The Legend of Broken

by Caleb Carr

  “Now, my constant one—let us find she that you have for so long dreamed of freeing and bringing home. And as we do so, let us free the rest of these unfortunates—although I would be grateful if you would prevent any one of them who mistakes our intentions from tearing out my throat …”

  As the white panther and the man who walks like no other man the beasts have ever seen begin to move through the passageways between the cells, Caliphestros pauses to unlock each door; and he is happy, although not altogether surprised, to discover that each animal—wolf, wildcat, bear, and more—would rather make for the stairs and what they all obviously sense is freedom than they would kill such strange and unworthy prey as he must seem. Yet the liberating pair’s quest is peculiarly long: the cells are many in number, the terrible yet exhilarating sounds of the freed prisoners are confusing, and the pathway grows ever darker as they wind on and on through a maze of iron.

  Finally, however, panther and man come to the last of the cells, and Stasi’s motions become ever more anxious and agitated. Within this last place of filthy imprisonment, Caliphestros can now see, paces she whom his companion has sought: a panther much like herself, if slightly smaller, far leaner, and displaying a far more golden coat, one that is smudged by the dirt of her cell. With all the other animals already departed, Caliphestros feels safe in allowing Stasi to approach the cell first as he stands unguarded to one side, observing yet another of the miracles of which his companion is, it seems, infinitely capable.

  Stasi moves slowly to the bars: a strange slowness, when one considers the ardor and speed with which she made for the Stadium. But Caliphestros is not confused: for he knows her expressions by now, and there is an air of contrition about her face and movements, as she steps forward to put her nose between the shafts of iron, where it touches that of the younger panther within. As she moves to lick the muzzle of her long-lost child, that offspring at first snarls quietly, as if to ask, it seems to Caliphestros, why Stasi should have left her in the place of misery for so many years. Only when the white panther looks back at her human companion does he move forward upon his crutches and single wooden leg to unlock the door of the cell. Stasi quickly enters, enduring the two or three swipes of a strong paw that has been kept quick by Broken’s wealthy youth: actions that are clearly meant, not to genuinely injure, but to register deep anger at so long an abandonment. Stasi endures these motions without reaction, and then again moves forward to begin to lick the filth of the cell from her daughter’s fur. When the child has finally submitted, and begins to return what are, in her case, touches of affection with her own tongue, the feeling within the cage loses its momentary sense of unease; and before long, both panthers are purring with extraordinary volume.

  Just how long this ritual goes on, Caliphestros cannot say: for his own sense of rapture, combined with the full effect of his medicines (augmented by a few sips from a wineskin that he has found hanging from a wall nearby) make time utterly irrelevant. Nevertheless, it is a delicate moment for the old man: for he does not yet know if the two reunited panthers will allow him into their company, or even if his own relationship to Stasi will remain unaffected by her discovery of the child to whom she has called, on so many evenings, from the mountainside far, far beyond the granite city.

  Soon, however, Stasi does turn to Caliphestros, with an expression of utter kindness. Her daughter’s face, too, bears no trace of malice: in all likelihood, the old man realizes, because (as in the case of the other imprisoned animals) he is so utterly unlike any other human she has encountered during her long torment. Far from brandishing a whip or chain, Caliphestros does not even present legs; no man could be less threatening, he realizes, and for the first time in his life he finds himself, if not grateful to have lost his legs, at least momentarily relieved at his mutilated image. He is, as he has hoped he might, being asked to join mother and daughter: somehow Stasi has imparted to her child that he is to be accepted, perhaps even that he has made this reunion possible; and with a sense of reverence beyond anything he has ever known, the old man enters the cell and approaches the two panthers. Understanding fully when Stasi first nuzzles his face and then bends her front legs, indicating that he is to climb upon her back once more—showing her daughter both how they have survived and lived, for so many years, and that they must now leave this place that embodies the worst of human behavior before there is any new attempt to imprison them all—Caliphestros quickly removes his walking apparatus, again slips the three wooden pieces through the straps upon his back, and pulls himself onto Stasi’s shoulders. And, as he stares into the eyes of his companion’s daughter, he announces:

  “And so, my two beauties, let us be done, altogether and at last, with the places and affairs of men …” The white panther appears to understand his meaning completely, and guides her child, first out of the cell, then toward the staircase down which she and her rider came. “Let us return your daughter to the Wood, Stasi,” Caliphestros continues, “and let us speak or think no more of this wretched, cruel place, or of the kingdom and such humans as would be capable of building it …”

  With that, the three are upon their way, following the tracks of the other freed animals back toward the smashed portcullis and the Celestial Way beyond, which remains as empty as when they arrived. Their escape would seem assured; yet even so, Caliphestros knows that there is one task that both of his companions would gladly attend to, had they the opportunity. Freedom is certainly more important, at this moment, especially when it appears to be waiting without obstruction, but both mother and child glance about quickly, less in fear than out of seeming desire—

  And Fate does not cast the panthers—to say nothing of their legless companion—among the foolish or the undeserving: not on this day, at any rate. On the contrary, it has decided at this moment to be kind (or that which ever passes for “kind,” when one speaks of Fate) to all three of the fleeing figures: for, just after they pass the open court before Broken’s High Temple, a group of men appear in the middle distance ahead of them. It is not a large group: one man in the center, who appears unarmed and wears a heavy black cloak, surrounded by three blood-soaked members of the Merchant Lord’s Guard, all of whom who hold their gory blades by their sides. The men look at the approaching rider and panthers with near disbelief; while Caliphestros, Stasi, and her newly freed daughter eye the men with a mix of challenge and satisfaction, as they draw to a sudden halt.

