Moreover, Yim had a new concern; she had begun to feel cool. The late summer sun made the vast wet expanse of reeds a muggy place, but the hot damp air had stopped affecting her. The change had been sudden, and it had occurred earlier in the morning. If the reeds had stirred, Yim would have thought the onset of her chill marked the coming of a storm. But every breath convinced her that there was no change in the air; it was in her.
The Devourer’s growing stronger, thought Yim. Somewhere, folk are being slaughtered. The evil entity that had been quiescent within her for so long had been strengthened by violent death. While Yim had feared it would happen, she was still surprised when it did, for its suddenness was startling. First, there was a tiny shiver that she easily ignored. A short while passed, then there was a wave of cold. Moreover, the cold lingered. Yim imagined that the shiver was a single death and the cold was a massacre. Is Froan already following in his father’s footsteps? Yim was almost certain that he was. Lost in a bog, she felt more impotent than ever. All she could do was slog on and hope.
For days, the fens had seemed changeless; a lush expanse of reeds and smaller bog plants growing from wet ground that often wasn’t ground at all but a mat of decay floating over murky water. Yet whether the ground was sound or not, it all looked the same. The sounds changed little also. The rustle of stalks shaken by the wind and the squish following each step seldom ceased. Only the occasional birdcall provided variety. The monotony of her surroundings and the constant walking turned Yim’s thoughts inward. After a while, it seemed the past was more vivid than the present.
In Yim’s imagination, reeds gave way to mountain peaks, flinty ground, and alpine grass. She was a little girl, idly hopping from stone to stone. They formed a perfect circle and in the center was a hut. The Wise Woman’s hut. Then Yim saw her new guardian coming out the door. Her hair was brown then, not white. Only the night before, Yim had told her about her vision, saying, “She who holds the Balance said I’m the Chosen.” When the Wise Woman approached, Yim stopped hopping from stone to stone. “Da says I’m to live with you. For how long?”
“A while,” replied the Wise Woman.
“Will you be my mother?”
“Nay. You need no mother.”
That was a strange reply and strange that I should recall it after so many winters, thought Yim. She had always deemed the Wise Woman cold, but lately she had been rethinking that judgment. How much did she know? Yim didn’t believe in fate, for fate implied a lack of choice. Nevertheless, she believed that the goddess prepared paths that one might follow by choosing wisely. Yim wondered if she had done so, and concluded that if she had, she owed a debt to the one who had prepared her. Having nurtured a child, Yim realized the Wise Woman’s job couldn’t have been an easy one. Readying a girl to bed Lord Bahl. It must have been a heartbreaking task. For the first time, Yim felt sympathy for her guardian.
Then Yim wondered if she still retained any of the skills she had acquired under the Wise Woman’s tutelage. She had lost her ability to learn the sex of an unborn child. She hadn’t tried to raise a spirit since she had called forth Count Yaun’s victims, and she doubted that she still could. Such skills are gifts from Karm, Yim thought, and I’ve been fouled by the Devourer. Her new chill served as a reminder of that fact.
Yim ended the day’s trek uncertain if she was any closer to leaving the fens. She tried not to think of her ultimate goal for fear that she would lose heart. One step at a time was her plan, and she was sticking to it. As darkness fell, Yim searched for a dry place to spend the night. In the fens, “dry” was a relative term, and she settled for a place that was merely damp as opposed to one where water welled up wherever she stepped. Having selected a spot, she cut down armfuls of reeds. Those she used to make a sleeping pad by piling the stalks in layers, with each layer running at a right angle to the one below. It was an old fensfolk trick for staying dry, and it often worked.
After the pad was assembled, she ate her evemeal; two strips of smoked goat, a crumbling piece of young cheese, and a raw faerie arrow root, all washed down with bog water. It was too dark for Yim to see the mold that was spreading over her rations, but she could taste it. After Yim ate, she lay back to watch the sky.
The stars reminded her of the night when she walked upon the silver trail to find Honus. The memory of it had grown so vivid that Yim was convinced that she was recalling a real—if inexplicable—event. When she relived brushing her hand against Honus’s face, she not only felt warmth but also the scratch of stubble. Each time she recalled the gesture, she relished the moment. It helped sustain her.
