Authors: Morgan Howell
The man swallowed nervously. “Nay.”
“Can ye swim?”
“Nay.”
“Well, better learn one or the other fast, fer ye’re joinin’ my crew. Ah name ye Shit Weed. Now come with me while yer new crewmates gather our booty.” He turned to board his own vessel. “Hurry, men. Ah want to shove off quick.”
As the other pirates began scooping what plunder could be had, Froan advanced toward the captives. When the bald man died, Froan had felt the same surge of power as when he had killed Pike earlier that morning. It seemed that it was
unnecessary for him to do the killing to gain power from a death. Consequently, he felt confident and strong. The captives seemed to sense his power, for most paled under his scrutiny. After looking them up and down, Froan pointed to a man of his height who was dressed better than the rest. “You,” he said. “Come here.”
The man did so with a coolness that angered Froan. “Put a foot forward,” Froan barked. When the man complied, Froan placed a bare foot beside the man’s boot to take its measure. “Slip off your boots,” he said. Then Froan smiled. “And your clothes, too.”
The man’s faced reddened, but he didn’t move.
Froan poked the man’s belly with his sword point. “I’d prefer your clothes without holes or bloodstains, but I’ll have them either way.”
After a glance at Froan’s baleful eyes, the man removed his boots. Then he shed his clothes until he stood naked and then watched, fuming, as Froan donned his garments.
After Froan fastened on his sword belt, he glanced down at his new clothes and was pleased by what he saw. “These suit me,” he said to his victim. Then he frowned. “But they stink of goats. Why?”
“Because I herd them,” replied the man.
Froan smiled. “So you’re a humble goatherd? I think not.” He regarded the man and ensnared him with his gaze. He had never probed a stranger before, but the day’s events had heightened his abilities. Although Froan couldn’t discern the man’s thoughts, he sensed deception and received hints of what that deception might involve. Froan pushed deeper and discovered all he could. Still, his perceptions were vague. He felt that he had uncovered clues to the truth, but not the truth itself.
“Where’s your herd now?” asked Froan.
“At home,” replied the man. “This hay’s for them.”
“That makes sense,” said Froan.
The man looked relieved.
“But I don’t believe you,” said Froan. “You sold your herd.” He studied the man’s face and saw the color leave it. “A whole boatload of goats would fetch a tidy sum. And rather than returning home in an empty vessel, you’ve loaded it with hay.”
“Nay, nay. I have no gold.”
“Did I say you did?” Froan pointed to the boy who had attacked him. “Bog Rat, seize that lad.”
Telk grabbed the boy, twisting his arm to secure him.
“The lad favors you,” said Froan, “but I suppose he’s not your son.”
“He’s not.”
“Then you won’t mind if my friend cuts his throat. What’s a stranger’s death to you? Bog Rat, open the boy’s neck.”
As Telk reached for his sword hilt, the man cried out. “Mercy! Spare him!”
Froan motioned for Telk to stay his hand. “Why?” he asked. “Is he your son or not?”
“Aye, he’s mine.”
“So you lied about your son, and I’m certain you lied about the gold. A third lie will cost your boy his life, so answer carefully. Where’d you hide the gold?”
“In the hay.”
“Get it.”
The man hurriedly climbed onto the stacked hay. He paused, seeming to count the rows of bales. Then he went to a bale and lifted it, along with two others beneath it, to retrieve a small cloth sack. Afterward, he climbed down and handed the sack to Froan, who smiled when he felt its weight. As the man retreated, Froan opened the sack and glimpsed gold. By then, the other pirates had gathered around him, “Well, lads,” he said with a grin, “this beats salt mutton.”
“Ye won’t get away with this!” said the naked man. “The Merchants Guild will track ye down. Mark me, soon ye’ll dangle from poles and crows will feed upon yer carcasses.”
The man’s threats enraged Froan, and fury heightened his a sense of power. Then words flowed easily from his tongue, almost without thought on his part. “Hear that, men?” he shouted in a voice filled with venom. Froan held up the sack of gold. “He deems this more precious than your lives.”
