The Legend of Broken

by Caleb Carr

  “You are not,” Arnem declares, as if discipline can overcome disease. “I forbid you to surrender, Linnet.”

  Still struggling to breathe, Donner assembles a final attempt to complete the task he has set for himself: “Let me only finish my report, Sentek, that I may die in peace …” Arnem cannot find it in him to forbid such, and so says nothing, at which Donner tries to marshal his thoughts and words: “I had warning that the elders intended to take some sort of definite action against the illegal river trading. It was a small matter to have them watched. And the madness the townsmen planned was simply that. They believed that they might teach not only the agents of the merchants in Broken, but the foreign traders, too, a lesson. For two nights, they worked in the river’s shallowest run, sinking deadly gutting stakes—sharpened tree trunks, their points reinforced by iron plating. As a last measure, the stakes were joined with heavy chains. The longships draw so little draught that they can usually sail or row this far upriver without mishap—but they could not have survived that viciousness. I had no time to do anything save send another dispatch to Sentek Gledgesa, then turn my attention toward dismantling the work of those fools … Not because I approved of what the raiders and the Broken merchants were doing, of course, but to try to stop a war with the Northerners—for that would have been the result of it, and the raiders have grown very powerful, through all their piracy and plunder. So I took several men and teams of horses, late on a Moonless night, and went to the river. We fastened our own series of chains to their deadly spikes and undid their trap. That was when we were forced within our stockade by enormous mobs from Esleben and more than a few neighboring villages …” Donner’s voice pauses; and Arnem can now hear only a wheezing, choking sound, one that is little short of the noises that so often precede death.

  “Donner!” Arnem whispers urgently, trying the door once again, to equally little effect. “Unbar the door, son, and let us in to help you.”

  After regaining enough strength to speak—Arnem fears for the last time—the younger Niksar replies, “Nay, Sentek. I know the lay of things. The townspeople want my death, atop the young pallin’s. And I have arranged for all to occur as they wish; for, despite your kind offer, Sentek, there is no art, sacred, black, or otherwise, that can help me—not now. I saw what happened to our young pallin …” For a moment, Arnem hears nothing, and his own spirit sinks again; but then, Donner murmurs, in deathly earnest, “You must get your men away, Sentek. I believe I have fulfilled my final commission in the manner that my family, the God-King, and Kafra would have wished, and that yourself and Sentek Gledgesa will approve. Whatever the case, I am dying, and would have my death be of use. I shall not have the strength, then, to tell Reyne—to tell him what I—”

  Arnem finally concedes. “Let your soul be at peace, Donner,” he says quietly. “I know what you wish him to know—your actions have told me. He is but an instant away, if you can manage the wait—if not, know from me that you are as good a soldier as Broken has ever known, and that I am indeed proud of you, as I know that Sentek Gledgesa will be. And your family, as well.” The young officer murmurs his pained thanks, relief finding a way through his suffering; at which Arnem turns, haggard, and signals across the walkway to his aide.

  Suspecting some strange development, and making sure that Visimar now stands securely upon his walking stick, the elder Niksar runs ahead; the agèd cripple, meanwhile, watches the linnet’s face go pale as Arnem relates some news of evidently shattering effect. Niksar attempts to force the door of the garrison commander’s quarters open, fails, and then falls to his knees by it, speaking softly to the planks of wood before him.

  Arnem, helpless, moves to join Visimar on the walkway, saying only, “His brother—a lad I knew well,” before turning to lean over the railing at his side, almost as if he will be sick. From that position, he nearly fails to notice Linnet Akillus, as the latter charges into the stockade quadrangle and leaps from his horse’s back, making for the stairway.

  “Sentek Arnem!” Akillus shouts repeatedly, his voice ringing with a sort of alarm that Visimar has not yet heard from the man.

  Arnem is angered by the interruption, for Niksar’s sake even more than for his own; and he catches Akillus at the top of the stairs. “Linnet! I hope you have some reason for barging in here like a mad dog. What in the name of Kafra’s stones are you thinking—?”

