The Banshee's Walk

by Frank Tuttle

  I was right. Iron stairs, like the others, shone from Marlo’s torch.

  We all moved to the foot of them and stood looking up.

  These stairs were practically new. There was rust, here and there, but only in small patches, and they’d been sanded and painted recently.

  The same system of chains and weights and pulleys was in place. But again, these lacked rust, and much to my delight they were liberally coated in a thick, fresh application of grease.

  Marlo blushed.

  And I knew.

  This was how he managed to spend the night with the Lady without raising eyebrows at such a mismatched pairing. He could sneak in and sneak out of the House proper, at least while the corn was up. And I imagine he and his ladylove had a way to accomplish the same even in the cornless dead of winter.

  Love will find a way, as they say. Often it’s a way that doesn’t speak well of the intelligence or maturity of the lovers in question, but it finds a way nonetheless.

  I spared Marlo any speculative comments on the well-maintained state of the workings.

  “I go first,” I whispered, as I put boots on the treads. “Then Evis. Then Mama.”

  Nods all around. Darla squeezed my hand, and let it go.

  “Not to worry,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  And up we went.

  Marlo worked the crank with practiced ease. Chains moved over pulleys with all the fuss and commotion of a carefully stirred cup of tea. I stood under the steel slab and watched it rise. Within a few moments I could see cornstalks, and a few moments more revealed sky.

  Marlo stopped and nodded. I lifted myself out of the ground, lay flat and rolled away from the door.

  Evis popped up next, rising like a shadow from the dark. Mama was next, silent save for her usual huffing and puffing.

  Darla popped her head up, and before I could speak she was out too.

  I glared. She pretended not to see.

  Marlo reversed his machinery, and the door closed. It had a lip that ran all the way around and held an inch or two of dirt. We smoothed out the crack left in the earth, shuffled around on it a bit, and after a few minutes all sign of the opening was obliterated.

  Darla came and stood beside me, not saying a word. I let her hand take mine.

  “I go alone.” She squeezed my hand twice, our secret code for yes. Heads nodded in the starlight.

  I let go of Darla’s hand, and walked down the row, toward the woods.

  No one followed, though I knew Evis was probably slipping off and flanking me a row or two on my right.

  I kept walking. The wind rustled the stalks, surrounding me with dry whispers.

  And there he was.

  I halted, for a moment, my heart pounding, trying to pick out some detail in the dark.

  All I could see for certain was that a man knelt in the dirt a stone’s throw away. His back was to me, his head bowed. He might have been sketching something, in the soil.

  I dared another dozen steps, and then stopped.

  The man rose. I could see a little better. He was tallish and thin and—

  Skin, the beekeeper. It was Skin, no doubt about it.

  I let out my breath.

  Skin turned to face me.

  There were four crossbow bolts buried in his chest. His face was the pale bloodless white of the new moon. His eyes glinted like dirty marbles in the dim light. He didn’t blink.

  He didn’t need to blink anymore.

  He smiled a wide, dry corpse’s smile and began to walk towards me. His steps were halting and stiff. His arms hung limp at his sides.

  I counted his strides. I did not draw Toadsticker. I did not turn and run.

  But oh, how I wanted to.

  The dead man stopped six feet from me. That was close enough to hear the sucking noises from the holes in his chest as he walked.

  Poor dead Skin worked his jaw experimentally, and then wet his lips with thick dried blood from a tongue gone white and stiff.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Finder.”

  His voice was Skin’s but slurred and weak. The wounds around the shafts of the crossbow bolts gurgled and hissed. I gathered the Corpsemaster was having trouble forcing air through the pierced lungs.

  “Corpsemaster.” I nodded in what I hoped was a polite sign of deference. “I was hoping we could speak.”

  Skin raised an eyebrow and feigned an expression of surprise. “Why, isn’t that a change of heart, Mr. Markhat. You, wanting to speak to me. I feared that after our last meeting we would never meet socially again.”

  I kept my face carefully blank and my mouth even more carefully shut.

