The Iron Palace (13 page)

Downhill from the campsite lay a dense copse of small pines. That was where the latrine had been dug. It was a simple trench, about three paces long. A horizontal pole that was lashed between two pines served for seating. It was the sole amenity, other than the privacy that the pines provided. The latrine was close enough to the shelters to be convenient, yet distant enough so that its stench didn’t pervade the camp. It was near this malodorous spot that Froan found a place to hide.

From a clump of undergrowth, Froan could observe all who came and went. He did so gripping a device that he had fashioned that very morning, something he had never seen or used before. An image of it had come to him last
night, and he had understood its function instinctively. It had been simple to make, for it had only three parts: Two of them were sections of a stout branch, cut to a length slightly longer than the width of his palm. These served as handles. The last part was a length of thin but strong rope he had pilfered that morning. It was tied to the middle of each handle. Stretched out, the rope was slightly shorter than his arm. Froan had no word to describe the thing he had made, but a more worldly person would have called it a garrote. All Froan knew was that it felt natural in his hands, and with luck, it would prove useful.

From his hiding place, Froan watched the first pirate enter the pines to relieve himself. Afterward, others came and went at irregular intervals. Nearly a dozen men and women had made the trip before he spotted a wiry man with a braided beard walking down the path in a manner of someone not fully awake. Assuming from Moli’s description that the man was Pike, Froan silently crept toward the pines as soon as his enemy disappeared into them. Silently pushing his way through the branches, Froan discovered that fortune had favored him. Pike stood facing away as he emptied his bladder.

Froan moved quickly, advancing with the garrote in his hands. His arms were crossed when he threw the rope in front of Pike’s throat. When Froan jerked his hands outward, a loop formed around his victim’s neck. Then Froan pulled on the garrote’s handles with savage strength, heedless of the blisters on his palms. Pike gave one rasping croak before the encircling rope crushed his windpipe. Urine sprayed wildly as the man’s hands went to his throat to claw at what was choking him. It was already too late; the deadly cord had formed a deep furrow in his neck. Pike’s trembling fingers could barely touch it, and they were rapidly growing weaker.

Excitement and hatred gave Froan added strength. Blood welled around the strangling rope as Pike kicked and jerked
helplessly. Soon his movements lost their vigor, diminishing to feeble twitches and then to stillness. When Pike became deadweight, Froan felt a stimulating surge of power as his shadow exulted. Then his victim tumbled backward, and Froan was forced to catch him.

Aware that someone might enter the latrine at any moment, Froan hefted the dead man on his shoulder and pushed his way through the pines. He emerged on the downhill side of the copse and continued in that direction. The body upon his shoulder was heavy, but in his excited state, Froan scarcely noticed the weight. He rushed downhill until he reached the riverbank. There he walked into the current with his gruesome burden.

When Froan was chest-deep in the water, he slipped Pike’s body from his shoulders. The garrote had remained embedded in his victim’s neck, and Froan pulled it free. Blood flowed from the wound and briefly colored the water with a crimson cloud. The cloud elongated, grew pale pink, and dissipated as Froan watched. Then he turned Pike’s body in the water, so it faced upward. Silver bubbles came from the dead man’s mouth, and as the air left his lungs, his body grew less buoyant. When Froan released the corpse, it slowly sank and began to move as the current seized it.

Froan stood watching his foe drift away beneath the surface of the Turgen. It seemed to him that the man had become one of the river’s denizens, moving in the fluid manner of aquatic creatures. When Pike finally vanished into the murky waters, Froan left, satisfied with his morning’s work. He made his way back to camp by a leisurely route, pausing briefly to hide his garrote in the hollow of a tree. His skin was dry when he joined the pirates.

Some of them seemed surprised to see him, but Froan didn’t acknowledge their reaction. He put on the bleary face of someone who had just awakened. Stretching and rubbing his eyes, he asked, “Is there anything to eat?”

“Cold stew,” said a woman. “We don’t light fires in daytime ’cause o’ the smoke.”

“Stew sounds good to me,” replied Froan, grabbing one of the cleaner-looking bowls from an unwashed pile upon the table. The woman filled it.

One of the pirates who had borne a surprised expression spoke. “Shadow, where’d ye sleep?”

“In the woods,” Froan replied, smiling. “I’m a fensman and fond of sleeping outside when the weather’s fair.”

