer had noted the faults. The distance from the muzzle to the stakes on either side of the barrel and to the stake underneath it was recorded. A canvas tube was extended ten feet forward beyond the gun’s muzzle, held up by withes.
A slow match sat in a covered barrel beside the cannon, and when Peirol whispered readiness, a man held his cloak in front of the gun, hiding the glow as Gulmit brought it to the touchhole. The cannon bucked, nearly deafening Peirol, the flash mostly hidden under the hood but still enough to night-blind him. The cradle slammed to the rear of the trough against silencing pads of cloth, stopped by the ropes.
Everyone lay silent until the cloud of smoke blew away. Peirol waited on, until he was sure no one above had seen them. Two loaders went out then, swabbed the gun, reloaded it, and the cannon was pushed back into firing position. Once more the distance to the three stakes was measured and the gun barrel reaimed, the hood that had been blown away by the blast replaced. All this had taken a full turning of the glass.
Peirol fired once again. Again he waited, loaded, measured, fired. He shot five times that night at irregular intervals. Twice the Arzamanian cannon on the walls bellowed, firing blindly far overhead them, into the front lines. He would have shot more, but the canvas hood ripped. Gulmit wanted to keep shooting, but Peirol forbade it. They covered and camouflaged the gun, slid back to the main lines, and returned to their battery.
Food was waiting, as was a dozing Guallauc, who seemed surprised Peirol and the others still lived. He left without saying anything to give the bad news to Niazbeck.
When it grew lighter, Peirol went back to the lines with a glass and minutely examined the wall. The stone was broken, dented in a wide patch about the size of two men’s bodies. Only one ball had gone wide and printed away from the target. Well content, he returned to the battery and slept well. He woke in the late afternoon, smiling, having dreamed of Kima.
That night, they went back with a spare hood and fired eight times. On the way, one of the loaders said, “Hope when th’ wall’s down we’ll be allowed our choice of wimmen, even if we don’t get in with the first wave.”
“What does that mean?” Peirol said.
“When we loot the city, sir,” Gulmit said patiently.
“I thought,” Peirol said hesitantly, “that if … when … we smash the wall, they’ll surrender.”
“Not likely. First we’ll have to storm the city, for there’s times I’ve been told the defenders still held firm and saved the day, even with their wall breached,” Gulmit said.
“Storm the city, wait for the white flags,” the loader nodded, “then it’ll be ours to sack. Anyone, anything’s ours.”
Peirol was shocked.
“What’s the matter, sir?” Gulmit wondered.
“I thought, once there was a surrender, they’d pay tribute and, I guess, swear fealty to Beshkirs.”
“All of that, sir,” Gulmit agreed. “But the army’ll have the city for its own for a time. A day, a week — that depends on how angry the lords are about this damned siege that’s gone forever. But looting’s part of our bargain, our pay. You don’t think any soldier’d live in this shit if there wasn’t the promise of as much gold as he can steal, as many women as he can rape, now do you?” Gulmit and the loader laughed loudly at Peirol’s innocence.
Eleven shots the next night … eight … four, when a patrol sought the gun, and they had to lie low … six … ten.
Now the wall was chipped, the face breaking away, and a cleft clearly apparent. They had to shoot more carefully, for the infantrymen behind were only too aware of their progress and, in spite of their officers’ commands, cheered the cannoneers when they shot.
Magnate Niazbeck summoned Peirol and listened to his progress, lips tightly pressed together. “You are lucky,” was all he said.
“Thank you, sir,” Peirol answered. “I hope so, sir.”
“No man’s luck lasts forever.”
“No, sir.”
Peirol left the man brooding, twisting the rings on his fat fingers.
Three nights later, as they fired their fourth shot, there came a great cracking, then a rumble, and something enormous smashed into the ground not far distant. They instantly covered the gun, slipped back to the lines, and waited for dawn. First light showed a long crack in the wall, from their target area up to the parapet, where a whole section of battlements had broken away and fallen, a part of the parapet and one of the huge murtherers crashing down. The parapets on either side of the breach were now strongly guarded, and Peirol saw men in elaborately worked armor — officers, lords — considering the damage. Periodically someone would see something below, and cannon fire and musketry would be brought on it.
Peirol gave orders for the gun to be withdrawn that night, went to Magnate Niazbeck. “Sir. We’ve completed the mission.”
“What?”
“The wall’s nearly broken down. Half a dozen shots, maybe some more, and the whole section’ll crumble.”
Niazbeck was amazed. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t think we should finish the job, but wait until the army’s ready to attack, so the Arzamanians won’t have time to reinforce the wall or seal that section off.”
Niazbeck stared for a long time, then that harsh smile came. “Good, Peirol. You do not know how well you did. Now you may go.”
The smile remained as Peirol left, afraid, not knowing what would come next.
Over the next four days, the army of Beshkirs made ready for the grand assault. But Peirol witnessed none of it, for within an hour after reporting success, he was seized by ro
yal dragoons, dragged off to the hastily constructed prison, and chained to a wall.
“It ain’t much of a dungeon,” the warder said. “But we don’t need much of one, for there’s but one penalty, and you’ll be hanged within the day.”
