The Legend of Broken (3 page)

Kafra:
the strange god whose image was first brought up the Meloderna valley centuries ago, and who, with his love of beauty and riches, quickly stole the souls of citizens of Broken away from the pragmatic tenets of the old Moon faith—and so changed the very basis of their lives. But we must speak more of Kafra soon; and it will sicken me enough then.…

Nimble as ever, the three foragers prepare to cross the bridge, not so much alarmed as amused by the crashing waters below it. Their escape from the panther, the thought of enjoying a meal suitable for the wealthiest of the Tall (and above all stirring trouble in the otherwise peaceful night), combine to make them increasingly boisterous. As soon as they have mounted the bridge, they boast of how they will knock one another from it, and play at doing so, the two men finally able to shout all they want: for between the rocky banks, the roar of the river overwhelms the sound of their voices.

It would require something dire to put an end to their games; but such sinister signs are precisely what Keera has a gift for detecting. As she puts her nose to the light breeze, her body goes taut; and then, with a quick wave of her maple staff, she once more silences her companions.

“What now?” Heldo-Bah whispers. “Not that cat—”

“Silence!” Keera hisses. Then, at a run, she leaps back off the bridge, and begins to search the rocky ground on the southern bank of the river, following an unmistakable scent:

“Someone has died,” Veloc announces, following his sister.

“Aye,” Heldo-Bah noises. “And been left to rot …”

Within moments, the three are upon the remains of a young man of Broken. Once he had been as tall and well formed as any; now, he is a rotting carcass, from whose ribs protrude several beautifully crafted arrows: shafts of wood overlain with gold leaf, flights made of Davon eagle feathers, and heads of fearsome silver.

“This must be the fellow.” Veloc’s voice betrays some small measure of sympathy, although the rotting man would likely have spat on the Bane forager, had the two ever crossed paths. “The one who was slain in the ritual you spoke of, Heldo-Bah. He’s scarcely more than a boy …”

Heldo-Bah grunts, repelled: “Look at the arrows—Moon strike me dead if they did not come from the Sacristy of the city’s High Temple.”

Keera nods agreement; yet her face betrays more complex suspicions. “But there has been no mutilation—his head, arms, and legs are all intact. And they killed him on
our
side of the river—why?” She moves a few steps closer, still puzzling with the sight. “And what of scavengers? The body has not been disturbed; yet wolves and bears should have strewn it over this part of the Wood. What could—”

She stops suddenly, her face wrinkling up with some newly detected aroma that makes her immediately retrace her steps. “Keep back!” she orders, holding her torch higher. “His flesh is not merely rotting—it is diseased. Even scavengers would sense as much—it’s why they have not touched it.”

“Well, then,” Veloc muses, moving away from the remains. “They killed him because he was sickly. They’ve done it many times before.”

“But it makes no sense,” Keera insists, strangely alarmed. “Look at him—there is nothing to suggest that he was anything but a perfect young man of Broken. Tall, well formed, no lameness in the bones of his limbs, a good skull … And they slew him on this very spot, whereas the sickly have always been simply abandoned to the Wood—the ritual they call the
mang-bana.
”
†

“A criminal?” Heldo-Bah wonders. “No—no, you’re right, Keera, there’s no mutilation. A criminal would have suffered some such.”

“We must find out the meaning in this death,” Keera announces.

“And who may we ask?” Veloc betrays nervousness at his sister’s determination. “We are foragers, Keera, raiding for decent meat—shall we inquire of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard what took place here?”

Keera’s purposeful manner never weakens: “If we must, Veloc.”

Heldo-Bah smiles wide, revealing the black gap in his teeth. “So—this night promises amusement! Not only poaching, but capturing one of the Merchant Lord’s soldiers, too.…”

Keera looks at the dead man once more. “There is nothing amusing in this, Heldo-Bah. This is the worst evil: that made by men, be it sorcery or mere murder.”

