The Iron Palace (30 page)

Therefore, when Stregg heard frantic knocking on his door, he was unprepared to find a stranger standing before him. The man was wild-eyed, disheveled, and surrounded by a small flock of sheep. The animals that milled about looked as if they had been driven hard. Then the stranger spoke over their bleating. “Tha folk here say ye ken make charms.”

“I’m graced by the Devourer,” replied Stregg, fingering the iron pendant that hung from his neck. “Are ye a believer?”

“Aye,” replied the man.

Stregg could sense that the man was lying, not that he cared. The priest also noted the stranger was terrified. That pleased him, for fear would make the man more pliable. “What type of charm do ye seek?”

“One that breaks a curse.”

Stregg put on a concerned face. “A curse. So ’tis a serious matter. What manner of curse?”

“Ah’m haunted by tha dead.”

“A perished loved one? Someone ye killed? Be specific.”

“ ’Twas none o’ those,” replied the distraught herdsman.
“ ’Twas a whole town o’ corpses. They were all rottin’, and vile things had been done ta them. Vile, Ah say!” The man shuddered. “And now Ah kennot get them from my thoughts or dreams. Ah’m cursed by what Ah saw. Ye must drive tha visions from me.”

Stregg’s interest perked, though he maintained a calm appearance. “Was this a dream?”

“Nay, ’twas a real place. Midgeport. Ah oft visit there ta sell mah sheep.”

“I know it,” said Stregg. “ ’Tis on the Turgen, about six day’s journey from here.”

“Not ’tis, ’twas! There’s naught a soul alive there now, only spirits who chase after ye. Ah need a charm to keep them away.”

“I’ll require a sheep for that,” said Stregg.

“A whole sheep!”

“Aye. To sacrifice to the Devourer. Mind ye, once its throat’s been cut, the carcass belongs to god.” Then, seeing that the man was dismayed by the expense, he added, “The dead want ye to join them. That’s why they haunt yer thoughts and dreams. ’Tis good fortune ye found me, for I doubt ye’d have lived much longer.” Stregg regarded the flock, then pointed to the choicest ewe. “That one will do.”

The man sighed. “Then take it.”

Stregg drew a dagger from the folds of his robe, strode over to the ewe, and quickly dispatched it. Then he dipped his index finger in the blood and used it to paint a circle on the stranger’s forehead. “Never wash that off,” he told the man. “I have something else for ye.” Stregg entered his hut and returned shortly with several dried plants. “Each night afore ye sleep, steep two leaves in water that ye’ve brought to boil. The brew will ease yer dreams.”

“So tha dead will trouble me no more?”

“With time, that may be so,” replied Stregg. “The important thing is the dead won’t slay ye.”

The stranger appeared less than satisfied by that news,
but he didn’t complain. Instead, he merely bowed his head. “Ah thank ye, Holy One.” Afterward, he drove his flock down the lane, looking no less agitated.

Stregg hefted the ewe to drain its blood and butcher it. His mouth watered at the idea of roast mutton, and he was disappointed that so much of it would go to waste. It couldn’t be helped. He felt compelled to leave tomorrow morn, for the slaughter in Midgeport seemed the work of someone inspired by the Devourer.
No common brigand would wipe out an entire town, only someone driven to harvest souls
. Once more, Stregg could almost feel the silver chain about his neck.

That evening, the priest stuffed himself on mutton, dried some for his journey, and left the rest outside for scavengers. The next morning, he departed to find the heir. Although Midgeport lay to the northwest, Stregg headed due north. He did so because he assumed that Lord Bahl’s son was on the march and most likely heading east, for that’s where the greatest plunder lay. If his assumption was correct, then a northern route would eventually cross the heir’s trail. If Stregg found nothing by the time he reached the Turgen, he would head to Midgeport and look for clues there.

Stregg departed at sunrise on his quest and traveled through the morning without seeing another soul. That wasn’t unexpected, for it was rare to encounter other travelers in the Empty Lands. That was especially true once one left the road. Thus the lone figure approaching Stregg immediately caught his attention. He had just crested a hill when he spied a tiny form crossing the plain below. The priest immediately halted and squatted down to hide his silhouette. He studied the figure a long while before he could discern the traveler was a woman. Soon after he determined that, she sharply changed her course, heading westward rather than due south.

She’s seen me
, thought Stregg,
and wishes to avoid a meeting
. It was a natural response for a woman traveling alone. It was far more unusual that she had ventured out at all. Assuming that only dire circumstances would force a solitary woman to undertake such a risk, Stregg decided to question her. He retreated partway down the slope, then headed west to intercept the traveler. Later, when he rounded the hill’s western side, he spied her again.

She was much closer. He could see that she had dark hair, wore peasant garb, and was burdened with both a pack and a large sack. He was also surprised to see that she carried an unsheathed sword. The weapon didn’t frighten the priest. He was confident he could intimidate any woman, even if she was armed. Moreover, he had painted his dagger with a quick-acting poison. Nevertheless, there was something about the woman that gave him pause.

Stregg froze, uncertain what to do. As absurd as it seemed, he felt intimidated. It wasn’t the woman’s demeanor or her sword that evoked the feeling. It arose from his gut, an indefinable unease that grew stronger as the woman drew nearer. When she was about a hundred paces away, Stregg’s unease turned to terror. He bolted and ran back the way he had just come, still puzzled over the cause of his fear. Nonetheless, terror governed him, and he was long gone by the time the woman rounded the hillside and continued south.

Honus had been a wanderer ever since he had renounced the goddess, thus he was no stranger to the road. Nevertheless, it felt different to him, for the road was supposed to take him somewhere. For seventeen winters, Honus had been a traveler without a destination, a man who spent nearly as much time upon the Dark Path as walking the living world. Suddenly he had a place to go, only he didn’t know where it was.

Others in his situation might have ambled leisurely, but Honus felt spurred by his uncertainty. He strode with a vigorous pace as if somehow speed would aid in unraveling the mystery ahead. His primary hope was that he would chance upon someone or something that would guide him or serve as a sign. For three days he traveled west, sleeping outdoors and eating porridge that he cooked—and burnt—in a small pot. As evening approached on the fourth day of his journey, he decided to seek hospitality. That, too, was something he hadn’t done since he had traveled with Yim. Spying a rude hut a short distance from the dirt lane, he approached it.

The hut was built of sod, and its roof resembled a meadow. As Honus approached the dwelling, a man bearing a mattock emerged from it. Though the peasant held the tool like a weapon, Honus didn’t slow his steps until he was but a few paces from him. Then he halted and calmly bowed before he spoke. “Greetings, Father. I request shelter and food in respect for the goddess.” The phrase felt strange to utter after so many winters.

“And what goddess is that?”

“Karm, the Goddess of Compassion. I’m her servant.”

“Ye are? Well, if she’s so kindly, why does her servant bear such an angry face?”

“My tattoos show her wrath toward evildoers, not innocent folk like you.”

The peasant glanced nervously at Honus’s sword. “Still, who would dare refuse ye?”

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.”

H
ONUS 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.