The Wicked Day (55 page)

The front door opened.

“Excuse me,” said a voice. “We’re lost. Can you tell us the way to the city gate?”

“I want my mother!” announced another voice.

Even the Silentman was startled. His hand dropped to his side. There, standing at the front door, were five children. Three little boys, each with brown hair and gray eyes and the same stubborn mouths. Brothers, assuredly. A slightly older girl cast in the same mold, and another girl, blue-eyed and thin, almost ghostlike, standing behind them, with snowflakes in her pale hair. The brown-haired girl stepped forward.

“We’re looking for the city gate,” she said. Her voice was sturdy and self-assured.

“You are, are you?” said the Silentman, frowning a bit. “Has anyone ever warned you, little girl, about talking to strangers?”

“Of course,” said the girl. “My parents say that all the time. But we’re rescuing my father—ouch! Stop kicking me, Jonas!—so that doesn’t matter right now.”

“And who might your father be?”

The girl’s chin went up. “Owain Gawinn. He’s the Captain of the Guard.”

“Well, well,” said the Silentman. “The children of Owain Gawinn. I seem to remember that name. How interesting.”

The children stared back at him, warily now, for children are not stupid, as many adults think, they themselves possessing that trait in abundance. Besides, the children were Gawinns. Jonas fingered the dagger under his cloak. On the other side of the room, Arodilac made a strangled sound of despair. Magret saw him then.

“Arodilac!” she said, her face brightening.

“Why are you here?” said Arodilac. “Of all the doors to open, you opened this one. And you, Fen, of anyone in this city, you should’ve been kept safe.”

Fen looked at him and said nothing.

“Enough,” said the Silentman, and he opened his hands.

Darkness unfolded in his grasp like a hideous flower. Petals opened, darker than a night without stars, darker than the blindness of a dead man. The darkness pulled at everything in the room. Things began to slide. Iron and stone wavered. Lena could no longer see the usual form of things, of walls and chairs and tables. Instead, everything blurred together as they frayed into nothingness. Across the room, the old man called Severan called out loud, fear on his face, but she heard no sound except for the beating of her heart. The children at the door clutched at each other as they slid across the floor. The Silentman laughed. But Fen, sprawled on the floor, reached out her hand and picked up a small stone that lay unnoticed on a chair. She stared at it in wonder. It was a beautiful little thing. Almost impossibly shiny.

Someone coughed politely in her ear.

“I just remembered something very important,” whispered the ghost. “Would you mind saying a word for me? I’d say it myself, but things don’t mean much when a ghost says them. If you don’t mind, please repeat after me.
Leoht
.”

“
Leoht
,” said Fen.

And the tiny stone blazed into light. The light burned more brilliant than the sun. Even with eyes tightly shut—and Lena’s were shut, her head averted—it burned red and white and then seared into something that was more than the mere negation of darkness. The light was so much older, and the darkness was merely the shadow.

The Silentman cried out in pain. He tried to close his hands, but it was too late. The darkness in his hands pulled greedily at the tiny stone. It sucked the thing from Fen’s grasp and brought it tumbling through the air. The light fell into the darkness and the darkness could not overcome it. They all heard a dreadful shriek, as if from far away, and, when they opened their eyes, the Silentman was gone and the fire on the hearth danced cheerfully among the coals. The wihht was no more. Through a window opening to the west, Fen glanced up and saw a single star shining in the night sky.

“That was good luck,” said Arodilac, his voice shaky.

“Extremely,” said Severan. “If you don’t mind, I need to sit down for a while.”

“Not luck at all,” said the ghost, drifting across the room. “That girl has an interesting way with words. Very polite and obliging, too. Dear me. Good thing I remembered that word in time.”

“What a nasty man,” said Magret. “I must tell Father about him. He looked familiar. I think I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

“Never mind,” said Arodilac. “He won’t be coming back.”

“Oh, look!” Magret hurried over to Lena. “She’s tied up. Are you all right? We’re rescuing people tonight. Lucky for you, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” managed Lena.

