The Legend of Broken

are much like Broken’s gates — the eight or ten feet of oak at the bottom of each is wholly sheathed in iron plate. And so we will wait. They do not seem to have noticed us: we must observe what happens when they do. In the meantime—” Arnem turns to the men behind him. “Akillus. Dispatch parties of your men down to each of the riverbanks. See if anything has transpired there, or in the water itself …”

Without a word, Akillus signals to several other linnets of scouts, each of whom takes three or four men and makes with typical speed for the Meloderna and the Cat’s Paw at the most approachable points in the steep riverbanks. It requires deft horsemanship, as well as longer periods than the sentek would have thought, for the scouts to return; and few words pass among those who remain as they wait. It is only when they hear the sound of a commotion emanating from one particularly obscure stretch of riverbank, as well as atop the walls of Daurawah, that any general murmuring goes through the officers and ranks of the Talons. When the other scouts reappear, Arnem realizes with aching dread that it is Akillus himself who has raised the alarm; and the commander does not rest easy until he sees his most reliable set of “eyes” finally emerge from the great trees and heavy undergrowth.

Akillus is, as so often, out of breath when he arrives before his commander. Niksar offers water from his own skin, which Akillus gratefully accepts before speaking. “The water gate at the base of the main stairway to the river, along with their wharves, are unmanned — unmanned, and destroyed.”

“Destroyed?” Arnem asks, clearly shocked. “To what end?”

“To the same end that the Eslebeners sought,” Akillus declares, shaken by what he has seen. “The same sickness has produced the same goal — save that the people of Daurawah were able to achieve it. You ought to see the Meloderna, Sentek, just below the city — a place of certain death, for men and ships!”

“But they are burning bodies, from the stench,” Arnem replies.

“The bodies of their own dead, yes,” Akillus says. “But the crews of the ships — long ships, for the most part, but other river craft, as well — to say nothing of … well, Sentek, they seem to be Bane, but they have rotted into pieces. And long before they saw Daurawah, I would hazard. Nor are they Bane men alone — there are women and children, too, traders and villagers along with warriors. And come down the Cat’s Paw, or at least, their bodies are along its banks, from what I could see, as well as the Meloderna’s …” Akillus is visibly shaken, and Arnem allows him a moment to gather his wits. “The wretched mess is everywhere.”

“But how?” Niksar puzzles. “Even if the Ninth brought their ballistae† up onto the walls, they cannot have been so successful with them—”

Akillus shakes his head. “No, Niksar. There are markers that set out the most dangerous parts of the bend in the Meloderna, below the town walls. They simply moved these, and let Nature do the work that traps would have done. And the stench — even the lower stretches are littered with the bodies of northern raiders. The Ninth had apparently reserved the ballistae for the caravans from the south — on my return, I saw dozens of dead pack animals, many camels among them, all killed with the great arrows the machines throw: madness has not degraded the Ninth’s skill with artillery,† that much is sure. As for the people of the caravans, some must have been allowed to return home, to tell of the fate with which they met — although most lie in great crowds upon the ground.”

“Shot by archers?” Arnem asks.

“That is the peculiar part,” Akillus answers, genuinely baffled. “Some, yes, shot down — but many killed by hand, primarily the youngest. The Ninth must have been leaving through small doorways in the northern and southern gates in raiding parties, likely by night.”

“It is the pattern of the illness,” Visimar says quietly. “Again, it takes the young first. It arrived here somewhat later, but it did arrive — and when it did, the commander of the legion may have shut all his people, citizens and soldiers alike, into the city; and the madness of the Holy Fire caused those in the caravans to turn upon one another. Sentek, did you not say that this commander was an old comrade of yours?”

“I did,” Arnem replies, quickly and certainly. “The kind of treachery you are describing could never have been his work. Gerolf Gledgesa was not capable of it — I’ve seen him risk his life a hundred times for the honor and safety of Broken and its people, despite his originally having come from a foreign land that lies hard by the Northern Sea, precisely like—” Arnem has been on the verge of saying “your master” to Visimar, in the heat of his indignation, but has caught himself, in part out of tact, in part because of an inscrutable expression that has entered Visimar’s face. “Precisely like some of Broken’s most worthy citizens.”

