The Wicked Day (15 page)

“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 says 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.

“A dog,” said the ghost. “A bloodhound. No doubt already on our trail. It was a valiant effort, but now we’re all going to die. Oh well.”

“That’s not a dog,” said the hawk.

“I’ve heard that sound before.” Jute tried to swallow but his mouth had gone dry. “Back in Hearne. She called them shadowhounds. I didn’t see them, but I remember the sound of their howl.”

“Shadowhound, aye,” muttered the hawk.

“Hounds, shadowhounds, whatever you call them, I don’t care,” said Declan. “Any beast can be killed.”

“Not these. Your sword wouldn’t suffice. Hiding your trail within a city is the best option. Other than that, the only way to defeat such a beast is with magic, and none of us are skilled in such arts.”

“They don’t fly, do they?” said Jute, thinking back to that dreadful and wonderful night in Hearne. It seemed long ago now. “You can fly. I can fly!”

“Thank you very much,” said Declan. “That would leave me to sort things out by myself.”

“I wouldn’t leave your side,” said the ghost. “Yours will be a brave death, no doubt, and I shall be honored to witness it.”

“Never fear.” The hawk bobbed his head. “Flying might be an option if the boy didn’t always fall flat on his face the moment his feet leave the ground. He wouldn’t get far that way. No. We must think of another way to lose the beast.”

But they could not think of a way, no matter how much they discussed the problem as they hurried along. They did not hear the howl again, but no one doubted for a moment what followed on their path. They came to the edge of a valley that yawned open before them. The moonlight shone on cliffs sheathed in ice, frozen in folds and draperies and waterfalls halted by winter’s hand in their downward plunge but still falling away to the depths below.

“That’s not a descent I’d like to make,” said Declan. “Even in daylight with ropes and axe. We’ll have to skirt it west until we find a better spot, or even further to where the trader’s road must surely find its way through.” He shook his head. “If we had wings, master hawk, this would be no problem.”

“If we threw Jute over the side,” said the hawk, “he’d learn to fly fast enough, but I can’t vouch for you. Men aren’t made to fly and there’s only trouble if they try.”

“No one’s throwing me over the side,” said Jute.

They hiked along the top of the cliffs in growing dismay, for there seemed no end to them. The ground was treacherous with ice, and they kept a distance from the edge of the cliffs for fear of slipping and plunging over. Pine trees grew there in ever-increasing frequency until they found themselves walking through a forest. The trees were heavy with snow and the drifts were deep. The moon shone down in shreds and tatters, wherever it could find a way through the tree branches.