The Iron Palace (25 page)

Wuulf recalled only vaguely what Shadow had said. It hadn’t been a memorable speech. Wuulf had heard other commanders say similar things in equally bloodthirsty tones.
The folk of Midgeport had been portrayed as an enemy unworthy of mercy. “Seek your revenge!” Shadow had shouted. “Don’t hold back!” The words had been trite, but their effects had been extraordinary.

Never had the officer witnessed such a transformation. It had been so extreme that he was certain that its cause was otherworldly. Shadow had paced belowdecks, gazing at the newly freed oarsmen while the atmosphere became heavy with rage. It had been palpable, with an oily feel and a faint but acrid scent. What ever force Shadow had employed hadn’t been directed at Wuulf, and yet he had become angry and eager to fight. The effect had been far more pronounced on the oarsmen. Wuulf had watched them shed their humanity as if it were merely a mask. Faces contorted with rage. Eyes glared, bereft of sanity. Although the captain was a seasoned veteran, he had felt chilled whenever an oarsman looked his way.

Nevertheless, the impending violence had been firmly under Shadow’s control. The oarsmen had likened to an arrow in a bow that was fully drawn—ready at any moment to speed forth in deadly flight. Shadow had been the finger on the bowstring, rendering the men powerless until he loosed them.

The war boat had sailed into port, its grisly trophies dangling from the masts. Lines had been thrown to secure the vessel as twin gangplanks were extended. A crowd had gathered to gawk at the dead, while belowdecks the pirates’ looted arms were given to the oarsmen. Those men who didn’t receive a weapon fashioned oars into clubs. Afterward, Shadow had climbed on deck as the oarsmen boiled from the hold and poured down the gangplanks. When the crowd drew back a little, Shadow had shouted “Now!” The arrow had been loosed.

What followed had shocked Captain Wuulf, hardened as he was. Soldiers were trained to kill, but they also strove to live. The oarsmen had seemed solely interested in death.
In their single-mindedness, they had slain without bothering to defend themselves and often died needlessly. Moreover, everyone had been a target—children and women, as well as men. From beginning to end, it had been mindless butchery. Once the docks had been expunged of life, the oarsmen poured into the town, slaughtering indiscriminately. Wuulf had ordered his soldiers to follow and gather up the survivors as prisoners. After what the townsfolk had experienced, those still living had regarded the soldiers as saviors.

When the oarsmen had doubled back, the prisoners were huddled in a courtyard near the docks. By then, Shadow had left the war boat and subdued the returning men as easily as he had inflamed them. Wuulf had been certain that they would have killed the prisoners otherwise. The oarsmen had fought savagely, but they were careless and unskilled, and only a third of their number had survived. Even after Shadow had calmed them, they possessed the vacant gaze of madmen. Covered with gore and heedless of their wounds, they muddled about aimlessly. Wuulf wanted no part of them.

Captain Wuulf knew Midgeport well, so he had sent a squad to commandeer its finest residence for Shadow. It was the home of a sheep broker. When his commander and his lady were ready to enter the town, Wuulf had ordered soldiers to escort them to their new quarters. Afterward, the captain had taken charge of the looting. As the plunder was gathered, Wuulf had made sure that the choicest items were sent to Shadow.

With darkness falling, Captain Wuulf called a halt to the looting for the night. The pickings had been good for the Empty Lands, but that wasn’t saying much. Once the town had boasted a canal that linked the Turgen with the Midge River. Merchants had gladly paid a stiff toll to bypass the Turgen’s treacherous delta, but that was long ago. Within living memory, the canal was a useless ditch filled with
muck and cattails. The recurring invasions that had ruined the canal had also reduced Midgeport to little more than a village. The town’s breached walls stood unrepaired, three-quarters of its dwellings were roofless and empty, and its wealthiest citizen traded in sheep.

As most of his soldiers headed for empty taverns to celebrate, Captain Wuulf strode to the sheep broker’s former home to report to his commander. A pair of soldiers flanked the entrance to a dwelling that once had been grand, but currently stood half collapsed. The livable section had been crudely walled off from the crumbling portion. The work reminded Wuulf of an ineptly cauterized wound. He was glad that he had posted a guard; though unnecessary, it provided a touch of status to the decrepit pile.

