by Caleb Carr
“Well, cripple, Kafra knows how you could tell as much, but they were beginning to seem beyond—or better say below—human: the most grievous wounds imaginable, taken as though they were scratches!”
“I would be surprised if your golden god has any sense of why all this is so, Sentek. It will be my unhappy duty to explain it to you—but let us get your men well away from the evil of Esleben …”
Arnem will not take to the Daurawah Road until the very last of his wounded—all, thankfully, sound enough to ride and march—depart; and Visimar, for his own reasons, will not start without the commander. The appearance of the eagle owl he called Nerthus has proved beyond doubt to the acolyte that the pestilences at work in Broken have spread throughout (although each in different parts of) the western kingdom, likely for the same reasons that caused their appearance further east, in and about Daurawah; and he must make the sentek see that all the towns along the route that they are traveling, where they had thought to find welcome, provisioning, and forage, must now be avoided.
{vii:}
DESPITE THE TALONS’ DISPATCH of the threat at Esleben, questions about the future of the campaign upon which the legion had embarked have become more nagging as the force marches east to Daurawah. The enemy had been sickened townsmen, after all, Broken’s own farmers, millers, and traders, many of them women, fighting at the behest of some madness or even of Death himself, who had forced them to dance his deadly round. Whatever the case, the work there had not been truly fit for such peerless troops as the Talons, and each of them has come to this realization by the time Akillus and his scouting parties report that Daurawah is close; and the mood among the men has grown somber at best. Is this because, after several days of unusually warm, bright weather, the third morning of the soldiers’ march looks, to judge by the dim light and a damp chill in the mist, to be strangely muted? Perhaps; but muted, too, are the sounds of Nature’s world, and that absence becomes only more pointed as the column nears the Meloderna River, an Unnatural, unharmonious development that even Visimar cannot (or will not) explain.
And as the grey light slowly increases and the walls of Daurawah come into view, it indeed becomes apparent that even the relief and comfort that it was once hoped the port would offer will be denied to Arnem’s men: for the western gates of the place, which no man can ever remember seeing closed, are not only shut, but barred from within and sealed from without. The lack of activity before the northern and southern gates, meanwhile, which front the sharp bend in the Meloderna created by the Cat’s Paw’s emptying into that larger, calmer river, suggests that those portals are similarly sealed—and soon, sounds begin to emerge from within the port’s walls that explain why:
They are the sounds of human beings whose bodies may still walk this Earth, but whose minds are already crossing the Great River, or have completed that journey and arrived in Hel itself. Such are mournful noises, as if those who make them have some faint recognition of what has befallen them, and of how irretrievable the loss has been.
It is not, therefore, any fear that the men of Broken’s Ninth Khotor (the legion that has for over a century guarded Daurawah and the eastern frontier of the kingdom), or some even larger mob of ordinary townspeople, will be disgorged from the tightly shut city gates that slows the pace of Sentek Arnem’s Talons as they march steadily toward the walls of the port; rather, it is simple dread of what sights must accompany such terrible sounds as emerge from the place—in greater volume with every step they take—that holds the soldiers back. It is as if Daurawah—sitting, on its landward side, at the end of a long hillside road, one flanked by inexplicably empty pastureland that ends at the thick strips of forest that line the low banks of the two rivers—has become a place entirely unto itself, one which does not even notice the approach of five hundred soldiers, an event that would ordinarily call for great clamor, either of alarm or of welcome. But on this dismal morning, the echoing cries of pain, woe, and confusion continue unabated until the Talons are well along the road leading up to the main gate; yet when they finally halt, it is neither some great increase in the port’s uproar nor a sudden silence that stops them. Instead, the wind—which has been out of the west and at their backs since before dawn—abruptly shifts for but a few moments, so that it comes in off of the wide Meloderna beyond Daurawah, stopping each soldier before he has received any such order to halt. For this wind carries with it the smell of burning human flesh: the stink of hundreds of bodies, which no fire could be large enough, if built within the port’s walls, to burn quickly—not without risk of setting entire town districts afire …
“So many bodies…,” Visimar muses through his cloak, which he holds about his nose and mouth. “Matters are already at far worse a pass than even I thought they could be …”
He has brought his mare beside Arnem’s mount, and on the sentek’s opposite flank, as always, is Niksar. “What can we do, Sentek?” the linnet asks. “Daurawah’s gates are nearly immune to violation—and the men of the Ninth are unlikely to let us get close enough to try.”
