The Iron Palace

by Morgan Howell

  That got his attention. Tymec glanced at Yim, and in that instant, she pounced. The priest’s eyes widened when he realized that he couldn’t look away.

  “When’s the suckling?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Yim knew he was telling the truth. “When did those men come?”

  “Yesterday morn.”

  Yim assumed that meant she would die tomorrow evening. In her desperation, she decided to test the full extent of her power. Instead of simply extracting information from Tymec, she would try to force him to do her bidding. Yim summoned all her will and directed it at the priest held captive by her gaze. “Unchain me.”

  “I can’t. I don’t have the key.”

  In full control of Tymec’s mind, Yim no longer doubted anything he said. “Then go get it.”

  “I can’t. I’m locked in the room with you.”

  Certain that Tymec would have attempted to get the key if he had been able, Yim tried to think of what else he might do to help her. I could have him ring the bell. That would get the door opened, but it might also summon Gorm. She rejected the idea. Then she thought of her comb with its neigin seeds. They would make me immune to Gorm’s potion. Yim envisioned herself popping up just before the ritual began and pulling off her golden mask to expose Gorm’s duplicity to Froan.

  “Come here,” said Yim. Tymec obeyed. “Feel my hair in the back. You’ll find a small comb. Take it out.” Yim lifted her head, and Tymec did as he was told. When he had the comb in his hand, Yim spoke again. “Pull off those little seeds and put them in my mouth.” Tymec pried the seeds off with his nails and pushed them—one by one—past Yim’s lips. There were three in all. Yim cracked them between her teeth and her mouth filled with a bitter taste. It’s done, she thought.

  Tymec still leaned over the bed, totally in her power. Yim pondered if there was anything else she should force him to do, but she couldn’t think of anything. Then she remembered the comb. “Put it back in my hair.” After Tymec did that, she said, “Forget this happened and especially forget that I asked you to tup me.”

  Tymec sprang back like a small animal released from a snare. As he retreated to a corner of the room, his gaze looked vacant. Yim hoped the effect was only temporary. The bitter taste in her mouth grew more intense. “Could I have a sip of wine?” she asked.

  Tymec walked over to the table and filled the golden goblet. When he brought it over to her, Yim tried to see if the empty look had departed from his eyes. She couldn’t tell, because he kept his face turned away.

  The wagon ride to the Iron Palace was fraught with delays, but from his hiding place Honus didn’t know their causes. After the better part of the morning, the sound made by the wagon’s wheels altered as they began to roll over smooth stone paving. That seemed to indicate they had passed through the palace gate. Soon the wagon halted, and Honus heard a voice call out. “Where to?”

  “Holy ones’ stable, middle bay. Give this to the tithe master.”

  “That’s only two tallies!”

  “New lord, new tithes. Complain to him.”

  “I’ve a mind to.”

  “Ha!”

  The wagon began moving again. Then it halted. Honus heard the driver climb down, muttering. Next, he heard the squeal of rusty hinges. Soon afterward, the wagon moved forward a short distance and halted once more. This time, it remained still. Honus heard the driver climb down again. Honus prepared to spring from his hiding place, but before he did, he waited and listened. After a while, it seemed to him that someone other than the driver would unload the hay.

  Instead of bursting from his hiding place, Honus emerged as quietly as possible. He quickly glanced around to get his bearings. As he had expected, he was in a stable. It was large, but smaller than one of a cavalry regiment. There were also people working at tending horses and cleaning stalls. Soon one will come to unload this hay, thought Honus. He silently dropped to the floor and scurried from the wagon to crouch behind a small pile of hay. It didn’t offer much concealment, but because it was close to the open door, it provided a view of the palace courtyard.

