The Legend of Broken

other.

Close by the doorway to the Arnems’ garden, the family’s modest litter† has been made ready. Its light wooden frame and simple bank of cushioned seats are draped with heavy wool, despite the unseasonable warmth of the air, which would usually call for cotton. Such coverings provide plain, effective privacy for passengers within, and the frame offers comfort without luxury, being light enough, with one or two occupants, to be carried by two strong men lifting thick, twelve-foot bearing poles that slip under brackets on each side of the conveyance. In the Arnems’ case, this bearing is done by two enormous, black-bearded men, each of whom wears light, weathered armor — predominantly leather, but reinforced, at vital points, with simple steel plates — and both of whom give the constant impression of filth, despite the fact that they bathe regularly.

“Good evening, my lady,” calls the giant at the front of the litter, Bohemer, in a respectfully jovial manner; then he nods at the youth, who has never looked more like the champion of his clan. “Master Dagobert,” he adds, with a smile scarcely visible through his thick beard.

“Lady Arnem,” adds the somewhat less powerful man to the rear, Jerej, speaking through a slightly thinner mat of hair; then he, like his tribesman, offers a knowing grin to Dagobert, which the youth returns with a proud smile of his own — for to be admitted as a fellow by these two is an honor, indeed.

None of which alters the fact that such acknowledgments are, at the moment, unwise: the already displeased Isadora quickly and rightly suspects the men have been given advance warning by her husband and son of their plans for Dagobert’s participation in such nighttime adventures, and her temper snaps. She glares angrily at each in turn, fairly striking them with words: “Silence—all of you!” Isadora knows that Bohemer and Jerej are as ferociously loyal to the Arnem family as is the good Nuen; but she also knows that they, like her husband, no doubt took satisfaction from the notion of bringing Dagobert fully into the ranks of men with this plan. And while she is grateful that they will be present to support her son as the little group descends into the dangerous streets surrounding Berthe’s home, she has no intention of revealing as much. Instead, she shakes her head with strained self-possession, and helps Berthe into the litter, taking her own seat as quickly as possible. “All right, then,” Isadora proclaims from within the litter. “You know our destination — proceed!”

“Aye, Lady Arnem!” Jerej replies, as he and Bohemer lift the litter in one well-practiced motion that scarcely jostles the women.

“Master Dagobert—?” Bohemer asks quietly; though not so quietly that Dagobert does not take more pride and confidence from the increased camaraderie. “Perhaps you will lead us, to the left and just ahead?”

Dagobert nods with still more enthusiasm, keeping his marauder sword unsheathed just enough to expose its guard, so that it can be quickly brought to bear. His eyes search the crowds ahead intently, as though he were a soldier of great experience, able to distinguish the first sign of threat. Soon the party is moving southwest along the Path of Shame, not as wealthy intruders, but as persons of consequence who are of as well as in the district: persons whose business must, in short, be respected.

“I will say, young master,” Bohemer tells Dagobert, still confidentially, “that I’m pleased you’ve paid close attention to the lessons your father has given you — because I’d stake a Moon’s wages that we’ll need your sword arm, before this business is done. If not in the poorest part of the city”—Dagobert turns, to find Bohemer speaking with far more genuine intent—“then in the wealthiest …”

1:{xvii:}

An unnoticed departure, a daunting purpose …

Afternoons in Okot have never been known for their brightness, given the near-impenetrability of the forest ceiling, even where small clearings have been made for huts. In part, this is because of Davon Wood’s remarkable power to reassert itself; but just as much, it is by design of the Bane themselves. Any significant break in the Wood’s vast expanse of treetops would be visible from the walls of Broken, and so care is usually taken to ensure that the sunniest of middays elsewhere is no more dazzling than a moderate twilight in the forest. But there has never been an afternoon quite so dark as this one. It has passed with more deaths, more pyres, and the burning of more huts, all of which have created a cloud of hot, heavy smoke blotting out the sun: the plague still shows no sign of relenting.

