The Legend of Broken (78 page)

“Pallin! You are certain that these roots and this bread consist solely of our own supplies, and have not been gathered locally—and that none bore the marks of which Visimar warned you before they were prepared?”

The pallin nods his head with the kind of smile that has proved a rare sight, on this campaign. “Aye, Sentek,” he replies. “But we dared not keep the stores any longer, given the time we have been on the march and the molds that our
guest
”—the young soldier inclines his head in Visimar’s direction—“tells us are more likely to form with coming changes in the weather. We in the baggage train have been waiting for the right moment to make use of them—and with camp made secure, this seemed as good a one as any.”

“You see, fellow Talons?” Linnet Taankret announces with a broad grin, wiping his carefully sculpted mustache and beard further from his lips, so that they will not become tainted with food and the grease of the beef, and tucking one corner of a large kerchief beneath his chin, that the piece of fabric may protect his ever-spotless tunic. “We no sooner have confirmation of Visimar’s true identity, than we can enjoy more than dried meat and rock-hard, flat biscuits—I always knew that this old madman, whatever his name, was a breathing and benevolent talisman!”

“I hope that your good humor will last the meal,” calls Arnem, “for there are yet more remarkable facts to be revealed, Taankret. For now, however—let us eat. No more than one cup of wine or beer per man, however!” he adds, pointing to the serving pallins who have begun distributing the drinks to each officer.

“A
deep
cup, I hope, Sentek,” says Akillus, as he enters the tent to the shouted greetings of the other officers, and takes a place at the bench that runs along the foot of the table.

“Aye, deep I will allow,” Arnem replies. “But the men will have their wits about them, tonight, and I have no intention for my officers to be in any worse condition.”

One linnet-of-the-line, an engineer called Bal-deric,
†
whom Visimar has noticed and spoken to more than once on this march (largely because the man is without most of the lower portion of his left arm, lost to a mishap during an excavation that employed large, oxen-driven machinery, and has substituted for it an ingenious assembly of leather fittings, sections of hardwood tree limbs, and steel wheels and wires),
†
now signals to the older man, then leans back to use his good right hand to pass Visimar a small piece of cotton containing a tightly packed ball of herbs and medicines. Under the sound of the other officers’ conversation, Bal-deric congenially says to his fellow in suffering, “It is the approach of rain, is it not, Visimar? My arm behaves in just the same way. Break this into pieces and swallow it with your wine. A concoction of my own, developed some years ago—I’m sure you will be able to guess its ingredients, and will also find them most efficacious. But by the heavens, do not let any priest of Kafra know that I have given it to you!”

Visimar smiles and takes the packet gratefully, then leans behind the intervening men to say, “I thank you, Bal-deric—and perhaps, if we come out of this business alive, we may discuss the construction of some better substitute for my missing leg than the admittedly crude support I carved myself, after the first year or so of my changed condition—for I have long admired the device you have created to take the place of your arm.”

Bal-deric smiles and nods, and Visimar turns back around, relieved to note that Arnem does not appear to have caught any of this exchange.

As the very last of twilight turns to utter darkness outside the tent, the officers within, most still expressing words of surprise and congratulation to the ever more contented Visimar as they at the same time voice their complete satisfaction with the provisions that have been placed before them, inevitably begin to lose interest in the food, and turn instead to debates about the best and fastest way for their campaign to proceed. Arnem has intended for this to happen; it is the reason for his having limited each man to one cup of drink. And yet, even he, the confident and ever-resourceful commander, finds himself perplexed as to precisely how he will reveal the next portion of his plan—for it does not involve the action desired most by his officers, direct military confrontation, but something very different indeed. Eventually, knowing that he cannot put the matter off, he slams the pommel of his short-sword on the table, and begins to demand reports from each of his officers about the dispositions and moods of their respective units.

