Arnem indicates the palisades of the garrison structure. “How much fire could your men direct onto that structure as an opening to the coming action, Fleckmester? I want complete immolation, speedily and with intent.”
The master of archers takes his meaning perfectly. “More than enough to serve your purpose, Sentek.” Fleckmester bows to Niksar. “With the greatest of respect and sympathy, Linnet Niksar.”
Niksar remains silent through Fleckmester’s departure, and even after the master has gone, he can say no more than, “Thank you, Sentek—my family will be deeply in your debt, as will I …” And with that, after a final glance up at what is only the dark shape of his brother, now released from the agonies of both hideous illness and the hatred of the crowd of villagers he had undertaken to protect, Niksar puts his spurs into his white mount and departs, leaving Arnem to study Visimar before he follows.
“I am aware of this latest debt to you, old man,” the commander says, “as I am of the others I have incurred, this day. Be assured of that …”
Before Visimar can reply, Arnem urges the Ox to follow Niksar, and the old cripple makes ready to follow; but he is suddenly consumed by a sensation of being observed, one that he at first chastises himself for believing is coming from the dead body of Donner Niksar. Looking up before he can dismiss his superstition, he realizes it is not the feeling that is mistaken, merely the identification of its source. Against the dark sky that is illuminated by the rising Moon, Visimar sees enormous wings pass over his head in utter silence, just above the garrison walls. While most of the soldiers might be unnerved by such a vision—for the six-foot span of the creature’s wings is greater than the height of some of the troops—Visimar is elated by it.
“Nerthus!” the cripple calls out with a grin, as the enormous owl (for such the creature is) silently circles downward to settle her twenty pounds of weight—so little, for one of her size and power—upon Visimar’s shoulder and lifted arm, startling the mare upon which he rides. Calming the horse and trotting away from the main body of Arnem’s troops (although still to the west), Visimar explains to the horse, “No, no, my friend, you have no need to fear this bird, although a newborn colt might!” He turns again to the owl, whose neck cranes around and down as only owls’ may, shifting the feathery tufts atop her head—tufts that so resemble ears, or perhaps stern brows—and looks for all the world as though she will tear the old fool’s nose from his face; but Visimar does not fear the motion, and indeed, the owl only opens her beak to gently nibble and lick at the bridge and nostrils between Visimar’s agèd eyes—an indication of the profound trust that can only result from a longstanding, affectionate, and most extraordinary acquaintance. Visimar cannot help but laugh and reach up to run his fingers gently down the bird’s mottled chest feathers.
The owl, it seems, means more than pure affection by its motion, and holds one enormous set of talons up to catch Visimar’s eyes. “Ah?” he noises. “And what do you carry, that is so urgent?”
In the tight black claws are clutched a bundle of flowers and plants: some deep blue, some bright yellow, others knobby and green, but all, Visimar quickly notices by the cleanly cut ends of the stems, harvested by men no more than a half a day earlier. “So …” Trying to calculate the meaning of all this, as he keeps a part of his attention fixed on the advancing mob, Visimar soon reaches a conclusion. “I see,” he says certainly. “Well, my girl, off to your master, and inform him, as well—for you must not stay here to be injured by an arrow from one of these provincial fools, nor from the more precise missiles of the Broken archers. I must away after the sentek—but we shall meet again soon, and in far fewer than the many months it has been this time …”
As if satisfied with the man’s response, the owl again pulls affectionately at a tuft of his grey hair, cutting a little of it loose and bundling it in among the plants. She then spreads her remarkable wings to either side of Visimar’s head and makes for the night skies again. The old man, his mood profoundly changed by the several implications of this encounter, uses his one foot to spur his mount on after Arnem and Niksar.
