The Legend of Broken (87 page)

“I first designed and experimented with such devices when I dwelt for a time in the land of the Mohammedans,” Caliphestros explains, “before they, too, declared my presence ‘offensive.’ But they soon decided—with apologies, Sentek, but just as you did—that the weapons could have but little use as devices for battering, and were therefore a mere folly. Having already encountered, in Alexandria, the formula for the fire
automatos,
I had been thinking from the first of how such machines could be adapted for the delivery of the substance: a longer span for the two bow wings, a gentler force of release, to be compensated for by a higher trajectory.” Turning to the western sky, Caliphestros, along with the rest of Arnem’s force, feels a new mist—this one very damp indeed—creeping up and over the mountain. “We have little time. Yantek Ashkatar has signaled that he is ready. Sentek, it is for you to give the order.”

“I do not think the order was ever truly mine to issue, Caliphestros,” Arnem replies. “But insofar as it may be, you have it.”

And with that, the great experiment begins …

6.

With strong but careful blows of great wooden mallets, Linnet Crupp’s men release the restraining blocks on Caliphestros’s strange machines. The first of the clay vessels slide almost noiselessly (for they, too, have been greased, like the rails upon which they ride) up and into the sky, staying aloft for what seems an impossible period of time. Not a sound is heard from any member of the attacking force, although cries of sudden alarm do go up from those members of the Merchant Lord’s Guard positioned above the South Gate.

“My lord Baster-kin!” these men shout. “Still more
ballistae,
at the South Gate!” Within moments, Baster-kin has himself become visible, even before the first of the clay containers has reached the end of its flight.

“What in Kafra’s name …?” he blasphemes, his furious gaze watching the vessels sail to what must surely be spots short of the gate. But he has not reckoned on Linnet Crupp’s mastery of the art of such arcs; and although the vessels land on the lower half of the gate, land they do, smashing to bits and coating appreciable areas of the stout oak with a remarkably adhesive substance, the odor of which he cannot yet identify.

But when Crupp orders quick adjustments to the
ballistae,
raising both their bows and the ramps upon their frames, and then commands a second launch, the next flight of vessels find their way to the top of the gate with expert precision; and from here, it is impossible for any man upon the walls to mistake their strong stench.

“
Incendiaries
, Sentek?” Lord Baster-kin shouts derisively. “This is why you tied your fortunes to the sorcerer Caliphestros, who has clearly gone soft in the head? Ha! Only look at the western slope of the mountain, you fools—within minutes we shall be pelted with a driving rain, and what of your ‘incendiaries,’ then, you traitorous dolts?”

Arnem views the black figure on the wall with the thin-eyed, smiling hatred of a man who believes he will shortly deliver the decisive blow to his enemy. “Yes, driving rain,” he murmurs. “Eh, Lord Caliphestros?”

“You are yet too confident, Sentek,” Caliphestros replies. “Crupp, be quick! We have the range, now—in less time than you would have thought imaginable, that gate must be coated.
Coated!
Fire,
fire
, and above all, continue firing!”

The coverage of the remaining surface of the South Gate takes less time than is required for Crupp’s expert loaders to loose all the containers from their bindings inside their carts; and such is a good thing, too, for, just as the first containers have achieved their work, Arnem, like every other man on the mountain, is momentarily blinded by a series of lightning strikes brilliant enough to cut through the foggy morning, and then shaken by a clap of thunder louder than any he can ever remember hearing. The rain, when it comes, is all that Caliphestros has predicted, hoped for, and relied upon; and in its wake, those before the South Gate, as well as those atop it, become witness to something that no one among them (save the old sage himself) has ever before encountered, and that many, particularly atop Broken’s walls, will wish never to have seen even this once:

It is announced by Heldo-Bah, who left his own contingent of riders to continue their work below the East Gate once he felt the first drops of rain fall; at that point, having made sure that the Bane riders knew only to stay in their position so long as the rain permitted any dust to rise, he joined Keera, Veloc, and Visimar in riding wildly for the South Gate. None of them wished to miss Caliphestros’s promised creation of an event that Heldo-Bah has repeatedly called a fantasy. But despite the noisy Bane’s doubts, by the time the four arrive on the spot, none are disappointed, nor are the hundreds of Bane and Broken troops who have moved forward to see living proof of:

