The Legend of Broken (8 page)

“Come!” she murmurs. “Two blasts, we must—” But Heldo-Bah points to the ground without comment:

The Wife of Kafra, on hearing the Bane Horn, seems to have disappeared atop the panther. Likely she is moving through the northernmost portions of Davon Wood as swiftly as she can toward home, the fiery Bane thinks; but his face says that they cannot yet be certain.

The great Bane horn grows silent again; and only when Keera can detect neither scent nor sound of the woman as well as the panther does she nod, at which Heldo-Bah throws his knife angrily toward and into the Earth.
“Ficksel!”
he declares, shaking a fist in the direction of Okot, the Voice of the Moon, and the Bane Elders who ordered the sounding of the mighty alarm. “Bloody Groba,” he grumbles, making his way back down his ash. “No sense of timing!”

The three are soon on the ground, Keera deftly leaping from ten feet. “Two blasts of the Horn,” she says. “What can have happened?”

“Try not to fret, Keera,” Veloc says, pulling Heldo-Bah’s knife from the ground, tossing it to his comrade, then quickly starting out for the southeast. “Why, I’ve heard the damned thing sound for no more reason than—” He stops with an awkward rattle of his sack, however, when he hears the Horn sound yet again; and then he turns, not wishing to appear as concerned for Keera’s husband and her children as he feels. “Three blasts …” he says evenly, looking to Heldo-Bah; but all he finds playing across his friend’s scarred features is worry to match his own.

“Can either of you remember so many?” Keera asks, her composure deteriorating.

Heldo-Bah forces a smile onto his face. “Certainly!” he says, with an affected lack of concern: for he knows well that something undeniably important, and likely sinister, is happening. “I recall it well—so do you, Veloc. When that detachment of Broken soldiers chased an Outrager party into the Wood—the Groba ordered at least three blasts, and I’m fairly certain there were more. Isn’t that so, historian?”

Veloc understands Heldo-Bah’s intent, and quickly replies, “Yes—yes, it is.” He can dissemble in no greater detail, and the three foragers stand motionless as the third blast wanes; but when the Great Horn immediately issues another, Keera moves quickly to her brother’s side.

“It doesn’t stop!” she cries. “Why would they issue so many? It will bring the Tall to the village!”

Veloc puts an arm tight around her, trying to make his voice as gentle as his words are hard: “They may already
be
attacking Okot, Keera—that may be what is happening …”

“
More
bitch’s turd!” Heldo-Bah declares. “Pay him no mind, Keera—the Tall can’t
find
Okot, much less attack it. Besides, do you not find it even a little odd that we should hear so many horn blasts on the same night that a Wife of Kafra entrances and then makes away with a Davon panther?” He tousles Keera’s hair. “What is happening has naught to do with any attack on Okot—something of a different nature is going on, I’d stake my sack’s earnings on it. But we won’t know anything until we get there—so let’s be off.”

“If you’re saying that you
do
suspect sorcery here, Heldo-Bah,” Veloc says, as the group strap their sacks tight and Keera buries their fire, “then I must tell you that Bane historians have determined that, since the expulsion of the sorcerer Caliphestros following the reign of Izairn, the Tall have forsworn—”

“Ah, the scholar speaks again,” Heldo-Bah declares, as he leads the party away. “What’s
your
explanation, then, cuckolder? Has all of Nature been stood on its ear during the Moon we’ve been away? Do women now seduce and ride upon great cats, and will
you
rule in Broken, come sunrise?”

Veloc, at the rear of the little column, rolls his eyes toward eternity and sighs heavily. “I did not say that, Heldo-Bah. But it is a fact that—”

“Oh, fact, fact, fact!” Heldo-Bah spits, as he increases the party’s pace to a steady run. “I’ve no use for your facts!”

Keera has no strength to stop her companions from arguing, nor to take her usual place at the head of the group. Heldo-Bah knows the way back to Okot, and it is all Keera can do to keep herself from growing frantic as she travels.
My family is in danger
—the phrase repeats itself silently in Keera’s mind, along with all its terrible implications:
My family is in danger …

Who speaks truth, and who insults Kafra with lies, in the

Sacristy of his High Temple?

