The Legend of Broken

live with as a private memory, much less a public one: the guarding of the Kafran priests’ mutilation and exile rituals on the banks of the Cat’s Paw. In particular, it was the fiendishly bloody rites that they had been forced to observe being inflicted upon Caliphestros and Visimar that had brought about, not only their resignations from the much- coveted guardianship of the priests, but the beginning of their estrangement, as well.

Neither man had ever been able to state, precisely, why their mutual objections and protests should have driven them apart. It had been for wise Isadora to later explain to her husband how shared shame often eats at friendships so relentlessly that the glories of triumph can do little to preserve the bond. Thus, while in later years the company of a man with whom one has achieved honorable glory will always be welcome, the mere sight of a comrade with whom one has played even an involuntary part in foul actions, can bring the sense of shame back again with full, vivid force.

And for this reason, these two men — whose last glimpse of one another was long enough ago that Gledgesa has had time, in the interval, to father and raise a child who is now, Arnem would guess, some eight or nine years old — face each other on the plain east of Daurawah, each not quite knowing, for all their bygone years of comradeship, just what to expect of the other …

In characteristic fashion, Gledgesa’s grin widens, or widens as much as his distorted features will allow. “Forgive me for not saluting, Sixt, old friend, as well as for failing to invite you into Daurawah. But the salute might well crack one of my chalk-like bones; and you mustn’t try to enter the port — not now. I haven’t let any Broken troops in or out—not since it became apparent that the Cat’s Paw is now poisoned.”

Arnem spins to face Visimar, who, for his part, is busy staring at Gledgesa in a manner that tells Arnem he indeed remembers the now-ravaged soldier’s presence at his Denep-stahla.

“Did you come by the river?” Gledgesa asks. “And see the bodies?”

“No, Gerolf. We stayed on the main road, to forage in and about Esleben.”

“Esleben!” Gledgesa attempts a laugh, one that dissolves into a hideous cough: a cough reminiscent of the final moments of Donner Niksar, who Gledgesa soon mentions: “I suppose you learned the truth about those ignorant, treacherous townspeople from young Niksar’s brother, as I hoped you would.” He coughs again, at which his daughter reaches up to attempt to put a comforting hand to his shoulder, although she can manage only his forearm. As she does so, she begins to hum a most pleasant and soothing plainsong† for her father. Gledgesa gently presses her hand and then removes it, although the effect upon his symptoms of her touch and song has been immediate. “It’s all right, Weda.‡ I will be fine, as will you.” The girl continues to hum her plainsong. “But you must meet my oldest friend, Sentek — nay, Yantek Sixt Arnem, commander of the Army of Broken, if the heralds from the great city are to be believed!”

Arnem looks down into the girl’s tightly swaddled face, or at the upper half that is visible; and if her father’s crisp blue eyes and golden hair, which she has inherited fully, are any indication, she is indeed a lovely child, who inspires immediate pity for the suffering she silently endures. Knowing that she cannot speak, Arnem says, “Hello, Weda,” and then rushes to add, “Do not try to reply, I know that you are too ill. I have a daughter almost exactly your age — it must be hard to stay silent, even if you are unwell.”

“You’ve been told she’s ill?” Gledgesa says, his blinded head moving from side to side, as if he might defeat the silk bandage that covers his corrupted eyes by finding a way around it.

“Yes,” Arnem replies carefully. “By those extraordinary sentries on your walls.” He cannot help but laugh. “You were always talented with ballistae and catapults, Gerolf — and you have evidently shared your secrets.”

Having brought up a mouthful of phlegm with an attempt at laughter, Gledgesa spits it out; and Visimar sees that its color is so ruby red as to almost be black. “Those maniacs,” he murmurs in disgust. “We’ve had enemies enough, without their creating more.”

“‘Enemies enough’?” Arnem echoes. “The northerners?”

“The northerners alone would have been manageable,” Gledgesa replies, his voice weakening. “Them, along with the easterners, we learned how to either treat with or punish long ago. But the armies behind these southern caravans, both the Byzantines and the Mohammedans … They’ve wanted to destroy us for years, and may even have worked out the method, now. And this new breed of river pirates is leading the way. Just who is paying whom, and why, I don’t know, but it will gut the kingdom, if it goes on.”

