The Legend of Broken (42 page)

Akillus is, as so often, out of breath when he arrives before his commander. Niksar offers water from his own skin, which Akillus gratefully accepts before speaking. “The water gate at the base of the main stairway to the river, along with their wharves, are unmanned—unmanned, and destroyed.”

“Destroyed?” Arnem asks, clearly shocked. “To what end?”

“To the same end that the Eslebeners sought,” Akillus declares, shaken by what he has seen. “The same sickness has produced the same goal—save that the people of Daurawah were able to achieve it. You ought to see the Meloderna, Sentek, just below the city—a place of certain death, for men and ships!”

“But they are burning bodies, from the stench,” Arnem replies.

“The bodies of their own dead, yes,” Akillus says. “But the crews of the ships—long ships, for the most part, but other river craft, as well—to say nothing of … well, Sentek, they
seem
to be Bane, but they have rotted into pieces. And long before they saw Daurawah, I would hazard. Nor are they Bane men alone—there are women and children, too, traders and villagers along with warriors. And come down the Cat’s Paw, or at least, their bodies are along
its
banks, from what I could see, as well as the Meloderna’s …” Akillus is visibly shaken, and Arnem allows him a moment to gather his wits. “The wretched mess is everywhere.”

“But how?” Niksar puzzles. “Even if the Ninth brought their
ballistae
†
up onto the walls, they cannot have been so successful with them—”

Akillus shakes his head. “No, Niksar. There are markers that set out the most dangerous parts of the bend in the Meloderna, below the town walls. They simply moved these, and let Nature do the work that traps would have done. And the stench—even the lower stretches are littered with the bodies of northern raiders. The Ninth had apparently reserved the
ballistae
for the caravans from the south—on my return, I saw dozens of dead pack animals, many camels among them, all killed with the great arrows the machines throw: madness has not degraded the Ninth’s skill with artillery,
†
that much is sure. As for the people of the caravans, some must have been allowed to return home, to tell of the fate with which they met—although most lie in great crowds upon the ground.”

“Shot by archers?” Arnem asks.

“That is the peculiar part,” Akillus answers, genuinely baffled. “Some, yes, shot down—but many killed by hand, primarily the youngest. The Ninth
must
have been leaving through small doorways in the northern and southern gates in raiding parties, likely by night.”

“It is the pattern of the illness,” Visimar says quietly. “Again, it takes the young first. It arrived here somewhat later, but it did arrive—and when it did, the commander of the legion may have shut all his people, citizens and soldiers alike, into the city; and the madness of the Holy Fire caused those in the caravans to turn upon one another. Sentek, did you not say that this commander was an old comrade of yours?”

“I did,” Arnem replies, quickly and certainly. “The kind of treachery you are describing could never have been his work. Gerolf Gledgesa was not capable of it—I’ve seen him risk his life a hundred times for the honor and safety of Broken and its people, despite his originally having come from a foreign land that lies hard by the Northern Sea, precisely like—” Arnem has been on the verge of saying “your master” to Visimar, in the heat of his indignation, but has caught himself, in part out of tact, in part because of an inscrutable expression that has entered Visimar’s face. “Precisely like some of Broken’s most worthy citizens.”

Visimar pauses, weighing his words carefully. “He may have been murdered, Sentek—whatever the case, you must try to contact whoever now commands the Ninth Legion, for clearly it is being used by him for such strange purposes. Certainly, Lord Baster-kin did not warn you that we would find such conditions here, did he, Sentek?”

All eyes turn to Arnem, who looks at the cripple in shock: it is precisely the sort of statement that he has warned Visimar for three days’ time not to utter in front of the men.

“I beg your pardon, fool?” the sentek answers, with controlled threat that is not unlike the careful drawing of his sword. “Did you dare to bring the name of the Merchant Lord into this, and question his loyalty and honesty? Or am I mistaken?”