“Then it calls for evil in return, does it not?” Loosening the straps that hold his deerskin sack on his shoulders, Heldo-Bah moves back toward the Fallen Bridge. “We leave our goods here—take only weapons.” Planting his torch in the ground, Heldo-Bah nimbly clambers to a high maple branch, and ties his sack to it. “Keep everything above the ground—I don’t want scavengers destroying three weeks
†
of work.”

Veloc cannot conceal satisfaction of his own at the party’s new mission—but he is vexed about his sister, as well. Alone of the party, Keera has a family awaiting her return to the Bane village of Okot, which is a full day’s run to the southeast, even for these three. The handsome Bane approaches her confidentially, while Heldo-Bah is busy.

“Keera,” Veloc murmurs, placing his hands on her shoulders, “I believe you are right about what we must do—but why not let Heldo-Bah and me attend to it, while you wait here? After all, if we meet with misfortune, no one will weep for us—but Tayo
‡
and the children need you to return to them. And I pledged that you would.”

Keera, though touched by her brother’s words, frowns a bit at this news. “And what right had you to pledge my return, Veloc?”

“True,” Veloc says, his manner growing contrite. “But I bear the responsibility for your being here—your own children know it.”

“Don’t be foolish, brother—what was I to do? Allow those Outragers to beat you both senseless, simply because they enjoy the favor of the new Moon priestess? No, Veloc. Tayo and the children know the injustice of this term of foraging—and the best thing that I can do for them is to learn if what has taken place here endangers our tribe.”

Veloc shrugs, knowing that the guilt he already feels for Keera’s punishment by the Groba will become unbearable, should some mishap befall her now. Having long ago learned not to argue important matters with his wise and gifted sister, however, he begins to climb into an oak that stands near Heldo-Bah’s maple. “Very well—hand me your bag. Heldo-Bah is right, we must travel light, if we are to do as you wish.”

“I do not wish it,” Keera says, loosening the straps of her sack. “I could wish we had not discovered this nightmare. For you are wrong, Heldo-Bah.”

“Undoubtedly,” the sharp-toothed Bane replies as a matter of course from above. “But what, pray, am I wrong about on
this
occasion, Keera?”

“You said that evil calls for evil.”

“You think it does not?”

“I know it does not,” Keera says, handing her sack up. “Evil breeds evil—spreads it like fire. It parches men’s souls, just as the Sun burns the skin. Had you paid attention to the basic tenets of our faith, you’d know that this was how the first Moon priests determined that all devils spring from that same Sun, while the Moon, by night, reminds each human heart of its solitary, humble place in the world, and so fills it with compassion. But we will find no compassion across the river—no, we are walking into evil, I fear. So both of you, please—try not to fall into the trap that evil has set for us.” The Bane men stare at her in confusion. “No killing,” Keera clarifies. “Unless absolutely necessary.”

“Of course,” Heldo-Bah replies, dropping to the ground, his thick legs absorbing the impact easily. And then he adds under his breath, “But somehow, I suspect it will be …”

On to the city atop the mountain, now!, and learn

of its virtues, its vices—and the vexations of a soldier …

We take to the sky once more, you and I, across the fields and dales that seemed so serene on our arrival, but which, perhaps, you now find less idyllic; up the slopes of the lonely mountain, first through thick trees and undergrowth on the lower reaches, and then into a still more treacherous maze of rock and harsh scrub; and finally, to the heights, where scattered stands of defiant fir trees give way at last to stone formations, bare of any life and rising, as if of their own accord, to the ultimate and ordered demeanor of mighty walls …

“Sentek?”
†

Sixt Arnem
‡
sits in a shadow beneath the parapet, staring at a small brass oil lamp atop a folding camp table that he has had brought up from the barracks of the Talons.

“Sentek Arnem!” the sentry repeats, more urgently.

Arnem leans forward and folds his arms on the table, his features becoming distinct in the lamp’s light: light brown eyes, a strong nose, and a wry mouth that is never entirely concealed by a rough-trimmed beard. “I’m not deaf, Pallin,” he says wearily. “There’s no need to shout.”

