by Caleb Carr
“You are as wise as your reputation states, Sentek Arnem,” the soldier replies, saluting casually. And at that, the echoing sound of heavy iron locks and bars being thrown becomes audible, and Arnem’s men look to see a smaller doorway, just large enough for a man upon a horse, opening in the greater structure.
Before moving forward, Arnem turns to Niksar. “If, for any reason,I do not return, Reyne—I shall need you to get the men back to Broken.”
“But—” Niksar protests haltingly. “He has told us you are to bring—”
“I’ll take the old man, instead; if Gledgesa is in the desperate condition he describes, he will be of more use …” Arnem does not reveal his true reason for taking Visimar to meet Gerolf Gledgesa, a reason that he suspects the old man may guess at: for the truth is, the two officers, Arnem and Gledgesa, shared the duty of escorting the Kafran priests during their ritual mutilations, so long ago; and both were present, the day that Visimar’s leg was severed and the man himself left to die on the edge of Davon Wood …
{viii:}
AS ARNEM AND VISIMAR MOVE up the road toward the walls of Daurawah and the figures of Gerolf Gledgesa and his daughter—on horse and pony, respectively—appear from out of the smaller doorway in the great port’s western gate, Visimar remains silent, and slowly reins his mare, against her will, off the Ox’s pace, until he is riding some twelve to fifteen feet behind the sentek. The cripple knows what must be going through the commander’s mind: for no man of integrity can face the decay and death of a friend, particularly a friend alongside whom he has faced death on a score of occasions, without a deep sense of wretched sadness and of his own mortality. Visimar therefore does not burden the sentek with practical pressures and details at this moment. Time will press, soon enough—in truth it is pressing, already; but not so hard that the last meeting of two good men can justly be curtailed or tainted.
The two pairs of mounts finally come to a stop when a space of perhaps ten feet separates them. The young girl next to Gledgesa was a delicate, once-pretty child, Arnem supposes, but one who now wears bandages and scarves wrapped around her neck, as well as from the top of her skull to her lower jaw, beneath which still more clean white bandages are wrapped securely, leaving only the upper part of her face, particularly her lovely, light eyes, open to view. She reaches up to rein in her father’s giant, dark stallion to a stop with the lightest of touches; and as soon as the horse has halted, his rider grins beneath two eyes covered by a soft silken bandage. Arnem’s heart sinks far deeper when he sees what has become of his old friend: the same signs of living decay that he and his troops have so often observed during their current march eastward cover Gledgesa’s once proud, powerful body, beneath his elegantly appointed leather armor.
A formidable warrior sprung from that rare breed of seksent that combines handsome features with an equally well formed and hugely powerful body, Gledgesa had originally been a mercenary, who had come from the lands northeast of the Seksent Straits to Broken because he was tall enough to pass for a respected worshipper of Kafra. Arnem had met him some twenty years before this morning, when both young men had been selected, as a reward for valor, to move from the regular army to the Talons. But, although they had risen together—Gledgesa ever the fiery-eyed, intrepid warrior who delighted at being first into any enemy’s front line, while Arnem, although no less fierce, was a more even-headed soldier who could comprehend the full range of threats posed to his men—it had always been plain from their complementary natures that, while each was consistently showered with glory, Gerolf Gledgesa had come to Broken for money, not laurels: after all, a kingdom, the patron god of which delighted in the amassing of wealth, had seemed ideally suited to a mercenary. Gledgesa, like many a similar aspirant, had not ultimately found the rumors of Broken’s boundless wealth to be accurate; or rather, he had found them to be so only if the aspirant was willing to subject himself to the tenets of the Kafran faith and state. And so, Gledgesa had elected to leave the Talons and take command of the unique Ninth Legion, composed wholly of fast-moving freilic troops, most of them light cavalrymen tasked with making themselves available along the entire eastern frontier of the kingdom—where the possibilities for seizing prize monies and goods happened to be most abundant.
During the time that he commanded the Ninth, Gledgesa slowly became estranged from the rapidly rising Arnem, each of the two men explaining the drift by citing their new duties and physical distance; but there was another and far truer cause for the estrangement, one that went back to the beginning of their comradeship before the Torganian war, and that involved a shared duty to which, as time passed, both men found it increasingly difficult to reconcile themselves: the guarding of the Kafran priests’ mutilation and exile rituals on the banks of the Cat’s Paw. In particular, it was the fiendishly bloody rites that they had been forced to observe being inflicted upon Caliphestros and Visimar that had brought about, not only their resignations from the much-coveted guardianship of the priests, but the beginning of their estrangement, as well.
