The Legend of Broken

by Caleb Carr

  “Tayo was already dead,” Keera says of her husband, the words scarcely enunciated. “Effi is unaffected, but Herwin and Baza—they will not allow them to leave the Lenthess-steyn. Herwin may survive, they say, but Baza will almost certainly …” She begins to fall forward: it is only Heldo-Bah’s attentive agility—an alertness born of his expectation that the worst in life not only can happen, but usually will—that allows him to snatch her up before her face hits the stone. He holds her back upright, and she stares into his eyes without seeing them. “I did not recognize him … Tayo. His face, as well as his body—there were so many sores, so much swelling, so much blood and pus …” Tears come when she speaks of her boys: Herwin, eight years old, and Baza, only six. “Baza is barely alive … He cried out, when he saw me, and said there was pain—everywhere … But I was not allowed to touch him. And Herwin looks as though—as though … Yet no one can predict—anything.”

  She looks about frantically for a moment, murmuring “Effi,” and then sees the girl in Veloc’s arms. She snatches the child away, and together they begin weeping anew, Effi in the same weary manner—for she has been forcibly separated from her father and brothers in the Lenthess-steyn for over a day—and Keera with the rigidity of body that is often present before the reality of death has become fully comprehensible: as if physical exertion can will it away. Heldo-Bah and Veloc each put a hand to her shoulders.

  “So this is how the Tall kill, now,” Heldo-Bah says to Veloc, characteristically attempting to dissolve his own grief into bitterness. “Would that I had put my knife in that witch’s heart …”

  A few silent moments pass, with only the sound of Keera’s and Effi’s sobbing playing off the walls of the Den, along with the occasional crackle from the fire. Whispers pass from Veloc to Keera, after he puts his mouth close to her ear; and the Groba Elders allow the little group of the foragers and Effi a few minutes before the Father gently calls out:

  “Keera?” He stands again, and positions himself between Keera and the High Priestess. If more unfeeling remarks should escape the latter, the Father has decided that he will interrupt and then stifle them, lest they do yet more harm to Keera’s already brutalized soul; indeed, the Father determines that he will risk divine wrath by plainly telling the zealous young holy woman to hold her tongue, if he must. But his eyes stay on the foragers. “We grieve with you, Keera, believe that. There is not a member of the Groba who has not lost someone dear—children, grandchildren—”

  “A wife of thirty years,” says the bald-headed Elder mournfully; and when Heldo-Bah looks at this man—who brought Veloc and himself into the Den without exhibiting the smallest sign that he had suffered so devastating a blow—he feels not only remorse for the old man’s loss, but admiration for one who has, in so disciplined a manner, put the tribe ahead of his own suffering.

  “Indeed,” the Groba Father says, looking back at his fellow councilor. “This pestilence has struck at every part of the Bane tribe, and will continue to do so, if we do not act quickly. So believe that our hearts are with you, Keera, and believe, as well, that you three foragers must now undertake a task that offers our only hope, not only of stopping the spread of this malevolent sickness, but of avenging the dead.”

  At this, Keera lifts her face and turns to the Elders; then, slowly, she takes her brother’s and her friend’s comforting hands from her shoulders, and walks a few steps forward, approaching the Groba’s council table while constantly clinging tight to little Effi. She wipes at her face with a sleeve, and musters the strength to ask, “But—how is that possible, Father?” And then she adds, with humble skepticism, “We are only foragers.”

  “Your brother and Heldo-Bah may be nothing more,” the Father replies. “But you are the best of our trackers, Keera, a true mistress of the Wood. No one has traveled as deeply into its southwestern reaches as you have—and it is there that we must now ask you to go again.”

  And for the first time, a faint light of hope seems to dawn amid the wasteland that is Keera’s face, and to put the smallest gleam of comprehension back into her terribly deadened eyes.

  But it is Veloc who speaks: “Your pardon, Father, but—why? You see what this disease has already done to my sister, to her family—how can you ask her to leave them again?”

  “See how he avoids service,” declares the High Priestess. “Truly, this is not the party to send. The two men should fight with the warriors, not avoid the dangers yet to come. And the woman should be allowed to be near her children, when they come to face death.”

