The Legend of Broken (86 page)

Happily, those cries do soon come, in good time for Linnet Crupp and Caliphestros to be prepared to move their second set of
ballistae
to join the others well before the rain climbs up the slopes of Broken. Preparations are nearly complete: what Lord Baster-kin sees as an ill-disciplined attack—one first striking at the East Gate, then at the Southwest—conducted by allies who know little about each other (and trust less), has in fact, to this point, been an elaborate performance carried on precisely to lead him to such a conclusion. How wrong or right he will have been to trust in his native prejudices, in the beliefs and disbeliefs handed down to him by generations of haughty but undeniably effective predecessors, must now be put to a mortal test. But the point of true attack shall not come at Broken’s East Gate, its strongest, nor at its Southwest, where Baster-kin has now been induced to have men and machines waiting, as well; rather, the assault will be launched, as it was always intended it should be launched, at the South Gate, another formidable portal before which it is particularly difficult to assemble a large host with supporting machines, and above all, a spot which Lord Baster-kin, who would never have been likely to expect such an assault, has been carefully convinced to think the allied force has struck from its list of candidates.

But, as is known to those who have studied war in the East, the greatest generals do not attack where their enemies are, but where they are not: a thought that would seem obvious, save for the incredible frequency with which commanders violate it. In addition, those same eastern military teachers exhort that battles are played out in the minds of those who conceive them long before the first screaming clash of arms takes place; and they are won ere the opposing commander ever offers his sword or his head in subjugation. These are all factors of importance, because Caliphestros is a man who has been as far to the East as anyone not born there, and he has studied these theories and practices of war well. Thus, it is his vision above all that plays out in the “Battle” for Broken, which is indeed a nearly concluded affair by the time that Linnet Bal-deric’s conventional
ballistae
begin to hammer the Southwest Gate of the city with enormous pieces of ancient granite: stone once cleared from within the walls of the city to allow its creation, but that never found its way back within to facilitate the construction of proper homes for the residents of the Fifth District, and which serves instead, now, to give force to the left claw of Sentek Arnem’s massively reimagined
Krebkellen
.

Despite the superiority of the allied force’s battle plan in Caliphestros’s mind, he is, by his own admission, no commander of men in the field; and it is thus for Sentek Arnem and Yantek Ashkatar to ensure the resolve of the warriors under their command once true battle has been joined. So far as the Bane fighters are concerned, Ashkatar knows that he need not concern himself with the contingent at the East Gate of the city: his men upon ponies had been tasked with but one responsibility—the creation and maintaining of so much mayhem that to those within Broken it would appear a fearsome company of horses and men were moving into position to attack. Such was and remains an assignment perfectly suited to the talents of Heldo-Bah, Ashkatar long ago determined: Visimar and Keera might have overseen its proper initiation, to ensure that it did not descend into the kind of ecstasy of madness on Heldo-Bah’s part of which the file-toothed Bane is more than capable—and this they have indeed managed to do, with the somewhat less effective help of Veloc, whose soul remains perilously balanced between the glistening heights of philosophy and the tempting depths of depravity. Yet the true rallying and spurring on of the eastern deceivers has been the work, above all, of the irrepressible and constantly screaming Heldo-Bah.

Back where the work of truly preparing an assault is being done, both Ashkatar’s and Sixt Arnem’s styles of inspiring and motivating their troops are once again on display, just as we have observed them so before in these pages. Ashkatar’s remains that strange combination of affectionate encouragement and harsh warning, punctuated by hard cracks of his ever-reliable whip, which keeps the men and women who form his ranks in motion. Yet, with the greater portion of the Bane horsemen at work to the east, what exactly are the rest of the Bane warriors responsible for, as the tasks of Sentek Arnem’s
ballistae
do the main work of the battle’s opening phase? We shall come to such matters soon enough: suffice to say now that Bane axes (new axes, forged for them by Caliphestros from the steel that the tribesmen believe comes from the stars and is gift from the Moon) can be heard within the mountain’s highest stands of trees, resounding as they strike the trunks of the mighty, lonely fir giants. It is not surprising, given all this activity, that Ashkatar’s already thunderous voice, made even more terrifying by the manner in which it resonates up from just below the peak of the mountain, is full of oaths both profane and affectionate—so affectionate, that the occasional Bane warrior takes no offense to seemingly insulting references to such things as his or her parentage:

“You, there!” he might bellow at a member of a felling crew. “I will not see such fainthearted effort from a whelp of mine!” And then the whip will crack, making a sound as harsh as the first cracks of the tree’s felling; and, finally, the commander’s voice sounds again: “Oh, you are no offspring of mine? Wipe that look from your face, soldier, there’s many a Bane on this mountain today to whom I am more than Yantek! Ha! Swing that axe as
I
would, you lazy pup!”

And the wonder is that the warriors under his command actually take heart from such perhaps absurd but nonetheless endearing berating. Ashkatar’s treatment of the female fighters of the Bane tribe, meanwhile, is not tempered by any belief that women possess more fragile souls than do men: if they did, he is quick to remind them, they would have done well to have stayed home. Far from being no less demanding of his women, Ashkatar’s whip sometimes cracks more often in their company; and when, as Arnem and Caliphestros have predicted, the thunderous pounding upon the Southwest Gate caused by Bal-deric’s
ballistae
cause a sudden panic upon the eastern walls, and Lord Baster-kin is heard to shout his own commands (equally loud, but far less endearing) that more than half his artillery be shifted to the Southwest Gate, it is the women archers of the Bane who are ordered forward to harass the movement, under cover of stout blinds assembled by all the bowmen of each people’s contingent, as well as under the great shields of Taankret’s
Wildfehngen
.

But it is the insults and derision thrown at the men of the Guard as they pass from the East to Southwest Gate by the Bane women warriors that are especially disheartening to Baster-kin’s inferior soldiers. For to take an arrow, to such men, is terrifying or deadly enough—to take it to the loud sounds of women in a seeming constant state of uncontrolled laughter, is quite another. Yet when one linnet of the Guard has the temerity to suggest to Lord Baster-kin that some of the Guard’s few bowmen be moved to address the problem, words are heard raining down from the Southwest Gate (for it is to this position that Baster-kin has himself moved, to supervise the
re
-construction of many of the
ballistae
that he had only just succeeded in getting his men to fully assemble on either side of the East Gate) that are as something more than music to Bal-deric’s ears:

“Silence, you idiot! These unnatural women are only meant to make your legs weak and your minds confused—as indeed they are doing! I have told you: one of these two actions, that at the East or that at the Southwest Gate, is intended as a ruse: but what good is a ruse, when see how even the most weighty rocks make little or no dent in the oak and iron of the Southwest! By Kafra, if this is all the traitor Arnem has to offer us, then we can have every expectation of success—provided sniveling cowards such as yourself find their manhood, and are not shaken by a collection of mad but harmless hags in armor!”

Word of this remark is immediately sent by runner to “the traitor Arnem”; who knows that now, he must exhort his own main force to prepare for the truly critical assault, the unique attack that will follow the work of Caliphestros’s
ballistae
at the South Gate. For it is not simply that the legless old philosopher has pledged the destruction of that gate at the commencement of what increasingly resembles a tempest; that is merely the
third
deception that composes his plan. There is a fourth deception that completes the great design; and it is that deception for which Arnem’s men, especially his horsemen, must be prepared to move quickly and decisively.

And so, just as the first of Caliphestros’s strange and comparatively few war machines—the construction of which was made possible only by the experience and comprehension of Linnet Crupp—is finally rolled into position on the small open space before the South Gate, Sentek Arnem begins to ride up and down every position that his men hold, preparing them for an act that seems far less natural than it does to his allies: an assault upon the city that is the heart of their own kingdom.