Neither man had ever been able to state, precisely, why their mutual objections and protests should have driven them apart. It had been for wise Isadora to later explain to her husband how shared shame often eats at friendships so relentlessly that the glories of triumph can do little to preserve the bond. Thus, while in later years the company of a man with whom one has achieved honorable glory will always be welcome, the mere sight of a comrade with whom one has played even an involuntary part in foul actions, can bring the sense of shame back again with full, vivid force.
And for this reason, these two men—whose last glimpse of one another was long enough ago that Gledgesa has had time, in the interval, to father and raise a child who is now, Arnem would guess, some eight or nine years old—face each other on the plain east of Daurawah, each not quite knowing, for all their bygone years of comradeship, just what to expect of the other …
In characteristic fashion, Gledgesa’s grin widens, or widens as much as his distorted features will allow. “Forgive me for not saluting, Sixt, old friend, as well as for failing to invite you into Daurawah. But the salute might well crack one of my chalk-like bones; and you mustn’t try to enter the port—not now. I haven’t let any Broken troops in or out—not since it became apparent that the Cat’s Paw is now poisoned.”
Arnem spins to face Visimar, who, for his part, is busy staring at Gledgesa in a manner that tells Arnem he indeed remembers the now-ravaged soldier’s presence at his Denep-stahla.
“Did you come by the river?” Gledgesa asks. “And see the bodies?”
“No, Gerolf. We stayed on the main road, to forage in and about Esleben.”
“Esleben!” Gledgesa attempts a laugh, one that dissolves into a hideous cough: a cough reminiscent of the final moments of Donner Niksar, whom Gledgesa soon mentions: “I suppose you learned the truth about those ignorant, treacherous townspeople from young Niksar’s brother, as I hoped you would.” He coughs again, at which his daughter reaches up to attempt to put a comforting hand to his shoulder, although she can manage only his forearm. As she does so, she begins to hum a most pleasant and soothing plainsong for her father. Gledgesa gently presses her hand and then removes it, although the effect upon his symptoms of her touch and song has been immediate. “It’s all right, Weda. I will be fine, as will you.” The girl continues to hum her plainsong. “But you must meet my oldest friend, Sentek—nay, Yantek Sixt Arnem, commander of the Army of Broken, if the heralds from the great city are to be believed!”
Arnem looks down into the girl’s tightly swaddled face, or at the upper half that is visible; and if her father’s crisp blue eyes and golden hair, which she has inherited fully, are any indication, she is indeed a lovely child, who inspires immediate pity for the suffering she silently endures. Knowing that she cannot speak, Arnem says, “Hello, Weda,” and then rushes to add, “Do not try to reply, I know that you are too ill. I have a daughter almost exactly your age—it must be hard to st
ay silent, even if you are unwell.”
“You’ve been told she’s ill?” Gledgesa says, his blinded head moving from side to side, as if he might defeat the silk bandage that covers his corrupted eyes by finding a way around it.
“Yes,” Arnem replies carefully. “By those extraordinary sentries on your walls.” He cannot help but laugh. “You were always talented with ballistae and catapults, Gerolf—and you have evidently shared your secrets.”
Having brought up a mouthful of phlegm with an attempt at laughter, Gledgesa spits it out; and Visimar sees that its color is so ruby red as to almost be black. “Those maniacs,” he murmurs in disgust. “We’ve had enemies enough, without their creating more.”
“ ‘Enemies enough’?” Arnem echoes. “The Northerners?”
“The northerners alone would have been manageable,” Gledgesa replies, his voice weakening. “Them, as well as the easterners, we learned how to either treat with or punish long ago. But the armies behind these southern caravans, both the Byzantines and the Mohammedans … They’ve wanted to destroy us for years, and may even have worked out the method, now. And this new breed of river pirates is leading the way. Just who is paying whom, and why, I don’t know, but it will gut the kingdom, if it goes on.”
“Gerolf—you speak of the poisoning of the river?” Arnem asks.
