The Banshee's Walk

by Frank Tuttle

  Mama grunted and caught me in her famous Hog hex-stare.

  “You mind you keep that there sword close to hand, boy,” she said.

  My yawn wasn’t intentional. But Mama took it as such and whirled and stomped out, cussing and wheezing.

  Gertriss wiped crumbs off my desk and stood up. “Is it true?” she asked. “Do you have a sword in there?” She pointed with a nod toward my rucksack in the corner.

  “Got a horse and a trebuchet too,” I replied. “I’d bring the catapult, but I like to travel light.”

  Gertriss grinned. “So anytime you answer a question with a joke, that’s probably a yes,” she said.

  “Sure it is,” I agreed. I stood and heaved my old Army rucksack over my shoulder. “Where’s the rest of your luggage?” I asked. “We should get going.”

  “Just inside the door at Mama’s. I’ll fetch it and meet you outside.” She was honest to angels excited about going to work. I shook my head at such a marvel, wondered how long it would last.

  She darted away, and I walked out into the light.

  It took us two cabs to get to the south end, through neighborhoods that changed quickly from moderately inhabitable row houses to buck-roofed slums and finally to the stink and noise and even worse stink of the cattle yards and slaughterhouses that buttressed the remaining Old Wall on the south.

  Even Gertriss, who’d spent her life doing whatever it is country folk do with swine in their swine-yards, held one of my handkerchiefs tight over her nose and mouth and pulled herself as far away from the windows as the cab allowed.

  “Not much further,” I said, over the din of frightened cattle and furious drovers. “Then it’s sweet country air and wholesome country sunshine all the way to Wardmoor.”

  She nodded, her eyes dubious.

  “There are more than six hundred thousand people in Rannit,” I said. “All of them hungry, all of them demanding leather shoes and leather belts and leather coats. This is the only way to keep them fed and hold their pants up.”

  She may have grinned behind the handkerchief. I shrugged and leaned back until we rounded the last row of stinking slaughter-barns, and I caught first sight of the Old Wall’s gap-toothed bulk over the rooftops.

  “Nearly there,” I said. I shuffled in my seat, ready to get out, even if it meant a long hike. I hoped Gertriss’s new leather boots were a good fit, because blisters or no we were heading to Wardmoor. She was too heavy to carry and it was too far to turn back.

  She must have seen me regarding her boots. “I brought my old ones just in case,” she said, her words muffled by the handkerchief. “You won’t have to carry me, Mr. Markhat.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. I hadn’t said a word aloud.

  Maybe the Hog women do share the gift. That thought sent shivers down my spine.

  If Gertriss saw, she had the good grace not to show it.

  I hadn’t been south of the city since I was kid. All I remembered from that trip was the cool shade cast by the Old Wall, the lush mosses and huge ferns that covered the shaded parts of it, and the way the noise and stink from the city stopped right as the scent of wet stones and moist soil and green growing things began.

  Back then, the cattle roads were well east of where Gertriss and I stood after leaving the cab. Back then, the road I’d taken had been a well maintained if narrow affair made of smooth, carefully set flagstones that wound between arching old pines. Tidy little stone bridges spanned clean, burbling creeks. I’d spent the whole trip fully expecting to see Elves cavorting in the sun-dappled wood at any moment.

  My, how things had changed.

  The cabbie had laughed when I’d asked him how far he was willing to go. Now I saw why.

  The road, or more precisely the wide, flat old pavers that made up the road, was gone. Hauled away by industrious country folk during the War, I surmised, when the Watch was gone fighting and the locals decided their houses and barns needed a new stone or two.

  Gone also were the quaint moss-covered stone bridges. Ramshackle post and beam affairs stood in their places, showing profound signs of neglect and weathering.

  The clear burbling creeks were foul, muddy rushes, polluted and defiled by the cattle roads, which were now in plain sight and raising a stink even though the wind was blowing toward them.

  I regretted not hiring a pair of horses for a week. Gertriss might have brought old boots, but I hadn’t, and we both stood a good chance of turning an ankle on the treacherous, muddy trail ahead.

  “Lady Werewilk came through this?” asked Gertriss, incredulous.