Visimar pauses, weighing his words carefully. “He may have been murdered, Sentek — whatever the case, you must try to contact whoever now commands the Ninth Legion, for clearly it is being used by him for such strange purposes. Certainly, Lord Baster-kin did not warn you that we would find such conditions here, did he, Sentek?”

All eyes turn to Arnem, who looks at the cripple in shock: it is precisely the sort of statement that he has warned Visimar for three days’ time not to utter in front of the men.

“I beg your pardon, fool?” the sentek answers, with controlled threat that is not unlike the careful drawing of his sword. “Did you dare to bring the name of the Merchant Lord into this, and question his loyalty and honesty? Or am I mistaken?”

“I assure you, you are indeed mistaken,” Visimar replies earnestly; and in the old man’s still-expressive eyes, Arnem thinks he can read a message: I do not intend what you suppose — you must reassure the men that this is a local aberration, that their homes are safe. “My question was honest,” the cripple continues. “If Lord Baster-kin said nothing of this, then he can know nothing of it, which means that whoever commands the Ninth, like the elders of Esleben, has sent no message to either the Merchants’ Council or the Grand Layzin—”

Looking to his men again, Arnem sees that, in their confusion, they wish and almost require Visimar’s statement to be true. “Forgive my quick temper, Anselm,” the sentek says, attempting contrition. “You are right, Lord Baster-kin did not even hint at such disruption. And so we can at least reassure ourselves that the problem is contained to the eastern reaches of Broken—”

But then, finally, it comes: contact with the walls of Daurawah. Taankret is the first to spy movement near the western gate, and he points his sword to the spot.

“Sentek Arnem!” he cries. “A sentry atop the walls!”

Arnem turns the Ox toward the port, and calls, “Make way! Make way, there — he seems to be signaling!”

And indeed, the soldier who has appeared — without either helmet or spear — seems desperate to contact the men below, so wildly do his arms flail about and his mouth open and close, giving the impression that he is shouting, yet with no voice to match the manner.

“Ho!” Taankret bellows. “The southwest tower — another man!”

Arnem stops trying to make out the first soldier’s meaning when he turns to see that the second soldier is waving some sort of bloodstained banner, which appears to have been, originally, a sheet of white silk;† and yet there seems to be little in his behavior to suggest anything concerning surrender. In fact, the two soldiers appear to have little in common, a suspicion that is confirmed when the first soldier takes flight at the merest glimpse of the second. Planting his banner in some sort of bracket inside the battlements, the second soldier draws his short- sword, quickly pursues the first man and, catching him, thrusts the blade deep into the man’s side. He then hurls the screaming unfortunate over the battlements; and for the whole of the thirty-foot fall that follows, the badly wounded soldier’s shrill cries of fear and agony continue, only stopping when he slams into the bare Earth.

All the Talons are struck dumb — but Arnem forces himself to speak, knowing that confusion and panic have suddenly become his greatest enemies:

“Niksar! Anselm!” He is forced to shake the old man’s arm, in order to jog his memory of his assumed name. “Old cripple!” he cries, successfully gaining Visimar’s attention. “You, too, Akillus — come with me. Taankret! Stay here and begin to form into quadrates—the golden god alone knows why our own men are killing both each other and peaceful traders.” Yet Taankret’s ordinarily calm, keen eyes remain fixed upon Daurawah in horror. “Linnet!” Arnem repeats, at which the reliable infantry officer finally turns. “Keep the men busy — eh?”

Taankret salutes smartly. “Aye, Sentek!” And with that, he is off to deliver orders to the other quadrate commanders, as Arnem and his three fellow horsemen set out toward the presumably dead soldier lying near the western gate of Daurawah. When they have covered only half the distance