  But, even as he speaks, Arnem suddenly takes note of his men forming up below, as if some new danger has appeared in Esleben: a danger which the Talons require no specific order to prepare to face. “The townsmen, Sentek!” Akillus says, never for a moment concerning himself with Visimar. “Or I should say, not only the men of this town, but others as well, for such are their numbers! And there are women, too—hundreds, armed with farming tools as well as weapons—anything that can be made to kill! They are all moving on the garrison, and they—well—”

  “Well what, Akillus?” Arnem asks, concerned to see such apprehension in a soldier who has kept his head in far deadlier situations.

  “Well, sir,” Akillus tries to explain. “It is the look of them—like mad, desperate beasts—and moving against us!”

  {v:}

  ARNEM IMMEDIATELY DASHES down the stairs before him, leaving his aide to bid a heartrending farewell to his brother Donner (who continues to refuse any healthy person entrance into his chamber), and requesting of Akillus—a man whose lack of social condescension is as strong as his reliability in a fight—that he bear Visimar upon his back to the old man’s waiting mare below to save time. Once upon the earthen quadrangle floor, Arnem finds that his own mount, the Ox, is refreshed and ready to ride, the skutaar Ernakh having, as always, anticipated his commander’s orders. Soon, Arnem is among his men outside the garrison gates as they continue to group into defensive formations to meet the approaching mob, which the sentek now spies for the first time; and that first glimpse is enough to tell him that his chief scout’s extreme alarm was not unwarranted.

  What must indeed be hundreds of townspeople, from Esleben as well as surrounding villages, are moving against the stockade: merchants, laborers, and farmers, as well as men of obviously less established station, the greater number of them interwoven with more than a few score of their own wives and older daughters (whose sex does nothing to diminish their fury), are all armed, and moving in a great wave east. The sentek cannot yet accurately determine what their full numbers must be, for they seem scarcely human at all: most wear bandages which are stained and oozing with pus and blood, both fresh and dried. As for their weapons, they matter less than the manner in which they are wielded: even a sickle, or a mere sharpened length of tree limb, can attest to a man’s or woman’s commitment to their cause, if carried in such a way that clearly displays a desire for blood.

  Sixt Arnem is no practiced philosopher: but even he must pause for an instant, in the face of such a sight, to apprehend the apparent irony in the fact that the Natural wealth of Broken—which has been transformed, over many generations, into the formidable bone, sinew, and muscle that enables a legion such as the Talons to become peerless fighting men—has (according to Visimar) somehow been altered, so that it contains an agent that has imbued these townspeople with the equally exceptional, if utterly irrational, conviction required to attack the very soldiers they have long relied on for protection. And Arnem can further see that the coming fight, during which his men must try to fend off and then retreat before these loosely organized lunatics, is indeed reminiscent (as Akillus attempted to express) of some diseased, maddened beast that gnaws at its own flesh, torturously destroying and consuming itself from its tail and feet forward and upward with burning mind and slashing teeth, for reasons that the agonized creature itself does not understand …

  Although many of the maddened citizens are rushing toward the garrison gate from the south, the main body approach from the direction of Esleben itself. A central group from among the latter (they can scarcely be called a “formation”) drive power
ful farm animals: oxen and horses, in the main, yoked to wagons that bear still more men and women, as well as larger implements of violence. Atop one aging wagon is an interwoven grouping of smaller logs, branches, hay, and pitch, all of which the several men who assist the oxen yoked to the conveyance in driving it forward are eager to set alight with torches they carry. Yet this is not the most hideous aspect of this crude machine of war:

  Impaled upon an iron-tipped stake that still shows signs of the river bottom in which it was lately sunk is the shocking figure of a man: and no young warrior, but a mature, distinguished man of Esleben. Arnem has by been joined by Visimar, who, like the sentek, observes this cart’s approach largely in stunned silence—for they realize that the body gutted by the stake is not some agèd tramp or vagabond, nor even some humble craftsman: it is the same chief elder with whom the two men met but hours ago, in an attempt to reach a reasonable, if not an amicable, solution to the conflict between the town garrison and the citizens of Esleben. His body has been driven with such force upon the stake that his ribs have cracked outward and now show bright white amid the darker gore of his body’s central cavity, as do bits of his spine, while a jumble of intestine-strangled vital organs hangs from the jagged pieces of bone. His head is cocked at an angle that indicates the breaking of his neck during this fiendish process, while his eyes remain wide open, full of the shock that filled his last moments.

