The Iron Palace

by Morgan Howell

  Grabbing the two baskets, Froan hopped into the empty vessel. Setting the baskets down, he grabbed the gaff and swung it in a high arc so that its iron hook plunged into the bench where Catfish sat, barely missing his thigh. Though the pirate had been spared the full force of Froan’s baleful gaze, he had been affected. Timidity had replaced the amusement in Catfish’s face, and he yelped when the hook bit deep into the wood.

  Then it was Froan’s turn to grin. “It won’t do to go floating off while I gather the fish,” he said.

  “Nay, Shadow,” replied Catfish in a meek voice. “Never.”

  Froan turned to his task, but the hatred was slow to drain from him. He had felt no surge of power from the deaths of the two fishermen. Apparently, drowning was too gentle a demise to nurture the dark thing within him. Thus he felt his shadow’s hunger, and it lingered like a ravenous wolf about the hole down which its prey has escaped. Under its sway, Froan saw everything as though under bog water. The light seemed dull and the shadows deep. Sounds were muffled. The air bore a faint stench of decay that turned his stomach.

  Only after Froan had half filled the baskets, did the darkness gradually retreat and the sensations of the living world grow immediate. Then Froan felt the boat bob underneath him, heard the soft lap of water, and smelled the tangy scent of fresh fish. He noticed that the boat he stood in was worn, but lovingly maintained. Its wood was smooth and oiled. There was no rot or disorder. Surveying the relic of two vanished lives evoked a pang of conscience that Froan quickly suppressed. Nothing will sink me quicker, he thought.

  As he rowed Froan back to the pirate boat, Catfish was subdued. Most of his watching crewmates appeared likewise, though Chopper’s manic eyes had waxed bright. Telk’s had a fainter but similar gleam. Bloodbeard looked perplexed, but he forced a grin when Froan and Catfish hauled the brimming baskets aboard. “Why ’tis quite a haul. No tuppin’ the ladies tonight; they’ll be guttin’ fish till dawn. And ye, Shadow, what a mug! To think that men would rather gaze at the river bottom than at yer face!” He shook his head in mock amazement. “What does Moli see in it?”

  Bloodbeard’s mention of Moli seemed to carry a vague threat, and for a moment, Froan considered turning his newfound power on the captain. Then he changed his mind, believing that would be rushing matters when he still had much to learn. Moreover, he was uncertain that he could summon the power at will. It had come to him without his beckoning, and it seemed his shadow had been in command.

  Throughout the long row back to the island, Froan mused over what he had done. As previously, he wavered between confidence and unease. Yet he saw no way to turn from his path, and often he didn’t want to. More clearly than ever before, he could envision where his abilities might take him. A man who could project fear and enflame the hearts of followers could achieve great things. Such a man could give Moli far more than shoes and pretty frocks.

  It was well past midnight when the pirates came ashore. The women had a meal waiting in the pots, and they groaned when Bloodbeard announced that they’d clean fish after the crew was served. Since even the captain’s women were ordered to scale and gut the day’s plunder, Froan resigned himself to sleeping alone. After a bite and a draught of ale, he retired to the bracken to sleep.

  It was nearly morning when Moli found him. She looked exhausted. Fish scales sparkled in her hair, and her sticky hands smelt of fish entrails. Nevertheless, Froan undressed himself and her, then covered Moli with kisses. Then he made love with the desperation of one who has gazed upon horrors and craves to express some tenderness.

  TWENTY-TWO

  YIM’S FRAGILE state required her to spend the night with Rappali and her husband, but the next morning she was determined to return to Far Hite. Rappali urged her to stay, but Yim left even though she still felt weak. The trip through the bog was a drawn-out ordeal. Although Yim moved slowly, her surefootedness had returned, and by late morning she reached the hite. Only the goats met her, and they were indifferent. Having not been milked for days, the does no longer suffered from swollen udders. They’ve all gone dry, thought Yim, and won’t give milk until they kid again. It didn’t matter; Yim’s cheese-making days were over. Nevertheless, she was disheartened.

