The Empire Stone

by Chris Bunch

OF DESOLATION AND RAVENS

  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.

  For a moment he thought of that secret, hidden vale, with the bubbling creek and the pond where the otters sport, and again felt like crying.

  Brave heroes, who journey out …

  Oh, horseshit!

  • • •

  He was on the road early, in a sour mood. He’d only gone a short distance when he heard the calling of ravens and saw two, swooping overhead. They followed him, curveting through the trees, and Peirol admired their grace. He appreciated their company, thought they’d give warning if there was danger ahead. But as the day went on, and the ravens showed no sign of turning away, he began to worry, trying to remember if the birds were lucky or unlucky. Vaguely he remembered they were messengers, but for whom, he couldn’t recollect. Giants? Wizards? Demons? Probably not demons — the birds were too full of themselves for spirits to tolerate. He wondered if Abbas had sent them but remembered the wizard had little power in this land.

  A road intersected the track, and the ravens swooped up it, back, then up it again. Perhaps he was being led into a trap. Perhaps not. Peirol went up the road. Less than a quarter of a league later, he came on a tiny village. The houses were perfectly kept, recently painted. The village square was as green as if it were summer instead of spring. But he saw no life, not man, not cattle, not even cackling chickens. Perhaps everyone was indoors.

  Keeping his staff ready, he went on. He sniffed the air. Very strange. He smelt musk, jasmine, sandalwood, scents never found in the country, smells for incense and magic. The tiny hairs at the base of his spine prickled. The ravens called, dove close, then perched in a nearby tree, spectators for what would come next.

  None of the houses on the square were businesses but one, and that had a discreet sign of a man being devoured by some sort of fabulous monster. Attractive draw, that, Peirol thought. I’ll meet you at sundown for a glass of wine at the Dragon Fodder Inn.

  “Good morrow,” a woman said. It was easily the most lovely voice Peirol had ever heard, including Kima’s. He jerked around. Standing outside one of the houses was a young woman. Her hair was dark blond, cascading down to her waist. Her face was heart-shaped, and her smile was knowing innocence. She wore a simple peasant woman’s dress, except the dress was made of the finest, shimmering peach-colored silk that held close to her voluptuousness, matching her sandals.

  “Welcome to my village,” the woman said. “Welcome to Casaubon. I am Kilia.”

  “And I Peirol of the Moorlands.” He bowed low, and one of the ravens squawked.

  “I assume those arc yours?”

  “My friends,” Kilia said. “My only friends.”

  Peirol looked around. “What of the others who live here?”

  “There are no others.”

  “Then how does it stay so clean, so, well, perfect?”

  “Because it wishes to,” Kilia said. “I speak to the wood, to the nails, to the pa
int, and they listen.”

  “I, uh, see.”

  “You are alone in your travels. My friends told me that. Where are you going?”

  “A far place called Restormel,” Peirol said.

  “I know it not. But that doesn’t bother me, for I’m content here, within Casaubon.”

  “It’s very lovely.”

  “Lovely now,” Kilia said.

  “Is that an inn where I might break my fast?”

  “You could.” She laughed. “There are fruit juices, barley soup, black bread, and cheeses I’ve … devised.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Peirol said.

  “Then come with me.”

  The inn was small, as immaculate on the inside as out, the wood paneling gleaming, the brass lamps polished. Peirol sat at a table, and Kilia went into the back and came out in minutes with a tray, as if it had been waiting, which she put before him.

  “Could I convince you to join me?”

  “No,” Kilia said. “I shall sit with you, but I eat privately.”

  Peirol began eating. It was one of the stranger meals he’d devoured. Kilia sat silently, watching closely as he chewed. The food was tasty, except once, when it was as if he was chewing on nothing but the blandest of farmer’s cheese, no more. Then, as Kilia turned back to him, his mouth was filled with the taste of herbs.

  “You serve no beer, no wine, in your inn?”

  “No,” Kilia said. “Nor meat, fish, fowl, or eggs. I take nothing from the earth that doesn’t give it freely.”

  “Cheese given freely?” Peirol joked. “Once, when I was a boy, I helped the wife of a man whose land my father was mining make cheese from sheep milk, and it was one of the hardest jobs I’ve done. Ever since I’ve always respected those with the skill and patience for that job.”

  “I find it easy,” Kilia said, indifferently. “Where do you hope to end your day’s travels?”

  Peirol shrugged. “Where the sun finds me when it sets, I suppose.”

  “There are empty houses here.” She smiled.

  Wondering why his skin crawled, he smiled as politely as he could. “I wish I could stay,” he said. “But Restormel grows no closer when I just sit.”