The Iron Palace

by Morgan Howell

  Hewt’s hut was a low building made of sod with brambles planted upon its roof, probably to discourage goats from grazing on it. Yim was surprised to see that a ring of half-buried cobblestones surrounded the hut, marking it as a Wise Woman’s dwelling. Its facade featured a single door and several small square holes that served as windows. The door was open and a voice emerged from it. “Hewt, do Ah hear someone with ye?”

  “Aye, ’tis a lass. She found Muka. Her name’s Mirien.”

  Hewt’s reply drew Witha outside. Her tangled white hair, deeply lined face, and bent posture made her look older than her spouse and more infirm. Witha’s blue eyes were filmed over, and she moved as one who was nearly blind.

  “She’s offered ta work fer a while,” said Hewt.

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause she’s wore out and hungry after lookin’ fer her son. She has a way with goats and could help with tha milkin’ and other chores.”

  “ ’Twould be as when Rowena—”

  “Nay, love,” said Hewt quickly. “Mirien don’t plan ta stay.”

  “Mayhap, but that ken change,” answered Witha. “Come inside, Mirien.”

  As Hewt led the goat away, Witha went back into the hut. Yim followed her. The room was dark, for the thick turf walls prevented the windows from scattering much light. The dim interior smelled of herbs and woodsmoke, reminding Yim of her guardian’s hut. The floor was hard-packed earth, but the walls were paneled with boards that bristled with wooden pegs. Dried herbs dangled from most of them. “You’re a Wise Woman,” Yim said.

  “Aye, but a blind one, so few have faith in mah skills.” Witha gestured to a small table with benches on either side. “Please sit.”

  As Yim sat on a bench, Witha went into a side room and returned with a hunk of bread, a small earthenware bowl of yogurt, and a wooden spoon. Next she brought out a cup of goat milk. After placing these before Yim, Witha sat down on the opposite bench and let her guest eat undisturbed. She spoke only after the bread, milk, and yogurt were gone. “Ken Ah touch yer face? Mah fingers are like eyes ta me.”

  “Of course,” said Yim, guiding the old woman’s hand to her cheek.

  Witha’s fingers softly brushed over Yim’s features. “Yer young.”

  “Not so young. I’ve thirty-six winters.”

  “Ye feel younger.” Witha’s fingertips rounded Yim’s chin and traveled down her neck until they touched her scar. Then the old woman’s expression became agitated, and after she traced the raised mark left by Yim’s wound, she burst out sobbing.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Yim.

  “They cut her throat, too. Our daughter … our Rowena.”

  “I’m sorry to remind you of your grief. Perhaps I should g—”

  Witha gripped Yim’s wrist. “Nay, nay. Don’t leave. Stay as long as ye wish.” Yim’s host lowered her voice to a whisper. “Ah knew ye’d come.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “After Karm took mah sight, she spoke ta me.” Witha fixed her milky eyes on Yim as though they could still see clearly. “Don’t feed tha dark. ’Tis stronger than ye think.”

  “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Neither do Ah, Mirien. But that’s what tha goddess said.”

  “Then I guess I should be mindful at night,” said Yim, trying hard to keep her voice calm. “Did Karm have any other advice?”

  “Nay, dear, but Ah have some o’ mah own. Ye need ta rest and build yer strength. Ah don’t know fer what, but Ah ken feel weariness in yer face and hear it in yer voice.”

  Yim ended up taking Witha’s advice. She did so warily at first, not because she distrusted the couple, but because she had ceased to believe in the possibility of good fortune. Nevertheless, after a lonely and arduous journey, she had a roof over her head, sufficient food, a dry and warm place to sleep, and the company of two kindly people. Having assumed a slain girl’s name, Yim found herself assuming a slain daughter’s role. She performed Rowena’s chores, slept in her bed, and at Witha’s insistence, inherited Rowena’s clothes.

  Yim’s new clothing was less outlandish than her goatskin outfit, which was why she accepted the gift. It was peasant garb, plain and durable, consisting of a sleeveless linen shift that was worn under a woolen skirt and blouse. The rust-colored skirt reached midcalf and had a pouchlike pocket in the front. The blouse was collarless, with baggy sleeves that ended high above Yim’s wrists. It was gray and laced up in the front. She also received a hooded cloak and a pair of sturdy boots that were only slightly larger than her feet.