  After Yim reached Far Hite, many sights along the way home evoked memories. She spied a tree and recalled Froan as a laughing child dangling upside down from a low branch. She passed the rock where she used to sit and nurse him on sunny days. Nearby was the spot where she taught Froan his letters, scratching them in the dirt with a stick. Yim neared home, passing the kettle where she had cooked her last meal with her son, and then stepped through the open door. Inside, she smelled his scent mingled with all the others of her life. Then she spotted her bloodstains on the floor.

  Exhausted by the trip home, Yim lay down and quickly fell asleep. Soon she was dreaming of Froan. He was running toward her, a laughing naked toddler with eyes alight. There was a soft collision as their arms entwined. She lifted him. His skin was cool despite running on a hot and sunny day. But that was Froan; he was never warm to the touch. Yim was so happy that she awoke, and for a hopeful instant, she still felt her child’s weight in her arms. Then she saw her dream for what it was—not a vision or a portent, but only the figment of a mother’s love and longing.

  Unable to fall asleep again, Yim rose and went to the cave where she stored her cheeses. There she found that Froan had taken all but those that weren’t yet fully aged. Yim was solely concerned with nourishment, not taste or texture, so she was glad that her son had been picky. She cut down a cheese to take home, then went over to the smoke cave. Froan had left its door open, and scavengers had cleaned out what ever meat he had left behind. Otherwise, everything was intact. Yim found the flint and iron, set up the smoking racks, and gathered wood and kindling for a fire. Then she collected oak branches to use for smoking and sunk them in the bog by weighing them down with stones. Finally, she retrieved her knife from its hiding place.

  Though it had been many winters since Yim had slaughtered an animal, she remembered how to do it. After getting a length of rope, Yim searched the herd for an ailing goat and found a doe with udders so hard and inflamed that she could barely walk. Yim fed the doe a treat and stroked her until she was calm. Then Yim took a deep breath and made a quick cut across the doe’s throat. Blood spurted onto the ground as Yim gently gripped the staggering animal. She needed to hold on only briefly before the goat collapsed. Then Yim tied one end of the rope around the doe’s hind hooves, threw the other end over a tree limb, and hoisted the carcass up to drain the remaining blood.

  Throughout all this, Yim felt the dark thing within her stir. She had expected its onslaught and resisted the vile urges it sent forth. Thus Yim didn’t taste the flowing blood, though she was sorely tempted. Instead, she threw dirt upon the growing puddle beneath the carcass. While Yim expected the foul cravings, she was surprised that they seemed stronger than before. That troubled her. Perhaps they only seem stronger because I’m frail.

  That was a comforting explanation, but not the only possible one. The Devourer’s influence within the world had always waxed and waned with Lord Bahl’s power. When the might of Froan’s father was at its zenith, even the humblest of the Devourer’s servants were empowered. Yim recalled the threadbare priest who had swayed a crowd with just his eyes and a rambling, inarticulate speech. It occurred to Yim that the strength of her unnatural urges might reflect the strength of the Devourer’s grip on her son. If that was so, its grip was growing stronger. Yim had witnessed what it could do. She recalled her nightmare tryst with Lord Bahl—his cruel face and hardened body, his icy touch, his malign gaze, and his aura of terror and madness. All those traits manifested the evil being that had nearly overwhelmed him. The same being that seeks to overwhelm my son.

  Yim began to skin the carcass, realizing that she could add some meat to the evening’s stew. With Froan gone, there was no need to smoke and dry it first. When blood covered her hands, she once more fought off
the compulsion to lick them. She felt encouraged that her self-control stymied her adversary. It was a small victory, but still significant. Every unseemly impulse and violent urge is a chance to overcome the enemy, Yim thought, and each contest builds my strength.

  Upon reflection, Yim could see that she had been fighting the Devourer even before Froan was conceived. She recalled Karvakken Pass, the night in Karm’s ruined temple, and the thing that had possessed the black priest’s corpse. Yim saw each instance as a battle in a prolonged struggle. It made her realize for the first time that being the Chosen meant far more than bearing a child. She had done that, and it hadn’t ended her responsibilities. As Froan’s mother, she must save him, and by doing so perhaps save the world. To accomplish either end she must defeat the Devourer. Some called it “god,” but Yim knew better. It was only godlike in its power. Otherwise, it was the opposite of divine, a being bereft of compassion or wisdom that fomented hate and hungered for slaughter. Yim foresaw that if it thrived, it would consume the world.

