The Legend of Broken

“From what district?”

The pallin looks surprised. “Sentek? Why, the Third.”

Arnem nods. “A merchant’s son. I suppose your father bought your way into the Talons, because the regular army wasn’t good enough for you.”

The pallin looks straight over Arnem’s head, injured but not wishing to show it. He knows about Sixt Arnem’s past, as does every soldier in the Talons: born in the Fifth District — home to those who have displeased Kafra with their poverty or unsightliness — Arnem was the first man to rise from pallin in the regular army to the rank of sentek, master of the fates of five hundred men. When he was placed in charge of the Talons, the most elite khotor† in the army, many of the officers of that larger force sneered; but when he repelled a months-long attempt at invasion by an army of Torganian‡ raiders, so hardened that they were willing to brave the few passes through the Tombs that remained open at the height of winter, the people of Broken took him wholly to their hearts. Though his family still lives in the Fifth District, Sentek Arnem is acknowledged to be a favorite of both Kafra and the God-King—

None of which, the pallin finally decides, is an excuse for bad manners. “Kafra favors those who succeed in the marketplace, Sentek,” he says, keeping his gaze steady but away from Arnem’s eyes. “I don’t see why their sons should shrink from defending his city, in return.”

“Ah, but many do, these days,” Arnem replies. “Too many, Pallin Ban-chindo — and those that do serve are forever asking for a place in the Talons. We soon shall be without a regular army altogether.”

The pallin is in deep water, and he knows it: “Well — if those who will serve can afford a place in the finest legion in the army, is it not Kafra’s will? And why should they shy from the glory — or from the danger?”

Arnem chuckles in an unmistakably friendly manner. “No need to be so nervous, Pallin Ban-chindo — that’s a fine sentiment, bravely stated. I am well rebuked.” Arnem rises, and grips the young man’s shoulder for an instant. “All right. We have seen several torches, making their way from the Wood to Lord Baster-kin’s Plain. What shall we do?”

“That — that is not for me to say, Sentek—”

Arnem quickly holds up an open hand. “Now, now — between one future sentek and one former pallin. What would you do?”

“Well — I would—” The pallin stumbles ever more clumsily over his words, angering himself: how can he deserve higher rank if he cannot seize this opportunity? “I would — report it. I think.”

“Report it. Ah. To whom?”

“Well, to — to Yantek Korsar, perhaps, or—”

“Yantek Korsar?” Arnem feigns amazement gently. “Are you sure, Pallin? Yantek Korsar has the worries of the entire army of Broken to occupy him. In addition to which, he is on in years — and a widower.” The sentek grows pensive, for an instant, thinking not only of his commander and old friend, Yantek Herwald Korsar,† but of Korsar’s dead wife, Amalberta.‡ Known as “the Mother of the Army,” Amalberta was one of the few people Arnem ever encountered in whom he recognized true kindness, and her death two years earlier shook the sentek almost as much as it did Korsar—

But Arnem must not dwell on sadness; for such sentiments are precisely what he came up on the walls to avoid. “All of which,” he says, recapturing his authoritative tone, “makes our commander doubly fond of what little sleep he can manage. No, I don’t think we want to risk a burst of his infamous temper, Ban-chindo. Isn’t there someone else?”

“I don’t — perhaps—” Ban-chindo brightens. “Perhaps Lord Baster-kin? The torches are moving toward his land, after all.”

“True enough. Baster-kin, eh? And this time you are certain?”

“Yes, Sentek. I should report the matter to Lord Baster-kin.”

“Ban-chindo …” Arnem strides deliberately up and down the thick stone wall. “It is now past the Moonrise: the middle of the night. Do you know the master of the Merchants’ Council, by chance?”

“He is a legendary patriot!” Ban-chindo snaps his spear again.