  Heldo-Bah, whose eyes have been studying first Keera, and then the Groba, begins to smile. He turns to the Priestess, with a look that would, under other circumstances, provoke combat between himself and the Outragers. “But there is no other party to send, O Divine Trough of Lunar Grace,” he says, the falseness of his deferential tone now transparent. “Am I not correct, Father?”

  The Father nods, then looks to the High Priestess and her Sisters. “Do not think that they escape danger by undertaking this task. Indeed, theirs may well be the gravest danger of all—” He looks to Keera again. “And more important than any battle of armies.”

  All five of the Elders are examining Keera, Heldo-Bah, and Veloc, in turn; they are pleased to find comprehension in the first two, and are ready to wait for it to strike the third.

  Soon enough, it does: “Caliphestros!” Veloc declares.

  Heldo-Bah’s grin widens, as he looks at the Priestess; and his eyes speak eloquently of how badly she has lost this encounter. “Yes,” he says, giving voice to his quiet but pointed triumph. “Caliphestros …”

  “Indeed,” the Father declares, giving the Priestess one final glance, as if to say: And so, be still—there are no other possibilities. Then, aloud, he repeats the appellation a third time: “Caliphestros …”

  For several moments, all in the chamber sit still, absorbing the name with obvious dread. The Outragers, in particular, seem swept up in the superstitious fear that has been instilled in Bane children for the last two-score years, that to speak of the man—if man he is!—heightens the chance that he will come to one’s bed, of a night, to sweep the unfortunate victim’s spirit away …

  Finally, it is Veloc who brings practical considerations back to the fore: “But, Father—it is true that we once saw his dwelling, or what we thought was his dwelling. But that journey was long, and largely the result of accidents. It nearly killed us, as well, and—”

  “And it can be repeated.” It is Keera speaking, now, and her voice is regaining strength. “I can find the place again.”

  Veloc moves up to stand with his sister. “But, Keera—we do not even know if he is alive.”

  “Perhaps not,” Keera replies. “But if there is even a chance …”

  “And what of the children?” Veloc insists, although it is clearly for Keera’s benefit: he does not yet trust that she is thinking clearly, and would not have her commit to an undertaking that will later cause her more grief and guilt. “Don’t you want to stay—”

  “There is nothing we can do, Veloc,” Keera replies. “Nothing, save this. The healers will not let me near Herwin and Baza, and likely cannot save either of my sons. And Effi will be safe—our parents can mind her, until we return.” Exhausted little Effi quietly objects to this notion, but Keera calms her.

  “Listen to your sister, Veloc,” Heldo-Bah says, continuing to smile at the High Priestess. “This is our only hope—to fight the sorcery of the Tall with the Tall’s greatest sorcerer.”

  Veloc has not quite conceded: “But the disease spreads so quickly. How long will we have to succeed, before our efforts become meaningless?”

  “Only the Tall can answer that with any certainty, Veloc,” says the Father. “We believe they mean to attack, once the disease has weakened us sufficiently; what they have not counted upon is that our healers believe that they can, at least, control the disease’s spread, by separating the healthy from the ill, and above all by burning the dead
. Hastily.” This last word causes Keera to wince; and, seeing as much, the Father continues: “I regret such blunt words, Keera. It is not an easy thought, I know, and I wish I could tell you that time will make it easier. But the only thing that can ease our suffering is precisely what Heldo-Bah says—we must fetch the greatest sorcerer that ever walked among the Tall, to undo the deadly work of the kingdom he once served.” The father sits, taking a sheet of parchment and scribbling on it with a quill. “There is no more specific order we can give you. Make what preparations you must, take whatever supplies you need. This—” he rolls his completed document, and holds it out to Heldo-Bah, “will give you full authority. You will want for nothing—but do not abuse the privilege, Heldo-Bah.”

  “And, in the name of the Moon—” The Priestess, having conceded the point of who will go on this vital journey, feels the need to at least attempt to assert herself a final time: “Try to show greater faith than you have in the past. The life of the tribe may well depend upon it.”

  Keera’s head snaps about, to give the Priestess a hateful glower. “Some of us, Divine One, have already learned that.”

