The sentek marvels, as he has so many times in his long career, at the resourcefulness of the average Broken soldier. Neither Linnet Gotthert nor any of his garrison comrades could even have suspected what their ultimate duty was likely to be, this night; and yet Arnem now observes their willing disappearance into the darkness, as though their actions were the result of a long and detailed council of war. The sentek takes a moment to reproach himself for the duplicity that underlies the orders he has given them; yet he cannot take a great deal of time for such self-recrimination: although the townsfolk of Esleben, and the people who have been drawn in from the countryside, are moving as mobs will — relying on a few individuals initiating each tentative advance — the pain of the disease that is driving them is clearly mounting, and there is only one spur to rash action more potent than lunacy: sheer physical agony.
Even so, Arnem is able to see the mob are strangely moving past pain, almost as if their sickness is destroying their ability to sense that most potent of physical influences. And, faced with this degenerated behavior among what are, after all, subjects of Broken who must, until very lately, have been no more mad than himself, Arnem finds himself spurring the Ox off to some little distance from Visimar and Niksar, and at the same time — almost thoughtlessly, and by the light of a Moon that has now made its way up over the hills and valleys — searching for the silver clasp that his wife placed in one of his inner pockets before the Talons’ triumphal march out of Broken. When he finds it, he withdraws the thing, and gazes down at the stern, one-eyed face and the portentous ravens it artfully depicts; then, without considering what he is doing, he actually addresses it:
“And so, great Allsveter,” he murmurs, repeating the term that he has sometimes heard his wife murmur when contemplating the thing. “Was it you who inspired a brave young man to end his misery thus?”
Replacing the clasp in his deepest pocket, Arnem shakes his head to clear it of nonsense; but then he hears the discreet voice of Visimar:
“Are you troubled enough to address the gods of old, Sentek? Fearing, perhaps, that Kafra has betrayed his own people?”
Quickly looking to see that Niksar has chosen to bury his grief by personally taking charge of the Wildfehngen units, Arnem glares at the old man harshly. “Nothing of the kind. The object is a meaningless token from my wife, to whom my thoughts turn before any battle, particularly so strange an engagement. Make no more of it, old fool.”
“As you will, Sixt Arnem,” Visimar replies; and then he breathes heavily with concern. “But I fear I must tell you that matters in the home you long for may be growing as wretched as they are here. For the rose fever in Broken, it seems, is spreading …”
Arnem’s face reveals clear bewilderment. “And how come you to know this?” the sentek asks, making ready to join his aide.
“I should almost enjoy telling you that I have employed sorcery,” the cripple replies. “But we have no time for childish games. You shall simply have to trust that I know it — and, it may interest you to know, I have at the same time received further proof that my master yet lives.”
“Truly?” Arnem replies, his interest showing plainly. “I pray so. For, by the look of things, we shall require the keenest of minds soon.”
Visimar eyes him carefully. “Why should the ‘sorcerer,’ the ‘heretic’ Caliphestros, have any interest in serving the needs of Broken? And how could he serve them, in a way acceptable to the rulers of the great kingdom?”
Before Arnem can answer, he receives an urgent request for leadership from Niksar. “I believe that he shall, when he realizes, as we all soon must, what is truly at work in this land.” Then the balled spurs go into the Ox’s side, and Arnem is away. “Reyne!” he shouts. “Ride out to join the left claw with Akillus, and I shall do the same with the right! Let us finish our work quickly, and then push our foes back toward Taankret — let the Krebkellen be completed!”
As the Ox passes before the infantry Wildfehngen—knowing, as such warrior mounts ever do, the importance of the moment and his role in it — the infantry formations begin locking their great, convex skutem shields† about the sides of their three quadrates, while Arnem continues to call out his orders with such authority that not a man misses a word: “Remember, Talons — although I wish no death to befall these people, my concern for your own lives is far greater; and should you find yourselves in peril, I shall not begrudge you a wounding or even a lethal blow — however diseased your enemies may be!”
A roar goes up from the Wildfehngen, who have been unleashed; and the great machine that is this part of Broken’s finest legion sets to work:
High as their emotions are, they never outstrip discipline. Akillus and Niksar’s left fauste of horsemen make quickly for the townsmen, who show the ferocity of madmen collected into throngs: there is no order in their violence, only raw rage, and it is not long before the Broken horsemen have encircled and pressed them into the oncoming foot soldiers. Despite these predictable results, however, a wave of surprise runs through the men of Niksar’s command: for some of the townsmen — those who appear the most afflicted by whatever illness has taken hold of their community — simply keep coming at the soldiers, even after sustaining wounds that would make seasoned warriors flee outright. A few of them seem to notice these wounds so little that Sentek Arnem’s order against inflicting grievous injury must be violated in several cases, so that the maddened townsmen can at least be disarmed — and such disarming, it becomes clear in these several cases, means the taking off of a hand or a limb. Yet even these terrible injuries cause little or no discouragement.
From the baggage train, where he enjoys the youthful protection of the skutaars, Visimar sees this development by the light of the Moon; but the sight gives the old man no amusement or solace.
“Too deep,” he murmurs, repeating his phrase of earlier in the evening. “The Holy Fire has burned too deep into them …” Then, aloud, he calls out: “Ernakh!” Turning, he asks of the young men: “Where is Sentek Arnem’s skutaar, who is called Ernakh?”
Within a few moments, the dark-haired marauder youth is rushed before Visimar, who seizes the lad’s shoulders, as if to shake urgency into him.
“Find your mount, son,” the old man says. “Get to your master, and tell him this: the disease has progressed too far, and many are insensible to pain. As soon as there is a separation between the townspeople and his men, he must retreat with haste!”
“Retreat?” another skutaar calls. “You are mad, indeed, old father, to think that the Talons need retreat before such useless fools!”
“Do as I say!” Visimar commands, keeping his attention fixed on Ernakh, and rightly sensing that the youth enjoys a more serious nature than his fellows. “Your master will thank you when all has finally become clear.” As the boy leaps atop a nearby horse, Visimar turns to the other young men. “And the rest of you — begin moving the equipment of the khotor, even before your commanders return!”
Visimar keeps his still-keen eyes fixed on the white and grey forms of Niksar’s and Arnem’s mounts on the distant field, and the speeding Ernakh riding fearlessly into the violence — and how expertly, the old man thinks, how naturally and with what seriousness does the marauder boy move atop a horse and among men engaged in a fight that is becoming increasingly deadly! The cripple sees Ernakh reach Sixt Arnem’s grey, deliver his message, and receive acknowledgment from the sentek. Almost immediately, the wagons and pack animals of the baggage train begin to move quickly eastward along the darkness of the Daurawah Road, while Visimar remains behind, quietly but desperately urging speed upon Arnem and his men.