{vi:}
BY THE TIME the two officers and their crippled companion have returned to the troops who will participate in the rearguard engagement, most of the remaining contingents of the Talons have already started eastward away from Esleben, and the head of their column is well along the Daurawah Road. The ten remaining members of the Esleben garrison have stayed behind with the rearguard units, looking to Sentek Arnem for direction; and Arnem, in turn, looks subtly to Visimar, uncertain whether the men’s exposure to either their leader’s illness or, in passing, to any grain-based goods in Esleben, should affect his decisions. A subtle twist of Visimar’s head tells Arnem firmly that the garrison troops must not march with the main force; and that the sentek must contrive some mission worthy of the men, while keeping them away until time can tell the danger they pose.
“We would join in the fight, if you will have us, Sentek Arnem,” one tall, gruff member of the garrison steps forward to say; and general assent to this proposition is proclaimed by the others. Momentarily at a loss, Arnem soon settles on a solution, turning to the man who addressed him.
“I am impressed by this, Linnet—?”
“Gotthert, Sentek,” the man replies, saluting, “but I do not have the honor to be a linnet, sir.”
“You do now, Gotthert,” Arnem says. “I know the look of a man ready to lead; and so, unless one among your company chooses to contest the appointment …?” All that emerge are expressions of agreement with the sentek’s choice, causing Arnem to smile. “Well, then, Linnet Gotthert—I have another plan, equally important, in mind for you: under cover of the brawl about to begin, set out for the banks of the Cat’s Paw in the area of Lord Baster-kin’s Plain, and judge the preparations of both the Bane, and those patrols of the Merchant Lord’s Guard who keep regular watch in the area of the Fallen Bridge. Your men can get some well-deserved rest, once there, to say nothing of decent food, and then report to me when I bring the column along in no more than two days’ time.” Arnem glances at Visimar, and sees that the cripple does not object to his ploy.
“Very well, Sentek,” Gotthert replies, both disappointed (for his men clearly wish to play some role in avenging Donner Niksar) and relieved that his unit’s ordeal within the stockade is over. Giving his superior a final salute, and receiving one in acknowledgment, Gotthert begins to move toward the southeast, followed by his troops; but Arnem, having observed the look upon Gotthert’s and his men’s faces, delays them for a moment.
“You shall at least see this chastisement of Esleben, Gotthert,” the sentek calls, “which will do double duty as the official pyre for your former commander.” Looking to his right, Arnem finds Fleckmester has drawn up a double line of his strongest bowmen. In front of each line burns a shallow trench of pitch and oil, and the men have nocked arrows with large, dripping heads, and all await only the word to fire.
“Fleckmester!” Arnem calls, holding his own sword aloft. “Collapse the eastward wall first, and proceed from there in the necessary order. If any of the townspeople interfere—shoot them down!”
Fleckmester shouts out the commands to light, aim, and loose the fiery shafts: the dried fir logs always favored in the construction of such palisades prove vulnerable to the flames, and in mere moments the whole of the western wall is burning with a fury to give even the madmen from Esleben some pause.
“All right, Taankret,” Arnem calls to the Krebkellen of infantry and cavalry fausten. “You could hardly ask for a more obliging invitation!”
“Indeed, Sentek!” Taankret replies, the marauder blade going high enough in the air for all to see in it the reflection of the raging fire. “Men of Broken—we move!”
Taankret’s words are uttered as the fort’s eastern wall begins to collapse with loud cracks, sending burning wood aloft amid a storm of sparks, even as the fire spreads to and begins to destroy the southern and northern walls
.
“Very good, then, Linnet Gotthert,” Arnem says to the new commander of the garrison troops. “The diversion of your antagonists’ attention is complete—away with you and your men, and Kafra go with you. We shall meet soon, on the banks of the Cat’s Paw!”
Each man of the Esleben garrison salutes both Reyne Niksar and Arnem as they pass; and yet the blue-cloaked troops do not move with full dispatch until they actually see the Esleben fort transformed into a most worthy funeral pyre for a most worthy officer. When the western wall of the structure is pulled down at the last by the collapse of the other three, all the men to the east are privileged to watch as the ignoble rope with which Donner hanged himself finally serves an admirable purpose: whipped by the collapse of the wall to which it is fixed, it hurls the body of Reyne Niksar’s young brother high into the air above the flames, even causing Donner’s form to lay out horizontally as it comes crashing down upon the now-enormous pile of pine logs below, which glow and flame in shades ranging from red to orange, from yellow to white. Arnem could not have wished for a better execution of the funereal spectacle, and the sentek is quick to turn to the master archer, Fleckmester, and salute him in gratitude; and the garrison men do the same, as they set out at a run.
