“Veloc!” she cries, so strongly that he can hear her over the falling waters. “Your bow—bring him down! Kill him!”
But Veloc, on the crag’s higher perch with Heldo-Bah, has left both his arrows and his short bow below. He begins climbing down to retrieve them, but manages only a short part of the descent before he hears Keera call out in protest again. Veloc looks up to see that the man holding the babe is sobbing, clearly on the verge of surrendering to every form of torment a human can feel. The man offers a final entreaty to the Moon, raising the child up toward it—
And then lets the infant slip from his hands. Still screaming in uncomprehending agony and terror, the child plummets into the sharply protruding rocks and mercilessly churning waters below. The sight is so terrible—but worse, it is so very much against Nature—that Keera’s knees buckle beneath her, like those of the shag steer she earlier helped to kill. She drops to the ground to watch as the young mother—now, it seems, so fully in the grip of her frantic grief and physical agony that she can no longer muster the will or the power to even weep—crawls resignedly to another spot on the same precipice, and looks up at the defeated, broken countenance of the weeping man.
Veloc senses further tragedy, and gets quickly to the ground to start toward his sister, without retrieving his bow. And surely enough, before he reaches Keera, the nightmare spins on: the woman who lies on the ledge uses the last of her strength to simply roll off of it, silently disappearing into the falls, perhaps desiring, in her distraction, to be reunited with the infant in the realm that lies beyond death, the realm that, the Bane believe, is governed by the benevolence of the Moon.
By the time Veloc does reach Keera, he finds his sister so aghast that she cannot move from the spot where she kneels. The old woman ahead of them staggers unsurely but steadily toward the man on the ledge, in precisely the manner that the younger woman did moments ago: slowly, tormentedly, without hope or even desire for salvation.
“Stop them,” Keera says to Veloc, getting to her feet in a display of desperate purpose, as if her desire to know that her own family survives has become bound up with the fates of the wretches on the rocks. “We must stop them, Veloc—we must know why they are doing this …”
Keera and Veloc begin a cautious progress toward the two remaining Bane, who now stand together, as steadily as their conditions will allow, on the shelf above the Ayerzess-werten, their hands clasped, their eyes looking up at the Moon. Their shared determination causes both brother and sister forager to begin to move faster; and because of this, they issue small noises of alarm when an entirely new man appears before them, so suddenly that it almost seems that the mists of the Ayerzess-werten have coalesced to form a skehsel, the breed of malevolent spirit that all Bane dread most—for the evil Natures of the skehsel would surely attract them to such terribly stricken people as these, to work the unnatural idea of self-destruction into their confused minds. In reality, the man has simply been secluded behind the trunk of a gnarled oak that stands rooted to the last patch of rich forest floor that borders the rock formation onto which the pain-racked Bane have made their way. This vantage point, and the fact that the man has kept himself hidden, suggest that his purpose is to ensure that events on the ledge unfold in the manner that the foragers have witnessed—and to prevent any passersby from interfering. In a dutiful, routine manner, the man blocks Keera and Veloc’s path, silently telling the foragers to stop with one upturned hand.
So bewildered that they are momentarily robbed of their self-possession, Keera and Veloc obey the silent order: for the man before them, while not so imposing as the average citizen of Broken, is taller than both of the foragers—or, indeed, than almost any other Bane—by a good measure. But it is only when brother and sister notice the newcomer’s garb that the matter is clarified. A shirt of expertly crafted chain mail—not iron or scale mail, but shimmering steel chain—that covers his body from elbows to thighs is layered by a leather tunic, as well as a wool cape and cowl, all black, the last with oxblood crimson wool lining. Crimson breeches lead down to knee-high black leather boots of a quality to indicate importance, an impression that is deepened by a long, bejeweled dagger in a dark sheath that hangs from the first pass of a double belt, while from the second winding dangles a short-sword, a weapon that, to judge by its brass-banded sheath, is the exceptional work of one of Broken’s bladesmiths. Finally, a well-crafted bow is slung over his right shoulder, completing an effect that is so sinister and imposing as to seem calculated. But the expression on the man’s face is sincere; and as he tosses the left side of his cloak over his shoulder, he reveals a crimson crescent Moon stitched to the upper left-hand portion of his tunic—the emblem of a long tradition of terrible violence.