The fire
automatos
. When the windswept rain strikes the South Gate, that portal is completely coated in Caliphestros’s slowly dripping concoction; and, to the amazement of all, the thick oak between the iron bands of the gate is suddenly consumed in a fire completely strange, one that seems something out of a vision, or perhaps more rightly a nightmare. It is a fire that the awed Heldo-Bah, as only he can, declares:

“Kafra’s infernal piss …”
†

The first and most arresting aspect of the fire is its brilliance. For while the others in Arnem’s force have expected, at best, to see a traditional fire that has somehow defied the falling rain, this is a conflagration primarily blue and especially white in color—and, most remarkable of all, it is has not been extinguished, but
ignited by the rainfall
. Furthermore, the harder the storm pelts down upon the gate, the more fiercely the fire burns. Nor does it do so
atop
the great oak blocks: rather, its fierce, destructive heat appears to burn ferociously
into
the wood, as though it were a living, burrowing being, anxious to reach some point within or beyond the oak itself. In addition, its action is swift: the whitest parts of its terrible flame hiss and snap to match the pelting waters that drive it on.

All among Arnem’s force are anxious to brave the few archers of the Guard who have remained atop the South Gate (to do what good it is impossible to tell, for they are greatly outnumbered by the superior Talon and Bane bowmen who are covering the actions of Crupp’s
ballistae
), and to take turns feeding Crupp’s great machines: for, as Caliphestros continually cries out, the fire
automatos
must be constantly replenished, constantly
fed,
that the blue-and-white-flamed creature may continue to sate its feverish appetite to move inward, ever inward, as if it is a being not only voracious but single-minded:

And its sole goal, it seems, is to reach the opposite side of the oak before it, and reduce the mighty iron banding that binds those prodigious wooden towers to a pile of glowing scrap that the Broken horsemen will be able to pull away with comparative ease.

For all these reasons, and despite every word of doubt that he has ever voiced concerning both the Riddle of Water, Fire, and Stone (for who can doubt, now, that water and fire have indeed come together to defeat the mighty stone walls of Broken?) and the fire
automatos
itself, Heldo-Bah races about in mad ecstasy upon his pony, until he has clapped eyes upon the legless old man he has so often mocked. When he sees Caliphestros, sitting proudly—but still without complete satisfaction—on the back of the white panther, Heldo-Bah dismounts and races for the pair of them, first pushing his face in the pleased panther’s neck and burrowing as far into her wet, pungent fur as he is able, and then insisting on removing the old philosopher’s skullcap and kissing his balding pate.

“Heldo-Bah!” Caliphestros protests, although even Stasi cannot take his protests seriously enough to attempt to defend him. “Heldo-Bah, there is yet work to do, and you are behaving like a child who has become disordered in his mind and senses!”

“Perhaps so,” Heldo-Bah declares, taking a seat upon Stasi’s powerful back and coming as close to embracing the distinguished gentleman in front of him as Caliphestros will allow. “But you have made good on your promise, old man!” he cries. “And in doing so, you have made every other portion of this attack seem possible!” Carelessly replacing Caliphestros’s cap and tweaking his bearded cheek, the forager returns to the ground, and loudly kisses the muzzle of the great cat, who, while mystified by the action, is no less understanding of its intent, and in sheer joy, opens her mouth to let out that curious half-roar that is her method of communication.

And yet, Heldo-Bah thinks to himself, this is not the mournful sound that he has heard her make in the past; quite the contrary. The forager therefore turns to Caliphestros, who is busy fixing his skullcap with no little annoyance, to ask, “Lord Caliphestros? Is this joy at the humiliation of those who took the lives of her children? Or some other happiness that I do not understand?”