“Nor would such an attempt bear any fruit, in all likelihood, Reyne,” Arnem replies. “For, as you say, they are much like Broken’s gates—the eight or ten feet of oak at the bottom of each is wholly sheathed in iron plate. And so we will wait. They do not seem to have noticed us: we must observe what happens when they do. In the meantime—” Arnem turns to the men behind him. “Akillus. Dispatch parties of your men down to each of the riverbanks. See if anything has transpired there, or in the water itself …”
Without a word, Akillus signals to several other linnets of scouts, each of whom takes three or four men and makes with typical speed for the Meloderna and the Cat’s Paw at the most approachable points in the steep riverbanks. It requires deft horsemanship, as well as longer periods than the sentek would have thought, for the scouts to return; and few words pass among those who remain as they wait. It is only when they hear the sound of a commotion emanating from one particularly obscure stretch of riverbank, as well as a call to arms being sounded atop the walls of Daurawah, that any general murmuring goes through the officers and ranks of the Talons. When the other scouts reappear, Arnem realizes with aching dread that it is Akillus himself who has raised the alarm; and the commander does not rest easy until he sees his most reliable set of “eyes” finally emerge from the great trees and heavy undergrowth.
Akillus is, as so often, out of breath, and nearly covered in mud and dust, when he arrives before his commander. Niksar offers water from his own skin, which Akillus gratefully accepts before speaking. “The water gate at the base of the main stairway to the river, along with their wharves, are unmanned—unmanned, and destroyed.”
“Destroyed?” Arnem asks, shocked. “To what end?”
“To the same end that the Eslebeners sought,” Akillus declares, shaken by what he has seen. “The same sickness has produced the same goal—save that the people of Daurawah were able to achieve it. You ought to see the Meloderna, Sentek, just below the city—a place of certain death, for men and ships!”
“But they are burning bodies, from the stench,” Arnem replies.
“The bodies of their own dead, yes,” Akillus says. “But the crews of the ships—longships, for the most part, but other river craft, as well—to say nothing of … well, Sentek, they seem to be Bane, but they have rotted into pieces. And long before they saw Daurawah, I would hazard. Nor are they Bane men alone—there are women and children, too, traders and villagers along with warriors. And come down the Cat’s Paw, or at least, their bodies are along its banks, from what I could see, as well as the Meloderna’s …” Akillus is visibly shaken, and Arnem allows him a moment to gather his wits. “The wretched mess is everywhere.”
“But how?” Niksar puzzles. “Even if the Ninth brought their ballistae up onto the walls, they cannot have been so successful with them—”
Akillus shakes his head. “No, Niksar. There are markers that set out the most dangerous parts of the bend in
the Meloderna, below the town walls. They simply moved these, and let Nature do the work that traps would ordinarily have done. And the stench—even the lower stretches are littered with the bodies of Northern raiders. The Ninth had apparently reserved the ballistae for the caravans from the south—on my return, I saw dozens of dead pack animals, many camels among them, all killed with the great arrows the machines throw: madness has not degraded the Ninth’s skill with artillery, that much is sure. As for the people of the caravans, some must have been allowed to return home, to tell of the fate with which they met—although most lie in great crowds upon the ground.”
“Shot by archers?” Arnem asks.
“That is the peculiar part,” Akillus answers, genuinely baffled. “Some, yes, shot down—but many killed by hand, primarily the youngest. The Ninth must have been leaving through small doorways in the northern and southern gates in raiding parties, likely by night.”
