The Legend of Broken (77 page)

And then, of course, there was always the bloodshed itself, simple yet supremely effective gore, which Lord Baster-kin’s Guard liked to think they understood, as a weapon, but which they had never truly seen demonstrated until that night. The sights, smells, and sounds of comrades being torn open and apart, dismembered and otherwise disfigured and dispatched, sapped the Guardsmen of what little real understanding they had of combat. When the forest floor became wet with blood in the middle of the night, as well as when the curiously horrifying colors and visions of human guts laid open to Moon- and torchlight were encountered, and a soldier was almost certain that the gore was that of his fellows, the man’s usefulness in combat (especially if he was unfamiliar with the sight, as was nearly every Guardsman) was quickly cut down to almost nothing, and his primary concern shifted from inflicting punishment to somehow trying to make sure that his own blood, guts, and limbs were not added to the heaps and rivulets that had been loosed by swords, gutting blades, spearheads, crude iron halberds and axes, and daggers.

One can often hear it said, among posturing fools such as those young men who have long spent the better part of their lives in the Stadium in Broken, that some peacetime activity is “like a war,” or even “is war”; but such only serves to demonstrate how far they have ever lived in remove from any true battlefield or other place of large-scale violence: for war, like all human activities related to the creation or termination of life, is unique, unique in its pain and fearfulness, of course, but unique, perhaps most of all, in its loneliness, as well as in each participant’s terrible lack of certainty—unimaginable until the moment has arrived—of whether or not she or he will survive.

In this case, the sudden realization, felt as a group, that the Guard were in fact
not
more than a match for the Bane, and that their allotted time on this Earth and in this Life had abruptly expired, added an additional note of horror to the shrieks that increasingly escaped the men of Lord Baster-kin’s creatures that night; and it was a type of cry that made even Stasi, who had seen so much terrible death in her comparatively short time upon the Earth, draw closer to Caliphestros, Keera, and even Veloc, as much to comfort her own soul as to make sure that her friends did not leave their positions and attempt to enter the fray that was taking place in the darkness of the woodland beneath the rocks that sheltered them all.

Finally, the Guardsmen’s religion, their all-important faith in Kafra, failed them at the last. The soldiers of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard had received special sanction from the God-King and the Grand Layzin of Broken before this particular undertaking—sanction not only represented by the beaten bronze bands that they wore clamped to their upper arms, but manifested in their grossly overconfident behavior as they marched into the Wood. Kafra, the priests had already assured the men of the Guard, would provide them special protection and special power. And yet here they were, now, themselves, with death striking at them from out of the darkness at every turn and along every path—including and especially from above. The Bane tactic of dropping down to slash at the throats and other essential parts their enemies’ bodies in an even more sudden and shocking manner than could be managed from their very effective hiding places on the ground was wholly new and especially frightening, for Baster-kin’s men; yet no matter how the latter called out to the god whose smiling countenance was depicted on the bands that encircled their arms, Kafra remained deaf to their pleas. The number of deaths among them—either from wounds or from being hurled over the cliffs above the Cat’s Paw, below which their skulls and bodies would be shattered and mangled upon and overwhelmed by the deadly rocks and rushing waters of Hafften Falls or the
Ayerzess-werten
—mounted with astonishing speed, and this one relatively confined area of Davon Wood grew ever more littered by and soaked with the bodies, entrails, and blood of soldiers of the Tall.

In short, the encounter proceeded far more successfully than any member of the Bane tribe had dared wish for. For Caliphestros himself, along with Keera and Veloc, nothing demonstrated the triumph and even joy of the Bane troops more than did the heightening, almost mad laughter of Heldo-Bah, who quickly turned from simply keeping watch around the edges of the rock formation upon which his friends and the white panther lay hidden to merrily falling upon any passing Guardsman, whose weapons he delighted in overmatching or even cutting and breaking into pieces—just as Caliphestros had done to him when first they entered the old man’s cave. Never was the file-toothed Bane’s lust for revenge against the servants of Lord Baster-kin, the man he saw as the embodiment of all that was evil in Broken, that city that had used him so ill during his childhood, more amply displayed than during the night of the battle by the Cat’s Paw, when his rage mounted to ever more reckless and gleeful heights. After each quick attack, Heldo-Bah would disappear back into the crevices in the great stone formation that sheltered the others, his lustful merriment almost impossible to contain.