  Around the elder’s neck hangs a bit of plank, tied with rope, upon which has been painted—in what may be his own blood, if judged by the tint—only a few words:

  FOR ATTEMPTING TO BETRAY HIS OWN PEOPLE,

  BY TREATING WITH DEMONS DISGORGED BY THE

  TRAITORS WHO RULE IN BROKEN

  As the soldiers about him observe the sight in horrified silence, Visimar says, with soft passion:

  “Too deeply … The Holy Fire has burned too deeply into this place …”

  In answer comes a most unexpected voice: Niksar’s. “We were too late,” he murmurs, and when Arnem turns, he sees that Reyne has made no attempt to conceal the marks of heavy tears. “Such were Donner’s last words, Sentek—that neither the rose fever nor any other pestilence he has witnessed can account for what is happening here. For what happened to him … And we all, starting with the garrison itself, realized as much too late to even mitigate its spread …”

  Arnem turns to Visimar, who raises a brow as if to say, “I take no joy in being correct, Sentek—but we must face this as it is …” The old man’s thought is soon reflected in other, more pragmatic words by Arnem’s officers, as the Eslebeners suddenly ignite the wagons that hold pitch-drenched cargoes, intending to smash them into the now fully formed quadrates of the Talons:

  “Their plan is not so disordered as their reason,” Akillus says. “Mobile fire, whether or not they know it, is ever the best means of attack against the quadrates, Sentek.”

  “To be matched only by the Krebkellen, Akillus,” Arnem replies, citing the Broken army’s chief tactical alternative to the quadrates: another invention of the supposedly Mad King, Oxmontrot, the Krebkellen is a primarily offensive maneuver, but one that serves admirably when the defensive squares are threatened. “And so, Linnet—will you take, say, two cavalry fausten and two of Taankret’s Wildfehngen in among these madmen, and shatter their initial movement just sternly enough to allow us to get away eastward down the Daurawah Road?”

  Akillus is both challenged and excited by the charge. “If I could not, Sentek, neither I nor the men should be worthy of our claws!”

  Arnem delivers his next orders to the commander of the Wildfehngen, an impressive linnet of infantry called Taankret. The sentek orders this aptly named fellow (whose surcoat and finely worked steel mail are somehow, even on this dusty march, impeccably neat) to take a hundred Wildfehngen, and form them into the center of the Krebkellen, coordinating the breaking up of the attacking townspeople with Linnet Akillus, who will provide a similar number of cavalry on the flanks.

  “A hard order, Taankret,” Arnem says, watching the effect of his commands on the linnet, as the latter dispatches messengers to assemble the needed men. “To ask our lads to engage their own countrymen.”

  “Not so hard as you may think, Sentek,” Taankret answers, with passion but no panic. He swipes a bare finger beneath his mustache and smoothes his carefully clipped beard, then pulls on a pair of heavy gauntlets. Finally, he draws the lengthy marauder sword for which he is known throughout his khotor and the army itself, which he took from a vanquished warrior of the East many years ago. “The men have had enough time in this accursèd town to gain a healthy disrespect for its ungrateful passions,” Taankret continues. “I do not think that they would happily receive an order to massacre, but a chance to spend an hour smacking this mob about with the flat of their blades while the rest of you start for Daurawah?” A smile makes its way into one corner of Taankret’s mouth. “That is an order they’ll relish.”

  “Truly,” agrees Akillus. “Have no worries on that account, Sentek.”

  Arnem grins, proud and more than a little regretful that he will not be joining his rearguard commanders. “Very well, then—Taankret. Akillus. But bear that one thing in mind—the flat of your blades, where you can. Cracked heads will be of more use than severed.”

  The growing sense of happy challenge among the two linnets, who demonstrate perfectly why they have achieved their status in the most renowned legion of Broken, is suddenly interrupted by a sound of shattering wood and glass. It comes from just around the southwest corner of the small fort that was the home of Esleben’s departing garrison: from the direction of, among other things, the window of the commander’s quarters.

