The Legend of Broken

by Caleb Carr

  All of these would together represent cause enough for Baster-kin’s hatred of the Stadium. But, as always, there is a personal sentiment hidden behind his purely moral objections: for among the young men most active in the Stadium’s amusements is his lordship’s own eldest son (and his sole acknowledged child), Adelwf. Indeed, had Adelwf never shown any interest in the amusements that take place inside the thick, elaborately carved walls of the Stadium, Baster-kin would likely never have set foot inside it; but, given his son’s persistence, his lordship must occasionally visit the place, if only to chide the athletes and audiences, and remind them all—Adelwf most of all—of the damage they are doing to Broken’s future by thus squandering their lives.

  These occasional descents by his father are more than a mere embarrassment for Adelwf: over the last several years especially, the Stadium has become a place in which the handsome young man’s unquenchable appetites for besting others in wrestling matches and battles of wooden or blunt-edged steel swords, facing the many chained beasts that are on offer in the cells below the sands, and finally drinking and fornicating in the stalls above the arena have grown to equal his distaste for going home to his own clan’s Kastelgerd. When he sees his father enter the Stadium, therefore, he considers it a violation, of sorts, of the only place in Broken that he thinks of as his home. For the sake of gaining stature with his associates, Adelwf usually attempts to laugh off his father’s intrusions and patriotic rants, confidently and caustically: for he knows well the story of Rendulic Baster-kin’s famous panther hunt, undertaken when his lordship was Adelwf’s own age, and he cannot help but find a good deal of hypocrisy in his father’s indictments. And indeed, Basterkin has never, in his storied life, come closer to a battlefield than that single instance of blood sport; yet that one exposure was a world away from what he now views …

  And, if truth be spoken, Adelwf, this golden-haired, finely sculpted paragon of Kafran virtue, actually burns less with sarcasm, at his father’s arrival, than with shame: shame and hatred, the latter a passion born out of his enduring resentment for his father’s having driven his mother mad (or so it seems to the youth) and his sister Loreleh into exile. Adelwf had known Loreleh only too briefly; yet during that time he had come to think of her as the only sibling he had ever known or was ever likely to know, since all awareness of Klauqvest had ever been kept from him; and a life alone in the great Kastelgerd with a lunatic mother and so arch a father had become no life at all. Loreleh had been his temporary respite; and the reasons cited for her removal had never seemed any more sound or just to Adelwf than they had to his mother.

  On this night, however, there will be no exhortations by the elder Baster-kin, and no typical complaints from the younger: for, as his lordship arrives at the Stadium gate and begins to hear the sounds made by the crowd within, he realizes that he truly needs to convince any of the young men amid that throng who possess a genuine talent for violence that they have no choice save to march alongside his Guardsmen into Davon Wood, and to participate—in commanding roles, if possible—in the final destruction of the Bane. And he believes, too, that he has finally conceived of an action that will be striking and decisive enough to shock such play warriors into becoming true soldiers. It is an action, not surprisingly, that will also play a crucial role in bringing his plans concerning Isadora Arnem to full fruition; yet despite the very real advantages it may garner, it is a measure of the plan’s extremity that even Baster-kin himself wonders if, when the moment comes, he will possess the steadiness of purpose to carry it out …

  He does not wonder for very long. As he passes under the Stadium gate and stands at the edge of the arena, his eyes and ears are assaulted by sights and sounds that are as wildly intoxicating as ever to those young men and women who either participate in or observe them. The combat that takes place in the arena is, to all present, a most splendid display of the ideals of Broken youth, power, and beauty, all the more arousing for the knowledge that it will never result in the death of a human being, but risks only the lives of those powerful woodland beasts that are brought up from the dungeon-like cells in chains. So extreme is the activity at this late hour, both in the arena and in the rows of seats that stretch into the sky about Baster-kin, that he feels his hatred begin to surge anew, and his momentary qualms to subside. Radelfer, who has followed his lord into the arena, can detect as much: he has seen this man, both as a youth and in his present middle years, with death stalking his features, and he sees as much again when Rendulic studies the Stadium crowd this night.

  “My lord?” Radelfer says, the concern he felt for his master’s soundness of mind when they departed the Fifth District still very alive. “Are you well? It has already been a long night of difficult undertakings—should we not return to the Kastelgerd? You can leave the chastising of your son for tomorrow.”

  “Concerning that matter, you could not be more mistaken, Radelfer,” his lordship answers. “These people must finally learn their duty, and understand the consequences of ignoring it; and they must be taught such lessons tonight.”