  “I trust your stay at the Werewilk estate is proving interesting?”

  “Very.” I realized I’d fallen into attention, and made myself relax. “I suppose I ought to thank you for what you did in the yard.”

  Hisvin raised a dead hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Not at all, Finder. I was merely enforcing Regency law—rogue sorcerers, caught in the act of using magic against a law-abiding citizen of the realm? I simply had no choice but to take action. Though it was fortunate I happened along, when I did.”

  “A happy coincidence, all around.” I made myself take a couple of slow, deep breaths. “I’m in over my head here. Your presence proves that. I’d like to know what I can do to keep myself and these people alive.”

  Hisvin made wet chuckling noises. “I do admire your blunt nature, Finder. To a point.” He coughed up a mouthful of dark blood and spat it to the dirt. “But to answer your question. Remain indoors. Remain vigilant. Remain prepared to fight or to flee, as circumstances dictate.”

  That wasn’t what I’d expected to hear. My expression must have conveyed what I dared not voice.

  “I’ve disappointed you.” More blood came up. I studied the tips of my boots. “For that, I am chagrined. But you see, Finder, regardless of what you think about me, I am determined to remain honest with you. It’s a bit of a game, if you prefer to think of it in that way. The first time I lie to you, I lose. And I do not love to lose.”

  I didn’t like the sudden change in Hisvin’s tone. I decided to risk changing the subject. “Why bring Darla here? Why bring Mama?”

  The Corpsemaster pulled Skin’s lips back in a grin. “Your involvement in this matter is known, Finder. The other parties involved were already scheming to use Miss Tomas and Missus Hog as hostages. I brought them here, using the most expedient means possible, so that I could protect them. Even I cannot be all places at once.”

  “You’re making me nervous, admitting things like that, sir.”

  “As I said, I am resolved to tell the truth, even if it casts me in less than an omnipotent light.”

  “I’m honored. Really. But I’m still in the dark about what’s going on here. Who are these people? What are they after? Why are they shooting anyone who ventures outdoors, and why haven’t they stormed the house?”

  Before Hisvin could reply, a ruckus sounded from the House, and I knew Lady Werewilk had unleashed her spells on the yard. There were shouts, and the faint whish-thunk of crossbows throwing, and the much fainter splintering cracks of bolts shattering against Werewilk’s sturdy walls.

  And now the Corpsemaster knew the Lady herself was a rogue sorceress.

  Hisvin smiled. “You need have no concern for her safety, Finder. I myself trained her in certain aspects of the Arts, though she of course does not know this. She will suffer no consequences for her small departure from Regency law.”

  “You trained the Lady?”

  “My association with House Werewilk is long and subtle, Finder. For reasons you will soon understand.” Shouts rose up, from men in the yard, and Hisvin made a small motion with two fingers on his right hand.

  Lightning fell from the sky. Men screamed, but only briefly.

  And then there was silence.

  “Time is short. They want the banshee, Finder. They now suspect you have it. Had I not brought your womenfolk here, Miss Tomas and M
issus Hog would even now be in the hands of persons who lack my own delicate sensibilities. You still blame me for Miss Tomas’s recent misadventures at the hands of the blood cult. I refuse to allow another act of violence to be laid at my feet.”

  “Why not send them down the Brown, or out West?”

  Hisvin sighed. “Because the persons against whom I am aligned have long reaches, Finder. I assure you of this. There is no safer place than here, where I can extend to them my protection. Until and unless I fall, that is. Should that occur, I suggest you run as far and as fast as you can.”

  “If you fall?” I shivered. The wind was chilly. It smelled of smoke and burning hair. “Corpsemaster, if I may again be blunt, what the hell is going on out here?”

  “History,” said Hisvin. He smiled a small rueful smile. “History is being made, and we shall have the misfortune to play a role in it. You may sit, Finder. And you as well, Mr. Prestley. What I have to say will take a bit of time.” The dead man dropped to his knees, then back onto his ass. The bending caused a slow gush of old blood to ooze from his wounds. “We might as well be comfortable.”

