The Banshee's walk m-5

by Frank Tuttle

  I couldn’t speak. My lungs were burning. My vision was beginning to blur.

  Gertriss was screaming at me, as was Marlo. Their voices were growing fainter.

  Run into the forest and hope I got beyond the choking spell’s range before I died. Or…

  I rummaged in my pocket. Darla’s charm was there.

  My world was getting dark. I tried to draw in air, couldn’t. I resisted the urge to flail at the invisible hands closing around my neck.

  Instead, I took out the charm, threw it at the skeletal hand.

  The charm lay next to the bones, unbroken.

  I remember dropping to my knees.

  I remember Gertriss holding me up.

  And I remember a bright flash. But that’s all. Just a flash, and the echoes of Buttercup’s final cry echoing in my mind.

  And then the tightness at my throat circled all around it, and I fell a long time through the dark.

  Chapter Eleven

  It turns out Marlo saved my life.

  He’d taken his axe and smashed the glass charm I’d tossed at the skeletal hand. And as soon as he smashed it, the bones simply fell apart, and after Gertriss slapped me hard across the face a few times I’d started coughing and wheezing.

  I don’t remember leaving the abandoned encampment. I came to my senses nearly halfway home, draped across Lumpy’s broad back.

  We were moving at a good clip. I’m told Burris loosed a pair of arrows at something he thought he saw in the forest. Gertriss tells me Buttercup followed us until I awoke, though she alone could see her.

  Scatter and Lank were at Lumpy’s sides, making sure I didn’t fall off and break my fool neck and finish whatever some nameless sorcerer and his choking spell had begun.

  “He’s awake.” Scatter had spoken. He moved in close and helped me right myself in Lumpy’s worn saddle. “Mister, can you breathe?”

  I coughed and hacked but finally managed a few words. My throat-well, I’ve never been hanged before, but that must be how the morning after feels.

  “You ought to see the bruises, mister.”

  I tried to grin.

  Gertriss turned in her saddle. “Was that aimed at you, boss?”

  Had it been? It seemed that way. Otherwise why didn’t it go after Lady Werewilk?

  “Could be,” I croaked. “No way to know.”

  And there wasn’t. If it was just a foul-natured parting shot at anyone rummaging through the camp, it might have been designed to go after someone at random as easily as the first one to see it. Sorcerers are tricky that way.

  But while they might be tricky, they aren’t cheap. Neither are their magical snares. Someone had paid dearly for the privilege of choking me half to death, and they couldn’t have known for sure I or anyone else would ever uncover their bony little surprise.

  I shifted uneasily in my saddle. I don’t like seeing money spent so casually. It’s a sign of either desperation or access to wealth so vast such paltry concerns as paying sorcerers simply isn’t a factor.

  Desperate people, like cornered beasts, are always dangerous.

  And so are the kinds of people who can literally throw money away. Because they can always buy more trouble than the likes of me can afford.

  Lady Werewilk wanted to say something, but I shook my head and urged Lumpy on to a slightly less leisurely amble.

  We made it back to House Werewilk without encountering any more cursed skeletal remains or agitated banshees. Lady Werewilk insisted on helping get the mules squared away, much to Marlo’s dismay. Gertriss and I exchanged a secret smile. The way Lady Werewilk and Marlo sniped at each other, you’d think they were married already.

  I hoofed it back inside. My throat was raw, and I was coughing often and hard enough to make me wonder if my injuries went deeper than mere bruises.

  Once indoors, I shooed dogs off the couch and sent a painter to fetch a bucket of beer. Gertriss seated herself beside me and fixed me in a harsh Hog glare.

  “The last thing you need right now is beer.”

  “The last thing I need is a discussion about my beer.” A sudden fit of coughing didn’t help my case.

  Gertriss’ glare intensified.

  “So let’s talk about the banshee instead. She just appeared right by you, Mr. Markhat.”

  “I think I prefer boss, Miss.”

  “Boss, then. She wasn’t there and then she was. Howling. And it looked like she touched you too. Grabbed your hand.”

