The Wicked Day (48 page)

“They aren’t so far away now,” said Jute. “The wind’s full of their sounds, full of their marching and the hooves of their horses. The mist can’t conceal them much longer. But the day is growing colder as we speak. I’m afraid the sun won’t be much aid today.” He sighed. “Its light would’ve been a great help, but there’s more to the light than just the sun. We still have the wind.”

“And the earth and the sea,” said the hawk, though no one heard him except Jute. “Where is the sea? I wonder where the wolf is?”

“Peace,” said Jute to the bird. “The wind’ll be enough today.” The hawk looked at him but did not answer.

It was then that the mist unraveled under the wind’s touch. Silence fell on the wall, on the dukes and their officers, and on the soldiers lining the parapets. They stood as if frozen by the chill rain, staring out across the valley. Now, thanks to the wind, they could see clearly.

The valley was normally a place of cornfields and meadows. A place of low, straggling stone walls, hedgerows, and the occasional oak tree. A place of bramblevines and wheat and the Rennet River that flowed through it all. But the valley was quite different now. It was black with the army of Mizra. Company upon company of troops marched along. Rank upon rank. They were endless. They marched through the crushed cornfields, along the banks of the rushing river, across the valley slopes. Despite their numbers, they marched in unison, and the earth trembled with each bootfall. They did not move in haste, but marched stolidly along, patient and secure in the knowledge that time was on their side and that the city could only wait for them.

“Well, my lords,” said Owain, his voice conversational, almost as if he was amused by the sight, “there’s our foe.”

“Enough of them, aren’t there,” said the duke of Vo. “Blast them. At any rate, we shan’t want for necks to chop.”

“They have no siege engines,” said another of the dukes. “Unless they’re trundling ‘em along at the back of their lines. I can’t imagine taking these walls without rams and towers. Twenty feet thick, if anything, aren’t they, Gawinn?”

“But they have magic,” said Jute. “Magic and the Dark. I seem to dream of Daghoron most nights.” His voice was quiet now. Most of the dukes looked at him blankly, as if the name meant nothing, but the old duke of Harlech flinched. “I can see those walls in my dreams. Nokhoron Nozhan built with stone as thick as night. He knows about stones, about unmaking them, about unraveling them into nothingness. He knows about walls and you can be sure his servants will know too. They might not need siege engines for that sort of thing. All they’ll need are the right words.”

“Very reassuring,” said the duke of Vo somewhat stiffly.

“I’ve rarely found the truth reassuring, my lord,” said the duke of Harlech. “But it’s the truth, regardless of what we think. I find comfort in that, for men are foolish and capable of thinking whatever they desire.”

Owain nodded.

“Signal the archers,” he said. “We’ll bloody their front lines soon enough, I think. Ten minutes, no more than fifteen. No sense in waiting for them to begin the game.”

A red signal pennant went up from the flagsman standing with Owain’s attendant officers. Further down the wall in both directions, answering flags immediately shot up. The flagsman stood waiting at attention. The dukes stood without speaking. Across the frozen mud of the fields below the walls, the black army of Mizra marched forward, thousands upon thousands moving as one. It was like a massive wave of darkness surging forward in dreadful slow motion. The freezing rain fell down on them. It glistened on the thousands upon thousands of spearheads raised like the deadly leaves of a metal forest. It gleamed on their black armor in the gray half-light of the morning. It drummed on the endless rows of helms.

Someone swore sharply further down the wall. One of the officers among those attendant upon the dukes.

“Stone and earth!” The man pointed. “Look there!”

Far across the valley, on the southern slopes angling down to the Rennet River, a horseman came riding out of a stand of pine trees. No, not just riding. He was galloping at a tremendous pace. He was angling in front of the rightmost vanguard of the Mizran army. There were surely no more than a thousand paces between him and the closest soldier. If he continued on his course, he would be cut off from the city gates by the center vanguard. And he had yet to cross the river. The nearest bridge, a mile or so down the valley, had already been swallowed up by the advancing army. The only other bridge was below the city walls, some distance south of the gates. He would not reach it in time.

“He’s not going to make it,” someone said.

