The Legend of Broken

by Caleb Carr

  A commotion becomes audible from one of the doorways that lead down to the maze of cages and storage rooms beneath the arena; and before long, the attendant and two of his fellows appear, each holding the end of a separate length of chain with one hand and a spear in the other. The three long sections of chain all meet at a common end: a heavy iron collar, one that surrounds and (from the look of the missing fur and the irritated skin beneath) has long surrounded the neck of a large Davon panther.

  The animal is a female, one who has grown mature but far from defeated during many years of imprisonment within the Stadium. She attempts occasionally to lash out at one or another of the handlers, if he lets his section of chain go too slack, but has become wise enough to avoid the prodding spearheads that are thrust forward in response to these outbursts of anger. That she is unusually large is easy to determine; less so is the true color of her coat, given the filth that she has been forced to live in for so long. To one with an experienced eye, able to see through such discoloration, it would yet be possible to determine, from the parts of her body that she can and does clean with care, that the fur is unusually golden, perhaps even containing a silver or white tint that makes it catch the light of surrounding torches and braziers in an unusual way.

  One identifying characteristic, however, is plain for all to see: the unusually light, even brilliant, green of the eyes, which seem to peer directly into the heart of whichever human she fastens her gaze upon.

  “So,” Adelwf says, as the animal becomes visible. “I might have known. The eldest of our panthers. It is the female that you brought from Davon Wood, years ago. Or so we are told.”

  “Yes,” Baster-kin says, taking several steps toward the animal as it draws close to the concrete pillar. “And how have you treated a beast that had more heart than you possess now when she was but young? Locked her away in the cells beneath this ridiculous theater, and allowed her to be attended by such men as these—although, whatever their seksent shortcomings, they are likely superior to the useless children of wealth who surround me now …”

  Adelwf is only paying partial attention to his father’s latest tirade, for he has noticed a curious thing: the panther, always known among the Stadium’s athletes as one of the most dangerous and bloodthirsty of the beasts kept therein, seems to recognize the Merchant Lord, even these many years later, despite his infrequent trips to the place; more remarkable still, she shies away from him when he draws close. It is not the sight of any weapon that frightens her, for Baster-kin, while he keeps his right hand upon the pommel of his short-sword, does not draw it; no, whatever fear his lordship inspires is caused by his steady gaze and his voice, which seem to create in the panther’s mind the idea that the tragedy he inflicted upon her family in Davon Wood so long ago will somehow be replayed in this very different place these many years later.

  “Chain the animal!” Baster-kin orders the attendants, who begin to fix their three lengths of iron links to one great loop of similar metal that is sunk deep into the concrete of the pillar. The men then dash off as quickly as they can, each pausing only long enough to catch one of the three pouches of silver coins that Baster-kin tosses to them. “And you, whelp,” Baster-kin says, turning on his son. “Select your favored weapon—for if I am any judge, you will need it, and soon …”

  Adelwf smiles at this comment, for he apparently believes he is to be tested by the Stadium’s usual standards, against a beast of great power whose chains will prevent her from doing him any real harm. Seeing this, several of Adelwf’s “comrades” dare dash out onto the arena’s sands, each bearing a different weapon—the long spear of the southernmost tribes, the usual Broken short-sword, a single-headed axe of the northern variety—that he believes their friend must use to impress his father, not only with his own abilities, but with the prowess of all the athletes in the Stadium. Adelwf, however, only smiles in appreciation to these young men, taking little note of their weapons; rather, he waits for one young woman in particular, a singular Broken beauty, who bears upon her upturned hands a gleaming blade of the later Lumun-jani style: longer than the short-sword by a hand or two, with a tapered blade. As Adelwf accepts the weapon and exchanges words of affection with the woman, Lord Baster-kin walks with purpose to the edge of the arena, a look of the same unhealthy delight upon his face. He seeks out Radelfer, whose own face, his lordship is happy to see, still displays deep apprehension.

