The Iron Palace

by Morgan Howell

  Frodoric exhaled one of his theatrical sighs. “If you were a maid, I’d name you flirt, not friend,” he said. “But can we leave together, at least?” He lowered his voice. “My journey will begin more safely if your foes believe I’m under your protection. Please, Karmamatus. Just a little way together. I’m quite entertaining.”

  Honus gave in to the bard’s wheedling, and the two men departed Cuprick soon afterward. They shared the saddle, with Frodoric in front so he might strum his harp as he sang “The Ballad of Cara One Arm” for Honus. The ballad enchanted Honus, and though he doubted the truth of its particulars, he felt the lay captured the spunk and courage of the young woman he had known. When Frodoric finished the lengthy piece, Honus asked him to sing it again, which the bard did. Thus it wasn’t until noon that the two men parted ways.

  As soon as Frodoric dismounted, Honus spurred his horse south toward Averen. The mare wasn’t up to a prolonged gallop, and Honus soon slowed her to a more sustainable trot. The pace didn’t suit his impatience, but a lame horse would slow him far more. Reflecting upon Cara’s ballad, he felt that he was in one also—a lay where Karm composed the lines. Theodus had always denied that fate existed, saying the goddess never foreordained one’s life. Honus’s late Bearer had claimed that Karm provided chances for each person to make choices. Nonetheless, Honus felt that the chances in his life were set toward some purpose he couldn’t understand. He could perceive no grand scheme, and without that understanding, his only guidance had been his love for Yim. He had even renounced the goddess because of her. And now I’ve reconciled with Karm for Yim’s sake.

  When Honus considered his visit to Cuprick, he saw the goddess’s hand in almost everything that had happened. He believed that Karm had saved him so he might find the sword. Yet if that’s true, then the other Sarf died so I could find it. Such reflections made it difficult to believe in Karm’s benevolence, and he tried to push them from his thoughts. Instead, he focused on recollections of Yim. They made him hurry his horse’s pace toward Averen, where he hoped to exchange memory’s phantoms for flesh and blood.

  As Honus rode south, guided by love and an inscription on his back, Stregg trekked east, guided by ambition and carnage. As he had suspected, a trip to Midgeport had been unnecessary. After three days of traveling north, he encountered a burnt-out hut that entombed a butchered family. Tales from his childhood made Stregg well aware of how men behaved when inflamed by the Devourer, so he recognized their handiwork. The destruction appeared wanton, and the killings reflected excessive savagery.

  Stregg’s god was empowered by traumatic death, and the potency of its servants increased along with that of their master. Therefore, after the priest turned eastward, he was guided by more than trampled ground, ruins, and corpses; he felt his powers expanding as he neared their source. Both Stregg’s father and grandfather had spoken of the phenomenon. When Lord Bahl was at his zenith, both priests had been able to dominate all but the most forceful individuals. Soon it’ll be my turn to garner fear and respect, thought Stregg, and see folk quake as they obey me. And as the More Holy One, my turn will last forever. Since he hadn’t encountered a living soul after heading eastward, his power was more a feeling than a proven fact. Nevertheless, Stregg never doubted its reality.

  Day’s end approached without any glimpse of those who had wrought the destruction. Stregg wasn’t surprised, for none of the corpses that he found had been fresh. As the sun set, he spotted the burnt remnant of yet another peasant hut and headed for it. He had no intention of camping there, for such places usually reeked of putrescence. But armies seldom plundered gardens, and Stregg hoped to find something edible. When he located the trampled vegetable plot, he found a stick and began to dig for roots. After gathering enough for a meal, Stregg moved away from death’s stench to roast his find and sleep.

  It was dark by the time he set up a simple camp and got a fire blazing. The clear night threatened to be a chilly one, and there was already a nip in the air. When the fire had produced sufficient embers, Stregg raked some aside and threw the roots upon them to roast. While they cooked, he sat on a log and contentedly warmed himself.