  Yim repaid Hewt and Witha’s generosity by working hard. She milked goats, made cheese, watched the herd, gathered herbs, and generally made herself useful. Yim found the routine comforting. Although she felt that she should resume her journey, each day she found a reason to postpone leaving. In truth, the longer she stayed, the more she wanted to linger. When Yim considered why, she realized that she was experiencing the family life she had always yearned for as a child. It was a pleasant fiction for all of them: Witha and Hewt were the parents Yim never had, while she was the daughter they had lost.

  The hut’s isolation enhanced the illusion, for no visitors came to question it. Though others dwelt in the valley, raising goats required folk to live scattered apart. Yim never met her neighbors and the tiny village at the valley’s western end seemed remote. She never thought of visiting it, for there was too much to do. Fall was coming. Fodder needed to be gathered and stored. Excess animals had to be slaughtered and their meat preserved. Yim saw how those tasks would go easier with her to help. Being needed felt good, and she stopped thinking about leaving “tomorrow” and began to think about leaving “soon.”

  As Yim settled into her new routine, the sudden chills that marked violent deaths began to afflict her again. It wasn’t like the last time: the icy pangs were fewer in number, and although they tended to occur in clusters, they were spread out. As before, Yim had no sense of where the deaths were occurring. Nonetheless, each chill reminded her that what ever hardship and dangers she encountered on the road would pale next to the horrors of the Iron Palace. Each icy stab evoked them and made Yim’s peaceful interlude seem precious.

  THIRTY-TWO

  YIM HAD been with Hewt and Witha for over half a moon when autumn weather arrived. The nights turned crisp and their chill lingered late into the mornings. Aware that there might be a frost any day, Yim decided to renew Witha’s supply of healing plants while she could. After the morning milking was over, she took a collecting basket along with her herder’s staff as she led the goats up the ridge to forage. The trail was rocky, so she wore her “new” boots, which fit well enough after she stuffed some dry grass into the toes.

  Around noon, Yim and the herd reached a southern-facing hollow near the ridgeline. As the goats happily grazed on wild carrots, asters, and thistles, Yim found a stand of valerian. The plant’s roots were good for treating headaches, cramps, and insomnia. She had dug up several plants when she felt the first chill that marked the moment of someone’s violent death. It seemed stronger than those she had experienced before, but like them, it felt like a sliver of ice stabbing deep into her chest. There was cold and a hint of pain, then the “ice” seemed to melt away to leave a more general chill. After a moment passed, Yim felt a second chill. Then life returned to normal.

  In the days since the icy pangs returned, Yim had perceived patterns in them and devised scenarios to explain their causes. She envisioned a group of men, or perhaps a small army, marching through a thinly populated land. It slew whomever it encountered. A single pang represented a solitary traveler or someone living alone. Two pangs in quick succession meant a man and wife surprised in their home. If more pangs followed soon afterward, the couple had children. A slaughtered village felt like a hailstorm. Fortunately, she had endured only three of those.

  It was a dismal fact that, while Yim’s chills were sporadic, they happened frequently enough to become routine. Usually
she paid little attention to them. When Yim experienced her latest bout, she paused in her digging for only a moment. Then she sighed and resumed her work; there was nothing else to do. Throughout the afternoon, Yim continued to search for herbs and feel momentary chills. For a short while, they came in such rapid succession that she was forced to pause her work until the pangs spaced out again. By late afternoon, her basket was filled with herbs, and she began to drive the goats toward the hut. Only after Yim exited the hollow did she notice the smoke. Peering from her high vantage point, she saw that the western end of the valley was hazy with it, and there were separate plumes rising from within the valley as well.

  Yim paused, puzzled by what she saw. Then she felt more chills as another plume of smoke appeared. It rose from a spot on the other side of the valley not too distant from Hewt and Witha’s hut. Starting as a thin gray line, it quickly thickened into black billows that stained the sky. Yim was close enough to see the flames that created the smudge. Then with sudden and horrible clarity, she understood both the cause of her chills and the smoke. Men are moving up the valley, slaying folks and burning their homes!