The young pallin slaps his spear against his side in salute. “I am sorry, Sentek.” He has forgotten, in his excitement, that he addresses no ordinary officer. “But—there are torches. On the edge of Davon Wood.”

Arnem stares into the smoky lamp once more. “Are there?” he says quietly, poking his finger into the yellow flame and watching black soot collect on his skin. “And what is so interesting about that?” he muses.

“Well, Sentek—” The pallin takes a deep breath. “They are moving toward the river and Lord Baster-kin’s Plain.”

Arnem’s eyebrow arches a bit higher. “The Plain?”

“Yes, Sentek!”

Rising with a groan, Arnem sweeps his wine-red cloak behind him, revealing well-made, well-worn leather armor. A pair of silver clusters worked into the shape of outstretched eagle’s feet and claws attach the cloak to his powerful shoulders. “All right, Pallin,” he says, approaching the eager youth. “Let’s see what makes your heart race so.”

“There, Sentek; just by the Wood!” the pallin says triumphantly; for to rouse the interest of Broken’s greatest soldier is indeed an accomplishment.

Arnem eyes the distance with the calm, all-encompassing gaze of a seasoned campaigner. Even in the light of the rising Moon, the dark mass on the horizon that is the northern frontier of Davon Wood reveals no details about these dancing pinpricks of light. Arnem sighs ambiguously. “Well, Pallin—there are, as you say, a series of torches. Moving just inside Davon Wood, toward the river and the Plain.”

Then, as the two men watch, the lights in the distance suddenly disappear. Arnem’s features sag mildly. “And now they’re gone …”

The pallin watches incredulously as Arnem returns to his small stool by the camp table. “Sentek—should we not report this?”

“Oh, Kafra’s stones …” The blasphemy—common among the poor, but no less extreme for its popularity—has escaped Arnem’s lips before he can stop it. He studies his pallin’s youthful, clean-shaven features, so resolute beneath the unadorned steel plate helmet
†
that is standard equipment among the Talons; and when he sees how deeply the boy is shocked by his vulgar reference, he cannot help but smile. “What’s your name, Pallin?”

“Ban-chindo,” the young man replies, again snapping his spear to his side so that its point rises above his six-foot-three-inch body.

“From what district?”

The pallin looks surprised. “Sentek? Why, the Third.”

Arnem nods. “A merchant’s son. I suppose your father bought your way into the Talons, because the regular army wasn’t good enough for you.”

The pallin looks straight over Arnem’s head, injured but not wishing to show it. He knows about Sixt Arnem’s past, as does every soldier in the Talons: born in the Fifth District—home to those who have displeased Kafra with their poverty or unsightliness—Arnem was the first man to rise from pallin in the regular army to the rank of sentek, master of the fates of five hundred men. When he was placed in charge of the Talons, the most elite
khotor
†
in the army, many of the officers of that larger force sneered; but when he repelled a months-long attempt at invasion by an army of Torganian
‡
raiders, so hardened that they were willing to brave the few passes through the Tombs that remained open at the height of winter, the people of Broken took him wholly to their hearts. Though his family still lives in the Fifth District, Sentek Arnem is acknowledged to be a favorite of both Kafra and the God-King—

None of which, the pallin finally decides, is an excuse for bad manners. “Kafra favors those who succeed in the marketplace, Sentek,” he says, keeping his gaze steady but away from Arnem’s eyes. “I don’t see why their sons should shrink from defending his city, in return.”

“Ah, but many do, these days,” Arnem replies. “Too many, Pallin Ban-chindo—and those that do serve are forever asking for a place in the Talons. We soon shall be without a regular army altogether.”

The pallin is in deep water, and he knows it: “Well—if those who
will
serve can afford a place in the finest legion in the army, is it not Kafra’s will? And why should they shy from the glory—or from the danger?”