  Evis joined me, gliding out of the shadows without a sound. I shrugged and sat, and Evis followed suit.

  “Once upon a time,” said the Corpsemaster, “monsters walked the earth.”

  “Some might observe that they still do.”

  “Some might. But Finder, the monsters I speak of were far greater and far more terrible than anything you know. They walked the lands like furious mountains, and their mere words were sufficient to bring wrack and ruin to all they beheld. These were not mere sorcerers, Finder, Mr. Prestley. They were primal forces embodied, made nearly divine by the magics they wielded. Such was their power that the spells they spoke may never be spoken again.” Hisvin frowned. “Even now, I fail to convey the extent of their abilities. Suffice it to say, though, that even a person of my stature and prowess would be utterly insignificant in the face of these creatures. Yes. Think of it that way—take all of my sorcerous kin, resurrect all of us who perished during the War, and if all were arrayed at the height of their powers and put in the path of the least of these ancient beings, we should all be crushed underfoot in an instant.”

  Evis tilted his head and spoke a soft word I didn’t know.

  Hisvin repeated it. “Yes,” he said, beaming. “I did not know you were a student of pre-Kingdom history, Mr. Prestley. But you are correct. I speak of the alarkin. The Old Ones.”

  “Never heard of them,” I whispered. “But I went to a public school. Are you telling me that’s what’s buried under the Ring, sir? One of these alarkins?”

  Hisvin shook his head. “What was buried beneath the old stone ring was a mere bauble placed there by myself some eighty years ago. I also laid the stones, some years before that, and spread false rumors of their origins. The Ring was meant to discourage further excavations. Similar measures have, in the past, proven more than sufficient to either kill the excavators or convince them further efforts were simply too risky. But not this time, I fear. No. Today, the other parties show the rare and irrepressible determination of madmen and fools.”

  “I saw an unusually tall person at the excavation yesterday. Might that be one of your foolish mad sorcerers?”

  “One of them. I suspect there are at least three.”

  I whistled. Even during the darkest days of the War, wand-wavers working together was well nigh unheard of. They historically seemed unable to remain on the same continent without quickly resorting to sorcerous blood feuds.

  “Anyone else on your side?”

  The Corpsemaster shrugged. “No. We stand alone.”

  “Three to one. The odds aren’t exactly encouraging.”

  “True. But I suspect the three, should they survive long enough to reach the tomb, will fall upon each other the instant it is uncovered. I have no such concerns, nor will I be forced to expend any effort to protect myself from partners who are destined to suddenly become deadly rivals. But I digress. I came here to discuss your role in this small confusion, Finder.”

  “You mean aside from my role as your stalking horse.”

  “I did not bring you here, Finder. Although I must admit I was most amused when I learned that the Lady had retained you.”

  I shivered at the thought of being one of Hisvin’s amusements.

  “How do you know I won’t run and tell the Lady that some prehistoric boogeyman and his treasure-trove is buried right under her roses?”

  “Because you are not a fool. And because you have no more desire to see such a creature raised than do I. Consider it, Finder. Imagine a being infinitely more powerful than myself. Now imagine that it lacks my own considerable sense of restraint and decorum. Add its understandable annoyance at being buried for most of the Kingdom’s history.”

  “I thought you said it was dead. In a tomb.”

  “I did indeed mention a tomb. I did not employ the word dead. The alarkin was put down, and bound with ancient magics, and then sealed beneath the earth in what was then a lonely, unpeopled waste. But dead—perhaps so, perhaps not. Death for such a being might well prove to be temporary. And if not, its shade would be nearly as devastating as the being itself. No. We can be assured the alarkin is buried. But we cannot assume it is dead.”

  Evis broke his silence. “Why would anyone seek to disturb such a thing?”

  “Greed,” replied Hisvin. “The alarkin was doubtlessly entombed with certain artifacts. If one were to raise them, and learn their use—well. That is another point of the history I spoke of, because the Regency would certainly fall before the onslaught of such objects.”

