The Legend of Broken

by Caleb Carr

  “You, old man,” he said, stepping closer, “have a great deal of explaining to do …”

  “I suppose I do, Heldo-Bah,” Caliphestros replied, his great store of exhaustion finally making itself audible in his voice. Keera and Veloc both rushed to each of his arms, fearing that he would fall from the panther’s shoulders; but he indicated that he was able to travel unaided atop Stasi with a quick lift of his hand. “For now, however—let us get to our destination, before the fighting begins …”

  “Demons take the fighting!” Heldo-Bah replied. “I have seen much fighting, in my time—but never have I seen so strange an encounter as that one. No—I will remain with the rest of you, to learn what lies behind all this.”

  Caliphestros nodded, urging Stasi forward once more. “And learn it you shall—but I am not yet ready to speak of it.”

  It was not long before the group approached the high rocks that offered a broad view of the trees and ground on the southern side of the Fallen Bridge; and, in the distance, the flickering lights of the torches being carried by Lord Baster-kin’s Guard could just begin to be seen. Before long, their laughing, triumphant voices, aided by wine, mead, and beer, began to become audible: a clear demonstration that they believed the complete lack of resistance they had thus far encountered was an indication, not of any trap or stratagem on the part of the Bane, but of the terror with which they had filled their enemies’ hearts.

  As the battle between Ashkatar’s men and Lord Baster-kin’s Guard rages about them, the foragers learn the deeper truth of what they are witnessing …

  THROUGH THEIR OWN and Stasi’s ability to move with unmatched swiftness, Keera, Veloc, and Heldo-Bah managed to compensate for the time lost during the strange but enlightening encounter that had left Lord Caliphestros racked by turmoil and a weariness of the spirit, and to reach the high rock formation that had been their original destination before hostilities erupted. Here they positioned themselves behind stony barriers in time to observe the lesson that would soon be taught to the soldiers of Broken (even if only to the Merchant Lord’s Guard) about war: not war as it was taught to or practiced by the officers and men of that kingdom, but war as it was best understood and fought by the Bane.

  “But I do not understand the distinction of which you have often spoken, my lord,” Keera said softly, looking out amid the ground lying to the south and east of the misty crags overhanging Hafften Falls and the Fallen Bridge, across which the forward units of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard had already made their way, and were now trying, with almost uniform failure, to drag their ballistae, nearly all of which slipped from the surface of that giant tree, only to crash into pieces in the rocky waters below. “A hammer or a blade is not different when used by different peoples,” Keera continued. “Is not war the same? Why should there be one variety of war for the Tall, and another for the Bane?”

  “Because war is not a thing separate from the mind, like the hammer or the blade,” Caliphestros replied quietly, his head ever turning to make out the forms of Bane swordsmen, spear carriers, and archers who had already taken up positions amid the northernmost part of Davon Wood, while more of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard continued a march that they presumed would take them closer to the enemy. “It is an expression of the mind,” the old scholar continued, “one used to achieve a certain object, yes, but one that bespeaks the nature of the collective mind of that people.”

  “Yes, yes, all very interesting, I’m sure,” Heldo-Bah interrupted. “But now, Lord Caliphestros, if we may return to the small matter of what we saw take place between yourself and the First Wife of Kafra—”

  But Heldo-Bah was silenced by a quick warning blow to the ribs issued by Veloc.

  “Aiee, Veloc!” Heldo-Bah noised, quietly but urgently. “Are you mad? There are not Tall enough entering the Wood, that you think you must attack one of your only friends?”

  “Let Keera be the one to ask about such things, Heldo-Bah,” Veloc replied, as he took several sheets of parchment and a bit of writing charcoal from a small bag at his side. “You have all the tact of a shag bull.”

  Heldo-Bah, ready to argue further, was distracted when he noticed just what his friend was doing. “And what does all this mean?” he asked, indicating the parchment and charcoal.

  “I shall make a few notes,” Veloc answered, “that I may remember all that his lordship says without error.”

  “You?” Heldo-Bah said. “The man who believes that his precious history can only be accurately related by the historian to his audience through spoken words, whereas writing provides opportunity for lies?”