Arnem chuckles in an unmistakably friendly manner. “No need to be so nervous, Pallin Ban-chindo—that’s a fine sentiment, bravely stated. I am well rebuked.” Arnem rises, and grips the young man’s shoulder for an instant. “All right. We have seen several torches, making their way from the Wood to Lord Baster-kin’s Plain. What shall we do?”

“That—that is not for me to say, Sentek—”

Arnem quickly holds up an open hand. “Now, now—between one future sentek and one former pallin. What would
you
do?”

“Well—I would—” The pallin stumbles ever more clumsily over his words, angering himself: how can he deserve higher rank if he cannot seize this opportunity? “I would—report it. I think.”

“Report it. Ah. To whom?”

“Well, to—to Yantek Korsar, perhaps, or—”

“Yantek Korsar?” Arnem feigns amazement gently. “Are you sure, Pallin? Yantek Korsar has the worries of the entire army of Broken to occupy him. In addition to which, he is on in years—and a widower.” The sentek grows pensive, for an instant, thinking not only of his commander and old friend, Yantek Herwald Korsar,
†
but of Korsar’s dead wife, Amalberta.
‡
Known as “the Mother of the Army,” Amalberta was one of the few people Arnem ever encountered in whom he recognized true kindness, and her death two years earlier shook the sentek almost as much as it did Korsar—

But Arnem must not dwell on sadness; for such sentiments are precisely what he came up on the walls to avoid. “All of which,” he says, recapturing his authoritative tone, “makes our commander doubly fond of what little sleep he can manage. No, I don’t think we want to risk a burst of his infamous temper, Ban-chindo. Isn’t there someone else?”

“I don’t—perhaps—” Ban-chindo brightens. “Perhaps Lord Baster-kin? The torches are moving toward his land, after all.”

“True enough. Baster-kin, eh? And this time you are certain?”

“Yes, Sentek. I should report the matter to Lord Baster-kin.”

“Ban-chindo …” Arnem strides deliberately up and down the thick stone wall. “It is now past the Moonrise: the middle of the night. Do you know the master of the Merchants’ Council, by chance?”

“He is a legendary patriot!” Ban-chindo snaps his spear again.

“You’ll bruise yourself, boy,” Arnem says, “if you can’t bridle your enthusiasm. Yes, Lord Baster-kin is indeed a patriot.” The sentek has an unusual respect for Broken’s Merchant Lord, despite the tensions and rivalries that have ever existed between the Merchants’ Council and the leaders of Broken’s army. Yet he knows, as well, that Baster-kin is a short-tempered man, and he shares this fact with Pallin Ban-chindo: “But his lordship is also given to working all hours of the night, and he does not suffer trivial concerns lightly. Now, shall I barge into his residence, where he is doubtless poring over ledgers and accounts, and start slapping my own spear about like some dog-bitten lunatic,
†
saying, ‘Excuse me, my lord, but Pallin Ban-chindo has seen several torches moving toward your plain, and believes that something must be done right away—even though your Personal Guard
do
patrol the area’?”

The pallin lets the spear drift, staring at the stone walkway. “No …”

“How’s that?”

Ban-chindo straightens. “No, Sentek,” he replies. “It’s only—”

“It’s only the boredom, Ban-chindo. Nothing more.”

The young soldier looks Arnem in the eye. “You know …?”

Arnem nods slowly, looking first to his left and the nearest turreted guard tower, then to his right, at a similar squat stone structure some fifty feet away. Near each of these, a young man much like Pallin Ban-chindo stands vigilant. Arnem lets out a leaden sigh. “We’ve been a long time at peace, Ban-chindo. Eight years since the end of the Torganian war. And now …” The sentek leans against the rough parapet. “Now our best hope of action is to fight a tribe of scavengers half our size, in a cursed forest that only a dwarf could master and a fool would attack.” He hammers a fist gently on the surface of the parapet. “Yes, Ban-chindo. I understand your boredom …”

And only wish I truly shared it,
Arnem muses silently. He reminds himself again that there is no reason for the commander of the Talons to be standing guard duty, and concentrates his attention on the area in the distance where those terribly small lights danced so briefly, hoping they will reappear, and that some warlike crisis will arise to keep his mind from the troubling personal thoughts that have gnawed at him for days. But the lights are gone, and the sentek turns in disappointment to look out over the city that stretches away before him.