It was hardly likely, given their complete and increasingly triumphant concentration on their slaughter of the Guardsmen, that any Bane would have noticed a lone pair of eyes and ears watching and listening to what was taking place on the woodland side of the river: but the young Guardsman to whom those eyes belonged, a member of the regular watch that patrolled the richest portion of the great Plain, who was as well an inexperienced youth who had been left behind by the larger column because he dared question the wisdom of marching all the other soldiers of the Guard into the Wood for a night attack, soon made his way back north through the grazing ground; and without knowing it, toward Sentek Arnem and the oncoming Talons …

Sixt Arnem, having gleaned all that he can from the terrified young member

of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard, receives a bewildering array of visitors …

It had been Sixt Arnem’s firm intention, upon riding to and then beyond the eastern perimeter of the central camp that his Talons were continuing to establish on Lord Baster-kin’s Plain, to take a very stern attitude while interviewing the only surviving member of the First
Khotor
of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard; but when the commander of the army of Broken sees the condition of the youth he cannot help but relent from this posture. The Guardsman was but a few years older than Arnem’s own son, Dagobert, and although he must ordinarily have been larger in stature than the sentek’s boy, what the lad had seen and heard had made him draw into himself in every manner. Thus vividly reminded not only of his only son, but of his wife and the strange peril he has been told that both she and Dagobert face in the Fifth District of Broken, Arnem crouches down to look the terrified youth full in the face. “Where
is
your home, son? Do you wish me to send word of your survival back to Broken along with my next packet of dispatches?”

The fearful youth shakes his head vigorously and fearfully. “I would not have my family know that I was not willing to follow my commander into the danger that lay across the river. I would not have them think me so disobedient and cowardly.”

Arnem puts a hand to the boy’s shoulder. “You are neither, Pallin. Discipline is a vital thing in an army; it can also be a deadly one. More often than not, I would agree that your speaking out was irresponsible. But in this instance?” Arnem looks down toward the line of the trees on the southern border of the Plain, now almost invisible in the growing darkness. “I cannot find it in me to call it so. For to have taken nearly five hundred drunken men into Davon Wood, when he also had every reason to believe that the Bane were fully aware of our people’s intention to invade their homeland, was a decision that now places the blame for the disaster on your sentek—not on you. Although I sincerely doubt that the fool yet lives to assume that responsibility. Come, now—on your feet.” The pallin obeys the order, slowly but in what passes for a soldierly manner. “Step closer to the light, and let my friend, here, who is a talented healer, examine you.” Arnem indicates Visimar, and the cripple steps forward.

Visimar makes several satisfied sounds as he goes about inspecting those parts of the pallin’s body that would be first to display any sign of either the rose fever or the Holy Fire, and each murmur seems to embolden the Guardsman, so much so that, after several moments have passed, he says:

“If you would not mind, Sentek Arnem—I should much rather march with your men than return to the city.”

Arnem shakes his head, immediately and definitively. “There are many soldiers that would like to march with the Talons, Pallin. But our reputation is not based upon pride or arrogance. There are maneuvers that you must know, and through long training be able to execute quickly and unhesitatingly. Men’s lives depend on your knowing such, as has already been demonstrated on this march. I understand your reluctance, but—as I say, I will give you notes vouching for your behavior, to be delivered to both your family and Lord Baster-kin. Be easy in spirit—there will be no recrimination. In addition, I will offer you this, Pallin—we’ll tilt the table just a bit, so that the knucklebones
†
will be certain to roll in your favor. I shall state in my report that upon our arrival we were able to rescue you, and only you, from a rearguard action your
fauste
was conducting. I may even add that we were forced to pull you away from the combat, so heated was your blood. I think that should suffice.”

The pallin looks to the ground uneasily. “If you will but hear one additional fact in confidence, Sentek, at some distance from these others, I shall do as you say, if you still think it wise.”

