“Put that out, ya old fool,” said Ollic.
“Whatter ya doin’ here?” said the old man. “Tain’t but after midnight. Go on w’ ya afore my wife wakes. Go on.” He tried to shut the door, but Ollic stuck his foot in the way.
“Nay, listen here. There’re strangers in town an’ the man himself has sent word he wants ‘em. He wants ‘em trussed like chickens fer the spit. A man an’ a boy. An’ he wants every one o’ us out lookin’ to catch ‘em. They ducked through his lads’ hands at the inn, but us’ll get ‘em for him.”
“I’m too frail to be trampin’ around in the cold,” quavered the old man.
“Get yer boots on. You don’t want him comin’ down the mountain, crackin’ our skulls, do ya? Do yer duty.”
Grumbling, the old man closed the door and Ollic went on to the next house. Jute shrank back into the alley. His teeth chattered and he clamped his hand over his mouth to still them. What did the man mean? Trussed up like chickens for the spit? And who was the man Ollic had been talking about?
Jute shuddered. He did not want to find out. Chickens on spits were nice, but only when they were proper chickens and he was eating them. He scurried away through the alley, darting from shadow to shadow, hoping the moon would not breach the clouds and lend her unwelcome light to his steps. He could hear the slight noises of people in the streets, of doors opening and closing, and the rustle of voices. But then he was past the last house and running through the darkness. The rain slashed down around him. It was so dark that he might as well have shut his eyes and blundered along, but he could hear the river flowing on his right, some yards away, and up ahead was the gradually increasing roar of the waterfall plunging down into the pond below.
But then Jute came to the last house and found himself facing a wall. It rose up in the night. Timbers lashed together. Of course. The wall. It went all the way around the village. How could he have expected anything less? The wall was quite high. He scrabbled at it to gain some hold, but the timbers were each a slim tree trunk adzed straight and clean of any vestige of branch. To make matters worse, the wood was slick with rain. He tried wedging his fingers in between the timbers to secure a grip, but it was no use. Perhaps there was a tree near enough to the wall that he might climb it and gain the top of the wall that way. A tree or even a house situated nearby. He stared about, but there was neither.
Hawk! Where are you?
Jute flung all of his desperation into the call. Shouting inside of his mind. The hawk did not respond. However, something else did. Something growled in the darkness nearby. And then the rain let up. The wind tore a rent in the clouds and the moon shone through. A shadow rounded the corner of the nearest house. Moonlight gleamed on teeth and staring eyes and the strangely shaped head. The man from the alley. Only he was not a man. His head was too long. It was changing as Jute stared. The jaws pushed out, narrowing and lengthening. The thing dropped to all fours and loped forward. Jute could not move. He was frozen at the sight.
“Jute!” screamed the ghost.
Jute turned and ran, slipping in the mud and clawing his way back to his feet. His heart hammered in his throat. Behind him the creature rushed. Mud flew from its paws and he could hear the whistle of its breath.
Why can’t I fly?
And the wind blew past him, lightening his feet so that he teetered up through the air, catching at it, gulping it down, as if swallowing it would make him lighter. He ran up through the air like he was running up stairs, sobbing with relief. Something slammed into the wall below him. Jaws snapped at his feet. The creature fell away, snarling. Jute’s stomach lurched and his legs windmilled through the air. He began to sink, but his hands flailed out and caught hold of the top of the wall. He pulled himself up and tumbled down over the other side of the wall. Crashed down into the mud so hard that he couldn’t breathe. The wall shuddered behind him under the impact of a heavy blow. A body, hurling itself against it. Once, twice, and he heard the creature growling on the other side of the timbers. Then, there was only silence.
“Quickly, quickly,” said the ghost, its voice trembling. “It’ll find us. It knows this place. It’ll know where to get past the wall.”
“What was that?” gasped Jute. He staggered to his feet and ran.