“I assure you, Sentek,” declares Taankret, “when you have decided precisely how to take the Talons into Davon Wood, they will be as prepared for the task as they were to fight their way out of that madness in Esleben—and the
Wildfehngen
will be no less ready to lead.”

Arnem glances for an instant at Visimar, who gives the slightest indication with a movement of his head that the sentek must proceed along some course that is, apparently, known only to the two of them. “That ‘madness in Esleben,’ Taankret, is precisely the point. You may wonder why I ordered the establishment of what would seem so forward a position on our own ground, rather than waiting until we crossed the Cat’s Paw.”

“None among my scouts has wondered as much,” Akillus declares solemnly. “Not given what fills that river. I do not know what black arts the Bane are practicing, in their defense, but … we will need a sure sanctuary on our own soil, for this campaign.”

“Assuming that there is to
be
any more of a campaign,” Arnem announces, to the sudden consternation of all present.

“But Sentek,” Bal-deric declares. “It was our understanding that such were our orders. It was well known throughout the streets of Broken, before we departed, that these were our objects: the final invasion of Davon Wood, and the destruction of the Bane tribe …”

“Yes,” Arnem replies. “It was well known—by those who had not seen what we have seen on this march.”

“But—Yantek Korsar gave his life precisely because he
refused
such an order,” Niksar says carefully.

The sentek nods. “And I confess that I did not know why, at the time, Reyne,” Arnem replies. “But on this journey, much has been revealed—much that provides us with answers to that as well as other questions. Certainly the horrific fate of the
khotor
of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard tells us why the yantek did not wish us to enter the Wood: in that wilderness, our superior numbers apparently mean little or nothing, so well have the Bane mastered combat within the forest.”

“But—” A young linnet sitting next to Akillus is, like most of his comrades, puzzling with the dilemma determinedly. “But the Bane also attack outside the Wood. In terrible ways.”

“The Outragers do,” Visimar replies. “But the Bane army? We have no evidence that they do so, or that they ever have.”

“Then do they not deserve chastisement, for allowing the Outragers such vicious liberty?” comes another voice.

Arnem answers quickly: “Do all the subjects of Broken deserve similarly stern treatment, for the equally foul behavior of the Merchant Lord’s Guard, or for the behavior of a few nobles who excuse their murderous pursuit of the Bane under the title of ‘sport’?”

The sentek takes a few steps away from the council table, toward his own quarters; and for the first time, his officers notice that an additional, large, reversed piece of hide has been hung from the heavy curtain that separates the two areas. He tears away a light covering of fabric from this hide, to reveal a detailed map, not only of the northern side of the Cat’s Paw, but of much of Davon Wood—enough to show, after generations of searching, what appears to be the general position of Okot.

“Sentek …,” breathes one round-bodied, and equally round-faced, officer called Weltherr,
†
Arnem’s chief mapmaker. So fascinated is the man that he cannot help but rise up and move toward the image, lifting a hand to touch it, almost as if he believes it unreal. “But this map includes not only locations of communities, but features of topography, as well. With such a rendering, we could easily complete our original task: the invasion of Davon Wood, and the destruction of the Bane and Okot.”

“I do not believe so, Weltherr,” Arnem says, returning to the map. “Yantek Korsar, I have come to see, was not only speaking of physical features of the Wood, in his final warning—he also referred to the
tactics
of the Bane. Remember what happened to Lord Baster-kin’s men, after all—they were destroyed on ground with which we have long been fairly familiar, within sight of the Cat’s Paw. It was the manner, not the location, of their action that was their undoing. And I do not mean for the same to happen to the Talons.”

“Sentek,” Akillus says, quietly fascinated. “You still have not told us how you were able to compose such a map.”