  In addition, a short cry is heard (in a voice that both Arnem and Niksar know to be Donner’s), only to be quickly stilled by some unknown force.

  Arnem addresses his anxious linnets in a humorless voice, now: “You two finish your preparations. Niksar, Anselm—accompany me.” The sentek looks to his aide. “And remember, Reyne: our only task now is to get away from this foul place …” Niksar nods in reply, apprehensive of what they may find, but no less certain of his duty, at which the three men move at a slow trot round the corner of the stockade, Niksar’s sense of foreboding suddenly confirmed by a most unexpected group of agents:

  The maddened townspeople have stopped, if only for a moment; and their eyes are fixed, as if they were one enormous, grotesque creature, on the window in Donner Niksar’s quarters. They have, apparently, already seen what the soldiers and their guest cannot, yet—that one of their requirements, at least, has been met, if in a manner utterly different from that which they earlier demanded:

  The sentek, his aide, and Visimar, proceeding forward, look up at the shattered window of the commander’s quarters. The crude glass has been broken from within, the sound and accompanying sight intended to transfix the rushing, furious mob; and the object used to achieve this effect was Donner Niksar’s own body, which now sways slowly by a rope, one end of which is securely tied within his quarters, and the other around his neck. No amount of descending darkness can obscure his condition: his head is snapped harshly to one side, and his eyes are still open. Strangely, the horrifying image reminds Arnem of those in Broken society who always believed that Donner, while of slighter stature than his brother, was nonetheless finer in his features. But not this night: even were his tongue not protruding grotesquely from the corner of his mouth, even had he been able to conceal the raw ravages of the Holy Fire from his face and bared chest, and even if, by some impossible effort, he had been able to clothe himself in a new, clean nightshirt, rather than the hideously stained garment that now wafts about his emaciated frame: even if all these things could have been accomplished, nothing could ever compensate for his swollen, tortured eyes, which cast their pained, accusatory stare onto every face that turns to him, reflecting the mob’s torches as his body rotates below the window. The message is unmistakable: the townspeople have exacted their revenge. One quest
ion remains, and it is Niksar who murmurs it:

  “Will it be enough? For these—creatures?”

  Arnem has been dumbstruck, for an instant; and so it is Visimar who says gently, “I know you think me a mad heretic, Linnet. And I would never presume to intrude upon the grief you feel after so noble a brother has given his life to try to extinguish the fire that is consuming the people of Esleben.” Niksar says nothing, but inclines his head slightly, at which Visimar continues: “At the least, he was able to claim for himself a sane and meaningful death. If you look to the west, you will see that no such mercy will be shown to the mob.” A small glance at the momentarily confused mob is all Niksar needs to confirm the old man’s claim.

  “Aye, heretic,” the young officer breathes, without resentment. “Whatever Donner lost, he kept his head, and his honor, to the last …”

  “Just so. As we must now keep ours. Let us honor your brother, Linnet, by securing what he wished us to: the safety of our own and his troops, and the continuation of what has become an expedition less of conquest than of investigation.”

  Arnem, amazed that the old man can make sound sense at such a moment, claps a gentle hand to Niksar’s shoulder. “The old fool is right, Reyne. We must honor that.” The sentek turns his narrowing eyes to the east, as the sounds of the crowd’s madness mount once more. “Ernakh!” he cries, and the skutaar appears, silently waiting as Arnem scribbles a charcoal note upon a bit of parchment. “Take this to the master of archers, Fleckmester, and return with him—quickly, now.” Ernakh salutes, hurtling off into the darkness.

  Niksar looks to his commander with some puzzlement. “Sentek? We should be away, as quickly as possible—”

  “As we shall, Reyne,” Arnem assures his aide, even as he makes no immediate move to depart. “But I will not leave Donner’s body to those madmen.”

  Visimar has already begun to nod, suspecting what the sentek plans, while Niksar must wait the few moments that it takes for Linnet Fleckmester to appear, running swiftly with several of his own officers. He is a tall, enormously powerful man, who makes his Broken longbow seem diminutive by comparison. “Aye, Sentek?” he says, saluting smartly.