The Wicked Day by Christopher Bunn

fog. The streets were silent and, if any of the neighbors had heard anything, they had chosen to remain silent in their beds. No lights shone in any of the windows, although at one window across the street a curtain twitched slightly and then was still.
    “No trouble in the back, Varden?” said Owain, as they hurried through the fog.
    “Weren't nary a bit, cap’n,” said the old man. “Jest one nervous sort. Came hopping out like a durned rabbit, but I gave ‘im a tap on the head like you advised. Calmed him down.”
    They walked in silence that was broken only by the whisper of their footsteps and the occasional yawn from Arodilac. But as they turned down the street that led up to the barracks gates, a dog howled somewhere nearby. Hoon shivered.
    “Somethin’ strange about that house,” he said.
    “What’s that?” said Owain.
    “Not rightly certain. Somethin’ jest not right there. It didn’t tell on me until a while. I know ya don’t put much stock in such things, cap’n, but I’d say the Dark’s had a hand in that house. It were the smell, I think, an’ a bit else. It put me in mind of a thing or two I’ve run across in the mountains.”
    “What sort of thing?” said Arodilac, his eyes wide. “What do you mean by the Dark? That’s just an old wives’ tale, isn’t it?”
    “That’ll do,” said Owain, and they said nothing more.
    They parted at the barracks. Arodilac wanted to ask a question or two—and it was in the other men’s eyes as well—but he shut his mouth when Owain glared at him.
    “My thanks for the night’s work,” said Owain. “You’ll not mention it to anyone. That’s all. Go wake the cook and have a bite to eat. Tell him to bring out a bottle of wine.”
    “All right, cap’n,” said old Varden. He nodded and shuffled off. The two others followed reluctantly.
    Bordeall was waiting for him in the armory. The chest stood unopened. Owain locked the door and nodded. Three blows with an axe was all it took. The lid shattered and the lamplight caught within, glittering between the shards of wood. The chest brimmed full of gold and silver coins. Owain grinned in relief.
    “I feel a lot more kindly toward the Guild,” he said.

CHAPTER FOUR
    THE HOUSE OF STONE AND HUNGER
     
    At first, Jute thought he was still curled up in bed at the inn. But then he realized that blankets did not feel like this, no matter how rough the wool. He awoke and became instantly aware of pain. His head ached and throbbed, centered on a point at the top of his skull that threatened to drive itself down in a sharp spike of fire. His back felt as if a fat person in iron-nailed boots had spent the last few hours trudging back and forth across it. But it was his hands that were the worst. Jute could not feel them for a few seconds, and then they burned to life in utter agony. He gasped and opened his eyes. Blinked, and wished he could somehow go back to sleep. Never wake up. Memory swept back in a rush. The old man in the water mill. The shifter growling at the door. The village shrouded in night and rain.
    “I wish I were back in Hearne,” groaned Jute. “Oh, hawk! Where are you? Ghost, are you there?”
    But there was no answer.
    As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, Jute saw that he was in a cellar of some sorts. It was a gloomy place with crudely hewn stonewalls. Moisture oozed from the stone and moss grew in patches of slimy green. The air stank of rot. A staircase at the end of the room disappeared up into darkness. Behind him, he could hear the drip-drip-drip of water plopping down into a pool or basin. It was the only sound in the cellar.
    Jute tried to turn, to see the basin, and immediately wished he hadn’t. His back shivered into agony, and his hands—well, he had no words to describe his hands. They were tied up high over his head, stretched out so that his shoulders and back ached abominably. Most of his weight hung dangling from his hands, but by arching his back and