The Iron Palace (43 page)

Afterward, the name Shadow was forgotten, and Froan became accustomed to being called Lord Bahl. The name aided his transformation. Thoughts of Moli came less frequently, as did the bouts of regret and conscience. His voice grew colder and harder. Men listened carefully when he spoke, as if afraid to misunderstand a single word. He grew used to obedience and ceased restraining his temper.

When Froan neared the border of his future domain,
messengers began to scurry back and forth from the Iron Palace. They often brought gifts. One appeared with a magnificent stallion. The steed was huge, pitch-black, and fiery eyed. Soon after another messenger took all of Froan’s measurements, clothing began to arrive. Having grown up wearing goatskin, Froan made his acquaintance with velvet, gold embroidery, and tooled polished leather. Armor arrived soon after the clothes—blackened chain mail with ebony plates of etched steel and an elegantly sculpted helm that emphasized his piecing eyes. A bejeweled broadsword and dagger, both heirlooms from his father, accompanied the armor.

Two days later, a cavalry regiment from the Iron Guard galloped up. The general who led it dismounted and knelt in the dust before kissing Froan’s hand. Afterward, as a demonstration of its prowess, the Iron Guard handily slaughtered everyone who had accompanied their new lord except the priest. Lord Bahl found the display impressive, stimulating, and especially symbolic, for it seemed to mark the end of his old life and the beginning of his new one.

The Iron Guard escorted their lord for another day before they entered Bahland. Its border was marked by a pair of basalt steles that resembled gigantic stone fingers flanking the road. When Froan peered at the wintry landscape ahead, he thought that it possessed a starkness that was due to more than just the season. Nothing seemed to have been done to please the eye. The piled stones that marked the boundaries were haphazardly assembled. Refuse lay in open sight. The fields were filled with brown stubble and rot, and the untilled places were rank with thorny weeds.

The mounted column proceeded down the road with the cavalrymen riding four abreast. The regiment was unequally divided, with a smaller contingent preceding their lord and a greater one trailing him. Froan rode in the gap between, accompanied by Stregg and the general, whose name was Drak.
When a village appeared in the distance, General Drak pulled his horse alongside Froan’s. “My lord, your subjects will be gathered to show their devotion and obeisance. They will present gifts. You, in turn, will give them justice.”

“Justice? What form of justice?”

“Felons shall be brought forth to feel your blade upon their necks. It’s a time-honored custom.”

As the column drew nearer to the village, Froan could see its main street was lined with folk. They stood closely packed and silent, and it seemed that everyone had turned out regardless of age or health. The drab settlement about them appeared as stark as the surrounding landscape. Gray stone was the principal building material, and the structures built from it lacked ornamentation or grace. Soot coated the stones and the unpainted wooden doors and shutters, giving them a somber look. Garbage had been removed from the streets by pushing it to the sides where the crowds trampled it underfoot. The overall impression was of squalor, poverty, and neglect.

Closer up, most of the village’s inhabitants matched their dismal abodes. Even the ragged children appeared grim. Everyone was dressed in brown, gray, or black. The only color in evidence was the circle painted on everyone’s forehead; it was freshly brushed in blood. Even before Froan reached the village, its people began to cheer, and the cheering spread like windblown fire through a dry field. By the time he was riding down the street, a roar reverberated through it.

Froan gazed at the screaming mob, surprised by their enthusiasm. Everyone appeared caught up in frenzied acclamation. Glancing about, Froan sensed why.
They believe their submission will keep them safe
. Since no one could hide from his penetrating gaze, Froan saw that the most terrified shouted his praises the loudest.

The column halted when Froan reached the center of the village, which was an unpaved square of modest dimensions.
There, the crowd was most tightly packed. A group of men, somewhat better dressed than most, stood at the forefront of the crowd. Several black-robed priests flanked them. When Froan reined in his horse, the priests bowed and the men knelt in the slushy mud.

“Oh, Great and Dread Lord,” called out the foremost kneeling man, “we are most honored by your visit. Your humble and loyal subjects pray to present you gifts in thanks for the grace you’ve shown us.”