“You don’t want to know,” said the ghost. “I don’t want to know. I wish I didn’t know! I’ve read of such creatures, or maybe I wrote about ‘em? I can’t remember. The shifters. Awendans, in the old tongue. Men who have given themselves over to their evil natures time and time again so that, one day, they’re able to take on their honest form.”
“A wolf? That thing was a wolf! What man would have a wolf inside of them?”
Jute ran through the dark. The waterfall was a thunderous roar now. He could hear it cascading down into the pool. The air seemed full of water. Not just the rain, but a thick, flying mist that was surely the fault of the waterfall. He was drenched through and through. There was nothing to be seen behind him. Only rain and darkness and the horrible sense that there were things out there, just on the edge of sight, waiting to pounce once his back was turned.
“Men who murder,” said the ghost, its voice shaking. “Men who kill the innocent until they do it for the sheer joy of death. But a shifter who becomes a wolf isn’t a true wolf. No, they’re something evil and cruel. Real wolves will kill, but only for hunger.”
Jute saw a glimmering in the darkness, a ghostly column of light cascading down and down but never going anywhere. The waterfall. It was higher than the tallest tower of the regent’s castle in Hearne. Far above, on either side, was the immense blackness of the cliffs. The dark shape of a building huddled near the bottom of the falls. A water mill. It perched on the side of the river, half leaning out over the water so that it seemed as if the building would topple over at any moment. He heard the dripping and splashing of water and a creaking sound.
“What’s that noise?” said the ghost from inside the knapsack. “It gives me the shivers. Maybe it’s the ghost of a murderer. They always groan like that.”
“Stop it. All this talk of murderers and wolves and ghosts is going to make me scream.”
“I’m a ghost,” said the ghost, but it subsided into silence.
Jute tiptoed closer to the water mill. He saw, then, that the strange creaking noise came from the waterwheel. It turned on the side of the building, water dripping from its scoops. Moonlight glimmered on water and wet wood. The windows in the water mill were dark. Jute crept across the muddy ground until he came to the wall of the mill. The overhang of the roof sheltered him from the rain. He crouched there, feeling miserable. Adventure was all well and good, but not when you were wet and cold and running away from all sorts of horrible creatures that wanted to kill you.
The one good thing about the rain was that it was certain to hide the scent of his trail. At least, that’s what he had always thought. Animals had trouble following scents over water. And there was plenty of water on the ground. Jute scowled and regarded his muddy condition with disfavor. Where was Declan? And where was the hawk, for that matter? He edged along the side of the mill until he came to a window. He couldn’t see anything through the glass, for it was just as dark within as it was without.
“What’s that?” said the ghost, appearing next to him.
“What’s what?” said Jute. But then he heard it as well. A sniffing sound. It came from somewhere out in the dark. Somewhere in the rain, back toward the village. His blood ran cold.
“Oh, help!” said the ghost, sounding as if it were about to break into tears.
Jute didn’t bother answering. He hurried around the mill, his eyes staring every which way at once. Could wolves, or whatever that creature was, see in the dark? What if it found his footprints?
The door to the water mill was at the top of three stone steps. Rotting and blackened bushes grew on either side of the door. Water sheeted down from the mossy edges of the eaves. Across the yard from the door stood a barn with leaning walls
and a collapsed roof. The barn doors gaped open, sagging on their hinges.
Jute slunk up the steps to the door of the mill and touched the handle, willing himself into silence and listening. But there was nothing there. Only a handle. No ward whispering on the edge of his mind and tightening into life within the iron and wood. He turned the handle, expecting it to be locked, but it was not. The door opened silently and he slipped inside.
It was dark and the place had a musty, sour smell of rotting milk and closed up, hidden things. Jute could hear the creak of the waterwheel turning outside; the sound was quieter now, but, at the same time, deeper. The noise trembled in the timbers of the floor as if the entire house was some strange musical instrument. Reaching out his hand against the wall, his fingers brushed against something cold and hard. A key. Hanging on the wall. He could not believe his good luck. He tried it in the door. The key turned grudgingly and then the lock shot home with a click.
