The Legend of Broken (37 page)

It is the first open mention of an execution that has passed Arnem’s lips; and it seems to heartily encourage the elder. The drapes of the litter finally close, and Niksar nods to Arnem, signaling that he fully understands his task: to buttress all that the sentek has said with word and action.

Arnem answers with an easy salute, in appreciation of his young aide’s willingness to undertake a less than gallant, but still brave and necessary, service; and when the litter has moved off far enough for plain talk to be safe, the sentek glowers at Visimar, his sword still bared.

“I will tell you but once more, old man. Say what you like to me—but do
not
endanger the lives of my men or their purpose, or I shall hang you
beside
this garrison commander!”

“I admit the error, Sixt Arnem—but I spoke the truth, and you
must,
as quickly as you can, get your men away from Esleben. Deadly sickness is here—indeed, a far more horrifying illness than you have described as being at work in Broken. Its spread in the town can no longer be stopped: and it will begin to kill others with as little warning, or apparent explanation, as it did the unfortunate lovers. And your men cannot be protected from it, save by leaving.”

Arnem studies Visimar, deeply puzzled. “How can you know this, old man, before we have even seen the dead bodies?”

“Viewing the bodies is meaningless—indeed, we had best not even enter the granary, lest we expose ourselves to great danger.”

“Danger—from the dead?”

“From the dead—and from
that.
” Visimar points to the topmost breaks in the high granary walls, designed to allow for ventilation. Through these openings can be seen grain: a great store of it.

Following Visimar’s indication, as the two men approach the building, Arnem asks, “And what is that, save grain?”

“
Proof,
Sentek,” Visimar replies. “In the form of winter rye, from the look of it: an off-season crop that should have been sent to Broken long ago. Instead, because these people believe that the merchants in Broken are cheating them by buying foreign grain that is less expensive, the townspeople have kept it here, and allowed it to spoil—to spoil in a most subtle manner …” As they reach the granary walls, Visimar searches the ground. “Keep a tight rein on your mount, Sentek,” he murmurs. “Do not allow him to find and nibble at—ah! there …” The old man points to a spot where some of the grain, having escaped through the ventilation gaps, has fallen to the ground. “Do you see there, Sentek—where the kernels have formed a plum-colored growth?” Arnem eyes the kernels as closely as he can, then begins to dismount, in order to reach down and get a closer look. “No, Sentek!” Visimar says, still quietly, but very urgently. “Do not allow yourself the least contact with it.”

“But why?” Arnem says, settling himself in his saddle once more.

“Because, Sixt Arnem,” Visimar breathes in relief, “should you even touch it, and then bring your fingers into contact with your mouth or eyes, you might well die as horribly as did the young girl and her suitor.”

“Visimar,” Arnem says, “explain yourself plainly.”

“
There
lies your murderer.” He indicates the ground again. “The pallin from the garrison was a victim, not a killer.”

“And again I ask,” Arnem says impatiently, “how can you say as much, without seeing his body?”

“I do not need to see his body, Sentek—and neither do you. The elder’s reaction has already confirmed my description of its condition; and we would only be endangering ourselves, if we entered that cellar of death and decay. Any chance contact with the rotting flesh of the pallin and the maid would be as perilous as consuming that rotting grain.”

“But what is it? How can mere grain be so dangerous?”

“By giving you a deadly illness that you know well, Sixt Arnem—that is, under very different circumstances,” Visimar replies. “Come: let us move to the building’s far side, and at least seem to be doing what you said we would do. But in reality, our most urgent task is to get to the garrison, and prevent your men from coming into any contact with this substance.”

“‘A sickness I know well, under other circumstances’?” Arnem repeats, following Visimar’s mare, but not his explanation. “And what would that be? Enough wasting time, Visimar, simply tell me—”

“Very well: I called it
Ignis Sacer,
which means the ‘Holy Fire,’ in the language of the
Lumun-jani,
” Visimar explains. “You know it as the ‘fire wounds.’”
†

“The
fire wounds
?” Arnem repeats, his voice very skeptical. “But fire wounds are attained in battle, from wounds that fester!”

