The Wicked Day (39 page)

“Sir?”

I’ve always gotten along well with the men. Probably a Gawinn trait. My father’s soldiers would’ve followed him to the gates of Daghoron. They would’ve died for him to the last man.

“Sir?” said Lucan again, this time stepping forward. His face looked anxious. “Sir, are you all right? The physician will be here soon.”

Owain blinked.

“Of course I’m all right,” he said.

But then Lucan’s face divided into two. Two faces staring at him. Two Lucans. No. Lucan and a grim, weathered old man. Galaestan. The duke of Thule. And then Maernes, the duke of Hull. Maernes said something, his mouth moving, but there was no sound. But Owain could hear the darkness chuckling. Right there. In the corner of the room.

No point to it all, Gawinn.

You might win this battle, but the war’ll still be lost.

Die in the end, regardless.

Death.

And then Sibb’s face was staring down at his. Sibb. Her mouth moved. He could hear her. He always could.

“Owain.”

Then there was only darkness.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE RESCUE OF HARLECH

Jute and the hawk flew out of the twilight with the rain lashing down and the sky lowering until it seemed like the clouds rested on the towers of Hearne several miles down the valley in the west. The air smelled of iron and the wind felt as cold as ice. Jute could see that the gates of the city were closed. Torches burned on top of the wall like tiny flames of fire in the darkness.

“A few minutes more,” said the hawk, flying beside Jute’s shoulder. “A few minutes more and we’ll reach Hearne."

"We should've been there yesterday," said Jute. "What's the use of being the windlord if I can't take care of a little lightning?"

"Not all things in the sky belong to the wind. Don't forget that. Anyway, what's done is done and we can only hope our delay does not prove detrimental. Hmmph. I've had enough of being rained on and being chased around by lightning. I don’t suppose I should care either way, but I wouldn’t mind a nap in front of a nice fire. I must be feeling my age. Hmm. I suppose I am rather old.”

“Old,” said the ghost from somewhere inside Jute’s cloak. “Does old mean anything to a ghost? I feel old. No, I don’t. I don’t feel anything.”

“Look down there,” said Jute.

“What?” said the hawk.

“Down there. Look to your left, beside the river.”

At first, there seemed to be nothing except the river, dark with mud and flecked with ice, rushing between acres of dead and blackened cornstalks. Past the fields, the side of the valley rose in slopes of bracken. A few solitary oaks stood here and there.

“I don’t see anything,” said the hawk. He spoke crossly, for he did not think it proper that a boy, regardless of whether he was the windlord or not, should have better eyesight than a hawk. Particularly if he were the hawk in question.

“In the cornfields, just below us.”

The hawk saw them. Men creeping through the cornstalks, crouching down to eke out what little camouflage the withered stalks could lend. Perhaps two dozen men. They were soldiers. Swords and bows were in evidence. They moved west, in the direction of Hearne, but those in the back of the group spent most of their time looking east from whence they had obviously came. The reason for their caution was not long coming. A long, drawn-out bay broke the cold night air.

“Wind preserve us!” said the hawk.

Jute felt his heart stutter. He knew that sound. A shadowhound. He looked back, twisting in the wind, trying to locate the beast. Nothing. Only more cornfields, the river, and the muddy road stretching back into the dark distances of the valley. The bay belled again, shivering through the sky.

“A shadowhound,” said Jute. “But I can’t see the thing. He must be after the men. Should we do something? We can’t just leave them alone. Do you remember the last time we met a shadowhound?”

“We can’t leave them alone?” said the ghost. “Why not? Sounds fairly straightforward to me. People like being left alone.”

“Only too well,” said the hawk, his voice soft. “Levoreth Callas. She had more power in her one finger than anyone in all of Tormay. I doubt we—”

“The duke of Harlech!”

“What?” said the hawk.

“That’s the duke of Harlech down there.”