  The child was so sooty that, at first, all Stregg saw were eyes in the night. Once he spotted them at the farthest reach of the firelight, he saw the rest of the girl. Silent, still, and ragged, her small, thin form was easy to miss in the dark. However, her eyes stood out. They had the haunted stare of one who had gazed upon things impossible to forget and too terrible to utter.

  Stregg surmised that she had somehow survived the attack and had hidden among the ashes of the hut. The girl’s shift was a skimpy rag that didn’t cover her arms or most of her skinny legs. The fire could have drawn her or the smell of food or the sight of another living person, but as the priest regarded the girl, she appeared too terrified to come any closer. Stregg decided to test his power. “Come here!” he said in a stern and authoritative tone.

  Rendered mute by fear, the girl advanced like a sleepwalker, her bare feet making no sound as she advanced toward the priest. Stregg sensed that she made each step unwillingly, acting solely because he had compelled her. That understanding gave him a delicious sense of control. When the girl halted before him, she was close enough to touch. In the firelight, Stregg could see her better. She appeared only five or six winters old, and her dark hair was actually blond beneath the ashes. Stregg didn’t question the frightened child because he was uninterested. To him, her name and her tragedy were inconsequential, and the girl’s only significance was as a means to test his growing abilities.

  “Stay perfectly still!” commanded Stregg. The girl stiffened. The priest bent down and picked up the knife that he planned to use for peeling the roots. Its blade was only the length of his slender thumb. He smiled as he held its point against the child’s thin chest and saw her eyes widen. Stregg reached around the girl and pressed his left hand against her scrawny upper back. He could feel her trembling. The silence of the moment made it all the more exquisite. It seemed both a token of his power and his victim’s helplessness.

  The priest felt that he had become a lord of life and death. To enjoy that sensation to its utmost, he pushed the knife in as slowly at he could. The sternum offered some resistance, but it was softer than an adult’s. Once past it, Stregg was certain that he could feel the girl’s pounding heartbeats through the blade. He was reluctant to make the final push that would stop them, so he paused to gaze into his victim’s eyes and relish their terror. Does she think this is only a nightmare? he wondered. Stregg hoped not. “Speak!” he commanded.

  “Please,” said a tiny voice so softly that he could barely hear the word.

  “Please what?”

  “Please don’t.”

  Satisfied that the girl knew she was being murdered, he plunged the knife in the rest of the way. There was surprisingly little blood. The girl’s mouth flew open as if to cry out, but she made no sound. Instead, to Stregg’s great disappointment, her features relaxed and took on a peaceful cast. Then her body went limp. Stregg lowered the little corpse to the ground and stared it for a long while. Although he had poisoned a few people, slaying with a knife felt more visceral and produced a superior sense of accomplishment. The black priest was certain that he had increased his master’s power, and accordingly, his power also.

  Caught up in savoring his deed, Stregg neglected the roots he had been cooking. When he finally pulled them from the embers, they were charred throughout. He gazed at his ruined meal and shrugged. “So what if I eat no vegetables tonight,” he said to the surrounding darkness. “I have meat.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  THE NEXT day, Stregg continued to follow the trail of destruction, convinced that Lord Bahl’s son led those who had wrought it. All the while, he worried that another priest might find the heir first and snatch away the prize he had come to regard as his. That concern hastened his steps and spurred him to wake at daybreak and hike as long as there was light to see. The priest followed
that grueling routine for five days before he was rewarded by the sight of smoke on the horizon. Though weary and footsore, he picked up his pace.

  It was nearly dusk when Stregg crested a small rise and glimpsed the still-smoldering village. The tiny settlement would have seemed unimpressive even when it had been intact. In its ravaged state, it scarcely seemed a village at all. A single hut remained standing. All other structures had been reduced to a few charred timbers poking up from blackened mounds of smoking rubble. There were less than two dozen mounds in all.

  The priest had grown used to destruction and was blasé about it. What roused him was the sight of the men who had perpetrated it. They seemed to be of two types—a small unit of soldiers and a mob of agitated men. The soldiers were engaged in setting up a camp and loading goods into wagons. The mob was more numerous, and its men paced about aimlessly or hacked at corpses. The scene reminded Stregg of his father and grandfather’s tales of Lord Bahl’s campaigns. The soldiers resembled the Iron Guard, while the mob likened to Bahl’s peasant troops. In fact, the similarities heightened Stregg’s fears that some other priest had found Bahl’s son and instructed him on his father’s tactics.

