In reaction to the villagers’ complaints, Arnem has explained to his officers (at Visimar’s—or “Anselm’s”—repeated urging, which is supported by the madman’s “visions”) that the grumblings are fantastic concoctions, designed to explain away the ill fortune of those subjects lacking the nerve to survive in the heated competition of Broken’s marketplaces; and each officer has been careful to pass this on to his men. At the same time, the sentek has also explained earnestly to those town elders whom he has encountered that neither he nor his officers have been made aware of any such treasonous shifts in trade practices, and that the leaders of the army possess no authority to address purely commercial issues—the conduct of trade being, within the Kafran faith, ultimately a sacred, not a secular, activity. Nevertheless, Arnem has repeatedly pledged that, when he reaches Daurawah, he will root out all nefarious traders, and will extract from them not only the names of their partners within Broken, but whether they possess the written dispensation they would require to carry on such an apparently sacrilegious form of commerce. And, while this pledge has not been enough to convince the elders in the villages through which the Talons have passed that they should part with any of their supplies of provisions and fodder, Arnem has seen that these stores are meager, indeed: his men will doubtless have better luck at the first really sizable trading town they come to. Counting himself lucky, therefore, simply to have avoided violence between his troops and the disgruntled townspeople and country folk they have thus far encountered, Arnem gives the order to press on toward one of the wealthiest towns between Broken and Daurawah, Eselben, where his men are confident that they will receive both a warm welcome and good food.
And yet … Such coolness on the part of subjects who have always been happy to welcome Broken’s soldiers as the embodiment of the God-King’s love, even for the humblest of his people, has caused a dangerous sort of confusion to begin spreading through the ranks of the Talons. It is, as yet, mild; but it is the kind of uncertainty that feeds upon itself, Arnem knows this only too well. And so, while it occupies a slowly growing portion of his men’s thoughts, it must and does command a far greater portion of their sentek’s.
“They will see far more unsettling things, when they actually find themselves in an engagement,” Visimar muses, echoing Arnem’s thoughts. “And should they continue to meet with this ingratitude on the part of the very subjects for whose sakes they will be fighting, and in many cases dying—they may lose the will to fight, and especially to die …”
With the two men’s remove from the troops now safe, Arnem finds that he is grateful to voice and hear voiced the anxieties that have plagued him since the night of Korsar’s banishment. He has not dared express such doubts to anyone—not even to the loyal Niksar, or, in full, to his wife—but somehow, he feels safe sharing them with one who obviously (if somewhat surprisingly) comprehends them: even if that one has ever been rumored to have been nearly as evil as the dreaded Caliphestros himself. Indeed, some within Broken consider Visimar to have been the more evil of the pair, for while Caliphestros cut up the fresh bodies of citizens killed by violence, execution, or poor health, it was Visimar who supervised the acquisition of the bodies. And the more handsome the corpse, whether male or female, the more eager the creature of the sorcerer was to buy or steal it.
The sentek takes the hem of his cloak and moistens it with a large skin of water that hangs from his saddle, then leans down to wipe sweat from the Ox’s glistening shoulders. “I was not aware,” he says, dismounting and using more water to clean the Ox’s neck and face, “that explorers of the dark arts were also interested in military matters.”
“You mock me, Sentek,” says Visimar, still good-naturedly. “But I was once given a unique perspective from which to study your mind and heart—as was my master. I know your moods; and I comprehend your devotion to the rites of Kafra—or rather, its compromised nature.”
Pain seizes Arnem’s body: it is the physical discomfort, not of illness, but of shame. Visimar has brought their conversation—not for the first time—to the brink of a terrible truth the two share: that Arnem had not merely been among the soldiers that escorted the Halap-stahla ritual party that mutilated Caliphestros, so many years ago, and then, some months thereafter, the Denep-stahla that left Visimar in his present condition; no, the full truth is that Arnem commanded those detachments. He and his troops played no active part in the repugnant rituals, of course; but they protected the priests from any interference by the acolytes of the sorcerer and his principal assistant, or by the ever-watchful Bane.
Visimar observes what has washed over Arnem’s features, even as the sentek continues to lovingly groom his horse. “I only persist in broaching the subject, Sentek,” the older man says kindly, “so that you will realize that, if you speak of it once, we need not dwell on it. I could see at the time that you disdained the rituals; and I heard that, after my own punishment, you refused to stand guard at any others—and that your refusal played no small part in the God-King’s decision to suspend the practices altogether. I tell you truly that I then felt happiness for you. Not loathing.”
Arnem looks up, his eyes dark. “Such understanding would be extraordinary, Visimar. And it cannot have made these years easier.”
Visimar tilts his head thoughtfully. “It has not—and yet it has. My body’s suffering would have been worsened by perpetual hatred of men such as yourself, Sixt Arnem. You were all—and remain, whether or not you know it—nearly as helpless, effective prisoners of the priests and the merchants as both myself and my master once were. Or so he and I have always believed—and, I think, you have begun to suspect.”