“It is the pattern of the illness,” Visimar says quietly. “Again, it takes the young first. It arrived here somewhat later, but it did arrive—and when it did, the commander of the legion may have shut all his people, citizens and soldiers alike, into the city; but the madness of the Holy Fire exacted a toll from the caravans, nevertheless. Sentek, did you not say that this commander was an old comrade of yours?”
“I did,” Arnem replies, quickly and certainly. “But the kind of treachery you are describing could never have been his work. Gerolf Gledgesa was not capable of it—I’ve seen him risk his life a hundred times for the honor and safety of Broken and its people, despite his originally having come from a far-off land that lies hard by the Northern Sea, precisely like—” Arnem has been on the verge of saying “your master” to Visimar, in the heat of his indignation, but has caught himself, in part out of tact, in part because of an inscrutable expression that has entered Visimar’s face. “Precisely like some of Broken’s most worthy citizens.”
Visimar pauses, weighing his words carefully. “He may have been murdered, Sentek—whatever the case, you must try to contact whoever now commands the Ninth Legion, for clearly it is being used by someone for these murderous purposes. Certainly, Lord Baster-kin did not warn you that we would find such conditions here, did he, Sentek?”
All eyes turn to Arnem, who looks at the cripple in shock: it is precisely the sort of statement that he has warned Visimar for three days’ time not to utter in front of the men.
“I beg your pardon, fool?” the sentek answers, with controlled threat that is not unlike the careful drawing of his sword. “Did you dare to bring the name of the Merchant Lord into this, and question his loyalty and honesty? Or am I mistaken?”
“I assure you, you are indeed mistaken,” Visimar replies earnestly; and in the old man’s still-expressive eyes, Arnem thinks he can read a message: I do not intend what you suppose—you must reassure the men that this is a local aberration, that their homes are safe. “My question was honest,” the cripple continues. “If Lord Baster-kin said nothing of this, then he can know nothing of it, which means that whoever commands the Ninth, like the elders of Esleben, has sent no warning of his violent intentions to either the Merchants’ Council or the Grand Layzin—”
Looking to his men again, Arnem sees that, in their confusion, they wish and almost require Visimar’s statement to be true. “Forgive my quick temper, Anselm,” the sentek says, attempting contrition. “You are correct, Lord Baster-kin did not even hint at such disruption. And so we can at least reassure ourselves that the problem is contained to the eastern reaches of Broken—”
But then, finally, it comes: contact with the walls of Daurawah. Taankret is the first to spy movement near the western gate, and he points his sword to the spot.
“Sentek Arnem!” he cries. “A sentry atop the walls!”
Arnem turns the Ox toward the port, and calls, “Make way! Make way, there—he seems to be signaling!”
And indeed, the soldier who has appeared—without either helmet or spear—seems desperate to contact the men below, so wildly do his arms flail about and his mouth open and close, giving the impression that he is shouting, yet with no voice to match the manner.
“Ho!” Taankret bellows. “The southwest tower—another man!”
Arnem stops trying to make out the first soldier’s meaning when he turns to see that the second soldier is waving some sort of bloodstained banner, which appears to have been, originally, a sheet of white silk; and yet there seems to be little in his behavior to suggest anything concerning surrender. In fact, the two soldiers appear to have little in common, a suspicion that is confirmed when the first soldier takes flight at the merest glimpse of the second. Planting his banner in some sort of bracket inside the battlements, the second soldier draws his short-sword, quickly pursues the first man and, catching him, thrusts the blade deep into the man’s side. He then hurls the screaming unfortunate over the battlements; and for the whole of the thirty-foot fall that follows, the badly wounded soldier’s shrill cries of fear and agony continue, only stopping when he slams into the bare Earth.
All the Talons are struck dumb—but Arnem forces himself to speak, knowing that confusion and panic have suddenly become his greatest enemies:
“Niksar! Anselm!” He is forced to shake the old man’s arm, in order to jog his memory of his assumed name. “Old cripple!” he cries, successfully gaining Visimar’s attention. “You, too, Akillus—come with me. Taankret! Stay here and begin to form into quadrates—the golden god alone knows why our own men are killing both each other and peaceful traders, but they shall not add any man of the Talons to that list.” Yet Taankret’s ordinarily calm, keen eyes remain fixed upon Daurawah in horror. “Linnet!” Arnem repeats, at which the reliable infantry officer finally turns. “Keep the men busy—eh?”