But Peirol wasn’t hanged. Instead, he was watched closely by a succession of wary guards. The warder permitted men from his battery to bring him food and wine. They asked what he’d done wrong, how he’d offended Niazbeck, but Peirol gave no explanation. They said they’d help him escape, they weren’t afraid of any godsdamned warders, but Peirol counted the number of guards, told his men no, there’d be but one death for him to worry about, and told them to leave him to his prayers. He didn’t want them to see the tears in his eyes for these brave fools, ready to chance death themselves trying to free another idiot who didn’t know how to stay out of corners.
Strangely, Peirol felt no fear, but a dawning hope. These bastards from Beshkirs had tried hard enough to kill him by now, in every way from piracy to rowing his heart out to this latest disaster. This would be the last time, and once more it would fail. Without any facts, any reality, he knew that. He didn’t pray, didn’t have any gods he believed in enough to pray to. Instead his mind churned like a mill-wheel in a torrent. He saved the fat from the horse steak his men brought, hid it in his tunic pouch, remembering something a thief had told him about warders and their chains.
On the third day guns began bombarding Arzamas, and Peirol realized part of him wanted to be with them, hurling death at that other set of bastards he illogically felt were also responsible for his plight.
That night, men came. Peirol thought them Niazbeck’s killers, readied himself to die fighting. But they unchained him from the wooden log wall, tossed him in the back of a wagon. His face was in the filth of the wagon floor, and he tasted dung, smelled half-dried blood. He paid no mind, busy stretching, twisting, taking the hidden fat out of his tunic and hiding it in his sleeve.
The wagon bounced over rough ground, eventually came to a halt, and he was dragged out. He saw gunfire flicker, realized he was in the front lines before Arzamas, watching the final bombardment before the wall came down, and madness and rapine took the city for their own.
There was another wagon, a two-wheeled tumbrel, sitting nearby, and the men chained Peirol to its back, left without saying anything. He waited for an hour, perhaps longer, saw the sky begin to change.
Peirol heard the creak of a carriage, craned his neck, and saw Magnate Niazbeck waddle toward him. “As I told you, Peirol, no man’s luck lasts forever,” he said.
“So it seems.”
“Perhaps you’d like to know what comes next.”
“I think I might prefer it be a surprise.”
“The lords of Beshkirs have given me a great honor, finally confirming the many great things I’ve done for my adopted city. The honor of making the final breach in the walls of Arzamas has been given to me, and to my battery. I shall fire that cannon myself, when the lords of the army arrive and give the order.”
“The battery, at least, deserves that honor,” Peirol murmured.
Niazbeck paid no mind. “When it becomes lighter, you’ll be able to see your former companions march past, not a dozen yards away. Your awful fate, though they’ll never know your real crimes, will keep them disciplined.
“You, slave, for your crimes, which are unspeakable, are to die, since the imbeciles in Arzamas didn’t manage to kill you as I’d planned. So it’s left to me to give you the death you deserve. When the wall comes down — in one or two shots, as you said — the army will make its charge through the gap, and destroy the city.
“My battery will fire one more shot. After the lords have ridden forward into Arzamas to witness the triumph, I shall have you chained to the muzzle of one of my guns, and that gun will fire one more shot, in celebration of victory.” Niazbeck smiled his awful smile. “Not even a trace of you will be left after that shot is fired, but a rather garish spatter of gore.
“Now I shall march my battery past in a few moments, so they can see your degradation. They’ll move this cart forward with them, so you’ll be close at hand for the final cannonade, witness my greatness, and realize you’ll be nothing, not even remembered, in a Time. Are you satisfied with what you’ve brought about, Peirol of the Moorlands?”
Peirol thought about replying, decided not.
Niazbeck shifted from foot to foot, then stamped away. His dramatic departure was marred when he caught his foot and sprawled, staining his colorful silks. He rose with Guallauc’s assistance and got in his carriage.
Peirol realized with wry amusement that he wasn’t that angry with the magnate. He would die, and nothing would be done to Reni, to Ellena, although what had happened was as much their fault as his. Niazbeck would continue being cuckolded, his wife and daughter maintain their roundheeled ways, taking lovers for a minute, then casting them back to the slave market. But that was the way of things, and how could Peirol of the Moorlands be stupid enough to expect justice in this world?
It grew lighter, and Peirol heard horses, saw the battery. Niazbeck’s carriage took position at the formation’s head. The men, afoot, saw Peirol, and he heard shouts, questions. A squad of men ran toward him. Gulmit was at their head.
“We were told to secure this tumbrel, sir, and bring it with us. They also said you were to die.”
“So it seems.”
“What’ll we do?”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Peirol said. “But I thank you for wanting to do — wait. I can think of something.” He gave quick orders to Gulmit, who nodded understanding.
“Get as far away as you can when everything’s set,” Peirol said. “If it happens at all, don’t worry about anybody asking questions.”
“Nobody’ll ask,” the gunner said. “That sort of thing happens often enough. But what about you?”
“That’ll give me my chance. Now, haul away, you men. I want to make sure I have a good view.”
The tumbrel was man-hauled forward another quarter league, positioned to one side as the artillerymen set up their guns. Instead of the usual straight line, the cannon were positioned in a diamond configuration. Peirol guessed Niazbeck would fire the gun at the forward point, hoped Gulmit would be able to do as Peirol had asked.
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 th
at 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.
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