“Not always, Sentek,” Visimar says, his thoughts occupied with both a patient explanation of the disease and working out a route to the garrison that will allow the two men to make their way to that place unobserved by anyone in Esleben; but he soon finds the dual task impossible. “Right now, however, I say again, the most imperative task we face is getting your aide and any others among your men who remain within the town
out
of it, and away from the inhabitants—for those unsuspecting people are about to undergo a calamity that will claim many if not most of their lives, as well as those of anyone unlucky enough to tarry here.”

“It is not the practice of the soldiers of Broken to abandon the God-King’s subjects in their hour of need, old man,” Arnem says sternly.

“But they are not ‘in need,’ Sixt Arnem,” Visimar replies, in like tone. “I tell you they are, almost to the last man, woman, and child,
doomed.
”

Arnem would argue the point further; but just then, with disturbing suddenness, a thought—a mere image—appears in his mind: the figure of Lord Baster-kin, standing in the remarkable tunnels beneath the city of Broken, his attention strangely fixed upon the vast stores of grain kept therein. The sentek can recall—quite distinctly, now—that these same small, purple growths upon each kernel had not been visible upon the grain: a fact perhaps uninteresting, in itself, save for what Arnem now realizes to have been Baster-kin’s apparent relief on finding that such was the case. That relief, Arnem comprehends as he fixes his mind on the moment, implied an anxiety that his lordship might have found the grain to be in some other, some far more dangerous, condition …

{
iv
:}

By the time the Arnem and Visimar have traveled in the sort of long, furtive route toward the Esleben garrison’s stockade that will eliminate any fear of being seen by someone within the town, not only has afternoon begun to give way to evening, but the commander of the Talons has learned a great deal about the two illnesses that his guest believes to be at work in the kingdom, and of the respective ways in which they propagate among men and women. First, there is the supposèd poisoning that took place within the city of Broken, which Visimar believes to in fact have been the first acknowledged (but likely not the first true) case of the terrible pestilence that Esleben’s healer rightly dismissed as being at work among his own people: rose fever, a sickness that hides itself in befouled water. The second is a more outwardly chilling rot that savagely attacks by way of any foods or flesh over which it has already taken hold, a malady that the sentek indeed knows as “the fire wounds,” but that is more properly identified by the terms “Holy Fire” (for who save a deity could be responsible for its monstrous symptoms?) and, still more precisely, among truly learnèd healers, as
gangraena.
This sickness, as Arnem has said, often appears as a result of the festering of soldiers’ wounds; but it can also carve its path using such insidious methods as the commander and the acolyte have just observed. Which of the two is the more dangerous? That is a question to which not even Visimar will hazard an answer; all he can do is continue to urge Arnem on, and to emphasize the importance of getting his Talons out of and away from ill-fated Esleben and its inhabitants. Before he can commit to that withdrawal, however, the ever-dutiful Arnem requires some more exact explanation of just what has taken place between the men of the garrison and the townspeople.

When the sentek and his fool-become-advisor finally do come within sight of the town’s small, formidable stockade, they find that mention of Arnem’s name has apparently been, as hoped, enough to prize open the gates of the place, and that members of the small command have emerged, the deep blue of their regular-army cloaks contrasting with the wine-red of the Talons’ similar garments. But before the two men can reach the stockade, they encounter some ten to fifteen groups of Talons, each consisting of three to five frontline infantrymen, who, in keeping with Broken military practice, have formed a watchful perimeter about the stockade. These are particularly skilled and veteran warriors, for in battle it is the duty of such men to quickly form the face of each side of the Broken
quadrates,
where they absorb the initial and harshest blows of the enemy, as well as lead the way in unhesitating attack when those
quadrates
shift into offensive or pursuing formations. It is these two equally valiant yet dangerous roles that have given such soldiers their informal name:
Wildfehngen,
†
because their disciplined ferocity in battle is believed to be unmatched, certainly by any warriors that the army of Broken has ever faced.

From the
Wildfehngen,
Arnem soon learns how matters truly stand within the stockade: although its gates are open, the men within can give no explanation for what has taken place in Esleben, beyond that already offered by the town elders. As for the commander of the garrison (the sole person, Arnem believes, who may be able to shed true light on the mysterious goings-on in and about the town) he remains barred within his quarters, not, it seems, because of disloyalty or disobedience, but because of illness. This information only makes the sentek more determined to immediately spur the Ox on toward the stockade and greater insight; but before he can depart, Visimar catches his arm, speaking to him as earnestly as he can, while keeping his voice very hushed:

“If the garrison commander is
ill
,” the cripple says, “you must determine the nature of that illness before you approach him. Remember, Sixt Arnem—we have but two goals, now: to get away from here without incident, and to ensure that your own men do not take any of the town’s forage or food supplies with them. Nothing in Esleben is to be trusted.”

