The Iron Palace (20 page)

F
ROAN EXPECTED
to row with all his might in a race downriver, but the captain had the tillerman swing the boat toward the river’s southern shore. The maneuver puzzled Froan, and he turned to the burly crewman rowing beside him, one of the captain’s men named Snapper. “Where are we headed?” asked Froan.

“Fer the fens. Ye can’t outrow a war boat.”

Froan glanced toward the other vessel and noted it was already in pursuit and gaining. “You mean the captain intends to run aground?”

“There’s precious little ground in that stinkin’ bog, as ye should know. Our cap’s lookin’ fer a place to hide. Mayhap he’ll find one. If not, ’tis the poles fer sure.”

Froan glanced at the southern shore. As far as he could determine, it was a solid wall of reeds. As the pirates rowed closer to it, his impression didn’t change.

“Bog Rat!” bellowed the captain, “climb the mast and guide me to a channel that’ll take us out o’ sight. One that goes far in, but don’t get us stuck. Fail me, and Ah’ll gut ye like a fish.”

Telk left his oar and shimmied up the mast. When the boat neared the bog’s outer edge, he called out. “Upstream, Captain.”

The boat changed course, and began to travel parallel to the vast expanse of reeds. Closer up, it was apparent that the reeds didn’t form a solid mass, but grew in clumps in the water. There were irregular channels between the clumps, but
from Froan’s perspective, he couldn’t tell how deeply they penetrated the bog. He heard Telk call out again. “Up ahead, Captain.” Bloodbeard had the men slow their strokes as Telk guided him from his perch. “Turn soon, Captain … we’re near … almost here … now!”

The tillerman yanked his lever, and the boat turned sharply. Bloodbeard called out, “Oars in and use them to pole the boat.”

Soon the boat was slipping among the reeds, poled by the men and guided by Telk. The pirates wove an irregular course among the channels, which became ever narrower until reeds brushed both sides of the boat. “Halt polin’,” shouted Bloodbeard. “Bog Rat, off the mast. Snapper! Chopper! Cut it down. The rest o’ ye men, grab yer bailers and hop over the side. Fill the boat till it’s near sunk. And do it quiet.”

That was the last order the captain spoke. After the mast toppled with a crash, all the frantic activity was eerily quiet. Bloodbeard commanded his crew with hand signals, and the loudest sound was water splashing into the hull. Eventually, the boat rode low enough for the men to climb aboard and reach over the side to fill it. When the railing was only a hand’s length above the waterline, Bloodbeard signaled his crew to stop. Squatting low on the raised stern so his head didn’t poke above the reeds, he was the only dry man on the vessel. His crew, including the tillerman, sat on the rowing benches, chest-deep in tea-brown bog water.

The war boat was screened from view, so the enemy might be near or far. It was impossible to tell which, and that uncertainty heightened the fear that gripped the crew. Froan needed no heightened powers to sense it; every man’s face betrayed dread. He whispered to Snapper, “Surely they can’t reach us here.”

“They’ve no need. If they spot us, they’ll drop anchor and wait. A few days soakin’ in bog water bloats ye like a corpse. Then ye start to rot.”

“Better to go out and face them,” said Froan.

“And row through rainin’ arrows to take on armored men?” Snapper spat a bubbly glob that floated near Froan’s chest. “Ye thought ye were so brave and bloody, butcherin’ merchants and boys. Takin’ on a war boat’s a different sort o’ work.”

Froan tried to imagine how his powers would help him in the current situation.
I could inflame the crew
, he thought,
but that would only spur them to suicide
. He readily saw how the bog would encumber their attack. The crew would be decimated before it even reached its superior foe, and Froan doubted he could terrorize enemies he couldn’t see.
It’s not worth the risk to find out
. Froan realized that he was stuck with the other men and would share their fate.

The sun sank low in the sky, and there was still no clue as to what that fate would be. Finally, Bloodbeard signaled a man named Mutton to come to him. After the captain whispered an order, Mutton shed his clothes, slipped over the side into the channel, and swam off toward the Turgen. Froan waited as anxiously as his fellow crewmen for Mutton’s report, but the sun set without his return. Darkness fell, and since the moon was past its final quarter, it didn’t rise until well after midnight. Sitting half-submerged in the dark and trying to slap mosquitoes quietly, Froan speculated on what had happened to Mutton. His shadow would have sensed a violent death, but not a drowning.
Perhaps he got lost—it’s easy in the fens
.

