The Legend of Broken

shouted and units being marshaled begin an ever-louder but always ordered chorus, outside the tent, as Visimar remains behind to study Arnem’s continuing reaction to the momentous intelligence he has received. Finally, Sixt Arnem murmurs only, “Kafra’s stones …,” and almost immediately afterward stands and shouts: “Ernakh!” Before the briefest instant has passed, the skutaar appears from Arnem’s private quarters in the rear of the tent, and presents himself to his lord with almost as much bearing as the officers who have just departed. “You heard all that has taken place?”

“Aye, master,” Ernakh replies, eager to serve.

“Then ride north to meet the wagon,” the commander says, “and guide it here— directly here, to the rear of my tent. The children know and trust you, and even if this seneschal does not, their trust will bring about his compliance. Am I clear?”

Nodding rapidly, Ernakh salutes, then runs out of the tent to his waiting horse.

Turning to Visimar after the boy has departed, Arnem says, “Well, cripple — here is a development about which neither your master nor his faithful birds could have warned us.”

“No, Sentek,” Visimar replies, having felt it expedient, some few days before the evening on which this evening’s council of war took place, to tell the commander the truth of Caliphestros’s remarkable avian allies, so that Arnem might know just how the old man was receiving messages from his onetime teacher. “My master had a remarkable ability to communicate with creatures other than men, when I served him. And I would wager that ten years in the wilderness have done nothing save add to it. But as to why this lone wagon should be coming — at such speed, and with the passengers and driver it bears — no creature, I suspect, be it man, bird, or other, could or can guess. Not until its arrival …”

“You may be right,” Arnem says, pulling back the rear entrance to the end of his tent and gazing into the dark northern landscape. “Certainly, I cannot yet say — but before this night is done, I will determine what, by Hel, is taking place here …”

3:{ix:}

The initial and extraordinary meeting of enemies and friends in the

camp of the Talons, and the arrival of unexpected guests …

The visitors who walk under a broad white banner of truce stop in a wide line some fifty paces from the southern entrance to Arnem’s main camp; and at this distance, the Talons — who have prepared themselves for a fight, if a fight is to be offered — can discern that their opponents are not so many in number as was first reported; it was merely the order of their march that made them appear so impressive, as well as certain almost unbelievable participants in it.

At their center, the legless “sorcerer,” Caliphestros, rides astride the shoulders of the most legendary animal, not only in Davon Wood, but in Broken, as well: the famed white panther, who escaped the last of the great Tall panther hunts, that of the present Lord Baster-kin. On this astonishing pair’s right, proudly holding no more seemingly lethal weapon than an impressive whip, is a man that Visimar knows to be Yantek Ashkatar, commander of the Bane army. Yet no khotor or even fauste of troops encircle this renowned leader for his protection: only a dozen of what any experienced soldier can see are his senior officers walk behind him, and all keep their weapons sheathed. At the end of this side of Caliphestros’s apparent escort are three more faces, the male pair of which the Talons know only too well: they are the ever-troublesome, ever-enraging, yet ever-formidable Heldo-Bah, as well as the handsome but heavily resented Veloc, who has cuckolded more than a few Tall soldiers who now stand safely behind their spiked ditch, as well as their hastily but expertly constructed palisade. The female figure at the end of this wing, meanwhile, is the renowned tracker Keera, looking not only wise, but also impressive, even formidable, and therefore, perhaps unexpectedly, like the perfect anchor for the left side of the assembly.

On the opposite side of Caliphestros and the white panther are, first, a group of humbly dressed, elderly and bearded men who exude wisdom, and must, Visimar therefore reasons, be the Groba Elders, and then less than a fauste of Bane warriors, male and female, whose swords are sheathed and who, it can only be supposed, are the Elders’ only official escort.

For long moments, this delegation must remain where it stands, for Sixt Arnem is still within his tent, awaiting the arrival of the cart that carries his children from the north before he will join the conference: it being always best to know the true disposition of one’s own countrymen and allies before attempting to negotiate with one’s enemies. This being the case, it becomes the duty of Niksar and Visimar to play chief emissaries, and to depart by foot from their camp to greet their visitors, followed by Taankret, Bal-deric, Weltherr, Crupp, Akillus (who feels it only right to stay in his saddle, in order to balance the scales of the meeting just a bit), and a few other linnets, all of whom have been placed under the strictest orders to bring only minimal weapons, and to keep even these sheathed or slung so long as there is no trouble. This does not prevent Fleckmester and his men from keeping their arrows secretly nocked and at the ready as they observe from the bristling ditch, of course; but the master archer issues this order on his own authority, for neither Niksar nor especially Visimar believes it will in any manner prove necessary.

Nevertheless, the representatives of the kingdom of Broken (if such they truly are, any longer, after all they have heard and seen on their current campaign) approach the line of Wood-dwellers and their allies cautiously, particularly when they see the utterly fiendish expression on Heldo-Bah’s face, try as the gap-toothed forager may to exhibit his most somber behavior. When the two lines of opposing representatives are some ten paces apart, Niksar holds his hand up, and all become still where they stand. Searching the group before him, Arnem’s aide says, not without some admiration:

“I see no Outragers among you — a gesture, I wonder, or a deception?”

The Groba Father turns to Caliphestros, indicating that the latter will be best suited to speak for their delegation, and the legless old man says, “A gesture, I assure you — for none you see here have any great affection for that particular group of the Moon priestess’s servants.” Turning quickly to his onetime acolyte, Caliphestros cannot repress a smile, tinged with sadness as it may be. “Well, old friend — the years have been as kind to you as they have to me, I see.”

Visimar returns the smile. “But have not swayed my loyalties, master,” he says. “I am glad to see you, in whatever condition.”

“And I you, rest assured,” Caliphestros replies. “But what of Sentek Arnem? Surely we cannot proceed without him.”

“No,” Niksar says, his eyes even more transfixed by the white panther (as indeed are all those of the officers of Broken) than they are by the man who was Second Minister in their kingdom when most of them were children and a heretical sorcerer by the time they became young men. “But he should not be long. He has received new intelligence from Broken that may affect this parley. From the seneschal of the clan Baster-kin himself.”

Caliphestros’s eyes go suddenly wide, and a smile of an entirely different sort — one that unnerves Niksar, who knows nothing of the infamous outcast’s past dealings with the Merchant Lord and his servants — makes its way into his features. “Radelfer?” the old man asks. “Is this true, Visimar?”

“I myself have not seen him, master,” Visimar replies. “But while we wait for the sentek’s arrival, he suggested that we might pass the time with preliminaries.”

“Well?” Heldo-Bah suddenly queries, falling flat upon his back. “Who’s for knucklebones?”

“Heldo-Bah!” the Groba Father says. “There are protocols to be followed!”

“Well, Father,” the troublesome forager replies, bringing himself up on his elbows. “I’m simply saying, if we’re going to sit out here in the sun wasting time, why not cast a few rounds? What other sorts of ‘protocols’ for simply marking time do you suppose we might discover that we have in common?”

Veloc claps a head to his forehead. “Each time I think he has reached the limits of appalling behavior,” he announces to both sides in the negotiation, “there is some new offense. And I, as his friend, must apologize for it …”