Keera and Veloc say nothing, less out of fear than stupefaction. On the crest of the crag, Heldo-Bah experiences no such befuddlement:
“Great Moon,” he whispers, once the man has revealed the emblem on his chest. “Or whatever woodland demon has arranged this—” He begins to scramble quickly down the crag. “I thank you for it …” He takes the last ten feet to the ground in one strong jump, landing almost silently and looking up with sincere and gleeful hatred:
“An Outrager …”
With these words, Heldo-Bah glances about, making sure his various knives are still at the ready—
And disappears, apparently abandoning his friends to their fate.
In the clear ground between the oak tree and the rocks surrounding the Ayerzess-werten, the black-clad man immediately takes a commanding tone with Keera and Veloc: “Stay back, foragers,” he calls. “You know who and what I am?”
“What is apparent,” Veloc answers. “As for who—does it signify?”
“Not at all, little man—not at all,” answers the Outrager; for such he is. “It’s only that, should we come to blows, it may help you to meet Death with less shame if you know that you have been bested by Welferek, Lord of the Woodland Knights.”
Veloc’s fear is apparently not strong enough to prevent him from scoffing: “Lord of the Woodland Knights … ‘Outrager’ isn’t comical enough for you, eh?” He turns to Keera, his continued laughter indicating that he has abandoned all caution: for this Welferek could easily kill them both, and Veloc knows it. Keera stares at her brother in disbelief. “Tell me, sister,” he inquires, with mock sincerity—and then Keera sees his true purpose: Veloc’s insulting impertinence is distracting the Outrager from the unfortunates on the rocky ledge, who have taken one or two steps away from the precipice, and are watching what transpires near the oak tree intently. “Have we not spent as much time in the Wood,” Veloc continues, “as any Bane alive?”
“Truly, brother,” Keera replies, trying to disguise her emotions and play his game; but it is difficult. “And more than most Bane now dead.”
“Which makes it odd—indeed, passing strange!—that we rarely if ever see any of these ‘woodland knights.’ And yet, here now is a lord of that noble brotherhood, in all his peacock finery!”
Welferek has been steadily losing the tolerance that had first marked his treatment of the foragers; and now, his hand slowly closes on the hilt of his short-sword. Yet he has also taken the bait: for his thoughts have wandered momentarily from the surviving Bane behind him. Veloc has been wise to gamble on the pride of the Outragers.
Chosen for their exceptional height and strength, qualities that allow them to pass into Broken without being immediately (or in some cases ever) identified as Bane, the “Sacred Order of the Woodland Knights of Justice”—or, in common parlance, the Outragers—are the divinely sanctioned instrument of Bane vengeance, the creatures of the Priestess of the Moon in Okot, who alone chooses and commands them. The violence that they perpetrate, within Broken’s walls or among the villages of that kingdom, is infamous for its suddenness, its cruelty, and the often indirect way in which it is connected to individual injuries committed by the Tall against the Bane. A Bane forager run to death by the dogs of a Broken merch
ant’s hunting party, for example, or a young Bane woman who is abducted and obscenely used by a detachment of soldiers from Broken’s army, will nearly always result, not in retaliation against the particular Tall guilty of the crime, but in the torment and murder of Broken families in entirely different parts of the kingdom. This is not deemed cowardly, among the Bane—or rather, the High Priestess often declares that it should not be so deemed. Instead, it is reaffirmed on all Lunar holy days that the Woodland Knights of Justice have a divine right to strike wherever they will be least expected. Since the beginning of recorded Bane history, it has been the central secular tenet of the Lunar Sisterhood, from whom the High Priestesses are selected, that only by remorselessly engendering horror and shock throughout Broken can the Bane command sufficient respect among the Tall (even if it must be hateful respect) to ensure the flow of trade between the two peoples, and to keep the Tall from far more serious depredations against the tribe.
The knight now facing Keera and Veloc is a typical example of this philosophy. He is handsome enough, with well-proportioned features and a neatly trimmed beard atop a powerful frame more than five feet tall. But in his eyes is the same chilling aspect that Keera and Veloc have seen in the gaze of every Outrager they have ever encountered. It is the dark scowl of one who has known too much lonely bloodshed in his life; bloodshed, the weight of which is neither eased by the comradeship of warriors in battle nor made somehow comprehensible by the gratitude of one’s own people; bloodshed undertaken at the obscure behest of priestesses; bloodshed that makes of a man something apart, something deadly, and of his soul, something already dead …
“You can have no interest in what takes place here,” Welferek says evenly, keeping his sword sheathed, and attempting to hold his anger at bay. “Continue about your business, and quickly.”
Keera’s resentment at being thus dismissed is great, but she tries to sustain Veloc’s ploy: “And what if we do have an interest? The deep Wood is the realm of the foragers, Outrager—it is we who say what is our business, here. Do you suppose we will submit meekly?”
In reply, Welferek finally draws the short-sword—slowly, to achieve the greatest effect. “I don’t suppose it,” he answers calmly. “I am certain of it. These deaths have been sanctioned by the High Priestess, by Her Lunar Sisters, and by the Groba. Those among the condemned who wish to die immediately may choose their own method of ending their lives. This family chose the Ayerzess-werten, as have others. They were escorted here at spear point by several of my knights” (The careless male voices in the Wood, Keera concludes silently) “and I am charged with making certain they fulfill their pledge. And if they do not, or if anyone attempts to interfere …” He shrugs.
“But—why is it happening?” Veloc asks. “What do you mean, ‘those among the condemned who wish to die immediately’?”
Welferek scrutinizes Veloc with great suspicion. “If you truly do not know, forager, then it’s not my place to tell you. For those sorts of answers, you need to see the Groba when you return to Okot. I’ve told you what my task is, and I advise you again to move along.”
The ugly glare of lethal sincerity in Welferek’s eyes intensifies, and is only slightly mitigated when the Outrager at last remembers his charges on the rocks: cursing both his inattention and the foragers’ interference, he turns away to make sure the man and the old woman are proceeding on the path that the young mother and her child have already taken. Discovering that they are not, Welferek murmurs still more irritated oaths, while Veloc, realizing that his game has run its course, puts a gentle but persuasive arm around his sister’s shoulders, urging her back. But Keera will have none of it, and Veloc, not knowing what recourse is left to him, begins to search first the crag and then the line of the Wood, in the hope that Heldo-Bah will soon offer support.
But he can find no trace of his friend among the Moonlit rocks and tree trunks, a fact that does little to encourage further defiance.
Welferek sends a sharp blast of air whistling through his teeth, fixing his own harsh gaze on the tormented eyes of the two Bane who are, apparently, the last business he has to attend to, at least for the moment. Taking a few long strides toward the Ayerzess-werten, Welferek holds his short-sword aloft, waving it through the air slowly, but with purpose, as his entire body assumes a posture of menace. His message could be no plainer: There are but two choices available to you …
The distraught pair on the ledge reluctantly select their fate: the man throws his arms around the now-weeping woman, tenderly yet very firmly (in the manner of a dutiful son, Keera cannot help but think), and whispers something into her ear that has at least a partially soothing effect. Then, with the last of his strength as well as another plaintive gaze up at the Moon, he guides the woman back to the very edge of the precipice and, with no more ceremony than would be required to drift into slumber, he falls with her from the ledge and into the spray of the cascade, from whence the two—ever locked in that same gentle embrace—hurtle down into the killing maelstrom, which cannot acknowledge these latest of its victims by allowing even a splash to escape its monotonous thundering.
