The Wicked Day by Christopher Bunn Read Free Book Online Page B

foot in the way.
    “Nay, listen here. There’re strangers in town an’ the man himself has sent word he wants ‘em. He wants ‘em trussed like chickens fer the spit. A man an’ a boy. An’ he wants every one o’ us out lookin’ to catch ‘em. They ducked through his lads’ hands at the inn, but us’ll get ‘em for him.”
    “I’m too frail to be trampin’ around in the cold,” quavered the old man.
    “Get yer boots on. You don’t want him comin’ down the mountain, crackin’ our skulls, do ya? Do yer duty.”
    Grumbling, the old man closed the door and Ollic went on to the next house. Jute shrank back into the alley. His teeth chattered and he clamped his hand over his mouth to still them. What did the man mean? Trussed up like chickens for the spit? And who was the man Ollic had been talking about?
    Jute shuddered. He did not want to find out. Chickens on spits were nice, but only when they were proper chickens and he was eating them. He scurried away through the alley, darting from shadow to shadow, hoping the moon would not breach the clouds and lend her unwelcome light to his steps. He could hear the slight noises of people in the streets, of doors opening and closing, and the rustle of voices. But then he was past the last house and running through the darkness. The rain slashed down around him. It was so dark that he might as well have shut his eyes and blundered along, but he could hear the river flowing on his right, some yards away, and up ahead was the gradually increasing roar of the waterfall plunging down into the pond below.
    But then Jute came to the last house and found himself facing a wall. It rose up in the night. Timbers lashed together. Of course. The wall. It went all the way around the village. How could he have expected anything less? The wall was quite high. He scrabbled at it to gain some hold, but the timbers were each a slim tree trunk adzed straight and clean of any vestige of branch. To make matters worse, the wood was slick with rain. He tried wedging his fingers in between the timbers to secure a grip, but it was no use. Perhaps there was a tree near enough to the wall that he might climb it and gain the top of the wall that way. A tree or even a house situated nearby. He stared about, but there was neither.
    Hawk! Where are you?
    Jute flung all of his desperation into the call. Shouting inside of his mind. The hawk did not respond. However, something else did. Something growled in the darkness nearby. And then the rain let up. The wind tore a rent in the clouds and the moon shone through. A shadow rounded the corner of the nearest house. Moonlight gleamed on teeth and staring eyes and the strangely shaped head. The man from the alley. Only he was not a man. His head was too long. It was changing as Jute stared. The jaws pushed out, narrowing and lengthening. The thing dropped to all fours and loped forward. Jute could not move. He was frozen at the sight.
    “Jute!” screamed the ghost.
    Jute turned and ran, slipping in the mud and clawing his way back to his feet. His heart hammered in his throat. Behind him the creature rushed. Mud flew from its paws and he could hear the whistle of its breath.
    Why can’t I fly?
    And the wind blew past him, lightening his feet so that he teetered up through the air, catching at it, gulping it down, as if swallowing it would make him lighter. He ran up through the air like he was running up stairs, sobbing with relief. Something slammed into the wall below him. Jaws snapped at his feet. The creature fell away, snarling. Jute’s stomach lurched and his legs windmilled through the air. He began to sink, but his hands flailed out and caught hold of the top of the wall. He pulled himself up and tumbled down over the other side of the wall. Crashed down into the mud so hard that he couldn’t breathe. The wall shuddered behind him under the impact of a heavy blow. A body, hurling itself against it. Once, twice, and he heard the creature