“I know, Sixt, you likely find it inconceivable,” Gledgesa says. “But I’ve been writing to the council for weeks; sending dead bodies to prove the point. And not simply Bane bodies. The first of my own men to fall, as well. I even sent reports to Baster-kin himself. Nothing’s come of it. And now, of a sudden, we receive a message that all this devastation has actually been the work of the Bane? And that you’re leading a campaign to destroy them?”
“You doubt both points, Gerolf,” Arnem says. “Yet to each, I would ask—who else?”
“Anyone else, Arnem,” Gledgesa responds desperately, his voice fading. “The Bane? Devastation of this order? There are too many contradictions. Many of my own men and their people are dying, yet they do not drink from the river—like any garrison, we have our own well. Suppose the Bane have tainted the Cat’s Paw—how did they manage to despoil that reserve? And try to crush them—yourself and your Talons? What do you know of warfare in the Wood, Sixt? What do any of us? And what’s to happen when these other foreign armies enter the kingdom while you’re fooling about with the exiles? And enter they will: they’re planning the end of Broken, I tell you, Sixt—but what’s just as clear is that they’ve had some kind of help from within the kingdom. I’m not certain just who—the Council, Baster-kin, the Layzin, even the God-King—or why, or if those internal partners even realize the true danger of what they’re about—”
Suddenly, Gerolf Gledgesa’s impassioned plea sends him into a paroxysm of coughing. The attack becomes so severe that he slumps to the side of his stallion’s neck, then slips off his saddle altogether. He slams to the ground on his shoulder, screaming once in uncontrollable pain. His daughter’s face grows terrified, and she quickly dismounts, sliding down the side of her pony and, as she does, loosening the bandages below her chin. With her attention desperately fixed on her father, she does not notice as those bandages fall away—
And when they do, the whole of her lower jaw begins to come away with them. The rot in her body has destroyed those joints altogether, as well as much of the skin of her lower face; but this is not the most astounding thing about the condition, for all its horror. No, even more amazing is that there is no evidence the girl feels what is happening at all.
Arnem, who has rushed to Gledgesa’s side, glances up at his friend’s child; but Visimar hurriedly limps to the girl, and deftly relocates the jaw, rewrapping the bandages more tightly. Weda herself is no more than embarrassed by this event, and with her hands and a few plaintive moans urges Visimar to help her father. The cripple obliges, seeming no more concerned for the child than she is for herself.
“What are you doing, old fool?” Arnem nearly shouts. “Gerolf has only fallen, but the girl’s face—”
“He has not ‘only fallen,’ Sentek,” Visimar answers evenly, his thinking never clouded. “His ribs have begun to collapse, and if he is not rushed to a resting place, he will die in a very short time.” Arnem looks to his old comrade, who is barely conscious: so labored has his breathing become that it seems he is being strangled from within. Yet, despite this plain truth, Arnem’s own fatherly instincts will not allow him to simply ignore Weda, and he moves toward her, forcing Visimar to roughly grasp his arm.
“Wait, Sixt Arnem, wait!” the old man whispers. “Look at her, look at her—she feels no pain!”
The sentek looks into the girl’s placid eyes—and sees that the cripple is correct. “No pain,” he murmurs, stunned and saddened. “But, then …”
“Aye,” Visimar replies. “The fire wounds have reached their last stages.” Putting his mouth close to Arnem’s ear, the old man whispers urgently: “They will both be dead before nightfall—and we must away, Sentek—look at the soldiers above. They believe we attacked their commander, who I fear may be little more than their prisoner, and are preparing that machine again, and bringing a second up—”
Arnem’s reaction is predictable: “No, Visimar! I will not allow a collection of maddened renegades to doom one of our greatest soldiers!” The sentek cups his hand: “Niksar! Akillus! A fauste of cavalry, quickly!”
Both young officers have been awaiting such an order: for they have gathered a group of hard-looking horsemen, who thunder out onto the plain before the city. Gledgesa grabs at the sentek’s shoulder.
“Visimar!” he seethes, choking up blood with every word and breath. “Did I hear that name, Arnem, or have I finally lost my mind altogether?”
“You have not, old friend,” Arnem says gently; and then he looks up when he hears the thunderous sound of the long-barred western gate of Daurawah being drawn back. “It appears your men intend to rescue you, Gerolf,” Arnem says, chuckling in what he hopes will be a reassuring way: a reminder of their old campaigns, when it was common to laugh in the midst of great danger. “So I must be quick. I found Visimar, or rather he found me. He was alive, and in Broken—and I brought him along on this campaign, not least with you in mind.”