Looking to the others and shrugging, Arnem indicates to them that they should remain where they are with a gesture of his hand, then walks off to the edge of the small world of light created by Akillus’s torch.

By the time Arnem and the young Guardsman return, the older officer has apparently managed, whatever their secret conversation, to convince the pallin that his return will take place without punishment, if he will follow Arnem’s original plan. “But I shall ask one favor of
you,
in return, Pallin,” Arnem says, as he moves toward and then mounts the Ox. “Remain outside camp, while I go to my tent to secure you a mount and compose the dispatches we have discussed. My men will know the truth of what has taken place in the Wood soon enough—I do not want more rumors than I can manage flying about camp. Akillus, remain here with the pallin, and I shall send one of your scouts back with the horse and the reports, along with whatever rations they have prepared.”

Akillus salutes, reluctantly but without question, and the pallin quickly does the same. Arnem offers them both a nod, and tries to smile reassuringly to the Guardsman.

“The soldier’s life is not the Guardsman’s, Pallin,” the sentek says. “Particularly when you leave the walls of Broken. There’s little enough use on the frontiers for making arrests and cracking skulls, to say nothing of watching over cattle. I am sorry that your first taste of large-scale action had to be so horrifying—but remember these truths the next time you feel tempted to castigate yourself.” He laughs once, cajolingly. “And consider a change of services upon your return to Broken …” Arnem turns to his chief of scouts. “And don’t go badgering the boy, Akillus,” Arnem declares.

“Aye, Sentek,” Akillus replies. “Come, Pallin—let’s see what scraps of wood we can collect to make this torch something other than a source of light. It will help to keep the wolves back, even if the evening is warm …”

It is a generous attitude to adopt, of the type that Arnem and Niksar have long since learned to expect from the gregarious Akillus. Visimar, however, having been helped onto the saddle of his mare by Niksar, is impressed. “Akillus is indeed a rare man—you are to be congratulated for elevating him, Sixt Arnem.”

“He is my left arm,” Arnem agrees, smiling at Niksar as he does. “Now that Niksar has suspended his spying duties and become my unquestioned right …”

“Sentek!” the linnet protests, until he realizes that his commander jests.

Arnem smiles, wearily but genuinely, to his friend and comrade, and in moments the three riders have passed over the spiked ditch and similarly bristling eastern gateway in the protective barrier about camp that has been constructed with astonishing speed by the engineers of the Talons during the hours since the
khotor
arrived on the Plain. The officers’ wine-red cloaks are lifted behind them by the western wind as they trot into camp, a martial image that is made all the more impressive when placed in direct contrast to Visimar’s faded black and silver cloak. But even the latter is somehow strangely comforting, in its heightened implication of a perhaps arcane but no less lucky influence: for the old man has undeniably demonstrated both the power of the good fortune he brings to the troops, as well as his wisdom.

Arnem’s tent, imposing from the outside, is perhaps more spare and severe within than one might expect from a man of such rank. Thick, quilted walls and modest personal quarters are to the rear, furnished only with a camp bed, writing table, and oil lamps, all of which are curtained off by warm, silencing hides that offer privacy from the tent’s front section. That area is dominated by a large table that serves as both senior officers’ mess and council center: all in all, a highly mobile structure that is all the commander needs, and more than he ever expected to be awarded, as a young man. He has no illusions—as do, say, the eastern marauders—about creating a traveling den of pleasure to serve as his home while campaigning. He is therefore unsurprised when he enters to find those same senior officers (save Akillus) all in attendance, talking quietly and respectfully among themselves, then standing to salute as he joins them: this is the principal purpose of his tent, to the sentek—professional—and the sooner the business of his men can be planned and executed, the sooner he may gain what little rest he will allow himself; and the sooner, too, will his assigned tasks be completed, and he himself be allowed to rejoin his family, high on Broken’s mountain—

And yet, on this night, his usually reassuring thoughts of home are usurped by what he has been told concerning both his wife and his children by, first, Akillus, and, later, the young member of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard: a most bizarre set of what the Guardsman referred to, not as rumors, but as confirmed facts, concerning some kind of a rebellion in the Fifth District, and of Isadora’s and Dagobert’s participation—even more, their leadership—of the uprising; and these are tales about which he intends to know far more, before he will make any move against a Bane enemy that cannot help but be in the full flush of victory over the most despised arm of their enemy …

Arnem waves a hand to his officers, urging them to sit. “I shall require a moment, gentlemen,” he declares, never breaking stride as he heads for his personal quarters. “Therefore, be as you were, but make certain your reports are ready.”

