The Legend of Broken

“Visimar!” he seethes, choking up blood with every word and breath. “Did I hear that name, Arnem, or have I finally lost my mind altogether?”

“You have not, old friend,” Arnem says gently; and then he looks up when he hears the thunderous sound of the long-barred western gate of Daurawah being drawn back. “It appears your men intend to rescue you, Gerolf,” Arnem says, chuckling in what he hopes will be a reassuring way: a reminder of their old campaigns, when it was common to laugh in the midst of great danger. “So I must be quick. I found Visimar, or rather he found me. He was alive, and in Broken — and I brought him along on this campaign, not least with you in mind.”

“Visimar … If only it were possible — there is much I would say …”

“It is possible, Sentek Gledgesa,” Visimar answers, kneeling as best he can by the dying man. “And you have said all you need say, as has Sentek Arnem. I forgive you for any part you played in my torment, and rejoice that you risked so much to oppose the mutilations.”

“And you accept my — apologies?” Gledgesa forces himself to ask. “Inadequate as I know they are?”

“I do. And now, you and your daughter must rest, Sentek, and prepare yourselves. You must give her courage as you both cross the river …”

“Then you can help us embark upon that journey?” the blind man asks.

“Fear not, Gerolf Gledgesa, for yourself or your daughter. You shall mount and cross the Arch of All Colors that spans the Waters of Life, and Geldzehn the Guardian shall take you both into the Hall of Heroes. Hel shall not use the crime against me that you and Sentek Arnem witnessed, when you were both mere servants of the Kafran priests, as a justification for dragging you to her terrible realm — I release you, in the presence of your gods and mine, from that burden.”

“River?” Arnem is confused. “But, Gerolf, you said the rivers are—”

“We speak of another river, Sixt,” Gledgesa replies, in an uncharacteristically gentle way. “Another river altogether. Visimar knows it … And I thank you, old man. Sixt — put my daughter’s hand in mine, and put me on my feet. Then go, old friend.”

“Damn it, Gerolf! There may yet be something Visimar can do, I have seen his healing skills—”

“There is naught, Sixt — no help of that sort, I mean …” Arnem helps Gledgesa up and Visimar guides the girl Weda to his side, again making certain her bandaging is sound as Arnem puts the girl’s hand into her father’s. “I trust those are your horsemen I hear,” Gledgesa continues. “We ate all but a few of our mounts long ago. So — let me return without your life upon my conscience.” The blind man reaches into the air, not expecting Visimar to touch him, but signaling his contentment, and urging the cripple, too, to go. “And thank you again, old man, for removing our part in your torment from my shoulders, where it has weighed heavily for so long …”

All that happens next happens too quickly for the grief-stricken Arnem to comprehend fully; unable to watch Gerolf Gledgesa attempting to mount his horse on his own, he helps his comrade, while Visimar does the same for the almost weightless Weda. Father and daughter begin to walk their horses to what must be their ends in Daurawah, the city’s commander calling out as best he can to his own troops, ordering them to halt. Akillus and Niksar arrive with their determined horsemen to guard the sentek as he mounts the Ox, and to help Visimar get astride his mare. Then the ride back begins, Arnem’s face a mask, not only of terrible sorrow, but of contrition.

“I am as ashamed as I can ever remember being, old man,” Arnem says. “I pray your judgment was correct.”

“About this moment, it was, Sentek, although your shame is understandable,” Visimar replies. “But for now, you must steel yourself — bend that shame to other purposes. For, when you fully understand the injustices that lie beneath these ugly circumstances — then, Sentek, you will find answers, and true justice.” He pauses, seemingly awed by the magnitude of the task he himself has described. “Let us only hope,” he murmurs in conclusion, “that we survive to witness it …”

II: Fire

{i:}

Heldo-Bah stands before an ancient ash tree, the bark of which is so deeply wrinkled and roughly surfaced as to remind him of the dried, grey skin of a hag seeress, to whom he once traded a fine seksent knife for what proved to be the woman’s utterly worthless assurance that a half-marauder whore with whom he had passed a recent night near Daurawah was clean of disease, and that his chafed loins had actually been caused by riding a stolen Broken warhorse back to the Cat’s Paw. He allows his rigid body to fall into the bark of the ash’s trunk in such a way that his head strikes first: such has been the effect on his mind and spirit of an argument between Keera and Veloc that has raged since he himself ran back into their camp the day before to relate the news of his rediscovery of Caliphestros’s place of exile. Keera is convinced that she must go to meet this all-important character on her own, worrying that Veloc and Heldo-Bah will bungle the matter if they accompany her. For his part, Veloc is concerned, not only for his sister’s safety, but for her soundness of mind, as well; while Heldo-Bah has by now reached the simple hope that someone — a noble, merciful tree, if needs must — will knock him unconscious and end the wretchedness of listening to his friends debate again and again the same points.

“You have never in your life shown true respect for the tenets of the Moon, Veloc,” Keera snaps at her brother, her voice having grown hoarse. “Why, then, do you now show such sudden deference?”

“I’ve told you twenty times, sister!” Veloc protests.

“… closer to fifty …,” Heldo-Bah murmurs, quietly and uselessly, as his head slams into the trunk of the ash again.

“It is one thing to question the faith among men and women,” Veloc declares, paying Heldo-Bah no mind. “I will grant you that I have sometimes done so, often for the pure and idiotic amusement of it. But by Kafra’s rotting bunghole, Keera, when you introduce the white panther herself into this discussion —”

“Fool — you make my argument for me!” Keera shouts, her round face now blazing red. “If, in fact, we are contending with the animal who possesses the noblest and most powerful spirit in all the Wood, then she will not be fooled by your momentary airs of devotion and solemnity — indeed, she will only kill us all the more quickly, when you assume them! You may lie as you wish to the women in the towns and villages you visit, Veloc, you may even, on occasion, persuade the Groba to believe your tales; but if you think for an instant that this panther will not sense your untrue voice and words — I tell you, you must not even attempt it!”

“What, then?” Veloc demands, his own voice exhausted.

“… suicide …,” Heldo-Bah mutters, after which comes the dull thud† of his head striking the tree once more.

“But do you seriously propose that we allow you to go into that place alone, Keera?” Veloc presses once more. “It’s madness! We are faced with the greatest sorcerer ever known to the Tall — so great that he has created, in the worst part of this Wood, a garden that Heldo-Bah says has grown to rival, in beauty as well as bounty, any in the glades about Okot, or even in the Meloderna valley—”

“… far superior, in fact …” Heldo-Bah agrees, now clinging to consciousness, as well as to the ash trunk, by the barest of threads, yet unconcerned with his condition.

“—and in this miraculous place,” continues Veloc, “this place that is plainly governed by sorcerous arts of a kind at which we cannot even guess, this master of black arts lives with this — this wild creature! All this, I might add, only after he survived the Halap-stahla—which neither man nor demon has ever done! How will you stand up to such a being, I should like to know?”

“I will not, you idiot.” Keera bitterly pushes her face close to her brother’s. “I will