Broken lies largely asleep, waiting for the day of feverish trading that will begin with the dawn. From this vantage, Arnem has an unobstructed view of the marketplaces and merchants’ houses of the Second and Third Districts, the largest sections of the city, at this hour all dim and serene. Farther to the north, in the wealthy First District, such respite is unknown: six-foot-high oil and coal braziers burn perpetually outside the High Temple of Kafra, fed day and night by diligent acolytes. Arnem’s soul is thrown into deeper turmoil at the sight of it, and he seeks solace in the Fourth District, where the main force of the army of Broken is quartered, and then in his own Fifth District, its nighttime peace riven by those who have failed in the fierce competition of the marketplaces and can find solace only in drink.

The distant roar of a crowd erupts, and Arnem looks northward again, to the city Stadium, which stands just beyond the Temple and, for more years than the sentek can remember, has been ordered open and active day and night. Arnem has often been assured that the development of physical prowess and beauty so essential to the worship of Kafra is facilitated by sporting competitions; while the money that trades hands among the gamblers in attendance creates new fortunes, revealing newly favored souls, and punishing those who have lost their zeal. The sentek has tried hard to accept this reasoning; at the very least, he has kept himself from openly stating that the youths who spend their hours in sport or gambling would be better off serving their kingdom and their god in the army. But recently this self-control, this keeping his questions to himself, has become a difficult chore. For of late, the priests of Kafra—whom Arnem has ever obeyed faithfully—have asked of him something that he cannot give:

They have asked for one of his children.

Arnem’s eyes are drawn ever farther left, to the smooth granite walls of the Inner City and the rooftops of the royal palace beyond. Home to the God-King,
†
his family, the Grand Layzin (highest of the priests of Kafra and the God-King’s right hand) as well as the beautiful high priestesses known as the Wives of Kafra, the Inner City has not been visited by any common citizen in the more than two centuries of Broken’s history, and remains the city’s supreme mystery—which is precisely why Arnem is reluctant to send the second-born of his sons to serve there, although such an act is expected of all families of even moderate stature in Broken society. Children who enter the service of the God-King are never permitted to see their families again; and a childhood spent in the alleys of the Fifth District long ago planted a powerful distrust of such secrecy in Arnem. Perhaps the service these children undertake is pious, and worthier than any life spent in Broken’s outer world; but it is Arnem’s experience that virtue, while it may sometimes need a veil, never requires utter obscurity.

But was it not Oxmontrot who wanted it all this way? Oxmontrot,
‡
Broken’s founder, first king, and greatest warrior, and a hero to lowborn soldiers like Arnem. More than two centuries ago, Oxmontrot (himself lowborn, and able lead his people only after long years as a mercenary in the service of that vast empire that the citizens of Broken call
Lumun-jan,
†
although scholars know it as
Roma
) had been labeled “Mad,”
‡
because of his ferocious determination, following his return home, to force the farmers and fishermen west of the Meloderna River valley and north of Davon Wood to carve a granite city out of the summit of Broken. Previously, the great masses of stone atop the mountain had been used by tribes dwelling below only as settings for human and animal sacrifices to their various gods. Yet the Mad King had also been shrewd, Arnem muses, on this night as so many: Broken had truly been the finest point from which to build a great state. From its summit, the people of the valleys and dales below could withstand onslaughts from the southeast, the east, and the north, while the remaining approaches to the kingdom were sealed by Davon Wood. No warrior of the Mad King’s time could find fault with the ambitious plan, nor has any since: for the sole enemies to have pierced the city’s defenses have been the Bane, and Arnem knows that not even Oxmontrot could have been expected to foresee what an unending problem that race of exiles would become …