The Wicked Day (49 page)

Crows. Hundreds of crows. Jute could feel them clinging to his clothes. Dozens and dozens of claws found ragged purchase on his pants, his jacket, his boots, in his hair, his neck. And clinging to them where even more crows, adding more and more weight. Blood flew through the air in drops and spatters. Most of it was not his own. He was falling. He reached out for the wind but could not find it. There was nothing, only the feathers and the weight and the stink of the crows.

Jute slammed down into the ground. He could not breathe. For a moment he could not move. The earth held him fast, but then he staggered to his feet. The ground was littered with dead crows. Black feathers drifted down around him in the falling snow. The front line of soldiers stood motionless a hundred yards away. The air was rapidly turning even colder than it had been. The rain froze into snow. Snowflakes tumbled down upon the soldiers’ helms and shoulders, dusting the black metal with the pristine, innocent white of the winter sky. The wind was gone.

But Jute did not spare a glance for the soldiers, though they stood there like an endless forest, their endless ranks blackening the valley. They were only soldiers. His attention was fixed on the horseman riding along the riverbank. It passed the front line of soldiers and came to a halt a dozen yards away from Jute. The horse’s gaze settled on the boy, its eyes glinting red in the gloom. The rider did not move. The reins hung motionless in his gauntleted hands. The horse was enormous, but the rider was just as enormous—as if a mountain had encased itself into armor, crushed itself into the semblance of a man so that it might fit within breastplate and greaves, within hauberk and helm. The armor was forged of black iron, carved with runes that seemed to crawl upon the metal as if they were alive. The rider did not speak, but the helm stared at Jute.

Jute could not move. His body seemed to be weighted down, as if the earth pulled him down and had driven stone into him. He was part of the earth. He had always been. Who was he to think that the sky was his? Who was he to think that the wind was his, that he could fly, that he could leave the earth behind? He was only a boy, heavy with fear and empty of hopes and dreams.

Aye, thou art only a boy.

The voice struck through his mind with all the weight of stone and darkness. It was ponderous, measured, heavy with contempt. He knew the voice. It was the voice from the black tower in Ancalon. The duke of Mizra.

Thou art only a boy. Dost thou think to take thy seat amongst the powers of this world? Wouldst thou steal what can never be thine? Listen, boy, and learn wisdom. Learn from one who walked these lands when the world was young, when the darkness was full of light. Where wert thou when the mountains were formed, when their heights were carved from stone? Wert thou there when the dragons stirred in the depths? Didst thou walk upon the plains of Ranuin, where the river Elph ran down to the sea? Where wert thou when the moon rose on the world’s first night? Didst thou see the starfire come alive in the darkness, when its light drew breath and began to reach out across the sky?

“No,” whispered Jute. “I’m only a boy.”

Aye. Only a boy.

The rider did not move, sitting in the saddle as if hewn from stone. But the horse stretched its neck forward, teeth bared and eyes glinting red. Sulfurous steam trickled from its jaws as they opened wider. There was surely no escape. The horse’s teeth gleamed like sharp stones.

Snow drifted down onto Jute’s shoulders, onto the dead crows, and onto the frozen ground. The snowflakes hissed into steam, though, the instant they struck the horse. On the rider, however, they rested and remained frozen. The rider’s helm tilted slightly down to look at Jute. Even though the eye slit was full of shadow, he thought he saw a glimpse of something there. A trick of the half-light, perhaps a ray of light reflecting off a falling snowflake. Or maybe it was only his imagination. Whatever it was, for a second there seemed to be the suggestion of a face within the helm, eyes looking at him. And they were full of pity. Jute lurched back, his feet free. The horse’s jaws snapped shut in front of his face.

“Just a boy?” he shouted in fear and fury. “A boy I might be, but am I not the wind? The sky is mine!”

Jute turned and ran. He was heavy and clumsy at first, his body weighing more than it should. He slipped in the snow. But as he ran, with each successive step, he seemed to grow lighter and lighter until his boots barely touched the ground. He skimmed over the snow. The earth pulled at him, but he was beyond it now. He was free. The wind whistled in his ear, full of delight and terror.

