“Truly,” agrees Akillus. “Have no worries on that account, Sentek.”
Arnem grins, proud and more than a little regretful that he will not be joining his rearguard commanders. “Very well, then — Taankret. Akillus. But bear that one thing in mind — the flat of your blades, where you can. Cracked heads will be of more use than severed.”
The growing sense of happy challenge among the two linnets, who demonstrate perfectly why they have achieved their status in the most renowned legion of Broken, is suddenly interrupted by a sound of shattering wood and glass. It comes from just around the southwest corner of the small fort that was the home of the Esleben’s departing garrison: from the direction of, among other things, the window of the commander’s quarters.
In addition, a short cry is heard, in a voice that both Arnem and Niksar know to be Donner’s, only to be quickly stilled by some unknown force.
Arnem addresses his anxious linnets in a humorless voice, now: “You two finish your preparations. Niksar, Anselm — accompany me.” The sentek looks to his aide. “And remember, Reyne: our only task now is to get away from this foul place …” Niksar nods in reply, apprehensive of what they may find, but no less certain of his duty, at which the three men move at a slow trot round the corner of the stockade, Niksar’s sense of foreboding suddenly confirmed by a most unexpected group of agents:
The maddened townspeople have stopped, if only for a moment; and their eyes are fixed, as if they were one enormous, grotesque creature, on the window in Donner Niksar’s quarters. They have, apparently, already seen what the soldiers and their guest cannot, yet — that one of their demands, at least, has been met, if in a manner utterly different from that which they earlier demanded:
The sentek, his aide, and Visimar, proceeding forward, look up at the shattered window of the commander’s quarters. The crude glass has been broken from within, the sound and accompanying sight intended to transfix the rushing, furious mob; and the object used to achieve this effect was Donner Niksar’s own body, which now sways slowly by a rope, one end of which is securely tied within his quarters, and the other around his neck. No amount of descending darkness can obscure his condition: his head is snapped harshly to one side, and his eyes are still open. Strangely, the horrifying image reminds Arnem of those in Broken society who always believed that Donner, while of slighter stature than his brother, was nonetheless finer in his features. But not this night: even were his tongue not protruding grotesquely from the corner of his mouth, even had he been able to conceal the raw ravages of the Holy Fire from his face and bared chest, and even if, by some impossible effort, he had been able to clothe himself in a new, clean nightshirt, rather than the hideously stained garment that now wafts about his emaciated frame: even if all these things could have been accomplished, nothing could ever compensate for his swollen, tortured eyes, which cast their pained, accusatory stare onto every face that turns to him, reflecting the mob’s torches as his body rotates below the window. The message is unmistakable: the townspeople have exacted their revenge. One question remains, and it is Niksar who murmurs it:
“Will it be enough? For these—creatures?”
Arnem has been dumbstruck, for an instant; and so it is Visimar who says gently, “I know you think me a mad heretic, Linnet. And I would never presume to intrude upon the grief you feel after so noble a brother has given his life to try to extinguish the fire that is consuming the people of Esleben.” Niksar says nothing, but inclines his head slightly, at which Visimar continues: “At the least, he was able to claim for himself a sane and meaningful death. If you look to the west, you will see that no such mercy will be shown to the mob.” A small glance at the momentarily confused mob is all Niksar needs to confirm the old man’s claim.
“Aye, heretic,” the young officer breathes, without resentment. “Whatever Donner lost, he kept his head, and his honor, to the last …”
“Just so. As we must now keep ours. Let us honor your brother, Linnet, by securing what he wished us to: the safety of our own and his troops, and the continuation of what has become an expedition less of conquest than of investigation.”
Arnem, amazed that the old man can make sound sense at such a moment, claps a gentle hand to Niksar’s shoulder. “The old fool is right, Reyne. We must honor that.” The sentek turns his narrowing eyes to the east, as the sounds of the crowd’s madness mount once more. “Ernakh!” he cries, and the skutaar appears, silently waiting as Arnem scribbles a charcoal note upon a bit of parchment. “Take this to the master of archers, Fleckmester,† and return with him — quickly, now.” Ernakh salutes, hurtling off into the darkness.
Niksar looks to his commander with some puzzlement. “Sentek? We should be away, as quickly as possible—”
“As we shall, Reyne,” Arnem assures his aide, even as he makes no immediate move to depart. “But I will not leave Donner’s body to those madmen.”
Visimar has already begun to nod, suspecting what the sentek plans, while Niksar must wait the few moments that it takes for Linnet Fleckmester to appear, running swiftly with several of his own officers. He is a tall, enormously powerful man, who makes his Broken longbow‡ seem diminutive by comparison. “Aye, Sentek?” he says crisply, saluting smartly.
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 then, he can say no more than, “Thank you, Sentek — my family, like myself, will be truly in your debt …” 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.