At dawn, Bloodbeard sent out a second swimmer, and this one returned. His report was whispered down the length of the boat from man to man; the war boat was anchored within sight upriver. The captain’s order was passed down the same way. They would sit tight all day and hope the war boat would leave.

That day was the most miserable in Froan’s life. He was hungry, waterlogged, mosquito bitten, and exhausted. But worse than his physical miseries was his growing awareness
that the crew blamed him for their plight. The war boat’s appearance could have been happenstance, but Bloodbeard’s words—“As they fit the noose ’bout yer neck, thank Shadow fer firin’ that cattle boat”—had provided them with a scapegoat. Froan could feel the men’s anger grow the longer they suffered, and better than anyone, he knew the uses of hate. If they survived, the captain would be in a powerful position.

Toward dusk, Bloodbeard sent the swimmer out again. The man returned to report that the war boat remained anchored in the same spot. Then the order was passed down to start bailing. They would attempt to slip away in the night.

The boat was afloat again by dusk, but Bloodbeard didn’t order the men to start poling until almost no light remained in the sky. The gloom hindered finding the way out. Even worse, without a guide on a mast to provide an overview, one channel looked like any other. The men poled their craft into one dead end after another. Froan could sense their growing frustration and anger. In one reed-hemmed channel they spotted Mutton’s pale corpse floating like a ghost in the dark water. “That’s all our fates, like enough,” muttered Snapper.

Froan had no idea how long it took to find the river, but he was exhausted when the boat cleared the reeds at last. The moon had yet to rise, and the Turgen was a dark-gray expanse beneath a black sky. As the river’s current seized the boat and the crew quietly drew in the oars as it had been instructed, each man was aware that the slightest sound might rouse the enemy. The tillerman guided the slowly drifting boat so it hugged the dark mass of reeds. Hopefully, that would prevent the craft’s silhouette from showing against the river.

The war boat was invisible, but everyone knew it was close. That made the slow pace of the drifting boat especially agonizing. Froan craved to abandon stealth and find release in action, but he obeyed the captain’s orders as dutifully
as the rest of the crew. All the while, he kept his ears cocked for any sound that signaled they had been spotted. Once, he heard a distant voice drift over the dark river, but it wasn’t followed by the splash of oars.

The boat continued to drift. When a faint glow in the sky announced the approach of moonrise, the whispered command was given to extend oars. Then, spurred by fear, Froan rowed with all the strength that remained in him. The idea of the unseen foe united the crew, and they rowed in unison without the captain beating the strokes.

Like the other men, Froan had peeled off his wet clothes and boots to let his wrinkled skin dry. In the moonlight, his flesh appeared as white as a fish’s belly, and it felt as clammy until exertion warmed it. Despite their weariness, the oarsmen kept up a harried pace and arrived at their island hideout before dawn. Upon reaching it, the captain had them not only beach the boat but also drag it into the trees and out of view. Then they returned to camp and woke the women to have them reheat a cold dinner.

As Froan entered camp, Moli dashed up to him. Before he could say anything, she threw her arms around him to kiss his mouth long and hard. “Oh, Shadow, Shadow, Ah’ve been so worried ’bout ye!” Moli kissed him again. “Yer clothes are all wet! What happened?”

“A war boat chased us. We had to hide in the fens.”

“But ye’ve come back ta me.”

Froan saw tears flowing down Moli’s smudged cheeks and tenderly wiped them away. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll always come back to you.”

“Drink!” bellowed Bloodbeard. “Wenches, bring out ale. Ye too, Moli. Move yer slutty arse and serve the men Ah saved, no thanks to Shadow.”

Moli cast Froan an anxious look before hurrying off. When she reached the ale cask, the captain gripped her arm. “Ah’ve been parched overlong, so see my mug don’t run dry. Others can see to Shadow.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Bloodbeard squeezed Moli’s arm so tight she winced. “And kiss the man who saved the crew.” When Moli pecked his lips, Bloodbeard grabbed her face, digging his fingers and thumb into her cheeks. “A real kiss, ye whore. One that shows ye mean it!” Then he cupped the back of her head with one hand and pulled her toward him until their lips mashed together. As Moli squirmed in the captain’s grip, she seemed to be choking on his tongue.