  As soon as the crowd in the Stadium begins to take as much notice of him as he already has of it, Baster-kin is appalled to see the usual wave of petitioners moving toward him, each looking for some favor that will allow him to serve in civil government without having to undertake precisely the sort of military service for which the Merchant Lord has already selected him. At the same time, as good fortune would have it, Baster-kin sees that Radelfer has taken the precaution of ordering some eight or ten members of his household guard to report from the Kastelgerd to the Stadium, likely by runner while his lordship was in council with the Layzin. The men are arriving now—yet the only thanks Basterkin offers his seneschal is to say:

  “Have your men keep those people away from me tonight, Radelfer. My business is far too important.” He pauses, searching the various combatants in the ring before adding, “In every way imaginable …” Glancing at the suppos acts of bravery upon the sands ever more keenly, Baster-kin at last determines: “I do not see my son exercising his talents out there—but find him, Radelfer. Bring him to me. For he has always trusted you more than he has his father. I shall await you—” Baster-kin continues to eye the arena. “There.” He points to one concrete pillar near the center of the sandy oval, to which is anchored a chain that restricts the movements of a large Broken brown bear, preventing the confused, enraged animal from injuring any of the several young men who are proving their “courage” by tormenting him with spears and swords, evidently to the crowd’s satisfaction.

  As Baster-kin makes his way to the concrete pillar he has indicated and is recognized by ever more of the crowd, a strange hush falls over those participating in the various activities in the arena as well those among the audience. It is not a hush inspired by affection, of course, although it certainly contains a large measure of respect. When he nears the concrete pillar to which the brown bear is chained, Baster-kin takes aside one of the enormous, scarred Stadium attendants—the men who do the inglorious work of moving animals and racks of weapons from the arena to the scarcely lit iron cages and storage rooms below—and orders the man and his fellow workers to remove all the animals to their cages, and disarm all combatants. It is a command that would draw jeers, were it issued by any other official: but now, no voice among the assembled athletes and spectators is brave enough to express the disapproval that all feel. Such is the effect of the hard glare that the Merchant Lord moves from face to face about and above him; such is the effect he has long cultivated.

  Only when his eyes settle on Radelfer, who stands outside a curtained stall that is one of a group approximately a third of the way up the Stadium benches, does Baster-kin stop studying the crowd. Then, when he takes more specific note of the expression upon his seneschal’s face—one of genuine regret for the very public family spectacle that he believes is about to take place—his lordship jumps down from the pillar’s base and, issuing a final order to one of the animal h
andlers, moves at a quick pace to join Radelfer before the more (if not completely) sympathetic seneschal has a chance to warn Adelwf of his father’s approach.

  When Baster-kin closes in on the stall, he begins to hear the sounds of fornication emerging from it; and when his lordship arrives, he rips the curtain away, to find his son fully engaged with one young noblewoman, the pair of them having bothered to shift their scant clothing only enough to allow him to enter her, while a second young woman laughs and holds a wineskin, alternately pouring its contents into Adelwf’s mouth and pressing her ample breasts into that same hungry maw. At the sound of the curtain being torn, the two young women shriek, for they are able to see the man responsible; Adelwf, however, only begins to turn, disengaging from the widespread girl beneath him as he shouts:

  “Ficksel! Which of you idiots dares interrupt my amusement—?” He grows silent when he sees the figure behind him, and quickly tries to straighten his tunic as he exclaims, “Father! What are you doing here—”

  “I assure you, Adelwf,” his lordship replies, putting his fists to his hips, “I am not here for my pleasure or amusement. Our kingdom is in chaos, our bravest young men are daring death of every variety in the provinces and beyond, and you lie here throwing curses more suited to a Bane’s filthy mouth at your father while consorting with such as—these …” Baster-kin quickly nods to the two young women. “Get out,” he says to them. “I do not want to know your names, nor those of your clans—for I should have to tell them how their virtuous daughters pass their evenings, and if they have an ounce of patriotism in them, they should exile you to Davon Wood, out of the shame if naught else.”

  “Just a moment, Father—” Adelwf says, trying to recover some ground.

  But Baster-kin’s fury is not spent: “Do not use that term in addressing me, just now, you useless sack of meat—I am your ‘lord,’ until I give you permission to call me anything else!”

  As he tightens a simple belt around his tunic, Adelwf keeps his blue eyes fixed on his father, with an injured intensity that would burn some sense of uneasiness, perhaps even sympathy, into most onlookers. At the very least, most witnesses could not fail to appreciate the unfortunate nature of the moment; but the hurt and anger in the son’s young eyes do nothing to soften the severity of Baster-kin’s aspect, and Adelwf soon murmurs, “Very well—my lord,” in resignation, as he gets to his feet. Standing on the bench above the man who has tormented him in like fashion for much of his life, Adelwf rises higher than his father, and would seem to have the physical advantage; but the air of fear that shows through his rage nullifies any such superiority of position. “Now that you have spoilt yet another of my few enjoyments in life, what would you have me do?”

  Baster-kin steps up onto Adelwf’s bench, in order to look him more closely in the eye. “What would I—” the father echoes, with more genuine anger than the younger man can possibly manage. “You really have no idea, no sense of any duty, do you, whelp? Well, then—” With frightening suddenness, his lordship lays tight, painful hold of his son’s left ear, pulling him first out of the stall, and then, stumblingly, back down the rows of benches. “Let us have it your way, for a few moments! Let us engage in the enjoyments of this foul place—clear the arena!”