“You may rise and do this,” said Froan.

The men rose and advanced, bowing after each step. The man who had spoken held something bundled in black cloth. He pulled the cloth away to reveal a goblet wrought from solid gold. He handed it to Froan with many bows. Froan examined it. The work was crudely executed, but the goblet was heavy. “All have paid to have this made, my lord.”

“It pleases me,” said Froan.

The man looked greatly relieved. “And we have sent seventeen sons for your Iron Guard, your lordship. And seven cows, and thirteen sheep, and fifty fowls for your feast. And we have pledged half again this harvest’s tithe.”

“All this is good,” replied Froan.

The man bowed and made a gesture. Then the crowd behind him parted and a young man and an even younger woman were brought forth. Their lips had been stitched shut and their arms were tightly bound behind their backs. Both were shoeless and wore thin tunics that provided scant protection against the frigid weather. “This pair offended your laws, my lord. Will you render justice?”

Stregg had coached Froan on what to say. “Aye. I will give them death. Bring out the block, so all may see the fate of those who transgress against my laws.”

As Froan dismounted, a wooden block was brought forward, and the young man was forced to kneel and place his head upon it. Froan drew his broadsword and strode up to the kneeling man, who was shivering from either the cold
or fear or both. Froan had never used such a heavy blade before, and he felt awkward as he gripped the huge sword with both hands to raise it high above his head.

The execution proved a clumsy business. Froan’s first blow missed the neck entirely, striking the man just below the shoulders. The wound was grievous, but not immediately fatal. Neither was the second one, but at least it struck the unfortunate man’s neck. A third blow finished him, but didn’t sever his head; an additional stroke was required for that.

After the bloody corpse was dragged away, they brought forth the young woman. She was trembling violently, and Froan made the error of glancing into her eyes. Immediately, he sensed her despair and understood that neither she nor the young man had done anything to deserve their fates. The law was only a pretext to deliver them as sacrifices to a ruthless lord and his bloody god.

At that instant, Froan was himself and not Lord Bahl. He was about to show the woman mercy until he glanced about. The rabid faces gazing back at him betrayed the general sentiment: all the folk with blood-painted foreheads were eager to see him kill. Froan readily saw that they regarded the execution as an entertaining spectacle, one of the few diversions from a drab and hard life.

Forced to kneel, the woman’s face was hidden from him, but her entire body shook. Froan pitied her, but he felt that he must meet expectations. The only mercy he could afford to show was to slay her quickly. He swung his broadsword and succeeded. When the crowd roared its approval, Froan’s merciful impulse seemed foolhardy.
A lord must be stern
, he thought,
for his subjects require an iron hand
. The headless body was dragged away. The dark thing within Froan exulted, and strengthened by the two deaths, it suppressed the vestiges of regret. When Froan mounted his horse, he was Lord Bahl again. He smiled coldly as he rode to the next village.

*  *  *

On Froan’s journey to the Iron Palace, the visit to the first village proved the pattern for all subsequent stops. The settlements varied from tiny hamlets to good-sized towns, but everywhere he went all the inhabitants turned out. The value of the gifts also varied, as did the number of unfortunates brought forth for “justice.” Practice made Froan more adept with the broadsword. After his first executions, he grew more hardened, and he was tempted to show mercy only once again. That was in a village that brought out an entire family for beheading—mother, father, and their five children. In the end, they perished like all the others.

The stops en route to the Iron Palace slowed Froan’s advance, but it gave him a feel for the domain that he was to rule. His subjects seemed fittingly subservient, but otherwise hardened and brutal. Judging from the Iron Guard, they made excellent soldiers. They were also adept at displaying loyalty. When Froan passed before the cheering throngs, it was impossible not to feel exalted and powerful. The regiment took a route that passed through most of Bahland, and Froan deduced that someone had taken pains to ensure that the march was a triumphal one. He suspected that person was the Most Holy Gorm.

