The Legend of Broken

mechanism: my sole responsibility is to set it in motion, then stand away and observe its working.”

“Hak!” Isadora scoffs, as loudly and rudely as she can manage. “As though you could stand away from anything involving those men …”

“Besides—” Ignoring his wife’s cynicism, Arnem stands, arranging his armor and the clothing beneath it. He then picks up his cloak and hands it to Isadora. “Five children later is no time to be telling a husband what you do and do not despise about him.”

“Well — your children believe your nonsense, at any rate.” Isadora stands and straightens her own garments, before she sets to fixing the silver eagle’s claws of Sixt’s cloak in place on his wide shoulders. “They hope and trust, as one, that you will thrash the evil Bane, and come home soon.” Uncontrollably, her arms go around the sentek’s neck in a moment of earnestness. “As do I …”

“Do they?” Arnem chuckles. He then holds Isadora at arm’s length, that he may consume the sight of her in solitude one last time — and catches sight of the silver clasp fixed to her gown. “Oh, wife …” He touches the clasp, understanding, as do most in Broken, what it signifies. “Must you wear that thing? There is always the chance that some one of my superiors will learn of your past and your … opinions. It cannot help our cause.”

“It could,” Isadora replies coyly, knowing that it will irritate her husband. But then, with greater seriousness, she declares, “Come, now — it’s only a meaningless keepsake, Sixt. I’ve only ever really trusted two people in my life, since my parents were killed: you”—She pokes her husband hard in the throat, just above his armor—“and Gisa. Am I not allowed that much?”

“Just see that you don’t wear it while I’m gone,” Arnem answers. “We need no further trouble from the priests — and if you seek to explain any peculiar behavior on Baster-kin’s part, his spies reporting that you wear such barbarian idols would more than serve the purpose. Who knows how much of this business with Dalin is spurred by such talk?”

“I don’t intend to wear it while you’re gone,” Isadora replies, undoing the clasp. “I’m giving him to you.”

“To me?” Arnem groans. “What in the world am I to do with such a thing? Other than make my men doubt my sanity?”

“Keep it close, husband,” Isadora says, finding a small pocket in the soft padding of his gambeson, beneath both his leather armor and his mail. “For my sake. I don’t like the notion of this war, Sixt — and, whatever you may have thought of Gisa and her religion, this token has always brought me something more precious than luck.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The god it depicts, as you know, traded one of his eyes for wisdom. Such is what it has always brought me, and you shall need all you can muster.”

“You know full well, Isadora,” Arnem protests, “that I have never said a word against Gisa …” He pulls the clasp out and studies it. “But her kindness and her skill as a healer were separate from her faith.”

“She would have argued against such a conclusion.”

“Perhaps. But I can’t very well wear it, that’s certain. I could be stripped of my rank, and much worse, simply for possessing such a thing.”

Isadora presses a finger to his mouth. “Do you suppose I don’t realize that? I do not ask that you wear it.” She secures the clasp in his pocket. “Just take it and keep it, hidden but close. As quietly as you can — if that’s possible.”

“Insults, now?” Arnem shrugs. “Very well, I submit. But I don’t know what good a half-blind old man and two ravens are likely to do me.”

“It’s not your place to know — just let it be, and see what occurs.”

Arnem nods, and then the pair catch each other’s eyes: the hour has arrived, and they both know it.

“Come,” he says, taking her in his arms again. “We must address the men. You’ve always been their favorite — and yes, I’ve always been unhappy about that fact, if such pleases your vanity.”

“It does,” Isadora replies, kissing her husband deeply just once more; then she whispers into his armor, so quietly that he cannot hear: “You will be back.” She feels again for the clasp. “He will see to it …”

Slowly and quietly, save for a few unexplained laughs such as pass between those who together have grown beyond explanations for such, the couple goes to the door. Sixt opens it, Isadora eases onto the platform at the head of the steps—

And a deafening roar rises up from the quadrangle, a sound more unrestrained than any heard within the Fourth District since last the sentek brought his wife to appear before his troops. The spectacle below and about Isadora is an awesome one: the five hundred most battle-hardened, disciplined men in the army of Broken stand in formation, cheering in appreciation. Surrounding these, in every free area, stand still more men, from other units that will not march today, who wish only to celebrate their comrades, their new commander, and, most of all, the woman who is their commonly held ideal of all that they train and march to war to preserve.

Arnem allows the men to continue until it seems they will exhaust themselves, and then takes his wife’s hand and holds it aloft.

“Talons!” he shouts, when their roaring lowers to surmountable cheers. “Shall I designate my wife to lead you against the Bane?”

The troops burst out in an ecstatic affirmation that makes even their first mighty effort pale by comparison; and only Isadora herself can finally quiet them, by holding up her free hand.

“I fight a far more ferocious battle at home,” she calls out, “against an enemy just as small, yet far more devious!”

It is almost more than the soldiers can bear, particularly the married men: Isadora’s words bring thoughts of their own homes and their own children, while she herself becomes the very spirit of all their wives; and her words draw a final, ecstatic cheer that is the loudest of all. It is for Arnem, now, to silence them, by banishing his own smile, letting his wife step behind him, and holding his arms up. On the ground, every linnet calls his men to attention, and they are silent, snapping their spears to their sides and fastening their eyes on the man in whom they have placed such trust as few are ever allowed to experience.

“You all know,” Arnem begins, when the men have become so silent that the warm western wind can be heard rushing through the yard, “of the fate of Yantek Korsar! We shall not dwell on it. Remember his past service to this kingdom, for it is all he would wish you to remember, along with the great cause to which he devoted his long life — the safety of this city and this kingdom! We are now charged with that responsibility, and we undertake our duty in dangerous territory. Or so some say. I say that, for the Talons, Kafra has yet to create the ground that is truly dangerous — let the enemy look to the dangers the ground holds for them! And in the meantime, we shall march to the Meloderna, to gather up all the supplies our train can carry. But supplies alone will not steel your hearts. To that end, I say only this: however insignificant the Bane may seem to any of you, they are a vicious people who have tried to strike at the beating heart of this kingdom — the God-King himself. The end of Saylal is the end of all you hold dear, Talons — defend him, defend the name of your legion, defend one another, and above all, defend your homeland, where your families will wait, secure in the knowledge that you will make them proud, and will return to them! Talons — Kafra bless you all, bless the God-King, and bless this noble kingdom! We march now!”

Only hours upon years of the most exacting training can hold the men of the Talons in their places at that moment. They shout with renewed passion, while the other soldiers, who are not required to be in formation, leap about, hang from the roofs of the other buildings in the quadrangle, and bounce off one another like wild animals. As if on cue, Niksar appears with Arnem’s horse, the speckled grey stallion known throughout the army as “the Ox,” in affectionate homage to the founder of Broken. Arnem descends to the ground before his wife and, placing a foot in one of his saddle’s iron stirrups,† he mounts the restless grey. He then coaxes him closer to the steps, and reaches down to pull his wife onto the saddle in front of him — another gesture that drives the soldiers to delighted distraction.

And thus seated, Isadora stays, as the troops turn at the blare of horn calls from their standard-bearers. The column that marches out of the Fourth District is a joyous one, tempered only when, having ridden with her husband to the Celestial Way, Isadora kisses the sentek once more, then dismounts: the soldiers must now proceed through the city to the High Temple, and what is fond camaraderie in the Fourth District will seem improper before the Grand Layzin and Lord Baster-kin. And so, with the lead cavalry units having been brought their hundred horses (herded up from the greener slopes of the mountain before being saddled earlier in the day), the column starts