Much of the darkness lifts suddenly from Arnem’s aspect. “You said ‘have always believed’—so the tales are true, and Caliphestros yet lives!” Visimar glances away uncertainly; but he does not deny it. “I have always suspected as much,” the sentek continues, with apparent relief.
Visimar smiles at Arnem’s eagerness, knowing it grows from a strong desire to be absolved of the shame of having guarded the Kafran mutilation rituals—even if such participation had been compulsory. For the old acolyte also knows that, where matters of such violent moment are concerned, compulsion does not absolve participation, in the mind of the superior military man: instead, he will wonder—if, eventually, he refuses to carry out a repugnant order, and then finds that his refusal leads, not to his punishment, but to a reassessment of the actions ordered—how many other unfortunates might have been spared, had he objected earlier.
“Well, Sentek, I can but say that I knew him to have been alive, at least until fairly recently,” Visimar replies. “But as to the questions of how I knew it, and whether or not he lives still, I can say but little, save that I have plainly been in no condition to seek him out. I will tell you this, however: if anyone could have survived for so long, without his legs and in the most dangerous parts of that wilderness, it would have been my master. And so—fear not, Sixt Arnem. If Caliphestros is still among the living, then we shall both meet him again, and likely soon.”
Just then, the two men mark the sound of a horse approaching at the gallop. The man astride the hardworking white animal is Niksar, returned to them from the column’s head.
“Sentek!” Niksar shouts; and even through the young linnet’s urgency, Visimar can see that Arnem’s aide remains confounded by the manner in which his commander continues to spend private moments in close counsel with an aging unbeliever. “You must rejoin the vanguard. Scouts have reached the next town—one is now returning.”
Arnem, reading trouble in Niksar’s noble features, shifts his attention. “But this will be Esleben—surely the merchants and farmers of so wealthy a town can offer no such complaints as we have heard already.” Arnem studies Niksar closely. “Yet your face tells me that they can …”
“Their objections are far worse, from the first look of things,” Niksar replies, hoping his commander will pull away from the madman at his side—as, indeed, he doe
s.
“Stay well back, Anselm,” Arnem orders, as he sets out. “We cannot say when dissatisfaction may turn into something distinctly more unpleasant!”
Visimar nudges his horse with his thighs back toward the marching troops. “True enough, Sentek Arnem,” he muses, as his whispering is drowned out by the rhythmic tramp of the infantry. “Neither here—nor anywhere else, in this kingdom. Not on this journey …” Knowing he has a part to play in that journey, Visimar becomes all happy congeniality, as he draws alongside the foot soldiers of the Talons; and they give loud voice to their satisfaction at his choosing to march for a time in their company.
{ii:}
AT THE HEAD OF THE MARCHING COLUMN of Talons, Arnem and Niksar gallop past the suddenly and plainly apprehensive lead cavalry units. They are entering a lush, flat expanse of farming fields, beyond which, almost a mile from the head of the column, lies Esleben: a considerably larger and more well-to-do place than any of the communities the expedition has yet passed. This is a result, not only of its rich farmland, but of its position at the juncture of the Daurawah Road and a similarly well-traveled route that spans the kingdom from north to south. It is also the terminus of an impressive stone aqueduct that brings water from the Cat’s Paw to the south: an aqueduct that powers the enormous stone mills that are the town’s chief places of employment and sources of profit. The mills and the farming required to feed them have long kept Esleben an energetic community; yet that energy seems fixed, today, on turmoil. Arnem and Niksar can hear, above the drumming of their horses’ hooves, the unmistakable voice of a mob, echoing among the town’s stone-walled, thatch-roofed mills, granaries, forges and smiths, as well as its many taverns.
In order to guard against raids by the Bane upon this wealthy center of commerce, its garrison of twelve veterans of Broken’s regular army, always commanded by an experienced linnet, is maintained in a strong stockade on Esleben’s eastern limits. The impenetrable nature of Broken’s borders means this fortification has never seen any real “battle”; today, however, the rage of the townspeople is great enough to lead to a most disordered clash of arms. Yet this violence seems to be directed against any man who wears the distinctive armor or identifying symbols of Broken’s own legions: in addition to seeing two of his mounted scouts amid a throng of menacing villagers, Arnem sees that the third scout, who is riding back to the column, is spurring his horse as if his life, and not simply a report, depends upon it. Arnem and Niksar increase their own pace, and meet the approaching scout midway between the town and the rest of the men. One look at the agitated young soldier, as well as at the lather on the flanks of his mount, is all Arnem requires to understand that the two scouts still in Esleben may be surrounded by more trouble than they can manage on their own.
“Ho, soldier!” cries Arnem, reining in the Ox. The scout’s horse rears with a cry of its own, after which the soldier gets a fist to his chest in salute and tries to catch his breath. “Akillus!” Arnem continues; for he knows each of his scouts by name, as they are the most intrepid of Broken’s already daring Talons; and none is braver than their chief, who is now before the sentek. In addition, Akillus is, because of his seemingly inexhaustible good humor, a favorite of Arnem’s. “The people of Esleben are even less pleased to see us than their neighbors have been, it would seem,” the sentek continues.
