The Legend of Broken Read Online Free PDF

his side so that its point rises above his six-foot-three-inch body.
    “From what district?”
    The pallin looks surprised. “Sentek? Why, the Third.”
    Arnem nods. “A merchant’s son. I suppose your father bought your way into the Talons, because the regular army wasn’t good enough for you.”
    The pallin looks straight over Arnem’s head, injured but not wishing to show it. He knows about Sixt Arnem’s past, as does every soldier in the Talons: born in the Fifth District—home to those who have displeased Kafra with their poverty or unsightliness—Arnem was the first man to rise from pallin in the regular army to the rank of sentek, master of the fates of five hundred men. When he was placed in charge of the Talons, the most elite
khotor
† in the army, many of the officers of that larger force sneered; but when he repelled a months-long attempt at invasion by an army of Torganian ‡ raiders, so hardened that they were willing to brave the few passes through the Tombs that remained open at the height of winter, the people of Broken took him wholly to their hearts. Though his family still lives in the Fifth District, Sentek Arnem is acknowledged to be a favorite of both Kafra and the God-King—
    None of which, the pallin finally decides, is an excuse for bad manners. “Kafra favors those who succeed in the marketplace, Sentek,” he says, keeping his gaze steady but away from Arnem’s eyes. “I don’t see why their sons should shrink from defending his city, in return.”
    “Ah, but many do, these days,” Arnem replies. “Too many, Pallin Ban-chindo—and those that do serve are forever asking for a place in the Talons. We soon shall be without a regular army altogether.”
    The pallin is in deep water, and he knows it: “Well—if those who
will
serve can afford a place in the finest legion in the army, is it not Kafra’s will? And why should they shy from the glory—or from the danger?”
    Arnem chuckles in an unmistakably friendly manner. “No need to be so nervous, Pallin Ban-chindo—that’s a fine sentiment, bravely stated. I am well rebuked.” Arnem rises, and grips the young man’s shoulder for an instant. “All right. We have seen several torches, making their way from the Wood to Lord Baster-kin’s Plain. What shall we do?”
    “That—that is not for me to say, Sentek—”
    Arnem quickly holds up an open hand. “Now, now—between one future sentek and one former pallin. What would
you
do?”
    “Well—I would—” The pallin stumbles ever more clumsily over his words, angering himself: how can he deserve higher rank if he cannot seize this opportunity? “I would—report it. I think.”
    “Report it. Ah. To whom?”
    “Well, to—to Yantek Korsar, perhaps, or—”
    “Yantek Korsar?” Arnem feigns amazement gently. “Are you sure, Pallin? Yantek Korsar has the worries of the entire army of Broken to occupy him. In addition to which, he is on in years—and a widower.” The sentek grows pensive, for an instant, thinking not only of his commander and old friend, Yantek Herwald Korsar, † but of Korsar’s dead wife, Amalberta. ‡ Known as “the Mother of the Army,” Amalberta was one of the few people Arnem ever encountered in whom he recognized true kindness, and her death two years earlier shook the sentek almost as much as it did Korsar—
    But Arnem must not dwell on sadness; for such sentiments are precisely what he came up on the walls to avoid. “All of which,” he says, recapturing his authoritative tone, “makes our commander doubly fond of what little sleep he can manage. No, I don’t think we want to risk a burst of his infamous temper, Ban-chindo. Isn’t there someone else?”
    “I don’t—perhaps—” Ban-chindo brightens. “Perhaps Lord Baster-kin? The torches are moving toward his land, after all.”
    “True enough. Baster-kin, eh? And this time you are certain?”
    “Yes, Sentek. I should report the matter to Lord