this lot”—he indicates the now-splintering crowd—“say that they’ve had eleven of the men penned up in their own stockade for days, if not weeks—”
“Eleven?” Arnem asks, attempting not to betray the dread he feels. “And where is the twelfth?” For a town garrison to be short a man is ominous: such a loss would ordinarily be reported to Broken immediately, to allow a replacement to be sent out at once. But if the townspeople have laid siege to the garrison for so long, then the missing man means the elders in Esleben have deliberately kept the situation from their rulers.
“We can’t get a reasonable answer,” says the second scout, Ehrn, a slight trembling in his voice. “Just screaming about a ‘crime’—”
With greater confidence, Brekt interrupts, “They claim that one of the garrison soldiers committed a terrible offense, but they won’t tell us
“Where are they keeping the man?” Arnem asks severely.
The scouts shrug.† “They won’t tell us that, either, Sentek,” Ehrn declares.
“The lot of them simply refuse,” Brekt adds. “They want us to get out, nothing more or less. Not the garrison, however; they
Niksar, having ridden up behind Arnem, quietly observes, “That tells us what sort of crime we’re dealing with, Sentek.”
Arnem nods grimly. “I’m afraid so, Niksar. Either a girl or a death — and likely both, damn it all …” He turns to the scouts. “All right, lads. Take up position by the west road — watch for our relief, and then detail three men to guard the main routes in and out of the town.”
“But — Sentek,” Brekt protests, “shouldn’t we stay with you? That crowd hasn’t shown any great respect for the soldiers of Broken—”
“It’s possible they’ve had little reason to,” Arnem replies. “Go on — we’ll get nothing out of them, if we attempt to impress them with only our strength. Hold the roads, and above all, keep an eye out for any Bane, even if they are retreating—
As the two scouts slowly walk their horses to the town’s western approach, they cast meaningful glances at the townspeople who had pushed closest to them during their recent quarrel, silently assuring them that only the influence of their commander has stayed their sword arms.
Arnem crosses over to the mob, particularly toward three men who appear to be the town’s elders. They are aged, dignified characters, who have stepped forward from behind the protective crowd. Their wizened faces show as little fear as Arnem’s; but when the sentek sheathes his sword and swings his right leg over the Ox’s neck, in order to be able to slide from the beast in one agile movement that leaves him face to face with the elders, those older men finally do display some little apprehension, causing Niksar to again shake his head at Arnem’s familiar recklessness.
“Honored Fathers,” the sentek says, bowing his head respectfully. “You speak for the people of Esleben?”
“We do, Sentek Arnem,” says the old man in the center, who is evidently senior to the others. “And, unlike our sons and grandsons in this village, we are not frightened by your rank — all three of us gave years of our youth to the campaigns against the eastern marauders during the reign of the God-King Izairn, when we were stronger men. We do not deserve the breaking of faith we have had from his son, or from those who enforce that son’s edicts.”
Although he is too cunning to allow it to register in his face, the sentek is shocked and alarmed by this statement. “‘Breaking of faith’?” he echoes. “These are strong words, Elder.”
“Aye, Sentek,” the greying elder replies forthrightly, “and meant to be. We have ever kept faith with those who rule in Broken — yet now, the God-King permits the sapping of our kingdom’s inner strength, by allowing foreign pirates to supplant the place of Broken’s own farmers and craftsmen, and his soldiers to defile our daughters with disease, simply to satisfy their passing desires. It is time that we say these things aloud.”
Such are indeed bold indictments; but, coming from an obviously seasoned, proud old campaigner — the kind of man under whom, during his own youth, Arnem would have been grateful to serve — the sentek neither disputes them aloud nor dismisses them in his mind. Indeed, because of the elder’s statement, the nature of the crowd begins to change, in Arnem’s eyes — for he is now faced with the honest complaints of that unheralded hero whom he has always respected most: a loyal, tested veteran of the army. Arnem is forced to weigh anew the resentment that the villagers feel toward the army garrison and his own troops.
“Whatever treatment you have received thus far, Honored Father,” Arnem says earnestly, “I see that you are wise enough to know who, and what, I am; and I hope you know that I will treat your complaints with the seriousness that your youthful sacrifices merit.”
The principal elder nods, perhaps not warmly, but with the beginnings of appreciation. He turns to either side, as if to confirm that he and his fellow elders were correct in thinking that they would receive better treatment from the renowned Sentek Arnem than has been their lot of late. “Your words are gracious, Sentek,” the man continues — but then he grows uneasy again, as panicked rumblings go through his townspeople. More horses’ hooves are heard coming from the west: the relief from the main column of the Talons.
Arnem turns to Niksar in alarm. “Get out there, Reyne. Tell them to hold their positions at the town’s edge — I want no more complaints from these people.”
Once again disturbed by what he sees as Arnem’s recklessness, Niksar nonetheless obeys, knowing any objection to leaving his commander alone inside the town will only irritate Arnem. As Niksar wheels his horse, the sentek indicates the nearby platform to the elders. “Shall we speak privately, Fathers?”
Enjoying the sentek’s deference with silent satisfaction, the men nod, motion to the rest of the townspeople to stay where they are, and cross to the town’s center to sit in earnest conversation with a man about whom they have heard many tales, but whose wisdom and fairness they must now judge for themselves. As for Arnem, it is only when he leads the Ox to the platform that his ever-searching gaze can finally catch sight of the small, stout stockade just north of the Daurawah Road:
It is surrounded by a larger crowd, who brandish similarly humble (but deadly) weapons as do their fellows in the town square. Happily, however, this second crowd also seems to be calming with the news of what has just taken place. Such being the case, and with the common touch that has ever made him stand out so in the Broken army, Arnem confidently engages the elders; and it is mere moments before looks of appreciation and even light amusement cross the old villagers’ faces. Niksar, watching from a distance, turns away from the conference; but his relief is short-lived, for he spies, among the men at the western edge of Esleben, the mounted figure of the old heretic chatting amiably with the several horsemen about him.
Niksar spurs his mount to a trot and rides up to the former outcast, letting his own horse aggressively butt his forehead into the neck of the old man’s calm mare. “What are you doing here, Anselm?” he demands; and then he turns his head to the other men. “Who among you took it upon himself to bring this man?”
“Peace, Niksar,” Linnet Akillus says, clapping an amiable hand on Visimar’s shoulder. “It was I who brought him.”
“Oh? And did you never suspect the possible danger—”
But Akillus is already urging Niksar aside with small nods of his head. As the pair moves a short distance away from the others, Niksar quietly demands, “Well, Akillus? On what authority—”
“The sentek’s own,” Akillus interrupts, producing a small piece of parchment from his belt. “He seemed to think you would find it amusing …”
Niksar takes the note that Arnem gave Akillus just before riding into town; and the sentek’s aide quickly reads its few scribbled words:
BRING THE CRIPPLE, AND SHOW THIS NOTE TO NO ONE, SAVE NIKSAR — WHO WILL SURELY ENJOY IT.
{iii:}