A dreadful silence fell on the wall. Every man there, from Owain Gawinn and the dukes on down to the lowliest soldier, stood frozen, transfixed by the sight of the horseman. He was a brilliant rider, that was for certain, and he rode a swift horse. They skimmed over the ground, mud and ice flying from the horse’s hooves, its legs blurring into a desperate rhythm, urged on by the rider hunched over the streaming mane.

Jute breathed in the wind. His eyes sharpened. He could sense the hawk, tense, perched on the wall beside him, but his gaze was only on the horseman. He could see the legs of the horse reaching, reaching, the hooves hammering at the ground. He could see the rider’s hands on the reins, the edge of his face half in shadow, half in the pale light. Rain on his face.

“Declan,” said Jute.

Owain turned toward him, his face white, and then turned back.

“There’s no place for him to go. If he makes for the bridge, he won’t reach the gate. They’ll cut him off. Unless, no,” he said. “Don’t do it, you fool!”

But Declan must have arrived at the same conclusion in Owain Gawinn’s head. He did not slacken his speed, yet he nudged his mount a bit so that it aimed straight for a rise along the south bank of the river. There, the years of flow had eaten away the side of the rise until it had created a bluff of weathered granite that dropped straight down a dozen yards to the river’s surface. Declan urged his steed at the bluff. The horse galloped on willingly, surging up the incline, but Jute could see the foam flecking its jaws and the staring white of its eyes. Beyond them, further down the banks on either side, the foremost ranks of soldiers marched on, drawing ever closer.

“Jute,” said the hawk, but Jute had already flung himself off the wall. He caught at the wind and flew, but he knew he was already too late. Behind him, he heard Owain Gawinn shouting orders. The city gates creaked open. Somewhere in the bailey below the tower, soldiers hauled themselves into their saddles. But if Jute was too late, they were impossibly late.

Declan’s horse galloped straight over the edge of the bluff, straight into thin air. He could not ride the wind like Jute, for he was only a horse. A horse made of blood and heavy flesh, desperately tired after running half the night and into the morning. He galloped into the air with all the courage of his kind. He was a horse and perhaps there was even some of the blood of Min the Morn flowing in his veins. But he was only a horse. He fell straight down into the rushing river. He was dead before he hit the water, for his heart had burst from so much courage and so much exhaustion. But he had saved his rider, if only for the moment.

Declan fell with his falling steed. He fell a bit further, thrown out of the saddle. With a tremendous splash, he plunged down into the river, disappeared, and then popped back up several yards downstream. He was coughing and choking, clawing at the water, striving for the bank. It was not so far from him now. Ice floes spun past him. He crawled up onto the bank like a dog.

Jute flew through the air as quick as a storm wind, but he still was not near. Not near enough. The soldiers were marching closer. Their black rows were full of darkness. But the ranks were splitting now, half wheeling to one side, the other wheeling in perfect counterpoint in the other direction. Through the gap rode a company of cavalry. Perfect black horses with hides as dark as midnight. Their riders wore armor that was darker still. They galloped forward, hurtling along the bank of the river, straight for Declan.

He staggered to his feet and ran. The city gates were not far away, but they were an impossible distance for a man on foot. The little troop of riders had just cleared the shadow of the gate. Declan ran on. But the horsemen of Mizra behind him were closer now. Their hooves thundered on the frozen ground. They had almost reached him. The first horseman leaned forward, spear poised.

A normal man would’ve died at that moment. But Declan was a Farrow. He dodged to one side, still running. The spear whistled past his shoulder. His sword hissed out of its sheath and the horse went down, hamstrung and screaming. Declan’s sword described a perfect, blinding arc that eclipsed the rider’s neck. He whirled, his sword a blur. Another horse crashed down. The company galloped past and wheeled, ice flying from hooves as reins were savagely wrenched to one side. They surged back toward Declan. He waited for them, his face set and his sword ready. Then he disappeared in the dark sea of their rush.

