The Legend of Broken

by Caleb Carr

  Caliphestros makes a small, affectionate sound of greeting, one that he is glad the three Bane cannot hear, for he does not wish them to think him overly sentimental. Yet his watchfulness, at this moment, is not a matter of sentiment alone: for often, on pleasant evenings when the pair have found themselves abroad in Davon Wood long past nightfall, Caliphestros has noticed Stasi’s wont to climb some log or large stone and fix her eyes on the distant sight of the small lights that flicker atop the great mountain to the northeast. The old man has always been able to see—in the panther’s strikingly expressive eyes, in her steady, low growls of threat, and in a distinct tightening of those muscles which all cats, the greater as well as the lesser, employ during their deadliest maneuver, the pounce—that Stasi long ago identified those lights as marking the den of her enemies. Caliphestros has usually seized the chance to speak to her, at these moments, and tell her of the day when they must and will scale the distant, shadowy mountain, and fight against the humans in the city that crowns it. And so he believes sincerely, this evening, that the panther understands that the moment when they must undertake their great, shared object has arrived.

  The old scholar leans his left side against Stasi’s nearest shoulder, and together they sit and observe for what may be a final time the gardens before their cave and the forest beyond them, which are illuminated by the twilight that seems to slice open the highest mountain ridge far to the west. From there, the light is fractured by the countless new leaves that cover the boughs of trees far and near, and finally comes to burnish both the colors in and about the old man’s gardens and Stasi’s unique coat. The panther’s near-white fur absorbs and then reissues the fading sunlight, until she seems to become even more than usually apparitional. But there is nothing otherworldly about her movements. Stasi’s head remains up and constantly moving, just as her tail continuously swipes from side to side as she warily glances in the direction of what seems every noise produced by the surrounding Wood, Caliphestros determines that his words continue all the while to sharpen both her alertness and her desire that they at last be on their way, and so he continues his soft yet passionate monologue.

  The foragers, however, never wake, making it necessary for the pair at the mouth of the cave to continue waiting, if only for a short while longer. But as they do, and as the old man whispers still more words into the white panther’s ear concerning their coming, shared vengeance, Caliphestros suddenly notices in Stasi’s expression a new aspect. It is an expression of longing, that much is plain, but longing for what? Revealed in those dazzling green eyes that comprehend all that lies before them and many things far beyond are powerful emotions that burn deep in the panther’s heart, emotions that Caliphestros has seen her display during their life together, but never with this suggestion that what she longs for is beyond this cave, this companion, this life, and will give her greater reward than that which is to be had with the mere sight of her enemies’ suffering: it will, in fact, restore at least one among the missing pieces of her spirit—

  “What is it, my girl?” Caliphestros whispers, his voice full of urgent curiosity. He pulls himself round to face her, and places his hands on each side of her noble head. “You would have more than blood—I see this. More than killing, richly deserved though the killing may be—but what?”

  Stasi’s steady gaze never breaks, however; and she offers no hint to her companion of what the unprecedented longing he has detected might be.

  But this display has not escaped another mind present: for, unnoticed by the old man, Keera has suddenly yet silently woken, and has spent the last few moments using her remarkable ears and mind to listen to and try to comprehend Caliphestros’s moment of worried confusion. And, slowly, the tracker realizes that she saw something similar earlier in the day, something in the great cat that the old man evidently has not himself seen, yet, and, even more essentially, cannot see; cannot, Keera detects, by simple virtue of his sex, and of his never having fathered children.