Watching this infuriated Froan, but he also saw through the captain’s game.
He’s goading me, hoping I’ll do something rash
. Despite that awareness, Froan’s thoughts turned murderous. He envisioned gutting Bloodbeard, as he had Sturgeon, or strangling him, as he had Pike. Then his cold inner voice reminded him that both those attacks had been surprises. Froan glanced around and saw that all Bloodbeard’s men were watching him with weapons handy.
This is no time for a fight
. Froan forced on a nonchalant face, grabbed a bowl, and sauntered over to a stew pot. The fire beneath it had just been lit, and its contents were cold. Nevertheless, Froan dipped his bowl in the pot to fill it with stew. Then he retreated toward the woods, keeping a wary eye on his enemies.

As Froan reached the trees, he heard Bloodbeard’s voice. It was especially loud, doubtlessly for his benefit. “Tonight, ye’ll bed with me, Moli, and be tupped by a real man.”

Upon hearing those words and imagining what lay in store for Moli, Froan almost charged back into camp, his sword swinging in reckless fury.
To be cut down before Moli’s eyes
, he thought. Then Froan struggled to control his rage. He didn’t seek to quell it, only channel it toward a more practical revenge. Born heir to that talent, he succeeded. Hot anger transformed into icy malice. As Froan slipped into the dark woods, his mind was awhirl.

F
EARING THAT
the captain might send men to slay him while he slept, Froan bedded in a dense and distant thicket. Exhaustion caused him to sleep much later than usual, and it was midmorning when he returned to camp. Even so, Froan found no one up. He was helping himself to cold stew when Bloodbeard emerged from a shelter. The captain was fully dressed and armed, as were the two men who accompanied him, Snapper and Mud. Mud, another member of Bloodbeard’s inner circle, was a huge man. His scarred face was surrounded by long blond locks and a voluminous beard. Both were tangled into thick, greasy ropes of hair. When he spied Froan, he cast him a derisive glance. “Look who’s here, Cap.”

“Well, well,” said Bloodbeard, “our Shadow’s crept out with the sun.”

“Aye, there’s no Shadow at night,” said Mud, chuckling at his wit. “Just ask Moli.”

“Where’s that wench?” asked Bloodbeard. “Moli! Moli, drag yer whore’s arse out here and serve me and my men.”

Two more of the captain’s men, also dressed and armed, emerged from the shelter. Behind them hobbled Moli. She seemed shattered, moving like an old woman who is pained by every step. She had been beaten so savagely that her eyes were only slits surrounded by swollen, discolored flesh. Her ragged blouse had been torn, forcing her to clutch it closed in order to cover her breasts.

Froan felt shamed by his failure to protect her. He was also outraged to the point of fury. Nonetheless, he fought
to hide both emotions from Bloodbeard, who was watching him closely. The captain grinned. “Somethin’ troublin’ ye, Shadow?”

“Yes, Captain,” replied Froan. “I never should’ve fired that ship. I stepped out of my place, and we all paid for it.”

“Aye, we have,” said Bloodbeard. He glanced pointedly at Moli. “All o’ us. But mayhap ye can make amends.”

While Bloodbeard was speaking, Moli went over to the pile of dirty dishes, picked up a bowl, and wiped it clean with the tail of her blouse. Then she filled it with cold stew and brought it over to the captain. Froan noted that her hands couldn’t stop trembling and she seemed barely able to see.
What did he do to her?
he wondered as he struggled to appear calm.

Bloodbeard raised a hand, causing Moli to cringe. “Stupid sow! Where’s a spoon?”

“Sorry, Captain, sorry,” said Moli in a tiny voice as she hobbled to the pile of dishes as quickly as she could. There she found a spoon and rushed back to Bloodbeard, polishing it with her blouse as she went.

Bloodbeard took the spoon and smiled at Froan. “Now that she’s broke in proper, Ah think Ah fancy her. Ye’ll get more rest if ye sleep alone. A young lad needs his rest.”

“Yes,” said Froan. “And one grows bored of tupping the same wench every night.”

“That’s why Ah have three,” said Bloodbeard. “Three, countin’ Moli.”

Froan kept his face neutral and shrugged. “Captain, you said I might make amends. I’d like to do that.”

“Would ye? Well, good. Ah have an idea, and ye’re just the one to make it work. But Ah’ll need to get somethin’ first.” Bloodbeard began shoveling food into his mouth, and Froan didn’t press him for details.

Bloodbeard didn’t rouse his crew, but let them sleep in. He even allowed Moli to return to the shelter after she
had ladled out cold stew to his men. It was mid afternoon when he ordered the boat launched. The captain didn’t head upriver, but set a course for the Turgen’s northern bank. Froan assumed that the change was made to avoid the war boat.