The Wicked Day (36 page)

“Beware!” shouted the hawk, and he abruptly dove.

Jute followed him without thinking, tucking his chin down and flying, almost falling, at dizzying speed. Lightning crashed behind them. The sound and flash deafened and blinded him. He could see nothing except a white blur tinged with red. The air smelled burnt with fire. Dimly, he became aware of the hawk shouting something else. Lightning flashed down again, and something smashed into him. The air. Sudden and as hard as a hammer. He tumbled end over end, arms flailing, losing hold of the wind. And then caught it the next second to slide, diving down and away. The air felt like it was on fire, trembling with sudden heat. Snowflakes hissed into steam. The lightning struck again and again, searching through the darkness for him. Reaching for him. Jute flew with his eyes shut, the bolts of lightning searing verticals of red on his eyelids, jarring the air around him. The snow melted into rain.

“He’s hunting for us!” shouted the hawk, his voice almost inaudible in the crashing thunder. “Don’t speak mind to mind! Don’t speak to the wind! If you do, he’ll know where you are!”

They flew through the darkness and the rain. The night surged around them, deeper and darker, torn by lightning and trembling with thunder. The wind urged them toward the west and Hearne. But it was no use.

Time and time again they sought to fly further west, and time and time again lightning flashed down from the sky, as quick as thought. The blazing branches of fire seemed like an impenetrable thicket of thorns that sprang up before them with every attempt. The darkness trembled and flickered with malevolent light. They were both silent, but the lightning seemed to find them with unerring accuracy whenever one of them veered westward. Finally, after some time, the hawk struggled through the air until he was close enough to Jute to be heard.

"It's no use," said the hawk. "The way west is closed to us."

"For now," said Jute, his voice tight with anger. He turned in the air, staring about them. He shrugged wearily. "South."

"South," said the hawk. "And then we will try again."

"West," whispered the ghost from inside Jute's cloak.

They angled away to the south then, the hawk faltering a bit on his wings, but then gaining strength as they retreated. The lightning died off, but the stormclouds remained massed behind them in their dark towers. Both of them were nearly deaf and dumb from the repeated crashing of thunder. Jute flew with his eyes shut, for they ached from all of the lightning.

And somewhere not too far away, but further and further with each passing moment, somewhere in the darkness of the valley, an army marched through the night in quick and sure step, heading west toward the sea and toward Hearne.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

AN OLD SCENT

Declan crested a rise and saw the lake stretching out before him in the morning sunlight, glittering and flashing and near almost as beautiful as the sea. He missed the sea. Missed it more than the plains. He missed it more than hunting through the forests and mountains of his youth. He knew those places, particularly in the north of Tormay, like the back of his hand, knew them better than he knew his own face. The sea he did not know. But he missed it more, like a hole deep inside him that needed to be filled with blue and green and the icy depths. Declan’s hand closed on the strand around his neck. The pearl was cold to the touch. He urged the horse down the slope. There was a chill in the air that had certainly not been apparent the day before. Frost gleamed on the ground and his breath misted in the air.

“Freeze, blast you,” he said out loud. “Freeze and stay frozen from now until the stars fall.”

It was not until midday that he came to the city of Lura, the seat of the duchy of Vomaro. Lura was really not large enough to be called a city, at least, not as large as Hearne or Damarkan or Ancalon. Lura was a town, but its people and its duke had always been a touchy lot and their town was definitely more than just a town. It was their capitol. It was obviously the finest of places, the height of fashion, architecture, art, and courtliness. Anyone other than a Vomarone would’ve called Lura a town, and a town was all it was in Declan’s eyes, sprawling and shabby at the west end of the lake.

“Smaller than I remember,” said Declan.

The horse whinnied in response, sounding equally disillusioned. It knew nothing about Lura, but it knew plenty about the fact that it had been a day and a night since it had had any oats. Grass was fine, but it grew monotonous as a diet.

Declan patted the horse’s neck. “You’ll be resting your hocks soon enough, you lazy bag of bones. Last time I came this way I was riding one of your better cousins. A descendant of Min the Morn, no less. At least, that’s what my pa claimed.”