  I nodded. Had Buttercup been trying to pull me away from the trap? I wanted to think so.

  “Did you see her at all before that? Even a glimpse with that famous Hog Sight?”

  “No. She wasn’t there. Then she was. Then she was gone, right after Marlo swung that axe at her. Next time I saw her we had you laid across the saddle. I reckon she was maybe fifty feet ahead of us, looking down from an oak.”

  I tried to speak but coughed instead.

  My bucket of beer arrived. Gertriss rolled her eyes but poured me a glass and even handed it to me.

  “You do know banshees only show up when somebody dies, don’t you, boss?”

  I let the beer work its golden magic. It did feel good going down.

  “Nobody died,” I said. “See? I’m as good as new.”

  “Somebody had just died, boss. Weexil. Who knows who else?”

  “Weexil had been dead long enough to draw flies. You’re thinking ghouls, Miss. Banshees vacate the scene right after Death performs his handiwork.”

  “This ain’t…this isn’t a joke, boss. You can’t go around making pets out of banshees.”

  “Pet? What pet? I didn’t call her, didn’t even know she was around. She just appeared.”

  Gertriss made a derisive snorting sound.

  “Think she was looking for corn bread, boss?”

  “How-?”

  Gertriss sighed and rose.

  “My sight. It isn’t like Mama’s. Isn’t like any Hog I know.” She crossed her arms and began to pace, stepping carefully over dog’s tails now and then. “They can call it up, send it back. Mine-well, I see things all the time. Even things I don’t want to see.” She balled her hands into fists. “Especially things I don’t want to see.”

  “Mama know about that?”

  Gertriss shook her head no.

  I put down my empty glass. “That must be an awful burden.”

  She just shrugged. Her jaw was trembling.

  “I knew a man during the War who had the Sight. Sort of like yours. Couldn’t make himself see things that might have helped, might have been useful. Saw all kinds of horror instead.”

  I poured up a glass of beer, offered it to her. She refused.

  “Got worse and worse. He quit sleeping at night. We had to gag him in case he started screaming, when we were in Troll country. You really ought to have a taste. This is really good beer.”

  She halted, let out a long ragged sigh, and plopped back down beside me.

  Much to my surprise, she took the glass from my hand and sniffed at the contents.

  “So what happened to this man?”

  “He withdrew. Stopped talking. Went further and further inside himself. One day, six of us were out on patrol. We knew there was a Troll force nearby. We weren’t to engage them, just to watch. Hillard-that was his name, Hillard-saw a pair of trolls fishing in a creek. Before we could stop him, he just walked right up to them, empty-handed. Go ahead. You’ll wish you had.”

  She did. I watched her drink it, wondered if it was her first taste of beer.

  It was. Her eyes widened. She smiled a ghostly little half-smile.

  “This is good.”

  “Told you so. Go ahead, that’s yours. One glass won’t make you drunk.”

  She took another sip.

  “And Hillard? What happened to him?”

  “He walked up to the bank. The Trolls came striding out of the water. We were too far away to hear, but I think they talked, for a moment.”

  “And?”
<
br />   “And then a Troll knocked Hillard’s head off. One swipe. Dead and gone.”

  Gertriss shivered. “Is there a point to this, boss?”

  “The point is that I’ll always believe Hillard asked that Troll to kill him. It wasn’t murder, or even an act of war. It was a mercy. And that’s sad, Miss, because if Hillard had made himself talk about his Sight, about what was eating him alive, he might be sitting on a couch somewhere telling war stories to pretty young women instead of …”

  “Instead of being dead. I get it.” She raised the glass, emptied the beer. “Well. I should tell you the real reason I left Pot Lockney.”

  “You should.”

  But she didn’t. The great doors opened, and Lady Werewilk and Marlo came stomping in, still arguing.

  Marlo marched right up to me. It was clear he didn’t approve of my beer.

  “I say we ought to go get the Watch,” he said. “I say we’ve got murder being done, and it’s time we got some law in here before there’s more blood spilt.”

  I nodded amiably. “You’re exactly right.”