  “She had a horse and a butler, I imagine,” I said. “Anyway, we don’t have to walk the whole way. She said she’d have a wagon waiting for us up where the road hasn’t been quarried.”

  “How far is that?”

  “Not sure,” I replied. “Only one way to find out.”

  But Gertriss wasn’t listening to me or looking at me anymore. “What’s that?” she asked, taking a step off the trail toward a big swaying pine tree.

  I followed her eyes.

  The pine had sprouted feathers. Black feathers, crow’s feathers, three of them arranged in a neat triangle right about eye level.

  Gertriss touched the ends of them just as something streaked past her shoulder, close enough to ruffle a few strands of her hair.

  I was maybe three long strides away. She saw me coming and put up her hands and that’s all she had time to do before I hit her midways and took her down. We rolled, and she snarled and clawed. Despite my weight and experience the only way I got her to be still was by pinning her shoulders and head with my rucksack.

  “That was a crossbow bolt,” I said. “Shut up and be still.”

  She growled something that didn’t sound much like assent but at least she quit trying to knee me in the groin.

  I rolled off her, kept low and kept my rucksack in front of me, and peeped around the big old pine long enough to scan the woods before I pulled my fool head back. I’d seen nothing but trees and scrub, heard nothing but wind and the far-off lowing of cattle, but I knew at least one crossbow-wielding Markhat-hater was lurking somewhere near.

  Gertriss scooted closer, biting her lip. I felt blood running down my face, shrugged. “Hush,” I said. “You didn’t know.”

  “How many?” she whispered.

  “I figure two,” I whispered back. One to reload. One to fire. If they were smart they had at least two crossbows, probably sturdy, quiet army-surplus Stissons.

  “What do we do now?” asked Gertriss. She was eyeing my rucksack. It dawned on me that they’d wanted her dead first so she wouldn’t scream when I went down.

  I shook my head. “Crossbows trump swords,” I said. “So we wait.”

  Gertriss frowned. “Wait for what?”

  I heard a tromping in the woods. They were on the move. Hoping to flush us out, flank us, just walk up and bury a pair of black-bodied oak bolts right in our chests.

  “Keep your head down low,” I said. “Sidestep every third step. Move fast, be quiet, and don’t stop, not for anything.”

  Gertriss went wide-eyed. “But—”

  “Just do it.” I fumbled in my rucksack, found Toadsticker and yanked it out in a shower of fresh socks and at least one clean pair of underpants.

  I stood, pulled Gertriss to her feet and gave her a shove.

  Then I took a deep breath and stepped out of cover.

  A couple of things happened then, more or less at the same time. First, a muddy, wild-eyed bull calf came trotting out of the trees on the other side of the old road and sauntered right toward me, bound, I suppose, for anywhere but the cattle-paths and the stink of the slaughterhouses and the city.

  Next, from the ruined road that lead south toward Wardmoor, a pair of skinny, cloak-clad teenagers trotted up, jaws agape, their pimpled expressions those of confusion giving quickly way to fear.

  Finally, and much to my relief, dogs started barking. Out of sight, but close and loud and getting closer and l
ouder. I knew the Watch uses dogs outside the old walls, and I knew my crossbow-fancier knew that too.

  The kids stopped, eyed my sword warily. The bull calf snorted at me and without slowing, ambled past, passing so close I could have patted his muddy head had I been so inclined. I suppose bleeding man, indifferent cow and upraised sword made quite a scene, because the youths exchanged looks and took a step back before speaking.

  Neither held a crossbow. Neither would have known what to do with a crossbow had they held it.

  “We’re looking for a Mr. Markhat,” said the taller of the two. He had long greasy hair and his boots didn’t match. “We’re supposed to meet him and take him to Wardmoor.”

  “We don’t have any money,” said the other kid, quickly. “And we didn’t see nothing, either.”

  I listened. Wind and trees and barking dogs. No telltale whisking of bolts through pine needles, no clunk and throw of a Stisson. But I did hear the rattle of a wagon, just around the bend, and a man urging on a horse and another man yelling something as he laughed.

  “Gertriss,” I said.

  “I’m here,” she replied. I didn’t think she’d taken more than four steps despite my shove and my warning. She had a big stick in one hand and what appeared to be one of Mama’s well-worn kitchen knives in the other.

