“Something’s not right,” said Jute.
“What’s that?” said Declan quietly.
Jute! Stay out of sight! Declan too! The hawk’s voice quivered in his mind.
What is it? asked Jute, sinking down in his chair. Declan stared at him.
We’re working on it, said the hawk grimly, and then his voice went silent before Jute could ask him any more questions, such as: who was the “we” he referred to, what were they working on, and why?
The door of the inn flew open. Jute glimpsed three men standing in the door, cloaked and hooded, their shoulders dusted with snow. Something unpleasant slid along the edge of his thoughts, a questing, inquisitive touch of cold. The room went silent. Which was immediately broken by shrieks coming from somewhere. The kitchen. The strange presence at the edge of his mind abruptly disappeared. Everyone jumped to their feet. The three men at the door hurried across the room. Armor gleamed beneath their cloaks. The shrieks sounded again, louder, more frantic. The old woman burst from the kitchen door, followed by several scullery girls.
“Help! Murder!” yowled the old woman. “Blood an’ doom! Doom!” The scullery girls shrieked. “Doom!”
The three men vanished into the kitchen.
“Now’s our chance,” said Declan.
He wasn’t the only one thinking this. Several others were edging their way toward the door. The room rang with the clamor of voices and excited talk. A knot of patrons surrounded the old woman, who was still howling at the top of her lungs. One of the scullery girls fainted and fell to the floor with a thud. Jute and Declan sidled to the door.
Right as Jute stepped across the threshold, he glanced back into the room. He should not have. He knew he should not have, but he could not help himself. The fire blazed up on the hearth, roaring in an instant from sullen coals to crackling flame. Firelight flickered into every corner of the room, illuminating the edges of faces and tankards. Shadows deepened behind tables and chairs. The old woman was now waving her arms about to accompany whatever tale she was telling, and the knot of men clustered about her grew. But at the kitchen door, a face shone palely, turning just as Jute did. One of the three men in cloak and armor. His eyes locked onto Jute. Something sparked in them. Recognition.
“That’s torn it,” said Jute, and he darted out the door and into the night. Snowflakes whipped down from a moonless, starless sky. The wind whistled across the roofs, blowing up swirls of snow and stinging ice. Horses stamped impatiently in the street. Declan grabbed Jute’s arm and pulled him into the shadows along the wall.
“Soldiers,” he said. “But we need to get past them to the barn. My sword. Our packs.”
“One of ‘em saw me inside. I think he was looking for us. We need to go!”
Declan sighed. “Right. After me, then.”
Past the inn, the street ended at the river in a hodgepodge of rickety sheds and a dock that leaned out from the bank on pilings standing frozen in the ice. They ran between the sheds, the snow crunching underfoot. A voice called out from somewhere behind them. It was a curiously flat sound, dispassionate, disinterested, yet intent.
“They’ll follow our footprints in the snow,” said Jute. He looked down in dismay at the prints he was making.
“Exactly. Quick. Out onto the ice!”
They ran down the bank, slipping and sliding down the slope until Jute could no longer keep his footing and tumbled end over end to land in a heap on the ice.
“Aha,” said Declan in satisfaction. “Give me a hand here.”
“What?”
“Here!”
Drawn up on the bank and sheltered beneath the dock was a rowboat turned upside down.
“I don’t understand,” said Jute, but Declan interrupted him.
“No time now. I’ll explain later.”
They wrestled the rowboat over and slid it out onto the ice. There were two oars tied up on hooks beneath the gunwales. They pushed and pulled until the boat was a good ways across the river, skidding it across the ice perhaps a hundred yards. The wind whipped along the surface of the ice and drove the snow before it in flurries of stinging flakes. Jute felt his hands going numb.
“Get in.”
“What?” said Jute.
A shout rang out from the riverbank behind them.
“Get in the boat.”
Jute scrambled in and peered over the boat railing at the dark figures of the soldiers slipping and sliding down the bank. Several of the soldiers skidded and fell as soon as they reached the ice, but there was little consolation in that, as the men were now much closer.
“Declan? Is there something I’m missing here?”
“Wait. Just wait.” Declan stepped into the boat and the entire craft settled over on one side, teetering on its keel. “Untie that oar there.”
“They don’t look friendly.”
“No, they don’t. I think they’re planning on taking us prisoner or perhaps killing us. Your teeth are chattering.”
“What if they are? It’s freezing out here!”
The hawk swooped down out of the swirling snow to land on the boat’s gunwale. “What are you doing?” he said. “Are you both idiots? Sculling along the ice? There’s death and dark magic getting closer by the second, not to mention quite a few swords. A thing not quite a man is in that company. Run, you fools!”
“Patience, master hawk,” said Declan, looking at the soldiers drawing near. There were a good dozen of them, cloaked against the cold but in armor that jingled and rang as they ran. Jute could hear the sound of it in the clash of their mailed boots on the ice and in the rasp of gauntleted fist as swords sang free from their sheaths.