  “Seneschal!” Baster-kin calls, with the same false brand of merriment. “Did you recognize our old foe from the Wood, when those pigs brought her up from below these sands?”

  “I did, my lord,” Radelfer answers, with increased concern. “Although I thought the animal long since dead—”

  “With her pedigree?” Baster-kin replies, chuckling slightly. “Did you really think the young of such a mighty animal as was her mother could be so easily dispatched by—” Baster-kin throws a hand in the direction of the patrons of the Stadium with obvious disgust. “By such as these? Or by my own eternal disgrace of a son? No, Radelfer—such scum as patronize this place may—may—be good enough to fight the Bane; but the greatest of all the Davon panthers? You know full well that such an idea is nonsense.” Looking once more at the concrete pillar to which the panther is secured, Baster-kin seems to brighten further. “Ah! I see my son is ready to test himself; and by doing so, to represent all these young warriors.” With a motion the threat of which is at odds with his tone of voice, the Merchant Lord quickly draws his own blade. “Let us see how he fares …”

  Radelfer, now confirmed in his suspicions, dares to move to his master and lay a hand upon his forearm, in an attempt to stop the madness he believes is approaching. “My lord!” he says urgently. “I have known you since you were a boy; and I often thought that the great preoccupations of your mind had been put aside, for goals that would serve your clan better. But do you imagine that, using that lifetime of knowledge, I cannot fit the pieces of this evening’s activity into a coherent whole? I know what you intend, my lord, for yourself, for Lady Arnem, for the kingdom—and I beg you, abandon this scheme! Life may not have played fair with you, on several points, but you cannot let that justify such—”

  Staring down at his arm, his expression gone back to one of utter mercilessness, Baster-kin grips his sword tight. “Radelfer,” he says calmly. “If you wish to keep that hand, and the arm above it, remove it from my person. Instantly.” As Radelfer resignedly follows this instruction, Basterkin warns him further: “ ‘On several points,’ you say? Life, Radelfer, has placed such obstacles in my way as might well have stopped me from going on with it, save for a few intervening hands. It has pleased me to think you one of them—and if, now, you understand what is to take place as well as you claim, then you know full well why it must; and you know, too, that there is justice in it. All of it.” Radelfer’s face turns to the ground in resignation, and Baster-kin speaks more gently; though only slightly so: “If you cannot bear what is to take place, then return to the Kastelgerd—but leave me your men. I shall not be far behind.”

  “I …” Radelfer is at a loss for what more to say, save, “Excuse me, my lord. But I will accept that offer. That boy is not the cause of your life’s travails.”

  Baster-kin glances back out onto the arena. “The cause? Perhaps not. But he is merely another product of the dishonesty and disease that have cursed my existence. And I now have the chance to change all, at what I flatter myself is a profound stroke. Even the Layzin and the God-King have endorsed my undertaking. Who are you, then, to question it?” As his seneschal cannot find it in him to make further reply, Baster-kin merely says, “Go on—I shall not hold this faintness of heart against you, Radelfer, although I would have wished for more stalwart support. But go. I have business here …”

  The two part, Radelfer ordering his men to remain behind and protect their lord while he himself attends to urgent matters at the Kastelgerd. The seneschal then seeks out the fastest route away from the ugly tragedy that he believ
es is approaching, as Baster-kin rejoins his son, whose mood has improved immensely, along with that of the crowd in the Stadium. Regaining a false, lighter air himself, the Merchant Lord endures the cheers of that crowd, which they offer when father and son stand alone on the sand with the panther once more; and then Baster-kin holds his hands aloft, indicating that he wishes to address the collected young men and women.