Wuulf passed the guards and entered the house. Its former entrance foyer had been remade into a “great hall,” though there was little greatness to it. Wuulf’s late captain had negotiated the company’s contract in that very room less than a moon ago. Wuulf, having been present, noted a few changes. Foremost was a large bloodstain on the wooden floor, though no bodies were evident. A table was piled with food and drink, a collection of purses, some gaudy crockery, assorted clothing, and a stack of women’s footwear. Shadow’s lady was seated near the ornate but crumbling fireplace. Dressed in a rose-colored gown, she was trying on shoes.

Shadow had also donned looted clothes. He was outfitted entirely in black, from vest to boots. The way he was grinning informed Wuulf that his commander was far more impressed by Midgeport than he was. That insight altered Wuulf’s greeting. He smiled and bowed low. “Greetings, sire. Mayhap ’tis time to name ye Lord Shadow.”

“Well, this town’s a lordly prize. That’s for certain.”

“ ’Tis a fair start, sire, but one that’ll pale later on. I’ll say this, though: Ye won’t see its like again until we’re past the Western Reach. So ’tis a fitting start for yer campaign.”

“Advise me, Captain. What should I do next?”

“Let the men celebrate yer victory for a day, then order them to prepare to move out. They’ll need to assemble wagons and teams and also gather a flock to feed us on the march. Sire, can ye ride a horse?”

“I’ve never even seen a horse.”

“I’ll fix that tomorrow and tutor ye in horsemanship.” Wuulf hesitated a moment, loath to make his next recommendation, though he saw no way around it. “Sire, we lost most of the oarsmen. So ’twould be helpful if ye worked yer will on some of the townsmen.”

Shadow smiled. “Nothing would be easier. My power’s grown.”

Wuulf sensed it was no idle boast. He could feel Shadow’s power by the way he cooled the room despite a fire blazing in the hearth. The chill seemed further proof of his otherworldly might. That power made Wuulf uneasy, though he appreciated its usefulness. None of his soldiers had died while capturing the town, and only two had received minor wounds. The oarsmen didn’t count, and neither would the townsmen who were destined to replace them.

In many ways, Wuulf felt lucky to serve a commander who made victory so easy. He envisioned the eastward march as an avalanche that would gather force as it advanced. Shadow would create a marauding horde, while he would provide the disciplined troops. It would be a perfect combination. Yet, while Wuulf was pleased to serve Shadow, he preferred the companionship of men whose blood ran warm and whose eyes were only used for seeing. As soon as Shadow dismissed him, he sought their company.

After Captain Wuulf departed, Froan resumed gazing about the room in wonder. Knowing that his officer was worldlier, Froan had restrained his exuberance to seem sophisticated. Once he was alone again with Moli, it returned.
To his fensman’s eyes everything was grand and magnificent. The paneled walls, the large fireplace built of carved stone, the parquet floor, and—most of all—the novelty of windows with glass panes were marvels to him. Froan saw none of the room’s shabbiness or neglect. He had unwittingly lived a life of want; thus the sheep broker’s house seemed a palace.

Froan had expected Moli to share his excitement, but she didn’t. As she tried on yet another pair of shoes, her bruised face bore a subdued and troubled expression. He watched her as she rose and walked about the room, carefully avoiding the dark stain on the floor. “That pair seems to fit you well,” he said.

“Aye, they do. But Ah ken feel another’s footprints in them.”

“Pah!”

“Ah ken, Shadow! These are a dead woman’s shoes!”

“You don’t know that.”

“Mayhap, but ’tis likely! We passed so many slain! Oh Shadow, did they all have ta die?”

Froan saw tears welling in Moli’s eyes. “Moli, I’m born to rule in a world that heeds only power. Sometimes I must be ruthless.” He walked over to gently kiss her. “But never to you.”

Moli began to tremble. “Oh, Shadow, the things Ah saw! Mams and their babes …”

“Hush, sweet gentle one,” cooed Froan. “From now on, I’ll make sure you’re spared those sights.”

Y
IM HAD
spent an uneasy night, feeling chilled despite the mild air and a campfire, and the morning’s sunshine brought little relief. Her discomfort was exacerbated by memories of the period immediately before the Devourer had settled in her womb. She recalled feeling cold all over. Even worse, she had been subject to violent urges that were difficult to stifle. Yim feared that she was approaching that state again.
Could I become as icy as Lord Bahl? As evil?
It was a terrifying idea.