While Froan was eating, Chopper emerged from a shelter. In daylight, the large round scar on the end of his nose was prominent. It not only gave the tip an unnatural shape, but its deep pink color rendered his face comical. However, there was nothing humorous in Chopper’s expression as he glanced about. Froan briefly met his eyes and felt his enmity. He also noted the man’s agitation, which grew as time passed. When everyone had risen, he finally voiced what was troubling him. “Has anyone seem Pike this morn?”

No one said he or she had.

Chopper stared at Froan. “How ’bout ye, Shadow.”

“Who’s Pike?” Froan asked innocently. It wasn’t fear that governed his reply; he instinctively grasped the power of uncertainty. Fancy could be far more terrifying than fact. The plot against him was intended to be a secret, so Froan would let the plotter’s fate be a secret as well. That way, the others could imagine what they might, and his reputation would grow from their speculations.

Froan watched with satisfaction as the news that Pike was missing became general knowledge. Each person’s reaction was informative. Toad and Moli seemed pleased. Others became uneasy. The remainder were indifferent.

Eventually, the mystery stirred Bloodbeard into action, and he sent men to search the island. But Froan had taken care to leave no trail, and the river had carried away his victim. The men returned at noon, as puzzled as when they
had left. When they informed the captain of their fruitless search, he was more than a little displeased. “By Karm’s ass!” he swore. “How can a man just vanish?”

Froan had gathered with the others to hear the search party’s findings, and he spoke up after the captain’s outburst. “It reminds me of what you said last night.”

Bloodbeard glared at him in annoyance. “And what was that, young pup?”

“Some fellows aren’t the right sort,” said Froan coolly.

Bloodbeard cast Froan a strange look, as if he were suddenly seeing him in a different light. The annoyance in his face had been replaced by one of uneasy respect. It didn’t last long. Soon the captain frowned and shouted, “Enough o’ Pike, the useless shit. Delayed our settin’ out, he has. If he turns up, his booty’s forfeit. And if he don’t, good riddance. ’Tis past noon, so move yer arses. To the boat. We’re shovin’ off.”

A short while later, the boat left the cove. In the daylight, Froan could see that the pirates’ island was just one within a cluster. Varying in size, the rocky bits of land seemed like pebbles scattered by a giant. The boat headed downstream toward the nearest one. Aided by the current, the craft moved quickly and soon rounded the downstream side of the isle. When it did, the captain altered their course so they headed upstream toward another island. That proved to be but the first leg of an erratic course from one island to the next. Puzzled, Froan turned to Toad, who manned the oar beside him. “What are we doing?” he asked. “We seem to be going nowhere.”

“We’re confusin’ anyone who spies us. ’Twon’t do fer them to find our camp.”

Toad’s answer caused Froan to view Bloodbeard and his men differently. Their fear of discovery made them seem less bold, and to Froan’s thinking, the elaborate departure route
was evidence of timidity.
Only petty thieves with a boat
, he concluded.

A favorable wind blew from the west, and once the boat was sufficiently far from the island, Bloodbeard ordered the men to raise the sail. Froan had no idea what to do and was virtually useless as the men set to work. Nevertheless, he helped as best he could, watching carefully so he might be more adept the next time. Once the sail was unfurled, the boat surged forward. Afterward, an easy journey upstream consumed most of the afternoon. Froan knew they had reached the hunting grounds when Bloodbeard ordered the sail furled and the oars set out. Afterward, the pirates began roaming the river in search of prey.

Eventually, they sighted a pair of triangular sails, glowing gold in the slanting light of late day. They belonged to a boat that was tacking into the wind to sail downstream. The captain studied its zigzag course awhile before ordering his tillerman to head in an angle opposite to the one the other vessel was traveling. Toad explained to Froan what was happening. “That boat can’t sail straight ’cause the wind’s wrong. She must slant into the breeze to move forward and our captain knows it. It don’t look like we’re chasing her, but we are. When they slant their course the other way, we’ll be right in their path.”

“What if they don’t change their course?” asked Froan.

“Then they’ll run aground.”

As he rowed, Froan watched the other ship. As Toad predicted, the vessel eventually made a sharp turn, slowed for a moment as its sails swung into a new position, and then picked up speed. Toad smiled. “Now she sees us, but what can she do? She lacks maneuverin’ room.”