  Yim forgot the goats. She tossed aside the basket of herbs, and taking only her staff, dashed down the steep trail. Her sole thought was of Hewt and Witha and the destruction advancing their way. As Yim ran, hope and terror alternately spurred her onward. Whether gripped by one or the other, she put every bit of her will and energy into reaching the hut. Whenever she fell, she immediately rose and sprinted off, mindless of her hurts. By the time Yim reached the hut, she was breathing in ragged gasps.

  She had arrived too late. Hewt lay in the yard. He was so mangled that Yim recognized him only by his blood-soaked clothes. She cried out and halted, paralyzed by grief and nausea. Then a gore-spattered man appeared in the doorway. When Yim spied the bloody sword in his hand, a new emotion purged her of all others. It was hatred. Sorrow, fear, and prudence vanished as the urge for vengeance became all-consuming. Yim surrendered to it. Without an instant of hesitation, she raised her staff and charged the man.

  The man in the doorway wore tattered clothes that bore evidence of his deeds. Some of the bloodstains were old and dry, while others were still wet. His brutish face was a mask of rage from which soulless eyes gazed out. But when he beheld Yim, his expression underwent a transformation. To Yim, it seemed that her fury preceded her and withered the man. His face slackened even before her staff smashed into it. Yim felt a surge of jubilation as she heard the man’s skull crack from the impact of her blow. As the man teetered, she struck him again. He crumpled, and Yim struck him as he fell. By then, his head likened to a battered leather bag sewn with hair and misshapen human features. Blood poured out of every opening—nostrils, mouth, eyes, and ears—and yet Yim continued to smash away. The man was dead, but in her fury, that wasn’t sufficient. She wanted to reduce him to a pulp.

  The only reason Yim stopped striking the corpse was that she spied movement within the hut. Grabbing the dead man’s sword, she rushed into the dim room. Witha’s body lay on the dirt floor, which was darkened by her blood. A huge man holding an ax towered over her. His expression was hard to read in the half light, but it seemed blank. His posture was certainly passive. He stood absolutely still, the ax dangling limply in his grasp. Those were only fleeting impressions to Yim, for she was focused on mayhem. Killing the first man had served only to heighten her rage, not quench it.

  Closing the distance with a few bounds, Yim drove the sword into the man’s belly, pushing with all her might until the point broke through the other side. Then the blade slid easily through the man’s torso until its hilt guard pressed against his belly and hot blood gushed over Yim’s hands. Exhilarated, she tugged the blade sideways to enlarge the wound. The man groaned and toppled, his fall wrenching the sword from Yim’s grasp. He was still alive when she pulled it out to wildly hack at him. Yim had partly severed the man’s arm before one of her blows bit deep into his neck and ended his life. Yim felt another ecstatic surge; then she continued hacking.

  The sound of voices interrupted Yim. She darted over to the doorway and peered out. There were three armed men hurrying toward the hut. They were covered with blood, and one carried a woman’s severed head by the hair. When they saw Yim, they charged. Yim responded with pure rage. Without a second thought, she rushed to meet her attackers. As Yim ran, she heard maniacal laughter that was as bloodthirsty as it was gleeful. It wasn’t until she had nearly reached the men that Yim realized the laughter was hers. By then, the men had stopped running. If Yim had paused to think about it, she would have thought they had become strangely passive. But Yim wasn’t interested in thinking, only killing. She hacked clumsily at the nearest man, taking several blows to bring him down. Energized by that slaying, she drove her blade deep into the second man’s eye, killing him instantly.

  Grinning, Yim turned to the man who carried the head. Like the others, his expression was neither fearful nor angry, merely vacant. Yim swung her sword at his neck, but struck his shoulder. Wrenching out the blade, she swung again and this time struck her mark. The man sprayed blood, toppled to the ground, and died. Nonetheless, Yim continued hacking until she decapitated him. Then she kicked his head into the weeds and replaced it with that of his victim. In an exultant mood, Yim giggled at her gruesome humor, then looked around for someone else to slay.