The sentek marvels, as he has so many times in his long career, at the resourcefulness of the average Broken soldier. Neither Linnet Gotthert nor any of his garrison comrades could even have suspected what their ultimate duty was likely to be, this night; and yet Arnem now observes their willing disappearance into the darkness, as though their actions were the result of a long and detailed council of war. The sentek takes a moment to reproach himself for the duplicity that underlies the orders he has given them; yet he cannot take a great deal of time for such self-recrimination: although the townsfolk of Esleben, and the people who have been drawn in from the countryside, are moving as mobs will—relying on a few individuals initiating each tentative advance—the pain of the disease that is driving them is clearly mounting, and there is only one spur to rash action more potent than lunacy: physical agony.
Even so, Arnem is able to see the mob are strangely moving past pain, almost as if their sickness is destroying their ability to sense that most potent of physical influences. And, faced with this degenerated behavior among what are, after all, subjects of Broken who must have been, until very lately, no more mad than himself, Arnem finds himself spurring the Ox off to some little distance from Visimar and Niksar: almost thoughtlessly, and by the light of a Moon that has now made its way up over the hills and valleys, he searches for the silver clasp that his wife placed in one of his inner pockets before the Talons’ splendid march out of Broken. When he finds it, he withdraws the thing, and gazes down at the stern, one-eyed face and the portentous ravens it artfully depicts; then, without considering what he is doing, he actually addresses it:
“And so, great Allsveter,” he murmurs, repeating the term that he has sometimes heard his wife murmur when contemplating the thing. “Was it you who inspired a brave young man to end his misery thus?”
Replacing the clasp in his deepest pocket, Arnem shakes his head to clear it of nonsense; but then he hears the discreet voice of Visimar:
“Are you troubled enough to address the gods of old, Sentek? Fearing, perhaps, that Kafra has betrayed his own people?”
Quickly looking to see that Niksar has chosen to bury his grief by personally taking charge of the Wildfehngen units, Arnem glares at the old man harshly. “Nothing of the kind. The object is a meaningless token from my wife, to whom my thoughts turn before any battle, particularly so strange an engagement. Make no more of it, old fool.”
“As you will, Sixt Arnem,” Visimar replies; and then he breathes heavily with concern. “But I fear I must tell you that matters in the home you long for may be growing as wretched as they are here. For the rose fever in Broken, it seems, is spreading …”
Arnem’s face reveals clear bewilderment. “And how come you to know this?” the sentek asks, making ready to join his aide.
“I should almost enjoy telling you that I have employed sorcery,” the cripple replies. “But we have no time for childish games. You shall simply have to trust that I know it—and, it may interest you to know, I have at the same time received further proof that my master yet lives.”
“Truly?” Arnem replies, his interest showing plainly. “I pray so. For, by the look of things, we shall require the keenest of minds soon.”
Visimar eyes him carefully. “Why should the ‘sorcerer,’ the ‘heretic’ Caliphestros, have any interest in serving the needs of Broken? And how could he serve them, in a way acceptable to the rulers of the great kingdom?”
Just then, however, Arnem receives an urgent call for leadership from Niksar: the mob from Esleben is proving more troublesome than the sentek had originally thought possible. “Let us say that I hope, then,” he tells Visimar, as he draws his sword and prepares to ride. “I hope that Caliphestros, upon realizing what is truly at work in this land, will offer whatever assistance he can—just as you did, Visimar, and just as any creature with a conscience must!” Then the balled spurs go into the Ox’s sides, and Arnem is away. “Reyne!” he shouts. “Ride out to join Akillus on the left claw, and I shall do the same on the right! Let us finish our work quickly, and then push our foes back toward Taankret’s men—let the Krebkellen be completed!”
