“Nerthus!”† the cripple calls out with a grin, as the enormous owl (for such the creature is) silently circles downward to settle her twenty pounds of weight — so little, for one of her size and power — upon Visimar’s shoulder and lifted arm, startling the mare upon which he rides. Calming the horse and trotting away from the main body of Arnem’s troops (although still to the west), Visimar explains to the horse, “No, no, my friend, you have no need to fear this bird, although a newborn colt might!” He turns again to the owl, whose neck cranes around and down as only owls’ may, shifting the feathery tufts atop her head — tufts that so resemble ears, or perhaps stern brows — and looks for all the world as though she will tear the old fool’s nose from his face; but Visimar does not fear the motion, and indeed, the owl only opens her beak to gently nibble and lick at the bridge and nostrils between Visimar’s agèd eyes — an indication of the profound trust that can only result from a longstanding, affectionate, and most extraordinary acquaintance. Visimar cannot help but laugh and reach up to run his fingers gently down the bird’s mottled chest feathers.
The owl, it seems, means more than pure affection by its motion, and holds one enormous set of talons up to catch Visimar’s eyes. “Ah?” he noises. “And what do you carry, that is so urgent?”
In the tight black claws are clutched a bundle of flowers and plants: some deep blue, some bright yellow, others knobby and green, but all, Visimar quickly notices by the cleanly cut ends of the stems, harvested by men no more than a half a day earlier. “So …” Trying to calculate the meaning of all this, as he keeps a part of his attention fixed on the advancing mob, Visimar soon reaches a conclusion. “I see,” he says certainly. “Well, my girl, off to your master, and let him see, as well — for you must not stay here to be injured by an arrow from one of these provincial fools, nor from the more precise missiles of the Broken archers. I must away after the sentek — but we shall meet again soon, and in far fewer than the many months it has been this time …”
As if satisfied with the man’s response, the owl again pulls affectionately at a tuft of his grey hair, cutting a little of it loose and bundling it in among the plants. She then spreads her remarkable wings to either side of Visimar’s head and makes for the night skies again. The old man, his mood profoundly changed by the several implications of this encounter, uses his one foot to spur his mount on after Arnem and Niksar.
{vi:}
By the time the two officers and their crippled companion have returned to the troops who will participate in the rearguard engagement, most of the remaining contingents of the Talons have already started eastward away from Esleben, and the head of their column is well along the Daurawah Road. The ten remaining members of the Esleben garrison have remained behind with the rearguard units, looking to Sentek Arnem for direction; and Arnem, in turn, looks subtly to Visimar, uncertain whether the men’s exposure to either their leader’s illness or, in passing, to any grain-based goods in Esleben, should affect his decisions. A subtle twist of Visimar’s head tells Arnem firmly that the garrison troops must not march with the main force; and that the sentek must contrive some mission worthy of the men, while keeping them away until time can tell the danger they pose.
“We would join in the fight, if you will have us, Sentek Arnem,” one tall, gruff veteran man steps forward to say, and general assent to this proposition is proclaimed by the other garrison men. Momentarily at a loss, Arnem soon settles on a solution, turning to the man who addressed him.
“I am impressed by this, Linnet—?”
“Gotthert, Sentek,” the man replies, saluting, “but I do not have the honor to be a linnet, sir.”
“You do now, Gotthert,” Arnem says. “I know the look of a man ready to lead; and so, unless one among your company chooses to contest the appointment …?” All that emerge are expressions of agreement with the sentek’s choice, causing Arnem to smile again. “Well, then, Linnet Gotthert — I have another plan, equally important, in mind for you: under cover of the brawl about to begin, set out for the banks of the Cat’s Paw in the area of Lord Baster-kin’s Plain, and judge the preparations of both the Bane, and those patrols of the Merchant Lord’s Guard who keep regular watch in the area of the Fallen Bridge. Your men can get some well-deserved rest, once there, to say nothing of decent food, and then report to me when I bring the column along in no more than two days’ time.” Arnem glances at Visimar, and sees that the cripple does not object to his ploy.
“Very well, Sentek,” Gotthert replies, both disappointed (for his men clearly wish to play some role in avenging Donner Niksar) and relieved that his unit’s ordeal within the stockade is over. Giving his superior a final salute, and receiving one in acknowledgment, Gotthert begins to move toward the southeast, followed by his troops; but Arnem, having observed the look upon Gotthert’s and his men’s faces, delays them for a moment.
“You shall at least see this chastisement of Esleben, Gotthert,” the sentek calls, “which will do double duty as the official pyre for your former commander.” Looking to his right, Arnem finds Fleckmester has drawn up a double line of his strongest bowmen. In front of them burns a shallow trench of pitch and oil, and each man has nocked an arrow with a large, dripping head, and all await only the word to fire.
“Fleckmester!” Arnem calls, holding his own sword aloft. “Collapse the westward wall first, and proceed from there in the necessary order. If any of the townspeople interfere — shoot them down!”
Fleckmester shouts out the commands to light, aim, and loose the fiery shafts: the dried fir logs always favored in the construction of such palisades prove vulnerable to the flames, and in mere moments the whole of the western wall is burning with a fury to give even the madmen from Esleben some pause.
“All right, Taankret,” Arnem calls to the Krebkellen of infantry and cavalry fausten. “You could hardly ask for a more obliging invitation!”
“Indeed, Sentek!” Taankret replies, the marauder blade going high enough in the air for all to see in it the reflection of the raging fire. “Men of Broken — we move!”
Taankret’s words are uttered as the fort’s western wall begins to collapse with loud cracks, sending burning wood aloft amid a storm of sparks, even as the fire spreads to and begins to destroy the southern and northern walls.
“Very good, then, Linnet Gotthert,” Arnem says to the new commander of the garrison troops. “The diversion of your antagonists’ attention is complete — away with you and your men, and Kafra go with you. We shall meet soon, on the banks of the Cat’s Paw!”
Each man of the Esleben garrison salutes both Reyne Niksar and Arnem as they pass; and yet the blue-cloaked troops do not move with full dispatch until they actually see the Esleben fort transformed into a most worthy funeral pyre for a most worthy officer. When the eastern wall of the structure is pulled down at the last by the collapse of the other three, all the men to the west are privileged to watch as the ignoble rope with which Donner hanged himself finally serves an admirable purpose: whipped by the collapse of the wall to which it is fixed, it hurls the body of Reyne Niksar’s young brother high into the air above the flames, even causing Donner’s form to lay out horizontally as it comes crashing down upon the now-enormous pile of pine logs below, which glow and flame in shades ranging from red to orange, from yellow to white. Arnem could not have wished for a better execution of the funereal spectacle, and the sentek is quick to turn to the master archer, Fleckmester, and salute him in gratitude; and the garrison men do the same, as they set out at a run.