“Visimar … If only it were possible—there is much I would say …”
“It is possible, Sentek Gledgesa,” Visimar answers, kneeling as best he can by the dying man. “And you have said all you need say, as has Sentek Arnem. I forgive you for any part you played in my torment, and rejoice that you risked so much to oppose the mutilations.”
“And you accept my—apologies?” Gledgesa forces himself to ask. “Inadequate as I know they are?”
“I do. And now, you and your daughter must rest, Sentek, and prepare yourselves. You must give her courage as you both cross the river …”
“Then you can help us embark upon that journey?” the blind man asks.
“Fear not, Gerolf Gledgesa, for yourself or your daughter. You shall mount and cross the Arch of All Colors that spans the Waters of Life, and Geldzehn the Guardian shall take you both into the Hall of Heroes. Hel shall not use the crime against me that you and Sentek Arnem witnessed, when you were both mere servants of the Kafran priests, as a justification for dragging you to her terrible realm—I release you, in the presence of your gods and mine, from that burden.”
“River?” Arnem is confused. “But, Gerolf, you said the rivers are—”
“We speak of another river, Sixt,” Gledgesa replies, in an uncharacteristically gentle way. “Another river altogether. Visimar knows it … And I thank you, old man. Sixt—put my daughter’s hand in mine, and put me on my feet. Then go, old friend.”
“Damn it, Gerolf! There may yet be something Visimar can do, I have seen his healing skills—”
“There is naught, Sixt—no help of that sort, I mean …” Arnem helps Gledgesa up and Visimar guides the girl Weda to his side, again making certain her bandaging i
s sound as Arnem puts the girl’s hand into her father’s. “I trust those are your horsemen I hear,” Gledgesa continues. “We ate all but a few of our mounts long ago. So—let me return without your life upon my conscience.” The blind man reaches into the air, not expecting Visimar to touch him, but signaling his contentment, and urging the cripple, too, to go. “And thank you again, old man, for removing our part in your torment from my shoulders, where it has weighed heavily for so long …”
All that happens next happens too quickly for the grief-stricken Arnem to comprehend fully. Unable to watch Gerolf Gledgesa attempting to mount his horse on his own, Arnem helps his comrade, while Visimar does the same for the almost weightless Weda. Father and daughter begin to walk their horses toward what must be their ends in Daurawah, the city’s commander calling out as best he can to his own troops, ordering them to halt. Akillus and Niksar arrive with their determined horsemen to guard the sentek as he mounts the Ox, and to help Visimar get astride his mare. Then the ride back begins, Arnem’s face a mask, not only of terrible sorrow, but of contrition.
“I am as ashamed as I can ever remember being, Visimar,” Arnem says. “I pray your judgment was correct.”
“About this moment, it was, Sentek, although your shame is understandable,” Visimar replies. “But for now, you must steel yourself—bend that shame to other purposes. For, when you fully understand the injustices that lie beneath these ugly circumstances—then, Sentek, you will find answers, and true justice.” He pauses, seemingly awed by the magnitude of the task he himself has described. “Let us only hope,” he murmurs in conclusion, “that we survive to witness it …”
Fire
{i:}
HELDO-BAH STANDS before an ancient ash tree, the bark of which is so deeply wrinkled and roughly surfaced as to remind him of the dried, grey skin of a hag seeress, to whom he once traded a fine seksent knife for what proved to be the woman’s utterly worthless assurance that a half-marauder whore with whom he had passed a recent night near Daurawah was free of disease. He allows his rigid body to fall into the bark of the ash’s trunk in such a way that his head strikes first: such has been the effect on his mind and spirit of an argument between Keera and Veloc that has raged since he himself ran back into their camp the day before to relate the news of his rediscovery of Caliphestros’s place of exile. Keera is convinced that she must go to meet this all-important character on her own, worrying that Veloc and Heldo-Bah will bungle the matter if they accompany her. For his part, Veloc is concerned, not only for his sister’s safety, but for her soundness of mind, as well. And Heldo-Bah has by now reached the simple hope that someone—a noble, merciful tree, if needs must—will knock him unconscious and end the wretchedness of listening to his friends debate again and again the same points.