  “I had heard you were in the city once more—and atop the white panther I once nearly killed,” calls the voice of Rendulic Baster-kin. “I must confess I did not credit the report—why, I wondered, if the great Caliphestros had managed to survive his punishment, would he return to Broken, merely to liberate a simple, vicious beast?”

  Taking a moment to ensure that his response will be steady, Caliphestros calls out: “As to their viciousness, under the correct circumstances, I can certainly attest—as can you yourself, I have heard, Baster-kin.” The old man slides from Stasi’s lowered shoulders once again, even before he has had a chance to arrange his walking equipment. “But as to their simplicity,” he continues, while the panthers proceed to snarl, pace, and coil their powerful muscles. “I believe you will learn that they possess almost every quality, save that …”

  Baster-kin looks about him to observe the mounting fear of the three Guardsmen who form his escort—and who have just committed the great sacrilege of murdering an escort of unsuspecting attendants from the High Temple (for they do indeed know that their only hope of survival is to save their lord and kill those who lead his enemies)—and, with a harshness unusual even for him, he shouts:

  “Why do you quake, you miserable dogs? They are but two panthers, and both afraid of the sound of my voice. Hold your blades forth, as I do”—at which the Merchant Lord suddenly produces a blade from beneath his cloak and assumes a stance that would indicate his every intention to battle Stasi and her daughter—“and prepare to kill the beasts, before we finally finish the crippled o
ld heretic who rides with them, using sorcery to direct their actions!”

  But Rendulic Baster-kin, whose judgment of such situations is usually sound, is mistaken about this moment, in two critical ways: Caliphestros, as we have often seen, does not direct Stasi’s actions; and it is therefore even less likely that he controls her daughter’s. Even more importantly, only one of the noble creatures fears the sound of Basterkin’s voice. Stasi’s daughter does indeed hear and view the onetime Merchant Lord with both hatred and hesitancy, as she did in the Stadium during the events that led to the death of Adelwf; freed from the restraints of the Stadium’s chains, however, she at least can smell the fear rising off the three Guardsmen, and her green eyes go cold as she eyes them. And for her part, Stasi feels not the slightest worry at the sound of Baster-kin’s barking: she is consumed only by a craving for vengeance that has finally been unleashed, after so many years during which the possibility of its realization has been delayed, leaving her to languish in sorrow. In her mind, now, she returns to the patch of forest where her family was taken from her; but her leg is no longer wounded, nor are any such mounted Broken spearmen as inflicted that original, disabling hurt to be seen. She fixes her gaze on Baster-kin with a rage such as she scarcely ever exhibits, even in the wilds of Davon Wood.

  What Caliphestros observes next would make most men pale with horror, fear, and revulsion. But the ag exile has also had many years to allow his desire for this moment to outpace such emotions. As he drags himself to a nearby gateway, insisting on pulling himself into as upright and dignified a position as he can in the few brief minutes that the contest before him will take, he feels neither compassion for what he once would have called his fellow humans, nor repugnance at the sight of what ensues:

  The panthers slam into the three Guardsmen that face them before the latter can even fully raise their sword arms. One of the murderous humans is sent into the air and lands a remarkable distance away, his body lofted and his throat torn out by a fast movement of the right fore-paw of Stasi’s daughter; and although the man gasps desperately as blood spurts from a gaping series of long, parallel wounds in his neck, it is to no avail, and he dies within moments. A second member of Baster-kin’s escort, meanwhile, has received the younger panther’s head fully in the chest and ribs, the bones of which shatter and are driven into his heart. To ensure his death, the daughter’s enormous, piercing teeth soon close upon his neck, nearly severing the now-useless ball of bone and flesh that once sat atop his shoulders from his body.

  Stasi, in the meantime, has dispatched the last of the Guardsmen with equal speed and skill, enfolding him in her ripping claws and throttling teeth when he makes a foolish attempt to protect his leader. She has been careful to carry the man, with the force of her attacking leap, out of the reach of Baster-kin’s blade: a blade, the force behind which has been momentarily weakened by the realization that the white panther does not in fact fear him at all: that it was only her wound that held her back, so long ago, during their encounter in the Wood. Soon enough, Baster-kin’s third murderous escort has also left the realm of the living, when Stasi’s great frontal killing teeth pierce his skull and instantly bring death. Now, both panthers turn upon their old antagonist, uncertain as to which will undertake the task of sending him to join his hirelings.

