Froan studied the crew in the ship ahead. They varied in age, but all possessed a hardened look. He also noted that each man was armed. While Froan watched the crew, they also gazed at him and Telk with the cold manner of predators. They didn’t pluck us from the river out of kindness, he thought. Most like, we seem small but easy pickings.
Sitting in the small boat, wearing only a breechclout and a short goatskin cloak, Froan knew he appeared vulnerable. Moreover, he imagined that the waiting crew saw him as a boy, not a man. Yet while part of him had lived only seventeen winters, another part was far more ancient. A veteran of a thousand battles, that part wasn’t inhibited by fear or the slightest shred of humanity. Its instincts were those that Froan’s father had counseled him to follow. As Froan drew ever nearer to the waiting men, he understood that he must heed those instincts to survive. Nothing from his life in the fens and certainly none of his mother’s lessons readied him for the upcoming confrontation. Yet Froan was prepared, far more prepared than the waiting men could possibly imagine.
The rowboat reached its destination. Two lines were thrown out, and the small craft was secured alongside the larger one. Hands were extended, so Froan, Telk, and the man who had brought them could be pulled onto the main vessel. Froan gazed about it once he was aboard. Built for speed, the slender boat was entirely open. There were six pairs of benches, each bench long enough to accommodate two oarsmen. A narrow aisle ran between the benches, widening at the bow and stern. There was a single mast amidships, designed to carry a square sail. Five distressed-looking sheep lay on their sides near the bow, their legs bound together. Beside them was a small pile of assorted goods that appeared tossed there haphazardly. At the stern was a raised platform, and two men stood upon it. One held the ship’s tiller. The other seemed to be the captain.
The latter man was tall, heavyset, and muscular. Like most of his crew, he sported a full beard. It was red, and the man’s freckled skin had a sunburnt, pinkish cast. He was the only man who wore a helmet, a simple steel hemisphere. Otherwise, he was dressed much like the crew, except more richly. He wore heavy boots, baggy woolen breeches, a cloth shirt, and a leather vest with metal plates sewn on it. A sword, a hand ax, and a large dagger hung from a wide belt. The clothes looked both outlandish and lavish to Froan, who felt naked in comparison. Nevertheless, he met the man’s gaze with almost arrogant confidence, then advanced toward him without his bidding.
As Froan walked toward the stern, he met each crewman’s eyes to show he wasn’t afraid. All of them were standing and watching expectantly, having pulled in their oars. The boat drifted silently with the current, guided by the man at the tiller. The quiet step of Froan’s bare feet upon the planks was the only sound. He halted by the last set of rowing benches and stood close to the largest crewman, a massive man who was a full head taller than he.
The red-bearded man on the platform called to the crewman who had rowed out to the reed boat. “Catfish, wha’d ye haul in?”
“An oarsman, Bloodbeard. As ye ordered.”
“An oarsman? By Karm’s stinkin’ feet, Ah’m seein’ double.” Bloodbeard peered down at Froan. “Or mayhap ’tis the big one’s shadow.”
“He hopped aboard,” said Catfish, “afore Ah could stop him.”
“Well, lad,” said Bloodbeard, “Ah’ve no place fer ye. Since ye took it on yerself to hop where ye’re not needed, ye can hop away as well. And if ye’re shy o’ river water, my crew will give ye a push.”
“Before you say I’m not needed,” said Froan, “best count your men.” With those words, he whipped out his dagger and plunged it deep into the belly of the giant beside him. Then he tugged the blade across the man’s abdomen, slicing it open. Just as quickly, Froan leapt toward the stern, narrowly avoiding the entrails that splattered onto the deck. The tall oarsman stood motionless for a moment, frozen by surprise and agony. Then he fell like a tree and lay moaning and writhing feebly upon the deck until Froan bent down and cut his throat.
As the man expired, Froan raised the bloody dagger to his face. Peering over its edge, he gazed at the crew as he ran his tongue along the blade’s length. Froan had felt a surge of excitement when the man died, and that sensation was enhanced by the taste of his victim’s blood. His eyes communicated that he was ready to kill again—indeed, eager to do so. The crew had been stunned by the suddenness and savagery of Froan’s attack, and his aggressive stance further withered their courage. Together, they could have easily overwhelmed him, but Froan understood that fear would protect him. Thus he gazed at each man to make him feel singled out to die if the crew attacked. The tactic worked, and a standoff ensued.