Thirteen days after Froan crossed the border, he caught his first glimpse of the Iron Palace. Nothing in his travels prepared him for the sight. At first, he couldn’t believe that the structure was man-made; it simply looked too big. It stood above a town in splendid isolation on a bluff with the sky as its only backdrop. Before Froan could get a closer view, he had to pass through the town. His greeting there was the most lavish and enthusiastic one on his entire march. Black banners hung from all the buildings, the crowd was immense, the gifts were extravagant, and thirteen people were brought forth to die. Froan endured the pomp and show impatiently, solely concerned with reaching the palace quickly.

When the ceremonies were over at last, Froan rode to his new home. The closer he got to it, the more its size impressed him. If it hadn’t been so symmetrical, he might have believed it was a hite formed from black, oiled iron. Its basic form was that of a huge square enclosed by walls that slanted inward as they rose to the height of more than ten men. There were flat-topped, square-sided towers at each corner. A fifth tower rose from near the middle of the rear wall. It was different from the others in that it was much higher, lacked windows, and its top tapered inward to form a pyramid with its tip sliced off. The flat portion appeared to be a small deck. The other towers had crenellations on their tops, as did the outer walls. This feature gave them a spiky look, since each crenellation was capped with a steep-sided pyramid.

Froan could see the upper stories of a huge building rising from within the walls. The only other feature in view was the gate house that projected from the front of the palace. It was also gigantically proportioned, rising nearly as high as the walls behind it. An iron gate filled its im mense, pointed archway. As the column rode toward it, ten horse men abreast, the gate slowly rose into the arch, revealing a black, gaping hole.

Gazing upon the Iron Palace, Froan was amazed that such an edifice belonged to a single man. He was even more amazed to be that man. The mere idea of it thrilled and awed him. It seemed a grandiose fantasy, a dream from which he might awake and find himself in the fens again.
How can such a thing be happening to me?
he wondered. It seemed both wonderful and unsettling at once.

The column, still riding ten abreast, passed through the gate into a spacious and frigid courtyard. A massive rectangular building projected into the courtyard, taking up much of its space. The building’s upper story was pierced by high, thin windows capped with pointed arches, and it was crowned by a steeply pitched slate roof. Froan assumed the
structure was the actual palace. Like the towers and the exterior of the stronghold’s walls, it was covered with iron plates. All the other structures flanking the courtyard were built with the same stone that paved it—black basalt. The effect was gloomy but impressive.

Men dressed in black poured out of the palace and rushed over to him. Froan assumed they were servants, and their timid behavior confirmed his conclusion. As one got on all fours to become a human stepping stool, the others bowed low. “O most powerful master,” said one, “to fulfill your every wish is our sole desire. We are yours to command.”

Then a second spoke. “The Most Holy Gorm awaits you.”

It seemed to Froan that the second man contradicted the first, but he replied to him by commanding to be taken to the Most Holy One.

The interior of the palace was as overwhelming as its exterior. Froan passed through a succession of large, shadowy chambers, moving so rapidly that his most vivid impression—other than their darkness—was their smell. The chilly air had a faint but pervasive odor. At first, Froan couldn’t place it. Then he recalled the stale scent of the desiccated corpse he had found atop Twin Hite. If folk had built tombs in the Grey Fens, Froan imagined they would have smelled like the somber rooms—ancient, with a whiff of death.

Entering the great hall felt like standing outdoors again, for the vast room exceeded all Froan’s conceptions of what a room could be. It seemed far too large for human needs. The black columns appeared like trees to him, especially where they curved at their tops to form the pointed arches of the ceiling. The greenish glass in the high windows dimmed the light and tinted it to an underwater hue. Most striking of all was the hall’s emptiness, the way it swallowed sound and made him feel minute.

At the far end of the room was a raised platform, and on
it were two chairs. One was ornate and empty. The other was simple and a man sat in it. When he rose from his seat, the servants retreated, leaving Froan and the man alone. Froan strode toward him. At first, the other man was just a tiny figure dwarfed by the im mense proportions of the vacant hall. But eventually, Froan could see him better. He had a full black beard and wore the ebony robes of a priest. However, the simple iron pendant of the Devourer was suspended from an elaborate gold chain. The man bowed, and called to Froan. “Lord Bahl, your chair has long stood empty. Come sit in it while we talk.”