Don’t look back
, chattered the wind.

Don’t look back!

Don’t look back!

Of course, when he heard this, Jute had to look back. He immediately wished he hadn’t. The black rider and his horse thundered along behind him at a dreadful gallop. The horse stretched out its neck low, reaching and reaching with its terrible jaws. Snow and ice flew up from its hooves as they thundered across the ground. Steam billowed from the horse’s mouth in gouts. Behind the horseman, the army came to life. Rank upon rank twitched and quivered and then marched forward, quickly and quicker yet. The air shook with the rumble of their armor. The earth trembled under them. But Jute no longer ran upon the earth. He sped through the air, ascending higher as if he ran up a staircase built of sky.

Those watching from the city walls could not see Jute at first. He was only a tiny blur flashing through the air. He flickered in and out of sight through the veil of falling snow. What lay beyond him, however, while further away, was much easier to see. It looked like a dark wave rolling down the valley, advancing at a tremendous speed. The closest point was the rider galloping along behind Jute. The wave stretched back on either side of him, as if he were the tip of a spear being rushed along by the darkness. That sharp edge drew closer. Those on the wall could hear the sound now. It was a muted rumbling at first, a muttering thundering roll that grew louder and louder. The stones of the wall under their feet vibrated with it. The clouds in the sky seemed to tremble with it. And the city grew silent so that it might listen in breathless horror to that sound.

“The lad’s going to make it,” said Hennen Callas, leaning forward against the parapet. “He’s going to make it!”

“Yes,” said the duke of Harlech, “and surely his pursuers must realize that. I don’t think, however, that they’re showing any intention of slowing down.”

“Archers, on my word,” said Owain Gawinn.

The flagsman standing near him tensed at the pole, waiting for his command. The dark wave thundered closer. Jute was visible now, hurtling through the air and at a height that would bring him high above the city wall.

“Away!” said Gawinn.

The red flag shot down the pole. Instantly, as it shot down, the air was darkened with thousands of arrows launched from the wall. They rose up into the air in a hissing arc, higher and higher until they seemed to almost touch Jute in his flight. A second and third launch followed just as quickly, in deep, twanging thrums. And then the first wave of arrows slashed down from the sky and slammed into the advancing soldiers. The arrows hit with a savage rattling clatter as iron tips punched through armor. The first few lines of soldiers crumpled and a cheer went up from the wall.

“And how many dozens were shot at the rider?” said the duke of Harlech quietly. “Not a single one touched him or his steed. Not from want of skill from our archers. I fear that horseman alone, even if we felled his army to the last soldier. I daresay he’ll ride unscathed by arrow or any other weapon we bring against him.”

As if to add weight to the duke’s words, more and more archers began targeting the galloping horseman. Arrows flew at him from all along the wall, fast and thick, slashing through the air so quickly that it was impossible to follow them with the eye. Arrows struck the rider with tremendous force but fell away, shattered, as if they had hit a rock wall. The horseman did not waver under the blows but continued on his way, unmoved in the saddle.

“Good grief,” someone said. “Is the horse on fire?”

“Not the beast. The arrows!”

It was true. Every arrow that struck the horse burst into flames. From the vantage point of those on the wall, it looked as if the horse ran along with a mantle of fire streaming from its black hide. The horse was not bothered by this but seemed to gain speed, galloping on, a dreadful apparition wreathed in flames and the morning gloom. Behind it, the army marched, trampling down the bodies of their fellows slain by arrows. The arrows flew, again and again, decimating their front ranks. With each fallen soldier, though, another stepped forward to take his place.

Jute hurtled by the wall, checked himself in midair, and then angled down to land on his feet beside Owain Gawinn. His face was white and strained. Owain clapped him on the shoulder and the duke of Harlech nodded, smiling.

“Declan’s safe?” But Jute answered his own question as he glanced down into the courtyard of the Guard below. The party of horsemen was clattering across the cobblestones toward the stables at that moment. Declan’s lean form was visible among them. “Well, that’s at least one thing that’s gone right. Hawk! Where are you?”