  Seeing no one, Yim felt disappointed. As consolation, she ran her tongue along her blade to savor her victims’ blood. The blade felt hot against her icy tongue, making Yim aware of how cold she had become. Then with a shock, Yim realized that it was likely that Hewt and Witha’s blood was also on the blade. Her dismay quelled her rage just enough for a memory of Witha to surface. It was from the day they met. Yim recalled the old Wise Woman sitting at the table and the intensity in her milky blue eyes. Yim also remembered what Witha had said: “Don’t feed tha dark. ’Tis stronger than ye think.”

  As soon as Yim had that recollection, rage flared up again. However, this time, she realized its source and struggled against it. It wasn’t easy; by killing she had strengthened her inner foe. Yim’s mind was in turmoil, but it possessed enough clarity to realize that to overcome her nemesis she had to replace hatred with compassion. Yim saw that she hadn’t meted out justice or even wreaked vengeance. Instead, the enemy had helped her murder men it had inflamed. That’s why the men didn’t defend themselves; the Devourer gripped them, and it wanted them to die.

  Despite understanding what she must do, Yim felt unable to accomplish it. She couldn’t forgive the men who had killed Hewt and Witha. Hatred is the Devourer’s tool, she told herself. Still, it smoldered in her. The men had brutally slain two good and gentle people. It felt natural to strike back. Moreover, it seemed proper. Nevertheless, it was also a trap. Yim saw her inability to cool her anger as a sign of her weakness and the Devourer’s strength.

  Complicating matters was Yim’s current danger. She was certain that more men would arrive. If she faced them, she’d further strengthen the Devourer’s hold on her. Fleeing seemed her only hope. Yim headed toward the hut to gather the necessities for a hurried departure. Even doing that required all her will, and though she tried, she felt unable to abandon her newfound sword. When Yim reached Hewt’s body, she dragged it into the hut so he would lie beside Witha. Then she hastily gathered clothes, equipment, and provisions for her journey, all the while blinking tears from her eyes.

  When Yim was ready to leave, she took the time to assemble a funeral pyre for Hewt and Witha out of anything inflammable that she could readily find. When it was completed, she dragged her two friends atop the makeshift pile and, uttering a prayer to Karm, lit it. As the flames began to spread, Yim hurried out of the hut. She was burdened with a full pack, three water skins, a hefty sack of grain, and a sword without a scabbard. Moreover, she was fatigued from her long run to the hut, the effort of making a pyre, and the exertion of killing five men. Nevertheless, she moved as rapidly as she could. Yim needed to head so
uth, and that meant crossing the valley.

  What Yim feared most was that she would run into more marauding men. That was one reason why she kept the sword. She suspected that there were other reasons as well, darker ones that she couldn’t dwell upon in her current state. That’s a struggle for later, she thought as she glanced about for signs of danger, first I have to survive this day.

  Yim had ventured onto the valley floor while herding goats, but she had never gone as far as the other side. Generations of grazing had reduced the valley’s interior to a meadow of waist-high plants with only a rare tree to break the line of slight. Yim felt dangerously conspicuous, and her apprehension grew the farther she traveled. When that feeling became too great, she dropped to the ground, afraid to continue. Sunset wasn’t far off, and Yim weighed her options. The weeds would screen her from a distant viewer, but if someone walked nearby, she’d be seen. Thus she could lie low until dark and risk the enemy finding her, or she could continue fleeing and risk being spotted. Deciding which was riskier seemed a pointless exercise since she knew nothing about her foes—their numbers, position, purpose, or leader.

  That’s not true, Yim thought. Their leader must be Froan. It made perfect sense. Once before, she had encountered men like the five she had just killed. They had been members of Lord Bahl’s peasant army. They, too, had seemed dehumanized and enraged. Only one man at a time possessed the power to create such an army, and it was apparent to Yim that the power had passed to her son. Those men were Froan’s creations. It wasn’t only logic that led to Yim’s conclusion; it was a mother’s certainty that her greatest fear had been realized. Her heart told her it was true, and that persuaded her as much as any evidence.

  Yim recalled her terrifying journey to Froan’s father and how she had passed through the violent mob under his sway. It had been a nightmare experience but not nearly as terrible as Lord Bahl himself. He had been the wellspring of his army’s madness, its malevolent core. Yim assumed that Froan was nearby, driving men to rampage through the valley. He might be in the burning village or even closer.