Yim pondered her situation. She knew that the Devourer had entered her when she seduced Lord Bahl. It had passed to Froan upon his conception, but not entirely. A vestige lingered in her even after her son’s birth. Furthermore, recent events indicated that the part of the Devourer remaining in her was linked somehow to the part within Froan. In essence, they were a single entity.
As it grows stronger in Froan, it also grows stronger in me
. Envisioning the connection between her and Froan led Yim to conceive of it as something separate from them both.

That concept gave rise to an intriguing question:
If the Devourer is separate from me, can I drive it out?
Yim stopped seeing the dark thing within her as a taint or an evil trait. Instead, she envisioned it as a kind of parasite. She knew herbs could drive out some parasites. Others could be cut away. Yim didn’t believe that such techniques would work against a spirit. Nevertheless, she wasn’t discouraged, for she had experience with spirits. In the past,
she had called them forth by the force of her will; perhaps she could drive one back by the same means.

Yim sat on her heels, shut her eyes, and tried to recall the meditations for contacting a spirit that she had learned as a girl. They came to her with surprising ease. However, she wasn’t trying to raise a ghost, so she didn’t send her thoughts to the Dark Path. Instead, she turned them inward. For a while, nothing seemed to happen. Yim concentrated harder. Then the sensations of the world slowly faded until only the self remained. Yim felt blood course through her body, the tingle of thousands of nerves, the weight of her bones, and air flowing into and out of her lungs. Then those sensations faded like those of the world as Yim delved deeper into her being.

Yim saw herself as a vessel of light that was partially dimmed by something murky and alien. Using only her will, she pushed, and the alien entity retreated. As it fled, it condensed and grew slightly darker. She pushed again, and the darkness became more discrete. Yim found that pushing wasn’t effortless, so she rested a moment before pushing harder. This time, the entity resisted and managed to slip away. Then it began to diffuse.

Opening her eyes, Yim found herself in the grove. Her feet felt warmer than the rest of her body, but they soon chilled. Regardless, she was excited to have physical confirmation that she hadn’t merely imagined the struggle. After a brief rest, she made another attempt, passing through the preliminaries a bit faster the second time. As soon as she perceived the darkness, she attacked and drove it back until it reached some sort of barrier. Though the barrier trapped and contained the dark, it also prevented Yim from expelling it.

The effort exhausted Yim. She ceased her struggle and opened her eyes. Her entire body, except for her left hand, felt warm. The hand was especially cold, as if she had plunged it into an icy pond. As a chill spread throughout
Yim’s body, her left hand warmed until it was no warmer or cooler than any other part of her.

Yim pondered her latest experience. It seemed that the barrier she encountered had been her physical self. In the meditative state it was difficult to perceive the boundaries of her body, yet they were obviously there. Yim assumed that she had cornered the Devourer in her left hand. That was the barrier it couldn’t breach. That seemed logical, for the spirit of a living person was confined to his or her body. Apparently, the Devourer within her was similarly constrained.

Then it occurred to Yim that there were exceptions to that rule. She knew one’s spirit left the body during trancing. Furthermore, she had called forth spirits from the Dark Path. The exceptions perplexed her until she realized that the Dark Path figured in both. The realm of the dead paralleled the living world and permeated it. The spirit of a trancing person left his or her body to enter it. The spirits of the dead had no bodies, so they could briefly enter the living world. That provided a clue for how the Devourer could link her and Froan without leaving either body.

She knew that the Devourer remained a denizen of the Dark Path, although Gorm had used sorcery to bring a portion of it into the living world. In her mind’s eye, Yim envisioned a hand extended over a muddy puddle with two fingertips dipped beneath the water. Creatures in the murky puddle couldn’t see the hand, so the fingers seemed unconnected. The boundary between the Sunless Realm and the living world acted in a similar way, although it was not so easily breached as the surface of a puddle. As of yet, the Devourer had been unable to plunge entirely through it.

Gorm had told Yim of his centuries-long effort to release the Devourer from the Dark Path. If he succeeded, a being formed from memories of slaughter would be loosed upon the living world. There, it would strive to create more such memories. Inevitably, it would consume everyone in a reign
of horror too terrible to imagine.
Why can’t Gorm see the consequences of his actions? How can he believe that he’ll be spared?
Gorm’s delusion gave Yim all the proof she needed of his utter madness.