The Iron Palace (11 page)

“Till she wakes or dies,” said the healwife. “Most like, ’twill take a while either way. She might last like this for days.”

Rappali saw her husband roll his eyes at that news. “Yim’s a strong one,” she said. “She crossed tha fens by herself and gave birth alone. If anyone could live, ’twould be her. Thank ya for yar help. Only praise of ya will come from my lips, however this turns out.”

Roarc gave the healwife her fee, then took her home. Rappali kept a vigil over her friend. The fiery red that marked much of Yim’s throat remained, but it ceased spreading. Rappali was pleased by this until she noticed that Yim’s color was fading also. Her lips turned almost white, and her skin took on a bluish pallor. Rappali would have thought that Yim had died except for the slight rise and fall of her chest. For a long while, Rappali simply watched Yim breathe. When she became convinced that her friend wasn’t about to expire, she set about making fish broth for her.

It was dusk when Roarc returned home to find his wife still tending Yim, who lay in a corner upon a makeshift bed of cut reeds. “Too dark ta check tha traps,” he grumbled. “A whole day gone ta waste.” He walked over to look at Yim. “She looks dead.”

“She’s not.”

“Well, not yet. Is Telk home?”

“Nay,” said Rappali. “Roarc, do ya think—think that whoever did this ta Yim also hurt our boy?”

“Nay, he’s with some lass,” replied Roarc without conviction.

“ ’Twould be tha first time.”

“Then mayhap he’s with Froan, larking about.”

Though Rappali assumed that Roarc meant to comfort her, his words had the opposite effect. She had been wondering why Froan hadn’t shown up, for she was certain that he would have missed his mother by then.
Yim never
leaves him for long
, Rappali thought.
She’s so devoted ta him. Too devoted, mayhap
. Rappali worried that Froan’s absence was an ominous sign. She feared that her husband might be right; Telk could very well be with Froan. If he was, she doubted their activities would be described as “larking.” She eyed the stitched-up gash across Yim’s throat, increasingly convinced that it was connected with Telk’s disappearance.

F
ROAN AND
Telk’s second day upon the river had been much like their first, and the third day followed the pattern of the previous two. The tiny craft remained a captive of the current, which pulled it ever farther from the shore. They were ignored by the other boats they spotted. The river was so broad that the boats often appeared as mere specks on the water. The only noticeable changes occurred in the surrounding landscape. The fens still covered the southern shore, but no hites could be seen in the seemingly endless expanse of reeds.

To the north, islands began to appear. They reminded Froan of hites in the way they jutted from the water. As the day progressed, they became more numerous. Most were small and rocky, but some were larger. Those were often wooded. Froan sometimes spotted dwellings on their shores. Occasionally, the boat drifted quite close to an island; but being unable to steer, they could only gaze at it as they glided by.

They still had an ample supply of cheese and smoked
goat, but Froan’s concern over the boat riding low in the water had been valid. Continuous submersion in a fast-moving current was waterlogging the reeds, and the craft was becoming less buoyant. Froan feared that in a day or two they would be wallowing in the river. Telk seemed oblivious of the threat as he stared listlessly at the passing scenery and boats.

Toward the end of the third day, a low, sleek boat passed them. It had a mast, but its sail was furled and oars moved the craft against the current. Froan waved to it, as he had waved to all the other boats. At first, there was no response. Then the boat slowed and a man climbed over its side into a rowboat in tow. He untied it and rowed toward Froan and Telk.

As the stranger approached, Froan became wary. He slid the dagger tucked in his waistband toward his rear so his goatskin cloak hid it. Then he whispered to Telk, telling him to have his sword ready. Showing some animation at last, Telk grabbed his sword and laid it across his lap, hilt in hand. Then the pair anxiously waited as the man approached. He was short but burly, with a dark, tangled beard and a deeply tanned, sun-creased face. He rowed until his boat was three paces away, then pulled in his oars to drift close by. Gazing at Telk’s sword he grinned. “Ye lads pirates?”

“Nay,” replied Telk.

“Ah thought not. More like fensmen, by the look o’ ye. Why are ye out here?”

“To make our way in the world,” said Froan.

The man’s grin broadened. “In a sinkin’ boat with nary a paddle? Ye’re none too smart, but mayhap yer clever enough to pull an oar.”

“We can do that,” said Froan.

“Then swim on over, and Ah’ll take ye aboard.”

“We can’t swim,” said Telk.

“Well, ’tis a pity,” said the man. “But Ah’ll pull alongside,
so ye can board.” He gazed at Telk as if sizing him up. “Ye go first, but afore ye do, hand me that sword. Those vittles, too.”

Telk turned to Froan, silently asking his permission. As Froan nodded, the man maneuvered his craft until its side nestled against the reed boat. As Telk handed over his sword, Froan nimbly hopped into the other craft. The man appeared annoyed, but he attempted to hide it. “Whoa, young hare!” he said as his boat rocked from Froan’s quick boarding. “Ye’ll capsize us. Then yer way in the world will be straight to the river bottom. What’s the big fella’s name?”

“Telk.”

“Now Telk, no hoppin’. Hand me the vittles, then step over easy.”

Froan caught the man’s eyes with his gaze. “After you take the food,” he said, “don’t leave him behind.”

The stranger looked startled. Then he forced a smile as Froan continued to stare at him. “Why would ye say that?”

“Because you intended to leave me behind.”

An uneasy silence followed. After Telk boarded the boat, Froan released the man from his gaze. The stranger looked away and said in a husky voice, “Ah don’t know what ye’re talkin’ ’bout.” Afterward, he picked up the oars and began to row.

As they neared the waiting boat, Froan steeled himself for what would happen next. One glimpse into his “rescuer’s” eyes left him no doubt that his life was in danger and a single misstep would prove fatal. Yet instead of fear, he felt rage. His hatred for the man who had intended to take his food and abandon him was visceral. He was tempted to kill him on the spot, but he knew that would be foolish. Thus he put on a bland face to hide his feelings.

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?”