  The courtyard was spacious, despite the fact that a huge iron-covered building occupied much of it. Honus assumed the structure was Lord Bahl’s residence and the likely site of Yim’s imprisonment. That made it his objective. He estimated that the building was at least a hundred paces from his position. The open space between the stable and Bahl’s iron residence was paved with black stone. It was also alive with activity: Soldiers drilled. Common folk moved about, some purposely and some looking lost. Wagoners made deliveries. Flocks of sheep and a herd of cattle were driven by peasants. A man and a woman were being impaled on stakes as a crowd watched. Oil-smeared men pushed handcarts filled with buckets and ropes. Many men and women in black livery hurried to and fro. The abundant priests moved at a statelier pace.

  Honus pondered how he could get his tattooed face past so many eyes without provoking an alarm. While he was thinking, he heard someone coming. Honus retreated into an empty stall. As he heard the sound of hay being forked and thrown, he peered from the stall. There was a door close by. It was open, revealing a room where tack was stored. Along with saddles, bridles, and such, Honus saw something of use. He darted into the room.

  What had caught his eye were some foul-weather riding cloaks. The voluminous garments were made of heavy wool and designed not only to cover the rider but also the rear of the horse. They were black and hooded. Honus took one down and cut a long strip of material to wrap about his face. That done, he donned another cloak and grabbed a saddle and bridle. Peering out of the doorway, he spied a horse nearby. There was a man at the far end of the stables mucking out stalls. Nevertheless, Honus strode to the horse, saddled and bridled it, and then led it from its stall. The man never looked up.

  Honus’s tactic for reaching his goal depended on audacity, not stealth. Knowing that he would cut a bizarre figure swathed in winter gear on a spring day, he planned to gallop across the courtyard before anyone could react. He counted on folk not going out of their way to investigate, but merely shaking their heads in puzzlement and going about their business.

  Honus quickly mounted the horse and urged it to a gallop, directing it toward a door in the ironclad building where he had seen many servants enter and exit. His rapid passage across the courtyard created the confusion that he had hoped it would. Honus reined in his horse just before the door, quickly dismounted, shed his bulky cloak, and dashed in the doorway with his face still wrapped. Finding himself in a huge, bustling kitchen, he gazed about for an exit that would take him farther into the building and spied a likely set of double doors. Honus strode toward them confidently and purposefully. Either due to his bluff or his threatening appearance, no one challenged him until he had almost reached the doors. Then a burly man stepped in his way. “Ye there!” he shouted. “What do ye—”

  Honus answered with his blade before the question was completed. His interrogator toppled to the floor, and Honus stepped around his corpse without slowing. As he passed through the double doors, he heard a woman scream. It’s begun, Honus thought, keeping his blade unsheathed. He dashed into an empty dining hall to remove his sandals so he could move more quietly. That done, he trotted off, looking for a stairway.

  Honus soon ran into a woman bearing a basket of soiled towels. She dropped it when Honus pointed his sword at her. “Do you wish to live?”

  The woman nodded, too frightened to speak.

  “Then show me the way to the upper floors, for I’m in need of a priest. Now move quickly!”

  The woman gave a soft whimper, then hurried off with Honus right behind her. They passed through a maze of rooms, sometimes encountering other servants, who seemed strangely incurious about Honus. When they arrived at a broad stairway, the woman managed to say, “There, sire.”

  Honus pointed his blade at her throat. “If you speak of this, I think you’ll have more to fear from your master than from me. Now run off and live a
long life.”

  As the woman hurried away, Honus jogged up the stairs with a quick but regular pace, his bare feet making almost no sound. With each new flight, the stairway became broader and grander. The basalt treads became black marble ones. The iron balustrades grew more elaborate. When Honus rounded the fifth landing, he saw a priest at the top of the stairs. Honus charged at once and skewered the man before he could react. Then Honus grabbed the dead priest, dragged him to a corner, and stripped off his robes. Honus quickly shed his own garments and donned those of his victim.

  Discarding the wrapping about his face, Honus continued to climb to the upper floors, still lacking a plan of what he would do when he arrived there. Plagued with uncertainty, it seemed to Honus that only the goddess could aid him. Then Thistle’s parting words returned to trouble him. She said a sword’s the Devourer’s tool, not Karm’s.