  Silence. Lady Werewilk walked up behind Marlo.

  Marlo frowned.

  “I said I’m going to send for the Watch.”

  I shrugged. “Go right ahead.”

  “Figured you’d object to that. Seeing as how it might take you off the payroll.”

  Gertriss started to speak, but bless her, she looked to me first, and I silenced her with a quick shake of my head.

  “Wouldn’t be any point in paying me if you’ve got the Watch on the case.”

  Lady Werewilk joined the fray. “As the Mistress of this House, I and I alone will decide when and if the Watch is called, and who works for me afterward. That is final.”

  Marlo’s expression made it clear what he thought of the finality of Lady Werewilk’s pronouncement.

  “You going to go yourself, Marlo?”

  “If I have to.”

  I filled my glass with Lady Werewilk’s beer. “Have you had extensive dealings with the Watch, Marlo?”

  “No more than anybody hereabouts.”

  I sipped beer. “Then you might not know how the Watch is likely to respond when you start telling tales of banshees in the trees and bodies that get up and go for hikes right before they can be produced as evidence.”

  Marlo puffed up. “Now look here, Mr. Markhat. I know I ain’t a city man, but we pays our taxes, same as anybody inside them walls.”

  I had to stifle an outright laugh. “Mr. Marlo. You could produce a century of tax receipts and throw them in the Watch’s face, and the most they’ll probably do is cite you for littering. You don’t have a body. You’ll be telling tales about banshees and stakes left in the yard. Look. If I thought I could get a pair of Watchmen down here, I’d have sent for them already. But I’m telling you plain, Mr. Marlo. You’ll be wasting your time.”

  “Which is precisely what I said,” added Lady Werewilk.

  “Your family has been in the House for four hundred years,” growled Marlo. “First they fought Elves. Then they fought Trolls. Now they’re fightin’ something new, and by damn them what’s in the City are going to send help this time. I’m going. I’m taking Burris. With or without your blessing.”

  “It will be without. And if you go, don’t bother to return.” Marlo’s face went the red of day-old meat.

  “You keep an eye on her for me, Finder. Lady or not, sometimes she ain’t got much sense.”

  And with that, he turned, walked out and let the big old doors slam behind him.

  Lady Werewilk glared. The ragged circle of artists that had gathered to watch the show withered and dispersed. Even the dogs got up, tucked tails and slinked away, their nails tap-tapping on the tiles.

  Gertriss rose, found another glass, filled it and handed it to Lady Werewilk, who drained it without a breath or a word.

  Gertriss filled the silence.

  “So you don’t think the Watch will come, boss?”

  “Not a chance. We’re on our own.” I stood. My head still hurt, and my sideways ride on Lumpy had done bad things to my lower back, but the last thing an angry client wants to see is the finder she’s paying lounging on her couch and drinking her beer.

  “The camp,” Lady Werewilk spoke. “Who occupied it? Why?”

  When I opened my mouth, I fully intended to speak the words ‘I don’t know.’ I knew Lady Werewilk wasn’t going to like hearing them, but I’d been nearly strangled by a pile of bones and a banshee had tried to hold my hand and neither activity had done much to improve my mood.

  But in that instant before I spoke, some tiny fragment of memory was dislodged.

  The camp.

  The big tent. The big tables under it. The abacus. The pencils. The stakes.

  If we’d kept looking, there’d have been metal screens set in shallow wooden boxes too.

  “Damn me,” I muttered. “Of course.”

  “Boss?”

  “Of course what, Mr. Markhat?”

  “Lady Werewilk. I assume your House contains a library?”

  Lady Werewilk frowned. “Of course. It’s in my suite of rooms.”

  “And does this library contain a great number of old books which detail the early years of the House and the grounds?”

  “Naturally.”

  “I need to be in that library, Lady. Right now.”

  “First you’ll tell me why.”

  “It’s not your House they’re after. It never was. But there’s something on your land. Buried, probably. That’s what they’ve been looking for. And they’ve been using a map so old the land itself has changed.”

  “All that, from looking at the empty camp?”