“You’ll bruise yourself, boy,” Arnem says, “if you can’t bridle your enthusiasm. Yes, Lord Baster-kin is indeed a patriot.” The sentek has an unusual respect for Broken’s Merchant Lord, despite the tensions and rivalries that have ever existed between the Merchants’ Council and the leaders of Broken’s army. Yet he knows, as well, that Baster-kin is a short-tempered man, and he shares this fact with Pallin Ban-chindo: “But his lordship is also given to working all hours of the night, and he does not suffer trivial concerns lightly. Now, shall I barge into his residence, where he is doubtless poring over ledgers and accounts, and start slapping my own spear about like some dog- bitten lunatic,† saying, ‘Excuse me, my lord, but Pallin Ban-chindo has seen several torches moving toward your plain, and believes that something must be done right away — even though your Personal Guard do patrol the area’?”

The pallin lets the spear drift, staring at the stone walkway. “No …”

“How’s that?”

Ban-chindo straightens. “No, Sentek,” he replies. “It’s only—”

“It’s only the boredom, Ban-chindo. Nothing more.”

The young soldier looks Arnem in the eye. “You know …?”

Arnem nods slowly, looking first to his left and the nearest turreted guard tower, then to his right, at a similar squat stone structure some fifty feet away. Near each of these, a young man much like Pallin Ban-chindo stands vigilant. Arnem lets out a leaden sigh. “We’ve been a long time at peace, Ban-chindo. Eight years since the end of the Torganian war. And now …” The sentek leans against the rough parapet. “Now our best hope of action is to fight a tribe of scavengers half our size, in a cursed forest that only a dwarf could master and a fool would attack.” He hammers a fist gently on the surface of the parapet. “Yes, Ban-chindo. I understand your boredom …”

And only wish I truly shared it, Arnem muses silently. He reminds himself again that there is no reason for the commander of the Talons to be standing guard duty, and concentrates his attention on the area in the distance where those terribly small lights danced so briefly, hoping they will reappear, and that some warlike crisis will arise to keep his mind from the troubling personal thoughts that have gnawed at him for days. But the lights are gone, and the sentek turns in disappointment to look out over the city that stretches away before him.

Broken lies largely asleep, waiting for the day of feverish trading that will begin with the dawn. From this vantage, Arnem has an unobstructed view of the marketplaces and merchants’ houses of the Second and Third Districts, the largest sections of the city, at this hour all dim and serene. Farther to the north, in the wealthy First District, such respite is unknown: six-foot-high oil and coal braziers burn perpetually outside the High Temple of Kafra, fed day and night by diligent acolytes. Arnem’s soul is thrown into deeper turmoil at the sight of it, and he seeks solace in the Fourth District, where the main force of the army of Broken is quartered, and then in his own Fifth District, its nighttime peace riven by those who have failed in the fierce competition of the marketplaces and can find solace only in drink.

The distant roar of a crowd erupts, and Arnem looks northward again, to the city Stadium, which stands just beyond the Temple and, for more years than the sentek can remember, has been ordered open and active day and night. Arnem has often been assured that the development of physical prowess and beauty so essential to the worship of Kafra is facilitated by sporting competitions; while the money that trades hands among the gamblers in attendance creates new fortunes, revealing newly favored souls, and punishing those who have lost their zeal. The sentek has tried hard to accept this reasoning; at the very least, he has kept himself from openly stating that the youths who spend their hours in sport or gambling would be better off serving their kingdom and their god in the army. But recently this self-control, this keeping his questions to himself, has become a difficult chore. For of late, the priests of Kafra — whom Arnem has ever obeyed faithfully — have asked of him something that he cannot give:

They have asked for one of his children.

Arnem’s eyes are drawn ever farther left, to the smooth granite walls of the Inner City and the rooftops of the royal palace beyond. Home to the God-King,† his family, the Grand Layzin (highest of the priests of Kafra and the God-King’s right hand) as well as the beautiful high priestesses known as the Wives of Kafra, the Inner City has not been visited by any common citizen in the more than two centuries of Broken’s history, and remains the city’s