“This isn’t a good idea,” said the ghost. “Aren’t we supposed to meet Declan near the waterfall? How’s he going to find us in here if you’ve locked the door? What if there’s something much worse inside than what’s outside?”
“Don’t be silly. In case you forgot, that thing, that shifter, is outside somewhere. What could be worse than that? We can wait for him in here.”
“Yes,” said the ghost unhappily, “I suppose you’re right.”
Moonlight slanted in through a window and Jute saw stars shining through the dirty glass. The rain must have stopped, he thought. The light, weak though it was, brought out the details of the room and deepened the shadows that lay in between. Stairs angled up along the back of the room. A table stood against the wall, piled with everything from dishes and dirty clothing to dismantled tools, old grain sacks, and an untidy coil of greasy rope. Beside it sat a chair with two broken legs that had been fixed by propping the stumps on stacked bricks. There were more grain sacks on the floor, empty and full. White dust coated everything, everywhere. Flour. Jute sneezed. The sound was appallingly loud.
“My nerves,” moaned the ghost. “I can’t take this.”
Jute tiptoed forward. The flour on the floor stirred in puffs with each step he took. His fingers twitched and he eyed a cupboard thoughtfully. Even in the shabbiest looking houses there was usually a thing or two of value to be found. He blinked and shook his head. This was no time to be thinking of such things. He should be keeping a sharp lookout for Declan.
Jute peeped out of the window. The moonlight was bright now. Far in the west, he could see a bank of clouds painted gray by the moon, but the rest of the sky was a velvety black, speckled with stars that looked brighter and harder and closer than they had looked in the night sky over Hearne. The river rushed past, shining and eager to be on its way. A field sloped toward the village. He could see chimney smoke rising in sluggish streams from roofs. The field was black with shadows and the few lonely stalks of corn left standing by the autumn’s harvest. Nothing moved.
Jute realized he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a sigh and sagged down against the wall. He closed his eyes. And opened them in time to see the handle on the front door turn. It turned slowly, to be sure, but it was turning. Jute stared at it, mesmerized. The handle turned the other way. It turned faster until it came to the end of its revolution with a jerk. It spun back the original way, turning faster yet, as if whoever was on the other end had come to the end of his patience.
And then the entire door shook under the impact of a blow. The wall vibrated with the force of it. Dust floated down from the ceiling. Again and again, the blows came. They made a deep booming noise and, in between the rhythm of that sound, Jute fancied he heard the snarl of the shifter. He scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering. The stairs creaked.
“Here now!” called a voice.
Jute shrank back into the corner beside the cupboard. The door shook under another blow.
“Here now!” bawled the voice. “Stop yer blasted racket! I’m coming, d’ya hear?”
Footsteps shuffled on the stairs. Light wavered into life through the banisters. An old man teetered down the stairs, breathing heavily and looking as if he would topple over at any moment. He carried a lantern in one hand and leaned on a knobby stick in the other. The door shook again. More flour dust drifted down from the ceiling.
“Hold yer horses, ya durn fools!” hollered the old man. And then he said to himself, “Addled, I tell ya. Roustin’ out a man from his bed this time o’ night. T’ain’t right, I tell ya. T’ain’t right.”
Jute sneezed. He couldn’t help it. The sneeze had been gathering force for several minutes, assisted by the flour dust and his damp and chilled state.
“Who’s there?” shouted the old man, stumbling back. He glared around the room, holding his lantern high. “Come out, I tell ya, or by all, I’ll brain ya, I will!”
He shook his walking stick in the air in a threatening manner, but the effect was ruined by the fact that he was frail and the stick was heavy. He toppled over and only managed to save himself by dropping the stick and grabbing hold of the table. Jute peered at the old man over the top of the table.