  In an attempt to assess the situation, Stregg continued his observations. A wagon with a canvas covering drove over to the intact hut. Its driver climbed down to help a woman from the vehicle and escort her into the hut. The woman didn’t reappear, but the driver did. After unloading some items into the tiny dwelling, he drove the wagon off. A short while later, a different man entered the hut and remained there. Stregg continued to observe the village until the light began to fail, but he was too distant to gather much additional information. To his relief, he saw no one wearing the black robes of a priest. That seemed promising. Nevertheless, Stregg remained put.

  With his goal in sight, Stregg felt the full enormity of what he was about to do. He had little doubt it would change the world, and his life would be divided forever into before and after he entered the burnt-out village. He sensed the same would be true for nearly everyone alive. Stregg told himself that he had no reason to fear the future he was about to unleash; yet a part of him did. His trepidations were instinctive and vague, but they held him back until he rationalized them away. That done, the black priest hurried to fulfill his role.

  Though the hut was small and rudely furnished, it was more comfortable than the wagon in cold weather. Moli huddled by the hearth to warm herself, while Froan silently paced the tiny room. His restless movements, which had nothing to do with generating warmth, quickly caught Moli’s attention. “Shadow,” she said after he completed yet another circuit, “is somethin’ wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Ye seem angry.”

  “Well, just look at this place!”

  “It reminds me of home,” said Moli, her voice soft and humble.

  Moli’s reply only increased Froan’s irritation. “It reminds me of home, too. It’s as miserable as the hole I fled.”

  “ ’Tisn’t so bad.”

  “Pah! It is, and each night’s stopping place is worse than the last one. I feel all I’m doing is filling my men’s bellies. For what? So I can do it again tomorrow! We should be living like a lord and his lady, not like peasants.”

  “Ah am a peasant, Shadow.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re my woman.”

  Moli rose from the fireside and went over to kiss Froan. “And Ah’ll be that whether we sleep here or someplace grand. If ye don’t like this life, send yer men away. What has all their killin’ gained ye?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Ah’m sorry, Shadow. Ah don’t. Ah’m scared.”

  “Of what? Me?”

  “Nay, never of ye, dearest. Jus’ o’ all tha death ’bout us.”

  “It’ll end someday,” said Froan, though he couldn’t foresee when. He only had a feeling that it wouldn’t be anytime soon.

  “Ah’ll be glad when it does,” said Moli.

  Froan heard a knock on the door. “Enter,” he said, expecting it to be a soldier bringing food. Instead it was Captain Wuulf. Trailing behind him was a stranger dressed in black robes.

  Wuulf bowed his head to his commander. “Lord Shadow, this priest strolled into camp and demanded to see ye.”

  Froan glared at the stranger. “Demanded?” When the black-clad man met his glance, Froan had two contradictory reactions. Part of him felt revulsion, while another part saw a kindred spirit. Those impressions warred within Froan, reducing him to a state of passivity.

  Meanwhile, the man approached, dropped to his knees, and bowed his head. “My most august and powerful lord, long have I searched for ye. I bring news of yer parentage, and the great honor of yer line.”

  Those words caused Froan to recall the visitation from his father’s spirit. Furthermore, they piqued his curiosity. His revulsion faded as growing expectation replaced it. “Who sent you?”

  “The holiest of my order and yer father’s most devoted servant. He is the Most Holy Gorm, and he has sent forth priests to comb the world for his lord’s son, who was stolen upon his conception. Your realm awaits ye. A great destiny awaits ye also, for all the world knows yer name.”

  “And it’s neither Shadow nor Froan?”

  “Nay, yer lordship. May I kiss yer hand?”

  Intrigued, Froan extended it.

  “ ’Tis my everlasting honor to be the first to call ye Lord Bahl.”