  I must have raised an eyebrow. Either that, or Hisvin can read minds.

  “No, Finder, I myself have no desire to seek such artifacts. I will make no claim that I am somehow immune to greed, but neither am I insensitive to the cost of such an effort. No. I mean to keep these things buried, though it costs me my life.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Let us hope so indeed. Now. As to your roles. The banshee must be protected. I assume you do in fact have it safely inside?”

  No point in denying what I suspected he had the means to know. “I do. But I have to tell you, she’s not very, um, banshee-like. More like a kid. She seems harmless. Might I ask why all the interest in her?”

  Hisvin made Skin’s dead face frown. “If my studies are to be believed, she was a creation of the alarkin who lies nearby. I believe, as do my rivals, that the banshee holds the power to call the alarkin back. Probably by shrieking in close proximity to the tomb.”

  “Buttercup could bring Old Bones back just by howling?” I rose. “Do you believe that?”

  Skin lifted his grey hands. “Close proximity, Finder. Very close. There is no immediate danger. Unless, of course, these other sorcerers take her and put her in the tomb.”

  “They’d do that?”

  “I simply do not know. They might only be after the artifacts. Or they might have fallen to the alarkin’s shade already, and are working to effect its release. If that is true, they will come for the banshee, Finder. And that I cannot allow.”

  Footsteps sounded, shuffling and faint, behind Skin. Footsteps, and a smell.

  Evis didn’t stand, but his arms moved. I assume he was readying a weapon.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” said Hisvin with a dead man’s smile. “Meet another of my little family. I believe he was known as Weexil. He betrayed you to our common enemy, Finder. I thought it only fitting that you behold him, to see that justice has been done.”

  Another dead man shambled down the cornrow. This one was already bloated, already drawing flies. I was glad Hisvin did not force it to speak.

  In the thick stiff fingers of its black right hand, it held a dagger. I held my breath while Weexil’s corpse shuffled to my feet, dropped the dagger, and then turned and walked slowly away.

  “You need not mourn him, Finder. Nor does his young lady. Did you know he
planned to murder her and hide her body in these very woods, simply to avoid the dual blessings of fatherhood and matrimony?” The Corpsemaster shook his head in mock surprise. “I despair for the Regency’s future, given the youth of today.”

  The dagger was small, as daggers go. The blade and the hilt were worked with symbols that danced and moved as I watched.

  “And this is?”

  “This is for you, Finder. The banshee is both long-lived and deceptively durable. But a single cut from this blade will prove fatal to it. It need not be a mortal wound. If blood is drawn at all, the banshee will perish.”

  “With respect, sir. Perhaps it should be I who takes the weapon. I believe Mr. Markhat has developed a certain paternal affection for the banshee.”

  Hisvin laughed through a dead man’s throat. The sound was not at all pleasant.

  I took the dagger and stuck it down inside Toadsticker’s scabbard.

  “I’ll hold on to this. No need to go cutting any throats just yet.”

  “There is indeed a need, Finder. And if you were a practical man, you’d kill the creature immediately, and throw its body into the yard, and thus spare the lives of everyone you hold dear. Surely you can see the value of such a strategy.”

  “If it were that simple you’d have killed her yourself.”

  Hisvin shrugged. “There are reasons I myself cannot slay her. None of these reasons apply to you.”

  I realized I was glaring. “I won’t kill any banshees tonight, Corpsemaster. If that’s the easy way, I’m afraid it’s not the path we’ll take.”

  “As you wish. The choice is yours.”

  “So. What’s next?”

  “The dig at the Faery Ring has been abandoned. Even now, they are preparing to lay siege to the House, capture the banshee and use it to determine the actual location of the alarkin’s burial site. By dawn, House Werewilk will be surrounded by approximately five hundred mercenaries, a variety of heavy siege engines, and a much reduced but still considerable number of minor sorcerers in the employ of three persons of my own stature, or greater. I suspect your breakfast plans will be rudely interrupted.”