  This was her foe, and it dwelt within her as well as in her son. It had been brought to the living realm by the Most Holy Gorm, who was not holy in the least sense. Yim hoped that if a man could draw the Devourer from the Dark Path, perhaps a woman could drive it back. She had no idea how she could do that, nor any assurance it was possible. Her only certainty was that she must try and that she would.

  The Iron Palace bustled with activity. Scores of women and girls were brought from the nearby town to remove the shroud of dust from its rooms and furnishings. As they labored, the palace grew more somber. Its walls and floors of black basalt lost their soft gray covering. The dark tone of the ancient wood was revealed. Even cleaning the windows didn’t reduce the darkness. The light that filtered through the thick, greenish panes seemed swallowed by the cold rooms it shone upon. Outside, men and boys risked their lives to scrape the encrusted rust from walls, battlements, and towers, then oil the dark iron they exposed. Whenever one fell screaming to his death, it was said that the Most Holy Gorm smiled as one cheered by birdsong.

  It was common knowledge that such activities signaled the ascension of the next Lord Bahl. However the ceremonies and public executions that celebrated the event had not taken place, nor had any been announced. None had seen Lord Bahl of late and no one had ever seen his heir, though only someone rash or foolish would say so. The Most Holy Gorm displayed an array of tongues—each imaginatively and gruesomely removed—on a row of hooks set into a wall at the town market. An overhang shielded them from the weather and a wire mesh kept the crows away, so that everyone might gaze upon them and be instructed on the prudence of silence.

  The folk of Bahland learned the lesson well. They were taciturn and obedient. If a son was conscripted for the Iron Guard, they called it an honor. They paid their tithes without protest, even when it meant hungry winters and famished springs. There was no hue and cry when a small boy disappeared or when his bloodless body was found. One performed what ever task was required and kept mum about the nightmares that ensued. For this, the people were spared when the army marched out to slaughter other folk. And when the plunder poured in, some trickled their way, and the tithes were less burdensome.

  If those in the town were closemouthed, they weren’t unobservant. Their fates were bound to the iron edifice towering above the bay, and they watched it for portents. What they saw confused them. While the oiling of the palace was the sign of better times, there were no changes. The Most Holy One still ruled in Lord Bahl’s name as he had done for many winters. The Iron Guard wasn’t seeking conscripts. The armories weren’t busy. Then, when the palace was restored to its former dark state, priests appeared as suddenly as crows driven by a storm. A few were well dressed and came on horse back. Most were clothed shabbily and arrived footsore. All hurried straight to the palace and bore the anxious look of driven men. Then the flow of black-clad priests stopped as abruptly as it had started. When the palace gates closed behind the last of them, all was still and silent again.

  It was night. The moonlight seeping through the huge windows was so pale that the men standing in the great hall cast no shadows. Perfectly still and silent, the black priests seemed more like shades than living men. The sole sounds in the vast room were the slow footsteps of the Most Holy One and their echoes. He entered it, bearing the only light, an oil lamp with a smoky flame that trailed a pungent scent. All eyes followed him as he ascended the platform at the hall’s rear and turned to address those assembled there.

  “Dreams have driven you to me. You know of what I speak. The very fact that you’re here numbers you among the select. You may be high or low within our order, but henceforth that makes no difference.”

  Gorm reached into his velvet robe and withdrew a circular iron pendant affixed to an elaborate silver chain. He held it aloft so that the polished silver caught the lamplight and sparkled in the inky hall. “The is the emblem of the More Holy One, and it bestows not only power but also youth upon he who wears it. For many winters, it has hung from no man’s neck. Yet one of you may wear it—nay, one of you will wear it—and be graced as only our master can grace a man.

  “You know that the Devourer is trapped within a man’s body until the day of the Rising. We name that man Lord Bahl, yet our true lord is the god within him. And when Lord Bahl begets a son, the Devourer passes unto that son and its power wanes until the son reaches manhood. This cycle is the great secret of our order, and it will be broken only upon the Rising. May it come soon.”

  Then the assembled priests spoke as one. “May it come soon.”