  Froan appreciated the gravity of the announcement by its effect on Moli and Captain Wuulf. The captain, though stern and battle hardened, appeared completely stunned. Moli’s face had gone perfectly white, and for the first time, she regarded him with a hint of fear. What surprised him most was that neither Moli nor the captain seemed to doubt the priest’s declaration. It was as though its truth was so evident that, once revealed, it couldn’t be denied. Froan, too, believed the priest whose announcement fit so perfectly with what the spirit had said. Nevertheless, he asked, “What makes you name me thus?”

  “My devotion to god. Ye, of all men, are most graced by the Devourer. I felt its strength within ye and was drawn to it. Cannot ye easily sway others to yer will? Don’t they die readily for ye? Such power is unique to yer line, and it always passes from father to son. ’Tis what makes ye my rightful lord.”

  I’m Lord Bahl! thought Froan, recalling with amusement that his mother had said the man was merely a myth. The priest’s revelation was the realization of all his fondest hopes and dreams: He wasn’t the son of a lowly goatherd. He was someone grand and mighty. The concept was intoxicating, and Froan enthusiastically embraced it. Summoning a newfound sense of gravity, he spoke. “Rise, priest. What is your name?”

  As the priest stood, Froan wondered why he had ever found him repellent. Once on his feet, the man bowed low. “I’m Stregg, yer lordship.”

  “As I rejoice in this day, so shall you,” said Froan. He turned to Captain Wuulf. “Order the cooks to prepare the finest feast they can and bring it here. Then join me in the festivities. There’s a man in your troop named Bog Rat. Bring him with you.”

  “Is he the one who now calls himself Telk?”

  “Yes, the very one.” As Wuulf departed, Froan turned again to Stregg. “So tell me more about my realm.”

  “ ’Tis called Bahland, my lord, and it lies many days journey to the south and west. The seat of your domain is the Iron Palace, a grand and mighty edifice on the seacoast. There, your army awaits you, for ’tis foretold that ye’ll ride forth to conquer all the world.”

  Froan turned to Moli and beamed. “Everything I told you shall come to pass. Soon, you’ll be living in a palace!”

  Moli smiled, but there was no gladness in her eyes. Froan didn’t notice, for he had already turned to Stregg to ply him with questions about his palace, his realm, his army, and his destiny.

  FORTY

  MOLI FELT ignored while the two men talked as they waited for the feast to arrive. The priest was a total stranger, and her lover was becoming
one. Moli didn’t even know what to call him—Shadow or Lord Bahl. She feared it would be Lord Bahl. Ah called him “dearest” jus’ afore tha priest came, she thought. Moli wondered if she’d ever do so again. Somehow, it no longer seemed appropriate.

  Like everyone raised in the Empty Lands, Moli knew the name of Bahl. For generations, his lordship’s armies had pillaged the countryside. They had given the Empty Lands their name by eradicating towns and villages, their folk, and hope. No one distinguished one Lord Bahl from another, for they all seemed identical—deadly tyrants without a shred of mercy or restraint.

  As Moli reflected upon Lord Bahl’s legendary harshness, she felt it was overwhelming her tender Shadow. The part of him that she loved seemed to be falling away. To her thinking, it was as if Lord Bahl had always been within him, like a seed beneath soil. The priest’s revelation was the water that had caused it to sprout. Nor was the change merely a matter of conception: it appeared physical as well.

  Shadow’s eyes, which always had softened when they gazed at her, remained sharp and cold. In fact, Moli had never seen them so cold before. Though she wondered if it might be only her imagination, his eyes appeared to have grown paler. The alteration made the black pupils all the more piercing. Shadow’s voice had become harder also. A certain haughtiness had crept into it, and he spoke to the fawning priest as if he were speaking from a throne and not a crude wooden bench. Lastly, the chill that always clung to him had intensified. It caused Moli to put more wood on the fire and to shiver at the thought of lying naked beneath so icy a man.

  While Moli had those dismal reflections, Shadow’s attention was directed elsewhere. In effect, she was invisible. “So tell me,” he said to the priest, “is my palace truly made of iron?”