The Iron Palace

by Morgan Howell

  Honus knew the appropriate response was, “I’ll take nothing you don’t give freely,” but instead he replied by saying, “I mean you no harm.”

  The peasant slowly lowered the mattock. “Then sup and stay with us if ye wish. We can offer but roots and tha floor near our hearth. Ah hope that suits ye.”

  Honus bowed. “Karm sees your kindness, and I’m grateful for your hospitality.”

  The peasant called into the hut, “Wife, we have a guest.”

  A young woman appeared in the doorway. She was barefoot and ragged, as was her husband, and her face appeared prematurely worn. About her shirt clung three small children. Like their mother, they stared at Honus fearfully. Aware of their trepidation, Honus smiled and bowed. “I serve the goddess Karm, who sees your kindness.”

  “Karm?” said the woman. “My grandmam prayed ta her.” Then she shrank back as Honus followed her husband into the hut.

  The tiny dwelling contained a hearth, a crude table, a pair of equally crude benches, a single mattress made from bundled straw, farm implements, and the family’s meager possessions. The latter lay about the dirt floor or hung from sticks pushed into the sod walls. A crockery pot containing boiled roots sat on the table, along with five small wooden bowls. Each of these contained cloudy liquid and a half-eaten root.

  The woman scurried to a corner, brought another bowl to the table, placed a root in it, and then filled the bowl with liquid from the pot. “Have a seat, sire. ’Tis lowly fare, but ’tis all we have.”

  “Lowly fare suits my station,” replied Honus. “I’m but a servant, so you should call me Honus, not sire.” Honus sat down upon the bench.

  “Sit, children,” said the woman, “and finish your evemeal.”

  The children bunched together on the bench where Honus sat, keeping as distant from him as possible without falling off the end. The eldest child was a girl of about four winters. She regarded him with a mixture of fright and fascination. Finally, the latter seemed to gain the upper hand, for she spoke. “Why’s yer face so dirty?”

  Honus smiled. “That’s not dirt. Those are tattoos.”

  “Atoos?”

  “Marks made by needles so they won’t come off. You can touch them if you’d like.”

  The girl hesitantly reached up, then quickly brushed Honus’s cheek. Afterward, she examined her fingers for stains. Finding none, she asked, “Did it hurt?”

  “Yes,” replied Honus, “but that was long ago. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  “Ah’ve nary seen yer like afore,” said the child’s father. “What brings ye here?”

  “I’m searching for a woman. She may have traveled this way. She’s comely with dark hair and eyes. Have you seen her like?”

  “We seldom see travelers and none like her,” said the man. “What of her companions?”

  “I think she has none.”

  “Then she’s foolish and won’t get far.”

  “Pray neither’s true,” replied Honus, “for she’s meant to save the world.”

  Honus’s host grinned, as if the Sarf had made a jest. “A lass save tha world? Then we’re in sore peril.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  HONUS DIDN’T respond to his host’s comment, except by his silence and grim countenance. That was sufficient, and the smile slowly faded from the peasant’s face. “So ye say our fates lie with tha lass?”

  “I’m certain of it.”

  “Small wonder yer seekin’ her,” said the man, adopting Honus’s somber mood. “Why do ye think she’d come this way?”

  “I’ve no reason to believe she would. I’m only guessing that she’s passing through the Reach.”

  The peasant shook his head. “ ’Tis a wide place. She could be anywhere.”

  “I know,” said Honus. “I’m hoping some traveler has seen her.”

  “If ye want ta speak ta travelers, ye’d best walk toward tha sunrise half a day till ye reach a rutted road. Turn left, and ’twill lead ye ta a height. Ye’ll find a town there. Been there mahself once. ’Tis a place travelers stop, fer it has taverns aplenty.”

  Honus thanked his host for that advice, and then settled into silence. It was dark by the time the family finished its meal and retired to sleep in a tangled mass upon the single mattress. Honus wrapped himself in his cloak and slept near the hearth. In the morning, he thanked the family and departed. Having no better idea where to go, he headed for the town his host had described.