Thoughts of Froan sustained her also. She saw the evil within him as a separate entity. She loathed and feared it, but not her son. His hard words and the blade on my throat weren’t his doing. Not truly. Yim turned her thoughts from their last encounter to happier times. They had been abundant enough, and remembering them was pacifying. When Yim grew drowsy, her remembrances turned fanciful and Honus entered them. As she drifted off to sleep, she watched Froan and Honus work side by side. They were planting grapevines on a hillside. In her near-dream state, the pair seemed like father and son.
The morning of Yim’s sixth day of wandering in the fens began like the previous ones. The sky lightened. She rose, damp and chilled, to eat a meager dawnmeal. The mold spreading over her rations was evident in daylight, but there was nothing she could do about it except eat larger portions and consume all her food before it spoiled. With that in mind, she rubbed the gray-green fuzz off another strip of meat and ate it. Afterward, she shouldered the pack and rose to continue her trek.
Froan ate his dawnmeal later and in far more comfortable surroundings. The fare was both tastier and more substantial than Yim’s, for there were ample leftovers from the feast. He dined in his cabin with Moli. Rest and a change of fortunes had improved her spirits, but her injuries obviously troubled her. It upset Froan to see her in pain. “We’ll weigh anchor this morning,” he said. “I hope to find you a healwife soon.”
“Is there no healer among yer men?”
“Yes, but he knows only rough soldier cures, nothing fine enough for a lady.”
Moli giggled. “A lady? Me?”
“Yes,” said Froan. “For that’s what you’ll be.”
“Ah’m but a peasant lass, caught by pirates and made their whore. Ah know nothin’ ’bout bein’ a lady.”
“And I know nothing about being a lord, so we’ll learn together.” Then he leaned across the tiny table to kiss Moli. Afterward, he rose. “I’ve business ashore.”
A short while later, Froan returned to the pirates’ former hideout with a squad of soldiers. Captain Wuulf advised arriving with the bodies of pirates dangling from the war boat’s masts to enhance the surprise attack on Midgeport. It would make them seem to be returning from their mission while drawing out the citizenry to gawk. Froan liked the idea, but mindful of Moli’s sensibilities, he planned to display only the corpses of her molesters. To select them, Froan had to view the aftermath of the slaughter he had ordered.
Froan thought that he was steeled for the sight, but the first body he encountered was that of the crewman kidnapped from the cattle boat. His eyes were still open, and they seemed staring in horror at a woman dressed in peasant clothes. She appeared to have died seeking the comfort of his arms. Froan looked away, only to spy a toddler lying facedown in bloody water. Such is the source of my power, he thought. For a moment, he longed to turn from the path he was following. He wondered if it might still be possible. Then his thoughts turned cold. Better to prey than be preyed upon. Froan realized that he didn’t wish to abandon safety and comfort any more than to reveal to Moli all he’d done to obtain them.
TWENTY-NINE
YIM WANDERED two more days before she began to encounter sporadic clumps of trees that sprouted from small patches of dry ground within the bog. That evening, she spent the night on one such patch. Able to light a fire, she singed the mold off her remaining strips of meat. The che
ese had become inedible, and the roots were gone, so Yim augmented her rations with legs from frogs that she caught and roasted.
The following day, Yim came across further signs that she was nearing the edge of the fens. The ground was firmer, and the firm stretches extended for ever greater distances. The reeds didn’t grow as high, allowing her to see into the distance. Nonetheless, treacherous ground still prevented her from traveling a direct route. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that reeds gave way to grass and the ground became solid. Then, tired as she was, Yim ran for joy awhile before falling to the earth, gasping for breath and laughing at the same time. The Grey Fens were behind her.
Yim eventually rose and resumed walking. It felt strange to travel in a straight line, and she found herself testing her footing with each step. It had become second nature to suspect the ground beneath her feet, and even knowledge that it was solid couldn’t overcome the long habit.