“I shall attempt to remember all such points,” Arnem replies, his various frustrations becoming more apparent in his angered words. “But I
will
be given a clearer understanding of what is taking place here—whatever this commander’s condition.” Once more preparing to speed away, the sentek suddenly catches sight of something ahead, a sight that finally brings some sort of relief to his face. “Well. There’s one worry eased: Niksar seems to have escaped the town unscathed …”

Niksar is riding at a good pace toward Arnem and Visimar, and the sentek urges the Ox out a short distance to intercept him. “Well met, Reyne,” he says, acknowledging his aide’s salute. “But before you give voice to the understandable indignation that I detect upon your face, tell me: you weren’t, by any chance, offered any hospitality—say, any sustenance—while you were in the town, were you?”

Niksar scoffs. “Unlikely, Sentek. They were only too happy to be rid of me, when I said I had to report to you. I doubt they would have let me eat so much as the grass upon the ground, as at least my horse did.”

Arnem studies his aide’s mount. “You’re certain that’s all he ate? No loose grain that might have been scattered about, for instance?”

Niksar looks puzzled, indeed. “None, Sentek. Why, what’s happened?”

“We’ll explain as we enter the stockade,” Arnem says, resuming his progress toward the small stronghold’s gates. “It’s a tale you may have to employ all your imagination to credit, as well as your newfound trust of our friend here.” Arnem indicates Visimar. “But
do
credit it, Reyne, and make certain the men understand that no forage, no grain goods of any kind, are to be consumed in or taken away from Esleben. And, for an even fuller understanding of just what is happening, I’m afraid we’ll need the garrison commander, who’s evidently ill and barricaded away in his quarters. Hear me, now, Niksar …” Arnem draws alongside the younger soldier. “I know you won’t like the charge, but once we’re in the stockade, help the old man get up the stairs in the quadrangle, will you, while I go on ahead? I must, at the very least,
begin
questioning this man as quickly as possible.”

“Sentek?” Niksar says, perturbed: for he can now see that his commander’s manner indicates more than mere annoyance: a profound anxiety of spirit is present, as well. “Of course, but I—”

“Questions later, Reyne,” Arnem says. “I want some answers, now …”

Yet with damnable stubbornness, still more disturbing questions await the sentek when he, Niksar, and Visimar reach and enter the garrison stockade. By now, the first of his long-range scouts have returned from the east, and the news they bring from those towns closer to Daurawah, as well as the rumors issuing from farmsteads within sight of the walls of that sprawling riverfront town itself, are vague and grim. Unrest, varying in degree, has taken hold of the laborers, merchants, and elders of other communities along the way to Broken’s principal port; and, perhaps most worrying of all, the scouts have heard that disorder of a far worse variety has taken hold inside Daurawah itself. If such is the truth, it is an unusually alarming fact for Arnem, both professionally and personally: the governing of the port has for several years been the responsibility of one of the sentek’s oldest friends in the army of Broken, Gerolf Gledgesa,
†
with whom Arnem had faced the Torganians at the Atta Pass, and to whom the new chief of the army had hoped to pass the command of the Talons when he himself was so tragically elevated to Yantek Korsar’s post. But if Gledgesa has allowed matters in Daurawah to deteriorate to such a point, the appointment of his old comrade—always, like Arnem himself, a controversial figure within the army—will be out of the question. The full possible consequences of the scouting reports from the east are plain, then: but none is more ominous than the notion that, even if the Talons can avoid violent encounters with the subjects of the eastern kingdom, those same subjects will continue to surrender the food and forage which the soldiers require for their march against the Bane only grudgingly, if at all—and the men will be able to accept such supplies only if they are found to be untainted. Thus, Arnem may be forced to plan his campaign anew, calculating time, now, as a powerful ally of the Bane, rather than of his own force: ever one of the worst advantages that a commander can concede to his enemy.