The Legend of Broken

rushing, furious mob; and the object used to achieve this effect was Donner Niksar’s own body, which now sways slowly by a rope, one end of which is securely tied within his quarters, and the other around his neck. No amount of descending darkness can obscure his condition: his head is snapped harshly to one side, and his eyes are still open. Strangely, the horrifying image reminds Arnem of those in Broken society who always believed that Donner, while of slighter stature than his brother, was nonetheless finer in his features. But not this night: even were his tongue not protruding grotesquely from the corner of his mouth, even had he been able to conceal the raw ravages of the Holy Fire from his face and bared chest, and even if, by some impossible effort, he had been able to clothe himself in a new, clean nightshirt, rather than the hideously stained garment that now wafts about his emaciated frame: even if all these things could have been accomplished, nothing could ever compensate for his swollen, tortured eyes, which cast their pained, accusatory stare onto every face that turns to him, reflecting the mob’s torches as his body rotates below the window. The message is unmistakable: the townspeople have exacted their revenge. One question remains, and it is Niksar who murmurs it:

“Will it be enough? For these—creatures?”

Arnem has been dumbstruck, for an instant; and so it is Visimar who says gently, “I know you think me a mad heretic, Linnet. And I would never presume to intrude upon the grief you feel after so noble a brother has given his life to try to extinguish the fire that is consuming the people of Esleben.” Niksar says nothing, but inclines his head slightly, at which Visimar continues: “At the least, he was able to claim for himself a sane and meaningful death. If you look to the west, you will see that no such mercy will be shown to the mob.” A small glance at the momentarily confused mob is all Niksar needs to confirm the old man’s claim.

“Aye, heretic,” the young officer breathes, without resentment. “Whatever Donner lost, he kept his head, and his honor, to the last …”

“Just so. As we must now keep ours. Let us honor your brother, Linnet, by securing what he wished us to: the safety of our own and his troops, and the continuation of what has become an expedition less of conquest than of investigation.”

Arnem, amazed that the old man can make sound sense at such a moment, claps a gentle hand to Niksar’s shoulder. “The old fool is right, Reyne. We must honor that.” The sentek turns his narrowing eyes to the east, as the sounds of the crowd’s madness mount once more. “Ernakh!” he cries, and the skutaar appears, silently waiting as Arnem scribbles a charcoal note upon a bit of parchment. “Take this to the master of archers, Fleckmester,† and return with him — quickly, now.” Ernakh salutes, hurtling off into the darkness.

Niksar looks to his commander with some puzzlement. “Sentek? We should be away, as quickly as possible—”

“As we shall, Reyne,” Arnem assures his aide, even as he makes no immediate move to depart. “But I will not leave Donner’s body to those madmen.”

Visimar has already begun to nod, suspecting what the sentek plans, while Niksar must wait the few moments that it takes for Linnet Fleckmester to appear, running swiftly with several of his own officers. He is a tall, enormously powerful man, who makes his Broken longbow‡ seem diminutive by comparison. “Aye, Sentek?” he says crisply, saluting smartly.

Arnem indicates the palisades of the garrison structure. “How much fire could your men direct onto that structure as an opening to the coming action, Fleckmester? I want complete immolation, speedily and with intent.”

The master of archers takes his meaning perfectly. “More than enough to serve your purpose, Sentek.” Fleckmester bows to Niksar. “With the greatest of respect and sympathy, Linnet Niksar.”

Niksar remains silent through Fleckmester’s departure, and even then, he can say no more than, “Thank you, Sentek — my family, like myself, will be truly in your debt …” And with that, after a final glance up at what is only the dark shape of his brother, now released from the agonies of both hideous illness and the hatred of the crowd of villagers he had undertaken to protect, Niksar puts his spurs into his white mount and departs, leaving Arnem to study Visimar before he follows.