The horse rolled a disdainful eye back at him.

A road ran along the edge of the lake. It was a lovely place, Declan had to grant that. The sunlight shone through the eucalyptus growing near the water’s edge. Far out on the lake, two ketches sailed along in tandem, beating up against the wind toward the Lura docks. Their sails were white and bent gracefully to the wind.

Lura sprawled alongside the lakeshore. The houses were built in a style particular to Vomaro: steeply peaked roofs of wooden shingles atop tall walls carved with brightly painted leaves and vines and, of course, the fruit of the vine, for Vomaro had always been renowned for its wines. The lake lapped up underneath the pilings of the wharves that reached out from the town. Masts swayed in rows, their boats sleeping in their slips. The guards at the gate came to lazy attention as he rode through. They did not say anything, merely eying him insolently as he passed by.

Declan knew the way to the duke’s manor. He knew it uncomfortably well, even though it had been years since he had even set foot in the duchy itself. He guided the horse through the streets, murmuring to the beast, and it stepped along eagerly, as if aware that a rest and a bag of oats were waiting up ahead.

“And then back home to Hearne,” said Declan. He thought about that and then sighed. “Well, at least back to Hearne.”

He twitched the collar of his cloak up more closely around his neck. Ice floated on the lake in dirty gray chunks. The wind blew through the streets, gusting against the shutters and blowing the chimney smoke into tatters that whipped away into the sky. Declan shivered, but the chill was more from a memory than the day. The duke’s manor loomed at the end of the street. It was the only structure in Lura built entirely of stone.

“Name your business,” said the doorkeeper. “Name it or move along. I don’t have time for idle chatter.” His eyes slid over Declan, weighing the cost of his clothing, his horse, the sword in the battered leather hilt rising above his shoulder. The man yawned, disdainful.

“My business is with the duke,” said Declan, striving to keep his voice pleasant. “Tell him the emissary of the Lord Captain of Hearne is here with a message for the duke.”

The doorkeeper might have had his own thoughts about this, but as Declan had swung down from his horse and stood a good foot taller than the man, he kept these thoughts to himself.

It was warm inside, uncomfortably warm, with fires burning on every hearth and torches flaring on every wall. The place was as he remembered it. An elegance of the past, faded velvet, wood worn dark with time, stone pillars carved like gaunt ribs rising up into the ceiling’s spine.

“If you would come this way, sir.”

A servant bowed and beckoned inside the hall.

But there was something different. One thing. The pearl on his neck felt even colder now than it had been, cold as ice. The smell. The smell of the place. It was a familiar smell, but it wasn’t the smell his mind associated with his memory of the place. It was the scent of stone and rust, of something unbearably old and heavy beyond the capability of a man. The back of his neck prickled painfully. The pearl grew colder. Before him, the servant bowed and smiled, beckoning him forward. He could not place the smell yet, but he knew he would remember. The mind did not forget smells. Declan walked down a hall lined with loitering courtiers. Young noblemen gossiped in bored drawls, their eyes flicking at him in contempt and curiosity as he passed. Servants floated to and fro bearing trays of cool drinks. Shadows, but the heat was stifling. He snatched a goblet off a tray as it whisked by. Chilled red wine.

“The duke will see you now.”

It was another servant. He hadn’t even seen him approach. Declan drained the cup and handed it to the man. Doors swung open. Behind him, the courtiers momentarily hushed and glared after him.

The years had not been kind to the duke of Vomaro. At least, that’s what his memory told him, for he remembered a vigorous man of hale body and a voice that snapped like a whip. He saw the same man in him who sat on the throne before him, but he was almost lost in corpulent flesh, in the sagging skin and the dull eyes that surveyed him without interest.

“The emissary from Owain Gawinn of Hearne, my lord,” said someone off to the side.

“Gawinn, you say,” said the duke. He shifted a bit, struggling to sit somewhat more upright but failing. “Light another candle, blast you, I can hardly see the man.”

“Very well, my lord.”

Candlelight flared.