And Jute dove down from the sky, sliding down the wind as quick as thought, flashing through the slashing rain. The hawk folded his wings and fell after him. He looked one more time to the east as he plunged after the boy. He did not see the shadowhound. He did not expect to. But further down the muddy road lying along the riverbank, he saw a troop of horsemen riding. They were no more than two miles away at most and they were riding fast. Jute and the hawk landed in a flurry of wind in the middle of the cornfield. Steel hissed free from sheaths around them.

“Hold, hold,” whispered someone. “It’s the hawk and his boy.”

“What about the ghost?” huffed the ghost, but no one heard him.

“My lord wind,” said the duke of Harlech, stepping through the cornstalks. His gray hair was matted and his face was lined with weariness. “I wasn’t expecting your company, but you’re very welcome. Forgive my presumption, but we’re in rather a bad spot. Can you—?”

“No,” said the hawk regretfully. “He can’t. The wind does not answer his bidding so readily yet.”

“Very well. We’ll make do.” The duke bowed slightly. “Your presence gladdens my heart.

“That’s all fine,” said Jute, embarrassed at the old man’s words. “I’m sorry I can’t just whistle up the wind and whisk everyone away. I’m still rather new at this. But we did see horsemen riding down the road. They’re quite close.”

“How many?”

“Forty, perhaps fifty at most.”

“And there’s barely two dozen of us,” said the duke. “If we had spears, then we’d have a chance. But not with swords. Swords aren’t much good against mounted horse.”

“Even worse, there’s a shadowhound with them.” As if to underscore Jute’s words, a howl rang out through the sky.

“That, I take it, is the hound you speak of?” said the duke. “I’m not familiar with this beast you speak of. Harlech has its share of strange things, but not this.”

“Not a real hound of flesh and blood, but one woven from darkness and magic. I don’t think swords can hurt the thing, but it can kill men well enough with its teeth.”

“Horsemen closing in on us, and now this,” said the duke, frowning. “A company of spearmen would be handy at the moment, or, say, a sturdy castle with a drawbridge. I’m afraid this cornfield will have to do. You’re sure you can’t command the wind for us?”

“Er,” said Jute. “The thing is, the wind doesn’t really obey me.”

“Not yet,” said the hawk.

“No matter.” The duke shrugged. “Can’t say I’m enthused about dying in the middle of a muddy cornfield, but that’s not important. A magic hound?” He turned away and snapped out some orders.

The men of Harlech did not speak but fanned out in a tight half-circle facing east. The archers wiped their bowstrings dry of moisture and huddled within their cloaks, waiting and listening. The duke’s son, Rane, stood at the front of the men, his sword sheathed and his face intent. The rain slashed down. The cornstalks waved under the wind’s breath and pointed their blackened and slimy tips east, as if aware of that which approached.

“A magic hound,” said the hawk. “Not just magic, my lord, but darkness. True darkness.”

“We were cut off from our horses,” said the duke. He pulled his cloak more closely about him, though it was already sodden with rain. “We held them off, halfway down the pass, until Lartes could get his men and the remaining Guard clear. Then they overran our lines as night fell. We had no choice. The horses were lost.”

“What did you do?”

The duke shrugged. “The only thing we could do, other than getting slaughtered. We jumped off the cliff into the river and swam across. The night hid us and we made our way down the valley. The day brought us here, to this field, and to you.”

He would’ve spoken more, but Rane raised his hand. They were silent then, each listening to the wind and the sounds of the evening. Faintly at first, and then more clearly, there came the drumming, thumping roll of a troop of horses galloping. The sound came louder and louder. They heard the sound of voices calling in harsh, guttural tones.

Rane said one quiet word and the archers strung their bows. The galloping sound suddenly stopped in a jingle of reins and bridles. The wind rustled nervously through the cornstalks. They were bare and tattered, but it was impossible to see very far through them. Jute strained his ears. He heard nothing except the sigh of the wind and the sullen murmur of the river. Something stirred in his memory. Something vital that he very much needed to remember. He caught hold of the wind and felt his body rise. An inch higher, one more inch, surely, and he would be able to see beyond the cornfield.