As the Ox passes proudly before the infantry Wildfehngen—knowing, as such warrior mounts ever do, the importance of the moment and his role in it—the formations of scarred, powerful men afoot begin locking their great, convex skutem shields about the sides of their three quadrates, while Arnem continues to call out his orders with such authority that not a man misses a word: “Remember, Talons—although I wish no death to befall these people, my concern for your own lives is far greater; and should you find yourselves in peril, I shall not begrudge you a wounding or even a lethal blow—however diseased your enemies may be!”
A roar goes up from the Wildfehngen, who have been unleashed; and the great machine that is the fiercest part of Broken’s elite legion sets to work:
High as their emotions are, they never outstrip discipline. Akillus and Niksar’s left fauste of horsemen makes quickly for the townsmen, who show the ferocity of madmen collected into throngs: there is no order in their violence, only raw rage, and it is not long before the Broken horsemen have encircled and pressed them into the oncoming foot soldiers. Despite these predictable results, however, a wave of surprise runs through the men of Niksar’s command: for some of the townsmen—those who appear the most afflicted by whatever illness has taken hold of their community—simply keep coming at the soldiers, even after sustaining wounds that would make seasoned warriors flee outright. A few of them seem to notice these wounds so little that Sentek Arnem’s order against inflicting grievous injury must be violated in several cases, so that the maddened townsmen can at least be disarmed—and such disarming, it becomes clear in these several cases, means the taking off of a hand or a limb. Yet even these terrible injuries cause little or no discouragement.
From the baggage train, where he enjoys the youthful protection of the skutaars, Visimar sees this development by the light of the Moon; but the sight gives the old man no amusement or solace.
“Too deep,” he murmurs, repeating his phrase of earlier in the evening. “The Holy Fire has burned too deep into them …” Then, aloud, he calls out: “Ernakh!” Turning, he asks of the young men: “Where is Sentek Arnem’s skutaar, who is called Ernakh?”
Within a few moments, the dark-haired marauder youth is rushed before Visimar, who seizes the lad’s shoulders, as if to shake urgency into him.
“Find your mount, son,” the old man says. “Get to your master, and tell him this: the disease has progressed too far, and many are insensible to pain. As soon as there is a separation between the townspeople and his men, he must retreat with haste!”
“Retreat?” another skutaar calls. “You are mad, indeed, old f
ather, to think that the Talons need retreat before such useless fools!”
“Do as I say!” Visimar commands, keeping his attention fixed on Ernakh, and rightly sensing that the youth enjoys a more serious nature than his fellows. “Your master will thank you when all has finally become clear.” As the boy leaps atop a nearby horse, Visimar turns to the other young men. “And the rest of you—begin moving the equipment of the khotor, even before your commanders return!”
Visimar keeps his still-keen eyes fixed on the white and grey forms of Niksar’s and Arnem’s mounts on the distant field, and the speeding Ernakh riding fearlessly into the violence—and how expertly, the old man thinks, how naturally and with what seriousness does the marauder boy move atop a horse and among men engaged in a fight that is becoming increasingly deadly! The cripple sees Ernakh reach Sixt Arnem’s grey, deliver his message, and receive acknowledgment from the sentek. Almost immediately, the wagons and pack animals of the baggage train begin to move quickly eastward along the darkness of the Daurawah Road, while Visimar remains behind, quietly but desperately urging speed upon Arnem and his men.
It is, in the end, an unnecessary entreaty; for, just as effectively as they have thrashed and herded the townsmen back toward Esleben, the Talons are able to break the Krebkellen formation, form into well-ordered lines of retreat—two abreast, now, rather than four, for speed’s sake—and return past the spot where Visimar is waiting, all long before their opponents can follow. Some Talons bleed from lucky blows scored by the Eslebeners, but most are simply sweating and bewildered; yet they never slow their double-quick march along the Daurawah Road. Arnem, for his part, draws up beside Visimar, breathing hard and allowing the Ox a moment to revel in his reunion with the old man’s mare.