  The landscape through which Honus strode gradually flattened until there were no hills at all, just a featureless, grassy plain that extended to the horizon. It underscored both the vastness and the emptiness of the Western Reach and made Honus despair of ever finding Yim. A little past noon, he encountered a place where the ground was cut and scored by wagon wheels. It was the road that his host had mentioned. Honus turned left and south to follow it. By late afternoon, he could see the road was heading toward a bump on the horizon. As Honus continued walking, the bump grew in prominence until it became a hill approaching the size of a tiny mountain. It dominated the flat landscape, being the sole vertical element. An assortment of buildings had sprung up on its eastern slope like mushrooms on a log.

  Honus recognized the place from his earliest travels with Theodus, though he hadn’t seen it for thirty winters. The town was called Cuprick, named for the copper that was mined in the hill. Bahland’s armies had devastated it more than once, but the town had always sprung up anew due to the ore buried in the hill. It was dusk when Honus arrived there. The majority of the town’s buildings had a temporary look, seeming to have been built with a minimum of material and effort. Most were framed with slender timbers and finished with wattle-and-daub walls. The town’s dirt lanes had been so churned by hoofs and wheels that a film of dust was on everything. Honus recalled it as a home to few women and many rough men. Thus, as he strode its dusty streets, he took on a calm but menacing air.

  Yim would avoid such a place, Honus thought. But Cuprick had been a way station for north and south traffic, and it probably still was. That made it a promising site for questioning travelers. There were ample places to do so; Honus had already passed two taverns when he glanced up the lane and spied three more. He entered the nearest one to begin making inquiries. The interior was what he expected—poorly lit, crowded, and dirty. It had been noisy until he entered. Honus spoke to the hushed room. “I’m seeking a woman.”

  “Well, aren’t we all,” quipped a man. No one laughed.

  “It’s important I find her,” continued Honus. “She has dark hair and eyes and a comely face. Most like, she’s traveling alone. Has anyone seen her?”

  A few men said nay and the rest merely shook their heads. Regardless, Honus stayed until he had looked each man in the eye. He detected hostility in some, but since he found no deception, he left. Honus visited two more taverns with similar results before he entered an inn. Its common room, though crudely built and furnished, was larger and more inviting than any of the taverns. Before he could say anything, Honus heard music coming from plucked strings. The notes silenced the room, for even in Cuprick, no one spoke when a bard performed. At the far end of the room rose a man dressed in weatherworn finery who began to sing as he accompanied himself on a small harp.

  “Thirteen clans in Averen fair

  Name sons as their chieftain’s heir.

  The Urkzimdi are alone

  In placing maids upon their throne.”

  It’s a ballad about Cara’s clan, thought Honus, turning to listen to the bard. The song began according to form, with stanzas that described the protagonist’s lineage without ever mentioning him or her. The bard had just finished an account of Dar Beard Chin and was describing her daughter when someone tapped Honus’s shoulder. A man wearing an innkeeper’s apron gestured that he wanted to talk. Honus followed him outside.

  “There’s lads who wish a word with ye,” said the innkeeper, pointing toward three men who stood a short way up the unlit street. When he spoke next, it was
obvious that he was addressing those men, not Honus. “There. I gave him yer message. He ken do as he wills with it.” Then the innkeeper returned to his establishment.

  Honus glanced at the men. All he could see was their silhouettes. The dark figures were bulky and had youthful stances.

  “Someone said ye’re lookin’ fer a lass,” said one.

  “Aye, a pretty birdie,” said another.

  “With dark eyes and hair,” said the third.

  “Have you seen her?” asked Honus.

  “Nay,” said the first man. “But mayhap a friend o’ ours has. He lives up tha hill a bit.”

  “How did you know I was looking for her?”

  “Word travels fast,” said the first man. “A Sarf in Cuprick? That’s news indeed.”

  “Aye, even an old Sarf,” added his companion.

  “Is there any other kind?” asked the third.

  “Old, but quick,” said the first. “Don’t ye ferget it.”

  “Your friend,” said Honus, “what did he say about the woman?”

  “Not much,” replied the first man. “Best ye ask him yerself. Come, we’ll take ye ta him.”