“I am aware of this latest debt to you, old man,” the commander says, “as I am of the others I have incurred, this day. Be assured of that …”

Before Visimar can reply, Arnem urges the Ox to follow Niksar, and the old cripple makes ready to follow; but he is suddenly consumed by a sensation of being observed, one that he at first chastises himself for believing is coming from the dead body of Donner Niksar. Looking up before he can dismiss his superstition, he realizes it is not the feeling that is mistaken, merely the identification of its source. Against the dark sky that is illuminated by the rising Moon, Visimar sees enormous wings pass over his head in utter silence, just above the garrison walls. While most of the soldiers might be unnerved by such a vision — for the six-foot span of the creature’s wings is greater than the height of some of the troops — Visimar is elated by it.

“Nerthus!”† the cripple calls out with a grin, as the enormous owl (for such the creature is) silently circles downward to settle her twenty pounds of weight — so little, for one of her size and power — upon Visimar’s shoulder and lifted arm, startling the mare upon which he rides. Calming the horse and trotting away from the main body of Arnem’s troops (although still to the west), Visimar explains to the horse, “No, no, my friend, you have no need to fear this bird, although a newborn colt might!” He turns again to the owl, whose neck cranes around and down as only owls’ may, shifting the feathery tufts atop her head — tufts that so resemble ears, or perhaps stern brows — and looks for all the world as though she will tear the old fool’s nose from his face; but Visimar does not fear the motion, and indeed, the owl only opens her beak to gently nibble and lick at the bridge and nostrils between Visimar’s aged eyes — an indication of the profound trust that can only result from a longstanding, affectionate, and most extraordinary acquaintance. Visimar cannot help but laugh and reach up to run his fingers gently down the bird’s mottled chest feathers.

The owl, it seems, means more than pure affection by its motion, and holds one enormous set of talons up to catch Visimar’s eyes. “Ah?” he noises. “And what do you carry, that is so urgent?”

In the tight black claws are clutched a bundle of flowers and plants: some deep blue, some bright yellow, others knobby and green, but all, Visimar quickly notices by the cleanly cut ends of the stems, harvested by men no more than a half a day earlier. “So …” Trying to calculate the meaning of all this, as he keeps a part of his attention fixed on the advancing mob, Visimar soon reaches a conclusion. “I see,” he says certainly. “Well, my girl, off to your master, and let him see, as well — for you must not stay here to be injured by an arrow from one of these provincial fools, nor from the more precise missiles of the Broken archers. I must away after the sentek — but we shall meet again soon, and in far fewer than the many months it has been this time …”

As if satisfied with the man’s response, the owl again pulls affectionately at a tuft of his grey hair, cutting a little of it loose and bundling it in among the plants. She then spreads her remarkable wings to either side of Visimar’s head and makes for the night skies again. The old man, his mood profoundly changed by the several implications of this encounter, uses his one foot to spur his mount on after Arnem and Niksar.

{vi:}

By the time the two officers and their crippled companion have returned to the troops who will participate in the rearguard engagement, most of the remaining contingents of the Talons have already started eastward away from Esleben, and the head of their column is well along the Daurawah Road. The ten remaining members of the Esleben garrison have remained behind with the rearguard units, looking to Sentek Arnem for direction; and Arnem, in turn, looks subtly to Visimar, uncertain whether the men’s exposure to either their leader’s illness or, in passing, to any grain-based goods in Esleben, should affect his decisions. A subtle twist of Visimar’s head tells Arnem firmly that the garrison troops must not march with the main force; and that the sentek must contrive some mission worthy of the men, while keeping them away until time can tell the danger they pose.

“We would join in the fight, if you will have us, Sentek Arnem,” one tall, gruff veteran man steps forward to say, and general assent to this proposition is proclaimed by the other garrison men. Momentarily at a loss, Arnem soon settles on a solution, turning to the man who addressed him.

“I am impressed by this, Linnet—?”

“Gotthert, Sentek,” the man replies, saluting, “but I do not have the honor to be a linnet, sir.”

“You do now, Gotthert,” Arnem says. “I know the look of a man ready to lead; and so, unless one among