  “It is my understanding,” he calls out, “that most of you enjoy wagering on the results of these heroic contests!” At this, the crowd cheers louder, delighted that Lord Baster-kin suddenly seems to have adopted a far more friendly attitude toward their activities—and themselves. “Good!” Baster-kin continues, as Adelwf prepares himself for the encounter to come by going through a series of impressive but absurd motions of mock combat. “For I have a wager for all of you—at least, for the young men among you—and I am afraid its terms are not open to negotiation. Should my son triumph against the beast chained here, I will leave this building, never to return.” Now, laughter mixes with the cheers that go up from the crowd, as if Baster-kin has just made some sort of an amusing remark. His next words, however, remove all amusement from the crowd’s reaction: “But should he lose, each of you that is found, either by reputation or by my men, to have proficiency with a blade, will agree to march out against the Bane in the company of my Guardsmen within the next few days—and any who refuse will share my son’s fate.”

  A hushed confusion now reigns among the benches and stalls of the Stadium, while in the arena, Adelwf looks at his father with similar bewilderment. “Father?” he says. “My ‘fate’? And what fate is that to be?”

  “Whatever fate you make it, Adelwf,” his lordship answers, walking to the concrete pillar and leaping upon its base. Once again, he experiences no fear, for the chained panther shies away from him; he is thus free to continue, although he speaks to his son only, now: “You have ever been a disappointment to me, Adelwf: that much you know. But you do not know all the reasons why. I am aware that you consider my treatment of your mother unjust, and more; yet let me inform you—and, perhaps, offer some additional motivation for the contest you are about to face—that I had nothing to do with your mother’s illness: that it was the result of her own degeneracy, long kept secret from me, but discovered, in the end. She is no more than a whore, boy.”

  Anger enters Adelwf’s face. “You cannot say that … Father or no, lord of the Kastelgerd or no, you cannot say such things about my mother!”

  “Yes, your mother,” Baster-kin replies. “To whom you claim such devotion, yet who sees your face but once in a Moon. So let us dispense with that suppos reason for your hatred of me. In truth, your unnatural contempt is a product of a disease, rife within your mother’s womb, that was planted there long before your birth. Yes: your mother was and remains a whore, boy, and as a result you are a lying reprobate, unworthy to call yourself my son. But fear not”—Baster-kin lowers his voice still more—“it is my intention soon to have new sons …” As Adelwf struggles with these seemingly insane statements, his father again addresses the crowd: “I am pleased to see that you accept the terms of my wager without serious objection! You do so almost certainly because you believe this contest will be as much an unequal piece of theater as are your usual amusements—but allow me to correct that misapprehension.” Turning to his son a final time, Baster-kin calls out: “Prepare yourself, Adelwf—let us see if you and your ‘comrades’ are as prepared for the dangers of the Wood as you believe!”

  The Merchant Lord—still, evidently, unafraid of the possible dangers to himself—raises his sword high. With a sound that pains the ears of all about him, he brings his fine steel blade down upon the crude iron chains, as well as the anchor that holds them. Swiftly, the restraints break free of the concrete pillar; and then, as the chains slip through her collar, the panther finds that she is more free on the sand than she has ever been. Still utterly confused by and fearful of Baster-kin’s inscrutable actions, as well as by the blade he holds in his hand, the panther looks swiftly about for an easier object upon which to vent her rage; and there on the sand stands Adelwf, so frozen by fear that he takes no note of the sudden cry of alarm that goes up from the crowd.

  “You will finally engage this animal on equal terms, my son!” his lordship shouts; and then, still displaying reckless disregard of the panther, he leaves Adelwf to his fate, returning to Radelfer’s men to issue a final set of orders, which proves somewhat difficult, as they, too, are so stunned by what has happened, and so certain of what must now take place, that they scarcely hear him.

  “Father!” Like everyone else in the Stadium, Radelfer’s men hear Adelwf’s cry, as he holds his sword before him and grows increasingly aware that it will now be of no use. “The animal is loose!”

  “As are the Bane, whelp,” his lordship answers. “And so let us see how one of the champions of this great arena conducts himself in a true contest—surely, you are unafraid? As are your comrades? After all, in a matter of days—” Now it becomes clear that Baster-kin is speaking to the rest of the young men in the Stadium, and to his son only as a matter of form. “—days, perhaps even hours, you will assist the men of my Guard in following the Bane army through the Wood to Okot, that village for which we have searched so repeatedly and fruitlessly. And there, you shall destroy that accurs tribe, finally opening the riches of the Wood to our kingdom, and its lands to clearing, that we may have new fields in which to grow the grain that our people so desperately need. And so—show me, Adelwf, that such responsibilities have not been placed upon unworthy shoulders, and that you athletes can undertake it!”