Froan gazed at his fellow pirates and was thrilled by what he saw. The men appeared inflamed, and he was certain the effect went beyond the power of his words. Something far more primal and potent had emanated from him. Froan couldn’t give it a name, but he could feel its force, and it exhilarated him. He pointed to the naked man. “This scum lied about the gold and denied his own son, but his threats are sincere. He’ll stir men to hunt us down, and the others here will bear witness against us. When we’re in chains, they’ll slay us the coward’s way—with tattling tongues.”
Froan regarded each pirate in turn to fan his rage with his piercing eyes. “Will you abide that? If men must die, who should they be? Us or them?”
“Them!” shouted Chopper. Swinging his ax, he rushed at the unarmed captives and cut down the nearest one. His victim was just a boy. Telk, seized by a similar frenzy, was only a step behind him. He cleaved the head of the naked man. Then the other pirates joined in the mayhem and mercilessly slaughtered their screaming victims until the deck was littered with bodies lying in a crimson pool.
Froan watched, transfixed by the massacre. The sight of so much bloody death stirred and nurtured the shadow within him. He felt like a freezing man standing before a fire, or a starving one savoring his first meal in days. A hunger had awakened within him, one made keen by long denial. Unbidden, a thought arose:
From such nourishment comes strength
. Froan was still uncertain of the nature of that strength, but he had no doubt of its potency. Gazing upon the butchered captives, he sensed that his power had grown and foresaw where it could take him. It was an intoxicating
vision of might and sovereignty—the lordship that his father had promised.
The bloodlust slowly faded from the pirates’ faces as they wiped their weapons clean on the clothes of the slain. Yet Froan, knowing that he had stirred the men to murder, was confident he could do so again. He felt that he had just begun to exercise his powers and they would blossom with further use. Already, he was impressed by what he had accomplished.
“Finish looting the ship,” Froan said and was pleased when no one questioned his order. As the men set to work, Froan reached into the sack and withdrew two gold coins. “Chopper,” he said, “a word with you.”
Chopper turned, regarding Froan with a mixture of madness and respect. Then Froan spoke to his former foe. “I don’t know how Bloodbeard divides the loot,” he said in a low voice, “but you deserve this.” He clasped Chopper’s hand and pressed the coins into it. Then he looked him in the eye and said, “You’ve lost two friends of late. It’s time to find another.”
Chopper gazed down at the gold in his palm and grinned. “Ah already have.” He secreted the coins and resumed looting.
While the men carried off the food, ale, and sundry items, Froan grabbed some hay and rolled it into a cylinder. Then he went to an iron box at the rear of the boat. It stood on stone legs so that it didn’t touch the wooden deck, and a kettle hung from an iron frame above it. Froan assumed that the box was used for cooking fires, and he hoped it held hot ashes. When he found that was so, he pushed the hay cylinder into the ashes and blew until it caught fire. Using his makeshift torch, Froan went about the ship, setting the bales ablaze. Then he climbed down the rope boarding ladder, the last man to leave.
“Well look at Shadow,” said Bloodbeard in a slightly mocking tone, “all dressed proper now.”
Froan said nothing. He merely strode over to the captain and handed him the sack. Bloodbeard opened it and grinned when he saw its contents.
“Captain,” said Froan, “we’d best shove off. The other boat’s afire.”
Bloodbeard noticed the rising smoke and began to shout. “Loose those hooks and heave aback! Then oars out and away! Put yer backs to it.”
As the pirates rowed away, the first flames rose from the cattle ship. Froan was rowing beside Toad when Bloodbeard strode up and roughly grabbed his shoulder. “Shadow,” he said in a cold tone, “Ah gave no order to fire that ship.”
Froan glanced up and readily saw the captain’s menace. “That man whose gold you have swore to hunt you down.”
“So? Ye should have reported it to me. ’Tis not your place to give orders. There’s only one captain on this ship. Ferget that again, and gold or nay, Ah’ll send ye to the river bottom.”
“I won’t forget, Captain.”
“And to help ye remember, ye’ll forfeit yer share,” said Bloodbeard, already striding away.
A
S
F
ROAN
watched the captain resume his post, the sense of power that he had felt aboard the captured ship began to wither. Bloodbeard’s threat contributed to this change of mood, but it wasn’t the primary cause. Memories of the slaughter on the burning boat no longer gratified Froan. Instead, they horrified him. He felt as if he had
awakened from a nightmare to discover its terrors weren’t imaginary. As their reality sank in, his face grew clammy and his hands would have trembled if he hadn’t gripped the oar so tightly.