By this time, Caliphestros notices that the entire previous scene has been observed by Visimar, Keera, and Veloc, all of whom sit upon their mounts with wide grins, as Heldo-Bah retrieves his own pony and remounts it. “Nay,” Caliphestros says. “This is a specific happiness, I have but lately learned. When Lord Radelfer came to our camp, he brought me most extraordinary news: the sole cub of Stasi’s who was taken alive, all those years ago, by Baster-kin’s hunting party has been
kept
alive, for the amusement of the athletes in the great Stadium. As ‘alive,’ that is, as any animal can be kept in the dungeons below that place of sickening spectacle—”

The old philosopher is interrupted by a single noise: the first great, thunderous crack of the oak planks of the South Gate. The attackers before the gate can suddenly make out, above the deteriorating portal, the figure of Lord Baster-kin, who is returning from the southwest wall: the site at which, the Merchant Lord had become certain, the main attack on Broken would actually come.

And although this much more may be impossible for those on the ground to perceive, Baster-kin’s proud face suddenly sinks into utter despair, as he realizes that his calculations have been incorrect; that whatever sorcery (and he persists in believing it so) the outcast criminal Caliphestros has used to create this fire that has been ignited by, and burns so terribly hot in the midst of, a rainstorm, it is the fire itself that may well prove his undoing.

“Very well,” he mutters bitterly, running his hands through his drenched hair and smelling the stench of his rain-soaked velvet cloak that clings to his armor. “But if my world is to vanish—then I can yet take pieces of yours with me …” Glancing about at the sky, and realizing that his long-held plan to burn the Fifth District has also been undone, Baster-kin feels his bitterness run deeper; and his only thought, now, is for vengeance. “For if my triumph can be stolen—then you will yet find, all of you, that yours can be turned to ashes in your mouths …” He glances at the Guardsmen immediately about him. “Three of you—now! We go upon what may be our last errands of blood!” And then, making his way into the nearest guardhouse, Baster-kin descends to the Fifth District, below, a long and lethal dagger appearing from within his cloak.

It is a dagger, however, that will be stricken from the Merchant Lord’s hand almost as soon as he exits the guard tower, just as life is immediately stricken from the unlucky Guardsmen who accompany him. And as he glances about, ready to inflict his wrath on whatever unlucky resident of the Fifth District may have committed the act, Baster-kin discovers a terrible fact that instantly changes the outlook of his entire existence. By now, the South Gate of the city has begun to glow with the destruction of its inner side, and by this light, Baster-kin can see clearly, circling him:

Some ten enormous, powerful attendants from the High Temple, all armed with terrible, seven-foot sacred halberds, well-kept blades that reflect enough firelight upon their gathering for Baster-kin to realize that these are not attendants that he has ever seen before. Their smoothly shaven heads also reflect the light of the gate that will soon collapse in flame—and they wave the Merchant Lord toward the Path of Shame.

“Rendulic Baster-kin,” one of them states, in a tone as impressive as is his long, gilt-edged black tunic. “Your presence is required by the God-King Saylal, as well as by the Grand Layzin. And I suggest we move with haste, ere what was entrusted to you as one of the impregnable portals to the sacred city comes crashing down about our heads.”

“The
God-King
?” Baster-kin repeats; and for the first time, this supremely powerful man feels the same terror he knew as a boy, when called into the angry presence of his tempestuous father; but, now as then, he attempts initial defiance. “Why do you not address me by my proper title?”

“You no longer have either title or rank,” the attendant replies, a strange joy in his eyes. “But you
have
been granted that rarest of gifts—a journey to the Inner City.”

Baster-kin’s very guts fill with dread; but he will not show this collection of fearsome priests the same terror he once allowed his father to witness. He somehow finds the strength to draw himself up to his full height and attempt his haughtiest posture, and then says simply, as he points along the military pathway, “Very well, then—lead on, that I may finally perceive the visage of my most gracious and sacred sovereign. For I have no reason to fear an audience with him, having only ever served his will.”

As the former lord steps forward, however, several of the sacred halberds cross to prevent him. “Not that way,” says the same attendant, his voice answering pride with disdain. “You shall ascend the Path of Shame.”