  “And so do I believe still,” Veloc declared. “These are, as I said, but notes, used to remind me of certain details that, when I speak of it later, may be useful in recalling the whole with greater accuracy.”

  “With even more lies, is what you mean,” Heldo-Bah judged.

  “Hush, now,” Veloc said, with great self-importance. “Let us learn what his lordship would have us know …”

  The conversation between Keera and Caliphestros had not ceased, during this interval, and the old man was continuing to explain his same theme: “Had Yantek Ashkatar kept to his original plan,” he said, “then he would have committed an error of enormous proportions. The Bane have not the training to face soldiers of the Tall, or even of Lord Basterkin’s Guard, in an open field, nor have they the weapons or the physical stature. They should have been cut to pieces. Now, however”—and at this, Caliphestros held his hand out to the moving shadows on the forest floor, hundreds of them, marching without any organization at all, due to the trees that everywhere prevented any such order—“it is the Guard who have made the terrible error of attempting to fight their enemy upon his ground, and according to his methods.”

  Keera looked curious, but far less confused, having been given these thoughts by so expert a mind. “You must have fought in many wars yourself, my lord, to know such principles.”

  “Myself?” Caliphestros shook his head. “Not at all. Oh, I have witnessed many battles, true, but only as a man of medicine in the employ of one side or the other, who gave his service to heal the wounded, and to ease their pain. But to understand such things, truly? There are great minds, Keera, who have practiced warfare—generals, kings, and emperors—who have gathered their own and others’ knowledge into books of instruction, which are available for any to read, and which I used in offering my advice to Yantek Ashkatar. And in this sense, we have been fortunate.”

  “Fortunate, old man?” Heldo-Bah echoed. “How is it ‘fortunate’ to find a full khotor of the Merchant Lord’s Guard entering Davon Wood? Amusing, perhaps, but …”

  Although Veloc once again shoved at his friend for daring to interrupt, Caliphestros turned and spoke to Heldo-Bah without anger or rancor: “Because it is now plainly evident that neither the Grand Layzin nor Lord Baster-kin has deigned to read any such books, whereas a truly wise soldier—such as Sentek Arnem, who is even now marching his khotor of Talons toward the Cat’s Paw—would never have made such a mistake. It violates everything he was ever taught by his own tutor, Yantek Korsar, or by his own experience in fighting such tribes as the Torganians and the eastern marauders. He would have waited, and drawn Ashkatar out onto the Plain—and, as I say, despite the fact that the steel we have spent these many days forging is superior even to that carried by the Talons, the manner in which they fight, their discipline and organization, is something that requires years for large groups of men to learn—and its absence among the Guard shall prove as important as any grade of steel.”

  “Leaving only the small flaw,” Heldo-Bah murmured, also, now, listening to the sounds of passing Guardsmen beneath the rocks atop which the three foragers and the pair who had become their traveling fellows were carefully hidden, “that the Guard are a vicious group of murderers, able to do more than a little damage to our warriors on their own.”

  “Some, perhaps,” Caliphestros answered, with a shrug of his shoulders. “But in the end,
for the few wounds the Bane may receive, these Guardsmen will trade their lives—and when Sentek Arnem does reach the Cat’s Paw, he will be met by a scene of death and horror, of hundreds of Tall bodies in the Cat’s Paw amid those poor Bane souls who took their lives in the river before we were able to determine a cause and a method of preventing the rose fever. And that horror will make him pause, unwilling to trade the best troops in his kingdom for a highly uncertain outcome. And then, we may find him ready to treat with us. But hush, now …” The old man brought his face in contact with the fur of Stasi’s neck and cheek, burying it sidelong in that rich white coat, as if it gave him some sort of deep, even mystical comfort to do so: not only, Keera believed she could see, because of the danger that was so close about them on all sides, now, but because of the lingering yet still-unexplained hurt done to the old man’s soul (nay, she thought, to his heart) by his encounter with the First Wife of Kafra, the woman called Alandra. “Let us be silent, or as silent as we can,” the old man continued. “Further talk can only threaten our being discovered, and, as Heldo-Bah has said, even if these Guardsmen lack order and insight, they do not want for bloodlust.”