  “Come on out,” I said. “Let’s get moving. It’s bad business to keep the client waiting.”

  “So you’re Mr. Markhat?” asked the tall kid. He didn’t try to hide a frown. “We made it over the old Bar bridge after all, got further than we thought. What happened to you?”

  Gertriss stepped out into the road, her hands suddenly empty, pine needles in her hair, dirt on both the knees of her good new britches.

  “Nothing,” I said. A fat drop of blood formed at the tip of my nose, and I wondered just how deep and long my new scratches were. “The cow made lewd remarks about my apprentice. We had to have words. How far to House Werewilk from here?”

  The wagon rolled into view. Two men rode the wagon, one driving, one stretched out in the back with his hat covering his face. By now I was sure that my new friend with the crossbow and the grudge was halfway to the cattle-road if not already across it. Three barking jumping mutt-dogs followed, nipping at the wagon wheels and yelping at each other and even though they were not and would never be huge somber-eyed Watch dogs, I could have hugged them all.

  “Not far,” said the greasy-haired kid, who was already eyeing Gertriss with the kind of leer she’d teach him to regret if she caught him in reach of those finely sharpened claws of hers. “You and the lady can ride.”

  I hefted my rucksack, and only then did I discover the crossbow bolt lodged deep within it. I’d later find it had penetrated two boot soles and a book before stopping, as well as my best white shirt and a wool sock embroidered by Darla with my initials.

  The kid saw and went pale. I shrugged. Let them think I spend every day casually picking crossbow bolts out of everything from my laundry to my oatmeal. If I needed to shake in fear, I’d do so later, in the privacy of my own locked room.

  Gertriss came to stand close to me and wiped pine needles and loam off her knees. “They’re gone?” she whispered.

  I nodded. “For now.”

  I could tell by her look she was having second, third, and possibly fourth thoughts about life as a highly paid finder. But in the end, she picked up her bag and made for the wagon, giving the leering kid a good hard country glare as she marched.

  I followed, and we got ponies and dogs and wagons turned around then headed down the ruined road toward the Banshee’s Walk.

  Chapter Six

  The ride was slow and rough.

  The sun peeked through, but not often, and as we entered Wardmoor proper the high, thick boughs overhead blotted out even the narrowest shafts of daylight.

  And naturally, in the shadows, the huldra came out to play.

  I saw shadows flit and tumble between the limbs and the massive black trunks. I heard whispers and sighs just beneath the soft rush of the wind and the ever-present scratching of branch and leaf. The deeper we went, the louder the whispers became. The closer they came to forming words. Strange words, words not spoken in Kingdom, words that only a sorcerer or their dark kin might understand.

  It’s been that way since the night I held the huldra. Even though I broke it, even though I let it fall from my hand, I cannot deny that I told it my name. And even broken, even burned to ash in Mama’s black iron cauldron and scattered over an ogre’s manure-cart, the huldra still has a hold on me, at least in the dark.

  The wagon jerked. Gertriss fell against me, and caught my hand. At once, the tumbling shadows vanished, and the whispering was just the wind.

  “I am awful sorry about that,” she said, looking at the deep scratches she’d raked across my face when I’d tackled her. Although most of the bleeding had stopped, I could feel them oozing and beginning to itch. “I just didn’t know what had got into you.”

  I shrugged and forced a grin. “I’m just glad you didn’t whip out that knife. I need both my kidneys.”

  She blanched and bit her lip.

  “Not much farther,” said Marlo, the wagon driver. “Round the bend and across another creek. Might have to wade the creek—hard enough on the ponies without a load.” Marlo turned around and regarded us quizzically from beneath his furry white eyebrows. “Now, what you reckon is a’ goin’ on with the Mistress and them there surveyin’ stakes?”

  I wiped fresh blood from my chin and pondered my reply.

  I don’t generally like to talk shop with the hired help until I get them all in the same room. That way they hear the same thing, and I eliminate the inevitable wild rumors that fly when private conversations get retold a few dozen times.

  I gave Gertriss a sideways glance that I hoped meant here’s an old finder’s trick.

  “Too soon for me to have much of a reckoning,” I said, amiably. “But you live there. You see everything, hear everything, know everybody.” I tilted my head just so, furrowed my brow with just the right mixture of interest and concern. “Why not tell me what you reckon is going on?”