“Gerolf — you speak of the poisoning of the river?” Arnem asks.

“I know, Sixt, you likely find it inconceivable,” Gledgesa says. “But I’ve been writing to the council for weeks; sending dead bodies to prove the point, and not only those of the Bane. The first of my own men to fall, as well. I even sent reports to Baster-kin himself. Nothing’s come of it. And now, of a sudden, we receive a message that all this devastation has actually been the work of the Bane? And that you’re leading a campaign to destroy them?”

“You doubt both points, Gerolf,” Arnem says. “Yet to each, I would ask — who else?”

“Anyone else, Arnem,” Gledgesa responds desperately, his voice fading. “The Bane? Devastation of this order? There are too many contradictions. Many of my own men and their people are dying, yet they do not drink from the river — like any garrison, we have our own well. Suppose the Bane have tainted the Cat’s Paw — how did they manage to despoil that reserve? And try to crush them — yourself and your Talons? What do you know of warfare in the Wood, Sixt? What do any of us? And what’s to happen when these other foreign armies enter the kingdom while you’re fooling about with the exiles? And enter they will: they’re planning the end of Broken, I tell you, Sixt — but what’s just as clear is that they’ve had some kind of help from within the kingdom. I’m not certain just who — the council, Baster-kin, the Layzin, even the God-King — or why, or if those internal partners even realize the true danger of what they’re about—”

Suddenly, Gerolf Gledgesa’s impassioned plea sends him into a paroxysm of coughing. The attack becomes so severe that he slumps to the side of his stallion’s neck, then slips off his saddle altogether. He slams to the ground on his shoulder, screaming once in uncontrollable pain. His daughter’s face grows terrified, and she quickly dismounts, sliding down the side of her pony and, as she does, loosening the bandages below her chin. With her attention desperately fixed on her father, she does not notice as those bandages fall away—

And when they do, the whole of her lower jaw begins to come away with them. The rot in her body has destroyed those joints altogether, as well as much of the skin of her lower face; but this is not the most astounding thing about the condition, for all its horror. No, even more amazing is that there is no evidence the girl feels what is happening at all.

Arnem, who has rushed to Gledgesa’s side, glances up at his friend’s child; but Visimar hurriedly limps to the girl, and deftly relocates the jaw, rewrapping the bandages more tightly. Weda herself is no more than embarrassed by this event, and with her hands and a few plaintive moans urges Visimar to help her father. The cripple obliges, seeming no more concerned for the child than she is for herself.

“What are you doing, old fool?” Arnem nearly shouts. “Gerolf has only fallen, but the girl’s face—”

“He has not ‘only fallen,’ Sentek,” Visimar answers evenly, his thinking never clouded. “His ribs have begun to collapse, and if he is not rushed to a resting place, he will die in a very short time.” Arnem looks to his old comrade, who is barely conscious: so labored has his breathing become that it seems he is being strangled from within. Yet, despite this plain truth, Arnem’s own fatherly instincts will not allow him to simply ignore Weda, and he moves toward her, forcing Visimar to roughly grasp his arm.

“Wait, Sixt Arnem, wait!” the old man whispers. “Look at her, look at her — she feels no pain! ”†

The sentek looks into the girl’s placid eyes — and sees that the cripple is correct. “No pain,” he murmurs, stunned and saddened. “But, then …”

“Aye,” Visimar replies. “The fire wounds have reached their last stages.” Putting his mouth close to Arnem’s ear, the old man whispers urgently: “They will both be dead before nightfall — and we must away, Sentek, — look at the soldiers above. They believe we attacked their commander, who I fear may be little more than their prisoner, and are preparing that machine again, and bringing a second up—”

Arnem’s reaction is predictable: “No, Visimar! I will not allow a collection of maddened renegades to doom one of our greatest soldiers!” The sentek cups his hand: “Niksar! Akillus! A fauste of cavalry, quickly!”

Both young officers have been awaiting such an order: for they have gathered a group of hard-looking horsemen, who thunder out onto the plain before the city. Gledgesa grabs at the sentek’s shoulder.