Welferek sighs wearily. “Great Moon, they were a long time about it,” he declares, trudging back to the oak behind which he had earlier concealed himself. He plunges his sword half a foot into the ground, produces a small wineskin from inside his tunic, and sprays a hefty amount of its contents into his mouth and down his gullet. Hiding the skin away again, he relaxes against the oak, wiping his mouth. “Ill as they were, you’d think they’d have been happy to go,” he continues, still with nothing more than slight annoyance in his voice. Leaning more heavily against the tree, the Outrager reaches for his sword, pulls it back out of the Earth, and levels it at Keera and Veloc. “And I’m warning you two,” he says, the wine working on his restraint. “Any more arguments and we will finish speaking. You”—he points the sword at Veloc—“I will kill quickly. Although you”—the tip of the sword moves to Keera—“I may take a little time with. You’re not at all bad to look at, little forager. Yes, the two of us might find all manner of sport—provided you cooperate. If you won’t, I won’t hesitate to—”
Something flashes through the air just in front of the Outrager, whose arm is still leveled at Keera and Veloc; and, although his eyes go wide and his mouth opens to scream in apparent pain, the arm stays up, as if of its own choosing. Then a second hurtling flash cuts the Moonlit night, and Welferek’s left arm slaps back onto the trunk of the oak, again without his seeming to will or wish it to do so. He screams again, and his shorts-word falls; but his sword arm remains upraised, unable to reach across and offer any assistance to his left. Indeed, Welferek seems to have lost all ability to control his movements.
And then, from atop the same mossy rocks where the Bane family leapt to their ends, bitter laughter cuts through the noise of the falling water, taunting the Outrager:
“You’ve already hesitated, you puffed-up fool …!”
Faith, treachery, and treason in the Sacristy of the High Temple …
UPON REENTERING THE SACRISTY, Sixt Arnem finds all the participants in the tragic finish of Yantek Korsar’s career, and quite probably his life, positioned almost exactly where he left them long moments ago. Arnem is faced with a dilemma: as he walks down the center aisle of the great chamber—where the gentle Moonlight that drifted through the blocks of colored glass in the walls on his arrival has given way to the jagged illumination provided by torches, oil lamps, and a pair of braziers on the Grand Layzin’s dais—he feels his body pulling toward what would be its ordinary place, beside and half a step behind Korsar. But as Arnem moves toward this position, he catches sight of Lord Baster-kin, standing behind the Layzin’s gilded seat and staring directly at him; the Merchant Lord is plainly trying to tell the sentek this is no time for sentimental loyalty, but rather the moment to separate himself from his commander. Arnem is ashamed that he considers this directive, even momentarily, and tries to walk deliberately toward his or
iginal goal; but as he folds his hands behind his back, a peculiar thing happens:
Korsar, without looking at the sentek, takes half a dozen long strides away from him. The old commander has also caught Baster-kin’s meaningful glance, and is trying to protect Arnem in his own way; but it is, nevertheless, a jarring moment, the first time that the younger man has ever felt that standing by Korsar—whether inside Broken’s halls of power or on the field of battle—might be the incorrect thing to do. He will not insult the yantek by following him; but the loneliness that Arnem feels is a burden perhaps impossible for any who have not known combat—who are strangers to the manner in which true warriors must place their fates within each other’s hands—to comprehend.
On the dais before them, in the meantime, the Layzin sits with his head in his hands; and when he looks up, Arnem can see that he has maintained that position for as long as the sentek has been outside the Sacristy, judging by the marks his fingers have left on his face. That face has lost its gentle aspect; and his jaws now stiffen as his words go cold:
“Yantek Korsar. You have spoken treason, and within the Sacristy. As I am sure you know.”
“Eminence, I have spoken …” Korsar endures one last flush of self-doubt: doubt that seems to vanish only when he looks to Arnem, and finds his staunch friend standing quite rigidly, yet clearly on the verge of weeping. Korsar half-smiles at the sentek, then lifts his head proudly to face the Layzin again.
“I have spoken the truth!” he declares defiantly. At the words, the two shaved priests, who have been half-hidden in the shadows in the rear corner of the dais behind the scribe’s desk, move to protect the Layzin, while the soldiers of Baster-kin’s Guard advance toward Korsar. The Layzin holds up a hand, quickly and silently halting all activity; Korsar, by contrast, continues to rail: “Yes, it was we of Broken who made the Bane—not Kafra! For what god would condemn the misshapen, the sickly, and the idiotic to such vicious, wretched ends as lurk in every corner of Davon Wood?”