It was Bloodbeard who broke the tension with a laugh. “Well, ye’ve proved a dark shadow indeed, and Ah’ve need o’ black-hearted men on my crew. So Ah’ll name ye Shadow, and invite ye to join us.”
“And my friend, also?” said Froan. “We’re a pair.”
“Aye, Ah’ll have him,” said Bloodbeard. He regarded Telk. “I name ye Bog Rat. Take a place on a bench.” As Telk meekly sat down in a vacant spot, Bloodbeard called out, “All right, men. After Shadow takes his plunder, dump Sturgeon overboard. Then put yer backs to the oars. There’s enough light yet to find another prize.”
Froan assumed that he had a right to the dead man’s possessions and the captain expected him to exercise it. Yet as he walked over to the gruesome corpse, Froan was suddenly appalled by what he had done. His compassionate side—the one fostered by his mother—felt pity for the man he had slain. Then his emotions fought within him as he felt both triumphant and filled with remorse. The agony frozen on his victim’s face nearly made him weep. Froan struggled to suppress the impulse and succeeded, for he was keenly aware that it would undo him. Any show of weakness will send me to the river bottom, he thought, feeling the crew’s eyes upon him.
Froan forced himself to prod the dead man with his foot and roll him over. The pickings proved meager, since the man’s clothes were far too large and also blood soaked. Froan searched Sturgeon’s pockets, which were empty; pulled a silver ring from the man’s hand; and removed his belt from which hug a scabbard and sword. Drawing the blade, he saw that it was neither well forged nor properly sharpened. Still, it was his first sword.
After Froan took his “plunder,” the crew unceremoniously tossed his victim overboard and threw water on the deck to wash away the blood. When they slid out the oars to begin rowing, Froan took the dead man’s spot. A stocky, brown-haired man of some twenty-odd winters was already sitting on the bench. They had pulled only a few strokes when the man said in a low voice, “That Sturgeon was an overbearin’ bastard. ’Twas a pleasure to feed him to the river.”
“I’m glad he won’t be missed,” replied Froan.
“Not that Sturgeon had no friends, so keep a wary eye. And Bloodbeard fancied him well enough, but he’s the practical sort. Dead men don’t row.” Froan’s rowing partner grinned. “Bloodbeard named me Toad on account of my wart,” he said, pointing to his nose. “Ye’re lucky he named ye Shadow.”
“My true name’s Froan.”
“Don’t that mean ‘frost’ in the old tongue? Seems fittin’. Way ye gutted Sturgeon was cold fer sure.” Toad cast Froan a puzzled look. “And ye have a chill ’bout ye, like ye’ve been swimmin’ in the river.”
“I was born that way. It’s how I got my name.”
“Not that it matters anymore. Ye’re Shadow, not Froan, now.” After a few more strokes, Toad spoke again. “That was some sharp work ye did. Real smooth. Where’d ye learn to use a blade like that?”
“It’s a gift.”
“One ye’ll find handy, no doubt. Not that Bloodbeard goes in fer fightin’ much, nevermind his talk. He favors easy pickin’s.”
Froan followed his instincts when he replied. “Some would say easy pickings are slim ones.”
“And Ah might be one o’ them,” said Toad in a low voice. He glanced at Froan appraisingly. “Ye’re dressed like a fensman, but ye don’t talk o
r act like one. Most can’t fight and are only good fer pullin’ oars.”
“I was raised in the fens, but my mam came from other parts.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” said Froan. It was true, and he felt a twinge of regret when he realized that he’d never find out.
With Toad as his instructor, Froan quickly mastered rowing. It was simple work, but punishing to someone unaccustomed to it. Despite cutting strips of goatskin from his cloak to cushion his hands, they soon felt raw, and it wasn’t long before Froan’s back and arms ached as though he’d been pummeled. Bloodbeard set the oarsmen’s pace by hitting a small wooden hoop with hide stretched over it, and his beat was a quick one. Propelled by rapid strokes, the boat darted swiftly about the river like a water strider searching a brook for prey.