“We’ll have to find a knife or something sharp. Jonas! That’s Great Uncle Bevan’s. Father’ll have a fit if he finds you’ve taken that.”

“Ah, but I’ve cut her cords. He’ll be proud of me.”

Lena was soon up and rubbing her wrists. The children surveyed her, and she surveyed the children. Presumably, they all liked what they saw, for after a moment, Magret nodded and turned to Arodilac.

“All right, then. We need to find Father. I expect you’ll take us, won’t you?”

“No, I will not,” said Arodilac, his voice stern. “I’m taking you straight home. You’ve done quite enough, quite enough as it is.” But then he smiled down at her. “He will be very proud.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

THE FALL OF JUTE

"What is destroyed can be rebuilt," said Owain.

He leaned on his sword as he stood with the dukes and the prince of Harth in the wreckage of the city gate. On either side of them, for hundreds of yards, the walls of the city lay shattered and toppled. The unmoving forms of the dead were scattered thickly there about the ground. The small troop of cavalry from Harth stood at easy and weary attention a little distance away from the gate. Within the ruined walls, the defenders moved in slow and dazed shock, some smiling, others with blank face as they contemplated the carnage the battle had brought.

"But not our dead," said the duke of Harlech quietly. "Sons and fathers, all of them."

"No," said Owain. "Still, would our dead have us mourn them now, with such a victory fresh in our grasp?"

"My lords, while I would prefer to stay a while with you in Hearne," said the prince of Harth, swinging back up into the saddle, "I must hasten south and make amends with my own father. I fear I left his court without his leave, stealing away my cousins and his young officers. But where is the windlord? I would desire to thank him before I go."

"As would all of us," said the duke of Dolan.

"Surely I saw him but a minute ago," said the duke of Harlech. He glanced up into the sky and frowned.

It was then that fire stirred in the broken ruins of the wall not far from them. The prince of Harth's horse reared, nearly unseating him. Flames suddenly whipped and danced in the wind. A dark shape reared up from the ground. It looked somewhat like a horse. But then the flames mounted higher, obliterating what had been there before. The thing was pure darkness and flames. The air crackled with heat. The wind howled in response, dashing itself against the fire, but its fervor only caused the flames to leap higher.

A voice roared from the darkness. Flames sprang into the air, twisting and turning about themselves to shape words that echoed the voice. But the words were in no language that anyone could read. They burned bright, and the sight filled every man’s mind with death, and many at that moment laid down their weapons in despair. The voice blurred into the guttural roaring of the fire, and the flames clawed their way up into the sky. The fire was enormous now, a colossus straddling the broken wall and taller than any building in the city. Wooden roofs nearby smoked and smoldered and burst into sudden flame from the proximity of that terrible heat.

The voice quieted and then said, almost conversationally, even though it reached every ear of every soldier with absolute clarity, “Hear me, ye dead. Thou art mine. By the shadow of Daghoron. By the name of Nokhoron Nozhan. Hear me now. Arise.”

There was silence in the city. The wind did not stir. The tide paused upon the shore. The breath caught in a thousand throats and a thousand swords hung motionless, waiting to fall. Birds in their nests in the gardens of Highneck Rise, oblivious to battle and the cares of men, halted in their songs. And Jute, poised far overhead in the sky, waited, uncertain in his power.

With a rattling heave, the dead arose all across the battlefield. Dead soldiers of Harlech and Thule, Hull, Dolan, and Vo. The dead of the city Guard, the cold bodies of fishermen and townsfolk, the stiffening, black-armored corpses of the foe—they all arose. They clambered to their feet with shambling steps. They groped for swords and spears, whatever was at hand. Their wounds were dry and drained of blood. Blind eyes stared from broken faces. The air stank of rotting things. They advanced at a shuffle that slowly quickened into something more akin to life. The defenders of Hearne fell back in horror, for here were their friends and fellows, surely dead now, but arisen again. They fell back and their hearts were like water. The cavalry of Harth wheeled about, turning in dismay, for they were caught within the sea of dead like a small island. Their lances were no use to them, for they were trapped at a standstill. The prince of Harth was calling out, his voice sharp and clear, his sword bright in his hand, but their horses plunged and screamed in fear.