Hold
, said the hawk in his mind.
The shadowhound is with the horseman. I think it is confused by what it smells. The river is choked with the bodies of the dead. The sight of you will dispel its doubt.

Just a bit higher. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.

Jute floated a few inches higher, holding the wind in his mind like a stream of water running through his fingers. He could see over the tops of the cornstalks now. There was enough moonlight, meager that it was, to see several hundred yards of the river, swift and black and rushing headlong between its banks. Beside the river was a company of horsemen. They stood quite still, the riders motionless in their saddles and the horses like statues. One horseman sat his mount somewhat removed from the others—a tall, thin form somewhat hunched over in the saddle as if he had fallen asleep. The riders were no more than dark shapes in the moonlight. One thing did move, however. Further along the road, and closer to the cornfield, a black form paced back and forth. A dog. A shadowhound. It roved across the road and onto the riverbank, its head to the ground.

“I don’t like this,” said the ghost from somewhere nearby in the cornstalks. “Can’t we just go home?”

The memory stirred again in Jute’s mind, restless and undefined. He reached for it but felt it slip away. The wind blew by with the smell of rain and the decaying corpses floating down the river, the smell of bracken, of brambleberries shriveled black on the vine, and molding cornstalks. Brambleberries. The memory surfaced again, almost coming into clarity.

Absentmindedly, Jute drifted higher. It was not even an inch. But it was enough. The shadowhound barked. The horseman standing removed from the others wheeled his mount around. A voice near the river called out a command. Jute dropped back down to the ground.

“That’s torn it,” said the hawk. “Well done.”

“Er, yes,” said the ghost. “Well done. What did he do?”

“Brambleberries,” said Jute.

“You don’t have to announce our presence and wave a big red flag at the same time,” said the hawk. “And what do brambleberries have to do with anything?”

“Archers,” said Rane quietly.

The bowmen knocked arrows to strings. The voice called again, somewhere near the cornfield. The ground shook with the thunder of hooves.

“Now,” said Rane.

Arrows sliced through the air with a hissing, ripping sound that barely lasted a second. Then they hit with a punching slap. Horses screamed and whinnied in pain. Cornstalks flew through the air as steeds went down. The rain ran red with blood in the churned mud of the ground. The bowmen loosed again, not a heartbeat later. The cornfield seemed to be dissolving in front of them, shredded by arrowheads and the sharp, flailing hooves of dying horses. The voice called again from beyond the cornfield, stabbing at the air and throwing its men forward by the sheer power of its command. The line of the men of Harlech shuddered back under an onslaught of steel, but they held firm. Rane leapt from place to place, his voice hoarse and shouting, his sword like a living thing. Arrows still flew from the bowmen, but singly, as they shot past the shoulders of their own men.

“Back to the oak!” yelled Jute, catching the duke of Harlech by his arm.

“What?” The duke shook free of his clutch and swung his sword up. Steel slammed against steel. He staggered and then Rane was at his side, grim-faced and bloody, his sword an efficient, deadly blur.

“Thank you,” said the duke, gasping for air.

“There’s a tunnel beneath that oak,” said Jute. “A tunnel that leads to Hearne.”

“You’re sure?”

“You must believe me!”

“Aye,” said the hawk. “He’s right! I recall this place now. Brambleberries. My apologies, Jute. The tunnel leads all the way to Hearne, beneath the walls and to the underbelly of the university. It’s a long walk through the dark. But, more important, it could be easily defended.”

“If we pull back, we’ll lose men,” said Rane.

“And if we stay, you’ll all die!”

The hawk launched himself into the air and was lost in the rain. There was no more time to discuss the decision. There was no time to even make the decision. It was made for them, because the shadowhound attacked. A blur, a snarling howl, a rush of darkness and teeth, and the line collapsed in blood. Two men went down in quick succession. They died so swiftly that they made no sound.