Although they approached a few vessels, the captain chose not to pursue any of them. One appeared too large and had armed and armored men pacing its deck. Another was laden with lumber. The final boat was a tiny one manned by a fisherman who looked relieved when they passed him by. “If we’d happened on him earlier,” said Toad, “he might be sittin’ in yer spot now.”
Froan was glad that the fisherman wasn’t. Despite his sore muscles, he felt extremely fortunate. By a stroke of luck, he had fallen in with pirates, and anyone who aspires to lordship needs armed men. His situation seemed ripe with potential, although it was far too early to formulate any plans. For the time being, Froan intended to learn all he could and heed those dark instincts that had served him so well.
FIFTEEN
WHEN DUSK arrived, Bloodbeard gave up the hunt. He headed his vessel downstream and set a less strenuous pace for the oarsmen. The change came as a welcome relief to Froan, whose hands had blistered. Aided by the current, the boat moved swiftly down the darkening river. Nevertheless, it was midnight before the craft veered toward a small, wooded island. Froan strained to see it by starlight, but he could make out few features other than a pair of hills that rose from the isle’s interior. Although the island was only a dark shape to Froan, it was apparent by the way the tillerman guided the boat that he was familiar with its shoreline.
Soon the boat swung into a cove. “Oars in!” shouted Bloodbeard. The boat glided toward a narrow beach. When its keel scraped gravel, the crew climbed over the sides without being told. Froan followed their example and jumped into waist-deep water. “Beach her!” bellowed the captain. Grabbing the boat’s sides, the men pulled it onto dry ground. Then they unloaded the sheep and other loot from the bow. The beasts struggled in their grasp and made panicked cries. Although he was unfamiliar with sheep, Froan rushed over to help a pair of men who were trying to carry a ewe. The frantic animal was managing to kick despite its bound legs.
“If we cut its throat,” said Froan, “we’ll have an easier time carrying it.”
“Aye, but Bloodbeard wants the mutton kept fresh,” said the other, “so that’s the end o’ it.”
Froan grabbed the sheep’s flaying hooves. “Then I’ll give you a hand.”
The men headed away from the cove, and with Froan’s help, they managed to carry their struggling burden. The path they followed wound uphill through a grove of trees, over a crest, and down into a depression between the two hills. There, hidden from any eyes on the river, several fires burned. A dozen people moved about them, and Froan was surprised to see that they were women and a few young children.
The firelight also revealed a haphazardly erected campsite. There were three shelters, and as Froan drew closer to them, he could see that they were constructed of sailcloth, scraps of lumber, branches, and small tree trunks. They seemed the work of men who were more adept at stealing than building. There were also crude pens made from branches that held an assortment of livestock. Judging from the trampled state of the clearing and the amount of garbage lying about, Froan surmised that the site had been occupied awhile.
Large kettles hung over two of the fires, and the women began ladling food from them as soon as men appeared on the crest of the ridge. By the time Froan had helped deposit the ewe in a pen and cut her loose, a meal of mutton stew accompanied by boiled roots was laid out on a pair of broad planks that served as a crude table. A wide assortment of vessels contained the food—wooden bowls, metal plates, and differing sorts of crockery—and the women who served the meal were equally varied. One woman wore a formerly elegant gown of pale blue cloth that had been reduced to dirty rags. Another was dressed in tattered peasant garb. The woman beside her wore man’s clothes with the shirt torn open so her breasts were revealed. The only things the women seemed to have in common were their youth, signs of ill treatment, and a certain comeliness despite their disheveled and threadbare state.
Froan turned to one of the men who had carried the ewe. “Are those women captives?”
“Nay,” replied the man. “Ye can ransom captives.” He grinned salaciously. “Them wenches are plunder.”
“The children, too?”
“Oh, they’re just bastards. The ones we didn’t drown.”
As Froan walked over to the table, he noted that one of the serving women was pregnant and two of the toddlers running about had red hair. He grabbed a bowl of stew and a plate of roots. Then, since there were no benches or chairs about the table, he looked for a place in the clearing to sit. As Froan settled on a spot of ground out of the traffic, Telk came over to sit beside him.
“Froan,” he whispered in an uneasy voice, “we’re among pirates!”