Taankret salutes smartly. “Aye, Sentek!” And with that, he is off to deliver orders to the other quadrate commanders, as Arnem and his three fellow horsemen set out toward the presumably dead soldier lying near the western gate of Daurawah. When they have covered only half the distance to the man, however, they see that his body is still writhing, and they pause—an action quickly revealed as a mistake. With a rushing roar, something approaches from out of the Heavens, and a thunderous crash throws up a mass of sod and dirt before their horses, who rear up, screaming in rare fright as the officers and their companion take in the sight of the shaft of an enormous bolt: eight feet long and yet another in diameter, its iron head has sunk deep into the ground. It is one of the deadliest weapons hurled by ballistae.
Arnem looks up at the battlements, enraged and bewildered, to see that the several operators of the engine of war are busily dropping boulders the size of small pigs down upon the man who was attacked by his supposèd comrade and thrown from the walls, and whose little chance at continued life is soon crushed, literally, by men he would ordinarily have had every reason to trust.
“You’ve come far enough, Sentek,” the soldier with the white banner calls, as he joins the crew of the ballista. “Do not mistake our intentions by the color of this standard. It was all I could lay hands on, and I thought that the blood that covers it might at least give you pause, if not cause your immediate withdrawal. Given that neither resulted, we were forced to fire. I take it that you are Sentek Arnem?”
“I am,” Arnem answers, not wishing to display the full anger he feels at the pallin’s impertinence, insolence that is as likely the result of lunacy as of disrespect. “I will not ask your name, although I should like to know why a soldier of Broken has lost all respect for rank, if he recognizes it!”
“Oh, make no mistake,” the man says. “I have the greatest of respect for you, Sentek. As I did for that man. But we have had a great deal of trouble determining just who has fallen victim to the foreign demons who are stealing the very souls of Broken. That fellow, for instance—we were old comrades, and even older friends. Recently, however, he’d fallen victim to the disease being spread by unholy forces throughout this entire area. As for yo
u and your men, it was impossible to say with certainty. If some of our own legion have fallen victim to it, why not some of yours, as well?”
“Fallen victim to what, Pallin?” Niksar asks.
“It is a devastating and yet peculiar disease,” the pallin on the wall answers, as if he were discussing a morning’s drill. “At first, very painful—the blood, you see, is somehow stolen from the body, and exchanged for molten metal. The pain is horrific, and the sufferer becomes enslaved to whoever can stop it. Which, we’ve seen, are the agents of foreign kingdoms, the demon traders. The afflicted continually try to open the gates and allow such enemies in. They’ve even sought the help of the Bane.”
All is silence, on the road below; finally, Akillus murmurs, “The man is a lunatic. Plainly, completely—a lunatic …”
“Sentek Arnem?” the man on the wall bellows. “Our own commander—an old comrade of yours, I believe, Sentek Gledgesa—has agreed to come out of the city to speak with you. But I warn you—”
“ ‘Warn’ him?” Niksar seethes. “Warn the commander of the Talons? I’ll have the man’s tongue out—!”
But Arnem only replies: “You warn us of what?”
“My comrades are, as you have seen, particularly accurate with their weapon. I would recommend you—and your aide, of course—speak to our sentek, alone. Order your men attempt no tricks, as well.”
Arnem knows what his answer must be. “Very well, then.”
“One final thing,” the soldier shouts. “Sentek Gledgesa’s vision is gone, but our healers seemed able to stop the degeneration there. His own daughter will guide him out, and what applies to him, applies to her. The girl’s speech has been stolen, but our healers have kept her alive.”
“A daughter …,” Arnem murmurs softly. “Gerolf has a daughter …?” Then he shouts: “Tell your commander that he and any dear to him will be safe with me. I believe that he will understand that. I shall meet him halfway between here and the gate.”