If the footing was secure beyond the fens, it was the sole security Yim had. The bog’s treacherous ground had made it safe in other ways. While Yim no longer had to worry that her next step might plunge through seemingly dry turf, neither did soldiers, bandits, or slavers. It had been a long time since Yim had felt vulnerable and endangered when traveling alone, but those feelings returned to her. The world hasn’t changed in my absence. She lacked protection in a place where lone women often faced enslavement or worse.
Yim tried to recall her journey north to the Grey Fens, but it was hazy to her, for she had been feverish most of the time. She remembered that Honus had called the territory south of the Grey Fens the Empty Lands, although he said that some folk still dwelt there. Yim suspected that she had encountered no one on her trip north because Neeg had avoided settlements. On her current journey to Bahland, that wouldn’t be an option. Yim was nearly out of food. Moreover, she would need news and directions. The risks seemed both substantial and unavoidable.
Before I worry over approaching strangers, I’ll have to find some first, thought Yim. It didn’t seem that would happen soon. The land beyond the fens appeared fittingly named. It was a flat and desolate expanse of grass that extended to the horizon without any sign of human habitation. The monotony of the view was broken only by occasional clumps of trees. Using the sun to determine the southward route, Yim headed in that direction.
The sun was low in the sky when Yim felt the first chill. Unlike before, there was but a moment before she felt the second one. More followed in such rapid succession that they blended together into a wave of cold that was spiritual as well as physical. Yim knew that people were dying somewhere in a manner the fed the darkness within her. The air seemed alive with screams that Yim felt but didn’t hear. Something foul was relishing each one. Yim was certain that her son was orchestrating another slaughter and each death strengthened the thing that was poisoning him.
It was poisoning her also. Yim felt polluted and sick at heart. It was especially disturbing to be defenseless against the invisible assault. The massacre that fueled it was likely far away, though she had no means of telling. All she could do was endure its effects, knowing they would linger. Discouraged by the prospect, Yim headed for a tiny grove of trees where she could rest and find wood for a fire.
By dusk it was over. Midgeport had been overwhelmed. Captain Wuulf strode its blood-spattered streets to ensure the looting was done efficiently. After the preceding chaos, he took comfort from the rationality of theft. The attack had been anything but rational. In his entire career as a mercenary, Wuulf had never seen its like.
Thinking back, Wuulf realized that it had begun belowdecks after Shadow ordered the oarsmen unchained. They were a rough bunch sentenced to hard labor more to save the cost of wages than to serve justice. Most were petty criminals and troublemakers. Some were just unlucky. All bore a grudge. Wuulf had been concerned that they would turn on Shadow at the first opportunity, but he needn’t have worried. The men had been in Shadow’s palm from the instant he spoke to them.
Wuulf recalled only vaguely what Shadow had said. It hadn’t been a memorable speech. Wuulf had heard other commanders say similar things in equally bloodthirsty tones. The folk of Midgeport had been portrayed as an enemy unworthy of mercy. “Seek your revenge!” Shadow had shouted. “Don’t hold back!” The words had been trite, but their effects had been extraordinary.
Never had the officer witnessed such a transformation. It had been so extreme that he was certain that its cause was otherworldly. Shadow had paced belowdecks, gazing at the newly freed oarsmen while the atmosphere became heavy with rage. It had been palpable, with an oily feel and a faint but acrid scent. What ever force Shadow had employed hadn’t been directed at Wuulf, and yet he had become angry and eager to fight. The effect had been far more pronounced on the oarsmen. Wuulf had watched them shed their humanity as if it were merely a mask. Faces contorted with rage. Eyes glared, bereft of sanity. Although the captain was a seasoned veteran, he had felt chilled whenever an oarsman looked his way.
Nevertheless, the impending violence had been firmly under Shadow’s control. The oarsmen had likened to an arrow in a bow that was fully drawn—ready at any moment to speed forth in deadly flight. Shadow had been the finger on the bowstring, rendering the men powerless until he loosed them.
