The Legend of Broken

greater number of them interwoven with more than a few score of their own wives and older daughters (whose sex does nothing to diminish their fury), are all armed, and moving in a great wave east. The sentek cannot yet accurately determine what their full numbers must be, for they seem scarcely human at all: most wear bandages which are stained and oozing with pus and blood, both fresh and dried. As for their weapons, they matter less than the manner in which they are wielded: even a sickle, or a mere sharpened length of tree limb, can attest to a man’s or woman’s commitment to their cause, if carried in such a way that clearly displays a desire for blood.

Even so unpracticed a philosopher as Sixt Arnem can pause for an instant, in the face of such a sight, to apprehend the apparent irony in the fact that the Natural wealth of Broken — which has been transformed, over many generations, into the formidable bone, sinew, and muscle that enables a legion such as the Talons to become peerless fighting men — has (according to Visimar) somehow been altered, so that it contains an agent that has imbued these townspeople with the equally exceptional, if utterly irrational, conviction required to attack the very soldiers they have long relied on for protection. And Arnem can further see that the coming fight, during which his men must try to fend off and then retreat before these loosely organized lunatics, is indeed reminiscent (as Akillus attempted to express) of some diseased, maddened beast that gnaws at its own flesh, torturously destroying and consuming itself from its tail and feet forward and upward with burning mind and slashing teeth, for reasons that the agonized creature itself does not understand …

Although many of the maddened citizens are rushing toward the garrison gate from the south, the main body approach from the direction of Esleben itself. A central group from among the latter (they can scarcely be called a “formation”) drive powerful farm animals: oxen and horses, in the main, yoked to wagons that bear still more men and women, as well as larger implements of violence. Atop one aging wagon is an interwoven grouping of smaller logs, branches, hay, and pitch, all of which the several men who assist the oxen yoked to the conveyance in driving it forward are eager to set alight with torches they carry. Yet this is not the most hideous aspect of this crude machine of war:

Impaled upon an iron-tipped stake that still shows signs of the river bottom in which it was lately sunken is the shocking figure of a man: and no young warrior, but a mature, distinguished man of Esleben. Arnem has by been joined by Visimar, who, like the sentek, observes this cart’s approach largely in stunned silence — for they realize that the body gutted by the stake is not some aged tramp or vagabond, nor even some humble craftsman: it is the same chief elder with whom the two men met but hours ago, in an attempt to reach a reasonable, if not an amicable, solution to the conflict between the town garrison and the citizens of Esleben. His body has been driven with such force upon the stake that his ribs have cracked outward and now show bright white amid the darker gore of his body’s central cavity, as do bits of his spine, while a jumble of intestine-strangled vital organs hang from the jagged pieces of bone. His head is cocked at an angle that indicates the breaking of his neck during this fiendish process, while his eyes remain wide open, full of the shock that filled his last moments.

Around the elder’s neck hangs a bit of plank, tied with rope, upon which has been painted — in what may be his own blood, if judged by the tint — only a few words:

FOR ATTEMPTING TO BETRAY HIS OWN PEOPLE, BY TREATING WITH DEMONS DISGORGED BY THE TRAITORS WHO RULE IN BROKEN

As the soldiers about him observe the sight in horrified silence, Visimar says, with soft passion:

“Too deeply … The Holy Fire has burned too deeply into this place …”

In answer comes a most unexpected voice: Niksar’s. “We were too late,” he murmurs, and when Arnem turns, he sees that Reyne has made no attempt to conceal the marks of heavy tears. “Such were Donner’s last words, Sentek — that neither the rose fever nor any other pestilence he has witnessed can account for what is happening here. For what happened to him … And we all, starting with the garrison itself, realized as much too late to even mitigate its spread …”

Arnem turns to Visimar, who raises a brow as if to say, “I take no joy in being correct, Sentek — but we must face this as it is …” The old man’s thought is soon reflected in other, more pragmatic words by Arnem’s officers, as the Eslebeners suddenly ignite the wagons that hold pitch-drenched cargoes, intended to burn long enough into the gloom of twilight to enable them to smash into the now fully formed quadrates of the Talons:

“Their plan is not so disordered as their reason,” Akillus says. “Mobile fire, whether or not they know it, is ever the best means of attack against the quadrates, Sentek.”