The first blast of the mighty woodland clarion had caught the ears of Arnem, Niksar, and Yantek Korsar, along with those of their escort from Lord Baster-kin’s Guard, just as the group reached the marble-paved forecourt atop the steps outside the entrance to the High Temple in Broken.

“It’s the Bane Horn—in Okot!” Niksar had pronounced, with more alarm than he would have liked. But if Arnem’s young aide had been startled, the detachment of preening soldiers from the Guard, who had laughed among themselves during the walk to the Temple, had been struck dumb with fear. Arnem and Korsar, for their part, had halted, at first showing little concern at the dour intonations; but as the number of blasts had continued to rise, both grew silent and speculative, wondering what could prompt such blaring from an instrument that seldom saw use.

Now, a fifth sounding of the Horn is echoing up the mountain and over the walls of Broken, bringing momentary stillness to even the crowded stadium. Yantek Korsar gazes over the slate-tiled rooftops and the southern wall beyond: from the group’s vantage point atop the highest spot on the mountain, the old commander can discern the Moonlit Cat’s Paw’s, and the edge of Davon Wood beyond it.

“That it is, Niksar,” Korsar says softly. “The Bane Horn. A powerful yet lovely sound, to be made by so blasphemous a people, wouldn’t you say? It has a name, I seem to recall. What is it, now …?” His question goes unanswered: the heightening effect of the Horn is such that the soldiers atop the steps scarcely even hear the yantek’s words.

The few cartographers and soldiers from Broken who have been determined enough, in ages past, to press through Davon Wood and locate the Bane village of Okot have received harsh reward for their courage: either a gutting blade across the throat, a poisoned arrow sunk deep in the flesh, or the rougher hospitality of the Wood’s other predators. Not a living soul in the kingdom has ever seen the great horn that the Bane elders use in times of crisis to summon their people home yet, like the men under his command, Yantek Korsar has heard many outlandish rumors concerning the fabled instrument: of how its great, flaring bell was fashioned from mortar mixed with blood; of how that same bell is large enough to hold half a dozen men; and, above all, of the demons of the air that the Bane have enslaved to produce the powerful bursts necessary for its sounding. He finds such tales as the last absurd, of course; and yet …

Yet the yantek cannot disguise the admiration he has always felt for the Bane’s having created such an ethereal, and powerful, means of linking their tribe. “It’s been many years since last I heard it,” he continues wistfully. “Do you remember, Arnem? We lost—what was it—two dozen men that night? And caught not one glimpse of the Bane …” The Horn’s mighty cry tapers off, and the men make tentative moves to cross the forecourt and continue on their way to the Sacristy—

But a mere instant later, the Horn roars to life again.

“Six calls?” Korsar says, attempting to toy with the already terrified men of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard. “Rare to hear it sound even half so many times,” he muses. “The Bane have always feared that it will aid us in finding their stronghold. Damn me, what do they call the thing, Arnem? Your memory hasn’t been muddled by age, I very much hope.”

Korsar turns to find that Arnem’s eyes have opened much wider than is their habit, and that he has not heard his commander’s question; and the yantek moves closer to his trusted subordinate. “Sixt?” Korsar says, with genuine concern. “Blast it, man, what ails you tonight?”

Arnem shakes his head. “It’s nothing, Yantek,” he replies. “And I remember the name. They call it ‘the Voice of the Moon.’ Unless I am much mistaken …” Arnem glances at Niksar, who, to judge by his aspect, is coming to much the same realization as his commander, concerning events earlier in the evening. Seeing this, Arnem shakes his head just perceptibly, indicating silence, and Niksar nods quickly.

As he notes the peculiar looks that pass between his officers, Korsar scrutinizes Arnem yet again, and steps over to Niksar. “
Something
is eating at the pair of you,” he determines, as the latest blast of the Horn fades. But before the yantek can press his inquiry—

A seventh droning of the Horn rises from the Wood, this one the loudest and most desperate of all. Yantek Korsar returns to the edge of the Temple forecourt.
“Seven?”
he says, with genuine incredulity. “What in the name of all that’s holy … I don’t know that
anyone
has ever heard the Bane Horn speak seven times.”