  Marlo laughed. “Now what makes you think an old dried up road apple sech as me knows anything ’bout the goins’on in that there House?”

  “You’ve got a good pair of eyes and a sharp pair of ears. I bet you knew about the stakes on the grounds before the Mistress did.”

  That made sense. It would be a gardener or a stable boy or a driver who found the first surveyor’s stake. I doubt Lady Werewilk, or any other Lady, did much traipsing around in the weeds as a part of her daily routine.

  Marlo chuckled and turned back toward the road. “It were Skin what found them first stakes,” he said. “Dern fool didn’t know what they was. Brung ’em in for kindling-wood.”

  “Skin?”

  “He keeps the bees,” said Marlo. “I reckon Skin might be a bit tetched. In the head, you know. But he’s a deft hand with them bees.’

  “How long ago did he find the first stakes?”

  “Reckon it were the first of the month. Yea, that would be right, it were payday.”

  I shot Gertriss a look. Lady Werewilk had put the discovery of the stakes only two weeks past—as usual, the communication between masters and servants was showing a few holes.

  Gertriss nodded, understanding.

  “How many times since then?”

  “Damn near every other day,” grumbled Marlo. “Never in the same place, you understand. Sometimes here, sometimes there. Onced they was right in the middle of Skin’s beehives. I thought he was gonna bust a gut, made him so mad, them messin’ with his bees.”

  I nodded, went quiet while Marlo urged his ponies in and out of a ditch with a series of grunts and foot-stomps.

  “Lady Werewilk said she’s had people out at night watching the grounds,” I said, once we were back on the road. “Why do you think no one has ever seen the surveyors laying the markers?”

  �
�I reckon they’s awful sneaky,” said Marlo. He spat. “We’s housekeepers n’ cooks and one daft beekeeper. Ain’t a soldier in the lot. No, sir. And this be the Banshee’s Walk.”

  Gertriss poked me. I nodded since Marlo couldn’t see. I knew we’d both come to the same conclusion—Lady Werewilk might well have ordered her staff to walk the grounds at night and keep watch, but the only walking they’d likely done was well within their doors, and the only watching they’d done was between naps and from behind their windows.

  “I wonder why it’s called that? Banshee’s Walk, I mean. No such thing.” I let the wagon roll over another bone-jarring bump. “Is there?”

  Marlo snorted. I watched him look around, watched him gauge the distance between us, the kids and Gefner, who were lagging a good thirty paces behind the wagon and were well out of easy hearing.

  “You can think what e’re the Hell you want,” said Marlo. “I know you city folk don’t hold no truth to old stories or old pony-masters. But I’m gonna tell you, you and your lady friend, that there’s more than just big old trees out here in these woods.” He raised his hand in protest, though I’d not said a word. “Now I ain’t sayin’ there’s banshees. I ain’t saying there ain’t, neither. I’m just sayin’ that people ought not to think that everywhere in the world is just like it is back there in that city, ’cause it ain’t.”

  “I’ve been a lot of places,” I said, after a moment. “I’ve seen a lot things that people said I wouldn’t see. And one thing I never do is ignore what the people who live in a place say about a place.”

  “Then you’re smarter than you look.” Marlo gruffed out a laugh to show, I suppose, he meant that as a compliment. “You just remember what ol’ Marlo told ye if you take a notion to go out of doors after dark. Might be more’n wild boars to worry about. Might be worth a damn sight more’n you’re gettin’ paid.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Marlo spat again, feigned a sudden interest in the road ahead.

  I got nothing out of the rest of the crew. The skinny kids, Scatter and Lank, were stable boys who tagged along ostensibly to help with bags but were actually out to escape a morning shoveling the stables while sneaking gulps out of the bottle of still-brewed whiskey they utterly failed to hide. The other adult, Gefner, had introduced himself as a carpenter and hadn’t said a word to us since, although he was verbose enough with Scatter and Lank. I caught enough words on shifts of the wind to guess the topic of conversation—women—and gather that Gefner had quite a few opinions on the subject. I hoped Scatter and Lank had better sense than to take Gefner’s words at truth, though I doubted it.