  Before Honus could respond, the men started walking up the dark street. Honus hesitated to follow them, for their manner alerted his suspicions. But they may have news of Yim, he thought, and there are only three of them. After only an instant of indecision, Honus strode after the men, although he kept a short distance between them and himself.

  Honus’s guides didn’t speak as they made their way uphill. Soon they were passing among hovels shuttered for the night. The rude dwellings flanked a narrow lane that was little wider than an alleyway. The only light came from the night sky or from firelight that glowed feebly through cracks. Suddenly, one the men cried out as if bursting from suppressed excitement. “A Sarf! A tuppin’ Sarf!”

  “Shut up!” said one of his companions.

  Honus heard a door open and close. Then there were six men in the lane besides himself—three in front and three behind. None of them were moving. Honus’s hand went to his sword hilt. “Does your friend live here?” he asked.

  “Mayhap,” replied one of the silhouetted men.

  “Mayhap not,” said another.

  Honus performed a quick turn, slipping off his pack while determining where each man stood and who was closest. “I didn’t come to fight.”

  “Then ’tis a pity, for ’twill spoil all the fun.”

  Honus turned toward the voice and saw movement and the glint of steel reflecting starlight. He darted to one side as he drew his sword. A blade whispered through the air and struck the dirt near his feet. Honus swung his sword and it bit into his assailant’s neck. Warm liquid spattered on his hand as the man fell without uttering a sound. Honus leapt over the prostrate body, glancing about as he did. The other men had neither advanced nor retreated. “What’s the sense in this?” Honus asked.

  “How many men ken say he bested a Sarf?” said a man. “Well, Ah ken.”

  “Aye,” said another. “Folk still talk ’bout it.”

  Then, as Honus expected, all the men attacked at once. By that time, he had backed against a wall. This not only prevented his attackers from surrounding him, but also forced them to crowd together, which hampered their movements. In the dark, they appeared to Honus as a confusing knot of faceless bodies and flailing arms. Only one man bore a sword; the rest gripped clubs. Honus fought defensively, keeping his assailants at bay while looking for an opening to attack. Though his opponents were only ruffians, he was well past his prime. Moreover, he was rusty, so his defense had a slightly desperate quality.

  Despite their numbers, Honus’s assailants seemed hesitant to risk their lives by pressing him too aggressively. Instead, they used their numerical advantage to harry him, waiting for exhaustion to slow his parries. Fighting became a contest that Honus must win five times and never lose. As it drew out, its commotion attracted attention. Shutters flew open as folk peered into the night to witness what was going on. Firelight spilled from the open windows, and Honus could see his attackers’ faces for the first time. They were young and battered, with the cold, vicious look of bullies.

  For a long while, Honus was taxed just to fend off the assaults, and his arm began to tire from the effort. Sensing the contest was turning in their favor, his adversaries grew more aggressive and moved in closer. That was when Honus saw an opening and thrust at the swordsman’s chest. His blade point pierced flesh and scraped bone as it passed between ribs to find the heart. The swordsman dropped his weapon, and the flailing arms briefly froze as his companions learned that their sport had claimed yet another victim.

  The dying man began to slump. As Honus withdrew his sword, a club struck it. His blade snapped. Then Honus was left grasping a hilt with a short, flat stub of steel at its end. The remnants of his sword remained in his opponent’s chest or lay in shards upon the dirt lane.

  The skewered man made a rasping sound. Then he toppled to the ground and didn’t move again. For a moment, there was only silence. Then a harsh voice broke the stillness. “Well, lads, let’s send this tattooed prick ta tha Dark Path.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  DARKNESS. PAIN. A putrescent stench. Those were Honus’s first sensations. The pain suddenly grew sharper. Something was biting his leg and shaking it. Honus kicked with his free foot, and it struck his tormentor. It yelped and released his leg. Honus opened his eyes. It was still dark, but slightly less so. Something was growling. A shadowy form moved toward him with stealthy, hesitant steps.

  A dog, thought Honus. “Shoo!” he shouted.