The war boat had sailed into port, its grisly trophies dangling from the masts. Lines had been thrown to secure the vessel as twin gangplanks were extended. A crowd had gathered to gawk at the dead, while belowdecks the pirates’ looted arms were given to the oarsmen. Those men who didn’t receive a weapon fashioned oars into clubs. Afterward, Shadow had climbed on deck as the oarsmen boiled from the hold and poured down the gangplanks. When the crowd drew back a little, Shadow had shouted “Now!” The arrow had been loosed.
What followed had shocked Captain Wuulf, hardened as he was. Soldiers were trained to kill, but they also strove to live. The oarsmen had seemed solely interested in death. In their single-mindedness, they had slain without bothering to defend themselves and often died needlessly. Moreover, everyone had been a target—children and women, as well as men. From beginning to end, it had been mindless butchery. Once the docks had been expunged of life, the oarsmen poured into the town, slaughtering indiscriminately. Wuulf had ordered his soldiers to follow and gather up the survivors as prisoners. After what the townsfolk had experienced, those still living had regarded the soldiers as saviors.
When the oarsmen had doubled back, the prisoners were huddled in a courtyard near the docks. By then, Shadow had left the war boat and subdued the returning men as easily as he had inflamed them. Wuulf had been certain that they would have killed the prisoners otherwise. The oarsmen had fought savagely, but they were careless and unskilled, and only a third of their number had survived. Even after Shadow had calmed them, they possessed the vacant gaze of madmen. Covered with gore and heedless of their wounds, they muddled about aimlessly. Wuulf wanted no part of them.
Captain Wuulf knew Midgeport well, so he had sent a squad to commandeer its finest residence for Shadow. It was the home of a sheep broker. When his commander and his lady were ready to enter the town, Wuulf had ordered soldiers to escort them to their new quarters. Afterward, the captain had taken charge of the looting. As the plunder was gathered, Wuulf had made sure that the choicest items were sent to Shadow.
With darkness falling, Captain Wuulf called a halt to the looting for the night. The pickings had been good for the Empty Lands, but that wasn’t saying much. Once the town had boasted a canal that linked the Turgen with the Midge River. Merchants had gladly paid a stiff toll to bypass the Turgen’s treacherous delta, but that was long ago. Within living memory, the canal was a useless ditch filled with muck and cattails. The recurring invasions that had ruined the canal had also reduced Midgeport to little more than a village. The town’s breached walls stood unrepaired, three-quarters of its dwellings were roofless and empty, and its wealthiest citizen traded in sheep.
As most of his soldiers headed for empty ta
verns to celebrate, Captain Wuulf strode to the sheep broker’s former home to report to his commander. A pair of soldiers flanked the entrance to a dwelling that once had been grand, but currently stood half collapsed. The livable section had been crudely walled off from the crumbling portion. The work reminded Wuulf of an ineptly cauterized wound. He was glad that he had posted a guard; though unnecessary, it provided a touch of status to the decrepit pile.
Wuulf passed the guards and entered the house. Its former entrance foyer had been remade into a “great hall,” though there was little greatness to it. Wuulf’s late captain had negotiated the company’s contract in that very room less than a moon ago. Wuulf, having been present, noted a few changes. Foremost was a large bloodstain on the wooden floor, though no bodies were evident. A table was piled with food and drink, a collection of purses, some gaudy crockery, assorted clothing, and a stack of women’s footwear. Shadow’s lady was seated near the ornate but crumbling fireplace. Dressed in a rose-colored gown, she was trying on shoes.
Shadow had also donned looted clothes. He was outfitted entirely in black, from vest to boots. The way he was grinning informed Wuulf that his commander was far more impressed by Midgeport than he was. That insight altered Wuulf’s greeting. He smiled and bowed low. “Greetings, sire. Mayhap ’tis time to name ye Lord Shadow.”
“Well, this town’s a lordly prize. That’s for certain.”
“ ’Tis a fair start, sire, but one that’ll pale later on. I’ll say this, though: Ye won’t see its like again until we’re past the Western Reach. So ’tis a fitting start for yer campaign.”
“Advise me, Captain. What should I do next?”
“Let the men celebrate yer victory for a day, then order them to prepare to move out. They’ll need to assemble wagons and teams and also gather a flock to feed us on the march. Sire, can ye ride a horse?”
The Iron Palace Page 19