  The sound of voices and footsteps on the stairs above interrupted Honus’s thoughts. Their source was not yet in view, so Honus darted halfway up the next flight of stairs and halted. Then he turned his back to the oncoming sounds, knowing that he would seem a priest from the rear. The ruse worked. The men continued to descend the stairs. When they were close, Honus whirled and surprised two black-robed men. He decapitated both. Their heads bounced down the stairs with their bodies tumbling after.

  Honus sprinted up the stairs, aware that each new slaying increased the chances of an alarm. Before that happened, he wanted to accomplish something. What? he asked himself. Nothing I’ve done will help Yim. Honus realized that, unless a miracle happened, nothing would help her. No miracle had saved his first Bearer; Bahl’s hordes had torn him to pieces. And now Yim’s in Bahl’s hands. It seemed to Honus that all he could do was to fall upon the enemy and reflect the wrath needled on his face. Is it Karm’s wrath or mine? Honus saw a priest, and the question fell from his consciousness as he rushed to kill the man.

  One more flight of stairs brought Honus to a broad landing. The walls on either side were carved with scenes from the battle of Karvakken Pass. Honus recognized the stronghold depicted in them. Straight ahead was a large, pointed archway that afforded a view of a vast hall built of black stone and bathed in dim greenish light. At its far end was a raised platform. Two figures were seated there. The distance made them look tiny. Standing beneath them were many men robed in black. Honus wondered what was going on and who were the men on the platform. Their position made them seem important. One of them might be Yim’s son, the new Lord Bahl. Suddenly, Honus believed in the possibility of miracles. If he could reach the boy, perhaps one might happen.

  From lower in the stairwell, Honus heard footsteps, clamoring voices, and the unmistakable clink of armor. The alarm had been raised. Honus charged into the vast hall, hoping that the alarm had been raised too late. As he sped across the floor, the size of the hall let him advance unnoticed for quite a distance. But eventually the incongruity of a priest with a Sarf’s face was noticed. So was Honus’s raised sword. Then the assembled priests turned as one and drew daggers from their black robes. Many of the blades were stained with poison.

  The daggers didn’t deter Honus. He charged those who grasped them, using his longer blade to reap a black harvest. When the foremost priests fell before him, their fellows appeared to lose their nerve. As a rule, they weren’t the kind that killed openly, and Honus’s skill and ferocity caused them to retreat, despite their numbers. The raised platform blocked one avenue of escape. It had stairs, but the priests seemed loath to climb them. Instead, they tried to run around Honus and flee toward the archway. Honus, in turn, acted like a herd dog to cut them off and cut them down.

  Upon hearing the sounds of soldiers entering the hall, Honus redoubled his efforts. He had just stabbed a priest through the neck when he saw another priest striding toward him. The man wore an elaborate silver chain, and although he appeared unarmed, his manner was confident and menacing. Honus withdrew his sword from the other priest’s neck, severing an artery, and then swung at the advancing priest.

  The last thing Honus saw was a flash of brilliant blue light as his blade touched the man’s flesh. Simultaneously, he felt an excruciating jolt in his sword arm. It seared all consciousness from his mind, and he didn’t have time to recall that he had been overcome by an iron spell once before. Honus stood briefly as the blindingly bright light in his head faded to black. Then he fell senseless to the stone floor.

  Froan had watched the onslaught with more fascination than apprehension. Each death gave him an invigorating surge and provided the Devourer with a freshly harvested soul. He was unconcerned that priests died to provide them. In fact, it seemed ironically appropriate. After the intruder had fallen, the priests rediscovered their courage and advanced on the prone body with their blades raised. “No one touch him!” Froan commanded. The priests drew back.

  Froan turned to Gorm. “Why does that man have a blue face?”

  “Those are tattoos, my lord, permanent designs needled into his flesh. They mark him as a Sarf. Such men are the enemy’s servants, and quite rare nowadays.”

  “I wonder if he’s Honus,” said Froan. “Both Mam and my father’s spirit spoke of him, but in quite different ways. Mam said he was my father and a gentle goatherd. But my real father said he was a Sarf and a deadly man.”