“You must call me Shadow for now,” Froan whispered back. “And we’re not among pirates, we are pirates. I told you our sword practice would come in handy.” Froan gazed into his friend’s eyes and noted a trace of lingering madness. Probing deeper, he saw that while Telk had been rendered incapable of disobedience, abandoning home had gone against his nature. That conflict was the source of Telk’s disturbance, and Froan felt that there was little he could do to relieve it. He didn’t even try. Instead, he sought to bolster Telk’s courage.
“I told Bloodbeard that you and I were a pair,” whispered Froan, “and I meant every word. They’ll remember the day Shadow and Bog Rat arrived. Though I killed that man to save our hides, I’ll tell you something.” Froan fixed his eyes on Telk and let his power flow from them. It felt stronger than before. “It was a thrill to kill him. Spill a man’s spirit, and it washes over you. It feels good, like warm sunshine or a hearty meal. Moreover, that bastard deserved to die.”
“Mayhap so, but—”
“No buts about it. When it’s you or him, it always must be him. And don’t wait for your foe to make the first move. Strike hard and never hold back. Never! You’re a pirate now. Be a bloody one and thrive!”
Froan watched with satisfaction as his words—and the power behind them—took hold. They enflamed Telk and drove out his fear. A gleam came to his lunatic eyes, and he grasped his sword hilt tightly. “Aye, I’m Bog Rat now. And Shadow, I’ll do ya proud.”
Froan grinned and slapped Telk’s back. “I never doubted it.”
Then the two turned to their food with appetites made ravenous by all their rowing. While they ate, the women began pouring ale and serving it. One of them approached Froan and Telk, bearing a pair of brimming wooden bowls. Barefoot and dressed in ragged peasant’s clothes, she seemed a girl—perhaps only sixteen. A tangle of long, frizzy brown hair surrounded a pretty face that was marred by bruised, swollen lips. She gazed at Froan curiously before handing him a bowl. “They say ye’re tha one what killed Sturgeon,” she said in a low voice.
“I am,” replied Froan.
The girl smiled, revealing that two of her front teeth had been knocked out. “Bless ye!”
Seeing promise in the girl’s reaction, Froan returned the smile. “So my deed pleased you?”
“Aye.”
“I know nothing of these men or their ways,” said Froan in a low voice. “Perhaps we could talk.”
The girl looked about anxiously. “Ah don’t know.”
The girl fidgeted a moment before speaking. “Ah can’t now. Later, when tha servin’s over. Walk into tha woods, and Ah’ll find ye.”
Froan nodded, then sipped his ale as the girl hurried off. Though he had heard of the drink, it was new to him. At first, he thought it tasted like bog water, but he gradually grew used to it. When he drained his bowl, a different woman came by to refill it. Shortly afterward, Bloodbeard sauntered over to him. Both Froan and Telk rose as he approached.
“Shadow! Bog Rat!” called out the captain in a voice somewhat thickened by drink. “The newest o’ my crew. We eat good, nay? And drink good, too. Prove handy, and ye’ll feast every night and share in the booty.”
“And the women?” asked Froan. “Do we get our share of them?”
Bloodbeard grinned. “Well, ye’re a randy lad fer sure. Be ’ware that the wench in the blue frock and the one that’s fat with child are mine. The rest are fer the takin’. Aye, ’tis a grand life fer the right sort o’ fellow. And the wrong sort …” The captain cast a look of exaggerated menace. “Well, the river licks his bones.”
“You’ll find us the right sort,” said Froan.
“Ah hope Ah will,” replied Bloodbeard. “And ’bout those wenches: Some men are jealous, so pay heed o’ who ye tup. Ah don’t look kindly on fightin’ over whores.”
“I appreciate knowing where I stand,” said Froan, “and thank you for it. Bog Rat does, too.”
“Good,” said Bloodbeard. “So that’s settled.” He sauntered off to have his bowl refilled.
“What an ass!” Froan whispered to Telk before getting more to eat.
As a woman ladled out more stew into Froan’s bowl, Toad walked over to him. “Ah see Bloodbeard spoke with ye.”
“Yes,” replied Froan. “It seems we’ll soon be fat and rich.”
Toad grinned. “Aye, just like the rest o’ us.”
The Iron Palace Page 9