“I assure you, you are indeed mistaken,” Visimar replies earnestly; and in the old man’s still-expressive eyes, Arnem thinks he can read a message:
I do not intend what you suppose—you must reassure the men that this is a local aberration, that their homes are safe.
“My question was honest,” the cripple continues. “If Lord Baster-kin said nothing of this, then he can know nothing of it, which means that whoever commands the Ninth, like the elders of Esleben, has sent no message to either the Merchants’ Council or the Grand Layzin—”

Looking to his men again, Arnem sees that, in their confusion, they wish and almost require Visimar’s statement to be true. “Forgive my quick temper, Anselm,” the sentek says, attempting contrition. “You are right, Lord Baster-kin did not even hint at such disruption. And so we can at least reassure ourselves that the problem is contained to the eastern reaches of Broken—”

But then, finally, it comes: contact with the walls of Daurawah. Taankret is the first to spy movement near the western gate, and he points his sword to the spot.

“Sentek Arnem!” he cries. “A sentry atop the walls!”

Arnem turns the Ox toward the port, and calls, “Make way! Make way, there—he seems to be signaling!”

And indeed, the soldier who has appeared—without either helmet or spear—seems desperate to contact the men below, so wildly do his arms flail about and his mouth open and close, giving the impression that he is shouting, yet with no voice to match the manner.

“Ho!” Taankret bellows. “The southwest tower—another man!”

Arnem stops trying to make out the first soldier’s meaning when he turns to see that the second soldier is waving some sort of bloodstained banner, which appears to have been, originally, a sheet of white silk;
†
and yet there seems to be little in his behavior to suggest anything concerning surrender. In fact, the two soldiers appear to have little in common, a suspicion that is confirmed when the first soldier takes flight at the merest glimpse of the second. Planting his banner in some sort of bracket inside the battlements, the second soldier draws his short-sword, quickly pursues the first man and, catching him, thrusts the blade deep into the man’s side. He then hurls the screaming unfortunate over the battlements; and for the whole of the thirty-foot fall that follows, the badly wounded soldier’s shrill cries of fear and agony continue, only stopping when he slams into the bare Earth.

All the Talons are struck dumb—but Arnem forces himself to speak, knowing that confusion and panic have suddenly become his greatest enemies:

“Niksar! Anselm!” He is forced to shake the old man’s arm, in order to jog his memory of his assumed name. “Old cripple!” he cries, successfully gaining Visimar’s attention. “You, too, Akillus—come with me. Taankret! Stay here and begin to form into
quadrates
—the golden god alone knows why our own men are killing both each other
and
peaceful traders.” Yet Taankret’s ordinarily calm, keen eyes remain fixed upon Daurawah in horror. “Linnet!” Arnem repeats, at which the reliable infantry officer finally turns. “Keep the men busy—eh?”

Taankret salutes smartly. “Aye, Sentek!” And with that, he is off to deliver orders to the other
quadrate
commanders, as Arnem and his three fellow horsemen set out toward the presumably dead soldier lying near the western gate of Daurawah. When they have covered only half the distance to the man, however, they see that his body is still writhing, and they pause—an action quickly revealed as a mistake. With a rushing roar, something approaches from out of the Heavens, and a thunderous crash throws up a mass of sod and dirt before their horses, who rear up, screaming in rare fright as the officers and their companion take in the sight of the shaft of an enormous bolt: eight feet long and yet another in diameter, its iron head has sunk deep into the ground. It is one of the deadliest weapons hurled by
ballistae.

Arnem looks up at the battlements, enraged and bewildered, to see that the several operators of the engine of war are busily dropping boulders the size of small pigs down upon the man who was attacked by his supposèd comrade and thrown from the walls, and whose little chance at continued life is soon crushed, literally, by men he would ordinarily have had every reason to trust.

“You’ve come far enough, Sentek,” the soldier with the white banner calls, as he joins the crew of the
ballista.
“Do not mistake our intentions by the color of this standard. It was all I could lay hands on, and I thought that the blood that covers it might at least give you pause, if not cause your immediate withdrawal. Given that neither resulted, we were forced to fire. I take it that you
are
Sentek Arnem?”