  The two Bane men finally start from their own beddings, upon the first cry of what sounds like a Davon dog-owl. Yet this bird must be unusually large, if it is indeed a dog-owl, Keera judges silently. Just what has prompted such an alarm, the Bane tracker cannot say, the area outside the cave being out of her sight; but she wonders if the as-yet-unknown creature is without, standing guard; and so she stands, herself, to carefully look out the mouth of the cave into the semi-darkness, attempting to see what might be the cause—

  “It is always so, Keera, at this time of the evening,” Caliphestros says aloud, startling her; for he has made not the slightest move to turn in her direction. “It is fledging season, and the dog-owls are on the watch for ravens and hawks that would take their little ones, or younger owls who would usurp their domains. There is a pair who have returned to the hollow of a large maple tree just above this cave for as long as I have been in the Wood, and the male has only heightened his defiance of all enemies, over the years.” For the time, this is the explanation that Keera must agree to; although not without her own ploys of conversation:

  “An unusually long time for a male dog-owl, much less a couple, to have survived and bred yearly in the same nest, my lord,” Keera says, allowing suspicion to taint her words.

  “Blasted creatures,” Heldo-Bah grunts, scratching at his groin and arse with one hand and his head with the other, and presenting an appearance that would be merely comical, were it not so vile. “Dog-owls! The most unpleasant way in the world to be woken …” He holds a hand up to Keera quickly. “And yet, I know, we must respect all owls, Keera—for they are mystical heralds of the Moon …”

  “So they are,” Keera replies sternly, “and you are wise to withdraw one of your own blasphemous outcries, at last. For the Moon despises those who mock or abuse her night-flyers, and demands that such fools be tormented severely—and promptly.”

  “You would think that the Moon would have tired of tormenting me long ago,” Heldo-Bah mumbles.

  Within an hour, the foragers have helped Caliphestros tidy, seal off, and disguise the entrance to what he insists is “Stasi’s cave.” Heldo-Bah watches as the tracker and Veloc assist Caliphestros in taking his place atop Stasi’s back, his own smaller bags over his shoulders. Both man and panther bid a brief farewell to the dwelling and grounds that have for so long been considered both mythical and mystical, not only among the Bane, but among those Tall who have heard the rumors of their existence; and then, the little troop that carries the hopes of the Bane tribe, in the form of books and instruments that the foragers cannot begin to read or comprehend, finally gets under way.

  Not, however, at the speed that Caliphestros had insisted to the foragers would be necessary—not initially, at any rate. Instead, the old man explains that one additional leave-taking is necessary. So earnest and even grave is his manner, when he makes this statement, that even Heldo-Bah offers neither opinion nor argument; instead, when Caliphestros requests ignition for a small torch he produces after getting atop Stasi, the gap-toothed Bane quickly produces a flint and his gutting knife, using the blunt side of the heavy blade to strike the stone and, after several attempts, obliging the old man. Then, at no more than a steady if brisk walk, the travelers make their way farther west, to an icy feeder stream that, Caliphestros tells his new allies, has often been his quickest source of relief from the persistent agonies of his wounds; but the old man indicates silence again as the party start downhill in a northerly direction, along a worn path next to the stream, walking for some minutes before they reach a small clearing, where the slope of the mountainside levels for a short distance. Apparently, this is their destination: Stasi takes Caliphestros to a fallen tree on the eastern edge of the level clearing, and gently dips her forelegs and turns her neck so that he can take a seat upon it, without being forced to strap himself back into his walking apparatus. The three Bane, in the meantime, look about, by the light of Caliphestros’s wavering torch, in utter bewilderment.

  As they do, Stas
i slowly walks toward what appear to be two burial mounds at the center of the clearing, while Caliphestros urges the foragers to keep well back. And when Keera asks what is taking place, he begins to tell the tale that he has assembled, bit by bit, of Stasi’s murdered children, explaining that the mounds before them are the final resting places of two of her cubs—the pair that were speared and trampled to death by Broken hunters and their servants, in full view of their wounded mother, and left to rot. Caliphestros speaks so passionately, for the first time since meeting the three Bane, that it quickly becomes apparent to the foragers that, if anyone in the seemingly impossible friendship between mutilated man and powerful beast is “enthralled,” it is the supposèd sorcerer himself, and not the panther, as the foragers initially believed.