Froan was fascinated by the game the two boats were playing. Bloodbeard’s swift, oar-powered vessel could go anywhere, while the wind limited the other ship’s options. Toad informed him that it was a cattle boat, built for
capacity, not speed. In essence, its hull was a bloated version of their craft—single decked, half as wide is it was long, with high sides to fence in its animal cargo. Although it tried to evade pursuit with a last-moment course change, it was too slow to escape. Bloodbeard’s boat pulled alongside the larger one, and his crew threw grappling hooks over the other vessel’s side. The hooks were secured to chains, which the crew pulled to bind the two boats together. Close-up, the cattle boat seemed like a wooden wall that rose nearly a man’s length higher than the rail of the pirates’ craft.

When the two hulls touched, Bloodbeard shouted names. “Toad, Shadow, Chopper, Bog Rat, Serpent, Gouger, and Eel, ye board first.” As he said this, the pirates set two hooked poles over the cattle boat’s rail. A rope ladder, wide enough for three men to ascend at once, stretched between the poles. Froan lifted his eyes to the ladder’s top and saw the opposing crewmen peering down at him. Each bore a weapon of some sort, and Froan decided that pirates were indeed bold men.

“Up! Up!” shouted Bloodbeard. “By Karm’s milky tits, move yer arses! Gold awaits ye, or mayhap the Dark Path. Go and find out which.”

A
S
F
ROAN
hurried to the rope ladder with the others, his bloodthirsty half overpowered his fearful side. He surrendered to his violent urges because only they seemed capable of getting him through what lay ahead. By the time
he gripped the ladder’s top rung, his piercing eyes had taken on a malign gleam.

Someone swung a wooden club at his head. Froan fell backward, still gripping the rope with his left hand. The club sped past his nose, so close that he could feel a rush of air. Froan drew his sword with his free hand as he pulled himself back toward the ship. His assailant swung again. This time, the steel of Froan’s blade met the club. The club splintered. Froan gazed at his opponent. He was a boy of perhaps fourteen winters. As he stared back at Froan, his face filled with terror. Then he dropped his ruined weapon, and while it clattered on the deck, he backed away with his hands held high.

Froan clambered over the ship’s side and jumped onto its deck. As he did so, a bald, paunchy man bearing a sword advanced toward him and his fellow pirates. He held the weapon with his arm fully extended, as if the mere sight of a sword would ward off the attackers. Froan noted that the blade trembled violently. Almost as soon as he had made that observation, an ax slammed into the sword, wrenching it from the bald man’s hand. Froan glanced to his right and saw Chopper, who raised his weapon and brought it down again. The ax head grazed the side of the bald man’s head, severing an ear before biting deeply into his shoulder. The man dropped to the deck, screaming from pain and terror as his blood pooled on the boards. Then Chopper silenced him with another blow.

The killing stunned the opposing crew, and they stopped their resistance immediately. Dropping what ever weapons they had, they backed away to stand bunched against the far rail with their hands raised. A man who hadn’t participated in the fray spoke up. “I’m captain of this vessel, and I surrender her to ye. Take what ye wish.”

With the fighting over, Froan gazed about for the first time with an undistracted eye. The cattle boat’s high sides
had hidden the cargo until the pirates boarded. Upon the captain’s surrender, that cargo had become theirs. It lay piled upon the wide deck, ready for the taking—bale upon bale of hay.

After Bloodbeard boarded his latest prize, he slowly paced its deck, glowering and striking his heels with every step. “By Karm’s muddy feet!” he cursed. “Grass! A boatload of grass!”

“I’ve coin, sir,” said the captive captain timidly. He held out a worn leather purse. “A half-moon’s worth of fares.”

Bloodbeard grabbed the purse and spilled its contents onto his palm—perhaps two dozen coppers and a few silvers. There wasn’t a single gold among them.

“I’ve food, too,” said his prisoner. “A sack of grain, cheeses, a near-full keg of ale, and two casks of salt mutton, one unopened.”

The news did nothing to lift Bloodbeard’s mood. He returned the coins to the purse and tied it to his belt. “All right men,” he bellowed, “take the vittles and ale aboard and anything else of use.” He gazed at the captured ship’s crew and passengers, who still cowered in a knot. Then he pointed to a husky young man of twenty-odd winters. “Ye there! Can ye pull an oar?”