Froan’s stomach churned with nausea as he relived the murders. It was as if he were still upon the blood-washed deck but no longer gripped by his shadow. Thus, in some ways, the memory of the event was more vivid to him than the actual experience. The sights, the sounds, and even the smells of slaughter returned to him with an undiminished rawness that he scarcely imagined possible. This time, he empathized with the victims’ fear and suffering. They tore at him, filling him with remorse. Yet as terrible as those memories were, what horrified him most was that he had not only provoked the slaughter but had delighted in it. That knowledge both shamed and terrified him.
What kind of monster am I?
As Froan struggled to answer that question, his shadowed side reasserted itself.
Would you rather end up dangling from a pole? Would that man have shown you mercy? The world’s a harsh place where to be meek is to be a victim
. Froan glanced at Toad, who was rowing beside him. His companion was regarding him strangely, and with a chill, Froan saw that Toad sensed weakness. He could read it in his eyes.
See how your doubts have endangered you?
said Froan’s malign inner voice.
Do you suppose that Toad’s your friend? He’s only drawn to power. Show weakness, and he’ll turn on you
. Froan knew that was the truth and realized he was in jeopardy. Panicked, he broke free from his conscience. Then his dark instincts came to his aid. He turned to Toad and muttered under his breath, “By Karm’s stinking arse, I feel sick! It tears at my guts to abide the captain’s threats and answer mildly.”
Upon hearing that remark, Toad appeared reassured. It was a reaction enhanced by the return of Froan’s baleful
gaze. “Yer wise to bottle it up, Shadow,” whispered Toad. “Don’t fret, yer time will come.”
Yim’s bed of reeds seemed like a boat to her, and Rappali’s home likened to a cavern where she floated on a sunless river. A part of her realized that wasn’t so, but her impressions had an air of truth to them. Yim felt adrift in a shadow world between life and death. Her surroundings and the activity about her were insignificant compared to the central question: Would she live or die?
Sometimes, Yim felt that she had some say in the matter. At those times, she was uncertain which was the better choice. Curiously, the vestige of the Devourer that remained within her pulled toward life. That alone seemed a good reason to die.
But if I die, I’ll never save Froan
. Yim reminded herself that she had tried to do that ever since his birth and had failed. She wondered what she could accomplish with additional time.
Probably nothing
. Moreover, if she contacted her son, she might actually aid her foe.
Yim recalled General Var speaking of a ritual called “the suckling,” in which Lord Bahl sacrificed his mother by drinking her blood. Its purpose was to reunite that part of the Devourer lingering in the mother with the greater part that had passed to the son. Once unified in one person, the malevolent being was restored to it fullest power. Knowing this, Yim was puzzled. She was certain that Froan had cut her throat while under the Devourer’s influence, thus she couldn’t understand why he hadn’t consumed her blood. It was obvious that he hadn’t, for she was still alive.
At first, Yim supposed that Froan had been ignorant of what to do. She quickly rejected that idea. Though Froan knew nothing of the ritual, instinct should have guided him. Yim had drunk blood when seized by dark impulses, and she couldn’t imagine Froan not doing the same. That led to a hopeful thought.
Perhaps something restrained him
. Yim thought it could have been Karm or perhaps Froan’s better
nature. What ever it was, it seemed a cause for hope and a reason to live.
Yes, it’s a reason
, thought Yim,
but is it a good one?
Her death would return some of the Devourer to the Dark Path. Without her blood, Froan could still become the next Lord Bahl, but he would be a weakened version.
The Most Holy Gorm virtually said as much
. Yet what remained would grow in strength over time, though it might take generations to produce another Bahl who could threaten the entire world.
Generations of additional slaughter
, Yim reminded herself. A weak Lord Bahl would be a lesser evil, but he would still wreak misery and death.
As Froan’s mother, I should stop him
, thought Yim, reflecting on his potential victims. Yet if Froan achieved his father’s power, the Devourer would eventually overwhelm him and rule a nightmare world forever. Yim was certain of that. She was far less certain that she could prevent it from happening. It might be possible, but it seemed a terrible gamble. As long as Yim lived, she held the key to the Devourer’s everlasting domination. It pulsed through her veins and arteries.