“No one has, Yantek,” Arnem says, glad that his commander’s attention has been drawn away. “We heard four calls on the night of which you’ve spoken—when you dispatched my full
khotor
to pursue a party of Outragers into the Wood. That is the largest number of blasts recorded.”

“So,” Korsar muses. “Something affects the Bane so mightily that they risk seven soundings of their Horn—even as they are trying to kill our God-King. A remarkable collection of outcasts—eh?”

But Arnem’s thoughts are fixed, not on what may be behind the calls of the Horn, nor even on the council inside the Sacristy, nor on any other immediate affairs. Rather, the sentek is thinking—and so, plainly, is Niksar—of the earlier warning issued by that agèd, seeming madman in the street:

“Wait for another voice to sound, this same night—to sound more times than it ever has before …”

As the Bane Horn’s seventh and final call begins to grow faint, Korsar approaches Arnem, seizes his shoulder, and shakes the younger man. “Arnem!” he murmurs. “Forget the bloody blaring, and listen to me—we’ve far more important matters to attend to, right now.”

Arnem rouses himself, and gives his commander’s words the attention their urgency warrants. “Yantek—I’m not sure I understand.”

Indicating silence and lowering his voice to a whisper, Korsar leads Arnem aside, and puts his head close to the younger man’s. “All this activity deepens my suspicions. And so, remember what I told you earlier: whatever happens, whatever you may hear or see, you must not take my part—in
anything.
Do you understand?” Before Arnem can question this command, which is even stranger than those the yantek issued in the Fourth Quarter, Korsar goes on: “I would prepare you, if I thought it would do any good. Simply understand and obey—and by the Moon, get rid of young Niksar. The Horn helps us there—we can dispatch him to learn if the soldiers of the watch have seen any signs of Bane activity, or been able to approximate its location.” Korsar raises his head, his voice regaining its usual gruff power. “Niksar! With us, son—quickly!”

A few long strides, and the conspiratorial council numbers three. “Back to the wall, Linnet. See what they’ve determined, if anything.”

Niksar’s face betrays both relief and doubt. “With all respect, Yantek—the orders were specific. I must report to the Sacristy with you.”

“The responsibility is mine,” Korsar says. “The sounding of the Horn changes the matter; the Layzin and Baster-kin will understand.”

Niksar looks to Arnem and receives confirmation: “He’s right, Reyne. Get back there and take charge. I’ll join you when the council is adjourned.”

A few final moments of silent uncertainty, and Niksar puts his fist to his chest. “Sentek. Yantek.” He starts down the Temple steps, finally bringing the members of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard out of their fearful daze. “Linnet!” calls the man who is equal in rank to Niksar, but far different in appearance—to say nothing of experience. “Stop! We were charged—”

“Your charge has changed, boy,” Yantek Korsar declares. “And, speaking of that, you’d best resume it. Your master has no patience for men who dally gossiping.”

The men of the Guard mumble among themselves for a moment, before they take up their positions around the commanders once more; and their momentary distraction provides Korsar with enough opportunity to give Arnem a meaningful glare, one that again underlines his last order. The sentek has no time to reply before the Guard have surrounded them, and then set a quick pace into the well-ordered forest of columns that support the portico of the Temple. The linnet of the Guard draws his short-sword and hammers its pommel against one of the massive brass doors, and a system of locks are undone from within. The door begins to open, pulled back by a pair of straining priests whose heads are shaved smooth.