  The outcome of the encounter on the sand is so seemingly foreordained that Adelwf cannot help but cry out, “Father! You have no right to do this!” as the panther begins to slowly circle him, her spine and neck lightly undulating. As she fixes her green eyes ever more tightly on Adelwf, something that all present would swear is a true smile curls her mouth more and more; while the younger Baster-kin, for his part, simply and tremblingly continues to hold his sword in her direction all the while, almost as if there is actually a possibility that he will be able to use it to control the feelings that have grown close to panic within him.

  “Well, my son? Let us see the bravery in attack that your days ahead will require—and let us see it now!”

  But it is wholly unnecessary for Adelwf to demonstrate anything at all: with the frightening swiftness and power that is common to all the great cats, the panther sees the young man begin to take his blade back in preparation for a thrust, and then she lunges forward with all the power of a bolt dispatched by a ballista. Unhindered by keepers, locks, or concrete, now, the panther bursts full force into Adelwf’s chest, knocking the wind from his lungs, the sword from his hand, and his body to the ground. All those on the benches—who have risen to stand, some trying to comfort each other—shout and scream in horror, seeming certain of the slow, agonizing death that their friend is about to be subjected to. But the panther is not so cruel as are her captors: once Adelwf is upon the ground, she easily turns his stunned body so that he lies with his face in the sand, then quickly, without much of a sound, sinks her upper and lower canine teeth into the exposed rear of his spine at the neck, at once making all movement, especially breathing, impossible. The unfortunate Adelwf, who has soiled himself with fear even before this moment, begins to twitch involuntarily with his death throes; and in an instant, perhaps out of habit, the seksent keepers have reappeared, to at least spare his being torn to pieces.

  “Stay where you are, pigs!” Baster-kin commands them; at which the panther, evidently feeling some sense of, if not safety, at least prolonged freedom, begins to gnaw and rip at various parts of Adelwf’s lifeless body, producing a quick, almost noiseless series of tearing sounds, so great is her power. She does this, her terrified audience notices, not out of any particular enjoyment of the meat found thereupon, but rather to desecrate this human who has, evidently, so often tormented her.
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  “And so, whelp …,” says Baster-kin, quietly and evenly. Then he turns to the crowd behind him, raising his voice: “You young men of the Stadium—look! For this is the sort of fate that will greet you in Davon Wood, unless you steel your nerves now. My men, here, will remain behind to determine how many of you can truly be entrusted to march with a khotor of my own Guard on the Cat’s Paw—and, by order of the God-King and the Grand Layzin, should you try to escape this responsibility by acting at incompetence just as you have acted at bravery for so long, you will be executed here, and lie by my own son’s side.”

  Baster-kin then steps forward toward the panther. “Seksent pigs!” his lordship calls to the keepers. “Bring new chains, and secure this animal.”

  “Now? But, my lord, the beast is free, and has just tasted—”

  “Do not fear it,” Baster-kin replies, his eyes still tightly fixed upon those of the panther. “As long as I am here, it would not dare turn on any who walk with me.”

  The panther has finally moved away from Adelwf’s lifeless body, and, true to Baster-kin’s pledge, she submits to being fitted with new chains, so long as Baster-kin has her fixed in his gaze. As she is led away, Baster-kin studies the young men and women in the Stadium a last time.

  “You all despise me, at this instant, do you not?” he says. “For what you think I did to your ‘comrade’? Well and good. Use that hatred, then, to steel yourselves for what is to come. For I was speaking in earnest, just now: you will need every possible source of true skill and courage that you can summon, during the task that lies ahead of you. For what awaits you in the Wood is beyond your imagining …”