“Come closer, man. Gawinn, eh? Says there’s a war coming, does he now?” The candlelight glinted in the duke’s eyes and Declan saw there was still life there. “I know Gawinn. Know him well. Fought in the Errant Wars with his father. Remember when we took Crushammer Ridge. Had two mounts killed beneath me. Archers, you see. Cavalry ain’t the best thing when you’re charging straight uphill into massed archers. Spears in front of ‘em. But we didn’t have any choice that day. Gawinn, good man. Both of ‘em—father an’ son. Good men. Do I know you? There’s a familiar bit about your face. A war coming, eh? With the Dark pulling the strings? That’s what he says here. That’s what he says.”

The duke squinted down at the unrolled parchment in his hands.

“It’ll be just like old times. Old times and old ways. Call out the levies. Ride to war! Most of us’ll die, no doubt, an—”

“Old times and old ways,” sneered a voice. A figure moved out of the gloom. A burly young man stepped out of the shadows near the duke’s chair. The strange smell sharpened. “Old ways, grandfather,” said the young man.

The duke waved an unsteady hand. “My grandson Vaud, sir. Fine figure of a boy, ain’t he? Sits a horse well and wields an axe at sixteen better’n most men.”

“No need for us to hop when Hearne says so,” said Vaud. “After all, what has Hearne done for us?”

“Eh? Well, now. True, true. There’s something in what you say, my boy.”

The young man bowed to the duke and then turned to look at Declan. “My grandfather is still given to the old ways, stranger. How things used to be done in Vomaro. Tradition. Old beliefs. Superstitions. The Dark! Old wives’ tales.”

“Here now,” said the duke, roused somewhat at this. “I ain’t an old wife.”

“Of course not, grandfather.” The young man turned back to Declan. “We don’t bother with such things anymore here in Vomaro. We devote ourselves to more sensible things. The grape harvest. Last year’s vintage. The price of wine, interest rates, and gold. As for your so-called trouble in Hearne, what’s in it for Vomaro?”

“For you?” said Declan warily. His memory stirred, troubled by something. The scent was clearer now. He almost had it. “The safety of your land, of your borders. Freedom. Not just of Vomaro, but all of Tormay.”

“Perhaps we could give you a deal on weapons,” said Vaud, sneering. “Swords for five gold pieces, spears at twenty the dozen, and good mattocks for three apiece. Let no one say that Vomaro isn’t willing to do her part.”

And then the candlelight fell across the young man’s face, revealing the heavy jaw, the gleaming eyes embedded beneath the slab of brow like pebbles, and the teeth like gravestone slabs, but much sharper. There was something other than man in that face. Declan’s memory came up with the answer to the riddle of smell.

Ogre.

His skin prickled. Perhaps something of what he realized revealed itself on his face, for the young man smiled. A hideous, mocking smile. A hungry smile.

“Perhaps it would be best,” said Declan, taking a step backward, “if I left the communication from Owain Gawinn in your hands for consideration at a later time.”’

“Perhaps,” said the young man.

“Gawinn, you say?” said the old duke peevishly. “Whyn’t anyone tell me he was here? Coming for dinner, I warrant, and here me with my sleeping gown on. Steward!”

A face stared at Declan from an alcove as he turned toward the door. A fat, sleepy face peering out from under a pile of blonde curls. There was a hint of beauty still left in the face, a beauty he still remembered and cursed in his memory. But the daughter of the duke looked at him blankly with no recognition in her eyes, and Declan passed out from that house with his flesh shrinking and the smell of ogre in his nostrils. Even as he rode away through the streets of the town, his shoulders were hunched and he dared not turn around, for he felt eyes on him, and the pearl at his neck burned colder than ice.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE GAP OF LOME

The rain did not stop. The snow on the ground had long since disappeared. The Rennet River ran swollen between her banks, and every track and path and road was churned into mud. And down the road from the east came the people. They streamed along the road that followed the valley floor toward Hearne. Wet, miserable, muddy, and frightened. They came on foot, on horseback, on mules and donkeys, on carts and wagons that rolled through mud right up to their axles. They came with their belongings piled on their backs, hauling their crying children, their cattle bellowing unhappily. They came with horrible stories of raiders and death, of towns sacked and slaughtered, of a great army marching down out of the mountains, and of fire. Always of fire.