  Perhaps cheered at finally having his thoughts recognized as valid by the old man, even if in a somewhat less than direct or congratulatory manner, Heldo-Bah half-rose, producing the sword he had carried since meeting Caliphestros in one hand, and his gutting blade in the other. “Well, as to that,” he whispered, “rest assured, you shall all be safe—I may not wander out into this madness, but the Moon help any Guardsman, or any five Guardsmen, who wander too close to these rocks. Stay low, all of you.” He looked directly into Stasi’s eyes. “And that includes you, my lovely,” he said, before disappearing into the shadows only a short distance away.

  Veloc turned in sudden shock. “Heldo-Bah!” he hissed, as loudly as he was able. “Don’t be a fool—”

  “Do not bother, Veloc,” Caliphestros murmured; and when Veloc turned to the old man, he found to his surprise that the old man was smiling in true admiration. “You were right, Keera, in this as in most things: a profoundly irritating man, but possessed of great courage …” Stasi growled lowly at the disappearance of the third forager, and Caliphestros ran his hands deep into her fur, stroking and scratching and trying to calm her. “Take your ease, Stasi—this is one task for which our filthy friend is best suited—whereas you must remain here with me.”

  And this last statement, it seemed to Keera, as she lifted her eyes to determine the position of the Moon and thereby the time of night, was more a plea than a command …

  The Moon had not traveled very far from where Keera first glimpsed it before the battle began. The encounter started where Caliphestros had said it likely would: near the Cat’s Paw, thus ensuring that, once the whole of Baster-kin’s khotor were in the Wood, they would not be able to flee back across the Fallen Bridge. Indeed, the foragers and Caliphestros would later learn that Ashkatar had ordered that any Tall given the responsibility of remaining in the rear of their force to hold the southern end of the bridge be dispatched first: this was not to be an encounter in which prisoners would be taken or cowards allowed to flee, but one of complete destruction, which would, therefore, not only allow the Bane to indulge their special loathing for the Merchant Lord’s men, but serve as a warning—again, just as Caliphestros had said it would—to any other troops from Broken who were on their way to Davon Wood with the purpose of attacking and destroying the exile tribe.

  Thus, the cries that echoed from the southern bank of the Cat’s Paw, indicating that actual combat had been joined, were especially horrifying, produced not merely by wounded and dying men, but by the screams of those who were thrown down from the rocky heights into the violent riverbed below. This horror, of course, was no accident, but rather a key part of Ashkatar’s plan, designed to make those Guardsmen in the Wood lose whatever small ability the forest had left them to organize their numbers into coherent ranks and conduct an effective resistance; and it served this purpose completely.

  Of course, there were other varieties of horror with which the doomed Guardsmen were forced to contend; indeed, there were few if any that they escaped. It is the peculiar nature of the forest, and of primeval forests such as Davon Wood in particular, to change in aspect as soon as night falls, and threats are heard, seen, or felt, into a place of infinite danger; and hard on the heels of this change, the interloper who finds himself stranded in what is without doubt the realm of some other force, realizes the extent of his error. Even the foragers atop the rocks had not truly realized the extent to which Ashkatar’s painted warriors had established their presence in every part of the Wood; but following the first terrible screams that echoed up from the chasm beneath the Fallen Bridge, and the subsequent drone of a Davon ram’s horn being blown, every tree, rock, bush, or shadow seemed to disgorge one or more such brave souls. As always, unlike the forces of the Tall, the Bane fighters included women, more than ready and trained to inflict deadly punishment upon their enemies; and their cries, being the higher in pitch, quickly drove the men of Baster-kin’s khotor into a kind of fear that bordered on madness.