  Hearing the hideous tale of brutal murder naturally deepens Keera’s profound sympathy for the panther; and when she sees Stasi climb a nearby rocky ledge, and then begin to issue the long, low cry that seems a summons, not only to her stolen children, but to the spirits of those whose bones lie under the mounds of stone and Earth that are now before her, Keera is moved enough to approach the creature (something that Caliphestros has never dared, at such moments, out of respect for Stasi’s grief). And then, before the eyes of the three men, some shielded path of communication between the two females, a path that had been indicated earlier in the day, now opens fully, plainly apparent for even Heldo-Bah to see. Keera mounts the rocks, puts her own head to the panther’s neck, and with her looks up and northeasterly to see:

  “Broken,” the tracker announces to the others. “She can see the accursèd city from this spot—as can I …”

  For long moments, only the night creatures of Davon Wood are audible in the little clearing; and despite the impatience of Heldo-Bah, Caliphestros makes certain that none of the three men say or do anything to interrupt the deepening of the remarkable bond between what are now the two leaders of the newly reshaped woodland party, Keera and Stasi. Only when that pair descend from the rocks willingly and take up their respective burdens does the group set out again.

  {v:}

  THE PARTY REACHES the rocky gorges of the upper Cat’s Paw before the creeping indigo of dawn has even begun to transform the sky—a sky that is once again fully visible only in broad, Moonlit swaths, between the overhanging branches of the trees that so desperately grasp the rocks on both sides of the ever-furious river. Once on those rocks, both Keera and Stasi slow their steps for the first time, respecting the danger of the slippery shelves of flat, massive stone that, when covered with leaves and moss, set perhaps the deadliest series of natural traps in the already lethal Wood.

  This slackening of pace offers a new opportunity for conversation; and Veloc, attempting to impress Caliphestros with his historian’s skills, courteously asks the old man to explain the most essential facts of his long and interesting life, that the handsome, ambitious Bane may begin the composition of a Heldenspele, the heroic narratives that are passed from generation to generation of Bane historians, to ensure that the tribe never loses its unity, as well as its unique sense of itself. Bane children can best learn their place in the world, Veloc explains, by hearing the songs and stories, not only of the tribe’s own heroes, but of those outsiders who have occasionally allied themselves with the tribe. Caliphestros is plainly flattered: it has been a very long time since the old man experienced the sensation of being appreciated by a society of human beings of any kind. And so, he agrees to Veloc’s request—despite his awareness that such compliance will open the way for a new onslaught of dubious observations from Heldo-Bah.

  And Heldo-Bah does not disappoint. Following the old man’s cautiously limited but honest recitation of the start of his long life’s tale, the skeptical Bane undertakes to dispel at least some of the aura surrounding the legendary man who travels with them.

  “Now, a moment, please, O noble lord,” Heldo-Bah calls from the rear of the little column. “You have told us that you originally came from the great northeastern trading lands, home to those tribes for whom buying, selling, and bartering are not mere ruses to make raiding and raping easier, as is the case with their cousins farther north, but a wholly different and more enlightened way of life.”

  Caliphestros simply smiles and laughs quietly, for he has also come to understand that many of Heldo-Bah’s seeming insults, clownish or otherwise, mask a strangely fascinating willingness to do the distasteful work of actually attending to the safety of his tribe, and especially of his comrades, by determining the reliability of newcomers.

  “Yes, my small friend,” Caliphestros replies, echoing Heldo-Bah’s impertinence with muted amusement. “That is what I told you.”

  “ ‘Small’?” Heldo-Bah replies. “If I were without my feet and half my legs, and required the use of mechanical contrivances and legendary beasts to get about, I’m not certain I’d be so free with that kind of language, O Legless Lord.”

  “Perhaps not,” says Caliphestros. “But then, never having had the trust of a legendary beast, I doubt that you are able to appreciate precisely the sense of security that such a bond brings.”

  At that instant, in a further demonstration of her remarkable intuition concerning human language, Stasi turns her head fully about, looking over her shoulder at Heldo-Bah just as a long, large drop of saliva falls from her panting tongue to the ground.