  As Caliphestros watches what he believes is the approaching doom of his own tormentor, he expects the former Merchant Lord’s pride to finally crumble. Even at such a moment, however, Baster-kin somehow regains his defiance: a defiance born of years of suffering his own father’s drunken diseased abuse, and of having risen above that abuse to become the most powerful and, it is true, the best of all the Merchant Lords in Broken’s history. He begins to shout senselessly, urging the panthers to come for him; and whether such is true courage or madness brought on by the moment, Caliphestros cannot say. But he can see that it causes still another moment of hesitation in the younger panther, a moment that, given Baster-kin’s own physical strength, could be perilous. Rightly turning to face the white panther first, Baster-kin stands his ground, as if he is actually ready to accept her initial charge: a charge that, at the last instant, he uses his powerful legs to deftly avoid, turning quickly to make sure that Stasi has tumbled to the ground beyond him before he rashly and viciously pursues her, his blade held high. Caliphestros calls out a warning, and Stasi is able to regain her feet; but when man charges panther, this time, the peril of an unhappy outcome all too similar to that which took place in the Wood (whether death or another grievous wound) is enough to strike Caliphestros dumb with terror. Yet just as it seems that Baster-kin may indeed inflict a cutting blow to Stasi, the man whose might was once unquestioned in his realm is suddenly thrown forward, his mouth open as if he would cry out in pain—that is, had he not been struck in the back with so great a force that his spine is shattered, stilling his tongue. His hand loses its grip upon his sword, and he clutches for long moments after it, unable to recover the weapon or even to move his lower body before he sees the sky above him blotted out by the head of one of the panthers.

  Stasi’s daughter has indeed been inspired by her mother to overcome the uncertainty caused by so many years of terror at the sound of Basterkin’s voice; and at the last instant she has found the courage to charge and cripple her tormentor, and then throw him into the air with such force that he now lies upon his back. Stasi joins her child, wishing to at least share in the finishing of this life that has for so long broken their lives; and as Baster-kin feels the white panther’s teeth slowly grasp his body and turn it over, he quickly catches sight of another image previously unknown to these most sacred streets of Broken:

  It is that of three Bane, emerging from the opposite side of the street adjoining the Celestial Way down which Baster-kin and his men had hoped to make their escape. The three have the rough manner and appearance of Bane foragers, or rather, two of them do—the third, a woman, is neither so covered in light mud (mud that was, Baster-kin realizes, not so long ago the dust that he believed was a sure indication that his enemies meant to attack at the East Gate of the city), nor so seemingly bent upon revenge as are her companions. She runs quickly to Caliphestros’s side, slinging the old man’s right arm about her neck and helping him keep his mutilated body, suddenly further weakened by the thought of losing his companion, upright. Looking back at the two Bane men, Baster-kin sees one staring at him with a grim look that perceives naught but justice being done; the third, however, smiles with a set of filed and broken teeth.

  “It is only fair, my lord,” says this man, his words delightedly bitter in tone, and his manner no less fiendish for his size. “Try to fight her now as she once tried to fight you—unarmed, wounded, and unable to move …”

  But Baster-kin has no chance at reply before the jaws above him—which belong to Stasi’s daughter, although he cannot see her—close upon and crush his spine, sinking in far enough to bring blood gushing from the great vessels of his neck. Next, he sees the white panther slowly envelop his skull with her mouth, preparing to use those same stabbing, killing teeth to drive directly into his brain: a death far more merciful than the onetime Merchant Lord granted many a man and creature. As the younger panther joins the white to watch the instant of her tormentor’s death, Baster-kin has only enough life left in him to hear the same Bane forager call out, as he moves with the second male in the party toward Caliphestros:

  “And now, my legless lord—would you mind telling us just exactly where you were in such a hurry to get to, before we arrived opposite those pigs on the ground?”

  They are strange words to be the last I hear, particularly when they come from such a creature, Baster-kin thinks, as the white panther’s jaws close; but then, the golden god has determined that much of my life should be strange—and so perhaps this, too, is only of a part with his design …

  9.

  IN THE GARDEN of the Arnem household, violence of equal savagery, but very different in kind, has been taking place. Having qu
ickly found one of his father’s good short-swords, along with a shield that is nearly as tall as he is, Dagobert has rejoined the Yantek of the Broken Army outside. Arnem swiftly inserts his own, more practiced left arm into the leather straps that are riveted into the back of the shield; and, seeing how much more easily his father wields the thing, Dagobert realizes that his true moment to join the army has not yet come, that he must allow both his body to grow and his arms to learn their trade still more before he can be called a true soldier. But, whether true soldier or apprentice, other matters soon command his attention, as the garden gate finally gives way before the pounding assault of the Guardsmen outside it.

  “Stand close by me, my son,” Arnem says, with no trace of condescension, but the respect he feels must be shown to a warrior, however young, who has acted in the defense of his mother and his home for many days, now. “These shields are so contrived that one will protect us both, if we use it correctly. Your blade goes where?”

  “Above the shield, Father,” Dagobert answers, proud that, even through his fear of the oncoming group of Guardsmen, he remembers the soldiers in the quadrangles of the Fourth District practicing the correct performance of the position to be taken by two men who have but one shield. He moves his arm quickly so that the point of his blade extends just up and over the protective expanse of layered metal, leather and wood, which leaves room for Arnem to stand that much closer to him.