  And once this confused and unstable (indeed, given the darkness of the Wood, to which the eyes of the Guardsmen were not at all accustomed, this nightmarish) condition had been established, almost anything seemed possible. First, of course, Ashkatar’s constant emphasis on vicious war cries from both his male and female warriors made it impossible for units of Broken soldiers to relay orders or to take any accurate measure of how many enemy forces were actually involved in the fight. In truth, the Bane were badly outnumbered; but terror is a mighty method of nullifying such imbalances of power. This effect was only increased by the fact that any attempt by a soldier of the Tall to call for aid instantly marked both the man in distress and those who dared raise their voices in response for death. Fear, again, is whipped into panic if a soldier fighting for his life on foreign ground feels that he cannot even communicate with his fellows without immediately being confronted with the image of an enemy whose body is painted to match the leaves and bark of the surrounding wild plants and trees, or, worse yet, the fur and teeth, feathers and beaks of the deadliest night creatures, and whose immediate attack, therefore, quite aside from being incomprehensibly loud and savagely noisy, is wild and almost bestial in its appearance as well as its violence. Such terrifying methods, if carried off with the skill of which the Bane were masters, could go a very long way toward counteracting differences in numbers, if those differences were not utterly overwhelming.

  And then, of course, there was always the bloodshed itself, simple yet supremely effective gore, which Lord Baster-kin’s Guard liked to think they understood, as a weapon, but which they had never truly seen demonstrated until that night. The sights, smells, and sounds of comrades being torn open and apart, dismembered and otherwise disfigured and dispatched, sapped the Guardsmen of what little real understanding they had of combat. When the forest floor became wet with blood in the middle of the night, as well as when the curiously horrifying colors and visions of human guts laid open to Moon- and torchlight were encountered, and a soldier was almost certain that the gore was that of his fellows, the man’s usefulness in combat (especially if he was unfamiliar with the sight, as was nearly every Guardsman) was quickly cut down to almost nothing, and his primary concern shifted from inflicting punishment to somehow trying to make sure that his own blood, guts, and limbs were not added to the heaps and rivulets that had been loosed by swords, gutting blades, spearheads, crude iron halberds and axes, and daggers.

  One can often hear it said, among posturing fools such as those young men who have long spent the better part of their lives in the Stadium in Broken, that some peacetime activity is “like a war,” or even “is war”; but such only serves to demonstrate how far they have ever lived in remove from any true battlefield or other place of large-scale violence: for war, like all human activities related to the creation or termination of life, is un
ique, unique in its pain and fearfulness, of course, but unique, perhaps most of all, in its loneliness, as well as in each participant’s terrible lack of certainty—unimaginable until the moment has arrived—of whether or not she or he will survive.

  In this case, the sudden realization, felt as a group, that the Guard were in fact not more than a match for the Bane, and that their allotted time on this Earth and in this Life had abruptly expired, added an additional note of horror to the shrieks that increasingly escaped the men of Lord Baster-kin’s creatures that night; and it was a type of cry that made even Stasi, who had seen so much terrible death in her comparatively short time upon the Earth, draw closer to Caliphestros, Keera, and even Veloc, as much to comfort her own soul as to make sure that her friends did not leave their positions and attempt to enter the fray that was taking place in the darkness of the woodland beneath the rocks that sheltered them all.

  Finally, the Guardsmen’s religion, their all-important faith in Kafra, failed them at the last. The soldiers of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard had received special sanction from the God-King and the Grand Layzin of Broken before this particular undertaking—sanction not only represented by the beaten bronze bands that they wore clamped to their upper arms, but manifested in their grossly overconfident behavior as they marched into the Wood. Kafra, the priests had already assured the men of the Guard, would provide them special protection and special power. And yet here they were, now, themselves, with death striking at them from out of the darkness at every turn and along every path—including and especially from above. The Bane tactic of dropping down to slash at the throats and other essential parts of their enemies’ bodies in an even more sudden and shocking manner than could be managed from their very effective hiding places on the ground was wholly new and especially frightening, for Baster-kin’s men; yet no matter how the latter called out to the god whose smiling countenance was depicted on the bands that encircled their arms, Kafra remained deaf to their pleas. The number of deaths among them—either from wounds or from being hurled over the cliffs above the Cat’s Paw, below which their skulls and bodies would be shattered and mangled upon and overwhelmed by the deadly rocks and rushing waters of Hafften Falls or the Ayerzess-werten—mounted with astonishing speed, and this one relatively confined area of Davon Wood grew ever more littered by and soaked with the bodies, entrails, and blood of soldiers of the Tall.