The Legend of Broken

Niksar’s face becomes an odd mixture of familiar irritation and something new, something that Akillus cannot quite define, but which is plainly not a sentiment to be taken lightly. “He thinks he’s always so bloody amusing,” the aide murmurs. “But this time …” Niksar knows his commander can be worrisomely careless about his own safety, which is ultimately his own business; but he also knows that Arnem has never acted upon any whim or flight of fancy where the well-being of his men is concerned. Yet the linnet now holds evidence that his commander has summoned the strange old heretic into these most ominous doings. Has he taken leave of his senses? Niksar wonders silently, as he stares at the note while the other riders continue to chat with Visimar. Or can it be that he and the men are right, and that the old lunatic is truly an agent of good fortune?

“I didn’t understand it, either, Niksar,” Akillus says, addressing his fellow linnet confidentially and congenially, having read the look on Niksar’s face and trying to ease his mind. “But — he certainly did give me that note, and must have had his reasons. You think otherwise?”

Niksar ignores the question, glances at the heretic, and moves his horse toward him. “And so, Anselm — what possible service can you offer, at so delicate a moment as this?”

“I cannot say with certainty, Linnet — but look there.” Visimar points toward the center of the town. “I’d say that we’re about to find out.”

Atop the wooden platform inside the circular roadway at the center of Esleben, Arnem is waving in a broad motion, ordering the soldiers to finally enter the town. After this, he leaps back to the ground and bows to the elders, as they move off toward a series of litters, each of which is borne by two men. Only when they are not watching does Arnem turn again in the direction of his men, and, in an unmistakable motion, wave a flattened hand, blade like, across his left knee.

“Hak …” noises Visimar, with a small laugh. “Neither subtle nor flattering — but it seems he wishes me to accompany you into the village.”

“Aye, old man,” Akillus replies. “And, based on how ugly Brekt, Ehrn, and I have already seen those supposedly peaceful villagers become, I’d say your talents for good fortune and laughter will be of great use.”

Niksar finally tries to put his own misgivings aside, given both Arnem’s note and the genuine good humor that Visimar has been able to inspire among the horsemen in what is plainly a dangerous situation. “Well, Talons?” Niksar says. “We have our orders: by twos, and at an easy gallop.† And you, Anselm — will you ride with me?”

Visimar inclines his head in what seems to the others no more than appreciative acknowledgment of Niksar’s offer; but the former acolyte realizes that Arnem’s aide, in addition to honoring him, is also signaling some tempering of his enmity and distrust. “It will be my honor and pleasure, Linnet,” Visimar replies with true gratitude, as he takes the head of the small column with the golden-haired son of Broken.

In the formation and at the pace commanded, the horsemen ride into the central square of Esleben. At the town’s center, where Arnem sits astride the Ox once more, the soldiers find that the crowd is breaking up, if sullenly. One of the three elders’ litters — the best-crafted of the group, with soft cushions on its seat and colorful lengths of cotton about its frame — is already moving toward one of the stone storage structures near Esleben’s mills. Arnem directs the Ox to follow the litter, indicating to Niksar and Visimar that they should join him. When they have, the sentek grins just perceptibly at his aide.

“Do I detect some vague air of harmony between you two?” he says. “I did tell you, Niksar, that he might have his uses.”

Niksar nearly contains a smile before asking his commander, “Sentek — where, precisely, are we going? The garrison’s stockade, to say nothing of Daurawah beyond, are to be reached by way of the road eastward.”

“We have a mystery to solve in Esleben, Niksar,” Arnem replies, “before it will be safe to go on — and before the elders will release grain and other supplies from their stores.”

“A mystery, Sentek?” Visimar replies. “I think not — rather we have two such, both housed, apparently, somewhere in the town’s granaries.”

Arnem brings the Ox to a halt, as the chief elder’s litter continues onward. Plainly impressed and intrigued, the sentek nevertheless takes a moment to turn and call back into the town: “Akillus! Go with the other two elders to the garrison — you’ll have no trouble, now. Tell the men in the stockade that when I return, I want its gates open and their commander ready to give his account of what has happened here.”

“Yes, Sentek!” Akillus replies; and as the other two elders issue commands to their respective bearers, he leads the rest of the riders to the eastern road, which will take them in a few moments to the palisaded garrison.

“Sentek,” Niksar says, watching in astonishment. “What makes you speak of one mystery in Esleben, while this old lunatic talks of two?” The linnet turns his handsome, worried features toward Visimar. “You understand, I hope, that I use the word ‘lunatic’ only in its literal sense. I grant that I may have misread your intentions — but about your sanity, I was most certainly correct.”

“Ah,” says Arnem, smiling. “And so peace of a kind has indeed taken a seat at my little war council — well said, Niksar! And, as to the mysteries of Esleben …” The sentek resumes the march south. “Allow me to ask, Reyne — what lies at the heart of all good mysteries?” Seeing that his aide is tiring of games, Arnem continues, “Death, old friend — murder, or so the honored citizens here believe.”

At the mention of the word, all three men see the litter ahead of them stop, its occupant apparently having overheard this portion of their conversation.

“Murder?” echoes Niksar; and, given the notion, he is not altogether surprised when Esleben’s chief elder peers out from between the rear drapes of his litter and replies:

“Indeed, Linnet — or as good as murder. A young woman — the daughter of one of our most respected and successful millers, and a maiden who was scarcely more than a girl — died horribly, half a Moon ago. The only fact that we have determined certainly, concerning her death, is that she was, without the knowledge of her family, carrying on a carnal relationship with a soldier of the garrison, one both beneath her family in rank and station, and concerned only with his animal appetites.”

“The accuracy of those last facts, Niksar,” says Arnem, too softly to be overheard. “I have yet to establish …” He raises his voice again, before suspicion can be fostered: “But let me add to the honored elder’s statement only that the maiden neither took her own life, when the business was discovered, nor was struck down by some furious member of her family.”

“Why think the soldier involved at all, then, Honored Father?” Niksar calls. “Did she show signs of the pox, or some other—disease of like nature?”

“Indeed,” the elder answers, displaying angry, horrified grief.

“Very well, then,” Niksar says solemnly. “The laws are clear, if it was given to her by the soldier. There should be no confusion, no ‘mystery.’”

“There should be none,” Arnem replies, esteeming his aide’s respectful manner, and matching it. “But we have two additional and unfortunate facts to consider, for they lie behind the actions of the young pallin’s comrades — and, more importantly, those of their commander. Both the soldier and his maiden insisted, even unto their deaths from the sickness, that they had engaged in no—” The commander attempts to find a gentler word, but cannot: “No fornication. Only innocent trysts.”

Niksar, however, has fixed his mind on the first of Arnem’s revelations: “‘Their deaths’?”

“Indeed,” Arnem says. “For the pallin also died, soon after the girl.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arnem sees Visimar’s wandering gaze and attention fix on the great stone structure that they are approaching: it is a reaction of the sort that the sentek has hoped to provoke. “Ignis Sacer,” the cripple murmurs. “The Holy Fire …”

“Elder,” Arnem calls, as the horses reach the litter. “May I assume that the two deaths, while they may not have occurred at the same time, were of the same—variety?”

The elder seems somewhat uncertain of the meaning behind this question, and he hesitates; at which the fearfully fascinated Visimar, perhaps unwisely, steps in: “Of course they were, Sentek. In both cases, death was preceded by a fever that seemed to come and go, each time returning with more force. It was eventually accompanied by small red sores across the back and stomach, as well as the chest and the throat.”