Both of the priests wear simple, elegant robes of black silk edged in silver and red, and in unison they beckon the soldiers to follow them down the nave toward the enormous altar that stands in the northern apse of the cavernous Temple.
†
The forty-foot-high interior of the structure is lit only by torches at the entrance, oil lamps along the innermost columns, and, in the apse, dozens of beeswax candles. Dominating this serene yet imposing scene is the distant sound of chanting: over a large chorus of bass and tenor men are layered smaller numbers of children and but a few women, singing, unaccompanied, in the classic Oxian style, which is named for its innovator: Broken’s first king, Oxmontrot. In his later years, the Mad King turned to music—among other pursuits—to pass the ever more idle hours of his life; and not a few members of his household were surprised to find that he had a sophisticated understanding of the art, gained how, when, or where, Oxmontrot never said. But the mode of composition he devised was one of his proudest legacies.

Arnem falls in next to Korsar, the better to hear any further explanation of his commander’s extraordinary instructions; but the yantek evidently intends no such clarification. Instead, as the men walk between the long inner colonnades, Korsar silently enjoys the chanting, which grows in volume as the men move northward toward the altar, and begins to pull at his beard, puzzling with something playfully.

“Seven blasts of the Horn,” he suddenly murmurs, as much to himself as to Arnem. “A pity, really. I would have enjoyed being the one to discover their meaning …” He walks further behind the priests, and then pauses as they reach the Temple’s apse. “But the golden god has other plans for me,” the yantek adds, maintaining his strangely detached tone.

The most ornate feature among many such in the Temple, the altar is the most obvious statement of Kafra’s love of wealth, of indulgence—and of those among his followers who worship him in a corresponding manner. A finely carved platform of various exotic woods supports an octagonal slab of granite, the eight sides of which are carved into reliefs depicting key episodes from the history of Broken. Each of these scenes is laminated in gold. The surface of the altar, by way of contrast, is composed of an almost faultless slab of black marble, quarried in a distant region of Davon Wood by the Bane.
†
To obtain it, the God-King Izairn (father of Saylal, the present ruler) and the Merchants Council of his time were forced to offer the Bane not only goods, but something even more precious: knowledge. In particular, the Bane demanded—and Izairn’s increasingly powerful Second Minister, Caliphestros, recommended giving them—building secrets that at least a few of Broken’s merchant leaders and military commanders did not believe the exiles should possess: techniques of leverage and buttressing, of counterweighting and joining.

But those who sponsored the creation of the altar had not believed the trade dangerous: the Bane would never, they argued, be able to make use of such sophisticated techniques—a prediction that has thus far proved true, so far as anyone in Broken can determine. And few citizens of the kingdom, upon viewing the magnificent new locus of the most important rites of Kafra, would assert that the exchange was not worth the risk. Above the altar, seeming to confirm that the bargain was indeed an appropriate one, has been suspended a most arresting representation of Kafra: a statue, also laminated in gold and suspended in such a manner as to make its supports (a web of delicately wrought iron, painted darkest black) effectively invisible in the candlelight. This apparently miraculous figure depicts the generous god as a victorious young athlete; and on his face, as always, is the smile, that gentle, seductive curl of the full lips, which has ever sparked in his followers sensations that Arnem knows he and Yantek Korsar are intended to feel tonight: benevolence, love, and the delight in life available to the righteous.

On this occasion, the statue’s serene expression prompts another of the yantek’s grunting, humorless laughs, this one particularly strange: for it is Korsar’s usual custom, at such moments in the Temple, to drink deeply of the beautiful chanting that drifts up from below the altar. So much is this the case that, for an instant, Arnem believes that he
must
have mistaken the yantek as the author of the caustic sound; but when it is repeated, and when Arnem places it in the context of Korsar’s earlier and more peculiar words and behavior, the sentek is left to wonder anew if his mentor, comrade, and friend—the man Arnem believes he knows better than any in the world—is in fact the simple, honest, and above all pious old soldier for which his protégé has always taken him.

The pair of silent priests touch Korsar’s and Arnem’s shoulders gently, urging them down the left side of a transept that crosses the nave before the altar and leads to a black marble archway that is the entrance to the Sacristy of the High Temple. The beechwood door below the archway—guarded by still more priests—opens; and in an instant, Arnem and Korsar find themselves within the Sacristy, the penultimate seat of power in the kingdom of Broken.