  Adelwf would like to argue, but the struggle to keep from crying out at the pain in his ear and the difficulty of staying on his feet in front of his friends below are together too great an effort, and he finds himself saying only, “Father! My lord—I beg you, can we not settle this matter at home?”

  “Home?” Baster-kin shouts. “You are home, whelp! Let us, then, enjoy the true entertainments that your hospitality has to offer!”

  Because Adelwf is no longer in fact a child, whatever his father’s indictments, Baster-kin’s maintaining a secure grip on his ear requires keeping a clamp-like, even violent hold on the entirety of the appendage, soon causing its skin and gristle to tear away from the skull at one spot; and, like all similarly minor cuts to the head, the wound begins to bleed profusely enough that by the time they have reached the lowest benches that surround the arena, a stream of the precious fluid covers portions of Adelwf’s face, neck, and upper chest. Catching sight of this seemingly grievous injury, the young man loses all concern with maintaining a courageous demeanor in front of his friends:

  “My lord!” Adelwf pleads desperately, as Lord Baster-kin, again surrounded by Radelfer’s men, roughly forces his son out onto the sand of the arena, in full view and hearing of the others in the Stadium. “Please! I am bleeding, let me depart the Stadium, at the least, and spare me this humiliation before my comrades—”

  “ ‘Comrades’?” Baster-kin replies. There seems something in Adelwf’s appearance and pathetic manner that gives him a deep satisfaction. “You call these play-warriors ‘comrades’?” As he continues to drag his son across the now-empty arena and toward the concrete pillar on which he stood moments earlier, Baster-kin raises his voice and addresses the crowd that stands outside and above the sand-strewn oval. Few of the young men and women present have departed the Stadium, so compelling is the scene being played out before them; and this fact makes Radelfer, who has joined the ranks of the spectators along with his men, profoundly uneasy. “Do you all think of each other as ‘comrades’?” Lord Baster-kin calls to the Stadium’s crowd. “As soldiers in some peculiar conflict that neither risks nor takes any of your lives, yet is somehow of enough importance that you merit the same ranks of friendship and honor as do the young men who fill the ranks of Broken’s legions?”

  For a long, very strange moment, the Stadium knows something it has rarely if ever experienced, in recent years: silence. Not a member of the crowd watching what takes place between the two Baster-kins, father and son, has the courage to venture an answer to the older man’s question, however much they may disagree with what he says. Even Radelfer is uneasy that he is about to witness a scene of violence such as his mind—never so strangely or even terribly ingenious as his master’s—is incapable of conceiving. But, although impressed by Rendulic’s ability to hold the attention of the drunken crowd about him, it is when Radelfer looks to his own household guardsmen that his uneasiness becomes simpler dread: for he sees that they, too, are struck dumb by Lord Basterkin’s ability to keep the false warriors of the Stadium not only silent but in a state of terror; and these are men who, unlike the youths in the stands, have seen much of true violence, and have developed the ability to know when horror is approaching.

  All the greater, then, is Radelfer’s admiration for Adelwf when, seeing that his father has caused his friends, his “comrades,” to become thus silently fearful, the youth finally frees himself from his father’s grip, takes a few steps from the concrete pillar, and spits into the sand, declaring loudly:

  “Yes—Father! And why should we not declare ourselves the equals of such men? What would you know of it? When have you ever faced the dangers of the arena, perils undertaken without the armor and heavy weaponry your precious legions take with them whenever they go into battle? You bully my friends and me with your position and power, but what do you know of mortal danger, as you sit in your tower and count our clan’s money, plotting new ways for other men to see to the safety of this city and this kingdom? I have endured this humiliation long enough—give me some proof that you yourself are the equal of those legionaries of whom you speak, and perhaps I will listen to more; but if you cannot, put an end to this endless dissatisfaction with those who risk their safety and honor upon these sands, as Kafra’s priests long ago taught them was a righteous way to prove their devotion to the tenets of the golden god!”

  A few daring members of the crowd about the arena dare applaud this defiant and unprecedented outburst—until, that is, the Merchant Lord again turns his deathly stare upon each section of the benches and stalls. As for Radelfer, his satisfaction at Adelwf’s daring is quickly extinguished by the strange look of satisfaction that enters his lordship’s face. There is no admiration in the gaze
, no sense that Rendulic Baster-kin has finally provoked a manly response from the son who has so eternally disappointed him; rather, it is the aspect of a man whose final lingering doubts about a course of action he has been debating in his own mind have been silenced.

  “Well,” Baster-kin says, in a much more even yet no less menacing voice. “Perhaps I have been mistaken, then. Perhaps all of you are more than capable of taking your place among the ranks of men who must, at this hour of need, defend our kingdom. And yet …” The Merchant Lord takes a few steps away from Adelwf, then raises a hand to signal to the attendant with whom he had spoken earlier. “I shall require, I fear, some demonstration of courage and valor greater than words, before I can accept you”—he glances at his son, then up into the crowd—“before I can accept any of you, as actual warriors.”