The Bane healers have assured the Groba that by morning this will change; and, as if determined to make good on their hopeful prediction, they continue, at twilight, to toil without pause in the Lenthess- steyn, as fearlessly as they have done from the start. And yet, by the time the sun begins to touch the western mountains, the only apparent effect of all this determination is that the plague claims still more of these martyrs to knowledge and compassion. Their passing seems to go scarcely noted by their colleagues, who labor on in the most secluded chambers of the honeycomb-like caves, cutting the dead to pieces, trying to uncover some clue as to the origin of the disease’s horrific symptoms. They have devised, by now, several mixtures of the herbs that they grow in their gardens with extracts from various poisonous flowers brought back by the foraging parties, and each concoction serves to ameliorate some one from among the several torturous effects of the disease: the sores, the racking cough, the fever, swelling, and pain. But there is still little hope of preventing death itself. The pestilence remains a mystery, wholly unlike anything that the healers have ever treated with their potions and poultices; and with the healers’ frustration comes renewed conviction on the part of the Groba and the Bane tribe generally that the plague is the result of sorcery. In the face of this conclusion, still more of those struck by the disease ignore the healers and the Lenthess-steyn altogether and, while they still have the strength to walk, choose to end their lives as did the family that Keera, Veloc, and Heldo-Bah observed earlier: by wandering through the forest (ever observed by parties of Outragers), praying that distancing themselves from stricken Okot may bring salvation, and, upon finding that it does not, submitting themselves to the comparatively swift end of the Cat’s Paw.

By nightfall, pyres are burning all along the south side of the river. From a high hill just west of Okot, the three foragers — so much more than foragers, now! — can see the smoking glow of these funereal flames forming an ever-longer chain across the dark landscape, as well as the smaller lights of torches near the pyres and the river. One large mass of torches has assembled on the rocky summit of the Lenthess-steyn, and is creeping northward: a luminous, coiling sign that Ashkatar’s army of warriors has come together in full assembly, and is beginning to march.

Before leaving Okot, Keera, Veloc, and Heldo-Bah gathered at the hut that all three had once called home to prepare for their journey. The parents of Keera and Veloc — called Selke and Egenrich†—knowing that their two children and their former ward represented what might be the last hope of the Bane, welcomed the three as if they had left home but yesterday, and, in the case of Heldo-Bah, gave no sign of any lingering resentment or disappointment; for in truth, they felt none. Taking little Effi into their care, Selke and Egenrich pledged to keep her safely away from the most dangerous parts of the village, and to continue to refuse her persistent requests to visit her brothers; in addition, they further pledged, when pressed by their daughter, to take care of all three children, should Keera never return — and should her boys survive. As they watched the three prepare for a journey so riddled with dangers that it was unnecessary even to speak of them, preparation steadily became the sole subject of conversation: the foragers emptied their sacks of all the precious goods collected during the term of the most inscrutable Moon ever to rise over Davon Wood, and refilled them with all manner of implements, of foodstuffs — and of weapons, especially. The three were given their pick of all the arms forged or captured by their tribe, and each took only the best sword, arrows, bow, and knives on offer. They then slipped out of Okot undetected, lest any great hope be attached to their mission by their fellow Bane; hope that might ultimately prove cruelly and tragically vain. The hill on which they now stand is the last spot from which the tribe’s village and its outlying settlements can be seen, and all the foragers stare back somberly, knowing that it may be their last glimpse of home.

“They say that Ashkatar has brought together a greater force than was expected,” Veloc murmurs, his right hand gripping the hilt of a freshly honed Broken short-sword, and his dark eyes gleaming with the flames of the distant fires. “Women warriors as well. Hundreds, in all. What is his plan? To attack?”

“No,” Heldo-Bah answers. “If I know Ashkatar, he will wait. Give the Groba and the healers time to control the plague by inviting the Tall to enter the Wood. Destroy all the bridges, save the Fallen. And if they are foolish