Jute could hear the ringing crash of steel on steel, horses neighing, the shouting of the cavalry. He dove down through the sky, the wind whistling in his ears. And then he saw Declan again. He was surrounded by the dead, horses and men. The ground was churned into a morass of blood and ice and mud. He fought with his back to the bulk of a dead horse. Drops of water spun through the air, spraying off the edge of his sword, flung off slashing spear tips. A rider forced his steed at the dead horse, slashing with reins and spurs to compel the beast to leap its dead peer. Declan’s sword whipped through the air. But his attackers did not mind dying. They died forcing their way closer and closer to him. The horses screamed as they died, but the soldiers were strangely silent, their faces hidden behind their black helms. Three of them jumped off their steeds and advanced on Declan, their spears a sharp wall. There were too many of them. The realization was plain on Declan’s face. But then the wind fell down from the sky with a triumphant, roaring blast. The wind rushed through Jute, shaped by his thoughts, his intent, his eyes. Horses and riders went flying. Ice shards hissed through the air. Bones and steel cracked, shattered, whirled away like limp straw dolls. Declan, however, crouching on the ground and staring around him, was untouched.

“Run!” yelled Jute. The wind ripped the shout from him, turned it into a roar, and hurled it through the air.

Declan ran. The clouds tumbled through the sky. The rain lashed down in every which way, whipped in one direction by the wind and then another and then another. It froze into snow in a thousand singing notes, and Jute sent them spinning through the air, slicing into the flesh of horses and men. He laughed out loud as he slid across the sky. The wind laughed with him.

Blow and break! Snap and shatter!

Shake the earth! Break the earth!

Sweep the stars from their sky!

Jute shouted, savage and exultant. The wind tumbled around him. Joy surged through him. His mind burned with it. Nothing in all of Tormay could stand before him. Nothing on the earth. Nothing in the sky. Why, he could storm the night and blow the stars from their courses. Something chuckled in the back of his thoughts. It was a nasty sort of sound, but he did not hear it.

The front lines of the army far below Jute looked as if they were mice. Rank upon rank, they stood dogged in their places, half-bent forward against the blast and blow of the wind. He laughed, a skirling cry not unlike a hunting hawk, and dove down from the clouds. The wind rushed along beside him. The first few soldiers below them wavered, staggered, and then abruptly blew away, broken and crumpled like autumn leaves. The entire front line collapsed and the soldiers tumbled away. He laughed again, the sound of it joyous and fierce and free.

Free to rush and free to fly,

Free to send the snow whirling by!

Freeze the moonlight into ice,

hurl its shards from the sky!

The sky is yours, the sky is mine!

None may gainsay you!

And none may stop me!

The wind’s voice whistled in his ears. It was full of cold and joy and a dreadful love of breaking and battering and tearing and destruction. What was stone but a thing to be shattered? What were trees but things to be broken and splintered and hurled like toys? What was life but a thing to be tumbled about through the days and years?

But even as these thoughts crossed Jute’s mind, something changed. The air grew heavy. The wind faltered in his grasp. The tiny toy soldiers far below him steadied in their tracks. They no longer blew about under the blast of the wind but stood firm in their places. They stood like rocks rooted deep into the earth. The wind roared, affronted at this display of defiance. It howled and snarled and hurled ice through the air, but the soldiers did not move.

The curious thing of it was that while the soldiers seemed to gain even more strength and solidity with each passing moment, the wind lost its own. It faltered and swung this way and that, bewildered and confused. Lightning broke further down the valley, flashing with light and then crashing thunder before the next second had arrived.

Turn! Turn away!

The hawk’s voice was dim and distant in Jute’s mind, but even over that distance there was no mistaking his urgency. But Jute did not answer him. He wavered in the sky over the valley, sinking lower and lower with the waning of the wind. His attention was fixed on the ranks of the army below him. He should have looked up, but he did not, and this was unfortunate. If he had looked up, he would have seen a darkness in the sky. A ragged, flapping darkness growing larger and larger. But he did not look up. Suddenly, a great weight struck Jute’s shoulders. He tumbled down through the air. Claws and beaks bit and stabbed at him. Feathers surrounded him. Black feathers. The air was full of their stink. He could not see. There was a cawing, rasping cacophony surging around him.