“If the garrison commander is ill,” the cripple says, “you must determine the nature of that illness before you approach him. Remember, Sixt Arnem — we have but two goals, now: to get away from here without incident, and to ensure that your own men do not take any of the town’s forage or food supplies with them. Nothing in Esleben is to be trusted.”
“I shall attempt to remember all such points,” Arnem replies, his various frustrations becoming more apparent in his angered words. “But I will be given a clearer understanding of what is taking place here — whatever this commander’s condition.” Once more preparing to speed away, the sentek suddenly catches sight of something ahead, a sight that finally brings some sort of relief to his face. “Well. There’s one worry eased: Niksar seems to have escaped the town unscathed …”
Niksar is riding at a good pace toward Arnem and Visimar, and the sentek urges the Ox out a short distance to intercept him. “Well met, Reyne,” he says, acknowledging his aide’s salute. “But before you give voice to the understandable indignation that I detect upon your face, tell me: you weren’t, by any chance, offered any hospitality — say, any sustenance — while you were in the town, were you?”
Niksar scoffs. “Unlikely, Sentek. They were only too happy to be rid of me, when I said I had to report to you. I doubt they would have let me eat so much as the grass upon the ground, as at least my horse did.”
Arnem studies his aide’s mount. “You’re certain that’s all he ate? No loose grain that might have been scattered about, for instance?”
Niksar looks puzzled, indeed. “None, Sentek. Why, what’s happened?”
“We’ll explain as we enter the stockade,” Arnem says, resuming his progress toward the small stronghold’s gates. “It’s a tale you may have to employ all your imagination to credit, as well as your newfound trust of our friend here.” Arnem indicates Visimar. “But do credit it, Reyne, and make certain the men understand that no forage, no grain goods of any kind, are to be consumed in or taken away from Esleben. And, for an even fuller understanding of just what is happening, I’m afraid we’ll need the garrison commander, who’s evidently ill and barricaded away in his quarters. Hear me, now, Niksar …” Arnem draws alongside the younger soldier. “I know you won’t like the charge, but once we’re in the stockade, help the old man get up the stairs in the quadrangle, will you, while I go on ahead? I must, at the very least, begin questioning this man as quickly as possible.”
“Sentek?” Niksar says, perturbed: for he can now see that his commander’s manner indicates more than mere annoyance: a profound anxiety of spirit is present, as well. “Of course, but I—”
“Questions later, Reyne,” Arnem says. “I want some answers, now …”
Yet with damnable stubbornness, still more disturbing questions await the sentek when he, Niksar, and Visimar reach and enter the garrison stockade. By now, the first of his long-range scouts have returned from the east, and the news they bring from those towns closer to Daurawah, as well as the rumors issuing from farmsteads within sight of the walls of that sprawling riverfront town itself, are vague and grim. Unrest, varying in degree, has taken hold of the laborers, merchants, and elders of other communities along the way to Broken’s principal port; and, perhaps most worrying of all, the scouts have heard that disorder of a far worse variety has taken hold inside Daurawah itself. If such is the truth, it is an unusually alarming fact for Arnem, both professionally and personally: the governing of the port has for several years been the responsibility of one of the sentek’s oldest friends in the army of Broken, Gerolf Gledgesa,† with whom Arnem had faced the Torganians at the Atta Pass, and to whom the new chief of the army had hoped to pass the command of the Talons when he himself was so tragically elevated to Yantek Korsar’s post. But if Gledgesa has allowed matters in Daurawah to deteriorate to such a point, the appointment of his old comrade — always, like Arnem himself, a controversial figure within the army — will be out of the question. The full possible consequences of the scouting reports from the east are plain, then: but none is more ominous than the notion that, even if the Talons can avoid violent encounters with the subjects of the eastern kingdom, those same subjects will continue to surrender the food and forage which the soldiers require for their march against the Bane only grudgingly, if at all — and the men will be able to accept such supplies only if they are found to be untainted. Thus, Arnem may be forced to plan his campaign anew, calculating time, now, as a powerful ally of the Bane, rather than of his own force: ever one of the worst advantages that a commander can concede to his enemy.
As all these possibilities mount, the sentek’s temper shortens: “Akillus!” Arnem calls angrily, when he finally passes into the stockade and reaches the center of its quadrangle, his eyes spying the chief of scouts laughing nearby amid his own men and several members of the garrison. As Arnem dismounts, the sentek’s young skutaar, Ernakh‡ (sole child of the Arnems’ nurse and housekeeper, Nuen), appears to take the reins of the Ox, thinking to inquire how long his commander anticipates remaining in Esleben, so that he may determine how much to refresh the steed, as well as whether or not Arnem himself will require quarters. But the black-haired, intuitive youth divines from the briefest study of Arnem’s manner that the Talons will not be staying long in this place, despite the sentek’s deliberately vague answers on the subject; and Ernakh leads the Ox off to be watered, fed, and quickly curried, so that he will be ready (if not entirely rested) for the force’s departure, which may, the young skutaar correctly believes, come at any moment. Akillus, meanwhile, hurries along to Arnem, his smile vanishing.
“I understand, Akillus,” the sentek says, “that the commander of the garrison is unable to report due to illness — have you determined if this is true?”
“Yes, Sentek,” Akillus answers, saluting so firmly that his chest resonates with the impact of his fist. “He is shut tightly away in his quarters, above.” Akillus points to the northwestern-most doorway of a dozen such on the fort’s upper level, above which the parapet encircles the structure. Another walkway runs the full length of the fort’s upper level outside the doors of these rooms, guarded by a railing of cut timbers: all workmanship characteristic of Broken’s sappers and engineers. “He says he will not come out, and will speak only with you alone.”
“Indeed?” says Arnem, letting out a weighty sigh. “Well, then — his secrets had better be as remarkable as his behavior, or I’ll have the hide off his back. And the elders will have his neck. For now — spread the word, Akillus: the men must be ready to resume the march at any moment.”
“Aye, Sentek!” says Akillus, never questioning the surprising order; instead, he simply runs to his horse and mounts the animal with his usual, seemingly effortless motion.