“Who’s that? Who’re ya? Don’t come any closer!” The old man grabbed at his fallen stick.
“Please sir,” said Jute, trying to keep his voice low, but not succeeding on account of his terror. “There’s something chasing me. It’s a wolf! Not a wolf, it’s a man who turned into a wolf!”
“You don’t say,” said the old man, clutching his stick even closer. “One o’ them manwolfs? Or a wolfman? I heard tell of ‘em. Turrible creatures!”
“It’s right outside your door!”
As if to emphasize this point, the door shook again under a heavy blow. The old man jumped and almost dropped his stick again. Jute crept closer to him.
“Please, sir,” he said, his voice shaking. “What’ll we do?”
“What’ll we do?” echoed the old man. The door shook again.
“Turrible creatures,” he said. “An’ the worst thing is, lemme tell ya, boy.”
The old man turned, and the light from the lantern wavered in his eyes.
“They shed all over the place. It’s turrible!”
Jute stared at him, not understanding. But then he did understand when the old man’s stick whipped through the air. It moved much faster than it should have. Much faster than a doddering old man should have been capable of. There was no time to duck.
Pain burst in his head. Vicious and complete, and he felt the floorboards slam up underneath him. Jute saw the old man’s face above him fading into darkness, peering down. Then, there was only darkness. Right before he went unconscious, however, he heard the old man cackle, “But they ain’t so bad if ya don’t mind the shedding.”
CHAPTER THREE
A SATISFACTORY THEFT
“Several of the lads heard Posle talking to a fellow,” said Bordeall. “A Thieves Guild enforcer. Posle’d had a bit too much to drink and they were at a table nearby.”
Owain and Bordeall were walking along the top of the city wall. The morning sun was edging up over the eastern horizon. Shadows stretched long on the ground, and all the houses huddled close by the wall were still deep in its shadow. The stone walk was dappled with puddles, for it had rained heavily that last night. The scent of the damp earth filled the air, temporarily overpowering the more pungent smells of the city. There was a cold, crisp look to the sky.
“An old friend?” said Owain.
“Perhaps.” Bordeall shrugged. “Lucan heard him. Him and two of the sergeants. They were in the Fallow Field having some ale after the evening shift. It’s dark in there, darker than most inns on account of how the windows face right into the—”
“I’ve been to the Fallow Field. A guildsman, eh?”
They walked along in silence, Owain frowning and considering, and Bordeall gazing out over the parapets at the beauty of the morning. The dew on the grasses below the wall shone like silver under the sun�
�s eye.
“Have Posle brought to the armory,” said Owain suddenly. “Let’s have a chat with him. He might be the thin edge of the wedge we need.”
“Aye, he might.”
Posle trotted into the armory behind the young lieutenant Lucan.
“Here he is, my lord,” said Lucan, saluting.
“Thank you. You may go.”
Posle stood at attention before them—at least, in what he obviously thought was the proper stance. His eyes wandered about the room, examining the spears stacked in their sheaves, the shields hanging on the walls, the oak chests black with age, and the oil that had slowly seeped out over the years from the swords stored inside. He looked with interest at the stone steps leading down to the forge below, at the old flags hanging from the ceiling overhead, and the iron chandelier of candles chained up high over all, shrouded in dust and cobwebs. His gaze returned to Owain and Bordeall. He grinned in a friendly way, revealing several gaps in his teeth.
“Attention!” said Bordeall.
The smile vanished. The little man’s chin shot up and he stared in the air somewhere above Owain’s head.
“Yes! I mean, yes, sir!”
“Posle, isn’t it?” said Owain. “That’s a Vomarone name, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Er, yes, my lord.”
“Well, Posle, as commander of the Guard, I always like to get to know the new recruits. I like to know where they’ve come from. I like to know of any talents or associations they have that might benefit the Guard. Sensible, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, my lord.”
A slight sheen of sweat shone on Posle’s forehead.
The Wicked Day Page 5