Once behind the curtain that screens his quarters from the council area, Arnem pauses to wash his face and hands in a plain brass basin of cold, clean water that the ever-silent, ever-reliable Ernakh has made sure to have ready. Running his hands through his hair, more to keep himself alert than for appearances, Arnem towels off any lingering water, places the moist, cool piece of cloth about his neck, and turns to lean over his camp table, taking two pieces of waiting parchment and a nub of charcoal and quickly composing the notes to Lord Baster-kin and the Guardsman’s family that he promised the youth. Instructing Ernakh to have a scout deliver these reports, as well as to relieve Akillus, that the latter may represent his own men at the council table, and making sure that Ernakh orders the scout to take some of the food that is being prepared outside the tent with him, Arnem dispatches the
skutaar
out the back of his tent, and finally returns through the hide curtain to sit in the lone camp chair that occupies the head of the council table. At last allowing himself to breathe deeply with some small relief, he then eyes the expectant faces around him, noticing first his chief archer.

“Fleckmester,” he says, with a slightly surprised although approving tone. “I take it your ability to attend this council means that you are satisfied with the defensive dispositions of your archers at the Fallen Bridge?”

“Indeed I am, Sentek,” Fleckmester replies. “I do not doubt that the Bane still have silent eyes in the trees along the southern bank, observing our every move; but any attempt by them to cross the bridge into the Plain now would be as foolish as was the Guard’s original march into the Wood.”

“Hmm,” Arnem noises. “I wish I could say that I doubted you, and that there might in fact
be
an easy way for our men to get across the Cat’s Paw and achieve our object as originally stated; but the Bane have proved even more than usually clever, during this action.” Preparing himself for the announcement that he is about to make, Arnem takes the towel that is about his neck and grips it tight, as if it will support an overburdened mind, and says in a louder voice, “I’m certain that by now you all know what one or two of you have learned firsthand, and several others have surmised; the true identity of our guest on this march.”

The sentek holds out a hand to the cripple, who sits to his left, at the first seat on that side of the table. Noises of general assent make their way from officer to officer, but few if any are either surprised or uneasy in nature.

“Aye, we have discovered it, Sentek, and have been discussing it,” says one Linnet Crupp,
†
with whom Arnem has seen long service. The sentek holds this scar-faced man in high regard, not only for his mastery of
ballistae,
but for the fact that he has ever shown as little true fervor for the faith of the golden god as has Arnem himself. “Can you
truly
be he?” Crupp continues, smiling, now, as he turns to Visimar. “The same demon-man with whose name I once frightened my children into obedience on nights when they were especially unruly?”

Visimar is sipping a cup of wine and kneading his leg, which has begun suffering from a special pain that, he long ago learned, was and remains a signal of the distant onset of a rain.
‡
Given the generally warm, dry conditions of this spring, it is a sensation he has not felt for some time, and would readily have done without for a good while longer: he cannot yet know (despite all his seeming prophetic power) that the rain’s arrival will actually be of vital use to his own and his former master’s secret efforts to undermine the kingdom of Broken.

“I would gladly have had my name never gain such notoriety, amusing as it may now seem, Linnet,” the old man says, as congenially as his discomfort will allow. “If such would have meant living without the decade of pain that I have endured.”

Light laughter—most of it easy, some of it guarded—moves about the table, at which the forward opening of the tent is pulled aside to allow the entrance of several pallins, who bear wooden platters upon which sit roasted joints and slabs of beef, surrounded by various mounds of fire-baked root vegetables and stacks of unleavened, rock-fried pieces of bread. The sight is sudden and welcome, bringing immediate cheers of gratitude and anticipation. Such is the clamor that Arnem must shout to make himself heard by the lead bearer: