The Legend of Broken (91 page)

Baster-kin looks about him to observe the mounting fear of the three Guardsmen who form his escort—and who have just committed the great sacrilege of murdering an escort of unsuspecting attendants from the High Temple (for they do indeed know that their only hope of survival is to save their lord and kill those who lead his enemies)—and, with a harshness unusual even for him, he shouts:

“Why do you quake, you miserable dogs? They are but two panthers, and both afraid of the sound of my voice. Hold your blades forth, as I do”—at which the Merchant Lord suddenly produces a blade from beneath his cloak and assumes a stance that would indicate his every intention to battle Stasi and her daughter—“and prepare to kill the beasts, before we finally finish the crippled old heretic who rides with them, using sorcery to direct their actions!”

But Rendulic Baster-kin, whose judgment of such situations is usually sound, is mistaken about this moment, in two critical ways: Caliphestros, as we have often seen, does
not
direct Stasi’s actions; and it is therefore even less likely that he controls her daughter’s. Even more importantly, only
one
of the noble creatures fears the sound of Baster-kin’s voice. Stasi’s daughter does indeed hear and view the onetime Merchant Lord with both hatred and hesitancy, as she did in the Stadium during the events that led to the death of Adelwülf; freed from the restraints of the Stadium’s chains, however, she at least can smell the fear rising off the three Guardsmen, and her green eyes go cold as she eyes them. And for her part, Stasi feels not the slightest worry at the sound of Baster-kin’s barking: she is consumed only by a craving for vengeance that has finally been unleashed, after so many years during which the possibility of its realization has been delayed, leaving her to languish in sorrow. In her mind, now, she returns to the patch of forest where her family was taken from her; but her leg is no longer wounded, nor are any such mounted Broken spearmen as inflicted that original, disabling hurt to be seen. She fixes her gaze on Baster-kin with a rage such as she scarcely ever exhibits, even in the wilds of Davon Wood.

What Caliphestros observes next would make most men pale with horror, fear, and revulsion. But the agèd exile has also had many years to allow his desire for this moment to outpace such emotions. As he drags himself to a nearby gateway, insisting on pulling himself into as upright and dignified position as he can in the few brief minutes that the contest before him will take, he feels neither compassion for what he once would have called his fellow humans, nor repugnance at the sight of what ensues:

The panthers slam into the three Guardsmen that face them before the latter can even fully raise their sword arms. One of the murderous humans is sent into the air and lands a remarkable distance away, his body lofted and his throat torn out by a fast movement of the right forepaw of Stasi’s daughter; and although the man gasps desperately as blood spurts from a gaping series of long, parallel wounds in his neck, it is to no avail, and he dies within moments. A second member of Baster-kin’s escort, meanwhile, has received the younger panther’s head fully in the chest and ribs, the bones of which shatter and are driven into his heart. To ensure his death, the daughter’s enormous, piercing teeth soon close upon his neck, nearly severing the now-useless ball of bone and flesh that once sat atop his shoulders from his body.

Stasi, in the meantime, has dispatched the last of the Guardsmen with equal speed and skill, enfolding him in her ripping claws and throttling teeth when he makes a foolish attempt to protect his leader. She has been careful to carry the man, with the force of her attacking leap, out of the reach of Baster-kin’s blade: a blade, the force behind which has been momentarily weakened by the realization that the white panther does not in fact fear him at all: that it was only her wound that held her back, so long ago, during their encounter in the Wood. Soon enough, Baster-kin’s third murderous escort has also left the realm of the living, when Stasi’s great frontal killing teeth pierce his skull and instantly bring death. Now, both panthers turn upon their old antagonist, uncertain as to which will undertake the task of sending him to join his hirelings.

As Caliphestros watches what he believes is the approaching doom of his own tormentor, he expects the former Merchant Lord’s pride to finally crumble. Even at such a moment, however, Baster-kin somehow regains his defiance: a defiance born of years of suffering his own father’s drunken diseased abuse, and of having risen above that abuse to become the most powerful and, it is true, the best of all the Merchant Lords in Broken’s history. He begins to shout senselessly, urging the panthers to come for him; and whether such is true courage or madness brought on by the moment, Caliphestros cannot say. But he
can
see that it causes still another moment of hesitation in the younger panther, a moment that, given Baster-kin’s own physical strength, could be perilous. Rightly turning to face the white panther first, Baster-kin stands his ground, as if he is actually ready to accept her initial charge: a charge that, at the last instant, he uses his powerful legs to deftly avoid, turning quickly to make sure that Stasi has tumbled to the ground beyond him before he rashly and viciously pursues her, his blade held high. Caliphestros calls out a warning, and Stasi is able to regain her feet; but when man charges panther, this time, the peril of an unhappy outcome all too similar to that which took place in the Wood (whether death or another grievous wound) is enough to strike Caliphestros dumb with terror. Yet just as it seems that Baster-kin may indeed inflict a cutting blow to Stasi, the man whose might was once unquestioned in his realm is suddenly thrown forward, his mouth open as if he would cry out in pain—that is, had he not been struck in the back with so great a force that his spine is shattered, stilling his tongue. His hand loses its grip upon his sword, and he clutches for long moments after it, unable to recover the weapon or even to move his lower body before he sees the sky above him blotted out by the head of one of the panthers.

Stasi’s daughter has indeed been inspired by her mother to overcome the uncertainty caused by so many years of terror at the sound of Baster-kin’s voice; and at the last instant she has found the courage to charge and cripple her tormentor, and then throw him into the air with such force that he now lies upon his back. Stasi joins her child, wishing to at least share in the finishing of this life that has for so long broken their lives; and as Baster-kin feels the white panther’s teeth slowly grasp his body and turn it over, he quickly catches sight of another image previously unknown to these most sacred streets of Broken:

It is that of three Bane, emerging from the opposite side of the street adjoining the Celestial Way down which Baster-kin and his men had hoped to make their escape. The three have the rough manner and appearance of Bane foragers, or rather, two of them do—the third, a woman, is neither so covered in light mud (mud that was, Baster-kin realizes, not so long ago the dust that he believed was a sure indication that his enemies meant to attack at the East Gate of the city), nor so seemingly bent upon revenge as are her companions. She runs quickly to Caliphestros’s side, slinging the old man’s right arm about her neck and helping him keep his mutilated body, suddenly further weakened by the thought of losing his companion, upright. Looking back at the two Bane men, Baster-kin sees one staring at him with a grim look that perceives naught but justice being done; the third, however, smiles with a set of filed and broken teeth.

“It is only fair,
my lord,
” says this man, his words delightedly bitter in tone, and his manner no less fiendish for his size. “Try to fight her now as she once tried to fight you—unarmed, wounded, and unable to move …”

But Baster-kin has no chance at reply before the jaws above him—which belong to Stasi’s daughter, although he cannot see her—close upon and crush his spine, sinking in far enough to bring blood gushing from the great vessels of his neck. Next, he sees the white panther slowly envelop his skull with her mouth, preparing to use those same stabbing, killing teeth to drive directly into his brain: a death far more merciful than the onetime Merchant Lord granted many a man and creature. As the younger panther joins the white to watch the instant of her tormentor’s death, Baster-kin has only enough life left in him to hear the same Bane forager call out, as he moves with the second male in the party toward Caliphestros:

“And now, my legless lord—would you mind telling us just exactly where you were in such a hurry to get to, before we arrived opposite those pigs on the ground?”

They are strange words to be the last I hear, particularly, when they come from such a creature,
Baster-kin thinks, as the white panther’s jaws close;
but then, the golden god has determined that much of my life should be strange—and so perhaps this, too, is only of a part with his design
 …

9.

In the garden of the Arnem household, violence of equal savagery, but very different in kind, has been taking place. Having quickly found one of his father’s good short-swords, along with a shield that is nearly as tall as he is, Dagobert has rejoined the Yantek of the Broken Army outside. Arnem swiftly inserts his own, more practiced left arm into the leather straps that are riveted into the back of the shield; and, seeing how much more easily his father wields the thing, Dagobert realizes that his true moment to join the army has not yet come, that he must allow both his body to grow and his arms to learn their trade still more before he can be called a true soldier. But, whether true soldier or apprentice, other matters soon command his attention, as the garden gate finally gives way before the pounding assault of the Guardsmen outside it.

“Stand close by me, my son,” Arnem says, with no trace of condescension, but the respect he feels must be shown to a warrior, however young, who has acted in the defense of his mother and his home for many days, now. “These shields are so contrived that one will protect us both, if we use it correctly. Your blade goes where?”

“Above the shield, Father,” Dagobert answers, proud that, even through his fear of the oncoming group of Guardsmen, he remembers the soldiers in the quadrangles of the Fourth District practicing the correct performance of the position to be taken by two men who have but one shield. He moves his arm quickly so that the point of his blade extends just up and over the protective expanse of layered metal, leather and wood, which leaves room for Arnem to stand that much closer to him.

“Precisely so,” the yantek answers, as he places his own sword in a like position. “I see that you did not neglect to wear your
sarbein
†
—good. They will be enough, on the chance that these men are even less experienced than I believe, and attempt to come at us below the shield, exposing their necks. In that case, I shall—”

“You shall quickly use the shield to drive them into the ground, Father, that we may lower our blades on their necks,” Dagobert recites by rote, using repetition of the basic rules of Broken infantry training
†
as a way of calming his nerves.

Glancing about as he nods in acknowledgment, Arnem quickly surveys the garden as if seeing it for the first time. “It happens that, from a military standpoint, you and the rest of my clever children have built this garden well. The Guardsmen”—Arnem now looks above his shield to see the first two of the wary killers approaching slowly, then resumes his survey of the ground about him—“will stay to the center path, rather than brave the stream or the mounds of trees and wilderness you have created about us. They will never have seen such a place within the walls of Broken before, I’ll wager—”

“Father!”

Arnem turns forward once more at Dagobert’s cry, in time to see the first two Guardsmen coming even faster up the garden path, closely followed by a third and fourth. Arnem instantly perceives that their tactics—if indeed they can be called such—are weak: the first pair will come high, as expected, while the second are crouching and will attempt to slip beneath the shield that Arnem holds. The moment has come for him to truly discover if Dagobert has learned not only the terms used in the tactics of combat at close quarters as taught by the army of Broken, but their practice, as well—

And it takes little time to see that he has. As Arnem quickly raises his shield just high enough to force the first attackers to raise their heads as they try to leap above it, the better part of both father’s and son’s swords suddenly extend with brutal force such as one might expect from Arnem, but that in Dagobert’s case is surprising—and all the more impressive. Without hesitation, Dagobert finds the throat of the Guardsman on the left, while his father drives his sword through one eye and then into the brain of the man on the right. Both father and son are sprayed with the blood of these first two enemies, but that does not stop them from quickly retracting their swords when Arnem shouts:

“Below!”

The yantek lowers his shield with speedy force, so that it catches the next two men on their shoulders, driving their faces into the moist Earth of the garden path as they attempt to swing their swords. There the intruders die as quickly as the first two Guardsmen, with the long, tapering points of two Broken short-swords wedging into and then through their spines from the back, just below the head. Seeing the brutal yet efficient manner in which Arnem drives his second opponent’s face deeper into the ground with his foot in order to withdraw his sword more quickly, Dagobert matches the motion, and then hears his father order:

“Withdraw—two paces only, Dagobert.”

Moving to ground as yet unstained by blood and unencumbered by bodies, and leaving the remaining opponents, now, with the additional obstacle of their own dead in the pathway, Sixt and Dagobert Arnem resume their ready stance. Seeing that the Guardsmen, thinking to have learned a lesson, intend now to charge three abreast, Arnem orders his son back yet another long stride, which their enemies take as a sign of full retreat, and from which they derive enough enthusiasm to increase the pace of their onslaught.