The Wicked Day (22 page)

The bird swooped down and landed in a flutter of wings on Jute’s shoulder. He hunched there, his feathers in disarray, head down.

“You didn’t rescue her, obviously," he said gloomily, "I would’ve known from the earth if you had, but the earth has been silent. Tell me what happened.”

They told him as they walked along the frozen ground.

“This isn’t what I expected,” said the hawk when they had finished telling him their story. “Though, to be honest, I’m not sure what I was expecting, other than some vain hope that you might rescue her. We had to try. We had to try!” He repeated the words angrily, but almost as if he spoke to himself alone.

“But did I hear you correctly,” continued the hawk, “that this so-called duke of Mizra said he was hunting for an answer to what the death of the anbeorun meant? At the university? There’s only ever been one university in all of Tormay, and that, of course, in Hearne. And then he said that you came three hundred years afterward?”

“I don’t think he said what their death meant. Rather, what their death could do. What could be done with their death.”

“At the university,” said the hawk. “He was at the university. Three hundred years ago. Three hundred years? Goodness gracious me. Could it be?” His claws bit into Jute’s shoulder and the boy yelped out loud.

“What?” said the ghost. “What is it? You’ve remembered something? A clue? A lost word? A recipe for delicious roast duck?”

“The duke of Mizra must be the same person as the wizard Scuadimnes. It makes a sort of dreadful sense.”

“Scua-who?” said the ghost.

“Scuadimnes,” said Jute, pleased to know something that the ghost did not. “He was a professor at the university in Hearne. He was in charge of the archives, and they say he was also responsible for the destruction of the university.”

“Correct,” said the hawk, nodding approvingly. “I daresay you heard the tale from Severan? Good, good. You do listen sometimes. Scuadimnes was a servant of the Dark. He had no history, no past, nothing that might identify where he came from, for if you can discern the path upon which a man has trod, you can then predict where he will walk in the future. But when Scuadimnes appeared in Hearne three hundred years ago, no one knew him. He taught at the university for years without bringing attention to himself, other than the odd fact that he had an encyclopedic memory for words. The anbeorun paid no attention to him. There was no reason to. We were concerned more with watching the borders of Tormay, for there were rumors of a coming Darkness in those days. The sea in the west, the earth ranging up and down the length of the Morn Mountains and wandering out into the wastelands beyond, my master the wind blowing about the icelands in the north. Fire we had not heard from in many long years, as he had always been preoccupied with journeying far beneath the surface of the earth, down in the deep, dark places where the older mysteries of the world sleep. We paid no attention to Hearne and the comings and goings of a solitary professor at the university.”

“But why did he destroy the place?” asked Jute. “Why did he kill the king? I always wondered about that when Severan first told me the story. There seemed no reason for it.”

“Oh, but there’s an excellent reason. The Dark cannot create. It never could and it never can. Therefore, it hates everything that is with an everlasting hate. It cannot abide life. All the servants of Nokhoron Nozhan follow in his path and, like their master, they delight in killing and stealing and destroying. That is the sign of the Dark. However, my master always suspected that the destruction of the university and the death of the king—the destruction of Hearne itself—were not the chief objectives of Scuadimnes. Perhaps they camouflaged his true objective?”

“So what was the real objective?” said the ghost, all agog at the hawk’s words. “I, er, have an idea already myself, but it’s always nice to hear someone else’s opinion. Professional courtesy.”

“I wasn’t aware of such an obligation,” said the hawk dryly. “Your recent encounter on the tower, young Jute, lends weight to my old master’s suspicion. You see, the main purpose of the university, of wizards down through history to a man, has always been the hunt for hidden knowledge—whether it be a single lost word from an ancient language, a forgotten book, a song, or a poem. My master suspected that Scuadimnes came to the university to find something extremely important. Something dangerous. A deadly secret. Obviously, the
Gerecednes
would be the prime candidate, for it was rumored to hold lore reaching back to the founding of the world. Thankfully, it sounds like he did not locate the book. If the duke and Scuadimnes are one and the same, though, then perhaps he ultimately did find what he was looking for. Bits and pieces of knowledge. Words. Clues that he cobbled together. I daresay his search had something to do with the anbeorun. That would seem likely from the duke’s own words. And from the fact that he holds the earth captive in his tower and seeks to end Jute’s life. The death of the anbeorun. What would it mean? Well, I think we know what it means, and I suppose that the duke, whoever he is—whatever he is—knows as well.”

