The Legend of Broken

along the southern bank, observing our every move; but any attempt by them to cross the bridge into the Plain now would be as foolish as was the Guard’s original march into the Wood.”

“Hmm,” Arnem noises. “I wish I could say that I doubted you, and that there might in fact be an easy way for our men to get across the Cat’s Paw and achieve our object as originally stated; but the Bane have proved even more than usually clever, during this action.” Preparing himself for the announcement that he is about to make, Arnem takes the towel that is about his neck and grips it tight, as if it will support an overburdened mind, and says in a louder voice, “I’m certain that by now you all know what one or two of you have learned firsthand, and several others have surmised; the true identity of our guest on this march.”

The sentek holds out a hand to the cripple, who sits to his left, at the first seat on that side of the table. Noises of general assent make their way from officer to officer, but few if any are either surprised or uneasy in nature.

“Aye, we have discovered it, Sentek, and have been discussing it,” says one Linnet Crupp,† with whom Arnem has seen long service. The sentek holds this scar-faced man in high regard, not only for his mastery of ballistae, but for the fact that he has ever shown as little true fervor for the faith of the golden god as has Arnem himself. “Can you truly be he?” Crupp continues, smiling, now, as he turns to Visimar. “The same demon-man with whose name I once frightened my children into obedience on nights when they were especially unruly?”

Visimar is sipping a cup of wine and kneading his leg, which has begun suffering from a special pain that, he long ago learned, was and remains a signal of the distant onset of a rain.‡ Given the generally warm, dry conditions of this spring, it is a sensation he has not felt for some time, and would readily have done without for a good while longer: he cannot yet know (despite all his seeming prophetic power) that the rain’s arrival will actually be of vital use to his own and his former master’s secret efforts to undermine the kingdom of Broken.

“I would gladly have had my name never gain such notoriety, amusing as it may now seem, Linnet,” the old man says, as congenially as his discomfort will allow. “If such would have meant living without the decade of pain that I have endured.”

Light laughter — most of it easy, some of it guarded — moves about the table, at which the forward opening of the tent is pulled aside to allow the entrance of several pallins, who bear wooden platters upon which sit roasted joints and slabs of beef, surrounded by various mounds of fire-baked root vegetables and stacks of unleavened, rock-fried pieces of bread. The sight is sudden and welcome, bringing immediate cheers of gratitude and anticipation. Such is the clamor that Arnem must shout to make himself heard by the lead bearer:

“Pallin! You are certain that these roots and this bread consist solely of our own supplies, and have not been gathered locally — and that none bore the marks of which Visimar warned you before they were prepared?”

The pallin nods his head with the kind of smile that has proved a rare sight, on this campaign. “Aye, Sentek,” he replies. “But we dared not keep the stores any longer, given the time we have been on the march and the molds that our guest”—the young soldier inclines his head in Visimar’s direction—“tells us are more likely to form with coming changes in the weather. We in the baggage train have been waiting for the right moment to make use of them — and with camp made secure, this seemed as good a one as any.”

“You see, fellow Talons?” Linnet Taankret announces with a broad grin, wiping his carefully sculpted mustache and beard further from his lips, so that they will not become tainted with food and the grease of the beef, and tucking one corner of a large kerchief beneath his chin, that the piece of fabric may protect his ever-spotless tunic. “We no sooner have confirmation of Visimar’s true identity, than we can enjoy more than dried meat and rock-hard, flat biscuits — I always knew that this old madman, whatever his name, was a breathing and benevolent talisman!”

“I hope that your good humor will last the meal,” calls Arnem, “for there are yet more remarkable facts to be revealed, Taankret. For now, however — let us eat. No more than one cup of wine or beer per man, however!” he adds, pointing to the serving pallins who have begun distributing the drinks to each officer.

“A deep cup, I hope, Sentek,” says Akillus, as he enters the tent to the shouted greetings of the other officers, and takes a place at the bench that runs along the foot of the table.

“Aye, deep I will allow,” Arnem replies. “But the men will have their wits about them, tonight, and I have no intention for my officers to be in any worse condition.”

One linnet-of-the-line, an engineer called Bal-deric,† whom Visimar has noticed and spoken to more than once on this march (largely because the man is without most of the lower portion of his left arm, lost to a mishap during an excavation that employed large, oxen-driven machinery, and has substituted for it an ingenious assembly of leather fittings, sections of hardwood tree limbs, and steel wheels and wires),† now signals to the older man, then leans back to use his good right hand to pass Visimar a small piece of cotton containing a tightly packed ball of herbs and medicines. Under the sound of the other officers’ conversation, Bal-deric congenially says to his fellow in suffering, “It is the approach of rain, is it not, Visimar? My arm behaves in just the same way. Break this into pieces and swallow it with your wine. A concoction of my own, developed some years ago — I’m sure you will be able to guess its ingredients, and will also find them most efficacious. But by the heavens, do not let any priest of Kafra know that I have given it to you!”

Visimar smiles and takes the packet gratefully, then leans behind the intervening men to say, “I thank you, Bal-deric — and perhaps, if we come out of this business alive, we may discuss the construction of some better substitute for my missing leg than the admittedly crude support I carved myself, after the first year or so of my changed condition — for I have long admired the device you have created to take the place of your arm.”

Bal-deric smiles and nods, and Visimar turns back around, relieved to note that Arnem does not appear to have caught any of this exchange.

As the very last of twilight turns to utter darkness outside the tent, the officers within, most still expressing words of surprise and congratulation to the ever more contented Visimar as they at the same time voice their complete satisfaction with the provisions that have been placed before them, inevitably begin to lose interest in the food, and turn instead to debates about the best and fastest way for their campaign to proceed. Arnem has intended for this to happen; it is the reason for his having limited each man to one cup of drink. And yet, even he, the confident and ever-resourceful commander, finds himself perplexed as to precisely how he will reveal the next portion of his plan — for it does not involve the action desired most by his officers, direct military confrontation, but something very different indeed. Eventually, knowing that he cannot put the matter off, he slams the pommel of his short-sword on the table, and begins to demand reports from each of his officers about the dispositions and moods of their respective units.

“I assure you, Sentek,” declares Taankret, “when you have decided precisely how to take the Talons into Davon Wood, they will be as prepared for the task as they were to fight their way out of that madness in Esleben — and the Wildfehngen will be no less ready to lead.”

Arnem glances for an instant at Visimar, who gives the slightest indication with a movement of his head that the sentek must proceed along some course that is, apparently, known only to the two of them. “That ‘madness in Esleben,’ Taankret, is precisely the point. You may wonder why I ordered the establishment of what would seem so forward a position on our own ground, rather than waiting until we crossed the Cat’s Paw.”

“None among my scouts has wondered as much,” Akillus declares solemnly. “Not given what fills that river. I do not know what black arts the Bane are practicing, in their defense, but … we will need a sure sanctuary on our own soil, for this campaign.”

“Assuming that there is to be any more of a campaign,” Arnem announces, to the sudden consternation of all present.

“But Sentek,” Bal-deric declares. “It was our understanding that such were our orders. It was well known throughout the streets of Broken, before we departed, that these were our objects: the final invasion of Davon Wood, and the destruction of the Bane tribe …”

“Yes,” Arnem replies. “It was well known — by those who had not seen what we have seen on this march.”

“But — Yantek Korsar gave his life precisely because he refused such an order,” Niksar says carefully.

The sentek nods. “And I confess that I did not know why, at the time, Reyne,” Arnem replies. “But on this journey, much has been revealed — much that provides us with answers to that as well as other questions. Certainly the horrific fate of the khotor of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard tells us why the yantek