“Stand fast!” bellowed Owain Gawinn. “Stand fast, men! For Hearne, for Tormay! Stand fast, blast you!”

But the men of the Guard would not stand. Neither would most of the soldiers of the duchies. They broke and ran, overcome with the terror of what advanced. They threw down their weapons and ran away toward Mioja Square and into the side streets leading down to the sea. A few of them stayed, though, and gathered about their captain. Declan was there also, his sister standing pale and silent behind him, as well as a handful of men from Thule and Vo.

“Fancy meeting you here, guvnor,” said Hoon. “I don’t mind dying, particularly in your exalted company, but I don’t relish turning into one o’ them.” He spat in the direction of the advancing dead.

“No worries, cap’n,” said a voice behind them. It was Varden. The old Guardsman was leaning on a bloodstained spear. He spoke with gloomy satisfaction. “If Hoon turns into one o’ them things, I’ll just kill him again. It’d be a pleasure.”

“Thank you, Varden,” said Owain, smiling despite his weariness. “I don’t know what this day holds, but we’ll do our part here as well as we can. That’s all that’s asked of us. Farrow, I’m heartened to find you here. My lady.” Here, he bowed to Giverny, his eyes full of questions. “I do not think this place is safe for—”

“Do not stray far from me,” she said, interrupting him. Her voice was dry and dispassionate. “My strength is still spent, but I can secure the ground under your feet. If I were stronger, I might have been able to unmake his spell, but this is no mere wizardry we face. It is something deeper and older than mere magic. Our enemy commands the dead with the words of the first language, the words of Anue himself. But I shall do what I can. Stay close to me, and you shall at least stand against the dead.”

They stared at her, all of them, even her brother, but none of them had the courage to say anything to her further. At the sharp order of Owain, the small company turned and set themselves ready. It was not a moment too soon, for the line of the dead hurled against them. They came snarling and shrieking, their voices whistling through slashed throats. The wind kicked up then, and the air seemed to be filled with fire. It was as if they were a small island of steel in a sea of death. With every enemy that fell, another stepped in to take his fellow’s place. And the dead did not die easily. They died hard, if that was how it might be called, hacked to pieces, beaten down into the cobblestones, battered into the bloody ground. Even then, not all of them died.

A dreadful howling noise sounded beyond the ruined wall. It was enough to strike terror into the hearts of the defenders, and they wondered what new horror approached. The day was dreadful enough. How could they stand anything more? But the girl Giverny cried out in gladness. Something moved through the ranks of the dead, moving at great speed. As it drew closer, those around Giverny saw that the dead soldiers were being dashed and ripped and torn by a huge beast. An enormous black dog with teeth as sharp as daggers and shining silver eyes. No, not a dog. A wolf.

“Ehtan!” said Giverny.

The wolf bounded forward to her side. The men near her drew back in alarm. Declan raised his sword. His heart faltered for his sister, but she threw her arms around the wolf’s neck. The wolf looked at Declan over her shoulder, his silver eyes bright. A voice flashed through his mind. A strange, rough sort of voice.

Do not trouble thy heart.

“Hawks and wolves,” said Owain. His face was white with strain, smeared with blood and dirt, but he bowed courteously to the wolf. The wolf inclined his head in return and then planted himself squarely in front of Giverny.

Some distance away from them, closer to the tower of the Guard still standing amid the ruins of the city wall, the sunlight flashed on another small ring of steel drowning in the sea of dead soldiers. Owain could make out the tall figure of Rane Lannaslech, standing head and shoulders above his men. The gray hair of his father, the duke, was visible alongside him, as well as the duke of Dolan. Of Harth, he could see only dimly, far across the battlefield, a struggling knot of horsemen shrinking and shrinking within the heaving sea of the dead.