  “I saw a camp just like it, once. Right after the War. Royal archeologists. They were excavating an old Elvish burial site the Trolls had found. They were using stakes to mark out the crypts and the catacombs. An abacus to help with the math. A big tent to bring in loads of dirt and sift through every shovel-full by pouring it through wire grates. Sorcerers all over the place to find old spells and handle the items they dug up.”

  “An Elvish burial complex? Here? On my lands? Nonsense.”

  “I didn’t say it was Elvish. But I need to have a look at your library. If there are old maps there, maybe I can take the sketches we made of the stakes you found and figure out where they were looking.”

  “But they’ve gone now. The camp is deserted. Surely that means they found what they were looking for.”

  I thought about the bony hand they left behind, about Weexil’s’ missing corpse, about the banshee in the trees.

  “Maybe. And maybe it means they just found out where to dig. Which means somebody will be back. Maybe somebody worse. We need to figure out what they were looking for, Lady. And where. I’ll sleep a lot better if we can find a big empty hole.”

  Lady Werewilk sighed. “Very well. Please come this way. You too, young lady. I assume you can read?”

  Gertriss nodded, and off we marched.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lady Werewilk’s rooms took up the entire second floor of the House. Her bed was the size of a wagon. Both Gertriss and I pretended not to see the toe of a Marlo-sized man’s boot peeking out from under it.

  The library was a single square room set into the southwest corner of the House. The windows actually let in light, and there were three big comfy leather chairs and three plain but sturdy reading desks, all arranged to take advantage of the sunlight. There was even a fancy globe of the world mounted in a shiny brass apparatus that allowed it to spin at the touch of a finger.

  The globe was pre-War. It still showed human cities and settlements out East. It’s all ghosts and ruins out there now, and even if the Trolls let us move back that way it’ll be decades before anyone dips a toe in the Great Sea again.

  The walls were covered in shelves, floor to ceiling, and the shelves were stuffed and crammed with books.

  Lady Werewilk paused and considered the books, fore
finger to her lips.

  “Yes. I believe this series is a good place to start.”

  With that, she walked to a shelf, removed half a dozen massive old tomes, and plopped them down on the nearest desk.

  I carefully took up the oldest one. The leather used to bind it threatened to flake away into dust before my eyes. I took it to my desk, carefully opened it and began to educate myself concerning the Auspicious Origins and Heroic Deeds of the Mighty House of Werewilk, est. in the Year 453 of the Kingdom of Man.

  The light from the windows had faded and died before I closed my last book.

  Gertriss was bleary-eyed and yawning. Lady Werewilk had retired an hour ago, citing some pressing House business.

  But I’d found what I was looking for.

  The stakes had been laid out right in the bed of a creek that once cut right through the Werewilk estate. The creek was gone now, and had been for a century, sipped empty by a series of irrigation canals north of here. The tiny trickle that remained fed into the cornfield and never emerged.

  But it had been mapped, in those first books. And there was no mistaking it. The surveyors had even marked the creek’s four small tributaries, one of which ran through the very spot where Skin would one day tend his precious bees.

  The creek had meandered on, heading South, ending or joining a bigger one somewhere well beyond the concerns of any ancient Werewilk.

  What Lady Werewilk’s forebears had mapped was intriguing.

  There was the creek. There was the Old Road. There was an old quarry, abandoned even before the first Werewilk laid claim to the oaks.

  And there was something else, a place mentioned only twice in the fifteen old tomes we’d read.

  They’d just called it the Faery Ring. Called it that, and then issued some pretty stern warnings about “Disturbing, Molesting, or otherwise visiting or Trespassing on this ancient and malevolent Site.”

  Literal shivers had run up my spine when I read those faded old words.

  Instantly, I wondered who else had read them. During the War, as one old estate after another fell to the Trolls, the Regent made it law that scribes could come in and copy any private library, belonging to anyone, at the whim of the local governor. Even after the War, the law stood, the intent being to prevent unique historic treasures from being eaten by termites. I’d heard getting scribes in to some private libraries required troops and scuffling.