“Here, as always,” said the hawk. The bird settled onto the parapet beside Jute. “Someone has to keep their head while you’re haring off bent on death.”

“I’m not dead yet, am I? It was a close thing, yes, I’ll admit, but I’m fine. Besides, I think I know who he is now. I’m sure of it!”

“Who?”

But before Jute could answer, the horseman answered for him. He was quite close now, perhaps only several hundred yards off. It was then that the lightning struck. With a thunderous boom, the bolt flashed down through the air and struck the horseman. White fire blinded the day. The air smelled of hot metal. The horse burst into flame. His whole body raged into fire. His eyes were shining points of molten light. Scarlet flame dripped from his mouth. The air around the horseman hissed and sizzled as snowflakes exploded into steam. Despite it all, the rider did not move but sat as if carved from stone in his saddle of fire. The reins, ribbons of flame, hung motionless from his gauntlets. The horse continued its thundering gallop across the ground on four hooves of flame.

Silence and horror fell on the wall. Even the city sprawling out behind them seemed to fall silent as well. The only sounds to be heard were the drumming tattoo of the hooves of the approaching horse and the rattling, crashing wave of the army advancing behind him.

“I know him now too,” said the hawk. His voice was sad. “His name is Aeled. He is the fire that always burns. He was the eldest of the anbeorun. He burned in the darkness, in the cold spaces between the stars where the awful distances reach beyond time. He was light and warmth and the fierce sun that rose from the house of dreams. He was the captain of the four, the captain of the host that fought on the plains of Ranuin and brought Nokhoron Nozhan to ruin. And he himself has fallen into darkness now. How many years ago, I do not know. I saw no sign of it in the sky. I heard nothing in the wind. The sea slept for so many long years. And now, I fear, he holds the power of the earth captive in his hands.”

“And she’s close now,” said Jute, staring out over the wall into the falling snow. “Close indeed. She is somewhere nearby. I could feel her presence in the wind. What has he done to her? Is she broken to his will, or has she fallen into darkness as well? Whatever the answer, the earth is his to command, for it sought to hold me. He's using her. I felt as if I were turned into stone, pulled down into her domain. But look how he rides. Almost as if he would gallop right through the wall, and him without any siege weapons.” Jute paused, as if he were considering his own words. The hawk hissed and flung himself into the air, beating higher and higher into the wind. Jute shouted, his voice spun into the booming of the wind and carried along the length of the wall. “Get off the wall! Get off! Now!”

But it was too late for most of those on the wall. The parapets were crowded with soldiers. The only ways down were the stairs descending on both sides of the main gates, as well as smaller stairs every several hundred yards. There was, of course, the option of jumping off the wall, but this meant falling from a very great height to the cobblestones below.

There was little response to Jute other than a few blank faces turned his way. He shouted again, throwing his voice through the wind until it rattled the windows of every house in the city. Birds exploded up into the sky, shocked from their perches under eaves and against the warmth of chimneys. Down at the docks, a flock of seagulls scattered, screeing and calling in amazement. Dogs howled in dismay in every neighborhood. The cats of the city paused wherever they were, but they did not remark on the noise, for they were already well aware of what the day was bringing.

But on the wall, hardly a soul took notice of Jute’s desperate shout. Everyone stood mesmerized: ranks of archers, the Guardsmen with their pikes, the officers and attendants waiting upon the dukes, the dukes themselves. They all stared at the galloping horseman. The horse blazed with fire. It grew larger and larger with every second. Fire rimmed the horse’s eye, licking against the white socket of bone. Fire raged through the air. Thunder rumbled in the clouds overhead. And within the fire, in the dreadful furnace of those flames, the black rider sat as still as stone. Closer and closer, he rode on. The ground trembled with the shock of the horse's hooves. The wall shook. The snow was melting in the sky around them as it fell. It lashed down as rain. It hissed into steam, boiling up from the molten mud as he rode past.