The Legend of Broken

such was the case. That relief, Arnem comprehends as he fixes his mind on the moment, implied an anxiety that his lordship might have found the grain to be in some other, some far more dangerous, condition …

{iv:}

By the time the Arnem and Visimar have traveled in the sort of long, furtive route toward the Esleben garrison’s stockade that will eliminate any fear of being seen by someone within the town, not only has afternoon begun to give way to evening, but the commander of the Talons has learned a great deal about the two illnesses that his guest believes to be at work in the kingdom, and of the respective ways in which they propagate among men and women. First, there is the supposed poisoning that took place within the city of Broken, which Visimar believes to in fact have been the first acknowledged (but likely not the first true) case of the terrible pestilence that Esleben’s healer rightly dismissed as being at work among his own people: rose fever, a sickness that hides itself in befouled water. The second is a more outwardly chilling rot that savagely attacks by way of any foods or flesh over which it has already taken hold, a malady that the sentek indeed knows as “the fire wounds,” but that is more properly identified by the terms “Holy Fire” (for who save a deity could be responsible for its monstrous symptoms?) and, still more precisely, among truly learned healers, as gangraena. This sickness, as Arnem has said, often appears as a result of the festering of soldiers’ wounds; but it can also carve its path using such insidious methods as the commander and the acolyte have just observed. Which of the two is the more dangerous? That is a question to which not even Visimar will hazard an answer; all he can do is continue to urge Arnem on, and to emphasize the importance of getting his Talons out of and away from ill-fated Esleben and its inhabitants. Before he can commit to that withdrawal, however, the ever-dutiful Arnem requires some more exact explanation of just what has taken place between the men of the garrison and the townspeople.

When the sentek and his fool-become-advisor finally do come within sight of the town’s small, formidable stockade, they find that mention of Arnem’s name has apparently been, as hoped, enough to prize open the gates of the place, and that members of the small command have emerged, the deep blue of their regular-army cloaks contrasting with the wine-red of the Talons’ similar garments. But before the two men can reach the stockade, they encounter some ten to fifteen groups of Talons, each consisting of three to five frontline infantrymen, who, in keeping with Broken military practice, have formed a watchful perimeter about the stockade. These are particularly skilled and veteran warriors, for in battle it is the duty of such men to quickly form the face of each side of the Broken quadrates, where they absorb the initial and harshest blows of the enemy, as well as lead the way in unhesitating attack when those quadrates shift into offensive or pursuing formations. It is these two equally valiant yet dangerous roles that have given such soldiers their informal name: Wildfehngen,† because their disciplined ferocity in battle is believed to be unmatched, certainly by any warriors that the army of Broken has ever faced.

From the Wildfehngen, Arnem soon learns how matters truly stand within the stockade: although its gates are open, the men within can give no explanation for what has taken place in Esleben, beyond that already offered by the town elders. As for the commander of the garrison (the sole person, Arnem believes, who may be able to shed true light on the mysterious goings-on in and about the town) he remains barred within his quarters, not, it seems, because of disloyalty or disobedience, but because of illness. This information only makes the sentek more determined to immediately spur the Ox on toward the stockade and greater insight; but before he can depart, Visimar catches his arm, speaking to him as earnestly as he can, while keeping his voice very hushed:

“If the garrison commander is ill,” the cripple says, “you must determine the nature of that illness before you approach him. Remember, Sixt Arnem — we have but two goals, now: to get away from here without incident, and to ensure that your own men do not take any of the town’s forage or food supplies with them. Nothing in Esleben is to be trusted.”

“I shall attempt to remember all such points,” Arnem replies, his various frustrations becoming more apparent in his angered words. “But I will be given a clearer understanding of what is taking place here — whatever this commander’s condition.” Once more preparing to speed away, the sentek suddenly catches sight of something ahead, a sight that finally brings some sort of relief to his face. “Well. There’s one worry eased: Niksar seems to have escaped the town unscathed …”

Niksar is riding at a good pace toward Arnem and Visimar, and the sentek urges the Ox out a short distance to intercept him. “Well met, Reyne,” he says, acknowledging his aide’s salute. “But before you give voice to the understandable indignation that I detect upon your face, tell me: you weren’t, by any chance, offered any hospitality — say, any sustenance — while you were in the town, were you?”