  “Well, this fellow’s certainly that,” said Gorm. “And I think I can find out his identity.”

  “Then do,” said Froan. “But whether he’s Honus or not, let’s sacrifice him at the suckling. He seems a far more worthy foe than that chieftain in my dungeon.”

  “An excellent idea, my lord,” replied Gorm. He regarded the guardsmen who had just arrived. “The More Holy Stregg has accomplished your work for you. Your lord wishes the man imprisoned. Restrain him well before the spell wears off.”

  Froan finished counting the slain priests and addressed the guardsmen. “Did he slay others besides these?”

  The ranking guardsman bowed. “Five that we know of, my lord. A cook and four priests.”

  “Twenty-three in all,” said Froan. “Quite impressive.” He turned to Gorm. “I look forward to cutting his throat tomorrow.”

  “As well you might,” replied Gorm. “It will make a fitting end to a memorable evening.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  YIM FELT the Devourer within her stir. It was responding to violent death with surges of malign excitement. She had experienced the sensation frequently during her imprisonment in the Iron Palace. It seemed that people died all the time within its walls, and the nearness of their deaths made the sensations stronger. The latest surges stood out in both the rapidness of their occurrence and their number. Having nothing else to do, Yim counted them. There were twenty-three in all. It made her wonder what new atrocity was taking place, though she was certain that she’d never find out.

  Enchained in the dim room, Yim had to endure both anxiety and boredom. She had done everything she could to prepare for her upcoming ordeal. All there was left to do was wait for the first test. That would take place after she drank Gorm’s potion. The seeds she had eaten would render it harmless, so she would have to mimic its effects. Yim worried that appearing conscious but paralyzed wouldn’t be easy to pull off. Until then, there was nothing to distract her from her fears. Food and drink were definitely out. The wine she had sipped was not sitting well, and she concluded it would be wise to avoid ingesting anything further. Sleep promised escape, but she was too anxious to doze.

  Later, when Gorm entered the room, Yim was almost glad for the diversion. He had a faint smile on his face, and he gazed directly into her eyes as if challenging her to probe him. Yim returned his gaze calmly, knowing that he had veiled his thoughts, just as she had veiled hers.

  “Honus is dead,” said Gorm.

  The statement wrenched Yim, and for just an instant, her shock broke through her calm facade. Summoning all her self-control, she quickly recovered. “Who’s Honus?”

  Yim realized that she hadn’t been quick eno
ugh, for Gorm was grinning triumphantly. “He’s just a corpse,” replied Gorm. “I would have brought you his head, but your son stuck it on a pole. He said you told him Honus was his father and a timid man as well. How droll! Honus slew twenty-three trying to cut his way to you.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “In your heart, you know I’m not. He was the Sarf who plagued us for moons and then saved you. How we cursed his dogged persistence! Did you truly think he wouldn’t try to save you again?”

  Of course he’d try, Yim thought. Cutting the rope was pointless. Yim saw with the clarity of hindsight how their love had doomed him. He didn’t stand a chance, and still he came for me! Yim burst out sobbing, even though it made Gorm grin more broadly. She had nothing to gain by hiding the truth. The only way Gorm could have learned Honus’s identity was by capturing him, since neither he nor Froan had ever met him. Gorm didn’t know his name and Froan didn’t know he was a Sarf. Certain that her silence no longer protected Honus, Yim gave him her tears, so that he might have one person who wept rather than gloated over his death.

  Gorm waited until Yim’s sobbing trailed off before asking, “After we captured you the first time, did Honus slay all your guards single-handedly?”

  Yim saw no reason to deny it. “He did.” She sighed. “He was relentless.”

  “Then he was a worthy foe,” said Gorm, seeming to mean it. As he turned to leave, he glanced at Tymec for the first time and came to an abrupt stop. “Come here!” he barked at the young priest. “Look me in the eye!” Tymec obeyed. “What did she do to you?”

  Tymec’s voice had a heavy quality to it, as if he had just awakened from a deep sleep or his wits were addled. “Nothing, Most Holy One.”