The fact that the Mad King had been a heathen, a Moon worshipper like the Bane, could not have helped his foresight in this regard, Arnem knows; yet despite his personal beliefs, Oxmontrot had presided over the building of the Inner City as a sanctum for his royal family, in his later years, and he had not opposed the introduction of the faith of Kafra and all its secret rituals into his city. Indeed, Broken’s founder had seen that the Kafran religion (brought home by several of his mercenary comrades in the service of the Lumun-jani) could be made to work to his kingdom’s advantage, precisely because it emphasized so strongly the perfection of the human form and the amassing of wealth. His new kingdom, like any other, needed strong warriors and great riches, as much as it needed masons to build its structures and farmers to supply their food; and if a religion could urge Broken’s subjects to strive for ever-greater strength and wealth, while casting out those who would not contribute, what matter the private beliefs of the king (the God-King, increasing numbers of Broken’s citizens began to say, although Oxmontrot consistently refused the title)? Let the new faith flourish, he had declared.
Yet there had been a harsh side to this utility: soon not only those who would not work toward the kingdom’s safety and wealth, but those who could not—the feeble, the weak-minded, the stunted, all who did not embody the goals of physical strength and perfection—found themselves exiled by Kafra’s priests to Davon Wood. The wilderness’s dangers would provide an ultimate solution to the problem of their imperfect existence, or so it was thought, among both the Kafran clergy and the rising merchant class that built the great houses lining the broad avenues that met near the High Temple to their smiling, golden god. So plain and pervasive had become the priests’ severity that even before Oxmontrot fell victim to a murderous plot led by his wife and eldest son, Thedric, there were rumors that he had realized the error of taking advantage of the new faith, rather than forbidding it. Indeed, it had been his doubts on this point, many said, that had sealed the Mad King’s fate. Officially, the Kafran priests’ version of history had said that the blasphemous perpetuation of Moon worship had caused his death; and while Arnem’s discomfort with the recent demands of the Kafran priests has not led him so far as taking up the ancient faith, there have been moments, of late, when he wishes that it would—for absolute belief in something must be better than his silent uncertainties.
This recent silence has become especially difficult because the son whom Arnem wishes so earnestly to keep out of the reach of Kafra’s priests is anxious to undertake his service to the God-King in the shrouded Inner City; whereas his mother—Arnem’s wife, the remarkable Isadora, renowned for her work as a healer within the Fifth District—is equally adamant that her husband’s long and loyal service to the kingdom ought to free any and all of their five children from religious obligations that will break the family into pieces. Arnem himself is torn between the merits of the two arguments: and religious doubt, while perhaps troubling for those whose daily lives involve no regular confrontations with violent Death, is an entirely different breed of crisis for a soldier. To feel that one is losing faith in the same god to whom one has prayed fervently for luck amid the horrors of battle is no mere philosophical vexation; yet Arnem knows he must resolve this crisis alone, for neither his wife nor his son will give any ground. His household has been in exhausting turmoil ever since several priests of Kafra arrived to inform Sixt and Isadora that the time had come for young Dalin, a boy of but twelve, to join their elevated society; and that turmoil is what has driven the sentek up onto the walls every evening for a fortnight, to spend long hours beseeching Kafra—or whatever deity does guide the fates of men—for the strength to make a decision.
Arnem takes a small piece of loose stone from the parapet and tosses it lightly in one hand, gazing down at the mighty outer walls of Broken. When originally carved from the natural stone formations that made up the summit of the mountain, the walls followed the basic shape of that peak, a roughly octagonal pattern, with massive oak and iron gates cut into each face. Staring at the portal beneath him, Arnem catches sight of two soldiers of Broken’s regular army. Though on sentry duty, the pair are trying to steal a few minutes’ sleep: they struggle to obscure themselves beneath a bridge that spans Killen’s Run, a stream that emerges from the mountain just outside the city wall, although its subterranean course begins within the Inner City’s eternally clear, unfathomably deep Lake of a Dying Moon.
From the point of its emergence under the southern wall, Killen’s Run rushes down the mountain to join the Cat’s Paw; and once, many years ago, these guards who now seek to hide on its banks would have been Arnem’s comrades. The sentek remembers vividly the weariness that drives regular soldiers to steal what rest they can. But the sympathy he feels for their plight cannot now stay his commander’s hand, and he drops his bit of stone downward, where it strikes one of the soldiers on the leg. The sentries leap from the cover of the bridge and look up angrily.
“Ah!” the sentek calls to them. “You wouldn’t feel such anger had that been a poisoned arrow from a Bane bow, would you? No—you’d feel nothing at all, for the wood snake venom would already have killed you. And the South Gate would now be unmanned. Keep vigilant!”
The two soldiers go back to their posts on either side of the twenty-foot gate, and Arnem can hear them grumbling about the easy life of the “blasted Talons.” The sentek could have both men flogged for their insolence; but he smiles, knowing that, exhausted as they may be, they will now perform their assigned task, if only to spite him.
Footsteps echo: an eager yet entirely professional step that Arnem recognizes as that of Linnet Reyne Niksar, his aide.
“Sentek Arnem!”
Arnem turns to face the linnet, without standing. A golden-haired ideal of Broken virtue, Niksar is the scion of a great merchant house, who five years ago gave up command of his own khotor (or legion, each khotor being composed of some ten fausten), it was said for the honor of serving so closely with Sentek Arnem. In fact, Niksar was suggested for the post by the Grand Layzin because he came from one of the oldest houses in the city: the ruling elite of Broken, unlike the rest of its citizens, do not fully trust the sentek from the Fifth District. Arnem himself suspects that Niksar is an unwilling spy; but he admires his aide’s dedication, and the arrangement has not yet produced either friction or any question of divided loyalties.
As the linnet approaches, Arnem smiles. “Good evening, Niksar. Have you seen the torches on the edge of the Plain, as well?”
“Torches?” Niksar answers in worried confusion. “No, Sentek. Were there many?”
“A few.” Arnem studies the deep lines of concern above Niksar’s light brows. “But a few are very often enough.” The commander pauses. “You bring a message, I see.”
“Yes, Sentek. From Yantek Korsar.”
“Korsar? What’s he doing up at this hour?” Arnem laughs affectionately: for it was Yantek Korsar who first recognized Arnem’s extraordinary potential, and sponsored him for high rank.
“He says it is most urgent. You are to bring your aide—”
“Yourself.”
“Yes, Sentek.” Niksar is fighting hard to maintain his discipline. “Bring your aide to his quarters. There is to be a council at the Sacristy of the High Temple. The Grand Layzin is to attend, and also Lord Basterkin.”
Arnem stands up straight and glances at Pallin Ban-chindo, who, although he keeps his gaze fixed on the horizon, cannot help but smile at this news. Arnem urges Niksar a few paces further down the wall.
“Who told you this?” Arnem’s tone is earnest.
“Yantek Korsar himself,” Niksar replies, no longer concerned with shielding his uneasiness from watchful sentries. “Sentek, his manner was strange, I’ve never seen him …” Niksar holds up his hands. “I can’t describe it. Like a man who senses Death hovering nearby, yet makes no move to avoid it.”
Arnem pauses, nodding slowly and scratching at his short beard. He does not trul
y believe that this summons can be related to the heated debate over his son’s entry into the royal and sacred service—if it is, why involve such high officials of religion, commerce, and the army, to say nothing of young Niksar? But the possibility is unsettling, nonetheless. At length, however, the sentek shrugs once, affecting merely mild consternation. “Well—if called, we must attend.”
“But, Sentek, I—I have never been summoned to the Sacristy.”
Arnem understands Niksar’s apprehension: for the Grand Layzin can order anything from a man’s banishment to Davon Wood to his ennoblement, without any explanation that base mortals might comprehend. To be summoned to the Sacristy, seat of the Layzin’s power, is therefore cause for great celebration or for deep dread; and even Niksar—a man who could not display any more obvious signs of Kafra’s favor—cannot greet the call with confidence.
How much more, then, should an older, less handsome man—one lacking great wealth and certainty of faith—feel cause for alarm?
But Arnem has confronted greater terrors. “Pull yourself together, Niksar,” he says. “What interest can the Layzin have in you?” Hastening Niksar toward the nearby guard tower, the sentek adds with a laugh, “Why, you make even me look like a Bane forager …”
Just before he descends the spiral stairs, Arnem claps his previous companion on the shoulder. “Stay alert, Ban-chindo—you may get your action yet!”
The pallin draws in a proud breath and smiles. “Yes, Sentek!”
Inside the guard tower, where torchlight dances on stone surfaces, Arnem and Niksar prepare to start down the winding steps; but before they can, they, along with every other soldier on the southern wall, are frozen by an unmistakable sound:
Echoing up from the far side of Lord Baster-kin’s Plain comes a horrific shriek of terror and pain, one clearly made by a man.
Rushing back out, Arnem and Niksar see that Ban-chindo’s spear now drifts from his side uncertainly. “Sentek?” he murmurs. “It comes from the direction of the torches …”
“It does, Pallin.” Arnem listens for further cries; but none come.
“I—have never heard such a sound,” the pallin admits softly.
“Likely some Bane has fallen prey to wolves,” Niksar muses, his own face knotted with puzzlement. “Although we heard no howling …”
“Outragers?” Ban-chindo’s voice is scarcely more than a whisper, revealing the extent to which the Bane raiders are not only disdained but feared in Broken. “Attacking one of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard? Surely the others heard him cry out, if we were able to.”
“Perhaps,” Arnem murmurs, as the three soldiers move to the parapets. “But sound plays evil tricks on a man, near the rocks of the Cat’s Paw. We once campaigned for a month down there, and lost many men to wolves—you could hear them attacking from a mile’s distance, yet they could take a picket off without his nearest comrades detecting a thing. And yet, as Niksar says, we have heard no howling …”
“A panther?” Niksar suggests. “They are silent during attack.”
“So is their prey,” Arnem replies. “Difficult to scream with a set of panther’s teeth embedded in your throat.”
Pallin Ban-chindo’s dread rises, as his superiors discuss these grim possibilities, further freeing his young tongue: “Sentek—I know that those who live in the Wood are unworthy, but—I pity the creature who made that sound. Even if it was a Bane. What can have caused it, if neither wolves nor a panther?”
“Whatever the full explanation, Ban-chindo,” Arnem pronounces, “understand that what you have just heard is the unmistakable voice of human agony. Understand it, respect it—and get used to it. For such are the sounds of the glory you seek so desperately.” Arnem softens his tone. “Keep careful watch. Like as not the torches and this scream were not connected—but if a party of Bane Outragers has got past Baster-kin’s men, it means that they intend to enter the city. And I want them stopped—here. Send word along the walls—and alert those two shirkers below, as well.” Ban-chindo nods, his mouth too dry to speak. “I can count on you, Pallin?”
Straining hard, Ban-chindo finds his voice. “You can, Sentek.”
“Good man.” Arnem smiles, and moves Ban-chindo’s spear so that it is tight against the young man’s shoulder once more. “At attention, lad. There’s worse to come, if I’m any judge—and we must all be ready …”
The Bane foragers secure a fine meal for themselves—and for the wolves on the Plain, as well …
HAVING HEARD THE SCREAM, though not quite so distinctly as the men atop Broken’s walls, Keera and Veloc have leapt from their hiding place on the northern, or Broken side of the Fallen Bridge. They rush through the rich spring grass that rises above their knees to join Heldo-Bah, who has gone to scout for any members of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard who may be patrolling this portion of the boundary of the great merchant’s plain. Keera seethes with anger, as she keeps her nose in the air to locate their troublesome friend.
“I told him!” she hisses. “You heard me, Veloc, I said no killing!”
“No killing unless it was necessary,” her brother answers evenly, lifting his short bow over his head, reaching for an arrow from the small quiver at his waist, and nocking it. “That is, in fact, what you said, Keera—and perhaps it was necessary.”
“ ‘Perhaps it was necessary,’ ” Keera mocks. “You know just as well as I do that—”
But they have reached a small circle in the grass, flattened violently as if by a struggle. At the edge of the circle, hidden in standing grass, they find not only Heldo-Bah, but a soldier of Broken. The latter is young, muscular, and would stand at well over six feet—if his legs were not bent at the knees and bound so tightly with strong gut-line to his arms that his feet are crushed painfully to his thighs. Heldo-Bah, cackling quietly, stuffs moist sod into his captive’s mouth. The soldier bleeds near one knee; but his well-bred face shows more terror than pain.
“It seems they’ve just changed the watch,” Heldo-Bah tells Keera, getting up. “We should be safe enough while we finish our business.”
“You suppose so?” Keera demands angrily, letting her fists fly at Heldo-Bah’s arm. He stifles a small bark of pain. “With that cry that he gave? How could even you be so stupid, Heldo-Bah?”
“Can I help it if the man’s a coward?” Heldo-Bah replies, sullenly rubbing the spot on his arm that Keera struck. “I hadn’t touched him, and then he suddenly saw my face, and screamed like some frightened girl! Besides, I made sure that he was patrolling alone.” Looking at the soldier’s face, Heldo-Bah’s own features fill with delight once more: his grin displays the filed teeth with their black gap, and he pokes the young man’s red-brown leather armor with one of his marauder knives. “Not your night, Tall,” he says, removing a wide brass band encircling the muscles of the soldier’s upper right arm. The center of the band has been beaten into a bearded, smiling face with empty almond eyes, a thin, flaring nose, and full lips—the image of Kafra. It marks the captive soldier as what the three Bane expected to encounter: a member of the Personal Guard of the Lord of the Merchants’ Council. It is a fact with which Heldo-Bah toys even more delightedly than he does with the shining trinket.
“Baster-kin will probably sentence you to be mutilated for this failure,” he laughs. “Provided we don’t kill you first, of course.”
The soldier begins to sweat profusely at these words, and Veloc examines him disdainfully. “A fine specimen of Broken virtue,” the handsome Bane decides. “Keep him alive, Heldo-Bah—the Groba will have our stones, if we come away from this with no useful information.”
“You won’t have to wait for the Groba,” Keera says, eyes ever on the landscape about her. “Kill him and I’ll geld you myself, Heldo-Bah. I’ve told you, we are not Outragers—” She stops, nose to the breeze once more. “The cattle,” she says, leading the way further east.
A dozen yards further on, and the tall field grass gives way to close-chewed pasture. The three Bane go onto their
bellies at its edge, and from there they can make out the silhouettes of well-fed shag cattle against the deep blue of the horizon. “The Moon has cleared the trees,” Keera says, pointing to a half-circle of light that shines bright in the sky east of their position.
“A good omen,” Heldo-Bah declares. “You see, Keera—”
“Be silent, blasphemer!” Keera orders impatiently. “A good omen for the Bane—when they’re neither defying the Groba nor stealing. We must be quick—the light increases the risk.” She turns to her brother. “All right, Veloc, let’s get the grumbler his dinner. Heldo-Bah, question that soldier, but do not harm him.”
Veloc eyes the cattle. “We’ll take a steer. I know women who will do anything for ground shag horn, they say it heightens the pleasure—”
Keera smacks an open hand to her brother’s head. “Do not finish that statement, pig. By all that’s holy, the pair of you will drive me mad … Be sure it is a steer, Veloc, and not a bull—bad enough to kill any horned animal when the Moon is high, let alone a sacred bull—”
“Sister,” Veloc chides, “unlike Heldo-Bah, I know the articles of our faith. I’m not likely to commit such serious sacrilege.”
“Well, stones or horns, bring me beef,” Heldo-Bah declares. “I’ll need a decent meal by the time I’ve done with our friend …”
Veloc is on his feet with his short bow drawn, advancing into the pastureland. He and his sister are among the finest archers in the Bane tribe, and Veloc scarcely bothers to take aim before loosing a shaft. Immediately, a strangled moan comes from a shag steer, and the Bane can see that Veloc’s arrow is protruding from the beast’s neck at what appears an ideal spot: even at half the distance, it would be a remarkable shot.