“The
Gerecednes
,” muttered the ghost thoughtfully. “What an odd name. There's something about it that makes me nervous. But what about the girl? I don’t suppose she can hold out for long. Must be having a tough go of it, I’d imagine. Horrible! That dark tower was a nasty place.” But then it abruptly stopped talking, for it saw the expression on Declan’s face.

“She isn’t lost yet,” growled Declan. “You don’t know Farrows. At any rate, she told us what to do, and that’s what we’re going to do.” Declan lengthened his stride until Jute was forced to half-run in order to keep up, the ghost drifting along in their wake.

“As you say,” said the hawk. “You and the young wolf think alike. I left him prowling about the walls of Ancalon, though he had harsh words for you. She’ll survive, we can only hope, and we go to kick the duchies awake. Of course. Of course.” The bird shook his head sadly. “I see no other path at the moment. If I must die, then I’ll die fighting on a battlefield. But that doesn’t hold for you, young Jute.”

“Thank you,” said Jute, who had no desire to die on a battlefield, or anywhere else.

“You’re the only one of the anbeorun left in the world of men. The guardian of the sea has rarely left her depths since the days when Tormay was young, when the first king ruled from Hearne, and who knows where her allegiance lies? She’s an inscrutable lady of devious designs and has never shown much interest in the affairs of men. The master of fire has not been seen for hundreds of years. Perhaps he’s still wandering the secret ways far under the mountains? And the earth? We could not rescue her.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about the sea,” said Declan.

CHAPTER NINE

RECRUITING FOR THE GUARD

The man in the tavern doorway paused to give more effect to his entrance. He was dressed in the blue and black of the Guard of Hearne, a satchel over his shoulder and a pennoned spear in his hand. The hubbub inside died away and heads turned toward him. The herald, for that is what he was, drew himself up and cleared his throat.

“Hear ye, hear ye,” he said.

“We’re hearing ye,” said an old man sitting nearby.

“Be it known that the Lord High Captain of the Guard seeks brave young men for enlistment in the ranks of the Guard. Adventure, excitement, romance! Excellent pay, the best of training guaranteed to turn even the most cowardly weakling into the epitome of manhood.”

“I’d like to see one o’ them Guard fellers do a day behind the plow,” called out a burly farmer. Laughter filled the tavern. The herald frowned and then raised his voice once again, determined not to be done in by a roomful of country bumpkins.

“A wage of two silvers a month with possibilities of bonuses and danger pay, plus a silver on the occasion of the regent’s birthday. Now, who could turn such an offer down, particularly”—and here the herald smiled in what he thought was a sympathetic fashion—“particularly when the price of corn is what it is these days.”

There were some grumbling at this, but several of the younger men in the room, fourth or fifth sons in large families burdened with many uncles and older cousins, nodded thoughtfully.

“What better way to spend your youthful years than in service to Hearne and our glorious regent?” said the herald.

“Oh, stow your gab!” hollered the tavern keeper from behind his bar. “Have a pint of ale and let decent folks get back to drinking!”

The herald opened and closed his mouth like a gasping fish, momentarily discomfited by this attack from an unexpected quarter, but then he rallied. “Ale? Of course!” he hollered back. “A round for the house on the purse of the Guard!”

A roar of approval went up, and the herald’s back was slapped by many a callused hand as he made his way up to the bar. He ensconced himself there with a foaming tankard of ale in each fist. As the evening wore on, a succession of farmers’ sons sidled up to him to talk in whispered tones.