  It is yet another impertinence, and the Priestess thinks to protest. But a firm look from the Groba Father repeats the warning he must not voice aloud: You have said enough—be still. He turns again to the foragers.

  “Go, now,” he says, “and take our heartfelt prayers with you.”

  The same Elder who guided them into the Den now rises to escort the foragers back out. Veloc puts an arm around Keera and Effi, and gently tries again to ascertain, as they go through the passageway, whether or not Keera truly has the strength for this undertaking. This leaves Heldo-Bah to walk behind them with the Elder; and it is an awkward moment for the forager. He does not speak the language of polite Bane society, nor indeed of any polite society; and yet, for reasons he cannot precisely define, he wishes to express his respect and sympathy for the man. He waits until they pass through the antechamber and emerge into the day. The Elder comes to a halt just outside the cave’s mouth, and Heldo-Bah faces him.

  “Thirty years,” he says awkwardly, scratching at his beard. “A long time, to be with one woman.” The Elder’s pain becomes apparent; but he also seems baffled. “Long time to be with anyone, really,” Heldo-Bah continues. But it is no use—he has no talent for saying what he wishes in a proper manner; and so he drops the guise, smiles, and says, “Don’t worry, old fellow—” Then he pulls a tunic sleeve over one hand and, inexplicably, rubs the top of the Elder’s bald pate. “We’re going to find that bloody sorcerer for you—and you’ll have your justice!”

  “Stop that—Heldo-Bah!” The Elder takes hold of the forager’s arm, and pushes it away with surprising strength, staring at Heldo-Bah in shock; and yet, possibly because he understands that some small kernel of compassion lies at the heart of the forager’s bizarre behavior, he does not reproach him, other than to say, “At times I do believe you really are mad …”

  But Heldo-Bah is already hurrying down the pathway to catch his friends, who have stopped to retrieve their sacks—no easy task, as Ashkatar is atop them, stealing some desperately needed and richly deserved snippets of sleep, while intermittently waking to ensure that the crowd of angry Bane does not gather again. He bolts upright when he hears the Elder call out:

  “Yantek Ashkatar!”

  Ashkatar gets himself righted, with help from Heldo-Bah and Veloc. “Elder?” he shouts.

  “The Groba will see you now!”

  Ashkatar has not gone half a dozen steps before he stops and turns back to Keera. “You have accepted the commission?”

  Rocking Effi, who has fallen into sad slumber, Keera replies, “We have, Yantek.”

  Ashkatar nods. “Some thought that you would refuse it—but I felt certain that you would not. And I want you to know—about your boys.” Ashkatar pulls at his whip. “Don’t fear that they will be forgotten, while you’re gone. My men and I shall watch over them as if they were our own—and I shall keep your parents ever informed of how it goes with them.”

  Keera’s eyes fill with tears, but she is determined to control her grief and her worry until the journey she is faced with is done. “Thank you, Yantek,” she says, with deep respect. Then she begins to walk slowly toward her parents’ home, just south of the village center, still rocking Effi from side to side.

  “And Veloc—” Ashkatar points his whip. “You and Heldo-Bah take care of her, eh? Especially in the southwestern Wood. Take care of yourselves, too—it’s hellish country, and all our hopes go with you.”

  Veloc nods. “Aye,” he says, and then turns to catch his sister.

  Heldo-Bah pauses, still grinning. “And how would you know what the country’s like down there?” he asks. Ashkatar flushes with angry embarrassment, at which Heldo-Bah laughs once and says: “But it was a noble sentiment, Ashkatar. I’m deeply touched …”

  Before the commander of the Bane army can reply, Heldo-Bah runs off; nevertheless, Ashkatar shouts after him: “Damn you, Heldo-Bah—It’s Yantek Ashka—!” But then, out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the Elder still waiting, and murmurs to himself, “Ah, the blazes with it …” Straightening his tunic, he watches the foragers disappear into the crowds of weeping, shouting, desperate Bane as he starts up the path.

  “The Moon go with you three,” he murmurs softly.

