The Legend of Broken

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,” Adelwulf 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 …”

Adelwulf 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 …”

Adelwulf 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 Adelwulf’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. Adelwulf, 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 Adelwulf 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 at 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, Baster-kin 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 believes 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 Adelwulf 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, Adelwulf looks at his father with similar bewilderment. “Father?” he says. “My ‘fate’? And what fate is that to be?”

“Whatever fate you make it, Adelwulf,” 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, Adelwulf: 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