  “Hear this, but never speak it,” said Gorm. His voice was low, but its menace carried throughout the hall. “Lord Bahl is dead, and his son is missing. He has been missing since before his birth.”

  Despite themselves, the priests uttered a faint collective gasp.

  “Now that the son has entered manhood, my sorceries have freed him to roam the world and achieve his destiny. And great shall that destiny be, for I foretell godhood and everlasting dominion. My auguries reveal that he’s already testing his powers. Yet he’s ignorant of his parentage and a novice in the arts of war. He has guidance from god, but he also needs the guidance of men.

  “That has always been our role: to advance the Devourer in this world. Our god’s too mighty to learn human ways, so we must serve as its hands, feet, and tongue. For this service we’ve always been rewarded, and the reward shall be great indeed to he who finds Lord Bahl’s son. A thousand winters from now, that man will still be young and enjoy a privileged life because of his achievement.”

  Gorm held up the pendant again and jangled its silver chain. “Do this and prosper. Go forth and search the world. Listen for rumors of a young and bloodthirsty man. Seek him out. If he’s our lord, you’ll feel his power. Become his confidant and reveal his parentage. Speak of his palace and dominion. Aid him to enter Bahland in triumph. But speak not of the Rising. That lesson must come from my lips only.”

  Gorm surveyed the faces in the shadowy room. They looked ghostlike in the darkness, but the lamp’s light gleamed in each eye like a tiny fire. He sensed eagerness in those eyes. They belonged to men drawn to power and inspired by a ruthless god. He understood their ambition, for it mirrored his. After centuries, it still gnawed at him.

  On that night, Gorm had a sorcerer’s certitude that all his labors were nearing fruition. The heir’s mother would have a small but vital part to play in them, but she was a minor concern because her fate was sealed. The Devourer’s growing power would soon drive her into his grasp, just as it had driven the priests. Gorm had already prepared her cell. He was more focused on the final bloodbath that would usher in the Rising. Though there was yet no Lord Bahl to lead it, the bones had revealed that the man who would find him was standing in the room.

  TWENTY-THREE

  STREGG DEPARTED the Iron Palace the same way he had arrived—on foot. As he walked, the dawn’s light revealed what the dark in the great hall had hidden
: the priest was an impoverished man. His black robe was patched and threadbare. His sandals were equally worn. Though Stregg had been at the secret meeting and heard the Most Holy One’s words, he had little hope of ever wearing the coveted silver chain. As far as he could see, the sole benefit of his long and tiring journey was relief from the intrusive dreams that had driven him to take it. Ever suspicious, he was certain that Gorm knew more of the heir’s whereabouts than he had revealed. A favored few will get the fuller story, he thought, not me.

  Although accustomed to his low estate, Stregg was discontented with it. It embittered him, especially when he recalled tales of his great-grandfather’s priesthood. That august man was long dead, but stories of his power and authority were handed down within Stregg’s family as precious lore and tokens of better times to come. Stregg had grown up in a tiny hut, eating cabbages and roots while hearing accounts of long-ago banquets served in manor halls. Stregg’s father and grandfather had been priests also, but by their day, wars had ravaged the countryside until there were no manors left.

  A poor land makes for a starveling priest, and Stregg’s homeland was poor indeed. For generations, armies from Bahland had preyed on it until the area south of the Turgen was known as the Empty Lands. It was a region dotted by burnt-out towns and moldering ruins, a place of forgotten names. It wasn’t wholly unpopulated; there were scattered peasant dwellings, and a few villages remained. But nothing lingered that was worth a long march to pillage.

  Stregg’s appearance epitomized the want of the Empty Lands. He was mostly bone, with a tall frame that seemed to possess only enough flesh to animate it. His hatchet face was dominated by dark, sunken eyes. They appeared overlarge, and when their compelling gaze fixed on someone, that person found it difficult to look away. Though Stregg was well shy of thirty winters, his stringy and thinning hair made him look older. Its dark hue contrasted with his sallow completion. Since Stregg’s creed esteemed power as a sign of grace, he cultivated an imposing presence. Lacking physical strength, Stregg exuded a sorcerous air. The peasants in his homeland were convinced that he was skilled in the dark arts, a belief Stregg actively encouraged. Fear, however unfounded, was a source of power.