The scout pauses a moment to steady his voice, and wipes at the moist brown shoulders of his horse as he brings the mount alongside the Ox. “Aye, Sentek,” he answers, his concern for his two comrades still in the town, as well as for his horse, plain in his face, if not his disciplined words. “We thought to contact the garrison, but—the villagers are keeping them penned up inside their own stockade, and have for some time, apparently. And, when we asked the village elders for an explanation … Well, Sentek, what we received in reply was a mob of madmen. And may the golden god shrivel my stones if we’ve been able to learn the cause of it all—”
“Akillus!” Niksar says, though his rank is but marginally higher than the chief scout’s own. “Whining villagers are no reason to blaspheme before your commander.”
Akillus begins to apologize, but Arnem holds up a hand. “Yes, yes, forgiveness granted, lad. Crowds are tricky things—I suspect that even Kafra will not begrudge your outburst.” Pulling a scrap of parchment and a bit of hard charcoal from a pocket beneath his armor, Arnem quickly scrawls a short note, which he hands to the scout. “Return to the column, now, Akillus. Give this to the first Lenzinnet that you find, and have him bring his unit back with you. We go on ahead.”
“Sentek?” says the scout uneasily. “Surely you should wait—”
But Arnem has put his ball-headed spurs to the Ox’s sides, and is away to the town at a hard gallop. Niksar, sighing in fretful familiarity at Arnem’s impetuousness, prepares to follow, saying only, “And make them good men, Akillus—I don’t like the look of that town …”
As he begins to turn his own horse round so that he can carry out his order, Akillus glances at Arnem, who is moving directly to the aid of the two scouts in Esleben. And, as he watches his commander, Akillus smiles—a full, heartfelt smile, one that reveals clearly why Arnem’s men love him so: their commander will forgive a blasphemy that many officers might punish with a thrashing, and at the next moment rush off into danger before support troops have even started for the trouble.
“He’s mad, himself,” the scout murmurs, in great respect. Observing for a last time how Arnem expertly handles his horse, riding so low that his body seems merely another muscle in the Ox’s back, Akillus quietly adds, “But it’s a madness that we would gladly share—eh, Niksar?”
Before Niksar can upbraid him again, Akillus is away, his own horse’s pace almost matching that of the Ox in the opposite direction.
As Arnem draws close enough to discern the townspeople’s outraged expressions, he can also see the large mills and granaries at the center of the town, which are surrounded by a circular cart path fed by the four roads that approach the town from the cardinal directions. Within the dusty circle stands a large platform with pillory and gibbet, a fair-sized temple to Kafra, and the terminus of the long stone aqueduct, which brings its turbulent waters along a gently sloping stone channel several miles in length. The concentrated flow from this channel powers the wheels of the grinding stones housed in the millhouses, the relentless engines of which pulverize prodigious amounts of the grain that is brought from the fields surrounding Esleben, as well as from distant farmsteads—
Yet on this warm spring day, the water from the pool does not flow, and the great mill wheels do not turn …
Upon entering the square, Arnem offers the crowd of what he would guess to be some eighty people no sign at all that he is preparing to slow his charge into their midst. On the contrary, when he is sure the crowd can see both his face and the silver claws on his shoulders, he unsheathes his cavalry sword. Holding this deceptively elegant weapon calmly but purposefully along his leg—where it can be easily used to cut a few throats—the sentek charges toward the townspeople who appear most ready to confront his wild advance; but as the moment of collision nears, the crowd’s determination breaks, and they dash in every direction, leaving the two scouts alone near the gibbet.
As the townspeople disperse, Arnem sees what Akillus has described in more than a few of their faces. In truth, it is something beyond rage, he determines; something that bears a disturbing resemblance to lunacy …
Both of the scouts, like Arnem, have their riding blades drawn, but have yet to make any truly menacing move; and, although their horses had earlier been frightened into turning tight circles in the midst of the crowd, once free of the mass of humans the animals quickly regain composure. Arnem rides directly to the soldiers, without acknowledging the retreating mob. Both men salute bravely, and as they do, Arnem can hear Niksar behind him, using his own mount to ensure that the crowd stays back. “Brekt—Ehrn,” Arnem says, again calling each of the scouts by name. “It seems yo
u’ve stumbled into some sort of commotion.” The sentek keeps the tone of his voice almost merry, as if the threatening scene is nothing more than a mildly amusing spectacle. “Are there any details that I need be concerned with?”
Both scouts laugh, relieved as much as amused, and the taller man, Brekt, replies: “We don’t yet know, Sentek—we haven’t been able to speak to any of the garrison. All we do know is that this lot”—he indicates the now-splintering crowd—“say that they’ve had eleven of the men penned up in their own stockade for days, if not weeks—”