And so it went in those days, while the skies grew colder and the days shorter. The heralds rode their horses from village to village along the Rennet Valley east of Hearne, as well as among the fishing villages up and down the coast. They spun their stories well, their pitches and pleas, and, if they judged their audience meek enough, their browbeatings and stern hectoring. They spoke glowingly of the regent, of Hearne’s tall towers and majestic walls; they confided over glasses of wine about that most awesome of figures, Owain Gawinn, the Lord Captain of the Guard, even though in reality they had probably never themselves had the privilege to speak much with such an august personage, unless it had been things such as “No, sir!” and “Yes, sir!” and “Right away, sir!”

“Forty-seven,” said Bordeall.

“Forty-seven?” Owain frowned and leaned back in his chair. “I’d been hoping for closer to a hundred. Two hundred. Bah.”

“I’m pleased enough with forty-seven,” said the other. “It’s forty-seven more than we had before, and that’s nothing to sneeze at. Even one man can be enough to turn the tide of battle. You know that.”

“You’re right, you’re right.”

Outside the window on the practice ground, the air rang with the shouts of the sergeants and the gasps of the recruits as they panted for air. Sword clanged on sword, or more dully against the rows of battered wooden posts standing in the center of the grounds. As always, several neighborhood children were perched on top of the stonewall rimming the practice ground, yelling advice and shouting insults. The autumn sun shone down, not providing any heat to the proceedings, but that was fine as the recruits were sweating due to their exertions.

“Not too bad,” said Owain grudgingly. “They’ll be dreaming of swords rather than plows and fishing nets soon enough. Now, tell me, old friend, is there any gossip on the street about our recent exploits?”

“Nothing as of yet.”

“Knowing nothing makes me nervous. I’d much rather know my enemy was out stalking me than know nothing at all. Frankly, I’m disappointed with the Guild. I thought them capable of more than this inaction. Don’t they have a dread enforcer, some cold-blooded killer from Aum—”

“Aum’s a ruin,” said Bordeall mildly. “Has been for over two hundred years.”

“I know. But the idea of coming from a ruined city lends mystique to the legend, doesn’t it? A murdering ghost of a man from a dead city? That’s probably enough to put the fear of the Dark into any self-respecting thief.”

“They call him the Knife, is what I’ve heard. An assassin. A man conversant with any weapon at hand.”

“Just the sort who should be in the Guard.”

“No.” Bordeall shook his head. “Not such a man. He wouldn't bend easy to orders. If he did, men as him are the sort who go off and do horrible, needful things that no one else can do. And then, when the danger has been defeated and men live in more peaceful times, such a man is shunned, an embarrassment to his country and to his fellow man. Times of peace don’t care to remember the times of blood.”

Owain laughed. “I didn’t take you for a philosopher, Bordeall. Have a care. Otherwise you might end up in the salons of Highneck Rise, entertaining the lords and ladies with fine words.”

The afternoon afforded Owain a certain amount of irritation. After two hours of inspecting a string of horses from Vomaro and arguing prices with the trader, Owain was left with the nagging suspicion that the blackguard had bested him. True, the horses were of good stock and well-broken, but surely he should not have paid so much gold.

“An’ another herd to be finished breaking next month,” said the trader. He patted his fat stomach and eyed Owain blandly. “Any interest, my lord?”

“Interest enough,” growled Owain.

He had always prided himself on his well-shuttered face, but somehow the trader had discerned that the Guard needed the horses. Needed them badly. And there was something dishonest in the man’s eyes. Smiling, the trader bowed himself out of Owain’s presence, and Owain stomped off, up the stone steps behind the armory to the top of the wall, where he strode back and forth and contented himself with the thought that it was the Guild’s gold he was spending and not his own. Still, he did not like being made a fool of. Curse the man. Curse all Vomarone swine with their fawning, foppish ways. But the horses were well-broken. They would take easily to the drill.