Preparatory appeals such as this, whatever legend may tell us, are seldom effective if they have not been preceded by years of experience, respect, and near-constant reminders that a commander has never asked his men to go into action without attending to every necessary preparation to ensure their success, as well as complete willingness to share their danger. Arnem’s words now are therefore few:

“There is little more that I can tell you, Talons,” he calls, still an impressive figure, after so many days spent primarily in the saddle, atop the great grey stallion named for the Mad King. “Little more, save that of which I have attempted, until now, not to speak; but speak of it now I must. We all stand to see our families beyond these walls, if we indeed have any, at the very least shunned, likely censured and perhaps far, far worse for our part in today’s action. Your loyalty in refusing to allow this to weaken your dedication, even once, speaks for itself; and if it did not, what should I say that would make up the lack? But I have withheld one fact from you, because I did not wish that same steady dedication that you have shown to revert into undisciplined zealotry: Lord Baster-kin will see me punished, should we fail, with as much injustice and cruelty as he once levied against Lord Caliphestros, who courageously returns to this city with us to see his former enemy chastised. But it is not any venom that the Merchant Lord may direct toward me that chills my soul. No, rather it is the sickened desire, tainted by anger, that he directs toward Lady Arnem—toward
my wife
—that has so frightened me that I have not been able to speak of it, until today: for the Merchant Lord has—for many years, it seems—
coveted
Lady Arnem!” Murmurs of astonishment that rapidly become the beginnings of rage spread through the Talons. “Nor is that all!” their commander continues. “In order to make possible his sickened fancy, he has knowingly ordered not only myself, but all of our
khotor
into parts of the kingdom he knew to be diseased! If we lived through this ordeal, supposed his lordship, we would but die in the Wood, with either result suiting his purpose—but if neither eventuality came about, this would suit his design, as well, for, besides declaring us traitors to the Grand Layzin and hence the God-King, the Merchant Lord has, these many months, been poisoning his own diseasèd wife, under the guise of treating her, in order that he may be free to take
my
lady to his side, and produce new sons for the clan Baster-kin—sons more fit for leadership than his own scion, whose death his lordship has been mad enough, only recently, to oversee in the Stadium!”

And this news, as the sentek had hoped, brings the full anger and determination of the Talons to the fore. Despite their always strong loyalty to their commander, more than a few have been confused, in the most shielded parts of their souls, by much of what they have seen and been ordered to do, on this strangest of marches. But even an intimation of harm to—and worse than harm to, violation of—Isadora, the woman who Arnem has rightly claimed is more the beating heart of their ranks than he is himself, is simply too much for the men to bear. Combined with their deep worries for the fates of their own kin, this revelation causes protestations to erupt from every direction, and every kind of pledge and oath is declared: there will be no further need for the sentek to urge the men to find their mettle.

All that is left for him to do is demonstrate to the Talons, and to all the army, that access to the Fifth District, and the city beyond, is possible. For this is, in fact, the final deception embodied in the allied plan: not to bring the citizens of the Fifth District
out
of Broken, but to take possession
of
that district, and use it as a base of operations from which to destroy Lord Baster-kin’s Guard. And so, with his men still roaring their angry defiance of the Merchant Lord, as well as their passionate defense of the Lady Arnem, to say nothing of their long-standing hatred of the Guardsmen, Arnem gallops to the position that Caliphestros and Crupp have taken up before the South Gate.

“Well, Sentek,” Caliphestros announces, “it seems improbable to me that the moment will ever be more propitious.”

“Indeed, my lord,” Arnem replies; and Caliphestros can see that the sentek’s passion has been no mere performance designed to exhort his troops; now that he has spoken of it publicly, Arnem’s fear for his wife and his son has risen to the surface, and he is impatient for what is to come.

“Tell me, my lord—what in the world
are
those things?” Arnem questions, as Crupp commands the men who crew the
ballistae
to load the first of the clay containers that contain the old man’s devilishly foul substance into the cradles that sit at the back ends of lengthy, greased ramps. The ramps themselves are secured through adjustable gears of elevation atop heavy wheeled frames, but the angle of flight they are meant to achieve is clearly higher than any device the men commanded by either Bal-deric or Crupp himself would usually be able to achieve; yet Crupp and his men are experienced with all such weapons, and unlikely to commit obvious errors. Rather, it is the
ballistae
themselves that appear, for all the world, less like the usual variety of torsion-driven battering machines, such as Linnet Bal-deric continues to use at the Southwest Gate, than they do enormous bows placed upon their sides.