Arnem breathes heavily once. “I did not compose it—but to hear who did, I must exact a special pledge from all of you: nothing that you are about to hear will ever be repeated outside our company. If any man feels he cannot abide by such an oath, let him leave now.” Allowing the men a moment to absorb this statement, Arnem eventually continues, in an even quieter tone, as he slowly strides around the table: “I shall not ask of you anything that could be construed as genuinely treasonous; but as we all know, strange things have taken place during this campaign, and it may be that their explanation will implicate persons in high places in Broken. Therefore, remember that our oath as soldiers is to our kingdom and our sovereign. And keeping faith with that oath will likely lead us, now, into territory more unmapped than the most distant corners of Davon Wood, if we follow the plan that I will suggest. We begin with questions, to be followed by facts: Did it not strike any of you as strange that the Merchant Lord should have dispatched a full
khotor
of his own Guard to reinforce the patrols on his Plain, much less attack the Bane within the Wood, just when, by my calculation, we had learned the truth of matters in Esleben and the other towns on the Daurawah Road, and were on our way to that latter port, where we would find even worse conditions prevailing? Almost as if he did not
want
the army to play the crucial role in Broken’s attack on the Bane?”

“Aye,” Taankret replies, a little ruefully. “Although I would not have been the first to speak of it. Could he have been ignorant of what we were discovering, Sentek?”

“You know my habits, Taankret,” Arnem answered. “I sent dispatches to the noble lord throughout our march. And Niksar’s brother, the unfortunate Donner, had been sending pleas for help for weeks. All unanswered. And then—” Arnem reaches into a pouch in his leather armor, and produces a small handful of kernels of some kind of grain. “—there were
these
 …” He tosses the kernels into the middle of the table, and at once, each officer half-rises to get a closer look “Do
not,
any of you, touch them!” the sentek says, going to wash his own hands.

“What can they be, Sentek?” asks a young junior linnet, who is clearly disturbed by the turn the conversation is taking. Arnem, returning from his basin, turns to his left. “Visimar?”

The cripple is confident in his answer: “Winter rye. Such as is stored in almost every town and village in Broken, and was evident in abundance in Esleben.”

“But,” Bal-deric says, puzzling it out, “winter rye? We are well into spring. Why should the Eslebeners still be hoarding winter rye, when it was likely needed in the city, if not the provinces, during the last and most severe winter?”

“A question that perplexed me, as well,” Arnem answers, “until my conversation with the unfortunate Donner. But our own farmers and merchants are no longer, it seems, the sole source for winter grain, nor even the principal source—northern raiders are bringing it into the kingdom, having plundered it in far-off lands, and selling it to factors of the Merchant Lord: including, I regret to say, Lord Baster-kin himself, who believes that our provincial farmers and their representatives have begun to ask prices too great for the treasury of the kingdom to bear.” Soft murmuring again circulates around the table, until Arnem goes on: “Akillus—you saw the raiders’ ships, or what was left of those vessels, in the calmer portions of the Cat’s Paw, as well as in the Meloderna—correct?”

Akillus nods certainly. “Aye, Sentek. And it did not seem clear precisely what the Bane had to do with their destruction.”

“The Bane had nothing to do with such,” Arnem replies. “Our own people destroyed them when they became aware that the merchants in Broken had found illegal, even treacherous ways to frustrate their attempts to raise prices. This grain, when spoilt, produces a poison that brings about the same disease that we identify after battles as the fire wounds—”

The murmuring at the table turns suddenly more fearful, yet Arnem pushes on: “Yet these are not kernels of the grain recently brought into our kingdom by our enemies. These are taken from the storehouses of towns such as Esleben. Supplies which those unfortunate townspeople and citizens have themselves been consuming, because they refused to underbid thieves in the competition for the grain that goes on to feed and guarantee the security of the city of Broken.”

“And so,” Fleckmester says, slowly reasoning the matter out, “it was the
fire wounds
that drove the people of Esleben mad—the fire wounds, or whatever name the poison takes in its other forms—”

“
Gangraenum,
” Visimar says quietly.

Fleckmester nods to the cripple, comprehending the term not a bit, but knowing that, if Visimar says it is so, it must indeed
be
so.