Niksar scoffs. “Unlikely, Sentek. They were only too happy to be rid of me, when I said I had to report to you. I doubt they would have let me eat so much as the grass upon the ground, as at least my horse did.”

Arnem studies his aide’s mount. “You’re certain that’s all he ate? No loose grain that might have been scattered about, for instance?”

Niksar looks puzzled, indeed. “None, Sentek. Why, what’s happened?”

“We’ll explain as we enter the stockade,” Arnem says, resuming his progress toward the small stronghold’s gates. “It’s a tale you may have to employ all your imagination to credit, as well as your newfound trust of our friend here.” Arnem indicates Visimar. “But do credit it, Reyne, and make certain the men understand that no forage, no grain goods of any kind, are to be consumed in or taken away from Esleben. And, for an even fuller understanding of just what is happening, I’m afraid we’ll need the garrison commander, who’s evidently ill and barricaded away in his quarters. Hear me, now, Niksar …” Arnem draws alongside the younger soldier. “I know you won’t like the charge, but once we’re in the stockade, help the old man get up the stairs in the quadrangle, will you, while I go on ahead? I must, at the very least, begin questioning this man as quickly as possible.”

“Sentek?” Niksar says, perturbed: for he can now see that his commander’s manner indicates more than mere annoyance: a profound anxiety of spirit is present, as well. “Of course, but I—”

“Questions later, Reyne,” Arnem says. “I want some answers, now …”

Yet with damnable stubbornness, still more disturbing questions await the sentek when he, Niksar, and Visimar reach and enter the garrison stockade. By now, the first of his long-range scouts have returned from the east, and the news they bring from those towns closer to Daurawah, as well as the rumors issuing from farmsteads within sight of the walls of that sprawling riverfront town itself, are vague and grim. Unrest, varying in degree, has taken hold of the laborers, merchants, and elders of other communities along the way to Broken’s principal port; and, perhaps most worrying of all, the scouts have heard that disorder of a far worse variety has taken hold inside Daurawah itself. If such is the truth, it is an unusually alarming fact for Arnem, both professionally and personally: the governing of the port has for several years been the responsibility of one of the sentek’s oldest friends in the army of Broken, Gerolf Gledgesa,† with whom Arnem had faced the Torganians at the Atta Pass, and to whom the new chief of the army had hoped to pass the command of the Talons when he himself was so tragically elevated to Yantek Korsar’s post. But if Gledgesa has allowed matters in Daurawah to deteriorate to such a point, the appointment of his old comrade — always, like Arnem himself, a controversial figure within the army — will be out of the question. The full possible consequences of the scouting reports from the east are plain, then: but none is more ominous than the notion that, even if the Talons can avoid violent encounters with the subjects of the eastern kingdom, those same subjects will continue to surrender the food and forage which the soldiers require for their march against the Bane only grudgingly, if at all — and the men will be able to accept such supplies only if they are found to be untainted. Thus, Arnem may be forced to plan his campaign anew, calculating time, now, as a powerful ally of the Bane, rather than of his own force: ever one of the worst advantages that a commander can concede to his enemy.

As all these possibilities mount, the sentek’s temper shortens: “Akillus!” Arnem calls angrily, when he finally passes into the stockade and reaches the center of its quadrangle, his eyes spying the chief of scouts laughing nearby amid his own men and several members of the garrison. As Arnem dismounts, the sentek’s young skutaar, Ernakh‡ (sole child of the Arnems’ nurse and housekeeper, Nuen), appears to take the reins of the Ox, thinking to inquire how long his commander anticipates remaining in Esleben, so that he may determine how much to refresh the steed, as well as whether or not Arnem himself will