“To be matched only by the Krebkellen,† Akillus,” Arnem replies, citing the Broken army’s chief tactical alternative to the quadrates: another invention of the supposedly Mad King, Oxmontrot, the Krebkellen is a primarily offensive maneuver, but one that serves admirably when the defensive squares are threatened. “And so, Linnet — will you take, say, two cavalry fausten and two of Taankret’s Wildfehngen in among these madmen, and shatter their initial movement just sternly enough to allow us to get away eastward down the Daurawah Road?”

Akillus is both challenged and excited by the charge. “If I could not, Sentek, neither I nor the men should be worthy of our claws!”‡

Arnem delivers his next orders to the commander of the Wildfehngen, an impressive linnet of infantry called Taankret. The sentek orders this aptly named fellow†† (whose surcoat and finely worked steel mail are somehow, even on this dusty march, impeccably neat) to take a hundred Wildfehngen, and form them into the center of the Krebkellen, coordinating the breaking-up of the attacking townspeople with Linnet Akillus, who will provide a similar number of cavalry on the flanks.

“A hard order, Taankret,” Arnem says, watching the effect of his commands on the linnet, as the latter dispatches messengers to assemble the needed men. “To ask our lads to engage their own countrymen.”

“Not so hard as you may think, Sentek,” Taankret answers, with passion but no panic. He swipes a bare finger beneath his mustache and smoothes his carefully clipped beard, then pulls on a pair of heavy gauntlets. Finally, he draws the lengthy marauder sword for which he is known throughout his khotor and the army itself, which he took from a vanquished warrior of the East many years ago. “The men have had enough time in this accursed town to gain a healthy disrespect for its ungrateful passions,” Taankret continues. “I do not think that they would happily receive an order to massacre, but a chance to spend an hour smacking this mob about with the flat of their blades while the rest of you start for Daurawah?” A smile makes its way into one corner of the linnet’s mouth. “That is an order they’ll relish.”

“Truly,” agrees Akillus. “Have no worries on that account, Sentek.”

Arnem grins, proud and more than a little regretful that he will not be joining his rearguard commanders. “Very well, then — Taankret. Akillus. But bear that one thing in mind — the flat of your blades, where you can. Cracked heads will be of more use than severed.”

The growing sense of happy challenge among the two linnets, who demonstrate perfectly why they have achieved their status in the most renowned legion of Broken, is suddenly interrupted by a sound of shattering wood and glass. It comes from just around the southwest corner of the small fort that was the home of the Esleben’s departing garrison: from the direction of, among other things, the window of the commander’s quarters.

In addition, a short cry is heard, in a voice that both Arnem and Niksar know to be Donner’s, only to be quickly stilled by some unknown force.

Arnem addresses his anxious linnets in a humorless voice, now: “You two finish your preparations. Niksar, Anselm — accompany me.” The sentek looks to his aide. “And remember, Reyne: our only task now is to get away from this foul place …” Niksar nods in reply, apprehensive of what they may find, but no less certain of his duty, at which the three men move at a slow trot round the corner of the stockade, Niksar’s sense of foreboding suddenly confirmed by a most unexpected group of agents:

The maddened townspeople have stopped, if only for a moment; and their eyes are fixed, as if they were one enormous, grotesque creature, on the window in Donner Niksar’s quarters. They have, apparently, already seen what the soldiers and their guest cannot, yet — that one of their demands, at least, has been met, if in a manner utterly different from that which they earlier demanded:

The sentek, his aide, and Visimar, proceeding forward, look up at the shattered window of the commander’s quarters. The crude glass has been broken from within, the sound and accompanying sight intended to transfix the