  Then he hurries inside the Den of Stone, to propose the scheme he believes will allow the infant and drastically outnumbered army of the Bane—a force as yet no more than two hundred strong—to defend Davon Wood against the mightiest military machine north of Lumunjan, at least until such time as the foragers return.

  “And what happens after that,” Ashkatar murmurs to himself as he catches up to the Elder, “I can’t even begin to guess at …”

  Sunset at the High Temple brings strange and wondrous visitors …

  ON MAKING THE KAFRAN FAITH the state religion of Broken—and of himself, a deity—Thedric, the patricidal son of the Mad King Oxmontrot, speaking through the first of the Grand Layzins, pledged to create great works in the name of his “true father”: the golden god. He quickly completed the High Temple of Kafra (in which Oxmontrot had never shown more than a passing interest), and greatly increased its beauty of design; and through rituals conducted therein, the banishments that Oxmontrot had instituted as a pragmatic method of forging a united people who would be capable of not only creating an impregnable city, but of defending themselves in the field from the conquering hordes that the Mad King had fought during his years of service to Lumun-jan, became the unshakable pillars of the new kingdom’s faith. Soon thereafter, the Sacristy had been built, above the ground between the Temple’s western and the Inner City’s eastern walls; so, too, had been the Stadium, where once had stood a second, smaller headquarters for the northern watch of the Broken army; and finally, adjoining the Sacristy, was erected the House of the Wives of Kafra, the second story of which became the Grand Layzin’s official residence. A spacious veranda off the Layzin’s splendid bedchamber offered an excellent view of the Inner City’s Lake of a Dying Moon, as well as the upper stories of the royal palace, while a new, underground passage beneath the House of the Wives of Kafra connected the Temple, the Layzin, and the priestesses directly to the palace and the royal family. But these additions were merely practical, designed to make the secret lives of Broken’s rulers and the business of Kafran clerics easier; only the veranda and balcony outside the Layzin’s bedchamber had been designed purely as an indulgence, one intended to give Broken’s senior priest a view of the Inner City, that he might watch as the setting sun was reflected off the black waters of the Lake.

  For the long succession of Grand Layzins, who had neither claim nor pretense to godhood, life within the House of the Wives proved a welcome respite from the often overwhelming responsibilities of giving voice to (and more often than not, creating) the edicts of the various God-Kings, whose removal from the world made their views upon mun
dane secular matters of somewhat limited utility. The Layzins’ burdens were eased, early in the new life of Broken, by the elevation of the head of the city’s Merchants’ Council to the position of First Advisor of the realm. The most onerous of the Layzin’s chores could finally be handed off to a worldly man more suited to dealing with them, and none too soon; for the rise of the savage tribes on every side of Broken, during the first generations of the kingdom’s existence, required some very secular responses.

  The successive Lords of the Merchants’ Council proved, thankfully, dedicated men. Indeed, they were so effective (especially when supported, as they usually were, by those peerlessly loyal men who attained the supreme rank of yantek of the Broken army) that the Layzins had time to focus the greater part of their energies on elaborating precise ways in which the sublime quests for physical perfection and the attainment of wealth should govern the daily lives of the people of the kingdom. And no single spot on Kafra’s own Earth, these men have ever believed, was or is more suited to such ruminations than the veranda above the House of the Wives of Kafra, where their lofty thoughts have ever been fed by views enveloped in the powerful scent of the wild roses that climb the walls of the gardens that surround the building.

  The man now called Grand Layzin has taken particular delight in the simple pleasures offered by the secluded veranda since first taking office; and this evening—as he reclines on a sofa of expertly worked calves’ leather that is scattered with down cushions covered in the very softest lamb’s wool and silk, and which is so positioned as to give him a wondrous view of both the Celestial Way to the south and the Inner City to the west—his thoughts turn to the gloriously serene early years of his service. They had been full of seemingly unlimited opportunities to guarantee the sustained youth and vitality—indeed, the immortality—of his beloved young God-King, Saylal; had been full, in fact, of the promise that not only his sacred beauty and strength but those same qualities among his priests and priestesses could be made safe forever from corruption and death, if the Natures of all these qualities and processes could be but better understood and opposed. All this had seemed within reach—once …