“Patience?” said the hawk, but then Declan spoke, whispering the same word over and over, his voice louder and louder and faster and faster until the night and the frozen river and the blowing snow seemed to ring with the sound of it. It was a hard word, an edged sound, a brisk, sharp thing that hurt the ears just to hear it. Jute snatched his hands away from the gunwale, for the wood railing had grown hot. The air was strangely warm.
“Stop!” said the hawk, but it was too late. The word was out.
The ice around them shattered. Lines zigzagged away in every direction, slabs of ice collapsing into water to reveal the dark depths below. The boat settled into the water. The soldiers had almost reached them by then and, after the first horrifying moment, Jute shut his eyes, for he could not bear to watch. The strange thing about it was that he expected yells and screams as the men went through the ice, but the men were oddly silent as they fought to hang onto something, anything—chunks of ice floating by, scrabbling and clawing at each other as if a body encased in heavy armor would prove to float—but they all plunged down into the sudden water. Jute looked up to see the last man balancing on an ice floe bobbing in the current. It was the same man who had seen him in the inn. Even through the darkness, Jute could see the man’s eyes as if they gleamed with a faint light. His face was expressionless. And then the ice floe collapsed and the man vanished into the water.
“Paddle!” said Declan. “Not like that! Put your back into it and dig down!”
“Do you realize what you’ve done?” said the hawk, his voice vibrating with anger. “This word you spoke, your campfire word. It’s a dangerous word from a long dead tongue. Speaking it is like lighting a fire in the darkness, a blazing light that draws eyes from near and far. But the way you used it this time, this was not a whisper. No! This was more like a shout! Didn’t I warn you before? The evil might outweigh the good here!”
“It was the only thing I could think of at the time,” said Declan. “Better than having our throats cut, wasn’t it?”
The river was free of ice now, and it bore them along on its swollen tide. Rain lashed down instead of snow, but the air was growing cold again. They made for the bank just past the town. Willows stood along the water’s edge, with branches stripped of leaves and dangling their slimy black fingers down into the water. It was a nasty business
to pull the boat up out of the water, for the bank was deep in slush that quickly churned into mud.
“I’m going back to get our things,” said Declan. He frowned, wiping mud off on his pants. “I suppose you’d better come along rather than wait here, if only to keep moving and stay warm.”
“I’d like to find some new clothes,” said Jute, for he had fared much worse than Declan in hauling the boat out. His pants and coat were a stinking mess of black mud.
“Find?”
“Uh, steal.”
Snow began falling again as they crept through the town. The streets were silent and the windows were dark on the outskirts, but there was the sound of voices calling to and fro further within the town. Jute stopped outside a promising looking house, larger than its neighbors, standing tall and sturdy in its stone walls and with two stories capped in thatch and snow.
“I’ll try this one,” said Jute.
“Be quick about it,” said Declan. “I’ll meet you back at the boat.”
“Both of you be quick about it,” said the hawk crossly, “for there’s no telling who hurries along our trail due to your foolishness.”
All three parted at that point, all in bad humor, and all in silence: Declan loping down the street back toward the inn, Jute skulking along the side of the house to investigate windows and doors, and the hawk flapping up to perch on top of the roof.
Jute was in luck, for he found an unlocked window at the back of the house. He had to scrape the sill clear of snow first. The window swung open with a screech loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. Jute stood there with his nerves jumping and his ears straining to hear any stir of sleepy and outraged life. But there was nothing, not even a barking dog. He clambered over the sill and dropped down into the silence of the house. His fingers twitched in unconscious and happy anticipation. It had been a long time since he had stolen anything and he was looking forward to a good browse.
You should know better, scolded the hawk inside his mind.
What?
Take only what you must, and leave a coin or two in place.
Jute found himself standing in the kitchen. Coals glinted red among the ashes on the hearth, and he warmed his hands for a moment. It would have been nice to stay there a while, but he moved away reluctantly. There was work to be done. He explored the ground floor of the house but did not find any clothing, as it consisted only of the kitchen (as it was a large room and was probably used for everything from cooking, eating, sitting about the fire, and whatever everyday activities the family pursued) and a storage room crammed full of sacked foodstuffs (which proved to be mostly potatoes and turnips, upon closer investigation).
Hurry up, said the hawk.
I am.
Jute tiptoed up the staircase. A chest in the largest of three bedrooms contained what he wanted. The clothes were too large and the boots standing at the foot of the bed would need a few scraps of cloth stuffed into their toes in order to make them fit properly, but they would do just fine. A man snored in the bed beside his wife, and Jute cast them an envious glance. A quilt, a bed, and a roof to keep the night out. He shrugged his shoulders. Ah well. It was not to be for now. He rummaged some more through the chest and found a thick coat, worn and ragged in the cuffs, but much nicer than what he had now.
Footsteps shuffled in the doorway and Jute froze. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a small child in a nightgown trudge to the bed. He heard the sleepy mumble of the child and the soft-voiced response of the mother, and then the child climbed up into the bed. Covers were rearranged and the room was silent again except for the unbroken snore of the man. Jute tiptoed away, the clothing and boots clutched in his hands. He left his old clothes piled up by the hearth, with several copper coins on top. Then, with the pockets of his new coat stuffed full of potatoes, he let himself back out into the night.