  “Very well,” the malodorous forager replies. “Let us stay away from such questions—what I particularly want to know is this: you say you studied, for the most part, in this city called Alexandria, in the grain kingdom of Egypt-land, where they let you cut up dead bodies to your peculiar heart’s content; which was not the case in Broken, where you were forced to have your minions steal bodies before they were placed atop funeral pyres. And you became fascinated, you say, by the subject of diseases, and of plagues—and most especially by the Death itself.”

  “Your memory astounds me, Heldo-Bah,” taunts the old man.

  “And when the Mohammedans, displaying that infinite wisdom of men who worship one entirely improbable god, conquered this Egyptland, and decided, after a brief period of uncertainty, that all you grave robbers and body hackers should either go somewhere else or have your own bodies hacked to pieces, you set out for the capital of still another people who believe in one god, but who hold that their one can actually be the sum of three deities—an only slightly less idiotic notion than that of one almighty lord creating both all the good and all the evil in the world.”

  “The Christ-worshippers may indeed hold beliefs that seem to turn back on themselves, Heldo-Bah,” Caliphestros concedes. “But I am not so certain that they can be dismissed as ‘idiotic.’ ”

  “No?” queries the Bane. “Well, listen further, then: I have made a study of their faith, and even conversed with that fool monk who has for so long been wandering about from tribe to tribe and kingdom to kingdom. Surely you know of him, great traveler that you are—the lunatic who cut down the ash tree of the Frankesh thunder god—”

  “Winfred?” Caliphestros queries, in such amazement that he almost falls from Stasi’s back. “You, Heldo-Bah, have discussed the Christ-worshipper’s religion with this man, who was given the name Boniface by their supreme leader, after he crossed the Seksent Straits to undertake his work?”

  “The very fellow!” Heldo-Bah laughs. “ ‘Vat of Turds’! I shall never forget his face when I explained to him why so many laughed at his ‘holy’ name, in Broken—for it has the same sound, does it not? You know of him, then, do you, wise man?”

  Caliphestros nods slowly, still in profound amazement. “I knew him quite well. It was before ever I saw Broken—indeed, I first journeyed to that city in his company. I was living, then, at the abbey at Wearmouth, across the Seksent Straits, in Britain. My friend—the historian Bede to whom I have made reference, Veloc—was unusually curious concerning science, for a Christ-worshipper. He had given me a chamber and a place in their apothecary, where I worked for the abbey by day, a
nd conducted my own labors by night.” His words coming to a sudden halt, Caliphestros looks at both Veloc and Keera, without seeming to actually see them. “I have not spoken of all this since … by the heavens, for so many years …” His body rattles suddenly, and he returns to his tale: “I met Winfred there—he was a monk and a priest, seeking funds as well as companions and followers for the great endeavor of converting the tribes and kingdoms hereabouts as well as farther north to the way of the Christ. I had heard many tales of the kingdom where the Kafran faith ruled, and was deeply curious about it. And so I packed my instruments and books, crossed the Seksent Straits in Winfred’s company, and went on to the city upon the mountain. One of Winfred’s first objects—although those of his faith called him Boniface, by then—was to convince the God-King Izairn to accept the Christ. He had heard that Broken was a mighty state, where law was maintained and commerce thrived, and that Izairn was a fair man, as indeed he was—”

  “Hak!” Heldo-Bah exclaims with a laugh. “I did not know he ever attempted to play his holy tricks upon Broken’s God-King—although he seemed fool enough to try. The last I heard of him, some few years ago, he was planning to convert the Varisians! Imagine it—those bloodthirsty rapists, attempting to live according to the Christ’s babble about loving their enemies. I should like to know if he ever undertook that mad effort, and what became of him, if he did.” Seeing that Caliphestros either will not or cannot continue his own tale, for the moment, Heldo-Bah charges on: “At any rate, this fellow, this Boniface, had, as I suppose you know, been booted out of Broken, soon after he first entered the kingdom and city. He was doing his best to get back in, at the time I made his acquaintance. Indeed, I was to provide the horses for his followers, if they were ever allowed to return—although such was plainly unlikely.”