The Legend of Broken

the assassination of the God-King Saylal.

In short, there are in all likelihood two deadly diseases now at work in Broken: one in the city, and one in the provinces. The first might admit of some cure, if treated as an illness and not a poison; but the second, should it spread, will become as voracious as the fire for which it is named.

Visimar requires but an instant, after this realization, to finally comprehend that he must cooperate with Arnem’s deception, and convince the elder and his bearers that his conclusions concerning the lovers’ deaths and the fate of the town indeed arose from a disordered imagination. By doing so, he will gain for Arnem the freedom to independently seek out the commander of the garrison, and then determine if, in fact, the soldiers of that unit are as doomed as most of the townspeople appear to be.

With this end in mind, Visimar quickly affects a long string of nonsensical declamatory remarks, deliberately made within the retiring elder’s hearing and concerning the “true” (and “magical”) source of his insight. The cripple makes a great show of saying that the birds about Esleben have whispered to him all that they have seen and heard, a ploy — inspired by the work of Visimar’s old master, Caliphestros, who often seemed truly able to draw such information from creatures wild and tame, as if they spoke plainly to him — that is effective; and ere long the elder, still peering out through the back of his litter, orders his men to hasten the return to Esleben, satisfied that Sentek Arnem will honestly determine the extent of the old healer’s madness, and, should it prove in any mischievous way connected to actual events in Esleben, punish Visimar accordingly.

“But remember, Sentek,” the elder calls, as he returns to the assembled crowd, “that the commander of the garrison also awaits the God-King’s justice — and do not think I take any joy in it. For we had hoped, when a new commander was appointed—”

Arnem’s brow arches. “A new commander?” he calls out.

“Certainly,” the elder replies with a nod. “Sent from Daurawah, almost half a year ago. Surely you knew.” Arnem feigns simply having forgotten a fact that, in truth, he never learned. “And we had hoped he would be worthy of our trust — but a man who locks both his dishonorable subordinate and then himself away from his accusers inspires something very different.”

“Indeed, Elder,” Arnem replies. “But I tell you again, we are not here to defy our own customs and laws — if what you say is true, you have my word that the garrison commander will hang for it.”

It is the first open mention of an execution that has passed Arnem’s lips; and it seems to heartily encourage the elder. The drapes of the litter finally close, and Niksar nods to Arnem, signaling that he fully understands his task: to buttress all that the sentek has said with word and action.

Arnem answers with an easy salute, in appreciation of his young aide’s willingness to undertake a less than gallant, but still brave and necessary, service; and when the litter has moved off far enough for plain talk to be safe, the sentek glowers at Visimar, his sword still bared.

“I will tell you but once more, old man. Say what you like to me — but do not endanger the lives of my men or their purpose, or I shall hang you beside this garrison commander!”

“I admit the error, Sixt Arnem — but I spoke the truth, and you must, as quickly as you can, get your men away from Esleben. Deadly sickness is here — indeed, a far more horrifying illness than you have described as being at work in Broken. Its spread in the town can no longer be stopped: and it will begin to kill others with as little warning, or apparent explanation, as it did the unfortunate lovers. And your men cannot be protected from it, save by leaving.”

Arnem studies Visimar, deeply puzzled. “How can you know this, old man, before we have even seen the dead bodies?”

“Viewing the bodies is meaningless — indeed, we had best not even enter the granary, lest we expose ourselves to great danger.”

“Danger — from the dead?”

“From the dead — and from that.” Visimar points to the topmost breaks in the high granary walls, designed to allow for ventilation. Through these openings can be seen grain: a great store of it.

Following Visimar’s indication, as the two men approach the building, Arnem asks, “And what is that, save grain?”

“Proof, Sentek,” Visimar replies. “In the form of winter rye, from the look of it: an off-season crop that should have been sent to Broken long ago. Instead, because these people believe that the merchants in Broken are cheating them by buying foreign grain that is less expensive, the townspeople have kept it here, and allowed it to spoil — to spoil in a most subtle manner …” As they reach the granary walls, Visimar searches the ground. “Keep a tight rein on your mount, Sentek,” he murmurs. “Do not allow him to find and nibble at — ah! there …” The old man points to a spot where some of the grain, having escaped through the ventilation gaps, has fallen to the ground. “Do you see there, Sentek — where the kernels have formed a plum-colored growth?” Arnem eyes the kernels as closely as he can, then begins to dismount, in order to reach down and get a closer look. “No, Sentek!” Visimar says, still quietly, but very urgently. “Do not allow yourself the least contact with it.”

“But why?” Arnem says, settling himself in his saddle once more.

“Because, Sixt Arnem,” Visimar breathes in relief, “should you even touch it, and then bring your fingers into contact with your mouth or eyes, you might well die as horribly as did the young girl and her suitor.”

“Visimar,” Arnem says, “explain yourself plainly.”

“There lies your murderer.” He indicates the ground again. “The pallin from the garrison was a victim, not a killer.”

“And again I ask,” Arnem says impatiently, “how can you say as much, without seeing his body?”

“I do not need to see his body, Sentek — and neither do you. The elder’s reaction has already confirmed my description of its condition; and we would only be endangering ourselves, if we entered that cellar of death and decay. Any chance contact with the rotting flesh of the pallin and the maid would be as perilous as consuming that rotting grain.”

“But what is it? How can mere grain be so dangerous?”

“By giving you a deadly illness that you know well, Sixt Arnem — that is, under very different circumstances,” Visimar replies. “Come: let us move to the building’s far side, and at least seem to be doing what you said we would do. But in reality, our most urgent task is to get to the garrison, and prevent your men from coming into any contact with this substance.”

“‘A sickness I know well, under other circumstances’?” Arnem repeats, following Visimar’s mare, but not his explanation. “And what would that be? Enough wasting time, Visimar, simply tell me—”

“Very well: I called it Ignis Sacer, which means the ‘Holy Fire,’ in the language of the Lumun-jani,” Visimar explains. “You know it as the ‘fire wounds.’”†

“The fire wounds?” Arnem repeats, his voice very skeptical. “But fire wounds are attained in battle, from wounds that fester!”

“Not always, Sentek,” Visimar says, his thoughts occupied with both a patient explanation of the disease and working out a route to the garrison that will allow the two men to make their way to that place unobserved by anyone in Esleben; but he soon finds the dual task impossible. “Right now, however, I say again, the most imperative task we face is getting your aide and any others among your men who remain within the town out of it, and away from the inhabitants — for those unsuspecting people are about to undergo a calamity that will claim many if not most of their lives, as well as those of anyone unlucky enough to tarry here.”

“It is not the practice of the soldiers of Broken to abandon the God-King’s subjects in their hour of need, old man,” Arnem says sternly.

“But they are not ‘in need,’ Sixt Arnem,” Visimar replies, in like tone. “I tell you they are, almost to the last man, woman, and child, doomed.”

Arnem would argue the point further; but just then, with disturbing suddenness, a thought — a mere image — appears in his mind: the figure of Lord Baster-kin, standing in the remarkable tunnels beneath the city of Broken, his attention strangely fixed upon the vast stores of grain kept therein. The sentek can recall — quite distinctly, now — that these same small, purple growths upon each kernel had not been visible upon the grain: a fact perhaps uninteresting, in itself, save for what Arnem now realizes to have been Baster-kin’s apparent relief on finding that