Declan was waiting for him at the boat, along with the ghost.
“Thought we’d seen the last of him,” said Declan, “but I found him skulking about our packs. Guarding them, he says. And it seems we have him to thank for causing that ruckus in the inn. It was him that did it.”
“A brilliant strategy,” said the ghost. “Genius, if I may say so. Why, only a mind as keen as my own, adept in military tactics and—”
“I seem to recollect,” said the hawk, “that it was my idea.”
“The execution was nothing short of inspired. I hid in the pot of stew, lurking beneath the lid until just the right moment, right when the old biddy lifted it off to stir. I then burst out, wailing and gnashing my teeth and chanting ‘Doom, doom, doom!’ I’ve never thought myself an actor, being more the intelligent type and far too handsome, don’t you know, to put on a convincing performance as a horrible-looking creature, but I did it. I was superb.”
“Yes,” said the hawk. “Now, let’s get moving.”
“How she screamed,” said the ghost happily. “The ladle went one way, stew flying the other way, one of the scullery girls was scalded. Marvelous.”
“Marvelous. Just marvelous,” said the hawk.
“I saved your lives, didn’t I?”
“I guess you did,” said Jute, smiling. “Thank you.”
“Get moving,” grumbled the hawk.
Ice was forming again on the river, but only in patches, for not enough time had passed yet to sheath the entire stretch. They paddled the boat across, fending off ice floes and trying not to become too irritated with the ghost. The moon had come out, and it was no longer snowing as hard as it had been before.
“There’ll be light enough to walk by,” said Jute.
“And light enough for us to be tracked by,” said Declan. “Go up to the front—”
“It’s called the prow, you ignorant landlubber,” said the ghost.
“—and bash away at the ice with your paddle. It’s starting to form up too fast for us to get through.”
“Do you think they’ll track us?” said Jute. “Who are they?”
“There were more soldiers back at the inn when I got there. A larger troop on horses, lathered and winded as if they had ridden hard and just arrived.” Declan dug in hard with his paddle to propel them the last few feet to the riverbank. Ice grated against the side of the boat. “I suppose they’re soldiers of the duke. Can’t imagine anyone else in a duchy able to afford that kind of a following.”
“But surely they aren’t after us,” said Jute. “They wouldn’t know who we are, and why would they be interested in us?”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said the hawk.
“Don’t fret,” said the ghost. “Leave these soldiers to me. I’ll take care of them. I have a new routine all thought out. It’ll be a grand performance. I draw my inspiration from our recent encounter with the ogre and shall call it: Bulging Eyes Ravenous for Flesh and Meaningful Conversation. No, no—you needn’t thank me now. The screams of the soldiers as they flee in terror will be thanks enough.”
“I’m sure we’ll be grateful,” said Declan.
The boat ground to a halt in the shallows against the bank. The river had carried them away from the town, which was only visible in a few small lights far off in the night. They dragged the boat up on shore and hid it in some bushes.
“An hour more and the snow will have covered it up,” said Declan. “Now, let’s be on our way.”
They hitched up their packs and set off. It was well past midnight now. The snow was slicked over with ice in spots and Jute slipped and slithered along behind Declan. The older man seemed to have a knack for where to step and never once slipped.
“How far are we going tonight?” panted Jute. “I don’t suppose there’s another town nearby?”
“No. If our luck doesn’t worsen, we’ll make Ancalon by midday tomorrow. I had a quick word with old Birt when I slipped back for our packs. Claims it was Doyl who tipped off the soldiers to what we looked like when they came marching up to the inn. Says any of the Doyls would sell their grandma in a wink for gold. Anyway, Birt say
s we should reach the city early tomorrow if we make good time.”
“If you don’t freeze to death first,” said the ghost.
And it was exceedingly cold. The snow had stopped falling, but this was no consolation, as the wind blew all the more harder, chasing the snow about the ground in clouds and sudden flurries that got into their collars and down their necks.
Sorry, but I must be about my business, the wind seemed to whisper to Jute. It’s what I do. I howl and rush and blow and bother and worry away at everything that is. You’ll learn. You’ll learn.
“At least our tracks’ll be covered over by this wretched wind,” said Declan.
“There are other ways to follow a path than mere footprints,” said the hawk. “I remember, long ago, in a different land, my old master and I tracked a sceadu across mountains and valleys without benefit of footprints or such sign as you would find in broken branches and bruised leaves, for a sceadu can travel without touching the ground, so light is their step. But we kept on the creature’s trail by following the glance of the moon and by hunting where the deepest shadows lay.”
“You don’t say,” said the ghost, all agog at hearing this. “How does one determine the moon’s glance? I’m sure I knew once, but I must’ve forgotten.”
“Sounds like a better way of tracking than looking for prints,” returned Declan, “but I can’t interpret the moon, let alone fathom that she takes such an interest in men that she’d glance down on our lives.”
“But what happened then?” said Jute. “Did you find the sceadu?”
The hawk might have said more, but he did not, for at that moment there came a long, drawn-out howl from somewhere far behind them. It came from far away, but the sound was clear in the cold night sky.
The Wicked Day Page 11