“I am,” Arnem answers, not wishing to display the full anger he feels at the pallin’s impertinence, which is as likely the result of lunacy as of disrespect. “I will not ask your name, although I should like to know why a soldier of Broken has lost all respect for rank, if he recognizes it!”

“Oh, make no mistake,” the man says. “I have the greatest of respect for you, Sentek. As I did for that man. But we have had a great deal of trouble determining just who has fallen victim to the foreign demons who are stealing the very souls of Broken. That fellow, for instance—we were old comrades, and even older friends. Recently, however, he’d fallen victim to the disease being spread by unholy forces throughout this entire area. As for you and your men, it was impossible to say with certainty. If some of our own legion have fallen victim to it, why not some of yours, as well?”

“Fallen victim to
what,
Pallin?” Niksar asks.

“It is a devastating and yet peculiar disease,” the pallin on the wall answers, as if he were discussing a morning’s drill. “At first, very painful—the blood, you see, is somehow stolen from the body, and exchanged for molten metal.
†
The pain is horrific, and the sufferer becomes enslaved to whomever can stop it. Which, we’ve seen, are the agents of foreign kingdoms, the demon traders. The afflicted continually try to open the gates and allow such enemies in. They’ve even sought the help of the Bane.”

All is silence, on the road below; finally, Akillus murmurs, “The man is a lunatic. Plainly, completely—a lunatic …”

“Sentek Arnem?” the man on the wall bellows. “Our own commander—an old comrade of yours, I believe, Sentek Gledgesa—has agreed to come out of the city to speak with you. But I warn you—”

“
‘Warn’
him?” Niksar seethes. “Warn the commander of the Talons? I’ll have the man’s tongue out—!”

But Arnem only replies: “You warn us of what?”

“My comrades are, as you have seen, particularly accurate with their weapon. I would recommend you speak to our sentek alone—with your aide, of course—and that your men attempt no tricks.”

Arnem knows what his answer must be. “Very well, then.”

“One final thing,” the soldier shouts. “Sentek Gledgesa’s vision is gone, but our healers seemed able to stop the degeneration there. His own daughter will guide him out, and what applies to him, applies to her. The girl’s speech has been stolen, but our healers have kept her alive.”

“A daughter …” Arnem murmurs softly. “Gerolf has a
daughter
 …?” Then he shouts: “Tell your commander that he and any dear to him will be safe with me. I believe that he will understand that. I shall meet him halfway between here and the gate.”

“You are as wise as your reputation states, Sentek Arnem,” the soldier replies, saluting casually. And at that, the echoing sound of heavy iron locks being thrown becomes audible, and Arnem’s men look to see a smaller doorway, just large enough for a man upon a horse, opening in the greater structure.

Before moving forward, Arnem turns to Niksar. “If, for any reason, I do not return, Reyne—I shall need you to get the men back to Broken.”

“But—” Niksar protests haltingly. “He has told us you are to bring—”

“I’ll take the old man, instead; if Gledgesa is in the desperate condition he describes, he will be of more use …” Arnem does not reveal his true reason for taking Visimar to meet Gerolf Gledgesa, a reason that he suspects the old man may guess at: for the truth is, the two officers, Arnem and Gledgesa, shared the duty of escorting the Kafran priests during their ritual mutilations, so long ago; and both were present, the day that Visimar’s leg was severed and the man himself left to die on the edge of Davon Wood …

{
viii
:}

As Arnem and Visimar move up the road toward the walls of Daurawah and the figures of Gerolf Gledgesa and his daughter, who have appeared on horse and pony, respectively, from out of the smaller doorway in the great port’s western gate, the old man remains silent, and slowly reins his mare, against her will, off the Ox’s pace, until he is riding some twelve to fifteen feet behind the sentek. The cripple knows what must be going through the commander’s mind: for no man of integrity can face the decay and death of a friend, particularly a friend alongside whom he has faced death on a score of occasions, without a deep sense of wretched sadness and of his own mortality. Visimar therefore does not burden the sentek with practical pressures and details at this moment. Time will press, soon enough—in truth it
is
pressing, already; but not so hard that the last meeting of two good men can justly be curtailed or tainted.