The Legend of Broken

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 Adelwulf’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 supposed 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 Adelwulf 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, Adelwulf — 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 Adelwulf, 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 Adelwulf 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 Adelwulf’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 accursed 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, Adelwulf, 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 Adelwulf 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 Adelwulf, 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 Adelwulf 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 Adelwulf’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 Adelwulf 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 Adelwulf, 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 Adelwulf’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.

“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 Adelwulf’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 …”

And, never bothering to glance at the last public remains of what he thinks his old, failed family, Baster-kin strides from the Stadium, his mind fixed on the new future he believes he has finally constructed for himself.

Part Three: The Riddle Put to Power

And so, my dear Gibbon, it is neither entirely my revulsion at this story’s more lurid aspects, nor my impatience with your historical prurience, as you may think, but rather my concern for your gifts and legacy as a Great Intellect and a Great Author, an Historian whose work will prove not only popular but seminal, that compels me to return the manuscript you have “discovered,” and urge you to destroy it at once; or, if your pointed interest in such strange subject matter, and in the ultimately disturbing and distasteful conclusions toward which the tale propels itself, force you to keep it, at least conceal the thing in a place where it cannot be discovered, and above all do not publish it, certainly not in any form that can be connected to your good name.

And if you will make an honest attempt to apprehend my concerns, I will in turn confess to my own personal