  The dog jumped back, then started barking. Honus groped for something to throw at it and felt a bone. He tried to lift it, but the bone wasn’t loose. Things were attached to it—sinews, shreds of flesh, a hand, and an upper arm. Honus realized that he was lying on a corpse, and not a recent one. It was the source of the stench.

  Honus tried to rise to his feet, but the effort made him nauseous and dizzy. The best he could manage was to crawl. The dog kept barking. “Was I supposed to be your breakfast?” asked Honus. “Or perhaps it’s your dinnertime.” Either seemed possible to him, for he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. Neither did he know where he was, other than somewhere dark, wet, and muddy. He remembered being struck by clubs. His aching head and body were evidence of that. The rain of blows had seemed short before the dark had swallowed him. And now I’m here.

  Where’s that? It hurt Honus to move his head, but he did so anyway. Looking up, he saw a small and irregular patch of sky surrounded by stone. The sky was dark, but it seemed to be growing brighter. Honus lay back in the mud to watch it. The blue-gray patch gradually lightened and took on a pinkish shade. Dawn, he thought.

  Honus felt teeth nip his ankle. He kicked again and sat up. By then, it had grown bright enough for him to see his nemesis. The dog was midsize and scruffy, but it didn’t look starving. It bared its teeth and growled at Honus but kept its distance. The dislike was mutual. Honus groped for a stone, found one, and let it fly. The stone grazed the animal’s flank hard enough that it yelped and ran off. Assuming that the dog had merely retreated into some dark corner, Honus grabbed another stone and waited for it to return.

  While he waited, Honus surveyed his surroundings, which were increasingly visible as the illumination grew brighter. He was in a dome-shaped chamber. Honus assumed it was the result of mining, though he didn’t know its function. It certainly wasn’t a mine shaft, for its stone walls curved inward to an opening that appeared unreachable without an extremely long ladder. It was hard for Honus to judge how far above him the opening was, but the distance seemed at least the height of three men.

  Honus turned his gaze downward to the chamber’s floor. A stream flowed across it, originating in the dark and disappearing into it also. It apparently had deposited the thick layer of mud that covered most of the stone floor. What ever its original purpose, the chamber had become a dumping place. In addition to
assorted refuse, bones of horses lay strewn about as well as several equine carcasses in various states of decay. Human remains mingled with those of animals. Besides the bloated corpse that had broken his fall, Honus spied two other decomposing bodies. One was nearly a skeleton.

  Honus was less surprised that he had been dumped into such a place than that he had been dumped into it alive and intact. His assailants had been out for blood, yet they hadn’t killed him when they’d had the chance. That seemed far more improbable to him than surviving his fall. Perhaps they intend to come back for me. Honus was unsure if that was likely or even possible, but the chance of it spurred him to seek a means of defense.

  A leg bone would make a good weapon, so Honus looked for one. He had just begun his search when sunlight from above reached the nearly skeletonized corpse and revealed that it was garbed in dark blue. The clothing had been reduced to tattered rags, but its color was unmistakable: it was the shade worn by Karm’s servants. Honus went over for a closer look.

  A scrap of gray flesh clinging to the skull had a line tattooed upon it; the rest of the face was gone. So this was the Sarf my attackers claim they killed, thought Honus. He wondered if he had known the man. He also wondered if the Sarf had remained faithful to the goddess, and if so, how he had conducted his life without a Bearer. Honus made the Sign of the Balance over the remains, and was about to resume his search when he saw a sword hilt projecting from the mud. He recognized the style immediately as distinctive to his order. He pulled the weapon from the muck. It was still in its scabbard. Honus brought it into the light and examined it. The braided wire that wrapped the hilt was green with corrosion. Honus drew the blade, fearing it would be ruined by rust.

  The blade was in perfect condition, for a Sarf’s scabbard was as meticulously crafted as the sword it held. An oiled leather gasket had kept any moisture out. Honus admired the marbling of the temple-forged blade, which gave it resilience that the village blacksmith’s sword had lacked. I wouldn’t be here if I had this when I was attacked, Honus thought, reflecting on the irony of his situation. I finally have a proper sword, and it’s no use to me.